On what it means to be “ready” and how Italy and the U.S. differ on this notion

The truth is that we never are, so what are we going to do about it?

In my experience, feeling ready went hand-in-hand with understanding my own creativity and how it manifests, but until recently, it was just a waiting game at seeking validation. I’ve never felt ready at literally anything, and looking back at my education compared to my current experience living in the United States, the reason I’ve felt stuck for so many years is clear – It was designed that way. Art and books kept me busy in the Summer of ’94 while I adjusted to my new life in Italy. My parents encouraged my artistic side, and from time to time, my mother will reminisce about when I was a child, and how my then teenage sister would teach me how to color within the lines of a coloring book. That memory is a little hazy for me, but the first clear recollection I have of creating art is when I was at my elementary school in Udine, sitting on the grass in the schoolyard during recess with my back leaned against the wall, and drawing Lupo Alberto characters on rough Fabriano A4 paper. I remember trying to sell them for 5000 Lire to the other kids at my school. There was no doubt in my mind that my work was worth it. Later on, my talent for drawing would lead me to an arts based high school in the same city, and that is where all my business sense and confidence went to die.

Buying textbooks and supplies ahead of every school year was particularly exciting for me, and I still get giddy at the thought of a Smemoranda diary, an Invicta backpack, or a graph notebook. As I got ready for my first year of high school, my mother took me to an art supply store to get what a young artist’s dreams are made of: large format paper of various textures, paint brushes, ink, markers, rulers and brackets, etching needles, linoleum carving blocks, and every pencil on the graphite grading scale. As we went to pay, I recognized the man behind the counter. He was the father of a former classmate of mine, and he looked exactly like him, too. He had a buzz cut, black spiky hair, and a body built like a rugby player, the sport his son played. While scanning all of my supplies, he seemed surprised by the selection, and asked what school I was enrolling in. My elated response amused him somehow, and with an impudent statement disguised as a question, he asked how I was going to make a living as an artist. For a brief second, I find hilarious the fact that I didn’t even have that conversation with my parents. Coming from the owner of the art supply store we were standing in, that comment felt exceptionally stupid and invasive. All me and my mother said was grazie as she paid and arrivederci as we left.

Although I enjoyed my high school experience, the truth is that it didn’t make me a better artist, no professor made the difference in my development, and no professional path was outlined. The constant comparison with the Italian masters wasn’t helpful, either. Why have new artists when we already have the old ones, right? By disregarding our interests and belittling forms of expressions that veered too far from the classical, professors suppressed our creativity. I, like many other students, just accepted the fact that we didn’t know who we were, or what we wanted. This and three years of concept design later, I had developed loads of skills that were at the full disposal of my future employers, but which seemed useless otherwise. What was I going to do with these skills? I started working in small creative agencies and things weren’t looking up. Stuck in a revolving door of being a stagista – intern – for six months at a time, my bosses enjoyed having an employee that had the same skills as their senior designers, but didn’t know the difference between getting paid and being underpaid. I didn’t have the experience to know what a just salary looked like, or ask for one for that matter, but I could understand when I was going nowhere fast, so I would leave when my contracts were up for renewal, in search of something more promising. At your last day of work it’s custom to bring pastries – a staff farewell party of sorts – and so I did, to the last day of my very first job. As me and my colleagues stood awkwardly around a table, my boss expressed her disappointment in my departure by hoping my new boss would be an asshole. He was. I never cared for a farewell party after that. The pastries, as you can imagine, were delicious. What does being “ready” look like in a country where upward mobility isn’t clear and valorizing ourselves becomes a constant battle against belittlement?

Fast-forward to navigating corporate America at the age of 26, it turns out that everything is the complete opposite of what I knew to be right – you’re ready because you say you are ready. Italian creatives are trained to build a beautiful and eye-catching portfolio in order to secure a job. Turns out, nobody cares. I’ve had to learn the hard way that employment in the U.S. is based on your resume and the best references you can garner. It is here that I’ve seen people fail up (up!) and although I’m still dumbfounded at how that is, there is much to appreciate in a If you don’t ask for it, you won’t get it kind of attitude – a raise, a promotion, a project – and if you don’t get what you want, you leave. Three years at a job seems to be the median amount of time for those trying to climb the corporate ladder, in stark contrast with the Italian workforce where companies seemingly value you the more you stay. Working in the U.S. is definitely not perfect. The only thing that matters are your networking skills, especially when you are not the one actually doing the work, and if you’re the latter, you might get left behind as your managers leverage your talent to advance their careers. But there is a confidence that I got stripped of when I was in Italy, and that I’m slowly getting back. The same confidence of that little girl selling Lupo Alberto drawings in the schoolyard.

I didn’t know what creativity meant until I had something to say, and it was in that moment and with my newly found confidence that I was “ready.” I was ready to create for myself, ready to share my work, ready to ask for what I needed, and ready to do things I didn’t think I could. And I became deliberate in where I allocated my time and my efforts, because I finally knew what I wanted. What I’ve learned is that many people don’t deny themselves opportunities just because they don’t feel ready when opportunity knocks. They seize the moment. Waiting for perfection, or to be fully prepared, will just keep you waiting. Don’t wait too long to be ready. We can do the thing. We really can.