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	AislingFrench MEd'81 While I was working on my master’s in education at Northeastern, studying to become a careers guidance counselor, I got a teaching fellowship that let me design curricula for a Life/Career Planning program in criminal justice. I also had a light teaching load, preparing students for the job market—interview techniques, résumé writing, and so on. The experience was rewarding, and taught me a lot about the different reasons why someone might want a particular job. I learned that people often make career decisions for all the wrong reasons. One statistic stunned me: 85 percent of people in the workforce aren’t happy in their jobs. I vowed never to be one of those people. After I got my degree, I worked in a program that matched non-college-bound students with jobs. After that, I gave drug and alcohol awareness workshops in schools on the North Shore. It was a fulfilling job, but it often felt frustrating, because gauging the workshops’ success rate was so difficult. Plus, I wasn’t earning much money, and I was working long hours. When a private-sector opportunity fell into my lap, I took it, thinking I would go back to the school system when I felt ready and a little more financially solvent. I never went back. My career path changed rapidly. I became a sales executive in the high-tech world, making what seemed like lots of money, with lots of stress—and very little job satisfaction. I often thought wryly of my Northeastern classes, where I had read case studies about people like me, trapped by golden handcuffs. Pushing the calendar forward fifteen years finds me in the fast-paced, dog-eat-dog world of IPOs. Then, my husband announced that his job, which had him commuting to Costa Rica every month, was going to require him to be there on a more permanent basis for a year or so. He asked what I thought about joining him. I weighed the pros and cons. Our youngest child had just gone off to college, so the move was feasible. But I would be leaving behind good friends, a sense of professional accomplishment (notice I didn’t say “fulfillment”), and a sense of security in time and place. I knew no Spanish, Costa Rica seemed very far away, and I didn’t have much interest in being a lady of leisure in Central America. But if I went, I’d have the opportunity to: Step off the treadmill. Get on with some writing I had neglected for ages. Learn a new language. Possibly get back into teaching. I did go to Costa Rica, and I did all those things. And I began to realize Costa Rica seemed to have low self-esteem, especially as shown by its reluctance to acknowledge the talents of local artists. No one knew much about the art produced by indigenous groups. Guidebooks told tourists it was pointless to look for work by Costa Rican artists in local galleries, as there wasn’t much art produced. I didn’t see how this could be possible. Then my son, an artist and an anthropologist by avocation, came to Costa Rica. After working for almost a year in a remote Bribri village called Yorkin, he confirmed that his students were very talented artistically, but no gallery in San José, the capital city, would buy their work. We thought, let’s do something about this. Through some research and networking, I discovered that within the tiny indigenous community (1 percent of Costa Rica’s population, or 38,000 people) there were six distinct tribes who had their own unique artistic traditions they had practiced for centuries. I found out about a group of very poor women who started painting through a Peace Corps initiative. Painting allowed them to earn some money while staying close to their children. They had recently reached out to the women of a neighboring community and taught them what they knew about painting. This second generation of artists, Mujeres Activas, became very dear to me. Then, I heard about a very good educational program for San José’s street children. After school, they learn soldering and welding, using pieces of metal donated by car-repair shops, which, with the instruction of a dedicated and creative teacher, they fashion into images of rainforest insects and animals. Finally, I discovered that in the small villages that grow coffee, local artisans carve the roots of old, uprooted coffee bushes into shapes that resemble figures in an El Greco painting. In May 1998, I opened the doors of Galeria Namu, offering this array of art, and more. And waited. Naysayers shook their heads and said the gallery would not last a year. But I’m Irish and stubborn, and completely believed I wouldn’t fail. I announced to all the artists I worked with that I intended to pay them up-front whatever price they requested. (I could have said “if it seems reasonable,” but, really, I didn’t have any idea what “reasonable” was.) This was a most unusual practice, I later discovered. Most artists have to suffer the wait that consignment inflicts. But I wanted to pay artists on the spot, then offer their work at the fairest price possible so I could sell it quickly and buy more. Calculating my operating expenses, I came up with a formula for setting asking prices that would cover my costs. The “year or so” stay is now up to five years. I plan to work with the gallery, which has become a resounding success, at least a few more years. I can say, with great joy and conviction, that this is the most satisfying and enriching thing I have ever done. I could not have planned for this. I just followed my deepest instincts, stayed true to my purpose, and can report that I am not one of the 85 percent I learned about in my classes at Northeastern. You can visit Galeria Namu online at <www.galerianamu.com>, or e-mail French at <aislingmahon@hotmail.com>.