Back in 1992, a young Media Guy teamed with an old art critic to dive into some amazing work at the Australian National Gallery. Here’s an excerpt from one of my favorite passages and works.

Blue poles was first exhibited in Pollock’s solo show at Sidney Janis Gallery in1952 where it was titled Number 11, 1952. Later christened by Pollock Blue poles, today the painting is usually referred to as such.[1] Although the date of the painting is definitely 1952, Pollock appears to have mistakenly dated it ‘53’, then changed the ‘3’ to a ‘2’.

In 1973 Stanley P. Friedman wrote an article in the New York Magazine in which he reported that he had been told by Tony Smith, that Smith and Barnett Newman had painted on the canvas that subsequently became Blue poles.[2] No-one that Friedman interviewed for his article denied the possibility that Smith or Newman contributed to the early stages of the work. What they all emphatically denied is that these initial exercises on the canvas contributed in any way to the work which Pollock then built up on the canvas to become Blue poles.Any trace of earlier involvement by Smith or Newman was covered over by the painting which Pollock subsequently made on this canvas.

The canvas is of high‑quality Belgian linen with a commercially oil‑primed ground. The earliest visible layer of paint is black, thinning at the edges to a green which appears to have been formed by the mixing of yellow and black. The first layer of paint was applied, as was customary practice for Pollock since 1947, while the canvas was stretched out on the floor. Fragments of the glass basting tubes, which were used to apply the first layers of paint to the canvas, are embedded in this layer of paint. Subsequently the unstretched canvas was tacked to a beam that ran along the wall of the studio; liquid, white paint was then applied and allowed to run down the canvas.

For the next campaign on the painting, the canvas was returned to the floor. Using his characteristic method of pouring fluid paint from above in a continuous stream onto the canvas, Pollock employed sticks, dried brushes and syringes to build up a web of rhythmic, linear accents using yellow, orange and aluminium paints. He then left the canvas alone for quite some time. When Pollock next worked on the painting, he created the blue poles with the ‘2 x 4’ length of timber that he apparently positioned to act as a straight edge for painting in the poles.[3] The poles are an unusually definite form in the ‘all‑over’ configuration of Pollock’s poured paintings and various figurative connotations have been attributed to them—from totems to the swaying masts of tall ships.[4]

Pollock integrated the poles by lacing them into the composition with fine dripped skeins of white, black and blue paint. In this final operation, the artist used brushes and rags as well as poured paint. Careful adjustments were made. For example, a thin white dripped line, that might have faded at the left edge of the canvas, has been fastidiously painted over at the edge in black.

Michael Lloyd and Michael Desmond, European and American Paintings and Sculpture 1870–1970 in the Australian National Gallery,Canberra: Australian National Gallery 1992, pp. 240–45, revised Anthony White 2003

[1] Sidney Janis, correspondence with the National Gallery, 17 January 1986, NGA file 72/1198-03, f.5; Pollock himself referred to the painting as ‘Blue poles’ in a conversation with B.H. Friedman in 1955, see B.H. Friedman, Jackson Pollock: Energy made visible,New York: McGraw-Hill 1972, p. xvii.


[2] Stanley P. Friedman, ‘Loopholes in “Blue poles”’, New York Magazine,29 October 1973, pp. 48–51.


[3] Lee Krasner Pollock recalled seeing this piece of wood near the painting covered with wet blue paint, see O’Connor and Thaw, vol. 2, p. 193.


[4] In his biography of Pollock, Bryan Robertson attributes both connotations to the poles, and also suggests a cruciform and an anchor; see Bryan Robertson, Jackson Pollock, London: Thames & Hudson, New York: Harry N. Abrams 1960, pp. 23–24.

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Surfing around Amazon today and I came across an oldie but a goodie written by yours truly: European and American Paintings and Sculptures 1870-1970, in the Australian National Gallery Hardcover – 1992. Yeah, you can buy the book on Amazon but the $1800 price tag might scare you aware from this out-of-print beauty.

In a related story, there’s no truth to the rumor that the book has gold-tipped pages. It’s just hard to find these days. Yet, I digress…

Okay, so where am I?

I’m on a bit of a retreat as I search my soul to find a handful of Big Ideas for some upcoming campaigns. It’s a lovely property with butler service, 24-hour gourmet room service, sounds of the ocean from my lanai, and a pond with huge lily pads. It’s the perfect mix of civilization and nature that inspired the right blend of inspiration and meditation to spark the creative juices.

A good place to start the creative process is to look at what’s out there. The more I scrape the bottom of the creative barrel, the older I know I am. I mean, I feel like I’m the only guy that watches television commercials anymore, but based on the soaring budgets for these spots and the cost to do media buys, the more I know it’s simply a myth that commercials don’t work. They do, and when you get a solid spot with a decent media plan, the word spreads fast.

So there I am flipping through shows and maybe the worst example yet of awful, New Age “femvertising” pops up in the form of a Special K commercial…take a peek:

Wait, whaaaaaat? As a reformed misogynist, every time I see a spot like this I feel like I’m reverting to my old Mel Gibson What Women Want ways and needing a good hair dryer zap to fully get me in tune with advertising geared at women.

So there I was watching this commercial saying “who in the holy hell is writing these inane commercials” while looking for a pencil to jab into my eye so I could stop the pain of ingesting these kinds of ads. Any wouldn’t you know it, there wasn’t a pencil to be found to end the suffering.

If you don’t think I’m a man of simple tastes and pleasures ask me what the highlight of my last vacations was…

Waiting…

Still waiting…

A properly-filled scantron was the first step towards an A test!

Give up? Well, I checked into beautiful European hotel and boy they don’t skimp on the super neat amenities. In my room, sitting atop the note pads on a Resolute Desk replica were elegant golden pencils. New pencils. Erasers unused with lead at a fine point. My memory drifted back to a noisy fourth grade classroom as I searched for the fresh scent of new pencil shavings as the formed a mini mountain underneath the manual sharpener.

Memories moved to the odd lectures from mostly well-intended teachers urging you to fill the circles completely on your scantron in order to receive proper credit for all of your guesses answers. Remember your teachers reminding you to use your mighty yellow Ticonderoga pencils with the ever-important number two lead? I sure do! Begrudgingly tolerated the of the mechanical pencil.

Try and find a pencil at home or in your office these days. Impossible! What ever happened to the noble pencil?

Most of this monster was started with a pencil…

History romanticizes the quill pen. It begrudgingly tolerated the unnatural abomination of the mechanical pencil. It resigned itself to the mass production of Bic’s ballpoint. And all the while, the pencil was there being taken for granted and waiting for nostalgia to sweep it back into relevance.

Yeah, we are still waiting and waiting for that to happen.

It wasn’t pens that beggars sold from their tin cups during the Great Depression, it was pencils. The world greatest sketches and poetry arose from lead points. Even the art of pencil sharpening was a way to both take a break during a difficult quiz and simultaneous show off to your classmates as you shaved the wood head with economical strokes that told your world you were a true craftsman.

All of this was during my time when cursive writing wasn’t banned in school and pencilmanship was still a grade that counted towards your elementary GPA. It was a time when the US Postal Service bustled with snail speed to deliver the letters we wrote on fine linen stock. I digress yet again.

At the end, I called several of my female friends, imploring them to watch the Special K commercial with me on youtube and the general consensus was that the spot was terrible and they were searching for pencils too.

The moral of the story? The marketing execs at Kellogg’s or even the ad men at Leo Burnett (the agency that handles Special K) should have called the Media Guy to write their “We Own It” spot. I guarantee you I would have crushed it, Clio-style or worked for free.

Looking back though, I thank America’s apathy for the pencil for saving my left eye as I searched for that Big Idea today!

Grazi…

Epilogue

Check out this fun story about a professional pencil sharpener with Mo Rocca of CBS Sunday Morning:

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First off, if you didn’t work with me in New York (yes, most of you are gone—yes, really gone), that headline will mean absolutely zippo to you. You’ll have to read the book that I hope to finish by 2018.

Okay, so for now there’s some grey area. Now onto the countdown, uh, story…

It is true…

…I once fired an official NHL hockey puck through a tempered glass window in a fit of work rage inspired by an editor of a trade magazine with bricks for brains. Those of you who do not appreciate the fine art displayed on ice nightly from October through May every year, might not comprehend that throwing a six-ounce vulcanized rubber disk, sized one-inch thick by three inches in diameter is no easy task. (Read about how hard it is from the nerds here.) I whipped it through the window hitting the smokers outside with shards of glass and a heavy dose of rage. I did it in one motion. This was one of those incidents you hear about where someone has a huge rush of adrenaline and lifts a Cadillac. This temporary strength came out of anger, and I’m usually not that angry a guy.

I am not naming the characters involved. My prerogative. Nor will I deny or confirm the many conjectures I know are coming. Sorry, but I’m taking the high road. In the book I’ll probably name names (and there are some decent names in this mix).

I was an up-and-coming Media Guy still doing public relations, dialing for product placements and column inches. I was a moderate-sized agency working a train wreck of an account and capitalizing on my newfound success getting magazine covers for a computer with a 25 megabyte hard drive. Yeah, I know you have a phone with 64 gigabytes — which is about 2600 times bigger than that dinosaur — but back in the late eighties that was big news. Yet I digress…

Sometimes pucks hit nothing. Photo by Darryl Dyck/The Canadian Press.

I was expecting a big product review to be dropping to further solidify my expected key to the executive washroom. (Yeah, back in the late eighties that was still a thing.) Imagine my surprise, when after holding for a full hour to verify facts, the writer of the big review decided that my client would not be in the review. You can also imagine the fever that built from there. Had this happened today I would have mentally blown an arctic breeze up my sphincter and cooled down. But I was younger and more inexperienced. (This is why you hire seasoned pros to run your advertising and marketing departments. Respond, don’t react.)

So I just seethed. This writer was know for taking gifts, cash, and girls for the right feature, but I was playing it straight. Taking my client out? Well, for me, that was the final straw. I slammed the phone down nearly breaking it. Not getting the reaction I desired from from mini-fit, I hurled the puck towards the window.

Seeing and hearing the glass shatter felt great, by the way. At the time I was doing it I had no idea this was a feat of Herculean strength. I might as well have been firing my Nerf basketball at the trashcan in the the corner of my office as I usually did. Even after I did it (and the faces of my colleagues revealed true horror) it didn’t seem like any big deal.

My department manager wisely decided that I should have the afternoon off. I was not clearly going to be of much help that day. He equipped my with a bottle of Jim Beam and sent me back to corporate housing for the night.

The next day I returned to the office, creeping around corners, hoping not to be noticed. Before I reached my boarded up office, the agency’s managing director called me in and the conversation when something like this:

MY BOSS’S BOSS [pouring himself a 9:05 A.M. cocktail]: I was looking for you yesterday because I heard what happened.

ME [gulping with obvious forehead perspiration]: It was unfortunate…

MY BOSS’S BOSS [interrupting]: …you know, I’ve been thinking…yesterday will be your last day in that department.

ME: [more sweating]

MY BOSS’S BOSS: We need passionate PR people like you here. Most of the staff on that floor would take the failure and move on with their day. Not you! You care! You cared enough to let the entire agency feel your rage. Your rage of failure. [hands me the 9:05 A.M. cocktail] I see big things for you. Cheers!

The culprit.

And with that cheers, I was promoted to Sr. Public Relations Manager above my old boss, reported to my new boss, i.e., my boss’s boss.

I should mention that a few weeks later I was out with my new boss on a daily basis at client luncheons drinking my liquid meals, three vodkas at a time in a ritual that demanded a strong liver and a gift of the gab. I had both. I lasted three years before going to Australia to work at the National Gallery…

More to come in the book.
Save up.
Buy it in 2018, or 2019, or 2020.

Final thought: Throwing that rubber disk is not something I’m particularly proud of (which is why I rarely bring it up). And even though it’s easy to get very emotionally attached to a project, issues should not be cause for losing your mind. It’s much easier to say now when I am pushing fifty. Back then, I had a mean slapshot.

And now for my next trick…

–>

The post The Infamous “Hockey Puck” Incident appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

Back in 1992, a young Media Guy teamed with an old art critic to dive into some amazing work at the Australian National Gallery. Here’s an excerpt from one of my favorite passages and works.

This is one of a small group of pictures painted by Magritte in Paris in 1927-28, in which the identity of the figures is mysteriously shrouded in white cloth. The group of paintings includes L’histoire centrale (The central story) 1927 (collection Isy Brachot, Brussels); L’invention de la vie (The invention of life) 1927-28 (private collection, Brussels); The lovers 1928 in the Australian National Gallery; and the similarly titled, similarly dated and similarly sized painting in the collection of Richard S. Zeisler, New York, in which the same shrouded heads of a man and a woman that appear in the Gallery’s painting attempt to kiss each other through their grey cloth integuments.

The origin of this disturbing image has been attributed to various sources in Magritte’s imagination. Like many of his Surrealist associates, Magritte was fascinated by ‘Fantômas’, the shadowy hero of the thriller series which first appeared in novel form in 1913, and shortly after in films made by Louis Feuillade. The identity of ‘Fantômas’ is never revealed; he appears in the films disguised with a cloth or stocking over his head. Another source for the shrouded heads in Magritte’s paintings has been suggested in the memory of his mother’s apparent suicide. In 1912, when Magritte was only thirteen years of age, his mother was found drowned in the river Sambre; when her body was recovered from the river, her nightdress was supposedly wrapped around her head.

Magritte himself disliked explanations which diffused the mystery of his images. His matter-of-fact style deliberately eschewed the assumption that these images were simply the expression of personal fantasy or private neurosis. They are images calculated to unlock the darker side of the mind. In The lovers, a man and a woman press their together in a fond gesture, almost as if they were having their photograph taken. It could be a holiday snapshot, with glimpses of the green verdure of the Normandy coast and the sea beyond. But through the simple device of the shrouds that cover the lovers’ heads, tug back against their faces and curl like ropes across their shoulders, the spontaneous intimacy of this ‘holiday snapshot’ becomes a spectre of alienation, suffocation, even death. Outwardly so ordinary, even absurd, this image becomes chillingly real in the mind’s eye.

Michael Lloyd & Michael Desmond European and American Paintings and Sculptures 1870-1970 in the Australian National Gallery 1992 p.173.

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