Creativity and Business: A Good and Necessary Coexistence

Let’s be honest.

Business acumen and creative insight are often considered separate spheres that overlap only occasionally. It’s a common occurrence for, say, a financial analyst and a website designer, each pondering the other’s job description, to exclaim, “I could never do what you do!” And they might be right.

Personal inclinations aside, however, business and creativity belong together. What ad campaign doesn’t have as its goal an increase in sales? What artist doesn’t hope to draw some kind of income from his paintings? Who ever heard of a musician who doesn’t care whether people buy her music? And don’t product designers yearn for fanatically loyal customers, who can’t wait to get their hands on the latest version?

Don’t get me wrong. We right-brain creative types are motivated by more than profit. We love crafting things. We’re energized by the creative process. We’re bursting with the need to express ourselves. And, since there is no such thing as too much beauty or clarity in the world, we feel compelled to keep both flowing.

Yet, I think most of us realize that if what we create connects with people, they’ll buy it. The just-right creative message crafted on behalf of business should benefit that business’s bottom line. So, business sense and artistic sensibility really can, and should, coexist happily. It’s possible for the manager and the muse to play nice. Sometimes, the two even reside in the same person.

As a right-brain type, I don’t think the bottom line should drive each and every creative decision like a whip-wielding taskmaster. On the other hand, we should never embark on a creative adventure without a business compass.

Lessons from The Artist

I recently watched The Artist on DVD. I had already seen it in the theater with my daughter (we both loved it), so I was anxious to know what my wife and son thought about it. They found it moving, mesmerizing, daring, clever, and worthy of its best picture Oscar. Amazing, isn’t it, that a silent film can win best picture 85 years after The Jazz Singer, the first feature talkie? Even more astounding is that such a film could hold the attention of two teenagers from beginning to end, even prompting my son to remark, “That’s one of the best films I’ve seen this year.”

There are many reasons to appreciate and enjoy The Artist: story, acting, music, cinematography, sparse but imaginative use of sound, etc. In fact, a few scenes in this film will live on as some of the most poignant moments in movie history. I’ll never forget the image of pedestrians hurrying through the rain and unwittingly trampling a poster promoting George Valentin’s unpopular movie. Or Peppy’s whimsical encounter with Valentin’s tuxedo in his dressing room. Or that electrifying tap-dance finale. These belong alongside such enduring images as the “Here’s looking at you, kid” scene in Casa Blanca, the crop duster’s pursuit of Cary Grant in North by Northwest, and a tuxedo-clad Godfather discussing “business” in his study.

The Artist, however, offers more than just images. It offers lessons. Lessons on how to live, how to succeed, how to communicate. Here are just a few:

Adapt or die.

George Valentin was indeed an artist, but he was also a purist. He failed to accept that times were changing. Technology was advancing, and the audience was yearning for this new phenomenon of “talkies.” Valentin wrongly assumed that adapting to change would mean betraying his artistry. He chose to eschew new technology and keep his feet firmly planted in the silent era.

But people were flocking to the talkies (especially films that featured Peppy Miller, the girl whose career Valentin helped launch), and they ignored Valentin’s most recent silent movie. As Peppy’s career ascended, George’s descended. Then along came the Great Depression, plunging him into bankruptcy. His failure to adapt sent his career into a seemingly unrecoverable tailspin.

Think of all the technology to which we’ve had to adapt, just in the past ten years. What if you refused to carry a cell phone or use email? What if you shunned the computer, because you thought it ruined artistic penmanship? Consider movies nowadays. Can you imagine anyone today thinking that the only legitimate medium for special effects is stop-action photography? The old Ray Harryhausen monsters, jerkily swiping at vehicles or grasping at fleeing warriors, were magical in their day. But they were the forerunners of more advanced and realistic CGI effects.

Don’t get me wrong. I still pick up a pen and hand-write a note now and then. And I’m a huge claymation fan (the works of Nick Park and Aardman Animations come to mind: Wallace and Gromit, Chicken Run, etc.). But these fill a novelty niche. Ironically, The Artist is a silent film that tells a story about the demise of silent films. It works, and it’s wonderful. Just don’t look for silent films to become mainstream. Technology marches on.

I once watched a special on the making of The Wizard of Oz and was amazed at how they pulled off the effects. The tornado, for example, was a giant sheet of muslin cloth shaped into a cone and connected to machinery that caused it to jerk and twist. I marveled at the imagination and ingenuity that scene required. Moviemakers had to use whatever was lying around; they couldn’t just create something ex nihilo on the computer. Yet, if The Wizard of Oz was being made today, I can’t imagine the effects crew refusing to use CGI because it somehow inhibited their artistry.

My point is that adapting to technology doesn’t necessarily mean the end of artistry. Even “hands-on” artists, such as painters and sculptors, display their works on the web. Technology doesn’t have to rule us, but it can serve us. Even us creative types.

There’s a business application here, too. Think of once-great companies with innovative products (BlackBerry, America Online, Blockbuster, Kodak, and others), who failed to adapt to shifts in the market and changes in consumer habits. George Valentin has a warning for us all, artist and businessperson alike: Adapt or die!

Care about People.

Hollywood is big business; always has been. Studio bosses, especially in the early days of moviemaking, have been known to be downright ruthless at times. What makes The Artist so charming is that the characters, especially Peppy Miller, really care about people. Peppy could have jumped on the fast train to success and left George alone at the station—and no one would have batted an eye. After all, that’s how the biz goes.

Peppy, however, does the unexpected. Throughout the film, she is constantly trying to help George, keep him involved in the industry he loves, and keep him from losing everything—especially his self-worth. In the end, it is her unflagging friendship that puts him back on the screen, and back in the business. It’s the happiest movie ending I’ve seen in years.

An executive I respect recently retired from the telecommunications company for whom I work. As people reacted to the news, it was clear that most of them hated to see him go. Those who worked closely with him summed up his career this way: “Brilliant guy. Hard worker. Really cared about people.”

Just as technology doesn’t necessitate the loss of artistry, neither does success mean we have to stop caring about people.

Tell a great story.

Everyone has a story to tell. Novelists. Moviemakers. Companies. Employees. Everyday people. The current advice from career counselors is that your resume’ should be more than just information; it should tell a story. It should take prospective employers on a journey—the journey of you. One sage suggested that a resume’ should clearly portray a character who’s involved in a plot, should reach a high point, and yet leave the impression that there’s more of the story to be written.

So, anyone with a story to tell can learn something from The Artist. George Valentin travels from riches to rags to riches. From success to failure to success. From pride to humility to gratefulness. From purist to realist. And every stage of the journey is a feast for the senses. I’ll never forget the scene that takes place in the offices of Kinograph Studios. George has just left a meeting in which it became clear that the studio’s executives are moving into the era of talkies—without him. As he descends the staircase, he runs into Peppy, now Kinograph’s new rising star. As they talk, Peppy is standing above George on the landing, while he is several steps below her. It’s a visual reminder that her career is on the way up, while his is on the way down.

The images, action, dialogue, emotion, even the silence, are there to serve the story. I would rather see a silent film like The Artist—a masterfully told story—than any disjointed, plot-deficient, CGI-laden assault on the senses.

Stories are all around us. They’re in our resume’s, corporate brands, family histories, dreams and goals. Do you know your story? Are you telling it? The Artist offers a lesson for all of us: Tell your story, tell it with skill, and make it memorable.

If you haven’t yet seen The Artist—perhaps because you just can’t imagine sitting through a silent film—pick up the DVD. You might be surprised at how much you like it. You might even enjoy it so much, you won’t be able to keep silent about it.

An example of crisp, clear communication from . . . a podiatrist?

Compile a list of professions that require crisp, clear communication, and podiatrist isn’t likely to be on that list. Well, since yesterday, it’s on mine. Right up there with journalist, attorney, preacher, and teacher.

I’ve always appreciated doctors who excel at packaging diagnosis and treatment options in layman’s terms. But the guy I saw yesterday for nagging toe pain was one pithy physician. In fact, of all the people in his office with whom I came into contact, he was the most pleasant conversationalist. His speech was concise, confident, humorous, and laced with metaphor. By the time I left his office, I had fully understood my problem, thought through the treatment options, and scheduled surgery. To be fair, I had already done my research on the Internet before I saw him. It was, however, encouraging to receive confirmation in such a clear and memorable fashion.

About two years ago I noticed some discomfort in my left big toe after jogging. I just wrote it off to age and the fact that I’ve been running on concrete over half my life. The pain has escalated recently, however, so that it hurts even to walk. After my GP ruled out gout, he recommended a foot specialist.

The podiatrist took a set of X-rays and performed a thorough hands-on exam of my left foot, including a range-of-motion test. First, he explained what I was seeing on each picture. Some pretty nasty stuff! My big toe joint was almost completely filled in with calcium—unlike the other joints, which had plenty of space to move. And growing up and back from the joint was a wicked-looking bone spur. The only thing I can think to compare it to is the dorsal fin of a shark. “That thing is not only hindering movement, it’s probably pressing up against the ligament that runs over the top of the toe,” he explained. “So, you’re getting both stiffness and pain.” He provided the medical term for all this, but that didn’t really matter. It’s basically arthritis of the big toe joint, it hurts like the dickens, and it’s fixable.

So he laid out the options, both non-surgical and surgical. Orthotic inserts, cortisone injections, etc., would manage the pain in the short-term, but structurally the joint would continue to stiffen, and the spur would continue to grow. There were two surgical options. The first was what the doctor called Woodworking 101. “We go into the joint,” he explained, “we take some files and chisels, and we chip away at that spur, clean out the joint, and restore normal movement to the toe.”

“Sounds fun,” I said.

He explained that it would be a day surgery, with a local anesthetic and a Michael Jackson cocktail (I know, twisted but funny). Option 2 was a complete toe joint replacement. “Only advisable for the most severe conditions, and you’re not there yet,” he said. “Besides, while that gets rid of the pain, it permanently limits motion, so you probably wouldn’t be able to run anymore.” He added that surgical option number 1 was a common procedure, and that I would be running again in eight weeks after surgery. “You might have to do it again in 12-15 years, based on my experience,” he said. “But this is probably the best option to get you back to a normal life.”

So, Woodworking 101 it is. I’m scheduled for surgery later this  month. A shame that it’ll be during the holidays, not to mention my vacation time, but I’ve met my insurance deductible for the year. Might as well get ‘er done now.

What’s the point of exposing my metatarsals to the general public? It’s to show once again how important it is to be clear, crisp, concise, creative, and memorable when you communicate—no matter what your profession. You might be an expert in your field, but most of your readers (or clients, patients, customers, etc.) probably aren’t. Sure, it also helps to be good at what you do; no one wants a podiatrist who can turn a phrase but can’t trim an ingrown toenail. But make yourself understandable to those outside your circle of expertise, and you’ll only add to your success.

Gotta run (hobble, rather). I need to go practice for my post-surgery convalescence, which amounts to reclining in front of the TV, snapping my fingers in the air, and shouting out my favorite foods and drinks. There will be lots of people hanging around our house for the Christmas holidays, so I should have plenty of waiters and waitresses. So far, my family isn’t buying in to my grand vision for recovery. They say that if I’m too demanding, I’m likely to be served an extra strong Michael Jackson cocktail.