Many years have passed, but I still often go back down the memory lane to look at a drawing I made on paper when I was a child, a drawing sketched in pencil and colored with crayons, a small, hard, white piece of paper on which a colorful house stood clumsily.

When I was a child, I was not a keen painter, but I would pick up a piece of paper and draw leaves, chickens, houses, and so on. The house was the one I drew the most, maybe it made something in my subconscious manifest without me realizing it, proving that I had a house to live in, after all, I was a child with a foundation for survival; or maybe it was just a symbol, or a wing, holding an invisible dream in my heart.

The picture that makes me look back again and again is folded in my nine-year-old stationery box, and I reach out from today - of course, I have to wash my hands that have accumulated the dust and dirt of the years first - and carefully spread it on the brick school desk, with the stationery box "With the sound of the stationery box closing with a snap, the other sounds were also turned off. The painting was dented on the not-so-flat desk, a simple, careful look.

The house on the painting was of the kind common in the 1970s in the countryside, with a pointed hill wall, a sloping tiled roof, a door consisting of two sashes, and two mullioned windows on either side of the door. It is only a general outline, more delicate things are not. And its lines carry irregular trembling, as if it has just been blown by the wind, or it has just shaken its shoulders and laughed like a child.

I dyed the front wall yellow, the door red, the window pane green, and the rows of tiles on the roof aquamarine, like a blue wave. The combination of red, yellow, blue and green came together in a bright and lively way. Strangely enough, I dyed the walls brown, which is quite a guess for me, is it possible that this dull color is also a child's favorite? Is it that it predicted long ago that the side of life has a kind of darkness like the side of the house, and further in along the mountain wall, where it intersects with the courtyard wall, it is even darker, so that is what I have not painted. The so-called crying to the corner probably only refers to that kind of place.

At that time, my family shared an old two-room quadrangle with my mother's family and my cousin's grandmother's family. The courtyard is five hundred years old and was built when our ancestors moved south. The plaque on the main gate reads "Qinglan" and the plaque on the second gate reads "Lutai", which is a dignified and majestic look with a lot of substance. In the courtyard, there are brick and stone steps in front of the doors of all the houses around the courtyard - the house is surrounded by dense brick, and the outer edge is locked with four long stone strips. With the porch steps, people do not stride in front of the door, always have to pause and then lift the step, just like a person has to weigh whatever they do first. Even the most coarse and despicable people will be elegant and meticulous here. With that house, my ancestors ended their wandering life - the smoke curled up there very peacefully. But in the eyes of our time, that courtyard house is old, and my parents were always worried that the back wall of the east house would collapse on rainy days.

My house on paper had nothing to do with minutiae; I didn't think about so many things back then; they were complicated, headaches, and belonged in the adult world. I found another way on tiny pieces of paper and got pleasure from the slightly resistant and immediately overcoming run of the pencil and the soughing dance of the crayon. Later I read many paintings, not only the New Year paintings that hung on the walls of my house to enhance the atmosphere, but also books of famous paintings, classical, modern, Chinese, foreign, Dong Yuan's, Xu Beihong's, Raphael's, Van Gogh's, which gave me a common feeling of pleasure, even the sentimental paintings like "The Escape from Egypt" painted by Giotto, an Italian painter of the European Renaissance, which did not lack Joseph leads the Virgin Mary and Jesus to flee to Egypt for refuge, and the suffering of the upheaval makes Mary and the others look sad, but their suffering and sorrow present beauty in color and line, perhaps this is the immortal charm of art. I usually read those paintings when I was tired, leaning on my bed, looking at them for relief and amusement.

Although I was far from being an artist at nine, I had a childlike mind similar to that of an artist, a similar transcendence, and my house continued to grow because of my childishness. Every time I look back, it grows a little. I experience the world, and I always melt the things I experience into its invisible fibers when I gaze at it. For example, when I was twenty years old, I saw its ridge grow strong; when I was twenty-five years old, I saw its blue tiled roof look like it was swirling with a kind of love; when I was thirty years old, I noticed that its two windows had a somber look.

Who can decipher the things in the world? Looking back at my nine-year-old house on paper, its two doors that were tightly closed like lips had the meaning of wanting to say something. Perhaps it has contained deep meaning in its chest from the beginning, only now I recognize it. But as opposed to me, as opposed to me, as if more and more sinking down like lead mortal woman, it is always a long-sleeved, light, floating and sprightly fairy. The paper at its feet is a white cloud, filtering the mundane things of the mortal world for it; its colors, its lines, and make it ever so pure, innocent, fresh and vivid.

Many years have passed, but I still often go back down the memory lane to look at a drawing I made on paper when I was a child, a drawing sketched in pencil and colored with crayons, a small, hard, white piece of paper on which a colorful house stood clumsily.

When I was a child, I was not a keen painter, but I would pick up a piece of paper and draw leaves, chickens, houses, and so on. The house was the one I drew the most, maybe it made something in my subconscious manifest without me realizing it, proving that I had a house to live in, after all, I was a child with a foundation for survival; or maybe it was just a symbol, or a wing, holding an invisible dream in my heart.

The picture that makes me look back again and again is folded in my nine-year-old stationery box, and I reach out from today - of course, I have to wash my hands that have accumulated the dust and dirt of the years first - and carefully spread it on the brick school desk, with the stationery box "With the sound of the stationery box closing with a snap, the other sounds were also turned off. The painting was dented on the not-so-flat desk, a simple, careful look.

The house on the painting was of the kind common in the 1970s in the countryside, with a pointed hill wall, a sloping tiled roof, a door consisting of two sashes, and two mullioned windows on either side of the door. It is only a general outline, more delicate things are not. And its lines carry irregular trembling, as if it has just been blown by the wind, or it has just shaken its shoulders and laughed like a child.

I dyed the front wall yellow, the door red, the window pane green, and the rows of tiles on the roof aquamarine, like a blue wave. The combination of red, yellow, blue and green came together in a bright and lively way. Strangely enough, I dyed the walls brown, which is quite a guess for me, is it possible that this dull color is also a child's favorite? Is it that it predicted long ago that the side of life has a kind of darkness like the side of the house, and further in along the mountain wall, where it intersects with the courtyard wall, it is even darker, so that is what I have not painted. The so-called crying to the corner probably only refers to that kind of place.

At that time, my family shared an old two-room quadrangle with my mother's family and my cousin's grandmother's family. The courtyard is five hundred years old and was built when our ancestors moved south. The plaque on the main gate reads "Qinglan" and the plaque on the second gate reads "Lutai", which is a dignified and majestic look with a lot of substance. In the courtyard, there are brick and stone steps in front of the doors of all the houses around the courtyard - the house is surrounded by dense brick, and the outer edge is locked with four long stone strips. With the porch steps, people do not stride in front of the door, always have to pause and then lift the step, just like a person has to weigh whatever they do first. Even the most coarse and despicable people will be elegant and meticulous here. With that house, my ancestors ended their wandering life - the smoke curled up there very peacefully. But in the eyes of our time, that courtyard house is old, and my parents were always worried that the back wall of the east house would collapse on rainy days.

My house on paper had nothing to do with minutiae; I didn't think about so many things back then; they were complicated, headaches, and belonged in the adult world. I found another way on tiny pieces of paper and got pleasure from the slightly resistant and immediately overcoming run of the pencil and the soughing dance of the crayon. Later I read many paintings, not only the New Year paintings that hung on the walls of my house to enhance the atmosphere, but also books of famous paintings, classical, modern, Chinese, foreign, Dong Yuan's, Xu Beihong's, Raphael's, Van Gogh's, which gave me a common feeling of pleasure, even the sentimental paintings like "The Escape from Egypt" painted by Giotto, an Italian painter of the European Renaissance, which did not lack Joseph leads the Virgin Mary and Jesus to flee to Egypt for refuge, and the suffering of the upheaval makes Mary and the others look sad, but their suffering and sorrow present beauty in color and line, perhaps this is the immortal charm of art. I usually read those paintings when I was tired, leaning on my bed, looking at them for relief and amusement.

Although I was far from being an artist at nine, I had a childlike mind similar to that of an artist, a similar transcendence, and my house continued to grow because of my childishness. Every time I look back, it grows a little. I experience the world, and I always melt the things I experience into its invisible fibers when I gaze at it. For example, when I was twenty years old, I saw its ridge grow strong; when I was twenty-five years old, I saw its blue tiled roof look like it was swirling with a kind of love; when I was thirty years old, I noticed that its two windows had a somber look.

Who can decipher the things in the world? Looking back at my nine-year-old house on paper, its two doors that were tightly closed like lips had the meaning of wanting to say something. Perhaps it has contained deep meaning in its chest from the beginning, only now I recognize it. But as opposed to me, as opposed to me, as if more and more sinking down like lead mortal woman, it is always a long-sleeved, light, floating and sprightly fairy. The paper at its feet is a white cloud, filtering the mundane things of the mortal world for it; its colors, its lines, and make it ever so pure, innocent, fresh and vivid.