through europe

"The first thing you have to understand is that this is a fucking professional environment. "It's like any other job. "But its also a lot tougher, you can't blink for a minute, there is always an opportunity to boost your value, make connections, develop your brand. "But we're also not looking for any grandstanding, you aint shit at the moment, and if you peacock yourself around like an asshole, no one is going to want to give your tragic ass a break - no one wants some over inflated ego or some old meat.

He hadn’t the time to get changed and the collar of his shirt was starting to annoy him. It was a stiff collar, almost ceremonial. Considering the total price of the shirt, that short strip of fabric must have been worth at least ten pounds. More or less the reimbursement fund for a whole day spent at ‘work’. And, to be at ‘work’, this kind of shirt was compulsory. There wasn’t a real uniform, apart from the price-tag of the clothes.

There is a place, at the periphery of the work market, where many of us are still held. It is a space that resembles that of the ‘sweat lodge’, the tent at the periphery of the village where teenage Lakota Native Americans used to spend a few weeks of sacrifice and purification before entering the adult age. This place is now called internship, and, like all peripheries, it is a grey limbo, a space of suspension, where the laws of the centre do not apply and the freedom of the terra incognita remains only as the memory of a mythical past.

Non aveva avuto il tempo di cambiarsi e il colletto della camicia iniziava a dargli fastidio. Era un colletto di quelli rigidi, da cerimonia. Considerando il prezzo totale della camicia, quella strisciolina di amido e tessuto doveva valere almeno dieci sterline. Più o meno il rimborso spese di un intero giorno passato al ‘lavoro’. E, per stare al ‘lavoro’, quella camicia era d’obbligo. Non c’era una vera e propria divisa, se non il prezzo dell’abbigliamento.