What’s the difference between advertising now and when you started to practice it?
Nowadays, the conventional wisdom is that you shouldn’t look like you’re selling. Never let them hear you ask for the sale. Because, the theory goes, young people are so aware of what’s going on, so sharp, that when you are hustling them, they feel it. So everything’s oblique, nothing’s to the point, nothing knocks you out, nothing says “Buy me.” I always said “Buy me,” but I’d make a joke that made you remember.
Where’d you grow up?
In West Kingsbridge, in the Bronx. All Irish. Blacks weren’t allowed in my neighborhood. I basically wasn’t allowed. I’m Greekmy father was a florist. I was an outcast, the nigger of the neighborhood. I had a fistfight with every kid on my block. I got about fifteen broken noses to prove it. Part of it was also because I was always drawing, and I always had an artist portfolio with me. But I was a tough kid. I won their respect.
When you got to Madison Avenue, did you have a conscious idea you wanted to do things differently?
Oh, yeah. Besides wanting to do great work, I always wanted, you know, to do edgy stuff, to kick ass. Doyle Dane Bernbach was a great, great agency when I got there. There was an arrogance that everyone had, but it was a closed club. I was a guy who worked a little differently. Edgier. More punch-in-the-mouth.
That sounds like the old neighborhood.
Yeah. A guy gives you a hard time, you say, “I’m here. Let’s go.” I’ve never started a fight, but I’ve never backed down from one, eitheryou fuck with me, it’s fight time.
How long did it take you to make your mark at Doyle Dane Bernbach?
My first ad theremy very first daywas for a CBS show about how food gets delivered to New York. So I called a photographer and told him to get a fishI wanted to have the fish saying, “How do I get to New York?” That first day, there was a memo from the business guy to all the art directors, saying, “You got to return props. I know you guys are keeping the props. I don’t care what the props are, I want them delivered to my office.” So after the shoot, I get the photographer to give me the fish. Then at ten o’clock at night, I leave the fish in the guy’s office with a note that says “As requested” and sign my name: George Lois.
Bill Bernbach was probably your most important mentor.
Bernbach comes in to welcome me and looks at the ads I was working on. They were for Kerid ear drops. One of them was a picture of an ear with paper clips and pencils, all the things that people stick into their ears to clean, sticking into it. It looked barbaric. Bernbach says, “Wow, these are incredible.” I had all the headlines written, and he asked me what copywriter I was working with. I said, “Well, I’ll work with anybody, but the most talented person I know? I look in the mirror.” Bernbach said, “Terrific. I’ll be your writer.” The ads get produced, the client loved them. The next day, a posse goes up from the agency, art directors and writers, to complain about the kid doing that barbaric workit was literally like a lynch mob. Bernbach patted them on the back and told them, “It’s a great ad.” He liked me from the starthe saw talent and a gutsy kid.
You’ve written that you were the first art director to deal directly with the client. How did that come about?
For Goodman’s matzos, I did a poster of a giant matzo, which was terrific-looking then, and I did a beautiful piece of hand letteringkosher for passover, but in Hebrew. You could see it was going to be a knockout. But the account guy takes it out to Goodman in Long Island City. He comes back, says, “They killed it.” The owner was about 92all he knew how to do was say no. So I said, “Let me go out and sell it to them.” That never happened back thenthey just didn’t think that way. Back then, they wouldn’t let the art director go sell the job. Sometimes copywriters were allowed to sell the job. I mean, Mary Wells, who was there as a copywriter, would sell jobs. She was bullshit. But good bullshit. I mean, she knows what she was talking about, but no great talent. I changed it by just doing it“Fuck you, I’m doin’ it.” And then all the other art directors followed suit. So I go out to Long Island City and go up there and start explaining it, and he says, “I don’ like it. I don’ like it.” I’m getting nowhere. So finally, I had to do something, so there’s a casement window. I open the fuckin’ thing, and I get out on the ledge, and I say, “You make the matzos, I’ll make the ads.” He said, “Come back in. I’ll run it already.” So I come back in, and I thank him very much. He says, “Young man, if you ever quit advertising, I’ll give you a job as a matzo salesman.” That became a famous story on Madison Avenue.
What was the competition on Madison Avenue like at that time?
There were a lot of Ogilvy ads that had beautiful copy that you respect. First year at Doyle Dane Bernbach, I got repeated phone calls from Ogilvy’s copy chief, Cliff Fields, saying, “Mr. Ogilvy would like to talk to you.” I said, “You’ve got the wrong guy.” I mean, his book was 180 pages of garbage, with all due respect. He said, “Why can’t you come and just talk?” So I went over, though I felt kind of disloyal that I would even show up there. They spent three hours trying to convince meevery fifteen minutes, another $5,000. I said, “You guys got to be crazy. I couldn’t last here a week.” The only other person who was competition for Doyle Dane Bernbach in any way, shape, or form was Leo Burnett, who did powerful pieces of corny imagery, like the Green Giant. They did things like that, with a quality of kitschy humanity that you could respect. What did Bernbach say when you told him you were starting your own agency, Papert, Koenig, Lois? Bill literally said itand meant it: “You guys, you’re making a big mistake. There can’t be more than one great creative agency in the world. There can’t be.” He was a pioneer, making everyone see a different kind of mentality and passion, a different kind of graphics. And he really believed what he’d done couldn’t be duplicated.
How did you get hooked up with Esquire editor Harold Hayes?
He’d been reading about our campaigns in the advertising column of the New York Times; Peter Bart, who now edits Variety, was writing it then. Hayes called up cold and said he’d like to have lunch. I was an avid reader of Esquire in those days. We had lunch at The Four Seasons. That was before the power lunch. I was trying to get Joe Baum of Restaurant Associates, who I was working with back then, to change the Grill Room, to do what I used to call a businessman’s lunch. I told him, “We can make that room a hot room.” Anyway, Hayes says, “Can I talk to you about covers? We’re trying to do better covers.” I asked, “Well, how do you do ’em now?” “The editors come in, art directors, we all talk together. A couple of days later, we all come in and talk about ideas.” I said, “Oh, my God, is that the way you do it with Norman Mailer? Give it to one guy who understands the culture, a graphic designer.” He says, “Who can do that?” I thought about it. “Well,” he says, “could you do me one?” That coverit was of a Floyd Patterson look-alike on the canvas in an empty boxing stadiumessentially predicted the Sonny Liston–Floyd Patterson fight. It caused a sensation and sold like 120,000 more on the newsstand. So Hayes said, “George, can you keep doing them?” I said, “I will as long as I can just do ’em. When you turn down the first one, I’m gone.” There was constant complaint from the ad directors. Hayes kept me out of it. And the only reason he was allowed to keep me was circulation was going up. Most clients I treat like they don’t know shit. But I figured Hayes was smart enough to figure it out.