"When I stay outside, I stay free." -Louise Bourgeois
Some time ago I had a job interview for a post of an assistant editor at an art magazine. Since employment office is now pushing me to get some sort of job, I thought that would be a bit better choice for me than shovelling shit or cleaning up construction sites.
Struggling through the slushy streets, I arrived to the interview in time. They said I had to wait before they would talk to me, so I checked the art exhibition downstairs before appearing in front of the Spanish Inquisition. I saw some rubberfoam contraptions and pieces of cloth lying on the floor: obviously this was a work of art.
Then I was asked to the upstairs office to meet this committee of three bespectacled women. Reminding me of those witches in Macbeth, I noticed that there was an older woman, a stern one and obviously the boss, and two younger ones.
Feeling about as comfortable as a butterfly pinned to formica, I duly presented some newspaper clippings of the articles written by me, some of my own artwork (which left the ladies blank-faced) and other stuff, answered to my best abilities such questions as the meaning of art to me and so on, and tried to boast my skills the best I could. The longer I sat there, the more uncomfortable I started to feel about the whole situation. What the hell was I doing here? Probably they thought I was a flake. At least that was the feeling I got.
Now I got an e-mail from them, thanking me for my interest and telling me someone else had been chosen as the assistant editor. Whew, what a relief. I don't think working with a middle-aged bitch with menopausal moodswings fussing behind me all the time would really have been my idea of fun anyway.