first job of the season
For many years, the first Christmas party of my work season happened on the second Sunday of November, which always felt weirdly early. Well, and it was.
The party was a family event for a very large law firm, and the set-up was pleasingly familiar every time: it was at a very posh manor, there were three caricaturists and three facepainters and a big stage show (which was different every year) and the food, and the carols, Santa's visit, the DJ. I loved it. It was Josh's gig and he was always there to look after us, hand over the cheques, and make sure the day was perfect. As an artist, I got to draw babies who grew into pre-schoolers who turned into big kids, and eventually aged out of the party. The same kids would get a drawing from me every year, which is adorable and flattering.
Driving home after, I'd listen to Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe stories on CBC radio. Also a tradition.
Well, couple years back the law firm decided to switch things up and do a totally different kind of party, something more interactive or whatever. So that gig went away, alas. I trust Josh that this is really the truth, and not an agent's little white lie to gloss over anything else. Even if that was the case, there'd be nothing I could do about it, and so it's not even worth thinking about.
And so it was that this year the first job of my holiday season was not a family party at 9am last week, but a grownup dinner event this week. And readers, it was truly fab.
This party was a repeat booking, for a firm that books me directly and has done for several seasons, and believe me there is no more flattering praise for an entertainer than repeat business. I'm wondering if they tried to book me last year or the year before, and I told them I was unavailable and maybe why? No idea. Just glad that the gig showed up again.
This year, their soiree was in a glam restaurant perched high atop a tall building, affording a splendid view of the sparkling cityscape. I got there easily by public transit, which was a definite bonus.
The client met me at the door to hand me a cheque, explained that everything was running a bit late over dinner, and directed me to a nicely-lit table over near where the casino staff were waiting. And she was right: I didn't start until almost a full hour into the booked time. And during that pause, I was fed a truly delicious steak dinner.
Yes, that's right. I was on the company dime while devouring a tender and perfectly-grilled steak. Not a bad thing at all.
When it was time to work, an instant lineup formed, and many of the sitters remembered me from previous years and even showed off my caricatures on their phones. While I worked, a young photographer often hovered nearby to shoot photos and exclaim "oh my god, she is so talented! That looks exactly like you! This is amazing!"- etcetera. Every job should have such an esteem-boosting cheerleader: imagine how much better it would feel to input all those reports if someone was standing right by your desk telling everybody how good you are. I recommend it.
Even though my work started late, it wrapped up on time (the band was packing up their gear, the casino was closing down) and the client walked me to the coat cheque with praise and thanks.
Seriously, that was a lovely job, and here's hoping it's a harbinger for the season.
In truth, I don't have a lot of bookings. Just a nice handful. Gone are the days when I rented a car in order to get to one job Friday, two or three on Saturday and two on Sunday, to then spend Monday in bed icing down my drawing arm. All of that action vanished after 9/11, or such has been my experience. And closer to home, my career has stalled because I was out sick for so long and everyone knew why. They found other artists and moved on without me, in some cases. Last spring I texted my favourite agent for the big b'nai mitzvot- hey, I'm alive! All better now and ready to work!- and got silence in return. That stung a bit.
Anyway, next weekend I'm booked for a job at an airport hotel. It's possible by transit, but it's a long ride: subway and bus, something like an hour and a half in transit. Ugh. The agent got me in touch with an amiable entertainer on the same job, and I emailed to ask her if I could possibly get a lift. She wrote back at once, saying that there would be room for me, but- she had an afternoon job, could I meet her at a station far in the north end of the city, oh and there was another entertainer with her who absolutely HAD to sit in the front seat, and hopefully I only had a slim case with me because the entire trunk and half the back seat was full of gear, also the other person wanted to stop and have dinner at Tim Horton's before the job, so could I please meet her at 5:45?
This is for a job that starts at 8.
I'd have to leave my place a full three hours before that job to get a lift squeezed into the back of her car, and so I politely declined: my ass can get there on transit faster. I'll ask for a lift to a subway station after, though.
There's also the facepainting job on the Lakeshore the following week- for that I've booked a rental car. It's too early for any option other than driving. In the past two years Rob has permitted me to borrow the Jetta for this weekend, but this time he will be out of town at his new company's swanky holiday event. So, argh. Renting for the first time in this millennium.
The day after that is another Josh gig, early morning, out in the suburbs, but a fellow artist has agreed to come collect me. And the week after, Paige has booked me for an annual dinner party we've done together for years. She is the chef, I am the sous-chef and chief decorator: she hires me for my plating skills, because she says I make her food look amazing. She pays well, and the client always tips me a bottle of Champagne, so it is worth the supreme exhaustion of being on my feetsies for five hours straight.
Last year, I did that job while wearing an air cast on a broken foot, because that is the kind of BAMF I am.
The party was a family event for a very large law firm, and the set-up was pleasingly familiar every time: it was at a very posh manor, there were three caricaturists and three facepainters and a big stage show (which was different every year) and the food, and the carols, Santa's visit, the DJ. I loved it. It was Josh's gig and he was always there to look after us, hand over the cheques, and make sure the day was perfect. As an artist, I got to draw babies who grew into pre-schoolers who turned into big kids, and eventually aged out of the party. The same kids would get a drawing from me every year, which is adorable and flattering.
Driving home after, I'd listen to Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe stories on CBC radio. Also a tradition.
Well, couple years back the law firm decided to switch things up and do a totally different kind of party, something more interactive or whatever. So that gig went away, alas. I trust Josh that this is really the truth, and not an agent's little white lie to gloss over anything else. Even if that was the case, there'd be nothing I could do about it, and so it's not even worth thinking about.
And so it was that this year the first job of my holiday season was not a family party at 9am last week, but a grownup dinner event this week. And readers, it was truly fab.
This party was a repeat booking, for a firm that books me directly and has done for several seasons, and believe me there is no more flattering praise for an entertainer than repeat business. I'm wondering if they tried to book me last year or the year before, and I told them I was unavailable and maybe why? No idea. Just glad that the gig showed up again.
This year, their soiree was in a glam restaurant perched high atop a tall building, affording a splendid view of the sparkling cityscape. I got there easily by public transit, which was a definite bonus.
The client met me at the door to hand me a cheque, explained that everything was running a bit late over dinner, and directed me to a nicely-lit table over near where the casino staff were waiting. And she was right: I didn't start until almost a full hour into the booked time. And during that pause, I was fed a truly delicious steak dinner.
Yes, that's right. I was on the company dime while devouring a tender and perfectly-grilled steak. Not a bad thing at all.
When it was time to work, an instant lineup formed, and many of the sitters remembered me from previous years and even showed off my caricatures on their phones. While I worked, a young photographer often hovered nearby to shoot photos and exclaim "oh my god, she is so talented! That looks exactly like you! This is amazing!"- etcetera. Every job should have such an esteem-boosting cheerleader: imagine how much better it would feel to input all those reports if someone was standing right by your desk telling everybody how good you are. I recommend it.
Even though my work started late, it wrapped up on time (the band was packing up their gear, the casino was closing down) and the client walked me to the coat cheque with praise and thanks.
Seriously, that was a lovely job, and here's hoping it's a harbinger for the season.
In truth, I don't have a lot of bookings. Just a nice handful. Gone are the days when I rented a car in order to get to one job Friday, two or three on Saturday and two on Sunday, to then spend Monday in bed icing down my drawing arm. All of that action vanished after 9/11, or such has been my experience. And closer to home, my career has stalled because I was out sick for so long and everyone knew why. They found other artists and moved on without me, in some cases. Last spring I texted my favourite agent for the big b'nai mitzvot- hey, I'm alive! All better now and ready to work!- and got silence in return. That stung a bit.
Anyway, next weekend I'm booked for a job at an airport hotel. It's possible by transit, but it's a long ride: subway and bus, something like an hour and a half in transit. Ugh. The agent got me in touch with an amiable entertainer on the same job, and I emailed to ask her if I could possibly get a lift. She wrote back at once, saying that there would be room for me, but- she had an afternoon job, could I meet her at a station far in the north end of the city, oh and there was another entertainer with her who absolutely HAD to sit in the front seat, and hopefully I only had a slim case with me because the entire trunk and half the back seat was full of gear, also the other person wanted to stop and have dinner at Tim Horton's before the job, so could I please meet her at 5:45?
This is for a job that starts at 8.
I'd have to leave my place a full three hours before that job to get a lift squeezed into the back of her car, and so I politely declined: my ass can get there on transit faster. I'll ask for a lift to a subway station after, though.
There's also the facepainting job on the Lakeshore the following week- for that I've booked a rental car. It's too early for any option other than driving. In the past two years Rob has permitted me to borrow the Jetta for this weekend, but this time he will be out of town at his new company's swanky holiday event. So, argh. Renting for the first time in this millennium.
The day after that is another Josh gig, early morning, out in the suburbs, but a fellow artist has agreed to come collect me. And the week after, Paige has booked me for an annual dinner party we've done together for years. She is the chef, I am the sous-chef and chief decorator: she hires me for my plating skills, because she says I make her food look amazing. She pays well, and the client always tips me a bottle of Champagne, so it is worth the supreme exhaustion of being on my feetsies for five hours straight.
Last year, I did that job while wearing an air cast on a broken foot, because that is the kind of BAMF I am.