“Then let’s not have one,” Gang replied. “Let’s have an open ending.”
Jane stepped closer. “That’s exactly what she intended.”
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said, her voice steady, even surprised at herself. jane costa liu gang
He turned then, and smiled. “I’m Liu Gang. I’m here for three months. I was told you’re the person to talk to about Brazilian visual poetry.”
He was a visiting scholar from Shanghai, researching the intersection of Eastern calligraphy and Western abstract expressionism. He had a calm, deliberate way of moving, as if every gesture had been considered before executed. Jane noticed him first because he stood in front of a large, chaotic painting by Mira Schendel—all wandering lines and ghostly translucence—and simply breathed. Not analyzing. Just being with it. “Then let’s not have one,” Gang replied
That was how it began.
A month later, she received a package from Shanghai. Inside: a calligraphy brush, handmade in Anhui, and a note in Gang’s careful hand. He turned then, and smiled
She didn’t know how the story would end. But for the first time in a long time, she was in love with the not-knowing.
