#177 The Art Critic

by Tim Cassidy-Curtis

“So, you’re an art critic now?”

The speaker was a five foot four Space Service admiral who appeared to be in his middle age. He stood alone in a secure preparation room and looked at a painting, on a stand where it was supposedly ready to be moved into its final display location. It was Monday, the spring equinox of 3015.

“Lance,” he said. “You are an artificial intelligence; a computer. You’re built for logic and numbers. With our telepathic link we can accomplish miracles. You can tell me tons of dryly wonderful facts about anything I see. You push the practical bounds of floccinaucinihilipilification. You’re, like, the best Trivial Pursuit partner, ever! But, seriously. A critic? Of art? You?”

He’d seen the rest of the museum, and finished in this room. A nearby corner of the Universe was saved thanks to him, so he was given a holiday. That was how he got into the Getty when it was closed. Nobody had asked if this was what he wanted; it was just that someone thought it’d be amusing to arrange a visit here. He guessed it was based on his first name.

Artigud, “Art,” Snell sighed.

The painting looked like an out of focus dandelion in full seed bloom, crowned with patches of dark blue sky. Mud-covered cobwebs draped the foreground. Orange autumn leaves lay to the right.

“And?” He listened to soundless commentary.

“Oh.”

He grabbed the frame and rotated the formerly upside-down piece.