Without doubt, there are others at the age of 81 who are thinking of not how long they've lived, but how short a lifetime is: the physical body passes through its phases while the inner self looks on bemused by the increasingly rapid passage of days and years that are bound to culminate in you-know-what, an event we're mainly unprepared for.
Whatever. Here's a broad bio outline. After leaving school (which I detested due to bullying and boredom), I worked for a period in a small Fleet Street ad agency doing paste-up and messengering—no Great Expectations there except the front-row seat in November at the Lord Mayor's (guilded coach with beefeaters, etc.,) Procession. Fast-forward to national service in the RAF which quickly became my surrogate family; clothing me, feeding me, giving me shelter and the time to think and, above all, camaraderie. But I came out as clueless as when I went in about coping in a capitalist world, meandered into various low-grade (by my elevated self-estimation) jobs finally getting paid work at age 32 as an artist with Look-In, a TV related comic. Such happiness. But, always restless, I discovered on a trip to Paris the journal Pilote where Editor-in-Chief and brilliant author, René Goscinny, gave me the opportunity to work. It was exciting and an eye-opener in culture, and naturellment, Paree c'est toujours Paree, innit! But I am no linguist and French—not one tenth as challenging as Japanese or Swahili—was challenging enough to deter, or I would have ended up in France. I adored smoking Gitaines and talking and drinking for hours over extended late dinners with the friends I made...except I couldn't keep up.
Through Pilote I was introduced to Mad Magazine by John Putnam, the art director and a Francophile (who'd lived in France with his mother for years) and so began that long association, leading after 13 years to my moving to New York with a fab' office in Ogilvy & Mather looking out over Manhattan working as a freelance 'consultant' ('wrister') into which area I'd segued without much thought. The office was so congenial, I slept there for a couple of months dodging security staff, but only as long as it took to gather some dosh for an apartment-share in Weehawken where I found that freedom from mind to experience the alien streets, the snow falling, the immigrant people as one myself, journeying through the Lincoln Tunnel each day with glorious clarity and detached joy.
It needs admitting that I loath advertising and the way it underpins the consumer/plutocratic society, but it gave me a good living, you see. Furthermore, under deadline pressure, I attained a sublime level of drawing, unconcerned with its ultimate purpose of persuasion: putting people to sleep. I was too comfortable and stayed on too long and was finally relieved to get out. However, yet again, I'd found wonderful and supportive friends in my ongoing badly-focused but exciting projects.
Which leaves me here, with you, doing what I love: yet another project with no art director, no editor and no publisher. May it give you as much enjoyment as it does me, dear viewer. It's free, the only payment I ask is that you read it—er, view it—no words.
Harry North