Human beings have always assigned meaning to signals.  Specific rhythmic drumbeats in Africa could warn of danger, summon a gathering, or announce a birth to villages over long distances. In ancient Greece, fire beacons were built on selected mountaintops spaced approximately 20 miles apart. When a watchman spotted the flame from the nearest tower, he would ignite his beacon. This process would continue, creating a chain of signals, until the intended message or warning reached its destination.

 

One of the most significant signals in history is the two lanterns hung in the Old North Church in Boston Massachusetts on April 18th, 1775.  As prearranged by Paul Revere, the warden of the North Church was to light one lantern in the church belfry if the British were approaching “by land”, or two if they came “by sea.”  Because of the systematic alarm triggered by the silent signal, in addition to Paul Revere’s famous not-so-silent midnight ride, local militias, and an armed resistance stood ready for battle in Lexington and Concord; the American Revolution had begun. 

 

Whether it’s a smoke signal, a traffic signal, an analog signal, or a digital signal, at a fundamental level, a signal conveys information or instruction through the transmission of data.  Ever since the first electrical signal was transmitted and received, we’ve benefited, we’ve progressed, we’ve… never really shut it off.  From radio to TV, the internet, to AI, the signal expands its vitality to both our advantage and sometimes our detriment.  That said, if there was ever a more iconic graphic to represent an interruption or a loss in signal than the SMPTE color bars, I haven’t seen it.

 

The multi-colored graphic was used as a test pattern in television broadcasting to calibrate the color accuracy of displays, but it didn’t become famous for that.  It’s sometimes even forgotten that the colorful pattern has the distinction of being one of the very first electric graphics.  When people see that pattern, even in my time when it should’ve been long-forgotten, they think of “no signal.”

 

I’ve heard that back in the 20th century, in the early days of television, channels would just stop broadcasting in the middle of the night.  For example, if you had drifted off to sleep, you might’ve been rudely awakened by a startling combination of a 1,000 Hz tone, and a blinding rainbow-striped screen. In a different scenario, one might’ve been so excited to set up their new TV that they incorrectly connected the cables in the back; the color bar graphic conveyed to them that their TV technically worked, but a signal wasn’t being received.  In my mind, Larky and Holmes (the engineers credited for the creation of the SMPTE color bars in the 1950s) made the graphic so happy-looking that it was hard to be frustrated when things went wrong.

 

Why did the happy graphic avoid a timelier death and maintain its relevance well into the 23rd century?  It now serves as a reminder of the importance of taking the time to unplug the world’s relentless signal, focus on being present, and maybe even put bare feet to grass.  No one in my time was more associated with that conviction than the actress Jule Hartley. 

 

I rarely heard my grandfather compliment a woman's looks, except for my grandmother.  That’s why I remember when he once described Jule Hartley as, “well put together.”  As true (and understated) as that was, Jule was a singular talent and more complex by magnitudes than clichés typical in the entertainment industry.  

 

Fiercely protective of her privacy and autonomy, Jule unapologetically ushered back a sense of mystique and inaccessibility rarely seen since Hollywood’s golden age.  Out of respect for her privacy, few in her orbit commented on her life offscreen, which left a void too tempting not to be filled by scathing rumors and innuendo.  When projects with Jule’s name attached to them began to quietly dissolve, stories circulated that she had suffered some kind of breakdown. 

 

One compelling explanation for celebrity self-destruction uses actual stars as a comparison:

 

“A star does not explode because it’s too brilliant, it collapses under its own gravity after depleting its fuel.  The star’s core can no longer withstand the gravitational pull and blows the star's outer layers apart.”

 

If that comparison were true, and Jule was self-aware enough to foresee that outcome, it’s possible she found a way to avoid that future.  But how would that struggle play out internally?  How, at the height of stardom, could she have the capacity to resist the abject inertia of fame without it pulling her apart?

The answers to those questions and any others became much less likely the day the SMPTE color bar graphic appeared in all of Jule Hartley’s social feeds.  

 

No signal.

 

Because it was largely known that Jule’s content was carefully curated by publicists, her fans intuitively knew that it was her, and she was saying goodbye.  When Jule vanished completely from the spotlight, they interpreted the graphic as a death, of sorts.  People even publicly went through the stages of grief.  They continued their digital lamentations and conspiracy theories for years despite the continued reassurance by Jule’s family that she was indeed not dead but in need of “indefinite privacy.”

 

In the past, the “flight” response triggered by a crisis was pretty grounded to the planet Earth.  But, ever since the advancements in space travel, and discovery of the Throughworlds, one could, if she had the resources, retreat indefinitely.  Jule Hartley had the resources, but, as it turned out, she eventually stopped retreating.  I know because I just spent a good part of the day barefoot in her front yard.

 

Just weeks ago, before we left Valseidon, I was contacted by the Jule Hartley Estate. The liaison proposed a commission to me and each of the visual artists of the Wanderment crew which coincided perfectly with our next stop – the planet Altrove.  We were asked to paint our original interpretations of “an esteemed family property” to be used for a media campaign back on Earth.  The gravity of the proposal was clear to us, but the complex legalese in the non-disclosure agreements that filled our inboxes after we accepted was not.  We signed them anyway.

 

The planet Altrove emanated warmth outside the Wanderment’s portholes.  We touched down a bit after sunrise and watched as the sky turned this special shade of blue made popular on Earth by the Robin’s egg.  It was as if the outer layers of the atmosphere rejected any light that couldn't enhance the beauty of what lay beneath it.  Even the warmth of early morning light lingered on my skin, as if eager to heal it from the deficiencies of weeks in space travel.

 

No trivial amount of time was spent high above the moss-green mountain ranges and rust-gold desserts of the serene foreign world.  The air shuttle pilots, tasked with our transport to the Hartley Estate, were less than conversational but did give us some safety precautions and mentioned the local time. There was also a bit about strange wildlife sightings in the outer regions, but I was sure they were just messing with us. 

 

Kiye sat beside me on the shuttle – hand close to mine, but not quite touching.  She told me all about how one of Jule Hartley’s interviews inspired her to ward off all electronics for an entire month to see if she could.  That was the summer she learned to paint.

 

Before the dust settled on the landing pad, we were led up a flight of steps and through the hissing doors of a sizable hotel featuring unlikely concrete curves and shimmering glass. Inside, we found a lobby that, despite its brilliant design and impressive décor, meant two things to the twelve of us as we stood packs-on-back: a long hot shower and a decent meal.

 

After those human needs were more than satisfied, we were introduced to our hosts in less of a conference room and more of an open-concept den with generous sectional couches. Saffron coffee tables hovered effortlessly at the perfect height for a drink.  I could easily spot the attorneys and executives, but those who had the warmest handshakes bore the Hartley surname. 

 

Don Hartley stood and introduced himself as Jule’s uncle. He thanked us for accommodating the estate’s proposal, expressed sincere praise for the intentions of our voyage, and got straight to the point.  He explained that the Hartley estate would soon announce the opening of a retreat on the grounds. It was to be “a place removed” and focus on promoting personal reflection, self-improvement, and spiritual growth.  He made it clear that Jule no longer lived on the property, but she wanted to share the place that had helped her heal, including her home, which had been preserved just as she left it before she “continued her journey.”

 

After Don concluded his remarks, a man in a suit went through some logistics. Each of us would receive a private tour of Jule’s home and have a couple of hours to sketch some references. However, no photos, videos, or holo-scans would be permitted, compelling each artist to complete their piece elsewhere from memory.

 

It was fun watching Kiye’s reaction to all of this.  I could tell she was concentrating on stifling her response, but the edges of her lips were starting to give way.  Everyone on those couches felt the excitement of the moment, even those who placed little value on celebrity.  We were about to paint on the canvas of pop culture itself.

 

I was offered the first slot but gave it up to Kiye, who beamed.  I used the extra time to walk the grounds and explore the vast campus beyond the hotel.  Artful buildings and walkways surrounded a lush common green which was home to spherical statues and calming water features.  I understood how someone could find what they needed there.  I found a little patch of grass and dozed off with my hand under my head until it was my turn to head out.

 

I recognized the same air shuttle pilots from our ride in as I buckled into my seat.  I had the whole cabin to myself for the short trip out to Jule’s home.  One of the pilots explained that the retreat was situated at a considerable distance from the residence to prevent any overly enthusiastic guests from making unsupervised trips by foot.

 

As we descended into a scenic valley, I noticed an isolated fenced-in property just outside the mountain range, set on cinnamon-colored terrain. From the sky, the home had a long rectangular footprint with a modest front lawn, but to get the full effect, you had to open the front gate and look up.  A second-story addition extended from the house in the shape of a vintage television set, complete with a skyward-facing rabbit ear antenna on the roof!    

 

My favorite feature was the floor-to-ceiling privacy curtains that completely covered the square picture window.  It displayed the iconic “no signal” color bar graphic, which Jule had become so associated with. To further indicate that the "TV" was indeed dysfunctional, a wooden panel protruded from the side, and circular cut-outs created openings where the channel and other adjustment dials should have been.

 

My guide's deep-dimpled smile shone brightly through a dark, patchy beard. He wore an open white linen shirt, tan beads, and a bohemian-style scarf tucked into comfortably sized drawstring pants that suspended a bit too high over sandals. Graham, as he called himself in a congenial Cockney accent, was instantly likable and put me at ease immediately. 

 

As Graham showed me in and slid open some gigantic glass doors to expose the entirety of the first floor to open air, in trotted a flop-eared, white and red-patched puppy, tail wagging.  With a slight bow, he introduced her as Haven, and after watching her shadow his every move, it became perfectly clear that the two were inseparable.       

 

Juxtaposing the exterior’s clean, minimalist lines formed by off-white stucco and gray steel support beams, the interior of Jule’s home was warm and cheerful.  Richly stained vertical wood panels lined the walls; their dark neutral tones highlighted vibrant pops of color from the burnt orange barstools, chromatic rug, and sky-blue refrigerator.  Even though the mid-century modern trends of the 20th century continued to resonate in my time, I still felt like I was walking onto an authentic period piece shot on real film. 

 

We walked past a narrow spiral staircase and a wall sculpture made of complementary-colored stained-glass rectangles, cleverly arranged and attached to a slim iron rod.  Beneath it, on an angular accent table, stood some eclectic oddities that I knew were worth taking the time to sketch individually to accurately capture in my finished piece.    

 

As we passed the refrigerator, I stopped to read a magnet on the side: “‘Unplug and play’ said no instructions inside any box.” I must’ve read it out loud without intending to.  Graham sighed, and I waited a moment to see if he was about to offer some personal insight on the quote. Instead, he smiled and told me that if I paused too long by the fridge, I was obligated to give Haven a treat.  Sure enough, I looked down to see her sitting politely, with large, eager eyes - head cocked slightly to one side.  She loved cheese.

 

Natural light flooded straight through a palm tree and into the furthest room of the house. My eyes were immediately drawn to the small collection of vintage guitars that hung on the wall in an even row.  The reaction was not lost on Graham, who told me I could feel free to play any of them as long as I left them in tune.  He pointed out his favorite, a cedar top acoustic, quilted maple back.

 

Because I could tell that Graham was avoiding any talk of Jule, I decided not to pry. I could tell at that point that it wasn’t that kind of tour.  I was actually relieved when he began to excuse himself since I had such a limited time to sketch my references for the piece.  He gave me sort of a salute and told me he’d be back in a couple of hours.  He wished me luck over his shoulder, and Haven, already half asleep in an oversized lounge, darted up and scampered at his heels.  I admired the guitars for a minute or two before heading back outside to find the perfect spot for my sketches. 

 

I thought Jule would approve of me ditching my shoes so I could feel the first patch of green grass under my feet since Earth. The more I worked, the more I fell in love with Jule’s home.  It really was, as first described, “a place removed.” As I did the linework, I wondered what it would be like to have such a vibrant signal that it took a displaced galaxy to attenuate. 

 

As I sketched, recreational single-passenger rockets called “Dashways” sliced through the double moons that were just bright enough to be visible in the daylight sky.  I made a mental note to see if Graham knew where I could get my hands on one during my sojourn on Altrove.  Since being banned on Earth due to their potential for reckless speeds, they were quickly gaining popularity in the open skies of the Throughworlds.         

 

I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had completed all my reference sketches before Graham returned. This meant I’d have a little time with that quilted maple beauty on the wall.  After retrieving it, I returned to the front yard so I could spend the last moments memorizing the colors and the textures of the scenery while playing, probably badly.  I sat atop a heavy bronze sculpture of Saturn, the central feature in the front yard, and began to play. 

 

After the first clumsy chords, Haven came trotting down the spiral staircase, claws clip-clopping on the metal.  She sat herself down politely in the grass in front of me.  Though I was delighted to have such a captive audience, I kept hearing a rattle inside the guitar.  All guitarists recognize that noise: a pick stuck in the soundhole.  I took a moment to turn the guitar upside down and gently shook it out. 

 

As expected, a Fender medium pick first hit the strings with a chime, then my lap.  What was unexpected was the strip of paper it was wrapped in.  I squinted my eyes to read the hand-writing:

 

“Your talents are more important than you know.  I’m sorry.”

 

My whole body shuttered, though I didn’t know exactly why.  I could hear someone approaching from behind the front gate.  I made the split-second decision to shove the pick and the paper into my pocket.  I expected to see Graham, but both shuttle pilots approached slowly and told me it was time to return to the retreat.  I asked if I could say goodbye to Graham, and both of them looked at me with almost blank, if slightly thrown, expressions. I looked down and noticed Haven was gone.  They emphasized the importance of adhering to the schedule, so I quickly tucked my sketchbook and supplies into my backpack. With my shoes in one hand, I made my way to the shuttle.

 

I waited until I was in my room and behind my locked hotel door before I emptied the contents of my pocket. I placed the pick on my dresser and examined the note once again. I noticed that the paper appeared thicker than most stocks and realized it had been folded a couple of times. Unfolded, on the opposite side of the quote, was a bold retro font accentuated by a red five-pointed star that read, “Cinema.” It appeared to be a vintage movie ticket – complete with a slotted section meant to be torn upon entry.  It simply stated, “Admit One.” In the margin, the same handwriting as the flipside said, “Rob, meet me here, but only if you’re ready this time. -Jule”

 

Human beings have always assigned meaning to signals. But what if Paul Revere didn’t tell the warden charged with lighting the lanterns their meaning?  Or, what if the drum players in Africa failed to teach the neighboring villages the messages conveyed by the different hits or rhythms?  No matter how simple, complex, or well-intended, the messages would be completely ineffective. 

 

There was too much missing.  Why would Jule completely sever her signal to the world, but transmit it to me, a complete stranger?  Where was the theatre that the ticket would conceivably admit me to?  What did she mean, “only if you’re ready this time?” 

 

For the first time since my journeyings began, I felt vulnerable.  As if some real or perceived guardrail had lifted, leaving me exposed to something both consequential and beyond my control.

One thing I understood was that whatever the ticket meant and why it was given to me felt too important and too personal to go unacknowledged.