Are you an employee? What does your employer owe you? To what are you entitled?
Are you an employer? What does your employee owe you? To what are you entitled?
Pay Day My former business partner distributed the paychecks every other Friday. He'd say, as he handed each paycheck to each employee, with a smile and a twinkle in his eye:
Here's your paycheck. This is your pay for the work you've done during the past two weeks. Good work! Thank you for that work.
With this paycheck, we are even. You are now fully paid for your service. If you think you are underpaid, or the company owes you more, that's not true. We're even. That's the meaning of this paycheck.
In fact, since it is only noon on Friday, and this pays you through the end of the day, you are actually a little ahead. If anyone owes something, it is you who owes the company the rest of the day's work. Keep working.
It wasn't the warmest message, but it did illuminate a truth to the transaction.
What Do Job Creators Want? The past six months in my newest venture has been truly enlightening. I've heard the candid minds and full hearts of the people who create jobs.
Everyone wants job creation. I think this video speaks volumes about the perspective of those who are actually creating jobs.
You need to see it all the way to the end to see that these employers fully understand the Ethics of Employment, that entitlement cuts both ways.
Thanks to Harry Robinson, a Vistage chair, for introducing me to this video at yesterday's monthly meeting of Vistage Chair Group 6069 in Cincinnati.
On the Death of SpeakerSite I long thought that the best thing to happen in business was big growth and profit. I still do.
I long thought that the second best thing to happen in business was survival — and the worst thing was going out of business. I have re-ordered those for many occasions.
Survival Can Be Toxic Survival — not thrival, just survival — can lull the business owner into complacency. The thought starts arising: "Oh, it's easier to continue rather than shut it down. After all, it pays the bills."
But paying the bills is not our goal. That's a minimum expectation. It is not why we are here. It is not the meaning of life.
And continuing on? For how long? A week? Fine. A month? O.K. A year? That's a high cost to pay.
A Mentor Calls My lifelong friend and mentor, Jon York, called me five years ago. He sensed some restlessness in me. I was still at my advertising desk at Young Isaac, an agency I owned.
"What do you want to do next?" asked Jon.
"Oh, I figure that I'd like to teach full-time," I said. "In about five or ten years."
Jon paused. Then: "Five or ten years? Huh. I don't know about you, Artie, but when I want to do something, I kind of want to do it now."
These words were very helpful. They fished me out of the water. I was drowning in survival.
The End of SpeakerSite This is newly posted over at speakersite.com.
Dear SpeakerSite Members,
As you may have seen on SpeakerSite Marketplace yesterday, we have decided to shut down SpeakerSite. This means everything: both the Community (SpeakerSite 1.0) and the Marketplace (SpeakerSite 2.0) are going away.
Both the social network and marketplace profiles will remain as-is until February 29th, 2012, so you can access your information during that time before disable existing features and remove the data. If you have used our tools to book speaking engagements (or to book speakers), any agreement that you made is solely between speaker and event planner and will not be affected.
Thank you for being a part of the worldwide SpeakerSite community. We were — and, who knows, still are the world's largest social network of public speakers. So, what happened? It's that old story in the new world: while we made a lot of friends, SpeakerSite did not generate enough revenue. All the same, we are very grateful for your kindness and collaboration along the way. Truly: it has been a delightful, heart-warming, life affirming experience. We're proud that we were, with you, a force for good: supporting the emergence of many new and seasoned speakers, providing entertainment and enlightenment for audiences, and helping to democratize public speaking.
If you have any questions or feedback, please don't hesitate to reach out. We wish you every success in public speaking. Don't let our disappearance dissuade you. SpeakerSite gone? Piffle. You still have a message. And every message has an audience.
With affection and admiration,
Artie and Rob
What happened? I don't know every reason why we didn't secure enough revenue, but here's my favorite. a lack of demand from the side of the market with cash.
The buyers (meeting and event planners) do not perceive a need for a solution. Buyers with few transactions each year can muddle through by asking around. Buyers with many transactions each year already have a pipeline of alternatives. We speakers (a broad group with very little in common) swamp the marketplace. As a result, the buyers do not seek efficiency.
I don't know of any direct substitute. While our implementation could have been smarter, better, faster, I don't think that's what put us out.
There are other reasons. When time weighs heavy on my hands, I'll make a list of them. But that sounds like a dreary way to spend the day today.
Admiration I am filled with admiration and affection for all the people with whom I worked.
At the top of that list, of course, is Rob Emrich, in whom I would never hesitate to invest. He's a role model.
"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...
In the fall of 1978, I arrived at Yale to a class welcome by the then new president of Yale, A. Bartlett Giamatti.
Bart talked funny. He couldn't help it. He'd read too much Dante.
During his Welcome Address To The Incoming Class of 1982, he compared his own summer of 1978 to ours, filled with uncertainty about arriving at Yale: for us, as freshman; for him, as the new president, a freshman of sorts.
But he didn't say it that way. He said, during the summer,
"The worm of apprehension bit deep in the bud of anticipation."
I recall we applauded the line. It was perfect. The phrase washed over us with delight, the intellectual joy of realizing that, yes, in fact, we had arrived at a special place, where words are discretely chosen, arguments are deeper, authenticity is pursued.
And we all knew — we felt it in our bones — how the worm would not let that bud alone.
Bart and Me Bart eventually advanced his career toward his true love. More than Yale, baseball. He left Yale to become president of the National League and eventually Commissioner of Baseball.
As President of the National League, Bart courageously banned Pete Rose from baseball. It's a long story that many might remember: the popular player, called "Charlie Hustle" for his grit and determination, was destined for the Hall of Fame, but gambled on baseball. So Bart banned him. I don't think Mr. Rose was even allowed to come watch a game, except at home on his television.
Still now, decades later, Pete Rose remains the only living human who is ineligible for induction into the Hall of Fame. I think he needs to die first. And even then?
At the All-Star Break that summer, 1988, The New York Times asked sports fans, "Who are the league M.V.P.'s at this stage?" I responded briefly with this published letter. (When I didn't hear from Mr. Giamatti, I sent him the clipping from the newspaper. He responded with this keepsake.)
Bart was soon elevated to Commissioner of Baseball. Back then The Commissioner was a position of courage, an independent power, staring down both players and owners, as an advocate for neither, rather as a single-minded defender of the Integrity Of The Game Of Baseball. After Bart died, his lawyer and long-time friend Fay Vincent (and chief investigator of Pete Rose) became the eighth Commission of Baseball. Mr. Vincent expelled George Steinbrenner, who was later reinstated.
Unless the current Commissioner — coincidentally known as "Bud," as in "the bud of anticipation" — wishes to write me a letter and set me straight, I believe the Commissioner now serves the owners.
Great Reading One of the best essays ever written is about baseball, by Bart Giamatti. You don't have to love baseball to love this essay, this writer — and his son, the actor Paul Giamatti. (Here is "The Green Fields of the Mind.")
But This Isn't About Baseball. This is about the worm of apprehension, biting deep into the bud of anticipation.
New Bud, Same Worm Tomorrow morning, we drive our elder child to college in New York City.
We were supposed to leave this morning.
But the Hurricane Irene rages toward Manhattan, expected to arrive at the original college drop-off time.
Our family is already worm-bit. Now, we hope for the best for all in the path of Irene.
And we wait for a chance to leave apprehension behind, shake off the worm, and get to the future.
All my life, I have thought of his immortal phrase: "The worm of apprehension bit deep in the bud of anticipation."
What are the books that every business person should read?
For value investing? The Intelligent Investor and Security Analysis. For management? Anything by Peter Drucker and the the latest issue of Harvard Business Review. For strategy? Michael Porter and Jim Collins. For sales and marketing? Customers For Life and Made To Stick.
And then there are the many hundreds of biographies, auto-biographies and memoirs of business heroes. And other historical figures.
Oh, we could argue about those recommendations. We could easily add 20 or 100 titles.
But this isn't about non-fiction. My students and clients already read — and my faculty colleagues already assign — enough non-fiction.
This is about business fiction. What are the books of fiction that every business person should read?
In my quest to teach liberal arts to business people, I'd like to teach a course on Truth In Jest: The Fictional Legends Every Business Person Should Know.
This course would ensure that the participants are more than literate. They could claim Business Literacy.
The list starts plainly enough. These titles start to answer the question: "What does any well read business person have on the shelf — and in mind and soul?"
Books: Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead and Upton Sinclair's The Jungle
What titles would you add? What's essential for Business Literacy?
Who cares? I do. Here's why I care.
When I was 22 years old, my boss and I were scheduled to meet the Big Client at the 21 Club for dinner.
My boss was stuck in late afternoon Manhattan traffic. So there I was: alone with the client.
"What should we do?" I asked Big Client.
"Let's wait in the bar," he said.
Forty-five minutes later, after my boss arrived, we sat for dinner. My boss asked Big Client, "So how did Artie do?" I was a very new guy at the office and leaving me alone with the client was foolhardy.
"Artie? Oh, he did great," said Big Client. "Anyone can learn your business. But few young people can stand at the bar for a half hour and chat with the client."
Business fiction can make that possible.
POSTSCRIPT (6/27/11): After I posted the "Business Fiction," I received the following, thoughtful email from Joe Sperry. (Thanks, Joe.) He permitted me to copy this for you:
Coming from the liberal art side of things, I can think of a number of business fictions, two of which I would not force anyone to read. Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener is the one that is perfect for English teachers (speaking as a former one) to gleefully show the limitations of business. The second is Joseph Heller’s Something Happened—the book he wrote after Catch-22. Something Happened is the story of a man living in terror at a corporation with awful bosses and after 900 pages or so (hyperbole) what happens is that his infant son dies. As you can imagine, sales were not great, especially for those expecting another Catch-22.
In one Shakespeare class I took, I do remember the professor discussing the leadership styles of various focal characters. Hamlet—awful, but Othello decent—there is a scene where he comes in and his men are dueling to the death ( I.ii.59) and he simply says: “Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them." Not everyone could stop a fight thus. Julius Caesar was presented as the leader driven by ambition and reason—the Gordon Gecko of Roman times. I always thought there was an interesting course here. I’d be tempted to include Lady Macbeth in it.
If I had to choose a great business novel, it might be Anthony Trollope’s The Way We Live Now, which I reread several summers ago. The parallels with today’s business are frightening. Although it’s two very long books so I don’t know if a businessperson would read it. If there is a great business novel, I do not know it. Sinclair Lewis’ Babbitt maybe or Dodsworth—the movie remains a wonderful thirties classic—one of Walter Huston’s greatest roles.
There are others: William Dean Howells’ Rise of Silas Lapham maybe—although it’s a dismal book to read. I dimly recall Louis Auchincloss’s The Embezzler and that I liked it.
I don't know about you, but I find Joe's business literacy to be humbling. Way to go, Joe!
Years ago, a teacher of mine, Ed Burghard — the very first time we met — told me about his Handshake Document.
"Once I shake your hand," Ed said, "I automatically make these promises."
He handed me a sheet of paper. "You may hold me accountable."
I loved that. Since that conversation, I've kept my own list of promises on this website. It's my way of inviting you to hold me accountable to my values.
Out Of Date Promises Well, it's been a long year since I revised my promises — during which my life has continued to evolve and I eked out a little growth. And I outgrew many of my promises. (Some of them accommodated aspects of what look now like personal inauthenticity.)
So, here's a fresh version of my promises. Whenever I say "Hello," that simple "Hello" isn't so simple. It's shorthand for this longer list of promises. (There just isn't time for me to speak all these promises every time I say "hello.")
What Do You Promise? Writing a list of Automatic Promises is a useful exercise in creativity and ethics.
It's a way of clarifying — for yourself — what is not negotiable, what you stand for.
Why? There were several risks facing during my big, sudden, unplanned job transition.
My friends convinced me, however, that there was a bigger risk than my never finding employment. "You will find work, Artie," they said, convincingly.
The greater risk — greater than my having to search for the next employment for too long — is that I would find work too quickly, because I might choose mindlessly.
"And then 18 years will pass," a teacher told me. "Your bosses or clients or students and their families will be happy. And 18 years will pass and you won't have done the most important work of your career."
"The most important work of your career." Those words haunted me. They inspire me still.
That's why that brainstorm was so powerful for me. Because it lifted my head and eyes to more possibilities. And because it was others — friends who love me — thinking about me. They added their perspective (all that Artie might enjoy) to my panic (I gotta work).
I'm Not The Only One Of course, there are so many friends who are between jobs. It's happening more often, to more people — and lasting longer. So there are more folks off base at any given time.
Recently, with a few friends between jobs, I've led similar brainstorms for them.
Here's how to play the home version of the game. Amid all the networking and researching and informational interviews and LinkedIn work (which I've covered here), take a morning off for a brainstorm.
Find four to six friends to sit around a table in one of their homes. Recruit them by sending an email:
I'm at a crossroads and need your help.
In my current unemployment, I need to protect myself from taking the wrong job. Sure, I want a job — and now. But I also know that, thirty years from now, I'll look back on this transition. And I want it to be my best transition. One that led me into the most meaningful work of my career.
I'm concerned that I might jump at the first offer. (Who can blame me? My kids are addicted to food.)
So, I'd really appreciate it if you would sit with a few other friends of mine and brainstorm about what I'm good at, what I might most enjoy doing — what I should do for a living. I think that several friends might uncover in 90 minutes what I might miss during these anxious months.
Oh, and please accept this only if you can keep everything discussed confidential.
Game Day Then, when they are around the table, say:
I'm going to attend the first 15 minutes and the last 30 minutes. I'll excuse myself for most of the meeting, so you can talk frankly about me in my absence.
Here's my story: my concerns, my goals, what I like. [Be prepared to state all this, clearly and concisely in four minutes. Practice it beforehand. Don't wing it.]
But you might know me better than I know myself, because you see me. So I want to hear your thinking on what I should do next.
Any questions? [Each person gets to ask only one question. Keep your answers brief and to the point.]
Thank you for your time, for your love, and — as we all agreed beforehand — for keeping everything you discuss confidential.
Then leave them — leave the house, take a walk. Leave them with lots of blank paper and pens.
When you come back, listen. Be completely open minded. Leave your fear at the door. Don't be defensive. Don't draw conclusions. Just listen. If you are asked a question, answer it in one short sentence. Listen.
It will be fascinating, because your friends are helping you author the most fascinating story you've ever considered: yours.
Thank them profusely. That will be easy. You will be stunned by their thinking and kindness.
Then spend several days letting it soak in. Keep listening.
******************
If you are currently gainfully employed, offer to lead a brainstorm for a friend who isn't.
Perhaps you pass a landmark — maybe just an intersection — and it brings a specific person to mind.
You think of the story he shared. Or maybe the insight she revealed.
A comment made in passing. Tossed off and, now, long forgotten.
But it stayed with you. It keeps popping up. It's an automatic memory. It's indelible.
It has become a part of a physical landmark on your daily way. Maybe it has become the stuff of your dreams at night.
You know that experience.
But you might not know this...
Others think of you, too. I'm always surprised when I say, "Remember when you said...."
...and you reply, "I don't remember."
I guess you weren't listening to your own words. Or maybe it just slipped out. You didn't think much of it.
I don't blame you for not remembering. You have the advantage of hearing your voice all day, every day. I get only moments with you. To me, each of your words is a pearl.
So I was listening. And I've been meditating on your words ever since.
That's been happening to me more and more lately.
I've been thinking of what you said. Even if you just tossed it off.
What is it about this book? Plenty of books turn 50. Why is Mockingbird so treasured? Why is it routinely rated by Americans as the #2 book that all civilized people should read? (The Bible is #1. No matter how wonderful our performance, Mockingbird seems unlikely to take over first place.)
It's About Dad. While the classic text plumbs a great many important themes (as previously covered here), I think there is a reason why it's a national treasure, routinely rated by Americans as the #2 book everyone should read. (The Bible is #1. No matter how wonderful our performance, we're unlikely to take the top spot.)
Mockingbird is so treasured, I believe, because it is a beautifully written, easily savored expression of appreciation for our fathers.
Our hearts are warmed when Miss Maudie summarizes the town's admiration of Atticus Finch: "We trust him to do right." (Playing Atticus can go to one's head.)
Perhaps you might not have benefited from a great relationship with your father. Still, you understand when — moments later — Dill stops in his tracks to reiterate the opinion. "They trust him to do right."
We love good fathers. This respect is hard wired into us as animals.
Laws — from the Fifth Commandment (upgraded to #4 for Catholics and Lutherans) to the national commemoration of Father's Day — merely codify the eternal appreciation of fatherhood done right.
Happy Father's Day My own father (of blessed memory for 18 years) was someone trusted to do right.
Trust was placed in him for two reasons:
He knew how to do right. His insights were ethical. He could hear your problem and respond with helpful words.
He actually did right. Once you sought his counsel, he didn't betray you by speaking of you to others. He knew that your story was not his to tell.
An example: he never told me who his clients were. He didn't consider that to be his story to tell. I've learned who they were since his death because many have told me. Some I learned at his deathbed, when they came to pay final respects. I was initially astounded to realize that his clients were such brilliant, powerful people. They could have worked with any stockbroker in the world. They chose my father. They trusted him to do right. And he kept their trust by never revealing them to anyone. Two Stories About My Father I won't reveal his clients here and now, but here are two stories that reveal something about my dad, trusted to do right. At a community lunch some years ago, a fellow introduced himself and asked if I was indeed the son of "Art Isaac, the stockbroker." Yes, I said, expecting to hear a simple: "He was a great guy." (I've heard that a lot.) But, rather, he launched into this story:
Your father was a great guy. Let me tell you how I met him. When I was in college, I was a bicycle messenger for [big name in town]. Every couple of weeks, [Mr. Big] would give me an envelope and say, "Take this to Art Isaac." I would rush it to him.
Your father would always come greet me personally. As I handed him each envelope, I'd ask: "Whatever you're buying for [Mr. Big], please get me one, too."
The amazing thing: he did. I'd pay for the single share of stock, but he never charged me a commission, let alone an premium for an odd lot transaction. I didn't know how valuable this was.
I never realized it at the time, but he was generously giving me the highest kindness.
I immediately suggested that my father was just being smart. After all, this young man was bringing envelopes filled with cash. Shoot, anyone would have made him jelly doughnuts on the spot, if that might have kept the bike wheels rolling in the same direction.
But the fellow said, "No. Your father would take me — a bike messenger! — to his office to explain why he was recommending the specific investment. He wanted me to learn how to invest. And, because of him, I did. Those lessons served me well."
He did right.
More Important Than Money: Music Another story, from another grown man who I met in recent years. We met in the same way: "Was Art Isaac your father?"
Some background is helpful. My father was an introvert. He could entertain groups of people, but he repaired to his solitude, in his beloved home office, where he recharged.
It was a small room off the kitchen — originally a maid's room, now wallpapered in grass, harkening back to his army days in the South Pacific.
In a cloth recliner beside his desk, his typewriter, and his library of first editions of W.H. Auden, he would read, with music softly playing.
One evening, he was in The Office, where this fellow found him:
I was a high school friend of your sister. She had a group of kids over. For some reason, I wandered off and started poking around your house.
I opened a door and was startled to be face to face with this man, your father. It was like he was in some sort of magic room.
I'd never met him. He immediately said, "Come in. Sit down."
We talked. And that night, we talked about the music he was enjoying. It was jazz. I had never heard jazz before. Your father told me of his love of jazz. And he did it in such a way that I immediately became a jazz fan.
And I have ever been so. I am a lifelong lover of jazz. Your father gave me that gift. I have always been grateful to him for that gift.
Just jazz? Just music? No big deal?
Wrong.
Very Big Deal These are the moments that make us what we are.
It's best if those moments are with people worthy of our trust. The people we trust to do right.
We all think of Atticus. We all think very similarly about Atticus, because he stared down the drunken lynch mob, fighting to defend another human being.
Playing him this coming week, I'm also thinking of Atticus as a father. He was a single parent. Oddly, his children (and their friends) called him by his first name.
Last week, during a break in our evening rehearsal, I asked the young people in the cast, "Why do you call me Atticus? As Southerners, shouldn't you call me 'diddy' — not just in childhood, but throughout your lives? And shouldn't your friend Dill call me Mr. Finch?"
The answers were telling. These actors understand their roles and motivation. (If you come to the show, you're in for a treat.) They said: "Because we respect each other as equals."
I am the son of Atticus. I've always thought of my father not so much as A Father, but as Someone I Was Lucky Enough To Befriend.
I dedicate my performance this coming week to the loving memory of my father, Arthur J. Isaac, Jr. They trusted him to do right.
It's been a generous week, riding the cultural gravy train with my mother.
Last weekend, we attended a live telecast — in our local cinema — of The Metropolitan Opera from New York City. Then, last night, New York City came to us in the form of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company at the Wexner Center.
And my daughter taught me that art is anything touched by an artist.
No mas! No mas! All my black clothing is now in the laundry hamper. I just don't have anything more to wear.
And I'm back in that age-old quandary: What is art?
The Accounting Non-Definition of Art My old business partner, Michael Regan, had a printer's eye for visual art. He might be puzzled — as we all might be — by the content of a painter's work, but he had eagle eyes. He could look at a work from 20 paces and tell you which colors went on in what order (even on a flat lithograph).
Once, wandering through our Columbus Museum of Art, we found ourselves puzzled by the work of a celebrated artist. The artist must have received some grant money in the lottery. He'd taken that grant money and bought a hat or a shoe, or a piece of bacon, and nailed it to the wall of our Columbus Museum of Art. Or just dropped aesthetically it it on the floor. Whatever — it had been touched by an artist.
It inspired the question "What is art?"
I love this definition of art. Michael, who once said that I knew only two jokes, stopped me with his theory:
"Art is what my accountant can't do."
I never met Michael's accountant, but that wasn't his point. He meant: if a CPA does it, it might be a demonstration of gifted talent, but it's not art, buddy.
Beautiful.
The Audit The next day, I was at a board meeting at the Columbus Museum of Art, sitting beside a gifted CPA, Jim Bachmann, managing director of Ernst & Young. During a lull in the action, I described Michael's theory of art: "Art is what my CPA can't do."
Jim is polite and thoughtful. So he smiled and took it in, without reply.
I suddenly feared that Jim might be a frustrated artist and I hadn't helped. I spent the rest of the day playing that old familiar game, I Can't Believe I Just Said That (The Jim Bachmann Version).
But fast forward: two meetings later, the curators were dancing in front of us with the target of their curatorial lust. It was a painting by a famous painter. So they said.
It was a landscape that must have been very important indeed, because it looked like hell. And the curators were talking about its million-dollar price tag being a very good opportunity indeed.
I leaned over to Jim and, in an attempt to drag him down to my low-brow level, said, "If my kid brought that home from school, I'd send it back."
Jim must have shared my untrained assessment of this painting. He replied with a significant revision of the theory of art: "Art is what your CPA wouldn't do."
Toward A Unified Theory Of Art Here we go:
Modern Dance — it's what we look like to the family dog when we walk through the house. Unpredictable and under-dressed, but (we think) we look graceful and expressive.
Opera — it's how we feel about the significance of our lives. We fall down and it's a big deal. Big deal? No. We're just being opera divas.
Visual Art — a chance to see what someone else sees. And to see it her way, with all her sleep deprivation and unrequited loves.
Theatre — it's what we'd see if we stared into our neighbors' windows. We shouldn't do that, but — hey — who can resist?
Country music — it's what we really think, especially after two beers.
Cinema — it's a expensive nap, with dream or nightmare provided.
Now you know what is art. Please don't email me with your additions and rebuttals. Put them in the comment area below. Just click "Comments" below. Thanks.
Recommended Reading You'll see eight small bookshops here:
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For Marketing Strategy Development..."GET CLARITY!" The Tool is a handy outline for marketing strategy planning. In my class at CCAD, The Tool is the midterm exam, the group project and the final exam. Graduates take The Tool into work on the first day of a new creative assignment.
Creativity for OSU business students This is the most current (Spring 2012) syllabus for the wonderful, intelligent, hard-working business students at The Ohio State University's Fisher College of Business.
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