"Do you really have the nerve to call yourself an artist?" Ning Shizhao looked at his son, who was over half a century old, with a stern face. "Every time I ask you how my calligraphy looks, your critique is always the same line, whether it's Liu style, Yan style, running script, or cursive script. Do you have the nerve?"
"Dad, aren't you putting me in a difficult spot? I don't like writing these, so how could I understand if your calligraphy is any good?" Ning Yi scratched his head and played along with a chuckle, "I know my handwriting is ugly, I've long accepted that! Don't expect anything from me in this lifetime, oh, and don't expect anything from your grandson either. Ning Youyu's mom said she signed him up for a calligraphy class, but after four lessons, the calligraphy teacher was so ticked off he called us himself asking to withdraw the kid!"
"You!" Ning Shizhao's face turned livid with anger at his son's shamelessness.
