To Talk To A Human

A short story

When my dad suggested we go to the art gallery for our monthly father-daughter date, I wasn’t totally excited, but I agreed because, last month, I convinced Dad to go to the amusement park where he vomited after a (pretty tame) rollercoaster, so I kind of felt like I owed him one. 

I haven’t been to the art gallery for a few years, since a school trip in the sixth grade. The only thing I really remember about the day is Astro Kelvington touching not one, but two pictures and getting escorted outside by security bots. 

“Thanks for agreeing to this,” Dad says as we climb out of the self-driving car and walk up the front steps of the ancient-looking building. “I know this isn’t your favourite kind of thing to do, but I think it will be fun to do something different.”

Normally, Dad and I do stuff like going out for coffee, bowling, or going to a game for our monthly dates. But I know Dad is a bit of a nerd. He’s constantly reading books about history, how stuff is made, biographies, and other random stuff. It’s a miracle, really, that it’s taken this long for him to get me to go to a stuffy museum-type place. Oh no, now he’s going to want to go to the museum one of these days.

“Honestly, I feel kind of bad for making you yack up that hotdog last month,” I reply with a shrug. 

Dad sticks his tongue out in disgust. “Thanks for reminding me,” he says, chuckling. 

“No problem.” I give him a cheeky grin. 

In the lobby, where there clearly used to be kiosks manned by humans, there are now several self-serve stations for purchasing admission to the gallery. Dad uses his finger on the screen to select our admission rates and waves his credit card at the machine. Two tickets slip out of a slot. Dad grabs our tickets and we walk over to the doorway deeper in the lobby where the only human employee I can see is standing guard, checking tickets before anybody goes into the gallery. 

“My dad talks about when he was kid and there weren’t self-serve checkouts and you had to talk to someone every time you wanted to buy something,” Dad says to me quietly as he tucks our tickets into his pants pocket. 

“Wasn’t Grandpa born last century?” 

This room is hushed. The floors are covered in blue carpet and the walls are painted in a pale cream that’s beginning to brown and peel in the corners. We’re in a sort of antechamber with three large halls to choose from. 

Dad answers my question with, “In the 1990s, yes. It was a different time.”

As I’m reading a sign that labels the different rooms (Medieval, Renaissance, etc.), I say, “He probably said that about his grandpa’s time.”

“That’s very insightful of you, Nia.”

I don’t really know what to say to that without making a joke, so I keep my mouth shut and continue reading the sign. 

Dad reads the sign over my shoulder. “Where to first?”

“Well, since we’re talking about Grandpa, why don’t we go to the 20th century stuff?”

“Let’s do that.” 

We step into the hall to the right. I blink against the spatters of colours around me, in strange combinations of blockiness and loose swirls. I didn’t expect to see so much pink in paintings over 100 years old - that kind of colour blast belongs here in the 70s. 

As for the gallery itself, we’re one of only two groups in this hall. A guy and a girl a couple years older than me, maybe twenty, are holding hands as they meander from one painting to the next. It takes several embarrassing seconds for me to realize I’m staring at them. The thing is, I’m envious of that girl. My dating life has been woefully boring (AKA non-existent). The closest I’ve gotten to going on a date with a boy is when I passed a beer to Curt Klein at a house party. He said, “Hey, can you pass me a beer?” I said, “Sure.” He said, “Thanks.” Yep, pretty life-altering stuff. 

Oh my God, you’re still staring at them! 

I duck my head down and stand in front of the nearest painting. It’s a portrait, I guess, but the face is broken into different coloured blocks that don’t line up properly. I bet even this weirdo has been on a date. 

Dad sidles next to me. “Any guesses who the artist is?”

“You already know?” I ask him. 

“He’s relatively important in 20th century art.”

“Guess that’s why he’s here.” I don’t really get it, though. Why’s the face broken up? “Who is it?”

“Picasso.” He says it like I’m supposed to know who that is.

I nod slowly. “Alright.”

“You don’t know Picasso? What do they teach you at school?”

“Not art.” I move over to the next painting.

Dad follows me. “What do you mean, ‘not art?’” 

“I mean, that’s an extra curricular club people can join, if they want, but it’s not, like, in the official curriculum.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a student.”

Dad’s face turns inward as he ponders over what I’ve just said. “But you’re not in this club?”

“No, it’s not really my crowd.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” I reply with a shrug, “it’s, like, a bunch of nerds? And I already come off nerdy enough without putting effort into it.” I can’t help but look at the couple again. 

“Do boys think you’re nerdy?” Dad asks. “Or girls? Or whoever it is you, uh…” He trails off and clears his throat. 

“Ugh, Dad,” I groan. “We are not having this conversation.” I move through an archway that leads to another hall. 

One side of the room hosts paintings depicting specific scenes and people. Their images are clear and concise. The other side’s paintings are a little more muddled, although there’s still a sense of realism to them. 

I’m standing in front of a painting when Dad finally walks up to me. “Impressionists versus Realists.”

“Pardon me?” I ask. 

“Impressionists.” He motions to the muddled paintings. “Trying to capture a feeling, a snapshot of a moment. And Realists.” He turns to the other wall. “Trying to capture a moment exactly as it looks.”

I give him a bewildered look.

He shrugs. “I read the sign. Like a good museum guest.”

“Nobody cares if you read the sign, Dad. A robot probably wrote it.”

“Well, somebody cares,” Dad replied. “That’s why they got a robot to write the sign.”

I stand in the middle of the room with my arms crossed over my chest, glancing from one side to the other. “I’m Team Impressionist,” I finally say. 

“Oh, there’s no in between today?” Dad asks, his voice light. 

I smile. “Just play my game.”

“I’ll play your game.” Dad starts walking around the room, taking in the paintings. “But first, tell me. Why are you Team Impressionist?”

“There’s room for…” I face the wall of Impressionist paintings, “error. No, forgiveness.” I tilt my head as I try to find the right words. “I don’t need a painting of a scene exactly as the scene looks. I can look at it myself. But these are like pictures of somebody’s mind.” 

“That’s a nice interpretation,” Dad says, strolling back to the middle of the room. “I’m Team Realist. I like how exact it is. These people were the photographers of their time, capturing a moment just as it was. Because we can’t go look at that scene, it’s probably a highway by now, or somebody’s suburban house. It reminds us of a simpler time.”

We stand together in quietness, surrounded by images and stories of the past. I wonder what it would have been like to live in a quaint cottage in the countryside, to run in fields of wheat and milk cows, to go walking in the park and not see a single billboard, to look up at a sky that’s clear of blimps and holographic ads, to not worry about fashion because clothing is a necessity and not a statement, to talk to a human being every time you buy groceries. 

“I guess art is pretty cool,” I say, keeping my eyes on the paintings. “If you bother to think about it.”

“Cool enough to join your school’s art club?”

“God, no,” I laugh. “But cool enough that maybe I would come back here sometime.” 

Dad’s trying to play it cool with a tight-lipped smile, but I know he’s beaming. He still has a chance to make a super nerd out of me. 

We move through more of the art-filled halls. I’m fascinated by the strange clothes the people wear in their portraits, now 200-500 years old. Dad and I chuckle a little at how primitive the Medieval art is. 

“To be fair,” Dad says, “the only reason humans got so much better at art is because we got to learn from our predecessors.”

“Standing on the shoulders of giants,” I mutter. 

“Yes!” Dad exclaims. “Where did you hear that? That’s Isaac Newton, right?”

I nod. “We talk about it in every science class, pretty much from kindergarten to grad.”

“That’s strangely sentimental for a curriculum that doesn’t include art,” Dad remarks as his brow furrows. 

We continue through the museum. Dad talks about the Biblical stories that some of the Renaissance paintings depict. I pause in front of the dainty, colourful paintings belonging to the Rococo era. 

“Is there a 21st century exhibit?” I ask. 

“I think so.” Dad moves to an archway where thick plastic maps have been mounted in each hall. “You want to see that now?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

Dad leads the way. We have to head back the way we came before taking a turn into a smaller room. 

The room is identical to the rest of the gallery except for the size. There doesn’t seem to be much of a theme among the paintings; some are abstract, others are hyperrealistic, still more are messy. They depict pieces of people, create absurd pictures that don’t make sense, or seem to be telling a political story. I thought 21st century art would be colourful, but most of the work is muted, neutral, and even downright dark. They’re not the pure blacks and browns like we saw in the Baroque room, they’re grey and grungy. This room makes me sad. 

“What do you think?” Dad asks. 

“There’s nothing really pretty in here.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I mean.” I pause to take in the art again. “It seems like there’s no happy art in here.”

Dad sits on a bench in the middle of the room. “I feel that. I suppose these artists weren’t trying to talk about happy things.”

“But why isn’t there even one happy one?” I start to read the plaques under each work. 

Break. Asylum. The Gathering. Ribcage. 2007. 2015. 2034…

“Hm,” I mutter. 

“What is it?” Dad asks from his seat on the bench. 

“The newest painting in here is from over thirty years ago.”

Dad stands up. “What?” He rounds the room, reading each plastic plaque. “Huh. You’re right.”

“Why isn’t there anything from the past thirty years?”

“I don’t know.”

Dad’s face tells me he’s stumped. But he usually knows these things. Something tells me to pursue the question. 

I move to the information kiosk and start tapping on the screen, trying to find something about the reason for the lack of new paintings. It’s all just information on the specific works themselves, though.

“Maybe the person at the front could tell us,” I say. 

Dad’s eyes widen as if what I’ve suggested is lunacy. “I highly doubt the sole staff member on duty will be able to answer our question.”

This makes my eyes narrow. “What’s the point of having a staff member here if they can’t help us?” I start leading the way back to the lobby, past paintings of years past. 

“Oh wow,” Dad says as he follows, “you sound like my dad.” 

I’m not sure what’s come over me, but there’s this urge to get to the bottom of this. Why aren’t there any more recent paintings? Why is the 21st century art room so gloomy? People didn’t just stop making art. Right?

People stopped teaching art in schools at some point, I realize. Now, it’s just a club for nerds and weirdos. 

We arrive at the front lobby, surrounded by self-serve kiosks and blinking signs. I step towards the staff member checking tickets and say, “Excuse me?”

He’s a middle-aged man with tattoos creeping out from his white collar and crawling down his forearms. He’s surprised that I’m talking to him. “Yes?”

“Is there someone here that could tell me why the newest painting here is from the 40s?”

The man blinks at me as if I’ve just spoken an entirely different language, then he stammers. “Uh… I don’t know.” He looks around as if someone more helpful is going to materialize. 

“Is there someone who works here who can tell me?” I ask. The more this man flounders in front of me, the more desperate I am for an answer. “Maybe you could give me their email?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” The man nods at my suggestion. “I can give you the curator’s email address.” He scrolls and taps on the tablet he’s holding to find the information. I type it into my phone and thank the man. 

“Are you alright?” Dad asks me as we leave the museum, but my head is already ducked down as I’m swiftly drafting my message to the museum curator. “Oh, I guess the date’s done.”

We have an agreement that our phones stay put away during our father-daughter dates, but my mind feels scrambled and hyper-focused all at once. 

With the email quickly sent, I put my phone away again. “Sorry, Dad.” I exhale. “I don’t know. I just… needed to get that done.”

Dad gives me a strange look, but says, “Want to grab a coffee on the way home?”

“Sure.”

---

When I check my inbox while I’m sitting on the bus home from school the next day, I see there’s a new email waiting for me. 

Hello Nia,

Thanks for your email. I’m pleased to see an interest in historic art from someone in your age group. 

We collect and display works by human artists. With the growing accessibility of artificial intelligence to the general population in the first few decades of the 21st century, ensuring that artwork was certifiably human-made grew increasingly difficult. The introduction of AI technology paired with mechanical engineering (robots that can paint) calls into question not just whether a work has been plagiarized, but also whether it was even physically crafted by a human. 

Because of our inability to assess if a painting has been created completely by a human from idea to creation, we do not display works from beyond 2045. If you wish to see more recent works, you can visit our sister museum, The Gallery of Mixed-Being Art. They display works claimed to have been painted by humans, AI, and a mix of the two. 

Please let me know if I can answer any more questions…

I don’t bother finishing the email, instead letting my hand fall to my lap. I look out the window across from my sideways seat and watch buildings, people, and cars whiz by.

It’s not the answer I was expecting. It’s left me feeling sort of… empty. And perplexed.

Art is still being created. Humans are still creating it. 

Plagiarism. How can a robot plagiarize a human if it’s not a living thing? Or are humans passing off the work of AI as their own? Why does that matter? Is every new idea really a new idea? Does any thought belong to any one person anymore? Or any one robot? Can a robot have an idea?

When I sit down at the dinner table later that night with Mom, Dad, and my younger sister, Dad asks, “Hey, Nia, have you heard from the museum curator yet?”

“Um, yeah,” I mumble through my pasta. 

Dad waits patiently for me to swallow. Mom uses the silence to ask, “What’s this about?”

“Nia had a question about the art museum yesterday,” Dad explains, “so a staff member gave her the curator’s email address.”

“Oh, that’s resourceful. You didn’t want to look online for the answer?”

“No, I wanted to talk to a human.” Saying it out loud made something settle in my chest, like a dog finally lying down after circling in its bed a million times. 

Mom laughs. “Honestly, sometimes I forget that I’m talking to AI and not a person. That technology’s come a long way.”

“So, what did the curator have to say, Nia?” Dad asks. 

I look up from my food. “It’s like Mom said,” I reply. I can’t stop my voice from sounding grey, like the last pictures in the human-only gallery. “With the new stuff, they can’t tell what’s human and what’s robot, so they don’t take it.”

Dad’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”

“That museum is a human art history museum. No AI allowed.” I’m just twirling linguini around my fork without bothering to eat it. “But nobody can tell the difference anymore. According to that museum, there’s no more art made only by humans.”

“Well, that’s not true,” Dad says. “Humans are still making art.”

“But they can’t tell. Everybody’s stealing ideas from each other. Human, robot, whatever.”

My sister speaks up. “Are you okay? You’re, like, weirdly bummed about this.”

Her calling me out pulls me out of my slump. Is shake my head and take a big breath. “Yeah, I don’t know.” I look at Dad and think of his dad telling stories about a different time. I think of paintings of people sitting in a field with a river in the foreground and not a building in sight. I think of life before AI, before robotics, before smartphones, before email, before we moved so fast, before art wasn’t cool or important, before humanity became so blurry. “I guess the conversations we had yesterday got me thinking.”

Dad nods gently as he tries to find the right thing to say. “Thinking is good.”

Mom frowns at Dad. “‘Thinking is good?’”

“I mean, it’s good to think about hard questions, even the ones we might not like the answers to, or the ones we don’t have answers to.”

I say, “Maybe we could go to the mixed-being gallery for our next date? They have recent stuff by humans and AI.”

“If you’d like that, sure.” Dad sounds hesitant, like he’s not sure I’m thinking straight. Maybe I’m not. Or maybe now I am. 

Later that night, I’m alone in my bedroom with just my desk lamp on. I’m sitting on my bed with a sheet of looseleaf and my school binder on my lap. My phone is propped up on my nightstand. I hit Record.

“Hi, my name is Nia Belvedere. It is eleven p.m. on April 7th, 2074, and I’m going to draw an original picture of… something.”

I’m a little self-conscious as I settle in, pen in one hand, binder and paper over my lap. I start drawing. My first piece of art since elementary school. 

It’s not very good. Wait, no, it’s absolutely terrible. But it’s mine. And I can prove it.