A Humane Error

By Krittikasree Karthikeyan

The year is 2190—the world’s greatest art competition, the Crysta, would soon be held in the city of Beijing, the 22nd century’s epicentre of AI-based technology. The Chinese cybernetic city buzzed with anticipation as it prepared for the upcoming winter’s grand events—one of which would undoubtedly be the upcoming Crysta. In 2150, human society had reached Technological Singularity—a term coined in the past to describe a future in which AI would surpass human intelligence. The concept had been deemed practically unobtainable and far beyond possibility in the century prior. And yet, a little more than a mere 100 years since AI had been found, the year was 2190, the month November—and in a few hours, modern art’s most reputed and critically acclaimed competition would be judged by humankind’s most powerful technological contribution, neural networking’s golden offspring, an absolute pinnacle of cognitive computing: the NeuraCore. 

The NeuraCore relied not on the “irrational, imprudent biases” of humans—in fact, it rather uncompromisingly refused the ways of its creators. After its creation and prompt integration into the physical realm, NeuraCore had caused vast amounts of chaos. But, humanity had already known—no, had always known that the day would come. The day when flesh surrendered to circuitry. They’d known it when bionic limbs became more fashionable than human ones. They’d known it when CRISPR babies turned designer genetics into commerce. They’d faced it when people began injecting nanobots into their bloodstream. And they’d stared at it when neural implants took the product market by storm. Piece by piece, humanity had been slowly trading its organic self for precision, for power, for permanence, for perfection, and for beauty, only to slowly realise what they’d lose in the process—a part of their autonomy. And so, by the time NeuraCore had been introduced, the transformation had nearly been complete: humans were now cyber-organic, and the very thing they’d controlled could now easily overpower them, thanks to NeuraCore. The NeuraCore soon extended its reach: controlling traffic systems, governing research programs, and even taking over children's education. It slowly replaced political structures that had lasted for centuries: democracy, republic, autocracy—until governance itself became algorithmic. And so, the now cyber-organic human species could do nothing but allow technology to take its course—after all, rebellion meant self-destruction, for their cybernetic bodies were now completely bound to the NeuraCore’s will.

And so once again, the year was 2190. The month, November—the second Thursday of the month. Across the world, Crysta participants gathered anxiously before their individual crystalline hologram livestream devices that’d flicker through every tech-infused household. The broadcast streamed from Beijing’s Major Hall—a vast, luminescent arena now used for all events that would be overseen by the NeuraCore—including Crysta. It must be known though—the Crysta, was in fact one of the very few events where humanity could exhibit their creativity—or in all candour, their rather suppressed creativity. At one point around Technological Singularity, humans had lost a large chunk of what it meant to be organic, trading their humanity for the humanity presented to them by massive biotechnology and nanotechnology companies that had previously reigned large control over society. Nonetheless, the past remains the past as the holograms begin to briefly ripple. They first seamlessly rearrange themselves into a neon red ‘NC’, the insignia of NeuraCore, before eventually displaying the competition’s first (cyber human) piece of artwork. The Crysta had officially begun. 

Piece after piece follows. One after the other, they show up in the holograms—algorithmically flawless portraits, sculptures so mathematically perfect, they appear lifeless, astoundingly refined brushstrokes upon even more blurred canvases. Emotion and expression were an unimportant variable in this AI supervised world and originality was no more than an error in the system. Society had become largely techno-organic, with larger influences of “techno” than “organic” whatsoever. It was quite simple—whatever the newly machine conscious society deemed to be the perfect artpiece, would get the highest score by NeuraCore. And the NeuraCore assessed each art piece with cold and calculated precision. Rigid standards and criteria were to be met: the symmetry, color harmony, and composition of each piece was evaluated, before the artwork would be assigned a score from zero to one hundred. Emotional stimulation, an aspect usually looked at in competitions as such in the prior century, was dismissed entirely by NeuraCore, as it deemed an artwork’s emotional readability as largely insignificant in a mostly mechanized society. Any original pieces of art were regarded as anomalies—again, as deviating from novel patterns and algorithmic thinking was unacceptable in a tech-driven world. And so it went on. The winning artwork was considered to be the piece with the highest score, each artwork’s score presented on the hologram after a thorough assessment by NeuraCore. What followed for the individual after their artwork had been displayed and assessed would either be disappointment or hope—hope that their score had been so high, the other contestants couldn’t dream of reaching it. 

And like so, the NeuraCore continued evaluating the artworks, only spending around a few seconds examining each one. In no time, the 1021st art installation appeared in the hologram—it was an abstract painting of the night sky with a suspicious resemblance to Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The NeuraCore took a moment. The hologram turned bright red and shaped into the number ‘79’—the highest score awarded since the competition had begun. The next artwork had been a painting of a ghostly woman standing in a lake. As unique as it appeared, the composition was too jarring for NeuraCore—and hence, the hologram went red again, this time shaping itself into the number ‘10’. It was a score akin to the “worst” paintings. The cycle then repeated itself, the AI powered system becoming seemingly more and more cruel as the competition proceeded and as it encountered more and more artworks…

And then it appeared: the 1300th art installation. It was crude—the farthest thing from a masterpiece. A simple drawing it was, not even a painting. The lines that formed the drawing were shaky and uneven, the colors spilling over the lines unashamedly unbothered by the boundaries surrounding them. It was a child’s sketch—no, not just any child’s sketch: a true and pure human child’s sketch. All of those watching the competition had been able to recognize that much; and yet for the first time in years since the Crysta had first appeared, the NeuraCore…stuttered. It was awfully startling. The holograms turned red, before fading into the drawing again. A few quick seconds then passed before the holograms flared red, before collapsing once more into the drawing, failing again at scoring the piece. The Crysta participants watched in awe—in sheer awe at their glitching livestreams. As perturbed as they were, the drawing they saw held a sense of…familiarity—a feeling of warmth washing over all their cyber-organic hearts. But the drawing had zero sense of composition, the lines imperfect and smudged, the colors naively mismatched. And yet the NeuraCore persisted, looping endlessly through its algorithms—but no metrics could apply, and no algorithm was recognized. 

The drawing though…it stirred up emotions long thought to be lost by humanity. Participants and artists watched in confusion, in confusion of NeuraCore’s inability to judge the drawing, and in confusion of their own reactions to what was supposed to be a “piece of garbage” in front of them. But the drawing was so deeply human, so sincerely simple. It struck a deep chord within what seemed to be left of their mechanized hearts.

And so, they watched. Watched as NeuraCore struggled to analyse the drawing. Watched as it eventually disqualified the artwork for violating competition regulations. Watched as their hearts slowly yearned to observe the drawing again, even if for just a millisecond. Watched as the monotonous and rigid pieces of art that came afterwards get scored painfully high. They just…watched. 

And the next day, the drawing would be deleted from the Crysta records. A search would be conducted to find the individual that had submitted the artwork. News channels would rush to cover the incident. The piece truly had an impact; NeuraCore-controlled news outlets bashed the artwork, calling it a critical breach of artistic guidelines. But to many, the image of the drawing had awakened something, a yearning for a vanished age, an organic simplicity and beauty that could rarely be found now. In fact, barely even found now. 

But oh, it was never mentioned, was it—what was in the drawing? Well here’s what it had: a crooked brick house, beneath a sun with a face on it—and in front of the house, two stick figures joyfully, blissfully holding their hands.

So…pure isn’t it? So utterly pure.

By Krittikasree Karthikeyan