Chapter 484: Three Sets of Ten Million

Chapter 484: Three Ten Millions

“From the very beginning, I told everyone that my entry into the animation industry, and my founding of Shanhai Animation and other related studios, was not to ride on my popularity to carve out a slice of the animation market, but to work with more practitioners to make the pie bigger.”

Meng Fan took a sip of water and continued, “Every year, I put up this ten million to establish the Shanhai Animation Award, with the aim of helping Chinese animation develop better and faster, increasing the industry’s influence, boosting practitioners’ incomes, and revitalizing the entire field. This ten million will be used to reward outstanding practitioners, including comic authors, original artists, directors, screenwriters, voice actors, animation singers and musicians, and workers in all other positions.”

“My initial idea is to set up several awards, each with a number of winners. There will be two ways to win: one purely based on popular vote, and the other through recommendations from industry insiders. Each will take half the slots, splitting the prize money equally. The distribution of the prize money will be based on actual circumstances. In short, we’ll distribute all ten million, plus any possible sponsorships, down to the last cent!”

“The sponsorships I’m talking about here can be of two types: one is non-commercial sponsorship—anyone in the industry or from all walks of life who wants to contribute to Chinese animation can sponsor; the other is commercial sponsorship—in plain terms, if companies or similar entities sponsor, I can give you advertising space during the event. If you sponsor enough, you can even have the Shanhai Animation Award named after you!”

“I need to make one thing clear first: I plan to set up a fund specifically to help low-income people in the animation industry, providing them with living support for their creative work. If the sponsorship amount exceeds a certain number—say, ten million, making the total prize pool twenty million—the surplus will go into this fund.”

“Of course, all of this is based on the premise that you trust me. To be honest, I was hesitating just now about whether to bring up sponsorships and the fund with you right now, because from a certain perspective, I might seem like I’m pressuring for donations. But after thinking it over, Chinese animation isn’t just my business. I have fame, I have ability, and I’m willing to do what I can for Chinese animation, but I can’t do it alone—we need collective effort. Besides, I think among everyone here, and among those who might see this message in the future, there are definitely people who want to contribute to Chinese animation but haven’t found the right opportunity or a trustworthy organization. So, I should step up. Even if a hundred people say I’m fishing for fame or showing off, if just one person is willing to stand with me, it’ll be worth it.”

These words from Meng Fan weren’t a spur-of-the-moment feeling; he’d been thinking about them for a while. The achievement quest for the “God of Wealth” was secondary—what really mattered was that he genuinely wanted to do something for Chinese animation. In the past, his ability was limited; now, with ability, popularity, and money, he took the opportunity of this “Underground Spirits” launch (livestream) to announce it.

The Shanhai Animation Award was modeled after the animation awards and film/TV festivals in Japan, aiming to create an awards ceremony. The rewards would include not just honor but also substantial cash prizes. The money would come from Meng Fan personally. Using the name “Shanhai” was partly to promote Shanhai Animation Studio and “Shanhai Strange People,” but mainly because he thought the name was quite imposing.

The fund to help low-income people in the animation industry was something Meng Fan had recently thought up. It complemented the Shanhai Animation Award: the latter was about building height, the former about laying the foundation. In any industry, it’s unhealthy for only the top of the pyramid to make money; the lower levels need a good environment for survival, living, and creation, or else it will eventually collapse.

Of course, this fund would definitely need professionals to manage it, follow proper procedures, and be transparent. Meng Fan didn’t want good intentions to lead to bad outcomes or nasty incidents.

For now, Meng Fan planned to set aside ten million for this fund, trying it out for a year or half a year to see the results.

Additionally, besides these two “ten millions,” Meng Fan also intended to put up another ten million to establish an animation scholarship fund, used to reward and help students studying animation. For this, Meng Fan alone couldn’t handle it; he needed to discuss it with teachers and leaders from the art academy. In any industry, the power of the academic faction can never be overlooked or ignored.

After the livestream ended, Meng Fan posted three consecutive messages on Weibo, inviting comments and suggestions. To some, he might seem a bit over the top, but he was serious, genuinely wanting to hear the broadest opinions—if he wanted lofty advice, plenty of people would be willing to talk with him for three days and nights without rest—though the comment section might not have much substance, there would definitely be something.

An industry, in Meng Fan’s view, is healthiest and most prosperous when the upper echelons have status, the middle tier has hope, the lower tier has food and dignity, and there’s a reserve of talent.

For the upper and middle tiers, what Meng Fan could do was only add a little extra polish; his main focus and energy would still be on the low-income groups and backup talent in the industry. As for himself, belonging to the upper tier, what he could do was raise the ceiling, even if the methods might not all be directly related to comics.

Acting on his words, after updating his Weibo, Meng Fan contacted Tao Dongli and Hu Yijing.

To hold an event like the “Shanhai Animation Award” and make it run smoothly, he definitely needed insiders. Tao Dongli could provide the most direct help in this regard. This was a good thing, and Tao Dongli naturally wouldn’t refuse, even if there might be some criticism about personal connections.

As for setting up the fund, he needed to discuss it with Hu Yijing first. Although she wasn’t an animation professional, she knew more about this area than the people in the studio, at least enough to give directional advice—who to approach and how—so Meng Fan could have a clearer understanding.

The next day, Hu Yijing arrived. After talking, she used several connections to help Meng Fan get in touch with a professional skilled in fund management. They set a time to meet and discuss in detail, to see if they could help build a team. As for the animation-related professionals needed, Meng Fan wasn’t short on resources; in this matter, he was counting on Tencent Animation and Bilibili to help.

In the afternoon, Meng Fan arranged to meet Qin Jiao and went to see the dean of the Media and Animation Academy at the art institute. When the dean heard that Meng Fan wanted to set aside ten million annually specifically for a scholarship fund, he was naturally delighted. He immediately called in the department heads for a two-hour meeting with Meng Fan and Qin Jiao, finalizing the general content and direction, with plans to refine it gradually over the coming days and produce a final plan.

The general idea was to attract art students to choose animation majors, solve some students’ practical difficulties, create a better environment for creation and learning, and reward outstanding students.

(End of chapter)