Introit

My name is Peter. I graduated from art school this past May with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Photography. I had no idea what I was getting into when I decided to apply exclusively to those institutions of higher learning that specialized in creative education. High school was too easy. Straight A's came naturally, and I didn't have the wherewithal to take the few classes that may have actually given me a challenge. I stuck with the things that helped me feel as remarkable as I wanted to be.

Skip through all the tedious decision making, experimenting, stagnation, discovery, disappointment, your standardized collegiate experience, and you find me sitting in the air-conditioning in my boxers killing time before going out for sushi with the girl I love. The same girl I thought I had failed to woo in one of my earliest experiments with impulse, and made the incredibly easy decision to move on to a more intellectually stimulating environment. I'm not wallowing in post-baccalaureate, unemployed depression, nor am I recovering from another nocturnal bohemian ritual. What I am recovering from is a day of lifting, stickering, trashing, and delivering in ninety degree heat. I confess to spending most of this time in the air-conditioned basement of a small museum, but I do make jaunts outside through crowds of tourists with over a hundred pounds on a dolly. This wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't inherited my father's slightly overactive sweat glands.

So if you still find this interesting, this salinic position is actually a promotion. I used to spend all my time stagnating in the stores I now provide with wares. I am, essentially, a stock boy with extra duties sprinkled here and there, being bred to do everything my boss/manager/supervisor does now. Again sparing the mundanities that got me into this position, I find myself faced with the prospect of a meeting with my boss' boss in the next day or two. After a month of working twice as hard for the same peas and carrots I got in the stores, I get to have my position created, and my raise (hopefully) instated (retroactively please!). The only trick here is considering my future with the company. Where do I see myself? Of what use can I be? In short, am I worth the company's investment.

I want to cry out, "NO! I want to stay out of this basement forever and create a body of work that will be remembered for centuries, perhaps millennia! You suck all my time and energy out of me like a tired metaphorical vampire who needs to survive just a little while longer to keep itself relevant! I will flee at the first chance I see, so get rid of me while you still have the chance to do it on your own terms!" but I like the idea of having a steady job. A place where I know my function. America is a strange enough place to live. Why would I want to wander for years trying to create my own relevance when It is being handed to me on a pewter platter? Give me a salary and health insurance. Give me a reason to buy nice shirts and keep my stubble at bay. Give me a chance to have as many as three people working under me, and I will be sated. Give me a means to support this creative habit of mine. Something to react against or draw upon. Give me adulthood, and maybe someday I'll give you a work of art.