Toro Toro Toro

 

Sir Alistair Ogilvy Goodby Crispin Bernbach Kennedy IV doesn’t write anymore. That’s something he did plenty of in his former life. For now, he watches people. He insisted I call him “Al” or simply, “The Creative Director.” Despite his obvious lack of output, he has an entire floor in his villa devoted to not working. That intrigued me. The heavy door was propped open by old Art Director’s Club annuals. 

 

I wanted to know what he thought of advertising. Why he left and what he hoped to accomplish with this interview. Though he hasn’t been inside an agency in decades he still dressed like he went into work with everyone else. Black blazer. Graphic t-shirt. Expensive sneakers. Quirky frames. Trucker hat. The uniform of a certain creative mind at the dawn of the Internet. 

 

He lives in an ordinary European town, far away from the nearest city and any reminder of the world he once occupied. Or, in his words, ruled. His bedroom his faces west. He spent too many years rising with the sun that he insists on lounging in bed until noon. At his peak he worked on some of the biggest brands. Toilet paper, candy, soda, beer, feminine hygiene products. You name it, he’s probably written a pithy, inane headline about it. 

 

I met the Creative Director alone, arriving shortly after 1 PM. I wheeled in a case of champagne and thinly sliced ham, as he requested when he first spoke. 

 

MTP: How is your day shaping up?

 

TCD: I’ve been awake for nearly an hour. So it’s mostly downhill from here.

 

MTP: Do you feel this way every day?

 

TCD: Pretty much. 

 

MTP: Is that different than when you were running your own agency?

 

TCD: In a sense, yes. But I haven’t changed. When I got here, I could only speak in slogans and taglines. It took a year of silence to be able to form a complete sentence. I still remember the moment I knew I had to leave advertising.  

 

MTP: Oh yeah? Could you tell me that story.

 

TCD: It was right after Cannes. We’d won a boatload of awards. I don’t mean that figuratively. We had to use a boat to bring back all the hardware. No airline would accommodate that much weight. I knew I would have to move offices to fit them. And this was right at the beginning of the open plan craze. Where was I supposed to put them? In the bathroom? On the floor of the lobby? It felt like the right time to exit stage left.  

 

MTP: Incredible. Have you ever thought about making a comeback? 

 

TCD: I’d consider working in advertising again if it was on a planet with a different gravitational field. While those trophies were weighing me down, their mass never bothered me. 

 

MTP: I hope for our sake, that happens. Pluto sure could’ve used someone like you when it got knocked down a peg.

 

TCD: No kidding.

 

MTP: I want to dig into how you pass the time. 

 

TCD: I am the same person. I just don’t attend meetings, do timesheets, or get a salary. But I do go down to a little café around the corner and cut it up with the locals. 

 

MTP: Go on. 

 

TCD: The government is cracking down on it for the first time in years. Though it makes up a substantial portion of national identity. Everyone does it. From corporate executives to cab drivers. It’s called “bullshighting.” I was a natural, of course. The people of this village have been doing it right here for centuries. I sometimes even learn from them, watching as regular folks pontificate on subjects they have no knowledge of. It's the sort of performance that purely for the love of the competition. No accolades besides a firm backslap and a round of drinks. I was lucky getting to make a career out of the same skills.

 

MTP: What’s it like exactly?

 

TCD: Basically, you say whatever is on your mind at the time. You argue a point to its absurd conclusion. It’s not fair for someone of my stature to duel with rank amateurs. I do it nonetheless because I can’t help it. Plus, I don’t know if “bullshighting” as an institution will be around in five, ten, fifteen years. 

 

MTP: That must disturb you, the prospect of it going away. 

 

TCD: Not really. Every great account you lose eventually. Every great job you wear out your welcome. It’s the natural cycle of things. It’ll always exist in the hearts and minds of average people. Of which, I am hardly one, but who have adopted me as a quasi-leader.

 

MTP: Last question. Why do you still dress like this?

 

TCD: Two reasons. If some kid sees me on the street, I want him to know that this is what a creative director is supposed to look like. Secondly, I thought there was going to be a photoshoot in tandem with this interview.