In the blink of an eye, two months had passed, and it was time once again for the autumn 1971 Canton Fair.
It was still at Haizhu Square, but this time Wang Yan was no longer carrying a catalog around outside to hawk his goods. Instead, smiling broadly, he had his own product exhibition hall in a remote corner of the venue.
There was an art to arranging an exhibition hall: keep it simple and direct, and draw people in.
Wang Yan made furniture and home textiles, so he naturally set up an entire home.
Everything was high-end rosewood furniture, personally crafted by him: cabinets large and small, sofas, tables and chairs, beds, even vanity boxes and all sorts of miscellaneous items. They had been arranged together, with solid wood flooring laid across the ground, harmonious and unified, just like a real home.
All kinds of cushions produced by the home textile factory were also used. Soft, comfortable sofa cushions, mattresses, throw pillows, pillows, four-piece bedding sets, curtains, sheer curtains, and more—all fully furnished in simple yet attractive styles.
One look from outside made people unable to resist taking a few more glances. It possessed the grandeur and beauty of traditional Chinese style blended with modern minimalism.
That came from Wang Yan's understanding of beauty. His aesthetic sense was exceptionally sharp.
Li Kuiyong sprawled on the sofa. "Brother Yan, when do you think we'll get to enjoy such a nice sofa ourselves?"
"Aren't you enjoying it right now?" Wang Yan said with a grin as he arranged photographs he had taken on the wall—records of the furniture factory since its establishment.
"No, I mean moving one into our own home. We can afford one now, but my place is only fourteen square meters. There's nowhere to put it."
Li Kuiyong