Catlanta
Free Art. 900 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.
The security guard's flashlight caught fresh brushstrokes, still glistening in pre-dawn darkness. He lingered longer than protocol dictated, transfixed by the portrait that hadn't existed on this brick wall four hours earlier—an elderly woman's face rendered with such precision that the weathered lines mapping her skin seemed to contain the city's entire history.
"East wall," he reported into his radio, voice softer than usual. "It's another one."
Later, when his supervisor demanded he document the "vandalism," the guard found himself taking extra photos. One would become his phone's background for months to come.
Rory McKinnon's alarm shattered the stillness at 5:30 AM. His fingers, stained with pigment that never fully washed away, fumbled across the nightstand. Morning light filtered through the windows of his converted warehouse studio-apartment, illuminating canvases in various stages of becoming.
His phone screen lit up with Maya's message: They found the one at Riverside. Channel 5 is there. The councilwoman looks pissed.
He opened his laptop while brewing coffee. On screen, a city arts council representative gestured emphatically. "While we appreciate creativity, unauthorized installations circumvent proper channels that ensure public art reflects community standards."
The camera cut to a young mother on a bench, her toddler transfixed by Rory's triptych of the city's evolving skyline. "We pass through this park every day, but we never really stop. Today we've been here twenty minutes. It's like the painting is asking us to actually see this place."
Maya's follow-up arrived: Parks dept measuring for removal. Estimate by noon tomorrow.
Rory set down his coffee. Six hours of work for less than twenty-four hours of existence. He typed: Worth it.
The downtown gallery gleamed with strategic lighting and the particular hush of commerce masquerading as culture. White walls displayed paintings with five-figure price tags. Rory, now clad in a crisp black suit, circulated with plastic wine cup in hand, observing the social choreography of the art world.
"McKinnon."
Dennis Porter's handshake was firm, his smile practiced. Ten years as a successful gallery owner had transformed their former friendship into something resembling diplomatic relations between unequal powers.
"Still at that design firm?" Dennis asked, his tone suggesting temporary employment rather than Rory's eight-year tenure.
"Still paying the bills," Rory confirmed, suddenly conscious of the dried paint beneath his fingernails.
Dennis leaned closer. "These anonymous installations appearing around town. The technique, the themes—they remind me of your early work."
Rory maintained his expression with effort.
"It's impressive," Dennis admitted. "With the right representation, that artist could command serious figures." He gestured around the gallery. "Art needs context, Rory. Curation. Proper lighting."
"Or maybe," Rory suggested quietly, "art just needs to exist where people actually live."
In his studio that night, Rory worked on his most ambitious piece yet—a twelve foot tall sculpture depicting children discovering a fantastical creature in an urban playground. The creature was neither fully dragon nor jungle cat but something between worlds, its scales and fur blending into the playground equipment until the eye adjusted to see what was hiding in plain sight.
Maya arrived with Thai food, surveying his workspace before setting down the containers.
"They removed the Riverside piece this morning," she said, watching him clean his brushes.
"I heard."
"The local Free Art subreddit has fifty thousand subscribers now. People are doing 'art tours' of your installation sites, even after the pieces are removed."
Maya's expression shifted. "The parks commissioner has allocated funding for a 'public art initiative' inspired by—and I quote—'recent unauthorized but clearly resonant installations.' They're commissioning five local artists to create permanent installations."
"Co-option," Rory said, but without bitterness.
"Your work is changing things, Rory. The conversation is changing."
The community garden came alive at dawn. Rory secured the final corner of his sculpture to the slide, his movements practiced despite his fatigue. This location represented his most audacious choice yet—fully visible from the street, the structure larger than any previous installation.
The sound of approaching footsteps registered too late. Rory turned to find an elderly man watching him.
"So," the man said, voice graveled with age, "you're the one."
"Been wondering when you'd find our little garden," the man continued. "Walter," he added, extending a weathered hand. "I started this garden when the developer wanted to pave it for extra parking."
Their handshake sealed an unspoken understanding between different generations of the same impulse—to transform rather than accept.
"They'll probably remove it within days," Rory said quietly.
Walter extracted a ring of keys from his pocket. "Community garden shed. Board approved motion last week to make space available to 'the urban artist currently enhancing public spaces.' Could store supplies there. Maybe teach some workshops for neighborhood kids."
The first commuters appeared on the sidewalk. But as Rory turned to leave, he noticed more than one slowing their pace. A delivery driver removed his headphones. A woman in scrubs approached the fence.
Rory melted into the growing crowd, anonymous creator among anonymous viewers. A young girl tugged her father's sleeve, pointing to the creature hidden in the playground. "Do you see it, Dad? It was there all along!"
Her wonder—genuine, unfiltered—crystallized something for Rory. His paintings might be temporary, vulnerable to removal and regulation. But their essence—the moment of seeing differently, of pausing in automated journeys, of connecting with place and with others—continued beyond the physical object.
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