On Saturday, I had to go to work for about 45 minutes to help handle lights for a photo call. I had not dine a dimmer check since 2006, which was the last time that I stage managed a play (called Porno, basically the most awesome avante garde psycho-sexual dramatic comedy-drama that I refused to let some of my friends come see but still maintain is one of the best thing is have ever worked on). When I got into the booth at the space at work and flipped on the dimmer packs and started playing with the two-scene present board, it actually felt really good. I was there because of a scheduling mixup–I was supposed to be on my way to my shower so that I could get ready for a date. 

But honestly, it felt good to need to be somewhere. The two hours in between my lunch with my great friend and my “call” time were uneventful, and it was good for me to be out and about, even if it was in Williamsburg near the Bedford stop, essentially the Midtown of Brooklyn (crowded, crowded, full of jerks, crowded). I got to the theater, and it felt good to be there. 

What I miss is having somewhere to go. I have certainly written about this before here. I miss having shows on the weekends, I miss having a groups of artists I am working with. I also just miss having someplace to be, where I am needed and wanted. Working in the office, sometimes I have to work really hard to get out of there on time, or ever, and I have to be very careful to set boundaries about my time. With a show, the pull on your time is intense, but it is also finite. The run will end, the show will close, the emergencies will stop. The work that you put into a great show comes back to you every night when you are on stage or in the booth, it comes from the performers and the audience, and the energy is really exciting. 

I have always though of myself as an introvert, and as I walked on Bedford Street on Saturday, trying to make sure my purse didn’t hit someone’s baby stroller and attempting to look at shoes while being shoved into a rack of sweaters, I definitely felt like an introvert. But maybe I really do feed off of other people’s energy–it just needs to structured in a different way. 

Sometimes I think how fun it would be to try to act or perform again, but I don’t think I could do it in New York. Everyone here is a professional, it would be so much work and hassle, and too much competition. But mostly, I just like the idea of having someplace to be, and some fun people to be with, and something beautiful to make, even just for a few hours. 


I wrote a lot about the problem of ‘brain drain’ in the American theater for my masters thesis, this idea that the best and brightest artists pursue careers in television and film because theater pays too little, leaving behind a less talented group of artists who persist in the theater despite themselves. This problem is deeply sensitive to discuss and harder still to treat, since it’s a labor problem, a wage problem, a love problem…and the wage gap between live performance (even in union houses) and the money to be made in commercials, TV and film is just too enticing. Or law school. Or culinary school. How many former actors do we know?

But I also am starting to see this phenomenon among my arts administration peers. It’s not always about money, though suppressed wages across the sector don’t help. I certainly couldn’t raise a family on the salary that I have now. I can barely take care of myself. I am subsidizing my organization by working 15 hours a week more than they pay me to, and by taking outside work in order to support myself.

But I have also spent my career supporting, caring for and managing a variety of amazing artists who honestly drain the life right out of me. I feel like there is a ‘heart drain’ happening for me and for others I know. It’s not about money, it’s about having a “normal” job where there isn’t daily yelling, crying, acting out, expectations of mind reading, unclear goals and no planning. Since I am currently inspecting my life for codependency and finding it everywhere, I will diagnose many arts administrators as being deeply co-dependent with their jobs (and the other artists they work with). Since the show must go on, “no” never seems like a real option for me. I am working on Saturday night because all the four event managers who I usually have working at the space are busy. Hey, I should also be busy. But I make myself un-busy. Because “we” have to have “someone” at the show. We have to. There is no option otherwise, in my mind, and so I fall on my sword.

As you know, I spent a lot of this year considering alternate career paths that I could take once my unemployment crisis was over. Therapist keeps coming up for me, as does the idea of pursuing a PhD in organizational psychology, or perhaps organizational management in a business school context. I wish I could be a dentist, I would be a really great dentist. I wish I could work in philanthropy.

But really, I wish I could come to work and set boundaries and have those boundaries be respected. I wish I could be paid for my time. I wish I could have benefits. I wish I could pay my staff and the artists who work in my space enough so that they felt they were being well-compensated for their time. We are trying really hard to make all these things happen. This lament is not really related to my current position–I know what I signed up for. I agreed to this. But not forever, and not even for long.

But I worry that when I look back at my career in arts administration, it will be filled with ghosts, including my own, of people who used to work in the arts, but left. Maybe because of money, maybe because of how emotionally tiring it is. I know I fit into that second category. Being broke doesn’t really bother me, but chronically worrying about money, both my own and my organization’s, is draining in the extreme. Caring for, teaching, and handling artists is tiring. Trying to build a business is tiring. Navigating government grant websites is tiring. It grates, it grinds. Eventually, it breaks.

What’s the word I’m looking for here? Sisyphean? In French, it is “la lutte,” the struggle.

For me, I chose to do this work. I remember talking to an actor in Chicago one night at the bar, who told me that if I could do anything else with my life, I should, because being an actor was so horrible. But it was the only thing he “could do.” He had to act. He waited tables and was a temp, and we almost 30 when we had this conversation. He is still acting. Just like I am still working in arts administration, though my experience has taught me that it will not really ever get better.

The older you are, or the longer you work, the more control (or illusion of control) you might have in your work. But I meet so many people who are so burnt out that by the time they are in a position to manage, lead, set agendas, and make change, they are too tired and too bitter to really enact anything other than the abuse that was heaped upon them when they were young arts administrators.

I don’t know how to solve this problem, but I know that I have to keep fighting to do a great job at most things, and not to slack off. I contend that doing to a pretty damn good job at a lot of things isn’t hard, it just requires planning. So that’s what I am trying to do at work now. Plan, share information, try to foresee crises in advance so that I don’t get slapped in the face later down the line. It’s not going to be perfect, but holy lord help us, we’re going to get some cool stuff done.

My current workplace is very funny in terms of being both intensely public (I work in a glorified hallway, in truth) and also a little lonely. My office is in a wide hallway that sits between the door to the outside and the rehearsal studios. I am right by the bathrooms, and my office also doubles as the dressing room when we present performances. My scissors are constantly being stolen (ahem, taken at night). People knock on the door all day long, despite the fact that they have door codes and should know how to enter the space without help. It’s kind of weird. I am half a secretary, half a babysitter.

This makes it hard to focus on long term projects, writing, phone calls and other moments when privacy would be a boone.

I also have two part-time colleagues, whom I manage. Both come in two-three times per week.We often interact in these times, because it is so much easier to meet in person than it is to constantly communicate over email. I think we have found a good pattern.

So morning like this one, when I am “alone” in the office, feel productive on an almost ludicrous scale. People are rehearsing, but there aren’t big groups of dancers trickling in each of whom needs to be let in and escorted around the space. I am writing documents that really need my attention, and now taking time to write this.

Never mind the fact that I probably should take the day off, since I am not technically being paid to be here this afternoon or tomorrow, as I am a part-time employee.

Only my house is maybe not the most reliable new construction by some crazy Russian people. I also feel like I have a husband who has a lot of feelings about everything.

But no! I just have a performing arts space and several bosses, all of whom have strong feelings about everything everything ever.

I say this because today I started discussing boundaries with someone and even thought it was incredibly awkward, it is ultimately for the best. I think I can just keep gently suggesting that we make policies and have collective decision-making processes.

This is the real gift of being an arts administrator is being able to set boundaries that make the artists feel supported instead of limited. This kind of smoke and mirrors, the positioning and timing of information and explanations, *never* making faces ever because they are always misinterpreted…these are the gifts.

Every month, when I run payroll, I feel so great. Not because of the money that goes into my bank account, which is great, believe me, but because I love paying people for their work. Everyone who works for me is awesome and works really hard, according to their own high standards and it makes me really pleased to click ‘run’ on the ADP website.

That’s it.

I am paid to work 30 hours per week. This week, I will 45.

I have this need to be productive, to solve problems, to work hard now so that there are not emergencies down the line.

My concern is not that I can’t handle a 45 hour week, because I can. It’s not a big deal. My problem is that I need to convince these people to hire me to work full time and give me health insurance, and there are two ways I see this thing going down:

1) they see how hard I work and that I deserve and need to be full time with benefits in order to acknowledge all the work I have been doing and will do to build the organziation

2) they think they can get a 45 hour week out of me for the price of 30 and don’t go get the extra money they need to hire me full time, since I will, apparently, work those extra 10 hours for free

I want to believe that I won’t get screwed over, but it’s hard to predict. What is going to happen. So this week, I came in to work at 11am twice and once at 12pm. Because I don’t work at 9am for free, for real.

I had a stress dream about sending out CPR’s annual appeal. I am planning to send my first (not the first) “newsletter” tomorrow morning. Every time I look at it I find more errors and inconsistencies.

By God, but this is stressing me out.

It is in part because I am a hard-core perfectionist when it comes to this kind of stuff, but it is also in part because I have nobody to bounce these things off of, and therefore am completely left to my own devices when it comes to editing.

And because it will be seen by some small fraction of 9,000 people.

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