Photo by Regina Garcia

Paul Wallace passed away on July 8, devastating many in the ad industry.

The former DDB ECD was a history graduate of McGill University, changing career paths a couple of times before landing in advertising.

He worked for various ad agencies, but spent much of his career at DDB, a total of 17 years. Over the course of his career, Wallace won 199 international industry awards including several Cannes Lions and Clios.

According to his obituary, “Life took a tumble just prior to the Covid pandemic and the general decline of the industry. This took him into freelance work but he missed the team spirit of the agencies and the opportunity to take projects from conception to product delivery.”

Several of his friends and colleagues wrote in with memories (compiled by Melanie Johnston, CMO at The Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation) of the charismatic creative.

Domenique Raso

I was a lowly intern when I first met Paul at DDB, but during the five-plus years I was lucky enough to spend under his tutelage, I learned so much. Here are just a few of the lessons that stand out:

Never stop creating

When I started working with Paul, he’d rush home after work most nights, eager to finish up a book he was writing about his life. This happened for about six months straight. One day I finally asked him how his book was going, to which he casually replied: “Oh, I finished that a while ago.” “Will you publish it?” I asked. “Nah.” He had simply written a book just for the sake of writing a book, never speaking of it again before moving on to his next creative venture. Producing a satirical music album on a whim after teaching himself Garage Band. Taking up watercolour painting so he could create adorable portraits of his beloved brussels griffon, Crumpet. Photoshopping said dog into humourous and offbeat situations, like winning a race against Usain Bolt or dressed as the IKEA monkey, garnering an Instagram following of thousands and international BuzzFeed acclaim. And a personal favourite: “Porn: The Musical” about a washed-up porn star trying to make his comeback, complete with bangers like the opening act “Rock Hard” and the gentle piano ballad “I’ve Gone Soft.” The point is, Paul was always, always creating. His energy and passion towards every project was inspiring, if not concerning. Did he ever sleep? I honestly don’t think so.

Commit to the bit

More than anything, Paul loved a good bit. His vibrant blue Adidas tracksuit and headband. His collection of assorted Costa Rica trucker hats. His tendency to walk around the office menacingly wielding a golf club, which he would smack down on the desk of anyone who was oblivious enough to challenge him. While these small eccentricities may sound like the workings of a mad man, most of us looked forward to his next bit. They added colour to our day. They made working with him fun. Which brings me to:

Advertising should be fun

Paul understood better than anyone that we aren’t in the business of saving lives. He managed to strike that perfect balance between making every day hilarious, and somehow incredibly productive as well. Everyone loved working with Paul. Not only was he insanely talented and great with the clients, but he made every meeting, shoot and phone call infinitely more interesting. In fact, if Paul was attending his own funeral, I’d have no doubt that he’d be in the back row, cracking jokes about himself to whoever was unfortunate/lucky enough to sit beside him. He could never resist an offhand comment.

Lead by doing

But it wasn’t all fun and games: Paul was an extremely hard worker too. When learning of his passing, one former colleague recounted: “I remember we would have a presentation due in the morning and it would be a total mess, but Paul would have quietly stayed up until 3 a.m. polishing it up, then send it through by 10 a.m. and not say a word. After that he’d go back to his office and kick back in his matching warm up suit and headband.” Yup, that was Paul: quietly getting things done, while never wanting the credit. Unless he was blatantly yelling at you about how brilliant he was. Honestly, he was a bit of an oxymoron. 

Don’t wait to tell people how much they mean to you

The morning before I found out about Paul’s passing, I thought of him for the first time in a very long time. I secretly hoped he would freelance at the agency where I worked. I had the exact thing I would say to him lined up for the next time we ran into each other. I could picture him giving his sheepish Paul grin when I said it, not missing a beat before firing back with his own witty quip. I, of course, took for granted that there would be a next time. Which leads me to the final lesson I’ve learned from Paul: If you’re lucky enough to still have a Paul in your life, don’t wait for fate to meet up with them again. Call them. Tell them you love them. Let them know how much of an impact they had on your life. Go for that drink, no matter how exhausted you are. I promise, you’ll never regret it.

Dave Ross

Paul and I were creative partners for almost 20 years. With advertising being what it is, we spent a lot of time together. We were practically a married couple. To this day, he’s still my longest committed relationship.

We were total opposites, but I think that’s what made us work. I learned a lot from him and I’m grateful for the partnership we had. I can still feel his presence and influence in the way I work, and how I am in meetings with clients and agencies.

There really was no one like him. He was direct, honest and masterful at cutting through the bullshit. Perhaps too smart for advertising, he had a mind that always wanted – or better yet, needed – to be challenged. His intelligence, humor, generosity and creativity were off the charts.

He was eccentric and a bit of a paradox: he had a huge presence, but was very humble. He went out of his way to nurture teams and help people, but didn’t help himself enough. He couldn’t stand long winded meetings, but would call you at 1 a.m. for a marathon chat about his latest creative endeavour.

If you didn’t know Paul, you’d be like “who is this weirdo.” But once you did, you understood his crazy brilliance, and appreciated his complex mind and cutting humour.

All this contrast and eccentricity are what made him so amazing and so unique. Needless to say, the Wallace years at DDB were memorable, successful and a lot of fun.

Despite his successes, the greatest thing he’s leaving behind aren’t the awards or accolades. It’s his legacy. So many people have reached out to me in the last few weeks to share how much Paul has impacted their lives – in advertising and on a personal level.

It’s rare to find that kind of influence from one individual in this business. We truly have lost a great guy. He’ll be missed by many, but his spirit lives on through so many of us.

Denise Rossetto

I worked alongside Paul for ten years at DDB. He was my work next-door neighbour and friend.

Paul and his partner Dave were just so envy-inducingly talented. They were like the greatest hits. Paul was on stage more than almost anyone as winner of Agency of the Year, year after year. I don’t like to throw the word brilliant around very much, but if you knew him, you knew how much that was true.

He was wicked funny and creative as hell, well beyond advertising. He was kind. He’d give you the shirt off his back – or, more Paul-like, the surf hat off his head. Paul was different and special; he proved that you could be a nice, good soul and still be the most interesting man in the world. But what I really admired about Paul was that he was truly present. A present. He made you feel like you mattered. Seen. When we worked together, Paul never made me feel like there was a better place to be than hanging out at that very moment, even though I knew he had way more exciting places to be. Time was different working with Paul: he created another universe that felt kinder, more eclectic and more magical. I always felt lucky to be in it.

This last week I learned what I deep down knew: Paul made everyone he knew feel exactly this way. His presence was felt by all. He had a gift for making people feel special. So many people have shared stories of spontaneous trips to Costa Rica with Paul, making sure to visit people on maternity leave, late night phone calls, quiet acts of kindness, wild humour and generosity. Maybe he lived by the words of Joe Strummer of The Clash, one of his favourite bands: “Without people you’re nothing.” How I wish I could capture him better for those who did not know him when I did. But for all of us who knew him at different times, we were lucky to get a chance to be in Paul’s world.

Chris Duffett

It’s funny, at Paul’s memorial, his brother Andrew said that he considered himself Paul’s best friend. His sister felt the same way, and, in fact, many people probably considered him to be their best friend too. For me, though, Paul was like the older brother I never had, someone I looked up to and wanted to be like.

I met Wallace, as I usually called him, shortly after I started working at DDB in the late ’90s. He joined the company about a month after I did. Instantly, I knew this guy was different from anyone I had met before.

He may have been the real “most interesting man in the world.”

Sure, nobody rocked suspenders, fluorescent t-shirts and surf shop hats like Paul, but his uniqueness went far beyond his fashion sense. He wrote hilarious music. He renovated homes and built a yurt. He worked as some type of chemist in Poland. He designed clothes. He cooked like a Michelin-star chef. He’d talk sports, or science, or books, or ads, or anything else, because he seemed to know everything, somehow.

He had a dry sense of humor, mixed with a skeptical eye and a thing he did with his mouth that never failed to make me laugh. I always loved seeing what he was up to at work because, usually, it was amazing, and incredibly funny to boot.

He was selfless. Sometimes I’d tell him that he needed to just stop taking care of everyone and just enjoy taking care of himself. But that wasn’t Paul; he really did put others ahead of himself, always willing to drop anything to help anyone. I’m glad he didn’t listen to me.

If you knew Paul, you were lucky. He always made you feel like the best version of yourself. I wish I had more time with him, of course, but as sad as I am, I’m also eternally grateful to have actually known such a truly amazing human.

RIP Wally.

Arlene Evidente

Back in 2000, I landed an ad agency internship working with a copywriter named Paul Wallace, who was seven years my senior. A McGill history degree grad with a mix of intellect, street savvy, charm, seriousness and wit. He was unique, unlike anyone I had met before.

Paul’s arrival in the advertising world came with an impressive list of accomplishments. He’d built a cottage with his childhood friend Ken, worked as an engineer in Warsaw for MDF and fiberboard production, and had traveled the world. Playing Trivial Pursuit with him was a losing battle, and when watching Jeopardy together, I’d wonder why he wasn’t a contestant.

During our partnership, Paul was the copywriter, but his art directional skills exceeded my own. In fact, he seamlessly transitioned into an award-winning art director. I witnessed his rise within the industry, ascending to ECD position at a top agency. Around that time, Daniel [Vendramin] and I convinced Paul to buy a condo in our building. We’d always visit each other, have dinners and watch the World Cup. We had the distinct honour of tending to his Instagram-famous dog when he was away. Paul had this boundless love for both the quirky pup and people in general. He possessed a heart of gold, forever extending his support to those who needed it.

Paul, Daniel and I embarked on numerous journeys together, with a memorable trip to Costa Rica etched in my heart. While swimming in the ocean, a forceful current overwhelmed me. Panic set in, but Paul risked his life without hesitation, rescuing me from the waves. The debt of gratitude I owe him remains eternal. Love you lots Wally.

Daniel Vendramin

Paul was more than a good friend: he was family. He was like a big brother to me and Arlene [Evidente], and “Uncle Wally” to our kids. It wasn’t because of our shared interests in soccer, biking or creativity, including our epic song-making sessions. Or our similar sense of humour. Or the fact that he was so much fun to hang out with. There was never a dull moment when he was around, but there was so much more to it than that.

Paul was an inspiration beyond his numerous career achievements. He selflessly gave his time whenever you needed it. Whether you faced danger, sought advice, guidance, or even help drywalling a ceiling, he was there without hesitation.

He’d likely dismiss this tribute as utter nonsense, yet that was also part of his charming character. Despite all his accomplishments, he remained remarkably humble, choosing to celebrate and uplift those around him. He made sure his friends always felt good about themselves and loved. I felt that love and loved him right back. I’ll miss you big bro. Love you always.