Unemployment

Hey Friends,

well, I don't know if there's anybody Australian interested by my French tribulations in Paris, but maybe a few are... and anyway they have a good value of intercultural jewels.

As you know or not, i am currently looking for a long-term job? I was a life-model in Sydney, mainly at the National Art School and other sketch-clubs, but here I have no network, so it doesn't work. Besides, the job is well-payed but boring as you just need to stay still for a few hours, and that's it.

I founded my own translation company (anyone interested by their autobiography or last academic publication or doctorate translated into Molière's idiom get to me on www.transtexte.com, ok? ;)
But it's not enough, and I am running around looking for any position with a steady wage.

Today was an example of forecast failure.
Morning weather:
10 am. Job interview in an art gallery in the 15th district. The 15th is the white bourgeoise hospital of Paris city.
The gallery dealer has little in common with Stephen Mori. 40 cm higher, no beard, a classy beige outfit... Little did I say, not nothing. The guy has more money but will do any bricolage he can to spare money in the gallery, explain life to you as if he had more clue, be proud of the art work he shows (ach, the Leonor Fini drawings are a marvel, I mussay) but irritated if you compare it with anything he doesn't value so much for his clientele (like Marlene Dumas!!!). Very polite but acts like a fieffé bully. Has no clue about life in general so he keeps on sticking to what he knows and what gets him power and security.
The clientele is vulgaar, fat and well-dressed. Old white rich men, one of them obese and compulsively swallowing mint loolies the wrapping he throws anywhere he estimates discreet.
Ecoeurant, disgusting in a sugary kind of way, the French say.
The job is about flânerie: going around town and sticking posters about the next show in shopkeepers windows. With their agreement, and tracing them so the gallery can recontact them and convince them they display the ad material for free, with cheap tricks such as inviting them at the opening and offering them a glass of champagne.

2pm. I am applying to an unlikely job offered by Paris townhall. Gravedigger. Written examination in an examination center. We are some 200 candidate. I am the only woman, they say. Which, I am proud of myself, make them say "Messieurs et Madame" instead of just "Messieurs". Who are the "Messieurs"? a lot of migrants, chocolate, macchiato, latte and flat white colours, a few punks with they dirty rangers and safety pins in the ear,... and me.
10 questions about professional live situations.
Nb 1, easy one: you wake up at 8.30 am and you were meant to be at work at 8.00 shaaaârp. What do you do?
Aoh, shit, whatchya think? I juss throw the alarm clock onto the thickest wall, crash, go back to bed and call at about 7.50pm, when I do actually wake up... (this is an approximative version)
Nb2: people at the funeral ceremony start fighting. What can and must you do? Dunno, hit them all stronger than they do each other? too bad, I am not a karate black belt. Besides, I remember Bruce Lee died in a silly bad fight accident, didn't he? Calm down, calm down, and calm them down. Or call the security person, hey?
Nb 7: The people partaking the ceremony offer you food and (alcoholic) beverages. They get super-upset that you refuse. What then? I refuse, take any excuse to ground my refusal. If they start a diplomatic accident, I accept the whole lot and throw it into the next piece of bush.
Etc.

And what if I never worked again? If it was not for the financial side, I would do it happily. Why do emloyers interview you like the money side of the work had absolutely no weight in the matter?