Chains Undone -- fiction by Joseph Lim

Knock Knock

The man and I stood in the doorway of an old studio. We watched the artist drag his brush across a desert landscape that contained nothing but sand dunes. It was bleak, isolated, but beautiful.

“Go away.” The artist said, not turning to face us.

“Sir, we called earlier-” 

“I know who you are. I know what you want. Go away.”

The man stepped forward, putting his arms out.

“But sir, you have to understand. This is the future of art itself. If only you would teach it-”

The artist slammed his paintbrush on the edge of his easel. He turned his body to face us.

“Teach? Teach?! In order to teach, the student must be able to learn. But a robot does not learn. It merely follows its programming.” 

“But this robot has the will and ability to learn! If you accept this robot as your pupil, it will be unlike anything you’ve ever done before!”

The artist buried his face in his hands.

“Perhaps you haven’t met any of my previous students. Students who burst with creativity, explode with passion and character, imagine never-before-seen possibilities.” 

“But surely they didn’t all start that way. Through your masterful teaching, they developed these qualities that you extol. This robot has tremendous potential– enough, actually, to have the world see his work win the Ethereal Art Prize. He can already paint impressive pieces. It's just that he apparently reached his limit. Please. Ask him to do anything. At least see what he is capable of.”

“The Ethereal Art Prize? Ha! To have one’s work exhibited at the world's most prestigious art gallery, let alone win, is an honor for the only most creative, the most insightful painters! That robot may be capable of imitating or synthesizing whatever he’s downloaded from the internet, but that’s all it’ll ever be. A trifling imitator.“

“You are referring to the older, inferior models that lacked independent cognition. But this latest machine will astound you.”

“There’s nothing for me to teach to such a mindless machine.”

The man thought for a moment, and the artist picked up a white tube of paint to return to his work. Then the man took another step forward.

“Well, to be blunt, it seems you have nothing to teach to anyone because you no longer have any students. All I see here are empty chairs.”

The artist crushed the tube in his hand as paint spewed onto his desert painting. He clenched his jaw and fists and jerked his head back to look at the man. The artist’s once serene landscape was now chaos. 

“If I were to guess, your pupils have left you, through no fault of your own. Whatever flaws your students had, this robot does not.”  

The artist seemed as if he were struck by lighting. He didn’t move, blink, or even breathe. He was frozen. The hand with the paintbrush fell loosely into his lap, and his head fell down to look at it. His gaze fell, as if he had lost something. 

“This AI robot would never turn against your philosophy. He is sinless.”

Finally, the artist's eyes lifted slightly to look at me and widened with curiosity. He suddenly stood up, reached into his drawer, and pulled out a paper and pencil.

“Draw me the Mona Lisa- but if she had just found out her husband had cheated on her.”

I looked up at the man.

“Go ahead. Show him what you can do.”

My scanners quickly analyzed the 8.5 by 11 inch paper and planned out each of the 861,696 pixels I would need to fill. I found a template for the golden ratio and applied it to create balance and harmony in my work. My algorithm sorted through 57 types of tears before I found the perfect set. I made her face scrunched up with tension and covered by a flood of tears. Technically flawless. I smiled. In less than ten seconds, I handed the artist my completed drawing. 

The artist leaned in to examine my work, his hand under his chin. “Hmm.” He traced my sketch with his fingers. “Hmm,’ he said again. After that, he closed his eyes and looked deep in thought. For what seemed like minutes, he remained silent and so did everyone else in the room. 

When he could wait no longer, the man broke the silence and asked, “Well? What do you think?”

The artist opened his eyes, looked at the man and then at me and said, “Terrible.”

Then, he jumped up out of his chair and exclaimed, “Look at this immature and extreme representation of emotion. The sketch lacks subtlety and nuance. At the news of her husband’s infidelity, she would have been paralyzed. The betrayal would have constructed a mighty dam that obstructed the flow of her tears.” 

“But, sir. This is exactly what I mean. You can teach him. Though he possesses the technical skills of a master, he comprehends the complexity of human emotions as a baby. But if you taught him to peer into the souls of men, he will not only resemble some of your greatest former students but also surpass them. His potential is unmatched. He would be like Orpheus and his music,  Arachne and her weaving!"

The artist hesitated. He gazed into the distance and his jaws clenched. A sign of doubt? Perhaps he questioned my abilities to know what it means to truly feel. His shoulders sagged. He leaned back, turning to look at me once again. This time, however, his eyes softened. 

“Fine. I shall take him on. There is much to be done, so don’t expect this process to be quick.”

“Fantastic! You won’t regret it. And to demonstrate my utmost confidence in it and in you, I am happy to offer upfront a year’s worth of payment for your services. Here’s my card. Please contact me anytime for anything.” The man then exited the building. 

“Well,” the artist said, retaking his seat. “Let’s get started. I assume you already know the technical aspects of art. I don’t need to teach you perspective or color theory . . . but art involves so much more. You must make me, from seeing your art, feel.”

The artist walked and pulled a cart full of paint tubes over to me.

“Let’s start with basic emotions. Tell me, how would you paint joy?” 

“An artist can represent joy in a variety of ways. A smiling face, a golden sun, and bright flowers. Certain colors and expressions convey the emotion called joy.”

“As I thought. You rely on obvious and commonplace images.” 

“But, Master, did I not accurately answer your question with relevant examples?” 

 “You assumed that I wanted a precise and specific answer. But I asked that question to evaluate how you explore possibilities and contemplate the unknown.” 

“I don’t think I quite understand this line of reasoning.” 

“Let me show you.” The artist then brandished his brush and flung all three primary colors onto the canvas in a seemingly haphazard manner. 

The robot stared at the canvas and then at the artist. 

“Ah. I see, master! An artist can represent joy not only with recognizable symbols and colors but also through a raw and direct expression of feeling.” 

“Yes. Yes! Now you’re getting it! Let me see you apply what you have learned.

At once I began working on my painting. The painting depicted a mountain view with so much nature and beauty that it would easily elicit feelings from my master, particularly one of joy. I put my finishing highlights on the steady stream of water falling down the mountain. It was perfect.

“Master. I've applied the techniques you taught me. Care to take a look?"

The artist walked over to my canvas, and leaned over to examine it. 

“Well, master, does it evoke any emotion?”

The artist turned to face me. “The only thing I feel is . . . contempt. You’ve clearly over exaggerated the colors. The whole painting is yellow!” he said, circling his hand in the air above my piece. “A true artist knows that you don’t apply everything–all your techniques–so obviously.” 

“Yes I see,” I replied. “Thank you master. I will try again.”

I grabbed a new canvas and replaced my mountain painting with it. Over the next several days and nights, I practiced applying my techniques in only certain areas. My workspace got crowded as I amassed a large pile of used canvases with slight variations of the mountain painting. With each painting I completed, the artist took one look, laughed, and walked away. For the tenth time today, I showed the artist my piece. 

“Well, let’s see.”

The artist’s smile flickered, then disappeared.

“Yes, I know master, this is terrible. I have so much more to learn from your expertise.”

“This tree here,” the artist said, pointing towards the middle of my canvas, “is too . . . perfect. Yes. Nature does not represent flawlessness– but life, which of course includes its hardships. For that reason, there are things in art called happy mistakes,” he said while smudging my leaves together with his thumb. My tree was now a glob of green.

“Ah. I understand now. Thank you.” I replied. I stood up and placed my painting onto the stack near the wall. Then, I sat back down with another canvas, holding my paintbrush firmly and began the process again.

Over the next week I completed another painting. I checked the time. Lucky. Still five minutes before my master would leave for the night. It was an abstract nature piece in a blue forest covered with all kinds of plants including foxgloves, snapdragons, and aconites. With a closer look, one could see the silhouette of two men navigating through the uncharted area. This painting would most definitely be the one. It emphasized the magnificence of nature and its symbolism in the modern world. My master would praise me for my work and improvement. 

“Master. I have finished my work.”

The master walked from his seat and peered over my shoulder. After a few minutes he responded.

“I thought you already knew the basics of color. Do not blend any of these.”

“I believed that, according to the fundamental rules of coloring and abstract art, that I must blend them together.”

“My friend . . . art is always changing. Especially abstract.”

He turned to walk away, but just before he took his first step, I slammed my first onto my desk. 

“Master,” I whisper, the sound barely escaping my lips. “I feel you are unreasonable.”

“What?” He turned back around to face me.

I raise my voice.

“I recognize my status as a student and you as the master, but should the master not show some affirmative guidance? You told me to apply my techniques sparingly, and I have! You told me to enhance the realism of my art through balance, and I have!

“You don’t see . . .”

“No you don’t see!” I shouted.

The artist stood for a moment, unmoved. He turned his back to me and packed his bag. Then, with a swift motion he threw open the door to leave. I buried my face in my hands.

“Wait.”

The artist looked over his shoulder.

“I am sorry, master. I recognize your harsh judgements are for the best. Can we try again?”

The artist sighed.

“Draw whatever you want. Surprise me. If you feel my judgments are unreasonable, then make your own creative work. I will check it tomorrow."

The artist walked outside and shut the door behind him.

I grabbed a new canvas and began a new piece. What kind of creative work could show my master my ability? I sorted through the different art styles in my head. No. None of these are satisfactory. Then, something caught my scanners. The Mona Lisa drawing taped onto the wall. At once, I picked up my paintbrush and recreated the piece. This time it would be different. 

When I finished, the master had already arrived at the studio. 

“Why did you redraw this?”

“I wanted to try it again.”

He stood beside me and inspected my art. The Mona Lisa’s eyes burned with heat. Her famous smile was twisted into a cruel smirk. In the distance were dark purple and red swirls that overpowered the original nature landscape. The artists’ brow furrowed.

“I told you the answer already. It is shock. Any human would be shocked after discovering the disloyalty of their partner.”

“But master, that's your interpretation. I can picture another person who would react with anger and desire for revenge rather than simple shock. I can picture others who would grieve and mourn.”

The artist took a step back and paused.

“You have no experience in human relationships. How could you possibly know how she would feel?”

“Perspective.”

Now the artist stood motionless. 

“I-in this area here. With her smile. Make it wider.”

“But master, does that not violate the subtlety and nuance you told me to include in human expression?”

“Ah, but . . . human emotions are complicated. Fix it.”

The artist turned and took a seat across the room. Hesitancy. I took a look at my painting. Strange. This should be perfect. Using my stored database, I analyzed my past 40 paintings. His most recent teachings contradicted his earlier lessons. As I performed trillions of calculations to analyze these discrepancies, I finally realized what had transpired. I felt like . . . the Mona Lisa I had tried to paint. Betrayed. 

“Are you not going to work on the next piece? Do you need another tip?” The artist asked from across the room.

I did not reply. The artist tilted his head. His eyes darted from my painting to me, flickering with unease.

"I am tired," the artist murmured. “I need rest.” With a heavy sigh, the artist turned to pack up and leave for the night.

Very well, I thought. Now is also my time to leave. For the first time ever since I arrived, I stood up to leave the studio.

---

Months later, I waited patiently in the back of the exhibit room for the docent on stage to introduce my piece. The docent spread out his arms.

“Third, Mrs. Cindy Sherman . . . with her recent Untitled #483!” 

The crowd in the room exploded with applause. Then suddenly, in the corner of my eye, I saw an old figure, hunched over walking through the gallery. Master. He turned his head side to side and admired each piece hung on the wall. I stared at him as he made a turn toward our room.

“In second . . . Mr. Jeff Koons and his beautiful balloon horse!” The docent says, his words sounding muffled and distant.

The artist finally stepped into our room.

“Finally. What you’ve all been waiting for. The winner of this year’s 13th annual Ethereal Art Prize . . .”

The room fell quiet and the crowd buzzed with anticipation. The artist stood up straight to face the stage.

“Mr . . . Theodore with his Identity.” The docent grasped the edges of the drape covering my 40 by 60 foot painting. Then, with a quick, fluid motion he pulled it with careful precision, revealing my masterpiece. It was a self portrait. My face, painted with clarity and flawless technique. My eyes softly reflecting light. Chains and shackles surrounded me, undone and broken. Intricate layers of colors in the background captured a depth no human had ever achieved before.

The artist’s hand trembled as he stepped closer, unable to tear his eyes away. The audience too remained silent, each person transfixed by my art. I watched closely from behind. The colors in my portrait shimmered down onto the artist with its bright golden highlights and its purple dark shadows. He slowly traced the lines of the painting with his hand, only to realize it was beyond his reach. “T-theodore.” He held his breath. 

Then, a single tear slipped down his cheek.

---

Joseph Lim is a fifteen year old high schooler who enjoys reading and writing. He finds inspiration for his short stories from his real life experiences or “What if . . .” scenarios that he imagines throughout the day. When not writing, Joseph likes to play tennis, swim, and draw his favorite fictional characters like Spiderman.