So I’ve been in New York.
(First time here? Take a look at First Post to find out why I’m writing a blog.)
On Thursday I did some gallery strolling in Tribeca and saw some beautiful artworks. At some point I felt faint and weird. I hadn’t eaten anything. Next door to the gallery where I was trying not to hit the floor was a Blue Bottle. For a moment I remembered something my friend Alex said about the Blue Bottle in Cambridge: “You pay them $6 and they put a drop of coffee on your tongue.” Funny how things like that can find a corner of your brain to settle in. I’ve never been to Blue Bottle, never even to the one in Cambridge. And here I was, slightly resistant because of what Alex said so many years ago about the portion sizes and prices.
I was going to faint, so I went in.
Gripping the counter, I ordered a cortado and a bacon and egg sandwich. (Just kidding about gripping the counter, I acted very normal.)
As I waited at a standing counter, I noticed a woman next to me who looked like Laurie Anderson. She had the hair, the stature, and the coolness. It made me think of my favorite song by her called “Babydoll,” which always gives me delight to listen to. You should play it after you’re finished reading this, this whole post that I’m very thoughtfully writing.
Fake Laurie Anderson walked away and I was left thinking about delight.
Delight is one of those words we throw around in creative work all the time, but for some reason, on Thursday, as I scratched down some notes about this thought — and even right now — I can’t immediately list many creative things that gave me delight. And maybe that’s the magic of it?
You don’t notice well-made delight when it crosses your path.
- Antidepressants that are yellow
- The weighty vacuum-y feeling an Apple product box has as you open it to reveal a new phone
- A new elevator in Harvard Chan’s main building that says “lobby” with a sensual voice in such a way that it causes just a bit of discomfort, but is actually kind of delightful too?
Someone, or a team, was behind those things. Those choices: the color of the pills, the exactness of the packaging fit, the sexy elevator announcement.
By now I’m sitting at a window eating the sandwich which was mid, and drinking the cortado which was fine. Two women sat next to me looking down at Walker Street where passers by were being offered knock-off bags and wallets. They weren’t just looking, they were watching each transaction, or each almost transaction. Like sport. It wasn’t a huge variety of bags being offered and they seemed to know all of them by the point I began listening in.
“There’s the Prada Noué again.”
“Oh she’s looking at the Coach,”
“That’s a nice one,” the other would say back.
I finished a bite and turned to the woman closest to me, “These are knock-offs, right?” They both laughed and said yes. I knew that answer. They resumed watching the interactions on the sidewalk. A moment later I asked how much they go for. The woman said you were expected to haggle, and you shouldn’t spend more than $50 on any of them. They were very much knock-offs, after all. She said you need to look out for quality, like making sure the leather dye goes all the way through. They were good keepsakes, we both agreed. I gathered that this was a routine for these women, that they come and sit here at this window, drink their coffees, and watch the business of fake bags down below.
It gives them … delight.
And it’s free, but not cheap or fake, like the bags. Delight is valuable, even when it costs nothing. And that’s why it’s a powerful creative device. But it’s also easy to get wrong, or maybe half-wrong, because delight isn’t universal.
After I left I walked toward another gallery and came upon a crowd. Getting closer, I saw a BMW with a giant concrete block appearing to have just crushed it. It’s part of a campaign collaboration between Nigel Sylvester and Nike and the artist FRIDGE. There was a buzz, people taking pictures, walking around it, standing in front of it. But I kind of … carried on? I knew the Nike and Air Jordan logo, but I didn’t know who Nigel was. What’s a “Bar Spin,” I thought? I wasn’t delighted, but so many others were.
It wasn’t for me. Nigel Sylvester, I now know, is a BMX athlete. But I would also assume it wasn’t for many of the Nike execs (also not BMX athletes or fans) who had to greenlight it.
Still, they understood the audience and the need to find a right and natural way to appeal to them.
As I thought about this beyond my initial “nope” reaction to it, I empathized with the excited onlookers. It actually is really cool. Even if in the end it’s about selling a product.
I’m reminded of something the creative director Jessica Walsh once said: “If no one hates it, no one really loves it.” Making good work that delights comes with the understanding that you really need to know who you’re selling it to, and accept that it’s not everyone.
Delight.
It’s best when it’s natural, accidental, like the ladies watching the bags be sold. If created, it works when it feels discovered, not delivered, and when it tickles something inside you.
“Hey bestie,” as a greeting at the start of a vitamin company’s email reminding you to update your payment method? Fuck that, get that out of here, that doesn’t delight anyone.
