Collectors

Post Conrad © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on canvas)

Post Conrad © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on canvas)

I have a theory about the collecting of art. People want to use their money to express something about themselves. Now that lots of things are cheaply and conveniently available, people would like to find more individual ways to express their interests and tastes. Handmade things are a sure way to assert ones individuality, and, in a world of convenience, our generation in particular is bending over backwards to source original and limited items, if not fashioning them themselves.

Art seems like the best candidate for such selective spending, but I believe two mental obstacles hinder people spending money on it. Firstly, there is the reluctance to spend large amounts of money all at once. And secondly, there is the mental block of seeing art as a luxury good. Even smart shoes, however smart, evade this block by having some instrumental value. And nice furniture, equally instrumental, softens the blow of its price tag by being available to buy in installments. Artists need to address these two obstacles if they are to subsist from their job as from any other job.

Tulpen (oil study)

Tulpen (oil study)

First of all, art need not be considered a luxury item. And, I would wager, people are not so taken with scattered and individual paintings, but become interested in the person behind them. Even when people buy a painting as though it were a product, to decorate their apartment and to express something about their own personality, it brings them satisfaction to think of the role they have played in the painter’s path to greatness. In that transaction, two paths intertwine, at least momentarily, and the buyer becomes part of the fabric of the painter’s life. The buyer learns that they are enabling someone to work, not satiating their own unjustified whim for luxury objects. I feel very strongly that this side to buying art should be recognised and emphasised in the midst of our consumerist haze of acquisition.

Secondly, art need not be out of reach. Even the artist doesn’t buy all her materials at once, but spaces it out. Imagine if you could set aside a small amount of money per month, slowly building up a tab, and at the next show you were automatically entitled to a painting—or more than one. You would be invited to the exhibition, drink some wine and partake in some pleasant conversation. Perhaps you had chosen your favourite painting long ago, and knew you were going home with it well in advance, because as a collector you have been in private communication with the painter, and aware of her doings. As time wears on, the painter—now at liberty to work—finds her rhythm and grows in prowess. Her paintings are not objects in a marketplace. They already belong to you and to others in a supportive elite. The party is for you.

Basilikum (study; oil on canvas)

Basilikum (study; oil on canvas)

At my forthcoming show, nothing will be for sale. I don’t want you to come to buy pictures, but to look at them, because paintings are for looking at. I hope this will be a breath of fresh air to art-lovers. I’ve certainly heard enough of the ear-grating rattling of tin cans at art shows, echoing the desperation of beggars in the street. The reason none of my work will be for sale is that it already belongs to people: my collectors. Rather than buying single paintings (under time limits, social pressures and the influence of alcohol), my collectors understand that a long-term solution to my being able to work is to support me. Not to think of my work as products, but to think of me as a worker.

Kohl (study; oil on canvas)

Kohl (study; oil on canvas

And so my collectors just make sure I have a roof over my head and something to eat. I don’t think this is a revolutionary idea, but I think it’s one that has become obscured in the current climate in which we trade heavily in products. Yet it shouldn’t sound so foreign, since most people are working in jobs where they are paid for their time. Some of my collectors send me money each month. Some of them let me stay with them for months at a time. Rents are paid, needs are met, worries are eliminated. And I happily carry on painting. And the paintings have homes, because in a sense they are bought in advance.

Should this idea interest you, and should my work and my ongoing ability to produce it delight you, you need only write to me. No campaigns with time-limits, no alcohol, no third parties, no commission. Only an arrangement between a discerning individual and a hardworking painter.

And to my existing collectors: thank you for being a part of the fabric of my life.

Flusspferd (study; oil on board)

Flusspferd (study; oil on board)

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Of respect and respectability

Lavender Gardens © Samantha Groenestyn; oil on canvas

Lavender Gardens © Samantha Groenestyn; oil on canvas

I lately find myself floating untethered across Europe, of unfixed address and relying on the kindness of friends. Determined to do away with distractions, excess possessions, and non-painting-related ambitions, my faithful and scuffed old suitcase and I have somewhat conspicuously fallen off the path of respectability.

wish

Making big wishes, Vienna

Wafting from city to city, from house to house, welcomed warmly into the homes of friends, I’m permitted into the private spheres of young doctors, paramedics, physicists, engineers and environmental charity workers, and granted a sobering insight into the contrasts in our chosen careers. But I’m also freshly awoken to how difficult it is for each of us to forge our way. My friends are well-travelled, well-educated, some are employed, some have suspended employment for the sake of a relationship, some have worked offshore, some are physically overworked, others are mentally under-challenged, some need to secure funding to guarantee their own ongoing employment. Those of us with money are not necessarily respected, because their jobs are too physical or not demanding enough of their time. Those of us who are working for the betterment of the world are anxious at not contributing enough. And I, as capable as they, cling resolutely to my cause in the face of my meagre earning-power.

Married to the sea, my all time favourite web-comic

Married to the sea, my all time favourite web-comic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This unsettling confrontation with earning ability has been somewhat tempered by some thoughts from philosopher Alain de Botton. I found his book Status anxiety on a bookshelf in a new home and read it hungrily and hopefully. For at heart, we all want to occupy ourselves with something which challenges and satisfies us, and we want others to respect us for our efforts. But are our equations, prescriptions, policies and drawings enough when the measure held against our work is money? De Botton lays out an historical account of our attitude to wealth that can at least reassure the financially-challenged that they are not necessarily worthless. He describes the complete historical about-face of our estimation of wealth, and, most strikingly, its connection with virtue.

Poverty wasn’t always such a psychological burden to bear, argues de Botton (2004: 67-68), particularly in a world where one was born either into nobility or peasantry according to God’s will. One’s moral worth could not be wrapped up in one’s social standing if that immutable standing was allotted by God. Poverty might bring physical discomforts, but not shame. And since the aristocracy acknowledged that their luxuries were only made possible through the untiring efforts of the lower classes, it was only fitting that they demonstrated charity and pity toward these unfortunates. A delicate balance of interdependency between rich and poor reinforced the idea that virtue and moral worth were not reflected in wealth (2004: 70).

But in about the middle of the eighteenth century, argues de Botton (2004: 75-76), some hopeful meritocratic ideas began to take root and to dismantle these beliefs and thus to erode our collective appraisal of poverty. And, more sinisterly, supply and demand were switched. Rather than considering the role of the poor a necessary evil, fatefully bestowed, their position came to be described as dependent on the whims of the rich. Without demand, their labour would be for naught. Thinkers as forceful as David Hume and Adam Smith helped to redefine who depended on whom (2004: 76-78):

Hume loving, Edinburgh

Hume loving, Edinburgh

‘In a nation where there is no demand for superfluities, men sink into indolence, lose all enjoyment of life, and are useless to the public, which cannot maintain or support its fleets and armies.’ (David Hume, 1752).

Portrait gallery

National Portrait Gallery, Edinburgh

‘In spite of their natural selfishness and rapacity, though they mean only their own convenience, though the sole end which they propose from the labours of all the thousands whom they employ be the gratification of their own vain and insatiable desires, the rich divide with the poor the produce of all their improvements. They are led by an invisible hand to make nearly the same distribution of the necessities of life, which would have been made, had the earth been divided into equal portions among all its inhabitants, and thus, without intending it, without knowing it, advance the interest of society, and afford means to the multiplication of the species.’ (Adam Smith, 1776).

Adam Smith, Edinburgh

Adam Smith, Edinburgh

Charity became a burden; the poor became a nuisance (2004: 78). Coupled with progressive ideas that every individual ought to be rewarded according to his or her abilities and achievements, the modern attitude to poverty is one of disdain. For the flipside of meritocracy is that those who do not excel deserve the hardships and stigma that they have thus earned. It seems a regrettable but inevitable price to pay. Since one ought to be able to improve one’s position, failure to do so has come to imply moral failure in a way it did not in the past (2004: 87). De Botton (p. 85) explains, ‘An increasing faith in a reliable connection between merit and worldly position in turn endowed money with a new moral quality.’ And, worse: ‘To the injury of poverty, a meritocratic system now added the insult of shame’ (2004: 91).

De Botton goes on to explore antidotes to this new state of affairs, a string of themes that reads like my biography: Christianity, Politics, Philosophy, Art and Bohemia. Perhaps my attraction to these things has lessened my own regard for money and for the esteem that comes hand in hand with it. At heart, his message is to seek value elsewhere; define worth on your own terms, as many have before. Build, adopt or steal an unshakable moral code so that in dark times you can measure your life and your own worth against this and not money; so that you can respect yourself and stay focused on your life’s work. Perhaps that confidence and determination is enough win the respect of those who doubt you.

Love Newcastle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Botton, Alain. 2004. Status anxiety. Hamish Hamilton: London.

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Risk

Nausea © Samantha Groenestyn

Nausea © Samantha Groenestyn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A government employee once said to me, upon learning of my aspirations to make a career of art, ‘Oh, so you’ll be getting used to a life of applying for and living off government grants.’ He said it so off-hand, as if this were a completely unremarkable way to earn one’s living. I had never considered applying for a grant, and didn’t know this was really considered a viable lifestyle choice.

In fact, I was disturbed that anyone could consider it unremarkable that I could leave my livelihood to chance. That I could work full time, ever more skilled, and merely hope to get awarded a prize, or a share thereof, rather than simply be paid what I’d earned. I was utterly disgusted that as a painter, producing good work might not be enough—I must also grovel to the government, who pays its staff $50 000 to $100 000 (perhaps more) to agonise for days over the specifics of selection criteria in grant applications for a share in a few thousand dollars. After a more senior government colleague and I spent a week on one such application and our department awarded us $3000 between us for the effort, we finally awarded the measly $3000 grant to some struggling community-led organisation with a whole swag of conditions. I spent my share on books and beer. The thing about getting paid for your work is, you spend your money as you please. The thing about getting a grant is, the government wants a say. And it’s far less money than a regular wage. Even some of the best awards are less than working part time on minimum wage for a year—and at least part time work is more or less guaranteed.

'But how can I possibly choose just one?' - Nationalbibliothek, Wien

‘But how can I possibly choose just one?’ – Nationalbibliothek, Wien

 

 

 

 

 

 

One likes to think a good government would support the arts; that it would conceive of its cities as shining cultural milieus, filled with clever and productive citizens in a whole variety of fields. It doesn’t have to be out of the ordinary to go to the ballet of an evening after work, nor does it have to be out of the reach of even the unemployed. Vienna certainly worries after its unemployed folk, and ensures their entry to museums, galleries and operas should they desire it, so as not to forcibly disconnect them from their city’s proud cultural heritage. Hell, you can bring your fold-up chair and sit and watch the opera in the square on a big screen, live, free, of a summer evening.

Wiener Staatsoper

Wiener Staatsoper

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the idea that the government has a hand in how art is conceived, produced and viewed is a little bit worrying. There is something undeniably prescriptive in the grants offered by the Australian government, which demand strict budgets, stipulate that projects must be interdisciplinary, and expect full proposals of what will be produced. One must conceive one’s artwork from the perspective of that faceless entity of the government. And there is one thing the government does not abide: risk. The most frightening thing about government involvement in your creative project is that ‘creative’ and ‘risk’ might just mean the same thing.

A recent development in the largely funding-dependent world of physics is the Fundamental Physics Prize, established by Russian entrepreneur Yuri Milner. Unlike governments, Milner has no qualms about handing out millions of dollars at a time to people of excellence to dispose of as they please, and he annually awards multiple physicists with $3 million each, plus some other negligible amounts far greater than any artist dares contemplate more than momentarily. The Fundamental Physics Prize Foundation’s website declares that the organisation is ‘dedicated to advancing our knowledge of the Universe at the deepest level.’ The prizes are awarded to ‘provide the recipients with more freedom and opportunity to pursue even greater future accomplishments.’ Significant discoveries might snap up the award, as might promising young researchers with less results under their belts. In an interesting twist, each year’s collection of winners chooses the following year’s recipients.

Milner is an entrepreneur. He takes risks. He knows that no one ever achieved anything out of the ordinary by playing safe. And it’s extremely unreasonable to expect that people with limited resources will achieve excellent things in a predetermined (and limited) timeframe. An archaeologist can’t guarantee she’s going to make the most significant discovery of the decade on her next dig. A playwright can’t determine whether or not the play will flop in advance, or there would be no bad plays. Every time we try to bring something amazing into the world, we expose ourselves and set ourselves up to fail. Every creative person knows that their work takes time, effort and persistence, and that it doesn’t pay off every time. Government asks the impossible of us, demanding to know the (positive) outcome at the outset.

Nationalbibliothek, Wien

Nationalbibliothek, Wien

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If artists must take risks and governments must minimise risk, the funding paradigm seems fundamentally flawed. We want our governments to appreciate art, and to instil such an appreciation in the population insofar as they are able. But perhaps to get the freedom we need, we’d be better off financially supporting ourselves, or finding entrepreneurs who believe art can ‘advance our knowledge of the Universe at the deepest level.’ And just you try to sit in front of a Vermeer and say he didn’t advance just that.

Vermeer

Detail of The art of painting, Vermeer; Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien

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The creek

Nest © Samantha Groenestyn

I was fortunate enough to attend an artist floor talk in Noosa the other week, given by one David Paulson at his retrospective exhibition. The guys at the atelier spoke of him—their former teacher—with starry eyes, and I had to tag along to see their idol in the flesh. His fleshy self is every bit as sparkling, witty and intimidating as his self-portrait, and the man had a lot of irreverent and insightful things to say.

David talked about hiring a model every day for an hour. Thirty dollars a day, five days a week, amounts to a significant sum for a financially precarious artist, but David filled sketchbook after sketchbook this way, refining his understanding of the human form. ‘Some people put a deposit on a house,’ he explained, ‘I invested in my skill.’

Now, I have no grand aspirations to own any sort of property or dwelling, and not only because my financial situation is also on the precarious end of the continuum, but mostly because such things don’t interest me. You are going to work all of your life, and you are possibly going to achieve something. I’ve known people who have proudly announced to me that since the age of twenty-six they’ve been locked into a thirty-year mortgage which they, a sole parent, must spend the majority of their part-time income on, but that it’s the best thing ever and in their fifties they’re finally going to own their somewhat average house in some backwater of Australia. While that’s no mean feat, it’s not exactly a very clever sacrifice in my estimation. No, what I’m interested in is my own skills and abilities, and working at them to achieve the most productive life possible. I’ll always find somewhere to live, and while I cherish the idea of ‘home,’ I won’t make it the driving motivation of my life.

David’s work over his lifetime is varied, but always strong and bold. His angrier stuff from his youth is confronting and bitter, and his student work—realistic portraits and such—is tight and confident. David took awkward questions from the floor and responded with an intensity and honesty that was as unsettling as much of his work. This is a man who says it like it is, and doesn’t accept people applying concepts like ‘metaphysical’ to his painting method. ‘I like the creek, so I paint the creek. There’s so much to discover in the creek. I wish I’d found the creek when I was thirty.’

Said creek is at the back of David’s property in Maleny (it’s also reassuring to know that one can preference skills over house deposits and still wind up with property, creek and all), and his explorations of it are crisp, brash and full of depth. Light shimmers knowledgeably over rocks, sticks and leaves, but those debris hold their own. These are no impressionist paintings playing with ethereal light: these paintings drag you to the bottom of the creek with their heaviness. And you want to be there: this creek is a veritable Barrier Reef of thoroughly delightful underwater plumage.

David spoke of limiting his palette in more recent times to eight colours. Each painting draws on this palette in different ratios: while the creek bed paintings burst with vivid reds, yellows and blues, saving the darks for striking tonal effects, a series of smaller paintings of girls on the creek bank are predominantly dark, saving tiny flecks of pure colour for eerie glances of light off skin and water. J has often spoken of style being a matter of limiting yourself in a particular way—of making a choice about what to leave out—and in David’s case, his palette has forced him to explore other things about the works, though I suspect it has also given him a virtuoso grasp on the limits that his colours can be pushed to.

We spent some time admiring David’s life drawings, and he took great delight in telling us that a drawing must capture the person. Being correct and accurate is not the same as understanding a person through their physical presence and describing that in lines on paper. I’m reminded of Bammes* (p. 10), who says of this ‘sensitivity’ toward the model: ‘we are building up the body’s physiognomy—expressing character through a physical description.’

Meeting David Paulson was a real honour, and hearing his straight-up thoughts on art and life has given me plenty of hope for the unconventional career that is being an artist.

* Bammes, Gottfried. 2010. Complete guide to life drawing [Menschen zeichnen Grundlagen zum Aktzeichnen]. Trans. Cicero Translations. Search: Kent.
Nest is a picture of my house, nestled in her leafy jungle of a garden. It’s pretty much the best house ever. We’ve made it a cosy little haven, productive workspace, and buzzing party hive. We call her The Duchess because she’s so regally dilapidated with her sprawling verandas and high ornate ceilings, and this blog is named after her, a tribute to the importance of place in my life.

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Discipline

Ready or not © Samantha Groenestyn

What’s been on your mind lately? I’ve been thinking about poverty, and whether it has any intrinsic morality. I haven’t been reading anything that overtly argues as much, only old French novels (by Simone de Beauvoir) populated with guilty petit bourgeois intellectuals and tough millionaires imposing their will on the former, and environmental science flavoured books (by Jared Diamond) that posit the correct functioning of business as to make a profit and not to hinder itself with social concerns. Those with money look out for their own interests, and take care to ensure that their money achieves what they desire. It’s therefore easy to paint them as the bad guys, forgetting about the rest of us, forgetting that they are acting rationally given their position. This realisation that it’s perfectly rational to act in certain ways when one has money—most notably, in one’s own interest—leads me to wonder whether having money is somehow connected to one’s moral downfall.

I’ve always viewed money as an enabler. I’m absolutely not the kind of person to argue that money is the root of all evil. But perhaps, money being the enabler that it is, once you have it you are able to act as yourself, unimpeded by poverty or lack of access to resources. And in so acting, you reveal your true nature. Some people will help others with their money. Some will spend it selfishly—not in itself a bad thing. I’ve seen plenty of others feel uncomfortable with it.

Testing out J’s new picnic blanket today at New Farm Park. Yep, you can sit on it. It also buckles onto his bike in a tidy little package, and it’s also homemade by me!

I started to wonder if my personality is best suited to poverty. Can such a notion make sense in the modern world, in which everyone is aspiring to earn and multiply their wealth? When I was on a salary, I could and did buy many things. I could eat more meals out, drink fancier wine and travel, and I picked up some very nice shoes. But I did these things haphazardly, and in something of a fog of not being sure what I liked or wanted. I had the means to do things, so I did them and thought about them later. Now I’m in no such position, I do all the thinking beforehand and make carefully calculated decisions and finally, when I’ve saved up enough, execute them. Is this a virtue—being discerning in your decision-making? Lack of money somehow clears my head and enables me to see straight. It imposes discipline.

Discipline in itself may not be virtuous, but it works for me—I can better order my life and achieve what I want to achieve, resources be damned.

Freight train sunset

I recently knit these Scandinavian mittens with some tweedy Harris wool sent over from Scotland from my dear friend Anna. Brisbane doesn’t get much of a winter, but fortunately I get up at 5am a couple of times a week to go open a cafe, and I open my eyes in the dark and hope that it’s freezing, and am often rewarded with 8 or 9 degree mornings, which warm up to well above 20 C. These mittens keep my hands toasty on the longish bike-ride down.

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Rands and your monetary worth

Evergreen © Samantha Groenestyn

The notion of value is a very important one to the commercial arts. Rather than expressing oneself, as an artist would, the commercial artist—illustrator or graphic designer, or both—solves visual problems that clients cannot solve themselves. This service is valid, necessary and skill-dependent, and for these reasons it is valuable. And when we speak of something’s value or worth, we often quantify it in monetary terms. I’m certainly not of the persuasion that everything of worth can be priced, but this is an instance where it ought to be. Solving visual problems is as relevant a contribution as any in the broader context of work, and no one else works for free.

Illustrators and graphic designers, sadly, work for free often enough that there is a name for it: speculative work. Holly DeWolf* (p. 154) defines speculative work as ‘doing work for free without the guarantee of compensation. The client basically says, “I’ll tell you if I like it when I see it.” Payment usually never happens.’ I’ve read enough books like hers to be wary of this type of work that ultimately devalues illustration and the problem-solving process more broadly. There’s even an online campaign against speculative work, NO!SPEC. I was therefore shocked to hear this spec-work anecdote from my graphic design teacher.

He told me a sad tale of a struggling photographer who couldn’t decide between the sleek, modern logo he’d designed for her and the stylish one based on her handwriting he’d provided as a second option. ‘Did she pay for two options?’ I asked, my inner Dagny Taggart doing some quick sums. My teacher explained that he simply tossed in the second one because he’d come up with a few ideas and they were no use to him so she may as well have them.

I was shocked enough at this lack of respect for the value of his own work, when he went on to explain that the photographer then lost her other job and couldn’t pay him, so he simply gave her everything—the website he designed, the posters and flyers and logo options. What I learned from this is, go cry at a man who doesn’t like crying, and he will give you whatever you want, even a free website.

‘This isn’t a cookie-cutter business,’ DeWolf (p. 154) sternly reminds us, imploring us to remember we are skilled, offering expertise and time, labours for which we should be awarded money.

Paul Rand, the designer revered by Steve Jobs as the ‘greatest living graphic designer’ (when they were both, clearly, living), and the creator of the IBM (including the eye-bee-M) and NeXT Computers logos, knew his worth. His ‘Randian’ perspective might be mistaken for the self-assured and economically-savvy views of one Ayn Rand, of whom he is no relation (though interestingly, they both adopted the name Rand in place of their previously identical surname, Rosenbaum). Paul Rand did not offer options, as Steve Jobs recalled, he offered a single solution, and demanded payment whatever the outcome:

I asked him if he would come up with a few options. And he said, ‘No, I will solve your problem for you, and you will pay me. And you don’t have to use the solution — if you want options, go talk to other people. But I’ll solve your problem for you the best way I know how, and you use it or not, that’s up to you — you’re the client — but you pay me.’

We would do well to remember this sentiment, and boldly proclaim our worth.

* DeWolf, Holly. 2009. Breaking into freelance illustration: the guide for artists, designers and illustrators. How Books: Cincinnati.
 Maria Popova has uncovered a fascinating interview from 1993 in which an overawed Steve Jobs attempts to capture Paul Rand in words.

I’ve started a series of paintings of things I have knit. This is J’s Scandinavian jumper, 100% merino wool, dapper pattern courtesy of Drops Design. When I start knitting paintings, you’ll know I’ve gone mad.

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What matters and why it matters

Pumpkin-like berries growing outside my window: (a) from life; (b) distilled

 

 

I’ve always viewed money as an enabler. ‘Mum,’ I would reason as a teenager, ‘I want to get a job, so I can buy a guitar and get lessons.’ My mum would tell me to stop worshipping money and that I could start guitar when I ‘finished’ piano (my mum is not a musician). Of course, there are always ways around not having money, and my resourceful younger self managed to borrow a very lovely guitar from my uncle when he went away for a month, and to seek instruction from kids at school. I took it from there. Essentially, lack of money frequently stood in the way of my doing things as a child, and I have thus always viewed having money as the prime means of doing things, if you want to do them properly. Borrowing will only get you so far.

On leaving university rather recently I had the vague notion that I would sell myself in some mildly obnoxious manner to obtain vast quantities of money, perhaps for four years, saving furiously, and that I would then take myself to Europe, rent a sparse inner-city altbau apartment with ceiling-high windows streaming cold sunlight in, and that I would commence my creative career in financial security. I am certainly not the type of artist who thrives on the smell of piss, hates bathing, or prefers graffiti on my walls, and I saw this looming in my future unless I took specific measures to counter it. This plan fell through. I ‘worked for a year’ (this is how I will bracket off this unfortunate period, dusted under the rug to be forgotten like my other year of toil prior to university), but decided I could not sell my time in this manner, no matter how high the salary.

I now buy back my time by working roughly three days a week in my old area of expertise—waitressing. I work harder now and I earn half as much, but that concept doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. It is simply the price that must be paid to keep some precious hours for your own work. No, what’s bothering me now is that I have to keep a part-time job at all, when I have far more important things to do. Two days does not permit much of anything, especially when you take five classes per week and study three languages at home (and are still trying to ‘finish’ piano).

I’ve always admired people that ‘do too much.’ I don’t know many personally, but I read about them from time to time and know that although I must be crazy, I’m bound to be successful through sheer dedication. Maria Popova,* curator of the brilliant site Brain Pickings, manages to pull it off. Working four jobs throughout university, ‘working for a year’ upon being unexpectedly sent home to Bulgaria from America, and finally taking a lousy job to be able to return to America, Maria must have felt frustrated by time-theft and by the need to work to support a basic existence. Now, as the sole curator of her incredibly intelligent and thoughtful blog, her schedule is no less tight—she absorbs enough information to produce three articles daily—but is no longer peppered with dead chunks of sold-off time, never to be recovered and doomed to be spent on below-capacity tasks.

This is what most frustrates me about my otherwise happy existence: I see my unimpeded future self working at my most productive every moment of every day, producing high-quality content and thinking deeply about meaningful things and adhering to my schedule in a pleasingly strict fashion. I ought to be an employer’s dream, but employers seem unwilling to demand work of this calibre, a point that makes me certain that I am bound for an autonomous career. Instead, I commit to memory whether a person prefers multigrain or white bread, and how much butter they take. This practical work is undeniably useful in keeping people sustained, and rewarding in being directly connected with the results of my labours, and even pleasant in bringing about cheerful communications with my fellow-beings. But challenging and in my field it is not.

Becoming so precious about one’s time leads to dangerous pastimes like avoiding one’s friends a la Benjamin Franklin (via Maria Popova):**

[Franklin] drew up a list of virtues and wrote a brief goal for each one, like this one for Order: ‘Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.’ … If he promised to spend an evening with his friends but then fell behind his schedule for work, he’d have to make a choice that would violate his virtue of Resolution: ‘Perform without fail what you resolve.

This is where we come back to Maria Popova’s adage for selecting content on Brain Pickings: Maria seeks to distil ‘what matters and why it matters.’* Broadly speaking, to meet all the demands placed on us, both those facilitated by money and those required to obtain money, we need to evaluate the worth of each undertaking—including spending solid time with our friends—and remind ourselves why we have committed so much to them. If each has it’s place, we’ll just have to keep at it, reminding ourselves that we’ve already achieved so much in not electing tv, owning a house and amassing truckloads of money above the things that make us hungry for life.

Brazil Cherry © Samantha Groenestyn

* Listen to an enlightening interview with Maria Popova on Design Matters with Debbie Millman, at Design Observer.

** Popova discusses this quote from the book Willpower: Rediscovering the Greatest Human Strength by John Tierney and Roy F. Baumeister.

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