The Mad Men and Women of D'Arcy Advertising

We gathered on a brilliant afternoon in late October, the Mad Men and Women of D'Arcy. We reconnected and remembered, traded stories, hugged and kissed, told each other how wonderful we looked, and held handshakes longer than usual. 


A hundred different paths now brought us back to the large room of a micro-brewery and restaurant in the heart of Kirkwood - paths that had taken many of us to distant reaches of the country, moved some of us just a few blocks, to new jobs, different careers, or nothing more challenging than a round of golf or a flower bed. Now some of us spoke of our children's achievements or our grandchildren's talents. Most of us talked about faded campaigns, unforgettable clients, celebrations and disappointments, theme lines that once bristled with energy and originality and still called forth a spark of pride. 


In each other's eyes, we were still young, unafraid of any assignment, willing to deal with tough clients, able to prove that we were the best damned ad agency anywhere in the world. But we wore name tags, just in case that name or that face was slightly out of reach. And so few were.


Advertising was a different business back then. For many of us, it was the only one we knew. For others, the younger ones there who still had plenty of hair and a youthful glow, it was still the same game, only the rules and tools had changed. In fact, the world had changed in the less than 100 years of D'Arcy. With roots that had their beginnings in 1906, the agency no longer exists except in the history books and occasional columns, where tales of Mad Men and Women are told with a flair reminiscent of great battles, heroic deeds, and wondrous achievements.


And D'Arcy still lives in one other dimension: in the hearts and memories of those of us who once worked there, and - on this one day - came together in the warmth of the love we once shared.

A Solid Review About "Where the Mountain Takes Me"

Earlier this year, a biography I wrote was published, and has recently received a fine review (not a perfect  10, but highly acceptable) from Jeffrey Penn May. The name of the books is "Where the Mountain Takes Me, and it is about a rather incredible individual who overcame depressing odds from the moment he was born to become an accomplished engineer and dentist. He finally succumbed to mesothelioma earlier this year. You can read about this book, and the review, at http://www.stlbooks.com/bookscape/

Chapter One of "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin"

In case you have a few minutes and feel like reading something new, here is the first chapter (or the first part of it anyway) of my novel. The book is due from the printer next week, and then I head for a Chaplin conference in Ohio end of the week. I hope you enjoy this.

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s.

- J. D. Salinger

Creativity takes courage.

- Henri Matisse

CHAPTER 1

“You like Charlie Chaplin?”

The guy in the next seat obviously had noticed the book I was reading. From the tone of his voice, I knew he wasn’t a Chaplin fan.

“Yeah, I think he’s pretty funny.” I wasn’t really interested in getting into a conversation with him, not with a four-hour flight ahead of me.

“You look like an intelligent guy. Let me ask you a question.” He rolled up his Sports Illustrated and jammed it into the magazine pocket. “How can you find running around in circles and poking people with a cane and throwing pies funny?”

I kept my book open. “Chaplin did more than that. He wasn’t big with pies either. Other comics did pies.” I couldn’t believe we were discussing pies at thirty-thousand feet. I felt trapped in my seat, there wasn’t enough leg room, my sneakers looked dumb.

“Anything in that book about him being a Commie?” he said.

The captain’s voice interrupted with information about altitude, cruising

speed, and the approximate time we’d be landing in LA Even though I didn’t want to go any further with this guy, the Commie remark bothered me.

“That actually was never a fair accusation,” I said. “He wasn’t a Communist. Maybe if you’d read a little about him, you’d know what that was all about.”

“I know they kicked him out of this country. I don’t have to read more than that. And what about all those little girls he was messing around with? You saying that didn’t happen?” With each accusation, his voice grew louder.

I didn’t answer. Confrontation makes me uneasy. Given a different situation I might have launched into a stout defense of Chaplin and his personal life. Like when you stick up for a friend who’s not there. Not this time, though. I just wanted to be left alone, read my book, prepare for the opportunity ahead in Los Angeles.

“I guess there’re some people who don’t like him,” I said. “I just think he’s funny, that’s all.”

I missed Lauren. I still felt the need to reach over and hold her hand on takeoffs and landings. That’s when I get nervous. Lauren was always there, reassuring me with her warmth and strength. But Costa Rica had ended that. I hadn’t flown since then, nor gone bike riding, our favorite sport.

“Now Bob Hope...he was funny,” he said and returned to his Sports Illustrated.

I picked up my laptop, briefcase and book, and moved to an empty seat further back. I was still trying to get a handle on my interview tomorrow. Their consideration of hiring a freelancer from Columbus, Ohio, to write a documentary about Charlie Chaplin, still baffled me. Sure, I had good credentials on Chaplin, and writing for film had been my goal for the last several years. My shelves were stacked with scripts, treatments, and concepts, none of which had aroused much interest. Sometimes luck follows persistence. Still, why me?

The rest of the flight was smooth. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be the last smooth period in my life for awhile.

******

The following day in LA shaped up as relatively predictable. I’d grab breakfast in the coffee shop at nine, spend a couple of hours in my room reviewing notes, take a walk to put my thoughts in order, eat a light lunch, then be at the production house a little before one for the interview. By late afternoon I’d be on a plane headed back to Columbus, either to continue my gradual decay there or pack for the return trip to LA That was the only part I couldn’t predict. Or so I thought.

The phone rang after breakfast.

“Mr. Thiery, this is the front desk. We have a package for you.”

“A package? For me?”

“Yes, sir. A large manila envelope. Shall I send it up, or would you prefer to fetch it?” The clerk with a British accent seemed to be the hotel’s attempt to add some class to a pleasant but otherwise undistinguished Hollywood establishment.

“I’ll come down.” I hadn’t expected a package, not even mail or messages. I was here for only the one day. Maybe it had something to do with my pending interview. I “fetched” the envelope, opened it on the elevator and a book slid out, one that was appropriate for the day’s events: David Robinson’s acclaimed biography, Chaplin: His Life and Art. I flipped through it and saw no note, no explanation for its presence, no name or address. I already owned the book, had read it more than once, referred to it dozens of times. This was, in my opinion, one of the best books ever written about Chaplin. My copy was sitting on a shelf back home, along with another hundred or so books about him.

I called the front desk. “Where did this package come from?”

“A gentleman left it here, Mr. Thiery, just minutes before I called you.”

“What did he look like?”

“Rather short, looked to be in his fifties, white hair. Steel-rimmed glasses, I believe.”

“Did he leave a name? Or a message?”

“No, sir. All he said was, ‘I think Mr. Thiery needs this.’ Something like that. He was a cheerful sort, pleasant smile. Is there anything wrong, sir?”

I told him no and hung up. The book was obviously used, the dust-jacket well worn, the black and white cover photo of Chaplin slightly faded, the edges of the pages stained. My sense of order began to unravel as I looked through the book. Notes had been written in the margins, words and phrases underlined or circled, large “X’s” scrawled, seemingly at random, with comments such as “rubbish” and “not so” and “Yes.” Not an abundance of comments, but enough to hold my interest. The previous owner, it seemed, had either possessed a keen insight into Chaplin or a willingness to question the author. Why it had been passed on to me, and who had delivered it, puzzled me. I worked my way through the book, paying closer attention to the markings, balancing them with my knowledge of Chaplin’s life. I didn’t know if the comments were accurate. They were, however, within the realm of possibility, with some intriguing speculation about his life and art.

I forgot about my walk, about lunch, and spent the rest of the time engrossed in the book. If I got the job, I would spend my next three months focused on my favorite personality of all time, attempting to define the line between an artist’s work and his private life. One other line would become significant, a line that would test my sense of reality, a line that I had previously believed to be impossible to cross.

Books vs Nooks

Dear Reader: What lies ahead? Check out the cover on the latest New Yorker Mag. Title of it is "Shelved."

Books, Nooks and The Big Read

I spent a couple of hours last Saturday wandering among the booths and displays at The Big Read in Clayton. Mostly I was trying to stay on the shady side of the street, since the temperature was more reminiscent of August than October. I saw several people from the St. Louis Writers Guild there and some other book-focused friends. I also saw lots of books, stacked and displayed on tables, resting on shelves, put there by organizations and individuals who were showing how they wrote, printed, bound, marketed, distributed books...and got young people involved in books. All in all, a very positive experience for a writer.

However, there was an item there that alerted me like the rumble of distant thunder. Or maybe the sky brightening just before sunrise (to stay with nature metaphors). I'm talking about the Nook. A young man was offering demonstrations of just how easy it is to use a Nook. As I stood there looking at it, I felt as though I was at an Exposition of The Latest Radios sometime during the 1930's. I was surrounded by the latest table models, portable, consoles, cabinets, all heralding the dominance of radio. And over in a corner sat a young man with a strange looking contraption on a table. It had a little screen, which had a picture on it, a picture that was grainy and in black and white and moved. He called it television.

So what about all those books at The Big Read on all those tables? What is their future? Will the Nook and the Kindle and the iPad hold sway in the not-too-distant future? Quite possibly. But I think there will always be a place for books. At least I hope so. One thing for sure, though. Unless technology comes up with something I can't even imagine, nothing will ever replace The Writer. The story will always start with someone sitting down at a table or desk and looking at a blank page.

What do you think?

Another Taste of Chaplin

If things go as planned, my novel, "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin," will be off the press by next weekend. Later in the week I'll probably post the first chapter. In the meantime, here's a wonderful scene for your enjoyment. It's from "The Great Dictator," (1940) with Chaplin performing a marvelous pantomime to a familiar piece of classical music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=monaXOpmH1U

The New Novel: Me and Charlie Chaplin

Twelve years in the writing. And rewriting. And rewriting. So my new novel, "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin," will be off the presses in about 3 weeks. The idea hit me in 1997 or '98 in LA when I was walking around the Chaplin Stage at what was then A&M Records, then became Jim Henson Productions. The novel takes place in - naturally - Hollywood, and the time is today, and the 1920's. And yes, Chaplin is a major character in the book. A couple of other characters in the book are Fatty Arbuckle and William Randolph Hearst. I'll tell you more about it in future posts. That photo of Charlie and me was taken in Vevey, Switzerland, where Chaplin lived after he left the U.S. in 1952. For now, though, enjoy one of Charlie's most famous sequences. It's from "The Gold Rush," released in 1925.

YouTube - Charlie Chaplin- Table Ballet