Artistic Journey

A copy of the deal was right there, on the passenger seat. Paulo was driving it home like a precious date. Almost forty pages long, signed by all sides, on thick A4 paper. Even a quick glance on it made him tremble with excitement. 1184 days of struggles were coming to an end. 

He left IT-sector back home, took all his savings, made papers for his cat and flew to LA. All in one decisive year after the pandemic. Nobody encouraged him. Paulo always loved pretending. Since early years, when he tricked his grandmother into believing he had a seizure. Hers was not acting. And while attending long online conference calls, looking directly at a camera – he finally realized: Python brought no excitement, unlike reading out loud exerts from Fernando Pessoa’s poems.

Of course, his initial calculations were wrong. He quickly ran out of money and understood that while surrounded by same struggling actors, he had very little chance to succeed. Nonetheless, Paulo did his best to get spontaneous gigs. Networking, signing with a talent agency, taking acting classes, appearing in amateur plays – he’s done it all. Even wrote his own script about fighting an alien invasion, one that would highlight his range. But it was never enough. Some casting managers said he was neither black nor white, he didn’t represent any oppressed group, even though he considered himself pretty much oppressed by given circumstances and lack of opportunities. But his agent, Cindy, when heard his concerns, advised to never bring them up at any level. According to Hollywood Paulo was not just alright, but even prospering from his white cisgender male privilege.

He never looked back, at his small village in Portugal, at his Lisbon-based startup, at his empty house. Except for a furry asshole Rico, there was no one else left. Paulo even added “asexual” to his profile, as he didn’t have sex since stepping ashore. He never thought much about the opposite sex anyway, as during the day he was busy waiting tables and at night read Black List scripts and learned new plays. He’d been prepping himself, always smiling and positive. Depression was not an option, unless it was for a role.

And then a miracle happened. Cindy could barely hide how excited she was. An opportunity of a lifetime. A real deal. And out of thousand applicants Paulo was chosen into a pool of a hundred lucky ones. Paulo did great during audition. He in fact knew American sign language, his height was average, his accent was hinting on a foreign descent. Not too European, not too outrageously alien, and what’s more important – not too funny. The script was not ready, so Paulo was asked to read a few paragraphs from neutral contemporary novel, own the material and improvise on the go.

It was a perfect match. Whoever sat on a casting couch really enjoyed Paulo’s performance. Cathartic, persuasive, fresh and courageous – according to everyone present. Cindy even asked permission to hug her inspiring client. The deal was printed out and signed the very same day.

Paulo had a couple of hours to get rest before his shift at a burger joint. A recently acquired job, to help with rising rent. His colleagues and housemates had already left for work: Pavel delivered for Amazon, Juan gardened for a couple of C-list celebrities and Kwame spent hours working at a gym. Paulo spilled good news along with canned food on his cat. An aging animal was taking it unenthusiastically, but Paulo didn’t care, he was about to make it big.

He sat down to finally read the precious deal. On page 7 he stumbled upon a surprising wording. It said that he would appear in an unnamed project that would be AI-written and AI-directed. What’s more, he was legally obliged to shape his appearance according to AI-driven decision. Whatever in meant.

Paulo wanted to call Cindy immediately, but kept reading. In a clause that ran on the 23rd page it said that his workday would consist of 16 hours and his salary would combine a minimum wage plus 12 dollars. By that point Paulo even doubted that the entire thing was real. He could not afford to be in a union and had no legal training, so he kept thought to himself. Merda, he’d known the rules of a capitalist free country, but hoped that it was a standard contract that would still be regulated by common sense and human decency.

The door opened. Two strong men entered, accompanied by Cindy and a middle-aged man. Paulo was trapped in his room. All his senses hinted to a bad outcome, as Cindy kept encouragingly smiling while the man checked his iPad. They both happily informed Paulo that he was the first human actor who signed a Chameleon Deal, new wave in entertainment industry. It meant that the AI, trained on social networks, would decide on a best project, then advise on best appearance for Paulo’s character, based on audience’s planned perception.

Paulo was held by two men. He could only shake his head in disapproval. Cindy kept smiling, but it looked menacing. The man finally raised his head from the iPad. The decision was made – Paulo would be blinded, his skin refurbished, hair pulled out. He did have a say, eventually, on one topic – as the AI didn’t specify which leg should be cut off.

Before fading from immediate sharp pain Paulo tried to reconsider his career choices. As Python interface appeared before his eyes, he cited Pessoa’s poem and firmly held on to unsubmissive Rico. It would only be one role, an impressive one, with huge media presence, as promised by everyone, including AI. Cindy tried to keep the spirit up. Themes emerge in circles, and one day, maybe 5, or 10, or 15 years from now a bald blind albino with one leg would be requested by an entertainment algorithm. It is worth a shot, Paulo thought, passing out.