Anonymous Artists

Everest was named after a mountain, but had never climbed one. Her parents named her such, thinking that she would become a great climber of high altitudes, but to their dismay, she merely became a hopeless romantic with a great addiction for lovesickness.

Everest got a degree in computer science, but made a living making commentary videos on pop culture. She didn’t really care about the things she talked about, but rather, she liked to argue and hear herself sound intelligent about things that didn’t require her to be technically learned about anything. Though being technically learned in computer science, the subject made her yawn, and wasn’t exiting enough for her to argue passionately about. All she saw in the discipline were repeating binary codes—zeros and ones. Everest imagined climbing to be the same exaggerated boringness—one step, two steps, three steps, all until you reached some indistinct peak or plateau. Still, she couldn’t deny the allure of her own name, and how she sought to reach a great altitude of knowing, fulfillment, love, or merely, a sense of satisfaction with life.

Everest’s name gave her a fondness for nature, though she avoided climbing (literally, and figuratively), but that she saw herself one in the same to the gravel or other rocky terrains that she’d traverse on hikes, often wondering why she had chosen computer science and internet fame. They keep me tethered to my bedroom, she’d think as she perpetually kept her neck craned to the sky to see birds fly over or clouds morph into faux-unicorns. Or perhaps, she likened her name to the cobalt that powered her electronics, giving them power, and feeding her desire to be seen and loved by the faceless accounts that followed and liked her videos. Many times a week, Everest would wish that her parents had named her differently. Then, perhaps, she wouldn’t have been so keen on succeeding at achieving euphoria in life—like the kind of euphoria that she imagined climbers experienced when they reached Mt. Everest’s summit.

In the beginning days of her post-graduate studies—while she healed her soul after a prolonged four-year period of frozen meals, musty dorm rooms, and cheap liquor—Everest’s entry-level job as a coder (that was the title they gave her) offered her three hours a day, after work, to wander outdoors. She began dreaming of cottage core dresses, knitted bandanas, and sourdough starter in between the lines of HTML she wrote for an obscure tech company headquartered in Austin, Texas. In Pennsylvania, where she lived, Everest was a hop-and-skip away from the Cuberland Valley, where the A.T. passed through her state. She regretfully dreamed of hiking that entire section of the trail, and maybe, one day, she’d be able to hike the entire thing. That would mean incredible success, though, and in a way, would fulfill her parents’ dreams of naming her after a surmountable task. She wasn’t too keen on giving them that pleasure, and would have rather drifted off into mediocrity.

Instead, she worked remotely and tried her best to turn her one room apartment on third avenue, in a Pennsylvania town nicknamed Jackson Hallow, into one of those fairy cottage core cabins. She wasted her coder paychecks on plastic ivy, strings of LED lights, and put a different colored succulent on each barren surface of her pseudo-home. In appeasing her cottage-core daydreams, Everest imagined retiring to a secluded cottage in the woods, somewhere, far from prying eyes. Still, a nagging part of Everest knew that she would never be able to live so removed from people. She required a lot of attention, and it seemed as she grew older, the higher her ego seemed to stretch far above the clouds and just below the surface to where the atmosphere broke for the rest of the universe.

As everyone expected that Everest would, she gained popularity on the internet because of her quick wit, her confident speech, and the opinionated air that she carried with her that towered over everyone she met. After engaging in a rather heated debate in a Jackson Hollow cafe simply named “COFFEE” (in all capital letters)—in which Everest and three of her past roommates argued over whether or not Jessica Simpson’s rise to fame was due to her talent or due to the pop culture climate of the early 2000s—Everest embarked on her journey to internet fame, and later, to internet infamy.

“The public just wanted more Britney Spears look-alikes,” Everest’s past roommate, Arbor, had said, while sipping on an iced matcha.

“It takes hard work, regardless, to make it in Hollywood,” Everest’s past roommate, Lyle, had said, warming their hands on a mug of earl gray tea.

“It helps if you are pretty,” Everest’s past roommate, Elliot had said, absently stirring their Americano with a spoon.

Everest, herself, argued that Jessica Simpson’s rise to fame was a fever dream and that she was too young to remember the hype. And yet, when she returned to her one room apartment on third avenue, the cheapest one on the very top floor, she was compelled to cover her face with a Plague-Doctor-Halloween-mask and summarize the recent debate in a well edited video that she then posted online. Everest covered her face, because if she were to climb her way up to fame, she didn’t want anyone to know it was actually her. She wanted to exist on the internet as if she were a ghostly, nameless, apparition, that could merely float to the top of the internet algorithms.

She called her video account, “Lady Caroline Lamb’s Diaries” after Lord Byron’s illustrious lover, who was equally as unhinged as she was brilliant. Everest had read about Byron’s lover prior to her Jessica Simpson debate, and had been quickly enthralled with the noble woman’s unabashed confidence. Lady Lamb never shied away from public scrutiny, and rather, she embraced it. She did not have to climb the social ladder, either, for she was already born to be the niece of Georgiana Cavendish, and Everest fell in love with that type of freedom. There is no need to climb, if you are already at the top.

Everest built her “Lady Caroline Lamb” brand by dressing in cottage core style clothing, tying her chestnut, curly hair with pale bows and into intricate styles, all the while wearing variations of her Plague Doctor and other Venetian Masquerade masks. Her content ranged from anything relating to music icons to political scandals (most notably, the Monica Lowinsky era of promiscuity). Everest had a strict schedule of uploading her videos on Friday mornings, so by evening, she’d be able to wrap herself up in an electric blanket and eat bowls of cheap packaged ramen noodles as she reviewed the comment sections of her uploads.

In the beginning, the comments angered her. Comments like, “You’re mask is stupid,” “No one cares about your opinion,” or “You don’t even know what you are talking about,” cut her deeply as they would anyone, but contrary to the majority and more aligned with her God complex leanings, Everest took the comment section jabs as fuel to the fire. She spent more time crafting her scripts, spent more time editing her videos, and scoured online art shops until she found an artist under the pseudonym, Apollo, who made Venetian Masquerade masks for a living.

Apollo and Everest had never met IRL (in real life). They kept their correspondence limited to emails, where Everest would send him inspiration photos accompanied by messages like, “Make whatever you want. Just make sure it’s cool. Let me know when you are done and I’ll send over my Venmo payment.” A few weeks later Apollo would email back with the product photos and say, “Your masks are done. Send over $528 to @apollozee45.” Everest would reply, “Thx. Just sent over the money,” and five to seven days later her masks would arrive in the mail, without a return address.

Their communication continued like that for many months. Everest would plug Apollo’s mask business in each of her videos, garnering him a rather substantial following himself. After receiving a sizable uptick in sales for his business, Everest received an out of character email from him, reading it as she ate a bowl of sour cream n’ cheddar potato chips:

Everest,

Thank you for crediting me in your videos. Because of your recognition, I have received much more attention for my business and my art. Though I appreciate your advocacy, I would ask that you do not search out my true identity. I wish to remain a faceless artist.

Best, Apollo

As Everest’s video channel grew in popularity, she relied less and less on her coder job to pay the bills, and thus saw a great business partnership blossoming between her and Apollo. Apollo began posting in Everest’s comment sections, leaving messages like, “That mask turned out really nice.”

Amidst the torrent of other unkind comments, Everest welcomed Apollo’s commentary with all of her heart. She found his Instagram account, the one dedicated to his mask business, and made sure to like each post he uploaded. She would always leave a comment, making sure that hers was the longest among them all. One day, Apollo posted a photo of a new Colombina mask, which was upholstered with pastel salmon fabric, trimmed with gold braided rope, and sported a large array of feathers on top where the mask would meet one’s hairline.

Everest was taken by the beauty of the mask, and felt as if Apollo’s art was elevating her perception of beauty. She liked Apollo’s post, and commented a heart, and when she went to leave a comment for him, she thought, It’s not fair that everyone can see my messages. She sat down at her computer, and began writing the most alluring, charming, lofty email she could manage:

Dear Apollo,

I saw the Colombina mask on your Instagram! Wow! That is all I can really say because your work is beyond words. You are truly a master at your craft, and you deserve the whole world to know who you are. I can say, just by my own experiences, that the collaboration we have participated in together, has moved me to new heights. I see your art and I in the same realm of existence, and I pray you don’t take that admission as a sort of self pleasing banter. I feel as though I can exist within your art, and that I see your art existing within me. Please don’t take this all with a light heart, as I am revealing to you my deepest feelings regarding the matter of you and I.

Sincerely, your most ardent follower and (dare I say) friend,

Everest

Several days went by and Everest could almost see cobwebs growing along the sides of her email windows. She sometimes refreshed her email every ten minutes for an hour at a time, but then would almost completely dissociate herself from wanting to read Apollo’s reply at all. When she was about to give up hope on ever hearing from—or working with—Apollo ever again, she finally received his reply. His email popped up bright blue against the faded gray of her thousands of other read emails. It read:

Everest,

Thank you for your kind words. I am glad you liked the mask. Maybe you can wear one just like it, one day, in one of your videos?

Sincerely, also your follower and (yes, you may say) friend,

Apollo.

Everest read over his email over and over again for the entire morning. While eating lunch, she was interrupted by the chiming of her doorbell. She trotted over to her entry way in fuzzy slippers, and a green robe, hoping that Apollo would be outside her door, instead of the delivery man that was holding a small-ish cardboard box. Everest solemnly opened the door and greeted the man, who shoved a cardboard box into her hands, and then rushed back down the stairs.

Everest sauntered to her kitchen to unceremoniously, and a bit recklessly, cut the taped edges of the box to reveal its contents . Once open, Everest gasped, feeling blood rush to her head, as in the box sat the Colombina mask Apollo had posted on his Instagram. She picked up the mask and examined every part of it, running her fingers over the smooth fabric, inspecting the spaces between each fleck of feather that protruded from the top of it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, smiling, her quiet voice reverberating against the walls of her lonely, one room apartment. “It’s absolutely beautiful.” In the bottom of the box sat a little card with what appeared to be Apollo’s handwriting, scrawled in red ink, that read, “From your most ardent follower, and friend.” Elvira held the card flat against her chest, and when she was done sniffing the lingering scent of sandalwood and bourbon from the box, she rushed to her bedroom. Everest laid the mask on her dresser, and sat down to write an even more adulating email:

Dearest Apollo,

I’ve received your gift. Thank you so much! I already adore it and can’t wait to make a video with it. I’ve suddenly realized that you are the best thing to have happened to my life. I wish I knew what you looked like, though. What if we were to meet! What do you think of that?

Sincerely, your biggest fan, Everest

Like before, Apollo took his time responding to Everest. She assumed that he was a busy artist and didn’t have the time to spend always answering emails. In the meantime, while she waited for Apollo’s response, Everest’s video channel turned a year old. She made the impulsive decision to quit her coding job and dedicate all her resources to Lady Caroline Lamb’s Diaries.

After a month of receiving no further correspondence from Apollo, Everest decided to make the video with Apollo’s Colombina mask to try and pry him from his self isolation. Perhaps if he sees that I am wearing his mask, he will respond? She paired it with a Georgian style dress that she procured from a local Renaissance festival, on the backdrop of a video dedicated to how The Emperor’s New Groove was a cinematic masterpiece that never received proper credit. At the end of the video, Everest made sure to plug Apollo’s business, and highlighted the mask that he had gifted to her.

“As you all know,” she told the cameras, “I have been working with a lovely artist, named Apollo, for the past year now. He has become one of my dearest friends, and is the genius behind all of these beautiful masks that I wear on this channel.” She felt a burning in her chest, and felt compelled to claim him for herself. “I regretfully must admit to you all though, that as much as some of you may want to collaborate with him as I have, you won’t be able to.” She smiled wide under the mask, and signed off by saying, “Apollo is my Lord Byron, and I am his Lady Caroline Lamb.”

Everest edited and uploaded the video the next morning, and by nightfall, she had received an onslaught of comments: “Interesting opinions on The Emperor’s New Groove. I will have to watch it again,” “Never cared for the movie. You seem obsessed with your Apollo friend, though.”

The next day, Everest received a DM in her Instagram, from an Isabelle Maria Bellini:

Hi Everest! I am Franco Bellini’s sister—the artist, that goes by Apollo. I wanted to reach out and thank you for supporting my brother’s business. It means the world to our family to see him flourish.

I guess you also live in Jackson Hallow? (I seen you posted a picture outside of COFFEE!) We should meet up sometime.

Everest ignored Isabelle’s message, and instead, scoured the internet for a Franco Bellini. Fortunately, she quickly found a LinkedIn profile matching his name, that also marked him as living in Jackson Hallow. Apparently, he was working remotely for a start-up tech company headquartered in Silicone Valley. She couldn’t resist the temptation, and quickly messaged him:

Apollo?! I found you! I can’t believe your name is Franco. Why haven’t you emailed me back yet? I’d love to collaborate on a new video with you — perhaps we can film together since I know we live in the same town now!

Franco did not reply. Instead, Everest felt herself being thrown off of a cliff, three days later, when she was tagged in the comment section of a video titled, “The Truth About Lady Caroline Lamb’s Diaries.” She was horrified to watch twenty minutes of who she presumed to be Franco in a Plague Doctor mask, speaking of how she, Everest, took advantage of his art business. Franco—or Apollo—claimed he had yet to see a single dollar in kickback from her massive commentary channel, which he asserted was successful largely because of his work. “She is a liar and a thief,” he said, over and over again, his voice being altered to a disturbing low growl of AI manipulation.

Everest didn’t even bother to look at the comments. She didn’t even bother to try and remedy the situation by getting into contact with Franco, or whatever his name was. Instead, Everest deleted her channel without warning, and dug through her personal files to find her resume. Perhaps that obscure tech company in Austin, Texas would hire her back? Or perhaps Everest should do away with technology and go live in the scenic mountainous trails of the Appalachia. Maybe there she would be able to forget she had ever corresponded with an anonymous artist. Regardless of what she chose, she found a bit of peace knowing that she had become her own version of Lady Caroline Lamb. And at that point in her life, that was enough.