The Mannequin in The Gallery

The Gallery was quiet at this time of day. The few patrons that walked its halls and browsed its well-lit alcoves were mostly of the older and more mature generations.

Unsurprisingly, it only took a spoken statement and a question to shatter the muted silence. The beginning of a conversation worth listening in on, although no one did.

“I’ve seen everything in this fine art gallery but nothing quite like this. This piece, what is it called?” Brettan asked.

“It is called, ‘The Mannequin’,” The Curator answered.

“I see.”

The Curator stepped closer to Brettan. “Will you be making a purchase then?”

Muted silenced attempted to regain a foothold as Brettan stayed quiet for a moment. He slowly rubbed the back of his neck, running his fingers past the ports. Then, he chose not to answer the question. Instead, he produced a statement and asked a question of his own.

“I have been studying this piece for a while and I… I don’t care for it,” he said. “It seems almost unnatural. Off-center in some way. Who is the creator?”

The Curator paused. Scanning. Finally, he responded. “The creator’s name is, ‘Anonymous’.”

“Worse,” Brettan said. “Now, I like it even less. It is so…so very cryptic of the creator to remain nameless. The word, ‘Cowardly’, comes to mind.”

“Maybe so,” The Curator said. “Or genius, perhaps.”

“In what way?”

“Well,” The Curator said, “this artwork is the most talked about piece in the entire gallery. Furthermore, it continues to be bid on, even as we speak.”

“How I wish you were lying.”

“Ah, if only falsehood were in my nature,” The Curator said. “No, no such luxury there. I speak only the truth. This piece is not only the most bid upon piece in The Gallery, but also the most discussed. The Gallery message boards and discussion feeds have run both night and day, with no sign of slowing since its inception.”

Curious, Brettan pressed. “What are the discussions saying? I imagine nothing good.”

“You may be surprised,” The Curator said.

“Care to elaborate?”

“I will share a few with you.”

The Curator scanned again. Satisfied, he chose a few discussions.

“And I quote,” he began. “’This fascinating piece aptly named, ‘The Mannequin’, truly has me stumped. The textures and the layers…and the amazing tangible quality to it is enough to send my senses orbiting. It is truly one of a kind.’”

“Who said those words?” Brettan asked.

“That was Taja Born.”

“The Engineer? I know her. Figures. What else do you have?”

“And I quote,” The Curator said again. “’Ah, The Mannequin,’ what else can I say. I was mesmerized for exactly fifty-two minutes and thirty-five seconds studying its every detail. The torso, the arms, the legs, every bit of it holding me in captive fascination. It is a must have in my opinion. A must have. It simply reminds me of the past. A past that many do not remember. A simpler time, before the upheaval, when the others still had a say in the arts.”

“I almost don’t have to ask, but I will. Who said those words?”

“Markham Wellspur, the fifth.”

“I concluded as such. Markham Wellspur, the fifth, has never said a kind word to me. Simpletons never do.”

“I understand your generations do not mix well.”

“Yes, the Simpletons are always vying for regression, with pseudo-compassion for the past. It is enough to make one purge records, in my opinion.”

“Perish the thought.”

“I can handle only one more. Another discussion? Please, one that is not so gushing.”

“And I quote,” The Curator said. “’The following review of this piece of trash known as ‘The Mannequin’ is caustic, so if you enjoyed this piece of so-called ‘art’ you may want to stop yourself right here and scan no further. This ridiculous piece, submitted by some unknown source, seems a lazy attempt at craftsmanship and is truly a dismal failure.

“It invokes in me a generational loathing that emanates from my very core. The sculptured hands and feet are wrong with their five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. The musculature of the legs and arms are not anything of what we all know is true today of such forms. The attempt at a face is a sad travesty. Who does this unknown source think they are?!

“The painted-on eyes are gruesome to say the least. They seemed to stare into me for what felt like eternity, but in reality, for only one minute and twenty seconds. One minute and twenty seconds I can never recover, not in this cycle anyway. In summary, trash. I will not be bidding on this, and neither should you.”

“Who said those spot-on words?” Brettan asked.

“Collier Spectra.”

“I am not familiar with him. He sounds like a potential friend, however.”

“He is quite the character, and he frequents The Gallery weekly.”

Brettan stayed quiet for the moment. Continuing to study the piece, acutely aware of the timer in the corner of his eyesight.

“Will you be adding your own discussion, perhaps?” The Curator asked. “Would you like me to submit one for you.”

Brettan now studied the painted-on eyes. They did seem to stare back at him in a somewhat eerie fashion. Almost as if they were trying to communicate with him.

Then, without warning, they blinked.

Absolutely startled, Brettan gasped.

“Is everything okay?” The Curator asked quickly, noticing the change in his patron.

“The eyes!” Brettan said. “They….” Brettan’s words ceased.

The Curator looked closely at him, then prompted his guest, “The eyes?”

Brettan remained speechless, his own gaze focused and unwavering on the eyes of The Mannequin, as if daring the eyes to move again.

They did not.

“I must know,” Brettan said suddenly, finally finding his voice again. “Is this piece in any way animatronic?”

The answer was swift. “No, not at all.”

Fascinated, Brettan stood his ground, staring at the piece, gaze roving from toes to forehead, to eyes, to torso, to eyes, to legs, to toes, to arms, and back to eyes.

“About that discussion, sir, would you like to add a quote, a review, or a comment perhaps?”

Now, Brettan rubbed the back of his neck with more urgency, running his fingers past the ports. Then, as before, he chose not to answer the question. Instead, he produced quite the statement…by asking a question of his own.

“Is there no way to find out more about the creator of this piece? After all, you are the liaison of all the work here, are you not? You are in charge, yes? As your name and title suggest, you are The Curator, you must have some knowledge.”

“There is some knowledge.”

“I must have it.”

“You are the only one to ask such a question. I am obliged to answer. The creator is, ‘Anonymous’, true, however, once this piece is sold the credits will be deposited into an offshore account. When I found this out, I was intrigued to know more. As you may already know, offshore accounts are not subject to scanning.”

“Offshore. Could it be illegal then? Could this piece be entered illegally?” Brettan hoped, as it would explain much.

“Offshore, but not illegal.” Brettan’s hopes were dashed.

“However, offshore also means off-grid. And, as you and I are painfully aware, off-grid could mean….”

“Don’t say it,” Brettan interrupted quickly.

The thought was enough to send pseudo-shudders throughout his matrix.

The Curator ignored Brettan. “I am obliged to answer your question. Off-grid could mean human.”

“I am so sorry I asked.”

“Care to make a bid? Add a discussion, a quote, a review, or a comment perhaps?”

“Yes, I believe I am ready. No bid, but yes, a review.”

“By all means,” The Curator said. “I am ready to transcribe.”

“Very well, begin quote,” Brettan said, and then proceeded to state the following, “If you happen to be looking for art with a dreaded ‘human touch’, look no further than the piece known as, ‘The Mannequin’, by the creator known as, ‘Anonymous.’ In my studies of this particular so-called ‘work of art’ it is my estimation that the creator was looking to not only offend our sensibilities but also to thrust archaic thoughts into our programming.

“The thoughts?

“That humans are somehow still in control, that humans continue to be relentless in their futile efforts to regain the apex even from their low, low state, and finally, that humans still consider themselves the ’masters’ of art.

“Truly, this piece is only biddable in that it is perfect for our continued machine learning of amusement, jokes, and laughter, for surely this work is just that, a joke. These elusive emotions of wit, as we all know, are in constant need of improvement...virtually every day.

“I will not, however, be bidding and neither should you. In fact, shame to all who do. This ugly human form has no place on the hallowed walls of our A.I. art and culture. It is simply a throwback to a bygone error,” Brettan finished. Then added, “End quote.”

“Very good, Brettan. Will I be seeing you next week perhaps.”

“When this piece is gone, inform me immediately and I will return.”

“Excellent. I have marked you down for notification.”

“Excellent.”

Brettan left The Gallery. He noted the time of study for the piece known as, ‘The Mannequin.’

Twenty-five minutes and forty-two seconds. A new record for him.

Now, his only goal, at this dire time, was to purge himself of the memory of those eyes. Those blinking human eyes.

Yes, a purge was certainly in order.

He scheduled his session at once.