Call me Doctor: Edwin H. Land

Edwin H. Land WAS Polaroid. It was his very impressive sand box and he could do just as he pleased, which is what eventually got the company in a lot of trouble. But this was 1957 and the photo is from the annual report. Polaroid Corporation reported gross sales of $48,043,000 (up from $34M the year before, and almost twice that of 1955 at $26,421,000 when I first met Stan Calderwood and began freelancing the account.)

Land was called Dr. Land by all who worked at Polaroid but it was a complimentary title. He had not earned a doctorate of any kind at this time, though later he may have been the recipient of many honorary degrees. This is not to denegrate his importance as one of the country's great scientists and inventors, but it seemed a bit much on this side of the Atlantic. I'm not aware that he was ever heard to say, "For goodness sake, stop calling me Doctor." There is a lot of biographical material on Edwin Herbert Land on Google, Yahoo and other search engines for those who wish to read more about his accomplishments. I would also recommend books about Land by Peter C. Wensberg: Land's Polaroid, Houghton Mifflin, 1987; and Victor K. McElheny: Insisting on the Impossible, Perseus Publishing, 1998.

I met Land on a couple of rare occasions. Once I sat in on a meeting with him and the art director of Scientific American magazine. They appeared to agree that the colors one would see on the moon would differ from the colors we perceive here on earth. I've often wondered how they reconciled the photos from the moon that we all saw on television a decade later.

On a social occasion, we met again while attending the wedding of a Polaroid product manager. As Land was taking photos with a previously under-wraps SX-70 camera, a cheeky female guest was heard to ask, "Do you suppose it will work?" Nobody laughed. Edwin H. Land did not appear to be overly amused.

Robert C. Casselman was Polaroid's Vice President of Sales in 1957. (Stan Calderwood reported to him.) Bob had movie star good looks and a pleasant demeanor, and though he could be very difficult, I didn't have any trouble from him because I don't think he knew exactly what I was up to. Stan was great at office politics and probably assured him that I was a very affordable expense. Bob came to Polaroid from Lever Brothers which sold soap products, the most famous of which was Lifebuoy, heavily advertised in print and radio and claiming to prevent B.O. Unfortunately, Lever was comfortable with advertising of a heavy-handed kind. The entire Lever Brothers Cambridge operation moved out one day, stranding many talented advertising and sales people who found employment in Boston and elsewhere. In Bob Casselman's case it was in the same Cambridge neighborhood. It was obvious to all that Stan Calderwood chafed at his role as underling and wanted Bob's job. It didn't take long for that to happen. The photo is from Polaroid's Annual Report for 1957.

Stanford M. Calderwood's smile is all about my presenting him with a framed photo of an orangutan that I tore out of a photography magazine. I know that he saw himself as the orangutan pictured, but he was really a pussycat -- as long as he felt you could deliver what you promised. Stan was, without question, the best client I ever had. I'm certain that it resulted in the best work I have ever done.

Stan told me that he had been a commo officer on a cruiser during World War II. I believe it was the U.S.S. Minneapolis (CA-36). He had been through some harrowing action in the Pacific as his ship was repeatedly attacked by Kamikaze pilots. When the war was finally over and the "Minnie" safely docked in a Chinese port, he cut orders for himself that allowed him to travel in northern China. He was very proud of this escapade.

Earlier, after receiving his commission as an ensign, he reported for training at Harvard where a wartime radio school was conducted by Dave Garroway, who later became the first host of NBC's Today show.

In the early 1950s, he achieved local fame in New England as a reporter when he scooped all the competing papers with a confession by Dr. Herman Sanders, who had hastened the death of one of his terminally ill patients. This was the first case of euthanasia to make national headlines. He worked for the Manchester Union-Leader, then United Press, freelancing photojournalism when and where he could.

Stan arrived at Polaroid after a stint in public realtions at a local utility, Eastern Gas.

"Well," you say indignantly, "It takes a lot of chutzpah to include yourself among those heavy hitters."

You're right, I agree. However, I would like to make a point. I began with nothing more than white paper and some typewritten words supplied me, and that's why I should get included in the lineup. Up until that time none of these executives, perhaps with the exception of Calderwood, had done much of any consequence or commercial value with the freedom they had to create something that would establish Polaroid as a visible brand in the marketplace. Therefore, I take the liberty of including myself, admittedly batting at the bottom of the lineup to be sure, but as a player on a team that was itself at the bottom of the photographic products league, if we can continue the baseball metaphor.

Within a year two more rookies were added to the roster. Bill Field and Peter Wensberg. Actually, Bill had already been working as a copywriter for Stan Calderwood's assistant ad guy, whom he recruited from CBS, Jim Rosenfield. I recruited Peter from the Boston publisher, Little, Brown. (More about these talented guys as the plot thickens.)

With Stan Calderwood calling the plays, it soon became as good a team as a company as clueless as Polaroid in 1958 had any right to expect.