Of Pinstripes and Picasso

Let's say you quit your job a year and a half ago in order to do independent contract work. It's been great in many ways, but the lack of structure has been somewhat enervating and the income (while larger than your last (minuscule) salary) a little more sporadic than you'd like. So you've been keeping your eye on the job postings that come over the Museum School Alumni e-mail list -- just in case something interesting comes up. While intriguing opportunities sometimes appear -- the Cowgirl Museum is hiring! -- nothing local has tempted you to dust off your resume.

Until last month, that is. An institution you have long admired is hiring for a position you can only describe as your Dream Job. Pondering your eclectic professional experience and idiosyncratic skill set, you imagine it just might be possible that they would feel the same way about you. You send in your resume, along with a slightly gushy cover letter.

You manage to put the whole thing out of your mind and focus on the holidays. It's almost a surprise when, two weeks later, they call you up. Almost a surprise, but not completely -- part of you knew this was coming. "We'd like you to come in for an interview," they say. Of course they would, you think. A date is set.

Suddenly you feel the stirrings of something like panic. The last time you interviewed for a job was... Gosh, it must have been the summer of 1991. Not that you haven't had jobs in all that time -- it's just that they sort of happened to you, rather than you seeking them out. This feels really different -- the more you think about it, the more you want this position. The more you think about it, the more you feel like you are ready for the many wrenches full-time employment will throw into your life, and the lives of those around you. It becomes clearer and clearer as the days go by that you are the one who should be doing this job. They may disagree, of course. But you are determined to do whatever you can to convince them.

You get advice. You borrow a book from your sister: Knock 'Em Dead, it's called. (This seems a little extreme, but you like the idea of stunning 'em, at least.) You list the requirements of the job and match them up with appropriate items on your resume. You think of compelling examples to parade in front of your interviewers. You practice answering questions in front of the mirror.

On the morning of the interview you give yourself plenty of time to get good and ready. You print out your resume and references and the list of questions you'd like to ask. You dust off your briefcase and put your papers inside, along with a clean shirt and a good luck charm or two. You iron a crease into your slacks and polish your David Bowie shoes. You are wearing the pinstriped jacket you wore when you interviewed Governor Rosellini. You are wearing "the Cadillac of bras" (acquired over the holidays during a multi-generational visit to Jenette Bras in Hollywood, "where the alphabet begins at D.") You have raided your thirteen-year-old daughter's dresser and found a suitable shade of lipstick.

You take the train downtown.

Things begin somewhat inauspiciously, when you arrive early and duck into the restroom, only to discover that the faucet at the sink doesn't work. You emerge from the bathroom and encounter an employee waiting for the elevator, her arms piled high with packages. When you inform her that the faucet appears to be broken, she sets the packages down patiently and takes you back into the bathroom to show you how to work it. "See, you have to press down. Don't worry, it happens all the time!" You pray this helpful person will not turn out be one of your interviewers... But of course she is.

Once you are ushered into the library and seated comfortably for your grilling, however, you begin to recover from your apparent ineptitude. You proceed to explain all the many, many reasons why you are exquisitely, uniquely, amazingly suited for this position (which is, thankfully, unrelated to the operation of basic plumbing) and how very, very delighted you would be to be part of their team. You falter a couple of times, but hopefully in a way that conveys nervous enthusiasm rather than lack of expertise. For the most part you manage to shine, to get your major points across, and to ask questions that let them know you have thought seriously about the job and understand its intricacies.

After an hour and a half, you make your final pitch and shake hands firmly. Then you are back out on the sidewalk in front of the building, briefcase in hand, exhausted but smiling. You duck into a doorway to answer the four good-luck texts stacked up on your phone. Then you exhale a week of tension and anxiety and set off to spend a little time with Picasso.

It's the final week of this blockbuster exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum, so it's your last chance to use the ticket you got for your birthday. Naturally the lobby is crawling with Picasso fans. You get in line at the ticket counter, not sure how the whole gift certificate thing is supposed to work. An employee comes along to apologize for the length of the queue, which is snaking slowly through several velvet-roped switchbacks. You snort to yourself, recalling the hour-plus waits you endured at Disneyland over the holidays (did you know there's an iPhone app called "Mouse Wait" that tells you how long the wait is for any ride at Disneyland, in real time?) You smile. Nothing that happens here is going to stress you out.

Then you reach the front of the line and are informed that the earliest you'll be able to get in to see the show is 2:40 pm. You have to be back in Columbia City by 2:20, so this is unfortunate news.

You pull yourself up to your full height (plus David Bowie heels) and look down at the receptionist. Your pinstriped slacks are creased; your shoes are shined. You are exuding an aura of positive momentum, friendly confidence, and steely resolve. You are wearing, by God, the Cadillac of bras. 

"I'm afraid I can't wait until 2:40," you hear yourself saying. "I wonder if there's any way you can get me in there a little sooner."

The guy at the desk sizes you up, pauses for a moment, then smiles. "I'll go ask."

Picasso's Portrait of Dora Maar, 1937.

Ten minutes later you have wound your way through the press of the crowd, past sixth grade classes and moms with toddlers and elderly couples and bearded hipsters and students with sketchbooks. You are standing face to face with Dora Maar in all her electric, dreamy, starry-eyed glory. You stare as long as you can at each of the half-dozen portraits of Dora, trying to memorize each one, line by mesmerizing line, before moving to the next.

Another portrait of Dora.

You have eschewed the museum's audiotour, which explains the context of each piece and gives undoubtedly insightful suggestions about what to look for in each one. Instead you are relying on some sort of visceral visual compass that steers you directly to the two or three pieces in each room that you absolutely must get closer to. Most of these turn out to be drawings.  The paintings are amazing, of course, but you have seen many of them before -- you have them in books at home, even -- and you feel like you should be taking this opportunity to take in something new. So you're spending most of your time in front of drawings -- intricate, densely composed masterworks and silly graceful sketches; realistic portraits and confounding abstractions; four-inch square still lifes and life-size human forms cut into powerful cubist angles and shapes.

Too soon, it's time to go. You're nowhere near done staring at these incredible artworks, but you've had enough time with them to absorb something special, something you needed to cap off this day. You walk out of the exhibit, out the front door of the museum, and through the streets of downtown Seattle, heels clicking purposefully on the pavement. You may not know exactly where you are going, but you are moving forward. And you have a feeling you're headed someplace good.