Thinking Big, Keeping Hold

John Thornton and Carlton Carl, two very different Texans who both deeply cared about journalism and democracy, passed away recently. One radically changed the whole field. The other devoted himself to defending the continuation of one small publication and one small town. Beautiful tributes have already written about John and Carlton and I won’t attempt to repeat here what’s been said elsewhere. While I had good relationships with both, I wasn’t close to either.

Yet each profoundly shaped my understanding not only of journalism but of the obligations citizens have in supporting it. In their absence, I find myself reflecting on the diverging—perhaps even conflicting—ways they each sought to defend the role of reporting, and considering which elements of their approaches we might all try to emulate as the fourth estate in the US faces new and unprecedented onslaughts.

My first encounter with John Thornton came in late March of 2009, initially by way of a mysterious email from his assistant asking to schedule lunch with me. I googled his name and discovered he was a venture capitalist in town. I had no idea what he wanted to talk about but I still immediately said yes—the lunch was to be at the Four Seasons! When I inquired about the topic of our meeting, I received an email directly from John that changed my life:

I’m sorry for the unorthodox approach to you, but I’m very much looking forward to meeting you….

I’ve developed a somewhat obsessive fascination with the future of serious journalism.  sHaving talked [sic] done hundreds of hours of work and having talked to a number of people, I’ve decided to start from scratch.  With a small group of advisors and committed investors, I’m well on my way to starting what I’m calling the Texas Tribune.

TT will be an online, statewide, nonprofit “newsbrand,” with an initial focus on tx goverment. [sic]

Intrigued, I went to the lunch and within a month had signed on as the first employee for the nascent site.

Nearly 16 years later, in a media landscape in which digital-first nonprofit news sites play a prominent and widely respected role at local, state and national levels, the radical nature of John’s vision is easy to miss. But in 2009, even as newspaper ad revenue fell off a cliff and publications once flush with cash began round after round of layoffs, there were plenty of folks who still believed the for-profit newspaper industry would turn around. Their hopes were misplaced. Since 2005, total newspaper employment has decreased by more than 70 percent and 2,900 newspapers have shut down, without the industry ever sustaining an upward trend.

John always thought big and his vision always involved building a powerhouse that would pressure, if not replace, the state-level reporting from the major dailies of Texas. He managed to entice two co-founders, Evan Smith, then the longtime editor of Texas Monthly, and Ross Ramsey, whose newsletter was a must-read for Capitol insiders. Then John got to work, raising money across the state, and spreading the word. He frequently bruised feelings, for instance hurting the egos of top editors when he openly noted the declining quality of coverage that came as a result of the cutbacks. He was competitive and determined and often had sharp elbows as he pursued his goals. Other nonprofit news sites came before the Texas Tribune, but it was through John that the movement got a chief evangelist.

The Tribune grew its funding, its newsroom and its reach, becoming the largest state newsroom in the country. With its success, John set his sights higher. In 2019, with the Chalkbeat’s Elizabeth Green, John founded the American Journalism Project, which spread the gospel of nonprofit news for the public good and urged foundations and philanthropists to get involved in new media initiatives at all levels.

I myself didn’t stay long at the Tribune. Start-ups are messy places, and my dream had always been to work in longform, narrative-driven journalism. So I soon found my way to a very different institution, one that improbably has survived innumerable near-death experiences thanks to the extraordinary depth of love and care from its supporters.

The Texas Observer first became known for the work of its founder Ronnie Dugger, who started the publication in 1954 to cover stories on labor issues, racial violence and other topics mainstream papers wouldn’t touch. In the 1970s, Molly Ivins and her co-conspirator Kaye Northcutt took over its leadership, and their irreverent tone as they spoke truth-to-power further established the Observer as a must-read in the state. The publication has always been beloved by the vast number of liberal misfits in Texas who find in its pages a powerful connection to community, a connection particularly elusive for those who can’t or won’t fit in.

The Texas Tribune’s offices were in a tall corporate building. The Texas Observer was only a few blocks away, but when I walked into the building, owned by a local freemason chapter, I felt I’d entered a different world.

It was there I met Carlton Carl. After growing up in Houston, where he was a close friend and competitor of Molly’s, Carlton had spent a career in politics and lobbying, first in Texas and then DC. He returned to his home state in 2007, after seeing an opportunity to buy a small town near Texas and help it stay alive. You could always tell Carlton’s car by its giant “Believe in Martindale” sticker.

Carlton loved community, and he considered the Observer and Martindale to both be precious. Before anyone was discussing “audience engagement” and “events strategy,” the Observer community of readers threw “Final Friday” parties, pot-luck gatherings at the homes of other fellow enthusiasts. Carlton was always there, boisterous and joyful.

Carlton briefly served as CEO for the Observer before joining its board, and it was as a board member that I knew him, first when I served on the staff of the publication, and then a few years later when I became its board chair.

Carlton would often drive me nuts. I worried he didn’t understand the changing journalism landscape and was too nostalgic for the Observer’s past. Yet his passion for the publication was profound and straightforward. For years, he would do his own round of copyedits on the magazine, looking for typos and misspellings that had made it past even its sharp-eyed staffers. (He always caught something.) He never missed a board or committee meeting, arguing his points passionately and then, no matter what the outcome of the debate, continuing to promote the Observer far and wide.

The Observer—whose work continues to be extraordinary—has had more than its share of financial challenges over the years. No one would call it a replicable model and at different moments, most of us have had to step back and take breaks from the publication, wondering if it would in the meantime survive. But for Carlton, the situation was simple: It was on all of us in the Observer community to ensure that the publication would continue to exist.

Strangely, while they certainly knew each other by reputation, I don’t know if John and Carlton ever met. They ran in different circles with very different philosophies. Carlton’s slow drawl would draw out his sentences, while John had a tendency to talk a mile a minute. They both read everything and could be tremendously kind and encouraging when they liked your work, regardless of where it was published.

As we find our bearings in this strange new era, contemplating the battles that may lie ahead and considering what roles in them each of us will take, I cannot help but think of the examples that John and Carlton set, each in their own way, as stubborn, human men who committed themselves to their missions with tenacity.

John dove forward with new, bold ideas, unafraid of breaking things in service to something better. Carlton fought to preserve what already existed, imperfect as it might be, with an immutable belief in the significance of small, meaningful actions.

It will take more champions of both philosophies to build a healthy future for journalism in the US.