patch day
"The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggle."
--The Communist Manifesto
Artists got nerfed again. Jack could tell even before he got out of bed. There was a certain listlessness to his movements, an incapacity that hadn't been there before. Plus, of course, there were the forty-six messages on his voice mail. About half of them were from friends and family, doing their best to sympathize, although of course the change hadn't affected THEIR livelihoods -- parents and students and doctors and lawyers weren't getting any poorer. Quite the contrary.
The other twenty-three messages were from Bill. They'd gone halves on a studio, back in '98, in the golden days, when you couldn't hardly throw a rock without hitting a half dozen artists just out of college, ready to take advantage of the smorgasbord of opportunities available to them. Now they were almost all gone -- disappeared into another flavor of the month vocation, or just somehow not around any more. Joe could only think of four or five other artists he still saw around. And their studio, his and Bill's, was pretty much the last one left.
Nobody would meet his eyes on the train. They were mostly businessmen. Figured. Everybody seemed to be a businessman nowadays. Especially after this last change, Jack had a feeling he'd be seeing quite a few more of them.
One man came up to him as he was stepping out -- a factory worker? Or at least he was dressed like one. He shook Jack's hand and leaned in, whispering, "Listen, I'm sorry man. Believe me, I know how it is. Just stay strong and keep in there and don't stop telling em how it is, and someday they'll fix it." Jack nodded and smiled and thanked him and walked the six blocks to his studio where Bill was waiting.
***
The studio was empty. Empty of customers, that is. The art was there -- pictures and sculptures and collages and whatever the hell else lined every available wall and shelf. But the only person in the place was Bill, with that half smug half sick "I told you so" look on his face. He'd been saying for months that they'd been gunning for a nerf.
"What's going on?" Jack said. Bill just waved a hand at the plethora of empty spaces where once there'd been shoppers.
"It's all worthless now. All this shit. Nobody wants it. No-one's gonna buy any of it after the changes."
"But..." Jack blinked a couple times. "But...what are we gonna do, then?"
"Fuck if I know," Bill replied, with the same sad sneer.
"None of it? None of it has ANY value any more?" Jack gazed around wildly.
Bill pointed. "Somebody might buy that painting. Otherwise, we may as well trash it all."
They were still a moment, contemplating the waste of their lives.
Bill stirred. "Listen, Julie's trying to get a petition organized. Maybe we ought to go down there and try to help her out. I know you hate that shit, but, I mean..."
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Jack repeated. "I mean, we may as well, right? What've we got to lose?"
They locked up in silence.
***
City Hall was a madhouse, of course. Everybody in town had some sort of opinion they wanted to share, and everybody was hoping for that blue reply to justify it all. Julie was shouting, brandishing pieces of paper, with at least a hundred people lined up shouting along, and another twenty or thirty explaining how she was full of shit at the top of her lungs. A couple more people told Jack they were sorry. As he thanked them, a businessman approached with a purposeful gleam in his eye.
"I just wanted you to know I support the nerfs," the businessman said. "You guys have had it too easy for way too long. It was about time for some balance."
Bill rounded on him. "That's pretty funny coming from a businessman like you. I hope you can keep the same attitude when they slash your return on investment."
"Listen," the businessman retorted, "maybe if you want to make some money you should look at what the market actually wants and pursue it. That's what the rest of us who aren't in easy mode do. Stop whining and learn to live."
"In case you hadn't noticed," Bill said, "we're artists. We're specifically designed to make weird out-there luxury goods. That's all we can really do. This change is an unacceptable slap in the face to us."
"Hey, at least you HAVE a way to make money," a nearby hobo interjected. "Some of us have to BEG."
Bill rounded on him. "Well, maybe you should've thought of that before becoming a hobo, hmm? Shut your face and get the fuck out, all right? You don't have to pay for a house or food or anything. Why SHOULD you have as much income as the rest of us?"
Jack edged away from the chaos and the yelling, shaking his head, and stepped into City Hall. It wasn't any quieter or more reasonable there, but at least there was a semblance of organization. He knelt in a nearby pew, crossed himself politely, and composed himself.
"Dear God," he began. "I'm a forty-five-year-old artist, and I've been one ever since I was born. I missed the patronage days, and the postmodernism hullabaloo, but I've been around for a while now, and I've seen a lot of changes come and go.
"But this...this is just...I mean, listen. I trust you, God. I trust you to make the decisions that are best for the world. But I've got two kids and a mortgage, and I don't know how I'm going to eat tomorrow. My whole life has been built around making art and selling it, and you're taking that away...in the interests of balance.
"You gotta do what you gotta do, I guess. But how am I supposed to live now? Any kind of response will be fine, God. Just tell me what I'm supposed to do. How am I supposed to go on with my life after this? What's the point of being an artist now?"
There was no reply.
--The Communist Manifesto
Artists got nerfed again. Jack could tell even before he got out of bed. There was a certain listlessness to his movements, an incapacity that hadn't been there before. Plus, of course, there were the forty-six messages on his voice mail. About half of them were from friends and family, doing their best to sympathize, although of course the change hadn't affected THEIR livelihoods -- parents and students and doctors and lawyers weren't getting any poorer. Quite the contrary.
The other twenty-three messages were from Bill. They'd gone halves on a studio, back in '98, in the golden days, when you couldn't hardly throw a rock without hitting a half dozen artists just out of college, ready to take advantage of the smorgasbord of opportunities available to them. Now they were almost all gone -- disappeared into another flavor of the month vocation, or just somehow not around any more. Joe could only think of four or five other artists he still saw around. And their studio, his and Bill's, was pretty much the last one left.
Nobody would meet his eyes on the train. They were mostly businessmen. Figured. Everybody seemed to be a businessman nowadays. Especially after this last change, Jack had a feeling he'd be seeing quite a few more of them.
One man came up to him as he was stepping out -- a factory worker? Or at least he was dressed like one. He shook Jack's hand and leaned in, whispering, "Listen, I'm sorry man. Believe me, I know how it is. Just stay strong and keep in there and don't stop telling em how it is, and someday they'll fix it." Jack nodded and smiled and thanked him and walked the six blocks to his studio where Bill was waiting.
***
The studio was empty. Empty of customers, that is. The art was there -- pictures and sculptures and collages and whatever the hell else lined every available wall and shelf. But the only person in the place was Bill, with that half smug half sick "I told you so" look on his face. He'd been saying for months that they'd been gunning for a nerf.
"What's going on?" Jack said. Bill just waved a hand at the plethora of empty spaces where once there'd been shoppers.
"It's all worthless now. All this shit. Nobody wants it. No-one's gonna buy any of it after the changes."
"But..." Jack blinked a couple times. "But...what are we gonna do, then?"
"Fuck if I know," Bill replied, with the same sad sneer.
"None of it? None of it has ANY value any more?" Jack gazed around wildly.
Bill pointed. "Somebody might buy that painting. Otherwise, we may as well trash it all."
They were still a moment, contemplating the waste of their lives.
Bill stirred. "Listen, Julie's trying to get a petition organized. Maybe we ought to go down there and try to help her out. I know you hate that shit, but, I mean..."
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Jack repeated. "I mean, we may as well, right? What've we got to lose?"
They locked up in silence.
***
City Hall was a madhouse, of course. Everybody in town had some sort of opinion they wanted to share, and everybody was hoping for that blue reply to justify it all. Julie was shouting, brandishing pieces of paper, with at least a hundred people lined up shouting along, and another twenty or thirty explaining how she was full of shit at the top of her lungs. A couple more people told Jack they were sorry. As he thanked them, a businessman approached with a purposeful gleam in his eye.
"I just wanted you to know I support the nerfs," the businessman said. "You guys have had it too easy for way too long. It was about time for some balance."
Bill rounded on him. "That's pretty funny coming from a businessman like you. I hope you can keep the same attitude when they slash your return on investment."
"Listen," the businessman retorted, "maybe if you want to make some money you should look at what the market actually wants and pursue it. That's what the rest of us who aren't in easy mode do. Stop whining and learn to live."
"In case you hadn't noticed," Bill said, "we're artists. We're specifically designed to make weird out-there luxury goods. That's all we can really do. This change is an unacceptable slap in the face to us."
"Hey, at least you HAVE a way to make money," a nearby hobo interjected. "Some of us have to BEG."
Bill rounded on him. "Well, maybe you should've thought of that before becoming a hobo, hmm? Shut your face and get the fuck out, all right? You don't have to pay for a house or food or anything. Why SHOULD you have as much income as the rest of us?"
Jack edged away from the chaos and the yelling, shaking his head, and stepped into City Hall. It wasn't any quieter or more reasonable there, but at least there was a semblance of organization. He knelt in a nearby pew, crossed himself politely, and composed himself.
"Dear God," he began. "I'm a forty-five-year-old artist, and I've been one ever since I was born. I missed the patronage days, and the postmodernism hullabaloo, but I've been around for a while now, and I've seen a lot of changes come and go.
"But this...this is just...I mean, listen. I trust you, God. I trust you to make the decisions that are best for the world. But I've got two kids and a mortgage, and I don't know how I'm going to eat tomorrow. My whole life has been built around making art and selling it, and you're taking that away...in the interests of balance.
"You gotta do what you gotta do, I guess. But how am I supposed to live now? Any kind of response will be fine, God. Just tell me what I'm supposed to do. How am I supposed to go on with my life after this? What's the point of being an artist now?"
There was no reply.