The Case for Not Making It Work
Illustration by Annabelle Walsh
When FSJ asked its community to share how they were making it work, I balked at the whole thing. I can’t recall the reasons I shared as to why at the time, but with a few years' distance I can see that it was largely because I was failing to make it work myself.
I was teaching in multiple programs, scrambling to fill gaps in my bank account with freelance work, trying to translate a random idea into a body of research and be supportive of all the cool things that people were doing in my community. Instead of feeling a kinship with my colleagues who were similarly piecing together a living, I could only focus on the exterior advantages that I felt enabled others to do it with greater ease: stable full-time employment, partners with incomes that could sustain two people, the absence of student loans. I recognize the fallacy of my superficial judgments and take ownership for choices that led me here. My experiences mirror much of the survey results (white, female, salary that doesn’t cover cost of living as a result of unequal labor to income).
I had also somehow forgotten that the phrase “make it work” was linked to Tim Gunn and Project Runway. I didn’t watch the show much, but it was obvious in hindsight how the frantically edited reality show where an impeccably dressed, older white man told people given fragments of time and purposefully limited resources to create something of value that could be judged by a jury of elevated peers would be an appropriate analogy. The connections between the show’s challenging mission and the survey prompt, intentional or not, demand more than data. We have to use that information to discuss what it means and how that impacts our community.
There is cruelty in asking someone to ‘make it work’ because, if they do not, someone else will. When we expect people to do this, it creates a belief that you should. A wonderful therapist taught me to recognize the trouble with should and the way it can become an emotionally driven demand to meet an unreasonable standard. I haven’t yet kicked my own should habits, but I have made enough progress to recognize when ideals creep beyond the sensible. After two decades working in fashion, and more than half of that with a related master’s degree, I am fed up. I am deeply lost and sad in a way that I haven’t yet found how to describe. I felt ashamed to put words to the struggle until now.
There is an enthusiasm that I used to enjoy about fashion that arose in everything I did: hunting for it in secondhand sources, wearing it, engaging in academic study of it, sharing information about it with students and interested audiences. I devoted myself to the subject and argued for its value at every level. I started adjunct teaching. I took on more classes. I dove deep into freelance work. I co-founded an organization to connect fellow practitioners. I visited every exhibition. I read articles, books, essays. I realized how little I know about fashion beyond what I had been taught and doubled down on every chance I had to learn from my colleagues and students. But then that feeling started to slacken.
I thought that every choice I made included a critical questioning of value. I debated the merits of this path before deciding to apply to a Master’s degree program for specialized training, considering what would be transferable skills and what would happen if at some point I determined it was not the right fit. The question of how to value my work was addressed as a student, sometimes in ways that I felt undervalued it. However, in one of our last classes, a professor who I deeply respect made it clear that after graduation we needed to stop working for free. We had earned a place as a professional, no longer an intern or volunteer. In interviews for entry-level museum positions that I was barely eligible for with my degree and internships, I had to politely nod when the salary was shared because it was always the end of my application. A job had to pay at least my rent, so museums were out. But research and participating in our field in other ways wasn’t work, it was pleasure.
“I keep coming back to a gnawing belief that the problem isn’t entirely me or my response to things, but how certain ideals are reinforced and normalized in ways that are problematic for lots of us. ”
In retrospect I see how much my enthusiasm shielded my judgement. There is a stark contrast in remembered versus lived. Something felt wrong. I thought it was the structure of my courses, so I changed them. I thought it was the course, so I took a break from teaching it. I thought it was my income, so I started taking on bigger and more frequent freelance projects. I thought it was my perspective, so I tried meditating. I thought it was a matter of energy, so I trained in reiki. I thought it was just the need for respite, so I dropped off the grid during summer break. It was never enough. This could be an easy moment to say COVID-19 was the cause, that the pandemic swept in like a dark cloud and changed things. The reality though, is that it had nothing to do with a virus or being forced to live for an extended time “on pause” as New York’s executive order blithely suggested.
It is a challenge to write this essay, because a hefty trunk of emotional baggage spills out when I face my time in this field. The words arrange in a million detailed drafts only to be fearfully edited back to generalities. I want to be frank and share my challenges, but I worry this will be dismissed as sour grapes or the pathetic whining of a privileged individual. I’m scared of retaliation if I speak even vaguely about traumatic events at work. That people will think I’m setting a bad example for students. Students who I see no way to properly prepare for a career in design, museums, archives, or academia, for which they may never find a job with benefits. Or pay off their loans. Or enjoy a workplace that isn’t hazardous to their health and actively hindering professional growth. Or have a child and make enough to pay for childcare. Or be recognized as a leading figure in the field without a PhD.
These aren’t all my problems, but they are problems within our interconnected field of fashion, collections, and education. My desire to keep these challenges private is keeping me from getting past them. Yet I keep coming back to a gnawing belief that the problem isn’t entirely me or my response to things, but how certain ideals are reinforced and normalized in ways that are problematic for lots of us.
This might sound like a case of burnout, the word of the year. I’d resisted the label because I understood it to indicate that your reserves were used up in a way that could not be replenished. I’m not an iPhone battery with a limited lifecycle. It also implies the problem is an individual one. A recent New Yorker essay on burnout described the symptoms as “exhaustion, cynicism, and loss of efficacy,” prompting my amateur affection for linguistics and semantics to consider the words more deeply.[1] That exercise gave me a way to reframe my aversion to burnout. Exhaustion: there’s value to admitting when you’ve reached a limit and need to rest. In exercise, that leads to gradual gains without injury, but in work that's often viewed as a weakness. As a conservator friend reminded me, exhaustion can be a calculated outcome in the chemical process of textile dyeing too. In that use, it indicates that the dye has been fully used and bound to the fiber, a positive. Feeling exhausted is a strength, so instead of bemoaning it I plan to neutralize it by reclaiming my time to rest without excuse.
Cynicism: the doubt of taking things at face value prompts an inquiry into the motivation behind everything. I could point to the work of many colleagues and students who have helped expand the body of scholarship beyond the boundaries of accepted norms in the last decade through questioning what seemed fixed in history. And efficacy: wanting to produce a desired or expected result; well that sounds a lot like should and we know how I feel about that. For me, the worst results always come from holding out for some kind of preconceived outcome. It’s a surefire path to disappointment and overshadows the perks of discovery.
“Our ideas are not inherently less valuable, but our time is. Every hour spent researching, writing, editing, is one that is not financially compensated, and we may even come in at a loss. ”
I don’t think I’m alone in feeling a pressure to publish content (articles or social media), host or attend events (in real life and virtually), to put myself out there for anything and everything that comes along in order to stay active in the field. It’s how you build a network, a reputation, and your ego. Each activity has a cost. Take academic publishing. We know it doesn’t pay much if anything, but it is expected and I can argue a few points in favor of it. However, the existing model is designed for people who are already paid to do related work and sometimes provided time to publish on the clock. That’s great for the few among us that have it, but what about the people who aren’t that lucky? Our ideas are not inherently less valuable, but our time is. Every hour spent researching, writing, editing, is one that is not financially compensated, and we may even come in at a loss. Thus begins the hustle both for income and for exposure. Far too many of my conversations default to hustling in the “what I’m up to these days” reply, establishing it as the standard mode of operation. Like many calling out the drawbacks of such a work culture, I can’t help fixating on the negative connotations of aggressive force, persuasion, or fraud the word conveys. I don’t want to use this word to describe the work I perform, nor do I think it represents what I strive to do. I want to contribute meaningfully to our community. I believed that in order to make a difference, to be involved in our field, I had to show up and do all the work all of the time. That if I stayed in a corporate position with limited public interaction there would be no way for me to promote new ways forward. I am an iconoclast at heart. But I need time to process information and effectively propose new methods or ideas. Thus far, what I do right now is ineffective at fighting the imbalances of racism, gender discrimination, ageism, classism, labor exploitation, and sustainability within my own workplaces.
The truth is, I’m spent from showing up and fighting for something I’m not sure anyone else wants. The field of fashion studies is young, but why are we trying to follow a path of legitimacy determined by older academic disciplines? We could flip the script. Although today there are few jobs available outside of the field because no one thinks they want to hire a fashion scholar, we’re the right people to have on hand for any conversation about every subject because it all intersects with what we put on and around our bodies. The human experience is a fashion experience. Our expertise, academic or lived practice, is an asset but I feel like it’s getting buried in the performance of relevancy. This might sound like a goodbye letter to working in fashion studies. It’s not. It’s an end to participating in a system that doesn’t fit.
“The truth is, I’m spent from showing up and fighting for something I’m not sure anyone else wants. The field of fashion studies is young, but why are we trying to follow a path of legitimacy determined by older academic disciplines?”
As much as I love the subject, I am not dedicating any more time to my own research without funding of some kind. I’ll pitch articles or develop lectures to places that recognize that this is not a gift that magically appears. Even rehashing old material takes effort because the context is constantly evolving. Why should we keep agreeing to do this work for free, just because people have been doing it this way for a long time? Even nominal fees are a move in the right direction. I would even consider bartering groceries or timesharing. If that means I publish less or host fewer lectures, is there a way where that is a positive gain instead of a deprivation? My voice isn’t the most important or necessary in the conversation. Further, my reiki training asserted that requiring some form of exchange for services was an important practice to ensure your offering was valued by the recipient. My own feelings on this have been on a roller coaster over the years, but doing my taxes this year convinced me to take a solid stance. This is the last piece of writing I plan to give away. My aim is not to become a high earner or promote capitalism, but I can’t afford to pay to play. Here’s how the math adds up for me.
I juggle multiple freelance archive and/or research projects along with a few classes every semester. That effort yielded a whopping $33,900 total income in 2020 before taxes, placing me squarely in NYC’s “very low income” classification for affordable housing or just “lower” income if you prefer to use class-based calculators.[2] That’s down from the year before when I made $47,600. The drop has a lot to do with the instability of adjuncting, where the loss of a class or two each semester makes a big impact. I started teaching in 2013 earning $65.29/hour for 5ish hours a week with take home pay just under $900/month. That covered my half of the rent and utilities in a rent stabilized apartment and nothing else. (Not paying market rent is the main reason I can work in the field.) Today, my hourly rate has increased by almost $20, benefitting from updated contract agreements and incremental steps for every 24 hours of teaching.[3] And I’m doing the best I’ve ever done, financially speaking, since I left a corporate archiving job that paid only marginally more: $45,000 to start, ending $55,000, which still left me at a “low income” status in NYC.
At the time, education made more sense to me than corporations. It still does, in theory mostly, but full-time teaching positions in my particular area of experience (clothing and textile-based archives/history/exhibitions) are few and far between here, where the industry is centered, and even more so outside the tri-state area. Without a PhD, my prospects are further limited. If I leave the region, my freelance work—which I enjoy immensely and informs my teaching—doesn’t exist without a massive commute, if at all. There doesn’t seem to be a successful outcome in any equation until we alter the formula. There are plenty of people who will keep following and enforcing the rules because they did it that way, so they expect you to pay those same dues rather than using their privilege to push everyone onto a higher step. For me that means I actively support higher entry-level wages for new hires in my workplace, even if they receive more than I make now. My future colleagues are not responsible for the system that created and continues to maintain my pay inequity. My freelancers also deserve higher rates, which means I have to ask for larger budgets or negotiate the project deliverables to an appropriate scope. The calculations are unbalanced because there isn’t equitable policy or transparency about what fair wages look like for each of the myriad roles we perform.
My tendency is to leave situations I don’t like, to cut my losses and find a better option. Years ago, amid a nauseating conversation about relationships, an acquaintance recounted that he had realized his partner was a good match because he had stopped feeling the urge to run away after their fights. Instead he wanted to stay put and work through discord. While I still can’t stomach this kind of advice, I do think that there is value in discussion and change takes effort. I see potential for growth and radical transformation in our field, but only if everyone else buys in and makes the effort. If we all keep finding ways to make ourselves fit into a system that doesn’t provide a sustainable income, that doesn’t abandon gatekeeping, that doesn’t respect the long work behind the scenes of notable names/places, then nothing changes. I refuse to be miserable and underpaid because I love what I do. I’m not going anywhere, but I will continue to redefine success in a way that works for me and hopefully opens the door for others to do so as well.
Notes
1. “Does my income qualify me for affordable housing?” NYC Department of Housing Preservation & Development and NYC Housing Development Corporation, accessed May 24, 2021, https://www1.nyc.gov/assets/hpd/downloads/pdfs/services/affordable-housing-income-eligibility.pdf.; “Are you in the American middle class? Find out with our income calculator” Pew Research Center, July 23, 2020, https://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2020/07/23/are-you-in-the-american-middle-class/.
2. Collective Bargaining Agreement between FIT SUNY and UCE of FIT July 1, 2008-May 31, 2010, https://www.fitnyc.edu/documents/hr/cba-final-2008-2010.pdf.; Collective Bargaining Agreement between FIT SUNY and UCE of FIT June 1, 2010-December 31, 2017, https://www.fitnyc.edu/documents/hr/cba-final-2010-2017.pdf.
3 Jill Lepore, “Burnout: Modern Affliction or Human Condition?” The New Yorker, May 24, 2021 https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/05/24/burnout-modern-affliction-or-human-condition.
