Notes from Pietown

Notes from Pietown, Arizona. One of the unspoken agendas of my recent Southwestern vacation trip was to regain some perspective on the unimportance of advertising. That’s something we would all be well advised to do a couple times a year.

To my surprise, however, while I was able to put advertising back in its proper place in my own head, I was also reminded, in both subtle and graphic ways, how central advertising is to our culture, our economy and our collective American consciousness. I didn’t expect to come up against that as I wound my solitary way through mountains, across desert and over high plains from Tucson to Albuquerque.

I daresay I need not dwell on the omnipresence of advertising in any environment through which we may wander in this wacky country. But it struck me that, even in the most remote, least populated regions, where there was not a billboard in sight, the road was littered with a quieter but still disruptive, ugly form of advertising: adopt-a-highway signs. Benevolent organization after benevolent organization, littering the road’s shoulder with self-congratulatory signs proclaiming their good deeds ,and in doing so, spoiling what they are so diligently trying to keep unspoiled. That was kind of depressing.

In the evenings, as I stared at various tubes in various motel rooms, I enjoyed the local color manifesting itself in the form of newscasters and weatherpeople and the requisite badly done video spots from local advertisers. I also found myself doing a lot of birdwatching. This thanks to the latest AdFad, a flock of ads featuring birds. Coke. Geico. Aflac. Colace. I’m sure there are, and will be, others. It occurs to me that, if one were to look back on advertising over the last 30 years or so, one might discern a new means for distinguishing each year, much as the Chinese do. The year of the frog [ad]. The year of the lizard [ad]. The year of the bird [ad].

The most impressive, and chilling, reminder of advertising’s central role in our lives, however, was yet to come. During my stay in Albuquerque, a trip to the Atomic Museum seemed a must. Located on the local Air Force base, right in town, this modest museum traces the history and celebrates the impact of nuclear power. Opening with a perfunctory display on nuclear medicine, the remainder of the museum is devoted to the history of weapons, particularly bombs and missiles. Curiously, the topic of nuclear energy as a source for generating electricity is left untouched.

As you might guess, a particular emphasis is placed on the development of the atomic bomb. As you might also guess, very little space is devoted to the actual bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Revisionist history, not by omission, but by pussy-footing.

Woven throughout the museum’s extensive chronicle of the history of bombs and missles, in order to place these explosive developments in a wider cultural context, are two series of “cultural snapshots” which capture and crystallize our lives and times.

The first series consists of LIFE Magazine covers. The other series consists of, you guessed it, magazine advertisements. The LIFE covers give us the highlights, the big events, the remarkable aspects of America throughout the century. The advertisements fill in the landscape of everyday life which provided the backdrop for the unfolding of the atomic drama. Each ad functions as a culturally precise mirror reflecting, in both broad strokes and miniscule detail, what we as a nation were interested in, aspired to, spent our time doing. Cars, cigarettes, beer, soda pop -- each product a unique filter on the fish-eye lens of advertising.

These seemingly trivial ads have actually, over time, taken on significance and meaning far beyond their original purpose, metamorphosing from simple stabs at selling something, to richly resonant cultural icons, suitable for framing our culture on museum walls.

How did I feel, seeing these ads prominently displayed in a museum devoted to weapons of unimaginable mass destruction? How did I feel watching these ads evoke emotions of a similar magnitude, among the museum’s visitors, to those evoked by the photo of the first atom bomb test? A little bit creeped out. Somewhat amused. But mostly, (promise not to tell anybody this), I felt a certain perverse (?) pride in advertising, and in myself as an advertising agent. “Maybe”, I thought, “advertising is a rad or two less unimportant than I think.” As I left the museum, just for fun, I bought my 20-year-old nihilist son a tie tack -- a cute little replica of “Little Boy”, the bomb we dropped on Hiroshima.