When was in high school, I became interested in school politics. I observed that the election process was a type of popularity contest – combined with entertainment. The winning candidates most successfully lured their voters with artwork (posters) and or humorous speeches that left a name recognition which was about the only key to victory. Both the poster art and the public speaking were right up my alley and combining this with a low key schmoozing, I soon found that I had successfully been elected to the office of class president. A certain ego gratification accompanied the position and I enjoyed the feeling of being a chosen leader – even if the choosing process relied on the lowest level of discretion.
At any rate, I soon found myself engaged in a situation where certain fairly inconsequential decisions were to be made by myself and others, working in various committees. I quickly discovered that, this aspect of the presidency was tedious and uninteresting. And what if, at times, the decisions arrived at were not my own or ones that I could stand behind ethically? (I am speaking strictly of my own personal ethics here, not the bland ethics of high school politics).
Things eventually came to a head when I was called upon to organize a class dance to raise money. I was enthusiastic about this chore. I felt as if my own tastes and sensitivities were on trial and I was eager to make the event one that would be enjoyed and remembered by all. I quickly ran into trouble. I had located a fantastic venue for what I envisioned as a magical night of music and romance. A local community hall, located some distance from the school campus, featured a breathtaking view from a vantage point above the harbor. At night the lights of the town sparkled magically off the water and the hall was surrounded by a lovely forest. It was perfect and the price was modest, allowing good profits for the class. I was excited to present my plans to all who would be involved.
When I did, I was shocked to find that the school administration vetoed my decision on the grounds that the dance needed to be held at the school campus – the lunch room cafeteria. This was not romantic, not magical, not a decision I wanted associated with my presidency. I protested the principal’s decision, but to no avail. Frustrated after all the ground work that I had already laid, I reasoned that if I were the person doing all the organizational work, in order to raise money for school, I should very well be allowed to do it as I best saw fit. Off campus dances were not an anomaly and were frequently held, but in this case, for no apparent reason the decision was that this dance needed to be held at the school, in the uninspiring cafeteria.
I chose a decidedly hard line approach. If I were not to be allowed free reign to create the event as I chose to, the school could make their own decisions, and I would sponsor my own dance, using my own front money the way,to create an event that would bring the maximum satisfaction and enjoyment to my attending clientel. At first, the school shrugged me off, but as the weeks went by, and it became clear that almost everyone in the school was excited about my dance plans, the school administration decided to stage their own event in an attempt to thwart my private dance. But, it appeared that the dance, that the school planned, was going to be a complete failure.
My vision of the magical evening, proved popular, as did my selection of a band. On the big night, a splendid time was had by all, the lights on the water were beautiful, and I walked away with several hundred dollars. Meanwhile there was no joy in the school cafeteria that same night . In retrospect, I regret that I didn’t take the higher path and give my profits to the school,but after all, I had taken the financial risk, and I was a rebel out to make a point.
Later, when I needed the recommendations of the school administrators for college, I was to learn the pitfalls of living outside the system. Though my grades were high, the support from the principal was not forthcoming. I was not accepted to any of the schools of my dreams. Most likely my first year of college would not have been spent at Washington State Univ. had things been different regarding my dance. However,I managed to make the Dean’s list my freshman year of college, and the next year I was able to transfer to Stanford, where I was now accepted on the basis of my college academic efforts.
School, though I enjoyed many of the social aspects, was a bore to me. I felt, perhaps sometimes not entirely off the mark, that I often knew more than my teachers. In extreme cases, I attempted to prove the point by ridiculing them, by exposing their lack of information, and, of course, my grasp of the same. One time, a female teacher, who I found particularly pompous and insufferable, was expounding on the dangers of car fumes and relating a story of how she was choked by the smell of Carbon Dioxide. I challenged her by asking if she was referring to Carbon Monoxide, the most well known dangerous component of auto exhausts, which, I pointed out had no smell. She responded with annoyance, and perhaps justified derision, that ‘no’, she meant Carbon Dioxide, to which I responded that Carbon Dioxide was also odorless. I got the laugh that I wanted, at the teacher’s expense, but the laugh was really on me as far as my reprehensible adolescent arrogance.
That attitude dove-tailed well with my love of the writings of Ayn Rand, and her extolling the virtues of selfishness in the Ubbermensch.Of course, I saw myself as a budding Superman, bounding along the fast track to the top, over the bones of the lesser humans, and deserving of all that I expected to reap in riches. I was not a pretty picture in many ways. And much of my selfish ambition stayed with me up until the “Umbrella Epiphany” that I experienced several years later. This epiphany, and the pot- smoking that accompanied it, did much to improve my personality and save me from becoming a Republican.
But, at the time,very much, the true, angry, rebellious youth, I was quite amused with my own cleverness, ignoring the demands of common decent manners, since I saw myself as a heroic warrior against petty authority. Many years later, after being married to a school teacher for thirty years, I was much more sympathetic to poor teachers who were struggling with a classroom full of raging hormones. When I experienced, indirectly, the paltry salaries and lowly prestige of most public school teachers, I cringed at how cruel I had been. In my own defense, I can only weakly say that boredom, to me, is one of the least tolerable of all demands.
There was another learning experience that revealed itself at this time. During my year as class president, I had learned that my main function was that of a fund raiser. I have always had a vivid imagination and, in this case, I was, as with the dance, able to draw others into my vision. It was during football season in the fall, and a particularly pivotal game with a rival school was approaching. The school mascot of Wilson High School was the ram. We were the Wilson Rams, Go Rams!! Rah! Rah! To say that I approached school spirit with chagrin, would be putting it mildly. I was not among the true believers. But I did find a fascination with manipulating a crowd and experimenting with group psychology. Mind you, I was only a teenager, so my cynicism on this point can hopefully be forgiven as youthful folly.
The plan that I devised was this: we would create a fad for the big football game. We would buy up surplus army helmets and custom spray paint them to wear at the big game as “Ram-Helmets”. I canvassed the market place for the best prices and created a sort of mini-hysteria, centered around the allure of every one having their “very own individual” painted army helmet. The plan was a huge success. My friends and I had a grand time orchestrating the craziness, the silly helmets sold like hot cakes and the school made a lot of money. On the evening of the Big Game (I can’t remember who won) upwards of a thousand people arrived at the stadium to root, root, root for the home team arrayed in their festive, surplus army helmets.
At the time, I was quite enthusiastic about entrepreneurship, but the truth and the real point of this story, is that the ease with which the students had been cajoled into eagerly buying into this trendy fad, was on some very real level, deeply repulsive to me. Had I not been the father of the sales campaign myself, I would have though the whole gimmick ludicrous. But then,on the other hand, it did seem as if everyone was enjoying themselves, so it’s a fine line to judge. But the point is, that the whole marketing/sales/manipulative process seemed a trifle too undignified somehow, and I think my life took a definite branch in the road away from these practices, as a result of my ‘Ram Helmet’ experience. Maybe I could have made millions? Of course, my antics could scarcely hold a candle to the type of sophisticated marketing strategies that have become standard faire in our modern lives. Be that as it may, I had discovered, that I did not have the stomach for marketing, which I now judged, both pathetic and shoddy.
My high school years, featured another noteworthy early experiment in trying to make a living, by being enterprising. It involved marketing of a sort, but it was marketing of my own talents, something I believed in more than ‘Ram Helmets”. Sometime during my senior year, I took a photograph of a friend and turned that into a small watercolor portrait, which I sold for $10. This approach to portraiture proved poplar, and before long I had orders lined up. Since each portrait took 3 to 5 hours to paint, not to mention the shooting and developing of the original photo, I was making little return for my effort. But, in the end I painted over a hundred of these portraits and the countless hours of brush work required, gave me a good base as I started to developing my own painting technique. That I made so little money from my efforts, seemed to point to the fact that art and mammon do not mix. At least that proved to be most often the case for me. At the time, I should have been sensible enough to raise my prices with demand, but with art, the money was always secondary, and at least I tried not to let its consideration adversely effect my creative interests.
I pursued my art education from as early as I can remember. Even in first grade there was a distinct focus of interest that was, I think, uncommon.In my grade school we had bulletin boards in the hallways, on which the art of the various grades was displayed. I always took interest in what the higher grades were doing. I really analyzed the illustrations I saw in magazines, and,of course, this was still the Golden Age of Illustration, so there was a lot to look at, and I was a careful observer. How much less often, you now see a truly great illustration in this age of ‘Photoshop”. Throughout my twenties, my fervent desire was to make it big as an illustrator. With the advent of computers, the craft of hand illustration largely fell to the wayside, much in the fashion of the disappearance, during the same period, of the watch repair trade. My chosen vocation, became a thing of the past.
I was self taught and pursued the study with vehemence, always paying attention to other people’s art, always asking, “how did he do that?”, when I saw a certain technique that caught my eye. I was always seeking what I liked, and then, trying to imitate it. In high school, I struck gold in the person of W. A. Phillips. Imagine a high school art teacher who was actually a great artist! I never met a more talented artist. The guy was fabulous in a variety of techniques, and what is more, he was a great human being.