L🖤VEBIRDS

Professor Frederick Noland on the Artist Fred Noland

For some reason I remember this being my first New Yorker but it was my second. I’d gotten one in a few months before. I think “Lovebirds” jumps out in my memory because of how it came about. I’d jotted down a prompt on a post-it when the embryonic idea came to mind. This was some time in 2019. I was on my way to pick up my son and didn’t want to lose it, not completely anyway.

The prompt, just a handful of words, would look like a shopping list for the Notions Store to anyone else. This method of preserving ideas has waxed and waned over the years, sometimes accreting in little piles of post-its, or dashed off in the margins of notebooks - vague ghosts of notes, haunting proper outlines. This one made its way from my dashboard to my desk at some point.

One of my side-hustles at the time was assisting a colleague who worked as a scribe, creating graphic notes. The notes were drawn on dry erase. I would go in and do some imaging on the digital photos, making them print ready. Funny, because I was using skills that I’ve learned when new to the Bay Area and starting my professional life as an imaging technician. Kind of an odd full circle moment. This was a freelance gig, but they decided that they wanted to bring someone in to do it permanently. As the person who had been performing this task for them for months, I seemed an obvious candidate, but had to interview nonetheless.

The interview was out of town and an all day affair, passing between different principles in the department. I began my preparations, which was more about how I would present myself in the interview than the work. Clearly, the work was already being done and spoke for itself. I also decided to create a document that would give to each of my separate interviewers; a memento that would make it more difficult to not choose me.

It’s nice when you’re the product you’re trying to sell, because that way it’s a much more personal rejection.

One morning I was in the midst of my preparations, I awoke to find my car had been stolen. I’ve lived in Oakland since the late 90s. I’ve had bicycles stolen, and my cars broken into a number of times, but never had an entire one stolen. It wasn’t a particularly nice car, but it was particularly stealable; a 1997 Honda Accord. So in addition to the interview prep, I was filing police reports and keeping and eye out for it on rides. Crazy, but thats me.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t choose me. And they didn’t waste time. I’d barely landed before I got the call. I’m not given to discouragement and less self pity, but it was impossible to sidestep. They had rejected me from a job I had created and performed for months. I sat on the edge of my bed and texted my co-parent “I don’t know if I can do this anymore”; throwing myself at rejection, not life and coparenting. It’s strange to turn to an ex for support, but she was supportive and encouraging. I’m thankful.

I spent about five more seconds feeling sorry for myself, then I got to work. First I looked at my desk, saw the notes, and put together a pitch for The New Yorker. Then I sat down and reached out to as many scribes as I could find. If the client didn’t want me, I determined I would get my own. I was surprised when several scribes responded and coached me along. Months later, I began contracting for one of them, a relationship that led to some of my most fun, enlightening and exciting contracts I’ve had.

Two months later we were in pandemic lockdown. The gig I interviewed for disappeared, as did a couple of design contracts I was looking forward to. That was the very tip of the iceberg. I couldn’t have known at the time but I changed careers that day. I would say I haven’t looked back, but that would be dishonest. I peep the rear view enough to orient but not so long I run off the road. It’s a delicate balance.