Fitlife Magazine
My first Art Directing gig at the tender age of 24. It was exhilarating to know everything to do with art directing an entire magazine while simultaneously knowing absolutely fucking nothing.
It was a half-year of 18-hour workdays, drunken open bar parties, barging into media-only parties, throwing around business cards and trying — and failing — to bed the cover models (whom we placed into an old claw-foot bathtub and tossed cold spaghetti onto [see left], in an attempt to conceptualize The Myth Of The Low Carb Diet Or Something; also taking multiple shots of a friend-of-a-friend’s bent-over ass to illustrate what not to do at a gym, but, evidently, is permissible for photoshoots [see left once more]).
There’s no better way to learn the business than to toss a newly-graduated editor and designer into a room together with a PowerBook and a sackful of money. Oh, wait, there’s also interning for no pay. Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha!
Fitlife Magazine
My first Art Directing gig at the tender age of 24. It was exhilarating to know everything to do with art directing an entire magazine while simultaneously knowing absolutely fucking nothing.
It was a half-year of 18-hour workdays, drunken open bar parties, barging into media-only parties, throwing around business cards and trying — and failing — to bed the cover models (whom we placed into an old claw-foot bathtub and tossed cold spaghetti onto [see left], in an attempt to conceptualize The Myth Of The Low Carb Diet Or Something; also taking multiple shots of a friend-of-a-friend’s bent-over ass to illustrate what not to do at a gym, but, evidently, is permissible for photoshoots [see left once more]).
There’s no better way to learn the business than to toss a newly-graduated editor and designer into a room together with a PowerBook and a sackful of money. Oh, wait, there’s also interning for no pay. Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha!