Conference Doodling

Or, the art of flexing one’s creative muscle in the face of uncompromising creative oppression

By Tim Hunter 

It’s conference time, hooray! And you have been selected to endure a solid week of PowerPoint slides, shifting paradigms, and exciting new corporate bullshit that will drain your soul out through your ear, and replace it with a powerful desire to run naked through the streets, screaming, “everyone, remove your clothes, break your laptops, and burn every copy of MS PowerPoint you can find!”

But you don’t. Instead, you endure the fifty slides of forecasts and pivot tables. You smile politely, and nod occasionally as you are fed clock speeds, marketing slants, and forced to participate in role plays with illusory customers. You shake hands, trade business cards, lock eyes with Emma from payroll, and silently share the look that says, “We will never build our own huts, or hunt our dinner, nor will we paint a mural depicting our life and times, but at least we had Sydney, and that conversation about Intel promos… at least we had that.” But most importantly, you stave off the madness of oppressive corporate exposition by rebelling, and flexing your creative muscle. You engage in the time honoured, and ancient ritual of doodling on the conference hotel’s stationary. Oh sure, you start by noting down a few key points from the presenter, but as the madness builds, and your desire to strip and paint yourself with jelly mounts up, your doodles become a window into your soul. I’m a firm believer in the arts of creative writing and drawing, and the power that they have to express our inner-most feelings. From the dog-eared school text book, to the ledgers of the mightiest of money movers, we all open ourselves up for soul inspection through the window of our art. This is my story: FY17 Kick-off Conference.

I want to start by letting my employer know that they throw a hell of a party to help us swallow the throat obstructing pill of a week-long conference. This is me, for those of you that I have never met:

I'm the cheeks on the right

The quality of entertainment that went into keeping us alive, and not driven to vegetative paraplegia, was second to none, and I want to acknowledge that in advance.

But the story of my conference madness will begin innocently enough, with my first, and only real attempt at professionalism, and making useful notes that carefully documented the information I was being imparted. Here you can see the notes on objection management:

As you can see, I genuinely took to the info, and it was part of the highlight of the learning. In this session, we discussed the “Boomerang Method” of objection management first, that being the art of taking an objection and feeding it back verbatim to the interlocutor, and clarify that their position, which demonstrates your understanding and genuine concern for their needs. Next was the “Feel, Felt, Found” technique, which is a minor story-telling manoeuvre that relates an objection to a story of a similar, and successfully resolved situation. Sneaky, snacky, no? This was the point that my attention span began to waver. In spite of all my genuine interest in becoming better at handling objections, and negotiating mutually beneficial settlements, I felt the creative urge begin to well inside me. The bland, perfectly uniform distribution of florescent lighting, and the perfectly practiced speech of the presenter all called out for the imperfection of the human condition. I needed to draw something. I needed to break the uniform perfection of the factory-assembled work environment. I needed to express myself.

In the bottom right corner of the paper, my rebellion began. It is small, and tucked into a corner, but you can make out the first attack. The presenter might have called it a terrorist cell, but I call it my freedom fighter band, taking up arms against the oppression of PPT, PDF, and PNG. It is incomplete, and imperfect, it is a small, poorly rendered sword, and an arrow being readied on half the string of an undrawn bow. It is small, but it is a start.

The conference breaks momentarily, while presenter one packs up his Latitude, and is replaced by the Thinkpad X1 Carbon bearing rep from a stats company. Here, in this moment of weakness from my oppressors, the underground resistance bursts forth into fully-fledged, open rebellion! The warrior spirit in me has been totally unleashed, and I unleash the heroes of history onto the pages:

Ignore the Olympic reference top right

A spear-wielding warrior of ancient times, bearing his hide shield, and naught but his flesh for armour bursts forth. I practice his wild, lean but muscular physique above, and imagine what it would be like if he burst into the room during this presentation on in-store demonstrations. Would his lack of a suit and tie be more disturbing than his garishly-feathered turban, or tiny loincloth? I decide to pull my head out of the world of semi-nude warfare just long enough to reply to the announcement that our presence in stores leads to a massive increase in attach rates; that’s the part where you buy a mouse, or MS Office, or a designer bag to go with your new laptop, instead of just walking out of the store with the bare bones option of the sale. My mind reels with images of celebrations befitting such a feat:

But before long, I return to drawing the warriors of destiny. I draw and draw. Firstly, the death-howling mask of the Samurai whose Katana adorned my first page, now with his bow completed and drawn. Next I add the Chinese swordsman, preparing to cut a swath with his Da Dao, the mighty two-handed cleaver; his top-knot and loose robes swashing in the sun! Next I decide to step up the protection with a Gothic-Plated Knecht, with his form-fitting armour, versatile Langschwert, and Lanze, ready for anything. The battle is in full swing in my head, and glory is to be earned with fire and steel. And then we broke for lunch.

Lunch consisted of the usual fare, a selection of fruits, pastries, and some hearty salad rolls, and chicken-pesto sandwiches on Turkish. I’m always cautious about overeating at lunch, since the lethargy that takes effect can drive you straight to sleep in the post-repast session. So, I keep it to just a salad roll, and a few slices of melon for the sugar. No coffee, though. I don’t know exactly who thought this was a good idea, but no coffee gets served at lunch. I know, right? A room full of bored 18-30-year-olds, being forced to endure an endless array of slides, and no coffee till afternoon tea. The Stalinist Purges weren’t this oppressive. Okay, maybe they were, but at least they didn’t use weapons-grade bar graphs. Someone get onto The Hague.

Clearly, suffering under an unjust system

However, while I claim to be the hero of the revolution, I must warn you that this was the point in the conference where my mind started down the path of perversion. If you are easily offended, or feel that it is right to judge thought-crimes of a man under PowerPoint duress, it might be in our mutual benefit for you to skip to the drawings I did of kittens a little further down this page. Just don’t read anything till you reach the kitties.

Are they gone? Good. As young men in forced comradery are often obliged to do, I bonded with my fellows sitting the presentation. Our corporate motto for FY17 was #playtowin, something that we only found out later was already a hashtag for crossfit. I’ll let the next few pics speak for themselves as to my conversations with the fresh-faced young corporate go-getters that sat next to me that day:

"Laurence, what would you do if you had a million dollars?

I tell you what I'd do, Peter man..."

Let the jury know that it the defendant was under the influence of PPT.

Seriously, if you read that earlier warning, and still looked at those pictures, you have only yourself to blame.

And now: KITTIES!!!

Somehow the shame of the male bonding conversation left me feeling unwholesome, and like I needed the pure honest cuteness of kitties to wash away the filth from my soul. At this point the presenters had switched, and the Thinkpad X1 Carbon had been replaced by a new weapon of corp-order-only choice, the Elitebook. You won’t find any of these in retail, so don’t bother searching (bourgeois custom orders only, ala the Mac Pro with the 5k display).

For those that were disappointed by my cat drawing, this is Oreo and Milo, my friend, Paris', cats

It was around about this point the new presenter made an incorrect use of Latin, describing a slap-dash, improvised solution as “Ad Hoc”. For the benefit of the young man sitting next to me, I outlined the actual meaning of ad hoc, and how it means “for that/to this”, or that in modern English use, while pompous, it denotes a specifically created solution for an exact task, and while synonymous with impromptu, it does not implicitly mean that it was done without forethought. As his eyes glazed over, I explained to him the connotations of the above-listed shocker and show-stopper, and re-established his attention.

My passion for words and grammar once again aflare, I decided to express my outrage by developing a new list of creative insults, which I have put in an easy-to-use table as follows:

The final act of the day came when I realized firstly that there were things on the internet I could be looking at, like grand works of philosophy, historical archives, and freely-viewable art from this century, and the many that have come before. Not to mention the endless cavalcade of drivel, memes, cats, and scantily-clad maidens for me to vacuously mull over. Literally anything but this. Secondly, I realized that there were five syllables in, “Is there Wi-Fi here?”

The next day was no less a treat than the last. This time my creative assault began with a desire to understand the mechanics of the spear. The spear is one of the simplest weapons imaginable, and the art form behind its use relies on geometry, angles of attack, and lines of defence. I was fascinated by the techniques of the spear, and of rapiers, which shared the similar simplicity of the thrust, and the angular defence. It wasn’t blood in the streets today, but an attempt at articulated design. I wanted to capture the essence of a battle in its scientific exactitude.

Then I decided to be completely immature, and come up with some names for my imaginary progressive rock band.

For those that can’t make out the childlike hieroglyphs of my handwriting, and shitty spelling, I’ll translate. My band may be called:

-        Digital Spudgun

-        Wonky Shocker’s Whacky Hackers

-        The Galah Gala

-        Gun Dog: The Wild Pug Slinger

-        Excel Bedsheets

-        Reality Czech

-        Funkier than Yo Monkey Bunch

-        Trans-Digital Acceptance

-        Consensual High-Five

-        Flogging Boxes

-        Critical Sass

Got to admit, it’s down to either Gun Dog, or Critical Sass.

The morning tea break was a well-deserved reward for listening to whatever the hell our presenter was reading from his fancy new Zenbook 13. I knew that we were in Sydney Harbour, and there was something special I needed to do before leaving town. My uncle was a seaman in the Royal Australian Navy during the Vietnam War, and his wit, sass, and outstanding storytelling have always been an inspiration to me. One of the ships he served on, along with 300 other Aussie sailors, was the HMAS Vampire. The Vampire, also known as The Batmobile, is a museum ship, docked in Sydney Harbour right now. I knew I wouldn’t get much of an opportunity, so I bolted for the door during the 15-minute tea break, and managed to look upon Vampire in all its glory.

Magnificent

Vampire was one of three Daring Class destroyers operated by Australia during The Cold War, and Ian Hunter served on it, and its sister the Vendetta. His stories of laughter, debauchery, and the horrors he witnessed down the telescopic sights, all contributed to the hero he is today, and I was thrilled to get the opportunity to see his ship, even if only for five minutes before sprinting back to the gulag for more slideshows.

Audamus!

Of course, one can’t experience that thrill without having the creative muscle scream to be flexed. While I’m no great artist, here’s my etching of the Vampire launching a spread of torpedoes. ‘Audamus!”

By this point, my journey into madness was all but complete. Without the open air of the harbour, or the majesty of my mistress, the Lamia of Sydney quay, I had no patience left for the discussion of legal implications of predatory salesmanship, or use of a person’s image. I wanted to ride the waves, or charge with a couched lance across the steppe. My patience concluded:

I'm sure he was a nice man, and deserved none of this.

But anger is the perfect fuel for the artist’s soul. When you feel like your exits are all closed, and your flame is choked by the lack of air and closed doors of the conference, it is time to let loose the blast furnace they’ve stoked in your chest. Draw, recite, sculpt, create:

Slightly corrected below:

Consume

Eat of the wholesome fruit of the digital vine

Chew on the open vein of the cloud-based throat

Sing of the bloated, black reticulated spline

Scream at the choking, user-preying garrotte

Like, comment, subscribe, share, promote

Take the pill, buy the house

Swipe, tap, wave, and die

Check in to the madhouse  

Consume, buy more, shut up, and buy

Okay, it’s borderline Vogon poetry, but what do you expect, I made it up while watching a PowerPoint on market share growth. Thus ended my descent into madness. I take a small amount of solace in the fact that I was far from alone. All around me were the bored, slack-jawed faces of those that consumed the data like folk drowning in plain air. I toured the aftermath of the battle between work and creativity, and took many autopsies of the fallen. Sculptures, etchings, inscriptions of the lost. These were the works I recorded, and that I now submit to you. When you find yourself yawning in a silent scream at conference, I hope you find your creative will to fight, and summon the energy of these works of art to your side:

Express, my dear colleagues, express your inner desires

I’d like to close by thanking my employers for all the effort they laid on in keeping our spirits high. This article was in jest, and good humour, and I genuinely respect how hard it is to keep parasitic employees like me entertained, and receptive to the info we need to work our jobs properly. Thanks for the memories.

Damn it feels good to be a Gansta