The Story

Day one of photography school orientation and the first student I have a conversation with tells me he thinks I would make a great Art Director. I was appalled for a couple of reasons. #1: I was about to start a three year journey to becoming a commercial photographer. #2: What the F is an Art Director?!?! The real punchline? I became one 9 years later. I don’t know if he was an oracle or what, but it is humorous to think I became something I didn’t even know existed almost a decade before. Which goes to show when people ask you what you want to be when you grow up (or “where do you want to be in five years?”), it’s okay to say you don’t know! It doesn’t matter if you’re 5, 55 or even 105. 

My dad often reminds me of a story from my childhood. We were leaving Kaleidoscope, a creative hotspot and THE place to be on a Saturday morning (if you’re a kid). This place was the mecca of art, crafts and creative exploration for children; so it is to no surprise I would drag my dad and brother there weekend after weekend. One morning as we’re leaving, I tell my dad “You know what, when I grow up I want to work for Hallmark.” (Little did I remember until this story, this mecca of imagination was owned by Hallmark, so my declaration may have been the result of a little brainwashing). I was maybe 7 years old and as most parents are probably thinking at this age, “God, FINALLY you know what you want to be when you grow up, I was getting worried.” 5 minutes later, I quickly changed my mind. “Actually no I don’t. I want to start my own card company.” Wait whaat?? If only I could remember the look on my dad’s face; I’m sure it was a mix of bewilderment and pride. After all, what 7 year old dreams of being an entrepreneur over a firefighter?

In high school, I wanted to be a professional collage artist (not a job that existed to my knowledge). I would spend hours upon hours flipping through stacks of magazines, cutting out quotes and decapitating heads of famous people to paste to poster boards...or better yet a wall. In my middle school bedroom, I forgoed poster board and turned a whole wall into a collage mural (gluing or taping directly onto the wallpaper). Sprinkled throughout were heartthrob posters from the latest BOP or Teenbeat;  Devon Sawa, Jonathan Taylor Thomas (JTT if you were hip), or Leonardo DiCaprio circa Romeo & Juliet days {swoon}. Some kids dream of saving lives one day, I dreamt of annihilating magazines for a living with a pair of scissors. The bedroom was my operating room, and instead of asking…”Scalpel? “{does hand gesture like I’m asking my assistant} it was more like “Rubber cement?” Can we take a moment to remember how good it smelled? Mmmm, {breathes in} Elmer’s rubber cement. While my dad probably championed himself for letting his daughter play out her creative dreams on her bedroom walls, he also had to foot a $400 bill to have the walls repaired when we moved out and onto our next house.

It was a long road to get to the point of wanting to be a professional collage artist at the age of 17. In this short lifetime of mine, the list of things I signed up for, tried and quit was quite extensive. There’s the phrase, “man of many talents;” in my case, I was a woman of many temporary hobbies that rarely ever turned into any talents. If anything my biggest talent was signing up for everything imaginable. It started out with ballet, ice skating, then tennis (which as I remember it, ended because I wanted to take a nap instead of practice–a theme still present in my life). Then there was the instrument phase: the trumpet, viola, piano, then onto the cello (a rental from the school which ended up rolling out of the back of my mom’s Ford Explorer and breaking into pieces. That there was probably a sign in itself). The bright side? Finding out what I didn’t like led me to find the things I did: choir, soccer, basketball, woodshop, photography and writing.

My next “realistic” dream was to be a professional photographer. My sophomore year of high school I discovered film photography; who knew there was a world beyond the disposable camera, a staple in my purse I carried to parties every weekend (pre-Facebook and cell phone camera days). I repeated the same photography class every semester until I graduated, ending with me winning a photography scholarship. My teacher, Ms. Hein, entered me in a local contest where I beat out students from multiple school districts and over a dozen high schools. 

Sadly, this wasn’t enough to convince my dad I *NEEDED* to go to art school. In his words, “You don’t need a degree to be an artist. Get a real degree and if you still want to go to art school after we can talk.” So I did what most people from my suburb did...and went to the college 30 minutes away versus 300+ miles away. The University of Kansas. {Said while making a rainbow shape with my hands...ooo ahhh} My dad arranged for a tour of the journalism school (the very building he spent time in earning his degree). Much to my dismay, they informed me their darkroom was being torn down as the world was moving to digital. It was like someone ripped my heart out; or in this case, ripped the film right out of my camera body and torched it in front of my face. It took me two years to come to terms with the shift in the photography world and make my own transition to digital. 

I opted to major in journalism because writing came easy and I had the mindset of, “get some degree, get out and get on to the creative life.” I lasted two years in J-School, until I could no longer fake it through the required foreign languages classes. So I switched to American Studies and then onto what was my minor at the time, Applied Behavioral Science. Finally in 2008, I made it to graduation day–Bachelor’s degree and all. Even after five years of coursework and classes, I still held the same passion for my photography dream. Luckily, my dad held true to his deal. I was accepted to a couple of art programs and landed on Brooks Institute of Photography in Santa Barbara. 

A month after I graduated, my dad drove me 1,700 miles in just two days; off to the land of palm trees and possibilities. Here I thought, my life dreams of becoming a professional artist were going to come true. However, the universe had other plans. Within a couple months, we received an email from the school about a mass exodus of teachers and you could tell something fishy was going on. On top of that, I had a teacher tell our class we needed to find another career and be a photographer on the side. That is all well and good except I just spent five years on a degree I didn’t care about or have use for so THIS could be my career. My 23 year old mind was thinking, “I don’t have time to find another career, my life needs to start soon! Or my dad is going to kill me.”

I trusted my gut and within six months of moving to sunny-never higher than 75 degrees- California, I sold all of my furniture and whatever I could on Craigslist. I packed up what I could fit in my Honda Accord and drove back 1,700 miles to Kansas. The following year, I got news the photo school lost their accreditation. And just last year, I heard it shut down for good; never hearing any reasons as to why it suddenly fell from one of the most prestigious photo schools to non-existent. 

After a month of staycation in Kansas, I moved to Chicago...in January, in the dead of winter. That Christmas, I asked for the longest, strongest parka as I was about to move into what would be dubbed “Chi-beria.” I originally was accepted to Columbia College for photography but lo-and behold, I switched my major to (drum roll please)…advertising art direction. The oracle (and some research) got me to change course. Ready to start a journey to a job I knew nothing about. I spent two and a half years, cramming in all the art courses I could. Taking 12 hour summer school semesters, 18 hour studio class course loads; finding along the way, for the first time–I actually liked school. It was then I wondered...is being a professional student a career?

As I was nearing graduation in 2011, teachers were passively recommending to seniors, “Hey you should stay in school, now is not a good time to graduate and find a job.” And all I could think was, “Dude, I’ve been in school for 20 years. My dad is going to kill me.” I mean talk about *long*-term investment. Sure enough, the teachers were right. Finding a job in advertising in 2011 in Chicago was pretty dire. So much so I moved back to Kansas six months later to take an internship at a small ad agency. Nothing would really come of it and I bounced from random jobs for the next four years: graphic designer for a sports radio station, athletic apparel designer, custom sock creator, occasional wedding photographer and the final nail in the coffin: marketing coordinator for an insurance company (I can feel my soul dying as I say those words out loud). 

In 2015, I started researching portfolio schools after hearing a creative director deliver a keynote at an event I was photographing. He didn’t say much other than he attended Chicago Portfolio School and that was enough of a lead to start my “investigation.” I did what any desperate, stuck creative would do: I researched and put together a full presentation I would deliver to my dad over lunch; complete with interviews and already one school acceptance letter from Miami Ad School in San Francisco. I gave him all the pros (remained light on the cons): biggest pro being this is what could launch me. In the advertising & art world your portfolio is your lifeline. It is a body of work that not only shows your artistic abilities but visually shows how you think and concept. For advertising, this usually has to be done in six cohesive campaigns (cohesive meaning print, digital, and out-of-home). Had I known portfolio school existed in 2011, I would have adhered to my teacher’s advice and continued on my forever student journey.

My dad listened intently and followed up with a story he will not let me live down. “Chelsea, do you remember the story about the tortoise and the hare? You’re like the tortoise.” “Are you calling me slow??” “Chelsea, the tortoise wins in the end!” {Ahhhhhhh}. Within a month of my successful lunch presentation, I was accepted to Chicago Portfolio school and moved back a few weeks after, going on what would be my ninth year of higher education. “It’s good to be back.” Chicago won out for sexy reasons: cost and practicality. San Francisco was a two year program and upon looking at cost of living, it could cost me a low price of $3000 to rent out a bed...in a living room of a five person home. Or I could move back to Chicago, where I had a built-in friend base and I could live in a 600 sq ft studio for half the price (cozy and “affordable”).  

Another bonus: Chicago Portfolio School was only a one year program. I spent the next year beefing up my design skills and churning out hundreds of ideas and sketches for ads, praying by the end of it all I would have six job-worthy campaigns. The year came and went quickly, and I officially “graduated.” I say “graduated” because there is technically no degree in portfolio school. I guess my dad was right, you don’t need a degree to be an artist...you just have to pay a crap ton for private school and pretend like you got one.

While I was polishing my portfolio, I got an email from the renowned agency, Leo Burnett, looking for a freelance Junior Art Director. I responded immediately, only to have the HR person ghost me for a month (what was this...HR Tinder?). Much to my surprise, as I was coming back from a cruise, I turned my phone back on to receive a voicemail and email from Leo HR exclaiming, “We want you to start Monday!” There was no interview, or even showing my portfolio to a human being. I got the job just like that. Four years later I am officially an Art Director or more importantly an artist with insurance. I get paid to photoshop and do a job I didn’t even know existed. I guess you could say I’m a digital collage artist. The reviews are in (quite literally, I just had my mandatory performance review) and they aren’t too shabby among being called talented, I was told I light up the room. I relayed my reviews to my dad, I could feel his heart bursting with pride through the phone. I imagine there’s also a sense of relief, as this proved to be a long-term investment worth making.

So where do I want to be in five years? Alive (always a good start), hopefully still affording my Whole Foods in-house grinder honey roasted peanut butter habit, and doing something creative that puts joy back into the world. I may be a Creative Director or I may be in a career that is currently non-existent in my realm of thought. Who knows, I might add author and inventor to my long list of attempted talents, hoping they land in the succeed column.