Part I: Awkward Acts & Creating Blank Slates . . .

Exploring 21st Centry Creativity

I was attending an unusual art installation last spring at the historic Leonard at Logan House, in Grand Rapids, MI (one of my favorite event venues.)  While milling about, I heard a group of youngish artists discussing the fate of creativity.  The passion and absoluteness in their exchange was rather riveting.  They were very excited about one video installation in particular because of its gender-bending insight.  As I listened, I heard one of the youngish women say, “I just don’t know if there is much left to create anymore.  I mean, haven’t we done it all?”

This struck me, since I have been going through a creative renaissance of my own in the last few years.  What was once a romantic struggle between both tormented and delicious forces is now simply a part of the day for me.   The mystery of the “blank slate” is now a more comfortable and really fun friend.  Perhaps I'm growing up.

After reflecting further upon that woman's comment, however, I noticed a few things in the language of friends and clients:

1. People are very creative, and want to express that.  It doesn’t matter if they are the next Van Gogh or not.
2. We all participate in each other’s creative efforts (and in modern society, this is essential).
3. We humans have certain beliefs that aren’t necessarily true and those false beliefs effect how and how well we create.
4. When creativity knocks, it demands a blank slate.  If you do not give it one, it is created for you (whether you like it or not).
5. In order to create something – whether individually or collectively – trust is paramount.

These observations are not restricted to the individual.  They are also part of a 21st century corporate phenomenon.   As we explore how to wriggle free of a manufacturing mindset, we find ourselves in a more collectively creative world.   Customers – by demanding knowledge (like where things come from, how they are made and how can they do it themselves) -- are one of the forces leading us into century 21.  Sharing knowlegde (not just information)  trumps isolating ourselves and employees to "just" a set of tasks.  These tasks are very important, but most of us would also rather be a part of something . . . bigger, more conversational, more narrative.  Now anyone can have a seat at the idea table and anyone can contribute to developing that idea.  Anyone can do something that changes a tiny piece of the world around them.  So when companies (of any size) look at the more innovative aspects of their employees amazing, -- and sometimes-accidental events happen.  These events lay the groundwork for great marketing.   Making a creative shift, however, requires a blank slate and enough trust to do something . . . awkward.

What Does that Mean?  (You might ask.)  Stay tuned for Part II:  Prepare by Surprising Yourself

I'll be exploring the importance of storytelling in life, marketing and in organizations in upcoming "On Marketing" posts.

The Apple and The Vagabond

I had been living in New York for only a few weeks, and everything was new, interesting, strange and sometimes terrifying.  But the patchwork of the city, the sounds, the sights, the differences -- and the lessons I knew I would be learning – all of this won my heart.  I stayed for 15 years.

My first home was in  Washington Heights.  My first subway stop was 181^st and Broadway and my train was the famous A Train.  My first New York neighborhood had a rich history.  Legend had it that in 1629 the Dutch bought Manhattan Island from the Lenape Indians just north of where I lived (check this cool document out here).  In the 1900s Irish immigrants settled there, and in the 1930’s and 40’s, European Jews had moved in to escape Nazi persecution.  In the 1950’s & 60’s, Greek immigrants joined the neighborhood; and then African Americans, Cubans and Puerto Ricans all enriched the next decades with their restaurants and ways of life.  When I lived in Washington Heights in 1990, Dominicans added their music to the mix. That’s one of the things I love about New York – remnants of each one of these cultures were very much alive when this naïve Midwestern “immigrant” arrived with a U-Haul and was dropped off by a generous college friend named Mike.

One of the strongest memories of those first few weeks was the rather long walk to the subway station.  I moved to my new hood in the fall.  Fall brought the boomerang effect of hurricane season, and the new habit of throwing away umbrellas like scrap paper, arriving to work soaking wet, and the lesson that not all shoes survive the concrete jungle. 

 

(The hill on the trek to the subway station)

Nearly every night on the way back to my apartment, I would stop at the butcher and then shop in a small grocery (when your legs are your vehicle, you keep your load light.)  Nearly every night I would pass the same man sitting on the street.   He had wild hair and a cardboard box.  Nearly every night he would greet me with a nod of his head.  I would smile back and say “hello”.  It was deep into the 90’s recession and jobs were tough to find.  I was working as a temp – and had experienced for the first time in my rather privileged life what it meant to have to choose between a $3.79 chocolate bar and a $2.79 per pound chicken.  (The butcher informed me that I wouldn’t survive long if I always chose the chocolate over the chicken.)

So when I passed this man on the street, I wanted to share something with him, and I thought that it should be healthy, good-for-him and something that I could easily afford. 

I gave him an apple.

Nearly every night for about a month, I gave this man an apple and he nodded in thanks.  In fact, he was quite gracious about it.

One night, however, he directly refused.

 “Ma’am, you giith me am appow EVERWY day, buh ladhy, I AIN GOTH NO TEETH!!  How you e’spek me thoo eath THATH??

Sure enough, this man had no teeth whatsoever.  I felt incredibly foolish.  He seemed very passionate about his refusal (and I found myself wondering what happened to all of those apples).  So I looked in my bag and tried to think of something that he could most definitely gum and swallow without hurting himself.

I gave him a banana. 

When I passed him the next night I gave him two bananas (you know, to make up for the gaff with the apples).

I passed him for another couple of weeks and kept giving him a banana.  Once I gave him the whole bunch (you know, to make up for the gaff with the apples.) He always thanked me.  I always said, “You are welcome.”  He had called me Ma’am.  No one had ever called me that before.  I wasn’t old enough to be a Ma’am.

One day he looked irritated.  “Oh dear, he is probably sick of bananas.” I thought to myself.

“Ladhy, I shure dhoo apprethiate the banana, but you gith me one EVERWY day and now I have DIARRHEA!!!”

Oh.  My.  I guessed that made quite a bit of sense.  And would be quite a problem.  (But I was happy he was at least eating the bananas.  He needed the potassium, I was sure.)  I did not know appropriate non-diarrhea-producing, gum-friendly foods that didn’t need a blender.  So I asked, “Well, what could I do for you then that could help?” 

“I wannha go to Mac Donald’s.”  He said with toothless certainty.  McDonald’s was about a mile away.  It was night.  I was tired.  How on earth would he eat a hamburger?  Besides, it was not the safest walk with some strange man who had an aversion to fruit and who’s home was most definitely on the street.  So I asked him to find something in the grocery on that block instead.

“I will buy you one thing.”  I said, in an attempt to keep control of the situation. “What would you like?”

He wandered around for about 5 minutes looking and looking.  He really studied the shelves, measured his need and was thoughtful, I supposed.  The grocery store owner, however, was quite upset with me for bringing him in.  He was not an uncompassionate person, but apparently he was tired of the man trying to steal stuff from this store.

The apple man came out with a box of Hostess Ho Ho’s.

“Seriously?  Ho Ho’s?” 

“I like Ho Ho’s,” he said with a determined smile.  Ho Ho’s it is then.  So, I bought him the familiar box and thought, “Hmm.  I’m not the only one whose natural instinct is to choose chocolate over nutrition.” 

But I didn’t feel at all helpful, and could not emulate my butcher who had knocked some sense into my “budget”.  This guy had no budget. 

I passed him one more time after that and said nothing to him.   And he said nothing to me.  I didn’t know what to say or what to do.  I felt a little powerless. He seemed to feel the same.  We didn't have the skills to relate to each other.   I had also registered the fear in the grocer’s face -- a fear absent in me until I saw the experience in him. 

After that, I never saw my apple vagabond or his box of Ho Ho’s again.      

I used to wonder what happened to him.  I was pretty sure he was not off the street, did not have any dental work done and was still getting inappropriate food items from ignorant strangers.  But who knows.  Unlikely things happen all the time and I hope that his circumstances were bettered in some way.  I’m also quite sure that he does not remember me like I remember him.  It would be very odd if he did.  Because sometimes an apple is just an apple, and a banana is . . . well, it really just doesn’t agree with you.



Kevin Bacon Saved My Life

It was a drizzling, miserable day in New York City.  My thoughts were inaudible but for a sweet repetitive loop that “worse” might actually be preferable.  As if Philip Glass took over the soundtrack in my head and wouldn’t let go.   I’m sure that if you pictured the top 5 most horrible days in your life, you could immediately relate one of yours to this day of mine.  And relate I would like you to do, because what happened within the span of a few seconds was rather remarkable.

As I waited (and waited) for the New York City traffic to clear, I noticed a very grungy-looking man standing next to me. We were on 9^th Avenue in the Meat Packing District – one of those wonderful hipster and hepcat hotspots whose location only a few years before smelled of last week’s hamburger.  This grungy guy was rather noticeable in the middle of a typical rush hour scene full of business and the bedazzled.  His trucker hat was pulled down over his head of rather long, stringy hair.  He was tall and lean but his posture stooped, as if he were hiding what could be a rather dark secret. He was close enough to brush my right shoulder, so I could see him watching me with keen, darting, peripheral glances.  Nothing attracts trouble like trouble, and I was in trouble, so my city instincts kicked in and I moved myself (and my bag) a step to the left. 

My senses awoke enough then, to notice a beleaguered businessman with a briefcase and an equally beleaguered trench coat.  He was a lapel closer to the traffic and – in a series of subconscious firings – I assumed that he had the better view.  I also noticed that he looked like he had endured a very bad time too, as I slipped once again into the fragile soundtrack of the day. 

Then, a funny thing happened. Beleaguered Man stepped out into the street and I numbly did the same, directly in front of a speeding taxi cab.  In a flash, an arm flew into my chest with enough force to counteract my own ignorance, as a voice at my right ear shouted, “Look Out!”  The voice was so powerful that it yanked Beleaguered Man (almost turned Pancake Man) backward onto the curb, buttocks first.  He was so close to the cab that its bumper clipped the front of his trench coat.  In that flash, a cross-section of strangers was painted, imprinted, and stored in perhaps a number of minds.  A series of watercolors, each with a different perspective, passed through and drifted to the pavement. The meaningless art of the moment.

I blinked, caught my breath, and uttered a pathetic “thank you.”  The grungy man from whom I protected my purse had saved my life.  He saved Beleaguered Man’s too.  And with that realization, the moment rushed to its normal pace. The universal knob that controls the honking and whooshing and clicking of heels was turned back up, leaving my heart and lungs still heavy from the gravitational force of what had just passed.  I watched Grungy Man cross the street with a confident and attractive gait.  I remembered his voice.  It sounded familiar and kind with the undertone of an urgent slap one might give to a brother.  As my perspective continued to paint itself,  I realized that his trucker attire actually had style and that his profile was very similar to that of …someone.  He headed toward the Gansevoort Hotel and into the swarm of paparazzi shouting, “Kevin!  Over here Kevin!  I got a great shot of you from last week, Kevin, wanna see it?”  This stranger stepped into light, turned his face, and revealed the secret he was carrying. I put my hand to my mouth and managed a smile.  Then laughed outright.  “Am I now ‘one degree’ from the pop culture icon of The Human Web?” 

Kevin Bacon drew a breath, then relinquished his privacy to the flashing, shouting crowd.
And I walked anonymously on. 

That day, a simple act of authenticity changed my fate.  Simply because a stranger was being himself.

So, thank you Kevin. And thanks to all of you Kevin Bacons out there.

(This inaugural post is dedicated to Lauren who sent me an unrelated link that made me laugh and which oddly served as an inspiration to write this blog.  I'm also dedicating this to Edward and John - who have served as my day-to-day Kevin Bacons for many years.)