The Man In The Arena

A tenebrous room was shushed by a flickering candle, just beside a man perched before an easel. An orb encapsulated the hunched figure, who prodded, stroked, and dabbed around the rectangular structure. A fulguration of distant lightning pierced through the small fissure of the curtains, relieving the melancholy room with flashes of light, unveiling the aged face of the crazed artist. The oak floor was littered with different variations of colored paints, surrounded by broken and damaged easels, that once represented the artist’s renditions of his experience, awaiting the circular-nature of time to place them back together. The home, much like a castle, was once gluttonized by ebullience—rich with coarse laughter, cigar smoke, and discarded bottles of champagne and the finest of wines. Franklin Westford, the savant behind the canvas, had conquered the Art World many times over; his displays of nostalgia, impressed within his works, left awestruck aficionados teary-eyed and transported through a conduit of experience back towards a moment of laminated sanctity.

Franklin’s play on the past made him the prime candidate for such an event; a pivotal moment of time where Man would face Machine to determine who held the keys to the future of creation. Art has always been the currency of man, though we masqueraded sentimentality and importance with costly-measures. Franklin was growing old; and to no avail to anyone other than Himself and his Doctor, Franklin was dying of cancer at a rapid pace. Franklin wrestled with his mortality: first enraged at God’s prejudice; then, tossed into despondence by the notion of simply…nothing. His life, filled greatly with exhilaration, did not leave many stones unturned; however, the ones that were left burrowed into the Earth harbored the insatiate extremes no man should encounter unless he has made peace with a one-way street. It would be considered selfish to the standard person: watching a man who had eclipsed such massive successes avowing such disdain for a creator, or the random occurrence of his life; flippantly desecrating the beating heart, our innate motivations, the cloud-tearing mountains, the sounds of the river, and the innocent, yet piercing dark chasms displayed through a newborn’s discovering eyes as they search for their Mother and Father’s love.

The “Singularity” is what the technocrats called this event. Their attitudes towards humanity was as if they were talking of a distant member of their lineage, from centuries before; they assured the public their creations would further progress the arts, using all man’s creations as a commanding force to enrich our lifeforms once it could integrate the suffrage and metadata of such. It was to no surprise the masses swallowed this propaganda just as fish would take the hook disguised as a worm; in the forefront, this conglomerate was clean-cut, well-spoken folks of the younger ilk—manipulative and keen on using buzz-words to assuage the public; on the back-end, they were pillaging with lawfare and capital—attempting to purchase, appropriate, or blackmail their way to owning the copyrights of time. The Internet, though initially a wonderful invention, had now harbored and stored all Earth's aggrandizing feats through black-market currency.

I bet you’re wondering, “Where does Franklin come to play in all of this?” Well, Franklin Westford, hearing the rumblings of such purported greatness, had issued something along the lines of a challenge… Being one of the prominent artists of the 20th Century, one greatly respected throughout all facets of Art and even considered a gate-keeper to the upper-echelon of fame, Franklin himself owned a great deal of prestigious ownership, and was regarded as the last-distant flicker of lighthouse-sanctuary for those at combating the relentless seas against Artificial Intelligence. Writers could no longer produce in quantity that the Artificial Intelligence could, having the ability to facilitate dozens, if not hundreds, of stories on command. Digital Artwork flooded the markets during the inception, which alone segregated many up-and-coming artists; but it wasn’t until the ability to use robotics to create real, handmade paintings, with the mind of Artificial Intelligence, that the incentive had been totally lost. And lastly, music; the Music Industry was ravished by sound-alike voices, taking inspiration and cadences from popular musicians, ultimately creating identical products that no longer needed the abundance of record deals and funds spent on marketing/publishing. But in this challenge, Franklin went all in—pushing all the chips to the center of the table. He not only would sign over all of his rare art, ownership of music libraries, and the rights to his name; but would publicly capitulate to the harrowing future of A.I.'s siege against mankind’s conscience, contractually. However, if the software, or intelligence, would lose such a challenge, they would program the intelligence to destroy itself and all traces of its creation, from every morsel of data throughout the Universe. Those of the “Singularity” had become so vain, and so self-assured, that this duel to them was nothing more than a withering flower being steamrolled by the tracks of a Panzer Tank. Could it be they underestimated the fight of the desperate spirit?

A bout of this kind was never seen, nor fathomed, to the millions of years of man: our very own creation, derived from our own brains that had continued to evolve over the span of conceivable time, was now weaponizing complete futility against our promised horizons. There had been wars for land and power; fights for titles made of gold; races for the reverie of a country; however, none pale in comparison to the necessity of man to express his experience, even if it is demonstrated through acts of terror, physical harm, or total annihilation—it was from mankind. This bias towards such calamity by man structured history books, and remained in the zeitgeist as long as the Earth allowed life to continue; it fascinated generation-after-generation, sometimes providing insight as to what we should avoid as a species; and sometimes, creating playbooks for those who beseech destruction against our own. The words, the truth, the tales—they were all recorded from the hand of man through books, paintings, documentaries; so what’s there to expect when this necessary burden is passed to an entity that does not experience, does not suffer, does not prosper, or does not understand our composition? Will History become no more than a data-point, extrapolated to predict future outcomes without the notion of human spontaneity? All these questions hung in the ballots of this battle.

Franklin, slightly malnourished and dazed, peered up from his canvas towards the tendrils of light that crept through the window, against the hardwood floor, and up the inner-seam of his thigh. The illumination flourished against the depreciation that coated the walls and ceilings, paying bounty to a haven of destitution and macabre undertones that settled deep within the withering bones of a once-giant’s disposition. This picturesque-gaze, though one accessible to any bystander, was augmented by the perspective of a faithless man finding solace within the Breathing Earth’s consistency; this moment made him appreciate death, as it was just as inescapable as the intake of breath for Sun, and the exhalation of the Moon, making him a part of this great and certain cycle. It was at this moment Franklin had found his muse—the ultimate clarification of what it was to be a human being on the night before this war.

The “Singularity” was to be streamed, broadcast, and viewed in person within the esteemed Madison Square Garden. A monumental event which would magnetize the greatest of minds, past and present, to witness the possible passing of the Universal Torch. And at this event tonight—those from limousines, luxurious vehicles, taxi-cabs, or those traveling upon foot through the New York Evening—interspered throughout the surrounding area, contributing to the pulsating current of electricity felt throughout the waning sky. The droves of people hummed against the Fall winds, trampling against the emaciated piles of city-smothered leaves that found their grave-sights against derelict stoops and within rusted-storm drains; the yellow tinge of office buildings, far off into the graying skies, stalked this modern coliseum with the pale dots of suited men at the forefront—interested, though dejected, for they were tethered to their work-loads.

The pandemonium came to a hush as the lights dimmed within the stadium. The straggling voices were shushed to an utter-silence as the people awaited the introduction from the host.

“I’d like to thank all of you wonderful people for coming out to such a paramount event! We could not do this without the public interest; for you, the people, are the guiding light to the forthcoming revolution of man!" The crowd stirred following his fulsome introduction before he continued on. “Tonight, we test the boundless-limits of Artificial Intelligence and its gaining role within society. No more does man need to brood upon his morality, worrying about his work, or his mortgage, or his child’s livelihoods! No; Artificial Intelligence will fill those worrisome cracks, reuniting fissured, working-classes, and returning us all to the Golden Age of Mankind. We, who represent ‘The Singularity,’ know for certain there are concerns, angst, and just bone-chilling uncertainty to what extent this new way of life could lead; but today, we will show you by the most important measure of man: Art. ‘The Singularity’ will show it understands the human experience, producing something of great sentimentality against one of the greatest artists that has ever graced this planet, Mister Franklin Westford,” a round of applause broke from the crowd, to which the host internally-cringed at the support.

“I’d like to explain how tonight will work… Two paintings will be revealed in the center of this stadium; you will not know which is Artificial Intelligence and which is by the hands of Mister Westford himself. A note, containing no more than one paragraph, will describe the motivation behind such works—unsigned of course; and finally, you, the crowd, will vote with the screens attached to the rear of the seat in front of you, which will ultimately decide the winner. Is this understood?” The crowd began to undulate a bit with life, so the host accentuated his question: “ARE WE READY FOR TONIGHT?!” The crowd then erupted into a frenzy, as the ardor of such magnitude had instilled a surge of adrenaline through the masses, inflicted by a domino effect.

In the preliminary moments, the technology displayed its ability to produce music, brief cinematography clips, and even solve some major medical and monetary dilemmas in the Country—tricks that were kept up their sleeves for such a moment. The crowd gained in favor of the technology as the night progressed; inside of this very stadium, a virus downloaded metaphorically within the hearts and souls of the crowd; the deceit was introduced covered with delicacies, as a dog would be tricked into taking medication. You couldn’t fault those growing favorable, for they promised the eradication of famine, poverty, laborious jobs, and the need to think further than their own concerns through these promulgations. It would provide the greatest of communication measures: understanding your strife, assuaging your need for human contact through synthetic affirmations—possibly from a deceased Family Member—and lull you back into indolence. Franklin’s name started as the hero; however, he quickly became the antiquated mechanism as the night progressed towards the main event.

“The moment you have all been waiting for is finally here!” Two men in tuxedos rolled out these two paintings, shrouded by a velvet veil, and quickly dispersed into the crowd. In the center platform, two spotlights shone dramatically upon these concealed projects; the crowd whispered to those at their sides and behind, speculating to which was which before the revelation had even commenced. The host continued: “I will reveal submission one, and then read their explanation after the crowd has had a chance to absorb,” he cleared his throat. The host snapped the veil from the painting, which displayed a wonderful Farm: the cornstalks bent against the wind and from a side-profile, a man wiping his brow, crouched beside a magnificently portrayed cow as the sun was setting just above his head. In the window, within the white-wooden house, a golden glow emitted the silhouette of a woman, seemingly doing house-chores in a graceful manner. The colors were rich and inviting; the grass was emerald green; the father’s overalls had bled through with shadowing-effects of perspiration. The crowd gasped at the beauty, as the display was shone within the massive screens above the stadium in as much high-definition as possible. They watched in silence, as one would watch the climax of a dramatic movie, and all seemed to somehow relate to the quintessential-American depiction. The man began to read the explanation in the interstice of silence:

“This Project was crafted earnestly, by a heart filled with immeasurable love for this micro-world of mine. I stepped gingerly throughout the Midwestern Plains as a child, gawking against the orange-ridden skies. My Father, a burly and efficient man, worked in dedication at our Family Farm. Not a day went by that I did not witness the sweat of his dehydrated brow as he entered our home in the evening; and my Mother, such a demure and pious woman, would be sure to feed our family until the buttons of our pants nearly burst! I spent countless hours, roaming the unscathed woods nearby, becoming lost in the stalks, and nestling closely by the fire within our home. I hope you all can feel the love from my work, as it has given me great pleasure to produce such a moment that I can recall from life.”

The crowd clapped in unison: a wave of flesh-to-flesh reverberation revolved around the circular structure; the host, smiling endearingly, watched the wave of adoration flood towards his centralized vantage. This went on for almost three-minutes continuously, before the silence had regained the room. The host began once again:

“And now, for our second work…” the host pulled the shroud from the work, revealing it to the once-again tamed masses. The photo also revealed a perspective from a set of eyes; although to the initial gaze, it seemed to be blurred, whether intentionally or by mistake was not known. It was a sunrise, streaming through an ominous, wall-like divide; the distortion made it seem like you were looking through waves of gas against the light; however, in the very corner, a mirror was detected through the right periphery of an eye, and within was a man, unrecognizable, watching by his lonesome in a seat facing the window, discernibly with a knife clasped in his dangling hand. In the bottom-half of the painting, a burgundy, almost black, color scheme seemed to have been sprayed and layered against the portrayal of the room's bottom, streaming from the arm of the depicted man. A stone fireplace could be seen in the left-periphery of such work, and within, many broken and tattered canvases seemed to spill out of the hearth and fire, which was shaped like a demonic mouth. Etched into the dispersed red and black, the word “Martyr” could be seen, signed with a finger smudge.

The host, laying the veil to his side, went to return to his microphone, opening the explanation; however, to his surprise, the red and black paint was amongst his hands and smeared across the tattered letter; while it was mostly dry, some portions still had a slightly sticky composition. His eyes nearly bulged from his skull, thinking this to be his fault; though he continued forth with the explanation as to not cause hysteria within the full-capacity:

“The human experience: rich with color; rich with struggle; rich with success. As I took my last gaze of this sunrise, I knew it to be my last. The world for me was paved in gold, and I was able to exploit every ounce of fervency from the veins of these great lands; lands many have spilled their blood to conquer, and in their places, swaths of flowers and newfound life bloomed in their sacrifice. Many men raised families, lost loved ones, and discovered new meanings; many women quelled the vexation of lost men, raising their sons and daughters with the underappreciated endurance during the unforeseeable predicaments of their lives. Humanity has our faults: we have our selfish desires, we have our unfulfilled dreams; but the thing that makes us irreplaceable is our understanding that this is not forever—and in that understanding, through that gut-wrenching realization—we become the eyes of the Universe itself. All of us, just as this photo tries to convey, will look at a sunrise through crestfallen eyes, understanding that we are leaving this extraordinary place with regrets and accomplishments; and through our Paintings, our Songs, our Writings, we hand the worn-baton to the next, white-knuckled generation, to continue what our God has commanded: experience. Leviticus 17:11 states, "For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it for you upon the altar to make atonement for your souls; for it is the blood that makes atonement by reason of the life."

As the host commenced the explanation, a swirl of confusion had entered the stadium; a man in a tuxedo approached the host in a panic, whispering something explicitly within his ear. The host dropped the mic, looking at the red tinge upon his fingers and palm; the crowd gasped, and word quickly spread that Franklin Westford, The Man In The Arena, was found dead with a slashed wrist in his room that very evening. The work was delivered by a trusted source, one who must’ve been complicit with such a blueprint; and when the event staff could not understand why Franklin did not appear, is when the search, and sadly the revelation, had occurred. While the contest was “postponed for unbeknownst reasons,” as they worded it, this altruistic act placed the World on high-alert. Franklin, while he will never know his legacy, was the gallant force against the battle for our history; for our sentimentality; and most importantly, for our experience…