It had been a harrowing first day of college. Mostly because after attending a few morning classes I saw what I was to contend with for the next two years. I'd quickly ascertained that I was surrounded by boobs and nincompoops, totally immature and ill-equipped for the rigors of post-secondary education. And that was just the instructors. My fellow students were 10 times worse.
I thought that I'd major in fine arts for 2 years, getting an easy AFA then either breaking out into the assumed-to-be-lucrative field of commercial art right away or studying a couple more years at RIC or URI for a bachelors. But I got disillusioned fast. First, I found out that commercial art, especially on Madison Avenue where I wanted to go was cutthroat and my pitiful community college degree wouldn't even get me in the door. Second, I also discovered that it doesn't pay very well...until you've been at it for a while. Entry level paste-up artists made squat. Finally, I knew within a week or two that the actual studio courses here at CCRI were more akin to arts and crafts lessons for retirees and hobbyists. Not too many serious budding artists in our groups.
Despite my lowered expectations, I was intent on making the best of it because, frankly, I had no alternatives. It was all I could afford. My parents made it plain and clear they would offer no financial assistance to me. My selected major probably didn't help either since they seemed to shrug when I informed them of my choice as if it was no concern of them how I wasted my time avoiding working towards a real career. Like mill work, no doubt.
Besides, there were a few true-blood artists among us, even here at Reject, the "beloved" nickname of our school, a pejorative that still stuck despite the school's name change a few years earlier to rid itself of the acronym which was the basis for the term...RIJC (Rhode Island Junior College).
It was later in the afternoon on that first day that I first saw Nancy in the halls. Nancy was once a good friend of my sister's and though Nancy was still a senior in high school she was able to get into an arrangement whereby she would complete her credits here, in community college, and a majority of her courses were art.
Nancy and my sister had some falling out a few years back and I hadn't seen her much since then. She was always such a free spirit and now that she was studying art full time, she really blossomed. She was extremely talented, like myself if I may say so, and we both so deserved to be a few miles over at RISD rather than here, and we both knew it. And that knowledge of our own self-proclaimed superiority was what bonded us together and got us through this first semester.
We had become very fast friends and soon she was picking me up for school on chilly mornings in her rickety turquoise VW bug with no heater. Nancy drove that car like Mr. Toad and hacked the stick into position with each shift as the car would creak and moan, the gears clanking and straining under her nonchalant abuse. Riding with Nancy as she drove erratically to class, as fast as can be since she was invariably late took a brave heart and stomach. What's more, being the artist she was, it was entirely a possibility that we'd suddenly screech to a halt in the middle of the road, heedless of other cars so she could catch a better glimpse of the way the sunlight shone through a thicket of trees.
Nancy would come over to my house so we could paint together. My mother enjoyed Nancy's joie de vivre and Nancy liked my Mom's no-holds-barred attitude. One afternoon as Nancy and I made our way through the kitchen to my room to paint, she inhaled deeply and beamed a broad smile. Joking with my Mom who was busily stirring a huge chedron of clam chowder (RI-style, of course) Nancy boasted brassily to my mother that it smelled so good that she was going to grab a bowl right now. My mother, not missing a beat, took a long drag on her cigarette, saucily exhaled the smoke, put her hand on her hip and blurted out, deadpan as can be, "Fuck you!" staring Nancy straight in her eyes. Nancy, a child of a very Christian and Proper home was a bit taken a-back at first...but only for a second or two. Nancy was sharp, that she was, and she was soon laughing her ass off since she knew she wasn't at home. No Dorothy, this sure wasn't Kansas.
I thought that I'd major in fine arts for 2 years, getting an easy AFA then either breaking out into the assumed-to-be-lucrative field of commercial art right away or studying a couple more years at RIC or URI for a bachelors. But I got disillusioned fast. First, I found out that commercial art, especially on Madison Avenue where I wanted to go was cutthroat and my pitiful community college degree wouldn't even get me in the door. Second, I also discovered that it doesn't pay very well...until you've been at it for a while. Entry level paste-up artists made squat. Finally, I knew within a week or two that the actual studio courses here at CCRI were more akin to arts and crafts lessons for retirees and hobbyists. Not too many serious budding artists in our groups.
Despite my lowered expectations, I was intent on making the best of it because, frankly, I had no alternatives. It was all I could afford. My parents made it plain and clear they would offer no financial assistance to me. My selected major probably didn't help either since they seemed to shrug when I informed them of my choice as if it was no concern of them how I wasted my time avoiding working towards a real career. Like mill work, no doubt.
Besides, there were a few true-blood artists among us, even here at Reject, the "beloved" nickname of our school, a pejorative that still stuck despite the school's name change a few years earlier to rid itself of the acronym which was the basis for the term...RIJC (Rhode Island Junior College).
It was later in the afternoon on that first day that I first saw Nancy in the halls. Nancy was once a good friend of my sister's and though Nancy was still a senior in high school she was able to get into an arrangement whereby she would complete her credits here, in community college, and a majority of her courses were art.
Nancy and my sister had some falling out a few years back and I hadn't seen her much since then. She was always such a free spirit and now that she was studying art full time, she really blossomed. She was extremely talented, like myself if I may say so, and we both so deserved to be a few miles over at RISD rather than here, and we both knew it. And that knowledge of our own self-proclaimed superiority was what bonded us together and got us through this first semester.
We had become very fast friends and soon she was picking me up for school on chilly mornings in her rickety turquoise VW bug with no heater. Nancy drove that car like Mr. Toad and hacked the stick into position with each shift as the car would creak and moan, the gears clanking and straining under her nonchalant abuse. Riding with Nancy as she drove erratically to class, as fast as can be since she was invariably late took a brave heart and stomach. What's more, being the artist she was, it was entirely a possibility that we'd suddenly screech to a halt in the middle of the road, heedless of other cars so she could catch a better glimpse of the way the sunlight shone through a thicket of trees.
Nancy would come over to my house so we could paint together. My mother enjoyed Nancy's joie de vivre and Nancy liked my Mom's no-holds-barred attitude. One afternoon as Nancy and I made our way through the kitchen to my room to paint, she inhaled deeply and beamed a broad smile. Joking with my Mom who was busily stirring a huge chedron of clam chowder (RI-style, of course) Nancy boasted brassily to my mother that it smelled so good that she was going to grab a bowl right now. My mother, not missing a beat, took a long drag on her cigarette, saucily exhaled the smoke, put her hand on her hip and blurted out, deadpan as can be, "Fuck you!" staring Nancy straight in her eyes. Nancy, a child of a very Christian and Proper home was a bit taken a-back at first...but only for a second or two. Nancy was sharp, that she was, and she was soon laughing her ass off since she knew she wasn't at home. No Dorothy, this sure wasn't Kansas.