two tales

Awhile back, I promised a blog post about a 'work mural.' I was waiting to scan the image, but one day found a copy of it in an e-mail somewhere. So here is that post.

Our newspaper's publisher recently retired. Someone in the company was named acting publisher, perhaps temporarily -- it's hard to know. Not that it probably affects me much, given how far down the food chain I am.

This person has run a couple of newsroom-wide meetings thus far with much aplomb. One who didn't mind getting into public trouble might say 'bombast.' But not me. I say 'aplomb.'

The send-off of the old publisher was particularly splendid. We had many gifts and stories and certificates of achievements to lavish upon him. One such gift that we as a company seem particularly proud of is a print of the following mural:

Our interim publisher, by way of explaining how special this particular masterpiece is, told (roughly) the following tale:

For those who don't know, this mural is a work of art created by a former (insert my newspaper name here) artist named D---- V-----, in the European office. All branches of the service are depicted. D---- traveled around to various bases, finding servicemembers from each branch to use as models as he drew this mural. We use it on all our most important honors (which is true -- posters, folders, coins).

As he spoke, my jaw dropped lower and lower. We were in a conference room with lots of bigwigs, though, so I tried to rein in my surprise. It seemed a rather audacious version of the story. Let me explain why.

Here's my version of the mural's creation: D---- V-----, a pleasant fellow but not a necessarily driven, deadline-minded one (like other artists I've known, frankly), was assigned to do this mural thing. He set up a photo shoot, and laid hold of military uniforms of all types, across the parking lot from the newsroom there in Germany. This was all unknown to me, then a 13-month temporary employee on the sports desk (the year: 1999), until he corralled me as I innocently walked out the door on my way home. "Hey -- I need a favor! I'm taking photos of people for this mural I'm doing, and a few people didn't show up. I could use an extra woman. Can you stop by for a few minutes?" I felt half-flulike that day, but ... fine. Sure. I'd love to have my photo taken after a work shift.

So D---- sets me up with a uniform shirt that's two sizes too small, and takes a few photos of me saluting. As if I know a proper salute from a hole in the ground. (when he got the photos back, he made fun of it. Thanks, pal!) But he assured me that he would draw my shirt the right size, and draw my salute looking official. Okay -- then why do you need someone to pose at all? I wonder to myself. Yeesh.

After a few shifts of playing video games during the day, and charging the company OT to stay all night and labor over the mural, D---- presents the 'finished' copy to the powers that be. Who, I must assume, were delighted with it. I was not alone in secretly wondering if D---- had simply run out of time/enthusiasm to color in the uniforms. That part seems strange.

If you look closely, you'll see yours truly on the right side. And if you look even more closely, you can see that one of the guys is represented twice -- once with his double chin, and once without, poor guy.

So to sit there in a meeting and hear that story -- no, I've never been in the military, if you're at all confused on that point -- was quite something. I suppose the "good" news is, I'll never be forgotten around here. Until it's decided that a new mural must be drawn, that is.