TURBINE | KAPOHAU

Jacob Hayes pulls the piece of soul thinly across the canvas. He stands back from the easel, stretching his arms to try to open up his chest. There’s an ache where the piece has come from. Sometimes he thinks it’s his chest. At other times, somewhere in his head. Sometimes he thinks it isn’t the missing piece of soul at all, it’s Kara. But when he thinks about her, a different, more painful loss opens up and he can no longer work.

He steps back from the canvas and looks at it. The soul has a good, even grip on the gessoed surface, but he thinks that it looks darker than usual, and he starts to consider the technical challenge of blending the right base coat to lift it. Jacob leans against the edge of the bench, picks up an empty palette and squirts paint into it. He takes a brush and turns back to the shimmering haze on the canvas in the centre of the room. Beside it are the rest of canvases he needs to prepare, their surfaces the blank even weave of an unsouled surface. He feels sick at the thought of them. He must sell them all, but without the soul, they’re worthless.

He brushes on the underpainting, a thin layer of burnt orange which resists, and then seems to melt into the sheen of the soul. It shimmers and flashes blue and purple underneath, almost breaking through in places where the paint is thinnest, but the soul is held in place by the brush strokes.

His brush skims across the surface, building light and dark. He hopes for a masterpiece, something that will make all those other canvases unnecessary. Something that will be worth the loss he can feel now somewhere in the depths of his abdomen. Something that will bring Kara back.

*

In the long white room of the Life and Work Gallery, the dealer pushes his chair back from his desk, and walks over to the woman staring intently at a small painting.

‘Oh, yes,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘That’s a particularly lovely piece. It’s almost as though the viewer is inside it.’

The painting shows a small girl standing in a creek, long blonde hair spilling forward, water trickling around her ankles. Golden light breaks through the cool, green canopy to graze the girl’s skin, hints of the underpainting shining through like flecks of sunlight.The painter has caught the feeling of solitude, as though in a moment the girl will turn and see the viewer, but for now, she is lost in the moment.

The woman starts and steps back from the artwork. She blushes.

‘I’m so sorry. I was just browsing. But … well, I thought I could see something moving.’

‘It’s a special work,’ says the dealer. ‘I believe the little girl is modelled on the artist’s daughter – it’s called Lilly. See the lilies on the river bank?’ He leans in beside her and points to the flowers.

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says, her eyes still on the painting. ‘I’m not in the market for anything – I’m not from here and I don’t have the luggage allowance.’

The dealer nods. ‘No reason not to look. And this certainly is something to look at. It’s almost as though it’s alive, isn’t it?’ He traces his index finger just above the surface of the painting, following the lines of the water. ‘He’s a genius, Jacob Hayes. Such a way with light. And if you look here, at the signature, you’ll see that rather than a line over the top of the work, he has scratched back into it, revealing the underneath.’

‘And it’s … I’m not sure what that colour is. Silver? Like an oil spill almost.’

‘It’s the soul. It’s one of the few soul works we have left in stock. Their quality makes them very popular.’

The woman jerks around to face him. ‘A soul work! But aren’t they supposed to be dreadful for you … for the artist?’

‘Ours are all strictly ethical.’

‘But you’re still selling their souls?’ Her face twists into a grimace.

‘Yes, it’s true. But each work takes only a tiny smidge.’

The woman looks closer. ‘Don’t they run out?’

‘Of soul? Well, every resource is finite. We work closely with our artists to ensure their safety. But of course, it’s become essential, if you want real art – art like this.’

They both gaze at the painting, at the small girl in the ethereal light somehow caught in layers of paint.

*

Jacob has sketched a landscape across the canvas – trees and two indistinct figures – when Lilly knocks on the door.

‘Daddy, I made your special tea,’ she says.

Jacob turns away from his painting. He already knows it is not what he hoped it would be. ‘Come in, Lilly.’ He puts his brush down.

‘I can’t, my hands are full.’

He stands from his stool in front of the easel and walks to the door. Lilly is in the hallway, both hands holding a mug. She is wearing an old jumper of Kara’s, the long sleeves pulled down around her fists to protect them from the hot cup. Jacob takes the tea from her. It smells medicinal, like pine needles and antiseptic.

‘It’s not very nice, Daddy, but it’s the one you said was good for artists, and you’ve been up here all morning, and Milo and me were lonely … He’s so annoying. I can’t wait til I go to school and he doesn’t.’ Lilly turns to look at the room, paper strewn on the floor and the half finished painting on the easel. ‘What are you painting? Will it be another one of Mummy? Look at all those canvases, Daddy! There are heaps!’

Jacob puts the tea down and sweeps his hand through his hair. His daughter is golden in the light falling through the door. She is so alive, and he is so tired. He closes his eyes. When he opens them, he has decided.

‘Lilly, I’m not sure I can paint any more pictures of Mummy, it makes me too sad. But I think the last one I made of you was so beautiful. Would you be my muse again?’

She looks at the canvas. ‘Will it hurt like last time, Daddy?’

‘Just at the start, but I promise it’ll get easier. And you know this is all to help Mummy.’ Jacob takes down the half-finished painting and puts an unsouled canvas in its place. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you what we’ll do.’

He places Lilly on a high stool beside it, her heartbeat fast under his hands as he lifts her up. ‘Sit still, Lilly.’

*

In the gallery, the dealer encourages the woman to look closer. ‘Yes, yes, get right up to it,’ he says. ‘Can you see that shimmer, the faint silver haze? That’s the soul spread over the canvas before the painting begins.’

The woman peers at the work. ‘Oh, I can see it.’

‘And can you feel it? That’s really what makes the difference. They tug at you. Try to walk away from it.’

The woman turns, and takes a step, then twists her head back around, her dark hair spraying out. ‘I didn’t even mean to look back! I just couldn’t help myself!’

The dealer smiles. ‘We’ve all become so used to the ordinariness of AI artbots, we don’t even notice it anymore. You see a soul work, you know you’ve seen a soul work. And when you’ve seen one of Jacob Hayes’s, well …’

‘Of course all artists do it differently,’ he continues. He turns away from the painting and gestures to a stand of ceramic pots on white plinths running down the centre of the gallery space. The pots are nearly globes, large round pieces with glazes that seem to suggest earth, or minerals, as though they could be planets. ‘If you would look at this, the soul is not visible, but place your hand against it. Feel that vibration? That’s the soul inside. But step back and look at this pot, and you’ll see there is something beyond what you can merely see that draws you to it.’

‘Does it hurt?’ The woman rests her hand against the piece of pottery, the glazed clay slick and cold, but humming under her touch.

‘For the artist, you mean? I don’t think so. Some have described it as a pang. Obviously there’s a loss, but it’s worth it to create something beautiful. I know artists who get very upset when they begin to approach their minimum. They want to keep making art, but who will buy it without the soul? It could just as well have been made by an artbot.’

‘No, I meant does it hurt the soul to be trapped in there? I can feel it. Poor thing. Does it hurt it?’

‘A soul without a body is not a person. Just as a body without a soul is not.’

She looks down at the pot and strokes her fingers down its side.

‘That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt it, poor thing,’ she says again.

The dealer turns and gestures towards the opposite wall. ‘Over there are the works created without the soul component. You can compare.’ He walks to the other side of the room, and the woman follows.

‘See here? This landscape? Look closely, you’ll see the artbot has tried to mimic the effect with silver leaf under the paint. But it doesn’t move, it has no life, and of course, when we test it, it has no genetic material – no signature, one could say. No soul to link it back to the artist.’

‘But I’ve heard … I’ve heard this kills the artists. Or turns them into monsters.’

‘The media will say anything for a story. The reality is nothing of the sort. We work with our artists carefully. That piece you’re touching, the potter has actually stopped producing in the last year or two. For her safety, obviously.’

The woman picks up the pot she has been caressing, a boldly circular piece with a honey coloured glaze trickling down the outside, and turns back to the Jacob Hayes painting.

*

Lilly whimpers, her eyes tightly closed, her hands gripping the edge of the stool.

‘Will it be over soon, Daddy?’ She is sitting very straight, the muscles in her neck straining.

Jacob doesn’t look at her, his attention absorbed by the bright white soul he’s stretching to a new canvas. ‘It’s nearly done, Lil,’ he says. ‘Mummy would be so proud.’

‘I don’t feel good, Daddy. It hurts. Can we stop now?’

‘No, Lilly. Just sit still.’ Jacob pulls the soul across the last corner, and Lilly’s shoulders slump forward. She starts to cry.

*

A bell rings as another customer walks through the door. The dealer turns to attend to them and there is a hushed question. He raises his voice to reply, ‘We have a few soul pieces left, sir. Some ceramics from a very talented potter who has recently stopped making art, and that painting over there,’ he nods towards the painting of Lilly in the river.

The female tourist looks away from the art, startled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says from across the room. ‘This piece is sold. I’m taking it. This too,’ she says, holding the pot tightly in her arms. The art dealer smiles.

*

‘She’s the same as when you were last here,’ says the superintendent. ‘Her state is fairly stable, between your visits. Seeing you seems to exacerbate things.’

Jacob watches his wife through the streaming windows of the Kōwhai Creatives Psych unit. Kara is lying on the ground, writhing and turning. Her movements have ground the grass and turf into a pulp, and the mud sprays from her body as she spins and spins.

‘I had hoped…’ says Jacob. ‘The children and I … We haven’t given up hope.’

The superintendent stands up from his desk and walks around to perch on the edge. ‘Now, Jacob. Your wife; a potter, I believe you said? Look at her out there.’

‘But surely there is something. I’ve been researching. There’s a tea, and a supplement that is supposed to help. There’s a clinic in Switzerland.’ Jacob’s voice rises in desperation.

‘We’re doing all we can for her.’

‘I’ve nearly raised the entire amount to fund it. If you can just help us get her there,’ Jacob says, his hands clenched.

The superintendent clears his throat.

‘We’ve discussed this before, Jacob. You’d be throwing your money away. Now, I’m sorry to be practical but we need to discuss de-personing Kara. It’s purely administrative, but as you are aware, without any soul left, the legislature will no longer recognise her personhood, and we need to get the paperwork cleared up.’

*

‘That last work you sent us has just sold, Jacob. I’m sure you’ll see the commission in your account shortly,’ says the dealer’s voice from the phone. Jacob grips the phone and stands swaying slightly from side to side. He thinks of Kara. ‘We do have a collector who might be interested in another of yours. You’ve been so prolific recently – the images of your daughter have been very popular. And, well, we’ve been meaning to check in – how much more soul art do you expect to be able to make? We need to know whether or not we need to find a new … talent.’

‘It’s fine. I’m making new work,’ he says. ‘I’m working on some new portraits of Milo.’

‘Good to hear it. We’re delighted at how much you’ve managed to produce; you’ll have to let us in on your secret one day. Let me know when we can expect some more paintings. Be in touch.’ The line goes dead.

He looks at his children sitting together in the corner of the studio.  Milo is sitting in front of Lilly, trying to grab her hands.

‘Lilly, stop doing that. Lilly, stop.’ Milo is crying. ‘Lilly, you’re being scary.’

Lilly has ripped open the skin on her forearms with her teeth and is using the blood to finger paint on the wall behind her. She rocks as she paints, panting, lost in the act.

‘Milo, come here please,’ the artist says. Milo whimpers. ‘Milo, I don’t want to ask twice.’ The little boy stands up and walks towards him. His sister’s blood trickles down his arm. ‘Now this isn’t going to hurt much, it’ll be just like last time.’

‘No, Daddy, please no. Does it have to be me? Can’t Lilly do it again?’ The boy looks back at his sister. She grins to herself and dips her fingers back into the wounds on her arm. She moans softly, with an animalistic delight rather than pain.

‘Milo, I can’t ask Lilly any more, you know that. But we have to get help for her and Mummy, so we just need to make a few more paintings. Now, I need you to sit very still.’