2812. Just as the scribes who invented the alphabet thousands of years ago are somehow resident in the souls of all those who sit down at a typewriter and attempt to write something, so in every artist who tries to describe the world with paper, pencil and an eraser, the ghosts of Raphael and Rembrandt can be found.
And Mr. Hunt, and all those other artists residing in his makeup are
plunged into that state of shock, the precursor of despair, because of
the realization that they are witness to an event that is going to turn
all their skills, their insights, and their learning into an irrelevant
thing of the past of no real use to anyone any longer except as a freak
display of technical skill.
A freak display of technical skill is a poor substitute for a position
in society as the only individuals capable of describing the visual
world with the tools of a specialized trade. Mr. Hunt, as he walked
home, thought about all of those whose skills had become of no
consequence, to be now incorporated into the wax museum of anomalies of
2815. Mr. Hunt was perfectly willing to award the palm of accomplishment to a better artist. When he was looking at the photograph in the store window and all the while thinking it was a beautiful drawing, he was more than glad to recognize in the work an artist of extraordinary skill, more capable than himself.