Still Here...

To whom it may concern:

After nearly 18 years spent at the so-called National Employment Service, and only a few months of professional experience (some of which involved mobbing), my diploma has been rendered useless, the learned has been forgotten, my self-confidence has been dramatically diminished, and I’ve grown animosity towards architectural engineering. (And the hate has been amplified by investor urbanism or rather, city-raping which I deem a more suitable term.) The attempts to find a job elsewhere have all failed – at one point, I would’ve accepted a position of a comic book seller for less then a minimum wage, yet someone had apparently been more qualified than me.

A few years ago, in one of the exploitative factories opened by various ‘foreign investors’ during the extremely corrupted regime of the ‘man’ whose name deserves not to me mentioned, I attended an interview which made me feel so humiliated that my blood pressure rises just remembering the oppressive atmosphere. The freelancing endeavors to turn some of my hobbies into a life-sustaining profession haven’t been successful enough, nor have the art-related updates in my CV impressed potential employers – no surprise, given that the great majority of the applications haven’t got any connections whatsoever to my practice. (Have I mentioned that the ads usually involve virtually none of the fields of potential interest to me? And when they do... well, my applying to them tends to go unnoticed.)

A number of rejections and, worse, the absence of responses, accompanied by insane socio-political circumstances, have added hefty amounts of salt to the wounds caused by disappointments, and multiplied my fears and insecurities to the point of pushing me off the edge. I’ve begun questioning my competence, and wondering whether I’m stupid, autistic or sucked in by a parallel reality, all the while not accepting well-intentioned advice, because one such advice (at least, I thought so back then) made me change my mind on picking the future line of work – what a terrible mistake. With patience virtually lost, anxieties heightened, and no intention to leave my comfort zone (because of the past experiences, that’s why!), I find it hard to enjoy, let alone celebrate the recent (and welcome!) shift in the political paradigm of my country, for which I apologize to all the enthusiasts.

The annoyance and resentment brought forth by both the above-mentioned and unmentioned factors have certainly weakened my mental health, which I’ve striven to patch through creating more than 2000 collages in the last 8 years, as well as through watching hundreds of films and writing about them on my blog and social media, with the intention of publishing the monographs and texts collections someday. (Ambitious dreams of someone who can’t afford a psychotherapist or an occasional trip.) By virtue of rich inner life and vivid imagination (or maybe I’m delusional about it?), I’ve fought some extremely dark shadows, persisting despite the realization that persistence and passionate dedication to art rarely pay off in a mad world resting on competitiveness, online and offline alike.

As the art promoters, from magazines to platforms for artists, have proven ineffective in most cases, my trust has been damaged if not broken, yet hope that the next one may be the real deal has been shyly flickering, along with the expansion of self-doubt. Parental care which I can’t reciprocate, guilty as charged, and amelioration provided by the kindest of supporters, for which I am immensely grateful, have kept me composed enough not to take desperate steps. (Add the robbery of my family’s savings somewhere between the lines, as another painful blow – the culprit was caught, but the charges have not been pushed, due to the costs of what would’ve likely turned into an overlong legal process.) Feeling the hurt of others – often more distressing than my own – and the accompanying helplessness have only added extra weight to dejection.

At this middle-aged point, neither the turning of the new leaf nor remaining on the same path appear like attractive options, with an overwhelming confusion propelling the Catch 22 loop or some such mechanism oiled by frustrations, overthinking and whatnot. But, who knows – perhaps, I do not deserve any better?

In the hope that my words will be met with empathy and no cynicism,

Yours sincerely,
Nikola

The ‘Inferno Edit’ of ‘St. Suicide and Four Monoliths’ (2024), from the ‘Bianco/Nero’ series