Meet Declan Tucker

The truth is, I had sent my resumé to one hundred and forty-seven of the top graphic design houses in the world and not heard back from a single one. 

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I’d explained to each of them how my personal artistic vision had been shaped, my early success in the industry, (starting with an art contest I’d won in fifth grade), my belief in taking risks and breaking rules, and my recent graduation from the Laurentian Academy of Graphic Design. My introductory letter stretched to just over thirty-two single-spaced pages. It included how I had received a B- at Laurentian College and why it should have been an A. I underlined—three times—that I had no paradigms when it came to my chosen art. No paradigms at all. Still, I heard nothing from any of them. This fact I attributed to a lack of courage on their part. I should have known they’d find my curriculum vitae overly intimidating. C’est la vie. Their loss. 

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“Maybe you should think about applying for a job at the local paper,” my mother suggested at least once a day. 

“Just have to get your foot in the door, my man!” my father repeated often enough he must’ve thought it was one of the original holy mantras.

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The local newspaper? A crude and despicable suggestion, in my mind, eclipsing mere insult and verging on threat: I should’ve had my parents arrested. After all, these were the same parents that had called me a prodigy every day since fifth grade, had raised me to believe I was an artistic genius sans précédent. But as they were providing me with shelter, sustenance, and spending money, I was forced to reconsider. So I did my familial duty, completed and submitted The Georgetown Herald’s online application form, and prayed it would go ignored. Within the hour, an email arrived asking me to come in for an interview the next day. 

 

The universe hates me. 

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I woke the next morning full of anxiety and regret, wishing only that I could stay in bed for a few more hours. But I couldn’t: I may have been indifferent, but my parents were as excited as children on the first day of school. I knew there was no way out of this, so I got up, threw on my blue long-sleeved shirt, tossed back a vanilla flavored coffee, ran outside, and climbed on the bus. Twenty-eight minutes later, I climbed off and laid a reluctant eye on the Georgetown Herald’s gray brick offices. The reception area was empty when I walked inside, and I had to bang on a bell at the front desk to get anyone’s attention. A harried-looking middle-aged woman wearing an ill-advised kaftan ushered me into a small and sparsely furnished office beside reception and I sat down. 

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While I waited for my interviewer to arrive, I went over the standard questions and answers in my mind: Why do I want to work here? Well, sir, I’ve always had a great passion for the newspaper industry, ever since I can remember. Where would I like to be in five years? I’d like to be a supervisor in the art department here, at the Georgetown Herald, who’s high quality journalism I have admired for years, if you don’t mind me saying. That would be a dream come true. I owed it to my parents to at least try. 

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The sales manager walked into the room. “Hello—um—it’s Declan, isn’t it?”

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Trying to ignore the missing button on his shirt, I pushed all thirty-two pages of my resumé in front of him with the confident, relaxed smile I had practiced in the mirror only hours ago. “Yes, it is, sir.” 

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“Nice to meet you, Declan. Neil Beckwith. Sales Manager. So.” He turned the pages quickly, humming to himself, barely glancing at the section detailing my artistic journey and completely skipping over my vision statement before stopping at my work history and education. “Laurentian College, design, worked at Three-for-One Pizza, hobbies, art.” Neil mumbled through my life story as if it were a sales brochure for a life insurance company. “Impressionists. You like the Impressionists, huh?” He peered up at me. “What’s an Impressionist?” 

This was going to be harder than I thought. 

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I started to give Neil a lesson in art history, but had barely covered Manet to Monet when his eyes glazed over like two Krispy Kreme doughnuts. We chatted for another minute or two, trying to find some common ground for discussion and failing, before he put my resumé down and scratched his belly. “Great! Nice. So anyways. Can you start tomorrow?” 

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Well, well, well. Despite my misgivings about working here, I felt an unexpected rush of happiness. Or was it relief? The Georgetown Herald was a thousand miles from the design houses I had dreamed about working in, and offered a salary that just squeaked over minimum wage, but it was a job. It would give me, as my father suggested, a foot in the proverbial door: international fame could come later. And it would make my parents happy. Could I start tomorrow? Yes, I could.

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The next morning I packed my lunch (tuna, lettuce, cheese wrap, can of Coke, small bag of chips) and spent an inordinate amount of time choosing my wardrobe. It took almost an hour, but I finally got it right: the striped pink shirt and black slacks gave me the anti-establishment rebellious nature with a slightly ironic nod to contemporary pop culture look I was going for. I caught the eight-fifteen bus on the corner of McIntyre Crescent and Delrex Court and was at the paper twenty-seven minutes later.

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“Good morning, Declan!” The harried woman who had greeted me yesterday appeared in front of me. “Welcome to the Georgetown Herald team! I’m Nancy. I’m so excited you’re here. Are you excited?” I told her that I was excited, and we shook hands awkwardly. “You’re probably wondering where everything is. So: washrooms are over there,” she said, pointing across the room. “Your desk is there, photocopier is there, coffee is beside the fridge. Fifty cents, and we use the honor system.” Her voice dropped to a whisper that could be heard in Missouri. “Everyone pays but Kevin,” she nodded at a middle-aged man in the corner. “And guess what? That’s why nobody likes him. It’s only fifty cents—is it worth it?” I shook my head to assure her I didn’t think it was worth it and got a big smile in return. “Make yourself comfortable!” She clomped off. 

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The Georgetown Herald was housed in a cavernous, echoing space, with fifteen of us tucked into tiny cubicles spread around an office that could have seated forty. Faded motivational posters dating back to the ’90s papered the walls: COMMITMENT. COLLABORATION. VALUES., with images of men and women climbing cliffs, rowing, and other stock photographs intended to inspire a few extra ounces of effort from the slumbering employees who worked here. The paper was a creaking relic in the internet age, but still, a relic that had stayed in business for over forty-five years, pumping out new editions every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The smell of ink and dust filled the air, occasionally combined with the whiff of microwaved popcorn. There was an old-world charm to the office, like an elderly uncle who repeated the same stories year after year and asked for “just one more rum and Coke, please and thanks” and never knew when it was time to leave. 

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I put my lunch in the fridge and sat down at my desk, pulled my pencils out of my bag and carefully placed them in the desk drawer: H first, then B, then 2B through to 6B. These weren’t just any pencils—I used Pilot Croquis graphite pencils exclusively, renowned for their easy-hold barrels, wide triangular grip, and retractable lead—the ultimate sketching pencils. Settled in, adjusted my chair, took a deep breath, and looked around. 

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So here I was. A world-class artist plying his craft at small local newspaper. I was happy and sad, not unaware of the tragic irony: of course I deserved a higher calling, but at least I was working as an artiste. It was a beginning. I would not let my future be defined by the chance circumstances of my current employment. Many legendary artists had begun their careers with even humbler prospects—Cezanne started out as a lawyer, poor man. The more modest the beginning, the greater the ultimate achievement. Working at this old newspaper would make a sensational story one day: a badge of creative honor, like Van Gogh’s ear or Rothko’s suicide. It would make my grand debut even grander. 

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The first two days were spent learning the craft of the newspaper graphic designer. Standard column width is eleven picas wide, headlines twenty-four to thirty point Helvetica font, copy twelve point, don’t leave too much white space in the layout, make the logo big, the call-to-action bigger, that kind of thing. It was late morning on my third day, shortly after I had begun working on my very first ad—an ad for Mabel’s Fine Fashions—that I encountered a stubborn artistic block. 

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While I waited for the muse to inspire me, I took the time to straighten out my desk, wipe down the computer screen, stretch my neck and flex my fingers. Walked over to the window for a gaze outside and walked back. Moved my pencils to a different drawer, then moved them back. After an hour, still nothing. I got a coffee, dropped fifty cents in the collection cup with a loud clang, wandered back to the window and stared out at Georgetown’s skyline for another half hour. Still nothing. Thought my inspiration might be sparked by one of Monet’s great works: after all, the old master had never failed me before. I searched Google for a high-resolution image and clicked on full screen. Impression, Sunrise. There it was, in all its beauty.  Leaning back, I put my hands behind my head, feet up on the desk, and stared, lost in its sublime brilliance. 

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There it was: but what was it? What was he trying to say? Was it a prayer, a code, the key to some universal truth? I looked closer, searching for a clue in that holy work of art. The brush strokes, the light, shadows, air, clouds; the mist in violet, gold, pink and green; the atmosphere, all burnt orange and blues; the lack of form and structure; the layers and tones, the fog. Oh, the fog. I loved that fog. I could’ve eaten that fog. Every single droplet filled with oceans of love, passion, and beauty. It seemed as if there was a secret buried in here, something Monet was trying to tell me. What was it? 

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That’s when I felt my boss, Neil, breathing on my neck. “Dec-lannn?” 

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Long dramatic sigh. Here’s the thing people like Neil don’t understand about the creative process. Art doesn’t just happen. It’s not like a tap you can turn on and off. Art takes its direction from the muse, and the muse is a strange and fickle mistress: she comes and goes as she pleases and doesn’t like it when her efforts are interfered with.  Isn’t that obvious? After all, did Pope Julius II interrupt Michelangelo when he was working on the Sistine Chapel? No! Well, I don’t know, but I doubt it. Yet Neil…

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“Yes, sir,” I answered. “Working on it right now.” Sigh. I said goodbye to Monet, closed the browser window on the old Acer computer, and opened my email folder. Neil disappeared while I reread the specs on the ad I was supposed to be working on. One quarter page, two color. A comment attached to the request read: ‘Headline—The Boss Is Away Sale!!! Highlight fashions!!!!!’ Due date: noon today. It was already past 1:00 pm. So that’s why Neil was harrumphing me. For a moment, I cursed the uncaring universe that led to my employment in this primitive little newspaper. Then I got back to work. 

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It required superhuman effort, but I forced myself to look at this menial task as a creative challenge. This wasn’t going to be just an ad. It would be a piece of art, an opportunity to put everything I had practiced at home and studied in college for all these years in front of a real, live audience. This was my first big shot, and I wasn’t going to miss it.