If you can draw this dog...

I was five, and fancied myself Mighty Mouse. Then I jumped off the rock wall at Scotty Clark’s house and severely sprained my ankle. As I crawled homeward across the street, I was met by my mother holding a belt in her hand. To impress upon me the danger in crawling across a street (“A driver of a car might not see you and run over you!”) she spanked me.

Basic arithmetic reveals that I was born in 1957, the year the Russians launched Sputnik. I learned early in life that Ajax Laundry Detergent is stronger than dirt, that you should buckle up for safety and Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should. Needless to say, a career in advertising was the farthest thing from my mind. I would be either an ambassador to Upper Votla, or an oceanographer studying dolphins.

In high school, I was convinced that you had to draw in order to be an artist, and since I WAS an artist, I drew. I drew distorted people and dull landscapes. I drew ugly cats that looked like dogs and dogs that looked like horses. Then I discovered typography and fell in love with graphic design. In college, I had an affair with cinematography. And throughout it all, I was passionately writing poetry and short stories.

Then, an epiphany: advertising!

Here, at last, were all my loves in one profession. I could salivate over great typography; adore the wonderful turn of a phrase; be enraptured by the dance of celluloid through the gates of Arri. Drawing? I would leave drawing to the art directors, since they must be able to draw.