THE ARTIST DIED IN ME

Projekt Rattloch Number 29. Corporate Cuckold Edition.

Photo of a Corporate Cuckold like moi by bruce mars on Unsplash

I nearly introduced myself as a corporate drone and didn’t even flinch.

That moment hit me harder than any rejection letter. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

The last few weeks have been a strange kind of awakening. I took two weeks unpaid leave from my day job, replaced the lost income through a couple of side projects, and barely broke a sweat doing it, of which I am super grateful. It gave me a clear glimpse of what life could look like with a bit more structure and a bit less of someone else’s agenda.

Here’s the fucking uncomfortable truth I’ve been sitting with: I massively underestimate myself. I think a lot of people do. But I’m starting to actually believe in my own capability now, not in a blind hope kind of way, but in a tangible, I-built-a-thing-and-got-paid kind of way.

I’ve had four job interviews recently, three internal and one external. The external one was the eye-opener. The role pays 70% more than I currently earn. Seventy. Fucking. Percent. More. It sounds obscene until you realise how thoroughly the corporate machine has conditioned you to expect a 3% annual increase and be grateful for it. That’s been my frame of reference for over a decade. I’m approaching 44 in June and I’m only just clocking this.

I’ve been in the same role at the same company for five years. Younger, less experienced people are managing large teams around me. I say that not with bitterness, but with genuine curiosity about how I got here. I work in a gung-ho, scattered way, intensely focused when the subject interests me, and completely disengaged by meetings that exist to schedule other meetings. I’m not sure I even want to manage people. I think I’d be decent at it, because I genuinely give a shit about people. but the politics would swallow whatever satisfaction the leadership brought.

So, the external role. It’s with Pencil, a platform that builds AI-powered ad and marketing content. The job description felt like it was written for me, though I felt slightly underqualified technically. Didn’t stop me. I built a demo app for the interview task: upload a brand guidelines PDF, enter a brief, pick a format, and it generates a compliant image in about 90 seconds after multiple review layers. I tested it on McDonald’s, an old brand doc from 2019 that I found on the web. Two hours of tinkering. I was pretty pleased with it.

The interview itself was fine. The VP of Product was friendly, five weeks into the role himself, a lot of Amazon background. I felt like I held my own. He gave nothing away, no feedback, no social cues, nothing. Classic. He also mentioned mid-interview that the role would be 50/50 client-facing, not heavily technical. Almost the opposite of what was advertised. Good reminder not to take a job description as gospel.

I left the interview not really caring whether I got it or not. That felt like progress. I felt free.

Then came the moment that shook me.

A new senior manager started at my day job. Sharp, well-connected, name-dropping Netflix execs like they’re bessie mates (Marc Randolph will know them). During introductions I said my hobbies were basketball and pickleball, as he’s American, I challenged him to a game next week, and carried on. Not once did the word “artist” enter my mind. (Although, factually, Art is not a hobby for me)

Walking away I felt hollow. I pictured myself at 85, telling someone: “I used to make art, but life got in the way.” That image scared me more than any career uncertainty ever has. All that happened within 60 seconds of walking back to my desk.

I haven’t abandoned it. I promise. I’m in the middle of something I can’t fully talk about yet, a kind of metamorphosis, but it’s coming. The art is still there.

In the meantime: I got rejected from the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition 2026. I didn’t make the next round of the Jackson’s Art Prize either. Paying entry fees for rejections is starting to feel like a choice between self-belief and a decent meal out with the family.

Ce-la-fucking-vie.

But then the universe did its thing. Harrie Dearing and I have been gifted a new art space. Something exciting is brewing between two outsider artists. Watch this space.

Here’s a tiny sneak peek...

For now, adieu.

SLART