Spring: when a creative director's thoughts turn to advertising numb-nuts.

People often say to me, "Mart, when you get all pissed off at people who take research at face value, is it because you're really pissed off at them or is it because you hate all research." Seriously, people say that to me all the time. And the answer is inevitably, "Oh, I'm sorry." I sincerely don't mean to offend anyone and I don't, in fact, hate all research. Researchers have feelings, too––I know that. It's just that by the time we're working on the creative, we're not having the right conversation if we're still talking about the damn research.

Take today. Today I went for a short walk and recognized the chirping of a particular bird. It was lovely. It was a moment I'd like to share. But I'm not really into birds, so I don't know the name of the little fella; so what do I do to get you to know that sound, what the day was like, what the air smelled like and what the heck I'm talking about.

 

Now, there is probably a certain demographic that would recognize that sound, is inclined to buy certain clothes, listen to certain types of music and drive certain cars with preferences for certain colors and options, but this sound is one of those sounds that, for me, signals spring––and, my soul that it will soon be lifted. When it gets right down to it, research doesn't help me a whole lot. Initially, it's good to know how familiar the audience is with birds, how technical I can get, how much of a picture I need to paint, and so on, but it won't tell me squat about how to make someone experience it. Research is only the beginning; execution is what we should be talking about––how we use art and design and some well-crafted words to help someone feel something cool. Research abandons me when it comes to making something compelling.

You can always identify work that has been burdened by research because it tells you about the experience rather than making you experience the moment. It would say, "The chirping sound will move you" instead of creating something that actually moves you; it would say, "If you're a Nature lover, blah blah" instead of making you realize you loved Nature. Such communication is born from research that indicated that Nature lovers will be moved by that chirping sound. How's that for creativity.

So as far as today goes, well, you had to be there, if not in actuality, then at least in spirit.

Polluting the airwaves with green messaging.

I have recently seen a zillion advertisements about being green. While no doubt some good will come of them...c'mon, if we were to believe everything we've been hearing, the planet would be in tip-top shape by next Tuesday.

You have to admit that our industry has, oh, just a slight propensity to exaggerate. And, to pander. If research identifies a hot button then by golly we'll push that consumer's buttons and expect her to love us. But there's more to persuasion than pushing the right buttons after you've been pushing buttons for the sake of pushing buttons.

Indulge me here a little. When I was a kid, I teased the hell out of my two sisters because, well, I was a little boy and being a little boy, there is, in my DNA, a teasing gene that endows me with the ability to assess a sister and know exactly what buttons to push to get her screaming, "Mommmmmy!" In such little boys there is also a gene that finds it rewarding to hear, "Mommmmmmy!" if only for a millisecond of sniggering––a millisecond being all it takes for the screamed-for Mommy to lunge in from the kitchen, grab you by the hair and ground you for eternity. But I digress.

Point is, my pushing of buttons didn't accomplish much. It certainly didn't communicate to my sisters that I had their best interests at heart. How could it? All it did was incur vile hatred toward me.

Now, what if you've been teasing people for a long time? What if you've been promising them good things only to have them discover that there was––fooled you again!––no good at all in your actions? Given our history, we need to do more than project images of polar bears on melting ice caps. We need some serious evidence to change people's opinion of us.

One time I hanged my sister's Barbie doll from a cellar beam. I hanged it with a rope and then smudged ketchup around Barbie's mouth to look like blood. (This is very sick behavior, I know, even for an eight-year old.) For a brief moment, when my sister seemed to burst with hysterics, I felt badly, so I offered to maker her bed, a chore we had to perform on the weekends. This only exacerbated the problem. Apparently, it takes a lot of good to reverse a sister's hatred after slaughtering her Barbie doll.

After something like that, it takes really, really good deeds to convince people that we have their best interests and the best interests of the planet in mind. A few tweaks to a product or facility, or a slight adjustment to a service, but nothing that could be construed as a systemic change, won't be enough of an RTB. The consumer's hearing has been dulled by years of our greenwashing. Recycling the same old advertising won't impress anyone. It's time to realize that.

The following post was written by a male boomer advertising professional and may therefore only interest male boomer advertising professionals.

In the past year, I've read a few books and seen a few movies in which not one person looks like me. I won't bore you with all of them, but here's a range of what I'm talking about.

I read the sequel to The Woman Who Walked Through Doors by Roddy Doyle. In Paula Spencer, we check in to see how Paula, the once battered house cleaner in Dublin, a widow and alcoholic, is getting on 9 years later. And you know what? She looks nothing like me. She didn't in the original and now, at 48, the dissemblance has not decreased. She is an amazing woman, with an inspiring tenacity and sense of humor, but she doesn't even look like my sister.

Last week I read P.D. James's book, Cover Her Face, the first of the Adam Dalgliesh murder mysteries. And Adam doesn't look like me either. Actually, the way I see Adam, I wish that I resembled him––he's so suave and cool, so much more together than me. 

A couple of months ago, I finally read One Hundred Years of Solitude. Nope––I don't think I look anything like its Juans and Aurelianos. They all have mustaches.

As far as the other books go, they were more of the same–-no one looked like me.

And what about the silver screen? Could I be seen anywhere on that? No, I did not appear there either. I look nothing like the stoners in Pineapple Express, nothing like Batman or the Joker, or the one-eyed blinker in Diving Bell.

Oh it's okay, really. It may come as a surprise to some people that it doesn't bother me, but it really doesn't. I didn't even seem to miss me. The fact is, it's not important. It's about the stories. And in one capacity or another, each of those works moved me. I like being taken away from me.

Now this observation came about as the issue of diversity resurfaced in the trades last week, prompted by the study, "Perspectives on Race and Employment in the Advertising Industry" (Adweek, 1/09/09). Let me say outright that I am not disputing any of it. My commentary is more about a slight omission. I have seen no mention of those client mandates about the target audience being in the commercials and photo shoots, or that scenes reflect perfect percentages––you know, so that every gathering looks like the UN, everyone all toothy, happy and plastic. (I once did a spot for a diner-style chain that started out with one couple and ended up with 3–-one white, one African American and one Asian couple. The setting was Utopian, though the spot turned out cheesy.) It happens all the time. Yes, yes I sympathize with the pressures that HR directors confront and understand that it's all for a good cause––I get that. But given that this effects the work and therefore, potentially, lots of consumers, I am compelled to point out that whether I appear in ads for products I might consider is, also, not important. Should we see more diversity? Absolutely, but we should realize that seeing one's likeness is not the magic key to feeling welcomed to Walmart, and we should stick to what we know about communication that communicates. So, if a story doesn't provide the proper visual, we should probably recommend a different story.

Seriously, was the target for Bugs Bunny silly slavering rabbits that own a television?

I have an inkling that if we focus on touching  people's hearts, speak to people as if they are more than their skin color or gender, diversity––at least in the advertising––would be a non-issue. Either that, or consider reverting to ads with only copy, like this post. Assuming that research indicates that your consumer reads such things. 

50,000,000 music fans can't go wrong.

It didn't cause major pile-ups in Manhattan, but Elvis's photo on the side of a bus did stop me short and send the pedestrian behind me swerving and grumbling to avoid a collision. It was sensational––not the accident, the photo, that is. It was one of those ultra close ups, Elvis's Buddy Holly glasses filling a quarter of the ad space to promote his show, Spectacle. Whoa. Not only is Elvis no Brad Pitt, but, now, having seen the show, I believe the ad is a bit misleading.

The show, which appears on the Sundance Channel, is not, ultimately, about Elvis Costello. You don't have to like Elvis to like the show; his persona is not the reason this may be, right now, the absolutely best thing on TV. Spectacle transcends our expectations of a celebrity hosted chat show, transcending any of Elvis's and any of his guest's accomplishments, which are not insignificant––I mean, so far he's had Elton John, Lou Reed, Bill Clinton and James Taylor.

  Each week one guest appears for the whole hour, and not because he or she is promoting a new release. They are not there to make Elvis look good, either. They are there because at some point Elvis, the fan, was moved by something they composed, or in the case of President Clinton, was curious about Bill's passion for the saxophone. Elvis wants to know how they do it; he's genuinely into them. You can see him stretching. And if you're an Elvis fan, well, you're probably going to have to stretch, too, because––let's face it, Elton John and James Taylor probably don't come up on your Amazon "also recommends" list.

In turn, Elvis interviews them about their inspirations. And you should hear the way Elton John talks about Laura Nyro, David Ackles and Leon Russell, and how Lou Reed goes on about Doc Pomus and how Pomus came to write "Save the Last Dance For Me." (Pomus got the idea at his wedding reception while watching, from his wheel chair, the happy guests dance with his new bride.) James Taylor is still in awe of George Jones, just as he was when starting out as a young picker in North Carolina––he played a few bars of one of Jones' songs, twang and all, and then played a section of one of his own songs that was clearly indebted to the master. And, without the glint of an agenda, Bill Clinton almost boyishly related the time he met the great Al Hirt.

Now this is cool.

In not being about Elvis, but rather Declan Patrick MacManus, and not being about his big headliners, a selflessness comes through. The title of the show, Spectacle, is ironic (Elvis apparently insisted on it, he being a true Brit and loving his irony.) It's about music that inspires. It's a twist on celebrity endorsements, only the guests come off as real people, humbled before the inspirers, and the people are not endorsing anything or anyone specifically, except the wonders of music. It's the gold standard for promoting, isn't it: to convey one's passion for what one does, give others a sample of greatness––no schmooze, no hype or kitsch––just a sense of a real, dare I say, authentic appreciation for a product.

I'd buy one of those any day. I believe there are 9 more episodes, all of which my Tivo is set to record.

Pleeease, tell me what I got for Christmas.

I want to know what my wife got me for Christmas. I ask her for hints, but she shrugs me off as if I asked her something preposterous. I search throughout the house for a package with my name on it––under the bed, in the spare room, in the basement, in the cabinet above the refrigerator. Over and over I wonder, "Now where would she figure I'd never find it?" I dig through the zillion shoes in her closet. I grope behind the shelves of books. I beam the flashlight across the rafters in the attic. And if I find a treasure, I will consider carefully its shape; I will shake it, hold it up to the light to see if I can decipher any printing through the wrapping paper and I will ask myself, "What would Sherlock Holmes do?" My wife thinks I'm silly, but sometimes, I swear, she has Scrooge-like tendencies.

It's the fun of it, I suppose. It's the fun of a surprise. Even after twenty-somethng years of marriage, neither can I predict what my wife will get me, nor can my wife be totally certain that it will be the next best thing since Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots.  That's the creativity of it.

I think about this because maybe during the rest of the year, we can learn something from the holidays, learn to enjoy the gift of a great idea, the surprise and the delight of it. We can do our research, resort to all the predicting of consumer behavior that we have at our disposal, but we can also appreciate that the circumstances of the moment can never be entirely predicted.

I read this poem the other night by Wislawa Szymborska. It's called, "A Contribution To Statistics."

Out of a hundred people

Those who always know better

––fifty-two,

doubting every step

––nearly all the rest,

glad to lend a hand

if it doesn't take too long

––four, well, maybe five,

able to admire without envy

––eighteen,

living in constant fear

of someone or something

––seventy-seven

capable of happiness

––twenty-something tops,

harmless singly,

savage in crowds

––half at least,

cruel

when forced by circumstances

––better not to know

even ballpark figures,

wise after the fact

––just a couple more

than wise before it,

taking only things from life

––forty

(I wish I were wrong),

hunched in pain,

no flashlight in the dark

––eighty-three

sooner or later,

worthy of compassion

––ninety-nine,

mortal

––a hundred out of a hundred.

Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

Fine. Then here's to more unpredictable little presents in the new year.

"Lisa Rinna admits to having too much plastic surgery." -Daily News

Animals don't even try to look any different from what nature intended. They accept whatever shells, scales, plumes, pelts, and prickly spines they are given. The armadillo gives no thought to his long nose; the manatee doesn't care about a few extra pounds; the gopher cares less about his overbite. And, when the deer's fur changes automatically with the season, it's fine with the deer. When the tree frog fades from grass green to stone grey, no one hears a ribbit out of him. The conscious impulse to change one's appearance is found only among humans; the impulse to advertise oneself is, I suppose, part of who we are. Obviously, there is a point at which we get carried away with this advertising, when cheek lifts, bubble lips, bubble boobs and waxed eyebrows deviate too far from what nature intended. Where's the limit? In the current state of advertising, vain, me-me-me communication is becoming less effective and marketers look increasingly for something a little more humble, a little more "authentic." Maybe some of that will rub off on us, because whether it's Billy Mays or Joan Rivers, it's just advertising that is, well, poorly constructed and I can't imagine it working beyond a superficial level. So I say, bring on the authenticity. The fact is, a smiling, tail-wagging Labrador can persuade me to throw a stick around the yard any day, for hours.

Ugh, change.

These are indeed amazing times we live in, what with the new president, France liking us again, and...all the great new shows on TV this fall, right? I know, could they be any worse? Oh sure, we'll get a chuckle from Kath and Kim, maybe half a grin out of Life on Mars and that's it. It's a fall season like every other fall season, so––no disrespect to Mr. Dylan––but the times they are only a changin' a wee little bit at time.

That's because change is hard. My mother-in-law came oh so close to voting for Barack Obama. She went on a right wing diet, cut out Fox News and everything, but then, in the final days before election Tuesday, the urge to find the best answer succumbed to the reinforcement of old beliefs, and she clicked back to the meat and potato excesses of Bill O'Reilly.

Change is really hard. I keep thinking I'm going to meditate every day, you know, to avert the same stressful whirlwinds that I have been sucked into in the past, and yet I struggle with the discipline. I think I need Vince Lombardi to follow me around for an entire week and bark out orders to stick with my regimen. Yes, that would do it. But that's not likely to happen now, is it. How convenient to feel only a dead coach would keep me in line.

And in the ad world, as much as the industry has evolved, we still have Billy Mays. You know Billy Mays. He's the seemingly ubiquitous pitch guy, that incessant, grating pitch guy for Oxy Clean and Orange Glow that yells and sells, "It works!" in the same way that salesmen sold snake oil 150 years ago. Yes, change doesn't come easily.

I recently read The Happiness Hypothesis, a book by Jonathan Haidt that explains how difficult it is for people to change and do the things that make them happy. How difficult it is to cure hypocrisy because we can rarely convince ourselves that there is a problem. How we are vulnerable to scandals and gossip because they make us feel––let's face it––morally superior. How difficult it is to simply see something new as something good because our brains are sensitized to react to new sensations as violations and threats. It's nearly impossible to change our tendencies by sheer force of will. 

So it makes me appreciate the election results even more. It shouldn't be surprising that it took relentless focus, demanding of the Obama team that they never veer from one theme, one idea to turn the tide. We ad people yammer on about sticking to one idea all the time––we know how tough it can be when you're tempted to react to every offensive launched by the competition and every little sales blip. Contrast that to Obama, who, over and over again, harped on "change" because that's what it took to make a majority hopeful.

It also took something else––optimism. Inherently, I think, people know––or at least want to believe––that hope and positivity and goodness is the best way to go. Cognitive psychology tells us that negativity is often the result of distortions. Surely when the negativity was in full mud swing, how many people began to wonder about McCain's agenda? On the other hand, optimism is purity and clarity. Obama's confidence was therefore unaffected.

It was remarkable. Regardless of whether you believe in Obama's politics, you have to believe that his effectiveness is enviable and truly inspiring.