The Midnight Train to Georgia

The Hyundai Santa Fe: It's not just for tourists either

Despite my thin credentials, I have been telling people I’m a writer for years. I admit it is a bit of a white lie. I write things, but like someone who never actually took karate but who watches a lot of martial arts movies*, I am more or less self-taught and largely untested. This doesn’t mean I don’t work hard at it or take the craft seriously. Indeed, as someone who spent six years and six figures on his arts education, I am quite used to the idea that working in isolation and without an audience can be very fulfilling, if not exactly lucrative.

It is a clichéd thing to say that I have been writing since I was a little boy, but that’s how it is. After my parents bought an old typewriter at a garage sale, my brother and I sat at a desk and composed one-page stories about going to public school. Eventually the heavy, ribboned machine gave way to an Apple IIc and a dot matrix printer, and finally an electric Brother typewriter that had been left behind by my college-attending sister, on which I penned my first and final attempt at a hip-hop song, a masterpiece I modestly titled “Rad Rap.” Unfortunately, I have since forgotten the lyrics, but I can tell you that its subject was Nintendo games, and how awesome they are, and how awesome I am at them.

I am also a sporadic keeper of journals, and I still have them even though rereading them shatters many myths I maintain about how different I am now and how much I’ve matured, etc, etc. In point of fact, they are valuable only because they illustrate to me just how little I’ve evolved since I was in high school. They definitely don’t help me to learn from my mistakes. I’m surprised to see that I have, at times, made the same resolution to act a certain way in subsequent entries, clearly disregarding my own advice from the prior entries. I think the only reason I bother with them is so that I do not repeat the mistake of writing something like, say, my only rap song ever on a loose leaf of paper that is certain to get lost. A bound book is a more complete, more painful, and therefore more truthful retelling of a lifetime.

I don’t know what compels a person to sit down and string together words or why they continue doing it into their 30s. I can only offer that it makes me feel good about myself. Obviously, I wish I had more discipline. Like any craft, to be a good writer you must put in the hours to get a good product, but sitting down to write when I’m not feeling inspired, staring a blank page, is a very ominous feeling. One of my favorite quotes, attributed to Dorothy Parker, goes, “I hate to write, but I love having written.” Of course, she committed suicide, so maybe she should have gotten gone to culinary school or something.

I write, primarily, to keep myself from going insane. I actually feel lucky if I get even one comment below a post, so I don’t feel that I am just shouting down an empty hallway, but you’ll also notice that I continue to post even when I don’t. In the truest sense, I write for myself.

It came as a surprise when, last summer, even though my publishing record at the time was one unsolicited art review, a catalog essay for the show I curated, and this blog, I found myself in the peculiar position of being offered money to write. With little hesitation, I agreed that I would sell out, and I’ve been writing a weekly column of art criticism ever since.

…

About a month ago I accepted a job at a hospital. It's not a great job, but it is providing me with much needed experience, not to mention insight, for my future career. In almost every way this is a positive step. The most significant drawback is that I no longer had adequate time to write my column.

When I took the job I thought I'd be able to keep writing, but after a few weeks I was exhausted and not feeling satisfied with some things I wrote. After a lot of consideration, I made the decision to resign from my post, and this Wednesday I will revert back to my original form as an unpublished nobody.

I’m saddened to let go of something that was so validating for a writer, not to mention a job that kept me very attuned to the local art scene. Then again, I’m looking forward to the option of spending weekends with my wife.

It’s funny to think about now, but when I was offered the job it felt like I’d won the lottery. Of course, when you factor in the 3-hour commute, self-employment taxes, and the abysmal weather they get up there, it was a lot less lottery-like. Still, I felt like I’d been discovered. I had worked hard, writing for an audience of friends and family, and I was reaping the rewards for being so fucking clever. It was a real rags-to-slightly-nicer-rags story.

I have been writing weekly reviews about Santa Fe galleries for 10 months now and, as with most any job, I’ve had mixed feelings on the matter. There was a feeling of euphoria, but the positives, initially, were far overshadowed by the paralyzing insecurity I experienced.

Despite my 10-strong readership of this blog, I had never really written for an audience, and it kind of freaked me out. Suddenly I had an editor who could change what I’d written and take out the words I so carefully put in**. Suddenly I had a deadline to meet, so I couldn’t just write when I felt like it (on average, once every 3-9 weeks). Suddenly there was the prospect that someone might tell me that my writing sucks.

All of these things happened, but none of them were as bad as I feared. After a while I stopped worrying about the audience so much. My editor gave me pointers. I even learned a few things, like subject-verb agreement, that were probably covered back in high school. I met all my deadlines, and never had to do a rewrite.

I did have a couple embarrassing moments, like the time I misquoted another article, or the time I joked about a gallery not really being closed despite a huge flood that shut it down for several weeks. But most of what I wrote was my opinion, so it couldn’t be fact-checked.

However, being a critic was sometimes a heavy task. No doubt I am expected to have a vested interest in the subjects I write about, not to mention a certain level of expertise. Well, my involvement in the art world is at times tenuous, and I’m not just being modest when I say a master’s degree doesn’t guarantee that I have any idea what to say about a large majority of the artwork I see.

Since I was free to cover any shows I wished, my approach was intuitive. I would keep going to galleries until I found something I thought I could write about. I found it was easiest to write about shows I enjoyed. It was also fairly easy to write about shows that, for one reason or another, offended me. Though, in the latter case, I would often feel very guilty and uneasy afterward. I was acutely aware (in my imagination) of the hurt feelings I’d caused, because I have experienced them firsthand with my own attempts at exhibiting.

It's a strange proposal, art criticism. I know a lot of art is therapy, and I think it's a worthy endeavor, but I'm not so sappy that I believe all art is important or transcendent. It's been commodified and over-marketed like anything else. In a place like Santa Fe, it can be just one more way to make a buck. Ignoring a large portion of the Southwestern-influenced tourist market, I tried to seek out the shows that mixed technical proficiency with personal philosophy. Whatever the motives the maker has, in the end it is difficult to ignore the fact that I am criticizing them.

On the worst days, my role as a critic just struck me as mean. I usually tried to avoid meeting the artists because I found it was much harder to be critical of someone if I could picture their face. It was even worse if I'd had any kind of discussion about the work. Standing there, listening to an artist stammer about why they did what they did, I would be composing my article in my head. I could sense their hopefulness, and maybe even their fear, about how I would respond. Something about this exchange seemed dishonest, like I should have said to them, "I'm really sorry, but you're full of crap." Although, I see that wouldn't have made them feel any better about the ensuing review.

I guess I wish there was enough good art around to only write positive pieces, but there just isn't. I had the tough task of calling it like I saw it. I think it would be a disservice to always tell everyone they're doing a great job. Upon reflection, I think any artist would know that wasn't true, but it doesn't make me feel any less sorry about it. I didn't accept the job to create enemies, but it's part of the deal.


Of course, I'm not sure I made a lot friends either.

Freelancing is a lonely endeavor. Working alone with almost no feedback produces in me a dangling feeling. The time between when I submit my draft and when it is approved seems to last forever and interferes with my ability to concentrate on anything else. I would fall asleep worrying about how my review would be received. I pictured a mob amassing to have me barred from entering town. God forbid I get an angry letter to the editor. For someone who criticizes others, I have awfully thin skin.

Then there is the matter of what I’ve written. I have no doubt that this job has had, will continue to have, a positive effect on my writing. If nothing else, it was a lot of good practice. Most of the challenges I faced were actually the biggest benefits. For one thing, I’ve gotten much better at sticking to the point. And I’ve gotten faster. But as I name these developments, I can also think of myriad ways in which my writing did not improve.

For one thing, I’ve learned that writing can be forced, that I can find ways to eat up space to suit my word count. Verily, I can babble on and on in a most uninspiring way. I don’t think it needs to be said that all stories are not equal, and a one-size-fits-all approach can be detrimental.

For that matter, there wasn’t always something I wanted to write about. There were weeks in which I left for Albuquerque wondering what I was going to do, how I was going to get an entire page out of what I’d just seen.

Furthermore, though writing my columns is no longer an arduous ordeal that takes two days, I’m not convinced that practice made perfect. Even if it has gotten easier to hit my word count, I would guess my work became less interesting as my neuroses waned. At first I would spend hours and hours on the opening, trying to find an ‘angle’ (that’s what reporters talk about, right?) Most of the time it stemmed from a personal story or an unrelated observation. The point is, I felt a personal connection to what I’d written. Working so hard and for so long ensured that I had been thorough. By the time I went to bed I could almost recite the entire column. In short, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment.

At some point I stopped doing this and just started right in with the artwork. While this may be chalked up to a more direct approach to journalism, an argument could be made that the pieces suffered from a lack of imagination. By leaving myself out of the story, my job got a lot easier. It may only be natural that I should get faster and more efficient, but if a task is starting to seem too easy, how do you know if you’re doing a good job? I hypothesize that if you don’t feel challenged, you aren’t. Isn’t it the struggle and eventual resolution that signifies satisfaction?

Anyway, a little time off and a bit of distance to reflect may provide me with a more accurate assessment of any lasting effects. In the short term, I can say I feel thankful for the opportunity to be published, that I still wish to be a writer, and that I am no closer to understanding art than I had been before.

When I took the job I’d never wanted to be an art critic. Now that I’ve done the job, I suppose I still don’t. Nevertheless, I was extremely lucky to be given this opportunity. The editors took a substantial risk by hiring someone they barely know, not to mention the shoes I attempted to fill were quite large. Zane Fischer, who hired me and who had been the art critic, is well-known and well-regarded in the community. I do not think it is a stretch to say he was probably the most prominent art critic in the state of New Mexico.

To the Santa Fe Reporter I would like to say thank you, and good luck. And to those of you who read my column, thank you as well. I received a lot of praise for the work I did, and I only hope that I was fair and insightful, if a bit stodgy with regards to abstraction, which is stupid and gutless.


Signing off,
John

…

* I actually said this once. My argument was that I had taught myself to play guitar by listening to others do it, therefore, due to repeated viewings of a certain quartet of adolescent reptiles, (or are they amphibians?) I must also know ninjutsu. I guess now that I’m a pacifist, the point has been rendered moot.

** Not that it’s a huge deal, but I contend that saying something “seems” like a good idea is vastly different than saying it “is” a good idea.

Disoriented

What's the most you ever lost on a coin toss?

I have orientation at the hospital in the morning. I am trying to set my alarm for 5:45 a.m., but the 'minute' button stopped working so I can't nuance the time. My options are 5:00 or 6:00.

I wake at 5:45 anyway, before my alarm goes off. That is so fucking eerie. What else am I hyper aware of when I'm sleeping?

Getting dressed takes forever. I have like six pairs of tan dress socks, but here in the dark bedroom I can't find a match. I keep holding the lightest ones up to my face and squinting, like that’s going to help.

As I stand in front of my closet I wonder if Makayla will be there today. Makayla is a beautiful girl I rode the elevator with last week. We have a lot in common. It turns out, she and I were both going to get tested for tuberculosis at the same time. I didn't actually talk to her; I just heard her say her name was Makayla when she signed in. Not that it matters, but I think she was kind of into me.

The dress code is 'business casual,' which, for men, means I don't need a tie but I do have to wear a big ugly watch and brown shoes. I end up wearing a pair of Brooks Brothers khakis I inherited. Even though I've never worn them before, they are stained.

I arrive with about 5 minutes to spare, so I go to the bathroom to check on my hair. Biking after a shower is a wild card. Sometimes it sort of looks fashionably tousled, like Johnny Depp's or Han Solo's, but usually I end up looking like a handicapped child whose mom cuts his hair.

For some reason there is no mirror in the bathroom. I feel the contours of my locks and decide not to mess with it too much. I'm sure it's fine.

The orientation is held in one of those huge carpeted conference rooms. I am one of about 40 new hires but I get there in time to sit at a table by myself. I hate sitting down at occupied tables because then you're forced to say 'hello' and make eye contact and stuff, and I didn't go into health care to meet people.

At each seat is a blank tent card and a marker for us to write our names. There are two video projections showing identical slides of corporate information, set to music. For instance, did you know that UNM HSC is rated one of the Top 50 hospitals in the U.S., in which there are 50 states.

As more people arrive, we are instructed to eat the free breakfast in the chafing dishes. There is bacon AND sausage, eggs, french toast, and a fruit salad. I wonder if making an egg sandwich out of french toast would be viewed as piggish?

While in line I notice people looking at me, but this isn't unusual. As long as I don't smile I'm almost always one of the best-looking people in the room. I have movie star looks except in the face.

The power-point soundtrack is playing Chariots of Fire and I feel determined to get my breakfast like a winner.

I sit and eat my scrambled eggs and fruit with a weak cup of coffee. This is when Jennifer arrives. Jennifer is the orientator or whatever, a fact made obvious by the rainbow floral lei she is wearing. She also has a salmon-colored mesh thing that she keeps tied over her shoulders. I believe this is known as a shawl, but it looks like a crazy person's cape to me. Jennifer is peppy, which is her job I suppose. She looks at my name card and then nonchalantly works it into our conversation. "So, John, did you bike here today?" My hair must look worse than I thought.

For the first hour we mostly sit around and wait to meet with a recruiter. The meeting consists of filling out forms, handing in our clean TB tests, and being fingerprinted. While waiting, my table eventually fills up with Serena from Ghana, Eduardo, who is still pretty much asleep, and Brenda, who definitely mistook my 'good morning' for a pass at her. Maybe I shouldn't have wriggled my eyebrows.

The power point asks us to guess the annual budget for the hospital. Apparently it is $650 million. And just think, $9 of that will go to me every hour.

Makayla arrives about half an hour late. She is wearing a Pink University hoodie. It's seems men and women agree: sexy underwear and a college education is an attractive mix.

In front of us is a packet that sort of reiterates what we will cover once we've all signed in with our recruiters. Among the packet is a crossword, a word find, and a maze. Not that I'm great at them but this is unequivocally the most difficult crossword I've ever worked on. It is all about the hospital and requires you to look up the answers in the packet (which is cheating) or to already know a bunch of stuff about the hospital you've just been hired into. I couldn't even get a single answer. To make matters worse I couldn't do the word find or the maze because I couldn't find any crayons.

Chariots of Fire is playing again. I feel its power is being wasted. Why isn't anyone doing anything inspiring?

Where did I get these pants? They make it look like I have a gigantic boner. On the other hand, if I do get a boner it probably won't register.

A joke from the power point: "Did you take the patient's temperature?" "Why? Is it missing?"

After meeting with my recruiter I have to go get an ID badge. I only caught a quick glimpse at the computer screen but my hair forms a weird horn coming off one side. It looks kind of cool, but I think it would be more appropriate if I were a character in a Japanese cartoon.

On my way back to the conference room I stop in another bathroom. Still no mirrors! What a joyless place.

Makayla plays with her hair constantly. She flips it over one shoulder, then twists it up behind her head only to let it drop once more. There is a captivated young man sitting behind her but she is way out of his league. He actually saw me watching him watch her at one point. I sort of laughed and looked away, so now he's keeping his eye out for me. He probably thinks I'm into him. Love triangles are so messy.

Every so often Jennifer likes to take a break and go around the room for introductions. Personally I don't see the point in trying to remember the names of 45 people I will never see again. To make it more fun, Jennifer insists we tell her what high school we attended so she can guess the mascot. One woman, who is from the Philippines, asks what a mascot is. I explain that they are symbols that represent your school and they are usually animals that can kill a person. She nods uncomprehendingly.

One of the topics we cover is what to do if we encounter a suspicious package. Jennifer tells us a story about leaving her (fake) suspicious package in the conference room while everyone went on break. Of course, a janitor entered to clear away some of the food and discovered the package. By the time Jennifer returned the bomb squad had arrived. To prevent this from happening again she has written "Training Aid" on the package. So, again, if you want to plant a real bomb at the hospital you should write 'training aid' and no one will mess with it.

At one point, Jennifer calls on Serena from Ghana. Serena handles the question fine but then she leans over and, looking frightened, asks how does zat wooman knew ma name. I show Serena the name card she filled out about an hour ago and she laughs. Africans.

Jesus, Makayla is fascinated by her own hair.

I'm getting nervous about how corporate this whole event feels, with its blend of overused props and jokes and unengaging speakers. At one point Jennifer does a weird dance to a hip hop song. Everyone laughs but me. I'm looking around to see if Michael Scott will be making an appearance.

The CFO of the hospital is telling us about the money side of things. She says we might notice that some things may look a little worn, like chairs or tables, but that the money is being spent in the right places. I ponder asking about the mirrors. I just don't think I can go 12 hours without checking for nostril stray hairs.

After you've introduced yourself and Jennifer has guessed your mascot you are given a "door prize." Mine is a stress doll of a brown-skinned nurse whose sex is indeterminate. I think it's a woman, but it could also be Javier Bardem.

As an exercise we are told to write down out favorite qualities about the places of business we frequent related to their customer service. I wonder where we're going with this... No one at my table seems to want to do it so I take charge. I grab a scented marker and write down 'instructive.' We go around the table and choose adjectives that sum up our feelings and I write them down. One of the girls from another table laughs when I post ours. Apparently my handwriting is too tidy, or my column too straight. Whichever it is, she calls me a 'Type A personality,' a label I find inaccurate and patently unfair. I'm easy going and cooperative. She doesn't know a thing about me. Who does that fucking whore think she is anyway?

Speaking of handwriting, I see Makayla's name card. Her letters are large loopy shapes, like a child's attempt at cursive. Around them she's doodled designs and patterns using every marker available to her. It is the most elaborate name tag I've ever seen. I decide we should probably break up. She's just not the person I thought she was.

As we are dismissed I see my former rival lingering by Makayla's table. I nod at him and hop on my bike to head home, my hair blowing wildly in the wind.

Sophomoritis

If Joltin' Joe had just quit when he reached 44, his streak would have been tied by Charlie Hustle

Like DiMaggio, Ripken, and Hershiser before me, my streak is over. Final grade for Pharmacology: 89.25%. In other words, I am no longer a straight-A student.

Last year I began my 7th year of college. I wasn't a great student in the first 6 years, but that was eons ago. I decided to make it count this time. Besides, I would need a 4.0 in my sciences if I wanted to be accepted into the nursing program at UNM. It was literally my only chance. So I busted my hump. I stayed home and studied and read and memorized and turned everything in on time. I became the exceptional student I never was and it felt good.

So, how did this happen? Well, I got accepted into my program at UNM a few weeks ago. I am an alternate for the fall semester, (also known as a fallternate). At the very least, I will begin in January. As someone who never had a science background, this is stupendous news. I am very proud of the work I did, and it puts me on track to complete nursing college a whole year ahead of schedule.

The drawback is that I let my guard down. I didn't sprint to the end of the race. I jogged the last lap, and now I'm paying for it.

None of it matters of course. They're not going to revoke their offer. I am still going to do this the way I wanted to do it. But I feel like I let someone down. I didn't show tenacity. I kind of gave up, and I knew it too. I got a low grade on my previous test because I didn't work hard. I didn't put the time in. It forced me to have to get an almost perfect score on my final exam, and I couldn't do it. I got an A on the final, but it wasn't enough. In other words, I got what I deserved. I earned that B.

I'm not telling you this for your pity. I'm not being melodramatic. I am only stating the hard truth that I am not among the elite 4.0 students anymore, and no matter how hard I fight I will never get there again. Math is funny that way...

One final to go and I don't plan to make the same mistake. Heading into the next phase of education, this may have been a good wake-up call. Now I remember how it feels to underperform. Now I will stay hungry. Time to start a new streak.