Free Hex and the Single Girl by Valerie Frankel Page A

Emma smelled the odor of anticipation—like acidic red wine—around her.
    Dearborn said, “We all talk to our computers. But it’s usually to curse at them when something goes wrong.” The crowd laughed dutifully. “ArtSpeak lets you talk to your computer to coax something beautiful out of it.
    “I want to explain a few things before I start,” he continued. “The software responds to individual voice commands.
    The user installs his or her vocal tones into the computer by reciting the alphabet. ArtSpeak can retain three users’
    tones per package, in English, German, Japanese, and French.” He sat at a chair in front of the Apple. “I’m going to paint now by using voice commands. I chose an image that’s been stuck in my mind. Here goes.”
    He took hold of the computer microphone. The lights were lowered. The Apple monitor flickered to life. The wall of screens behind him remained black. The only sound in the room was Dearborn’s voice.
    “Caucasian female head. Oval. Cheekbones wide, wide. Wide. Half narrow. Chin round, round, half sharp. Half
    sharp.”
    It went on like this for a minute or two, William speaking into the computer microphone in this rarified code language.
    The audience watched the monitor as a face took shape. Emma was not impressed. It was the head of a woman, her features rudimentary, with shape but not dimension. The crowd shuffled impatiently, and Emma was worried for
    William that his program would be a flop.
    “I’m going to add color now,” he said. “Color wheel engage. Hair brown, red, half red. Highlight, gold. Gold, half gold. Eyes orange. Red. Zero red. Orange. Brown. Half brown.” The portrait was getting more interesting, but it still didn’t amount to much. “So that’s what you get in five minutes,” he said. “To make a more complex work of art, on canvas or on screen, it takes time. I spent a couple of hours last night on a detailed portrait of her, which I’ll show you now. No one has seen this yet except me.”
    He clicked the mouse, and a full-color portrait appeared on screen. The crowd gasped collectively. The portrait was beautiful, detailed, with vibrant color and dimension.
    Victor put his hand on the back of Emma’s neck and squeezed hard.
    Dearborn said, “She’s a stunner. This is what she’d look like on the wall of the Post Office.” He clicked the mouse and one of the twelve monitors behind him flickered, showing the same woman as if she’d been drawn by a police sketch artist. “And here’s what Picasso would have made of her.” Another click, another monitor, this time, the cubist rendering.
    “Lichtenstein,” said Dearborn, with a click. Another monitor showed her as a comic book illustration.
    “Serat.” A pointillist portrait.
    “Manet.” Impressionist.
    “In the movie Tron. ” A 3-D graphic.
    “A character on The Simpsons. ” Google-eyed.
    Dearborn continued on until all the monitors were glowing. “This is how I like to see a woman,” he said. “From twelve different perspectives.”
    Each and every one looked exactly like Emma.
    If she’d wanted a still image of her face to self-serve into William’s head, now she had a dozen to choose from. But she wouldn’t need them. As he said, they were stuck in his mind already.
    She whispered to Vic, “Thank God I’m wearing a beard.”
    He said, “That must have been some kiss.”
    On stage, William waited for a reaction. For all his confidence, he seemed a little worried.
    But then the awe broke open and the audience erupted. People started leaping onto the stage to congratulate him.
    Someone handed William a bottle of champagne and he sprayed the crowd with it. The techno music began throbbing again, ear-bleedingly loud. And through all this mayhem, Emma could feel a pinprick in the center of her forehead, as if someone were jabbing at her. Rubbing the spot, she scanned the crowd. Up on stage, a pair of hazel eyes bore a hole into Emma’s brow.
    Victor noticed too.