I feared a repeat of graduate school – but to be fair, stunning and elegant Rome in 2026 is a far cry from cracked-out and dreary Bedford-Stuyvesant in the early 90’s. The point being, I went to art school expecting it to feel like undergrad, imaging wonderfully fun people ready to be my friends. I thought it would be a group endeavor, that we would all be sitting around laughing and sharing paints. The reality was competitive, unfriendly, and isolating. After a two-year slog to get my MFA, I emerged with exactly 2 friends, one of whom was from Finland.
Luckily, after a chilly start, the warmer Italian winds prevailed and on day two at “orientation” I met Astrid. Orientation consisted of just the two of us, and the minute we met I think we both sighed with relief, I know I did. Astrid liked to chat.
We toured the building, the grounds, the famous library; I nodded earnestly while feigning interest in the garbage and recycling center. Our friendship was sealed when the tour entered the laundry room. The room was occupied by a single person ironing when our guide asked if she minded our coming in so that the laundry facilities could be explained. The ironer shot us a look like we were interrupting her soliloquy at Shakespeare’s Globe. Who doesn’t welcome someone in a laundry room? Astrid and I shot each other a glance and just like that our friendship was cemented.
Despite the unwelcoming vibe, I studied the room closely. I love laundry. I don’t merely enjoy it; I am a laundry fanatic. If I did not live in a drought area and had my own laundry machine, I would do a load of laundry once a day. It is so satisfying. This may be genetic. My dad loved doing laundry too. He was an excellent folder, a talent immediately undone by what followed. Instead of placing the freshly folded clothes neatly on a bed or bureau, he used the moment as throwing practice, wildly flinging them in the general direction. Still, clean clothes are clean clothes and I remained appreciative.
But maybe it was the curmudgeonly ironer, or the fact that paying required an app on my phone, or the absence of cute little boxes of detergent, the laundry situation failed to speak to me. I decided that I would be washing my clothes out in the sink.
The great news, with Astrid as a friend, dinner became a breeze. Not only was she interesting and interested, she liked wine - red or white, no debates required. We were joined by other newcomers; a Northern Californian who is good company and a fabulous couple from New York whose stories I have only begun to discover, and apparently karate an boxing are involved.
Our pod continues to grow.
The funny thing is that any person I meet, by the second encounter, knows everything about me. It is as if they work for the CIA and are quietly running background checks. This is definitely the land of overachievers. One new friend asked a thoughtful question about a painting I did twenty years ago; I had no idea which one she meant but I faked it and said it was a response to the political environment of the time. I kept a straight face so I think she bought it.
With friendships and laundry settled, I can now fully focus on the art.
Luckily, after a chilly start, the warmer Italian winds prevailed and on day two at “orientation” I met Astrid. Orientation consisted of just the two of us, and the minute we met I think we both sighed with relief, I know I did. Astrid liked to chat.
We toured the building, the grounds, the famous library; I nodded earnestly while feigning interest in the garbage and recycling center. Our friendship was sealed when the tour entered the laundry room. The room was occupied by a single person ironing when our guide asked if she minded our coming in so that the laundry facilities could be explained. The ironer shot us a look like we were interrupting her soliloquy at Shakespeare’s Globe. Who doesn’t welcome someone in a laundry room? Astrid and I shot each other a glance and just like that our friendship was cemented.
Despite the unwelcoming vibe, I studied the room closely. I love laundry. I don’t merely enjoy it; I am a laundry fanatic. If I did not live in a drought area and had my own laundry machine, I would do a load of laundry once a day. It is so satisfying. This may be genetic. My dad loved doing laundry too. He was an excellent folder, a talent immediately undone by what followed. Instead of placing the freshly folded clothes neatly on a bed or bureau, he used the moment as throwing practice, wildly flinging them in the general direction. Still, clean clothes are clean clothes and I remained appreciative.
But maybe it was the curmudgeonly ironer, or the fact that paying required an app on my phone, or the absence of cute little boxes of detergent, the laundry situation failed to speak to me. I decided that I would be washing my clothes out in the sink.
The great news, with Astrid as a friend, dinner became a breeze. Not only was she interesting and interested, she liked wine - red or white, no debates required. We were joined by other newcomers; a Northern Californian who is good company and a fabulous couple from New York whose stories I have only begun to discover, and apparently karate an boxing are involved.
Our pod continues to grow.
The funny thing is that any person I meet, by the second encounter, knows everything about me. It is as if they work for the CIA and are quietly running background checks. This is definitely the land of overachievers. One new friend asked a thoughtful question about a painting I did twenty years ago; I had no idea which one she meant but I faked it and said it was a response to the political environment of the time. I kept a straight face so I think she bought it.
With friendships and laundry settled, I can now fully focus on the art.
