The passengers (the cargo) on the subway jiggle in unison: left then right, then left, then left again. Everyone leans but tries not to push on the person next to them—some, anyway. They stare in unison, though the rays of their eyelines are chaotic, like security vault lasers for heroes to acrobat through, like Da Vinci’s underlying canvas plans. She stares at shoes. He stares at the tops of breasts peeking out from a blouse between jacket lapels. She stares at the window but is thinking about her mother. She stares at her boy, asleep by her side, the undulations of the train pressing him into her. He stares at some nothing somewhere between him and the door, the interplay of blurry lit reflections in the dual-paned glass.

Fletcher Davis, he stares at an advertisement. He stares. His precise and calculating mind torn asunder by this ad’s garish lack of professionalism; totally devoid of style, proportion, measure, sensibility, schooling for God’s sake. It seems almost random with words crammed into the small four-foot-by-one-foot space that babbles—so much copy for such a small space!—on about Dr. Z’s miracle teeth whitening process; testimonials, benefits, details of the procedure and on and on. Dr. Z, an Indian or Pakistani man perhaps, balding and dressed in a white lab coat, is there as well, smiling a brilliant white hypnotic smile possessing a look that says, “The wisdom of the ages rests with me.” No! Fletcher thinks. Then he frowns and reads. “Studies have shown that people with brighter smiles are more successful and live more fulfilling lives.”—it’s elementary advertising! It’s the basics of a course in business writing: describe what the product does, what it will accomplish. But it just isn’t… cool.

And as if to emphasize the sheer miraculous joy of clean white teeth, there is a rainbow over Dr. Z’s head—a rainbow! Why! Fletcher clenches his fists, his palms sweaty. Is it the ad or another anxiety attack? He looks briefly around but none of the other passengers seem assaulted by this—this abomination of the senses. There is nothing clever or catchy or smart or chic or hip about this man or his product. Fletcher notices now that there’s a price in the ad, for God’s sake. How gauche! Yet his Bauhaus addled communication machine of a brain is compelled to keep staring at Dr. Z. His eyes are tired from the sixty hour weeks and his body is sore, jostling in this urban, mechanical python. He stares at the pearly whites of the wide-eyed Dr. Z. It’s a horrible ad–but damn it it’s… it’s a fantastic ad that scoffs at the sensibility of modern design. It’s a schoolchild’s scribblings accidentally re-creating Pollack. It seems honest and he hates its appeal. He hates that it probably works.

Untold millions are spent on getting you to wear Nikes and buy iPods—millions! billions! And yet here peers Dr. Z: Calm. Collected. He will make your teeth whiter and brighter. The poster will not relent so long as it offers to you your desire. It will not relent so long as this is all the art you see. It smiles and smiles as you rumble and rumble. Fletcher puts his head in his hands and looks at the flames meticulously painted on the sides of his dress shoes. It’s getting harder and harder to keep his head above the level of the onrushing monoculture; to keep from drowning every effort of peculiarity while anything but what is unique hypnotizes the masses. Artisté, creative director, designer, shill. Phbbbbt.

He looks up suddenly, realizing that his inner monologue has escaped his lips. Other than a few sidelong glances, his fellow travelers do not appear to think he’s insane. But he wonders if the Task isn’t slowly driving him crazy. He stares at the tile of the subway car floor, designed in the seventies and fluid and gross. Its liquid shapes shift as the lights from the tunnels come and go—black with speckles of white, like spattered paint. The floor pulses beneath his feet and, his hand returned to his hands, he wonders what the effects would be of decorating everything with garbage. And then he wonders if he could even tell the difference anymore.

Read the whole thread: Brain->Wash

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