My First Firing

I've had some unpleasant jobs. I'm hard put to decide which was the worst. I did data entry in the collections department of a hospital. I delivered pizza with an unreliable car. I held an 'instructor' position just out of grad school where my co-instructor was my difficult and depressed boss. But the job that has left the worst taste in my mouth was the one that had the nerve to fire me. Dammit! I should have quit first.

This job was quite bizarre, if something so mind-numbing can qualify as bizarre. It was in what was basically a graphic design sweat shop. I was a 'designer,' one of about fifteen. The shop specialized in promotional materials for real estate agents. This was all we did, the uglier the better. In fact, having any visual sensibility was something of a handicap because it slowed you down. (20/20 hindsight mistake number 1)

Real estate agents have a mania for putting their own pictures on everything. I scanned Glamor Shots of women in sequined cowboy hats and purple satin, of jowly middle-aged men in too-tight navy blue suits, of greasy guys who looked like they just walked off the set of Glengarry Glen Ross. Pictures of houses were secondary to those unlovely, questionably trustworthy faces.

This took place about 11 years ago, before the original internet bubble burst. Rumors of the good life to be had working for one of the new .coms were everywhere (office masseuses, nap rooms, free food delivery, indoor frisbee, huge salaries). The owners of the graphic design hell where I worked imagined themselves to be some sort of minor Netscape. Unfortunately they did little to back up this fantasy beyond allowing dogs in the office (they were dog owners), occasionally bringing in free bagels, and, when the weather was nice, opening the giant garage doors to let in a little light. Did I mention that this sweatshop was in an old metal warehouse? No windows, only big, weird, usually-locked doors. Oil stains from trucks and tractors decorated my cubicle floor.

extreme fun within

I had been hired during an increase in sales by a sort of hippie dude whom I'll call Clive. Clive was skinny and bearded, with a ponytail and lots of leather biker gear. He liked to dangle dream catchers from his clothing. He had a story he liked to tell about guys doing lines off the hood of an old Chevy.

Clive told me when I was hired that it didn't really matter when I got to work, as long as I put in eight hours before I left again. I believed him. Since my commute was a full hour on the highway, I frequently got in past 8:30 am due to traffic, and I dutifully stayed past 5:30 to make up the time. When Clive mysteriously disappeared I didn't revise my arrival time, or ask anyone about it. (20/20 hindsight mistake number 2)

About two weeks after Clive disappeared there was suddenly hoopla about how, since the company was growing so quickly, they had decided to hire someone away from Canon to be the manager of operations (previously Clive's job). I thought this was odd, since work had obviously fallen off in the past months, and we were sitting around waiting for more orders for ugly stuff.

Mr. Fancy Canon arrived on a Friday, gave us an unmemorable speech across the bagel table and then left us to our cavern of cubicles. The following Monday I arrived, at 8:45, to an entirely empty cubicle. I was informed that I was wanted in Mr. Fancy Canon's office. When I got there, he handed me my stuff in a box and told me I was to leave the building immediately. Why? Because I didn't get to work on time. But what about what Clive had said? He didn't know about any Clive and I had already been spoken to once me about my lateness. No, in fact I hadn't. Shut up and get out of my office. Oooooookaaay.

Later, home quite early for a Monday, I opened my final pay check which had been sitting on my table since the previous Friday. In it was a little passive aggressive hand written note from the owner's partner about how I was wasting the company's time and resources by arriving fifteen minutes late everyday and I was to stop this practice immediately.

Right. Mr. UnNetscape, I still have a few things I want to say to you. First, bagels in a butler barn don't qualify as fun. Second, you should be ashamed to make your living by filling other people's mailboxes with ugly dreck. Third, it is utterly ridiculous that you were afraid to talk to me in person at any point before asking me to leave your pathetic establishment. If you run the rest of your life like that, it must suck. I hope it does.

The Surrealist Housewives of New Jersey

submitted by Marc Raymond

"You should really submit something," said my friend Kristen. It was the autumn of 2002 and I had really wanted to get back into the art scene (I'm a professional designer and I rarely get to create anything with myself as the audience). Kristen— a great photographer and a New Jersey native — was going to submit several photographs to the annual Monmouth County Arts Council art exhibition. Here was my chance as she would be a good influence on me to get back into visual arts — but what should I do?

For several months, I had been documenting and collecting artifacts from several trips to New England (I'm a native Rhode Islander) and it all seemed to come together. I had produced a piece entitled "Ocean Forty" — an installation that combined both ready-made art and original silkscreen prints. It was my homage to the Post Road/Route 1 thoroughfare that runs through the Northeastern United States. It was a celebration of the American idea of the vacation, which featured motel art, suburban architecture, and seafood restaurant decor. I was very proud of it. "Ocean Forty" was also received well by family, friends, and colleagues, but would it play in New Jersey?

It was a cold autumn night as Kristen, my wife, a friend and I drove from Manhattan to Monmouth County, New Jersey. The location of the Monmouth County Arts Council was located in an unassuming building next to a small Italian restaurant. I was surprised. For a regionally significant art exhibition, everything seemed so...crafty. The Monmouth County Arts Council show was essentially an upscale yard sale - nothing but quilts, vases, baroque-framed paintings, and Pottery Barn-eqsue photography. These were things that could be sold and re-sold. Here was art made by suburban housewives for other suburban housewives.

An obviously stressed-out and nervous "curator" was on the cusp of a full-blown panic attack when she saw "Ocean Forty."

"What is THIS!?"

"It's a conceptual installation piece," I said.

"Well," she stammered. "You need to draw a map or something right now as to how this thing gets assembled."


A somewhat uncomplicated installation, I quickly and throughly drew a map as to how the piece was to be assembled. I then handed "Ocean Forty" to the registration desk, paid the showing fee, and set it free into the court of public opinion. I felt both anxious and proud as we ate our celebratory pizza in the restaurant next door. I was back in the game. It wasn't a monumental or important art show, but it was a start.

Two weeks later, Kristen had returned from a return trip to New Jersey where she retrieved both our artwork and reviews from the jury. I couldn't wait to find out what they thought about my piece.

"So, Kristen. What did they think of 'Ocean Forty?'"

She handed me the original bag that I brought the piece in two weeks earlier.

"They never put it together," she said with gentle disappointment. "I found it near the trash."

What's the moral of the story? If you wish to subject your artwork to the scrutiny of the Monmouth County Arts Council, the first thing you need to develop is your price tag.