The bird was a person.
The machine was a machine.
The machine was rusty and asleep.
If you ask if machines can sleep, well, I'm not sure. But the machine was indeed sleeping. Its eyes were closed, its long eyelashes drawn down. That was the sight the bird had discovered. Its body, made of tin, seemed to have been meticulously crafted by a master craftsman, its soft pink sheen like human flesh. The machine looked so human. The bird took off his outer garment and covered it. The machine was perfectly naked.
To be honest, the bird didn't particularly like the machine. So, even though it came every day, it didn't say a word. It just stared at the machine with its large, bleary eyes, blankly. I'm not sure if the machine liked the bird. Of course, it was, after all. Machines don't have emotions. So, while it can look sad, it can't shed tears. While it can look in love, it simply freezes motionless if you try to kiss its pale neck or its red lips. That's what the bird liked about the machine. It brought clothes to cover its naked body and food to fill its stomach. Whenever the bird visited, the machine did nothing. It simply sat under the window, its eyes closed. Eyes closed, long eyelashes drawn down. That doesn't mean it was always asleep. The machine rarely slept. Sometimes, or rather, during all the times it was looking at the machine, the bird simply watched it. It was the sole observer. The machine probably expected the bird to do that. But the bird wasn't. The bird was tired of being a spectator.
"excuse me."
The bird was startled when the machine first spoke. It was just working on an old wooden plank. The machine's voice was extremely irritating. It was soft and gentle, but the bird didn't like it. However, there was only one positive thing the bird found about the machine. Even though the bird didn't respond, the machine looked at him with a bright smile on its clean face. Suddenly, the bird felt the urge to rip that face apart and break its joints.
“Who are you?”
The machine spat out only that word in a voice so beautiful and yet so ugly. It had been exactly a month since the bird had discovered the machine and begun to visit its location. It was too late to exchange names with a stranger. So the bird didn't answer. He kept silent and smoked a cigar. Damn it, it had taken so damn long. Perhaps it would have been better to answer. Smoking while feeling the machine's gaze was not something I would recommend to anyone, the bird thought. He looked at the pack of cigarettes and saw that the mast was still there. The bird raised its shadowed face and said to the machine, "Whiskey. Do you have it?" The machine blinked. "No, not if you don't." The bird got up. The machine shook its head.
“There’s no need for that.”
“…?”
“I just happened to have a bottle.”
The machine walked barefoot along the worn wooden floorboards, heading to the kitchen and pulling out a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. The whiskey, which looked quite old, smelled of Russia. Only then did the bird regret asking if they had any brandy. The machine poured the whiskey halfway into a glass. The bird accepted the glass, neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. It lit the mast and poured it into the glass. The strong liquor and the fire sparked. The machine's eyes lit. For the first time that night, the machine did something different. It was as if it had to keep this a secret until it was revealed. Without even questioning why it had asked for it if it wasn't going to drink it, the machine obediently put the glass away. Then it went into another room and returned with a large canvas, almost as big as its own body. Next came oil paints, then various brushes. The machine prepared everything. It seemed like a sacred ritual. Soon, the machine began to paint on the canvas. It was dusk. No, it was pitch-black night. No, it was the dawn of dawn. The machine was capturing all of time on a single canvas. It seemed like the realm of the divine, not of humanity. The bird, barely suppressing the nausea that welled up in his throat, asked.
"What is it?"
“You might think it’s funny, but…”
The machine spoke. It was shy. A blush was rising on its pale face. The machine knew how to make expressions.
“I wanted to do art.”
The bird threw the palette at the machine as if in a fit. After throwing the palette, his right hand began to tremble violently. The way it convulsed over such a trivial matter was almost repulsive. The machine stared at the bird with eyes that seemed utterly incapable of reading emotions. The bird didn't bother to read them. Machines can't feel emotions, after all.
Instead of going to the mansion where the machine was, the bird went to the studio. It was so cramped that even calling it a studio was embarrassing, as it barely fit a single easel. Entering the studio, a warm breeze touched my skin. J was there. He looked at the bird and said, "I haven't sold a single one." Which meant it was the bird, not J, who should be paying, and it was J, not the bird, who should be receiving the money. The bird took a coin from his pocket and tossed it. J seemed to dislike the bird's attitude, but he didn't seem to have the courage to protest. The bird motioned for him to leave. When J closed the door, the bird sat down on the chair in front of the easel and picked up his brush. He wanted to do what the machine had done. Something he felt he couldn't possibly reach. Capturing all of time, all of a moment at once. The bird opened its eyes again from its trance. The painting on the canvas was horrific. The bird threw it down. The canvas fell with a dull thud. The paint, still wet, splattered everywhere. Not a single one sold. Damn it, I should've just kicked him out the moment I saw J's shadow. Even then, it would've just been a pitiful, part-time job at the store that sold Sae's work. Sae decided to meet the machine. As he left the studio, his shoes were stained with paint. Still, he went there, secretly believing the machine wouldn't kick him out.
“Here you go again.”
From the day the bird offered its official name—or rather, from the day the bird threw the palette at the machine—the machine greeted the bird with a cheerful smile. "Yeah, well," the bird replied absentmindedly. Then, raising one knee, he sat on the floor, resting his arm on it and looking at the machine. "I'm glad you came," the machine said. "I missed you." The bird knew it wasn't sincere. Machines can't feel emotions. Could the concept of sincerity even exist in that piece of scrap metal? That was why the bird hated the machine.
“Aren’t you going to draw?”
"well."
“Why? You draw well.”
“I don’t feel like it right now.”
“If you can’t even speak.”
"how about you?"
“I don’t draw.”
“It’s a shame.”
“Hah, well.”
The bird chuckled and bit down on its cigar. The machine stared intently at it. It wasn't clear whether it found that innocent, clean-cut face so intently focused on the smoke, or whether it found it irritating. The bird sucked in the smoke, its already thin cheeks hollow, and then spat it out in the machine's face. It didn't leave a trace. Perhaps unexpectedly, the machine coughed, croaking. Natural tears welled up in its eyes. A flush crept across its cheeks. The bird laughed heartily at this sight. Even as it coughed and writhed in pain, the machine's gaze remained fixed on the bird. The bird was glad the machine was innocent. It seemed even a machine wouldn't forgive such impulsive rudeness.
“But why don’t you draw a picture?”
This time, the machine asked. The bird turned its head from staring out the window to the machine.
"just."
“Where is that?”
"I... would do anything if I could be like you," the machine said. "Even if it meant selling my soul." The bird was dumbfounded. So he blew another blast of cigarette smoke in its face. The machine gasped again, coughing.
“You know what?”
"yes…?"
“I really wish you would sell your soul to me.”
The bird spoke. It wasn't empty words. It wasn't meaningless cynicism meant to grate the machine's nerves. The bird wanted to possess the machine's soul, even if it meant sacrificing its own life. If such a thing existed. If machines had souls, it would probably be the purest soul in the world. After the bird finished speaking, the machine didn't respond. The bird examined the machine. It was crying. There were no tears, but he could tell it was crying. Why? Are you really afraid? The bird asked. It was half mocking the machine, half self-mockery. The machine shook its head. No. The machine said.
“I’m so happy.”
"If it makes you so happy, why don't you give it to me now?" the bird said. The machine remained silent for another moment, then kissed the bird. As if kissing a statue of the Virgin Mary. It was that clumsy. Even without tongues. The machine's lips were soft and affectionate. And a warm warmth lingered. The bird glared at the machine. The machine's pure soul still didn't belong to the bird.
"……sorry."
The machine spoke. It seemed as if I saw tears in the machine's eyes as it spoke.
“What?”
The bird asked.
“Today… I’m going back and resting.”
The bird nodded. Then, without saying a word, it left. On the way back to the studio, daffodils were in full bloom. With hands still stained with oil paint, the bird plucked a handful of them and lit them with a match, burning them. A pang of unease still lingered in its chest. It groped its lips. It understood why the devil favored innocent humans. If it could possess such an innocent soul, it would do the same.
The machine hugged its knees and closed its eyes. The bird sketched the figure. It was a perfect nude. In fact, what the machine truly wanted was to make art. The bird shrugged and said that even modeling was a form of art. Performance art. That kind of thing sells well these days.
“Of course, only trashy, hypocritical authors enjoy it.”
“Then I don’t want to do it either.”
“Now, look. It’s not so pretentious now, is it?”
Upon hearing this, the machine happily agreed. The bird politely asked—perhaps for the first time in ages—if it could undress, posing as a nude model. The machine readily agreed. Thus, the bird could paint the naked body of this beautiful body. That very fact alone made the bird's heart skip a beat. No, it even made him feel a little uneasy. He diligently moved his pencil. The sound of its pencil scribbling filled the space where they were alone. Occasionally, their breaths sizzled in the summer heat. Finally, the bird put down his pen. It felt good. It was a painting that had satisfied him for the first time in a long time. Could he sell it? Then he could make more money than he had paid J last time? The bird smiled. Only then did the machine, still naked, crawl over to him. "Well…did it work?" For some reason, its voice was trembling. The bird, still smiling, raised its head to face the machine. However, the moment their eyes met, the bird pulled the painting to its chest, hiding it. The machine seemed slightly embarrassed.
“Excuse me…can I see the picture?”
"no."
The bird spoke with a stern, pale face. The machine wore a wounded expression.
"why…"
"no."
"once and for all-"
“If you take one more step from here, I will tear you apart.”
The bird abruptly rose from its perch and held the painting high, preventing the machine from grabbing it. The machine, too, rose. Then, its smooth, white body leaped from its spot, desperately trying to see the painting. As if it couldn't resist seeing the bird's painting. If only it could, it wanted to show the bird itself. But it couldn't. I should have known long ago that such a beautiful and pure subject was beyond my skill. Now, the painting had become utterly hideous, repulsive. The bird felt it must not be known to the world. The thought of others, unfamiliar with the machine, seeing this painting and imagining the machine as such was horrifying. Oh, no. The machine was more beautiful than the bird could describe. More precisely, the purity that wrapped its beautiful body like a garment. The bird shoved the machine away. Its fragile body fell to the floor with a loud noise. Then the bird picked up the painting. "No!" the machine screamed. That was probably the loudest sound a machine could make. The bird's hand tore the painting apart. The paper, clearly imbued with affection, was torn limply. No… no… please… … The machine was now trembling, pleading. Yet, the bird's hand didn't stop. The bird's heart ached. Was it because of its art, so helplessly falling, or because of the machine, which seemed to be afflicted by the painting, as if it were itself?
“Please stop……”
Finally, the machine let out a sob. Knowing it couldn't cry, the bird stopped tearing the painting. And let the wind carry it away. He wished it had been picked up by someone who knew nothing about art, rather than someone who would interpret and critique it under false pretenses. He didn't have the courage to throw it in the trash with his own hands. So, the bird fled. He couldn't bear to see the machine suffer. He knew only one place on Earth. On his way to his studio, the bird met A. The owner of the art shop, poor J's employer. A smiled faintly on his rather charming face and said,
"congratulations."
“What?”
“Didn’t J tell you? There’s someone who consistently buys your paintings.”
The bird felt like its heart was going to burst out. For some reason, it felt proud. Someone recognized my painting. Just one appreciation. Just one viewer. The bird wanted what the machine wanted. After all, they were like kin. J, the thought of beating that damned son of a bitch didn't even cross its mind. After explaining the whole story, P told him to stop by the store later and pay me back the money I owed. By the time I decided to go back to the machine, it was already nighttime.
“I’m here.”
But the space was enveloped in silence. Was the machine sleeping? No. It barely slept. The bird opened the closed door. The squeak was so loud it startled the bird. The machine seemed to be feeling the same way.
“…You’re here.”
The machine's voice was gasping for breath, as if it were quite startled. It wasn't naked, but crouched. The thin shirt it was wearing was quite transparent, enough to make a previously unseen scratch stand out. "What is this?" the bird asked shrilly.
“I…I’m…really sorry.”
The machine's voice was once again wet. The bird let out a hollow laugh. "Yes. This is why birds can't help but yearn for machines. The machine must have thought it was the reason the picture was torn earlier. The bird shook its head. What were you doing?" The bird looked down at the puzzle-like object the machine was crouching down to put together. It felt somehow familiar.
“This is……”
It was the picture that had been torn and thrown away. But how? Surprise, rather than anger, took precedence.
“…I ran around picking it up. For about an hour or two. Well, not far…! I didn’t go.”
"I'm sorry. But I really wanted to see your drawing." The bird looked away from the machine. It wasn't because it was angry. It simply felt terribly sorry for the machine. The machine had no reason to apologize. Really.
“So you got hurt?”
The machine nodded with a frightened expression. "I won't be angry," the bird said. The machine's face remained gloomy.
“But those pictures……”
“Don’t look!”
The machine roared. But already, the bird could see the sultry paintings reflected in the starlight. The walls of the room were filled with paintings. There seemed to be about twenty of them, all neatly hung. Only then did the bird realize. These were his paintings. Why… why you…? The bird stammered. Seeing those paintings after such a long time felt somehow familiar. Just like the enchanting paintings the machine had shown him the other day…
"for a moment."
The bird compared the machine's drawing with mine. A chilling, chilling silence descended, and the machine lowered its head. I couldn't believe it. The bird stroked my hair a few times before turning back to the machine. "Did you put it together?" the bird asked.
“Did you cut my drawings into pieces and put them together?”
It didn't mean the machine had done the collage. That's how the machine's enchanting painting was created. The machine must have seen the bird's style and the objects it frequently used dozens of times every time it visited this room. And the only original thought it had in that painting was the mere arrangement of those elements. The bird snickered, then raged, then cried. It couldn't believe it. The machine, still trembling, begged for forgiveness countless times. The bird's anger grew uncontrollably. It soon took the form of madness. Me, me, for such a trivial thing. The bird approached the machine with bloodshot eyes. Was I suffering such an inferiority complex over such a trivial thing? I wanted to rip out my own tongue. Asking the machine for innocence seemed pure foolishness. The bird walked faster toward the terrified machine.
“Just because of someone like you.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to deceive you. Please believe me…!”
“Someone like you.”
The bird grabbed the machine's slender arm and roughly pulled it away from its body. The machine howled in pain. Strangely, it found that even more appealing than its usual, gentle smile.
“I am not qualified to do art.”
He'd surely regret it. He'd have to take responsibility for his madness someday. But the bird wouldn't stop. He'd tear off its arms. He'd tear off its legs. That wasn't enough, so he'd break its joints, dismantle it into tiny parts, and smash it to pieces. The sight of nuts and bolts flying everywhere was a sight to behold. More. More. More. The bird's mind screamed. You filthy bastard. You con man. You should never let me live. You cut and reassembled my art without permission, causing me so much pain. So, what was the root of my inferiority complex? I was hurt by a painting that was nothing more than a collage. It kept me up at night, made me miserable, made me want to die, and made me despise myself. By a painting like that! By a painting that was stolen like that!
“Please… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
The machine spoke with tears in its eyes. Strange. The bird felt that madness had consumed even its own eyes. A machine shouldn't cry.
“Please stop…it hurts…it hurts so…so much…”
"shut up."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!" the bird screamed. Then it pulled out the largest piece it had left. The machine, which had been crying and begging for breath, fell silent. After spending several minutes in that silence, the bird realized that what it had just pulled out was the machine's head. Catching its breath, it looked around. It was like a murder scene. Parts were strewn about, the machine's limbs scattered here and there, and the machine's head was still closed, its eyes still wet with tears. The bird screamed and dropped the machine's head. It made a hollow sound. It crawled frantically on the floor, searching for the scattered parts again. "No, no, no," the bird whispered. It couldn't tell to whom it was whispering. "Wake up, come alive." It was lucky it had a screwdriver. The bird began to reassemble the machine. Its right hand twitched frantically.
The machine slept for a full week. The bird stayed by its side. There wasn't a single day that went by without crying. I swear the bird had no more tears left to shed. When the annoying cicada noise subsided, the machine slowly opened its eyes. The bird was afraid to look at the machine. It felt like I didn't deserve it. More precisely, it was more painful than anything to face the moment when that innocent face harbored such deep hatred for me.
“I know everything is there.”
The machine spoke, its voice still soft and affectionate.
“Don’t you want to come in?”
“……”
“I’m lonely.”
“…That can’t be true.”
The words came out as bluntly as usual. The bird hesitated and entered the room where the machine lay. The machine faced the bird with a bright smile. "When do you think I started wanting to make art?" the machine asked. The bird didn't answer. "You know, I've been here alone for a very long time," the machine said again.
"Through the wind, the rain, the snow, I was here. I remember it all. What beings were here? Every time a little flower was born and disappeared, I wondered how long I could stay awake. I simply existed from a certain moment. Suddenly, I was here."
The machine's eyes, as it spoke, suddenly felt empty. The bird opened its mouth quietly, then closed it. The machine stared intently at the bird and kissed it. It was less awkward than last time. The bird chuckled.
“You are so selfish.”
The machine smiled innocently. Humans are inherently variable. Maybe… I might be the same. A broken machine. Perhaps I have some flaws. Was that why I wanted to make art? Hmm, come to think of it, I don't think so. I was lonely, just like you said. I wanted to live forever. Until I could meet someone who would talk to me. You know, this place is quite far from where people live. The first place I went to in a human community was an art museum. I could even talk to people who died hundreds of years ago. I could get answers from them. Such beautiful, such sad answers. But I still didn't know how to make art.
“Then I saw your painting hanging in an art shop.”
“……”
“But then it spoke to me.”
“……”
“And I……”
The machine paused for a moment.
“I really wanted to meet you.”
How much more wonderful would it be to hear your voice, not just a picture, I've been drawing it every night. I'll show you someday, when I have the courage.
The bird watched the machine paint. The machine seemed captivated by the situation, drawing. The bird realized that its judgment of the machine had been foolish. Even without using elements from the bird's painting or copying its style, the machine's painting was beautiful. Its source lay in the machine's purity. A purity that allowed it to repeatedly say "I love you" to the person who carved it. That was probably something the bird, worn down by society, could never emulate. The machine finally completed its painting. A bird was flying above the canvas, carrying someone. The bird asked, "What is that riding on the bird?" The machine shyly replied, "Me. It's me." The bird could have been cynical, as usual. No, it couldn't. It could have criticized this childish drawing, but it dared not. The painting the machine had created was utterly beautiful. The bird felt like kneeling before it at any moment. The machine smiled brightly and sat down beside its canvas. The bird gazed at the machine quietly. He didn't want its talents to rot here. The machine told the bird to do as it pleased, but the bird itself was quite capricious. The machine painted when it felt like it wanted to. Unlike the bird and other artists who had to paint regularly to earn money, it didn't care. A cramp in its right hand swept through the air, but the bird didn't care.
“Won’t you live with me?”
The bird asked. The machine's eyes widened. Where else could you find such an imperfect confession?
“I can lead you to a bigger world.”
I'll put you on my back and take you to a wider place. I'll let you explore the high skies you don't know. The bird said those words, almost laughably. He knew he couldn't do it. He was an unknown artist, with perhaps only one painting to sell. Still, the bird promised. The machine looked as if it couldn't believe what it was hearing. This time, the bird kissed him first. The machine's lips were warm and soft.
The bird had never touched the machine's skin. The bird was surprised by how warm it was. Its pure white body was ablaze with fever. The machine embraced the bird more deeply, calling its name. It repeated it over and over again. The bird answered each time. Even when it burrowed into the machine's neck, the answering continued. The bird occasionally played a mischievous prank. Each time, the machine's bewildered expression was so endearing that the bird stopped its play and embraced it again. It left its mark here and there. The machine's body had become the bird's canvas. The bird seemed to want to carve itself more deeply into the pristine white canvas than anything else. The machine gladly accepted the bird. When the bird kissed the machine, and even took each other's flesh, it had to self-suggest that it was reluctantly taking the machine's innocence. It knew it could not be taken away in this way, yet it did so. Even now, it still did so. The bird's mind seemed to dwell solely on the machine, yet ultimately, it contemplated its past as a penniless, unknown artist. And it contemplated its future, having taken on the machine's innocence. The past was tedious, and the future frightening. Yet, the machine focused solely on the bird. It delved deeper into the bird, giving itself over to it. The bird both hated and reveled in this.
The bird opened the paint. The machine flinched slightly when the brush touched its skin, perhaps because it was cold. "Hold on a little longer." The bird pressed its lips once more to the nape of her neck, where it had already kissed countless times. Then, following the traces of the still-wild flowers blooming on the machine's back, it began to draw constellations. The stars that had shone on the machine's bare white back had now become flowers. The bird gazed intently at the lilies blooming on its back. The paint dried quickly. The bird kissed each flower, as if stamping a seal on them.
“How about trying something like an exhibition?”
The bird asked casually. The machine tilted its head, still lying face down on the same bed as yesterday. "Of course, you haven't made any known works yet, but your paintings are definitely worthy of being displayed in a museum," the bird said. The machine spoke quietly. "I don't know yet." The bird gripped the machine's arm tightly.
“No, you can do it.”
“I want to paint just for you.”
The bird gasped, its breath coming in sharply. The machine's image was imbued with its own soul. The machine was trying to place something so enormous in the bird's hands. The bird was too small to receive it.
"...So, what was your original intention when you wanted to make art? It had to be hung in an art gallery to live forever. If no one remembered, it was as good as dead."
“Because you will remember.”
“I can’t do that. I’m going to die someday.”
The machine didn't ask much from the bird. It staggered to its feet. Then it stood before the canvas and began painting. The brushstrokes were different than usual. The colors were different, too. The machine painted the grass red. The sky was crimson. The sun was a piercing blue. As if that weren't enough, the machine began to sprinkle paint everywhere, like Jackson Pollock. The bird couldn't say a word. The machine's actions at this very moment were art itself. It was art itself, unimitable. Even a machine wouldn't be able to replicate this moment. The bird simply stared at the machine, lost in thought. The machine humbly accepted the paint that was gnawing at its joints. It felt as if it were drowning. In the paint. In the art. The machine stumbled a few times before collapsing, resting its forehead against the bird.
“…I know. You are a living, consuming being, and I will live forever.”
The machine spoke. Its body, bruised and battered, splattered with paint. But the machine's expression, as it spoke, resembled a hand reaching for something it could never possess, and the bird had to resist the urge to push it away. It couldn't live forever with such a body. If the paint that had seeped into its joints hardened, the machine would likely be forever unable to rise, slumped over like a rag doll. So, art was eating away at the machine's lifespan. The moment the bird realized this horrifying truth, an unbearable revulsion surged through it. "You want to live, don't you? How did this damned art game even begin?" The bird simply gripped the machine's hand tightly. It was cold. The machine looked slightly surprised. This time, the bird lay down on the machine's lap. The bird spoke.
"Live with me forever. You can be beautiful forever, even if you don't reproduce, become a social person, or make art."
The machine simply smiled faintly. "I gave you my all," the machine said. And those words meant everything. The bird knew. It had carried all its burdens that day, when they had felt each other's warmth so clearly. The bird smiled awkwardly at the bewildered machine and said, "We can stay together longer from now on." Upon hearing those words, the machine cheered and embraced the bird. And that night, when the machine wasn't looking, the bird broke all its brushes. Now, the machine was all that mattered to him. His art could be achieved through the machine.
The machine opened the paint. In the machine's painting, the bird revealed its ugly, naked face. This caused the bird to feel a slight sense of disgust. After all, it was the same person who posed as the model. Fortunately, it wasn't a nude model. In fact, the machine wanted to paint a picture of them sharing body heat, but the bird stubbornly refused, so it had to swallow its disappointment.
“I want to go outside.”
The machine said.
“I want to draw things that really exist in the world.”
So the bird and the machine went outside. The grass was shining with a green glow. The bird helped the machine set up its easel. It was a place where it had no talent. The machine sat quietly, drawing. None of the dynamics that had captivated the bird the last time were visible. The bird sketched the machine from a distance, absorbed in its work. It still wasn't satisfied, but that didn't matter. It felt like it should show the machine. Surely, then, the machine would inject something even more ingenious. The bird approached the machine with paper. The machine looked up at the bird, its eyes wide. The bird looked at the drawing the machine had been doing. The once lush grass was now withered and unsightly. The bird felt a disgust even greater than the portrait from earlier. The bird quickly snatched the brush from the machine's hand.
“Until you express a color closer to nature, this color is confiscated.”
The machine nodded. It was furious. Why would it choose such a difficult path over the easy one? With its skill, it could surely make a living off of drawing alone. Even the inferiority complex it had thought it had vanished now reared its head. No matter how hard you try, you'll never catch up to that. The bird shook its head.
“If you do it this way, you won’t even be able to hang it in an art gallery.”
“But I…”
“Painting a piece for a museum is like painting for myself. Do you understand?”
After that, the machine was stripped of countless colors. The once colorful and vibrant painting gradually lost its hues. But the bird firmly believed that this was right. The machine would understand someday. That's what it was. It would know when it was hung in a museum. Ultimately, this was right. The bird was satisfied with the machine's increasingly realistic paintings. The sun was a warm yellow. The grass was a refreshing green. The machine's childlike innocence, as soon as the colors changed, displayed a remarkable skill. It was vivid, as if captured by a camera. The bird had only ever touched a camera once, and that in its distant childhood. The person who taught the bird was by no means the kind and understanding teacher you might expect from a fairy tale.
The bird sometimes reminisced about its teacher. Even though all he'd taught it was how to lose its innocence and force its own art upon it. Ultimately, the bird became a painter. Was he successful? The bird shook its head. It could confidently say it became a painter because it had no other path. Yes. The bird was someone who had "become" a painter. All it had learned was how to love art, and all it had learned was how to draw. The bird's teacher was a gray-haired old man who took in a child from an orphanage and taught him his art. But the teacher didn't try to understand the bird. "Memorize it, memorize it!" his teacher urged the bird. Useless, stupid! The bird's teacher loved art so much that he couldn't tolerate it. The bird's painting style, the bird's method. Damn it, he'd turned the bird into a camera. Damn it, the thing he hated most was cameras. He hated cameras. He hurled every harsh word at the bird, calling it a product of evil science that had stolen artists' livelihoods. The day it took a picture with a camera a neighborhood kid lent it, it was beaten until it lost consciousness. As punishment, it spent four days without sleep, drawing. The occasional cramps in its right hand were a symptom of that experience. The bird was his last student. Struggling with alcoholism and violence in his later years, he fell to his death from the window of his own home. He didn't go out to a distant wheat field and shoot himself in the head, nor did he die a graceful death of old age. The bird was there, bruised and torn, watching its teacher fall, crushed beyond recognition. Did it laugh then? I'm not sure. But the bird, damn it, thought it must have. Because laughter is good. Should a bird, freed from its cage, laugh, or cry?
“But you know.”
The machine, its lips slightly protruding in a luscious pout, was squeezing about ten paints onto its palette. When it raised its head, the hair the bird had so generously kissed the night before fell, slightly covering its eyes. The bird, its chin resting on its hand, lit a cigarette. This time, it wasn't as good as a cigar, but rather cheap. Kitsch. That's what it was.
“Isn’t it too awkward to draw like a camera?”
“What do you mean, awkward?”
"So, that means you don't satisfy me. What good are painters if they're just going to draw like a camera?"
“……”
“I’m talking about changing the style of painting.”
The machine bit its lip. What… should I do? I don't know. The bird approached and took the machine's hand. Here, look. This is how it's done. And the bird played with the brush to its heart's content. The machine's face was visibly confused. Pure. Still, the same look the bird loved and hated. The touch of the brush, held in its hand after such a long time, was so familiar it brought tears to its eyes. In this perfect trance, the bird could finally feel free. The two of them, entangled, painting, looked like they were dancing a waltz. A waltz covered in paint. The bucket spilled, the palette was stepped on, the brushes scattered across the floor. The bird wanted to dance every dance in the world with the machine. As long as it had a canvas, an easel, and the machine, it felt like it could do anything. When the machine's breathing became rapid, the bird finally let go. "Well, how is it?"
“…It’s strange.”
After a long silence, the machine spoke. The bird couldn't believe the answer. It was the only answer the one who had admired his art had given. The bird's face, clearly trying to hide its emotions, was strangely distorted. He wanted to ask a question, but remained silent.
“Please answer.”
“……”
“Did I draw this picture?”
The bird shrugged. After inhaling the smoke from his cigarette, he spat in the machine's face as usual. The machine turned its head away.
It was a sleepless night. The bird tossed and turned. Beside him, the machine slept soundly. The machine had become increasingly drowsy. When asked why, the machine, embarrassed, said it was tired. Strange. A machine couldn't possibly be tired. The bird got up from bed and went to the machine's studio. There were so many paintings. Some lay on the floor, unable to hang on the wall. The still-wet paintings smelled strongly of paint. The bird carefully examined the machine's paintings. The clear and powerful lines, like a child's. Fragile and tender... The bird slept there. It felt like its nest. The bird slept there until the machine woke up early the next morning. The machine, as usual, gently woke the bird. "Wake up," he said, singing. The bird tossed and turned, then woke up.
“What will you teach me today?”
The machine asked with a puzzled expression. The bird shrugged instead of answering.
"Well, how about we try a portrait today? A self-portrait?"
He was astonished at the words he had uttered. It was a truly transparent, and in some ways pure, expression of desire. The machine nodded and sat before the mirror. With deft skill, it smoothed the canvas and squeezed a few drops of paint onto the palette. Then, without a pencil, it moved its brush. The bird watched. As always, even after yesterday's demonstration, it felt like a camera. Who would have thought it wasn't the same machine? Crossing its arms, the bird watched the machine draw, and suddenly realized it hated cameras. Was it because of that damned old woman? The thought made it unbearable. Without hesitation, the bird stepped forward and snatched the brush from the machine's hand. The machine looked up at it, bewildered. The bird snapped it in mid-air. With a short snap, it could no longer paint with that brush. The machine's face at first appeared utterly bewildered, but soon tears began to well up in its large eyes.
“I told you I was going to change my painting style.”
“I know, but…it’s my painting.”
“You said you’d satisfy me. Have you already forgotten?”
The machine shook its head sharply. The bird sighed. "That's enough for today." The machine lowered its head and began to cry. Normally, I would have hugged it, telling it not to cry, adding all sorts of sweet words. But for some reason, today, I didn't want to do that. The bird sighed again. The machine's crying subsided. The bird left first. It was sick of everything. The bird put a cigarette in its mouth. Now, it didn't even feel like smoking. Damn it. The bird threw the cigarette away, unlit. Where the cigarette landed, the bird didn't care at all. Damn it.
“Why aren’t you drawing today?”
The bird asked.
“I don’t draw.”
The machine hugged its knees and stared out the window at the rain. Its appearance was strikingly similar to that of longing for something unattainable. The bird asked, "Do you have whiskey?" The machine shook its head. The bird shrugged. It seemed that its irritating habit had returned. The bird helped the machine to its feet. Grabbing its thin wrist, it went into the studio. It intended to stay there for four days, painting only, just like it had done. But the machine wouldn't struggle. It wouldn't cry, clutching its aching belly with hunger. It wouldn't cramp its hands. The bird knew. Once inside, it locked the door. It removed the mirror and closed the curtains. As if performing a ritual too sacred to be seen by anyone. As if aware that it was committing a sin too hideous to face.
After two weeks, the machine was finally able to leave the studio. It had become quieter. It hadn't drawn much. The bird wanted to urge the machine. But it knew it shouldn't be a burden, so it simply held the machine as usual, calling each other's names until dawn. Even that seemed too much for the machine. It pushed the bird away with all its might. Tears welled up in its eyes. The bird threw its hand at the machine. The machine's head turned weakly.
One day, Sae realized the colors he'd confiscated were disappearing, one by one. He'd kept the confiscated paints in a cupboard, somewhere the machine wouldn't dare reach. He'd thought a thief might have broken in, so firstly, this was a place no one frequented, and secondly, there was no way a thief would just steal the paints. Sae sighed, looking at the paints that were disappearing again today. He had to wake them up. He had to. The machine was still too naive to know. What the world was like. He was finally trying to let it ride on his back and see the world, but it seemed to keep rejecting him. Sae took one step at a time toward the room where the machine would be. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked a couple more times, and a soft sound came from inside.
“…Come in.”
And the bird couldn't believe what it saw. The machine was packing. No, more accurately, it was ready to leave. The bird stared blankly at the machine. Like an idiot, unable to say anything. It spoke in a choked voice.
“Where are you going?”
The machine answered.
“Outside.”
The bird grabbed the machine by the collar. A burning desire to sever all its joints, like last time, seethed within it. The machine shouldn't have done that. How dare it leave? How dare the machine, the bird? The machine, the bird. The machine, caught by the collar, remained unresponsive. The bird was enraged at this sight. It punched, kicked, and threw objects. The machine remained calm. The bird demanded an explanation. How could you do this, knowing what I sacrificed for you? It shouted. Have you forgotten your promise to fly together? The machine remained silent, its body bruised and battered. This made the bird even more miserable. The bird looked up at the machine. Its empty eyes were frightening. The machine held its suitcase and spoke.
"hi."
“……”
“I’m fine.”
A letter arrived after a year. Following the funeral home address, I arrived at an art gallery. In the gallery's most beautiful exhibits, there was a machine, gaunt and withered. The bird looked at the description below. "A stuffed animal of a genius who swept the art world over the past year. He wrote in his will that his body be stuffed and left behind." So, the bird now heard the machine's bird, and his last word. Now, he didn't have to go to that damned art gallery every day to hear about the machine. The bird looked up at the machine again. He was no longer moving. The machine's body was scribbled with the scribbles of some thoughtless person, scribbles like "Junseo♡︎Yejin," tokens of impermanent love, and "FUCK YOU," just plain stupid marks. The bird was furious. Taking out a wet tissue, he scrubbed the scribbles away. Next to the bird, a group of students and a docent, perhaps on a field trip, were present. The docent spoke in a bright and cheerful voice. This work was named "This is my most beautiful appearance" by the artist in his lifetime records. It's been somewhat damaged by people, but isn't it still beautiful? The bird, which had been following the docent around and listening to his explanations, soon stopped. I felt sorry for the children who must have been following the docent. That wasn't the most beautiful appearance. The machine wasn't a piece of scrap metal like that. It was far more beautiful, far more lovable. The bird found it hard to listen to people who barely knew him babble about how it was a stuffed animal that captured a fleeting moment of his most beautiful appearance. In truth, this was his ugliest appearance. I hadn't left behind my most beautiful appearance, but my ugliest. And yet, people were enthusiastic about it. About the machine, whose skin was still stained with hardened acrylic paint.
The bird finally felt disillusioned with all of this. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He hadn't eaten anything for three days. He erased another "FUCK YOU" from the machine's foot. At the same time, the paint marks that had remained on the machine's foot disappeared. The bird stared blankly at it. Then he slowly turned and left the museum. It was snowing outside. Art would be deposited like snow. The bird knelt on the ground, already thick with snow, and searched for snow crystals. But the bird's crystals were nowhere to be found. The bird stared at his hands, now red from the cold, and then lay down in the snow. It was chillingly cold. Then, suddenly, the bird thought it seemed like blood was flowing from his eyes. Black, as it flowed, turning to paint.