When I was doing my Masters degree, I came up with the seemingly-smart-at-the-time idea of writing and illustrating a book that would display my talents and influences in one place at one time. It did both things, although looking back now, I feel self-conscious about how heavily influenced much of it was by the usual suspects, and how simultaneously obvious and oblique much of the writing was; that said, the quality of the book — and, indeed, the book itself — isn’t really why I brought the whole thing up right now. Instead, I’ve been struck by remembering how it came together.
The end of my Masters degree was this strange time; my entire post-graduate program was a compressed one, a solid year with only a couple weeks off for Christmas that included both a post-grad and MA degree course squished into 12 months, meaning that if I passed the post-grad, I’d find out in May, and then have just three months to complete the MA portion of it; in order to assist doing so, the few of us in the course (maybe 12 of us in total? Maybe less? It was a handful, at best) were given the entire otherwise empty art school for the summer as studio space and told to get it done. The clock was ticking.
What this meant was, of course, we just worked. Our lives became airtight work modules, losing a summer to just getting it done, whatever “it” looked like to each of us. (All of our work was very different, very distinct from each other.) The countdown to the deadline was something we were all far too aware of, having to plan and execute our final-final show almost immediately after our post-grad degree, which was itself just a year after our graduate degree, and it was appropriately suffocating and high-stress the entire time.
In deciding to make a book — and a hardcover book at that — I accidentally set my own deadline earlier: after all, I had to have all the material finished and ready to be bound by a third party earlier than the actual deadline, in order to let the book binder do their work by the actual deadline. I seem to remember my end-of-work deadline was three weeks earlier than everyone else’s, which isn’t a small amount when the entire thing lasted three months. For me, it all came down to staying up overnight the day before I had to get everything to the book binder, printing the book out page by page on a laser printer in a friend’s house.
I’d made my life harder through my ambition: I was making five editions of the same book, but each one was, I seem to remember, around 100 pages and using different paper and card stock throughout, with the dimensions of the book unusual for reasons I don’t even recall anymore. The night wasn’t just printing, it was collating, cutting all the pages down to size, sorting out paper jams and swapping in new toner cartridges as necessary. In all, the whole thing took about 12 hours of activity; I finished just as the sun was starting to come up.
What I remember most about that night was the way in which it felt like the entire post-grad/MA program in miniature: starting with ambition and goodwill that got increasingly frazzled and worn as exhaustion set-in, regretting said ambition by the end of the whole thing and wishing I’d gone for something easier. A manic excitement surrounding the entire enterprise that felt more fragile the more it continued, and a sense as everything became worn through that maybe it would never end, somehow.
That I find myself feeling nostalgic for that night, decades later, feels ironic given how much I was not enjoying it at the time — even a little masochistic. But there was a magic to that time of my life, even if I didn’t realize it at that moment; perspective that I should probably remember for every moment, moving forward. Everything can look amazing, in retrospect.
