Not Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of The Gradual Commodification Of Art And Expression Into The Nebulous Idea Of Content

On a trip to the local museum, Josey finds herself faced with an unexpected predicament. Despite paying for her ticket, most of the art has been hidden away and reserved for those using a subscription service called Content Cube. Frustrated, Josey subscribes, but this leads to a whole other series of disappointments, from excessive commercials to disastrous corporate sponsorships.

As Josey looks deeper into the Content Cube universe, she begins to unravel a horrifying realization about the nature of creativity itself in this modern world, culminating with an encounter between Josey and the physical manifestation of the gradual commodification of art and expression into the nebulous idea of content.

This encounter does not go well, but it leaves Josey a little more confident of her place in a world that’s endlessly hungry for “content.”

This important tale is 4,300 words of sexless searching for meaningful expression in a world that’s constantly devaluing the importance of art.

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NOT POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF THE GRADUAL COMMODIFICATION OF ART AND EXPRESSION INTO THE NEBULOUS IDEA OF CONTENT

By Chuck Tingle

It’s been a while since I’ve been this excited for an evening on the town. Maybe it’s because work has been so nuts lately, leaving me little time for much else, or maybe it’s just the fact that I rarely get to spend time with my friend Bruce these days Regardless, tonight’s going to be a great night.

I’m standing on the corner with my eyes peeled, scanning the various pedestrians as they mill about on this cool downtown evening. It’s not as crowded as you might expect on a Friday night, but I suppose that says more about this location than anything else. I’m waiting out front at the Billings Art Museum, which isn’t exactly the first place I’d think to draw big crowds on a Friday night.

Of course, not everyone would rather be at the bar, slamming down chocolate milks. I’m here, after all.

“Hey Josey!” comes a familiar voice, drawing my attention to the left.

I glance over to see Bruce strolling towards me, a huge smile on his face and his arms open wide.

We hug. “It’s so good to see you! You’ve never been to this museum, right?”

Bruce shakes his head as we release. “Never been! I’m not much of a fine arts guy, to tell you the truth, but I’m excited.”

“Me too,” I reply. “It’s been a few months since I was last here, so I think there’s a few galleries I haven’t seen yet.”

The two of us turn and begin our stroll towards this huge, angular building, a masterpiece of modern architecture. A long cement walkway lines stretches out before us.

“Actually, one of my favorite pieces isn’t even inside,” I explain, already getting pumped up to show my friend all the wonders of this magical place. “There’s a little stature garden just outside the front entrance that is amazing.”

I take the lead, charting a path slightly to the left of the main doors. The closer we get, however, the more confused I become. At first I think I must’ve taken a wrong turn, or that maybe our current location isn’t matching my own memories. Maybe this is actually the back entrance.

The two of us finally come to a stop in a small, empty square, discovering nothing more than flat cement.

“What the hell?” I murmur to myself. “That’s so weird, there used to be a bunch of sculptures here.”

“You sure we’re in the right place?” Bruce questions, glancing around curiously.

I can see now that a few lights have been placed in very specific locations around the square, casting up towards where these sculptures used to be. The targets of their beams have disappeared, but the dramatic lighting remains. If anything, it’s just highlights this absence even more.

“Let’s just… head inside,” Bruce suggests, pulling me back to reality. I’ve been standing here a little longer than expected, lost in a state of utter confusion, but I can’t let this slight misstep ruin our entire night.

Like I said, I don’t have much free time lately, and I’d like to enjoy the evening.

The two of us continue to the front entrance, pushing through a revolving door and finding ourselves in the middle of a vast entry chamber. This area sports massively high ceilings and a long front desk where a museum employee sits.

“Hi there!” I state, walking over and pulling out two tickets for the evening.

“Thank you!” the employee says, taking our tickets. She tears off the stubs and hands them back to us. “Enjoy your visit. We have a few new exhibits on the second floor, including a Tingleverse retrospective and a deep dive into the paintings of Portork.”

“Oh, Portork,” I reply, nodding along. “Sounds interesting.”

The employee nods, then gestures to our right.

Bruce and me continue on our way, strolling towards a large archway and then stepping through into the first gallery. I prepare myself for the grand reveal, excited to see what kind of awe inspiring pieces have been curated for us this evening, but the thrill and sense of adventure bubbling within me is swiftly quelled.

Stretching out across this massive chamber is nothing more than broad white walls, and while the sheer vacant nature of this place is something to behold, it’s not at all what I was expecting. There’s nothing here.

I slowly walk out into the middle of the gallery, taking in this vast empty space and struggling to understand what I’m looking at. I begin to rotate slowly, my gaze moving across each one of the four blank walls.

An idea suddenly dawns on me.

“Wait, maybe this is the art piece?” I question aloud. “Sort of a Dadaist thing?”

Bruce stands next to me, equally confused. Unfortunately, my words don’t seem to clarify much. “I have no idea what that means,” he retorts.

“The art itself is that there is no art,” I explain. “Instead of the artwork being a painting surrounded by a frame, we’ve moved outside of the frame. The experience itself is what the piece is. So this feeling of confusion that we currently have is the point.”

“Oh… okay,” Bruce replies, nodding along. “Pretty cool.”
 I laugh. “Sorry, you were probably expecting something a little more traditional,” I offer. “Let’s see what’s in the next gallery.”

The two of us continue onward, pushing deeper into the museum through another small archway at the far end of the room. Soon enough, we’ve found ourselves in yet another vast, empty space, this gallery is just as empty as the first.

I furrow my brow. “This is a lot of space for just one concept,” I state.

We don’t hesitate in this chamber, continuing through our structure’s twisting maze to find room after room of nothing but empty white walls. It takes a good ten minutes of walking before we suddenly discover what we’re looking for, an actual painting that hangs on the broad white wall.

Bruce and me hurry over. This piece is beautiful, a large oil image of boats arriving in a cloudy harbor as sun breaks through the clouds above. It’s an older work, far removed from the modern art I’d usually gravitate towards, but it’s also fantastic.

Bruce and me stand before this painting for a moment, taking it in.

Eventually, I wander over to check out the little white card positioned next to this piece, curious for more information about the artist. What I find, however, only prompts more questions than answers.

The painters name is there, along with a date and a brief description of the work, but the thing that really draws my attention is the small tag on this card’s upper left section.

Part of our free collection, it reads. Scan the code for subscriber-only content.

“What the fuck?” I murmur to myself, the words falling awkwardly from my lips.

“What is it?” my companion asks, strolling up next to me.

“I don’t really know,” I admit. “I think something’s wrong. We already paid for these tickets, so we must be in the wrong art gallery or something.”

Museum hours are limited, as is my free time, and if I don’t act now I’m not sure how many exhibits we’ll actually get to see.

I turn abruptly and Bruce follows, the two of us heading back through the empty galleries. It’s not long before we’ve returned to the front counter, marching up to the woman who first greeted us.

“Uh, hey,” I start. “I’m a little confused about the new galleries. It appears there’s only one painting.”

The woman nods. “It’s beautiful, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” I admit. “We have tickets to see the whole museum, though.”

I show the employee my ticket stub, which she observes briefly and then nods in confirmation. “Yeah, that’s a valid ticket,” she says. “That gets you into the museum itself. Now that you’re here, you’ll get access to our entire standard collection.”

“So where are the other paintings?”

“Those are in our premium collection,” she explains. “Are you a subscriber?”

I shake my head. “Why would I subscribe? I bought a ticket.”

“To the standard collection,” she reminds me. “The premium collection is for subscribers only. Are you a member of Content Cube?”

“No.”

“Would you like to sign up?”

I glance over at Bruce, who appears to be just as appalled as I am. At this point I honestly can’t tell if I’m dealing with a real museum policy or some horrible practical joke.

Unfortunately, as much as I hate this unexpected new system, do I really have time to fight against it? In a larger philosophical sense, this battle would certainly be worth it, but speaking practically I just can’t take on such a daunting task. I want to see some art, is that so much to ask?

“How much is it?” I finally question. “How much to become a subscriber?”

“Well, that depends,” the woman behind the counter informs me. “Are you looking for our Basic Premium Plan, Standard Premium Plan, or Premium Plan Extra?”

“I have no idea,” I admit. “I just want to see the art at this museum.”

“The content here is mostly covered under the Basic Premium Plan,” she replies.

I’m struck by her use of the word content, this moment sticking in my brain while time rumbles onward. No matter how hard I try to focus up and move forward, I can’t seem to shake the incredible strangeness that her word choice creates within me.

Of course, I’ve heard the word contentbefore, but in this specific context, when describing the works at a museum, it sends an unexpected chill down my spine.

“Just… whatever,” I finally blurt. “I’ll take the Basic Premium.”

“That’ll be 29.99 a month, billed on the first,” she explains. “I think you’ve made a great choice, along with our fine art content you’ll also get Content Cube Radio and Content Cube Streaming with this package, although you’ll have to cancel those separately within a week or they’ll automatically upgrade.”

I pull out my credit card and hand it over, struggling to follow what she’s saying.

“Both on here?” the woman asks.

“Both?” I reply, confused.

“You and your friend,” she clarifies. “You both need to pay. No subscription sharing.”

I glance over at Bruce and then shrug. “Fine, sure,” I blurt, just hoping to get this over with.

The woman runs my card and hands it back to me, then ducks behind the counter. I can hear her rummaging around a bit. Moments later, the woman emerges with two dark sunglasses. She gives a set to each of us. “Enjoy!”

Bruce and me put on our glasses with nervous apprehension, steeling ourselves for the dystopian capitalist hellscape that certainly lies ahead. At first, nothing seems all that unusual, but as my gaze drifts back to the gallery entrance I find my focus drawn to the walls within.

“Oh, hey,” I blurt, pointing.

Bruce and me make our way back towards the gallery, stepping through the arch and returning to a room that’s walls were once entirely blank. This chamber is now humming with energy, various glowing pieces hung on every wall. It’s overwhelming at first, more like a collection of sparkling billboards than a peaceful fine art display, but gradually my eyes adjust to all of the color and movement.

I approach the first piece I see, getting a closer look. It seems this art is not actually here in a physical sense, but somehow projected with my glasses in a sort of augmented reality that only I can see. The image itself hovers a few inches off the wall, not actually hung but placed their digitally.

Because of this, there’s a strange transparency to the artwork, a haze that comes from my eyes struggling to connect it in the real world. This technology is admittedly kind of impressive, but certainly not cool enough to keep me interested for more than a single painting, especially if it’s going to hurt my eyes like this. Something about the projection is slightly off kilter, but that’s all it takes to throw my entire perception out of wack.

Still, I paid to see this, so I’m determined to bite my tongue and get the most out of my experience.

I position myself directly in front of this piece, focusing on the depiction before me. The second my eyes begin their analysis, however, this digital painting disappears and a giant video begins to roll.

“Hungry? Fuck yeah!” comes the voice of a beautiful T-Rex in an American Flag bikini. She hold up a cheeseburger and takes a huge bite as the words Big Ass Gutbuster Burger erupt into my field of vision. “Come To Cobblerburger and get your ass busted with a Big Ass Gutbuster Burger!”

A guitar solo begins to wail as a monster truck rolls past on the screen, fireworks blasting through the air above.

“Why the fuck am I seeing commercials?” I blurt aloud, utterly confused.

The video stops, a digital voice chiming in to answer my question. “To view your content without commercials, please upgrade your subscription to standard premium. Would you like to upgrade?”

“No,” I blurt, refusing to play this game any more than I have to.

The commercial returns, and I spend the next thirty seconds gritting my teeth as it washes over me. Finally, the advertisement ends and the artwork reappears.

After all this distraction, I still had no idea what I’d be witnessing, and I’m pleasantly surprised to suddenly find myself staring at Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Of course, this isn’t the actual painting, as made very clear by a tag in the lower right corner that reads Certified NFT, but the moment is nothing short of heavenly compared to the rest of this trip.

I take a slow, deep breath and let it out, centering my thoughts and focusing on the present. This brief space for meditation and deeper thought is exactly why I enjoy these trips to the art museum. Places like this allow us a connection to the artwork, but they also let us connect to ourselves.

I can feel my heartbeat returning to normal as my eyes begin to drift across the painting, slowly working their way from one colorful swirl to the next. I take in the texture and the spacing of each stroke, admiring Van Gogh’s craftsmanship as my gaze moves from one subtle feature to the next.

Suddenly, however, my gaze stops. I’m focused on a rooftop at the bottom of this painting, a small detail that’s suddenly drawn all my focus. I know this painting fairly well, and never before have I spotted the dark figure who sits perched atop an otherwise inconspicuous building.

I step a little closer, struggling to understand what I’m looking at, then gasp aloud.

The figure is that of a familiar superhero, a night prowling vigilante named Bat Bud who’s been a comic book staple for the last sixty years.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Bat Bud. I’ve seen every Bat Bud movie and even collected quite a few of these comic books when I was younger. Typically, I’d be glad to see him, but not right in the middle of Starry Night.

“Why the fuck is Bat Bud in this painting?” I blurt aloud, not expecting a reaction but suddenly greeted by the same digital voice as before.

“Content Cube has combined the Vincent Van Gogh catalog with our superhero content library to create a series of truly unique NFTs,” the disembodied voice explains. “Scan the QR code to receive updates about how you can-”

“Can I just see the real painting?” I interrupt.

“Van Gogh Classics can be viewed by upgrading to premium extra, would you like to upgrade for a monthly fee of $119.99?”

I rip the glasses away from my head.

Frustration is the most potent emotion that currently surges through my veins, but defining my emotional state with one note is a little too simplistic. I also find myself wrapped in a blanket of profound, suffocating sadness, a realization that all the wonderful things I loved about visiting the museum are gone forever.

I glance around to see that Bruce has also removed his glasses, my friend just kind of hanging around by the door from which we entered. He’s trying his best to participate, but I can tell this evening just isn’t for him. To be honest, it’s not for me either.

“You wanna head out?” I ask.

Bruce sighs, then nods.

My drive home is one of silent reflection. I’m trying my best not to get caught up in a cascade of end-of-the-world thinking, but it’s difficult given the utter disappointment of the evening.

As someone who appreciates art, my time at the museum was certainly eye opening, but I can’t imagine what it must be like for those who create it.

I’m pretty good at drawing, and it’s always been something that brings me joy, but now I can’t imagine putting effort into that part of my life. What’s the point if every little thing I create is just going to end up in the content slush pile?

I pull into my driveway and park, climbing out of the car to find that an unexpected box has arrived at my front door. The square sits quietly before me, strange and daunting in the dim light of the evening.

I approach the box, now noticing the label that I read aloud. “Content Cube.”

I must’ve signed up for this when I purchased my basic subscription at the museum.

Instead of bringing the box inside, I leave it exactly where it is, opting out of whatever this strange device has in store. I’m not interested in connecting yet another streaming platform to my television set.

Instead, I head inside and take off my coat, anxious to get settled in for a quiet night with one of my favorite, well-worn television sitcoms. It’s late, and after a day like today I could use a quick injection of familiar, comfortable entertainment.

I flop onto the couch and turn on my television, excited to dive in. I already know exactly where I’m headed, sights set on a classic episode of my favorite workplace comedy, The Job.

I open my usual streaming platform, then freeze when an unexpected prompt erupts onto the screen.

“What the fuck?” I murmur, furrowing my brow. I read the message aloud. “Your subscription has been canceled by Content Cube. To view your past, present, and future content please install your Content Cube.”

I let out a long groan, climbing back to my feet and strolling through the living room. I open the front door and finally lift the large box from its place on my porch. I carry the box inside and set it on my counter, then carefully tear it open and let the cardboard fall away.

A metal cube is slowly revealed, this object fairly non-descript other than two ports on the back for what I assume would connect a power cable and an HDMI cord. A single button has been placed on the front of this metal box, with no explanation for what it might do when pressed.

Instead of carrying the cube over to my television set, I plug it in right here on the counter and curiously press the large button.

The top of the metal box instantly springs open, causing me to stumble back in alarm. A dramatic hum fills the air with fanfare, announcing the arrival of a strange, swirling mass that slowly emerges from the depths of the cube. This manifestation is a constantly moving cloud of images and scenes, an endless bundle of content condensed into a single churning tornado of digitized media. On the front is the smiling face of a woman.

“Hello!” she says. “Welcome to Content Cube! I’m Connie, what would you like to do?”

“Oh,” I blurt. “I was just trying to watch The Job.”

“You currently have fourteen minutes and eight seconds of viewing time left for the next twenty-four hours,” Connie replies. “Would you like to spend your time now?”

“That’s not even enough for one episode!” I counter. “My old streamer let me just watch stuff whenever I wanted.”

“I’m so sorry, but that’s not your Content Cube plan,” Connie explains. “If you’d like unlimited streaming we can sign you up for premium extra unlimited.”

I’m so frustrated that, for a brief moment, I actually consider confirming this transaction. Before I get the chance to say yes, however, something pulls me back from the ledge. Is it really worth the money? More importantly, is it really worth the damage all of this rampant commodification is doing to my soul?

Even if I do sign up for even more Content Cube, who’s to say the episodes will be the way I remember them? For all I know, Bat Bud could abruptly show up thanks to some crossover between corporate giants that I’m blissfully unaware of.

Instead of throwing even more money at this problem, I wander over to my couch and sit down.

“Doesn’t seeing every little thing as content get exhausting for you?” I question.

Connie shakes her head. “I love content,” she replies. “In fact, I’m not just a Content Cube system. Technically speaking, I’m the gradual codification of art and expression into the nebulous idea of content, so this whole thing is kind of my jam.”
 “But why?” I continue. “It feels a little disrespectful to the art.”

“Why not?” she counters. “This is everything you could possibly want on a single platform for one cheap price.”

“Let me stop you there,” I counter with a laugh. “Content Cube is not cheap. You’ve monopolized all media and now you can charge whatever you want.”
 “First of all, it’s not all media,” the physical manifestation counters. “You saw a free painting at the museum.”

“Most media,” I clarify.

Connie takes a beat, letting the heightened emotions settle before continuing onward. “Listen,” she finally offers. “With your plan there’s all kinds of cool stuff to explore. I understand it can get a little overwhelming trying to navigate the new system, but I’m happy to suggest some content you might enjoy.”

“Can you just not call it content?” I implore.

The physical manifestation shakes her head. “I’m afraid the stockholders prefer I use the term, it’s in my contract.”

“Fine,” I reply. “What do you have for me?”

“How about a trip to one of our National Parks?” Connie suggests, various images erupting to the forefront of her swirling mass.

A beautiful waterfall drifts by, followed by a majestic view of the Grand Canyon at Sunset.

“Nature docs are pretty cool,” I finally admit.

Connie hesitates, the images disappearing. “I’m sorry, I’m not talking about television programming. To view that, you’ll need the Planetary Wonders Bundle for an additional $4.99 on top of the package you already had. I mean, your Content Cube subscription give you access to the National Parks.”

My first instinct is to appreciate this offer, but the second I get a chance to marinate on the implications of what she’s saying I find myself even more upset than before. “Wait, you mean other people can’t go to the National Parks anymore without a subscription to Content Cube?” I ask. “You’ve literally turned that into more content?”
 “A basic subscription,” Connie replies. “We think that’s very generous.”

“I think it’s a fucking nightmare,” I tell her. “First of all, if you only use the word content then I have no idea what you’re even talking about, and second of all, can’t we leave anything for real world experience without commodifying it in some way?”

With that, I stand up and stroll back over to the kitchen counter. Before Connie has a chance to answer, I unplug the cube and watch as she dissolves into a fine digital mist.

I take the metal box and the cardboard that it arrived in, creating my own little bundle, and carry them out to the trashcan that waits on the side of my house. It’s here I toss them into the bin with a loud thump, then head back inside.

“Unsubscribe,” I shout, betting that something in the house will hear me.

Sure enough, my smart microwave announces its presence. “Are you sure you’d like to unsubscribe form your Content Cube Basic Premium Plan?”

“Yes,” I confirm.

For a brief moment I think the device is going to make some horrifyingly complex counter to my request, but moments later it offers a simple, one word reply. “Unsubscribed.”

A wave of sweet relief washed over me. I stand here for a moment, basking in the glorious silence, then make my way over to a nearby cabinet. It’s here I pull out a few sheets of paper and some colored pencils.

I haven’t drawn in a while, but tonight feels like the perfect time to dive in again.

I bring my supplies and settle in on the couch, beginning my first sketch of the evening. I’m feeling inspired as I begin to trace the beginning curves of my own Grand Canyon rendition.

After a few minutes the silence starts getting to me. I grab the remote and turn on my television, then click through to an episode of The Job. I press play, and this time it works, filling the living room with a familiar theme song.

I’m sure the executives who bought this show for their streaming platform thought of it as content, and that’s pretty annoying, but at the same time, what can I do?

There’s a balance to be found here, and I’m not entirely sure where it is. What I do know is that sitting on the couch after a long day—my favorite show on in the background while I flex my creative muscles just for the joy of it—feels pretty damn good.

For now, this is the balance I’m comfortable with.

But I’m sure as hell not calling it content.