The Learners: A Novel (No Series) (7 page)

And we took that particular ball and ran with it, waging an informal, open-ended contest to see who could mangle our firm’s good name in the most supreme fashion. It started the morning Tip picked up a call from the main desk when Preechy was out on an errand and no one else was within earshot (except me, of course). He intoned, in a dead-on imitation of her:

“Dear, Slack Off Your Cares. May I help you?”

Which led to my rough sketch for the New Haven Hospital Annex brochure that I sent to Tip via inter-office dispatch, with the headline: “Severe Lacking of Care.”

It all became about context. A discreet note on the kitchen pantry’s bulletin board: “Sneer, Crack-up and Stare. How may I deflect you?”

From there, anything went. Bored, I’d dial Tip in the middle of the afternoon: “Hello, I’m calling from Smear Lacquer on Chair.”

Pasted over a Food Clown circular, shoved into my mail slot: “We’re…hacking up pears!”

My proposed Bubble-Soap Shampoo campaign slogan: “Rear back from her hair!”

A Sunbeam Bakery meeting’s minutes subject heading: “Mere rack of eclairs.”

On an internal memo for Preston’s seventieth birthday: “Queer attack over there!”

A business card for Closter’s Driving School, shoved under the door, the title crossed out and replaced with: “Veer, back up and dare!”

But I got the best one, as Preston passed me and Tip in the hall one day, doing what Tip called the Muffle Shuffle—eyes clenched and lips moving wordlessly as he staggered along, groping for the right word. And it was so obvious. I stage-whispered into Tip’s ear:

“Sheer, wracking despair.”

And just then he happened to stick his head into Nicky’s office, and asked, with desperate, laconic impatience: “Is it lunchtime yet?”

It was nine thirty.

And then came that day of days, which yielded the first ad I ever designed entirely by myself. June 20th, a Tuesday afternoon, close to three. Sketchy was out on a printing-press check and Miss Preech forwarded the call to me.

“Hello?”

Of course, I’ve thought about that day a lot. Because of what eventually happened. But I’ve never felt it could have gone any differently—if Sketch hadn’t been away from the office, say, or if the call came when I was out at lunch. That wouldn’t have changed anything. I’m really no great believer in “destiny,” and yet I know this job would have found its way to me, regardless of the circumstances. It was inevitable.

“I’d like to place an ad in the
Register
.” A man’s voice, deep. “They told me to contact your firm.” We were the
New Haven Register
’s largest subcontractor for advertising. Well, okay, the only one. They were always lobbing little jobs at us—the ones their staff (of two) didn’t have time for.

“Right.” I reached for a job ticket and a fresh piece of carbon paper. “What kind of ad?”

“We need to recruit people for an experiment.”

“I see. What do you want it to say?”

He explained. For what seemed like half an hour.

This was a lot of information. Me: “Hmmm. Is it a full page?”

“Oh, heavens no. We couldn’t afford that. An eighth of a page, to run daily. That’s what we can afford.”

An eighth of a page. Insane. “Wow. That won’t be easy.”

“Can you make it fit?”

Can I make it fit? Sigh.

That is a question that begs a brief typographic digression (sorry).

Typography is truly the invisible art of the last one hundred years, even though it is in plain sight, everywhere. Most graphic design students learn this right away, but we also discover just as quickly that we’re in the vast minority. It all becomes distressingly clear once we leave the rarified halls of learning, enter the steaming ranks of the working learned, and show them classic typefaces, correct letter spacing, proper line leading, and exacting proportions.

And they don’t give a damn.

“I can’t read it.”

“Make it bigger.”

“Make it smaller.”

“It’s too precious.”

“It’s too bold.”

“It’s too plain.”

“It all has to go on one page. Make it sing!”

“Cut some of the copy? You’re joking.”

To them, it’s just words, but to us, to graphic designers, it’s
type
. We’ve learned to look at it a whole other way. Notice I said “look” instead of “read.” Once again, Form and Content take center field—will they strangle each other? Will they get married? Will they at least hold hands?

This is the eternal typographic conundrum. What most people don’t understand is that typography is the use of language that in itself is its own language— one that can take a lifetime to learn and perfect, and that few ever do. Put simply: The Content is, of course, what the words say, the Form is what they look like. But alas, it’s rarely as clear cut as that. Before the advent of what was called Commercial Art this was less of an issue than it is now, but as we find ourselves thick into the age of the visual dispatch, there is no turning back. It’s not just about what you’re saying anymore, it’s how you’re saying it. In the wrong hands, mixed messages abound. Suppose you have something important to convey to a loved one:

I hate you.

This misrepresents your sentiment. As opposed to:

I hate you.

Right? And yet, this same design solution would not be wanted in a report from your personal physician:

The test results are in:

You have inoperable
cancer!!

Now let’s try solicitation, as we constantly apply it in the ad trade. This can get tricky. Like so:

PLEASE TOUCH ME.

Whoops! Creepy, creepy. I don’t think so. Which brings us back to:

Please touch me.

You see? Endless possibilities. And pitfalls.

Now, let’s apply this to practical use, namely to the newspaper advertisement I was commissioned to design in the summer of 1961. The client placed the order by phone, which can complicate the choosing of typefaces, but luckily in this case that was one aspect of the job about which—surprise!—he couldn’t have cared less. Brief recap:

“Hello. I’d like to place an advertisement in the
Register
, please.”

“Yessir. What kind of ad?”

“It’s for the Yale Department of Psychology. We’re conducting an experiment and we’d like to solicit volunteers from the community.”

“I see. What do you want the ad to say?”

He went on. And on. Finally:

“Gee. That’s a lot of information. Is this a full page?”

“Oh, heavens no. We couldn’t afford that. We checked the rates—this would be less than a quarter page. An eighth, I believe.”

Impossible. Are you out of your goddamn mind? You’re not supposed to be, Mr. Yale Psychology Department. “Less than a quarter page, with all this copy? Can you cut any of it?”

“Well, no.”

Did he have any idea what he was asking? Of course not. They never do. “Right. Uh, this will be a little tricky. Let me spec this out. I could show it to you tomorrow afternoon.”

“That…won’t be necessary. Just run it. Today if you can. I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Really?” Now
that
was odd. They’re usually like vultures.

“Yes, just make all the information as big as possible.”

As I eventually learned, over time, they all say that. ALL OF THEM.

“Okay, will do.”

“Thanks.”

So, here is the final ad, as it ran, with several notations: First, note that there are no less than eleven different kinds of information to be considered, in a space that is 3 3/4 inches wide x 6 inches tall. Even so, only three typeface “families” are used (Trade Gothic, Bodoni, and Baskerville), each with its own set of variations to provide enough typographical “color” without appearing busy or jammed. In order to maintain proper proportions, some of the type must be reduced to 7 points, widely regarded as the absolute minimal for legibility (a theory with which those over fifty years of age may strenuously disagree).