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Cup of "change"
Posted by Caitlin Cortez
on
6:54 PM
While some live and breathe for their art, others just pass it by. What we create in silence, speaks volumes.
I walk to the beat of change bouncing around in a cup. As the rain falls down once again, it all plays out like an symphony. It is a song so overly-orchestrated and over-powering that I can feel the vibrations radiate in my chest. A musical piece that sends you soaring before crashing down as 3-inch heels chime in with someone's only dime to create a deafening masterpiece of irony.
I can't help but notice the juxtaposition of deprivation and indulgence that lingers on every cross street in the Garment District. Hollow eyes full of stories. Empty pockets full of hope. Broken hearts holding on. Half-filled cups of change dancing around on crowded streets.
It seems 12 blocks of numb toes creates a delirium of metaphors and similies between fashion and the city as it lives and breathes. You see, interns are really no different than those hungry, hollow eyes sitting under awnings. Both are begging for something. Opportunity. Acknowledgement. Understanding. Fishbowl eyes and open mouths, waiting for someone to throw us a line and pull us out of a masochist state of being.
The things humans do to achieve their idea of success is almost revolting. We "pay our dues" to justify our success. We forgo lunch breaks to earn an ironic "brownie point." We slave away on something that someone either throws away or calls their own. We are subservient to those who probably have a hard time spelling their own name. We shove our feet into shoes that allow us the discomfort of feeling our pulse in our toes. We put our dignity aside and shake our empty cups waiting for someone to fill them with our hopes and dreams.
We have been trained from a young age to feel as if one day all things deserved will be handed to us on a silver platter. When we were finally potty trained, we graduated to big girl panties, when we ate our vegetables we got desert, and when we mastered kitten heels we move on to towering stilettos.
Whether it true or not, I find it encouraging that even those sitting high up in a studio watching interns run mindless errands in a monsoon had to shake a figurative cup of change at some point. Had to beg someone to notice. Convince someone to care.
I have settled on the idea that in order to "make it" you have to shake a cup of change, create a sensation , a noise, a symphony. Your noise can be harsh or subtle. Steady, or swift and fleeting. It can be a sweet melody or a suspense prelude.
Your noise can be a cup full of change or heels against the pavement. It doesn't matter. As long as you make a noise. As long as you are heard. No one can take your passion, your dreams, or your chance to shake change into the world.
I walk to the beat of change bouncing around in a cup. As the rain falls down once again, it all plays out like an symphony. It is a song so overly-orchestrated and over-powering that I can feel the vibrations radiate in my chest. A musical piece that sends you soaring before crashing down as 3-inch heels chime in with someone's only dime to create a deafening masterpiece of irony.
I can't help but notice the juxtaposition of deprivation and indulgence that lingers on every cross street in the Garment District. Hollow eyes full of stories. Empty pockets full of hope. Broken hearts holding on. Half-filled cups of change dancing around on crowded streets.
It seems 12 blocks of numb toes creates a delirium of metaphors and similies between fashion and the city as it lives and breathes. You see, interns are really no different than those hungry, hollow eyes sitting under awnings. Both are begging for something. Opportunity. Acknowledgement. Understanding. Fishbowl eyes and open mouths, waiting for someone to throw us a line and pull us out of a masochist state of being.
The things humans do to achieve their idea of success is almost revolting. We "pay our dues" to justify our success. We forgo lunch breaks to earn an ironic "brownie point." We slave away on something that someone either throws away or calls their own. We are subservient to those who probably have a hard time spelling their own name. We shove our feet into shoes that allow us the discomfort of feeling our pulse in our toes. We put our dignity aside and shake our empty cups waiting for someone to fill them with our hopes and dreams.
We have been trained from a young age to feel as if one day all things deserved will be handed to us on a silver platter. When we were finally potty trained, we graduated to big girl panties, when we ate our vegetables we got desert, and when we mastered kitten heels we move on to towering stilettos.
Whether it true or not, I find it encouraging that even those sitting high up in a studio watching interns run mindless errands in a monsoon had to shake a figurative cup of change at some point. Had to beg someone to notice. Convince someone to care.
I have settled on the idea that in order to "make it" you have to shake a cup of change, create a sensation , a noise, a symphony. Your noise can be harsh or subtle. Steady, or swift and fleeting. It can be a sweet melody or a suspense prelude.
Your noise can be a cup full of change or heels against the pavement. It doesn't matter. As long as you make a noise. As long as you are heard. No one can take your passion, your dreams, or your chance to shake change into the world.
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