Mike Montiero posted the first chapter of his new book, What Is A Designer? on Medium:
I’ve also seen my share of studios where the designer wasn’t given the opportunity to sell their own work, which is amazingly shortsighted. Selling your work directly to clients is extremely important. Not only should you be able to explain why you made the decisions you did, but you’ll get first-hand feedback on where the work needs to go next.
This right here. I’ve worked at several shops where I did all the hard work and then had some brainless AE–no, wait, let’s call them what they were, project managers–go in and fuck everything up trying to sell it to the client, and then come back and fuck up explaining what the client actually asked for. This was a theme in Baltimore; most of the shops I was at were terrified of the designers poaching clients. It did nothing for my career and contributed to a sense of powerlessness. All designers should be present in the pitch meetings, period. This was why I moonlighted tirelessly for 20 years, sometimes to the irritation of my salaried bosses, because it was the only way I was going to get that experience myself, and they didn’t trust me with “their” clients. Fuck that shit. If you work in a shop that won’t take you to the presentation, get the hell out.
As it turns out, it costs $50 to fix a Hamilton watch that’s stopped working. I’ve got to look at the warranty that came with it to see if I’m covered (I doubt I am) but because I’m the unfailingly honest person I am, I told them I’d dropped it on the floor in the letter I sent along with it. And, of course, they’re going to charge me $25 to ship it back.
Friday I took the Scout on a roadtrip up to a town outside of Frederick for a small company retreat. I couldn’t have picked a more beautiful day to do it. The morning weather was 65˚ and sunny, so I left the top up. One of the Crazy Ray’s locations is on 70 halfway to Frederick, so I planned for a visit as the doors opened at 8. Life being what it is, I arrived at 8:30 to a sleepy parking lot–just a few guys sipping coffee in their trucks. Inspecting the sign on the door, I found the times posted there are an hour later than those posted on the web, and, discouraged, had to leave empty-handed. The retreat itself was great; our host owns a beautiful spread on the side of a mountain, with three horses and a stand of woods visible from the back porch. We got a lot done and I was packed up by 4:30 for a brisk ride home with the top down.
Our weekend was one of ups and downs. I spent a good part of Saturday cleaning and reorganizing the den. In the evening we drive down to Ellicott City to take in a starlight showing of Frozen at the Wine Bin; the crowd there has grown since the last time we were there, and so we had to squeeze into some spots saved for us by friends, but the movie is still just as good the tenth time as the first.
Sunday the girls went to church while I kept cleaning (it’s hard to put a Dyson down once you’ve picked it up) and then we were invited to the local pool in the afternoon. After running out to pick up lumber, groceries, and lunch, we threw food together, packed our bags, and Finn and I hit the road, leaving Mama home for quiet time. We unpacked, the kids jumped in the water, and within 10 minutes they blew the whistle again: someone pooped in the pool. Dejectedly, we packed everything back up and regrouped at the neighbors’ house to cook dinner.
All was well until Finn said something rude to one of the other kids, and that stopped everything cold. I walked her outside and talked it out; after getting vague, noncommittal answers, I packed all of our things, thanked our hosts graciously, and hiked her out of there. I immediately got her bath started and Mama and I started talking things out with her. While they got her cleaned up, I returned to our host house to pick up some things I’d left behind, and apologized to them at length; to their credit, they spent just as much time putting me at ease as I did explaining and apologizing.
I’m not entirely sure what possessed Finn to say what she did; I think she was trying it out to see what would happen without really knowing how hurtful it could be, but it was said in a way that told me she knew it might be hurtful. We had a long talk with her, and hopefully the lesson got through to her. She’s going to say dumb stuff in the future, I know, but I want her to start thinking about what she says before she says it–something it took me years to figure out.
I moved the trashcan subwoofer into the living room over the weekend, and finally read up on how to hook it up correctly. I’d been using a single-wire RCA plug from the amplifier, which didn’t seem to send enough signal to the subwoofer unless I really cranked up the volume. In the living room, both sets of speaker wire come through the floor in the same location and then snake to the speakers, so I hooked them up to the plate on the back of the subwoofer and then ran leads from there to the speakers. So now the signal comes in through the subwoofer, which keeps the lows for itself, and sends the midrange and highs to the speakers. It makes a huge difference in that room!
Finn, there will come a day when you are too big for me to lift you out of the car and carry you into the house and up to bed. On that day, your dad is going to go have himself a cry. Just warning you.
I remember dabbling in shoegaze back in the day, right before it got obliterated by grunge, but I do have a few favorites from that time. Slowdive was a good band who didn’t quite get their due. Check out the Pitchfork documentary on Souvlaki, arguably their best album:
We closed out Grampy’s memorial with fireworks over a field of corn. The weather was uncommonly cool for July in Cayuga county, so we bundled in fleece blankets and stood in groups among the cars in the parking lot, faces lit up by green and red flashes in the sky.
My little family traveled the day of the wake and arrived for the last viewing hour. Walking up the stairs at the funeral home, I followed my wife and daughter inside in a daze. Finn marched right up to the casket, oblivious to her mother, grandmother, and a hundred other people, and inspected Grampy closely. It took me a while to warm up into greetings and making small talk with my family, but after an hour or so I got my brain working and became sociable.
We left, got changed, and walked down the street to my uncle’s house, where deli plates were being dropped off and the drinks were pouring. Finn found herself a place on the porch swing next to my oldest cousin and easily held her own with the crowd. Later, when seats were at a premium, she secured her spot by bringing dessert back for her seatmate; that kid is getting smarter every day.
The service was held in a small lakeside Catholic church where Grampy went to Mass before the shrinking congregation consolidated to another parish. I sat in the third pew with eight of my cousins, dressed like the cast of Reservoir Dogs, as pallbearers. The service was capped with eulogies from cousins and children, ending with a history written by my father and filled with details I’m sure few of us had heard before. Then the piper started up outside and we carried him to the hearse.
His gravesite is beautiful, set up on a hill facing west toward the lake. After a short service we adjourned to the Inn for drinks and light food on the back lawn, and then to my Uncle Brian’s farm for barbecue and a larger party. To see my daughter playing in the barnyard with her cousins filled me with joy; it was a small taste of my experience visiting Grampy’s farm 40 years ago, running free and full of life, which is how all funerals should be celebrated.
We got word this afternoon that Grampy passed.