S1E8 - Into the Wanderers' Library - Episode 8 - You are an Artist

Hiya. This is Jackie Smith. I play Professor Artyom Harkin in Into the Wanderer's Library. And I'm appearing here out of character very briefly to mention something that had been, if I'm getting the dates of upload correct, mentioned in a prior promo, but I will mention it here for posterity's sake. Subsequent episodes of into the Wanderer's Library are now going to include links to various queer transgender charities such as the Trevor Project or Mermaids. And the reasoning for this is, of course, for those who have been paying attention, it's kind of impossible not to. Nowadays. The world's kind of falling apart. The powers that be. The recent court ruling in my native United Kingdom has made it very difficult for not just trans people for the next few years, but also anyone who doesn't fit a very specific form of gender identity, anyone who isn't specifically masculine or specifically feminine. This is something that affects all of us. I implore you to look into the recent court ruling with regards to the UK and transgender identity. It is infuriating and I am tired of ignoring it. A lot of the friends that I have in this community as a creative, as a queer person, are gender non conforming or are queer or people who would be considered by those who are straight and CIS and white or, you know, rich, let's be honest here, as lesser, just because they don't fit a particular mould, just because we're seen as societal outliers, which you and I know is ridiculous. Ridiculous, but we're not currently the people in power. It's going to be a very difficult few years, I imagine, until this is eventually changed. I do hope it will be changed for the sake of the next generation, if not my own. But I. One of the key ways we can get to that point, one of the key ways we can start changing, changing the narrative, changing the story, is by spreading the word about the charities and the people who can affect this change. The charities, like Mermaids, that support trans people of any stage of development or transition, supporting their mental and physical health and protecting them, safeguarding them from the genuine danger of, well, living the way we want to in a world that continues to villainize and demonize us for no, no good reason. I apologize that this is quite a dire note to begin on, but an ethos that a. That someone very dear to me has taught me, or had taught me and has continued to teach me is the simple two word sentiment of stronger together. If we are to survive this, and we will, we have to, of course we do. We have to do this together. We have to stand on the same page and we have to be united rather than divided. So if you can donate to these charities, please do. If you can't, just share them around on social media, on Instagram, bluesky, Facebook, if any of you still use that, spread the word. And let the people who run these wonderful organizations know that they have our support and that they are needed and that more than ever, they might actually be a lifeline for a lot of us. But yeah, that four minute ramble about the dire state of our. Of my. Of my country and the world's treatment of queer people aside, let's resume the kayfabe and begin. So Theo, this should be the point where you put. This should be the point where you put the theme in. Apologies everyone. I'm sure there'll be a time stamp for you to skip this if you want to. Actually, no, no, don't skip this. Do not. It was important what I had to say, and I want you all to listen. Grr. Right Tit. Sa. Hello everyone and welcome once again to into the Wanderer's Library with Professor Artyom Hakin. As mentioned in our prior installment, we are looking at the exhibition a piece of prose by Skipmeister with translations in French. So let's waste no more time, no more rambling. Let's get straight into it. The exhibition. I had never been so disappointed before. Tonight was supposed to be by Big Night, the an art exhibition that would define my career, hosted by the richest men of the anomalous world. Marshall Carter and dark luminaries from all across the Multiverse had come to see our work. I remembered how surprised and excited I was to see the letter that I had even been accepted into the exhibition. To receive one of these had been my dream ever since I was a child, learning all about the wonders of the anomalous on my father's knee. The letter looks so formal with the logo of MC&D printed at the bottom, that I thought it sealed my future forever. I spent five hours fretting beforehand. I eventually settled on a suit to wear, a black and white chessboard pattern only with actual chess pieces that moved and played games over the fabric. I had specifically requested that it be made with some of the most famous games of history sewn into it. But when I looked down at myself, I could not tell which game was which. Before I could second guess my choice of clothing, I looked at the time and realized that I was running slightly late and left in a hurry, rushing to the portal that the letter told me to go in between a bookshop and a bowling alley. When I arrived, my astonishment at seeing the place was a feeling I would never forget. It was ridiculously surreal, like MC Escher painted an art museum, and the museum was filled with Escher's paintings, with the paintings themselves being alive. The chandeliers were made from glowing crystals, almost looking more like disco balls than chandeliers. The crowd there was as impressive as the art, with all sorts of people from all sorts of dimensions dressed in the finest suits, capes, and cloaks that money could buy. I approached the host, a tall, imposing figure with grey robes, a metal mask, and a mane of white hair. I felt very intimidating. Yes, yes, I've been waiting your arrival, Natura, he was saying to a woman before him, a human with a green dress that I quickly noticed was actually made out of leaves and dark green hair to match, flowing down past her shoulders with flowers in her hair and clothes. Your work is waiting for you in the west wing. The woman who I assumed was called Natura eagerly nodded and looked over to her right. She started walking so quickly she almost bumped into me. Whoa. She said, suddenly stopping herself. Sorry about that. No, no, it's alright, it's alright, I said awkwardly. Just gonna go to the host, find where they put my work. I'll casually flex that. Why not? I thought to myself. Oh, are you in an artist as well? She asked. Yeah. I grinned. Artifacts. I held out my hand. Natura. She shook it. Anyway, I better go. Good luck. She started to leave. And don't forget, look how lucky we are. We made it. With one last smile, she ran off, Happy for her and worried for myself, I approached the host. Hello, I introduced myself. My name's Artifex. I'm one of the anartists here. Oh yes, he said in what almost sounded like a metallic voice echoing through my ears. Artifex. Your work is in the east wing. It's in the far left corner. Can't miss it if you look for it. As disappointed as I was that I would not be with nature of the exhibition, I I was more worried about what he meant by if you look for it. Ah, thank you. I awkwardly nodded, then hurried off. As it turned out, I had every reason to worry. When I got to my display and looked around, my work was put in a small corner of the museum, getting very little attention from the people, except for those who had grown tired of hobnobbing with the rich and powerful and needed a place to relax for 15 minutes before heading back into the fray. My, my, isn't this quaint. One particular galley goer. Gallery goer. Pardon me? It's the first stut I've had all day. I'm doing better now. My, my, isn't this quaint? One particular gallery goer had said. A tall, thin man with a soft smile but a hard, imperious gaze. I'll certainly see something like that painting on a commemorative plate one day, mark my words. If by that you mean they'll be widely distributed and beloved by many, then yes, perhaps you're right, I sneered back, but it fell flat as the man merely smirked and walked away. I was in such a bad mood that I was beginning to contemplate packing up my stuff and leaving, when someone came up to me. Excuse me, came a jittery voice from behind me, and I turned to see a bisectacled man in a cheap grey suit holding a clipboard. Oh, hello there. I rolled my eyes. Come to catalogue my stuff, have you? See if it fits your price range as a Christmas gift. But what? He tilted his head in confusion. No, no, don't be silly. I represent the host of the exhibition this evening, Marshall Carter and Dark. You re. You represent. My head quickly swelled with optimism. Oh, well, good heavens. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I reached out and shook his hand even though it was not offer. I have your name. Oh, that's not important, sir. The man looks down at his clipboard. Oh, I was not in the mood for cryptic stuff. Can I call you Bob, then? I joked. If you like. He shrugged. Your artifacts. Yes, yes, indeed. I grinned. The foremost up and coming artists of the Are we cool yet? Movement. Are we cool yet? Sorry, that tickled me. As you say, sir. He did not look at Frigg from his clipboard. Have you been enjoying the exhibition? Oh, it's been wonderful, I lied. Glad to hear it, bob replied flatly. Now, about your work. Artifacts. Ah, yes. I grinned again. Have your employers taken an interest? Well, it's just that Bob looked up with an apologetic smile. That's not a good sign. I thought to myself, worried. Surely this isn't your best work, sir? What do you mean by that? I flared up. Take a look at this one, for instance. I pointed him towards my painting on the wall, picturing a beautiful woman who I now notice bore an eerie resemblance to Natura sitting in the middle of a meadow at night. If you gaze at this painting for far too long, soon enough you will fall irreversibly in love with her. No way to reverse the process as far as my experiments have concluded, you're telling me that counts for nothing? Oh, artifacts. Bob shook his head. You and I both know that people in like the foundation and the Coalition could easily cure an affliction like that. Besides, is not exactly hard hitting, is it? A painting that makes one fall in love. Well, I began. I mean, no, it's quite tame. It's quite modest, I corrected myself. But what about this? I gestured to a vase sitting on the table. Is it vase or vase? I can never. I can never tell. Not even my normal accent. I can never tell if it's meant to be pronounced vase or viz. It looks like vase, but V sounds better to me. I don't know. I don't know. But what about this? I gestured to a vase sitting on the table. One ordained with beautiful carvings around it and a bunch of dead flowers contained within. This vase will kill anything that you put in it. These flowers dead? Put your hand in it, it dies. I even put a mouse in there and guess what died. Precisely. I raised my arms. Okay. A vase that kills things. Bob looked at his clipboard. Frankly, it's even simpler than the last one. You know this expos this exhibition is for an art, right? You might do well to get out of the reach of the anomalous. And no, suddenly, no, I. I mean, what about this? In desperation, I pointed to a small sculpture next to the vase of an ancient Greek archer striking a pose, ready to loose an arrow. Bob looked down at it. Oh, yes, that. What about it? Well, it. I began nervously, the eyes follow you wherever you go. Could it shoot you? Are you willing to test that? My voice faltered. Oh, what effects? Bob shook his head. I'm afraid it just isn't up to the standards of my employers. You know you were only invited here because of the connections your father has. But now I'm starting to doubt if string can be pulled for you anymore. He started to walk away. Disappointing. Disappointing. Wait, don't go. I called after him. But he kept walking. I've got more. It was too late. He had disappeared into the crowd. As I lost sight of him, I sighed to myself, resigning myself to disappointment. Father's going to be so disappointed. When I started walking back to my display, I heard a familiar voice behind me. How did you fare? I turned around. It was Nichira. Oh, fine. I guess I lied. You guess? She raised an eyebrow at me. This was fantastic. All night everyone was coming up to me, asking about my work. Some guy almost got I assume he wasn't expecting the Flight Trap painting to be so lifelike. It was incredible. Yeah, well, this was a good start, I guess. I shrugged nervously. I've got to head off. I think I'll pack my stuff up and go. I glanced back and forth from my display to her. Nice meeting you, I concluded and walked off. Yeah, real smooth, I reflected sarcastically. Nice meeting you too. She called out after me as I began to pack up my work, taking the painting off the wall. The buzz of the exhibition seemed to die down and all I could hear were my own thoughts. Just not good enough. Artifacts. I'll do better next time I have to well, that was an interesting, very dramatic bit of prose. I did try to exercise my old acting muscles things, you know. I don't know if you know this about me, but I did have a little bit of experience in the horse. Shakespeare bit me, or at least one of my wives did. But you know, the taste of it has always been very much with myself and my husband and my young editor, and it was nice kind of getting to embody a I wouldn't call them failed artists. Artifactism has failed by any means. As far as I'm concerned. There is no such thing as a failed artist. If you make art, if you put the effort into making a painting or a drawing or a song, or just something that makes you happy, just putting it out there into the world of the physical, the digital, you are an artist. You have made art. You have made something of intrinsic worth. It is easy, I think, for a lot of us, particularly in the digital age, to view the work we make as content. View it in terms of how many views it gets, or how many people leave positive comments, or how many people leave negative criticisms. And it isn't about that. And it shouldn't be about that. You shouldn't focus on what this art garners you in terms of military gain, or try to use another word, of the class. But it's the first thing that comes to mind. It's an appropriate word, I suppose. You should make art for art's sake. You should make things that make you happy because they make you happy. That in itself has value. That in itself has worth. That in itself is a perfectly fine reason to make anything. I think of the various stories I've heard, both in here and online, even before I entered delivery. I think of people who don't get paid to make the to write the books, or to record the audios, or to film the dramas they do. They put it out there for the joy of it. There are people who paint masterpieces, not to Sell them. But simply to showcase that they've made something cool. They made something that made them happy. I suppose in that regard what I do here is almost its own form of art. I take a piece of either fiction or non fiction. Although I suppose it's just cynical. You can consider all of this in some way fictional. Then I take the prose and fronts free. I give it my old theatrical flare through my narration. And I present it in a slightly different format for those listening. And through my they can see K walking with his follower across the dead world. They can see artifacts as well. God, you can even see me. I wonder if you actually know what I look like. I mean, I've made no real secret about the fact that I'm not exactly human. I can be human shaped. But I have to wonder what kind of person you're picturing when you listen to some of these. Do you picture an old man? Do you picture a man at all? Do you picture a giant spider in a bowl? Or do you picture something more cartoonish or more horrific? I wonder what some of you imagine Theo would be. I wonder if any of your imagination Theo able to lift the camera to just help you to format the action. Yes, I will wear it technically hurt you because it's light. But it wouldn't if you tape it. I was just rambling. Stop. Stop smirking. Stop it. No, don't. No, don't do the eyes. Okay, maybe I was simping a little bit. But I have reason to. All right. But I wish they could see you. You're like the stars themselves. Bella, you're a sight to a hobbit. Beautiful star. What? Does that ring a bell? Sorry. Rambling, rambling, rambling. Thank you so much for listening to my audio rendition of the exhibition by the author Skipmeister. Come back next time for our reading of the 12th of a tier. Once again I have been Professor Artyom Harkin. And this has been into the Wanderers library. Thank you for listening. Have a very good night. Take care. Don't look at me with that tone of voice, you smug little shit.