Last week I had to give an exit interview, something I was completely unprepared for but one of my supervisors was kind enough to give me the rundown beforehand. I was asked to give three positive points of my experience with this company and three negative ones. I was asked if my "new" job is one I sought out or if it came to me, about how my supervisors handled the department, etc, etc.
It was a piece of cake for the most part, I mean, the reason I'm leaving has nothing to do with the company - it's a personal decision. I thought what my career life needed was 40 hour weeks, HR departments, repetition, but I was wrong. I thought I could handle not going into work until 12:30 and getting home anywhere between 9 and 10 at night. I was wrong. I thought I wouldn't miss being behind the camera, but I was wrong.
I explained all of this to Pat, the woman who conducted the interview and we ended up spending more time talking about photography and art than we did discussing technicalities. She told me stories of her sister's husband's father who made his living with a photography business. Her cousin was an Allstate insurance agent for 30 years before selling his business and pursuing his true passion, which was oil painting. She said he would go through phases where he'd go to work, go home, paint all night, and do it all over again, day after day. Then he sold his business and moved to Florida, then wound up in New York City, and is still exploring his artistic passion.
Then she told me about a friend of her's that lived in Ohio. When it came time for her son to have his senior portraits done, she tracked down a photographer who could give them something different (very common in the Midwest - hiring a different photographer other than the one the school uses to get more out of the experience.) One day not long after her son had his portraits done, the woman dropped dead from some sort of aneurysm. Pat looked at me and said, "I said all of that to say this, something my mother told me time and again - you never know when it will all be over. You have to live in the moment, because before you know it, it could all come to an end."
I said, "That's exactly what my own mother tells me. I have the hardest time with it, and am working hard at not over-thinking the past or the future, but concentrating on the present. I have all the reason in the world to, especially when I think of what my own family has gone through."
"You're doing just that by going back to your passion."
I could have cried.
Showing posts with label photography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label photography. Show all posts
Back In The Saddle, Again
Okay, so quick update before it's time to get ready for work.
I did it. I went and saw my old boss and I'm already back on the schedule for August. I put in my two weeks' notice at work and am counting down the hours and minutes until I will never have to see that place again. (As I write this I realize I need to write my resignation letter. HR isn't in until Monday though so I have some time.)
Come August I will be back in the midst of the chaos and couldn't be happier. That chaos is where I belong, in the middle of that big, dysfunctional yet loving family of photographers. You can't kill the creative side of your brain. I tried, twice, and failed. So I'm just going to go with it.
I have started writing for real. I have pages and pages coming together and it's blowing my mind. Granted, I'm somewhat all over the place right now, but it's just the beginning and we all have to start somewhere. The fluidity of the pace at which I am writing is astounding, when last year I couldn't get a paragraph done. I realized that when it comes to writing, get it out and then worry about structure. I had tried outlines, creating characters and organizational thinking to no avail. It wasn't until I said screw it and just started going with whatever was in my head at the moment that it all started coming together. The characters will build themselves. The story line will be under construction until the last sentence is written. But my main focus is that whatever this turns into - whether it ends up a short story or a novel - will be something people will want to read. It will be something they can relate to. It will be interesting. It will be heart wrenching. It will be heartwarming, it will be uplifting, it will be funny, it will be sexy. It will be my life, or whatever I choose to make it, on paper. Because trust me kids, my trips around the sun have been far from boring.
I did it. I went and saw my old boss and I'm already back on the schedule for August. I put in my two weeks' notice at work and am counting down the hours and minutes until I will never have to see that place again. (As I write this I realize I need to write my resignation letter. HR isn't in until Monday though so I have some time.)
Come August I will be back in the midst of the chaos and couldn't be happier. That chaos is where I belong, in the middle of that big, dysfunctional yet loving family of photographers. You can't kill the creative side of your brain. I tried, twice, and failed. So I'm just going to go with it.
I have started writing for real. I have pages and pages coming together and it's blowing my mind. Granted, I'm somewhat all over the place right now, but it's just the beginning and we all have to start somewhere. The fluidity of the pace at which I am writing is astounding, when last year I couldn't get a paragraph done. I realized that when it comes to writing, get it out and then worry about structure. I had tried outlines, creating characters and organizational thinking to no avail. It wasn't until I said screw it and just started going with whatever was in my head at the moment that it all started coming together. The characters will build themselves. The story line will be under construction until the last sentence is written. But my main focus is that whatever this turns into - whether it ends up a short story or a novel - will be something people will want to read. It will be something they can relate to. It will be interesting. It will be heart wrenching. It will be heartwarming, it will be uplifting, it will be funny, it will be sexy. It will be my life, or whatever I choose to make it, on paper. Because trust me kids, my trips around the sun have been far from boring.
I Create My Own Confusion
Here I am back again at square one in regards to what I do for a living. If a living is even what you can call it; I'm scraping by unable to save a dime. Sure, having health benefits is great, still being paid for time off is great, but the toll it is taking on my sanity is of a magnitude I didn't think possible. No wonder 40-hour-a-week drones, those who spend that time in a cubicle or at a desk, are miserable. I'm not even in a cubicle but I lose my damn mind walking into that same building every day, going into the same locker room, putting on the same scrubs, and doing the same jobs over and over again. The time just drags on, and I spend more of it there than I do anywhere else.
Yes, I know how lucky I am to even have a job. I also realize how lucky I am to have the ability to make choices when it comes to my job and what I do to pay the bills. The enormity of it is not lost on me. BUT...
I've begun to ask myself, Is this the quality of life I want? I know, I know. It's only been four months. I've applied for two different positions within the company; I didn't get the first one for reasons I completely understand, but I wanted to prove I had the guts and gusto to move upwards. Still waiting to be interviewed for the second one, or at least hear something, and it the outcome just might make the decision for me - the decision I'd never thought I'd face again and the conclusion I've already come to - that this is not for me. I walk around that place and think, I am not like these people. I can't handle this. I need to be using the other side of my brain again. At least the stress that caused me was worth it in some twisted way.
The stress I'm experiencing now is of a whole different caliber - working twice as hard for less money, missing my family, my life, popping one or two Klonopins just to get through the day. With my old job they were there if I needed them, but it was rare that I had to run to the bathroom with a bottle of water and dig through my purse in search of my prescription. (Which reminds me, I need to get it refilled for the first time in almost an entire year. What does that say?)
I don't know what the hell to do. My old job is beckoning me to come back. Come back Dana, your passion isn't dead. Come back, you can make a few small demands from your old boss that would make it worth it to both you and him.
Now that my major debt is paid off, I'd be able to sock away some money. I'd be able to repay those who have helped me out, because right now, the paycheck goes into my account and then right back out, regardless of the fact that I have slashed my monthly bills by almost a third. I've been sitting on $20 since last Monday to get me through until this Friday.
Maybe I needed a break from the photography gig to reset my mind frame. Maybe I needed a wake up call to realize how good I had it, even with all of the traffic and snot nosed brats that I had to make look fabulous. I remember cutting the grass one day, my thoughts following the trails I was making while pushing the mower, and thinking, Maybe being the Picture Lady, being the school portrait photographer, for the rest of my life wouldn't have been such a bad gig. At least there I had coworkers I looked up to and aspired to be like. At least there, when summer time came, I had the ability and freedom to express my creativity by taking actual portraits that wouldn't just be discarded the following year. Oh and the stories I had. The stories I would come home with were some of the best.
Like I said, I don't know what the hell to do. I am more confused now than I've ever been. What does my heart want? What does God want for me?
I better get my ass in gear and head to the gym to (hopefully) clear my head a bit before it's time to go to work. Shudder.
Yes, I know how lucky I am to even have a job. I also realize how lucky I am to have the ability to make choices when it comes to my job and what I do to pay the bills. The enormity of it is not lost on me. BUT...
I've begun to ask myself, Is this the quality of life I want? I know, I know. It's only been four months. I've applied for two different positions within the company; I didn't get the first one for reasons I completely understand, but I wanted to prove I had the guts and gusto to move upwards. Still waiting to be interviewed for the second one, or at least hear something, and it the outcome just might make the decision for me - the decision I'd never thought I'd face again and the conclusion I've already come to - that this is not for me. I walk around that place and think, I am not like these people. I can't handle this. I need to be using the other side of my brain again. At least the stress that caused me was worth it in some twisted way.
The stress I'm experiencing now is of a whole different caliber - working twice as hard for less money, missing my family, my life, popping one or two Klonopins just to get through the day. With my old job they were there if I needed them, but it was rare that I had to run to the bathroom with a bottle of water and dig through my purse in search of my prescription. (Which reminds me, I need to get it refilled for the first time in almost an entire year. What does that say?)
I don't know what the hell to do. My old job is beckoning me to come back. Come back Dana, your passion isn't dead. Come back, you can make a few small demands from your old boss that would make it worth it to both you and him.
Now that my major debt is paid off, I'd be able to sock away some money. I'd be able to repay those who have helped me out, because right now, the paycheck goes into my account and then right back out, regardless of the fact that I have slashed my monthly bills by almost a third. I've been sitting on $20 since last Monday to get me through until this Friday.
Maybe I needed a break from the photography gig to reset my mind frame. Maybe I needed a wake up call to realize how good I had it, even with all of the traffic and snot nosed brats that I had to make look fabulous. I remember cutting the grass one day, my thoughts following the trails I was making while pushing the mower, and thinking, Maybe being the Picture Lady, being the school portrait photographer, for the rest of my life wouldn't have been such a bad gig. At least there I had coworkers I looked up to and aspired to be like. At least there, when summer time came, I had the ability and freedom to express my creativity by taking actual portraits that wouldn't just be discarded the following year. Oh and the stories I had. The stories I would come home with were some of the best.
Like I said, I don't know what the hell to do. I am more confused now than I've ever been. What does my heart want? What does God want for me?
I better get my ass in gear and head to the gym to (hopefully) clear my head a bit before it's time to go to work. Shudder.
Time To Put On Some Big-Girl Panties and Deal With It (MDTBL, #2)
This past work season has been particularly taxing on me, and I've come to the conclusion that I just can't do it anymore and need to find a new job. I can't be a school portrait photographer for the rest of my life. I'm embarrassed to answer when I'm asked what I do for a living, and this job has taken my passion for photography and crushed it. I don't feel like doing it for myself anymore, some days I don't even want to look at a camera. The disadvantages of my job are overwhelmingly disproportionate to the benefits - I'm not guaranteed work 365 days a year, I travel long distances (I'm paid 42 cents for every mile I drive, but only after a 50 mile deductible & that's not enough to cover new tires, oil changes, and other basic vehicle maintenance,) dealing with school age children who have no regard or respect for their elders, their peers or themselves and are socially inept, dealing with staff and administrators who aren't much better than the children, bending over backwards to please these kinds of people only to be treated like dirt or an inconvenience, walking into my office to find everyone in a bad mood 90% of the time, being told I'm to trust my company with booking me hotel rooms only to be told at the last minute that nothing's available...the list goes on.
There are days I love my job, but they have become few and far between. Not only am I the one behind the camera, but I am also out on the road representing my company. I'm expected to walk into every job with a smile on my face and prepared to bend over backwards for the people who have hired us. That usually doesn't come hard for me, but it's getting to be with every mile I drive, every building I walk into, every time I click the damn shutter on the camera.
The main reason I've become so discontent is because my job does not challenge me in ways that would make me a better employee and all-around person in the long run. I face insignificant challenges every day that irritate me. The bottom line is that I don't usually have to use my brain and I'm missing that. Now granted, I'm going to miss the flexibility of my job - plenty of time off in the summer to sit by the pool or go to the beach and the half days I work while getting paid my full rate. But when your full rate can't pay the bills, something needs to change. I've spent my entire twenties partying my ass off and pissing away my money. It's time to put on my big girl panties and get a big girl job with benefits and a 401K.
I've put my resume back together and have a few professionals going over it to help me polish it up. Once that's done, (I'm hoping by the end of this week,) I will be cranking it out to anyone who will read it.
I have a feeling this particular road is going to be a long one and I'm a little terrified to start down it, but I'm excited to start a new professional life.
There are days I love my job, but they have become few and far between. Not only am I the one behind the camera, but I am also out on the road representing my company. I'm expected to walk into every job with a smile on my face and prepared to bend over backwards for the people who have hired us. That usually doesn't come hard for me, but it's getting to be with every mile I drive, every building I walk into, every time I click the damn shutter on the camera.
The main reason I've become so discontent is because my job does not challenge me in ways that would make me a better employee and all-around person in the long run. I face insignificant challenges every day that irritate me. The bottom line is that I don't usually have to use my brain and I'm missing that. Now granted, I'm going to miss the flexibility of my job - plenty of time off in the summer to sit by the pool or go to the beach and the half days I work while getting paid my full rate. But when your full rate can't pay the bills, something needs to change. I've spent my entire twenties partying my ass off and pissing away my money. It's time to put on my big girl panties and get a big girl job with benefits and a 401K.
I've put my resume back together and have a few professionals going over it to help me polish it up. Once that's done, (I'm hoping by the end of this week,) I will be cranking it out to anyone who will read it.
I have a feeling this particular road is going to be a long one and I'm a little terrified to start down it, but I'm excited to start a new professional life.
How Much Do I Love My Girls? Let Me Count the Ways
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| In the subway after a show at the Highline Ballroom |
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| This girl is amazing, my road dawg from college |
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| We can never keep our tongues in our mouths |
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| It's a family affair |
How Much Do I Love My Boys? Let Me Count the Ways
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| Toga Toga Toga! |
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| Go Phils! |
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| I really don't have any words... |
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| Halloween 2010 could have passed for White Trash Senior Prom 2010 |
Shut Up and Drive
I like my job. Most of the time. But lately things are getting a little ridiculous. I've lost count of how many times I've had to drive 3+ hours and overnight in some cruddy town in New York. I'm getting my oil changed every month instead of every three because the miles just rack up. Yes, I get reimbursed, but not sufficiently enough. Sometimes I spend more time in my car than I do at any given job. And since I smoke, it's hell on my lungs, because what do I do when I drive? I smoke. And then I smoke another. And another. And if I'm stuck in traffic, I yell and curse and smoke some more. For instance, tonight I have to drive to drive up to Long Island and overnight to work a job tomorrow that will probably be nothing less than an absolute clusterfuck, and then fight New York and New Jersey traffic on a Friday afternoon just to get home.
Do not get me wrong, I am thankful that I even have a job. But I do bitch and complain, just like anyone else. Some days I want to leave my equipment on the side of the road in some Godforsaken town a million miles away, other days are a total cakewalk and I'm reminded of why I do what I do and the fact that I love it.
Do not get me wrong, I am thankful that I even have a job. But I do bitch and complain, just like anyone else. Some days I want to leave my equipment on the side of the road in some Godforsaken town a million miles away, other days are a total cakewalk and I'm reminded of why I do what I do and the fact that I love it.
Photo
via 14.media.tumblr.com: "
"
Everything about this photo is right. The positioning of her hands, the angle of her legs, the directions in which her toes are pointing, the stark black and white contrast. I love it all.
"
Everything about this photo is right. The positioning of her hands, the angle of her legs, the directions in which her toes are pointing, the stark black and white contrast. I love it all.
Tattoos, Part 7
this is my first tattoo i’ve been wanting it for the last...: "
this is my first tattoo i’ve been wanting it for the last 2 years. I Minored in photography at school but I’ve always been extremely passionate about photography. I got this done because no matter where i am i want to have a camera on me at all times.
"
this is my first tattoo i’ve been wanting it for the last 2 years. I Minored in photography at school but I’ve always been extremely passionate about photography. I got this done because no matter where i am i want to have a camera on me at all times.
"
My Version of College
I went to college at this tiny photography and graphic design school right outside of Philadelphia, in the Germantown area. It was a two year college where I received my associates degree in photography. I was accepted to the University of Delaware and West Chester as well, but I always knew I wanted to be some type of artist and photography was my thing.
Aside from the actual getting up and going to class part, we did some dumb shit during those years. The students lived in off-campus apartments amongst normal, law-abiding citizens, which wasn't always smooth sailing. My roommates and I made it work for the most part.
My first year I lived with Jess, who I met while still in high school because our dads worked together. We shared an apartment with Heidi, who was easy to get along with until the end of our second semester. Jess's boyfriend Jim stayed at the apartment often, but it didn't bother me even though her and I shared a bedroom. I think it was also because we were three 18-year-old girls living by ourselves in Germantown as well.
Art school is very different from "real college." A lot of interesting characters. Our apartment became Grand Central Station because we had the best pot. And tons of booze. I smoked enough pot that year to last me a lifetime. The first time we got Heidi to smoke with us she ended up with food poisoning, of course from the dinner I had cooked. You can imagine our horror at having to drive her to the emergency room while the three of us were high as a kite. We didn't know if she was having some sort of reaction to the pot, or the feta cheese chicken. She was throwing up everywhere and I remember making her hold a plastic grocery bag while she sat in the passenger seat of my car on the way to the hospital. Turns out it was just an allergic reaction to feta, she was sick for about another day, but made a full recovery. She decided to stick with booze after that little episode.
We partied so much and did so many things that were just...wrong. And we have a lot of it on film (yes, it was back when we developed and printed our work the old-school way.) Just about every apartment had it's own Wall of Shame. And if you were on it, you had to autograph the photo.
My first semester I also met Tristan. Oh, Tristan. He was sexy. Typical douchebag, but definitely sexy. Tall, dirty blond hair, bedroom eyes, amazing drummer. He was also the male slut of the school. (Come to find out it was an act, people just assumed he was. He recently told me that a lot of girls just gave him head, and he only slept with a select few.) We were formally introduced at a 311 show. I coordinated the outing for a big group of us, because by the second week of school, everyone knew how obsessed I was with 311. Tristan's roommate, Anthony, convinced him to go because Chad Sexton is one of the best drummers around. To this day, if asked, he will credit me for getting him into 311. After that concert we were inseparable, for the most part. The first time we had sex was a disaster though. It was after an impromptu party at my apartment. We were shitfaced, half-passed out in the hallway, because every available space was taken, even my own bed. We ended up fucking in the bathroom, me up on the sink and him standing in front of me. And because he was so tall, and I'm relatively short, it was quite difficult. It didn't last very long, and he shot a load all over my favorite pair of pants which were lying on the floor. I think we even succeeded in waking up my roommate and her boyfriend who were asleep in the next room.
The Black and White darkroom at school could be a very happenin' place. There was a CD player in there, and everyone always had to battle this one weirdo who insisted on playing Enya when the rest of us wanted to listen to Veruca Salt, Pink Floyd, Phish, Rusted Root, etc. I miss being able to create my art with my own hands the way I could with the developer, fixer, and wash. It was easy to spend hours working on one single print. 
My second year was devoted to all color printing, but I couldn't give up black and white film, so the majority of my work was shot with black and white film and printed on color paper. The tones I was able to achieve were so much more appealing to me than just shooting and printing in color.
To just list some of the non school-related shit we did - blunt rides up and down Kelly Drive. Trips to the local diner to see how much we could freak out the waitress. Nights when those of us who lived in the same apartment building would all have dinner together. Lasagna Night. Shrimp Night. Margarita Night. Potluck Night. Getting high and going over to Tristan's only to have him call me out because all I could do was giggle at him. Hanging out with Bucket and Ryan, two of Jersey's finest.
Having people over to the apartment, only to get them fucked up and see how much it took to make them puke. Not intentionally of course, because it was always disgustingly messy. Our credo was, "The first night you stay at Jess & Dana's, you're gonna barf." And for some reason we took pride in that. I brought up some God-awful concoction my uncle came up with and our hippie friend Lindsey drank it all, only to be viciously sick and blame me for it, after I had warned her. My uncle LOVED that story.
Fuck, even those that could hang chose our place to be the one they got sick at. My own girls who came to visit me - Jenny, Lisa, Samantha, Jaime. One night Jenny thought she was dying. I laid in bed reading while she sat in the middle of the bedroom floor with her head hung over the trash can. I told her I wasn't taking her to the ER, so she had better puke. She really thought she was dying. "Just wait for it, hon, just wait for it. You'll feel so much better." And once she puked, she was fine. I knew what I was doing.
Wow, we were fucking stupid. But really we were just kids out on our own for the first time, trying to discover who we were, what made us tick, and our niche in the photography or graphic design arts. We had this one teacher for large format photograhy, Vlad, who everyone HATED in the beginning. We hated him because he made us strive for perfection. By the end of spring semester, our hate morphed into love for the instructor who would look at our work, tell us it sucked, and make us go back and do it all over again. It was a piece I did for his class that won in the Student Choice category in the school's annual photgraphy competition. When it was unveiled, Vlad was standing next to me and I turned to him and said (more like yelled) "Would you LOOK at that? That's MINE!" And then I stuck my tongue out at him. He just shook his head and laughed, which was his way of giving approval.
My second year at school I was much more subdued. I was going home every weekend because I just felt the need to be there. My parents were going through a very difficult time in their marriage, my mother was having major complications from knee surgery, and I was at a point in my friendship/relationship with my Ex where I was completely devastated. A lot of tears were shed that year, and it was very difficult to balance school and my personal issues. When it came time to start putting together my final portfolio, I was at a loss. My original idea was to do a series of portrait based on song lyrics, because I wanted to incorporate my love of music into my art. It didn't quite work out that way. After sitting down with my advisor, we determined that the best way for me to try and deal with my emotional turmoil was to capture it on film. All year I had been observing friends, family, and my home life through the lense of my camera anyway, so after sifting through my mountains of film and contact sheets (which are basically 8x10 sized index prints) I was able to give birth to my portfolio, and it was cathartic.
I may not have been the best photographer to receive my degree, but I was proud of myself. And I learned so many valuable lessons that I might have missed had I attended a tradtional four-year university. So I settled for experiencing "that kind of college life" through friends that went to the big schools. I've slept on the tiled floors of dorm rooms, showered in communal bathrooms where I had to wear flip flops, broke my toe while drunk on Bacardi 151 and left a trail of blood up three flights of stairs, went to various sporting events, etc. But on my own I learned not to be alone in a room with a guy who's consumed almost an entire bottle of vodka. (I owed Jess, Ryan and Bucket my life for helping to get me out of that situation.) How to handle my alternator crapping out on me right in the middle of the intersection of Broad and South Streets, to stay away from apartments whose tenants have an arrest warrant out for them, and to trust myself and only myself (with the exception of Jess and Lindsey) when shit hit the fan.
Aside from the actual getting up and going to class part, we did some dumb shit during those years. The students lived in off-campus apartments amongst normal, law-abiding citizens, which wasn't always smooth sailing. My roommates and I made it work for the most part.
My first year I lived with Jess, who I met while still in high school because our dads worked together. We shared an apartment with Heidi, who was easy to get along with until the end of our second semester. Jess's boyfriend Jim stayed at the apartment often, but it didn't bother me even though her and I shared a bedroom. I think it was also because we were three 18-year-old girls living by ourselves in Germantown as well.
Art school is very different from "real college." A lot of interesting characters. Our apartment became Grand Central Station because we had the best pot. And tons of booze. I smoked enough pot that year to last me a lifetime. The first time we got Heidi to smoke with us she ended up with food poisoning, of course from the dinner I had cooked. You can imagine our horror at having to drive her to the emergency room while the three of us were high as a kite. We didn't know if she was having some sort of reaction to the pot, or the feta cheese chicken. She was throwing up everywhere and I remember making her hold a plastic grocery bag while she sat in the passenger seat of my car on the way to the hospital. Turns out it was just an allergic reaction to feta, she was sick for about another day, but made a full recovery. She decided to stick with booze after that little episode.
We partied so much and did so many things that were just...wrong. And we have a lot of it on film (yes, it was back when we developed and printed our work the old-school way.) Just about every apartment had it's own Wall of Shame. And if you were on it, you had to autograph the photo. 
My first semester I also met Tristan. Oh, Tristan. He was sexy. Typical douchebag, but definitely sexy. Tall, dirty blond hair, bedroom eyes, amazing drummer. He was also the male slut of the school. (Come to find out it was an act, people just assumed he was. He recently told me that a lot of girls just gave him head, and he only slept with a select few.) We were formally introduced at a 311 show. I coordinated the outing for a big group of us, because by the second week of school, everyone knew how obsessed I was with 311. Tristan's roommate, Anthony, convinced him to go because Chad Sexton is one of the best drummers around. To this day, if asked, he will credit me for getting him into 311. After that concert we were inseparable, for the most part. The first time we had sex was a disaster though. It was after an impromptu party at my apartment. We were shitfaced, half-passed out in the hallway, because every available space was taken, even my own bed. We ended up fucking in the bathroom, me up on the sink and him standing in front of me. And because he was so tall, and I'm relatively short, it was quite difficult. It didn't last very long, and he shot a load all over my favorite pair of pants which were lying on the floor. I think we even succeeded in waking up my roommate and her boyfriend who were asleep in the next room.
The Black and White darkroom at school could be a very happenin' place. There was a CD player in there, and everyone always had to battle this one weirdo who insisted on playing Enya when the rest of us wanted to listen to Veruca Salt, Pink Floyd, Phish, Rusted Root, etc. I miss being able to create my art with my own hands the way I could with the developer, fixer, and wash. It was easy to spend hours working on one single print. 
My second year was devoted to all color printing, but I couldn't give up black and white film, so the majority of my work was shot with black and white film and printed on color paper. The tones I was able to achieve were so much more appealing to me than just shooting and printing in color.To just list some of the non school-related shit we did - blunt rides up and down Kelly Drive. Trips to the local diner to see how much we could freak out the waitress. Nights when those of us who lived in the same apartment building would all have dinner together. Lasagna Night. Shrimp Night. Margarita Night. Potluck Night. Getting high and going over to Tristan's only to have him call me out because all I could do was giggle at him. Hanging out with Bucket and Ryan, two of Jersey's finest.
Having people over to the apartment, only to get them fucked up and see how much it took to make them puke. Not intentionally of course, because it was always disgustingly messy. Our credo was, "The first night you stay at Jess & Dana's, you're gonna barf." And for some reason we took pride in that. I brought up some God-awful concoction my uncle came up with and our hippie friend Lindsey drank it all, only to be viciously sick and blame me for it, after I had warned her. My uncle LOVED that story.
Fuck, even those that could hang chose our place to be the one they got sick at. My own girls who came to visit me - Jenny, Lisa, Samantha, Jaime. One night Jenny thought she was dying. I laid in bed reading while she sat in the middle of the bedroom floor with her head hung over the trash can. I told her I wasn't taking her to the ER, so she had better puke. She really thought she was dying. "Just wait for it, hon, just wait for it. You'll feel so much better." And once she puked, she was fine. I knew what I was doing.
Wow, we were fucking stupid. But really we were just kids out on our own for the first time, trying to discover who we were, what made us tick, and our niche in the photography or graphic design arts. We had this one teacher for large format photograhy, Vlad, who everyone HATED in the beginning. We hated him because he made us strive for perfection. By the end of spring semester, our hate morphed into love for the instructor who would look at our work, tell us it sucked, and make us go back and do it all over again. It was a piece I did for his class that won in the Student Choice category in the school's annual photgraphy competition. When it was unveiled, Vlad was standing next to me and I turned to him and said (more like yelled) "Would you LOOK at that? That's MINE!" And then I stuck my tongue out at him. He just shook his head and laughed, which was his way of giving approval.My second year at school I was much more subdued. I was going home every weekend because I just felt the need to be there. My parents were going through a very difficult time in their marriage, my mother was having major complications from knee surgery, and I was at a point in my friendship/relationship with my Ex where I was completely devastated. A lot of tears were shed that year, and it was very difficult to balance school and my personal issues. When it came time to start putting together my final portfolio, I was at a loss. My original idea was to do a series of portrait based on song lyrics, because I wanted to incorporate my love of music into my art. It didn't quite work out that way. After sitting down with my advisor, we determined that the best way for me to try and deal with my emotional turmoil was to capture it on film. All year I had been observing friends, family, and my home life through the lense of my camera anyway, so after sifting through my mountains of film and contact sheets (which are basically 8x10 sized index prints) I was able to give birth to my portfolio, and it was cathartic.
I may not have been the best photographer to receive my degree, but I was proud of myself. And I learned so many valuable lessons that I might have missed had I attended a tradtional four-year university. So I settled for experiencing "that kind of college life" through friends that went to the big schools. I've slept on the tiled floors of dorm rooms, showered in communal bathrooms where I had to wear flip flops, broke my toe while drunk on Bacardi 151 and left a trail of blood up three flights of stairs, went to various sporting events, etc. But on my own I learned not to be alone in a room with a guy who's consumed almost an entire bottle of vodka. (I owed Jess, Ryan and Bucket my life for helping to get me out of that situation.) How to handle my alternator crapping out on me right in the middle of the intersection of Broad and South Streets, to stay away from apartments whose tenants have an arrest warrant out for them, and to trust myself and only myself (with the exception of Jess and Lindsey) when shit hit the fan.
Oh, college. It was beautiful, it was dirty, it was rich.
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