Giving up Modeling (1949)
. . . once the war ended, I went on posing in the art schools. During the next three years the zest leaked out of even this occupation which had once represented total fulfillment. There seemed to be no new schools within reach to go to; no new positions to try out that could be held for long enough for students to draw them.
I had to earn a living and, if I was going to escape from modeling, I would be compelled to return to some kind of employment in which what was left of my brain was used. I went into the art department of a publishing house. . . I was amazed that my application was successful. So I think were my employers.
Finding it impossible to take any further interest in myself because I had exhausted all the potentialities of my character, I decided, since I was suddenly surrounded by new people in a new setting, that I would try to devote some attention to them. It wasn't easy.
The art editor noticed this. He asked, 'What do you hold with - apart from yourself? ' I racked my brains, but I couldn't think of a thing.
To me my new job was like going into retreat before facing the rigors of real life again. I luxuriated in my retirement for two and a half years. . . It was my policy never to spend more than half my wages so as not to have to work for more than half my days on earth.
When I announced that I was leaving the publishing house, the first words uttered by my immediate boss were, 'You swine.' I think he was chiefly perturbed by the prospect of having to interview new prospective artists. . . a message arrived saying that the boss wanted to see me. I wanted to thank him for being so long-suffering. As I stepped into his office, he said, 'I just wanted to say how tolerant I think you've been.'
I left work partly in order not to be doing it and partly because I wanted to write a novel. Until now I had never had the time. I had never been able to collect enough money to be able to live for a year without a job.
I had to earn a living and, if I was going to escape from modeling, I would be compelled to return to some kind of employment in which what was left of my brain was used. I went into the art department of a publishing house. . . I was amazed that my application was successful. So I think were my employers.
Finding it impossible to take any further interest in myself because I had exhausted all the potentialities of my character, I decided, since I was suddenly surrounded by new people in a new setting, that I would try to devote some attention to them. It wasn't easy.
The art editor noticed this. He asked, 'What do you hold with - apart from yourself? ' I racked my brains, but I couldn't think of a thing.
To me my new job was like going into retreat before facing the rigors of real life again. I luxuriated in my retirement for two and a half years. . . It was my policy never to spend more than half my wages so as not to have to work for more than half my days on earth.
When I announced that I was leaving the publishing house, the first words uttered by my immediate boss were, 'You swine.' I think he was chiefly perturbed by the prospect of having to interview new prospective artists. . . a message arrived saying that the boss wanted to see me. I wanted to thank him for being so long-suffering. As I stepped into his office, he said, 'I just wanted to say how tolerant I think you've been.'
I left work partly in order not to be doing it and partly because I wanted to write a novel. Until now I had never had the time. I had never been able to collect enough money to be able to live for a year without a job.