And Now What?

My thesis is done! Woooooot. 100 pages, 20 illustrations, 60 sources and over two years worth of tears, sweat, barnes and noble bills and overdue library books. I confess -- there are two typos. Bugger. None the less, Columbia's art history department now has in its possession, "A Painter's Print: Ellen Day Hale and the American Lady Painter Etchers" by Kathleen Reckling. I can clear my shelf in Avery and relish the joy in having the freedom that follows a life without deadlines. I graduate on May 20th, yet that inevitable question that chases a pending grad has already reared its ugly head: you have a masters, now what?

You have a bachelors in Economics and a master's in art history from Columbia. What are you doing next?

You've written a thesis on the professionalization of women artists in the 19th century and the revival of the painter-etcher in the 1880s. Whaccha gonna do with that?

It's an economic recessions. What are your options?

You're 23 going on 24. What now?

It's a question that can be phrased in a thousand ways. Often it's coupled with further queries into my personal life, usually "is there a boyfriend?" (I've gotten particularly good at dealing with the second one! "No, not yet it's on my to do list... but they're just so much work and I already have 3 dogs!") The pair of questions are not new to me -- I went through graduating two years ago. Then I was fortunate enough to have the master's program lined up and thus an easy and credible explanation about my future. It's a little different this time round.

When people ask me "now what," I respond honestly but with hesitation: I'm taking the next year or two to write a book. About what? It's an expansion of my thesis -- my advisor wants me to do it. (paraphrased: "You're a wonderful writer," she said over breakfast, "really this [thesis] is just a page turner, and Hale is such a rebel, oh and the circle of women around her! You just have to do it.") It sounds impressive doesn't it? "I'm writing a book." And if I'm wearing my glasses and when I tell you this, it's even more impressive because I look like a legitimate intellectual.

But there are a few other things I could say, and have said that are also equally honest. I'm doing what all the cool people are doing -- being unemployed for a while. That usually elicits a good laugh, and if not a laugh starts a serious conversation about the current state of the job market and looks of wonderment at the idea that a girl with 2 ivy league degrees is still not qualified for anything more than an unpaid internship in the present economic environment. I tell them I need a Rhodes -- that's the masters degree that promises legitimate jobs, PhD program acceptances and big-time book deals. If you have a Rhodes, everyone assumes you're the next Bill Clinton, regardless of what that degree is in. If you have a master's in art history, everyone assumes you're going to be the next star of The Real Housewives of New York...

Which brings me to my other response to all those who ask, "what now."

Trophy Wife.

Two years ago as a weapon against those puzzled faces that appeared when I told people I was doing graduate work in art history, I pulled out the "but it's really a practical degree in Trophy Wifedom and cocktail party conversation." Of course, I wasn't serious. Art History is fantastic as a discipline because it forces you to deal with a broad range of topics and fields as well as with the visual world. So yes, it does make you a fantastic conversationalist at cocktail parties and does lend you an air of sophistication (when required). But I aspire for a career in academia or as a museum curator... wife to a trophy husband or not.

Ya.. well that was before the economic crash. I have a fatal addiction to shoes and DVF dresses, and my little book on Ellen Day Hale ain't going to pay those credit card bills. So, surely there's some financially stable guy out there who's just pining for an art historian wife? Did I mention I can cook too?

Recession? Apparently not in South Beach

Every day the New York Times tells me we're in the midst of a financial crisis. In case I forget, the radio news, the television news, the homeless guy on the corner, the schools I applied to for my PhD and my bank account all find ways to remind me that money is scarce, a depression has hit us and it's going to take a while to get back up.

But if you ask the Ritz Carlton South Beach, or anyone in South Beach right now, they'll tell you something different. Money is flowing there -- thick and quickly, right out of the pockets of well-dressed men in Prada sunglasses and Ferragamo loafers. The high end bars of the Shore Club and the Delano, where martinis are $16 a pop, haven't yet felt the pull of tightening belts. Sitting outside of Nobu at the Shore Club, sipping sake, I watched Rolex Submariner clad wrists drop Benjamin Franklins and Amex Black cards on the wooden bar in front of me. There wasn't an ounce of concern in their eyes. As they wrapped their tanned arms around the under-dressed, well-bejeweled women at their side, it was clear -- there was more of that where that came from.

Poolside at the Ritz, a group of 5 people rented one of the luxury lounge beds for two days at $400 a day. The lounge beds included a fruit plate and some champagne. But that wasn't enough for them. They proceeded to order champagne and margaritas like they were tap water. I suspected they were there with the Miami Film Festival. Only Hollywood wannabes would think that kind of spending was a good idea... recession or no recession. And apparently, the film industry is the only one making money right now. No one wants to watch CNN anymore and hear about how their entire savings, which is invested in Citigroup Stock, has vanished, so they're spending what income they have in the theaters on depressing movies about broken marriages and the Holocaust. Go figure.

It was a bit surprising. You would think with companies cutting back the high roller hotels and restaurants would be suffering a bit. But not in the slightest. The people that have the kind of money that buys you cars like most people buy chewing gum, always have money. And those people were all in South Beach with me.

Clearly all the other under-30 women who were there knew about these and neglected to send me the memo that said: If you want to land one of these titanium amex toting gents, or just go out in Miami, whip out the 5-inch cork-heel sandals, mico minis and double padded pushup bras, straighten your hair and apply enough eyeliner so you look like a raccoon. I haven't seen so many average looking women so over made-up, so under dressed and so unbalanced on their feet since the last Miss America Pageant. I guess they had all taken a page out of Patti Stanger's book. There I was at the Shore Club bar, minimalist makeup, dressed in a high-waisted knee-length black Cynthia Steffe skirt with a black lace top I had bought in 2000 (no joke) and flat sandals, surrounded by boobs, bad Pucci knockoff minidresses and skyscraper espadrilles feeling like a mushroom. Apparently, New York chic doesn't get you sake refills in Miami Beach.