I recently watched the second season of HBO’s The Wire on DVD. One line of dialogue in the last episode stood out. A shipping union boss, Frank Sobotka, explains what went wrong. “We used to be a country that made things,” he said. “Now we make money sticking our hands in the next guy’s pocket.”

I’ve never worked on a shipping dock, so I won’t pretend I know anything about it. But as a copywriter, I do take pride in the fact that I, too, make things. I work with a team of designers and account managers and together we make brochures, mailings, posters, Web sites, education tools, e-mail blasts, videos and more.

Having physical evidence of my work helps me believe that what I’m doing is useful.  My work informs consumers and potentially helps the sale force sell a product or service that the customer needs. Our projects don’t always turn out exactly the way we would have liked, but, at the end of each one, at least we can point to it and say, “I helped make that.” — Sharon, Associate Creative Director, Voice

Yeah, yeah — there's all that writing and stuff inside, but nobody takes the time to celebrate book covers. Except for the slipcover scholars at the blog Jacket Mechanical, where beautiful books are shown off — regardless of language, subject, publsher or author. It's a great source for interesting(-looking) books and design ideas. — Sam, Content Manager

Over the weekend, I volunteered in Chicago Artists Month at an open studios event. I spent the afternoon in Garfield Park with Jason Meyer, an artist and furniture maker who happens to be my boyfriend. My job was simple: answer questions for him when he was occupied and play Scrabble with him when he was not.

An open studios event is unique because visitors can meet the artists and see their work where it’s created. From dirty microwaves to chipped coffee cups, inspirational clippings to dust-covered houseplants, it's an invitation to an artist's intimate life.

While most other participants displayed paintings, drawings and installations, Jason showed small prints and large furniture pieces that he designed and built by hand. The latter included selections from his line of tasting tables made with recycled wine box panels and a more recently completed custom shelving unit that boasted rusted steel and locally harvested elm. His space stood out a bit, probably on account of being applied art, and we initially wondered if people would want to see furniture at an art show.

Well, we were surprised by the volume of visitors. He was oohed and ahhed over and engaged in conversation by folks from every walk in life. In fact, I found that to be the most intriguing aspect. As a participant (of sorts) in this event, I didn't spend much time seeing other artists' work. Instead, I came away impressed by people motivated to come to a distant, unsafe neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon to spend time in an artist’s workshop.

Some of our attendees had interests that one might expect. There were existing clients — those who have commissioned work in the past and wanted to see where the artist spends his time. There were those looking to buy artwork, seeking to understand the thinking behind each piece while considering whether or not it matched the couch. Some were artists themselves and came to be inspired, make contacts or learn new techniques. We met a painter who took some turns on the Scrabble board.

The most interesting visitors to me were the ones that came without any particular reason.

An enthusiastic older woman came with her grandson. She chatted for 20 or 30 minutes before sending him to the car for a photo of her coffee table. She liked glass and wood and just had to show us her prized possessions. She even returned later in the day just to converse with Jason a bit longer.

One gregarious visitor, while taking part in the refreshments, engaged Jason's shop-mate about handmade tools, discussed the details of his mid-life crisis with us, and when he had enough wine, became slightly amorous. Overall, he was good-hearted and seemed rather enchanted by craftsmanship.

A mentally challenged man who lived in the neighborhood wandered in and seemed rather awe-stricken. He asked many questions and I watched with a smile on my face as Jason answered them, treating him with the same respect as wealthy patrons.

Lastly, there were many people that came and although they seemed to like the work, were behooved to offer their own brand of advice, even if it was unfounded.

"You know, these are great. You should make a dresser out of these. People like dressers."   

Or, "You ought to move to France and sell these! You'd make a killing in France."

At the end of the evening, Jason sold 12 prints, spoke to 50 or 60 people, burned through business cards and promised to call the enthusiastic grandmother. Our visitors, as varied as they were, had one thing in common: the desire to identify the artist. From the talkative to the awkward to the adversarial, they all respected the work in their own way and wished to feel connected to it. Because of this, both of us were filled with a renewed sense of humanity. There was a time in the history books when art was kept for the affluent. But today, art is for everyone. Because of that, we never finished our Scrabble game. — Aggie, Designer

Other than solid pitch-count management and Gustav Flaubert, there are few pleasures greater in life than Michael Mann movies — not least because of the design. Think the neon-glowing Los Angeles of Collateral, the glowing cutting torch of Thief or Colin Farrell's innovative stubble/handlebar combo in Miami Vice.

Recently, I Netflixed the beginning of Michael Mann's Chicago-set TV series Crime Story. It yielded the expected pleasures — tough guys, car chases, ill-advised romance — but the design was an unexpected treat. The first episode involved a car chase down the Dan Ryan, and most of the buildings are still standing; the credits even roll over an image of the famous Superdawg stand at Milwaukee and Devon.

The show takes place in early-'60s Chicago and meticulously recreates the design and architecture of the period. Just check out the opening credits for a loving replica of a different time, one full of brilliant neon design and clean modernist lines, much of which is around us. —Sam, Content Manager

So: I was lucky enough to get tickets to the Obama rally in Grant Park. (I was also sneaky enough to get a friend who didn’t have a ticket in.) And as Obama’s acceptance speech ended, I stood there huddled with my friends (and thousands and thousands of strangers) and seriously thought, “I’m going to write a blog about this.”

The problem is, I have a strict “no crying at work” policy and, every time I start to think about it, I tear up a little. So I’m going to try to keep it short.

Being 29, the only thing I have to compare this historical event to is 9/11. Everyone remembers where they were when the 9/11 attacks happened. However, this event was a little different because you knew it was coming. Regardless of the election’s potential outcome, walking down Michigan Avenue to Grant Park, you knew you were already part of history.  

Our city looked beautiful. The weather was perfect. Everyone was friendly. There were plenty of restrooms! We waited there anxiously, climbing on the shoulders of our stronger friends, looking out across the crowd. Taking countless pictures, not caring how blurry they’d be. Just smiling at each other and watching the giant screen.

When the words “Barack Obama President-Elect” came up, we simply lost it. I can’t say for sure, but I really don’t believe anyone at Grant Park was standing still at that very moment. We were screaming and crying and jumping and hugging. AND SCREAMING!

From then on, the rest of the night was a steady stream of more of the same. We were all happy to be there, to be part of American history, to be part of Chicago history. And as coincidence would have it, the only person in that massive crowd at Grant Park I recognized was Melissa Hayes (our client from the Chicago History Museum).



It wasn’t until Wednesday when it really sunk in that literally the whole world was watching this event. Whether you were in Grant Park or on your couch, whether you’re American or not, whether you voted for Obama or voted for McCain, the world changed on Tuesday night and we were all part of it. And it’s that very thought that makes me happy enough to let things slide a little and cry at work…just this one time. — Miranda, Copywriter