Net Cotton Content

Psst. Wanna hear some lectures on marketing?

For the first time, after two decades of teaching, I believe I just might have reached the level of competence.

And you are invited.

Tomorrow, January 23rd, at 6:45 p.m., I return to CCAD for the first of a dozen weekly lectures on consumer behavior.

Come. This is your invitation.

There are 100 students registered for the class and it will be taught in a big, comfortable auditorium, so you can just blend in. Each class is only 75 minutes. You could come to this first Monday, any Monday, or every Monday.

Don't be shy. I would love to have you there.

(About a dozen folks accept this invitation each semester. They just show up. Nice!)

Let me know if you are coming, and I will send you a map to the specific location. Or just download the syllabus and come.

Ye Olde Rut
I taught this course for years, years ago at CCAD. As one student wrote:

“The course was high-energy, optimistic, full of humor and most importantly: informative. It was one of the few courses that just about everyone who took it not only looked forward to the next lesson, but recommended it to their colleagues as well.”

But, I left after hearing this thought about teaching:

If you are teaching the same thing the same way for more than five years, then you lack either ambition or imagination.

(I think this might have come from Noam Chomsky.)

I was indeed stuck in a rut.

The students were generous and appreciative. But I was teaching the same thing, in the same way, year after year. The presentation slides were so ready, I would just show up and let 'em rip.

So it was time to go away.

The Course Is Sound
Over time, I'd designed — and now redesigned — the course to help artists:

• Make work that is more than beautiful. The course helps the artist think through the work, so it persuades others and changes behavior.
• Justify each piece of work as more than beautiful. The course helps the artist describe work to executives in the workplace, to win more production budget for, say, the photography.
• Live a fuller life. We must live for more than our art. We can live creatively and ethically. So: let's!

The legendary CCAD education — especially its intensive first year, "Foundation" — expertly develops each artist's technical skills.

But having hired dozens of CCAD graduates at Young Isaac, I have seen too many who are riding solely on their technical proficiency. They do have highly developed hands and eyes — but aren't always levering their minds.

That's where this class comes in.

Bridging The Gap
After years of helping CCAD artists win the favor of businesspeople in the workplace, I've been teaching MBA candidates about creativity. This has me building the same bridge — over the creative gap — from the other side.

Now, with my MBA experiences, I'm really enjoying working with the artists at CCAD.

And you. Coming?

This Old Heart

Hearts age physically. They also age emotionally.

Neither is particularly pretty.

*******************

A couple years ago, the old man spoke. 

We were at lunch, the only lunch we ever shared.

"May I Tell You A Story?"
He didn't say why he wanted to tell it. But, as he shared, his motive appeared: he was processing a brutal fact of his life. 

Here is the story, a story of love and loss. He said:

At college, back in the '60s, I was in love with a young woman. She was a delight and we were soulmates.

As we faced graduation, we mutually decided to let our careers take us to different cities. We intentionally discontinued our relationship, one thing led to another, and we fell out of touch.

So far, a frequent story. He continued:

A few years passed and I was transferred to a different city, placed in an office, seated at a desk, and — at the very next desk — there she was. Imagine that! What a coincidence! Kismet? I don't know. There she was. And she was as delightful and well-matched for me as ever.

But, while we were separated, she had married. She was happily married. But here I was. There she was. And she was married. Happily married. I understood.

The old man raised a finger, to stop me from commenting. He continued:

Time passed.

One or the other of us eventually left the company and the city. 

More time passed.

It happened again. This time, I was traveling and we bumped into each other. Just like that. Can you believe it? A complete coincidence, again. What are the odds? Anyway, we were suddenly together. And between us: all the old feelings of admiration and longing. We chatted with heart, and a fact was quickly revealed: she was available, she had divorced.

But now I was married. Happily married! And so on. The situation had reversed to the same effect. Our conversation was limited by propriety; our meeting and parting, to a genuine embrace. 

Time passed. Again, we lost touch.

He paused. He continued:

That phrase — "but I was married" doesn't convey the value of my marriage. You know of my marriage. Legendary. The envy of others. But, more than that, the treasure of my life. The font of our children. My wife, our love, were, to me, everything.

I had met his wife. I had heard about their love. I nodded.

He was quiet. I waited. Then:

As you know, my wife died several years ago. Cancer. Untimely. Awful.

And, so, naturally, I have increasingly wondered, where is my friend, my college girlfriend, that woman who I thought was my soulmate, but never knew because our good lives interrupted us?

I don't know. I just don't know. I can't find her. I don't know where she is.

We sat quietly. He clearly feared the worst. That she was gone. Dead. Or disappeared.

I muttered something about how — now, with Facebook — that won't ever happen to my children and their lovers, how people of the social networking generation can be gone but remain easily found.

I wondered why the old man didn't pay a private detective $100 to find his lost friend. If I suggested this to him, I'm sorry I did. The idea is too obvious. If he had done it, it obviously hadn't turned up anything. If he hadn't done it, he had a reason. Perhaps his reason was old-fashioned mores: one just doesn't do that. Or perhaps he placed True Love in the hands of Lady Kismet.

We all know this pain.
The ache in the heart. A pressure in the chest. 

I've seen it — and felt it — in childhood. In high school. In college. Beyond. 

She said "no." Or "no more." Or "you? really?" Or, worse nothing of all. Once she spoke Russian.

I don't think any of their judgements were wrong. Each was following her heart, as she must. (And, to be fair, at times, I was the one saying, "no." Those times don't hurt as much. Huh.)

Still, when my infatuation wasn't met in kind, I was left, holding my bruised heart, not knowing what to do, feeling humiliated, embarrassed. This seems pathetic, that I should have had the maturity with which to address the challenge: distraction, learning, recovery, renewed adventure.

I chose only distraction, the weakest of the alternatives. I placed my broken heart in the trunk of my car and drove on. 

What is the cure?
I thought I knew. Here's what I thought were the cures: 

• Time. Doesn't it heal all wounds? It doesn't. Decades pass, but heartache merely goes cryogenic, as easy to thaw as a frozen meal — Heart: Ready To Eat.
• Next. Isn't new love, a true love the antidote? It isn't. The perfect marriage — of which I know, for mine, if not perfect, is surely the least imperfect — isn't a cure. The new relationship is a heart transplant, not a heart repair. The old heart lies beside the photograph, still beating its retreat in the trunk of the car, good for little else. Except, of course, to remind us we are alive.
• Maturity. Don't we ever grow up? Not I. Another widowed friend in his 70s recently spoke of the pain. His heart was freshly broken. Not, this time, by bereavement. But rather by a week of dinners, on a vacation that had to end. "How dear," I thought shallowly. "How real," he felt deeply.

We are all freshman at the senior dance. We are all at summer camp.

Is this is a high-class heartache? 
After all, many of us are so contented in fruitful relationships.

But there are those whose heartache is based on loneliness. We must respect their sorrow. It must be greater. But from here, with these hearts on the floor, we can't tell.

We're looking at old hearts in the trunk, pained that we cannot live two lives at once. Driving on.

Will someone please call a surgeon
Who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart
That you're deserting for better company?
I can't accept that it's over... 

 

I wish us all strength and a fullness of heart.

Get Up And Go

For whom will you get up and go?

Five years ago, friend, role model, and editor-farmer Kent Brown taught me the power of simply getting in the car and driving somewhere with someone. 

Where Am I Going?
As our kids get older, I have opportunities to drive farther.  

Today, I'll drive our beloved daughter to Washington, D.C. Just to drop her off in the arms of her friends. And I'll come back the next day.

On the way, we plan to visit the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden (open on New Year's Day!), sit for a delicious dinner at Sou'Wester, and walk the monuments at night.

The Trip Within The Trip
Of course, anyone who knows the power of a car — the intersection between environmental nightmare and relationship vehicle — knows that some of the best part of the ride will be the ride. On the highway. 

Driving with a child illustrates the very meaning of it's the journey, not the destination.

For whom will you get up and go?
What relationship is worth going far?

With whom — for whom — will you drive this year? 

I wish you a 2011 of health, happiness, creativity, and many moments of true engagement in life. I wish you — from time to time — a passenger, a soul to cheer yours on the road.

Gotta go. We'll be on our way now.

Am I Your Password?

When was the last time you logged into your online banking account?

Did you answer that security challenge, "What is the name of your first employer?"

I love that question.
I type my first boss's name — which, by the way, is none of your damn business — and I always enjoy a momentary memory, a fleeting emotion, based on our interaction. I was young and impressionable. (Now I'm older and impressionable.)

My first boss was a substantial shaper of who I have become. I always type her name with a smile.

You always remember your first boss.
In my Vistage practice, I'm meeting many people who run businesses. Each time, surely, I am meeting someone else's first boss.

The baker. The undertaker. The widget maker. Each has at least one employee — perhaps dozens — for whom their employment is their first job. And so each of my friends is, therefore, someone's first boss. 

And I smile.
I smile at the thought that each of their names have become banking passwords.

Throughout the city — far beyond, around the world — their current and former employees log into their own bank accounts and enter the names of my entrepreneurial friends.

What a strange and whimsical legacy! The final paycheck is long ago spent or invested. The boss wields no power.

But the boss's name is still the key to the vault. That's rich. That's irony. That's justice.

Who types your name?
For whom are you the first boss? 

Can you imagine them typing your name? Is it with a smile? I do hope so.

To Those Who Type "Artie"
I hope our time together was useful in your journey. 

If it wasn't, I'm sorry. I hope I wasn't the best boss you have had.

I hope you did the best work of your career when we were together. Until, of course, your next job, where I hope you did even better.

And I hope, whenever you type "Artie," your discover your bank account is a little fuller than you had forecast — like finding a $20 in the pocket of an old pair of jeans.

Welcome to the Creativity Students

Doug Dangler is the coordinator for the Writing Center and the digital media specialist for The Ohio State University's Center for the Study and Teaching of Writing.

He recently asked me, "What do you wish all your students knew about your course — before they arrive for the first class?"

Here's what. 
Here is a video that Doug made to welcome my students to the first day of class.

 

Choosing Diversions

Different strokes for different folks.

Or, as my Australian friend Catherine says, "Horses for courses."

So what are your strokes?
I can tell you what is not a stroke of mine: violence.

I really don't like it. 

And I don't consider it entertainment.

So if your stroke includes violence that leads too often to a reckless result — like, say, permanent brain injury — I'm out. 

My friends who are sports fans will counter, "People get injured walking across the street."

Sure enough. But who cheers when that happens? I'm not standing in the way of people taking risks for their passions. I'm simply disappointed and somewhat depressed when everyone stands and cheers for violence.

Call me "old fashioned." If disdain for violence is a crime, let me be guilty.

The Big Question
To be fully human, we need to ask ourselves throughout the day, "What does this experience mean to me? How am I expressing myself? Does this experience lift me, making me my best potential self, or does it lower me, degrading my potential?"

It might seem like a ponderous question for most people. However, with frequent asking, it becomes a light and enjoyable question.

So ask yourself: "When I see two people punching each other, what is the feeling that is stirred within me? Is it sporting? Or just thirsty for violence?"

Perhaps the answer is: o.k., watching violence stirs the primitive within. That leads to this question: is that what you want? 

Will hockey truly attempt to reform? Probably not. Because the "cost to the sport," is really a cost to the wallets of those who own the gladiatorial contest.

When people speak of "the sport" as an ancient ideal, I think, "Give me a break. Your ideal is worth cheering for people who defend the game by inflicting damage on one another? If so, do tell: what are your other ideals? Are any of them in conflict with this one?" 

I love the strength and grace of college hockey. But, so long as the major league behaves like the bush league, I'll stick to baseball. Unless and until the players brawl with regularity on the diamond. Then I'll leave the ballpark and crawl back under my self-righteous rock.

But this isn't about sports.

It's about the Arts.
I don't consider violence against women to be entertainment. It nauseates me. 

And when violence against women is presented as "art," I am ever more disgusted.

The arts has a way of saying, "We don't like this. We abhor it. So let's get some popcorn and watch a lot of it."

So I walked Out.
This was about a year ago, when the movie was new. I was in our beloved Drexel Theatre. I bought my ticket. I bought my popcorn. I sat through the coming attractions before the feature presentation.

Up came The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. This movie — claimed to be a "film" because it has subtitles, was introduced in independent cinemas, and is based on a best-selling series of novels by the late Stieg Larsson —  didn't last 30 minutes. For me, it didn't. I walked out.

Walked out? Well, what else is the appropriate reaction to watching a woman being beaten and sodomized?

I'm not able to keep thinking, "This is art. I am a patron of the arts." Call me a philistine, but when I'm watching a young woman harassed, battered, restrained, and penetrated, I have very few choices:

• watch — and have the primitive within me fueled. (Really, now, honestly: what is the feeling within you when you watch Noomi Rapace raped? She's a fine actress, so it looks real enough. What are you feeling? Artistically inspired? Doubtful. Aroused? Hmmm. Nice.)
• leave — and sit outside the theatre on a nice summer evening.

Of course, if this weren't art, the third and most appropriate choice would be to call the police. (The Onion's coverage of the recent assault scandal in sports was brilliant. Here it is: "Nation's 10-Year-Old Boys: 'If You See Someone Raping Us, Please Call The Police'.")

I'm conflicted.
This is awkward. I'm on the board of trustees for Friends of The Drexel, Inc., the new not-for-profit organization founded to secure and sustain the future of the historic Drexel Theatre as a distinctive cultural asset to Bexley and the greater Columbus community.

Showing violence against women isn't part of the mission, but the Dragon Tattoo movie was great at the box office. And more articulate, more cultured people than I defend the movie with passion.

I can say only this: "I know what I'm seeing. It's a woman being beaten and raped. Watching that is not — anytime, anywhere, under any Cloak of Sophisticated Culture — a form of entertainment or enlightenment for me. Never."

Independent arts cinemas turn their noses up at showing what they consider low-brow, like Terminator. And, so, we are showing this?

What's The Big Deal?
The big deal is that we are what we eat. And we are who we know. And we are where we go.

Let me add: We are what we cheer for. And we are what arouses us.

Can we make a case for not being who we are when we are cheering for — or aroused by — something violent? (I've tried. It's a weak case.)

Where can we turn for wisdom?
Not to me. I'm not the arbiter of taste.

Now that you are an adult, you have to decide what is beneath you. I'm just asking you to draw the line — rather than letting popular culture draw the line for you. Because we all know where popular culture will draw that line.

Columbus's native son, James Thurber once said (I'm paraphrasing here, because I cannot find the original quotation): "I'm glad to be going blind, so I can't see where popular culture is headed."

Want something more helpful?

The actor Bill Murray: “When you become an adult, you get to choose your diversions. You should choose them carefully.” 

Where is God?

[This morning, the rabbi is out. So a friend and I will lead Shabbat services. The friend has skills and will do all the hard stuff: Hebrew, music. I'll do what I do best: distract people throughout the service. And I'll give the sermon. Here's the sermon.]

Shabbat shalom. The Rabbi is off the bima. You are about to learn that this would have been a good time for you to leave town. Here we go.

It's been more than a couple months since Simchat Torah, when Jews everywhere rewind every Torah scroll in the world. And we start over with Genesis. 

We've read about creation and the patriarchs and matriarchs. This week, in the portion of the Torah called Vayeishev, starting with Chapter 37, we still have Jacob and we are turning to Joseph and his brothers. The stories are interesting and, frankly, with Joseph, his brothers, Potiphar, Tamar and Onan, among the most salacious reality television the Bible offers.

This week is a religious school teacher's dream. The stories are fascinating to parse and debate. Why are they in the Torah? What do they mean for those of us who attempt to live Torah-centric lives?

There are great questions.

But I'm not going to discuss any of that.
I'd like to step away from those stories and contemplate the question: Where is God?

This seems like the time to do it because, as Gunther Plaut points out (The Torah: A Modern Commentary, page 244), this portion's long literary unit — which could be televised as Survivor: The Coat of Many Colors — is notable in a number of ways. One is the the increasing absence of divine revelation. Except in one small part — though the role of God is no small part — God has left the stage.

So the question I would like to explore today is: Where is God?

Ask yourself: Is God near? What does it mean, "God is near"? What are the signs and your feelings that God is near?

Ask yourself: Is God far away? And what about "God is far — or gone"? What are the signs and your feelings that God is far or gone?

Moving Away
In the Torah, God starts near and gradually moves away. The sole actor at the beginning, God creates the earth and populates it, speaking directly with Adam in the Garden of Eden. Some years are spent in training the people. And then, God steps away. Eventually, later in Exodus, God retains a lawyer, Moses, who serves as local counsel in God's place.

God seems like a parent; humanity, the children. God creates humanity, raises them, then steps away and let's them live their lives. 

What do you think? How is God like a parent? How is parenting not like being God? When is God a good parent. When is, if I might ask, God not a good parent?

However we might judge our Parent, God, like a parent, starts out all powerful, or at least seeming all powerful. At the end, parents are left only all loving. The power is gone, eventually or sooner. God is left all loving, whether you look to the original Chasidic tradition or Christianity, which are both traditions based on an all loving God. 

A Disclaimer on Belief
When I was 12 years old, it was time to meet with the Rabbi for the first conversation about becoming Bar Mitzvah. Back then, as I recall (which might not be accurate), fewer students than today led a Bar Mitzvah service. So the rabbi started by asking my intentions.

Rabbi: What are you thinking about Bar Mitzvah?

Artie: Would it be wrong to do just for the presents?

Rabbi: Yes.

Artie: Would it be wrong to do it if I don't believe in God?

Rabbi: Yes.

Artie: Well then, Rabbi, I'm 0-for-2.

Within a few years, I had completely walked away from Judaism — a walk that spanned 26 years before returning in my late 30s.

What About The Professional Jew?
One of the few things I've learned about Judaism is that the Rabbi might have overstated the answer to the second question. Today, as I understand it, belief in God isn't a prerequisite to being a Jew. In fact, this is a case where some of our best, don't.

Years ago, I asked a beloved Rabbi, "Do you believe in God?" I was expecting the simple answer of a true believer.

"May I speak frankly and confidentially?" the Rabbi asked. I nodded. (I think enough years have passed for me to tell this story.) His answer: "That is a complex question."

Wha? "Do you believe in God?" is a complex question?

For me, it's a simple question when the answer is "no" and it's a complex question when the answer is "yes." Because for anyone whose faith is on-again/off-again, "yes" needs a complex qualification.

Personally, I don't consider my religion a faith. I consider it an ethical tradition that — from time to time — might achieve moments of faith. So, I think the Rabbi of my childhood, the one who told me that belief in God was necessary to be a Jew, offered me an easy exit.

Here's what I believe now:

1. Whether or not one believes in God, it is better to live as if (a.) we are all related and (b.) we are never alone. This way, even without belief, we won't abuse our neighbor and we won't behave as if our actions have no meaning.
2. The mind of God is very big. It's inconceivable that any one of us would know the one true way. As Mrs. Isaac says, "It is conceivable that everyone is right." That is, everyone except those who sacrifice people, literally or figuratively. This has led me to a humble preference: I prefer to believe in everything, rather than to believe in nothing. 
3. Facebook is, in at least one important way, playing God. (Here is my Theology of Facebook.)

So, where is God?
I don't know. But I know what I feel like when I feel that God is near or far. 

Does distance make the heart grow fonder? Or as the Roman poet, Sextus Propertius put it: "Always toward absent lovers love's tide stronger flows."

As God and humanity see distance growing between them, so must parents and children.

This year has one of our children off to college. I know how helpless I sometimes feel to have my power diminished by distance. It leaves me all loving, with little I can do about it.

In the late of the night, when I cannot sleep, when I am consumed with worry for our creation, all I can do is wonder if I still enter into my child's prayers.

God is near when we pray for the well being and healing of our friends and family.

The Purpose of Management

I've spent the past several months having increasingly deeper conversations with entrepreneurs and business owners. It's been an enlightening, joyful honor for me.

Observing these businesspeople is humbling. Most of them have a highly defined sense of purpose.

Here's one way of describing what I am seeing.

Guess What? It's Lutheran.
I heard this first when I taught creativity to MBA candidates at the Capital University Graduate School of Management. (This was years ago, before I came to Ohio State.)

The dean of the business school, Lisa Dolin, informed me that Capital University was founded by Lutherans, based on Lutheran ideals. And, if memory serves, she described a fundamental Lutheran mission like this:

The Lutherans recognize that we are more effective in some roles than we are in others. Some people are best at making shoes. Some people are best at dancing in those shoes.

So it is the purpose of education to help each person find his or her most productive role. Because, if we are all at our most effective, doing the thing that we are most meant to do, doing the thing that we do the best, doing the most important work of our careers, then we will — as a human population — really be moving the world forward.

We will truly be completing the act of creation.

Is that really Lutheran?
So I'm told. But I think even the Lutherans would agree — with delight — that this is a universal ethic. It would be universally beneficial if universally applied. And where it is not applied, it ought to be.

I might have added that last sentence, about finishing the act of creation. (I always try to worm that idea in.) But, it's fair to say that this world — as we have it now — is surely not finished. One only needs to look at the front page of the newspaper to realize that.

So What Is Management?
Management is helping our employees — and customers and families — identify their most important roles. And then helping them to focus on that work. The work of their careers.

Everyone profits.

This is where Management intersects with The Meaning Of Life.

Heavy. 

Another Take On This Idea
My wise cousin Steve Weiler said to me — years ago, just when I needed to hear it — that he tries to focus his life on doing "only those things that only I can do."

I asked him, "Well, what are those things that only you can do?"

His answer — with a humble laugh — is like mine: "Not all that many things!"

There are relatively few things that only I can do. But one thing is certain: I know when I'm doing them. And I know when I'm doing something that someone else could do. And, frankly, in those moments, someone else could surely do it a lot better.

Easy To Focus? (No.)
So, with so few activities that only I can do, it should be easy to stay focused.

Sadly, no. I'm easily distracted. I often find myself doing work that would be better done by someone else. 

That's why I made this chart.

The Beginning In The End

The year's end affords rebirth.
Many people pooh-pooh New Year's Resolutions, but that's because so many resolutions are hopes and dreams — not true decisions.

(This morning, I wrote the subscribers to my irregular newsletter, Three Ideas To Spark Your Creativity. If you want that, sign up here. The following is one of the topics I mentioned to them.)

So Let's Make A Decision.
During the past 60 days, I've asked 100+ people who run businesses: "What's is the biggest decision you need to make before the end of the year? Write it down. Now, write down the next step toward making that decision. And note by when you will take that step."

Writing this is essential. Writing doesn't make the decision. But it's funny what happens when we write it down. On paper, a big decision looks real — and more digestible.

What is the most important decision facing you?
Write it down. (Feel free to send it to me.)

Do this now. It won't take more than 10 minutes. And if not now, when?  

Here's my biggest year end decision.
How will I spend my time? If that sounds vague, click the chart on the right.

I'm sorting and assessing my activities. I'm a juggler, so I think of my activities as balls I'm juggling.

As the year proceeds, some of the balls get heavier. Some feel smoother in my hand and look more graceful in the air. Some are turning a golden hue.

Which ones might I put down in the coming year?

(And what balls might I want to pick up for the first time?)

Pardon me, what about your balls?

Let us (re)start with "Why?"

A month on the road has forced some introspection. (The travel experiences were excellent. More to come. Soon.)

Now it's your turn.
Perhaps you have already seen this video from Simon Sinek? It is a great place to start. 

After viewing the video, ask yourself, "Why am I doing what I am doing?"

If you truly want to lead, you need to know the answer to this question. You need to know why.

During the past several months, I've had deep conversations with more than 100 entrepreneurs. I'm hearing why, but I'm not sure all of them have articulated — specifically, on paper — why they are doing what they are doing.

This is clear: it's not the money.
As Sinek warns, it's not the money; that's a result. (A happy result, to be sure.)

Why is a deeper, more meaningful belief. The Why is found here: "What do I believe that drives what I am doing?"

Give it a go. Right now.
Please take ten minutes to write it down.

Then look at it tomorrow. If it doesn't quite capture what your belief — your underlying belief that drives you — revise it.  

And look at it every day. 
And revise it when you can better articulate your belief — or when you find your belief evolving.