Detours in Art

WRITTEN BY FAITH FARRELL

After declaring majors no fewer than four times in college (an educational road trip that had pit stops in psychology, communications, theatre and a brief gas station nibble in Swedish), I finally made the sweeping proclamation that I had arrived at my destination: Art.

My poor parents took this blow with grace and undying support. Obviously, they were concerned how I would carve my way in a world where “starving artist” was a literal cliché.

Art degree in hand, after graduation I took a brief job as a camp counselor, a token hiatus hurrah before I officially found a “real” job. Living in group quarters, the camp required everyone to Sharpie our names on our clothing to ensure its return after bulk laundry day. This tiny detail may have been responsible for a crucial detour in the direction of my journey.

After camp, I came home to pave my professional path. I typed letters and resumes, decorating cover letters with glitter. Let it be known: This is how not to get a job.

Luck is in who you know. Fate gave me a friend who worked at a fancy art museum. This friend somehow convinced someone important to interview me for a job.

Still living at home, I crammed an overnight bag with a dozen interview outfit options, barely zipping it shut, and drove to spend the night at my friend’s place near the museum.

Arriving early for my interview, I sat under a low hanging tree in the courtyard, hopefully hiding my nerves under the large branches that grazed my head and overnight bag. I unzipped my overfilled bag to grab an extra résumé, but suddenly it was go-time. Hastily cramming everything back in the bag while checking my hair for leaves, I marched into my future.

During the interview, I realized that working at a museum and being an artist were two separate worlds. Nonetheless, I wanted this job. The interview went well; I was eager and bright eyed, convinced this was my path to being an artist.

The days trodded on until the fateful phone call: “Thank you for interviewing, but we selected someone else. Also, you left something here.”

To be frank, I couldn’t think of what it might be. I had my wallet, keys and overnight bag (which I never opened during the interview), so I asked what it was.

“Well,” she said, followed by the longest silence in the world, “it’s your bra. Someone found it hanging on a tree outside. Your name is written on it.”

Panic swallowed me into an abyss of horror as I recalled my camp requirement of labeling our clothes. Somehow, those branches snagged the spare bra from my opened bag, playing a cruel, cosmic joke on my career.

No wonder I didn’t get the job.

Time is a wise healer; it prescribes us hindsight. Not getting that job has led me to this moment, and I’m grateful for what I’ve achieved – and relieved for what I haven’t.

Branches may snag both blueprints and bras beneath us, rerouting us to paths we hadn’t considered. Leaning into the detour, new landscapes can now unfurl.

Thus, there was no need to reclaim that bra. Perhaps it still sits in the museum’s lost and found, the faded Sharpie of my name as proof that I do have a signed work in a museum.