A Dark Room
Dark Room
I was fresh out of art school, proud of my 2.1 hons degree in fine art
/ graphic design, and working in my first job as a 'Trainee Commercial
Artist' (read messenger boy / gopher) in a busy and apparently quite
trendy graphic design studio in Oxford street London. Top three
floors. Over a shoe shop. I won't name it because A) they don't
deserve a name check, B) they probably don't exist anymore, and C) I
nicked a whole bunch of really expensive graphic design materials from
them during my six month tenure. My pay was £8.57 a week. It was 1970
or 71 ish. That's to set the background.
I never actually received any 'training' as per the job title, my 40
hours per were spent running around all over London delivering
sketches, proofs and artwork, collecting photographs (of all the fit
young models to go in the ads, once our Charles Hawtrey look-a-like
airbrush artist got rid of all the spots stretch marks moles bruises
tampon strings black-eyes and pubes), litho plates from printers,
proof runs to clients, getting in supplies, art boards, photo paper,
Leteraset, in the days before PCs did all that, Cow gum, scalpel
blades, BLT egg and ham tea coffee coke whizz, puff, B&H, beer,
cases of wine for the client showcases, posting pools, checking in at the
bookies, and woe betide if I forgot and one of our eight full-time professional
graphic designers had a win. Though mostly they were too pissed to
notice most days.
I would be reimbursed for the taxi fares I had pay for, IF I handed in
proper receipts for said journeys. A receipt book cost 59p from WH
Smiths. So I forged signatures and took buses, It was just as quick.
And the fares only varied by a quid or two. (£8.57 a week! Fuck you!)
Sorry, that was just more background.
But the point is, if I was going to get any training, it was going to have to be me training myself. The two guys who ran the place didn't mind if I stayed late one or two
nights a week, laying out mock ads on waste board, and learning how to
work the darkroom, varying exposure time / and print effects
techniques, as long as I didn't use up too much expensive stock. For
my part I tidied everything up and made sure everything was ready for
the Pros in the morning. They appreciated me sharpening pencils,
checking marker pens, stocking their desks.
We had a cleaning lady (this is where it starts to get interesting - bout time! you say) who did all the offices in the block. Finishing with ours as we were on the top three floors. She dusted, swept up, hovered, emptied the bins, cleaned. Kalena, forty something She was a refugee from Czechoslovakia. I never took much notice of her, mooching about in an old house-coat cover-all thing. Not what you'd call a 'looker', but she had a cheeky little smile. Sometimes when she'd finished we might have a coffee and a chat and on Fridays she sneaked a shower in the 'executive bathroom' on the top floor (attic). They had nice soap, big mirrors, and posh towels. 'I see my boyfriend tonight. It save time. Is OK?'
Course it is.
In the summer it got very humid in our top floor studios. The big glass skylights were like a greenhouse, and they never opened properly. One evening I was in the dark room when Kalena knocked for coffee time. I taught here never to just open the door!
When I emerged from the darkness into the bright light of the studio, I was stunned by a vision of Kalena sat up on a desk, back toward me, he feet in a chair. She was fanning herself with a sheaf of paper. Caught in the sunbeams streaming through the skylights, her housecoat, now unbuttoned to her waist, did nothing to conceal her ample form, naked. Only knickers.
I just stood and stared. Mesmerised. She looked so god damn sexy!
She turned, 'Oh. Sorry. I don't know you hear.' Pointing. 'Coffee. Iced coffee. Better no?'
'Yeah.'
She made a half hearted attempt at pulling the top of her housecoat together over her quite remarkable breasts. But, well pointless really. I poured myself some iced coffee, 'Have you got some?'
'Gimme top up.' I took the jug over to her. She reached for her cup and the housecoat came loose again. 'Ah fuck hell, so what! You see tits before! Won't bite! Ha!'
'Yeah. No.'
'Gimme.' She took the jug of ice cold coffee and poured a dribble of it over a nipple. 'Ahh, feel nice.' Her nipple stood out proud and erect. 'Is nice. Huh? You like?'
'Yeah.'
'You never see me before. I shower? Never sneaky peaky at Kalena naked in the shower?'
'No.'
No!? You don't want take sneaky peaky at naked woman? Yoy, yah, you like boys. Hah!'
'No, no I don't I like women. I do.'
'You want come cool down with Kalena in shower?'
Of course I did. (To give you a sort of visual reference to what Kalena looked like – she was like this lady http://xhamster.com/movies/2331159/sexy_jill.html)
I'll finish this episode at a later date.
I was fresh out of art school, proud of my 2.1 hons degree in fine art
/ graphic design, and working in my first job as a 'Trainee Commercial
Artist' (read messenger boy / gopher) in a busy and apparently quite
trendy graphic design studio in Oxford street London. Top three
floors. Over a shoe shop. I won't name it because A) they don't
deserve a name check, B) they probably don't exist anymore, and C) I
nicked a whole bunch of really expensive graphic design materials from
them during my six month tenure. My pay was £8.57 a week. It was 1970
or 71 ish. That's to set the background.
I never actually received any 'training' as per the job title, my 40
hours per were spent running around all over London delivering
sketches, proofs and artwork, collecting photographs (of all the fit
young models to go in the ads, once our Charles Hawtrey look-a-like
airbrush artist got rid of all the spots stretch marks moles bruises
tampon strings black-eyes and pubes), litho plates from printers,
proof runs to clients, getting in supplies, art boards, photo paper,
Leteraset, in the days before PCs did all that, Cow gum, scalpel
blades, BLT egg and ham tea coffee coke whizz, puff, B&H, beer,
cases of wine for the client showcases, posting pools, checking in at the
bookies, and woe betide if I forgot and one of our eight full-time professional
graphic designers had a win. Though mostly they were too pissed to
notice most days.
I would be reimbursed for the taxi fares I had pay for, IF I handed in
proper receipts for said journeys. A receipt book cost 59p from WH
Smiths. So I forged signatures and took buses, It was just as quick.
And the fares only varied by a quid or two. (£8.57 a week! Fuck you!)
Sorry, that was just more background.
But the point is, if I was going to get any training, it was going to have to be me training myself. The two guys who ran the place didn't mind if I stayed late one or two
nights a week, laying out mock ads on waste board, and learning how to
work the darkroom, varying exposure time / and print effects
techniques, as long as I didn't use up too much expensive stock. For
my part I tidied everything up and made sure everything was ready for
the Pros in the morning. They appreciated me sharpening pencils,
checking marker pens, stocking their desks.
We had a cleaning lady (this is where it starts to get interesting - bout time! you say) who did all the offices in the block. Finishing with ours as we were on the top three floors. She dusted, swept up, hovered, emptied the bins, cleaned. Kalena, forty something She was a refugee from Czechoslovakia. I never took much notice of her, mooching about in an old house-coat cover-all thing. Not what you'd call a 'looker', but she had a cheeky little smile. Sometimes when she'd finished we might have a coffee and a chat and on Fridays she sneaked a shower in the 'executive bathroom' on the top floor (attic). They had nice soap, big mirrors, and posh towels. 'I see my boyfriend tonight. It save time. Is OK?'
Course it is.
In the summer it got very humid in our top floor studios. The big glass skylights were like a greenhouse, and they never opened properly. One evening I was in the dark room when Kalena knocked for coffee time. I taught here never to just open the door!
When I emerged from the darkness into the bright light of the studio, I was stunned by a vision of Kalena sat up on a desk, back toward me, he feet in a chair. She was fanning herself with a sheaf of paper. Caught in the sunbeams streaming through the skylights, her housecoat, now unbuttoned to her waist, did nothing to conceal her ample form, naked. Only knickers.
I just stood and stared. Mesmerised. She looked so god damn sexy!
She turned, 'Oh. Sorry. I don't know you hear.' Pointing. 'Coffee. Iced coffee. Better no?'
'Yeah.'
She made a half hearted attempt at pulling the top of her housecoat together over her quite remarkable breasts. But, well pointless really. I poured myself some iced coffee, 'Have you got some?'
'Gimme top up.' I took the jug over to her. She reached for her cup and the housecoat came loose again. 'Ah fuck hell, so what! You see tits before! Won't bite! Ha!'
'Yeah. No.'
'Gimme.' She took the jug of ice cold coffee and poured a dribble of it over a nipple. 'Ahh, feel nice.' Her nipple stood out proud and erect. 'Is nice. Huh? You like?'
'Yeah.'
'You never see me before. I shower? Never sneaky peaky at Kalena naked in the shower?'
'No.'
No!? You don't want take sneaky peaky at naked woman? Yoy, yah, you like boys. Hah!'
'No, no I don't I like women. I do.'
'You want come cool down with Kalena in shower?'
Of course I did. (To give you a sort of visual reference to what Kalena looked like – she was like this lady http://xhamster.com/movies/2331159/sexy_jill.html)
I'll finish this episode at a later date.
11年前
