When Shen Yuan returns, he's carrying his sword, three long, narrow pieces of lumber, and several lengths of twine. Working simultaneously with his hands and his qi to save time, he lashes the pieces of lumber to the legs of the easel, extending it upward, and then tilts it upright. The trough that holds the canvas is now several feet above his head. He stares up at it and barks a laugh. "Stupid," he mutters. "The things we do for art."