This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “suspense”.
Alfred Hitchcock - Hollywood’s master of suspense. He was a technical innovator, a masterful storyteller and a visionary director. In his career, that spanned six decades, he never won an Oscar (aside from an honorary and conciliatory lifetime achievement award).
This week’s Illustration Friday word is “forward”.
When my parents gave me my first box of crayons and a blank drawing pad, they had no idea I would turn it into a career. I majored in art in high school and attended a vocational art school after spending a year in the retail world and realizing that I was better suited for a more creative profession. After earning my degree, I became the art director for a small chain of ice cream stores in the Philadelphia area. This was a great opportunity for a young graduate and I was anxious to let my imagination and school-acquired skills loose on the world. After a year, the company eliminated their in-house art department (of which I was the sole member) and I was out of a job. I soon began the gruelling course of a freelance artist. I filled-in at a few production houses* doing paste-up for newspapers and other various publications. In between jobs, I concentrated my efforts on finding full-time employment, as I was newly-married with a child on the way. I checked the “Help Wanted” section of the newspaper on a daily basis, but the “artist” listings were usually short and limited to painter’s assistant jobs and counter help at quick-copy service stores. I maintained contact with some classmates and my art school’s placement office for job leads, but the pickings were slim.
One morning, I circled an ad in the Philadelphia Inquirer. It seemed an ad agency on the prestigious Main Line section of suburban Philadelphia was seeking an artist/designer. I called the number and spoke briefly to a female voice who made arrangements for me to come in for an interview this upcoming Saturday evening. I thought it was an odd day and time for an interview, but who was I to question? I needed a job. With only one car, my wife drove me and my small portfolio of printed samples of my work out to — what would hopefully be — my new job location.
After consulting a map (remember, this was the days before the Internet and the GPS), we navigated the streets. Surprisingly, we arrived in a residential neighborhood, not an office building as I had expected. Checking the address again, we pulled up to the curb in front of a modest house surrounded by other similar-looking houses. I, in my suit and tie, walked up to the front door and rang the door bell. I half-expected that I was at the wrong location, but when an expressionless woman opened the door and greeted me with “You must be Josh,” I knew this must be the place. I entered her home and was directed to the dining room table. The woman introduced herself as Zimra Chorney — slightly older than I with unkempt, curly hair and clipped, bird-like features — and asked to see my portfolio. I had been on many interviews since my recent entry into the art business, but most (if not all) had been conducted in an office or a working design studio. I unzipped my small leather case and opened it to face my inquisitor. Silently, she turned the protective plastic pages of newspaper ads, ice cream promotional flyers and the occasional illustration. She examined my work through squinted, judgemental eyes set in her vacant face. Zimra reached the final page and closed the back cover. She then turned to a shelf and removed several folded pieces of solid-colored card stock. Her claw-like hands opened one of the folded pieces to reveal a black-and -white printed advertisement for, what appeared to be, a bakery.
“This,” Zimra began, “is the sort of promotional work we do.” and she gently tossed a few similar pieces in my direction. (“We,” I thought as I cautiously looked around, “Who is ‘we’ “? ) I opened one of the cards and skimmed the content. The outside of the brochure was solid, glossy magenta with no type or art whatsoever. Inside, it was very wordy with some small illustrations of birthday cakes and cupcakes spaced throughout, failing in their attempt to comfortably break up the over-abundance of descriptive text. I could tell the other brochures that I left unopened on the table were similar, the outside color being the only variance. I feigned a smile at the brochures and nodded, but offered no comment or criticism. That was good, because Zimra had plenty to say in the criticism department.
She stood across the table from me and expounded on the lack of professionalism of my work. She explained that my work was weak and of poor quality and content. She displayed one of her brochures, looked lovingly at the piece and, injecting a haughty tone into her speech, said “This is more along the lines of the type of high-quality and professionalism we seek and expect.” As she spoke, she caressed the folds of the brochure and ran her bony fingers along the glossy ink of the cover.
“In a few years, if your talent and abilities are more developed, we may be interested.,” she said, using the royal “we” once again. Zimra escorted me to the door and showed me out. I don’t even remember walking down to my car. My wife asked how things went and, by the bewildered look on my face, her question was answered.
Jumping forward a few years, I had produced a body of work of which I was quite proud. I had redesigned the mastheads of several newspapers and magazines. I had created adverting pieces for such varied companies as Motorola, Holiday Inn, an East coast chain of turnpike rest stops and some major area department stores. I worked closely with an advertising agency, where I single-handedly designed and produced an annual plumbing supply catalog. I briefly entered the publishing industry, where I maintained a roster of no less than twenty-five newsletters and dozens of books. I ran the creative end of a real estate ad agency. I returned to the world of retail advertising and became the art director for a local chain of carpet and flooring stores whose headquarters was on the Main Line.
One day, on my way to work, I stopped for coffee at a Wawa convenience store on Montgomery Avenue. (Wawa is a very popular spot in the Philadelphia area for a quick bite, great coffee and that forgotten quart of milk or loaf of bread on your way home. And it’s much cleaner and friendlier than 7-11.) The coffee service area was bustling and crowded, as is normal for a workday morning at Wawa. I filled a 20 ounce cup with java, cream and one Sweet ‘n Low. I dodged a female employee who was wiping up a spill at the counter with a dingy, gray rag. As I made my way to the checkout to pay for my purchase, the same female employee jumped behind a cash register to help handle to overflow of customers. She wore the standard Wawa-issued visor to corral her unkempt, curly hair. The dark brown of her apron could not adequately hide the stains that peppered the front of the garment. She looked familiar, too. The name badge affixed to her apron’s shoulder strap was emblazoned with ”ZIMRA” in big. black letters.
As the customers before me, one-by-one, paid for their selections, I fixed my gaze on the woman who once belittled me for my lack of talent and professionalism. This woman, who just a few short years ago insulted the quality of my work, was now wearing a dirty apron, sopping up spilled coffee and running a cash register in a convenience store. The last time I held a job in the same range as this, I was eighteen years old.
My turn to pay had come and I happily tendered a buck to Zimra — who didn’t acknowledge me, just as she didn’t acknowledge me those many years earlier.
I walked out of that Wawa and I never saw Zimra Chorney again. My career as a professional artist has continued to flourish and I have learned, grown and improved with each subsequent job I have taken. My initial meeting with Zimra taught me a lesson, but not the lesson she wanted to teach. My second meeting taught me more. Do I ever wonder what ever became of Zimra Chorney? Honestly, I don’t give a shit.
* In the days before computers, desktop publishing and the Internet, printed materials - such as newspapers, books, and brochures - were produced and assembled by hand, in a tedious, time-consuming process called “paste-up” that involved X-acto knifes, heated adhesive wax, typeset galleys, rulers, border tape and non-reproductive blue pens.
This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “twirl”.
For as long as he could remember, Tommy Lasorda, the longest tenured employee with the Dodgers organization, including twenty years as team manager, loved baseball. Growing up in a poor family in Norristown, Pennsylvania, Tommy could never afford to attend to a real Major League baseball game. When he was fifteen, Tommy joined his high school’s student crossing guard squad, but he had an ulterior motive. Tommy knew that at the end of the school year, the nuns would take the crossing guards to a Phillies game in neighboring Philadelphia in appreciation of service.
On the big day, the Phillies were playing the New York Giants and an excited Tommy Lasorda was beside himself with joy. After the game, he waited patiently by the clubhouse access tunnel at Shibe Park hoping to actually meet one of the ballplayers. One of the Giants outfielder lumbered past the star-struck youngster. “Can I get an autograph, please?”, asked Tommy. The player, Buster Maynard, riding high on the best season of what would be a short career, glanced at Tommy and barked, “Get the hell outta my way!” Tommy checked his line-up card to identify the player by uniform number as he walked into the opposing team locker room. Tommy was crushed and humiliated.
Seven years later, Tommy Lasorda, now a twenty-two year-old pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers’ minor league team in North Carolina, was on the mound facing the Single A division Augusta Yankees. He quickly struck out the first two batters of the inning, when he was frozen by the name being announced over the small ballpark’s public address system. Lasorda narrowed his eyes and watched as Buster Maynard — now an aging bench-warmer hoping for one last shot at reviving his career — ambled out of the dugout and approached the plate. The old man took a few creaky practice swings and stepped into the batter’s box. Lasorda silently fumed and went into his wind-up. He let the ball fly, rocketing just inches from Maynard’s chin and twirling the old man around in an effort to dodge the leather-clad projectile. Maynard took off his cap, scratched his head and peered across the field at the pitcher. Lasorda shot another head-high bullet at Maynard, this time forcing the elder player to hit the dirt in order to avoid getting some unrequested rhinoplasty. The third pitch from Lasorda wasn’t so forgiving. Maynard took one in the ribs and was awarded first base for his trouble.
After the game, the fading big-leaguer caught up with the young pitcher. “Hey kid,” Maynard began,”What the hell? Why were you throwing at me? I don’t even know you?”
Lasorda answered, “When I was a kid, I asked you for an autograph and you pushed me aside, you lousy son-of-a-bitch!” Maynard was dumb-founded and he shook his head in disbelief as Lasorda walked away.
During his years as a Major League manager, Tommy Lasorda always reminded his players to happily sign autographs, adding “Because you never know if, one day, one of those kids’ll knock you on your ass!”
This week’s Illustration Friday word is “prepare.”
“Artie is a singer, and I’m a writer and a player and a singer. We didn’t work together on a creative level and prepare the songs. I did that.” — Paul Simon
I understand the popularity of Simon and Garfunkel. I am aware of Paul Simon’s songwriting ability and his contributions to his success with one-time partner Art, and as a solo artist. I fully appreciate the longevity of his career…
… but, Jeez! Paul, that doesn’t give you the right to be a dick.
This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “grounded”.
Benjamin Franklin’s experiments with electricity were all failures until he got the kite properly grounded.
This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “highlight”.
When I was a kid in the early 1960s, a trip to the family doctor was a dreaded thing. I did my best to hide every sniffle or stomachache, lest I be subjected to some poking and prodding from that creepy, bespectacled guy with the stethoscope around his neck and the unnaturally cold hands. A hard tongue depressor down the throat or the possibility of some sort of needle didn’t add favorably to the experience. The only glimmer of joy involved with a doctor’s visit was the promise of a few minutes perusing the pages of Highlights for Children.
While my mom thumbed through an old issue of Good Housekeeping or Redbook, I would eagerly select a copy of Highlights for Children from several strewn across a low table in the waiting room. Then, I would happily bide my time trying to figure out “what’s wrong with this picture” in a drawing on the back cover. Inside, the issue was jammed with jokes and riddles, a page of hidden objects camouflaged throughout a jungle scene, the continuing adventures of the oddly-drawn Timbertoes family and my favorite — Goofus and Gallant.
Goofus and Gallant were two young boys who offered lessons in manners and responsibility through their contrasting actions. As their descriptive names indicated, Goofus was the self-centered, selfish sneak with no consideration for family and classmates. Gallant was the cheerful, helpful little priss who regularly earned praise from adults and was often named “Teacher’s Pet”. The lessons that Goofus and Gallant taught in the 60s were geared toward completing homework or sharing your toys.
I haven’t seen an issue of Highlights for Children in nearly four decades, as my wife usually took our son to the pediatrician when he was little. (He made it a point to get sick after I had already left for work.) I imagine the subject matter for Goofus and Gallant had to change with the times, while becoming more direct in its approach. Here’s how I envision Goofus and Gallant today…
Click illustration for a larger version.
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A footnote to this post:
This time last year, I made a resolution to create one million illustrations in 2011.
I fell 999,851 short.
This week’s Illustration Friday word is “messenger”.
In rare instances, it is appropriate to shoot the messenger.
This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “sink”.
Born in Kingston, Jamaica, Frank Silvera immigrated to the United States with his family as a youngster. Determined to follow his dream of acting, he appeared briefly on Broadway before joining the US Naval Reserves during World War II. After the war, he returned to acting. He was featured in the Audie Murphy western The Cimarron Kid. This was the first in his career of over seventy-five motion picture and television roles.
Frank was frequently cast in “racially indeterminate” roles. Because he was black with light skin tone, he regularly played Mexicans, Blacks, Polynesians, Indians, Asians and even the occasional white role. On Broadway, he played Ben Gazzara’s father in A Hatful of Rain. In films, he was usually cast as criminals and other unsavory types, co-starring in Mutiny on the Bounty, Viva Zapata! and Roger Corman’s take on The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Once he auditioned for a small role as an elevator operator. The producer told him “he wasn’t black enough”. Frank asked “Well, am I light enough for one of the white roles?” The amused producer gave him a part.
Frank founded The Theater of Being in Los Angeles, to help young black actors and actresses get a start in show business. He was also a vocal and active advocate for civil rights in the 1950s and 60s.
In 1970, Frank was attempting to repair a faulty garbage disposal under the kitchen sink in his home when he was accidentally electrocuted. He was 55 years old and a regular cast member on the popular TV western The High Chaparral at the time. His final film, Valdez is Coming, was released after his death.
In 1973, The Frank Silvera Writers’ Workshop Foundation was co-founded by actor Morgan Freeman in Frank’s memory.
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My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a FREE DOWNLOAD for a limited time.
26 unusual songs and a custom full-color cover with track listings — all for you and for FREE!
Just CLICK HERE for “A Non-Traditional Christmas 2011.”
(You will be taken to a new window. Click the word “download” next to the title, not the big green “DOWNLOAD” button at the bottom of the page.)
Happy Holidays from your pal JPiC!
(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)
This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “separated”.
My mother’s parents ran an antique store not far from their home at Fourth and Spruce Streets in Philadelphia. In the summer months, they operated a bath house on the boardwalk in the seaside resort of Wildwood, New Jersey. In addition, eighteen years separated my mother from her oldest sibling. Needless to say, “family time” was a rare event. While the three older brothers were out doing “adult things”, my mother and her older sister were left in the very capable hands of Minnie Ellis, or as my mother affectionately called her “My Minnie”. Minnie was technically “the housekeeper”, but she was much, much more. She was cook, baby-sitter, playmate, disciplinarian, teacher and friend. With my grandparents’ overwhelming responsibilities of running one business (and five months out of the year, two businesses), Minnie was the perfect parental supplement. She earned the love and respect of my mother and her family, so much so, that she was viewed as part of the family herself.
One day, my mother at around eight or nine years old, arrived home after school. She found Minnie in the kitchen preparing that evening’s meal. My mother spoke right up and caught Minnie by surprise.
“You’re black.”, my mother said.
“Am I?”, answered Minnie, not at all flustered by my young mother’s assertion, “Who told you that?”
“A boy at school. He said that you’re black and I’m white.”, my mother continued.
Minnie produced a bleached white, cotton dishcloth and draped it across my mother’s arm. “Hmmm”, she began and stroked her chin, ” this rag is white and you don’t look white. You look pink to me.” Then Minnie took off one of her shoes and aligned it with her own arm. She continued, “I sure don’t look like the color of this black shoe. I look brown.”
My mother observed the demonstration and understood Minnie’s message of how ridiculous the statement was. She momentarily felt ashamed, but then hugged and kissed Minnie and went on her way.
Years later, when my parents were dating, my mother met her future in-laws. My paternal grandparents were two textbook bigots, pure and simple in their ignorance and disdain for all people who they saw as “different”. After my parents’ wedding and brief honeymoon, they visited my father’s parents for the first time as husband and wife. Over dinner, they talked about the wedding and the guests. Then, my grandfather - my mother’s new father-in-law - said to my mother, “How could you bring yourself to kiss that…” and he used a horrible word, one that was at one time excised from copies of Mark Twain’s Adventures of Tom Sawyer but features prominently in the lyrics of many current rap songs. A word that is euphemistically known as “The N Word”. A word that made my mother cringe and nearly throw up. She looked at her father-in-law, staring at him with eyes like twin lasers, and through clenched teeth, slowly and deliberately said, “Don’t you ever speak about ‘My Minnie’ that way. Ever!” She pronounced each syllable as though each one was its own word. My grandfather, that ignorant man, got the point loud and clear. My mother had little to say to him (but plenty to say about him) for the remaining fifteen years of his life.
In 1959, two years before I was born, my parents and my brother drove to Miami, Florida for a vacation. They loaded their packed suitcases and traveling provisons into my father’s brand new orange and white, tail-finned sedan and made their way South on Route 1. (For years, my mother joked that my brother stood up in the back seat for the entire trip.) The journey predated the sleek concrete highways of Interstate I-95. Route 1 snaked though tiny, quaint burgs along the eastern seaboard. The pre-Josh Pincus Family eagerly sampled the simple offerings of a culture that moved at a slower pace from the big-city bustle of Philadelphia. One afternoon, they pulled the car into Jessup, Georgia, as my mother was intrigued by the promise of authentic Southern cooking advertised on a sign several miles back. Since the area of commerce was fairly small, locating the eatery was easy and the Pincuses went in and prepared for a Dixie feast. According to my mother’s recollections, the “authentic” Southern cuisine consisted of small, dried-out pieces of chicken, canned vegetables and Pillsbury biscuits (recognized by Mom since she had made them countless times herself). During the meal, a large spider descended from the ceiling on a single strand of web and wiggled its many legs just inches from my mother’s nose.
Her appetite ruined, my mom sought salvation in the fresh air. My father unhappily paid the tab and followed my mother and brother to a gas station across the street. Figuring he’d fill the tank, he parked the car adjacent to one of the pumps and asked the attendant to “fill ‘er up”. My mother spotted a water fountain by the station’s office and felt a cleansing drink would wash away the remnants of the awful lunch. She pressed the button on the spout and leaned down, bringing her lips closer to the stream of water. Suddenly, a scream pierced the air.
“What are you doing???” A windburned man in overalls was rushing out of the office and yelling at my mother in a dry Southern accent.
“What am I doing?”, she asked, bewildered, “I’m getting a drink.”
The man pointed to the base of the fountain, specifically to two lines of words stenciled on the front. “That’s for colored only”, he said.
My mother stepped back and - sure enough - in large white letters, the words “Colored Only” were painted on the tank, reinforcing the same angry, hateful directive that the gas station man initiated. My mother was horrified. Horrified that this situation existed in her world. She said nothing as the man watched her back away from the fountain. She joined her family in the car and sat silently in the passenger’s seat for a good portion of the drive.
These incidents stayed with my mother her entire life and she related these stories quite often as lessons to my brother and me. The most important lesson my mother taught me was not to waste time giving an audience to stupidity.
- - - - -
My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a FREE DOWNLOAD for a limited time.
26 unusual songs and a custom full-color cover with track listings — all for you and for FREE!
Just CLICK HERE for “A Non-Traditional Christmas 2011.”
(You will be taken to a new window. Click the word “download” next to the title, not the big green “DOWNLOAD” button at the bottom of the page.)
Happy Holidays from your pal JPiC!
(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)
This week’s Illustration Friday suggested word is “brigade”.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
- - - - -
My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a FREE DOWNLOAD for a limited time.
26 unusual songs and a custom full-color cover with track listings — all for you and for FREE!
Just CLICK HERE for “A Non-Traditional Christmas 2011.”
(You will be taken to a new window. Click the word “download” next to the title, not the big green “DOWNLOAD” button at the bottom of the page.)
Happy Holidays from your pal JPiC!
(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)
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