Chapter 163: Your Oil Paintings Are Even Better Than Traditional Chinese Paintings?

As the crowd marveled and praised Yang Xiaofan’s painting, an artist stepped forward earnestly and said, “Mr. Yang, I would like to purchase this piece in my personal capacity. I’m willing to offer five million US dollars. Would you consider it?”

Five million dollars, converted into yuan, far exceeded twenty million—an amount quite impressive even compared to Yang Xiaofan’s domestic prices. Yet this painting was in a league of its own, incomparable to the others. Those earlier works, executed when Yang was a Grandmaster, could not rival the vivid lifelikeness of this one, created at his Saint level. Naturally, this piece’s value surpassed the others by an unmeasurable margin.

Before Yang could respond, another artist interjected, “Mr. Thor, such a masterpiece carries far more significance than ordinary paintings. Don’t you think five million dollars is a bit stingy?”

Turning to Yang with a smile, he added, “Mr. Yang, I am prepared to offer six million dollars. Would you be willing to sell it to me?”

No sooner had his words fallen than another voice rang out from the crowd, “Six million isn’t enough. I’ll offer seven million.”

“I’ll go eight million.”

“Nine million…”

The bids flew back and forth until they astonishingly reached a full ten million dollars. Converted into yuan, this sum exceeded sixty million—a respectable price. At this point, no one dared to raise the stakes further: partly due to the price, but also because, despite the excellence of Chinese painting and Yang Xiaofan’s mastery, their hearts belonged to oil painting. It was a preference etched into their very genes, not something mere skill could overturn.

Still, from another perspective, the fact that Yang Xiaofan’s traditional Chinese painting fetched ten million dollars among Western buyers was already remarkable.

Who else possessed such talent?

Smith, beaming with delight, congratulated him, “Mr. Yang, congratulations on achieving a price of seventy million yuan for a single painting. Such a sale is rare even in the world of oil painting. We are grateful that you have added such vibrant color to today’s exchange, especially by showing us the charm of Chinese painting.”

Yang Xiaofan replied with quiet composure, “I actually feel somewhat regretful. Truth be told, if this painting were sold domestically, I’m confident it would fetch one hundred million yuan, yet here it only brings ten million dollars, which is just over sixty million yuan.”

Smith smiled wryly. “That’s just how it is. You must understand that although we are all artists, cultural factors mean the market values oil paintings more highly here in the West. If that last piece you painted had been oil, I wouldn’t hesitate to pay not just ten, but even twenty million dollars for it.”

“Oh, you really mean that?” Yang asked.

Smith paused, then nodded earnestly. “Of course. I have no reason to lie about that.”

“Good! Then I’ll paint an oil painting and see if you’re telling the truth,” Yang declared.

Chen Lao was shocked and quickly grabbed Yang Xiaofan’s arm, whispering anxiously, “Xiaofan, what are you doing? There are so many people here. If you fail to produce a good painting, won’t you be the laughingstock? You’ll bring disgrace upon all of us from the East.”

Chen Lao had brought Yang here to uphold Eastern dignity. If Yang boasted and then failed at oil painting, the consequences would be disastrous. Even Chen Lao himself doubted Yang’s oil painting skills; although both are forms of painting, oil and traditional Chinese painting are entirely different arts. Mastering both to the level Yang had achieved in Chinese painting would require double the time.

At that moment, a Korean artist took the opportunity to sneer, “Mr. Chen, if Mr. Yang wants to paint, why stop him? What are you trying to prevent? Don’t you want us to have a proper cultural exchange?”

Chen Lao’s face darkened with anger. These damn Koreans loved stirring trouble.

Yang Xiaofan smiled, gently patting Chen’s hand, his eyes brimming with confidence. “Don’t worry, Old Chen. If I didn’t have the skills, I wouldn’t have said a word. They look down on our Chinese painting? Fine, then I’ll use the oil painting they value to take their money—and take it handsomely.”

Yang had long envisioned expanding his market into the United States and the West. The number of Eastern collectors was limited, but Western collectors were more numerous—and wealthier. Besides, earning money from his compatriots was never as gratifying as earning from these patrons.

“But Xiaofan, if you fail, it won’t be making money but losing face!” Chen Lao remained concerned. Tonight, they represented the East at this art exchange.

Yang gave him another reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. If I bring shame to our people, you can chop off my head and use it as a chamber pot.”

With that, he stepped forward, exchanged his brushes and paints, and began to paint anew.

This time, Yang Xiaofan’s strokes were sharper, more resolute. If the earlier landscape had been painted casually, now he was unleashing his true skill. He painted Western classics: God creating man, the Last Supper, the goddess Athena of wisdom… Over ten pieces in succession.

From the moment he began the first painting, all eyes were drawn in.

“Oh my God! His oil painting is this good?”

“This level is among the highest in the world today—I’m ashamed to even compare.”

Smith, rubbing his head in disbelief, trembled with excitement. “My heavens, I’ve seen God! He must be God!”

Among all the spectators, only Old Chen’s face twitched uncontrollably, looking utterly miserable.

“This brat! His oil painting is even better than his Chinese painting? Does he even want to live?”

To master two distinct styles so perfectly, each at the pinnacle—did this man have twice the time to learn?