Pixels are easy to persuade. It's
fooling the eye that takes practice, effort. The pixel doesn't care what color you tell it to be. It's happy to comply. But a person takes the pixels and
twists their
words around. A certain shade of grey can be an
accusation and another, a
promise, and still another, a
lie. I fill in holes, bit by bit, the places where
non-persons stood in
photographs. I reconstruct the wall, the sleeve of someone they stood next to.
It's a
subtle art,
nerve-racking. Sometimes I wish I could take the pen and swipe a
thick black line across the screen, to relieve the
tension, to suffocate all the
precious details. But I am not alone in the
Ministry of Truth and even if I were, I would still be seen. The
frustration builds all day and it would be
unwise to seek
release. I try to
push it aside, concentrate on the work, learn not to mind working with pictures
blown up until they are nothing more than a
meaningless grey quilt.
There are times I wish I were a
prole, free to make a living from
menial tasks.
Physical labor frees the mind. It's all
easily-learned algorithms. With enough practice, it can be done
automatically, leaving one to consider whatever one chooses. But this.. The motion of the pen across the surface of the desk is
mechanical - click, click, click - but that motion can mean a million different things. It demands
concentration, a
myopic focus on
dull configurations, and the ability to perceive the effect on the picture as a whole, looking at only a
fragment.
I keep my
posture straight, my expression
content,
studious,
neutral. I watch the darkness of a pixel change in
increments. I push numbers around on the tip of my pen. I had to learn not to
clench my teeth while I work.
It would be noticed.