Axes - Chapter 2 - An Artist and a Bureaucrat

The massive, grey building stood perched on the edge of a canal in the North-Center of the city. Across the canal rose multi-colored apartment buildings next to drab, 19th Century factory complexes of red brick, their smokestacks scraping the steel sky.

It was an old building, built to be modern in its time, efficient and sleek. But the era of cheap contracting didn’t account much for the passing of time. It had since become pocked with missing paint. Dirty, foggy windows and the exposed portions of raw concrete gave off a droopy, depressed aura.

Mariana looked at the sign outside the front door, hoping for easy instructions to the office where her “Human Relations Consultant” waited for her: Etage 4, Zimmer B19. She never much liked these bureaucratic appointments—nobody did of course—and there were so many of them.

She gave up on the sign and walked through the double glass doors and into the ground floor of the building. A computer screen flashed “Informations” on a console to her right. She approached it and punched in her room number. A map of the building appeared, providing a green line to guide her through the inner maze of hallways. She quickly memorized it and opted to take the nearby staircase to the fourth floor.

The hallways were dimly lit. Her footfalls echoed with a faint reverb. The occasional citizen crossed her path as she navigated the seemingly endless, door-lined corridors. They ambled past her without making eye contact, but she studied each of their faces. They all had the same look—powerless obligation, listlessness. Ahead of her, a man flitted across an intersection in the hallway. Still, the entire building seemed lifeless, colorless and mechanical. She came to Zimmer 19 and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a muffled voice called.

She touched the door handle. It swung open effortlessly. The clean, ultra-modern room contrasted sharply with the dilapidated hallway. The walls were unfettered white and completely bare. No shelves, no cabinets. At an angle to the far corner stood a sleek desk of glass and stainless steel. One simple office chair behind it, nestled into the corner, and two black chairs in front. A keyboard was projected into the glass and the only thing on the desk was a thin monitor. A marble-sized miniature drone zipped to within inches of her face and took a photo with a slight clicking sound; it’s opaque wings flitting so fast that they made only a faint outline against the bright white walls. It zipped away again, landing deftly on the back wall next to the large window. She could see a corner of the grassy courtyard below, but the majority of the view was dominated by the outside wall of the building’s opposite wing and its dozens of windows, no doubt housing bureaucrats similar to the one who was rising to greet her.

“Frau Kenney, welcome,” she said warmly, a pedagogic smile on her face. Her streaked, dark blonde hair was pulled in a tight bun in the back of her head. She wore no makeup, but her face was smooth and unblemished with only the faintest crows feet radiating for the outer corners of her green eyes. She was pretty, yet plain. A prowling man would notice her briefly, imagine her for an instant in a compromising position, and then forget he had ever seen her.

“Hi,” Mariana said with a half smile, a bit unsure of the protocol.

“I am Frau Wittmann, your HRC. I see that this is your first ever visit to the Human Relations Department. Congratulations on your recent birthday.”

“Thanks,” she replied. She couldn’t help but flash one of her broad smiles. Her dark brown eyes shrunk and twinkled and her mouth seemed to overtake her entire face. Frau Wittmann was immediately taken off guard by the smile. Emotions in general were rare here.

“Yes,” Frau Witmann quickly composed herself and re-asserted her bureaucratic posture, taking her place behind the desk and gesturing to the chairs on the other side. “Please sit down.”

“So let me tell you why we asked you to come,” Frau Wittmann said curtly. “As you likely know, it’s standard to invite citizens in after their 20th birthday to talk about their plans and aspirations for the future.”

“Alright.”

“Pursuant to Section III of the Stadt Berlin Volksvertrag of 2048, you are required to register an occupation with us and file quarterly income and progress reports beginning on your 21st birthday and up until your 31st birthday.

Over the course of the next year, you and I will meet once every three months to discuss your efforts and explore the many options available to you through the Berlin Human Relations Office.

Do you have any questions so far?“

Mariana had been nodding along, listening with a focus Frau Wittmann was unaccustomed to experiencing during her short tenure as a Human Relations Consultant. It had taken less than a year for her to realize that she was somewhat of an ornament, something to make society seem slightly less stark and lifeless. She had wanted a softer, livelier society. She still did, desperately. But she could do little more than file reports that would only be scanned by bots in passing looking for dangerous or alarming keywords and phrases—though she could only speculate as to what those words and phrases might be. No human would read them. They would cause no effect. They would be neatly stored away in binary in a server room 136 kilometers south of München to wait for nothing, possibly forever.

Mariana stood, seemingly satisfied that Frau Wittmann’s well-rehearsed speech had run its course. Frau Wittmann’s mild bemusement with the girl turned into genuine surprise. Never had she seen a citizen do anything but sit in the chair, pretend to listen and ask what she could do for them. The girl walked deliberately to the side of Frau Wittmann’s desk and knelt down, looked upwards through the glass surface, and then followed the smooth, graceful lines of the desk’s stainless steel support structure with her eyes.

“Does everyone here have a desk like this?” Mariana asked finally.

Frau Wittmann looked at her in shock. “No!” she yelped. Mariana stopped her impromptu observation and looked innocently through the desk and up at Frau Wittmann. “Uh… no,” she said again, softening her voice. “I had this brought in. Most people have a simple wooden table, though Herr Bayer has this ridiculously ornate, hand-carved monstrosity…” Frau Wittmann rolled her eyes and smiled before stopping mid-sentence as she looked at the face looking up at her from below, suddenly realizing how strange this situation was and how easily she had shed her façade.

“So you can decorate your own office?” Mariana asked as she stood up.

“Yes,” Frau Wittmann answer, “within certain limits I suppose.”

“It’s really quite beautiful,” Mariana mused.

“Frau Kenney,” Frau Wittmann said, “I meant do you have any questions about why you are here or regarding the Volksvertrag.”

“Yes,” Mariana said. She had now made her way to the window behind Frau Wittmann and was squinting at the drone perched on the wall, now motionless. Frau Wittmann seemed unwilling to spin her chair to look at Mariana and was awkwardly craning her neck to see what she was doing. “But please just call me Mariana.”

“Ok, but would you mind please having a seat Mariana. I’d like to resume our meeting.”

“Oh, ok!” Mariana said. “Sorry about that. I just find this office so interesting.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s so clean and white and minimal, but very peaceful somehow. It seems so different from the other government offices I’ve been to.” She laughed. “The last fellow I chatted with when I had to register my move to Charlottenburg was rather large—and I could see why! His office was covered in candy wrappers and empty bags of chips. It was so cramped and dark in there, but this…”

“Well, thank you.” Frau Wittmann tried, and failed, to sound dismissive. She was quite proud of her office decorations—or lack thereof. “But what questions do you have about the Volksvertrag?”

“Yes, I wonder if I absolutely must file the progress and income reports.”

“Well, of cour…”

“See, I don’t think I will have any income anyway…”

“Oh, that’s quite alright. Most people…”

“…and I’m quite sure of what I will be doing with myself, at least for the next few years. Not to mention, I don’t really want or need anything from the Human Relations Office.“

This floored Frau Wittmann. Everyone wanted something from the Human Relations Office. Everyone wanted money. And most people seemed satisfied with the little tasks given them—attend one hour of schooling per week or study upcoming referenda for three hours per month—and very willing to suggest how the Human Relations Office might improve their lives.

“But Frau Kenney, uh, Mariana,” Frau Wittmann interjected. “You say you won’t be reporting any income and you don’t want anything from the Human Relations Office. I don’t understand. And what is it you’ll be doing for the next few years?“

“I’ll just be making my experiences,” Mariana replied cheerfully, “well, I’m working on one now that I sort of think of as the opposite of experience actually. I’ve tested it on a few friends. They seem so much better afterwards.”

“But you are entitled to entertainment and culture. Don’t you want to occasionally eat something besides the basic nutrients?”

“Oh, my housemates and I just share everything. And the café below us always gives us their day-olds. And there’s my brother, of course…” Mariana trailed off. She thought it best not to go into any detail about her brother. “You seem very nice, though. I’d be happy to come talk to you if you’d like.”

This came as a small relief to Frau Wittmann, even though it had become clear that this interview had gone off the rails, but she knew that if the girl came in, she could simply file the reports on her behalf. Still, she was intrigued. “That would be preferable. I would be interested in what you’re up to. What do you mean by making experiences, by the way?”

“Oh, I make VR programs—you know, virtual reality.”

“But people who know how to do that can make quite a bit of money, Mariana. If that’s the case, you’ll have to submit your income reports.”

“I don’t make any money,” Mariana said quickly, as if her principles had been duly trampled. “Those who do tend to focus mainly on sex, violence and other excesses in their work. I’m more concerned with things like purpose—or purposelessness perhaps—and meaning.”

“Purpose?”

“Yes! I wrote an experience a last year, for example, where you can start a business, like in the old days. You’ve got to write a business plan, get a bank loan, find a location, deal with suppliers and buyers and customers and hire people. Everything! It’s possibly my most detailed piece so far and it took me eight months to finish. I uploaded it to Steam VR for free. I’ve had 340,000 participants so far.”

“For free?” Frau Wittmann asked.

“Yes, of course. I don’t think anyone would buy it. I don’t want them to anyway.”

“But 340,000 participants is quite good I would say. Perhaps you should consider at least a small fee?”

“Yes, maybe. That’s what my brother says as well. But anyway, I’m working on a new one now. It’s quite something I hope. Very simple and elegant, much like your office. I should be done in a few days.”

“I see. But what does starting a business have to do with purpose or meaning? It sounds like a lot of work.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what it is. At least half of the people I know, I don’t really know them. They spend all the time they don’t eat or sleep in a VR unit.”

“That’s true,” Frau Wittmann answered gravely. “Though it’s likely more than half. But you find that problematic? You make programs for VR units.”

“Yes, but that’s the point. What are they doing there? They are eating a feast on a terrace in old Venice, or injecting heroin into their digital veins, or fucking the girl they passed on the way in to the VR suite, who is probably fucking them 3 units over. Then they are done with it and they go and do the same thing tomorrow. Maybe the feast is in Beijing this time, or they’d prefer ecstasy over heroin, or they want to fuck Angela Merkel, I don’t know.

I was reading about the early 21stCentury, and there was so much enthusiasm for entrepreneurship. There was so much energy swirling around and everyone seemed to be a CEO or the co-founder of a startup or something. I thought I would do a period piece, I guess, in response to what I see… out there.” She gestured toward the window.

“People get caught in a loop where there’s no creativity left because you don’t need it anymore. The Human Relations Office provides them with food, clothing, an apartment and a train card. The VR units give them all of their wildest fantasies. There’s no challenge, so, no creativity.

I’m not going to change that,“ Mariana smiled as she said this. “But it’s beautiful fodder for art. And that’s what I do: art. It’s how I come to reconcile myself with the truth of the human condition.“

Frau Wittmann was silent, hoping Mariana was simply pausing to gather her thoughts. The girl’s words resonated with her. She had never thought of it like that, but Frau Wittmann had originally aspired to be an HRC because she didn’t want to spend her life in a VR suite and didn’t like that so many did. And as she thought about it, the people she most enjoyed having in her office were the ones that actually wanted something in life, as rare as that was. But she’d never thought of it in terms of creativity really. She only saw the VR-saturated masses as sick or dysfunctional, in need of guidance at least, or salvation at most.

After a moment, Frau Wittmann: “So you’re sure you want nothing from the Human Relations Office?“

“No.”

“Hmm.” Frau Wittmann was unsure how to proceed. “Well, you are still a citizen, and it’s best that you stand up and be counted. I would like that you spend two hours per month staying abreast of the referenda being offered, provide one referendum submission per month and reach at least a 20 percent voting rate per month. Then, of course I’d like us to meet again in three months time. Does that work for you?”

“That’s fine, I suppose,” Mariana said. “Is there anything else?”

Frau Wittmann didn’t say anything. She lost herself studying the girl’s face. She wasn’t beautiful in a traditional sense, yet she radiated a certain allure. It was perhaps her oversized mouth and eyes—they consumed her roundish face, the outline of which was complimented by the long, dark brown hair that collected in curls at the ends. Something about this girl needed saving, but she wasn’t sure what exactly.

Mariana matched her gaze for a time, but looked away after a moment, slightly uncomfortable. Frau Wittmann noticed and cleared her throat.

“Why do you do it? The experiences, that is. And why do you want no compensation?”

Mariana raised an eyebrow. “Is that a normal sort of question for a 20th birthday Human Relations Office appointment?”

“No. I… I’m just interested,” Frau Wittmann felt guilty for breaking procedure. But she didn’t rescind the questions.

“Oh. Well, I do it because it makes me feel good. I love the moment of inspiration. It comes, an idea that is, when I read something or during a conversation with someone. It sticks in my mind and I start to dig its way into my… soul. It itches and the only way to get rid of it is to make something that wasn’t there before. Experiences are the most honest and… full medium of expression, so I choose to work in them.” Frau Wittmann looked intently. Mariana gathered confidence and reached into her bag for a leather-bound notebook. She opened it to reveal page after page of charts, symbols and paragraphs of notes in unreadable chicken scratch, obviously scrawled in a hurry.

“This is the one I’m currently working on,” Mariana said, setting it down on Frau Wittmann’s desk. She picked it up and flipped through the pages for a moment before setting it down again.

“I like the feeling of losing myself in creation. I finish a section or something and I look up and 11 hours have gone by. It’s just peaceful. That feeling was actually the inspiration for my current project.” Mariana looked at the notebook on Frau Wittmann’s desk as she said this. “And when I finish something, I can’t wait to start something new.”

“Fascinating,” Frau Wittmann said, almost under her breath. “But why not make money? You’re creating these experiences anyway, and it sounds like at least some people would buy them.”

“Creativity is dormant when everything is easy, when you have… things. If I have money, I might end up sitting at cafes all day, or on the Internet looking for something new to buy. I don’t know. There needs to be… difficulty… if there is to be creativity.”

“So you want to struggle?”

“No, not really. Well, yes actually, I suppose so. I don’t want bad things to happen or anything, but I… I mean, look at our city as an example. A hundred years ago, the wall came down and everyone left their drab flats in the East and moved over to the West where there were jobs and pretty old-style flats with balconies and big windows. They left all their flats in the East empty, falling apart. And then creative people with no money who didn’t fit in anywhere came from all over the world to move into these empty flats for free or really cheap. For twenty years after that, Berlin was the world capital of true art, of true freedom, because the people who moved here didn’t want anything except creative license. They didn’t come here to make money. There wasn’t any to make. I wish I would’ve seen that Berlin.”

Frau Wittmann said, looking past Mariana, “Me too.” She suddenly felt the passage of time and remembered her role in this interaction—and resented it. “Ok, well…”

Mariana smiled, understanding. “Is there anything else Frau Wittmann?”

“Yes, there is. I’d like to give you my personal contact information.” Frau Wittmann began to type on the keyboard embedded in her desk. “I would hope that you keep me updated on the progress of your experiences, your art—not for the Human Relations Office—just for me. I’d love to experience it for myself.” Frau Wittmann smiled and pressed the Enter key. The sound of Mariana’s mobile buzzing from the bag at her feet confirmed the transmission.

“Oh, ok,” Mariana said, a bit surprised. “No problem.” She grabbed the strap of her bag and quickly stood up and turned toward the door in one swift motion, but stopped on her way out and said, “I really like your office” before opening the door and walking through.

She left the massive complex and stepped out into the rain. The grey sky had opened up since her meeting began. In the distance, a cathedral stood imposing, roof still missing from the violence of the 20thCentury. The darkness of an early Northern European winter evening was thick and inky despite punctuated points of light given off by streetlamps and passing automobiles. Their tires exuded a dull collective roar as they met with the puddles in the street, but the water in the air and the low-hanging clouds dulled the white noise of the city. A green laser originating from somewhere in the city center cut the sky above the curvature created by the rooflines of the five-story buildings that lined Kantstrasse, a part of some citywide art installation.

A maelstrom of people swirled around her, rushing to find protection from the rain. She watched them. The tall man ducks under a corridor of scaffolding as the young man steps off the curb, dog dutifully in tow, and flicks his cigarette into the gutter. Simultaneously, two scantily-clad girls giggle, sharing a joke and an umbrella.

She saw and felt them: the latent and nagging sadness behind the tall man’s eyes was her sadness; the purposeful walk of the man with the dog mixed with her purpose; the glee and abandon of the two young girls under the umbrella was her glee. The buzzing energy of the city, it’s humming human generators of creativity, resonated in her chest, rattling her ribcage and embracing her heart—at least that how she felt it.

She stood in the rain, let it soak through her clothing. It collected in clumped strands of her thick, curly brown hair and ran down her face. She walked, dodging oncoming citizens and bits of wet trash, past storefronts and kebab restaurants.

Ducking into a doorframe, she thought she would wait out the storm. She pulled a cigarette from the brown canvas bag slung over her shoulder and lit it. A moment of thought:

What a strange interaction!

In a break from the traffic, she heard the rain as it splattered against the concrete and pavement a million times over, and the voices of men from across the street rose out of the darkness. They sat in a huddle around a table under an awning; the light from the café window behind them illuminated the smoke rising from their cigarettes. They spoke quickly in a language she doesn’t understand. She was struck by their animated hand gestures.

The cigarette was soaked by a renegade raindrop. She threw it into the street, half smoked, and continued toward her building. She walked languidly and deliberately, accentuating her lithe and slender form despite her being relatively short of stature. She disappeared down a side street and was swallowed by the darkness.