S.I. Newhouse, John Brunelle, and Condé Nast

S.I. Newhouse Jr. passed away last weekend at age 89. A titan in publishing, he was the Chairman of Condé Nast and the owner of The New Yorker, Vogue, Allure, GQ, Gourmet, Vanity Fair, Architectural Digest, and other magazines. He was also an extraordinary and generous man. I had the great pleasure and fortune to work for him for 20 years as Editor in Chief of Condé Nast’s Street & Smith’s Sports Group.

A shy man, Si (as he was known), in an interview with the New York Times in 1989, said, “I am not an editor. I flounder when people ask me, ‘What would you do?’”

Si had great trust in his editors, giving them the tools, the budget, and the support to do their jobs. He told the New York Times, “We feel almost that whichever way it goes, as long as it doesn’t do something absolutely screwy, you can build a magazine around the direction an editor takes.” Si surrounded himself and his editors, on the 14^th floor at 350 Madison Avenue, with smart, practical, plain-speaking, and decent executives.

Every year, about two weeks before Christmas, Si invited the company’s officers and the editors in chief and publishers of each of the Condé Nast magazines to a private lunch at the Four Seasons restaurant. A highlight was the heartfelt and gracious speech by Si in which he expressed his gratitude for the efforts of all those assembled. One year, CNP president Steve Florio passed along some inspirational words spoken by his grandmother, he told us, before she passed. “Tropo duro,” he said she whispered to him on her deathbed. “Stay tough.”

I came to Condé Nast in February 1979 from New York magazine after a former colleague, Kevin Madden, had left New York as advertising manager a month earlier to join Condé Nast's newest start-up, Self magazine. Kevin told me that Condé Nast was looking for a new editor for its sports division. (Wait, Condé Nast published sports magazines? It was a successful if not well-publicized property among the company's more glamorous titles.) Kevin's tip led to a first interview at CNP, which went well enough that corporate secretary and vice president of personnel Pam Van Zandt called me back for a second interview before offering me the job.

I loved working at Condé Nast, where the editors were respected and appreciated for their work and treated generously. I was given a raise every single year for over 20 years. Not once had I ever asked for one. How it happened was, my boss, executive vice president John Brunelle, would call or drop me a note during Christmas week. “Are you in the office tomorrow?” he would ask. “Stop by and see me. I need to talk to you.” The talk would be to inform me that I was being given a raise.

John passed away last year. What a patient and understanding boss he was, and what a forgiving and unforgettable mentor and gentleman he was to a young editor. 

In 1983, when I was in the process of selling my first house and closing on another, I was informed that Condé Nast historically, if not publicly, made available loans to its editors and publishers. I went to see John. After I sat down in his office, he pressed a button under his desk to release the door held open by a magnet. I felt like I had entered Ali Baba’s cave. I asked him about the possibility of securing a bridge loan. 

Without hesitating, he said, “Sure. How much do you need?” When I told him $19,500, he asked if it would be convenient for me to pick up the check the next morning. All that was required of me was my signature acknowledging receipt of the check. There would be no interest on the loan and no payment-due date. “Pay it back when you can,” John said. That was typical of my relationship with him. The few times I met with John in his office over what I perceived to be a press emergency, he listened carefully, quickly assessed the situation, and leaned back in his chair. “It’s all going to happen,” he said cheerfully, taking a puff on his cigar. 

It’s all going to happen? I repeated to myself. Yes, and it’s all going to be bad, I thought. But it never was. Much later, I realized what he meant by that. He had complete confidence that I would take whatever steps necessary and spend however much time and effort it took to avert the crisis. He was right. Years later, at a retirement party thrown for John at Michael’s restaurant in New York City, I mentioned the meeting and John’s calm response to my agitation to his wife and daughter. “Oh, he was always telling us that, too,” they said. 

Rest in peace, John and Si.