Endjourney

“Welcome to CreAIrt. Prompt genre?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Fred leaned across the registration table toward the receptionist, who — it seemed to him — might have just quoted the Latin motto of the Italian Space Force.

“What genre will you be prompting?” replied the cheery young woman with a name tag branding her as BONNIE J. “Static? Animatic? Audio-Visual? Litero-Textual?”

Fred stammered. “I … don’t know what those are.”

“Your medium?”

“I’m what?”

Bonnie sighed a cheery sigh. “What medium do you work in? Art? Movies? Music? Writing? We have over 300 cutting-edge polymedia workstations with the latest artificial intelligence software to render natural language prompts into any form of art. Time bundles are available through a number of flexible registration packages. ”

“Ah!” Fred was finally catching on. “You’re talking about admission fees?”

“Yes. We have member and non-member rates, single-day or full weekend access. That includes a thousand render-hours on any available console, and you can top-up at any time.”

“How much is it to just look?”

The woman gave a pug-esque head tilt. “Look?”

“Yeah. When I heard about this A.I. art-convention thing, I thought it sounded cool. I don’t, like, do any of that stuff, so I wouldn’t need a workstation or anything. I’m just curious to see what people are doing with it.”

“You’re just curious?”

“Sure. It’s fascinating what this technology can do. I’ve seen some really wild shit, pardon my French.”

Bonnie looked shocked, but not at the French. She snagged a swiftly passing colleague by the elbow.

“Um, this gentleman says he only wants to observe and doesn’t want to prompt or render. Do we have a price for that?”

The other, notably more senior, woman fiddled with her neck-chain glasses, swiped around on a tablet, wrestled through a three-ring binder, then shrugged and continued along her original vector.

“I don’t think we have a category for you,” she proffered cautiously. “So, I guess, you can just go in.”

“For free?”

“I don’t see why not.” Bonnie pivoted a tablet screen toward him. “Just enter your contact information to register and go right ahead.”

“Awesome. Thanks!”

After Fred typed his name and number, Bonnie handed him a QR-coded badge and ceremoniously lifted the velvet rope. Fred proceeded along a beige pipe-and-drape corridor until he passed through a grand entry arch and into a stadium-sized convention hall. A labyrinth of numbered aisles extended in all directions, with legions of standing computer desks separated by semi-private partitions.

“Whoa.”

Fred passed along rows of alcoves populated by a demographic straight out of central diversity casting — with pudgy thirty-something white men constituting, by just the slightest margin, a majority. They tip-tapped on keyboards, filling the convention hall with a percussive titter pierced by the occasional ejaculation of joy or defeat. Every now and then, someone at a terminal would loudly share a noteworthy hack or morsel of gossip.

“‘In-the-style-of’ is limited only to Patreon supporters!”

“You can get 16:9 from 4:3 if you put in ‘letterbox.’”

“They say if Krutowski is going to picket again?”

“This is bullshit! They just banned ‘nipples.’”

“You can get them if you say they’re men.”

“Nope. They banned ‘moobs,’ too.”

From time to time, Fred would peep over someone’s shoulder at the goings-on on their screen. He was met with a few dirty looks, but more often than not, the occupant leaned aside and gestured proudly.

“Check this out,” said one scraggly bearded fellow as he typed:

/create/ dutch renaissance oil painting of rick and morty in church

From a gauzy RGB fog emerged two putty-faced characters in ruffled collars and silken doublets, striking contrapposto poses at the vanishing point of infinitely regressing gothic arches awash with silver-winged van Eyck angels.

“Cool,” declared Fred.

In the next stall, a nose-pierced girl keyed in: /create/ gemstone bird battle ruby pearl amethyst hyper detailed intense light. Jewel-encrusted kingfishers mounted with steampunk cannons soared above opalescent lunar craters as they dodged vermillion-fuchsia laser beams.

“Fantastic!”

The first fellow called Fred back to behold jazz age alien stripper, which yielded a lanky Roswell gray grinding its gonad-free crotch on a pole to lascivious ragtime.

“That’s just freaky.”

Fred visited each booth along the aisle and was treated to a smorgasbord of sensory overload, with images of jaw-dropping beauty and teeth-gritting grotesquery all equally riveting. One grinning grandma showed off motion sequence evolution of nature and technology launching a two-minute odyssey of cybernetic seeds sprouting into clockwork poppies that ground each other into gobs of veins that morphed into highways, and so on. A kid who didn’t look old enough to deliver a pizza summoned muscle teddy bear DJ, which materialized complete with pulsing speaker towers blasting competing thumpa-thumpa anthems.

“You’ve got two songs playing at once,” said Fred, over the noise. “I can’t make out either. Can you do just one?”

The kid looked quizzically then hunt-pecked on the keys /edit audio/ single track. One tune dropped out.

“That’s better,” declared Fred. “Killer bass, but it needs a melody.”

This time the kid typed /edit audio/ add melody and a punchy horn line laid down some catchy hooks.

“Try adding ‘deltoid dance,’” suggested Fred. After the input, the teddy bear flexed its ripped shoulders to the beat.

“Sick,” declared the young auteur, then asked. “Want to see my side-scroller? It’s like Castlevania meets Cuphead in eight-bit.”

Fred was treated to the most whacked-out video game he’d ever seen. Leaping feline hero-sprites bounded between the towers of Angkor Wat and dispatched each other with serrated rainbow whips.

“That is wicked. Great work!”

The kid all but beamed. “Thanks, man! So what do you make?”

“I’m just here to see what you all are up to. Keep doing what you’re doing!”

He gave the kid an encouraging double-pat on the shoulder and continued down the line. Behind him, he heard the kid’s voice call out: “Hey, this guy is here to look at people’s stuff!”

Fred found himself accosted by content creators who wanted him to witness, and even critique, their projects-in-progress. He listened to snippets of symphonies. He watched animations with stunning cinematic realism. He slipped on a VR headset and explored the undersea realm of Atlantis-R’lyeh. One fellow even read from his screen a series of haiku describing sports cars with daring double-entendres. Each new item was a marvel, an amalgam of incongruous sights and sounds that blended into strange, seamless perfection. He was definitely right to come check this out. It was amazing!

The legend of “The Guy Who’s Here to Look” spread among the conventioneers, and Fred embraced the moniker. When asked to opine, he noted what artistic influences he could discern — there’s a Mondrian pattern … that’s definitely Hokusai … I see a touch of Hieronymus Bosch — and pointed out details that could be enhanced or compositions re-arranged. His input was mostly embraced with a hearty “Thanks, Guy!” marred only by the exceedingly rare “Screw you!”

The morning hours sped by until Fred sat down at a laminated table with a $17 pizza slice and bottled water. As he chewed on salty cardboard and skimmed the convention program on his phone, a lanky man with bug-eyed spectacles sidled up next to him.

“You’re ‘The Guy’ right?”

“Yes. Apparently, I am ‘The Guy.’”

“Will you come to my premiere?” asked the man. “It’s in the screening room today at 3:30. It’s a motion-graphic episode from Book One of my Kurosawa-Batman manga. I’ve been working on it since yesterday. It’s going to be totally lit!”

“If it’s Kurosawa-Batman, shouldn’t it be partially lit?” replied Fred with a smirk. “Like, you know, chiaroscuro.”

Magnified eyes blinked behind bubble lenses. “Huh? Chia-what?”

“Chiaroscuro. It means ‘light and dark.’ It’s an illustration style using contrasting shadows.”

Glasses-man hammered on his phone screen with his thumbs. “How do you spell that? C-H-E …?”

Fred slowly spelled the word. Twice. “It’s that look you always see in German expressionist films. You know, like Nosferatu.”

Fred needed nothing beyond the man’s beseeching expression to know what was now required of him.

“That’s N-O-S-F…”

* * *

After finishing his lunch — which was twice more interrupted by impromptu screening invitations from next-table eavesdroppers — Fred resumed wandering the floor, giving feedback freely and enjoying his newfound guru status. After another hour, Fred felt ready to move on, his curiosity sated.

His progress toward the exit drew a gauntlet of beggar-artists reminding him of scheduled showtimes. Reluctant to disappoint, Fred followed the signs to the Screening Room, a medium-sized auditorium with curved seat tiers. An emcee with a mic singled out his entry — “Here he is!” — and prompted a solid round of applause. Fred got a primo spot smack in the middle of the slope.

The lights went down and the screen assaulted his eyes with glorious visuals, each presenter’s work introed by a title card. No matter how pretty or ugly, how surreal or common, the sequences soon took on a crushing monotony, every one flawless and soulless. Gold pyramid spaceships. Neat. Futuristic cities reclaimed by overgrowth. Interesting. And, yes, even Kurosawa-Batman, the Dark Knight fighting robot samurai in razor-sharp black-and-white. Huzzah. After he’d dozed off for the third time, Fred took his body’s hint and quietly slinked out the rear exit.

* * *

Later in the evening as Fred lounged in his apartment and flipped channels, his text alert chirped three times in as many minutes. He discovered a series of messages from CreAIrt all marked with increasingly frantic emoji. He opened the most recent.

Hello, Mr. Conklin, this is Bonnie from CreAIrt again. In addition to VIP passes and meal vouchers I’ve been authorized to offer a stipend for your time. We eagerly await your response and hope to see you tomorrow!

Fred scrolled to the previous messages. It seemed rank-and-file attendees had praised his insights and badgered the conference organizers for his return, so Bonnie dug into the payment records and contacted the sole zero-dollar registrant. Fred was about to respond when yet-another message came in.

Bonnie here again. Have you had a chance to look at my offer?

“Hey, Bonnie,” dictated Fred to voice-recognition. “Thanks for reaching out but I don’t think I can make it tomorrow. It was really cool today though so thanks again. Good luck with the rest of the show.”

Forty-five seconds later: Are you sure? We’re happy to compensate you. What would you like?

“I want fiddy bucks!” said Fred with a chuckle.

OK.

“I was kidding! I don’t want fifty bucks. That’s a joke.”

I’m prepared to go as high as $500

Fred was confounded, pondering the myriad ways one might define the word joke.

“Are you serious?”

Yes completely serious. So many creators valued your feedback that the sponsor is willing to incentivize your return. I can send the money now to your preferred pay stream.

Fred was flattered. He was also slightly disturbed, substantially wary, but most of all infused with renewed curiosity.

“I guess I can come by again tomorrow,” he replied. “I don’t particularly want any money. The lunch service was a crime against humanity so if I could get some better food, I’d be happy to show up.”

Wonderful! I’ll meet you at the main door at 7am sharp!! Thank you, Mr. Conklin!!!

Fred set down his phone and sat digesting a bellyful of bemusement, until he shrugged and resumed re-watching Season Three of whatever it was he was watching.

As promised, Bonnie greeted Fred at the door and ushered him past lines of hang-dog would-be AIrt-ists waiting to pay at the registration tables. He was led to a conference room with a luxury-hotel-level continental breakfast. There were platters of carved fruit arranged into exotic landscapes, and the colorful tower of stacked pastries made the service credenza look like a Christmas tree of carbohydrates. Once Bonnie took her leave and shut the door, Fred picked up a plate and began picking out tidbits.

After a few minutes, a man entered dressed in a crisp black suit and pristine white collarless shirt, looking like a wealthy pastor from a utopian future. He put out a hand accompanied by a vast, predatory smile.

“Fred Conklin? Ed Darhenny.”

Fred shook hands as he matched the familiar face and name to a mental archive of news headlines. “Ed Darhenny? Aren’t you the owner of that tech company? What’s it called …?”

“You can just pencil in a ‘Yes’ because if we start listing the tech companies I own we’ll be here until Clarus the Dogcow comes home.”

“Aren’t you, like, the richest person in the world?”

Darhenny chuckled. “Not yet.” He made the sign of the cross and kissed his fingertips. “But from your lips to God’s ears. I’m closing in on some heavy hitters in the Dubai royal family, from there it’s a short sprint to the summit — but I’m here, Fred, to talk about you. And, specifically, to deliver this.”

Darhenny plunked onto a pedestal a foot-tall spire of faceted glass that evoked — despite Fred’s best efforts to dispel the image — a surging crystalline phallus. “Meet the first annual Darhenny Prize for Creativity in A.I. Art.”

“You’re giving me an award?”

“Why the funk-and-wagnall would I give you an award? You haven’t done anything. No, what I’m giving you is the authority to bestow this award. From every alphanumeric auteur at this conference, from every machine-crafted confabulation they churn out, you get to choose the one-and-only winner.”

Fred studied Darhenny’s menacingly benevolent expression and asked the only question that made sense. “Why me?”

“Fred, we stand at the cusp of a New Gilded Age,” said Darhenny. “When any goo-goo-muck with a seventh-grade vocabulary can rent supercomputer time and spit out masterworks that make Van Gogh and Vermeer look like toddlers with crayons. Literally anyone can be a super-artist. And when everyone is super …” He shrugged.

“That’s where you come in,” continued Darhenny. “In the land of unlimited creation, the consumer is king. You provide these wannabe Fellini-Mozarts with what they most covet: an audience. And as an audience of one, you reign supreme. As of this moment, Fred, you are the world’s premier A.I. art critic.”

Fred shook his head with an inseparable blend of denial and disorientation. “But I’m not.”

“Lots of the attendees who filled out feedback forms seemed to think so. It just needs an official sanction. Take out your phone, open the conference program, and flip to the brand-new ‘Darhenny Award’ ad on page two. Read me the tagline.”

Fred did so: “‘Winner to be selected by Frederick J. Conklin, the world’s premier A.I. art critic.’ You can’t just make something real by saying it.”

Darhenny’s chuckle fringed on the maniacal. “Oh, Fred, your naiveté is downright refreshing. I can see I have chosen wisely.”

“You didn’t even ask my permission.”

“A.I. art wouldn’t exist were it worried about asking for permission. The deed is done. The only question is are you in or are you out?”

Fred silently seethed, but in the midst of it sensed the genesis of new, hitherto unimagined possibilities. He gave what he considered his best poker face and said, “I want something in return.”

“I’d be deeply disappointed in you if you didn’t,” replied Darhenny. “Name it.”

That blunt affirmation caught Fred off guard and he faltered. “Um, I want … uh … a brand new Ferrari Spider.”

“Be serious, Fred. You live in Manhattan. Try again.”

Fred settled on a stark reality. “I want my college loans paid off.”

Darhenny nodded. “I thought you might. They’re doozies. Consider it done. Log in to FAFSA after lunch if you care to double-check.”

“I have a feeling I won’t need to,” said Fred. “Why are you doing this? Is this some kind of rich-guy prank?”

“Pranks are for poor people,” said Darhenny. “Making party guests recoil from a rubber turd in the punch bowl is tawdry entertainment at best. Us rich guys get our kicks by granting wishes and beholding joy.”

“How did I wish for this? And do I look joyful to you?”

“A wish is a dream your sleeping heart makes, or something like that. And joy is a journey, not a destination. But I can tell you’ve taken a first step.”

Fred knew he was in a cage. A gilded cage with top-notch catering, but a cage nonetheless. What bothered him was that he couldn’t decide whether wanted to run away or settle in.

“How do I choose the winner?” he asked.

“However you want. You have complete freedom to establish any criteria.”

“What if I just pull a name out of a hat?”

Darhenny leaned over and inspected the food table. He selected a petit four and popped it whole into his mouth, chewing as he spoke. “You could. But you won’t. I know a man afflicted with a conscience when I see one. You’re thinking about what I’ve said. You’re worrying if you can do it. You’re wondering if it’s an enormous opportunity or a terrible burden. I don’t know what you’re going to do, Fred, but I know — beyond any doubt, whatever it is — you’re going to do it to the best of your ability. You can take that as your answer to ‘Why me?’ if you like. Sometimes, the intention matters more than the outcome.”

With that, Darhenny left, leaving Fred in the presence of a mountain of delicacies with a suddenly absent appetite. So, without any real clarity of purpose, Fred went out to the convention floor and began to mingle. Where, on the prior day, he had been greeted with gushing enthusiasm, he was now regarded with hushed awe. Every nugget of praise or proposed revision he offered sparked only anxiety, sending creators into stammering spirals.

In the middle of the day, Bonnie corralled him from the exhibit floor and forced him to take a break, leading him back to the conference room, which was now stocked with deli sandwiches the size of his forearm. He managed a few bites and sat sipping artisanal soda in brooding silence.

Forty minutes later, Bonnie returned and said, “It’s time for the screenings. Are you ready?”

Fred rose wearily and shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

She held up a stack of papers. “Here. I printed out all the entries who signed up to screen. They should be in order. It might help you keep track.”

Fred took the stack, surprised and grateful. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“You got roped into this, and I’m sorry for that. I know you’ll do your best.”

“That’s what Darhenny said,” noted Fred.

Bonnie gasped. “You met him?”

“Right here in this room.”

“You really are the chosen one, blessed by the trickster-god of tech!” She bowed with a deep flourish. “Come, master. Your disciples await.”

Fred sat through hour after hour after hour of presentations. He tried to take notes but quickly ran dry of pithy insights. After the fourth Blade Runner/Wizard of Oz mashup, he could no longer care about neon reflections on the Tin Man’s chestplate. A version of Wind in the Willows with Rat, Mole, and Toad delivering dialogue resculpted by a chatbot in the style of David Mamet was amusing for 2 of its 17-minute run time. And if he had to sit through one more anime girl in a thong riding a rocket/pegasus/bratwurst he might have to contemplate ritual seppuku. It was well into evening when the emcee mercifully declared they would adjourn for the night and resume tomorrow (the wail of indignation from waiting presenters was deafening), and Fred all-but-sprinted to the relative serenity of the conference room. Bonnie awaited his return and asked how it went.

“You know in 2001 when the guy gets sucked into the Stargate?” he replied. “Like that.”

“At least you weren’t clubbed by ape-men with bones.”

Fred pointed to the trophy. “That will come tomorrow from whoever doesn’t get ‘The Monolith.’”

“We didn’t arrange any dinner catering. Can I order something for you?”

“I have to get out of here,” replied Fred. “Is there a quiet place nearby to eat?”

“There’s a little Italian restaurant I like. It’s on Thirty-Sixth, between Ninth and Tenth.”

“Is it expensive?”

Bonnie smiled. “No. But they gave me a gold card to cover whatever you want, so feel free to go four-star.”

“Little, quiet, and cheap sounds just right. Thank you.”

Bonnie nodded and turned to go. Fred called after her.

“Hey,” he said. “Would you want to come with me?”

* * *

La Terrazze was a second-floor walk-up over a fabric store. A waiter shepherded them to a nook in the back, half-hidden behind a plastic olive tree, to a table covered by butcher paper and a trio of winking electric candles. When he was handed the wine list, Fred scanned down to the bottom and settled on the second-from-cheapest. He was about to order when Bonnie yoinked the sheet from his hands and pointed near the top of the three-digit reds.

“Remember, we’re paying,” she said. “And I want something good.”

From his first sip of oaky Tuscan tannins, which threaded into his sinuses and danced a tarantella, Fred felt an indescribable gratitude for the day of Bonnie’s birth. However, the only sound he managed was, “Wow.”

“I agree,” replied Bonnie. “I had this once at a tasting and I promised myself if I ever had the means, I would get a bottle. You’re my means, Mr. World’s Premier A.I. Art Critic.”

Fred genuinely blushed. “I never said that.”

“I know. That came straight from Lord Darhenny, or so I heard. His company is sponsoring the conference, and they literally dictated the ad last night.”

“Do you work for him?” asked Fred.

“I work for the convention center. We do whatever the event sponsors say. A.I. art one week, pastry chefs the next, urologists after that. It’s all just badges and lanyards to me.”

“So you have nothing to do with A.I. art?”

Bonnie shook her head. “Don’t know a damn thing about it.”

“But you’ve seen it, right?” asked Fred. “Detail and complexity that would take a trained artist hours and hours, it does in seconds. I took exactly three art history electives in college — so I’m no expert — but I know enough to recognize how crazy powerful it is. It’s scanned every painting, every photograph, every frame of film ever shot, deconstructed them, and can remix stylistic elements at will. That’s basically what a human artist does. A little bit of this, an influence of that, and you make something new. The machine just does it bigger and better.”

“What about all these people, the ones doing all the prompting. Don’t they have something to do with it?”

Fred sipped his wine and sighed. “That’s the thing — they kind of don’t. It’s like if a kindergartener tells a professional artist, ‘Draw me a horse. Now make its feet claws. Add dragon wings. Put a knight on its back.’ That kid hasn’t drawn anything, just submitted requests to a higher power. If he signed his name to that dragon-horse picture, we’d consider him a selfish brat. I’m not sure these prompt jockeys understand that.”

Bonnie drained her glass and refilled it. “Sounds like you don’t think very much of them.”

“I love art. Always have. But I can’t paint or draw to save my life. I can’t even figure out how to use the A.I. software! It’s a magic black box to me, so I do admire how they’re able to manipulate it. I totally get their enthusiasm for what it can do — but it’s dishonest if you don’t recognize the difference between you and the black box. There’s no struggle. There’s no sweat. There’s no meaningful process, just a free ride to the final product. It’s like cheating. I don’t know. I suppose it all comes down to the big, eternal question: What is art?”

“You want to know what art is?” asked Bonnie. “I’ll show you art.”

She took a tin cup from a nearby shelf and upended it on the table, spilling a logjam of crayons. She splayed her hand onto the paper tablecloth and traced around her fingers with a brown crayon, then added red scribble-feathers, a gobbler sack, an orange beak, two three-toed spindle legs, and finally a blue eye with long lashes.

“Ta-da!” she announced. “A turkey.”

Fred smacked his hand onto the top half of the turkey and traced in green, adding a smiley face where his wrist was. “My octopus is attacking your turkey.”

Bonnie drew a ring of yellow lightning bolts. “My turkey has electrical powers that zap your octopus.”

Fred traced five interlocking rings from the bottom of his wine glass. “My octopus has an Olympic force field that blocks your lightning.”

And so it went, between salad, antipasto, entrée, and gelato — not to mention a second bottle of $400 Piedmont Barbaresco — Fred and Bonnie scrawled and giggled for two hours, cramming the tablecloth with doodles and allowing their hands to brush against each other more comfortably by the minute. When they finally set foot on the sidewalk, Fred was overstuffed and tipsy, yet feeling this big old world was really a pretty darn okay place.

“Hey!” said Fred. “I got a idea!”

Bonnie stepped close to him, the New York streetlights brushing over the Mona Lisa smile on her upturned face. “Wass your idea?”

For a moment, Fred forgot his idea.

“I know,” he recovered. “Is there stores still open?”

“This’s New York,” replied Bonnie. “Everything. All the time. What store you want?”

“Art store. You still got unlimited credit for the world’s greatest I.A.R. critic?”

Bonnie produced a gold plastic rectangle. “Ooh. It’s so shiny.”

“Less go shopping.”

“K.”

* * *

In the morning, after two aspirin to take the edge off his sleep-deprivation headache, Fred entered the screening room, already crammed with eager hopefuls. Instead of taking the place of honor reserved for him, Fred stood on the stage and raised his arms.

“Excuse me, everyone! There’s been a change of venue. Today’s judging will not occur here but in Exhibit Hall C. If you’ll follow me, it’s down the corridor, and everything’s all set up.”

There were a few pockets of grumbling, but mostly folks just gathered their backpacks and trundled out into the foyer then down the passageway to the adjacent space. Hall C was not an auditorium but a high-ceiling ballroom that was configured with rows of folding tables placed end to end like a German beer hall. Some 300 chairs were lined on each side of the tables, and at each place was a box of 64 crayons, a cup of pencils, a tub of modeling clay, and a dozen large sheets of white butcher paper. It had taken half the night to wrangle it all, bribing store clerks, cabbies, and the center’s surly Teamsters. It was impressive what Bonnie could accomplish by flashing a gold card and dropping the name Darhenny.

As the crowd drifted in, Fred overhead choruses of “What the hell is this?” but he continued to beckon calmly until a quorum was present. Fred stood on a chair and addressed the mob.

“As you all know by now, my name is Fred Conklin, and I am the designated sole judge for the Darhenny Prize for Creativity in A.I. Art. Images created by artificial intelligence are always of the highest quality; the only variable in what it produces are the ideas you prompt to start the process. So, to fairly judge an A.I. art achievement, it’s not the output but your intentions that matter. If you’ll all take seats, you can draw, sketch, or write out whatever you want to create, and then I can judge your ideas in a raw, unassisted form.”

As expected, almost no one moved except to shuffle angrily in place and broadcast their indignation.

“This is bullshit!”

“What the eff is going on?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Screw you! I didn’t sign up for this!”

“You’re right! You didn’t sign up for this.”

Fred looked and saw Bonnie also standing on a chair.

She continued. “You signed up to use state-of-the-art workstations and buy rendering hours. That’s in the terms of service you all agreed to. No contest of any kind is mentioned. This award is a new addition, a bonus. You’re welcome to participate, but you are not entitled to.”

Fred resisted the urge to give Bonnie a long-distance high-five. “That is absolutely correct. Stay if you wish, go if you’d rather, but the rules of this contest are mine and mine alone to determine. I should point out this is not about who is the best artist. I’m not really qualified to judge that. This about who comes up with the best idea. So have at it!”

Two-thirds of the occupants left immediately, quite a few aiming vivid curses or vague threats at Fred. The remainder tentatively took spots around the predominantly empty tables. Little by little, people got busy. With pencil and paper, clay and crayon, human beings embarked upon the task of extracting the pictures in their heads and setting them down for others of their kind to behold. Some gravitated together to collaborate. Others retreated to corners to work in secretive solitude. Occasionally, someone would rip up a page in frustration and start over.

Fred walked around, largely ignored by people immersed in acts of creation. He didn’t know what they would come up with. He didn’t know who would win the award, or even if the award would be given. Yet, for all that uncertainty, Fred felt no anxiety. Looking upon a room of adults laboring with the tools of kindergarteners, Fred felt only curiosity.

Bonnie stepped beside him. “Looks like you’ve answered an eternal question.”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” she said, waving her arm in a wide arc. “This is art.”

“I don’t know about that,” replied Fred. “But it’s sweat and struggle, and that’s a start.”