"The relationship between the artist and society is intertwined and sometimes at odds as it relates to art and ethics. Neither has to be sacrificed for the other, however, and neither needs to bend to the other in order to create or convey the work's message. Art is subjective: it will be received or interpreted by different people in various ways." (Peggy Blood and Pamela J. Sachant, "Chapter 11: Art and Ethics").

...

ROOM 312 is quiet when I arrive. We're on the east side of the city by 3rd Ave. There are a handful of others already seated—a girl scribbling in a sketchbook, a guy swiping on an iPhone, another guy flipping a page in a pocket-sized book, a girl with wired headphones humming lowly. It's all awkwardly spaced so far; gaps in seats and desks defining negative space between everybody. It's what a mixed Humanities class looks like on The First Day. Everybody is from different years and majors at SAD.

It's a little less isolating. Knowing... nobody knows each other yet.

I sit somewhere between everybody and glance around briefly. I'm fourth back, second from the right wall. Though I like being beside a wall... I ruminate as I almost get up. There are always writings; Sharpie-scrawled graffiti in scratchy handwriting. Here, I'm floating in a sea, strangers on all angles of perspective I see. Unstable.

It doesn't fill quickly. It fills excruciatingly slowly. My chest sinks as I realize it'll be a small class, an... intimate class, Deja.

It's written on a chalkboard at the front of our 90s throwback classroom: ART & ETHICS.

Somebody walking in coughs. He grabs a corner desk by the door. Then a girl slides in and hangs her tote bag on another seat in front of me. Then another girl, a guy, a guy, a guy, a girl, all filling up in five measly rows. Film Language II had been at least twelve rows of douchebags I didn't know. Here I was dealing with fourteen randos I'd probably learn about so very soon. Ethics always bring out the worst in us, I swear.

Art and Ethics?

This will be... interesting.

Everything else had been perfect, I kept saying. (Seriously. Fucking Liam.)

I'd been dangerously excited for Art and Ethics.

I still was, admittedly—

Until I catch a single glimpse of a Timb-wearing, curly-haired asshole I'd never spoken to in my life dropping in a minute early to my class, my Art and Ethics.

His jeans are ripped. His flannel has a wrinkled look. His whole body moves in a way I don't completely understand. I've been studying motion—literally, motion—for four years; his weight seems shifty, but easy, almost as if he knows he's a dick. Miller High Life, baby.

I press my lips, but force my gaze away.

Damn.

He drops down into a seat diagonal from me and leans back, unzipping a black backpack and—

Okay. Now I force my gaze... off. Let's go. Okay.

Walt Morris is old. Probably in his 60's. Glasses. He has a scrap of grey hair but a youthfully mischievous look. His gaze titters around but never settles on anybody.

"Okay. Here we go, folks." He claps his hands. "Art & Ethics. First, we start with Art. What is Art?"

Nobody says anything. It's a shitty question.

"That's why you're here," he says pleasantly. "What is Art?" Morris keeps going: "We're living in a very visual world—surrounded by Art. Images. Sounds. Videos. Look at your Ads on Instagram!" He seems enthralled already. "Where you find humans, you will find Art. But can we define Art?"

There's an uncomfortable shift. Nobody answers again.

"What is Art?"

"Anything," I mumble. "Everything is Art."

"Louder?"

"Everything is Art," I say again. My cheeks warm as I look around, letting my gaze fall half-heartedly.

"Okay, and what are Ethics? Morals? Does Art exist without Ethics?"

"Do Ethics exist without Art?"

"Yes," I hear myself murmur. He clearly waited until I spoke before giving such a half-assed question. I'm half-rolled eyes when I see Timbs glancing back. "Ethics are a means of measuring human behavior; it isn't related to Art. But Art is tethered to Ethics. Everything we create is driven by human behavior because humans create Art."

"Nuh uh," a guy with a shaggy cut says, "what about AI?"

"Now it's interesting, isn't it?" Morris asks. "Does Art created by AI still retain responsibility when it comes to Ethics?"

"Art being created by AI isn't Art," Timbs interjects. "It's a copy of Art. It's basically a knock-off." He shrugs. "Art is only created by humans, yes, who can create or destroy in ethical or unethical ways, but Ethics themselves are reliant on a definition of what is right and wrong, which is really... always... represented in a form of Art."

"Which came first?" Morris jokes. "Art or Ethics?"

My mind mulls. It's churning and wandering. I actually chew it over, I do. Because I'm intrigued, piqued, by it. Debate. I didn't usually back down when I disagreed, but if somebody could convince me to agree, I was impressed. It was difficult. Timbs keeps glancing back, but I avoid looking.

"Is it something Learned or something Innate? Do we have a Responsibility to follow Ethics?" Morris asks, leafing through a bunch of papers lazily. "Morality?

He splits us—half of us on a side surrounded by a cute pictorial of a classic Ethical Dilemma. The Trolley. I've been here. I'm saying, "Pull The Switch, obviously," and I don't hear an argument. Interesting. They're disturbingly quiet.

"What do we think?" Morris asks, shrugging. "Somebody."

I don't raise a hand. I don't look up. "Pull The Switch."

"If you pull the switch, you're directly responsible," he says, and I know his voice already. It's raspy accented English. "Whereas if you hadn't pulled it, you would be indirectly not responsible—something you couldn't control, something universal." Timbs leans back, surrounded by his silent group, too. "If you pull it, you're committing an unethical action."

"Isn't watching a trolly ram into five people an unethical action?"

"Not if you close your eyes," he jokes, lifting an impish shrug.

"You're letting it happen," I argue. "You're letting five people—potentially five mourning families—die over a single person?"

"Now," Morris interrupts. "Do we think about family? How many families mourning? Does it matter? What if they're children? What about a pregnant woman—"

"Grief is grief," a girl says. "It doesn't matter how many people. Somebody will grieve."

Then another guy: "You also can't assign value to life."

"But if you have the chance—the opportunity—to inflict both less emotional and physical harm on less people, aren't you morally responsible to act?" I challenge.

Morris looks absolutely delighted. "Now Morality in tandem with Action. Like you said, is it immoral to simply watch and let it happen? Is Inaction Immoral?"

Walt Morris is good at steering a conversation.

Because another guy jumps in: "Am I morally responsible for what happens to any of them? I'm just a guy. I'm not Denzel Washington. I can't save everybody."

"But it isn't being saved we're discussing."

"Yeah, we are," I say, "We are discussing who we value more and why. Do they have a family? Are they young? Children? Do they have a promising life ahead?" Snorting, I finish, "What if our single person—our birdwatcher—is a homeless man?"

There's a stunted silence as I realize I got hot quick.

"It's not about quantity. It's about quality. What if he's a murderer? We'd choose a 'Good Person' to live over a 'Bad Person'. Always. Because... Ethics."

"But—" Timbs interjects. "Why should any of us get to choose who dies?"

"The Dealth Penalty exists, doesn't it?" I shoot back.

And... I win.

Everybody goes quiet. Timbs presses his lips, as if he wants to say something else, más, but is backing down. It twitches into a knowing smirk, and I almost hiss. My eyes narrow. Dilo.

But Morris lulls a satisfied hum.

"There isn't a Solution," he says. "Only a Situation."

An Ethical Dilemma.

I have to see him every week. Debating. Right. Wrong. Ethics in Art.

I have a Solution, I think darkly.

If I'm ever put in a Trolley Dilemma, I'll just kill myself.

...

**HI GUYS! ✨