After adding 1000s of miles onto the Prius touring academic art facilities, I opted to stick closer to home to paint at UC Davis.
I am excited about my choice, but was attached to the other fictional futures as well. I am adjusting to their loss, filling their void with green hill, countryside, clean white walls, and a sea of bicycles.
It's hard to be objective about the decision. Each school was wonderful. Lots of strangers were generous with their opinions and their time. I peeked into studios, galleries, offices, and classrooms. I tried to come up with some matrix to compare studios vs. teachers vs. surrounding city vs. price.
In the end, it all seems a game of chance. A good game, since each school offers an improvement over my current tiny studio and semi-isolated work environment. So, here's to a couple years of prioritizing painting, and a victorious return to the metropolis with a trunk full of artworks to share. If all goes well, I may regain my bicycling legs as well.
My best art fan/supporter celebrated his birthday today with a yam spice waffle topped with pears, a drizzle of sour cream, and true maple syrup. Tunes were low-key sunday offerings selected by the good folks at Guerilla Cafe. Good show Brian!
Backpack loaded with 19 slides in a tray, $45 of transcripts , and an optimistic essay on my future art, I boarded a southbound BART train. San Francisco State University is my final MFA application for 2007. My enthusiasm for their program made me wait till the last minute. Very Kib-Style. Left the house at 1pm, application needed to be in at 4 pm. I tried to drum up the normal nervous agitation, but with 3 hours at my disposal, I could only enjoy the ride. Out of Berkeley, the BART train rises up above street level, and our neighborhoods turn into a sea of grey trapezoids topped with "the Dish" and pipes edged with tar. I ride backwards past the highway I normally take to the studio. The train descends into a tunnel under the Bay. It picks up some speed screeching over the tracks. SF passes underground. The suits get off the train at Embarcardero, normal folks exit in the Mission. We rise back up to street level.Homes back right up to the tracks so close that it looks like they've been sliced in half to make way for the train. We stop and I am on the lookout for the free shuttle to SFSU. I wait in line with folks who appeared to be a median age of 23.
We board the bus. I ask the lady next to me for help with the bus stop I should get out at. When I mention Art Department, the lady in front turns around
"So which department are you applying to?" she asks, smiling. Perhaps she's in the program now.
"Painting" I answer.
"Oh Painting" she smiles again, "You must be amazing then."
"You don't have to be amazing to apply. Anyone can apply." I respond.
"You're right. These days, they'll let *anyone* apply," her tone soured, implying that the contents of my backpack could erode the integrity of contemporary art as we know it.
"Well, anyone can apply" I clarify "You just have to be amazing to get in."
"I hope you applied to some private schools as well," she said turning back around to face forward.
The lady next to me smiled "this is the stop, you'll want to go left." I thank her and head off to relieve myself of my final burden.
Seeing a hand-addressed oversized yellow envelope poking out of the mailbox, activated my "real mail" radar. With excitement, I mounted the front steps, hands clenched around two full grocery bags. Not only was there personal mail, but a lot of it. Paper filled the depth of the box in a way that exceeded the normal bulk ads and credit card applications. This may be a day of good correspondence! My mind turned to distant friends, forgotton purchases, and the recent grad school applications sent out. But after climbing step three or four, excitement turned to suspicion. I had seen this envelope before - recognized the familiar crease where the yellow sleeve was once folded and tucked in a larger one and the double row of outdated santa stamps. And the clincher, the address lettered in my own hand. Not easy to spot at first, since it was a tidier effort on my part, but sure enough this was a note from the me of the past to me of the now. Which can only mean one thing to an artist - the return journey of a SASE. Inside was my a sheet of my precious, carefully labeled slides, and a form letter.
I set down both bags, and approached the mailbox. Seemed unlikely to me that a "yes" would be returned using my own postage, but it's possible. I opened the envelope, recognized the logo as a gallery I was excited about, and optimistic that I could get into, and saw the "thanks... but unfortunately."
My first rejection. My reaction was similar to when I taco'd my bike wheel on the side of a moving car and somersaulted onto the cement of a quiet city neighborhood. "Oh yeah... I am ok" and then melt into tears 20 minutes later.
I have a book on art business that suggest the artists has not truly "tried" to get gallery representation until collecting 100 rejection letters. While I don't interpret this as inspirational, I can take it as a benchmark for what measures a true effort to show and sell art. Day number one of skin thickening, nearly completed.
