Don't hate them because they're beautiful.

The other night at a restaurant, a gorgeous couple, the kind of absolutely gorgeous couple you’d see in a Paul Mitchell commercial, was sitting behind my wife and I. The guy was ripped and pony-tailed and totally inked. He was a hunk. She was also a hard body, which included her boobs, and she had a really short white-and-black-striped knit dress to showcase her tanned legs. She was blond.

  Naturally, I made some assumptions about them, though this couple proved me wrong. That’s not to say I discovered they were in the Peace Corps or were professors from the mid-west or poets specializing in the Victorians or something. No, they were sort of what I imagined, just way more extreme. They were beyond what any researcher could have profiled about the stereotypical LA-type Adonis.

  I know, I know, it’s sort of desperate and elitist and judgmental to eavesdrop like that but I honestly couldn’t help it. Believe me, if you were there, you wouldn’t have been able to help yourself, either. You’d find yourself presuming that they were a bit Fabio and Anna Nicole, and then you’d be drawn to the details, too. First of all, they weren't from LA; they were from Chicago. Go figure. These people were fascinating and became more so as dinner progressed.

  I was all ears. Here's the thing: they seemed to be reflecting about the burdens of having a perfect body. It was tough, apparently, to be so perfect. I had no idea! I was unaware that such perfection could be stressful like that. Mind you, I have no reference point for such thinking. If you know me, and have seen me, you understand that I have little in common with these people. So I was fascinated.

  She said, “I don’t feel insecure about my body.” It was like she was saying that she doesn’t let it get to her, though the potential for psychological turmoil is always looming.

  He confided that he struggled with it sometimes, that he wasn’t always, “comfortable that everybody wants a body like mine.” Now, to be fair, maybe he was wondering if everyone believed they should be muscle-bound like him and he wasn’t explaining himself very well, but it sounded to me like he believed his pulchritude was universally admirable and he was struggling with that.

  She assured him, “Oh, but you seem to handle it very well, “ as if he was truly courageous for braving the pressure.

  To each our own burden, I guess. Personally, while I more often than not don’t like what I see in the mirror and while I can euphemize those things below my ribs as love handles all I want, they are excess fat and, I guess, that’s my burden.

  I have to say, I enjoyed learning about a new point of view. This is one of the things I continue to enjoy about the business of advertising. With every new assignment, I get to put myself in another’s shoes, or alligator cowboy boots, as the case may be. I like that. I still like that.

  And it’s good to be surprised at the endless variety of characters out there. At the outset of every new challenge, it’s healthy to assume one doesn’t know the target. Even if that target turns out to be a little fucked up.

Rocks In Your Head

Recently on vacation, just barely awake on my lounge chair beside the pool, I rolled over and noticed a wall. I was still in one of those sunny hazes, when it caught my eye. What struck me about it was the detail. Between the large rocks, there were slivers of little stones in a shape that, had I been on the beach, would have made them perfect for skimming. Each one was meticulously inserted between the larger rocks to create these capillaries, flowing around and about the blocks. I thought about the people who took the time to do this. I imagined their pride. I wondered if they took a picture of it after they set the last rock in place. I wondered if one or two of the guys took their spouses to the site to show off. I wondered if they took pictures of their section. It was pretty cool. I mean, the hotel didn’t have to build the wall like this. But these guys graced it with details -- a wall, a wall that would ordinarily just separate us, but in the end, a wall that gives something to connect us.

Gifts For All Seasons

To step off the elevator and hear the receptionist say, “Good morning,” is nice and just fine, but you really haven’t been given anything special. When you read the brief and the brief is clear, that, too, really isn’t a big deal. And when you’ve answered that brief, so what. When you’ve delivered the deliverables, included the mandatories, utilized all the equities, big whoop. When all your decisions were sensible, you covered your ass, covered your client’s ass, did everything you should do and everything your client believes his or her boss thinks should be done, it’s no big deal. Compiling a fat deck of research? Absolutely no big deal. When you’ve been current and fashionable and “on trend,” it’s no biggie. When your client is pleased, when she is impressed that you’ve done so much work, when he compliments the coffee and cookies, it’s not that big a deal. When your meeting began by reviewing the objectives, wrapped up by going over “next steps” and ended on time, it is not worthy of applause. After the meeting, if you can’t, in hindsight, think of anything you could regret, that, too, is not a big deal. When the creative director doesn’t kill the work, the work is merely alive. When you’ve scored just above the ASI norm, what’s the big deal? When the client does all the talking and the agency all the listening, it’s not ideal. When you know exactly, exactly! what it will take to make the client happy, that’s not even a big deal. Where’s the gift in that?


Yes, we often wish that we could be satisfied with meeting expectations. Having done so, usually takes a big load off our mind, but it shouldn’t really warrant the boss’s deepest gratitude or instill the greatest pride in the people who create the work.

The thing is, creativity involves a leap in the dark, fundamentally in search of something new, something unpredictable, something for which there is no precedence. But what kind of culture is wired so you feel something’s wrong when you’re feeling kinda good? What kind of attitude assures that we will find spectacular things when we don’t know what we’re looking for? What if we were wired to always exceed expectations?


What’s a big deal? A big deal is considering important decisions to be only those that cause people to think and respond in ways they hadn’t thought of. It’s knowing that great work may not contain any of the words stated in the RTB. It’s arriving on a Monday morning and the receptionist telling you a dirty joke. When the earth moves, that’s a big deal. So is pushing against the gravitational pull of what has worked in the past. It’s a big deal that play be more important than predictability, when our greatest service is to service serendipity. It’s a big deal when we get to work out the details and fix the mistakes as we go along, when the most motivating thing in the world is, “I wonder what will happen if I do this?” and the greatest reward is hearing, “Holy shit! Where’d that come from?”


When working to meet expectations, we look forward to satisfaction from a predictable process that will produce only what we––and our clients––have the right to claim. Exceeding expectations goes beyond what anyone can claim, or take away from us. That’s why great ideas always feel like a gift or, rather, like you’ve arrived at a destination that is both surprising and wonderful. 


So, let’s be thankful for the most amazing and wonderful gifts of all. Why not slip a bonus in the stocking of the account person who got the client to veer off a differentiation map and feel lost, if only for a moment. Let’s toast those amazing ideas that weren’t bought –– because we should never forget how precious they are. Let’s put our thanks and our inspiration where it counts, embolden the creative spirit.

And here’s to keeping the holiday spirit alive throughout 2013.

Decisive Moments

 

I went to see the Cartier-Bresson exhibit at MOMA the other day and like a lot of people I was struck by how many of those moments are powerfully relatable. With his Leica, he seemed to catch moments in mid-air. Face to face with these images, we find ourselves thinking, "I know that. I have felt exactly what that person was feeling."

Sometimes they are big moments and sometimes they are the most incidental aspects of life that he somehow poured into a mold for eternity. That exchanged look, that gesture of simple affection, that mannerism, that hop we all take over a puddle, that raised eye we give when we look at someone with doubt, the sigh we take between poses. These moments are universal and timeless.

How great is it when an ad conveys something like that. Capturing something basic to everyone and telling people about it in an artful way is as good as it gets. But, really, how often do we see an interesting side to ourselves in advertising, a side that we feel we haven't seen before? Not too often.

Even still, precious miracles happen and they become memorable. I think of so many Nike ads, like the new online film for the World Cup that captures an athlete's grand desire to make history. If you've competed in sports, you know the feeling. I think of eBay's "Shop Victoriously," that depicts the Rocky-like moment when you finally win an auction, "Wassup," that caught a slice of every guy's frat life, and who doesn't identify with, "I can't believe I ate the whole think." There's the Priceless spot, about how bridesmaids always end up wearing embarrassing gowns in colors like sea foam green. And... you know how every time you eat peanut  butter you practically choke and desperately want milk to wash it down? What about the Cadbury gorilla that makes us recognize the primal impulse for something sweet. 

These are moments we recognize, where the moment of recognition itself gives the argument impact.

You have to see the Bresson exhibit. Anyone interested in insights and capturing relevance and understanding human behavior should see it. If you can't get to New York, order the book.

Peoples' need for happiness and good will are manifested in numerous minute details. When just the right details are creatively presented, they will strike us with their freshness, but also with their familiarity. Perhaps we could get a consumer to recognize that moment when a particular need arises so that the client's product appears to be the perfect solution. Better yet, perhaps we could get a consumer to think, "So that is what life is like at the moment I use that product––looks like a better life to me!"

Very direct mail in Cabo San Lucas

I was putting on socks for the first time in a week –– ugh! what a pain, how constricting these woolen tubes were, how hot they were, these shackles of civilization.

Evidently, it had been a relaxing vacation. Six days in Cabo San Lucas had done the trick, unwound the coil of stress and replenished the body with healthy, fresh food and sun.

No! No, I don't want to go home!

"Did you see this?" my wife asked. She handed me a card and envelope, left on our night stand by hotel management. I finished tying my sneakers and read the following:

"Dear Mr. Orzio & Ms. Lonigro. It has been our great pleasure to have you as our guest in paradise. If you are leaving us reluctantly, with a heart brimming with pleasant and endearing memories, then we'll surely see you again. We look forward to welcoming you back. Sincerely, Akis (signed) Neocleous."

Was Akis telepathic? Akis reached out at the right time with the right message. I loved the, "If you are leaving us reluctantly, with a heart brimming with pleasant and endearing memories..." –– not too presumptuous and just enough to spark all the pleasurable imagery from the past few days.

How often do we forget to simply thank consumers for purchasing our product or service? How often do we miss such opportunities to set up the next sale?

My wife and I will definitely return.

Somewhere between crap and more crap.

I recently came across a study published by The University of Chicago Press in the Journal of Consumer Research. It's called, "Want to Convince? Use Abstract Rather Than Concrete Language." The title's slightly misleading. The article doesn't imply that we should always use abstract language to persuade people. It says we have to strike a balance. It says that lousy ads don't get the balance right and rely too heavily on concrete language which doesn't spark people's imaginations. In so many words, it says that the extremes are crap––"image" advertising is crap and "retail" advertising is crap.

The article alludes to a series of experiments that explored, "when and why consumers use abstract language in word-of-mouth messages, and how these differences in language-use affect the receiver." Apparently, "when consumers talk to each other about products, they generally respond more favorably to abstract language than concrete descriptions." Just take a look at consumer blogs––we see this all the time.

They gave consumers a description of a positive product experience, and asked them to estimate the sender's opinion about the products. And, the perceived opinion of the sender, or writer, was more positive when the description was put in more abstract terms. For descriptions of negative product experiences, the opinion of the sender was more negative when the description used abstract language––they wanted more proof, something more concrete to convince them otherwise. Since we usually end up depicting positive product experiences, their recommendation is to use more abstract language to convince someone of the consequences of buying your product.

What kind of language are we talking about when we talk about abstract language? Well, "delicious" is a general term; it includes within it many different possibilities. If I ask someone to form an image of "delicious," it could lead to all kinds of responses. Do you imagine an ice cream sundae? A single malt scotch? A dip in the Caribbean? Even if you can produce a distinct image in your mind that matches up with what I have in mind, how likely is that someone else will form the same image? Not very likely.

We can make the responses more predictable with a less general term. How about "sweet." This is still pretty general, but it's easier to imagine something that is delicious because it is sweet.

How about, "chocolaty?" Now your imagine is getting clearer, and it's easier to form an attitude toward the thing. The images we form are likely to be in the same ballpark, so this less general or more specific term communicates more clearly. You mouth may even start salivating. 

Now what if all I do is talk about the specific product? What if all I do is talk about the chemistry and the craft of making the chocolate? What if all I do is talk about the price? Crap, crap and more crap. The problem is that your imagination doesn't get engaged. It doesn't discover an idea.

The point is that it's a fine balance. We have to plant just the right terms that guide a consumer's imagination. Too general and our argument is vague; too specific and our argument becomes irrelevant. It's easy to simply tell people specifically what to think; it's also easy to be wishy-washy. But getting the balance right is hard. It's a craft. And a great solution defies crappy labels.

Technology: A Love Story

Interestingly, I have had sackfuls of letters from Advertising Out Of It readers recently asking me––begging me––to put technology in some perspective. That's right, letters. About technology. And boatloads of them, too.

I have two pieces of advice for all you inquiring advertising people: While  you try to keep up with the microblogs, cool new shit out of Sweden and Ashton Kushner, surround yourself with people who know their technology, especially if you are insecure about your own technological prowess. (I'm assuming that's just about everybody.)

Secondly, surround yourself with people who know how to persuade other people to do stuff. I'm talking idea people.

Some people make it sound like an either/or choice we have. It's not. You need both.

Let me illustrate.

When I was in my senior year of high school, I had a crush on a girl who one day seemed to come out of nowhere. How could this happen? I was a senior and I thought I knew or certainly knew of everyone. I asked around. The girl was new to our school, so meeting her would be a challenge.

We ran in different circles and I couldn't manage to arrange a party or find a party to attend in which we both would find ourselves. The challenge was to find a way of meeting that would appear accidental, because that's the key, isn't it––making it happen naturally, staging serendipity, trying to find a place where one could suavely approach your object of desire as if it was kismet. Standing near her locker and beating my chest probably wouldn't win her affection.

It turned out that I had a friend who knew her cousin, and he was able to find out where she had a couple of her classes. With that information, I could deduce which hallways she walked down to get to them. Mind you, other than gawking, I hadn't a clue what I would do once I saw her. All I knew was that I needed to see her more often, this would help me see her more often, and that seemed like progress.

Funny thing: sometimes you just have to be present. If you are present enough, some communication simply happens. One day you're standing there and smiling like a totally awkward asshole, desperately trying to be aw-shucks about stalking someone, and the next day you seem to have something to talk about, even if it is only about you having been so awkward and aw-shucks about stalking her.

Now, in advertising, you also have to figure out how to be where your target is. You're going to have to know the many hallways of technology. The thing is, in advertising, there is no succeeding without an idea. You're going to have to appear smart, otherwise, one of two things will happen: your target concludes that you are a totally annoying asshole or worse–-you remain invisible. No matter how good looking or clever or cool you think your product is, no one is going to care. In fact, some people will resent being doggedly pursued and there is no getting away with being adorable.

You see, way back then, there was no explaining why the girl actually talked to me––I was a bumbling idiot. Nevertheless, I ended up marrying the girl. I got lucky.

Learning about advertising in the shop around the corner.

Across the street from my favorite movie theater, there is a little bookstore. Inside, not too far from the entrance, there is a table on which the owner places new releases, both fiction and non-fiction, and that's where I spotted Juliet, Naked. Now having previously read About a Boy, Hi Fidelity and Slam, I wasn't immediately sure whether I wanted to read another Nick Hornby story. But then I saw a tab sticking out from it. It was a homemade book marker, a thin strip of cardboard that someone had cut out with a pair of scissors and left peeking out from the pages to arouse curiosity. Of course I picked up the book. The subtlety of the device was masterful.

Hmmm. Could it be clever salesmanship? No way, not in my quaint village bookstore.

Upon inspection (and sorry about the poor quality of my photo), the book marker had been part of some product's packaging, a section of it that had plenty of white space to write a prospective buyer a short note. 

The delivery was effective. The medium was perfect. It wasn't written on an index card or piece of paper, something that the author, Kristen, would have had to seek out. No, I imagine she had finished the book, simply had to share her thoughts, grabbed whatever was handy and let her enthusiasm rip.

I loved the little indications of emotion–-the caps on letters that don't call for caps, and the exclamation points after each of the two sentences. Nice touches. It was perfectly imperfect. It was authentic. Clearly there wasn't a company behind this note––this was personal. It wasn't advertising; it was communication. It was too good to be advertising.

I became curious about the author. How old was Kristen? She couldn't have been too old––she was in college or had recently graduated, that was my guess. Her enthusiasm was young-ish, sort of like when kids tell their friends about a cool new band that they just "LOVE," but revealed enough experience to know something about "Relationships." Oh well, there wasn't enough information there for me to say if I liked Kristen, but I certainly didn't resent her and her testimonial.

Needless to say, I succumbed. I bought the book.

Did I like it? It doesn't much matter if I liked it, does it. I was sold.

Part of me suspects that she's a very, very crafty manipulator, this Kristen.

Buying into all that holiday stuff.

"Love the giver more than the gift." 

-Brigham Young

I don't get excited about the holidays the way some people do. Jingle Bells over the mall loudspeakers is little more than a nice din. But this holiday season there was indeed "something special" in the air and part of that was, unfortunately, caused by my dear old aunt who passed gas on Christmas Eve.

I thought about this flatulence. I haven't thought deeply about flatulence in awhile, not since reading The Miller's Tale in college, but this must have been interesting enough to take notice. It was sort of trumpet-like, a tat-a-tat-tat-tat. It curled up, grabbed my ear and I thought about how unabashed my aunt had let them rip––"them," plural, since the flatulence occurred with regularity before and during dinner.

I wondered how certain illness affect one's faculties of self-awareness. The first blast I attributed to absentmindedness of old-age, my aunt being 89. Then I realized that Auntie had been recently in the hospital and hypothesized, "What? Did the doctor accidentally abstract her sense of smell?" But then I wondered if you just reach a point when such things aren't such a big deal. Maybe you just start paying more attention to things that really matter.

My aunt has had a rough go of it. A couple of years ago, her husband died. Hers had been an old-fashioned marriage, one in which she was dependent on him for everything, and that left her not knowing  much about getting around or how to balance a checkbook. Every so often you see her mind drift and she'll blurt out something sad. It tells me that depression always hovers. Though no amount of understanding could make her "something special" pleasant, I did conclude that if her being there with us, her family, was worth hanging in there for, then I could, I suppose, get over it.

That was the kind of holiday it was.

My parents are getting old, as well. My mom is growing shorter. She still has her spry moments, but her maternal authority has been replaced with cuteness. She'd probably remind an outsider of David Letterman's mom, cute but just around the bend from forgetting whether she just made an apple pie or a pumpkin pie. And my dad...he's lost some weight. After a couple of heart attacks, several angioplasties and a hip replacement, he huffs and puffs to rise from his comfortable chair and walk to the bathroom. He now accepts that he needs a wheel chair to get through an airport.

And then there are my other two aunts. A year ago, the eldest of the two sisters had heart failure, leaving her hunched over and frail. In her younger days, she was a teacher, a great teacher, and the reason I once became one. She's my godmother and I have always felt a special connection to her, so it kills me to see her hunched over, her head practically horizontal with the floor. Her sister, my third aunt at the table, worries about her and loses a lot of sleep. She has bags under her eyes and her hair is a little out of place.

Anyway, at some point during Christmas Eve dinner, which is a big deal in my family because that's when we have all the fish, the calamari and the baccala that is our way of continuing Italian tradition, a wash of sentimentality came over me. I began to appreciate our time together. I mean, my parents and my aunts won't live forever. Life is indeed short. We should savor these moments, the good and the bad of these moments. And I know that that must sound like a Hallmark card, but that's what I felt. Yeah, something special was in the air.

Sometimes the truth is so typical it takes something surprising to get you to appreciate it. Sometimes it takes something like a trumpet to wake you up.