Saturday, July 05, 2003
FINANCIAL INDEPENDENCE, Sex and Lies continued...
Teaching a few adult ed. courses and selling a painting once every six months would not earn me a living wage. I had to hustle my butt and look for what my parents would call "A real job". I was spending most of my time in my new studio, but I was still technically living at home. Pete continues to think this is all temporary. Divorce was irrelevant to me. I just wanted out and to get out I had to support myself totally. There was no thought of alimony, I was the one who was leaving. I didn't hate Pete. He was a great dad, a nice guy with a drinking problem that was not going to go away. There was no intent to cause him pain, but I knew at some point the shit would hit the fan. I tried to wiggle around the truth as long as possible.
The Boston Globe had the best classifieds and I saw that The Art Institute of Boston was looking for a new Dean of Admissions. It was a reach but I figured if I could sell them on me, I could also sell the school. That's what admissions people do, they are glorified salespeople. Luckily, events in my career as an artist were playing out well at this time too which didn't hurt my position with the hiring committee. My work had been accepted in several competitive local museum exhibitions and a new arts journal, ART NEW ENGLAND had recently started publishing. My friend Lois Tarlow wrote a profile story on an artist every month who was also featured on the cover. It was decided I'd be the cover story for their third issue.
I sent in my resumé and waited. The trick was just to get in the door and then I thought there might be a chance. I made the first round of interviews and waited. I never sweated a job application so much before or since. If I didn't get this I could imagine a life of waitressing while I struggle to make it in the Art world - big time. I made the final three applicants and we each had to appear in front of the school board and the Dean of Faculty. I forget who the competition was. This was the best performance since I appeared in front of that hospital board that granted me an abortion ten years earlier.
I got hired.
Teaching a few adult ed. courses and selling a painting once every six months would not earn me a living wage. I had to hustle my butt and look for what my parents would call "A real job". I was spending most of my time in my new studio, but I was still technically living at home. Pete continues to think this is all temporary. Divorce was irrelevant to me. I just wanted out and to get out I had to support myself totally. There was no thought of alimony, I was the one who was leaving. I didn't hate Pete. He was a great dad, a nice guy with a drinking problem that was not going to go away. There was no intent to cause him pain, but I knew at some point the shit would hit the fan. I tried to wiggle around the truth as long as possible.
The Boston Globe had the best classifieds and I saw that The Art Institute of Boston was looking for a new Dean of Admissions. It was a reach but I figured if I could sell them on me, I could also sell the school. That's what admissions people do, they are glorified salespeople. Luckily, events in my career as an artist were playing out well at this time too which didn't hurt my position with the hiring committee. My work had been accepted in several competitive local museum exhibitions and a new arts journal, ART NEW ENGLAND had recently started publishing. My friend Lois Tarlow wrote a profile story on an artist every month who was also featured on the cover. It was decided I'd be the cover story for their third issue.
I sent in my resumé and waited. The trick was just to get in the door and then I thought there might be a chance. I made the first round of interviews and waited. I never sweated a job application so much before or since. If I didn't get this I could imagine a life of waitressing while I struggle to make it in the Art world - big time. I made the final three applicants and we each had to appear in front of the school board and the Dean of Faculty. I forget who the competition was. This was the best performance since I appeared in front of that hospital board that granted me an abortion ten years earlier.
I got hired.
