I had an “Aha” moment last night when it suddenly hit me smack in the face that I am not defined by what I do here but rather by who I am. Instead of the wonderfully freeing feeling this should have elicited, I immediately thought “Fuck, what now?” When you don’t have a job or a salary or a gallery to hide behind you must be your own person. Conversations no longer start with “Hello, my name is…and what do you do?” Life is more about actually doing things rather than just the need to expel the excess energy that brews while sitting behind a desk all day. People here are not defined by their jobs. They are not even defined by the art they make (because everyone makes art which is the inevitable side effect of affordable space and cheap beer). Rather we are defined by what we say, what we think and what we DO. I was back in New York in January for a couple of months after my then longest stint away (5 months). It was scary. In a city where everyone is so attached to what they do and how much money they make I was shocked to see the doubt and hesitation. People were paralyzed and scared to make any moves for fear of upsetting the delicate balance between being young and beautiful and successful and being able to afford to be young and beautiful and successful in a city where the average rent is, well, fucking ridiculous. People I hadn’t seen in months would say hello then ask, "Have you worked this month?" or "Have you signed up for unemployment yet?" or, my personal favorite, "How is your recession?" And pretty soon I looked around at what had been my home and the place I loved and the place where I was young and successful and thought that there must be something else.

Not having a “real” education to fall back on (Note: getting my BFA was really fun and self indulgent and expensive but that’s all it was), not having ever held a “real” job, I realized that I didn’t want to compete with the thousands and thousands of other young adult New Yorkers who at least had had the decency to sit behind a desk for 4-10 years and develop some skills and pay into unemployment and who had something to write on their resumes. I had taken the other path – the one where I worked really fucking hard but was rewarded with fancy trips and nice hotels and fat paychecks and days off. The path that afforded me my (then) dream: my own 1 bedroom (rented) apartment in Brooklyn. But I didn’t want to do that job anymore and, after a brief flirtation with the construction industry, I couldn’t figure out where else I fit in the city so I moved to Berlin. Berlin where the rent is cheap and it’s acceptable to be piss poor. And even though I can’t speak the language and can’t get a job and I struggle every day with the same shit I’ve always struggled with, I have to be me and I have nothing to hide behind. So the journey begins – the one where I figure out how to survive, make photos, build my life and not ever have to tell anyone what it is I DO.