James Hawthorne had purchased five of Mia’s paintings at the impressive price of half a million dollars each. With such a significant patron, it was only right for Mia to personally thank him.
Accompanied by Zoe, Mia approached James.
“Mr. Hawthorne, it’s been a while,” Zoe greeted him warmly, clearly familiar with the man. “I never expected someone as busy as you to take time out of your day to support my niece.”
James offered a faint smile. “It just so happens I had the day off.”
Zoe gestured toward Mia with pride.“This is my niece, Mia Larson. She’s an exceptionally talented artist, and all the pieces in this exhibition were created by her.”
Mia blushed at the praise and spoke modestly. “Aunt Zoe, you’re exaggerating. I just paint whatever comes to mind.”
“You have remarkable talent,” James said, turning slightly to gaze at a landscape painting behind him. His voice carried a calm authority as he remarked, “Take this one, for example. Though it depicts mountains and uses warm tones, it evokes a profound sense of desolation and solitude. It’s deeply moving.”
Mia froze, stunned that he had understood her work so well.
Most of her paintings shared this paradox: vivid, intense colors masking a quiet loneliness. They expressed not vibrancy but a sense of isolation–an emotional paradox she had always struggled to articulate.
It was like a lyric from a forgotten song: The louder the noise, the deeper the silence. The brighter the lights, the lonelier the heart.
The world bustled with endless comings and goings, yet every person’s heart remained an isolated island, untouchable and unreachable.
Since childhood, Mia had lived in the shadow of this solitude. The busier and noisier her surroundings, the more acutely she felt alone.
“I’ve heard it said that a painter’s work reflects their state of mind at a given moment, mused, his gaze returning to Mia. “Yet, in your work, beneath the vivid and exaggerated colors, there’s a consistent undercurrent of melancholy and isolation.”
