From 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. on July 27th, 2016, I sat at a table in an un-airconditioned studio in Bushwick, Brooklyn, NY. The outside temperature was 91 degrees Fahrenheit, inside it was hotter. I wore a long-sleeved, button down black shirt and jeans as a nod to Vito Aconcci’s performance outfits. I stared into the camera. Behind me, an American Dream clock keeps the time. Every hour, I live streamed video to Facebook saying “Being an artist is hard.” Was it ironic or whiny? As an artist with a full-time teaching job I have the summers to make art. This looks like leisure time as it lacks an institutionally imposed daily routine, however this is the time when do a different kind of work. Although it may not look like work to some, it is work. Outside the studio, two men of color shout fragmented stories of their lives, subway brakes squeal on the elevated tracks, horns honk, metal machinery clanks and roars. Inside, I have the privilege of not moving. In this piece I am wrestling with the tensions between one side of my family’s working class background and the other side of my family’s upper middle class background. As with my I Just Work Here and Eyedropper series, I continue to question what is work and what work really matters.

11:48 - My forehead is shiny. I shift and sit up straighter in the chair. Put my hands on the table. I sneeze. A siren pitch increases. A car horn. A truck horn. Male voices shout to one another. I stare determinedly into the camera.

1:56 - The light has changed. It’s a warm gold from above. Shadows on my shirt are more visible. Voices outside. I am leaning back in the chair.

4:37 - My eyes droop closed, my posture melts. I sit up again and force my eyes open extra wide. Sweat drips.