The Algorithmic Portrait of Harry Larson: Part Two
A portrait of greed.
Larson followed her inside the house. They passed by the main living space. It was decorated with an assortment of tribal art, Scandinavian furniture, and a handful of aesthetically pleasing bohemian types. A couple of them eyed him with distaste.
“You’ve owned the portrait for how long?” the widow asked, not turning.
“Oh. Sixteen years, give or take.”
“Curious. In all that time, I’m not sure I remember you visiting before.”
Touché, Larson thought. “Loss changes a man’s perspective.”
The widow laughed a mirthless laugh. They entered the artist’s studio. For a moment, Larson’s usual cynicism melted away. What a marvelous space it was. A huge picture window showed off the trees outside. The vibrant greens were almost overpowering, so full of life. The computing equipment was arranged along one wall. Much of it was under dust covers. There was even an old painting easel in one corner. The floor all around it was marked with spots of dried paint.
Larson couldn’t help thinking back to the artist’s first studio, a grim industrial conversion in the Dogpatch area of SF. He’d visited a couple of times during the portrait prep phase. Even back then, the artist had seemed troubled. Originally, he’d been a Silicon Valley programmer. They’d had a long discussion about the latest AI techniques.
“Why are you really here?” the widow asked, bringing him back to reality.
No point in wasting time. “I want to purchase the core algorithm.”
“Exactly as I thought.”
“And?”
“Out of the question.”
Larson nodded. “Did Nazarian ask you the same thing?”
The widow smiled. “Someone’s been doing their homework.”
“Always.”
“Life goes on, Mr. Larson. The service arrangement will continue as before. Not that it’s any of your business, but I said the same thing to Mr. Nazarian.”
“But you can’t deny the change in circumstances.”
“On the contrary. The circumstances have changed very little.”
“How so?”
“My husband had already entrusted most of his duties to his assistants.” The widow gestured towards a couple of the newer workstations.
Larson rubbed his chin. That made a lot of sense, he thought. Considering the artist’s mental state, he’d been incredibly productive in the last couple of years. Indeed, the abundance of new works had actually been slowing the appreciation of Larson’s own portrait. He moved a little closer to the workstations. Heat was pouring off them. He made a mental note of the makes and models. The information could prove useful later on.
He turned to face the widow. “One way or the other, I’m going to have that algorithm.”
“What a surprising thing for you to say.”
“There’s no need for things to turn ugly. This could be incredibly lucrative for both of us.”
“I’m afraid to disappoint you, Mr. Larson, but I’m not the penniless widow of your imagination.”
You could be, Larson thought. But he didn’t say it. He actually rather liked the widow; her haughty attitude and sharp mind. Looking over her slender shoulder, another detail caught Larson’s eye. While most of the available wall space was taken up by paintings—mainly religious icons—and small digital displays, there was a large expanse of bare white wall. It corresponded to the size of Larson’s own portrait display. Of course, he thought. There had to have been a self portrait. And then a shiver went through his body. Directly across from the bare wall was a rather lovely red rocking chair. Larson imagined the artist sitting in it, gazing at his own image. Had that been the final straw? One last transfiguration, an image that had pointed him towards his awful destiny. Larson turned his attention back to the widow. Her eyes had narrowed. Had she seen what he was looking at?
“Are we done?” she said.
Not even close.
“Yes,” he replied. “This visit has proved extremely enlightening.”
He followed the widow out of the studio and they retraced their steps back through the house. The bohemians were laughing as they passed the living space. The widow opened the front door, and Larson walked out into the buzzing land of the insects. He was about to start down the drive but the widow called after him.
“Before you leave,” she said, “there’s something you should know. My husband put everything he had into those portraits.”
Larson nodded politely. The intense look in the widow’s eyes seemed strangely at odds with the rather facile statement. The widow closed the door on him. He turned and continued up the drive, his stride full of purpose.
He arrived home late in the evening, and went directly to the living space. The lights came on slowly. That was odd, he thought. The portrait display was showing a uniform color field. A very deep gray, almost black. There was no sign of a face or a figure. He went over to the frame to check on the data connection. The twinkling lights told him it was running at full speed. His mind quickly went into overdrive. Did it have something to do with his visit to the studio? Admittedly, he could have treated the widow with more respect, but surely she hadn’t taken it too much to heart. People were tough these days. Besides, she’d easily won their first skirmish.
He slumped down into his favorite lounge chair. It was both fashionable and comfortable, a combination that only a machine could have achieved. Midnight was approaching, typically his optimal time for thinking. At least the widow had turned down Nazarian, he thought. A shadow flitted across the wall, and the chair swiveled itself to face the door. Jing had appeared from nowhere as she was apt to do. Larson noticed her eyes going to the blank portrait display. She’d be only too happy if it were truly gone.
“Is there anything you need, Mr. Larson?”
She could go up to Oregon and torture the widow for him.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
Jing left him alone with his thoughts again. How was he going to win the war with the widow? He could go down the character assassination route. There’d been something fishy about the living arrangements at the cabin. All those bohemians and leftists lounging around; nothing good could come from that sort of thing. And hadn’t the artist had a couple of kids with the widow? Larson couldn’t quite remember. What if it turned out she was a terrible mom? Incapable of caring for little kids; ergo, not fit to have custody of the precious algo.
No, it didn’t feel like the right play.
Such dark thoughts, almost inhuman. Of course, he thought. He sprung to his feet and commanded the lights off. He approached the portrait, moving slowly and silently, like he was trying to take it by surprise. It took a couple of minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. And then he saw it. The hard edge of a silhouette. No, his portrait hadn’t escaped the frame. There was a figure in the background, seated in a chair. For a long time, Larson stood watching himself. Occasionally, the edge of the figure shimmered or jerked. So, the portrait was deep in thought. Probably thinking about the problem of the widow.
He woke the next morning. He’d fallen asleep in the lounge chair again. The chair slowly raised itself and Larson got to his feet. By this point, the transfiguration was complete and the portrait had settled into its latest iteration. The dark form of the previous night had only been an intermediate step, a kind of underpainting. The new style combined Expressionism and Zero Wave with a soupçon of CombatCore. It shouldn’t have worked, yet somehow it did. The figure’s outline was exaggerated and choppy. Larson recognized it as a dynamic diffusion pattern. Clever, he thought. You couldn’t look at the portrait for more than a few seconds without feeling nauseous.
He pressed the capture button on the side of the display. This time, he posted the image to his social feed. In the descriptive text, he used the term “shadow man” a couple of times.
A minute later, #HODL sent him a text. “Dark night of the soul?” The question was followed by a couple of retro smiling emojis.
Larson responded: “Soul? What’s that?”
#HODL sent back a string of custom emojis. Larson had no idea what they meant.
#HODL’s next message was back to business. “Want me to mint some tokens?”
“You think there’s a market for this depressing crap?”
“Is there a market? YOU ARE THE MARKET!!”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m very sure. You know the other portraits have been changing?”
Interesting, Larson thought. He hadn’t even considered that angle. It was so easy to think your portrait was the only one.
“Changing how?” he texted.
“Oh, lots of interesting ways. You should check them out.”
“Good idea.”
“The artist made portraits of some real big shots.”
“Hope you’re not implying I’m a small shot.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Larson bumped his phone against the wall to signal he was done texting. He left the living area and went upstairs to take a shower. By the time he came down to the dining area, Jing had laid out his breakfast and smart meds. She’d also left a note saying she was off to the city to buy supplies for the EXPerience rooms. The damn EXPer. What with the Seattle trip and the portrait business, he’d completely forgotten about it. He couldn’t even remember where he’d got to with the invites. He laughed to himself. Perhaps he should ask the widow along; the EXPerience scene had started in the MetaParis Commune after all. He’d certainly invite a couple of the corporate stiffs down from Seattle. They could do with some loosening up.
He finished his breakfast with an old-fashioned joint. Afterwards, he went out to the garden. It was another beautiful day in L.A. Scented air, the whisper of the nearby freeway, not a hint of pollution. He slipped out his phone to check on his social feed. The “Shadow Man” portrait was pulling some big numbers, and #HODL had already sold a handful of authenticated copies. Larson had another thought. He pulled up the artist’s social media and started scrolling back through time. He didn’t get far, just a couple of months; there was simply too much content for a human mind to process. But he wasn’t to be defeated. He commanded his cloud helper to search the artist’s feed for evidence of a self portrait. Moments later, the AI came back with a negative response.
Interesting, he thought. The helper was never wrong. At the same time, it was only as good as the source data. He thought back to the studio, and the widow’s reaction when she’d caught him staring at the blank section of wall. She knew something. Yes, he was fairly sure there was a self portrait. Indeed, he had a vague recollection of seeing it back in the Dogpatch studio. And why the devil wouldn’t there be one? The self was the subject that was always at hand, and the artist had had an interesting face. One of those rugged American numbers—strong cheekbones, wild hair, skin toughened by the sun.
So, there was a self portrait. Perhaps the artist’s masterpiece. And the widow had been hiding it from the world. At the very least, the intel could cause some mischief. It was a start. He pulled up his contacts list. There it was. An art appraisal company that he’d worked with a couple of years back. The gold tick beside the name told Larson they retained a good standing among his peers. He placed a call to the general enquiries line.
A polished British voice answered him. “Mr. Larson, you’re speaking with Claude. How may I be of service?”
“I was looking to run a theory past you.”
“A theory? How intriguing. Before we proceed, I’m required by your state laws to inform you that I’m an artificial intelligence.”
“Well, blow me down with a feather.”
“Quite.”
The search for a human-level AI was currently in one of its fallow periods. The best the researchers had been able to manage was caricatures like Claude. It was probably better that way.
“I assume you’re familiar with my portrait?”
“Of course.”
“And the artist?”
“A terrible business what happened.”
“Yes, absolutely awful … But perhaps not the end of the story.” Larson left the words hanging. Hopefully, Claude had been imbued with sufficient intelligence to get the message. The silence went on, and on.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Claude asked.
“I’d rather not answer that question. It just wouldn’t be right.”
“I see.”
“I knew you would.”
“And how sure of this are you?”
“The human mind is fundamentally ill-suited to making such judgments.”
“I understand. But it is a wonderful notion that you’re proposing.”
“I’ve proposed nothing.”
“No, of course not.”
“Can I leave it with you, Claude?”
“Of course you can.”
Larson ended the call. Humans were good at spreading rumors, but they had nothing on AIs. Claude would know exactly which specialist networks to tap up, which influencer nodes to focus on, and which feedback loops to overload.
Over the next two days, Larson watched it happening in real time. There was a temptation to get involved directly, but he limited himself to hiring a couple of meatware propagandists, veterans of the old Eastern European information wars. He fed them the occasional tidbit and they layered on the hate. The result was assured. The good people of the internet swiftly turned on the widow. Some of them even blamed her for the artist’s suicide. It was an old story—beloved cultural figure, almost always male, led astray by a devious partner, usually female.
On the third evening of his disinformation campaign, the widow called him. She was delightfully irate. Mostly, he just listened. She told him about the super-fans who were camping out on her doorstep, and she even played him an audio clip of their vile chants. He thought of the pink cabin nestled among the emerald trees. Sure, it looked pretty in the day, but the long nights had to be a different story. Branches groaning like dying men every time the wind got up, and the inky shadows that would make for such perfect hiding spots.
He zoned back in. The widow was hurling accusations at him. He remained utterly serene, helped in part by an earlier stim session. Naturally, he denied having had anything to do with the rumors. Of course, there were technologies that could have easily revealed his lies, but Larson knew that people like the widow thought themselves above that kind of thing. She ended the call with a fusillade of curses, a pleasing reminder of her East Coast roots. Larson chalked it up as a minor win. Oddly, he still had no idea whether there was a self portrait or not.
His cheery mood bled into the following day. Annoyingly, he wouldn’t be able to focus on the widow’s travails. It was the day of the EXPerience party. The guests arrived throughout the evening. There were movers and shakers from the legacy streaming businesses, adult robot entrepreneurs from the Valley, virtual real estate developers, even a couple of algorithm portfolio heiresses. The evening began swimmingly. All of the EXPeriences were functioning exactly as planned, and the ratings from the guests were off the charts. For the life-extenders who couldn’t handle the full suite of EXPeriences, Jing had laid on an old-time masseuse. She really did think of every eventuality.
It had all been going rather too well. At the time of the happening, Larson was in the secondary EXPerience room. A burst of raucous laughter from the living space alerted him. The tone sounded all wrong. Fortunately, he was still wearing some clothes. He rushed through to the living space, heart hammering. The problem became apparent immediately. The portrait had undergone another transfiguration.
And what a change it was. The shadow man was gone, replaced by a nude in a hyperrealist style. In itself, that wouldn’t have been so shocking; the nude was a fundamental genre of art, both traditional and algorithmic. But the figure in the portrait wasn’t exactly him. The body looked hewn from rock and the private parts were out of proportion. The most annoying thing was it had been his own damn fault. A couple of days earlier, he’d happened to post some gym shots on his social. By default, a pro filter had been applied to the pictures. In reality, he was in decent shape—any tech guy in the public eye had to be—but the filter made him look like an X-Cage fighter. The portrait algorithm had used the filter against him. It was truly devious behavior.
He looked around him at the laughing faces. It was hard to imagine a more humiliating scenario. And there were no good answers. The display was designed to be always on, meaning there was a backup battery built into the frame. Without the right tools, he wouldn’t be able to get at it. Worse than that, there was no forced reset option; the artist had prohibited it. He was seriously contemplating smashing the display when things got even worse.
One of the algo heiresses was about to take a snap of the portrait, an act that went totally against the party rules she’d signed up to. Larson was frozen. In part, he was wondering where the heiress had been hiding the phone on her bikini-clad body. The flash went off. As the light cleared, Larson saw a blur of movement in his peripheral vision—Jing appearing from stage left. The heiress shrieked as she was thrown down onto the floor. Perfect aikido technique, Larson thought blankly. The other attendees gasped as they caught up to the action. Jing looked up at Larson. Somehow, the phone was now in her free hand.
“You can’t take that,” the heiress screeched.
Larson rubbed his face. Everyone had turned to face him.
“It’s okay, Liling,” he said. “You can give it back.”
Jing looked confused, but she did as instructed. She sprung to her feet, and straightened out her smock jacket.
Larson turned his attention to the heiress. “Keep the picture if you want. But if it gets out, I’ll let it be known that you don’t follow EXPer guidelines. See how many parties you get invited to after that.”
The heiress pouted, but she knew she didn’t have a leg to stand on. For her, a life without EXPers would barely be worth living. With the atmosphere ruined, the party soon broke up.
That same night, Larson moved the portrait from the living space to his private study. He couldn’t risk being embarrassed again. He sensed the widow’s involvement in what had transpired. Perhaps she had some way to override the AI assistants. Larson couldn’t help thinking back to when he’d first purchased the portrait. In those early days, it had played a few tricks on him. But those had been more lighthearted. The latest transfig had been designed to cause maximum damage. He couldn’t help laughing. It was exactly the kind of play he might have dreamt up himself.