Opinion

24 Hours With…. JWT creative director, Jarrod Lowe

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24 Hours With… spotlights the working day of some of the most interesting people in Mumbrella’s world. Today we speak with Jarrod Lowe, creative director, JWT, Melbourne.

Jarrod Lowe-JWTIt’s the morning.

It’s 6ish. The first thing I think about as I open my once baby blues, now offish greys, is how on earth we’re going to breed a new type of cow. Totally work related. I mean, I understand the circle of life but I wonder how we’ll do it on budget. I immediately Google cow gestation. Then skip breakfast.

I whisper “I have an idea” to my partner and rush out the door. I didn’t have one but saying you do, then leaving with a sense of urgency, adds so much intrigue to the day.

I drive to work wondering who is throwing tacks on the road. Yep that’s totally a thing where I live. I want to find them. Not the tacks but the culprit. Not to punish them but to film some content. God people love content. What would we call it?  The Tax Man. We’ll call it the Tax Man. People will enjoy the play on words. Shit. How we are going to breed a new type of cow on budget?

I ring my director mate and tell him about Tax Man. He doesn’t like the idea. I’ll have to direct it myself.

On arrival.

I arrive in the office with just enough time to miss out on the daily fruit hand out. Screw it I’ll have a potato cake from down the road. There’s always tomorrow.  Tomorrow never comes.

Sometime later….

Sometime later I find myself in a discussion with Brig the planner, regarding archetypes. This discussion more than likely comes about due to the fact that I’ve been using her book on archetypes to prop up my desk lamp. “That’s not how you treat books ”she says. I laugh and laugh. She suggests I’m the “ regular guy/gal” archetype. I take it as a compliment.

Despite her openly informing me that it’s not. A small group of us play ‘Archetype Me’. It’s where you make up your own archetype, that’s not regular guy/gal.  A consensus of one declares me “Hot Messiah with a shadow of Cowboy.”

Sometime around morning tea (little lunch).

I look forward to recording some research stimulus, until I realise that the piece we’re working on – if given the go ahead – will involve Autism sufferers.  I’m not concerned because I have a problem with Autism, but I’m not quite sure how to depict Autism via the medium of voice actors. Do I ask for an Autistic read? What is an Autistic read? Shit. This could turn into a political hot mess. I decide to go with a straight read. Then reward myself with a potato cake for dodging bullets.

Sometime after lunch.

I put on Spotify and write a mantra. Go to browse. Choose moods. Choose focus. Choose Deep focus. Then stream of consciousness the rest. 38 words per minute. I spell check later. I ask the planner what they think of the mantra. It’s got the brief in there. It’s just hidden. Slightly. We laugh about how first ideas are the worst ideas. It’s my second. They’ll never know.

A bit later.

I go to down to the Cannery (our fully functioning content making facility) and rummage through the props room.  We’re working on topical video content in which a gentleman shakes his head at ungentlemanly things from around the world and I need a mantle piece for him to lean on.  I’ll get a chance to direct again. You get chances like that here. Holler.

Meanwhile…

The young team come to me with what they describe as the final script for a brand film in which a one legged man hops into the ocean at 50 frames. This is not the final script I explain. We laugh and laugh. God, I wish I was young again.

Later on.

We meet in the edit suite and debate the comic validity of people dressed as menstrual blood that can’t escape a feminine hygiene product. Is their physicality enough? Should we narrate? What would menstrual blood say?  I smile knowing that we’re changing the world.

Meanwhile the other bright young things in the office work on streaming the Melbourne Queer Film Festival to Russia. God I wish I was young again.

Meanwhile meanwhile, the office is abuzz with all the new work coming in thanks to Jetstar coming on board. See what I did there? ‘On board’. It’s a plane thing. Never mind. I close my eyes and imagine how angry I’d make people if I spoke about any overseas filming opportunities as a junket. Maybe I could direct? I close my eyes and imagine myself on a junket.Jetstar plane and staff

Later later on.

Because we work in an open plan office, someone from some distance sees my screen and mentions that something I’m working on reminds them of something they’ve seen. I plan their death. Openly. It’s awkward. For them.

And a bit later again.

A concerned designer comes to me and shows me just how hard it is to visually stitch Google Maps together so that our client is at the centre of the world, literally. I agree. It is hard. We laugh and laugh.

Later still.

We hold an emergency meeting. I call it an emergency meeting simply due to the fact I attend.  We discuss the chances of our song about post-natal depression in new dads, making it through research. I wonder whether the Bowie inspired hook will be enough to carry it.  That meeting carries over into a pre-prod where the ECD and myself discuss a little doco film we’re working on where we investigate what happens to the brain when it sees art. I nominate myself to direct. He doesn’t immediately say no. I take it as a yes.

On leaving.

I go home satisfied that another homepage will have an MREC on it.  I wonder when I will ever get the chance to say “check yourself before you M-REC yourself” again.

My life beyond advertising.

Sometime in the evening, after debating with my partner over whether or not to keep Netflix, I remember I have children. I tend to their needs. They are the future. And deserve to hear me read ‘Piranhas Don’t Eat Bananas’ in my Robin Williams-esque catalogue of voices, all of which sound South African.piranhas dont eat bananas

My son laughs each time I say car park. I wish everyone I worked for was so easily pleased. Then I wonder if I’m raising a racist. I say raising racists a few times to myself until that thing happens when words don’t sound right anymore.

I talk to my son about the amazing “make culture” we are building at J Walter Thompson, the global opportunities, the chance to make a difference, the Cannery. He is 4. His eyelids begin to close. I presume that he is not falling asleep but rather passing out from wonderment. Sleep well, future prince. Sleep well.

Moments before slumber.

I reminisce. Today was a good day. And if I even get to think about making half the stuff we did today, tomorrow will be even better. I begin to doze. Suddenly I spring up. Eyes wide open. How in God’s name are we’re going to breed a new breed of cow on budget?

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