It would have been far easier to just write David Sedaris a thank you note, but that isn’t my style. Instead, I decided to do a silent act of solidarity by walking in his shoes through Santaland. I am not, by all means the first to do this. I was in fact at times up to my elbows with elf hopefuls clutching copies of ‘Holiday’s On Ice,’ and mugging in front of Envy’s or I-phones. Anyone doing a solitary pilgrimage that seems like martyrdom would hope that his or her reasoning is unique, and I am no different. My reason goes back many years to my graduation from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
Mr. Sedaris was our commencement speaker and an alumnus of our school. Only an alumnus of our exceptionally conceptual school would be able to see the humor in our present situation: we are being sent into the world with very few real world skills, but an amazing ability to not only notice, but also to discuss the quality of ambient light. His examples brought us through stories of all of his dead end jobs that he did to make ends meet while he kept making his art. He made us belly laugh at our nonconformist ways. We were a unique group, and we should not change now that we are entering “the world after art school.” We laughed and cheered as he made us all feel like we had made the right decision to follow our hearts. Our parents shifted uneasily as he spoke of economic hardships and looming student debt, but in the end he functioned as a catalyst as only a humorist like he can. He was a hero to all.
You see many of us were nearly or completely disowned upon entering the ranks of art school. It does not matter that it is a well-recognized school with famous graduates. It is a sizable thorn on many a family tree and mine is no exception. I made the move from an otherwise stable double major in business to skidding out of control to the most conceptual art school in the nation. How does one shift from economics to art? Well, you could point the finger at many of my observant professors who encouraged my studies in the areas of philosophy and art history, but it was that damned art appreciation teacher who was the straw that broke the camels back, or in this case broke the piggy bank on my Wall Street career. I was well on my way to being a business suit wearing wonder woman before that teacher came along.
I used to play banker as a child, raiding the monopoly money for the vault. I would give advise to our family lawyer about money market accounts by age 12. While in high school, I predicted that the stock market would crash due to insider trading. The week I turned in my term paper a sobering headline said it all, my prediction had come true. My AP Composition teacher didn’t know whether I was a prophet or an inside trader, but regardless she made me sit down and write a disclaimer. I was expecting a hero’s welcome as I sauntered into class Wall Street Journal in hand, but instead I was made to write an excuse letter. I was supposed to play dumb. Had I missed the point? No, I think I got it loud and clear.
The question of ethics reared its head again after I had put in a couple years in University. I sat through my Business Ethics final watching “our best and brightest” cheat their way through the exam. That pretty much told me all I needed to hear. When that art appreciation teacher made note of my passionate words about art and coaxed a painting out of me, she then turned to me and asked the fatal question, “What are you doing in business school?” I know that is the question she asked, but what I heard was “run for your life! If they are cheating in an ethics class you are screwed!” So that took me merrily down Michigan Avenue to SAIC.
I think you can guess what came out of my Mom’s mouth, a few things that I would rather not share on this otherwise festive night. Next came the deathly guilt ridden silence that seems to run in our Irish veins. The silent guilt lasted me through art school up to the graduation that she nearly boycotted. That is where our dear friend Mr. Sedaris comes in again. Most of us in the graduating class had worked our tails off and our families were mad at us. There is no hoopla to go along with art school, and especially not this one. You either understand why you make this life choice or you don’t. It is as simple as that. Mr. Sedaris got it and was making something of it. He was a bridge between our families and us as fledgling artists.
So this 36-day act of martyrdom is a small price to pay for the help he gave us on graduation day. I will save my Santaland saga for Christmas day, as tonight I am still nursing a cold that doesn’t quit. Merry Christmas to all and to all…
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