I learned yesterday of the passing of a great friend, Jimi Black. As one of my first design mentors, I wanted to remember all of the great things about this strange, bizarre, and awesome guiding light that hugely influenced and shaped who am I today.
Right out of school I got a freelance job at a boutique agency outside of Philadelphia. The owner did business with my mom’s company, I got a break because of the connection—to put it simply, my design chops were lacking. My first day there, I remember seeing this long-haired, little guy in a hockey jersey rampaging through the office throwing things around and screaming at everyone. “Who’s that?”, I asked one of the other designers. “Oh, that’s Jimi. He’s the Art Director.”, they replied. Oh shit.
Later that day I decided to go up and introduce myself. I think the first thing he said to me was, “Hey, man.” Behind his desk was probably some Batman stuff and a vinyl model kit of some sort. I was like, “Oh, cool!” He just kind of looked at me out of the corner of his eyes and said, “Uh huh.” As he was critically sizing me up I could see that he was giving me the benefit of the doubt. You see, at the time I had long hair too. Guys with long hair are in this unspoken club. When they pass each other on the street they’ll nod to each other and say, “yo.” It’s a cool-until-proven-uncool thing. Somehow I passed his test. The next minute we were friends. And he took me under his wing.
As a mediocre designer, the first gift I got from Jimi was his believing in me. He spoke me like I was a seasoned professional, he gave me great direction, and he treated me like I was his equal even though he was ten years my senior. He saw my potential. He wanted me to succeed. Years later, when my skills had matured, he would shower me with compliments every chance he got. He could stare the worst situation in the face and see the potential. He was the type of guy that would walk into a room of horse shit and say, “So, where’s my new horse?!!”
Jimi also opened my eyes and got me to look at things in different ways. I remember seeing this video tape on his desk of this crap B-movie, Dinosaur Island. I picked it up with a laugh. He was like, “Oh. Man. You have to see this!” I watched it, and sure enough it was a crap B-movie. When I returned it to him he had wide eyes and a smile and said, “It was great, right!” It wasn’t a question. In that moment, the guilty pleasure, the base fun of the movie hit me — I became a B-movie fan on the spot. Jimi didn’t lower my taste in movies, he expanded my tastes. The more you expose yourself to the things in life, the more you open yourself to concepts and ideas, the more possibilities life presents you.
The bold type and exclamation marks here aren’t to indicate that Jimi was a peppy guy. They represent the passion and intensity that he declared things. They were often said in a half-whisper.
You see, Jimi could find the beauty in anything. As anyone of his friends could tell you, he loved women. All women. He didn’t discriminate. Whenever a woman would walk by, any woman, he would say, “Oh. My. God. Did you see her?!” He always found something positive to say. Yes, his comments were often lewd, but not always. That was another great thing about Jimi, he didn’t edit. He wasn’t afraid to express his thoughts.
And when Jimi loved something, he loved it. He had such a childlike enthusiasm, that when we all exchanged gifts for Christmas, Jimi would always get the most. Everyone loved seeing him explode with joy. You could tell that everyone would make mental notes throughout the year to find something that Jimi didn’t have, which was tough because he had everything. That’s because Jimi loved to shop—more than any woman I’ve ever met. We would go on these marathon shopping sprees when he would visit me in NYC. “Would you look at that!”, he would exclaim about a Gundam model or a Batmobile, “I’ve got to have that!” Jimi had hundreds of Gundams and Batmobiles. His passion never wained about the things he loved, and they were many. It was exhilarating to be around energy like that. He helped me tap into all those childhood loves, to bring back that pure untainted energy, to turn up the volume on the things that made me, me. And to not be self-conscious of what people thought of that.
In fact, I remember one of my first visits to one of his “lairs”. He had this loft-like apartment that was littered with drawing tables, art supplies, boxes of comic books, dozens of vinyl model kits in production, stacks of horror and sci-fi video tapes, a 3’ Godzilla. I hadn’t seen anything so cool until I saw his next place. There he had showcases with Terminator skulls, lightsabers, dozens of other movie props and model kits. There was a shrine build to KISS, with these massive action figures. A huge posterized Alice Cooper print with neon that he created. He had a bookcase on hinges (Batman-style) that would open up to reveal his cavernous video collection. When you went to Jimi-land you never wanted to leave. It was the kind of place that as a kid you could only dream of having. It was even better as an adult. I remember hours of hanging out watching UFO TV shows, talking about vampires, design, comic books, or his sword collection. And you never left Jimi’s place without a video in hand that he declared you just had to see.
The best part was that Jimi channeled all this passion into businesses for himself. He started a magazine for model kits and collectibles, designed model kits, and clothing lines. He eventually started his own collectible company. These projects would have wicked-cool names and tag lines that Jimi would present to you with a dramatic flair. They also came with beautifully designed, hand-drawn logos. Whens the last time you saw a hand-drawn logo? It’s a lost art. There was always some type of work in progress in Jimi’s workshop. His entrepreneurial drive and relentless creative energy fueled my own. He was the primary inspiration for the magazine I started, d8. And hugely influential in the creation of my first design studio, Dreamless Studios.
He never made good money with these ventures, but that never stopped him. I would sometimes urge him to move on to jobs that paid better, but was jealous at the same time. Jimi was uncompromising. He always stuck to his guns. And always approached his next venture with optimism and enthusiasm. It was impossible to not be infected with his enthusiasm. It was impossible not to aspire to these traits.
At the end of the day, all this stuff Jimi had in his lairs was about his friends. He bought it all, dreamed it up, and built it so that his friends would have a place to hang out, surrounded by cool stuff—a place to just relax, or be amazingly inspired for your next creative project.
There’s of course so many more memories and great things about Jimi. I could probably fill a book. More of them will probably find their way into this blog over time.
I’ll end with just one more.
I remember going out to see Seven with Jimi. Neither of us knew what to expect with the movie titles. After they were done he was like, “Aw man! We can like leave now.” I’m glad he’s the one I saw that with.
At my wedding someone came up to me and whispered, “So who’s the guy with the cowboy boots and the fangs?”
“That’s my buddy Jimi.”
I miss you buddy.
