The
Battle For Coca-Cola
Rages On.
Ain't
Nothing Like
The Real Thing, Maybe.
I
Don't Mean To Say
I Told You So, But...
Are
Consumers Smarter
Then We Are?.
The
Four Great Myths
Of Global Branding.
Mr
Bevis Butts Heads
At Mitsubishi
The
Best Laid Plans
Of Mice And Men.
Dare
to Be Great:
The Mad Genius of "The Matrix""
Mitsubishi's
New Marketing Boss
Out Of The Frying Pan.
Concept Is Stronger Than Fact.
Value
Perception In A World
Gone Mad With "Cool"
The
Future of Advertising
The Brand
The
Future of Advertising
The Targets
The
Future of Advertising
The Grid
The
Future of Advertising
The Swarm
Technology
Making The Message
Meaningful
The Only Business That Matters Is The One You're In.
What
Ever Happened To The
Big Idea?
The Post-Advertising Era Is Here
Confessions Of A" Liar For Hire"
Good, Bad and Ugly At the Moment of Truth
A Post-Advertising "Big Idea".
The Value Of A Paying Pustomer.
Emergence Of the "Empire of One".
All customers Are Created Equal
Playing God An Other Atrocities
the
City That Spawned
The Age Of Advertising..
Fear And Self Loathing In Advertising.
The Greatest Success Metric Is Sales.
Foot In (Word Of) Mouth Disease
In the Begining, There Was The End.
The Rise And Fall
Of The Creative Class
What's Love Got To Do With It?
Champagne Brand
Beer Marketing Budget
Amtrak: Third World Nation On Wheels.
New Music Means
New Marketing.
Automotive Advertising Hits A Dead End.
Has Advertising LostControl Of The
Creative Process?
If AdvertisingIs Meaningless,
What Comes Next?
|
What Could Make A Grown Man Cry? "I have lived a long and somewhat productive life. Eventful and in many ways memorable. There have been more than a few joyous moments over the years. And yes, there have been times of great sorrow at the passing of tragic events or the passing of dearly beloveds. Yet, even now, I can remember what was unquestionably the darkest day of my otherwise well-lit life. June 14, 1963 was the date. Approximately 2pm was the time. The place... ahh, the place. Possibly one of the most amazing man-made environments in the world. The main concourse of the illustrious Pennsylvania Railroad Station in midtown Manhattan. |
|
|
|
Erected in 1910 and considered one of the greatest monuments to travel ever to exist and certainly the largest building ever erected for rail travel, Pennsylvania Station stood without parallel. Commissioned by Pennsylvania Railroad President Alexander Cassatt and built by architectural firm McKim, Mead and White, this marble and steel ediface stood between 31st and 33rd Streets and 7th and 8th Avenues. Spread over eight amazing acres, Pennsylvania Station was truly a temple of transportation. |
|
You old guys will never understand our generation . -Dana R. New York Likewise, I'm sure . – hw |
|
The main concourse where I stood measured 277-ft long and was designed to resemble the Roman Baths of Caracalla and the Basilica of Constantine. This spectacular space used 500,000 cubic feet of granite, was supported on 650 steel columns.
The demolition was arduous and obscene to behold. A rape of gargantuan proportions, carried out while armies of uncaring commuters and travelers scurried past, unrepentent. Some of the contractors' signs suggested ambivalence about what they were doing: "Sorry, but!" " Don't blame us!", "Not our fault." Day after day I would come to the demolition site to watch, as the contractors probed deep into their marble and granite prey for weak spots to attack, like wolves circling their kill awaiting the right opportunity. Once the marauders decided where to start, the going was rough. The building was rock solid. The massive granite columns were designed to last forever. Chipping away at their bases seemed an exercise in futility, but little by little, the persistent gnawing began to make an impact. Yet despite the staccato jack hammers, blinding acetylene torches and volumenous clouds of dust pierced by cascading sparks, the commuters and long-distance travelers seemed immune to the battle. They made their way through the maze of obstructions, oblivious to the crime of the century going on all around them. Once the fate of the station was sealed, New Yorkers seemed unconcerned. A few of us mourned, but the majority went along with the premise that old buildings had to be sacrificed in the interest of progress. All that remain of this masterpiece are a few faded images. What were we thinking? Did we really believe that drywall was any match for the magnificence of travertine? Did we honestly think that sheets of plate glass were more worthy of existence than steel and tinted glass lattice work? Did we imagine that such craftsmanship would live forever and that the skilled secrets of these men, handed down from father to son, master to apprentice, would survive their passing? Did we even care? How could the death of a building be more painful than that of a loved one, or a dear friend? As I stood there, day after day watching the work of faceless, nameless artisans pounded into oblivion by compressed air and tempered steel, I thought of how I came to love this place. My father first brought me here. He would travel from Newark, New Jersey to Penn Station every morning to get his shoes shined by Mr. Robinson. My father called him the "surgeon of shine" because the elegant old bootblack knew how to keep his precious Nettleton's young forever. One day after school he brought me to Penn Station for my first shoe shine. "These men are at the top of their profession," he confided in me. "Without an education, this is the best you can hope for." My father then took me downstairs to Track 19 where the glistening Broadway Limited awaited departure, shrouded in steam, a masterpiece of polished maroon and gold striping. He nodded toward the windows of the plush private rooms on the all Pullman streamliner. Inside, the Captains of Industry made themselves comfortable for the overnight run to Chicago. "These men are at the top of their professions," he told me. "With an education, you may be able to follow in their footsteps." As I stood in the debris of the station and watched a Corinthian column come crashing down in the spot where the Surgeon of Shine once practiced his craft, I knew I could never do for my son what my father had done for me. And I began to cry. And as the torch cut away the cast iron eagles that flanked Track 19, I understood that if I had a son or daughter, they could never stand as close as I had to the "Captains of Industry" in their gleaming Pullmans. Or be told what it would take to follow in such men's footsteps. Thoughts worthy of a man's tears. Today, I choose to work in a building built of granite and marble. A building saved from the greed of the developer's wrecking ball. Whenever I can, I bring my four year old daughter into this building. I have her press her little hand against the cool slabs of marble that frame the hallways. "Smack it." I tell her. "Solid" I explain. "Not like the walls of our Hollywood condo. "Built to last," I try to explain. But somehow I know, it will never be the same as standing with her in that space of long ago. Nothing will ever be the same as that once was. Even now, in our own industry, with its computer surrogates for craftsmanship, will anyone keep the art of typography alive, or will the printed page fall to the wrecking ball of desktop publishing and stock photo images? Will there ever be another Helmut Krone or Richard Avedon? Will anybody even care? "Advertising is not art," I've heard people say. Hell, art isn't even art in this day and age. Why is it that nothing is built to last any more? Planned obsolescence has become a way of life in our 2.0 world of technology for technology's sake. Will anything we create survive us? Will anything we stand for survive the test of time? Is any of this worthy of just one tear? If so, now is the time to shed it. While you can still remember how. Stay tuned.
|
 |
|
MARKETERS
FROM P&F COMMUNICATIONS ADRANTS BANK
OF AMERICA ESTEE
LAUDER COMPANIES WELCOME
And You. *All
IP addresses confirmed by Urchin WebStats |
|
