A Crummy Day It Was Indeed

I'm an adjunct art professor. "Adjunct" is a fancy word for "part-time." I'm completely qualified to be a full professor, but the penny pinching state of Tennessee would rather save a few bucks by hiring several adjuncts than hire one full timer. See, adjuncts get about 1/3 of the pay that a regular professor gets, but we work 2/3 the time as a full professor. The state is basically getting slave labor. And we don't get any benefits at all -- I haven't been to a real doctor in years. If I get sick, I either suck it up and wait it out, or I go to the pay-by-income public health department. I have a Master's degree and a job in my field -- yet I live like a welfare recipient. Why do I choose to do this? I see it as biding my time, paying my dues, building up my resume, until I can land a full time gig. It's what most people have to do in this profession. On average, it takes five years of the grunt work to land the full time job.

In order to better myself and further my career, I have been interning for a professional artist in Nashville on my non-teaching days. Her name is Adrienne, and she's working on a massive sculpture project. She currently has twelve interns, and all are college students except for me. Since I have more experience than they do, I was quickly thrust into the role of Studio Manager, meaning I have a key to Adrienne's studio and I run the place when she's out (which is very often, seeing as how she's nine months pregnant - her due date is tomorrow.) This is an unpaid internship, though we are making incredible contacts with gallery directors and other professional artists, and we get to learn the ins and outs of life as a professional artist. I think that making these contacts is worth its weight in gold, so I feel like I am receiving payment of sorts.

The other day I was in the studio and was supposed to take some of Adrienne's small sculptures to the loading dock so her gallery rep could get them and ship them off to a show in Georgia. She had been trying to get me to meet this gallery rep for a long time, and told me to make a good impression on him. You can read about the chaos that ensued in the following email, which I sent to Adrienne that night. Enjoy!


Adrienne,

I finally met Jerry Dale...

and I couldn't have made more of an ass of myself.

So I'd been looking forward to meeting him for a long time, and was determined to make a good impression. He drove up to the loading dock, and I wheeled the cart close to the edge so we could easily unload it. I got down off the dock and was on my way to introduce myself to him when I saw the cart moving out of the corner of my eye. I raced to the edge of the dock just as the wheel of the cart rolled off the edge, and the boxes started sliding toward me. And what do I do? Keep in mind this all happened so fast I hadn't even introduced myself yet -- I started screaming "OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!" and threw myself in front of the boxes. And Jerry came running to help. Luckily I caught most of them, but a couple slipped off the cart. So, without a word passing between us, (with a couple glances of "are you a freakin' idiot?") we started opening the boxes to see if everything was okay. We didn't open the bubblewrap, because everything looked fine -- and he felt assured that it was all okay. So then we retaped the boxes, and I let him load everything in his truck because I didn't want to touch any of it, and he said he was in a hurry and had to go. Only then did I get the chance to introduce myself and try to make him believe that I'm not usually this unprofessional. Then he drove away, and I realized that in the flurry of excitement I forgot to get him to sign the consignment forms. So I called him up and asked if I could meet him at his gallery. He said okay, but warned me that there was something going on downtown with a bunch of people. I got to Broadway, and there was a swarm of people and police cars. Turns out there was a walk-a-thon AND a Predators event. Jerry then called me and said he barely convinced the cops to let him through, and asked if I wanted to wait and get the forms tomorrow. I told him to give me 5 minutes to try to find a parking spot... which I did, several blocks away. In the end I got the forms signed and left your copy in the studio manager file, and most importantly the artwork appeared to be okay, so I guess it all worked out. Unfortunately, Jerry Dale will NEVER forget who I am. I sincerely apologize for the mishap with the rolling cart, and I will totally understand if you revoke my studio priveleges. I probably shouldn't handle your art for a while, at the very least. The looming question is, can you ever trust me again when I say, "Don't worry, I've got it under control"? The only thing that remotely appeased my embarassment was when Jerry picked up the rolling cart and put it back on the loading dock, it started rolling toward him. And he said something like, "whoa, it almost rolled off again." So maybe the dock is slightly slanted. Or maybe I'm just hoping that's the case.

I'll be at the studio tomorrow if you want to stop by and chastise me.

With sincerety and gratitude,

Rachel the Dolt