Just some shameless self promotion
I wanted to write a post detailing the process of emailing eighty different artists for their biographies, but I decided that it might come out boring so I’m not going to. I will say, however, that should any of you have to contact an artist or two for any reason whatsoever, please don’t be at all intimidated. Out of all the replies I got, at least half of them contained questions about the auction they’re donating their work to (you’d think they’d know things like due dates already), a quarter of them replied with two-liner biographies, (thankfully there were artists who emailed two or so pages worth of information about themselves to make up for it –JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE THANKFULLY) and there was even one artist who pretty much asked me to write their bio for them. If I ever finish consolidating and rearranging them all into one polished information packet, I’ll be sure to alert all of the big shots in the world, including George Clooney, because I like to be acknowledged for my accomplishments in life and I learned on MTV today that George bought his personal assistant a two million dollar home. And that’s just the kind of acknowledgement I like.
The point is that these artists? They’re just people. Lazy, hyper-active, uninterested, bat-shit crazy, difficult people. They probably wash their clothes at a Laundromat and buy eight dollar Rieslings and eat tomato soup out of the carton. I mean, I know I do, and as both a writer and an artist who has SOME TOTALLY AWESOME WORK OVER AT THE 16TH AND MISSION BART STATION:
-that says a lot about how humble we all really are, doesn’t it?
**Sidenote: How I managed to capture such a gritty area in San Francisco without the slightest hint of bum or biker and, even more amazingly, IN THE SUN, is really beyond me. So for all of you who don't own pepper spray and/or aren't savvy to a typical day in the Mission district, I'm going to tell you the same thing that I told my grandma when she said she wanted to make her way on over to the station to see my work in real time: NO.
WHY AM I SO LAME?
So, we all know I’ve been on the hunt for an internship in the art department for a while now. I thought I found the one I wanted back in December when I interviewed for it but, as it turned out, the girl I was supposed to be replacing decided to stay and I didn’t vibe as well with the gallery director as I thought I would. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with her; the problem, of course, stems from me. I have horrible interviewing skills. HORRIBLE. Yes I have a good sense of humor and yes I can hold successful and interesting conversations with people and yes I can write well and yes I can apply all of those skills into one cohesive and relatively entertaining project like this website, but sit me in a chair in front of you and tell me to tell you why I think I’m worth your time and I turn into a complete moron.
Yesterday I had another interview for an internship position at an arts organization in San Francisco and I’m just going go ahead and admit that I want the job more than anything. In addition to gallery work they handle literary, dance, theatre and music programs as well. It’s like a smorgasbord of amazing things and there’s nothing more that I want than to build an artistic foundation with a place that treats creative outlets as something that’s just as life-sustaining as food and water, because that’s the way I feel about it. And it gets even better because the people that work there seem really cool. I didn’t get the weird vibe during the interview that I got with the last gallery and it was just a more pleasant experience overall.
However, getting back to that bad interviewing trait of mine, I’m going to keep my expectations low about the turnout of this one because when asked what I hoped to gain from the experience I think I replied with something in some inaudible dead sea language and then stuck my head up my own ass.
I wish I could just sit down and say something like, Hey people, my name is Chelsi, I love art and I want to dedicate my life to it and to helping others discover their love for it as well. I’m a hard worker, a great multi-tasker, and I’d be more passionate about helping you and being immersed in a community like this than anyone else I can think of because art is my life. –And then have them say in return, Chelsi, you’re hired.
Also, right after I thought I couldn’t turn into more of a rambling idiot than I already had, the interviewer asked, Do you have a website? To which I replied, Yes, to which she then asked, What is it? To which I then said something in Hebrew.
Website? WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME I WAS GOING TO BE ASKED IF I HAD A WEBSITE? I couldn’t possibly say, Yeah, it’s girlsarestrange dot com and if you’d like to find out what a complete freak of nature I am and then please visit it. Instead I paused, almost threw up and in my strange Hebrew-like mumbling, insisted that it wasn’t a site that exhibited my web-design skills (because it really doesn’t) and was just a simple, silly project.
As I practically ran out of the building, I called my friend Arwen and instructed her on how to make my entries private because I’m sure the likelihood of them googling me out of curiosity is pretty high. I mean, I’d do it if some weird girl came in and interviewed and turned into a gigantic sweating pig at the mention of her activities on the Internet. Can you imagine how horrifying it was to think of them finding this website and reading the entry I posted a while back about clam voyaging and oh, jesus christ. I should just crawl up into a cave and die, right now.
But here we are, back on track and public because, well, the thing is, a while back I asked one of my old teachers to write a recommendation letter for me, and the end goes like this:
"As I have followed Chelsi’s college career closely, I have seen that young woman struggle against a world in which the soul is so often left out. Through perseverance she has succeeded and now she wants nothing more than to surrender herself to her artistic impulses and show the world the kind of magic she’s capable of. When I speak to her I see a woman who sees things differently, and in many ways better, than the rest of us. I believe very much that she will provide an invaluable asset to the first organization willing to give her the chance."
I'd like to think that this is true and I want to keep it that way, so, GAS (which is in many ways, an expression of that very soul of mine) stays and hopefully I won't be blacklisted. We'll see.
Dubya Tee Eff
To all the art organizations that haven't responded to my intern applications,
I WANT TO WORK FOR YOU. FOR FREE. ARE YOU ALL SOME DAMN IDIOTS?
F-R-E-E LABOR.
LKJSAEHFKJHSGDIFOJKLSDJKF.
Regards,
Chelsi
Onward
I’m heading off to spend a few days with my Lesbionics, so I want to write my last post of 2007 while I still have the chance. I rang in this year not by doing anything fun like getting wasted or naked, but by sleeping. For some reason I figured if I brought in 2007 quietly, life would be gentle on me. See, at that time I was suffering from what then seemed like the ultimate torture, which was basically just being in limbo when it came to everything in my life. I wasn’t sure where I was going to live during the next year, I wasn’t sure what kind of relationship I had with my kind of sort of boyfriend, graduation felt so far away and anything and everything was seemingly neither here nor there. I had no answers and no set plans; it was pretty horrifying. Little did I know that 2007 would, instead of provide me with answers or hints to the purpose/meaning of my life, punch me in the face. Several times.
Of course, I’m mostly talking about the getting cheated on and every tragedy that’s struck me this December, and since I’m sure I’ve exhausted those topics to infinity and beyond, I won’t torture you by going over them again or by talking about all terrible incidents that I haven’t yet mentioned through this medium. I will say, however, that I’m saying goodbye to 2007 with my middle finger in the air. I’m so physically and emotionally drained at this point that it’s difficult to think.
Now that I know that there’s always a possibility that things can get worse no matter what, I’m going to spare myself the “safe” celebrations and welcome 2008 by getting shit faced with some of my most favorite people in the world. All together now: The way you bring in the New Year has absolutely no influence on the rest of it; there will always be good and bad. Sure, 2007 sucked hairy balls, but on the bright side, I’ve made a ton of new friends and I adore them immensely. 2007 was comparable to being in high school, not only because of the level of ridiculous drama, but also because it’s really rare to befriend the number of people that I did within the last six months or so without being in a forced environment. And in addition to that, I’ve deepened my relationships with some very special people; most importantly my father, and can you believe it? The reason behind that one is that my stupid car was stolen! I’m trying to believe that all the ache I feel can be worth it, depending on how I look at the situation.
So here’s to whatever 2008 has in store for me, whether it be fantastic or terrifying. I’ve made it this far, so fuck hoping for “gentle” – just give me real.
Definitely Officially Noteworthy
My grandmother’s birthday is in a little over a week so I went to go visit her on Thursday night. Since I can remember, visits to any older member of my family are always the same. We talk about things we’ve talked about a million times already, like, what I’m doing with my life, whether or not I’m dating anyone, how my health is keeping up, etc. It’s usually forced, painfully repetitive and well, you know, shitty. I think this might be a common problem among people who've chosen the same area of study as I have. What is there to say when you're a creative writer or someone who analyzes art, you know? I have no big angry bosses to bitch about, no office work to in well into the night, no suits or ties or casual Fridays. This is a very independent and risky thing that I'm doing and often, those facts are a huge cause of stress and worry when it comes to my very traditional family. I get tired of finding new ways to say that I don’t really know what I’m doing and I’m okay with that. And I can’t very well say that I’m getting so little sleep that I often get off at the wrong train stop on my way to and from the city and that on top of it all I’m not officially dating someone but I’m definitely officially doing someone, right? They’d worry themselves sick! And maybe call me a whore.
This time, however, my almost eighty year old grandmother who still drives herself around in her little Corolla, goes golfing and plays Mahjong for real money every Friday, made me genuinely laugh over noodles and tea. She recently hired a maid to come dust her house once a month for sixty dollars. This probably doesn’t seem funny to you, but if you saw my tiny little grandma, leaning back in her chair, sipping on green tea and proclaiming, “I’m living the good life, now!” I think you’d have to suppress a little giggle or two, too. Especially if she told you that her maid, Doris, is a seventy year old woman. I was shocked: “Grandma! You hired an OLD LADY to clean your house when it’s already clean all of the time?” She smiled and said, “Chelsi, I’ll have you know that Doris is very agile for her age. Just like me.” I just about died.
I’m telling this story because, as you've probably guessed, for the longest time I dreaded conversations with her. I’m sure she was being overly fussy and I was being overly sensitive, but she used to always make me feel like I wasn’t good enough. She liked to rave about her step grandchildren, the ones who are gymnasts on full-ride scholarships to Davis, but with me, it was more like I was always in the hot seat. It just seemed like having a granddaughter who’s into hippie shit like liberal arts and prose wasn’t that thrilling for her, and I took her endless questions about it as a desperate search for a little nugget of something to be proud of. I’m not sure what did it, but something in her (and possibly me) has changed, and now when I look at her I see so much of myself.
Toward the end of our dinner she pulled out a little plastic container full of some chocolates she brought back from her recent trip to France. And as we sat there nibbling on them, she talked in depth about how she felt when she saw the Mona Lisa and the beaches of Normandy and I thought, that, that right there, that love for things like art and travel because of the way they seem to nourish your soul, that’s me. And I’ll never be able to explain how much I love that we share that.
An Artist’s Temperament
One of the advantages of being a Big Geek is that you unintentionally learn a lot of valuable skills. In my case, I began typing somewhere between 60 and 80 words per minute when I was in the seventh grade. This is probably due to the fact that instead of enrolling me in a dance class or a gymnastics class or that one class that turns young and impressionable children into musical prodigies like my mother always talked of doing, she sent me to a summer computer class where I sat in a stuffy room in front of a black and green monitor and typed. Then I went home and wrote short stories on our computer (at a quick pace!) and painted and drew. In the seventh grade, well after my summer-o-fun, I was required to take a computer class in which we spent the first half of class learning to type with the help of Mavis Beacon or Casper the Friendly Ghost, and the second half playing games like Indiana Jones. Fortunately I already knew how to type fast, so I finished my lessons quickly and went on to saving damsels in distress before most of my fellow classmates had even finished their first sentence. Tests to check our progress were held every two weeks. Each student would take his or her turn retyping the sentences that were displayed on Mr. Jacobson’s personal computer screen. And as if having an overweight computer nerd with consistently sweaty armpits looming over your shoulder as you stared at the blinking cursor, rhythmic like the foot-tapping of an impatient woman, wasn’t enough pressure, whatever was displayed on the monitor was also displayed on a large television set that was turned so everyone could see how the person in the hot seat was doing. That is thus far, the only instance in which going up in front of the classroom hasn’t completely terrified me.
The whole fast-typing thing lead to a job during high school at a law firm where I typed letters dictated by attorneys. It was cool at first because the letters were recorded onto tiny cassette tapes and I had this little pedal under my desk that when pressed would play the tape into my headphones and when released would stop it so I could type what I’d heard. Then when it was pressed again, it would rewind just a smidge so I could hear the last three or four words that were said just in case I had missed or forgotten them. Soon after the “cool” wore off, which was very quickly, a normal day was full of this:
“Pursuant to section 108 d of the-” “108 d of the” “Section 108 d” “To section 108 d” Okay. “Pursuant to” “Pursuant” “Suant” “Pur” “Pur” “Pur” “Pursuant to section 108 o-” “Section 108” “108” “Pursuant to section” “To section” “Pursuant-”
And so basically one day I “got lost” walking to work after school and never found my way back to that job again. A similar thing happened at another office job that I went for a couple of years ago out of a desperate need for cash. This time though, my attendance was optional because it was a student job and they didn’t want to interfere with my studies. By the way, if you hate your job and your attendance is optional, you will hardly ever go. And when you do go, you will spend your time looking for office supplies to steal and websites from which to download the Shallow Hal soundtrack and you will sign up for various online writing communities instead of working on your own personal .com that you paid good money for. And then a fellow secretary will find a box of old mail shoved under your desk that should have been filed six months ago and because it was not probably kept certain cases moving along at a nice snail’s pace, and you, who in fact did not place the mail there, will wonder why you didn’t think of hiding it yourself.
Back in January, when I was still kinda sorta attending said job, I joined an online writing community because some crazy hair up my ass spoke to me and it said, “Chelsi, if you join this online writing community you will have a reason to write while you are on winter vacation, and what you write will be glorious and many people will click on your articles and you will get paid vast amounts of cash with which you can pay your utility bills.” So I did, and since then have written one article. One measly article. I think I was kind of sore at the fact that my article was placed at number 17 out of 136 and was slowly moving down day by day. I mean, it’s a good article! I put a lot of thought into it! I used up good working hours to write that article! Do you know the kind of droning I had to tune out to write that article? Droning about casserole recipes and soccer teams! No joke.
Anyway. I checked the status of my article last night just for fun and guess what? My article is number 6 out of 226! That means two hundred and twenty people have a lamer article than I do! This excites me. The internet has finally acknowledged my abilities… sort of.
I’ve been inspired to pick up the project again, but this time it’s not because I need to pay utilities. I miss writing. I miss drawing and painting. I miss reading. I miss being a big geek. It’s time for this gross, zombified, nothing-but-work-and-school version of me to get out of town. I've come to realize that the workaholic in me doesn't actually get any real work done, if that even makes any sense, so I'll just go and fix my life now.
Wish me luck.