Date: July 2, 1985
The first article appeared in the New York Herald Tribune, a two-column piece buried on page sixteen. It carried the headline: Student Incorporates Ambitious Cultural Venture. The tone was skeptical but not dismissive, noting Julian's age, Wentworth's involvement, and the whispers of private patrons.
Julian read it at dawn, leaning against the dormitory window as light crept over the Hudson. The words were tentative, probing. Yet even in their skepticism, they carried something valuable: visibility.
The Mind Internet flickered open. In the Current Section, he skimmed other papers—the Times, Business Week, Architectural Digest. Most had not yet picked up the story, but he saw drafts in the editorial queues, half-written paragraphs awaiting approval. They were fascinated by youth, intrigued by boldness, uncertain whether to frame him as visionary or naive.
In the Frozen Section he pulled examples from the past: old clippings of Bill Gates described as a "boy tycoon," early write-ups of Steve Jobs and Wozniak as "garage inventors." Each had been treated with a mix of awe and doubt before the world took them seriously.
Julian smiled faintly. The pattern was clear. If he fed the right story, doubt would become curiosity, and curiosity would become investment.
---
Sophia was the first to react, arriving with the newspaper folded under her arm. "We can manage this," she said briskly. "But you must be careful. One misplaced word and they will turn curiosity into ridicule. At sixteen, you're a novelty, not yet a figure of authority."
Julian nodded. "That will change. Novelty is the spark. Authority is the fire."
Marcus frowned when he joined them, ledger under his arm as always. "The press won't pay the bills. Investors may enjoy seeing their names in the papers, but the kiln doesn't burn on clippings."
Julian tapped the article lightly. "Publicity is currency. Investors don't buy numbers—they buy the story numbers tell. If we give them headlines, they will give us capital."
Mira, listening from the workbench, cut in sharply. "And what about us? What about the apprentices? They came for clay, for art. Now every sketch feels like a press release. Are we building structures, or stories?"
Julian turned to her calmly. "Stories are structures, Mira. Without them, even cathedrals are forgotten. What we create must be remembered as well as built."
She shook her head, unconvinced, but did not argue further.
---
By the following week, more articles appeared. The Times ran a feature calling Julian "The Young Architect of Ambition," half-flattering, half-mocking. Business Week ran a sidebar on "youthful ventures" lumping him with college inventors tinkering in garages.
Sophia's legal instincts sharpened. She insisted on reviewing every statement Julian made, drafting careful language for interviews. "If you want longevity, you must avoid scandal," she warned. "No exaggeration, no false promises."
Julian complied outwardly, but inwardly he shaped his own narrative, borrowing from the Frozen Section. He studied the rhetorical strategies of leaders who had faced skeptical media and turned it into a weapon.
At an informal press meet, when asked if he was "too young to run a corporation," Julian replied smoothly: "If age alone built nations, Rome would still stand. Vision builds. Age follows."
The line made the evening news. Reporters laughed, then quoted it. The apprentices repeated it in whispers, half proud, half bewildered.
---
The attention brought more than headlines—it brought invitations. One came from a talk show host who specialized in "oddities of the city." Another from a cultural magazine seeking photographs of the workshop. Sophia vetoed the talk show but approved the magazine. "Images we can control. Live questions we cannot."
Marcus objected, muttering about distractions from real work, but Julian overruled him. "Public image is as much a foundation stone as balance sheets. We cannot hide in shadows and expect to shape the world."
The photoshoot was arranged in the workshop. Apprentices posed with clay molds, Mira glared at the camera until coaxed into smiling, and Julian stood at the center, jacket carefully chosen, posture deliberate. The magazine's photographer muttered about "a boy who looks like he's already running a boardroom."
The resulting spread appeared weeks later under the title: The Workshop That Thinks Like a Company. Patrons clipped it, investors sent polite notes of approval, and the apprentices showed it to their families.
Mira alone frowned at her copy, muttering, "They didn't photograph the clay. Just the faces."
Julian overheard. "Faces are what the world remembers. The clay will follow."
The flood began quietly, then with force. After the first magazine spread, reporters who had once ignored the workshop now called Sophia's office daily. Some wanted quick quotes, others asked for long features. A few were even bold enough to demand interviews with the apprentices.
Sophia fielded them like a fencer, parrying with polite refusals, granting only what advanced their control. "No apprentice speaks without my approval," she said firmly. "And Julian never speaks alone."
Julian accepted the condition, though he knew he did not need her to anticipate questions. The Mind Internet prepared him better than any media coach could. In the Frozen Section, he drew from transcripts of early Gates interviews, where youth was turned into novelty. In the Current Section, he saw the rising appetite in 1985 for "boy geniuses," stories that sold papers as much as they attracted capital.
He began to craft his own lines, each one shaped for repetition:
"The past builds the present; we are building the future."
"We are not making products; we are building permanence."
"If you think sixteen is too young for a company, wait until you see what eighteen will bring."
The journalists devoured them. Every line was quoted, reprinted, and occasionally mocked, but mockery too was oxygen.
---
Marcus grew more uneasy with every headline. One evening he slapped a stack of clippings on the table. "Do you see this? You've become a circus act. Every day another article, another photograph, but the balance sheets don't change. We're still scraping for clay and paying rent late."
Julian studied the papers calmly. "The circus attracts crowds. Crowds attract patrons. Patrons bring money."
Marcus jabbed a finger at the red lines in his ledger. "Not fast enough. We need working capital, not applause."
Sophia interjected. "The two are linked, Marcus. The more visible we are, the easier it is to negotiate funding. Investors like safety in numbers, and publicity creates the illusion of safety."
Marcus scowled. "Illusion won't pay salaries."
Julian's reply was colder. "Illusion pays first. Reality follows."
---
Mira's protests grew sharper too. She watched apprentices fussing over their poses for photographers, polishing tools for aesthetics rather than work. One afternoon she snapped at Julian across the workshop.
"They didn't come here to be props! They came to learn design, to shape clay, to see their hands build. Now every gesture is staged for cameras. You've turned them into mannequins."
Julian stopped at the center of the room, letting silence gather before he spoke. "Do you think the builders of cathedrals were not staged? Every arch was a display for patrons. Every gargoyle a performance. What matters is not the camera but the permanence of what is built."
Mira's jaw tightened. "And what if the cameras become the point? What if nothing is left but paper and photographs?"
"Then we correct course," Julian said evenly. "But if no one sees what we build, it dies in obscurity. I will not allow obscurity."
The apprentices listened, torn. Some nodded at Julian's authority. Others glanced uneasily toward Mira, their loyalty divided.
---
The tension crystallized during a visit from a Business Week journalist. He asked bluntly, "Are you building a company, or a publicity machine?"
Julian felt the Mind Internet hum. In the Frozen Section, he recalled a Jobs interview where Apple was accused of being "just marketing." Jobs had replied with a smile: "Marketing is what you call it before the world catches up."
Julian reshaped the line. "Publicity is what you call it before the structure rises. Every empire begins as a story."
The journalist smirked but scribbled it down. Days later, the line appeared in print. Mira groaned when she saw it, but the apprentices repeated it proudly, as if it were scripture.
---
The attention reached beyond New York. Letters arrived from Chicago, Boston, even London, written in neat cursive or typed on old machines. Some offered praise, others skepticism, a few tentative proposals of partnership.
Sophia catalogued them meticulously. "Half of this is noise," she told Julian. "But the other half contains potential donors. We must respond strategically."
Julian skimmed the letters, cross-referencing names with the Current Section. Many were minor players, but a few carried weight—trustees of museums, heirs of industrial fortunes, academics with sway in cultural institutions.
"Respond to all," Julian instructed. "Generosity in attention costs nothing. We will sort value later."
Marcus muttered, "And who pays the postage?"
Julian answered without looking up, "The same people who will one day pay for our headquarters."
---
As July deepened, the workshop transformed. Once a place of clay dust and quiet study, it now buzzed with phone calls, meetings, and visitors. Apprentices balanced their studies with demonstrations for journalists. Marcus juggled ledgers with increasing frustration. Sophia spent more time drafting contracts than in courtrooms.
And Julian stood at the center, calm as stone. Each day he read the papers, consulted the Frozen Section for precedent, the Current Section for tone, and adjusted their story like an architect adjusting scaffolding.
To outsiders, Vanderford Group looked like a curiosity on the rise. To Julian, it was exactly what it needed to be: a seed breaking the soil, fragile but visible.
The real test came when The New York Times requested a formal interview. It was no small feature tucked in a cultural magazine—it was the paper of record. Sophia's hands tightened on the letter as she handed it to Julian.
"This is dangerous," she said plainly. "Every word will be dissected. If you slip, they'll paint you as a pretender. We can decline."
Julian shook his head. "Declining makes us small. Accepting makes us inevitable."
Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Inevitable bankruptcy, maybe. Every headline adds weight to expectations we can't afford."
Julian looked at him coolly. "Then we will afford them. Perception shapes capital. If they believe we are inevitable, the money will come."
---
The interview took place in the workshop itself. The journalist, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes, asked questions without small talk.
"Why a corporation at sixteen?"
Julian replied, "Because vision does not wait for birthdays. Law recognizes structure, not candles on a cake."
The journalist scribbled. "What are you building, exactly? Clay? Architecture? A business? No one seems to agree."
Julian felt the Mind Internet guide him. The Frozen Section whispered lessons from Carnegie and Ford; the Current Section showed him the journalist's own prior articles, always skeptical of youthful ambition. He shaped his words accordingly.
"We are building permanence," Julian said steadily. "Clay today, architecture tomorrow, research centers after that. One day, even space. The material changes, but the purpose remains—to endure."
The journalist raised a brow. "And the money?"
Julian smiled faintly. "Money is fuel. Legacy is the destination. You do not remember the coal that fired the train—you remember where it arrived."
When the interview was published, the headline read: The Boy Who Thinks in Centuries. It was mocking, yet unforgettable. Patrons clipped it. Investors underlined it. Apprentices whispered it like a prophecy.
---
That evening, the group gathered in the dormitory to read the article aloud. Marcus shook his head. "You've just promised centuries, Julian. Do you realize what kind of expectations that creates?"
Julian answered calmly, "The higher the expectation, the greater the fear of missing out. Investors would rather overpay for a seat at the table than risk being left outside."
Mira crossed her arms. "And what about us? What about culture? If everything becomes headlines, where does the art live?"
Julian met her eyes. "The art will live in the buildings we raise, in the systems we design. The headlines are only the scaffolding."
Sophia, uncharacteristically, allowed herself a small smile. "Scaffolding strong enough, Julian, becomes architecture itself."
Julian nodded once. "Then we build the scaffolding so well that one day it becomes the tower."
---
Later that night, alone, Julian turned to the Frozen Section again. He reviewed the history of media empires—Hearst, Murdoch, the networks that had shaped entire nations by controlling words and images. In the Current Section, he watched how television, newspapers, and magazines fought for attention in 1985, sensing the tremors of change to come.
He closed his notebook with a decision. If stories built empires, then he would not merely use the media. He would own it. Vanderford Group would not depend on journalists' curiosity forever. One day, the stories would come from his own presses, his own cameras, his own networks.
The spotlight had found him. Soon, he would build the stage.
---