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IN SHIRT-SLEEVES， the way I generally worked， I sat sketching a bar of
soap taped to an upper corner of my drawing board. The gold-foil
wrapper was carefully peeled back so that you could still read most of
the brand name printed on it; I d spoiled the wrappers of half a dozen
bars before getting tha~ effect. This was a new idea， the product to bc
shown ready for what the accompanying copy called \"fragrant， latheD，，
lovelier you\" use， and I had the job of sketching it into half a dozen
layouts， the bar of soap at a slightly different angle in each.
It was just exactly as boring as it sounds， and I stopped to look out the
window beside me， down twelve stories at Fifty-fourth Street and the
little heads moving along the sidewalk. It was a sunny， sharply clear day
tn mid-November， and I d have liked to be out in it， the whole after+-
I10011 ahead and nothing to do; nothing I had to do， that is.
Over at the paste-up table Vince Mandel， our lettering man， thin and
dark and probably feeling as caged-up today as I was， stood working with
the airbrush， a cotton surgical mask over his mouth. He was spraying a
flesh-colored film onto a Life magazine photo of a girl in a batl~ing suit.
l hc effect， when he finished， would be to remove the suit， leaving the
girl apparently naked except for the ribbon she wore slanted from
shoulder to waist on which was lettered A IISS BUSINESS I~[ACHINES. This
kind of stunt was Vince s favorite at-work occupation ever s~nce he d
H~ought of it， and the retouched picture would be added to a collection
of others like it on the art-department bulletin board， at which Maureen，
our nineteen-year-old paste-up girl and messenger， refused ever to look
or even glance， though often urged.
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