My father, died last December. He was a dedicated photographer, film maker and A/V guy in the days when A/V meant multiple slide and film projectors synchronized together with music and narration and split screen imaging, as well as smoke filled hotel ballrooms crowded with half-sober conventioneers in plaid sports-jackets waiting impatiently for their catered lunch or their tee time or the chorus of bathing beauties or something. They always seemed to be waiting for something, something other than the soporific presentations they were forced to sit through before cocktail hour. Just then, as Willy Lomax was flicking his genuine silver plated Zippo to light another Pall Mall, the speaker leaned into the podium microphone and call-out, "LIGHTS! Okay, hit it Art."
"Lights" was my cue; a pimply 15 year old standing at the back of the hall trying to recall which dimmers to dim, and which switches to switch.
But "Hit it Art!" was my father's special moment. The one he had worked weeks and month's to produce. It seemed like everything he ever knew was going to payoff in the next 15 minutes.
The podium was carried off, none too gently by a couple of stevedore types. The still live mic fell to the floor with loud THUD, getting a good laugh. The gold velveteen curtains behind the stage parted slowly, revealing a large projector screen which began to fill with images from the center outward as the curtain opened while the theme music, probably "Freedom of the City" which my father had licensed for the occasion, gripped us all.
That was it. For the next quarter of an hour, while my father tended to the clicking and whirring of eight Kodak Carousels, the Bell & Howell 16mm projector, reel-to-reel tape player and his specially designed ticker tape machines, making sure every slide dropped into position, in tempo and at just the right position on the screen, the crowd of sales reps, executives, managers, marketers, media buyers, and and their attendant vice presidents, sat in amazement as the montage developed before them.
Willy Lomax sat upright in his chair. He forgot about the growing ash dangling from the cigarette that hung from his lips. Everyone was fixed on the show. Slides and film from the factory and the head office, distribution and sales competed for every moment on the screen. The products themselves were shown in interesting and clever ways, giving them a new look. The 'consumers' modeling with the items were beautiful and appealing. There were photographs of co-workers and themselves, some of them shot only the day before which brought cheers and hails from each and everyone. The finish was like the grand finale on the Fourth of July. An explosion of fast paced images flashed across all parts of the screen to a great fanfare and when it was over, it seemed like everyone was on their feet.
Someone shouted "Lights," as I had completely forgotten my own role and struggled to bring them back on. But no one seemed to care.
My father emerged from his booth to back-slapping and handshakes. Everyone knew he had just delivered a presentation that perfectly expressed the zeitgeist of the company and the industry, and he had stirred everyone with near patriotic fervor.
That day, my father epitomized the self reflection of American industry. He had displayed creativity, inventiveness, and mastery over technology, bringing together several machines and technologies in a way that mirrored the image that corporations in the 1960s had of themselves.
For myself, my father was a hero that day, and I was proud to be there to watch him as he soaked up the glory of the moment. I could say it was his finest hour, but it was only one of many. I thought, "If this is what it means to be a photographer, then that's for me." Of course it isn't. though it was for him at the time.
I remember asking him later, as he relaxed with his glass of Ballantine, "So, the microphone falling onto the floor, was that part of the show too"?
He held the sip of scotch in his mouth, savoring it. "Sure it was. Accidents are always part of the act." He fingered the ice in his glass. "But I'm sure glad that one wasn't mine"!
For my father:
Arthur Joseph Chippendale Jr.
(1919-2010)
One of his generation's best fathers, photographers and raconteurs.
