Legacy, layoffs & the Etch-A-Sketch

((shake and erase))

Ten years ago this week, the news outlet where I worked threw its own Red Wedding, a “total bloodbath” of layoffs that slashed 70 staffers before lunchtime, myself included.

Much has changed in the world since then, but jobless journalists are still in style. Many have examined the legacy of a newspaper that, back in 1982, looked remarkably like a website. I also think about legacy, only not so much about media brands as the talented, tenacious (and mostly low-paid) folks who built them. What happens to journalists forced to leave their jobs without a goodbye? Who preserves their work after the publications crumble? And what about the people who made an instant, yet impermanent, impact on the internet — will they have a legacy at all?

With these things in mind (plus toys!), I wrote the piece below.

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THE ETCH-A-SKETCH

Before the internet, my career was measured in column inches.

André Cassagnes was supposed to be a baker.

Everything I wrote – every profile, review, obit, news item – had to be as succinct as possible, with few adjectives and zero adverbs (because adverbs are for amateurs). I wrote knowing that my last few paragraphs might be cut for space, and that if bigger news broke it could be pushed to the next day or cut altogether.

His parents owned a bakery near Paris, but a flour allergy prevented André from following in their footsteps.

When I started writing for the web, it was like getting keys to a mansion – which we can now call a five-story, gold-plated 18th century mansion, because that’s what online writing did: It gave back our adjectives.

So he became an electrician.

As a columnist and, later, a blogger for a major news website, I wrote millions of words. Sometimes I’d dash off a quick two hundred on a topic, and other times I let myself run into the thousands. I wrote endings to stories. I wrote pieces knowing they’d be published on a Tuesday, without worrying they’d be bumped to Friday. I published long Q&As and music video premieres and recommendations of weird indie bands and films and comics that would never fly on paper.

When André was in his early 30s, he was installing a light switch plate when he noticed his pencil markings transferred from one side of the plate’s clear covering to the other. 

Today, almost none of my work still exists.

This gave him an idea.

The most painful thing about my former career as an early blogger, online journalist, or whatever you want to call me is that it wasn’t archived.

In 1959 André debuted a prototype for a toy that allowed kids to “draw” with aluminum powder. He called it L’Ecran Magique, or “Magic Screen.”

You’d think a large mainstream publication would take measures to ensure its digital stories were preserved – and today, most do – but for myself and many of my colleagues, much of our work has vanished.

What made the screen magical was that, with just a few quick shakes, the user’s drawing would disappear. 

I chalk this up to the newness of the medium, high staff turnover, and more focus being placed on the “now” instead of the decades to come. I also wonder if part of this oversight had to do with the age divide in many newsrooms – older staffers who understood the importance of archiving work didn’t have the tech know-how to do it, while younger ones like myself could barely grasp life a week ahead, never mind for generations. 

An American manufacturer, Ohio Art, bought the rights to André’s invention for $25,000. By 1960, it was sold in the U.S. with a new name: the Etch-A-Sketch.

It saddens me to think about all of the thoughts and quotes and experiences I typed in my twenties and thirties that have been lost to time.  

The Etch-A-Sketch was an instant, massive hit.

Search my name on the internet today, and you’ll find recent social media posts or whatever I’ve done in the last six months or so.

Over the years, variations on the Etch-A-Sketch tried to capture people’s attention: an electronic version, a color version, one you could hook up to a TV screen. But none outperformed the original.

It’s almost as if my younger self doesn’t exist online. 

Eventually, adult Etch-A-Sketch enthusiasts discovered it was possible to preserve their artwork by opening the back of the toy and removing the aluminum powder.

I try to tell myself that it doesn’t matter, that I’m still a writer even if most of my writing is gone. Didn’t Kafka burn 90% of what he wrote in his lifetime? Besides, most people have ephemeral jobs. It’s a luxury to be able to look back in detail.

A brief appearance by an Etch-A-Sketch in the film “Toy Story” boosted sales so much that Ohio Art could barely keep up with demand. After appearing in “Toy Story 2,” so many Etch-A-Sketches were sold that the film was credited with saving the struggling toy company. 

But the truth is, it does matter, and even writing about it now puts a knot in my stomach. If nothing else, it certainly taught me a lesson that I’ve lived out in various ways ever since: 

André Cassagnes never stopped inventing and later became one of the most respected kite designers in the world. He died in 2013 at age 86, leaving behind his wife and three children. 

Save everything.

Today, more than 100 million Etch-A-Sketch toys have been sold worldwide.

Don’t let it disappear.

• More essays in this series: Andy Warhol | The Red Carpet | LOST | Elizabeth Taylor

• Buy my book of short fiction, TRUDY SELLOUT

Email: whitmath@gmail.com | Insta: @thewhitneymatheson