The Algorithmic Portrait of Harry Larson: Part Three
A portrait of greed.
Two days later, the pictures got out. It hadn’t been the heiress. Someone else had obviously taken a snap during the commotion. #HODL was trying to track down the culprit, but the damage was done. The only saving grace was that the privates were being auto-censored by the social platforms. Jing had been mortified of course, and had even offered her resignation. Larson had told her not to be so stupid. She didn’t know it, but her stock had never been higher. Two of the EXPer guests had already tried to buy out her contract, so impressed had they been by her combat skills.
In summary, the widow had played a real number on him. The only option was to try and live up to the idealized body in the portrait. He tasked Jing with devising a rigorous workout regime. Like any normal person, Larson hated exercise. It would be a kind of punishment for him, a modern-day form of martyrdom. Clearly, he hadn’t been taking the widow seriously enough. His next play would have to be much better thought out. By this point, he knew buying the widow off wasn’t an option. #HODL had looked into her finances. Her stake in the cultural collective was worth big bucks, just as she’d implied back at the cabin.
The answer came to him while he was watching Jing replanting the ruined flower bed beside the lawn. If he could deprive the widow of her AI assistants, she’d be in deep trouble. Transferring to an alternative provider would require a hugely expensive coding effort. More importantly, it would take time, and there were sure to be service interruptions. Service interruptions, however short, equaled breach of smart contract. And there were dozens of those contracts, all with some of the most litigious people on the planet.
Yes, Larson thought, the plan could work. But there was a problem. He didn’t have the financial means to execute, not even close. Buying off one of the “Big-5” AI assistant providers would take a lot of Nakamotos. He was going to need help. He checked in on the other portraits he knew about. It quickly became clear there was a systemic problem; in the last ten days, there’d been hardly any captures. He was starting to get a warm, tingly feeling. If he could pull the other portrait owners into his scheme…
Larson immediately got to work on his pitch. At the same time, he tasked #HODL with reaching out to the other portrait owners. Not all of them mind, just a select group, the real killers. #HODL promised them something big, but offered hardly any details; there was nobody better at that kind of hype job. As predicted, the business titans insisted on the meeting being held on home turf, a fancy hotel up in Frisco. #HODL let them think they’d scored a victory. Larson couldn’t have cared less about the location. The content was what mattered, and he was confident he had the goods.
The day of the meeting came around. Larson began by talking about the core algorithm. The titans reacted like he was speaking in tongues. It was as if they’d never considered what was going on behind the portrait’s surface layer. Perhaps they’d viewed it as a kind of magic. Larson couldn’t have hoped for a better starting point. He could take advantage of their ignorance. Next, he laid out some of the more obvious applications. He talked about the edge the algo’s insights could provide in a fraught business negotiation. The titans nodded approvingly. According to #HODL’s intel, at least two of them were currently involved in hostile takeover bids. Larson then raised the possibility of using the algo to analyse external board members and key hires. The titans liked that idea even more.
It was time to move on to the plan. The titans had no problems understanding that part of the presentation. Without prompting, one of them said that he had a contact within the relevant AI assistant provider. Perfect, Larson thought, finding a suitable contact had been one of the missing pieces of the jigsaw. The titan then stated the blindingly obvious—it was going to take one hell of a bribe. He proceeded to scrawl out some calculations on one of the hotel notepads. Once he was done, he held the notepad up so everyone could see it. Despite an earlier stim session, Larson couldn’t hide his shock. The titans found this extremely amusing. It will be worth it, Larson told himself. He immediately agreed to kick in a sixth of the huge amount. He’d just entered the big leagues.
By the time he got home from the meeting, the portrait was already starting to change. Some of the surface features were glitching in and out, while others were completely missing. Through the gaps, he could see a strange semi-organic scaffold within. The result was a kind of hollow effect. For a long time, Larson sat on the edge of his desk, watching the portrait in flux. It looked like a fault, but what if it was just the latest transfig? Sometimes it could be hard to tell with the portrait.
The next morning, Larson checked in with his fellow titans. As yet, their portraits were unchanged. Larson told them not to worry. He figured that it was just a matter of time. His portrait had always been the special one, the one that started and finished trends. After the call, he went out to the garden. He had to admit the situation with the other portraits was a tad concerning. To buy into the game, he’d been forced to leverage all of his assets, portrait included. He literally couldn’t afford for there to be even the faintest whiff of uncertainty. No, he was overthinking things. If the algo had still been functioning, the portrait would have changed to reveal his worries—an ugly grimace, dark pools under the eyes, tufts of hair pulled out. Yes, it would have taken delight in taunting him.
Two days later, he got the call he’d been praying for. The widow was ready to settle. Less than three days was all it had taken. But that was how it was in the big leagues. Risky plays, swift outcomes. At the end of the call, the lawyer asked him if he wanted to ruin the widow. It was a moment to savor, the power to decide another person’s fate. Tempting as it was, he decided against.
The following week, Larson returned to Frisco for the final wrap-up meeting. He was sitting on one side of the table, flanked by the titans and their legal people. The widow was sitting directly across from him. She didn’t seem to be particularly upset. It would probably come as a relief not to be responsible for the portraits.
Towards the end of the allotted time slot, a technician was ushered into the conference room. Her job was to walk them through the asset transfer process. At this point, the other titans started to lose interest. It was a shame how they’d lost their technical chops, Larson thought. One by one, they filed out of the room. The widow shrugged, then followed after them. Larson shook his head and turned his attention back to the technician. She smiled awkwardly. On her screen, she’d pulled up the data room site. She began to walk him through the file structure, but he was finding it difficult to concentrate. There was a lot of laughter coming from the adjoining room. He tried to focus on what the technician was saying, but it was no good.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said.
The technician got the message. She pulled up a couple of legal documents on her screen, and Larson signed them off without a thought. Even at the time it had felt like a mistake, but he simply had to know what all the hilarity was about. He rushed through to the adjoining room. The titans were gathered around the widow. She was telling them an old war story from the artist’s Dogpatch days. Larson tried to insert himself into the conversation, but it was a hopeless effort. The widow was like a force of nature. Warm and funny one moment, witheringly cruel the next. Larson cut his losses and retreated to a safe distance. The widow was charming the titans, no doubt about it. One of them even asked her if she’d like to manage his art collection. It wasn’t a joke—titans didn’t do jokes.
After the meeting, they retired to one of the titan’s private clubs. It was a world that Larson had always dreamed of inhabiting. He couldn’t help thinking of all the deals that had been struck in the old wood-paneled rooms, and all the rumors that had swirled like old-fashioned cigar smoke. After a while, the titans started arguing among themselves. Larson was amazed it had taken so long. One of them thought it would be a bright idea to open the technology up to the masses. Why shouldn’t everyone have their own portrait? he asked. It was an absurd idea. Larson knew that it was time to take charge.
“Calm yourselves, gentlemen,” he said.
The titans turned to face him.
“Now’s not the time for ideas. Ideas are too easy. No, now’s the time for careful study. Let me take a proper look at the algorithm. Kick the tires, poke around under the hood. Once we know the secrets within, the applications will reveal themselves.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” one of the titans said. “Algos are your thing.”
“Definitely your thing,” another titan muttered.
The rest of them chuckled. Larson didn’t react. He knew that it would take time before he was accepted into the fold. But not too much time. Armed with the core algo, he simply couldn’t go wrong.
By the time he got home, it was just after midnight. He went straight through to the study. The portrait was still in its “hollow man” state. Larson got a chill from just looking at it. He turned around. Jing was standing at the door.
“Successful trip?” she asked.
“I’m about to find out.”
Jing’s eyes went to the portrait. “It’s about to change.”
“You think so?”
“Oh yes … Can I get you anything?”
Larson shook his head. “I’ll be working late. No need to stay up.”
He sat down at his computer and logged in to the data room. The first thing he did was to check the digital asset register. He ended up searching through it several times. Strangely, he couldn’t find the self portrait. There was no way he could have missed it. Every asset included an estimator’s valuation, and the self portrait would have been by far the most valuable artwork. Despite the late hour, he decided to call the technician from the SF meeting. Her AI mirror picked up after a couple of rings.
“I’m looking through the asset register right now,” Larson said.
“Okay. Let me pull that up, so we’re looking at the same thing.”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Got it. What’s the issue?”
“I can’t find the self portrait in the listing.”
“That’s correct.”
“Correct? What do you mean?”
“There was no self portrait in the handover package. Did my lessee not explain that to you?”
“Obviously not.”
“Ah, I see what’s going on. There was a self portrait, but it was a painting.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean a painting, as in a traditional artwork.”
“A painting?” Larson said incredulously.
His brain wasn’t quite functioning at full speed. He should have asked Jing for an espresso or a stiff drink. On his screen, he pulled up one of the legal documents from earlier and navigated to the assets section. Finally, he saw the issue. The term “algorithmic art” had been used throughout the document. Traditional media, such as an oil painting or a charcoal sketch, was out of scope. Of course it was.
He wrapped up the call with the AI. It was annoying to have missed out on the self portrait, but it wasn’t the end of the world. The core algo was what really mattered. He opened up the relevant files. As they loaded, he glanced toward the portrait. Jing had been right—the change was underway. The background was forming; vigorous brushstrokes, deep, lustrous blues; a night scene. In the lower right corner there were what appeared to be angular fragments of light. What fresh wonder was being created by the magical algo?
He turned his attention back to the screen. The core algorithm lay naked before him. All of its secrets would be revealed.
Two hours of algo whispering later, and Larson was more confused than when he’d started. He just couldn’t see where the intelligence was coming from. Most of the techniques the algorithm relied on were truly ancient, perhaps as much as two decades out of date. In a way, this made sense. A couple of decades back roughly corresponded with the portrait’s creation. But why the hell hadn’t the core algo been updated? That was what he’d been paying the service fees for.
The archaic technology wasn’t the only issue. There was also the question of the endless references in the code to external systems, so-called “black boxes”. He picked out several links at random. The relevant systems had been included in the asset handover, which was a good sign. But breaking the black boxes down to a comprehensible form would take some serious computing power. He parked the task for the time being.
He adopted another approach. Using one of his analytical tools, he was able to view the algo’s development over time. He shook his head in disbelief. It appeared that the most rudimentary techniques had been added more recently. Indeed, in the previous two years, there was an insane amount of hand coding. It was like a watchmaker had tried to fashion a digital display using gears and springs. No wonder the algo had started to break down. He couldn’t help wondering if it was some crazy ruse by the widow. Given the circumstances, she’d seemed awfully cheery up in SF. But if it was a trick, she’d picked the wrong people to mess with. The titans would squash her like a bug.
He looked up at the portrait again. By this point, the background was pretty much there, and the figure was starting to form in the foreground. It was slightly off centre and had a curiously slouched posture. The scene brought a smile to Larson’s face though. A Parisian side street toward the end of the nineteenth century. The imagined artist had just walked past the Café Terrace. The shards of light in the corner of the composition were a broken bottle lying in the gutter.
His phone started ringing. It was the widow. He couldn’t help but pick up.
“I knew you had a touch of the Hopper about you,” she said.
Nighthawks.
“You’re just the person I wanted to speak to,” he said.
“I know.”
“What the hell is going on with this algorithm?”
She laughed. He was tired, and it was difficult to judge her tone. It wasn’t exactly mocking. Sad?
“You can’t find the intelligence can you?” she asked.
“There is none.”
A long pause. “Technically, I suppose that’s true.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was an intelligence. Didn’t you see the references in the code?”
The black boxes. Larson scrolled back through the code. One system name jumped out. It was repeated over and over again.
“What’s ‘Mephisto’?” he asked.
“That’s the right question.”
A sinking feeling.
“What do you think it was?” the widow asked.
“Tell me.”
“That was my husband, Mr. Larson.”
“But, I don’t—”
“I tried to tell you that before. That he put everything into your portrait.”
Oh, this was bad, Larson thought.
“You’ve probably forgotten about the early years. All your endless complaints. You said the portrait was playing tricks on you, embarrassing you in front of your friends. It wasn’t all on you, I suppose. His other subjects treated him much the same way.”
What she was saying was true, Larson thought. He’d been the client from hell.
“Anyway, that was why he put himself in the loop. To stop your complaints. He gave his best years to you. You and all his other subjects.”
Larson’s throat suddenly felt very dry.
“But that was only the beginning,” she continued. “After a while, he started to think that he could influence your lives. He thought that he could make you better.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Of course it was. Why do you think he was in and out of treatment so often? Did you think it was part of the brand?”
Better not to answer that, Larson thought.
“For so long, he’d seize on even the smallest acts of kindness. Charitable donations that were just a rounding error in a subject’s net wealth, one of you holding the door open for an old lady, that kind of thing. He’d claim those positive behaviors were his doing. He’d say that if he only kept going a little bit longer, then he’d turn you around.”
Larson cast his mind back into the past. Was there some truth in what she was saying? Had he been taking the wrong lessons from the portrait all along? A look of avarice, for example, could easily be confused with a look of disgust. As with all great art, it was a matter of interpretation.
The widow sighed. “Eventually, the truth caught up to him though. Despite all of his interventions, the subjects kept on taking the wrong path.”
“The wrong path? Who was he to make that judgment?”
“It’s a fair point. But ask yourself this—in the last ten years, have you and your fellow big shots got more or less popular?”
Larson groaned. Those damn PopVox polls. He’d often dismissed them as fake data, but only when they’d gone against him.
“His final judgment was that he’d been wasting his life.”
There was nothing that Larson could really say to that. After a minute or so of silence, the widow hung up. Larson was left alone with his thoughts, and they weren’t good ones. In the hours and days that followed, he’d have to explain to the titans what he’d just been told. He’d have to tell them that the core algorithm was worthless.
He got to his feet to view the portrait. The transfig was complete. It wasn’t just a change though—it was the final version, as fixed in its own way as the artist’s self portrait in paint. He knew it from the code, and in his gut. In the portrait, Harry Larson was slumped over in the gutter, eyes half closed, one hand clutching an imagined bottle. There was an upturned cap in front of him, almost empty, save a few dull coins. Larson noted the drunken smile on the pauper’s lips, and this, in turn, made him smile. The final portrait only had him half-right. Most certainly down, but not out.