For just a moment, Ginsberg had looked to be more present (suddenly more alive, more... is it right to say 'himself'? or is that just sentimental?),and Don notes the passing of this lightness with a vague ache. Something there that shouldn't be so easily breezed away. Something there - in the clarity of engagement and in its dissolution - that touches all too familiar. (There is a fragility to human endeavors. There is a quality to genius that wavers always on the edge of loss— No. No, that's overstating it, painting it in dramatic extremity. Taking it too far, though there's truth in the thought.)
It isn't anything Don wants to think about, and he turns his eyes to his coffee, as if considering whether to drink it, maybe as if considering Ginsberg's words. In truth - and he knows it - he needed a moment without sight of Ginsberg's eyes. This all might be easier if Ginsberg didn't watch, didn't exist with such intensity. It makes certain thoughts impossible to overlook. Brings matters into a clarity that stings (though it's welcome, as well, hard to find as it is these days).
If he avoids those thoughts... It's fine. It's fine. He's just standing in the break room with Ginsberg. In the middle of the night. Talking about the perennial pain in the ass that is Mallo-wich. Focus on that. Focus on the clients that have been carping about one magic solution after another.
"Nothing in the world is going to make these cookies sexy." Don finds the idea of a sexy cookie revolting, period. And Mallo-wiches are the Oldsmobiles of the cookie industry; they aren't much to look at and they won't wow anyone, but they serve their purpose. Which is, as far as don can tell, to be a sub-par cookie with a lackluster name. "Trying will look cheap, or it'll look desperate. It'd be like... Putting somebody's grandmother in a mini-skirt and stilettos. We can't give these cookies an appeal they don't have."
Clients rarely seem to grasp that point: that the best advertising campaigns can only take off from what the product offers. It can be the slightest hint, it can be, should be an angle that's almost impossible to find, but it needs to be rooted in what's being sold. For all of its flash and unpredictability, all worthwhile advertising copy grows organically from the product.
"The problem is that the client is juvenile. Their genius idea is juvenile. Sex isn't synonymous with maturity. Teenagers think it is because they don't know anything about being adults, but grown men and women? Grown men and women don't need to be reminded that life is so dismal they need to find sex appeal in a cookie."
Who brought that account in, anyway? Don can't remember (which means it wasn't Campbell; god knows he doesn't shut up about his accounts). It doesn't matter.
He shakes his head. "Jesus, I'm just glad they're your problem." Mostly. Mostly. And that's edging toward dangerous territory, because part of Don's own problem is that he doesn't have much of anything. Maybe Ginsberg knows that; maybe he doesn't. Don still hasn't placed Ginsberg's level of awareness. He doesn't really want to try.
no subject
It isn't anything Don wants to think about, and he turns his eyes to his coffee, as if considering whether to drink it, maybe as if considering Ginsberg's words. In truth - and he knows it - he needed a moment without sight of Ginsberg's eyes. This all might be easier if Ginsberg didn't watch, didn't exist with such intensity. It makes certain thoughts impossible to overlook. Brings matters into a clarity that stings (though it's welcome, as well, hard to find as it is these days).
If he avoids those thoughts... It's fine. It's fine. He's just standing in the break room with Ginsberg. In the middle of the night. Talking about the perennial pain in the ass that is Mallo-wich. Focus on that. Focus on the clients that have been carping about one magic solution after another.
"Nothing in the world is going to make these cookies sexy." Don finds the idea of a sexy cookie revolting, period. And Mallo-wiches are the Oldsmobiles of the cookie industry; they aren't much to look at and they won't wow anyone, but they serve their purpose. Which is, as far as don can tell, to be a sub-par cookie with a lackluster name. "Trying will look cheap, or it'll look desperate. It'd be like... Putting somebody's grandmother in a mini-skirt and stilettos. We can't give these cookies an appeal they don't have."
Clients rarely seem to grasp that point: that the best advertising campaigns can only take off from what the product offers. It can be the slightest hint, it can be, should be an angle that's almost impossible to find, but it needs to be rooted in what's being sold. For all of its flash and unpredictability, all worthwhile advertising copy grows organically from the product.
"The problem is that the client is juvenile. Their genius idea is juvenile. Sex isn't synonymous with maturity. Teenagers think it is because they don't know anything about being adults, but grown men and women? Grown men and women don't need to be reminded that life is so dismal they need to find sex appeal in a cookie."
Who brought that account in, anyway? Don can't remember (which means it wasn't Campbell; god knows he doesn't shut up about his accounts). It doesn't matter.
He shakes his head. "Jesus, I'm just glad they're your problem." Mostly. Mostly. And that's edging toward dangerous territory, because part of Don's own problem is that he doesn't have much of anything. Maybe Ginsberg knows that; maybe he doesn't. Don still hasn't placed Ginsberg's level of awareness. He doesn't really want to try.