Old in architecture school September 11, 2019

Apropos of my last two posts, I just read Old in Art School by Nell Painter, as it is our book club choice for next month.  (This on the heels of a summer dedicated to Ulysses –  oh my god, what a challenge!)

Painter’s path is much like mine.  We both retired from tenured faculty positions at prominent universities and changed directions completely in our early 60s.  Painter was a historian at Princeton and embarked on undergraduate painting studies at Rutgers, followed by a two-year MFA at the Rhode Island School of Design.  She is actually 11 years older than I am, so she has had more time to follow her path than I have, and to digest it.

Yet, I can see similarities already, the first being to acknowledge that what we have undertaken is arduous.  Oy, how arduous!  Art and architecture school can be challenging even for the young, but for someone enfeebled by fading energy, aches and pains, diminishing eyesight and hearing, and a general slowing down in thought and response time, these intense professional programs are not to be entered lightly.

She talks about being the “other”, and indeed we old-timers are decidedly different from our classmates in other ways, as well.  Unlike our younger cohort, we have the padding of an established home, health insurance, and a retirement income, not to mention the satisfaction of already having an accomplished career.  Because these assets automatically set us up for a cushioned fall should we choose not to continue, we can be perceived as dilettantes.  Painter bristles at the notion, but I get it. 

Still, there is a difference.  It isn’t clear to me if Painter has made it as an “An Artist” yet, with a capital A (as she refers to it), but she appears to spend a fair amount of her time painting.  Let’s face it: it’s a lot simpler to paint a canvas than it is to build a building.  Painting affords a lot more trial and error, a lot more rapid exploration.  Architecture, like science, is a community endeavor in that it requires a client, consultants, permits, builders, and a substantial bankroll to bring an idea to fruition. 

Hmm.  Perhaps I did not think this through.

Thoughts at the Transition September 4, 2019

I have calmed down from the final push of school.  By the end of June, I had completed my internship and then rushed off to see Annie and the rest of my small family in Minneapolis. 

Now I have spent two months at my remote home in Point Reyes Station.  Because it’s off the information grid, casual phone calls, texts, or emails are infrequent, and my loneliness is a constant.  Yet, I have had a lot of time to recover from school and to let thoughts for the “next stage” of my life bubble to the surface.

But the truth is, even after two months, I am lost, and maybe getting “loster”.  I’ve been thinking a lot about age and how our age – both our own perception of age and that of others – influences us, for better or worse. 

I am now 66.  I have spent the past six years of my life as a student: three at College of Marin and three more at California College of the Arts.  Was it worth it?  Sure, I think so.  I’ve learned a ton, stimulated my intellect and imagination, and made some new friends. 

But to what avail?  How will this help me moving forward?  Do I have the energy, drive, and focus to really start a new career as an architect?  And even if I do, could I expect someone to hire someone of my age?  This age issue is real.  Forty-five years ago, I was 1 of 10 women in a sea of 10,000 engineering undergraduates.  Yet I have never felt more “otherness” and incipient futility than I do now. 

On the Road to Respite June 10, 2019

Two weeks ago, I joined my cohort of M Arch students for our graduation ceremony at the Nourse Hall in San Francisco.  It was the kind of communal celebration of completion that I had never experienced, despite my having now five (good grief!) post-high-school degrees. 

Our cohort of 23 students was thrilled to have scaled our personal Everest.  In the prior few weeks we had defended our theses and presented our work to the juries.  We finished our coursework, and some of us completed our internships (check, check, check).  In joy and exhaustion, bedecked in our artsy berets and our pink striped hoods, we unceremoniously processed to a Klezmer band’s rendition of Pomp and Circumstance. 

I doubt that I will see many of my young colleagues again, or even keep in touch with more than a few, but we accomplished something very special together.  And we whooped, leaped, hugged, and broadly grinned in the marvelousness of it all.

For me, the architecture program has been an enormous undertaking.  It has required a kind of blinders and tenacity that I became increasingly doubtful I possessed.  But I made it, using up three years of my dwindling life in the process.  There is a lot for me to digest here, and in the coming summer weeks, I’m hoping to do just that.

Medicare June 27, 2018

Well, it is upon me, that magical date when the aging American qualifies for Medicare.  You guessed it, turning 65.  My friends and colleagues who have crossed this junction uniformly say, “It’s great,” referring to Medicare – not being 65 – of course.

Isn’t Medicare something my grandparents had?  How can I be that old already? 

As far as I can see, this is a perk for making it this far, like getting senior rush tickets at the opera or ballet.  Speaking of which, it has been my goal to move seamlessly from student rush to senior rush, and now, I will have achieved it!

As my father used to say when he’d hit another birthday, “What are you options?”  He lived to be 90, strong, curious, kind, and grateful up to the end.  Medicare saw him through a stroke and lots of speech, physical, and occupational therapy.  My mother, too, had tremendous medical bills with her cancer, all paid for by Medicare. 

Tell me, when will our country finally wake up and embrace Medicare for all ages?  Bernie, we need you.

Saying goodbye June 24, 2018

A few days ago I finally brought to closure something that had been gnawing at me for a few years.  I am solidly in the last third of my life, undeniably “old age”, and I would like to share it with someone.  I have been carrying the notion of that someone – a specific someone – in a corner of my heart for several years, hoping that a deep friendship and past shared experiences would morph into something fully treasured by both. 

As noted in a previous post, in January I awakened to the reality that this was never going to happen, and I made the decision to move on.  But I also needed to say it out loud, to have my decision acknowledged.  It took until this weekend to materialize, as the object of my affection was otherwise occupied with another woman and her family.  How could I have been so dense?

And so, it was a difficult evening, going over some old ground together, professing an undying fondness for each other, and clarifying what we both feel and want for our futures.  How odd: he is in a relationship that he had claimed he wasn’t really interested in, and I am not in a relationship that I very much wanted.  Life is tricky that way.