Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

The other day a friend asked me what my “dream job” would be. The phrase that leapt to mind was: independently wealthy, incredibly influential, international food critic.

Then I gave the question a little thought. What would be my dream job?

The fact that I did not pick my current job–Software Developer–was no great surprise. Neither was the fact that I did not choose any job I’ve had in the past. Some people may find pumping gas or running a web-press fulfilling, but I found the former stultifying and the latter terrifying.

Curiously, though, neither did I did not pick one of my current avocations, i.e., “Writer” or “Chef.”

For “Chef,” I know too well how much work and dedication that job really takes to make a living at it; I get enough of a workout just cooking for my small family. For the “Writer” job, well, let’s just say that I got close to that, know how unstable the industry is and how unreliable writing income can be; I just can’t put my family through that kind of financial and emotional stress year after year.

So, what would be my dream job? Eventually, I settled on three:

Museum curator

I love old stuff. Whenever I see a documentary about a period in history, I’m fascinated by the artifacts of the age. A flag from the American Civil War. A portrait from the 17th century. A 300-year old book (like the one I have, pictured right).

The conservation of these artifacts, from the folks who go over the original “star-spangled banner” thread by thread to the people who repair and maintain ancient tomes bound in leather, it seems like a fascinating, engrossing job. And while, yes, it also seems like it might be monotonous at times, there are days when monotony sounds pretty good, like when I’m in the middle of a hair-on-fire SWAT-team call, trying to handle a middle-of-the-night outage on one of our systems. But in time, the monotony might get to me, so I have an alternative: Museum Curator. I wouldn’t want to be the head honcho. No, just one of the worker bees, moving from exhibit to exhibit, searching the back vaults, organizing collections, cataloguing, sketching. Always something new to explore and study and learn.

Horologist

During the late Aughts, when I was “between novels,” I taught myself how to repair antique pocket watches. It was fascinating, über-detailed work that completely absorbed my mind. What I enjoyed about it was the precision, the simplicity, and working with objects that were of such fine craftsmanship (like the 1881 Hampden watch, pictured) that their beauty could make me misty.

As I learned more about them and became more proficient in my repair, I began turning the repaired watches around on eBay, bringing in enough money to feed my need for more. Unfortunately, there were limits to my ability to learn this craft–I never purchased a jeweler’s lathe, I never had the funds to amass the quantities of “new old stock” that would allow me to fix any watch I came across–so I specialized in Walthams and Hampdens from the 1850s through the 1930s.

I could easily picture myself ensconced in a grand workshop filled with ticking clocks and watches, surrounded by drawers of jeweled bushings, boxes of hairsprings, jars with screws of every length and width, stacks of coiled blue-steel mainsprings, the glister of golden gears, and a bazillion other items of Stuff Horological. There, magnifying spectacles making me bug-eyed, spot-lamps firing my workspace like miniature klieg lights, music playing, I might disappear and never be seen again.

Conductor

My affinity for those jobs pales, though, when compared to the job I have always felt born to do: Conductor of a symphonic orchestra. It may sound like an odd thing to pick as a dream job, especially for an introvert such as myself, but I’ve actually had some experience with this job.

I studied music from an early age, starting with violin and eventually picking up other instruments in order to fill the empty spots in our school orchestras and bands. By the time I was in high school I had played violin, viola, electric bass, guitar, tuba (sousaphone), tuba (miraphone), French horn, and bassoon (with main emphases on viola, bass, and tuba). This broad experience gave me an appreciation for most every section in the orchestra.

Luckily, I was blessed with a remarkable set of teachers, including Hugo Rinaldi, our orchestral instructor who, despite some rather Old World sentiments, was a pretty outside-the-box guy. Melodramatic, passionate, yet patient and generous, he gave me the opportunity to to try my hand at conducting, even going toe-to-toe with the school superintendent to give me the chance to conduct the orchestra in a concert.

By the time I left high school, I’d rehearsed and conducted the orchestra, band, marching band, and choir. I’d also conducted our local youth orchestra, and had been the music director for a community opera, bringing our production of Menotti’s “The Medium” to critical acclaim.

I loved conducting. It was the perfect blend of music and dance, and despite my general introverted nature, I felt completely at home on the podium, leading a hundred-plus musicians in everything from Bach to Beethoven to Prokofiev to Hindemith. This, I knew, deep in my heart, was what I was meant to do.

Then I went to college and hit the Wall of Prerequisites. In order to study conducting as a music major, the curriculum required that I play piano. I had never been able to play piano–the two-staves-at-once thing just could not fit inside my mind. Oh, I could read a score with a dozen, two dozen staves for all the different instruments, bringing in brass and winds, strings and percussion, all with ease and proficiency, but ask me to play more than one staff at a time and I was done for. Thus, no piano, no conducting. It was a bitter realization, and was the main reason I never finished my undergraduate work. What was the point?

To this day, though, when I listen to music, there are times when that right arm comes up, phantom baton in hand, and with a gesture I cue the woodwinds. My left hand grows restless, and with claw-like fingers it encourages the strings to build their fury. Depending on the music, I’ll bring in guitars, drums, choirs, whatever is required, and in my breast I will feel the fullness of the chords, with my hands I will paint the intricacies of the counterpoint. A stab makes the trumpets call out. A fist hammers the beat for the celli and basses. A tight-jawed grin breaks across my features as I pull the music out of my spectral symphony, piling it layer upon layer, weaving it, molding it.

I know that job. It takes hours of dedication and work outside of the concert hall and within. And I’d love every minute of it.

k