What the hell is the "kill line" when you're in America?

The woman didn't move again; she simply kept her head turned to the side, her gaze drawn to Li Ang.

She was the only one in the room who noticed Li Ang, this strange man.

Li Ang felt her strange gaze.

His attention was focused on the woman.

And above her head, there was a row of eerie question marks, as if veiled by a layer of golden gauze.

"You don't like this painting." Her voice was very pleasant.

Li Ang raised his eyebrows slightly.

The skill "Eloquent Tongue" is activated, and countless ways to respond flash by like a data stream.

"It's not worth the price," Li Ang said, looking at the painting.

The moment he uttered those words, he could clearly sense a fleeting, almost imperceptible look of surprise flash across the woman's deep eyes.

She seemed completely unprepared for such an answer.

"An interesting comment."

"At the Campbell Center for the Performing Arts, I've heard countless interpretations of this painting."

Some say it represents the nothingness and chaos of the universe.

"Some say it symbolizes the loneliness and despair in the hearts of modern people."

"Some people say it pioneered a completely new art movement: postmodern minimalism."

She looked at Li Ang and smiled, "This is the first time I've heard someone say it's not worth it."

"Is art measured in money?"

"Is art measured in money?"

The woman's voice echoed in the empty exhibition hall, carrying a perfectly timed elegance, as if she had already anticipated this question.

Her voice rose slightly at the end, like an invisible feather gently tickling the nerves of every "high-end person" present.

Several men and women around, who were pretending to admire other paintings, couldn't help but turn their gazes toward them.

Their eyes held a mixture of curiosity, approval, and a hint of superiority, as if they were watching a good show.

This question is absolutely "correct".

It's so accurate that it instantly nails anyone who tries to discuss art in terms of money to the pillory of "vulgarity."

Li Ang could feel several gazes, like searchlights, focused on him.

He became the focus of the entire event.

An outlier who tries to taint the temple of art with the stench of money.

The woman continued to look at him, her deep eyes holding a knowing smile.

She was waiting for his answer.

Or rather, she was waiting for him to make a fool of himself.

Li Ang raised his eyebrows slightly again.

He didn't look at the people around him; his gaze remained fixed on the completely black painting.

The skill of "eloquent speech" was running at high speed in his mind.

Countless coping strategies flashed by like a waterfall of data.

refute?

argue?

Admit your "ignorance"?

No.

That's all too boring.

That's too "normal".

"No."

He spoke, his voice calm, yet clearly reaching everyone's ears.

"Art, of course, cannot be measured in money."

Upon hearing this answer, a barely perceptible hint of disappointment flashed in the woman's eyes.

The onlookers around also showed expressions of "I knew it".

They thought that this rule-breaking intruder had finally succumbed to the pressure of "political correctness."

However, Li Ang's next words caused everyone's expressions to freeze instantly.

"Because most so-called art is utterly worthless."

If Li Ang's earlier statement, "It's not worth the price," was merely a pebble thrown into a lake, creating small ripples...

His words were like a depth charge, exploding in everyone's minds.

Worthless?

He actually said that the exhibits at the Campbell Centre for the Performing Arts were worthless?

What arrogance!

How utterly ignorant!

Several "art lovers" who had originally wanted to come and watch the excitement suddenly turned pale.

The way they looked at Li Ang was as if they were looking at a madman, an incomprehensible blasphemer.

Even the woman who always maintained an elegant demeanor.

Although it was extremely brief, it was still accurately captured by Li Ang, whose mental strength was as high as 35 points.

"interesting."

It took her a full three seconds to regain her voice and her composed expression.

"You mean, all the artwork here is garbage?"

Her voice was a few degrees colder than before.

"No."

Li Ang shook his head.

He pointed to the completely black painting.

"I'm just talking about this painting."

He then pointed to a painting next to him, consisting of several red circles and a few blue lines.

"And this one too."

Then, he pointed to the other side of the exhibition hall.

"And, that."

Every time he pointed to a place, the expressions on the faces of the people around him grew increasingly grim.

Because he was referring to the pieces in this exhibition that had the highest estimated value and were most highly regarded by "professionals".

"In my view, there is only one standard for judging whether something is valuable."

Li Ang withdrew his finger and looked at the woman again.

"That is, whether it can be used by me."

"Can you eat this painting?"

"cannot."

"Can I wear it?"

"cannot."

"So, to me, what's the difference between it and a canvas that's been painted black?"

"Why should I pay millions, or even tens of millions, for a canvas that's been painted black?"

Every word he uttered was filled with unorthodox and vulgarity.

But it also carries with it an irrefutable, most primitive, and most savage logic.

"Value also includes emotional value."

"For example, joy, anger, sadness, fear..."

"If a painting can bring me joy or instill fear in my enemy, then it is valuable to me."

"But this painting..."

Li Ang looked at the deep blackness, his face revealing an undisguised, pure confusion.

"It can't give me anything."

"As I looked at it, only one thought came to mind."

"What are you thinking?" the woman asked instinctively.

"This canvas would make a great target."

"Durable, and with a large enough target."

"puff......"

The woman seemed to chuckle, but quickly glanced around and saw that many people were staring at her and Li Ang.

Several men dressed in suits, who looked like senior executives of a company, might still find Li Ang vulgar, but they had to admit that the young man's words expressed what they had always wanted to say but dared not say.

Modern artists are all rubbish. They just scribble a couple of lines and then call themselves great artists.

Wouldn't that mean everyone is an artist?

Looking around, she introduced herself to Li Ang: "Hello... my name is Isabella."