The 6 Things I learned Organizing a Holiday Craft Boutique

On December 14, 2011December 14, 2011 By KathleenIn CareerLeave a comment

1. A little holly goes a long way to deck the halls.

center pieces — some found Christmas ornaments made 5-year old discarded centerpieces into something new. That's right Martha, watch out. There's a new kid in town.

My task: create a joyous, festive backdrop for a local artisan craft boutique. My operating budget: microscopic. My best friends: the dollar store and our building’s basement.

After a morning of rummaging through ghosts of openings and Christmases past, my assistants and I took $10 worth of dollar store ribbons and transformed discarded gala centerpieces from 5 years ago into brand-new ornamented decorations. A few bows, a wreath, a string of lights, and a bippidy, boppedy, boo were all it took to transform a white-walled gallery was instantly a winter wonderland.

2. There’s no crying at the holiday boutique.

At 11AM the morning of our opening, I was still rolling on the final coat of paint over freshly-patched walls. My artists were strolling in, looking for tables that still needed to be built (yes, BUILT) and the floor needed vacuuming. My team of 3.5 had been working round the clock for 4 days straight, de-installing our New York Times reviewed exhibition, finishing paperwork, and turning over the gallery. Had I been a different girl, this might have been the point when I sat on the floor, cried, and screamed “I don’t want to play anymore!”

381059_10150437519968324_22218568323_8436932_745971262_n — A sample of the hand made goods we had

But as I helped the designers and painters unload, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Are you in the union?”

“Head of the teamsters! Would you like some mulled cider?”

3. Being a gracious/fun-loving hostess gets you free stuff.

A mini-holiday-themed-top hat + Sequins galore + A sense of humor made up my daily uniform at the craft fair. Before long, I was a walking mannequin for all my vendors, donning everything from a tailored red silk blouse to silver bracelets to knitted hats and scarves.

my holiday hat — a little flare and a sense of humor gets you free stuff.

“You need some sparkle,” one of my jewelers proclaimed as she handed me a pair of crystal earrings to wear and keep. How could I say no?

4. A watched pot of mulling cider never simmers. An unattended pot of mulling cider, on the other hand, leaves you with a cinnamon-scented gooey mess.

I thought it was a good idea to pass out hot mulled cider to shoppers. It was a good idea…until one of my assistants called in sick, leaving me short-staffed on our busiest day.

A lot of cider was mulled that day… but not a shopper saw a mug.

5. Just because you have a degree in economics from an Ivy League University and a talent for shopping doesn’t mean you know shit about working in retail.

2011-12-13_22-08-42_264 — None of this prepared me for working in retail.

Adam Smith never taught me how to do basic book keeping. Neither did Maynard Keynes. And getting an A in Calculus 4 doesn’t make you an accountant and while I know how to swipe a credit card, don’t ask me how to work a cash register.

Luckily, I’m a quick study…

6. Never put Mistletoe over the cash register.

‘Nuff said.

Who am I and How did I Get Here?

On October 28, 2011October 30, 2011 By KathleenIn Bio Pics, CareerLeave a comment

It was my father’s proudest moment — the morning I called to say I needed to take the tool belt and hammer to work.

The hammer and nails I've learned a gallerist can never leave home without

Forget my two university graduations. Forget that NCAAs when I made All-American. Forget the afternoon I got the phone call offering me the job at the gallery. Forget the day when I tell him I’m engaged. No, my father is proudest when I’m fixing things.

When I was 5, my favorite toys were wooden blocks (read: cut-up wood scraps from my father’s basement tool shop), a small black hammer, and nails. There was not a Barbie to be found. Instead, I built things. Tables. Chairs. Houses. They were rudimentary, but they kept me occupied and were sturdy enough to survive Armageddon.

Eventually, I went on to junior high school and wood shop where I put my hammering skills to use making spice racks and stylized end tables and rocket-powered race cars. I was teacher’s pet — when the local newspaper came to highlight our school’s “technology” program, I was the chosen spokesperson. The front page of the paper was filled with a photograph of me in a Calvin Klein sweatshirt holding up a 3D room model I designed and constructed from foamboard.

Then I discovered Bergdorf Goodman. I retired my hammer in exchange for Marc Jacobs blouses and Stuart Weitzman shoes.

It's just like the Talking Heads said, "you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?"

Every once in a while, I find myself having an almost outer-body experience in which I’m staring down evaluating the person before me. I don’t recognize myself, and before I can ask, who is that, a flood of years past accumulate in front of my eyes — a rapid-fire timeline of moments that lead me to that current instance and answer the question dangling in the air. Recently, it’s been happening often. I guess that’s the byproduct of finding myself in a new life phase.

This week’s exhibition installation — one where my childhood aptitude for driving nails into plywood proved particularly useful — inspired one of those outer-body experiences, an unexpected fit of nostalgia. Sometimes, I look at myself and say, gee, look how far I’ve come! Today, as I stood on the step ladder, employing the same hammer that was my favorite play thing as a kid, I was relieved that some things haven’t changed.

I guess I was also grateful my father thought it prudent to teach a 5-year old girl basic carpentry skills.

The True Confessions of a Young Gallerist

On October 3, 2011 By KathleenIn CareerLeave a comment

The front page of this weekend’s NY Time’s Sunday Styles featured an article called “The Young Gallerists.” The piece by Laura M. Holson highlighted a handful of young, ambitious go-getters who are making waves in the contemporary art world as they run their own galleries and curate shows of marked significance.

Clearly, I was out of town when she called.

gallery install in progress — Behind every gallery opening is a mess a young gallery director needs to clean up

Ms. Holson’s article points to the economic uncertainty of ventures in the art world, but focuses on the glamor of exhibition openings. Behind the glamor is a gritty story of a gallery director, a drill, and a large bottle of advil.

“ADAM! HELP!” I screamed as the 8 foot ladder under my feet began to tip.

Before my assistant could swoop to my rescue, I made a Lara Croft style dive for the lighting track, letting the freed can and blub crash to the ground.

I was in the midst of installing my gallery’s fall exhibition – a show of large-scale contemporary sculptures – and my near death experience while adjusting the gallery lights was just another almost catastrophe in a week ripe with artwork-induced calamities.

Before my assistant could rescue me, I made a Lara Croft-style dive for the lighting track. I sense a new cult video game: The Young Gallerists

In the wee hours of the previous night, I offered to serve as the human vice for an artist while she sawed the head off a bolt. The saw only slipped twice, and unfazed, I watched the corner of my recently manicured index-fingernail shoot off. Luckily, the artist stopped before we had a chance to see if my new health insurance covered partial amputations.

“How thick is the plywood behind the plaster?” another artist asked as we tapped on one of the gallery walls, trying to decide if there was enough internal support for his work.

I shrugged and hoped for the best.

bent nail — I inherited the gallery walls... I found out some of them were concrete the hard way.

After all, I inherited my gallery walls, I didn’t build them. I have no idea what they’re made of. As far as I was concerned, there was only one to find out: Drill, baby, drill.

When the anchor for his florescent resin tree branch began to tear a stripe through the plaster, we figured the plywood wasn’t the ¾” thick we had hoped for.

I pulled out the patching putty and we resumed tapping.

“Do you have a stud-finder?”

“I assume you don’t mean my Friday-night wingwoman?”

Apparently, a stud-finder is a small contraption that you run over a wall to find an upright post in the framework of a wall.

The exhibition will open. The wine will pour. The charm will ooze. And then... the gallerist collapses.

I count the number of causalities amassed during the installation – my fingernail, my olive-toned crepe silk pants, half an artwork, one intern – and consider what still needs to be done. Wall labels need to be mounted. Price-lists need to be finalized. Exhibition brochures need to be picked up from the printer. Wine needs to be purchased.

There are only 2 days left till the opening. The clock is ticking.

On opening night, I’ll be made-up and bedazzled in vintage couture. The wine will pour. The charm will ooze. And then, like I’ve done every day since the loan agreements came in, I’ll collapse into bed, hoping my eyeliner will still look fresh when I go back into work the next morning to start all over again.

You Know You’ve Entered a New Life Phase When…

On July 19, 2011 By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Career, insights/observations2 Comments

All you want for Christmas is a biodegradable, made from post-consumer materials yoga mat.

The manager at Home Depot offers you a job because you know more about their hardwood-flooring stock than their hardwood-flooring specialist.

You no longer have to put stickers over your predecessor's old biz cards

You have interns reporting to you.

Receiving your box of new business cards is the best thing that’s happened to you all week.

You can say to a teenager “when I was your age…” in a non-ironic way.

You no longer consider flip-flops to be appropriate outdoor footwear.

You realize it’s not necessary to take 1,000 photos of you and your friends every time you go out for drinks.

At 7:00, you’re still at work, with no foreseeable exit time. You send a text message home that says: “Have. Gin. Ready.”

The suburbs suddenly seem appealing.

Your afterwork martini is the only thing that gets you from Monday to Friday

You buy yourself flowers.

There’s at least one photo out there that can prevent you from having a viable career in politics… but may help launch your career as a page-6 socialite…

People start asking you if you have children.

People start giving you things to take home for the children you don’t have.

Small children start mistaking you for their mothers.

Instead of asking you “when was your last period” and “do you have a rich boyfriend yet,” your doctor slips a handful of condoms into your purse.

Today I’m 26. Does This Mean My Quarter Life Crisis is Over?

On July 1, 2011 By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Career, Dating, Family, insights/observations, Love2 Comments

Today, my first quarter century fades behind me and I embrace my 26th birthday. I’m not one prone to reminiscing on days gone by, but when I realized I was about to start a new year, it occurred to me that a lot of life happens in the 12 months between birthdays.

Armed with optimism and a gimlet, I headed out into the world to search for employment and prince charming. it's been a long year

I started “They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband” when I was 24 going on 25 and standing on the cusp of a quarter-life crisis. I was single, jobless, and homeless. Luckily, I was a girl with a plan, armed with optimism and motivational tarot card readings. So I ventured out into the world with the blinding confidence that eventually everything would fall into place.

All I needed was some elbow grease.

And a good pair of shoes.

And a gimlet…or two.

Last year, I spent my birthday in a Chelsea gallery interviewing for a job I had no intention of taking. Uncertainty surrounded me, and when my parents and I shared some biltong and a bottle of white in a small Hell’s Kitchen South African wine bar, I confessed to being a bit panicked.

A lot has changed since that birthday dinner.

I landed a budding-curator’s dream job. I learned to love the suburbs. I’ve (temporarily) retired from the sport that defined a decade of my life. I lost a beloved dog. I gained a beloved puppy. I learned German. I discovered yoga. I learned how to garden. I presented on stage in front of 1,800 people. I lost my favorite Bob Dylan CD. I renewed my faith in romance.

And so, as I weigh in on the things lost and gained since July 1, 2010, I ask the question: is my quarter life crisis over?

It’s been several months since I’ve heard “you need to find yourself a nice rich husband.” So, maybe I’m starting to hit my prime. Or maybe my mother’s right — the crisis is just beginning.

I’d prefer to think it’s the fun that’s just beginning…

Stay tuned to find out.

somethings never change — A lot of things change from birthday to birthday, but some things never change

Woes of the Newly-Minted Working Woman, No. 231

On May 6, 2011May 6, 2011 By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Career, fashion3 Comments

“How are you adjusting to life as a full-fledged working woman?” –> This is the question I’m most frequently asked by those that know me. Not “how’s the new job,” or “what’s your boss like,” but how are you coping with this foreign concept of a 9-5.

Standing in the locker room, in nothing but a towel, I realized I'd have to go to work braless. This wasn't an option.

Overall, I’d say I’ve adjusted pretty well. And then I have days like yesterday and I realize adapting to my new lifestyle is still a work in progress.

This time last year, I was a full-time athlete. My 9-5 involved wearing no make-up, traveling abroad, and working out twice a day.

Since I started my job as a gallery coordinator, my biggest challenge has been balancing the regimented fitness routine I’m used to with the new demands of a workweek. Despite not being a morning person, I’ve committed to a morning gym schedule — a decision that reminds me why I try not to face the world until I’ve have my two cups of caffeine.

Yesterday, standing in the change room post spin class, wrapped in a towel, I assessed the contents of my locker:

Linen military jacket: check.
White, curve-hugging, scoop-neck top: check.
Printed linen ankle-length skirt: check.
Custom made cowboy boots and Navajo belt: check and check.
Outfit resembling costume for an extra in the movie of Custer’s Last Stand: assembled.

But wait… where’s my bra?

Had I gone bra-less, I would easily have been mistaken for another kind of working woman.

I held the skin-tight shirt in my hand and considered my options. Being small chested, I’ve frequently ventured out into the world sans support wear. But the elasticized and someone transparent material I was about to don made the decision for me.

Going bra-less would make me look like another kind of working woman.

It was settled: I’d wait for the Victoria’s Secret between my car-park and the gallery to open and buy a new bra. I’d be late for work, but at least I’d be setting the right example — only the day before I had lectured my assistants about “gallery-appropriate quantities of boob-age.”

I inherited 2 filing cabinets at work. One came filled with loan agreements and checklists from past exhibitions. As of today, the other is stocked with clean undergarments.

A working girl must always be prepared.