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I don’t have enough to say about Art School Confidential to write a real review of it. There were some things about it that I liked a lot, some things that I hated quite a bit, and I liked it much better while I was watching it than I did after I thought about it a little. Given the pedigree of the writing/directorial talent (Daniel Clowes and Terry Zwigoff of Ghost World) it was pretty danged disappointing.

But golly gee, did it ever bring memories of my misspent semesters as a visual arts major flooding back. I’d forgotten how much I used to hate nude figure drawing. And still lifes. And hearing bitter failed artists flog the life and enthusiasm out of their students. (My drawing instructor, who I will refrain from naming, literally had students in tears on more than one occasion. I will quote him though: “Computers! Man, what a con! Computers are like, the pet rock of the eighties.” We badgered him to share some of his own art, and he brought in a stunning large-scale paper work that seethed with seamy anger. I was impressed — until I learned it was a decade-old piece.)

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In other news, the shoe has been dropped, although I’m still waiting for it to hit: my employer is shutting down the business group that I work for, and, although I don’t have an exact termination date yet, it ain’t too far off. It’s not exactly a surprise — there have been signs of change in the winds for a while — but it is coming to fruition a little sooner than I expected.

I got my first cold-call from a recruiter this very afternoon — how do they know? And while I think it’s unlikely that this particular gig will pan out, it’s reassuring to see signs that the market for my peculiar skills is fairly healthy.

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