Artistic Memoirees © 2008 stevens

Artistic Memoirees© 2008

Slowly leaving the 60's

As my years at the School of Visual Arts came to a close.  It was time to

search for  a full time occupation. In 1969, the job market for a young artist

in Manhattan, was, at best , by todays standards, archaic.

The choices, , for a beginner, in the publication field was , 

paste up artist. That's about it. 

That or, the mailroom, and hey, that's where I began, I gotta move up.

Oh yeah the pay was about the same...

My first job interview was quite exciting, it went quite well, I thought.

I was pleasant, they were  pleasant. Nice small talk. 

Then I was brought into their art studio.

 I was told to sit down at the drawing board. 

I was given a galley of type. There was a wax machine nearby. 

They told me to place the type into position, along with the various  photographs.

Next, they placed an alarm clock next to me, and said.... GO !

My job was to take all this pile of  type, and make some semblance to it, paste it into position.

I was then to add the photos,  and before the alarm went off, I was to give them 

two pages of a magazine spread,  following a rough drawn out layout of how the page should look, which they provided.  

 I was left alone,I worked feverishly, the clock  ticked. I Rushed about, I waxed the galleys.

I measured the columns, I measured the pictures. I was beating the clock. Wow!!

This was great, well not really, actually , no one really enjoyed paste ups back then,

but that's how publications were put together, before computers. 

I looked about the room, still alone, still time left. I checked over everything,  pictures fit perfectly, the type fit like a glove. 

I took my jacket off the back of my chair, and put it on, primped  myself, as the alarm rang.

The two employer representatives walked in., looked at my finished pages, looked at each other, nodded, thanked me, and said they would call me, to let me know.

I left feeling full of myself, I aced it! 

I was done with a two page spread in under the given time.

I took the long Island Railroad home, , feeling pretty good about my day, 

Sitting comfortably, with my hands behind my head.

 My concentration  was interrupted, by  the conductor who inquired,

" Why are you wearing a paragraph of type, from last weeks Time Magazine, on your sleeve ?"

They never called.