I have been back in the country for just under three weeks now, and as I expected, my time in Ireland already feels like it was a long and fitful dream. The memories rush away from my present at breakneck speed, and the more I try to desperately hang on, the faster life seems to gallop onward. I feel very much like one of my drawings of bearded men, Rip Van Winkle types jarred from dreaming and forced to exist in a world that no longer belongs to them. I have only turned twenty-six since returning, but I may as well be two hundred.
When I got home, I expected to be jobless and meandering for my first few weeks, bringing a few new works to fruition, lying outside and working on my tan, and being generally broke and pathetic, but wonderfully so.
Some of this came to be: I am, in fact, broke, having emptied my savings to live on Euro-bought fresh produce (my diet tends so much to affect my mental and emotional health, so it’s a priority) for two months. And I am, interestingly, developing a complicated and multi-coloured tan. Am I jobless? No. My Type-A drive insisted upon searching for jobs extensively in my last week overseas, turning largely to Craig’s List and my new-found reckless bravery to rattle off cover letters in minutes. This yielded in a handful of interviews, during each of which I was essentially hired or invited back for a more intensive interview and shadowing day. Insane AND true: I am finally the prettiest girl at the dance.
Here’s the I’ve Gone Crazy bit: I turned down two jobs already. They were decent; one was for a marketing company, and the other for an environmental organisation. The first one smacked strongly of the job culture and milieu of Macy’s, a job in which I was a sales manager who hated my life and rewarded my masochism of staying as long as I did by regularly buying designer shoes and sunglasses. The other one required long hours of door-to-door canvassing, and essentially worked on a partial commission basis. A little bit too profit-y for my idealistic view of working for a non-profit. Also, in my opinion, not the best use of my talents. I realise, quite often, that my uncanny ability to make strangers say yes to me is a little bit frightening and manipulative. I rather hate being paid for that skill, and would like to turn to it only if I am in truly dire straits.
The third job roped me in literally the day after I came home. I had submitted a couple of mural proposals for communities in Pittsburgh, and got chosen for two. The organisation, MLK Murals, is run by a few guys in their thirties who are all a pleasure to work for/with, if a bit lacking in communication sometimes. Essentially, my job breaks down as such: a nine-to-four, in which I spend an hour or two every morning teaching “at-risk” youth art classes based on a general curriculum with room for edit and addendum, followed by a day of working on-site to complete my mural designs (hence the multi-level tan: probably not the best idea to be on a job site in a bikini). The only thing about this job that is heart-breaking is the fact that it’s contracted.
Two places that this information hurts:
1) my heart. As it turns out, my sailor mouth, love of hip-hop, and general whimsy goes over pretty well with teenagers, and my ability to actually listen to what they have to say and encourage them makes the job fulfilling on many levels. Add to that the massive exposure of having my designs on huge walls in the city, and it’s a win-win-win.
2) my wallet. Because it’s contracted, I don’t see a dime of the money until the project is done. This results in a lot of begging and borrowing (Oh, hi, credit card. Let’s be friends.), including batting my eyelashes at bank tellers to deposit checks as cash so I can pay my exorbitant student loans, as well as eating only one meal a day and limiting my love of extravagant grocery runs to once every two weeks. On the bright side, due to my partial starvation, I look fantastic naked.
I’m a little bit worried about my decision to turn down promising jobs that assure me an income, but I went with my gut each time. During my last weeks in Ireland, I kept pulling the Four of Cups out of my tarot deck. See what the next opportunity has to offer; if it’s more of the same thing, don’t take it. I (perhaps naively) believe there’s something great on the horizon for me. I don’t want to commit to something I don’t feel excited about — that’s why this mural job has turned out to be such a blessing, despite the unusual nature of compensation. I know they’re good for it; I just wish Sallie Mae and American Education Services would chill the fuck out until then.
Graduate school is still very much in the forefront of my mind. It’s part of the reason I’m shirking the types of jobs that want me to come in entry-level so they can train me up to follow a runaway career path. I wonder sometimes (okay, often) if I’m being a brat, or arrogant, for feeling like I’m in a position to turn down a job. I’m certainly not there financially. I just don’t want to waste any time being unhappy. I want to go back to school and make more art, and learn more things, interact with people who are like-minded, forge a life for myself as a creative, have the credentials to teach college or high school, make beautiful works, and be a real artist. (A humble list, really.)
Life is trotting by and I’m trying to make sense of it all. So the blog continues. I’ve redesigned a bit, changed the name, and swept out the corners. I like to draw all kinds of things. This will be my space to do so.
I encourage dialogue; so, you know, talk to me.
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