Me and the Picasso

The last day I’m on set is a monster of a day—500 extras and 100 picture cars in downtown Chicago, and a 4:30 a.m. call.

We are reversing the flow of traffic so that Will Ferrell can get onto a bus and we can see a post office that the director likes in the background. It seems like much more trouble than it’s worth.

It’s the first time that I experience angry Midwesterners. I catch more than a few middle fingers while trying to hold up traffic. I spend the rest of the day checking in extras and walking them the 15 blocks to the next location.

I realize on my second trip that we are shooting in Daly Plaza, home of the Picasso sculpture I’ve come to know. It’s the only area I feel comfortable navigating.

It’s been a great experience, but I miss New York. Everything about my life seems distant. I miss tacos at 4:00 in the morning, the bar on my block I frequent for happy hour, my disorganized apartment and the smell of the subway. I miss taking showers at home and checking my e-mail on my own computer. I even miss my roommate who I don’t get along with anymore.

It’s been an amazing adventure, but I’m ready to come home. Going on this trip alone has forced me to spend time by myself—something I rarely make time for. Thoughts of life and choices-to-be constantly flood my mind.

I’m balancing two lives right now. I’m about to be sucked into the world of professional production assistants—perhaps I already am. I am also trying to stay creative and productive. The production assistant world is winning over. Unfortunately at this point it pays better.

I started as a PA to learn how a professional set works. I’ve loved every second of it. I have great stories. I meet tons of interesting people and see amazing places. I’m no longer learning about how sets work, but instead about how to be a better production assistant.

I have the whole film school thing happening and enough projects to keep me busy without a day job. I’m also trying to cram in my personal life. It has led to stress, which has lead to stomach problems and random headaches. Thinking back I realize that with the exception of these columns, I haven’t written anything in months. The film I shot in March is still in the same rough state as when I screened it in Narrowsburg for DIGit, months ago.

Standing in Daly Plaza, my heart aching for home, staring up at the Picasso, I realize that the time for writing and being productive does not just happen, as I often tell myself. Time must be made for these endeavors.

What hits me isn’t exactly an epiphany, but rather a moment of clarity. I decide silently that I will do my best to make more time for myself when I get back to New York.

My name is called on the walkie and I snap back to reality. I’m needed to pass water around to the extras and I run off into the fray of 500 people.

I find myself on a remote corner of the plaza and look up at the Picasso. I finally see it. It’s neither a ram nor an angel. To me, it’s a woman’s profile. Her hair flows out behind pouty lips and off-kilter eyes. She looks serene and calm. I breathe.

The extras are wrapped. I fill out my last timecard and say goodbye to the city and the friends I’ve made over the past two weeks. It’s over before I know it.

I land in New York the next day, feeling good, and never so happy to smell the subway.