Truman was late for the Zoom as usual and when the disheveled mop of white hair perched on top of a turgid, sallow face, popped up on his screen he winced. Already well into some pompous oratory was Russell Bennett, the haughty self-appointed leader of the Seattle Virtual Artists Collective. Taking note of the new arrival, Bennett moved close to the cam and leered menacingly through antique rimless glasses teetering on a bulbous, pock-marked nose and Truman scrambled to minimize the image.
“So glad you could join us, Mr. Wexler.” Rusty had a particular talent for vicious yet elegant sarcasm. A gift really.
“Sorry, Russ, I had trouble logging in”
Rusty despised being called Russ.
“Perhaps you could use your extraordinary brain power and come up with an alternative excuse one day, Truman.”
With that, Truman muted his mic and sat back to sip his chai tea while listening to Rusty pontificate about the sorry state of Seattle’s virtual arts scene.
As annoying as Rusty could be – the sweet and sour belittling that customarily occupied the first fifteen minutes of his Zooms was always annoying – his encyclopedic knowledge of art history was astounding, and Truman secretly enjoyed the long-winded lectures. It was of particular interest to Truman when conversation veered to impressionism of the late 19th and early 20th century, but even more so when Rusty waxed philosophical about the surrealists, especially Rene Magritte who Truman made no secret of idolizing. Which is where Rusty had wandered when he suddenly jarred Truman out of his idle reverie.
“What are you working on, Wexler? Putting an apple on the nose of another Greek god?”
Rusty had moved close to his cam again and the sneering visage loomed large.
“I thought this was supposed to be a support group, Russ?” Truman said mildly, using what he deemed an acceptable amount of sarcasm. “Maybe you haven’t noticed but Venus de Milo is a chick not a dude, and as a matter of fact my NFTs have been selling really well on Amazon. So well I was thinking about giving the Magritte treatment to David too.”
“Well, please stick the apple on his dick instead of his nose so we don’t have to look at that sad little pecker anymore.”
Clearly amused with himself, Rusty chuckled and his jowls shook with disturbing effect. There was a smattering of smiles across the meeting screen, but Truman just stared at the cam waiting for the abuse to resume.
“So, what exactly does selling well mean, Truman? I’m sure your mother’s book club snapped it up, but did any other art patrons who don’t share your last name fork over the paltry price Amazon has it listed at?” Rusty sniffed. “And not to burst your bubble but isn’t Amazon’s Creative Studio selling the same shit now?”
Fuck you, Russ. When was the last time you sold anything? Anything?
Rusty never asked questions without first knowing the answer, so Truman decided to stop sparring. Besides, Rusty was right. The virtual art scene was owned lock, stock and barrel by Amazon and selling your NFTs for more than a few bucks required an exalted search ranking which most artists could never achieve. There was no chance of Amazon putting their marketing muscle behind you without big numbers, and without that muscle there was no chance of making big numbers. A classic Catch-22.
“I apologize for the tone of my remarks, Mr. Wexler,” Rusty continued “but you have served the valuable purpose of quite inadvertently bringing me to what I want to discuss today.”
“David’s dick?” Truman asked earnestly.
“Some other time perhaps.” Rusty wore a wan smile. “No, I would like to have a robust discussion about what this esteemed collective of virtual Van Goghs can do to say fuck you to Amazon and AI Paintr and all the other platforms that create crap. More to the point, how might we rebel against their totalitarian takeover?”
“Rusty?” The handsome female face and world-weary expression of Mrs. Francis Pettigrew popped up.
“Yes, Fran, do you have a solution for us?”
“Well, no. I mean maybe. But you’re talking about fighting a rising tide, Rusty. An AI tsunami, really. It’s responsible for over half the art generated in the world already. Wouldn’t it be more realistic if we just freshen up the blog a bit, work some new teases on Instagram, and promote the SVAC Virtual Street Fair as best we can?”
“Francis, darling, how positively dreary.”
Rusty paused for a heavy sigh before explaining to Fran exactly how insipid and tedious her suggestions were but was cut short by a sonorous baritone voice.
“She’s right, Rusty. Chill out. We’re just trying to sell a few pieces so we can buy drinks, and you want to go to war with Amazon.”
Darnell Dixon was a tall elegant black man with a shiny bald pate and an impressive satanic goatee. He looked every bit the part of a proud starving artist and often served as the voice of reason during the SVAC Zooms. Often the only one. Especially when Rusty went around a corner and nobody wanted to follow.
“For god’s sake, people.” Rusty’s shoulders slumped. He removed his glasses and idly wiped them, then blinked and squinted into the cam. “Do you know how many followers our blog has? Hmm? Do you? One hundred and sixty-six. And Instagram?”
Rusty replaced his still-greasy glasses and resumed his ranting with renewed vigor. “Fewer than my grandson. He gets more likes playing vintage hip-hop on the ukulele than we do for our masterpiece theater. And don’t get me started on the fucking fair.”
The image of Suzanne Layne-Stalls winked off the screen. She was a woman of few words, had limited patience for Rusty’s screeds, and often registered her displeasure by simply leaving the Zoom. She also was by far the best-selling artist in the collective, so she was granted a wide berth for her peculiar personality. Not that Rusty abided her.
Why does that bitch even bother? She fucked the right people and sold a couple pieces for more than a few bucks. So what? You think I couldn’t have done the same thing, sweetheart? Maybe some people think bigger than that. Maybe some people want to help other people and spend their time running an assemblage of asses. For no pay.
Rusty pursed his lips and continued with a sneer. “Thirty-three people logged in for the last fair. Thirty. Three. We sold a grand total of five pieces and the SVAC cut barely covered the cost of the Grubhub gift card we raffled off. Does that sound like a success to any of you?”
Rusty didn’t wait for an answer, which nobody would’ve offered anyway.
“We might as well have a bake sale to buy band uniforms for K-12 kids so they can march in the fucking Bumbershoot parade.”
Darnell’s dulcet tone interrupted the shrill tirade.
“You know, Rusty, since Lizette died, no one has paid attention to generating new content across any of the platforms. Our blog is stale, and on Insta people only care about what happened five minutes ago. Perhaps we should consider hiring a marketing group to help get our message out?”
Dennis, I love you so very much, you know that,” Rusty murmured in exasperation. “But pray tell, how are we going to afford it? And what really are they going to do anyway? Sell us hot air about the website and blog and our shitty SEO? Tell us we need fresh content? Charge us a fortune to pimp the deserted virtual street fair? For what?”
Rusty paused and removed his glasses again, which usually meant he was preparing to conclude one argument and start another.
“Listen, I’m sorry for being such a dick today. More than usual even. The quad-shot Americano was a bad idea.” He struggled to wrap the wire frames back around his cauliflower ears. “But unless we can get our work in front of actual collectors with deep pockets, instead of penny-ante posers and virtual voyeurs, we’re never going to be able to afford Grubhub, let alone amount to anything in the exalted world of art virtualization.”
Rusty sighed theatrically and it was obvious he was finally running out of gas. Truman decided to seize the opportunity and try to steer the conversation back to reality. Or at least somewhere less stressful.
“Fran and Dennis are right, Rusty. None of us are expecting to get rich here, whatever that means. Like Dennis said, we’re just looking to make a few bucks and be able to afford a modest lifestyle.”
Truman knew what was coming and put up his hand to stop it.
“Wait, Rusty, I know what you’re going to say. And I’m trying to say the same thing. It isn’t about the money. We all care about the art. We all want to create something beautiful. And we all would like a little recognition for it.”
Rusty was staring into the cam and resting his over-sized head on one small hand which Truman interpreted as an invitation to continue.
“Look, I’d like to be the next virtualization master. A Francois Petit, or Marco DeMille, or even Giselle Savanne. We all would.”
“Oh, are you finally going to have the operation, Truman?” Rusty asked blandly.
“I’d like to be recognized for my work,” Truman said brushing off Rusty’s barb. “To be famous even, or rich like Beeple, as shitty and selfish as that sounds.”
“That doesn’t sound shitty at all,” chimed in Valkorie. “Or selfish. But be careful what you wish for, Tru darling, being famous does have its drawbacks.”
Rusty brought his other hand up to bury his face.
Oh god! You self-absorbed bestial slut. One night of alcohol abuse and sexual indiscretion and this is the price I pay? Even amongst these poser Picassos you shouldn’t be allowed to clean our brushes, let alone pretend to be an artist. The years have been kind to you, my dear, but you should wear a muzzle like one of your models.
Valkorie was the one-named prima donna of the SVAC. She was in her mid-sixties but thanks to the undeniably expert work of her cosmetic surgeon maintained the face and figure of a woman half her age. Close examination did reveal evidence of the remodeling but that’s what Photoshop is for.
She possessed a head of long, shiny platinum blond hair that purposefully and perfectly framed her rack of oversized implants and had a high opinion of herself but zero talent as an artist. To anyone’s knowledge, she hadn’t sold a single piece of work since she joined the collective and apparently didn’t care. She fancied herself too avant-garde, or retro, or whatever, to dabble in any of the augmented or mixed reality fields that are so popular these days, and instead simply posted nude pics of herself engaged with wild animals in various acts indelicato. That she adamantly refused to confirm or deny whether the activity was virtual art or real pornography was supposedly the appeal. At least in her mind, though evidently no one else’s.
“Perhaps we should try being a little more tactile in our approach. A little more real, if you’ll forgive the expression,” Rusty said pointedly for Valkorie’s benefit. “When was the last time anyone tried actually painting something? With a brush. Or their finger,” he added, wiggling a fat forefinger in everyone’s eyes.
“Truman, you seem to be our foremost proponent of augmented reality, at least to the extent it can be expressed through Rene Magritte’s formidable talent rather than yours. And there can be no doubt owning works of art which enable you to smell and taste an apple while fondling Venus de Milo’s breasts has a certain appeal, but is it really art? Is it an expression of something more than crass commercialism? Isn’t all this somatosensory schlock just an invitation for the art connoisseur to jerk themselves off while Venus de Milo watches?”
“Well, they’ll have to, Russ, she’s got no arms.”
“You really should be doing stand-up, Wexler, instead of art.” Rusty’s face suddenly lurched forward and the screen morphed into a huge mosaic of pock marks and broken blood vessels. All the screen faces recoiled. “And what is that behind you, dear boy, an actual painting?”
Truman had forgotten he’d hung one of his pen and inks on the wall behind his desk a week ago and now regretted the positioning. He leaned to one side so everyone could see better and twisted his torso so he could as well. Truth was, he was actually proud of the piece and had intended to present it to the group at some point anyway.
You’re an asshole but you’re right. What the hell is virtual art anyway? Everything’s virtual now. And AI is better at it. Why the fuck are we doing this?
“What is that, a Rorschach test?” Rusty asked adjusting his glasses.
“No, Russ. It’s neo-surrealism, which you would recognize if you weren’t still living in the ‘70s.” Truman was tired of sparring with Rusty and wanted nothing more than a hit of dope and a cold beer. “But I think you may be onto something about tactile art. The NFT market is flooded and there’s so much crap out there, real or pirated or AI, serious collectors only pay serious money for something they can actually touch. And frame. And…”
“Hang on the wall?” Rusty finished Truman’s sentence. “Excellent, young man! Now we are talking about art. I think we should all step away from our little screens for a few precious moments, or maybe even a few days, and create something with our hands. Something that other people can touch with theirs. And then,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I think we should have a real street fair. Outside. On the street for fuck’s sake. An honest-to-god market for real art. It would be delicious.”
“Rusty, don’t be a stupid.” The heavily accented voice was a surprise, and the words downright shocking, since they came out of the mouth of Camille Devereaux. The diminutive French ex-pat, which is a rare breed of cat these days, rarely spoke during SVAC Zooms, and even then, only to agree with everything Rusty said. Rusty was clearly taken aback and waited for her to continue. “How are we going to compete with all the AI oils and watercolors and whatever else they can crank out in minutes and sell for a song?”
“Calmez-vous, ma chérie.” Rusty had a soft spot for Camille and chose to ignore her insolence, at least for now. “Even beginning art students can tell a real brush stroke from AI.”
Rusty loved pregnant pauses and indulged in one to allow the group to comprehend the importance of what he just said.
“I realize this would entail doing actual artwork and that may be foreign to you, but as antiquated as the concept may be, imagine the satisfaction of producing art using your own hands, and maybe even selling it to a real person standing in front of you.”
Imagine you have an ounce of talent or half a brain, ma petit. You think because you Photoshop a real piece of art you’re an artist? We can get the word out but first you’ll have to do actual work. What it will look like I shudder to think.
“Are you suggesting that the collective should abandon virtual art?” Dennis Dixon sounded truly gobsmacked by the idea.
“My dear Mr. Dixon, I am not suggesting that, but you do acknowledge we are fighting a losing battle with AI, don’t you? And doesn’t it seem possible we could be capable of doing more than one thing?”
Dennis merely raised an eyebrow to answer the rhetorical questions, but before Rusty could carry on, Fran, having recovered from the cuffing she took earlier, reinserted herself in the conversation.
“None of us really have a studio, Rusty. Where are we going to slave over hot easels to create these great works of art?”
“Let me worry about that. I have some ideas and the less you know the better, Franny.”
The business of the Zoom lasted another minute or so and consisted entirely of Rusty haranguing everyone to contribute a few bucks to the collective, which except during the holidays no one ever did. Then, after the obligatory offers of side Zooms and virtual cocktail parties had been made, and the awkward tittering and perfunctory ta-tas subsided, Truman finally clicked off and let out a huge sigh of relief.
I fucking hate those Zooms. Nobody enjoys them except Rusty. And what do we ever get done? Everybody talking and nobody saying anything. I should just start jerking off into the cam. That’s performance art, right? Why should Valkorie have all the fun?
He slowly made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Except for the box of shitty pad thai he didn’t finish last night, and the dregs from this week’s CSA box, there wasn’t anything to eat. Truman wasn’t particularly hungry anyway, so he grabbed a Corona and began scanning the messy counter for a bottle opener.
Plopped on his couch, Truman took a big vape of dope and a sloppy swig of beer. He could instantly feel the drug take the edge off and leaned far back into the cushions.
Through the door to the office he could see his ink print, the one he’d entitled Our Space, and squinted to bring it into sharper focus. Nodding with satisfaction he toyed with the idea he should rename it My Space. Truman had read about the ancient social media platform on Wiki and found it ironic a social network would be called My Space. He took another swig of beer and wondered if there even was such a thing anymore.