The Machine
By 2007, I’d moved from recruiting into crewing and scheduling on the artist management team. In recruiting, I’d been the first face people saw coming in. Now I was the face of the machine when decisions landed on them.
Spider-Man 3 was the center of gravity. Cutting-edge VFX against a hard delivery date. Things were being invented on that show that turned out to require months of render time. Time that didn’t exist.
The schedule responded the only way it knew how.
8-hour days became 10. Then 12. Five days a week became six. Then seven. Every top mind from every show got pulled in to find solutions.
Meanwhile, fully CG shows in the same building were running normal hours. Two realities under one roof.
Artists cried in my office. Their spouses were going to leave them if they didn’t stop working late. Animators showed me photos of their kids like I was the one who decided if they stayed or went.
I wasn’t. But I was the face they saw.
The Moment
One morning I sat in a meeting about headcount. We were figuring out who to keep and who to let go as shows wound down.
I asked about a veteran animator. I’d grown up watching movies he worked on. He was between projects, but we had something coming up that could use him.
I got approval to keep him in “wait mode.” Take your PTO now, we’ll bring you back when the next show ramps up. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a path forward.
I found him and delivered the news. I remember his face. Relief.
A few hours later, I heard his department head had let him go.
I found the guy and asked what happened. “You told me this morning we’d keep him around. I told him he was safe.”
He agreed that’s what he said that morning.
Then he added: “Things change.”
I left in 2007.
Some of the team I’d worked with over the years stopped by to say goodbye. They asked where I was going.
“I’m going to be a Web Producer.”
They looked confused. “Like, Spider-Man?”
Years later, I ran into that animator. I told him what happened that day was the reason I left. I told him I was sorry.
He looked at me with a somewhat confused expression. Like he couldn’t understand why I’d been holding onto it for so long.
“It’s ok,” he said. “That’s the industry.”
What I Learned
Imageworks was one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. I loved the people. I still do.
But the industry creates impossible situations. Facilities pass studio pressure down to artists. And somewhere in those five years, I learned something about myself.
I work hard. I can take the hits. But I couldn’t stay in an industry that, as much as I still love it, put me in a position that compromised my integrity.
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