Workshop

Noah got me a job through nepotism so I learned about 30 designers and stalked people around the store telling them: “Those shoes are handmade in Berlin, they’re super comfortable,” -“ They’re called “2nd skin” leggings because they’re made with tiny-baby-lamb-leather in the foothills of Italy.”

After 2 days on the floor I was pulled to join the web team and got to sit down and generate content.

When I am writing the blogs that no one will read to enhance our ratings on google search results I look at a product image and attempt to succinctly yet poetically draw out its essential qualities.

“The Amber shoe by Trippen is a play of near-parallel and curvilinear exposed seams, forming and armadillo-like exterior. “Amber” is at once a chelsea boot and a wedge, a deconstructed cowgirl and an avant-mod.”

“The Trippen Route is a modern take on a wallaby – skinned alive with muscles showing in a bold cotto hue, with licorice in place of laces.”

“Any local wizard knows that a Monies necklace is also a veritable toolkit of crystal-vibes”

“This shoe is sort of like a skinny dog-head with no ears.”

I load products onto the website, serve champagne, smile lovingly at my boss, blog, work on photo-shoots, and just got our off-planet social media service fired through being way more relevant than them.

The building that Santa Fe Dry Goods/Workshop are housed in is Spanish Colonial (which I learned from overhearing downtown tours) and haunted (which I learned from downtown ghost-tours). The other day the internet was down and they needed help on the floor, so I picked out sale Anette Gortz and Ann Demeulameester for the woman who owns one of the tour companies. I kept feeling bad for not working and just having fun shopping with this woman, but ended up making more money for Workshop/Dry Goods than I would have working on the web.

Afterward I wrote her a note about my vicarious melting head at the color combinations she chose, and how self-expression through outfits is art and is important.

During Fiestas I was late to work because I couldn’t cross a parade. When I got in another parade was passing by the front door. Sha-big-boss and I talked about fiestas being the celebration of successful genocide, and how we didn’t belong there to have opinions about the celebrations either way.

I exist at tense and widely unexamined intersections of class and culture in all my jobs. A white person selling high end clothing on the pueblo-styled plaza, who’s history is wrought with a mixture of indigenous conquest and appropriation; a pawn of the contemporary art world which is divided along similar lines, and a volunteer with incarcerated youth, who are caught in a racist and classist system that is perpendicular to the jobs with which I bring home the organic watercress.

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Sometimes my job description also includes photographer.

I walk through the continuous bathroom/hallway/stock room with a hundred thousand dollars worth of cashmere and giggle. I drink espresso in the dark hallway by the dumpster. I look at a pigeon on the roof outside the window near the desk where I work, in the “executive suite,” fluorescent-lit short-ceiling with brown carpet upstairs in the historic building.

If they don’t change out the wood chips in the executive suite I become less playful. Luckily, the web manager, to whom I am an assistant, has cleaning wipes for wiping the toast-crumbs and grapefruit juice off the keyboard. There is also a woman who cleans around us politely on Tuesdays.

As with any setting where you are part of a diverse group for x amount of time, each personality becomes inherent to your internal flavor-pack of work-friends.

Betsy comes into the back room and says: “I have a present for you.” Noah, Dion, River and I dance around for a while. Betsy gives us chocolate almonds.

Chocolate almonds are currency amongst the staff at SFDG/WS.

We also have a “Nespresso” machine. The pods of pre-fab espresso are good, and probably created from the life-force of enslaved babies, which Neta and I talk about over said small-caffeine cups.

I keep having dreams about Neta, in the most recent one she had had her baby and declared she would take a week off for maternity leave.

Neta had her baby shortly after and sent out a group email with a picture of the infant with the words: “No longer pregnant.”

The money from the coffee jar goes into the company margarita fund, which is used when Sha-big-boss is doing a floor change – which she’ll work on from 7pm to 6am or so. Last two times there was a floor change I helped and received margaritas. We moved the racks, everything on the racks, and the plants/dead trees she had brought from the mountains to and fro the catacomb-entry basement while blasting Diana Ross.

After a floor change Sha-big-boss is understandably sleepy, but gets up at 6:38 to take her kids to school, then entertains visiting designers with beers + ice cream, writes checks, and talks to the people at Retail Pro when the computer inventory is down. After such an occurance a few days ago the web manager said “Your eyes are red – you look like a marsupial, Sha-big-boss replied: “I am a goddamn marsupial.”

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