A few years ago, before I quit my job to launch a business, I had my logo tattooed to my shoulder blade. (And actually, I haven’t been tattooed since—I’ve run out of strategic body space!) People thought I was insane. “What happens if your business tanks?” was the popular question.

Of all the tattoos I’ve had done, I’m furthest from regretting this one. Admittedly, my business didn’t tank, but I don’t think it would have made much difference if it had. It’s impossible to start a business without having it become a major event in your life—to me, tattooing my logo to my shoulder was no crazier than the people who tattoo their kids’ names to themselves. (And it’s certainly less crazy than those who tattoo their lovers’ names on themselves. As far as I can tell, my business will never leave me for a younger woman or run away with all my money. I hope.)

I’m convinced that having my business logo tattooed to my shoulder makes me more rock & roll. Also, it totally counts as advertising and I should have thought to have written off the cost as such.

And actually, of all my tattoos, there isn’t a single one I regret. Some of them have decorated my body for nearly ten years, and I still love them as much today as I did when I first had them done. I think that I am, to a certain degree, lucky in that respect—where a tattoo is such a permanent decision, I can’t imagine how horrible it must be to regret such a choice.

There are very few decisions in life that have similar permanence, and as a general rule I try to avoid making those decisions. I’m kind of a commito-phobe simply for that reason—I absolutely abhor regret, and I work best when I feel that I have the flexibility to move halfway across the earth, change my name to “Ginger”, and start a banana farm if that’s what needs to happen for whatever reason.

However, most people don’t work this way. Most people make decisions that have similar gravitas as getting tattooed: they get married, buy houses, sign cell phone contracts. While none of these things are necessarily permanent (and neither are tattoos, in the same sense), reversing the decision after it’s been made is almost always a painful, arduous process.

It strikes me that, given the number of people running around these days getting divorced and getting laser surgery, these decisions-of-some-permanence simply aren’t being given the consideration they demand. It surprises me how often people go into a tattoo parlour and pick something off the wall. Or they sit in the chair and tell the tattoo artist to do “whatever he feels like”. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a permanent part of your skin now, for the rest of your life, and wherever you are, people will ask you questions about it. Doesn’t that require more forethought?

My little sister and her chaos star, designed by me. She also had me design another tattoo that the artist screwed up by using the wrong fonts AND misspelling “Fahrenheit”, but we don’t like to discuss it.

Every time I want a new tattoo, I spend ages sketching out the shapes first. When I’ve got that right, I put it into Illustrator and trace it, smoothing out the lines until everything’s just so. Then I print it out in about thirty different sizes, just to see which one I like best. Finally—and this may seem like overkill—I take the printout and glue the damned thing to my body, just where I want it, and leave it there for a few days, just to be sure I like it. A little anal-retentive? Probably. Effective? Hell yes. I’ve got no regrets, and I’m a happier woman for it.

So for everyone out there considering a butterfly tattoo, or a flaming skull, please, please, think twice. Design something yourself, or ask your most idle-seeming designer friend to design you something wonderful. (Oh, and to the two people in my life to whom I still owe tattoo designs—I swear I’m on it!) This double for marriage and mortgage, and any other decision that implies an ink-on-skin level of permanence, like starting a business. Regrets are for the birds. Do without.

(Oh, and if you’re curious, you can see my tattoo designs on Flickr! Being a designer is a way cool job, I know. I’m a lucky lady.)

There’s something about a pair of heels. They’re instantly classy. They work with everything, they make your legs look great, and they can turn the scrubbiest ensemble into a kick-ass outfit. A beautiful pair of shoes is a magical creature that will transform you into a sophisticated lady-about-town, even when you’re just running out to the grocery store in your pyjamas and bedhead.

But when you live in a climate that changes every hour, and the sidewalks are almost always covered in ice (or snow, or mud, or random bits of gravel, or some combination thereof), wearing heels can be hazardous to your health. As a girl who never wears flats and rarely suffers for it, I’ve picked up a few tricks and tips along the way.

Suede Stuart Wietzman peep toes. I have been eyeing these gorgeous things for AGES now, but I think I’d be afraid of ruining them.

1. Carefully calculate risk.

Using the table below, add the activity (a) to the conditions ©, then multiply by the amount of alcoholic drinks consumed (b is for booze!).

Risk = b(a+c)

Activities
Walking: 1pt per km
Dancing: 2pts per half-hour
Attending a wedding, party, or social event that involves standing: 1pt per hour
Kung fu: 50pts

Conditions
Ice: 10pts
Snow: 2pts
Grassy lawn: 1pt
Areas with decks, grates, or lots of stairs: 5pts
Rocky mountainsides: 30pts

If your risk value is over 20, you can be forgiven for wearing flats. If it’s over 10, perhaps it’s best to go with a practical, heavy-heeled boot.  If it’s under ten, a lady can handle it.

Who can resist a pair of Louboutins? If you answered “nobody”, you are correct!

2. Avoid hazardous materials.

Suede boots are for cowboys. Have you ever seen it rain in a cowboy movie? In a town where it rains every other day, I can’t understand why anyone would brave wearing suede boots. Satin (and other fabrics) can be tricky. Mud and salt will often cling to them, but they can usually be washed successfully. Stick to darker colours, or only wear on clear days.

Leather is always a safe bet—make sure to protect it. Avoid plastic shoes whenever possible; they’re cheap and lacking in class. Vinyl will often survive more trips through the salt, but it’s horrid and won’t let your feet breathe at all. Patent leather is ideal—you can wear white patent shoes all winter and they’ll always look pristine. Generally speaking, the shinier the shoe, the less likely it is to stain.

3. Length isn’t as important as width.

A kitten heel may seem easier to walk in, but often isn’t. Kitten heels also lack the awesome traits that longer heels offer: making your legs look great, giving you a sexy walk, looking gorgeous.

Instead, look for a heel that’s wider and blockier. You’ll have more stability, and won’t be prone to falling into the cracks of a deck or sinking into the grass.

A so-expensive-I’ll-never-afford-them pair of Alexander McQueen (RIP) sandals.

4. Hide your shame (or just your toes)

Wearing stockings with open-toed shoes is utterly unforgivable. You may be able to get away with a colourful pair of knee socks under a solid black peep-toe pump, but I’ve never tried it. Peep toes are for bare feet and polished toenails.

Stash your open-toed shoes during the snowy season, or be prepared to have very, very cold toes. (I’ll admit to having worn peep toes in the snow on more than one occasion. It was not what I’d call an enjoyable sensation.)

5. Keep your ear to the ground.

Or rather, your eyes. Years of walking barefoot has taught me to instinctively watch my footing everywhere I go. This doesn’t mean staring at the ground all the time, it means keeping an eye on it to see what’s coming up.

Venturing onto an icy sidewalk in a stiletto is like wandering through a minefield, and requires absolute vigilance.

I forget who made these shoes, but they’re pretty!

6. Always have something sticky on hand.

I once broke my heel falling down a set of stairs at a party, and had to walk home in my fishnets. It was November. A little shoe goo may have made it a much less painful trip.

Quick tip: if the whole heel’s come off, coat the spikes & the heel itself with glue, then slide together. If the heel’s snapped, glue the two pieces back together, then secure by wrapping with tape—try clear packing tape or black hockey tape. Chewing gum can work if you’re desperate (but not for long).

7. A gentleman is your best accessory.

Any gentleman worth his salt should be more than ready to offer you his arm as you walk. It’s rather like walking with an extra leg: he’ll offer support, stability, and emergency rescues when you hit a patch of ice.

I had a gentleman on hand the night I broke my heel, and he was kind enough to give me a piggyback ride all the way home. Bring one with you whenever you can.

I just bought a new pair of Nine Wests, and now I’m eyeing up these. They’re on sale, too! (sale+shoes=sarah-bliss)

As a final note, if you find heels just too excruciatingly painful, invest in a well-made pair. Cheaply made shoes are going to be terrible to wear. Don’t wear them for extended hikes home—go barefoot or carry tiny fold-up flats in your purse. Peruse the orthopedic section of the drugstore: “heel huggers” prevent your heels from slipping or blistering, and ball-of-foot cushions reduce foot pain.

And never be too shy to kick ‘em off to get down on the dance floor.

This is me–or was me, originally–done by the fantastic Sally Warren. I was hanging in a gallery (and may well still be)!

No, you (probably) won’t be seeing me in pasties anytime soon—I’m a live model. This means that I take off all my clothes in front of a bunch of strangers and stand (or sit, and lie) around while a circle of artists draws me.

Just to clarify a few things: I model for professional artists and students, not for some random dude with a pack of crayons and black satin sheets. Poses aren’t typically very “sexy”, and if they’re explicit, that’s only incidental. The entire process of modeling, in fact, isn’t nearly as sexy as most people think it is—the most comfortable and natural-looking positions are often those that put the most intense strain on your body, it’s often too cold (or too hot) in the room, various appendages will fall asleep left right and centre, and you need to be constantly thinking of what your next pose will be. There aren’t drop-dead-gorgeous “models” wandering around in the buff all the time; figure drawing is less concerned with physical beauty than it is with the line and shape of the body (and all its varied imperfections). Often the most interesting models are overweight, wrinkly, extremely athletic, or strangely shaped, and models wear robes during breaks. It doesn’t pay particularly well, and it’s definitely not glamorous.

Why do I do it, then? Initially, I tried it because it was something I’d never tried before, and something that scared me, which I count as a decent rationale for doing almost anything. I so wholeheartedly believe that you’ll only grow and become a better person if you’re constantly finding your boundaries and pushing them. I’ve never been terribly self-conscious, but the first time I dropped trou in front of a silent-as-a-tomb room, full of strangers, I was petrified. Not only did I have to get naked, but I also had to come up with a variety of poses, hold my body completely still, and make sure not to giggle, fall over, or fall asleep. (Later, of course, I’ve done all of these things.)

Once the initial terror wore off, though (and it never totally wears off—I’m still shy the first instant I take off my robe in front of a new group of people), I came to love modelling. As a creative person, it allowed me to simultaneously act as muse and as collaborator: I create poses with my body, and the artists turn me into art. It gave me a better sense of myself and my body: what it looks like, what it feels like, how it moves, how flexible it is, and how to stand in the exact same position for an hour without falling over. (The trick is tiny, tiny, imperceptible shifts in your weight, by the by.) I learned not to care as much what other people thought, or saw; there was one man who consistently drew me about thirty pounds heavier than I actually was, and I learned not to take it personally. I became more comfortable in my own skin, and more sure of myself. Modelling made me feel strong, sexy, and self-assured.

People often ask me if there isn’t a power imbalance that happens—don’t I feel degraded somehow, when a whole roomful of (clothed, mostly silent) strangers is sitting around staring at me, naked and posing for them? And actually, I’ve found it’s rather the reverse—typically, the power in the room is all mine. I have an entire room following my lead: they flip pages when I change positions, they talk to me if I’m feeling chatty (usually I’m not), and they draw what I make for them to draw.

I was once modeling for a group in Mahone Bay, and, during a break, one of the artists mentioned that he recognized my logo, tattooed to my shoulder blade—he’d emailed me just the day prior asking about having a website built. We later met up to discuss the project, and I was a touch concerned there might be an odd sort of power imbalance (very few of my clients have seen me naked). As it turned out, I was completely comfortable with the meeting, and there was no perceptible tension whatsoever. Quite often, boys have been hesitant to talk to me or even make eye contact, but I’ve never had anyone treat me with anything less than the utmost respect.

Done by a student at the animation school in Truro–their work is far more gesture-based and often times less “artistic”. (I’m not sure who drew this, as a friend found it in their exhibition and took a photo for me. There are probably images of me all over the province at this point.)

Since I sold my car, I haven’t had much opportunity to do any modelling, as I typically did it in Mahone Bay and Truro, and I’ve come to realize how much I miss it—both for how it made me feel about myself, and for the way it allowed me time out to think about my work. It was a sort of brutal form of meditation, especially the longer poses, and it helped to focus on something other than the searing pain in my third vertebrae from the twist in my back, or the way my leg was spontaneously shaking from the stress. I’d work through design problems in my head as I was holding positions, then scribble sketches on scrap bits of paper whenever I had a break. I can’t tell you the number of designs that rooted from this process.

Sometimes, it really helps to get out of your comfort zone, and your usual workspace (both physically and mentally), in order to generate a solution.

So, if you’re a random dude with a box of crayons and black satin sheets, drop me an email! I need to get naked to jump-start the creative process.

The time-crunch, however, meant that I needed to accept imperfections. Now, anyone who knows me knows well that I’m a tiny bit persnickety: I’ll spend half an hour adjusting the kerning of a font until it feels just right, I’ll go back over a design that’s already been client-approved in order to “finesse” the whole thing, and I typically complain that Photoshop won’t zoom to a level any higher than 1600%.  While I really do believe that this is a valuable tendency in a designer (and, in fact, I suspect that most graphic designers are by nature a touch anal-retentive), it’s also a major hindrance in an industry that is so intensely deadline-driven.

Finished thank you cards, each one screenprinted by hand! I’m not happy with the heart design at all–the lines are simultaneously too thick AND too thin. I think I might prefer this redesigned with more of a skull/vine design in the bottom-right corner.

This is why often my self-driven projects are finished late: while client projects are often do-or-die, if the client is myself, I’m often content to let my expected deadline pass me by in favour of producing work that’s closer to “perfect” (it’s never actually perfect, of course.) This is why it took me three months longer than expected to launch my new website, and why my Valentines were barely even printed and ready to go by the fourteenth. Given that it’s easy to sour on your own work after obsessing over it too long, this delay is a dangerous thing. Wait too long, and the whole thing ends up needing to be scrapped and started all over again!

But with the screenprinting class, I had no option (other than flakiness, which I’m giving up as a lifestyle choice as much as possible). So I showed up for my second class with a design that wasn’t perfect, telling myself that it was just a learning project, and it didn’t matter if it wasn’t right. I’m just learning! It’s okay to screw up!

The thing I started to realize as I got into the printing process is this: everything that looks like a fatal error to me is basically invisible to everyone else.  (Not a major revelation, but something I ought to constantly keep in mind, because I never seem to remember it.) The fundamental flaws in the initial design weren’t nearly as glaring or as apparent to others as they were to me.

Then, as I proceeded with the printing process, I realized that I hadn’t been as precise with the first colour “plate” (the red accents) as I would have liked. (In screenprinting, each colour is printed independently of the others, much like a traditional CMYK plate-printing process that I learned about in school, but never actually had a chance to witness.) Accordingly, when I printed the black “plate” on top of the red, the registration often didn’t line up perfectly, and there was an overlap.

Then something funny happened. I could, in theory, have used an acetate sheet to register and measure the placement of every single print to ensure a perfect output on every single print. I thought about it, briefly, and then threw caution utterly to the wind, and just started printing willy-nilly. Prints came out with white where red should be, and red where white should be, and instead of breaking down into tears or tantrums, I carefully put them on the drying rack with the others. Not only was I not upset, but I actually discovered that I rather liked these mis-fit mis-prints! Whoever knew?

And really, where I’m so gung-ho on the handmade process anyway, it’s about time I learned not only to accept, but to embrace my mistakes. (Are you listening, brain? I’m talking to you.) Mistakes are often the most interesting part of a piece of work, and they so often generate new ideas and concepts that might otherwise forever remain undiscovered (gravity, nylon, penicillin, chocolate-covered bacon). And especially when something is handmade, part of its appeal lies in its imperfections: signs of the inherently flawed human touch. So often the aesthetics of error (cracks in pavement, burned-out buildings, rips in a sheet of paper) are more interesting, alive, and vibrant than the sterility of pixel-perfection.

Can you spot the errors? I bet I can find more than you can!

Now, if only I can apply that sort of thinking to everything else I do, I might finally be able get some sleep!

I received an absolutely phenomenal response, and was able to meet with a number of really fantastic people. (I wish I could have hired everyone!) That said, it was interesting being on the other side of the hiring process, and I think if I’m ever in the position of applying for a job again, I’d do things a little differently as a result.

In about a week’s time, I heard from around 60 different applicants. This was a LOT for me to process, but from what I can tell of the industry, this is actually quite a small number. So while I would have loved to pay very detailed attention to each applicant, most people didn’t even get their resume read. This, I suspect, is probably not at all uncommon. If someone’s busy enough that they need to hire, they’re too busy to spend forever finding that perfect someone to hire.

A few tips & hints for job-seekers:

1. Never, never, never use “to whom it may concern”. Seriously, it’s there in the hiring notice, and it’s all over my website. I can already tell when you’re copying-and-pasting a generic cover letter into your email, but it’s just plain offensive if you spell my name wrong or omit it entirely. (As a side note, I know that my long-lost cat is presently listed as CEO and chairman of the board on my website…. but please stop addressing emails to her. I can’t tell if you’re trying to be cute, or if you’re just deranged, which I’m guessing nobody can tell about ME, either.)
2. If you’re applying for a design position, your resume should probably be nicely designed. You should also have an online portfolio of some sort. If you can’t figure out how to upload some images to a website or create a pdf, you’re unlikely to find work in the graphic design industry.
3. “LOL” is not an appropriate term for use in a cover letter. Also, please use capital letters. And form your sentences properly. And spell things correctly. Seriously, what are they teaching in schools these days? Damn kids.
4. Follow instructions! I cannot stress how important this is. If you’re a lacklustre candidate, I’m skimming your email looking for a good excuse to toss you into the “no” pile and move on to the next applicant. Neglecting to send me any of the items I’d explicitly requested in the hiring notice (in bold, no less) gives me that excuse.
5. Your resume is probably too long. I didn’t read any of these fully, so the more scannable it is, the better. There were a lot of resumes that listed design work, which is great, but then went back as far as customer-service type jobs. Working at McDonald’s may grow character and an irrational hatred of hamburgers, but it doesn’t make you a better designer. Unless maybe you’re designing the cheeseburger wrappers, but even then, I have my doubts.
6. Your portfolio is probably too big. And please don’t attach it to your email; my computer goes into anaphylactic shock when it needs to download 12MB of attachments all at once. Restarting my machine makes me cranky.

And of course, chances are good that if you’ve made someone cranky, you won’t be getting an interview, no matter how lovely your portfolio is or how well-rounded your resume. A cranky employer is an employer who’s going to hire someone else!

That said! Here’s what I’m looking for.

This will be a very part-time job to begin with. My aim is that it will grow with time into a more full-fledged position, but I’d like to start small. I don’t have an office anymore (unless my couch counts), so you’ll need to have your own equipment. Ideally we’d be able to do a mix of co-working and telecommuting, but I’m open to alternative arrangements. You don’t need to know everything already; I’d be glad to teach. Pay will obviously be adjusted depending on the amount of teaching required! This position is best-suited for an entry-level or intern who’s looking to get started in the industry.

Required Skills

• excellent communication skills. This is non-negotiable as it’s pretty much the only thing I can’t teach you. You don’t need to be a fantastic orator, but solid writing skills are absolutely vital.
• basic understanding of basic design principles (and a “good eye”, which is also non-teachable
• basic understanding of standards-compliant HTML/CSS
• basic Adobe CS skills, or the equivalent freeware alternatives
• attention to detail (I’m a perfectionist)
• independence and problem-solving skills
• passion for your work and a desire to learn

Skills that would be deemed a bonus

• PHP programming ability (actually, if you have this but no design skills, contact me, and maybe we can arrange something)
• strong web skills (HTML/CSS, Ajax, “making things work”, etc)
• strong design skills
• comfort with WordPress, which I’m using more & more as a CMS
• marketing/PR skills (I’m lousy at marketing myself)

Job “perks”

• flexibility & the ability to set your own hours
• opportunity to learn about the ins & outs of client relations and running a business
• chance to work on a wide variety of projects
• opportunity for advancement

Please send resume, portfolio, and anticipated hourly wage range to , and introduce yourself!

Your resume looks fantastic! One of the best I’ve ever seen!

So, if you find yourself facing unemployment (I’m not going to use the “R” word, or even the “D” word, but do feel free to ruminate on the current economic climate in whatever manner you’d prefer), you should invest in a custom-designed resume! It’s cheap, it’s fun, and it may even get you a job. And I get that warm-and-fuzzy feeling that comes from helping someone out.

The Bad: No more Digby. I’m trying hard not to think about it because it makes me sad. Why aren’t there more beautiful & clever, highly saturated things around? (I am happiest in technicolour). I don’t understand why “reality” is so interesting. There’s enough reality right outside my door; I’d rather the fantasy when I’m looking to get out of my head.

and the Ridiculous: Minggl thinks “b3k 4w5″ isn’t a valid postal code. It took me three tries to figure out they wanted me to capitalize it. Seriously? Canada Post will deliver my mail if I forget the majority of the address and scrawl it upside down with a six-inch-wide marker, but some web app that isn’t ever going to send me mail can’t validate a lowercase postal code?

Also, why are all web apps named by dyslexic five year olds now? I miss real words.

Hi Sarah,

So sorry to hear that you lost a considerable amount of work when water spilled on your computer. While chocolate zucchini muffins (no nuts–in case you’re allergic) won’t bring the material back (wouldn’t that be great), perhaps they can fuel the recreation process. Just want to let you know that we can be patient for an ultimately high-quality product.

Cheers!

ACT

How utterly sweet & lovely is that? I am an incredibly lucky girl to get to work with such fabulous clients.

A Google search for “sarah semark” yields this hilariously erroneous newspaper article from last year, in which my cat is actually referenced as a business partner, and this similarly hilarious and out-of-date portfolio site, which I should really take down, but I’m far too absorbed in my own personal history to do so.