EDITOR'S LETTER

We're not supposed to say goodbye, because goodbye, in the words of J.M. Barrie, means going away, and going away means forgetting. That won't happen with us, though. To forget Barb would be like forgetting the sound of children laughing. Or the smell of fresh-baked bread. Or how to breathe. We'll never forget, but we're not ready to say goodbye yet, either. It came on too soon.

On the masthead, Barbara Glynn Denney is listed as our creative director. And she is for one more issue. But she's also our den mother, our fulcrum and our favorite subject. She's the atomic nucleus of the editorial department. And we swirl around her like electrons. We even eat lunch outside her office door. At a long, narrow mass of Formica called la table d'art. Barb named it. At some point before I showed up. I don't know if she's fluent in French, or if she even speaks the language, but she drops in a few French phrases every now and then. And she definitely knows the difference between a Château Lafite Rothschild and Two-Buck Chuck. I suppose I should have asked her about her love for the language of love. I've had plenty of time. This is our 151st issue together we've been making music longer than The Beatles. There wouldn't have been any collaboration at all, however, if it weren't for Barb.

When I was being considered for the role of editor, our publisher at the time thought it would be a good idea to get the endorsement of the magazine's creative director. So Barb and I met for breakfast at Park Central Mall in Phoenix, at a place called The Good Egg. It was a blind date. To test our chemistry. I don't remember too much about the conversation. There was small talk, which got even smaller when she told me about her minivan it was pushing 200,000 miles. We must have talked about editorial philosophy, too, but I can't be sure. More than anything, I remember being drawn to her. And thinking: She seems so normal. I've never worked with a designer who wasn't a hardened nonconformist. I wonder if she's any good.

The answer came quickly. Barb is the best. The very best. And Arizona Highways has been the beneficiary of her tremendous talent for a long time.

Her rhythmic name first appeared in the magazine as “deputy art director” in June 1996. She says she didn't work on that issue. Or the next one. But in August 1996, she designed the front cover and the cover story, a piece about rafting the Grand Canyon. It's a beautiful layout with a dozen images, clean lines, nice type treatment and just enough white space. Her debut was impressive. Like Eva Marie Saint in On the Waterfront.

After making her mark in that August issue, there were hundreds of covers and layouts, several redesigns, and a minivan full of national magazine awards. What's more, her tenure in the art department is second only to that of the legendary George Avey.

As a percentage, I've had the privilege of partnering with Barb on more than half of her 285 issues. And that's what an editor/creative director relationship is. It's a partnership. Or maybe it's more like a marriage, where, over time, you learn to finish each other's sentences. Barb and I have that. She's masterful at extracting the abstract thoughts from the right side of my brain and turning them into magazines. I've been blessed. And spoiled. I worry about life without her, even though I know we'll be in good hands — great hands — when Keith Whitney assumes the throne in March.

Nevertheless, what does a magazine look like without its atomic nucleus? My French forebears used to say that it's the destiny of glass to break. I think it's true of hearts, too. This sad goodbye is evidence. There are broken pieces scattered all around the editorial department. And beyond.

In The Coral Island, one of my favorite books as a boy, R.M. Ballantyne wrote: “To part is the lot of all mankind. The world is a scene of constant leave-taking, and the hands that grasp in cordial greeting today, are doomed ere long to unite for the last time, when the quivering lips pronounce the word ‘farewell.’”

It came on too soon, but I guess it's time. Au revoir, Madame Glynn Denney. Nous t'aimons.