Adventures in Client Service

If there is one thing I’ve learned in my years as a consultant, it’s that I will never receive a call from a J Walter, a Doyle Dane, or an Ogilvy exec. There are two reasons, I think, for this.

The first reason is based on mechanics. These and other large shops are sustaining themselves not through growth, but rather though cost-cutting, with their staffs serving as the primary objects of attention. Add to this the need to pay tribute to the Martin Sorrels, John Wrens, and Michael Roths of the world, toss in a heavy dose client impatience and dissatisfaction, and you have a perfect storm of increasing decline and looming failure.

The big shops don’t have money to invest with me, because they don’t have money to invest in anything, least of all their own people.

The second reason is based more on merits. The large firms figure they have all the answers, so why would they ever turn to an outsider for help? With their seemingly well-articulated training programs, sound new business processes, and proven client-relationship building techniques, what could I possibly add that would be of value?

In their minds, nothing.

Normally, this would be incredibly discouraging, except that while these shops plod on, trying to limit their losses and postponing the inevitable, there is a new breed of agency – smaller, entrepreneurially driven, highly focused and goal oriented – that is intent on getting better. These firms are a source of hope to me, and to anyone else who shares a stubborn optimism about advertising’s future.

I spent the last week at one such shop, a digital agency located on the west coast. In a word, these folks are good, really good, especially at new business, which has proven to be an engine of growth. So why did they invite me to visit their shop?

The answer to the question: new business.

The co-founder who oversees the agency wanted me to share first-hand everything I know, learned, and experienced on the subject. I was happy to comply, developing a series of presentations on every aspect of the typical — if there is such a thing as “typical” in new business – process of wooing and winning a prospective client.

It was a productive three days.

On the plane home, in thinking about the time we spent together, I came to the conclusion there was something that emerged as truly valuable, but that had little to do with me holding forth, PowerPoint serving as a prop.

Our most productive discussions were at lunch, at dinner, or in between presentations – I even sat in on one “live” meeting — just talking about the business. They had questions, I had opinions; they had views, I had views, and we freely exchanged and debated the dominant and pressing issues on their minds.

I write about something about informal meetings of this sort on page 30 of The Art of Client Service: “It’s not that I learn more things in these out-office sessions [lunch and dinner included] with clients, I learn different things.”

I freely admit my presentations were the rationale for my visit, but the real reason for my visit happened in those out-of-office interludes.

If you work in client service, you might want to think about this the next time you plan a client visit. In fact, if it were me making the house call, I’d be sure to build some downtime into my schedule, to give me time to learn those different, and potentially important, things.

Now, I freely admit a bias here, but in my view, the future of advertising belongs to not to the big, but to the bold; not to the traditional, but to the innovative; not to bottom-line cost-cutting, but to topline revenue growth.

In other words, the future of advertising belongs to agencies like the one I just visited.

Years ago I worked on the UPS account, one of the world’s two highly successful global delivery companies (the other is FedEx, of course). UPS spends hundreds of millions of dollars on advertising and marketing to build and sustain its brand, but from the outset it realized a simple, profound fact about its business: the company’s drivers — the people who make the daily pick-ups and deliveries — are the face of the company, the connection to its clients, and the clearest manifestation of its brand.

This insight in hand, UPS wisely chooses to invest in their drivers – in technology, in training, in everything right down to uniforms — and over the years I heard more than few clients say, “I am not a fan of the company, but I am a fan of my driver.”

There are stories, some true, some bordering on apocryphal, about the lengths drivers will go to solve a problem or address an issue on behalf of a client. To this day, UPS drivers remain the soul of the company; UPS is smart enough to acknowledge, sustain, and celebrate this.

Today I want to write about a driver of another sort.

If you live in New York City, the name FreshDirect will be a household name to you, especially if you’re in advertising, work late nights, and don’t have time to visit the supermarket.

For those who don’t live here, FreshDirect is the online-based grocery delivery service. The company is like predecessor Webvan, except this company is successful.

My wife Roberta and I are regular FreshDirect customers, ordering every week. This past week we put in for a Friday delivery in the standard 6:00 pm – 8:00 m time slot. Normally the company is very reliable, but n this occasion, 6:00 pm rolled by, then 7:00 pm, then 8:00 pm, no driver, no delivery. I tried calling, but found myself on hold for the longest time. I’ll save that shortcoming for another post.

At 8:20 the doorbell rang; our delivery was here. When I opened the door, I said to the driver, “You’re late.” His response? Not an “I’m sorry I’m late,” not even an explanation. Instead he asked, “You want this or not?” motioning to the boxes he was delivering. I responded by saying, “We’re not going to send you back with these,” figuring that would help no one, especially us. He silently placed the boxes on the floor, asked me to sign for the delivery, and disappeared down the hallway.

That was that.

His punishment? The $5 tip I routinely give to drivers remained in my pocket, small compensation, not for being late – stuff like this happens — but for not giving a damn.

I bring this up because if you work in advertising, you know everyone in your shop represents the face of your agency. But account people are in many ways the soul of their companies, the clearest manifestation of their brands.

I’ve said this before, and I will surely say it again (and again): if you are in client service, you want emulate that above-and-beyond UPS driver, and avoid like the plague the I-don’t-give-a-damn FreshDirect driver. You are not delivering groceries; you are delivering solutions.

With groceries, the penalty for negligence is loss of a tip. With advertising, the penalty for negligence is loss of an account.

Ever since I read the November 30 New Yorker article on brainstorming, called, “Groupthink,” I have been struggling to reconcile author Jonah Lehrer’s two main hypotheses with my personal experience.  I’m hoping that in sharing my dilemma, I will arrive at resolution.

One of Lehrer’s ideas is about space — no, not outer space, but physical space, meaning an office – with the other idea being about people. 

It’s hard to argue with Lehrer’s point that an organization’s physical configuration has a profound impact on its ability to brainstorm ideas.  And it is almost as hard to dispute the evidence her presents that debating and criticizing ideas generated in brainstorming sessions — violating a near sacred rule there should be no negative commentary — actually helps, rather than hurts, the ideation process.

But here’s the thing:  I spent time at agencies structured with open plans; no one had an office.  It should have been a great place for the serendipitous contact Lehrer celebrates, a great place to percolate ideas.  Except they weren’t. 

Chance meetings that should have happened didn’t.  Offices that should be buzzing with ideas felt more like libraries filled with researchers, not ad people.  There was no energy, no enthusiasm, no spark.

It might seem counter-intuitive, but I also worked at agencies that were more conventionally and traditionally designed – with the typical walls, doors, offices, and cubicles — that were rich in ideas.  One agency was noted for its creativity, yet its departments were scattered over non-contiguous floors, and you often had to take not one, but two elevators to get to some of your team.  Even so, this agency was known for the quality, depth, and sheer quantity of its ideas. 

I worked at another agency noted more for chaos than creativity, yet it was remarkably fertile as an idea factory.  It seemed as if we were designed to discourage thinking, not nurture it.  No matter; this agency was remarkably successful in forging and promoting ideas that worked.

I share Lehrer’s belief in the power of serendipitous contact, but in places where serendipity was easy, ideas were lacking; in places where serendipity was hard, ideas were good and plentiful.  Hard to figure.

Lehrer also devotes a good bit of discussion to debunking one of the core axioms of brainstorming:  there are no bad ideas.  His point:  criticism of ideas, usually treated as out-of-bounds and off-limits in brainstorming, is actually good for it, and helps create more ideas, not fewer.

I’ve been in brainstorming sessions of all kinds, those that play by the rules, those that ignore them.  I’ve worked in large groups and small groups. I’ve worked with dictators and democrats. 

The best experiences were the ones where I was part of a small group of people who liked, trusted, and respected one another sufficiently to take a chance on that outlandish idea without fear of recrimination.  People naturally supported on another; they would build on weak ideas, rather than debunk them.  Function didn’t matter, rank didn’t matter. 

In these rooms, everyone was created equal and all ideas – the good, the bad, the boring — were welcome, because everyone knew that a bad idea could lead to a good one, if given the chance.  These meetings created lots of good ideas, some that were truly outstanding, with “outstanding” meaning both highly effective and seriously award-winning.

The worst experiences were exactly the opposite:  large teams – too large to my way of thinking — led by someone quick to criticism and dismissal, which would stifle ideas, rather than encourage them.  Rank mattered; people didn’t trust, respect, or even like one another.  These meetings created fewer, if any, ideas, many of them merely average, or worse, unusable.   

In short, my experience was the opposite of what Lehrer’s believes to be true.  Again hard to figure, but now I think I know why.

Lehrer uses research examples to support his hypotheses, but we’re talking creativity here, something ephemeral, difficult to define, and even more resistant to quantitative measurement.  I found the research examples unconvincing.  What was far more reliable, — although they ran counter to my own experience — were the stories Lehrer told.  They made sense to me

In the end though, for me at least, the difference can be summed up as this:  “It’s the people, stupid.” 

My point:  put great people in a room, great ideas will emerge, regardless of the real estate they live in or the rules they follow.

There, I feel better now.  I’m glad we talked.

It was easy to get a restaurant reservation last Sunday to celebrate my birthday; just about everyone in New York was fastened to a seat in front of the television, watching the New York Giants beat the San Francisco Forty-niners, with a trip to The Super Bowl the resulting prize.  Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know the Giants are headed to Indianapolis February 5 to play the New England Patriots.

With all the euphoria surrounding the Giants’ victory, it would be easy to overlook something else equally headline-worthy:  the passing of a football legend.

Although readers might miss the story, The New York Times fortunately did not; on Monday there was a page one obituary devoted to Penn State head football coach Joe Paterno, accompanied by several other articles of analysis and tribute.

Now that Paterno is gone, there are two ways to look at his legacy: 

1. As a coach with the most wins in Division One college history; as a champion and symbol of his school, with a school library and a statue on campus bearing his name; as the Brown University graduate committed to literature, academics, and integrity; or,

2. As the person who, in a moment of truth, failed “to do more” to stop a child predator, someone who for years served as Paterno’s colleague and assistant coach.

The Times did it’s usual, thorough job of covering the news of Paterno’s death, prying space from pages dissecting and celebrating of the Giants’ victory.  I too had weighed in with a November 14 post, called, “Say it ain’t so, Joe.”  But the best perspective came from college sports reporter Pete Thamel, who wrote a January 23 column entitled, “For Paterno, Lover of Classics, Tragic Flaw to a Legacy.”  Even if you’re not a sports fan, you should give the story a read; it’s a thoughtful, analytical piece.

Why should anyone care about this, you ask.   This isn’t a sports blog; it’s a client service blog.

The answer, I think, is simple:  if you work in client service, you work in a business based on trust, and in such a business, reputation is everything.  The reality is, your reputation is only as good as your last decision, and years of solid performance can be undone by one failed moment of reason, one wrong decision, one poor choice.

If you’re a writer, an art director, or a producer, at least you have a book and a reel to compensate for bad behavior.  If you’re a media person, you have plans to share.  But if you’re in client service, you have virtually nothing to show.  All you have is your reputation.

All of us need the benefit of context in order to pass final judgment on Joe Paterno’s legacy.  Over time, it’s possible the sting of disgrace will fade, and people will remember Paterno’s many accomplishments.  But regardless of how people will refer to him in years hence, I suspect the line of remembrance will go something like this:

“Celebrated coach Joe Paterno, the biggest winner in Division One college football, died with a legacy forever haunted by not doing more to stop child predator Jerry Sandusky from sexually abusing young boys.”

The next time you are faced with a decision, even one rushed by events or a need to act or respond immediately, I suggest you pause, if only for a second.  Take that moment to think about context, to think about your reputation, and to think about doing the right thing, even if it is hard, and even if the aftermath hurts. 

Reputation is everything.  It takes years of effort to build.  It takes one second of misplaced judgment to lose.

Back in 2003, when I first read Michael Lewis’ best selling book Moneyball, I saw it largely for what it is:  a baseball book.  A well-written, insightful, and funny book, but a baseball book nonetheless. 

The other night, though, as I watched screenwriter Aaron Sorkin’s movie version of Moneyball, I saw it as something else:  as a metaphor for the advertising business. 

On its surface, both the book and movie are about how professional baseball’s Oakland Athletics General Manager Billy Beane took what was, at the time, a radical approach to re-engineering his small-market, low-payroll team so that it could compete, and win, against his big-market, high-payroll competitors.  Beane focused on ballplayers neglected by other teams, but whose value far exceeded their cost, if you only looked at them not in the expected way, but instead in the proper way.

If you see beyond the surface, what you find is a metaphor for advertising:  just as in baseball, there are advertising people whose value far exceeds their cost, if you look at them in not in the expected way, but instead in the proper way. 

Who are these people? 

They fall into one of two, polar-opposite camps:  1) there are those starting out who demonstrate great promise, but whose salaries have not caught up with their talent; and, 2) there are those who already have made money and have demonstrated their capabilities, but whose salaries need not equal their talent.

The problem with the first group is the can be hard to spot, difficult to train, and all too easy to lose.  Money and advancement will always be issues.  And even with the best of the lot there will be mistakes, some as a result of inexperience; some as a result of credibility gaps due to not having worked long enough to know better; and some due to bouts of immaturity that result in misplaced anger, needless anxiety, and, on occasion, downright panic.  

The problem with the second group?  Hmmm… let’s see.  Why, there are no problems with these folks, except for possibly one elephant in the room:  they’re old, not by people standards, but definitely by advertising standards. 

The people in the second group have been around the block before and aren’t likely to bolt for the next opportunity.  They are not working for the next paycheck or a promotion; they are working for something else:  professional accomplishment, personal gratification, a chance to share what they know.  They have the kind of experience that helps them avoid mistakes, or deal with them calmly and effectively when they do arise.  They don’t get angry, they don’t become anxious, they rarely panic.  

So why don’t agencies take a page from Billy Beane, and seek out more of the people in the second group?

My best guess is it’s that elephant; their age, combined with often misplaced concerns being too qualified, too expensive, too hard to terminate, and too many other things I can’t even think to worry about. 

Take my friend and colleague Dan Pasley, for example.  He’s someone, one of many, who fits that second group. 

I wrote about Dan last year in an April piece called, “The Meeting that changed everything.”  Dan was co-founder of the agency Pasley, Romorini & Canby.  You could call him a copywriter, and that would be true, but it also would be wrong.  Dan is a writer, period, of ad copy ,of course, but also of content of just about any type you can imagine.  He’s fast.  He’s skilled.  He’s funny, in a dry, Dan-sort-of-way. 

Any firm would by lucky to have him.  Is there any interest? 

Not as of this post. 

Late in the Moneyball movie Billy Beane meets with Red Sox owner John Henry, who is interested in hiring Beane as Boson’s new General Manager.  In their exchange, Henry talks about Bean’s penchant for thinking unconventionally, for trying something new, even at the risk of alienating the expected norms and the lives of others. 

Wow!  That was different for baseball.  Now if we could only apply this new and radical thinking to advertising.

It’s my birthday; perhaps this explains why I’m a bit more focused on this seeming inequity than is customary.  But here’s my point:  if you’re someone with a job to fill, I suggest you think like Billy Beane and look for candidates who are overlooked but undervalued by your competitors.  They may be older, they may have lost a half-step, but they more than compensate for this with skill, experience, and wisdom.

Whatever you have to pay for the position, I assure you those candidates care a whole lot less about that, and whole lot more about how they can contribute to your agency’s growth and success.

When you ask people why they love The New York Times, they will reply, “For its political coverage, or,” “For its editorial page,” or, “For its ‘Dining Out’ section.” 

Everyone has a reason.  I have one too.

I love the obituaries.  Yes, the obituaries.  Dismissed by some other newspapers as necessary, disregarded by many readers as easily-to-ignore content, The New York Times Obituary section addresses its task with uncommon journalistic reverence. 

I read them every day, in search of the interesting, albeit obscure, life.  I care less about the passing of celebrities, and more about the deaths of people who made some small contribution to life of Earth.

Clearly I am not alone in my daily obit pursuit, and apparently others share my interest, which explains in part why, for as many years as I can remember, The Times has issued its annual “Lives they Lived” recap in the form of its Sunday magazine, published about a month ago.  There are commemorations of people I know by reputation – Joe Frazier, Grete Waitz, Jack LaLanne – and many I didn’t:  Jeff Conaway, Vann Nath, Ruth Stone.

One of those unknowns is an engineer named Keith W. Tantlinger, a guy who worked at a truck-trailer manufacturer Spokane, Washington, and who is the inventor of a mechanical lock that connected the corners of containers, and that could be remotely opened and closed by crane operators responsible for stacking and unstacking loaded containers on trucks, rail cars, and ships. 

According to the obituary’s author, New York Times Washington, DC Bureau Chief David Leonhardt, Tantlinger’s lock “led to the adoption of uniformly sized containers,” causing “a revolution in shipping,” which contributed to an “astonishing boom in global trade.”  

Leonhardt continues by quoting Marc Levinson, the author of the book, The Box, which explains how shipping “containerization” came about:  “There was a breakthrough in thinking through the entire process and coming up with a neat and economical solution.”

That word process caught my attention. 

So much of what client service people do is less about the what and more about the how than we might assume.  Advertising is about ideas, and the person with the most and the best ideas is the star.  But client service people are in charge of something other than ideas.  They are in charge of getting things done:  a budget, a schedule, a creative brief, a recommendation, a solution to a problem, whatever is needed. 

Much of the work is often anonymous, largely thankless, and loaded with opportunity for failure.  It’s the kind of work that many of our colleagues and yes, even some of our clients, take for granted.  But so much of what brings an idea to life are the very things that are dismissed as unimportant. 

Leonardt ends his piece on Keith Tantlinger by talking about the patent he secured for, “the less glamorous side of progress, the hard, creative, work that allows mundane objects to fit new needs.”

Boy, to me that line sure sounds like a short, elegant description of client service.

No wonder I’m such a fan of The New York Times.  The paper is wise enough to acknowledge and celebrate the importance of process.  And as I write this, I am comforted by the knowledge that my colleagues the world over are working to get things done, so great ideas can flourish.

Nearly a year ago I wrote a post, called, “Send more Chuck Berry” which wasn’t about Chuck Berry at all; it was, instead, about Steve Hayden, who I hadn’t met, but knew I liked.

Advertising Age today reported that Steve had stepped down from his roll as Vice Chairman at Ogilvy.  In its story, Ad Age included a memo from current Chairman and CEO Miles Young and former Chair and CEO Shelly Lazarus, praising Steve for his many contributions, but most of all, praising him for simply being Steve in all his modesty and self-effacement, qualities prized, and rare, among creative people. 

The memo invites readers to express what his presence meant to the agency. I am not an Ogilvy alum, but nonetheless will follow the advice by saying the best way I can salute Steve is to point to that earlier post, which says what I want to say.

Best wishes, Steve, whatever the next chapter of your life holds. 

If you saw Matt Creamer’s story in today’s Advertising Age, “Hats Off to These 10 Forward Thinking Clients,” you might have noticed a quote from me, which is taken from a longer email.  The full text of what I wrote Matt is below, in case you’re curious.

Hi Matt,

After I finished writing The Art of Client Service for account people, I figured I needed to write something similar for clients. I came up with a title — Clients from Hell – that would elicit a knowing laugh from everyone with whom I shared the name. Everyone has a client from hell… everyone.

But when I thought about it, I realized I largely escaped the client from hell syndrome. Most of my clients were and are really nice, smart, and supportive, which prompted that series of five blog posts I mentioned, called “Clients I love.”  You can find them by searching the “archive” on the blog’s homepage.

At the top of my client list is Ken Chenault. If you’re a Steve Jobs at Apple or a Roger Enrico at Pepsi, you make stuff. If you work for American Express, as Ken Chenault does, you make nothing.

American Express is built on something far more elusive and hard to define; in some respects it is the purest manifestation of a brand. Ken is particularly adept at understanding this, and knows how to use it to nurture and sustain a growing business. There have been many innovations on his watch, including the launch of new credit cards that have greatly expanded the company’s reach.

You can read details in my blog post, but what’s truly amazing is how enduring the company is, how loyal the firm has been to Ogilvy, and how consistently better the advertising and marketing is than competitors. In a business that is largely safe and conservative, they are groundbreakers. And they rarely make a mistake.

Ken doesn’t deserve all the credit, of course; Abby Kohnstamm, for example, is someone else who deserves recognition. Abby went on to relative fame as CMO at IBM, but at American Express she was a quiet steady presence when I worked with her on the Optima Card.

I’d credit Morris Perlis, who I worked with on the Personal (or Green) Card. Legend has it Morris is the one who greenlighted the now famous Annie Leibovitz “Portraits” print campaign, in the face of opposition from senior peers. That alone is noteworthy, but if you want more back story, check out pages 53-54 in my book; it explains one of the many reasons is he such an extraordinary client.

Lots of American Express people take credit for creating the most famous reward program in history — Membership Rewards — but I was there at the beginning and know who deserves credit: Mary Miller, who at the time ran the Platinum Card division under Ken, and Sally Ann Colonna, who was the person most instrumental in ensuring that program saw the light of day.

I worked with many terrific clients at Compaq Computer, before it was merged with HP, but the person who stands out is Karen Jones. Today she is CMO at Houston-based Reliant Energy; if you’re interested there’s blog post on her too.

Karen is not alone; Lavonne Mullet and Lynn Schlemeyer pioneered a catalog business when no else at Compaq believed in it. Kelly Happ and Leslie Adams took what was a pure B-to-B business and practically dragged it into the consumer arena.  David Vining was someone you could count on to be demanding yet loyal to great work and smart people.

There are many others I could tell you about, but two I single out in “Clients I love” blog posts are Mike Dunn and Virginia Ann Holman, both of whom work in arcane areas of financial services, with little budget and even lower profiles. Out of the spotlight, both proved time and again what it means to collaborate effectively with agency counterparts to get the very most out of very little.

I hope this is helpful. If you have questions, or need more information, feel free to get in touch.

Best,

Robert

As Matt points out, agency clients come in for their share of criticism, much of it well-deserved.  But as his story points out, there a plenty who deserve praise, and credit. I am in violent agreement.

It seems fitting to end last year with a post on Matt Damon and the meaning of friendship. In that piece I mentioned I planned to return to the recent interview that aired on the Charlie Rose Show; now that we have begun 2012, that’s what I’m about to do.

The interview, which includes writer and director Cameron Crowe, Damon’s partner in the movie We Bought a Zoo, runs about 25 minutes.  I suggest you watch it; it is 25 minutes well spent.

I was drawn to it because, try as I might to define “What Makes a Great Account Person” – I gave it a shot in The Art of Client Service – I find it easier to describe this by drawing comparisons with artists practicing in other fields of endeavor.  I say “artists” pointedly, because for me client service is far more art than science.

I did this with Charlie Rose himself a few months back, in a December 2011 post called, “Why do you say that,” in which I wrote of the qualities that make Rose a perfect client service person.  I’m about to do this with Matt Damon, who would make an even better client service person.

Damon is a dreamer, but also a realist.  He’s highly disciplined and self-motivated, but also a risk taker willing to fail and learn.  He comes across as incredibly smart, but equally humble and self-effacing. He’s serious, but funny.  He’s articulate, but very conversational and informal.  He’s confident, but generous.  He freely talks about himself but is far more comfortable talking about others. 

Damon is slow to take credit, fast in giving credit to others.  He’s a collaborator, but also a driven self-starter.  He respects his friends, is loyal to his wife, loves his kids.  He believes in the enduing power of friendship.

The way I normally would bring this piece to an end is to invoke a cliché, saying, “When I grow up, I want to be like Matt Damon.”  But I don’t want to be Matt Damon.  I’m more than happy being me, and especially proud to claim client service as my calling.
 

The actor Matt Damon said something interesting the other day when he sat for an interview on the Charlie Rose Show.  Damon was there with author and director Cameron Crowe, to promote their new movie, We Bought a Zoo. 

As is so often the case with a Charlie Rose interview, the subject ranged far afield from its intended purpose.  In a conversation rich with possibility, Damon reveals a refreshing generosity of spirit as he talks about taking risks, learning from his work with Crowe, and the regard in which he holds fellow actors John Krasinski and George Clooney.  I am sure I will draw meaning from these things and write about them in a later post; today, however, I want to focus on another subject Damon discusses: friendship. 

Rose got things started by asking Damon, “What is it that makes a good friendship?”

Damon’s response was nearly as wide-ranging as the question itself – you can see for yourself by watching the full interview – but he focused part of his response on his boyhood friend, fellow writer, actor, and recently, director, Ben Affleck, saying, “We started to realize how competitive it [acting] is, how you kind of keep having to prove yourself.  It’s just a rough business.”

Let’s stop here for a moment.  The subject is the movie business, but it just as easily could have been the advertising business.  Advertising is surely competitive; it demands you keep proving yourself.  There are writers and art directors who would be quick to admit, “You are only as good as your last campaign or ad.”   There are account people who would say, I’m at the mercy of my clients.”  Like movie making, it’s a rough business.

Damon continued, again referring to Ben Affleck:  “When we went to write together, there’s a shorthand that really served us well, because all that diplomacy you go through with a lot of these creative experiences… we just chuck that out the window.  We’re just brutally honest with each other.  And one thing we always felt early on is to judge me for how good my good ideas are, not how bad my bad ideas are.”

There are a couple of items worth noting here.  That shorthand, for starters.  If you’ve worked in advertising for any length of time, you know what Damon is talking about.  Shorthand means you anticipate the same issues.  You share the same values.  You finish each other’s sentences.  It makes everything about being collaborative more satisfying.  It makes the work better.  It makes you better. 

The other point I want to make is about Damon’s last sentence, about judging a partner based on their good ideas, not on their bad ideas.  On this I am in violent agreement.  Advertising, like movie making is a subjective business.  With a friend you can feel confident you can take risks and not pay a penalty.  Because there is license to take risks, you have the freedom to strive for great.  You argue, but when it’s done, it’s done.  You go get a beer, secure in the underlying foundation of trust that makes the friendship strong.

Ammirati & Puris creative director Tom Nelson used to refer to this as a “dare to be stupid” moment, a time when you freely express an idea without worrying about the consequences, no matter how good, bad, or dismissible it is.  Failure, when it happens, is forgiven and forgotten.  No repercussions, no judgments; you simply move on to the next idea, confident that if you fail again, your friendship will remain intact.

It seems entirely appropriate to speak of friendship as we end 2011.  I’m more grateful than I can express for friendships I’ve been fortunate to forge over the years.

As we open the door to a new year, I’d like to borrow a page from Matt Damon, and say to my colleagues, “Thank you for being my collaborator, my partner in idea making, and my friend.”

Happy New Year everyone.  Best wishes for a safe, healthy, and successful 2012.