Commercial Politik

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

That's my favorite quote by Emily Dickinson* (more, even, than "Hope is a Thing without feathers.") because I know whereof she speaks.

There've only been a few instances--and it's usually been while writing--where I came up with a solution to a problem that arrived, unannounced and unexpected, and was so ingenious (So ingenious that it couldn't have come from me!) that it sent happy sparks through my head. In my chosen profession, I've had lots of occasions where I've thrown an odd sound effect into an empty silent space and made it come alive, and more, made it seem like that sound was always there to begin with--that it "belonged" there. It's a low-level joy that has always made me laugh, giggle, chortle and made each instance turn a creative corner that it could never retreat from (but then, that's the goal of sound editing: to do the job so convincingly that it is indistinguishable from reality; it's a con, a magic trick, and one of the easiest subterfuges that one can foist on an audience, as they're a willing contributor to the deceit).

But there have been damned few instances of Dickinson's "top of my head coming off."

Irina caused one of those moments to happen

But not in the way you’re thinking. Yeah, she was pretty. A 20-something blonde Russian woman in a stylish leather jacket. She was a Russian translator at the University of Washington, and that afternoon at the studio she was going to be reading some Russian for a commercial for the short-lived Goodwill Games then being held in Seattle. She had a thin, husky voice that, with the accent, was quite intoxicating. Plus, I had an interest in Russia. ** I found her fascinating. While I was setting up her microphone, I asked her how she pronounced her name. "Irina," she said, expertly rolling the "R's." "Irina," I repeated…sort of. I can't roll my "R's” to save my life, but I've gotten by with a slovenly-pronounced "dr" sound that can simulate it, like a ventriloquist's trick. So, I actually said "Idrina." Her left eyebrow arched in surprise. "Werry good," she said in all seriousness.

Score!

The session went well. I remember it as being the highlight of a not-too-good day. Irina was coolly professional, and when complimented on her performance, would answer back with a knowing smile. The time came to edit the commercial together (this was back in the analog days of physically cutting recording tape) and the producer left to conduct some business, leaving me with Irina, who wanted to watch me hack away at the 1/4" tape that contained her “takes.” We talked. I asked her how she felt about being in the States while her country was embroiled in protests (Gorbachev was in power and was having some trouble keeping control). She said she was still in contact with her family and that it wasn't too good there with the stores not being able to keep much in stock. She mentioned that her mother still lived "in town," which was how she referred to Moscow. Some "town." We kept a running conversation going about a variety of subjects and I found her absolutely charming.

After watching me work for quite a few minutes, at some point, she started asking me about the process I was engaged in: cutting the good takes out and splicing them together with tape (no, really, that's how we did it back then!). I explained that I saw the process not so much as taking away the bad takes, as much as just taking the best of the best and trying to make some perfect version of the commercial in my head. That interested her. "So, you're something of an artist, then..."

I laughed. She hit a sore spot for me at that point in my career. I was getting skeptical of the whole commercial process. I saw myself as constructing lies to bilk people out of their money, or convince them to vote for some charlatan just because I could make them sound like they could put two words together coherently. I saw myself as doing the Devil’s Work, certainly nothing very constructive to Society as a whole, and was getting down on myself for being a part of it. 'An artist? No!" I scoffed. "I make commercials. The only way I could be thought of as an artist is if you consider propaganda an art."

Her head tilted, and she went quiet--the first time in the afternoon she had. She was thinking…a lot. I became very aware of the silence in the room. I looked over at her. Her brow was deeply furrowed. "Maybe..." she began slowly. Then she stopped. "You know, in my country, we have what we call the 'Socialist Realist School of Art.' It's usually posters of muscular men in their coveralls, standing tall before a tractor against a blood-red sky, or gleaming wrenches gripped in fists. It's all very stylized, but it's meant to inspire the workers to work harder because they're all engaged in building the goal of the Worker's Utopia, which the art is supposed to represent."

She paused.

"Maybe you're working in the Capitalist Realist School of Art."

Boom!

The top of my head was taken off.

I sat there staring at her, my mouth open.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No! NO! That's PER-fect! You're exactly right! That's exactly what this is." I explained to her that most commercials present a need that only the product being offered can fulfill, or an idealized version of American life and how it could be obtained if only (if only) the consumer purchased their products. Billboards hawking cigarettes show active attractive young people engaged in activities that would usually make them cough up a lung. Folks in McDonald's ads are slim, attractive and wealthy enough not to eat at McDonald's, which can make them obese and give them bad skin. Detergents whiten whiter, soften softer and God forbid, we should mention phosphates because it would probably poison the cute little animated teddy bear giggling insanely over the product. Slathering on under-arm goo will make you popular. Commercials (and its Satanic relative, Public Relations) have precious little to do with reality, but they present an idealized view of life that specific consumerism will achieve. The Capitalist Realist School of Art. Say it with me now.

The Capitalist Realist School of Art

Hallelujah, and Great Day in the Mornin'!

Of course. It was so obvious it made my head spin. But it took someone with a totally different life-experience to point it out to me.

I've carried that message to this day, and I tell anyone who cares to hear the lesson Irina taught me that summer day. The lesson that took the top of my head off. I'd never seen it so clear. What was the line Brando's Col. Kurtz says in "Apocalypse Now?" "Like a diamond bullet fired right in my brain."

The Capitalist Realist School of Art

There it is, comrades. Look to the Future that is being presented to you. See what we're all marching towards. Notice the manipulation. Think about the irony that some of these messages contain within them, and the obvious art direction being used to impose the Vision. Look at advertisements and see that Utopia that we are working to achieve. That Better Life that the alternate universe of the advertisement beckons us towards where groceries glisten with painted-on freshness. Where our clothes are all color coordinated and bright as we splash at the water-park with our lit cigarettes. Every ice-cube in a glass of vodka spells out “sex.”*** Our cars are not just our transportation, but our Freedom. And they define us. And diamonds are forever, and more accurately display your feelings than you can. I’m sure you can find examples of your own. It’s also a place where an inarticulate President having trouble communicating his message, can depend on the carefully prepared staging and backdrops behind him to summarize his stammerings into easily digestible nuggets...just in case you lose track. Or nod off. March on, comrades.

The Capitalist Realist School of Art.

I saw Irina one more time. She was coming in to revise the commercial she had done, but I wasn't the engineer on the session, as I was working on something else. But I did see her in the lobby, and when she saw me, she jumped from the couch and ran over to me. "Jhim!" she said, and gave me a big hug. We talked animatedly for awhile, and then she had to go. "You're not my engineer today?" "Wish I was, but not today." A slight pout. "Next time, though..."

But that was the last time I saw her.

Thanks, Irina, for taking the top of my head off. It was like poetry.

*I have an imposing biography of Dickinson packed away in one of the boxes in storage. One of these days I'll strip off the packing tape and start chunking into it during those many ferry-waiting opportunities.

** That is if your definition of "interest" runs along the lines of "something you have a vague notice of while not caring enough to do one whit of research, or in the case of a country, have absolutely no desire traveling to, i.e. 'He had an interest in Russia, but only in that he had read some Chekhov short stories.'"

*** This was pointed out in a book from the late ‘50’s entitled “The Hidden Persuaders,” where some liquor ads had the word “Sex” air-brushed into the ice-cubes—an art-directed hit at our sub-conscious to “tell” us that “liquor” = “sex.” If you want one, you must want the other.