Truth in Advertising by John Kenney

to the next level. I sense this because these were the exact words Martin used at my review last year. I’m due for one early in the New Year and hope to be promoted to creative director, an important difference and one The New York Times would no doubt lead with in my obituary. The chances of the promotion are slim to none.
    Martin on advertising: “All clients are geniuses. We merely execute their vision. I’m sorry, I thought this was going to be posted on the agency website. No? In that case, clients are largely frightened and undereducated. Creatives are difficult and not nearly as talented as they believe themselves to be. Management is old and foolish. And yet, I look forward to going to work each morning. Strange, I know.”
    IAN HICKS, SENIOR ART DIRECTOR, MY PARTNER
    You met him on the shoot. He is my art director partner and, along with Phoebe, my closest friend. He is the brother I never had.Unless you count the two brothers I do have who I almost never speak with. I trust two people in the world. Ian is one of them. He grew up in Montana in a place that was not particularly accepting of homosexuality. He left after high school and put himself through NYU. There he studied photography. At one point after he graduated he had three jobs just to make a livable wage. He continues to take pictures and has had three gallery showings of his work and once had a photo in The Sunday Times Magazine . It hangs in my office.
    Ian on advertising: “It’s a job. Once in a while we get to make something good. I’ve cleaned stables, been a dishwasher, done flooring, worked as a mover. It beats most jobs on the planet.”
    PHOEBE KNOWLES, CREATIVE DEPARTMENT ASSISTANT
    You met her briefly on the phone. Twenty-eight years old, from Boston, of Knowles & Knowles Attorneys at Law (Boston, London, Frankfurt, Hong Kong). The youngest of three, her two older brothers already at the family firm, Phoebe has no interest in law. She moved to Paris after graduation, where her father knew someone who knew someone who was the editor of French Vogue . Phoebe was a junior editor there for a few years. Physically, she is nothing special, unless you find heart-stopping beauty special. Men become foolish around her. She followed an older man back to New York from Paris, a Frenchman, who broke her heart. She doesn’t speak of it.
    PAM MARSTON, AGENCY BROADCAST PRODUCER
    Pam is a producer. She’s one of eight or ten producers at the agency. Her job is to make the production happen. It is a complex and thankless task, usually underpaid. Too often the creatives expect to be treated like babies, their producer-mothers procuring their airlinetickets, upgrades, car services, corner rooms, smoothies, lattes, dinner reservations, and usually the check after dinner. (Though I should point out that Ian and I always make our own plane reservations.) Why this is, I don’t know. When one thinks of the name “Pam,” one tends to think (I feel empirical evidence would back me up here) of a perky, upbeat, generally optimistic woman; perhaps one with an athletic build, small of breast, who ran track in high school and now makes time in the evening for “projects,” which might include making her own stationery or mini-muffins. Not so with our Pam. Our Pam smokes and drinks hard and generally hates—and scares—most everyone she meets. I don’t know how old she is (I’d guess forty-five) as she refuses to give her age because, as she herself says, “Go fuck yourself and I hate birthdays.” Her hair is unusually long, a shiny, silky black. Most days she wears it in a ponytail, pulled back severely from her pale face. She’s fond of Frye boots (the heel gives her 5' 2" frame a lift), long skirts, and sweaters that conceal her ample chest. I’ve never known her to have a boyfriend (though Ian said she married and divorced young), but a certain kind of man is definitely attracted to