I was one of the first. Perfect. A dream. Everything about me was, well… perfect. That was my USP and why so many brands wanted me. I was the face – and the body – of so many. They knew that, with me, they had the perfect look. That’s why they’d programmed me like that. Every detail, every pixel, every move and digital sound was tailored to… well perfection. But now, I’m left on the server. A relic. No-one wants perfection anymore. Look at that! Just the right amount of imperfection. Just enough. But where is the dream? Where is the fantasy?
Dispatch from an advertising future #162
https://www.theverge.com/22444020/chicago-pd-predictive-policing-heat-list
I’m hot. No, not that sort of hot. I wonder whether my avatar is red, standing out from others who are merely orange or even blue. I wonder if on some screen somewhere a human is watching as colours change. Probably not. It doesn’t need humans to colour code me, why should it need them to watch me. Maybe the idea of colour is just too anthropomorphic. Whatever, I’m “hot”. How do I know? Well I keep getting stopped, my way blocked. Wherever I am, they know it’s me. They call: “heh, stop, I wanna talk to you!”. Damn advertisers.
Dispatch from an advertising future #161
https://www.theverge.com/2021/5/18/22430340/deepfake-dubs-dubbing-film-tv-flawless-startup
They say they’re windows to the soul. They say they’re individual, unique, special. We look deeply into them when we’re in love or when we’re judging somebody’s truthfulness. Maybe that was why I always thought she has what used to be called ‘star quality’, that way with the camera. My streaming profile is full of her movies and shows. I thought it was just her, but now I see those eyes everywhere. Not her, just her eyes, that look. Women who don’t look like her, even guys. It’s unmistakable. It’s that look. Those eyes. I’ve even seen them in adverts.
Dispatch from an advertising future #160
https://www.theverge.com/2021/4/16/22388548/edward-snowden-nft-freedom-of-the-press-stay-free
“If journalism is the art of today’s chip wrapper, then what is what we make?” she thought in her darker moments. She held on to purpose as a justification for why she’d ended up here and tried to convince herself it was popular cultural art but deep down she knew. It was all transient, disposable. At least now all the Awards ceremonies were virtual so she didn’t have to go the parties and pretend they were Art openings. But now the Agency had renamed the Archive as “Portfolio”: a home for the NFTs she had apparently spent her life making.
Dispatch from an advertising future #159
She looked at her hand, at the shelf. She remembered The During, when she’d feared to touch things, obsessively reaching for the hand sanitiser in her bag. It had been normal not to touch, to not run her fingers along the shelf as she chose, through the rack as she browsed as she’d done in The Before. Now, in the New Normal, she could touch. But she was still wary. As her hand hovered, the shelf lit up: “Hello Jo, your key has unlocked your latest no-touch offer… just for you.” She closed her fist, pointed. “Delivered!” said the shelf.
Dispatch from an advertising future #158
https://gizmodo.com/deep-nostalgia-can-now-make-old-photos-of-your-relati-1846620089
I didn’t mind when she smiled. We’d been apart for so long, catching her smile was a reminder of The Before. She’d always been there, her quiet hint of a smile was an acknowledgement, an encouragement. Having her picture on the shelf wasn’t the same as having her here but those little signals, they touched me. But the update she’s just sent is different. It’s only a subtle raised eyebrow. Maybe nothing but I remember that look. It wasn’t disapproval. Too subtle for that. It was just a question. It was the look that just planted the seed of doubt.