Being Fired

Step Inside Design, Mar/Apr 2009 by Simmons, Christopher

EVERYONE REMEMBERS THEIR FIRST TIME.

He's designed identities for four NFL teams (five, if you count NFL Europe), one AFL team and the NBA All-Star game. He's created logos for development projects by Frank Gehry and Daniel Libeskind. He's done work for Jim IHenson Productions, Warner Brothers, Showtime and Disney (and Dunlop and Dewars and Seagrams and Miller Brewing and Coke and Pepsi). He worked on the LA. Olympics. This past year he's been working on major projects in Korea and China. He's designed for Ferrari. He's played Lollapalooza. So why won't Pentagram return his calls? How did he get fired from his biggest job ever, and why does Eddie Van Halen think he's an asshole?

LESSON ONE: DRESS FOR SUCCESS

In 1999 Mark Verlander was living in New York City, down by the World Trade Center and just blocks from NFL headquarters. He'd begun what would become a string of projects for the NFL, designing team identities for the Houston Texans, Atlanta Falcons and others. This was near the apex of the dot-com hysteria, when money and jobs were abundant, and opportunities seemed limitless. It was in this environment that Verlander was approached by one of the top venture capital firms in New York to design its identity. The firm offered him three quarters of a million dollars.

"This was by far our biggest project ever," Verlander recalls. "It was a huge firm with a great reputation, and they were funding a bunch of cool stuff, so we were really excited to work with them." Wanting to make a good impression, Verlander decided to put some of those fees toward a new wardrobe. "I wanted to look 'business-y,'" he explains. "I was going to be the big 'meeting guy' now." But Verlander, used to working in relative isolation in his loft, never actually had to dress for work. "I've walked through Brooks Brothers on my way to Nat Sherman's to buy cigars," he says, "but I never shopped there. I know nothing about buying suits." Eschewing the ready-to-wear pinstripes of the Golden Fleece, Verlander instead cut a path to Union Square and the more expressive stripes of Paul Smith. "Remember, I have no idea what I am doing, I just want to impress these people," he reiterates with a self-deprecating chuckle, "So I end up with a super-nice leisure suit-style jacket with white stitching, an elaborate olive-green embroidered Indian-style shirt that hangs down below the jacket and these super-tight pants. Then, to top it off, I get this coat. It has, like, inch and a half wide cords that are probably an inch deep. It's in light green velvet, full length, down to the ankles- the ultimate Huggy Bear coat. And it's summer, so I get these beautiful open-toe handmade leather sandals. Oh, and I bought some little octagon-shaped glasses with tiny lenses- the kind Johnny Depp would wear in a Tim Burton movie."

Six thousand dollars later, Verlander made his way to the Palace Hotel to meet with his new client. "I wore it all," he marvels. "My leisure suit, my pants, my Indian shirt, my jacket and my sandals." Through his miniature octagonal frames, Verlander watched the head of the company survey his ensemble with a disapproving eye, a scene that was repeated when he was introduced to the company's CFO, and again over lunch when more than one investor suspected him of being "European."

"I guess the whole thing looked kind of ridiculous," Verlander says now. "But at the time I thought that buying a bunch of expensive clothes was going to make me look super-business-y." Whether it was the ostentation, the flamboyant taste or just that he looked way too different from everyone else in the room, Verlander's sartorial efforts ultimately sank the deal. "They called me a week later to say they wouldn't be needing my services after all," he sighs. "They wouldn't say why, but I know it was that outfit."

LESSON TWO: YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT

In 2001, two years after the Huggy Bear incident, Verlander relocated to San Francisco. In the interval he had continued to work in relative isolation, but had started to contemplate becoming part of a larger team. "Working alone can be great," he says. "I think of Paul Rand holed up in his farmhouse in Connecticut doing all this amazing work. But if you work alone your victories are solitaryyou have no one to share them with."

His brother Todd (also a designer) was living in San Francisco. Todd's boss Doug Akagi helped secure a loft for Mark and his family. "That was an amazing thing to happen for us at a really bad time," Mark recalls. "It helped us to feel really comfortable about relocating." Akagi also introduced Verlander to David Asari, who at the time was working at Pentagram. "I'd always wanted to work at Pentagram," he explains, "Their work is the reason I became a designer, so that introduction meant the world to me."

Asari arranged a lunch meeting between Verlander and Pentagram partner Kit Hinrichs. "I don't go out to lunch with people very often," says Verlander, foreshadowing another faux pas. "So if I see a steak on the menu and a nice bottle of red wine, I step up." Savoring his tenderloin and Cabernet while Hinrichs and Asari sipped ice teas and poked delicately at their salads, Verlander dropped the bomb: "I'm really interested in becoming a partner."