Despite the peripheral crazies on my job, my immediate co-workers are amazing. Back on one cold December morning, one of them took a picture of the sunrise from our office building rooftop. It was a reminder that we were close to shooting and at the “dawn” of our new project. Seven months later, during an overnight shoot on a warm summer morning, he went up on our rooftop again to take a picture of the sunrise over Brooklyn. He called it our “light at the end of the tunnel.” Another co-worker remarked that for it to truly come full-circle, we should really take a picture of the setting sun, a full daylight cycle, marking the end of a very wild ride.
Sunset over Brooklyn
It’s the little things like this that mean the most. We never let a day go by without laughing so hard we were crying, office QOTD’s are written down so we’ll never forget. These are my war buddies and this is what I love about my job, each show is so unique, the dynamics, the energy, the talents, the highs and the lows. Working on a movie is also called a “rodeo.” And, the name is very apropos. Each movie is like an untamed stallion, you start out with a beast, but by sunset, you can anticipate nearly every buck and kick of your trained equine. You’ve mastered it, and now it’s time to let the horse go out into the world, while you saddle up in time for the next sunrise.
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Tagged brooklyn, co-workers, everything I know about life I learned from the movies, family, friends, greenpoint, jobs, life, movies, sunrise, sunset, the rodeo, work
I always wanted to be successful in my chosen career. Of course, everyone has those ambitions. No one strives to be mediocre. But success can be a lonely place if you let it all go to your head. Tonight we celebrated our soon-to-be-wrapped movie. At first it was awkward. No one knew if it was ok to let loose, dance, drink, and be merry. Finally, our director threw up her hands and started dancing and never stopped. She danced with everyone, no matter if she knew them or not. Once she started, everyone took it as their cue and FINALLY, FINALLY shed their stoic exteriors, threw back some drinks and hit the dance floor. We all had a ball. The playing field had been leveled. It lead me to thinking, “if only the tone during production could have been like this. If only she had jumped in, arms raised, and started dancing.” We all would have followed, with wild abandon, and gladly joined her in the conga line. Watching her for a moment, I almost had respect for her. I saw the person she could be (and maybe was, at some point in her life).
As I was leaving, we ended up riding down alone together in the elevator. We had never had a conversation. She started one. I introduced myself. She glanced up at me. “Of course,” she said. “You’re Ashley. I might need you to do some things for me this week.” I watched her, wearing her black-framed glasses, dressed impeccably (of course) in head-to-toe black, her hair still perfectly coiffed, eyes glued to her Blackberry screen. I also saw a very lonely woman. One that can only let go a little bit for one night. One who sees only what others have to offer her. One who will keep making the same movie, over and over again, telling the single story she owns, because it’s the only thing she can do for herself. We exited the elevator. She didn’t say good night. Just stood there, waiting for her car to pick her up. I hailed a cab and headed back downtown, happy I know how to do things for myself, how to wear glasses that aren’t always rose-colored. In that moment I realized I am successful. I know who I am, I see what other people have to offer the world, and I know that sometimes, to get everyone on-board, you just have to throw up your hands and dance.
This morning I woke up at 7:30 to my incessantly buzzing blackberry, which informed me I had three missed calls and 3 emails in the past five minutes. It was a publishing friend asking me if I had seen the cover of the NYT Magazine yet and had I read the TEN PAGE story written by a former co-worker? Now I wasinterested and already intensely jealous. She’s only 25, how did she get on the COVER of the NYT Mag, let alone inside?!!? I dragged my laptop from my living room into my bed (not a very far journey) and clicked over to the story. The cover shot looks like an ad for a geek porn magazine. The inside story wasn’t any better: ten pages of what was essentially verbal diarrhea. A soap opera version of a 20-something blogger’s life — and not a well-written one at that. She did a lot of name-dropping of mutual acquaintances of ours, shared her “feelings,” relationship details and other things that besides from being TMI, are definitely not Times-worthy items. In fact, this story and individual are sooo past their 15 minutes of fame, I am starting to wonder about the credibility of the Times. Is there really nothing newsworthygoing on?
Sadly, I had just seen this girl at a party last weekend, where she clearly hadn’t grown up in the two years since we’d worked together. At the publishing house, she thought herself to be the “Queen Bee” of our office. When she walked down the hall, it was like high school. People, including our seasoned, intelligent managing editor, were intimidated by her and I never understood why. She wasn’t exceptionally deft at picking books or handling authors, she didn’t prove to have much of a talent for any form of writing besides blogs, and she sized you up in about five minutes, formed her opinion and seemingly there was nothing you could ever do to change it (though some people certainly did try). She thought she had a clear sense of who I was, but when we had to meet about an author just before she was leaving the company, she learned she had misjudged me. It was interesting to see the expression change on her face: from conceited, to slightly humble (?) and a bit rocked. I won’t go so far as to say she had a new-found respect for me, but there was a neutrality that existed in those last few days that left me feeling a little smug.
And, because I’ve grown up since I started writing this quirky post, it’s time I say good for her for getting published the New York Times Magazine. It’s just too bad it wasn’t for writing anything other than a very lengthy blog post.
P.S. It seems there are other bloggers who agree with me.