Those who are familiar with central London will know that Earl’s Court is not only a stop on London’s underground and a district west of fashionable Kensington with a concentration of more temporary Australian bartenders than any other spot on the planet, it is also a Venue. For a couple of evenings it might host The Motor Show, or for couple of weeks the Boat Show, or any happening that needs a vast space. In this particular story we’re attending the International Electronics Show.

This particular client imported and manufactured and therefore advertised, you guessed it, widgets. A suitcase full of these tiny electronic devices have enough know-how to guide a man to the moon and back, but to look at them they all resemble a vast family of mechanical beetles. Which is bad news for the advertising people. (There is a similar situation in the ‘Miss Fanshawe’ story elsewhere in this collection of stories where a parity product was a tough sell.) However our client had tremendous faith in our expertise and creative imagination, which scared me to death on a daily basis. Our client Bob Anderson, CEO of Kent Electronics was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. The business relationship flowered into a lifelong personal friendship, which endures to this day. He was also a fun guy. He loved practical jokes.

One day Bob called me and announced that he was planning to take space at the forthcoming electronics show at Earl’s Court. “This is my first marketing experience in the form of exhibitions but I’ve been to many shows and know how awfully dull they can be. Mostly products pinned to boards of different colors with jazzy carpets seem to be all they can come up with. At least they have gorgeous girls at the Motor Show. I guess electronics isn’t a sexy business so no one tries, but I am optimistic. Peter, please think about it. I’ve booked a 40′ x 40′ corner of a block open on two sides. We’ve got 3 weeks. I can get you as many samples of our products as you could wish for. You know from our advertising what we stand for, so let’s have something that is memorable and you’ll be proud of.”

As it turned out, ‘memorable’ was the classic understatement of the century and as far as being proud of my work, once that got me into trouble. I designed a stand for a French company for a military show in Wiesbaden, Germany. The stand was constructed in Paris and I went over to Wiesbaden on the truck to make sure it was erected correctly. Late in the afternoon when all the workers had departed and even the client had loped off to his hotel, I was admiring my work and started taking photographs of the construction. Before I knew it I was arrested by the German police and dragged off to jail. I couldn’t speak a word of German and they were pretending they didn’t understand me. Apparently tanks and super-sensitive classified gear surrounded my little stand. They thought I was a spy. My client rescued me several hours later. Not a particularly pleasant memory.

Having learnt the ropes during many years of designing stands all over the world it was refreshing to have a client who actually wanted my suggestions. One thing that most people experience during a large trade show is a burning desire to sit down after schlepping around for hours and normally there is no provision for this. So I suggested this idea. Kent Electronics had expanded quite substantially and their executive offices could benefit from some new really comfortable chairs. I suggested they should have their debut at the show. I was going to suggest renting some nice seating anyway but when I discovered that the cost of renting chairs was half the cost of the purchase price I bought everything.

In the space that Bob booked we could probably manage to fit twenty-five nice chairs in the area. But what we needed was a way to capture the attention of these customers, or prospects, so I suggested a huge curved wall, which almost cut off the stand from the aisles. It would not impede access but it would certainly create a semi-private area where Kent people could invite whoever they wished. On the outside wall we would have a contiguous list of everything that Kent Electronics could offer to the world. As it turned out even with large type when we had reached three-quarters we had literally run out of products.

“Let’s have some amusement, Bob.” I suggested, ” Let’s make up the names of fictitious products.” The result was hilarious with words like ‘needlegum’ punctures ‘pipelstramuirs’, ‘offside rummelgudgeons’. Not only did Bob think the idea was creative he thought it was extremely amusing. Unfortunately it never happened, because something happened that changed my plans totally.

The actual marketing part of my scheme revolved around the mechanical bugs. I designed fifteen rather beautiful but oversized coffee tables with a glass shelf that could be easily removed and which would house the products, specifications, test matrixes and just about anything you needed. The idea here was that the captive audience now comfortably seated being served complimentary drinks could spend time with the reading materials available or chat to a salesperson or use a complimentary telephone.

Then the back of the giant wall would serve as a screen upon which I would be projecting a continuous fifteen minute loop of the company history and profile, executive staff and giant enlargements of the beetles. Bob was delighted with everything. As an invitation to Bob’s ‘inner sanctum,’ which we hoped would have a party feel, we sent a postcard to 5,000 visitors to the show. The headline boldly stated, “Come see Bob Anderson make an exhibition of himself.” We had no idea how prophetic that could have been.

We decided to keep this concept under wraps so the chairs were ordered and delivered to the company’s works. Our stand construction guys were painting the huge wall and I was merrily putting together the film in my studio.

The show opened on a Monday morning. The Sunday night before, I dropped by the various places where the stand was being prepared and actually went to our 40′ x 40′ square of carpet in Earl’s Court. As the show was being built up it was an extremely busy sight, which left our empty patch looking naked and vulnerable. I made one more phone call to the works for reassurance. Everything was being loaded on the truck as we spoke they told me.

Up to that moment in time I had never had a flat tire. Of all mornings, in the pouring rain I should have my one and only. I didn’t have any repair tools, not that I would have had the foggiest notion what to do with them, so I pushed the car on to the hard shoulder, left a note on the windshield and stuck my thumb out. I arrived at 9am, one hour before the masses would swarm in. I walked across to our stand, which had a great location and stared bleakly at a 40′ x 40′ carpet and a telephone. It was one of those moments when I really though I would lose my mind. I called the works. No answer. I wanted to find the proverbial hole and climb in. People walking by from other stands were most sarcastic. “No, I really like it. It’s different.”

I had one hour to do something and it was Bob Anderson’s temperament that gave me a clue of what to do.

So it came to pass that at 10 after 10am, in strode my client. “I say,” smiled Bob, “this is a bit of a turn up. Any idea what happened?” I told him everything I knew and everything I didn’t know but I explained to him that I’d been thinking how we might make some hay from this disaster. I fished out of my pocket a couple of postcards that I had been given by a neighboring stand and the use of a typewriter. The cards said briefly that Kent Electronics were experiencing some technical problems. “Oh I see.” interrupted Bob, “we’ll get these blown up massively big”– “No, Bob please read on.” The message continued: In the meantime why not join us in Suite 220 directly opposite in The Royal Garden Hotel for refreshments and some fun.

Bob read it three times. “Wow, that’s a hell of an idea. Can we do it?” I replied that all of the ideas I had were now set up. All he had to do was say ‘yes.’

“There’s more?” He was loving this. “I think we’ll pin these postcards up on the stand, one on each wall,”

And I said “watch what happens.” Almost immediately there was a crowd.

“Right, the next thing I did was send your sales people over to the hotel to get the catering and drinks organized.” Bob got to clapping his hands with pleasure.

I followed this with: “Now Bob, in the best advertising parlance—and there’s more! I have rented a table tennis table from the hotel, bats and ping-pong balls.” “Oh for a customer to amuse themselves,” suggested Bob. “No, not a bad guess, Bob, but you know Julie from the accounting department and Lisa from traffic? What do they have in common besides being well endowed?” “They are our table tennis teams best players,” yelled Bob, “yes, and they are on their way with their playing gear and I told them that bras were optional. “Anything else before I have a heart attack?” chortled Bob. “Yep, two Polaroid cameras,” I said mysteriously. With a mock serious face he said, “OK you got me on that one, why Peter, would we want two Polaroid cameras?” I took a deep breath and with gesturing hands said: “OK Bob, last surprise. I hired two Penthouse pets and the idea is that when people arrive, one pet will give the visitor a hug while the other one takes a Polaroid so the salesperson or engineer has some evidence of fun he had at the Anderson booth.

That’s why.”

I didn’t quite anticipate what happened next. As the day and evening wore on the pets became much more adventurous and the customers became more frisky and some of the Polaroids now only being taken in the bathroom were sensational.

What actually happened with the truck was that it managed coincidentally to get a flat in the rain and arrived at Earl’s Court too late to make a delivery and was sent home.

Bob was dazzled by the wonderful time he and everyone had. Essentially, a boring trade show, turned into a carnival. Bob did so much business that the chairs never made it to the show and the party rolled on for four days.

A headline in the ‘Electronics Weekly’ later subtly described the event with an old Chinese saying: ‘catastrophy brings opportunity.’

I think we say ‘out of the ashes rise a phoenix.”

I think if I hadn’t pulled that stunt off my ashes would have been distributed across the lenght and breadth of Earl’s Court.

There are seldom new ideas but there are often new presentations.

Sometimes an old, or perhaps more politely, a seasoned idea, can still work as well as it did the first time. We once had a client call up to tell us that he wanted a quick, down-and-dirty announcement print ad to tell the world that he had taken on a new line. (He was a distributor for electronic and computer stuff).

Now, we as an agency had made the decision early on in our relationship with him that he was such a character he had the right personality to be the presenter in the ads. Something like Dave in the Wendy’s spots. We’ll give him a name—Tim. However, our problem with Tim was that he thought that he was the creative director, too. The lines that my copywriting partner fed into his mouth were so tailor-made to his attitude and style that he began to believe he had thought them up himself.

So, back to the project.

When we asked him what were the salient points, the ‘unique selling proposition’ or the plus stuff about his new product line, he said, “Hey, you don’t need to bother your little heads about that. The product is the product. It’s like Kellog’s saying they now sell a new brand of cornflakes, we’ll do an ad and I’ll say, hey, News from Tim– I’m selling a new brand of XYZ grommets, chocolate coated”. He liked his little joke.

Back at the ranch we all agreed we couldn’t let Tim dominate and end up with dull advertising, even though Tim thought he was the cat’s pajamas and any of his ideas were bulletproof.

So we put our heads together back at the ranch and came up with a double page print ad which said on the left page-The Bad News and on the right, - The Good News.

Nothing original yet, but read on. Agency-wise, we wanted to be topical so under the Bad News page we had four lines of copy:

England is not going to win the World Cup. (They had just been knocked out by Poland. Hot current news.)

The price of Guinness is going up.

Middle East oil is at a premium.

And Tim’s new Ferrari didn’t start again this morning.

Our client Tim, was actually quite a character and it was no surprise that occasionally we pulled his leg by popping him into one of his own ads, and everyone knew he loved sports cars.

The last line about the car was in fact true and we felt that in his industry it would go down well with the trade and quite well with the public. It did. Why? People like to participate with ‘in’ ads and work out any pun themselves and not have messages delivered with a sledgehammer. That is essentially the difference between European and American advertising. But that’s another argument because it wasn’t always like that.

Of course, under the ‘Good News ‘ page the message was:

Headline: ‘Tim’s just taken on the new XYZ line with the zirconium coating and full inventory’.

Small text: ‘These are the products you’ve all been waiting for and the prices will never be any lower. And if you run into Tim at any of his functions, mention the Ferrari and you’ll get some of his legendary hospitality. You know our phone and fax numbers but they’re at the bottom of the page in case you’ve forgotten’.

I think the moral of this story is, don’t knock yourself out coming up with big ideas every day. Nurture the little ones, there’s almost always room to show some extra creativity.

Ten years later I was in San Francisco organizing a trade booth for Tim when a guy came up to me and asked politely if I was one of Tim’s guys. I replied, ” Not exactly, but I have been in charge of his publicity for a number of years.” “Good work” he smiled, “I’ve always been a fan of Tim’s ads and I’ll prove it.” He opened his wallet and took out a small piece of paper from the original ad which said:

England is not going to win the World Cup.

The price of Guinness is going up.

Middle East oil is at a premium.

And Tim’s new Ferrari didn’t start again this morning.

I wonder how many people he must have shown that little piece of paper to in the ten years it had nestled in his wallet. Makes one feel good about one’s work.

It’s how to warm up an old chestnut.

In my early days of travel to New York I had an experience that is the sort of experience you expect to have if you are fairly good looking in a seasoned kind of way, reasonably articulate, recently divorced, and in the advertising business. I was never quite sure why the ad biz seemed so attractive to the lay people. Unstoppable meetings, about other meetings well into the night. Having ones hours of artistic creation trashed by inexperienced account people with whom you were not sure whether they were actually working for the agency or the client.

It was a terrible winter in 1977 on both sides of the Atlantic and that had a lot to do with the following story.

It was a Friday afternoon and I was sitting in the departure lounge at London’s Gatwick airport awaiting boarding instructions for my flight from a snow covered runway aiming at another snow covered runway nearly three thousand miles away. The snow element was the problem. When the runways were cleared, circling aircraft put down and the clearing process started all over again.

I fancied a beer. Sitting next to me was a most delectable lady. Not just one of the female species, this number was dressed from the top of her hat to the tips of her toes with a style and panache reserved for women who deserved the title, a lady indeed.

As I moved to ask her if she would keep an eye on my stuff while I went to the bar, as I didn’t particularly want a zealous security guard blowing up my bags, she was moving towards me and our words coincided—”Would you mind…” We both seemed to have the same idea in mind. “I think I was first,” she said in a French accent that made my hair stand on end, and a wave of very expensive perfume that took my breath away. She was wearing tan suede in a gaucho style, jacket, skirt, hat and shiny brown leather high heel boots. She won the beer job and before long we were chatting like old friends. I could see around me all of the men just wishing they had gone for a beer and to end up with champagne. It turned out that she was an artist, a painter no less, on her way to Salt Lake City to exhibit her work. Apparently she had been formerly married and worked there, building up a clientele and this was her annual trip. I couldn’t work out what age she might be. She had beautiful smooth tanned skin and a very together figure. I settled on a range of anywhere between 28-48.

I explained that I was on my way to New York, had an advertising agency and was trying to recruit some business and if you ever need any advertising “here’s my business card.” She gave me one. Her name was Madame Bezier.

Eventually the captain asked everyone to board the plane and explained that if we had a break in the weather we would be off.

However that never did happen. The flight was cancelled and as I only had carry-on I went home. As I walked through the arrivals hall I saw her waiting for a taxi to a local hotel she was accompanied by a tall good looking young fellow, the boyfriend, perhaps.

I decided to fly out the following Friday as I really conducted my work as much on the phone as in person. In New York the snow was piled 5 feet high on the sidewalks and as usual the drains were clogged resulting with a lake at every intersection. I stayed a week doing what I always did. Visited a few clients, made a few cold calls and mingled with the natives. One particular memory centers on a pub, a stone’s throw from the office. In those days it was a famous Steak House called Chapman’s. I remember once, probably the first time I went there I was impressed by squadron’s of model aircraft hanging from the ceiling. The next time I went I noticed the Concorde was missing and enquired why. The bartender, quick as a flash said “We had to take it down, it was too noisy.”

Today it is an inconsequential deli. Anyhow, after work, Chapman’s was the watering hole for half the copywriters working in the agencies on Madison Avenue. It seems that they were so bored with the trite nonsense they had to machinate daily, they created word games and competitions amongst themselves, writing headlines and tag lines, very much like verbal crosswords. I joined in the best way I could. Example: One task was to come up with two phrases that could be linked. Like, ‘there is no substitute for wool—one size fits all,’ or ‘you must pay for your sins. If you’ve already paid please ignore this notice.’

I managed quite well with my whimsical English sense of humor. One game I won hands down was where one had to come up with a line that was a portent of approaching doom. There were a few Titanic references, atom bombs, that sort of thing, but the one that they all voted for was, “Thank you Baron von Frankenstein, yes I do have an unusually high IQ.”

I went back to London for a week but I was back a week later. The snow was even worse.

Two days into the trip I returned to the office at lunchtime to find that that I had received a long distance call and my secretary said the lady would call again. Who it might be I couldn’t fathom. The French woman didn’t enter my head. As I went out into the snow I told my Rosemary that if anyone called again I would be in Chapman’s around 6pm.

Around 7pm I was paid up and ready to roll when through the door of the pub came this jumble of shopping bags and snow-covered fur. All eyes turned. There was a tremendous silence as she peeled off a few layers and then draped herself around my shoulders and gave me a very sisterly peck on the cheek.

“Ah Peter, I’m so glad I found you here.” Obviously she got the message. “I need some champagne.”

Now this part in the story where you have to have faith in my honesty when I say that, as she was like royalty and probably slightly older than I was, it never crossed my mind that she was other than a lady to be treated with the utmost respect. And remember this is a true story.

We staggered out in the snow and found a nice warm restaurant where we caught up on our travels. After dinner I said I would help her carry her stuff to where she was staying, absolutely not a taxi in sight. I was at the Biltmore Hotel and as we were passing I said I was going to put my heavy portfolio in my room. She informed me that she needed to use the bathroom so I asked her up to my room. “Oh this is so nice and warm, this room. Peter, when I went to New York the day after I met you I was given the key to an apartment of a friend who lives in Brazil.

Unfortunately everything was switched off. I couldn’t make myself a cup of tea, the apartment was freezing, I slept with my clothes on under every blanket I could find. That’s what’s facing me if I go back there. Could I stay with you the night, it is an awfully big bed?”

(Readers: I was surprised but I could see her request was genuine even though she struck me as having tons of disposable cash.)

I opened the mini-bar and made us a cocktail while we watched a midnight movie. Ultimately the time for lights out came and I was little worried that she might be afraid of being attacked during the night. As it happens what happened was completely the opposite.

In the morning there was no evidence of her spending the night except the lingering perfume and a delightful short note.

A year later I was working in Paris and decided to give her a call. She was thrilled and invited me over for a drink. A tall handsome man opened the door, the very same one I had seen at Gatwick airport

“Peter, come in, meet my son Marcel. It’s his birthday today.”

A chronicle of creative opportunity and just a dash of guile.

When in London I was once presented with a hot problem to solve, nothing really out of the ordinary, but still, immediate action was needed.

The agency had purchased a years contract for a newspaper space, which we referred to as an ‘earpiece.’ That is, a small ad, 1.5 inches by 1 inch in the top left hand corner or right hand corner of a newspapers front page. If you look at The New York Times, for example, there is a little box in the same spot that sports the legend—’All the news that’s fit to print.’ The newspaper in our limelight was the Financial Times. The ad that we ran daily was a mini-poster that showed our clients logo with the message-’On stream, on time with Capper-Neil’ (a construction company).

Capper-Neil called up one day to announce they had amalgamated with a bigger entity and the ad had to be pulled immediately. We, as an agency, still owned the space and the obligation under the contract was to fill the space or the newspaper would fill the space themselves with a house ad and we would lose our useful contract. To find another advertiser wasn’t a problem in the relatively short term, but for tomorrow’s edition was another story.

I decided that it was a perfect opportunity for us to place a self-promotional ad and showed my partner a concept. He immediately agreed it was a bright idea but had fierce misgivings as to whether the FT would print it. He was always optimistic, so he said, “We must find a way to make them print it.”

We called the FT and asked what was their cut-off time for ads to appear the next day. We announced that we would supply a new ad and meet their deadline of 6pm. (I actually waited outside their pressroom until 5.59pm before I dashed in and threw them the art.) They were so pleased to get this insignificant 1.5inch x 1-inch ad that they really didn’t look at it. The next morning all hell broke loose.

On the previous day if you looked at the paper you would have seen the masthead -’FINANCIAL TIMES’. But the next day had our ad in the top left hand corner immediately adjacent to the masthead had the word ‘THE’. However, because the ‘THE’ was the same size and type as FINANCIAL TIMES your first impression when you opened the paper was a re-design of the masthead reading—

THE FINANCIAL TIMES.

Following underneath was some mouse-sized type saying E&D, THE advertising agency, phone number, etc.

The chairman of the newspaper was furious and said he would sue us, but unfortunately for them the FT had printed it themselves. Lunchtime editions of rival papers that same day picked up the story with the headline—’Cheeky ad agency revamp FT masthead overnight.’

We were so cocky we let it run again once more right under their noses.

Hey, guess what, we got business. Good things can come in small packages.

Read the Irish Job - Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four

Home Again

When I woke up in Manhattan a day later the whole visit again was a total dream. Even when I proudly showed the work that Jerry and I had created to the folks back at Koenig & Partners I had to pinch myself. Words are one-dimensional and can only create vivid portraits. Pictures can give one a good depth of impression but you are still seeing only two dimensions. Only by experiencing the ultimate meaning of the color green, breathing the moist scented air and listening to the music of the Irish voice can one really come close to knowing Ireland.

Meantime, while we were back at the ranch, all the merchandise for shoot 2, ‘Corners of a Country Home’ had been purchased, labeled, packed and were already winging their way to Dublin. Jerry hadn’t schlepped back to Houston and so we spent my day off running around the city before we hit the airport again. Everything was becoming déja-vu over again. However one little development had occurred while we were away. Rita ’s group had found a copywriter who was put on the job. Nice enough fellow but I quizzed her choice which didn’t go down too well. “Listen Rita,” I protested, “this guy has never written anything like this before. He may be an ace at writing solicitations for reduced APR credit cards, but we’re talking about aspirational products manifested by the knowledge of Irish traditions, history and heritage. The sort of merchandise people want to own and cherish.” My words fell on stony ground and so Al, ironically named Booker, was booked to fly out with us to acclimatize himself with his task. Instead of being a poison pal I decided to get close to him and gain his confidence. In the ad and design business it is normal for an art director and a copywriter to be ‘married’ as a team to work together. One does the words and the other does the pictures with natural cross-pollination in the process, very much like words and music via Rodgers and Hart. Unfortunately Al, who came from the Mid-West to New York, I discovered, had no education in writing. How he became employed as a writer at all was a mystery to me. For example, in many moments when we were killing time on the shoot I would ask him who were his favorite writers and he would sternly reply that he had never read a book of any importance. “You don’t have to read to be able to write,” was his credo. I was determined not to give up and explored any situation where I could work with him without him feeling I was a ‘know-it-all. But I feared the worst.

We once again arrived at the Shelbourne. I had become a good pal with the concierge, Arthur. “Last trip, Commander Eaton?” he mocked stiffly with a salute as we were checking in. I agreed but fate had other plans for me a little later in the story.

In a country steeped in myth and legend Wexford’s history is no exception, a town on the east coast below Wicklow. A story tells of its origin in the mists of time, when Garman Garbh was drowned on the mudflats by waters released by an Enchantress. The vast expanse of harbor thus created was named “The lake of Garman” or “Loch Garman,” the Gaelic name for Wexford.

The first set up was in the hotel in the middle of the town where we ‘accidentally’ fell into ‘The Entrance Hall’. Wow, did we have some stuff to put out –5 sets of Wellington boots, Barbour jackets, umbrellas, walking sticks, riding stuff, a wall barometer, the picnic basket. Somehow the stone rabbit became fully employed as a doorstop. To be strictly honest this final manifestation of my original imagination of a hallway turned out to be amazingly accurate.

Part of the job of an art director is to be a ’stylist’ i.e. make the finished picture an elegant but natural display of the chosen elements, which could be products and accessories and of course, people. Another important thing to remember is that there will be words on the page eventually so space for these words which would be installed in there somewhere should be allowed for without detracting from the ‘look’ of the shot. With the shot all now together and the lovely Rita in approval I felt that there was one element missing, the time of day. Usually when folk come home it is late afternoon or early evening. This hallway had no refection of time. So Jerry and I set up an orange filter on the lights and suddenly we had an effect that was unexpectedly wonderful. You couldn’t see the outside even though the back door was open but flooding into the hall now was this spectacular orange glow of a fairy story sunset coming from over a faraway hill even though it was nine o’clock in the morning.

It’s a wrap! One down and eight to go.

The next chunk of Ireland we headed for was once again the old castle in Killorglin in Kerry for ‘Country Kitchen’. The world-famous Puck fair is held here annually. This tradition apparently came about when an impending invasion by Cromwells army was forewarned by a herd of goats that rushed into the town and alerted the people. The fair has been held ever since to revere the goat and lasts for three days. Like all Irish folklore, if it wasn’t true it should have been.

We had sent the carpenters, Alex and Tosh, ahead in the helicopter to start beautifying the kitchen. It was in grim shape because it had been unused for a hundred years and basically the lads had to shore up the crumbling walls and paint everything black. These fellows, local craftsmen, had never seen a helicopter let alone flown in one. I gave Hank strict instructions to behave himself but of course he didn’t which actually thrilled the passengers more than if I hadn’t mentioned anything. Forever after they were known as the ‘Flying Chippies’.

In this shot we had our Wendy and Jane making cakes with little Melanie skillfully stealing a fresh one out of the oven under their very eyes. Well, that was the general idea but Rita started to interfere. Although she had approved the Polaroid, back in her caravan she was bored so she got out her magnifying glass and started sending revisions and demanding new Polaroid’s. (She was only a few yards outside the room.) Unfortunately our Melanie ate so many cakes she became ill and we had to remove her from the set.

I must admit the merchandisers did a splendid job. Apart from the hordes of cooking gear, enough to cook a dinner for a thousand people, they found some wonderful pottery bowls with traditional Irish patterns made in County Kilkenny, a really handsome green sleepy pig tureen for soups and stews. That came from Italy but it really fitted well in the Irish leprechaun mode. The lady cooks, Wendy and Jane made some bread in their little kitchen on wheels, (this kitchen was totally fake) which made us all very frustrated until the shoot was over when we drooled no more.

We all enjoyed the comforts of our hotel, the usual dinner with our group which had now the full complement of fourteen if you include both Chesters. The Flying Chippies repaired the kitchen back to its primitive self and bid us adieu as they took a train back to Dublin.

Our next port of call was George and Harry’s racehorse place to capture the ‘Country Library’ in Killarney. I wondered if they had remembered and were not on a bender down the local pub but good as gold they were there in good form. It was a simple photograph with our star model Wendy looking predictably at a book surrounded by the sort of stuff you would expect in a library. However we did have a problem. There was no room anywhere on the walls for our beautiful framed flower prints and with our carpenters gone already Jerry and I went into the village and found a couple of 4ft wooden panels which we placed on the walls (over the books) where we placed our pictures.

As it was getting late in the day and our next shot required morning light for ‘Country Morning Room’, we installed ourselves in 3 separate hotels for the night and did a spot of sightseeing. I palled up with Al Booker who had been taking a low profile of late and off into the night we sallied forth. We were in for a big surprise. Set in the beautiful Killarney National Park, by the shores of Lough Leane and in the shadow of Ireland’s highest mountains, Kilarney has a jumpin’ night life. Streets full of pubs, clubs, discos and more rain. That evening we had an unexpected blast and too many Irish coffees.

The next morning we all had breakfast in the restaurant belonging to ‘Lucky Terry’ where we set up the shot in a tiny corner with the merchandise I mentioned earlier on our first reconnoiter. The only clear-headed member of our party was Jerry who was a teetotaler. He only drank coffee and only out of a Styrofoam cup, (at dinner he would ignore nice china cups for his beloved styro).

The photography was all completed swiftly and our caravan was soon on the road to Connemara proving the old adage of ‘more haste—less speed’ when Jerry remembered a case of photographic equipment he had left in Terry’s restaurant. David volunteered to return. We all jumped in with Rita’s bandwagon and he took off and it seems at that precise moment Terry discovered the errant box and set off to return it. Quite a comedy of errors. Obviously they passed each other on the road. We were up to speed in the camera department but short of one account executive and one vehicle. Everything was sorted out eventually.

Connemara.

We had the pony’s photography in the ‘can’ and our job this day was to shoot my bedroom from a previous visit as ‘Country Bedroom’. One thing you always have to be careful of with a photographic shoot, especially where you have a fair sized set is that when you take the final shot you double check the products. Not from the Polaroid either. In this shot we had a collection of round and heart-shaped boxes, a jewel box, a gorgeous art deco mirror, pewter and silver picture frames, bath salts, matching bed linen with French curtain fabric and a McDonald’s big Mac with fries and a coke. You would imagine that such an ensemble would be easy to spot.

From the vantage point of everyone, i.e. not looking through the camera lens, being on the sides, Jerry’s lunch was quite invisible. He was the only one looking at the shot and to be honest you couldn’t do much but focus the picture. Rita OK’d the Polaroid, thankfully. All this we discovered weeks later in New York so we decided to return to Ireland and re-shoot it. Just kidding. Just another job for the retouchers.

Our next room to capture was all the way across Ireland near Dublin to the home of Constance and John Smurthwaite where we had accidentally interrupted a little bit of ’slap and tickle’ or, depending where you come from, some ‘rumpie-pumpie’ the last time we visited to see their magnificent study, soon to be immortalised as a ‘Study in a Country House.’

While the lads were bringing in all the lovely merchandise which certainly had the essence of my original suggestions like a Telescoping Sterling Silver Letter Rack, a Kaleidoscope, a Prismatic Compass, more Picture Frames, a Letter Opener, a Solid Brass Desk Lamp, a Leather blotter, a Mantle Clock and a selection of Handmade Stationery, Jerry and I went for a wander around, quite impressed by the number of interesting books. I beamed in on a book, which I took from the shelf and asked John if the book was the real McCoy. John told us a fascinating story.

Apparently the book I spotted was a first edition of ‘Dracula’ by the Irish author Bram Stoker. Although the book was complete it was not in good enough condition to be worth anything. First published in 1897, ‘Dracula’ has never been out of print. It has been reissued in over 300 editions, including dozens in foreign languages. Stoker was born in 1847 at Clontarf, a suburb of Dublin. He attended Trinity College in Dublin along with Oscar Wilde. He wasn’t a prolific writer but his ‘Lair of the White Worm’ also known as ‘The Garden of Evil’ and ‘Dracula’ put him firmly on the world map in the horror departments especially the term ‘undead’.

Apparently John’s father had become totally obsessed with the story. He visited the house where Stoker had been born and studied his family details. He even visited Transylvania and started collecting anything that had but a tenuous connection. He would lock himself in his study night after night, extracting the maximum fascination from his infatuation. Until one night, and no one knows for sure how, a fire started in the study and before anyone could break down the door, John’s father perished in the smoke surrounded by his treasures. “We found him lying under a chair just where you are standing in this very room. In his hand he was clutching the very book you are holding,” said John, “That is the only part of my father’s collection that my mother would allow us to keep. The study was only slightly damaged; it’s virtually unchanged from that night. Curious story isn’t it? It wasn’t Dracula who fascinated my father, it was Bram Stoker.”

All through the photo-shoot I tried to concentrate on the task at hand and not transport myself back fifty years to that fateful night. Even Rita made a couple of trips to me with the Polaroid for approval. That was something for the book but it didn’t last long.

When we arrived back at Lord and Lady Ryan’s mansion we were disappointed to find them off skiing but we were looked after well enough by the staff.

My bright idea for the Dining Room was to utilize the lovely Victorian windows by setting the table in the corner of this elegant but Madison Square Garden size room. This way I could get two sets of windows. Unfortunately I had mentioned this to David and Jerry but not to Big Boss Lady who naturally had a completely different viewpoint. We started to have a little Barney and I could see Jerry round the back of the set capturing these non-tranquil moments on film, which I often consult, when I need a chuckle. We came to a compromise but we were bitterly divided over the wineglasses.

The table was formally laid for eight. It was decided that the moment in time for the photograph to be taken would be at the soup. The girls had made a nice steaming lobster soup, which was ladled into every soup plate nestling on a dinner plate and dabbed with dollop of cream. There were two sorts of wineglasses, a red wineglass and a white wineglass. I laid the white closest to hand slightly in front of the red wineglass and half-filled all those smaller white wine with a straw colored French Chardonnay. I went over to the camera to take a peek at the layout through the lens. When I got back to the table someone had changed everything around. The red wineglasses were now at the front carrying white wine. Bloody Rita! She was wrong and I defended my decision to the death. The now cold soup was taken away. Everyone was either tearing their hair or giggling around the back.

Eventually David came to assist, riding his usual white charger. “Listen people, let us not let this difference of opinion mess things up. We will shoot it both ways and allow other decision makers to make the choice when we get back to New York. We made it so. (Now we had two variations, the picnic shot and now the dining table. I was looking forward to the showdown).

That evening at dinner there was an atmosphere you could cut with a knife so I sat in the middle with the ladies rather than at my head of table position looking at Rita down the other end. We discussed the shoot the next day in County Mayo. If I remembered correctly we had stumbled on the ‘Hearth’ by chance when it was called ‘The Fireplace’ and found the dog ‘Chester’ with a same-name handler. It wasn’t a difficult shoot. The dog was well behaved but the problem I discovered only when we had arrived back in New York. Rita O’Day had found, as a prop for the mantelpiece, an invitation to a Royal Hunt Cup Ball. This was an extremely major deal and she was very proud of it. Even my ally David was impressed. We took the shot and set off for our last set-up, which was the first room that I started designing with my ‘Imaginary Drawing Room’.

At dinner that night I attempted once more to engage our hostile writer in some kind of constructive discussion but he was adamant that he wouldn’t disclose his thoughts. Then suddenly he approached me with the idea that perhaps on the plane going back he would talk about the words he would be writing. However he made a condition. He said he had never been to London, (which wasn’t exactly staggering news to me), could we break our journey so he could visit London for a few hours? I was so thrilled. I always like entertaining out-of-towners but this fellow I felt was making a stalwart effort. The airplane change was a piece of cake. Instead of the midday Aer Lingus to JFK from Dublin we would take a quick hop to London’s Heathrow and take the evening flight to JFK giving us a precious afternoon. David fixed it with his usual aplomb. Dinner was pretty festive that evening as the next day was the final shoot and the wrap-up. (Or so I thought).

The rain which had left us alone returned to the Console’s with a vengeance and although we were shooting inside no amount of precaution could thwart the transport of water and mud from galoshes and the like. This was also a helluva big shoot. Jerry was using every piece of equipment in the lighting department and it took several hours to prep the shot. A make-up artist applied the make-up, a stylist fixed the hair, wardrobe did their thing, models were placed in the set, a Polaroid was taken and everyone held their breath. Her royal highness walked on to the set and looked around. “The color of this room is different from the Polaroid you brought back to New York when you found it.” Good catch, I thought. Everyone was paralyzed. I remember it being a warm bluey grey and now it was a rose warm grey. “Well of course we had the room repainted, you probably didn’t notice from a Polaroid that the room was wildly overdue for a repaint,” screeched Mrs. Connoly, “we couldn’t let you photograph this important room in the state it was. John F Kennedy has had drinks here. No way. I’m sorry.”

Rita pulled herself up to her diminutive maximum altitude and announced, “Break the set. Remove everything. We’re going to repaint the room. Peter, make it so.” That was a moment in time which took everyone’s breath away and retrospectively I wished I could have done something. Mrs. Connoly then disappeared into the real house in tears as if she had committed some crime rather than try to help.

Jerry and I got together with David, who, despite the fact it was Sunday, managed to secure enough paint and brushes to re-do the drawing room.

This dramatic ending changed everything. Certainly the travel plans for some of our crew were affected as another day had to be added to the schedule. David made up a travel itinerary for every member of the team pasted on the photographic set titled “Come Look at Your New Travel Plans while the Paint Dries,” and handed out New York Yankee baseball caps.

Rita hadn’t spoken to me much during the last 24 hours; mainly hanging out with Ms Connoly, convincing her that the new color was preferable anyway.

Eventually the whole ensemble who were left were gathered on the stage watching intently as I did my bit with Jerry and Rita did her bit to tick off the seconds. David doing his best to make the moment memorable somehow conjured up a tape deck and found a tape of the opening Strauss music of 2001 A Space Odyssey, also Zack Zarathustra (I believe David could have produced anything).

That evening, those of us who were left were invited to stay for dinner at the Connoly’s. The cooking ladies had taken the traveling kitchen back to its home, the Flying Chippies had left a while ago on the train while the Chesters went ‘walkies’ home. Our talent for the last shot was the wife and the fisherman but the kids had gone home 4 days before.

So a quiet and somber gathering to end this remarkable saga was appropriate.

The next morning the rain persisted as a goodbye reminder of the green of Ireland as I hugged Jerry on his way direct to Houston, hoping that we would meet again by means of friendship or business. Naturally this did happen. As Booker and I were flying direct to London we said our good-byes to Rita promising to see her in New York in a day or two. (Remember I had the photographic film). David found us a helicopter and we all whizzed off to our respective terminals.

End game.

I asked Al where he would like to go in London. I gave him options like The Tower of London, a well-worn tourist spot doubtlessly but always an amazing trip back in time. Same goes for Westminster Abbey- homage to very famous dead people but with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament thrown in for good measure a ‘must see’ for visitors. The flight to London was amazingly quick and in that time I was watching Al’s face I began to realize that none of the places I suggested were registering. Where we actually ended up was to be somewhere that millions of people have seen without actually visiting. I was one of those people. I rented a car and headed north of the city. I found a parking spot and said to Al, “well, here it is. I hope you’re not too disappointed. 

” Nope, I’ve been really looking forward to this moment. You’ve got color film in that camera I hope,” as he took off his socks and shoes. He walked to the kerb-side and boldly stepped into the road while I stood in the middle of the road snapping away like crazy. And that is why wherever he is in the world you will find that framed photograph on his wall of Al Booker wearing a white suit without shoes or socks striding across the pedestrian crossing in Abbey Road, emulating Paul McCartney, which was used by the Beatles for their album, ‘Abbey Road’. I had to admit that I had never wished to visit that particular shrine.

He loved it. After that I had the opportunity to visit my old watering holes with Al tagging along quite amicably before it was time to hit the airport. Naturally there was a delay so we went to the bar and I made the mistake of broaching the subject of his promise to give me a heads up on his copywriting. We descended into a dreadful row, all because I needed some input from my ‘partner’. It ended quite dramatically when Al, not holding his beer well and being hounded by this painful torment threw his pint of beer at me, which missed and he swept out in high dudgeon. I wandered around the plane once we were airborne looking for him. Somehow he buried himself in a mountain of blankets and I didn’t see him again that day.

More Trouble.

When I turned up at the office the following day I felt like a conquering hero. Lewis, my boss wanted me to give him the real skinny on the trials and drama that David had briefed him on. Even Marcus had a good word to say about my work. However I had to get back to designing the catalogue, fitting all those lovely pictures into a mechanical for the printer, but there were three unresolved issues. (I only knew of two at the time). The picnic table disagreement, when Rita trashed my work and did her own thing. Luckily I had, in the nick of time, covertly winked at Jerry to shoot my stuff. Now three weeks later in the lofty boardroom at Koenig & Partners the creative staff was being apprised of all the photos for their comments. I gave a preliminary address for each picture and when we arrived at the picnic photo(s) Rita jumped in saying that she had rejected picture A. (and was quite furious that I had somehow managed to shoot it) in favor of her version of a picnic B. Nobody moved except Alexander Hamilton who strode forward and plucked the photo described as B and threw it to the floor. “Please proceed Peter,” he said with a smile. We went through the remainder of the pictures which were well received, without anyone realizing that the outside shots were all shot in the rain. The next hotspot was the dinner table shoot. White or red wine and glasses to match? My opinion was white to begin in a small wineglass with red to be second in a larger wineglass, sometimes much bigger if it was a good vintage.

Well, to be honest nobody really had much idea what the argument was about anyway. So the consensus among the non-experts was that every one has their own way of filling wineglasses so no one won or lost. (Except the quasi experts voted my way.)

The third problem emerged a couple of days before this presentation. When I previewed the last pictures I discovered that amongst all the photos we took on the penultimate shoot by the fireplace with the dog, there was only one photo of the Royal Hunt Ball Invitation standing up, (the invite had somehow fallen over after the first shot). Luck was a lady that night. My problem with the copywriting was resolved quite quickly when Al was sent back to American Express membership solicitations.

Eventually the catalogue started a life of its own. The structure of the catalogue was as follows: The prospect (potential customer) would receive the catalogue, big full spreads of luscious, aspirational products and would turn to the back to get a reprise of the product with the different sizes, colors, prices, etc.

As all the products had soldiered across the pond they were now warehoused in Dublin. When the photographs of the products to be used in this reprised section of the catalogue started turning up in New York, Rita O’Day went totally ballistic. Good reason. These guys in Dublin were no good at shooting what we call ‘pack shots’. That is a picture of the product that sits on the page in its own space surrounded by all the relevant info you need to purchase. What happened here was an inexperienced photographer banging out the pictures without art direction, meaning he was shooting a pair of white doves on a white background. Goodbye doves.

I’ll never forget Rita’s face when she walked in to my office and said: Once more into the breach dear friend. You gotta go again. Now. Today.

It gets worse.

Before I could turn around I was back to my apartment picking up some underwear and streaking down to the heliport to catch the 6pm Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. How many times had I done this? During the flight I started showing symptoms of Montezuma’s Revenge or more affectionately known as Gastro Enteritis. I was to be met at 7am by two girls who worked for Alexander Hamilton. I arrived at the Shelbourne from the airport at 6.30am, my gastric affliction was moving into maturity. I went from the shower to the lavatory and back to the shower in quick order. Eventually the red-tiled floor yielded unsupportable slipperiness, which precipitated me in a sudden backbreaking crash. I was temporarily knocked out and awoke stark naked being tended to by two lovely lassies. A doctor was summoned to the Shelbourne who dashed me off to the city hospital who photographed my back to find cracked ribs.

There was nothing to be done except for taking it easy, so for the next two weeks I art directed the hundreds of product shots from a wheel chair while all my wants, in the nicest possible way of course, were satisfied by the two young ladies.

I went back to New York feeling a good job had been done. The catalogue was produced to much acclaim and awards and awards.

The phone rang one day at that time. It was Miriam from downstairs.

“Would you like a bigger job and a bigger challenge in California, 426″?

Somewhat flattered I said, “I’ll give it a whirl.” (It turned out more like reaping the whirlwind. But that’s another story.)

Epilogue.

Several years later I was visiting New York from California where I had relocated after the Irish Job. It was early evening and across the crowded smoky bar I seemed to recognize a fellow who at the same moment seemed to recognize me. We both headed toward each other, but what was the hell his name? He was probably thinking the same but at the precise moment that our outstretched hands met it was simple. “Hank”! “Peter”! “Well, you’re the last person I though I would see in New York” I gasped, “what’s going on”? “Well”, said Hank, “I live here. Have done for twenty years.” “But all that helicopter stuff we shared,” I said sheepishly. “Oh that was a bit of fun on my time off, a bit of real fun. I thought you knew, I’m a captain flying 747’s for Aer Lingus. I always remember you when I hear that song, ‘September in the Rain.’

Read the Irish Job - Part One / Part Two / Part Three

By chance, the first location was the closest to Dublin in Wicklow, where we visited previously to capture the front door or more precisely the cover of ‘Country Home.’ When we arrived, to our dismay the beautiful rhododendron, which framed this front door, had lost all its flowers. I told Jerry to set up the camera where we planned anyway and proceeded to scout the garden for blooms that were still in flower. I then got some black tape from Jerry and taped the flowers into position. The final shot was perfect as serendipitously I arranged the blooms just as I wanted. I probably wouldn’t have thought of that if the blooms hadn’t been missing. While the crew were having lunch, Mary the ancient owner, still waiting tables at her age, took me into the inn and showed me a framed photograph of a 1903 motor car, apparently the first car in Ireland. “Do you see where the photo was taken,” she said enthusiastically, “right outside the inn.”

I remarked that it was an interesting historical record. “I’m always looking out for ways to publicize the inn,” she continued, ” I notice you came by helicopter and it’s in the field across the way. What I would like is a photo of it parked outside the inn like the motor car.” ” Mary, this pub is on the main road to Dublin and there are telephone wires. It’s impossible.” “Oh don’t you worry about the traffic, I’ll send some lads to hold back the cars at the ends of the street.” Hank appeared out of the dining room as if on cue and I explained. “No sweat Commander, I’ll drop that baby right on the spot. But you’ll only have 10 seconds.” (This I didn’t relate to her worship as she had been satisfied with the front door photo and was way out of sight.)

That is exactly what happened. Jerry was on the spot. It was all over in the blink of an eye. If you are ever on the main road out of Wicklow going towards Dublin and pass a white painted old coaching inn you will to this day see two framed photographs over the fireplace and you’ll know why.

The next day we were still in the vicinity of Dublin and didn’t need the chopper so we motored to the home of the Connolys to shoot the ‘Country Garden’ spread and the ‘Garden Party’ tabletop. The garden was extremely lush with the sky overcast (and raining). The garden shot was essentially a positioning for the next spread where we had a close up of the table fully laden with food and merchandise as visualized months ago in New York. The set-up was approved and we had another film in the can.

I didn’t know it but the next shot could possibly have been a disaster if not for a slice of wonderful good fortune. I had been out in the garden for hours arranging the table. It wasn’t meant to be a garden party where it’s a sit-down job. It’s where you pour yourself a cup of tea, pour the milk from the milk jug, sugar from the silver sugar bowl, grab a plate and load it with jam tarts, buns and sandwiches or whatever you fancy and sit down somewhere in the garden. When I was satisfied with the arrangement I obtained a Polaroid from Jerry and headed for the main house to show our lady creative director my work of the morning. I met her halfway walking with Mrs.Connoly. She turned to me and said, “No, no, Peter, this so totally wrong I don’t know where to start. Take everything off the table.”

My heart sunk. This was only the second set-up. I approached the table. Everybody approached the table. Rita, Mrs. Connoly, the cooks who had made the luscious looking fare, Jerry, Wendy and a couple of the crew approached the table. While Rita was contemplating ripping off the table cloth or playing chess with the pieces on the table Mrs. Connoly said, ” Ms O’Day, I couldn’t help overhearing you. I’m sorry but it is you who are wrong. Mr. Eaton has done a difficult job rather well. He obviously understands that in Ireland we live higgledy-piggledy lives and made his layout to reflect this idiosyncrasy. I wouldn’t move a thing. It’s only a suggestion.” (Yes, I thought, and remember who is making it.) The crowd moved in a little. “Oh all right, I’m outnumbered, shoot it,” Rita mumbled ungraciously. There was one other similar incident in all of the shoots, which was almost at the end but if I had not had this lucky victory I would have been on the plane back to New York.

If it’s Tuesday it must be Connemara, a rugged area on the West Coast. As I explained before, Connemara is the home of beautiful small ponies, which have a fine temperament, ideal for children. When I was designing the catalog I thought I’d gone too far with some of my nutty suggestions but this was all Rita O’Day’s party.

The weather was predictably cold on this edge of the Atlantic Ocean, with the inevitable rain and biting wind, which made taking photos of young kids and skittish ponies a harrowing experience. That said, something went horribly wrong. Melanie was riding a pony on a leash held by the local riding school’s instructor. Jerry and I were running around looking for interesting angles when a rock the instructor had stepped on suddenly crumbled throwing her backwards and a large chunk of Ireland rose up and hit her in several places all at the same time. The pony was freaked out by this sudden movement and decided to leave the scene immediately or it regarded the releasing of the leash as a signal of some sort. As I have said, these ponies don’t usually get phased by anything but we were looking at a Derby winner as we watched the horse and rider disappear over the hill. For a moment everyone was frozen then sprung into mighty action. By the time we had reached the top of the hill there was no horse and no rider to be seen anywhere. I started thinking about the poor little kid–she must be scared to death not having even sat on a horse before. Then something took our breath away. From totally the opposite direction we were looking came Melanie riding the horse. “Hey this is easy “she yelled.

Apparently the horse knowing its normal procedure of making a circuit stayed on the road it normally traveled and returned quietly. There was one element in this entire hullabaloo which was over in a few minutes that her ladyship hadn’t been around. I would have been sentenced to the dungeons for the night. Most fortunately her caravan was way up on the main road away from the wind and rain which made me curse at the time because I had to keep running up and down the hill to get her approval on the Polaroid. Another break.

All cold and pain were melted away at the dinner in the local tavern, before a roaring fire, really tasty food and an abundance of Irish coffees.

We all assembled every day before dinner to organize the following day. The models had to be dressed in the appropriate gear; fed then transported to the shoot after the products had been sent off. The traveling food department left earlier also. Jerry and I flew to the location to set up the camera and troubleshoot any unforeseen problems.

The next morning, still in Connemara we were off to Ballynahinch once more to shoot the bridge, affectionately named ‘In the Countryside’ where our now trained fly fisherman model, his dog and model wife plus picnic basket would be the stars.

In terms of merchandise there wasn’t a lot. The fishing rod wasn’t actually very large in the photograph but it was for sale and shown bigger in a reprise in the end of the book). All the articles of clothing they were wearing were the stars of the show. The fishing element, i.e., the casting of the fly was the most time consuming part of the shoot. We took many hundreds of shots and I knew that when I returned to New York there would probably be only one shot that was perfect, and I was right. Thankfully all the other shots were set-ups so we knew in advance what we had. The only amusing incident was a shot where husband and wife, (now through with the fishing and en route to the next page of the catalogue for the picnic), close up, so you could see the nice clothes they were wearing. I wanted the dog in the shot. However the dog wasn’t big enough to be seen on the bridge so in the final photo I gave the dog a ride on my shoulders and ducked down behind the wall. We got good value out of Chester and he didn’t mind the rain one bit.

Next on the agenda was ‘The Picnic’ a mere 50 yards across stream. I wanted the bridge to be in the background as a continuance of the fishing in the river shot but there was this slight problem. A hundred-foot tree. I decided that instead of chopping the tree down we would pretend that it wasn’t there and remove the tree with a magic wand later in New York. So Jerry and I organized the set. We laid a 6 x 4 plank of plywood down and positioned the camera while I went ahead and dressed the set. First, the damask tablecloth, a silver service for four, Wedgwood china plates, silver –plated knives and forks. The picnic basket was featured with all the food, fruit, bread, smoked salmon, cheese and paté. The layout was literally a piece of cake. A picnic spread for four. It designed itself. But I had not allowed for Rita, still smarting from our first crossing swords with the garden party. Here we go again I thought when David came over to let me know in no uncertain terms that Rita from her exalted height, (she was up in the road to the woods above where the shoot was taking place) had rejected the Polaroid layout and was coming down to administer some fire and brimstone and to educate me how a picnic is laid out. Before she arrived I said to Jerry “Shoot it and label it Picnic One.” I then stripped the set completely right down to the white tablecloth and watched her create her own version. “When is the first plane back to New York?” I whispered to David. David comforted. “We own her and her company. Be patient, she’s done a lousy job on that set-up, anyway.”

I have to say that she made a layout that was truly amateurish. Design is pretty much a matter of taste but most of the time one knows instinctively when something doesn’t look right.

Still, no sour grapes, she was a legend in the industry. I think everyone agreed that my decision to shoot the first one anyway was a smart move. Later we were to find out.

We still had one more shoot so it was back to the Connolys’ for ‘The Cocktail Hour’ since Mrs. Connoly created it actually and I had a fearful row with the merchandisers when last in New York as they had to supply all the extra stuff out to Dublin. (This had been worrying me for some time. I thought that all this stuff was going to be all genuine Irish stuff like the genuine silver-plated brass Mether Wine Cooler, handmade by Alwight & Marshall, fine silversmiths in Ireland for a hundred years. This stuff was coming from all parts of the planet.

This shot mainly consisted of garden furniture, drinks and food. So we were invited back to the Connolys’ for real cocktails and the girls knocked up some gorgeous finger food, which looked exquisite and tasted even better. Rita seemed to enjoy herself despite the way Mrs. Connoly had smacked her on the first day of shooting with her insensitivity to the Irish culture. Of course, as we had no models in the shot everyone was inside the house as it was still raining, and what food was left was in the shot outside in the rain. Bummer.

David pointed out that now we had two catalogues instead of the original one and therefore we needed two back covers as well as two front covers. We hauled out a croquet set which we employed in another shot as a bit player and gave it center stage for the back cover of ‘Countryside.’

The sun was by now casting long shadows across the lawn, despite the fact that it was still raining the croquet set gave the photograph an end-of-day feeling, and most appropriate as it was the end of the day and the end of the catalogue. It was also the end of this mission, or so I thought. But it was not to be.

All there was left to do was the other back cover as I never did get round to designing in New York. It was still called ‘back cover’. It must have driven those product hunters mad having nothing to buy.

So we sent everyone home to New York or wherever they came from, the client, the crew, the models, everyone. Even Rita, who was still warm from her picnic victory, went home allowing Jerry and I to shoot anything we wanted for the back cover. It was a nice feeling to be just a threesome again with everyone gone. We had a nice dinner and decided to spend the morning looking for some beauty shots for back cover No.2 before Jerry and I caught the 6 o’clock ‘plane home to New York.

Finally we settled on a nature shot to reflect the beauty of the Irish countryside. We discovered a waterfall emerging from a wall of rock surrounded by an explosion of pink rhododendrons. While Jerry positioned the camera I wandered up behind the rock, tracing the water source. What I realized was that 50 feet above the actual waterfall, which was in itself a fairly timid affair even with the rain, there was a potential holding pool. If I could block up the pool with something and let it fill up, when it reached its full capacity I could take away the obstruction and the water would rush down and create a really muscular spouting. I found an old log and dammed the flow. I yelled down to Jerry. “Get ready, you’re only going to get one shot of this, it’s going to be spectacular.” I was positioned on a bank of earth next to the dam ready to pull away the log but the bank having never been exposed to water pressure suddenly collapsed, sweeping me away downwards within a deluge of water with flailing arms and legs. My descent had Jerry in hysterics. “That’s what I call spectacular,” he spluttered between laughs, “let’s do it again.”

Read the Irish Job - Part One or Part Two

Come into the garden.

Our next task was to find a house with suitable living room for our ‘Country Drawing Room,’ and a big enough garden to fulfill two more objectives. The first, obviously, was ‘The Country Garden’ and all the things that a family would have lurking around. In the imagination department of my mind when I was sketching out the original design I couldn’t come up with many aspirational objects. Garden furniture perhaps, a bird bath maybe? (I have a stone cat in my garden called Oliver at home so I suggested a stone rabbit.). The second was ‘A Country Garden Party’ where we would have a table set up with cutlery, plates full of lovely sandwiches, freshly made buns, cakes and tarts, teacups with steaming tea, napkins with silver holders, bowls of cream and a silver plate laden with fresh strawberries all resting on a gorgeous white tablecloth. At least that was the plan. David had found the perfect location. A very lovely Georgian 8-bedroomed cottage with a sumptuous walled garden near Dublin. The people who owned the house were also close friends of the Alexanders’ named Maurice Connoly and his wife, Mrs. Connoly. (I never found out what her first name was). They were the closest you’ll get to royalty in Ireland. If the Queen of England held a banquet in Ireland you can be sure that the Connolys would be on the top table. I didn’t know it at the time but if Mrs. Connoly had not spoken up a month later when we would be shooting film, my goose would have certainly been cooked.

She also gave us a good idea. “Come with me young men to have a look at our most untidy house for your photography of the main room. You need refreshments after your busy day while we discuss the details of your shooting schedule. I must say that the sketch you made for your catalogue is very much like the room, how clever of Maurice to send you some pictures to copy.” We walked through a studded gothic door into another garden that was intimately adjacent to the house and it was already set up for cocktails with all kinds of hors d’oeuvres and finger food, with a few chairs and benches brought out from the main house. ” I say,” chuckled David, ” I think we’ve found another spread for your catalogue Peter, how about ‘The Cocktail Hour?’ ” And so it was to be. (Yes, but more merchandise, which I noted on my Polaroid record, and for that I got yelled at on my return to New York)

That evening we gave the helicopter and Hank the evening off. David, realizing that our next port of call was relatively close we employed ’shank’s pony’, i.e. we walked. We were looking for our ‘Gentlemans’ Study’ at the Smurthwaites who lived just down the road. (A mile equals- next door neighbors). When we approached the house, early dusk was falling and the rosy glow from the windows was most inviting. However when we rang the front door bell there was no answer. David knew the geography of the house and ushered us around the side of the house. Laughter. “No wonder they didn’t hear the front door”, said David, “they’re in the garden,” and boldly walked us into the garden. It was one of those moments in time when everything seems to freeze for a minute. Obviously being in the rear of the house one cannot be overlooked from any vista and therefore on such a warm night as this there was absolutely no reason for one to be dressed up or dressed at all. And if one had forgotten that visitors were imminent there was also no reason to behave as if they hadn’t forgotten they had visitors imminent. “Good lord,” uttered David. I just gaped. John Smurthwaite, a good looking fellow with a made-for-Rugby-body, kept his composure as he leisurely picked up a towel, while Constance, a really beautiful woman, a ‘ten’ in all departments, screamed as was de rigeur in circumstances like this and vanished into the house yelling something like, “Oh my God!”

“I say,” muttered David, “I’m terribly sorry, we must have come on the wrong evening.” “Well actually,” smiled John, “I think we’re at fault. Constance mentioned over breakfast that she thought you chaps were coming over tonight. It’s our cock-up. Fancy a cocktail?” Constance appeared fully dressed and composed a little while later and we all agreed that if everything had been normal, i.e. raining, their frolics would have occurred inside.

As we left we insisted that the time and date of our shoot—’A Gentleman’s Study’, was cast in stone. (As it is firmly welded into my memory of that evening. Hank was most upset when we confessed to having been at the right place at the right time).

Another day and another mansion. We flew to Limerick to consider a home for our ‘Country Dining Room’. As we flew in we saw how huge this building was. It was like a giant gray cake with a square cut out of the middle, surrounded by a moat and I could see Oliver Cromwell written all over it. The house had fallen into disrepair over the years and been taken over by the Irish Historic Association, given a coat of paint and become an open house for tourists. It was occupied by Lord and Lady Ryan whose family had lived there since the Doomsday Book. We landed on the front lawn roughly the size of Yankee stadium in front of the little crowd of staff and family that came out to meet us. “I suppose a nice cup of tea would be in order, and please call me Edward or Ted if you like, I still can’t get used this title,” said Lord Ryan. We walked for some minutes through the house, made a left turn and walked some more, turning left again and walking to a small cottage somehow nicely integrated within the huge building. “It would cost a fortune to heat these huge rooms so we have this house-within-a-house that has central heating and all mod cons,” explained Mrs. Ryan in their tiny but modern kitchen while we had some welcome Irish breakfast tea.”

We were then given the $5 tour, with a commentary spiced up energetically by all family members, all enjoying describing horrible deaths and mysterious goings on centuries before. We were looking for our ‘Country Dining Room’ and when we were introduced to the actual, real, original 500-year-old dining table we had to laugh. I turned to David and asked, “David, what did you have in mind here? This table could seat over 200.” David claimed he hadn’t seen it apart from a photograph, 1 inch square that he found in the tourist pamphlet. “Don’t worry folks, I’ve got a grand idea,” I ventured, “we’ll just use the end of the table and set it up to show off these lovely windows, put some flowers outside the windows in the moat and maximize the view over the ball park.” Now that sounded like a solid idea. But a month later it came up and bit me.

Only one more location to find and we found two instead without trying. That evening we waved goodbye to the Ryan’s, having had a really interesting jaunt back in time and flew up to County Mayo where a small family hotel awaited. As we were losing height on our approach I yelled to Hank, “I’m losing my mind, look down there!” Below us was a waterfall, not particularly high but about 100 yards wide that I had drawn when I was fancifully inventing natural elements of the countryside. I couldn’t believe it. It was the bridge all over again. We were certainly going to capture that wonder of Ireland when we returned with a real camera but Ashleigh Falls looked really good on the Polaroid.

The next location on our list we were looking for was loosely described as the ‘Fireplace’ but later we changed it to ‘The Hearth.’ Within ten seconds of arriving at our hotel for dinner and the night’s stay, we saw our fireplace when we entered the hotel lounge. It was white marble, Victorian, with inlaid ceramic country scenes. There was a roaring fire and above it the usual array of silver frames and bric-a-brac. In front of the fire was a coal scuttle, a brass fire set, things you tend the fire with like a poker, shovel and tongs very similar to those we had for the drawing room. And in front of the brass fire set was a beautiful mushroom colored Labrador called Chester. As far as I was concerned the dog had to be in the shoot, everyone agreed but as usual, things don’t always work out the way they should as we found out later. We duly made notes and the following morning flew back to Dublin airport. I lunched with Hank and David at the Shelbourne discussing our work. We had actually visited fourteen sites and found only one that was not appropriate, the morning room, but apart from that, David did his job excellently.

So loaded with Polaroid pictures I said my good-byes to the guys and hit the road. Before you could say ‘Aer Lingus’ I was back in Manhattan that same evening wondering if I imagined it all.

Back at the Ranch.

While I was safely away, Gullicom & Co led by the dynamic Rita O’Day were assembling the hundreds of products to be transported across the pond, all packed up in boxes with positional instructions true to their final photographic destination.

For example: ‘The Drawing Room’, (see grid 12L) Brass Fire Set, 4 part, poker, shovel, stand and tongs.

Repackaged for ‘The Hearth,’ (see grid 6B)

I seemed to remember that these fireplace items were one of the first I recklessly sketched for the very first room. How long ago was that now?

I was angling for a day off having been on the trot for three weeks but when I safely arrived back in New York the powers that be had different ideas. (Who are these people)? ” It’s all to do with the Christmas season Peter, you must understand that we are on a tight deadline, and as you have set up the shots, no one else can do this job. And, by the way, you, Jerry the photographer you’ve yet to meet and Rita O’Day are having dinner this evening to talk about the shoot. ” “And when might the shoot be?” I queried. “You’re all booked on Aer Lingus tomorrow leaving JFK at 7pm,” said Eunice, a hard nosed account executive recently hired by Rita to keep the animals in check and by that I mean not our furry friends but the creative department.

Jerry and I sat together on the red-eye flight to Dublin. Apparently he had an office in Houston and had worked with Rita O’Day for a few years so I didn’t have the sometimes difficult task of choosing a photographer on reputation alone. He was an extremely nice fellow. Patient and ideal for this job and very subtly championed my position when challenged by her highness.

Once more I was enjoying the comfort and elegance of the Shelbourne Hotel. I kicked myself for not indulging in a bit of fun on my first trip with David and Hank for we were now under the watchful eye of you know who and were going to be so busy the next two weeks that it didn’t matter.

After we had recovered from the jet lag we had a grand meeting with all the participants on board, even though they might not be necessary for filming all at the same time and everyone became acquainted. We had sixteen set ups around the country, seven exterior shots and eight interiors. We had a work staff of ten young strong men to carry all the products to and fro. Two women models, Wendy and Jane, real good lookers, two child models, a young girl Melanie and a small boy Duncan, plus chaperones. One dog Chester and his handler, curiously also called Chester, a horse-riding instructor for the Connemara shoot, Katie, plus two cooks, Angie (who took a shine to me) and Jo, plus the two carpenters who, because of their size and demeanor should have been named Laurel and Hardy but were in fact, Alec the thin one and Tosh the fat one. As well as the people we had 3 full sized Hertz rental trucks, a small caravan for our lady boss to hid out in and get out of the rain, a larger caravan for the lads and the models to do the same, a mobile kitchen, a couple of cars for ferrying people around and our jet ranger helicopter pilot, Hank.

It was as if we were going to shoot a movie. Rita, once exposed to the enormity of the task ahead decided that we should shoot the exteriors first, take a break in New York and return a week later. So we sorted out who was needed on shoot number one and planned accordingly so that we didn’t have a crowd hanging round for two weeks.

Read the Irish Job - Part One 

The Flying Circus

When I arrived In Dublin it was raining but nevertheless I was met by David Hamilton, the son of Alexander and a helicopter pilot, Hank who was an American and I was soon nicely installed at the Shelbourne Hotel, a five star Victorian beauty situated in the center of the city close to ‘The Green’, Trinity College and Grafton Street, the main shopping street.

This is where I would spend the next two days with the guys planning and preparing for our aerial sojourn across the length and breadth of this Emerald Isle. David had essentially found some potential locations for our shoot based on my scribbles, which were becoming more like the bible than the holy grail and I found it quite amazing that my very sketchy work was accurate enough to be taken seriously. My job was to visit each location and when I felt the spot was suitable I had to negotiate a fee with the house owners for allowing a noisy bunch of strangers with muddy boots, invade their house, breaking anything that could be broken and generally injecting mayhem into their quiet country lives. In the meantime Hank was organizing our helicopter arrival to these locations which varied from country cottages to colossal castles, landing in the grounds, gardens, a tennis court or the field of a friendly farmer nearby, all of whom had to be contacted by radio in advance.

As our first port of call was close by, David rented a car a couple of days later and we left Dublin City and made a short drive down south to where lie the Wicklow Mountains, a foggy, mysterious, beautiful area that has little in common with Ireland’s biggest city.

We passed Powerscourt Waterfall—the highest waterfall in Ireland 400-something feet high, most impressive and we were tempted to put it on our shooting schedule.

Driving in the mountains was not easy. The foggy rain, the narrow roads, the fact that we had to drive on the left-hand side and the fast & fearless Irish drivers contributed to the difficulty and often the danger. The girl at Avis told us that American Express insures you when you rent a car in all countries except Jamaica, Israel, and Ireland. Finally we found the location we were after where an old coaching inn was awaiting our arrival with a prepared lunch.

We were looking expectantly for a candidate for the front cover of our newly named catalogue and after we were given a tour around this quite famous inn by the energetic 82 year old owner Mary, we quickly decided that the Georgian door of the main house was quite perfect, especially as it was framed by a giant wild rhododendron. We took a Polaroid and labeled it 1/ToC/FC.

(When we returned a month or so later to take the actual photograph the scene had changed dramatically, in fact the only thing the same was the rain.)

Now our journey began. We went back to the airport and dragged out a sharp jet ranger helicopter and by the early evening we had flitted like a clockwork toy a hundred miles across the landscape; sheep below us like grains of rice on a green velvet carpet.

We arrived at a quiet hotel on the edge of Cork City where they had been so thrilled to have us visit the whole staff was regimentally organized in the garden with hand held flares and umbrellas.

Our first serendipitous experience came when we were walking through this hotel in Wexford for dinner and entered via the back door because we had tracked across a meadow from where we parked the helicopter. This hotel was not in fact one of our designated photo ops but seeing the typical array of outer attire that was assembled on racks: wet and muddy Wellington boots, anoraks, walking sticks, umbrellas, as we walked by we all realized we had stumbled into our ‘Entrance Hall.’ Perfect, products in action. The rain helped for once.

About one o’clock and one thousand feet up the following day Hank tapped his at his watch and David pointed downwards. In a helicopter you really can’t hear a thing but I caught his drift. Lunchtime.

We landed in a pub’s garden. As wherever we went, everyone came out to greet us. Obviously an event that warranted the popping of camera flashguns and the worse thing was the customers and staff didn’t want us to leave. We had the simplest food on the menu, bread and cheese of a taste I had never experienced before.

The next stop was indeed an ancient castle in the southernmost county in Kerry, which had been converted into a tourist hotel; the only modernization was electrics, heating and plumbing. When we landed on the tennis court the Maitre D’ came out to greet us and said, “good evening gentleman, dinner is at 8pm and set your watches back 300 years.” We entered the lofty dining room, exquisitely preserved from the days of Robin Hood and Basil Rathbone. This venue was in fact on our list as possibly the ‘Country Kitchen’. Apparently the original kitchen had been abandoned as a working kitchen since Victorian times and was now purely a tourist attraction. However I could see the potential.

Today’s kitchen was a smart all-chromium state-of-the-art wonder that used to be a billiard room in ancient times. David and I, over dinner that evening, worked out a cosmetic overhaul for the old very rustic kitchen for the carpenters who would be coming on the shoot and by the time we had ‘dressed the set’, i.e. installed all the kitcheny things that my imagination had come up with, the pots, pans and saucepans, you would never know that it was only a ’set’.

The cliffs of Moher in Galway are quite an experience especially when you are in a helicopter with a mischievous, but thankfully, a marvelous pilot. One minute we were pottering along at about 1000 feet, flying over some farmland when, as in some video games when the hero is vanquished he falls over the edge into oblivion precipitating meaning ‘game over’, Hank, without warning, dropped the ‘copter over the edge of the cliff, dropping down, down, hundreds of feet towards the crashing surf. I wouldn’t have felt any more scared even if we were being shot at by the Viet Cong. Traveling at 150mph at 1000 ft is one thing but in the space of a few seconds flying a foot off the water is a most electrifying experience. It wasn’t long before we had a radio call from the coastguard who told us to move out of the area as someone had seen us buzzing the cliffs and complained that we were scaring the seabirds. Hank thought this was extraordinarily amusing. David had turned green and swore he’d never eat again. However by the evening he recovered and organized our dinner and we were subsequently entertained royally by the local golf club who insisted that this special occasion warranted the best of everything. I was most glad we had the young Hamilton on board, he indeed was a celebrity who quite clearly had bells on his toes.

The next day was Tuesday and according to the schedule, if it’s Tuesday we must be in Connemara. A rocky, windy west coast town. Now, you’re not going to believe this. We were not there to find a location for one of the rooms of my fictional ‘Country Home’. No, this rocky West Coast was the venue.

Connemara is famous for its ponies. According to legend, a long, long time ago, superb Spanish stallions swam ashore from Spanish shipwrecks at the time of the Spanish Armada and Francis Drake to mate with Connemara mares.

Quiet tempered, trained for dressage or jumping, an ideal children’s pony. They were for sale so into the catalogue they must go. Of course that particular day there were none to be seen, it was raining after all. However I worked out how we were going to make an interesting picture in the catalogue. Of course I realized that our ‘cast’, i.e. the models who would be in this particular set, would consist of a couple of kids, a mother and a horse trainer type person. We already had Wendy, Jane and the kid Melanie booked for the kitchen shot so they could do double-duty in the pony shot. We also prepared to bring along on the shoot a couple of cooks who would travel with us to prepare the food that would actually star in the photos and make food for everyone else on the road. The number of participants were beginning to add up.

I thought we’d finished with horses, but no. The next day we sailed down to a beautiful mansion in Killarney and we could see from the air many, many horse stables. Inside this glorious house we found our ‘Country Library’. A wonderful room emanating a feeling of timelessness and one of my inspired product contributions was a coffee-table that, Hey Presto! It becomes library steps when you lift the lid. (I remember seeing one of those things as a child in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London).

Business was swiftly finished. Time for Gin & Tonics all round (except Hank). The owner, George, and his brother Larry raised thoroughbred racers and these fellows were famous. They were telling us how his horses raced in America, the Middle East and as far as Hong Kong. We ended up staying for lunch with some formidable wine and then we were off to the races. (I don’t know how true this anecdote is but after we had left, apparently George and his brother went down to the local pub and didn’t return home until the following day none the worse.)

Our next port of call was the quest for a suitable ‘Country Morning Room, which was a bit of a stretch as most people haven’t the foggiest notion of what a morning room is. But I had a need to fill up the 56 pages as planned. So at the time when I composed my layout way back in New York I settled for a small ante-room where you might have breakfast when the sun was rising or a cup of tea in the afternoon. David, our location maestro didn’t have much of a clue what a morning room was either but we agreed my notion could work. And the