Chapter 646 - 297: Reincarnation

The illustration master’s painting style prefers watercolor paintings, but also includes crayon, pen, or oil paintings, and around the millennium, even attempted to paint using digital tablets and early PS software.

In recent years, he has been persuaded by galleries to return to traditional paper and pen.

After all, his paper works, aside from submission to publishing companies, can still be independently taken to auctions and art exhibitions.

Only painting knife painting lies outside his sphere of interest.

Before the Little Prince event, Jean Arnou hadn’t even paid attention to this niche painting technique.

Now it seems.

In the realm of fairy tales, the textural expressiveness of oil painting knives truly has its unique and outstanding aspects.

"Are you going to learn painting knife painting?"

The assistant beside him exclaimed in utter shock.

If Jean Arnou tries to paint with an oil painting knife, it would be a big event.

It might even inspire a new fashion in the entire illustration industry.

However.

Upon seeing that profound work, the assistant felt that it was not hard to understand.

He even suddenly felt—that compared to such excellent pictorial expressiveness, Professor Boggs’ narcissism was not a matter too hard to bear.

Those with talent have the right to be unrestrained.

Seeing such oil paintings live is tremendously overwhelming, especially since the quality of an artist is most feared to lay bare in direct comparison.

The assistant was undeniably enamored with Lady Anya’s physique.

But when comparing the grandeur of the painting "Love of Pets" on the wall of the female artist to Professor Boggs’ delicate and exquisite small paintings, he would admittedly acknowledge, with a pinch of his nose, that he preferred Professor Boggs’ works more.

"This old chap really has some skills!" The assistant pursed his lips, quietly sighing in his heart.

"Unfortunately, I am already too old." Jean Arnou felt moved for a moment, then let out a long sigh.

The elderly gentleman understood that a two-month crash course was a mere sham; without decades of accumulated toil and effort, such exceptional technique could not be achieved.

His age was too advanced to learn a new technique to a high level.

At most, he could attempt to incorporate a few strokes and lines from oil painting knives into his creative painting process.

Lady Anya was the person whose painting knife technique most closely resembled Professor Boggs’ among the crowd.

The female artist also stood silently before the frame for the longest time.

She stood in front of the canvas for a long time, subconsciously wanting to reach out and touch the paint on the canvas.

"Ahem, the paint is not dry."

Professor Boggs coughed lightly twice.

"Sorry."

The female artist immediately withdrew her hand as if electrocuted.

Anya certainly knew that the thick layers of paint on a painting knife’s canvas took three weeks or even a month to fully dry.

She was just a little too enamored by the sight.

Anya looked at Professor Boggs, then at the frame in front of her, wanting to say something, but ultimately just sighed in amazement.

"Wow."

When the impact of emotion accumulates to a certain point.

Aside from this exclamation.

She could no longer find a more accurate word to encapsulate her current feeling.

"In front of this artwork, I feel like a child who has just learned how to hold an oil painting knife."

Anya sniffed, bitterly smiling as she said: "The level of this painting makes me look up in awe. How exactly is this kind of color, layered between fully blended and partially blended, painted... Well, now I believe you are here to defeat Detective Cat."

Professor Boggs swivelled his head, looking left and right, brimming with self-satisfaction.

If such a mood as pride could be tangible and weighty, then the old professor would already have flown up into the sky like an inflated balloon.

He was very satisfied with Lady Anya’s reaction.

Ultimately, laymen could only shallowly perceive the painting as beautiful, while only fellow experts could understand it as an astonishing realm.

Anya’s reaction upon seeing this painting was akin to his reaction when he saw the illustrations for Little Prince.

Because it was a fresh oil painting just painted.

The emotion might be even deeper.

Professor Boggs, in his pettiness, was even unwilling to leave this set of illustrations for Jean Arnou.

He had made it clear before he came.

This set of works was not to circulate on the market, and ownership would not be transferred to Jean Arnou.

If his sketches indeed had the desired effect, they could be stored at the illustrator’s ranch for a period of time.

But ultimately, they were to be taken back by him.

Professor Boggs would hang these twelve painting pieces on the wall of his office.

Viewing them day and night.

Finding them ever beautiful.

Every little detail, Professor Boggs was already confident had been done to the most perfect extent it could be.

In the past, when King Ludwig II of Bavaria faced the intricate clay model design of Neuschwanstein Castle presented by his designer, with tears in his eyes, thinking he possessed the world’s most dreamy artwork, was probably akin to the old professor’s feelings when completing this set of illustrations.

If he could place Detective Cat’s works beside them for a comparison, it would be even better.

Many years later.

This set of illustrations would become a milestone-like memorial in the history of painting knife painting, commemorating how he defeated that Detective Cat.

Students engaged in the field of painting knife painting would use magnifying glasses to study and compare the differences in painting details between the two artists, and write term papers proving the greatness of Boggs.

Just like the papers published in art journals nowadays, comparing the unique characteristics and artistic standards of Manet and Monet’s works.

"Cat?"

A quiet voice faintly called.

This voice was so soft it seemed like an illusion, almost instantly submerged in the murmurs of the room, going unnoticed.

But in Jean Arnou’s heart, it resonated like a clap of thunder.