Mistaken Identity

—by Stephen “Esteban” Harrelson

It started like any other night.

Humidity hung low over the back porch where I paint and fight mosquitoes.

The air was thick, the bugs were hungry, and curiosity came creeping in like a stray cat looking for trouble (Sophie literally has them everywhere!)

So I did what any half-sane artist would do in the year 2025…

I fed one of my own paintings into Google Lens.

Big mistake.

Within seconds, the machine spit back a name: Itzchak Tarkay.

Israeli. Expressionist. Dead.

Apparently, I was no longer Esteban. I was a reincarnated legend with a European passport and a gallery somewhere in Tel Aviv.

I sat back in my plastic chair and blinked.

Was I flattered? Of course. Confused? A little. But mostly, I was suspicious.

Because Tarkay painted elegant women sipping wine on polished balconies.

I paint barefoot prophets and street musicians in neighborhoods where roosters outnumber gallery owners.

And yet... somehow… we were now the same man.

So I ran the test again—different phone, different angle, same porch.

This time? Patricia Grovezenski.

A new name. Still not me. But connected. Tarkay’s friend. His collaborator.

Coincidence? Or a deeper conspiracy?

At this point, the coffee was cold, the paint was drying, and I was starting to question everything.

Had I become an AI-generated ghost painter?

Was my cardboard-and-spatula style triggering some buried metadata from a European art auction in 1993?

Or was Google just making it up as it went along?

I don’t know. I’m just the guy sweating on a porch in Central America, painting his soul out while slapping bugs off his ankles. But I do know this: in the neon-lit alleyways of the internet, identity gets slippery. And AI? She’s a beautiful liar with a glitchy memory.

So take it from me—if you ever want to know who you really are, don’t ask an algorithm. Ask the brush. Ask the paint. Ask the canvas that caught your blood, sweat, and whatever accident turned into beauty that day.

As for me?

I’m still Esteban.

Still painting under the stars and streetlamps.

Still don’t own a beret.

But if Tarkay’s ghost wants to sit on my shoulder while I work—I’ll scoot over.

—Esteban

P.S. If you see Patricia, tell her she still owes me a brush.