An argument for being an artist

In the current cycle of my Temp-Odyssey, I am the Admin at the NELA Center, a nonprofit that mentors low-income, minority, and first-generation college students through the college application process.  It can be really cool to witness caring, stable mentors help confused teenagers navigate this unfamiliar territory, but I really find my ears perking up when a kid comes through the center with dreams of being an actor or a filmmaker or some kind of artist.  I tend to squirm during the "That's a bad idea" and "Maybe you should do something more practical" talk until I have the opportunity to jump in and try to be the voice of un-reason in encouraging kids that yes, that is something you can do with your life.

Why do I feel the need to butt in?  Well, I am admittedly biased because I'm in the arts.  But there seems to be an impression, mostly amongst people who don't consider themselves to be in the arts, that becoming an artist is like knocking on the door of a castle and saying you'd like to be a Princess, please.**  As if it's like a divine ordination that you are either born with or not.  Because of this weirdly universal idea, poor, nervous parents everywhere have visions of their emaciated children knocking on doors of snotty agents with knees knocking and trembling outstretched headshot, saying, "Ec-ec-excuse me sir I wanna be an ac-ac-actor" before doors get slammed in their faces.  They then wander aimlessly through the gutters doing drugs with Bohemian characters until they wake up as a 40-year-old busboy or heroin addict, still insistent that they are an "actor."  These poor hopeless souls flock to big cities by the hundreds with the vain hope of meeting Johnny Depp's agent and instantly making millions of dollars and that is the only path possible when your kid says he wants to be an "actor." What parent wouldn't be worried?  Especially if the whole point of pursuing higher education is to improve your chances at a successful future.

Rest easy, worried parents.  I would like to hereby state that this image is false.  I am like, obnoxiously practical, and yet I am an artist and I don't starve.  In fact, there are literally infinite ways of supporting yourself and living your life as an artist.  Personally, I use my B.A. (read as Bachelor of Arts or Bad-Assery) to land various office jobs--an acting challenge in and of itself.  One of my mentors once told me that a key to being an actor is having the self-respect and confidence to say "I'm an actor," no matter what your job is that you are doing to pay the bills for now.  It's acknowledging what you can do to survive within society (Data entry, Teaching preschool, Accounting) while keeping your creativity and sense of self intact--empowering yourself to inhabit your own unique perspective.  This not only forces you to find a creative outlet, it opens you up to discover like-minded people and infinite potential projects.  When you start doing truly creative, adventurous, awesome work, people will come see it, and you might just wake up one morning and see that, bit by bit, you have turned the statement "I am an artist" into a 24/7 gig.  The first step is to stay alive and engage yourself creatively.  You don't have to make $10 million a year to be an "actor."

So am I making feature films and making out with Brad Pitt?  Incidentally, no, and I'm cool with that. Angelina and the pack of children would probably dismember me anyway.  Do I spend way more time typing things into Excel spreadsheets than Brad Pitt does?  Yes, and it kind of sucks.  But it's just for right now, and I'm not worried about getting stuck here.  I also do a ton of projects with the rest of my time, I have an agent who sends me out for stuff, and I occasionally get paid for artistic things, too.  On a practical level, I would like to state for the record that there is an entire Arts industry in this country, made up of a wide array of artistic work.  Hollywood stars are not the only people making money as actors.  Every commercial you see, every instructional film you've watched at work, and every print ad you've ever seen paid countless of creative professionals. 

One last thing.  A career in the arts is not an easy path, and I don't encourage every hormonal 16-year-old who comes in to NELA to go full bore down this path like it's a straight and simple.  Everyone finds something different that works for them--that delicate balance between being financially soluble and not wanting to strangle yourself with your keyboard cord.  I know actors who are also chiropractors, accountants, managers, teachers, professors, musicians, and....full-time actors.  I know artists who work gig to gig and ones with year-round contracts.  I think that's the thing that scares people off from a bold-faced pursuit of being an artist:  The career path is not clear, it's not laid out in front of you, and it takes perseverance.  It's also totally possible. 

**Of course, there are those that were born Princesses.... Sammi.

A very Danielle Easter

I woke up on Monday morning with no idea that it was Monday morning, and after a brief period of confusion was quite tickled at how I had come to be on a bright orange couch underneath a quilt homemade by someone else's Mom amidst party wreckage and dog fur. 

The story of my Easter began a few days earlier in a series of texts/calls with my sister in Seattle:
"What are you doing for Easter?"
"I don't know.  Driving up to see you in Seattle? ....Naw I don't have the cash to go up there for the whole weekend.  Maybe we can meet halfway for brunch."
"What's halfway?"
"Centralia?  I know they have an authentic Mexican resaurant. Would they do brunch?"

Sunday morning brought us together in the wholesome and family-friendly town of Olympia, Washington at a fish house on the pier.  It was a gorgeous, idyllic Easter morning leisurely munching on fruit, wandering the farmer's market, people-watching the happy families with dopey dogs and fat babies, window-shopping boutiques and sipping coffee.  We hugged goodbye and I continued to wander the waterfront for a while making friendly Easter phone calls to family before heading back to Portland.  Don't worry, the whole situation unravels from here.

As I turned the key in the ignition I registered the immediate task at hand.  My "Low Fuel" blinker had started up just before I rolled into Olympia, so I figured I had just enough gas to make it to the gas station.  I took my exact route back to the freeway without seeing any gas stations, so instead of wandering around and getting lost I just hopped back on the freeway with the intention of pulling over at the last exit, where I remembered there was gas.  Of course, before I can reach the last exit, I feel the uncontrollable slowing of the car and look down to see my RPMs plummeting quickly as my hungry little car sputters off to sleep.  With a sigh of defeat, I manage to coast along the shoulder pretty close to the next exit, where I see a couple gas stations.

I sit for a moment in my car kicking myself.  This is not the first time this has happened.  Dammit, Danielle. Okay, let's do this thing.  As I trek up the shoulder of the freeway I flashback to the groggy state in which I chose my outfit that morning.  Even though I wasn't going to Church, my inner Catholic guilt had forced me to put on a wholesome white A-line skirt and a pink shirt, complete with flats and a cardigan, as if dressing like an innocent 8-year-old would make up for me being a heathen.  I looked ridiculous wandering up the side of I-5. Like an Easter Hooker.  On the walk back to the car I convinced myself that the strange looks darting at me through every passing windshield were actually stares of jealousy at the gas station Choco Taco that I was so clearly enjoying. ("Yeah, Fools!  When was the last time you treated yourself to a Choco Taco?   I'd be jealous of me too!")

So by the time I was crossing the border back into Oregon, I was overjoyed to receive a text from my magnificent friend Leslie: "What are you doing? I need a dinner date."  After recuperating at her apartment, the two of us enjoyed a nutritious Easter dinner of LOTS OF BEER at the Lucky Labrador with her dog Cleo in tow.  By the time the Lucky Lab closed we couldn't fathom abandoning Cleo to go to a real bar, so we walked to the friendly neighborhood sketchy convenience store.  Needless to say, for Easter dessert we each killed a 40oz of Steel Reserve and split a package of vegetarian chicken nuggets.  In my mind, this is how my Easter ended:

"Oh man! Sorry Leslie, I must've fallen asleep.  I'll get out of your hair before it's tomorrow."
"It's already tomorrow.  It's like 6:00 a.m."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah dude you destroyed that 40. You passed out like ten minutes into Drive."
"Oh yeah we were gonna watch Drive!  Well sorry, dude.  Thanks for the quilt."
"No problem.  I've been up for two hours watching PBS."
"Awesome."


.....Awesome.

COURAGE

"Now I'm not scared
of a song
or the states,
or the stages.
I'm not scared.
I've got friends,
took my call,
came courageous.
Now I feel like I am home."

 Holy shit this song is incredible.  What an amazing point to be at in your life.

Don't read this. Just go eat that entire cake.

Okay.  So there's this thing, maybe not all people have it but I think a lot of people do, where the best possible way of getting you to do something is by saying not to do it.

Here's an example:
"Danielle, tie your shoes."
"No man, whatever, it's fine. Oh look! Swings!"
**Danielle runs towards swingset, trips on shoelaces, and permanently scars both knees.**

Or maybe:
"Danielle, don't eat that entire cake.  You're gonna get sick."
"Psht!  I love cake. I'll be fine."

It's not like I don't normally tie my shoes, or like I always eat lots of cake.  It's the presence of the warning that invites me to do it.  I should also admit that this is not something I did a while ago and like, outgrew.  These examples are recent.  Ummmm..shutup. Don't judge. 

Anyway, here is my conundrum of the day.  I wish that taking care of your body (being healthy, eating healthy food, excercising) didn't feel so damn good.  It makes it much less fun to follow my natural urge to misbehave.  As soon as the little angel on my shoulder says, "Danielle, you're going to work out more and eat better.  You'll feel great!" The little sonuvabitch on the other shoulder says, "It's a rule! Break it!  It will be so fun! Hooray mischeif!"

Again, cut to the scene from Matilda.  But I'll be damned if an hour later, or a day later, or a week later, I don't feel like shit!  But then when I listen to the little angel, I almost always feel better.  Stupid angel.  Anyway, for future inspiration to be good to your body, please feel free to reference this blog. 

Women who Rock: Gaga Part 2

Gaga, you've done it again.  And Tony, of course.