Adland_ Searching for the Meaning of Life on a Branded Planet - James P. Othmer [29]
Several weeks earlier, when Quinlan had told me on the down low whom she had hired as chief creative officer, I was surprised, then concerned. Fenske was already something of a legend, a writer-provocateur who had created some of the most memorable and award-winning ads of the previous five years for clients like Nike and Levi’s. His work at the time had a weight to it, a combination of the personal, social, and ethical, and unlike anything I’d seen in advertising. He’d also been doing some directing, most notably Van Halen’s at-the-time-ubiquitous “Right Now” music video, which had earned him MTV’s video-and director-of-the-year awards. More than once back then, my partners and I would say things like “Imagine if we could get Fenske to do the V-O on this spot.” But what we should have said was “This spot is so derivative of Fenske’s work it would only be fair to have him read its voice-over.”
So on that level, as a writer, fan, and plagiarist, I couldn’t help but be excited. But as an employee of venerable old N. W. Ayer, whose client list at the time included the less-than-edgy brands AT&T, General Motors, Folgers, and KitchenAid, I was deeply concerned.
“The Nincompoop Forest,” a senior planner with more than twenty years of experience whispered to several of us in the back of the room. “My God, our new boss is a megalomaniac.”
Still, I thought, there was reason to be optimistic. The agency had been losing huge hunks of core business (the U.S. Army, Seven Up, Burger King, parcels of AT&T) with alarming regularity for several years, and a kick in the ass from a creative star might actually be a good thing for all of us.
Plus, while the agency had been in decline, I’d actually been able to thrive despite, or perhaps because of, the chaos. With upper management preoccupied with saving their jobs, my partner and I, relatively young mid-level creatives, were having a nice run under the radar, selling decent work without adult supervision to a range of clients, from AT&T to Pep Boys, and assuming more and more responsibility. Perhaps, I thought, Fenske would recognize our entrepreneurial creative natures and make us an integral part of the new regime. Also, I thought, he must be smart enough to realize that running an agency like Ayer would be radically different from working for a West Coast boutique, or on a high-profile, edgy account like Nike. He’d even acknowledged as much in an interview in the New York Times announcing his arrival: “It’s time for me to grow up, take a stand, play on the big stage,” he said. After reading this, I thought that Fenske’s influence at Ayer might lead to something special after all.
But I was wrong.
Soon after the Nincompoop Forest speech, I went to Fenske’s office to introduce myself and offer to give him a status report on my account. Outside his office was a doormat that said, “GO AWAY.” Inside his office, to further discourage visitors who got beyond the doormat from lingering, there were no chairs. I felt like Dorothy on her first visit to the wizard’s chamber. But still, I was a creative on the rise. One of the D-day guys.
“For the last year I’ve been the creative director on the AT&T corporate business,” I told him. “And if you’d like, I’d be happy to brief you on what’s been going on with the account and what I think about the new assignment.”
Fenske looked up from the sheet of paper he was reading (script? pink slip? birthday card from Eddie Van Halen?) and said, “That won’t be necessary.”
I stood for a while, waiting for an explanation, a sharing of his master plan, perhaps an offer of some kind of lieutenancy. But none came. I was no longer a promising young creative director on the AT&T corporate business. From that point on I was something less than a writer. I was an apprentice, a lowly scribbler on trees deep within the Nincompoop Forest.
Fenske, he was the creative director of everything.
Later that week, Fenske pulled me aside after