Internship Vs. Research

The past two days have seen the rise of my internship and what a wonderful two days it has been. I really do enjoy starting out something new, adventures are always fun.

Monday and Tuesday of this week have been spent figuring out if I can pass what I will lovingly dub ‘the idiot test’. If you can imagine spending two days doing the most menial, albeit non-insulting, tasks imaginable dressed up as matters that tell-all of your future success within the role you have the idea.

Tasks include: Making tea, filing, and finding various bits and bobs hiding in nooks and crannies. Trust me, it could be worse….

Um, How About No?

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Night of the Living Ex

My very first boyfriend, from years ago, has recently split up with his missus of about 3 or 4 years...who has he turned to for conversation and pro-active advice?

Me.

Who wanted nothing to do with the whole mess?

Me.

Now, I'll be honest, that it was not a good relationship and I did an amazing job of compartmentalising it and dealing with it in a healthy way. It was definitely a case of pat-on-the-back me. No need to open that can of worms and re-hash everything I so carefully put behind me.

Tonight I bullied into a taking a phone call from Ex No. 1. An hour of apologies and explanations later, I have to say, I'm worse for it. He picked apart every lie and manipulation he ever set on me in the course of this elaborate apology and with that, my tenuous relationship with trusting men is shattered for awhile. I wasn't aware of how deep the malady had run between us. I really had no idea how much I was pushed and prodded, moulded and twisted, in short - manipulated.

No one likes to hear, 'Yea, I lied to you about cheating on you to make you jealous so that you would come back to me.' or 'I knew that if I encouraged you to like art, you'd be more interesting to introduce to my friends as "My girlfriend, the artist" rather than, "My girlfriend, the business major."'

Terrifying to hear these things. There was more of course, apparently drug abuse and accusing his competition for my affections of taking drugs.

Truthfully, given my track record, I'm less concerned with what happened and my ability to discern good character from bad. Granted I was nearly 19 and very naive, so, maybe we'll let Ex No. 1 slide as a very big foray into the learning curve (I had to play catch up, most girls had their first boyfriend around 15 or something, back when I still had braces, no boobs and a bubble butt...oh, and Harry Potter glasses. Oh yea, teenage heartbreaker - that wasn't me.)

But the past two years have been really hard on me in the relationship department, if I'm being completely honest, they've been a lot harder than I care to admit and will not go into, as a matter of fact, blogging about it is rather cathartic, but selfish, I don't think many people will want to read about it, however, here it is.

It's been two years of hitting the 'replay' function. Not my best decisions - I have found that if a guy has been cruel or selfish towards me once, it's likely it will re-assert itself again at some point, and in all honesty, most of the past two years I've been bracing for the replay relationship to destruct the same way as before.

Tonight was horrible. What little bit of self-delusion I'd clung to concerning my strength in the face of manipulation is gone, added bonus, I'm not game for investing myself into another person.

I joke around about two things with a certain amount of frequency with Cocker Spaniel and Afghan Hound - that I have an empty half of my double bed that I aspire to fill. (And they know I don't mean in the temporary-revolving-doors-new-man-every-night, any girl could do that if they wanted.)

The other thing I've been saying for years in response to the male joke, 'Everyone knows you can't trust a creature that bleeds for a week and doesn't die.'

To that I say, 'And everyone knows you can't trust a two-headed monster.'

Tonight I'm a disciple of the latter.

So much for progress. At least my career will never wake up one morning and decide to stop caring about me.

Direction at Last

I've been busy. A busy bee as it were. I've got an internship, a posh London furniture dealership wants a copy of my dissertation, said dissertation actually has direction now, and I'm applying for paid employment in exactly what I want to be doing after this course.

No, not professional shopping while drinking chocolate milkshakes without gaining an ounce.

I'm applying to work as an assistant cataloguer/junior expert in a paintings department, though the first job, if it existed, wouldn't be too bad...and I bet I'd be a natural.

So, I guess I'll update on these developments as they're all quite important, though I'm tempted to just write about how obsessed I am with French/Italian style of the 1960's. I actually forced my hairdresser to backcomb my hair yesterday before my interview. The poor man lives for poker straight hair and I told him to envision Brigitte Bardot. I cannot express the pained look on his face, you'd think I'd clipped hot tongs on his earlobes.

Though, that being said, when I flipped my hair back and shook it all out, that pained look went away and he said that if I'd agree to come in again, he'll style my hair for free if I let him practice getting volume into hair. (Yes, please!)

Ok, ok, I'll stop before I go into my questions such as, 'Does anyone understand the meaning of La Dolce Vita?' and 'Why don't men look like Alain Delon anymore?'

A-hem, I digress.

Now, as per what's been going on - I'll leave the internship where it stands. I've applied, interviewed (yesterday) and got the position.

Hopefully this one will work out.

Unlike the last one.

*grumble grumble murmur something potentially devastating to my career if heard or published online grumble grumble*

So, most things are pretty straightforward, more applications for jobs/work experiences after this course is over are all on the horizon. And finally, and I mean, finally I feel like I can give a straightforward answer as to what my dissertation is about rather than: 'Yea, uh, Raeburn. And, um, stuff - Scottish stuff. It's very fluid at the moment...'

I won't bore with the details as it's pretty narrow focus...

So, the most interesting story is why does Posh London Furniture Dealership (PLFD) want a copy of my dissertation - on a Scottish painter, for their files?

Well, on a lovely Wednesday afternoon, I happened to be near Bond Street, and remembered Cocker Spaniel was interning at PLFD that day and decided I should stop by and say hello. Cocker Spaniel's aunt was there visiting as well and it was so nice to see her, especially as her visit meant that we got to take a little tour of the shop. As we were about to go to the staircase, I looked at the painting hanging above someone's desk.

'Hmm, oh! It is a Raeburn. Go figure.'

'Do you know anything about Raeburn?'

And then I mighta geeked-out for a a few minutes and even explained exactly why their painting dated to when it did and Raeburn's typical background painting motifs.

'Wow, um, we just had the Raeburn expert in a few days ago - um, if it's no trouble, could we have a copy of dissertation when it's done? Here's my card. But, only if it's no trouble.'

'No trouble at all. Happy to do it.'

I glanced at the card and thought: Certainly not a problem Mr. Associate Director of PLFD - I'll send it over as soon as it's bound!!

Cocker Spaniel and I high-fived as soon as we were away from his desk. Gotta admit, with Cocker Spaniel and Afghan Hound so on the ball with their dissertations and internships, I often feel like I'm playing catch up, it was nice to bring something to the table of accomplishment at last. There is a certain mystique to being the comic relief for the group, but sometimes I like to show my academic muscle exists.

So, now, onwards and upwards I guess. Well, literally - off to the North on Monday morning...Edinburgh beckons. Hello Raeburns, archives, National Library of Scotland, Fringe Festival and Lion Tamer!!

A mixture of festival, friendship, and fan-fucking-tastic art.

Oh and research in the library and archives...like a grown up. *sigh*

I wish I could research and have a chocolate milkshake in the library. *narrows eyes* someday library - someday.

Scottish in London

When I moved to London 3 years ago, a free paper was given out every weekday evening, The London Paper, and I loved it. It was just the right mixture of smut and substance to be light and easy to read. The ink came off on your fingers and it felt like you were connected with the city and the views held therein.

Like I've said before, I feel that news is heavily coloured by who writes it, therefore, not the truth...more like dressed up opinion. I enjoyed the feeling of reading London's opinions of things - this paper didn't tart it up to be the truth.

Also, they let you submit a column. Everyday a normal reader was published - and some of those normal readers were shockingly piss poor writers...and whiny. I decided to give it a go, unfortunately I don't think they caught my tongue in cheek humour. I made fun of Americans, the Scots, and well, here, I'll let you read it. I'll lovingly re-title it: 'Taking the Piss - American in London Seeks Better Company'

For many a fitful night, my wasted American heart dreamed of my very own Braveheart to, if not greet me at Heathrow, than to be jostling to buy me a drink at the first pub I stumbled into. In a devastating turn of events, I found that the skirt-wearing men of the Highlands are few and far between here in London town. So, to coax you out of hiding, I offer a public love letter to my favourite much-maligned London minority.

It seems so improbable that so few of you are here. How do all of you fit into those two tiny townships you have up there? I hear there are at least enough of you to make a rugby team. Nevertheless, I have kept my eye out for you guys and I think I spotted one of you at a club. You seemed really nice and I think you were trying to chat me up, however, it was hard to tell - I wish you’d spoken English.

It would have been good because then we could have had a drink. It’s a shame really because I was looking forward to trying some of your Scottish whiskey. I hear it’s as good as J.D. and I’m hoping to splash some into my coca-cola.

Due to the timing of my move to London, I’ve come to understand that R-U-G-B-Y is a big deal here, but I can’t understand why you, with your brute warrior skills have not won any titles, or is England winning close enough?

I have had the good fortune to hear your national anthem - very catchy. Who is this Edward guy you’re all on about? I haven’t heard anything about Edward since my arrival and I think that you Scottish should come out of hiding, because if I’m welcome in public I’m sure you are. Remember, my country successfully left the commonwealth. By the way, I’m happy to share tips.

I fear I may be seeking you Scottish here in London for naught, so far not a ginger in sight. But in all earnestness and jokes aside, know that there exists no group of people I could love more. So, for you Scots of London, please be advised I seek you and your company, because if I can’t find you, I have to talk to an Englishman.

Now that I've put in three years worth of effort, I know a handful of Scots in London, and I have to say, I was right to seek them out. The Scots may be few and far between-ish here in London, but that being said, they are the best connected bunch I've ever met. In fact, today, while having breakfast with my Scottish former company CFO after nearly 2 years, we were chatting and I come to find out he has a connection with a prominent furniture dealer who may be able to pass me onwards and upwards into this art world I'm attempting to launch myself. First I meet the Scottish CEO of a charity who introduces me to Scottish Hart - the art collector, and now Dada Don, as he's requested to be called (He thinks he's a Dada artist...bless), is going to introduce me into his friend's acquaintance.

I realise now why it's been so hard to meet Scottish people in London - it's because they're all ridiculously successful or else they'd be back up in 'God's Country'. Well, cheers to Scotland and cheers to success. Roll on new connections.

Effin' Insomnia

It is currently 3:16 in the morning.

I have a headache.

I am restless.

My brain refuses to shut down. It's telling me I haven't done enough lately. The problem with living in London is that there is so much to do, that people who like to weigh options and see what happens, end up doing nothing.

Though, in my defence, I did go to a fantastic exhibit at the Barbican earlier tonight. I went to a show called, 'The Surreal House' and it was easily one of my favourite exhibits I've been to in a long time. The lack of large-scale paintings by big name artists was a bit of a disappointment, but the obscure installations and pieces really helped create the juxtaposition of familiarity meets the unknown.

Which, as this was a surreal exhibition, was likely the goal.

The show really captured a sense of my own personal childhood. It was the perfect balance between safety and discomfort due to the unknown. A mixture of melancholies and mysticism that drew on deep memories.

I can say that surrealism brings out a sense of serenity for me, while some people find it disconcerting, I sought it out as a youngster - mostly to make my conservative-straight-as-an-arrow-Dali-is-the-devil mother, uncomfortable.

Then again, I guess children probably have a healthy sense of the surreal, this may stem from the fact that everything is not designed for them, or with them in mind. The world itself is new and untrustworthy, normal has yet to be established. This exhibit really brought that feeling to the fore again for me. And I enjoyed it.

I believed that there was a leprechaun in my parent's basement again, the jabberwocky roamed the park near the house, my shoes spoke to each other and conspired to hide in the morning (They might still do that actually...), and something sinister lurked beyond the door in the dark, therefore it must be kept shut at all costs until morning light.

Tonight I lived in 1989 again, the colours were autumn, film was antique black and white or colour tinted a la Victorian photographs, life existed in stop motion animation and the scary shadows cast by objects large and ominous.

I liked shirking away again.

I will happily stand in front of Corbet's The Origin of the World at the Musee d'Orsay and not even blush, but put me in a darkened room with a massive black cast of a bath tub by Rachel Whiteread and I'll cower.

This is what art is about - reaction.

Now, the given this admission, you'd think I'd love horror films, no. I like the feeling of surreality, not reality turned upside down by ghosts, spirits, and the like.

I'm a gullible soul. I believe all sorts of things that I see/hear. This is why I feel like a wiser individual for avoiding newsfeeds - I believe what I was being told and deep down, everyone knows it's not true.

I digress, tonight's exhibit was like being in a dream and stumbling around through the corridors of my childhood, and not in a sweet sense.

Maybe that's why I can't sleep now, I've already dreamed and now I must pay by feeding on my food for thought.

Then again, this is why having friends Stateside is so good. Someone to call when you can't shut your eyes. Nothing like soothing reminders of your adult life to help you drift off...ironically, when faced with the absurdity of being a kid and how strange it feels to not understand the world, all you want are reminders that you do get it now.

And that no, the jabberwocky is not outside your window.

(Though, in fairness, London, England is a far more likely habitat for the jabberwocky than Omaha, Nebraska.)

Dalliances

There is a nice feeling to having someone know all your exes and nicknaming them on your behalf, save the truly important one who fucked you up for all other afterward.

In my case, I have my ex boss.

He refers to the Spanish pop star as 'Oh yea, your Take That man', the American as the 'Yank Wanc' (short for wanker. Bless.), the Italian gets more favourable treatment and the Scotsman gets the reverence of a proper name as he properly fucked me up.

Every girl knows that you can't make light of your first really broken heart - the one that makes you so scared to ever give it away fully ever again. Therefore, without significant signs of trust and worthiness, you just don't fully give your heart away.

My ex-boss, knows my sordid history, and laughs about it, hugs when appropriate and it feels nice to have an almost-father figure who can simultaneously recommend me to future employers.

I went out with, hmm, I'll nickname him The Square Mile, and had a lovely evening. We were due a night out as last time I saw him I was on antibiotics and unable to drink alcohol, and let's face it, I live in Britain. Alcohol is a social lubricant that cannot be denied, doing so is a major party foul.

Yes, a major party foul, even at 2 in the afternoon.

You must drink goddammit!

So, that was the order of the evening - strengthen that tie as now he is about to be my reference for a work experience with an auction house in Edinburgh.

Not that I didn't want to see him mind you, but I like to have some face time with people who are potentially recommending me to future employers, gives that sense of freshness to what they may be saying about me.

All of this urgency for an internship was heightened today when, on my way to the pub, I received a 'Thank you for applying but please, go fuck yourself now.' e-mail from an auction house associated with Christeby's I'd applied to last week.

Of course. I love the polite brush off...

Time to start chanting some mantras about life's and the ebb and flow blah blah blah...or humming tunes my Spanish 'Take That singer' wrote.

Both equally useless and grating, at least one has the pleasure of memory attached to it.