The year: 1974
This is what was happening:
The first British television-savvy politician, Harold Wilson, was elected Prime Minister.
Professor Erno Rubik invented his 'Magic Cube'
Tom Baker became the fourth Dr Who in 1974
Alan Fletcher won a D&AD Gold with this Reuters gift.
“We’d like to offer you the job as Art Director of Fontana Paperbacks,” said the voice at the other end of the phone. Filled with excitement and the dread of having the task of telling Charles Pick, Managing Director of William Heinemann, that I was going to leave to join Collins’ paperback division. He simply said. “Oh well, at least they are in the family.” Both Heinemann and Collins had joint interests in Pan Books.
Roland Gant, Heinemann’s Editorial Director plus a wonderful mimic and raconteur, took me for a farewell lunch at The Garrick Club, a male-only haven for thespians and arty types. On arrival, the porter discreetly told me that I would have to wear a tie and produced a most inconguous specimen for me to put on. While standing at the bar, Roland said, “Oh look there’s Osbert.” (Osbert Lancaster was a well-known cartoonist at the time, and a rather short man.) I was taken aback as I’d always imagined him as a tall, elegant figure, like the many aristocratic characters depicted in his cartoons. In a nervous moment, I was about to splutter, “I didn’t realise you were so short” (yes, I really was), until I felt a sharp prod in the ribs from Roland, who’s antenna was up. I quickly changed it to “I would have recognised you anywhere.” I was still socially inept in certain circumstances.
Osbert Lancaster's Illustration for the cover of The Kindly Ones
At the time, lunch was served at The Garrick at long, refectory-style tables with large jugs of water placed at regular intervals. A bevy of what I recall as dinner lady types provided the service. I realised very quickly that many of these London clubs were simply extensions of public school environments with their porters and servers.
For the last months of my time at Heinemann, I had a new secretary in the shape of Penny Waldmann, daughter of some property tycoon or other. After working out my notice, I walked ten minutes away from my familiar Mayfair environment to the equally exclusive address of St James’s Place, where William Collins & Sons was located in a charming Georgian house.
The home of William Collins & Sons and Fontana Paperbacks and also my new home for the next happy 5 years, way up at the very top of the building.
Once more, the studio was right at the very top of the building, in what would have been the maids’ quarters.
On my arrival, I found a two-roomed studio painted entirely in matte black. It was dark and depressing; apparently, the previous Art Director, John Constable, rather liked the gloomy atmosphere. This was exacerbated by the fact that Britain was plunged into a three-day week due to industrial action, and the electricity supply was cut off each day at 4pm, when everyone had to work with the aid of candles or Tilley lamps.
Illuminated by gaslight during the industrial dispute of '74.
It created a wartime spirit and miraculously, everything still got done in those analogue days – God knows what would happen now.
Within weeks, I’d had the whole studio repainted white throughout, with a mid-grey lino floor and two spacious plan chests. I had also inherited a secretary – who I seem to recall was the stepdaughter of the wartime flying hero Douglas Barder – and a young Anglo-Polish designer called Tad Aronovitch. It is always tricky inheriting assistants from another regime – a lot of suspicion and judging goes on in the background. I actually needed two assistants, so the call went out and, a week or so later, I hired a charming young college leaver called Bill Jones. So now there were four in my new tight-knit ship.
The Fontana team. From the top me, Bill, Rosmary (who replaced Douglas Barder's step daughter) and Tad, on the roof of 14 St James's Place in the summer of 1974.
Fontana had a much larger list to deal with: almost 300 titles per year. The list was very varied: extremely commercial at one end and highly intellectual at the other. I had a secret agenda to transform the look of Fontana Paperbacks to rival Penguin. Even though a large part of the list was escapist airport fodder, I decided that if they had to look commercial, I would still care about all the elements that made up the covers.
Nothing to write home about but this was the very first Fontana cover I designed on my maiden day there. Film tie in covers were common and turned around very fast. This is an example of me with my 'commercial' hat on. There would be a lot more of that over the next 4 years.
My immediate boss and the person who hired me was Mark Collins, the youngest of the Collins publishing dynasty. He was a bespectacled, gangly, ungainly character with a rather disarming, boyish shyness. He inhabited an unbelievably messy office with manuscripts piled high and covering most of the floor. It also had a large double-sided partners desk sitting in the middle, with every drawer filled to the brim.
My first few months were spent gaining familiarity with the list of authors, genres and the increased volume of work. I very quickly introduced a uniformed typographical style to the spines. And I pulled in many of the designers and illustrators who I had used at Heinemann along with some new finds, and I set course to hopefully make some waves.
My Film for 1974:
Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather II
My Job for that year:
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