Dear Readers,
The question, “what did you want to be, other than an artist” keeps coming up when I am in rooms full of artists– an amusing inquiry to pose to a group of people who are hypothetically living out their dreams.
When asked in a room full of sculptors, most say they wanted to be scientists. They clarified they dreamed of being the mad type of scientist, not the kind that uses pipettes and Petri dishes, but the one that mixes different colored liquids to make something exciting happen. The sort that accidentally makes Frankenstein. The Nicola Tesla kind of scientist.
When asked in a room full of painters, most of us had a very different answer– we all wanted to be spies for the CIA. We all had this romantic dream of living a life of adventure, intrigue, and travel. We wanted to be like spies on TV, with gadgets and secret missions.
Some of the successful artists we knew could be in the CIA, the way they travel to obscure locations, dine with the most elusive oligarchs, and are permitted into the back rooms of any institution. They have mysterious sources of income. Some dress better than James Bond himself. And being an artist is the best cover— say you need to go into a disputed territory or remote nuclear power plant for some weird art project and no one will bat an eye. I have seen firsthand that anything goes in the name of fine art. And, no better way to smuggle national secrets out of the country than through an art object.
Besides, the CIA has a recorded history of using artists as weapons in the cold war.
For a while, between the ages of 14 and 19, I fully believed that a career in espionage was the answer to all my problems. It was the early 2010’s and we were in the middle of the Jason Bourne craze. Homeland had just come out and Skyfall trailers played everywhere. All these spies seemed like good role models to me.
I was devoted to the dream completely. For my first year of college, I took Arabic, world history, and political science— all classes I thought I needed to get that summer internship at the state department. I signed up for “govermentjobs.gov” email alerts so I would know the exact moment when the internship portal went live. My whole career was in front of me. I could see it. Sure, I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to talk to my mom about my international assignments but that was a necessary sacrifice. One of many I was prepared to make.
Anyone who knew me knew this was a doomed quest. I was mediocre at secret-keeping. And I was infamously bad at languages. Fluency in a foreign language is key to being a good spy. In my four years of high school, I took Latin, German, French, and Spanish, escaping F’s in each through a combination of cheating, lying, and begging. The cheating ring I started in my Latin class led to a week of summer school. These are all behaviors that, unbeknownst to me at the time, are languages that would exclude me from the CIA.
Arabic went just as well as all the other languages I had taken. And yet, I was shocked. I had been sure that Arabic was going to stick. But I had more fun drawing out each letter than remembering what the words meant. To this day, all I can say and ever could say is “hello” and “black chicken.” Within a few months, I knew the class was not going to end well. I thought I could save it and traced the letters over and over again, still not remembering what each one meant. I failed. It took a month of crying to the right people to get the grade scrubbed from my transcript.
From there, I turned to my two backup plans– to become an artist or become a writer. Since I couldn’t draw photo-realistically which I (wrongly) assumed was the prerequisite to being an artist, I thought I would end up as a writer.
Jump forward seven years from that fateful Arabic class. Not only am I still dating the boy who was in Arabic as me but I am also living the dream– talking at length to other painters about our mutual desire to work in espionage. After the conversation, I spoke to a friend about why we all wanted to be spies. We settled on the obsession that many painters share– the desire to do “something that matters” but also something that “isn’t boring.”
Discussing the definition of “something that matters” is fodder for a different newsletter… or a book. But somehow, I know that painting in my studio for ten hours a day matters and that I am certainly a better painter than a spy.
What is for Dinner?
Tonight, Michael and I (the previously mentioned boy from Arabic class) went to my favorite pizza place off 10th street. They have the best grandma slice in manhattan. We polished it off with some banana pudding and a brownie from Magnolia Bakery in Moynahan Station before I had to take the train south. It was a Dinner of Champions.
As always, Thank You For Reading.
Sincerely,
Claire
P.S — What did you want to be before you became whatever you are? Say it in a comment by clicking the button below.
I always wanted to be your grandmother.
Always wanted to be a nurse, I guess. But for a brief few moments in high school I thought being a meteorologist was so cool….
However, I only had enough money saved attend the one year licensed practical nurse’s training so that is what I did. Lived at home and walked to classes.