"Every bad story has a good story"

-Mr. S

I like to think that everyone has a reason for writing, though perhaps when writing about oneself there is always a measure of narcissism.  Today we hear those around us saying that "someone could make a TV show about my life" thinking that something about the life that they live is dramatic and interesting enough that the rest of the world might care.  Those of us who have the brain cells to see this for the vanity which it is might pass it off as a product of our selfish modern era, but I like to think that the same self obsession may have had something to do with those people in the past who thought that their own lives were worth writing books about.  I know I'm not the first to notice it, but I'm entirely certain that some aspects of culture may change, but human nature always remains the same.  With that said, I have to recognize that in writing about some aspect of my own life I must be a narcissist and as long as I'm writing about myself I might as well be honest about the subject matter.

So, with that stated, this narcissist hasn't yet done much to brag about.  I was born in '85 and until I graduated from college in late '07 I thought I was a product of the '90s.  However, after graduating I have realized that my life has been defined more by the recession that has plagued our nation over the past 10 years or so.  After graduating from Art Center I thought that I was headed along a path leading to a great career as an artist, and at times it seemed I was right.  I created art for video games and amusement parks, and loved it, but apparently I could never hold onto those jobs and I was tired of moving around the country.  So after being laid off from the last of those jobs I found myself unemployed in New Orleans and decided to stay for a while, but I needed a job and there aren't many openings for a concept artist or illustrator in the Big Easy.

So now, after a year of unemployment (well, pseudo-unemployment; I've done a few bits of freelance here and there) I've finally gotten a job... though not quite the type of job I was hoping for.  Rather than getting paid to make art myself I work at an art gallery in New Orleans selling art.  Its not my ideal, and I have to admit that as an artist it is a slight blow to my ego.  I don't have much experience in sales, and while through my schooling I was taught a decent amount of knowledge about art history and instilled a great love of the subject I know very little about how to sell these historical paintings.

I wrote above about a narcissism inherent in autobiographical writing, but part of the reason I am writing this is for my own benefit.  I hope that I'll be able to track my progression, as well as keeping notes to assist in understanding what I'm supposed to be doing around here.  And maybe, just maybe, there will be some entertainment to be gained reading through my day to day stream of consciousness.  As I write this I am ending off my first week at the gallery.  I'm sure that there will be more to write in the weeks and months to come.