I Love Crappy Feedback

I’ve always hated listening to feedback. But a few years ago, I found a way to stop hating it and start – dare I say – enjoying it. I’m not just talking about edifying strategic feedback that makes your work better. Or the pat on the back, “Good job, kid, you’re really going places” kind, either. I’m talking about the ridiculous, “Who gave this jackass the microphone?” stuff, too.

I realized that every word, every reaction, every facial expression is an opportunity to learn something about human behavior. Don’t forget, whether you are a writer, an art director, a designer or any creative agency-type, your job is to understand why humans do what we do. Which means that every time someone critiques your work, you have an opportunity to witness something interesting: the real, motivating “why” behind simply “what” the person is saying.

Look at it this way, everyone is narcissistic. Don’t mistake this with confidence or cockiness. I’m talking about the majority of people being wrapped up so tightly in their own world that they are incapable of seeing someone else’s. Creative people can be the worst offenders. But we can become better in-tune when we step away from our own ego and start to really listen, at least during a critique. So, why should we? Because when we do, something incredible happens. For starters, we stop feeling threatened by every word that comes out of said critics’ mouths. That alone feels pretty good.

But here’s what else happens: it opens you up to really, truly listening to someone. This is where the fun starts. Listening can teach you so much. Granted, you’re not always directly learning something about your target audience. But, you are learning something about the person talking. I call them your “next” audience. This is the next person in line designated to offer their advice, feedback or approval. Often times your next audience is your most important – usually your client, sometimes your creative director or account person – because your next audience can squash a great idea faster than you can put the cap on a Sharpie. And most of the time, you have no say in the matter. We all hope we can otherwise convince them our ideas are sound, but the truth is, it’s usually a done deal.

So, now what? Your ego is gone, your next audience kills your idea, and there’s nothing you can do about it. But without your own ego, you have time to focus on theirs. You can really get a sense of where they are coming from. Where they are getting their words. You’ll begin to notice the difference between insightful observations and insecurity, pandering and thumb-printing. A nervous employee afraid for their job or just someone with crappy taste. The best part is that you start to notice the battles that are winnable, too.

Try this. Next time your next audience is in the throes of critique, don’t just pay attention to what they are saying, but also pay attention to how they are saying it. Ask yourself why they’re saying it, where it may be coming from. Is it really about you and your work, or is it about them? Removing your ego removes you from the personal attachment to your idea. This changes the voice in your head from yelling, “They hate it. They hate me.” to asking questions like, “Is he right?” or “Why is she nervous?”

If you can truly focus on the behavior of your next audience, not only will it open you up to hearing the good feedback that will make your work better – and your relationship with colleagues and clients stronger – it also will be a great lesson in understanding that the world doesn’t revolve around you and your wonderful ideas. Though I have to admit, most days I still wish it did.

Spoiler alert: Your audience is not the consumer.

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On the website of my agency, we claim that we aren’t self-serving or client serving, we are consumer-serving. Let me start by saying this is absolutely true. I stand by this statement. I wrote this statement. Now let me also say that it’s B.S.

Still there? Wow, thanks for sticking around now that I’ve basically told you that I am liar. I guess it’s time for some explanation.

We pride ourselves in having an intimate knowledge of our audience, their needs, wants wishes, behaviors (yadda, yadda, yadda). So when we dig deep into strategy and idea creation we claim to be the experts in breaking through to the consumer and we are great at it. Chances are, if you’re reading this you are, too. But in order for our messages to even reach the consumer, there are a few other “audiences” involved in creating great work.

The truth is, everyone working in this business has to reach many audiences before they talk the consumer. For example, if you are a copywriter you pride yourself in coming up with great ideas, you already know how to talk to consumers and you know how to break through to them. But, before your ideas can get anywhere near consumers, you’ve got those dreaded “approvals” to go through, right? Another way to look at this is that you’ve got at least six “audiences” to get through. Your art director partner, your creative director, the account people, the client and let’s not forget the client’s audience (e.g. their boss, board of directors, etc.), then ultimately and hopefully the consumer. Assuming for a moment that you work for an amazing shop that respects what you do and seldom pushes back on your ideas, there are still two major audiences between your idea and the consumer, your client and your client’s audience. Your client’s audience, by the way, will likely make or break the success of any idea (actually, any agency.)

Think about the client and boss dynamic for a moment. Your client (most likely a marketing director) gets paid to understand consumers and all that “creative stuff.” No one else in his or her organization really needs to bother with it. So, he or she often times is proving to her boss why the marketing department (and the ad agency) even exists. It’s a tough job, full of scrutiny, constantly proving oneself to a layer of people above them, be it a president, CEO, board of directors, or an entire group of stakeholders sometimes all of the above. Now, think back to a time a groundbreaking idea was killed for some reason that you know wasn’t about the consumer. Whatever you were told, you knew that work would have been amazing if it were produced. Did you pay attention to all the audiences involved in that approval process? I bet if you did, you’d find something along the way that had nothing to do with the idea or the consumer. One thing that’s certain, you won’t be told the real reasons for these changes, especially if they have to do with your client’s boss. So what do we often do as an agency? We get our client on the phone try to talk them out of their changes by giving our best “The consumer is going to love this!” spiel.

Next time this happens, stop and take a deep breath. Are you making your client’s life harder than it already is in this moment? You may be telling them something they already know.

I believe that you have the magical ability of getting in the head of your consumer, so get in the head of the audience that is getting in the way of that consumer, because if you don’t, you’ll push them hard enough to stop listening. If you have ever seen the sign “I’m a designer not a f*cking screwdriver” and related to it, I hate to break it to you this isn’t always a client that doesn’t “get it.” Sometimes it’s a client or boss that doesn’t want to hear it from you right now. It’s also an audience you have lost.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not telling you to start saying yes to every request from your boss or client. But, if your work is great and you want it to see the light of day, you need to think about the other audiences you are surrounded by first. Put your talent where your mouth is and get into the mind of your creative director, account director, marketing director, client or your client’s boss. You’ll find you have an uncanny ability to recognize changes that come through having nothing to do with you or your work. But even more importantly, you’ll recognize the right time to roll up your sleeves and fight for it. And guess what, this time your audience, whoever they may be, will actually listen. 

Brantley Payne is VP/Creative Director

Glass Agency Sacramento California.

What kind of idiot dies in Paradise.

When I was a boy my dad had this signature whistle that he’d use to call my brother and I in for dinner. It was so loud that, it seemed like, no matter where we were in town, we could hear it. I remember asking him one day how he did it. He proceeded to tell me it took a lot of practice. I remember watching him closely as his tongue squished up, got real fat, an odd crease when through the middle of it and he piped three little whistles through the hole that was left between his lips, “Peep! Peep! Peep!”

“No hands?” I asked, he just smiled and shook his head as he whistled again, “Peep! Peep! Peep!”


I practiced for hours and days. Any moment I could I’d practice. I’d squish up my tongue; look at it in the mirror, force a crease and blow. Until one day, it finally happened. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t much of anything but a sound did come out and with a little refining I had found my whistle. It never felt quite as loud as Dads but it was happening. He, of course was the first to know.


I never quite put my whistle to use the way my dad did. The occasional whistle at a rock concert or ball game, perhaps showing off to friend down the street as an attempt to embarrass them.


Two weeks ago my dad took the entire family to one of the most beautiful places on earth. Kauai. He loves bringing the family together in beautiful places so we can appreciate God’s beauty and spend quality time all together as one big extended family.

This spot was amazing, a house on the beach. The only thing between the house and the ocean was a patch of grass and a hot tub. It truly was paradise.

I personally was looking forward to this break, to appreciate my family, put my iPhone away for a while and only worry about what food I was going to eat that day or how much sun block I need to put on.


On the afternoon of the third day in paradise I still was not relaxed. I was fed. I was lathered with SPF 60 but I still was not in “vacation mode.” My dad, my 3 year old son and I were lounging in hot tub between the house and water. Someone had turned it up to 103 degrees so we weren’t all the way in it. We were sitting on the edge with only our feet in, sweating. Enjoying silence.


I remember taking one glance at the ocean and thinking, “I can totally hop in that beautiful ocean, cool off, and be back in this same spot doing nothing, in about 90 seconds.” and that’s exactly what I did. I don’t even think I said a thing to my son or my dad. I just hoped out of the sweltering hot tub and walked straight to the water. I remember it feeling good to just walk away and not feel the need to check in with anybody, ask permission or post about it on facebook. It was this feeling of freedom. Perhaps this is just what I needed to get into the vacation mode.



Directly in front of our house was a coral reef so I walked right around the bend. The ocean was deeper here, the waves were big enough to body surf but crashing right on the shore so catching a wave meant a lot of sand in your shorts. I jumped through a big swell and swam out just far enough to be away from the white water.


Ahhh… paradise… It felt awesome.


The water was perfect, just cool enough to be refreshing. The waves were a little big, but nothing I couldn’t handle. As I treaded water a bit I saw a wave with a little white water on it and thought I might be able to body surf it. That did not work. Instead the white cap slapped me in the face like it was saying, “Do you know who your messin with, Cali boy?” I shook it off.


Not long after my slap I remember thinking, that’s probably enough refreshment for one dip its time to head back to that hot tub for more… nothing.


With my head down I took a few breast stroked toward land, attempting to ride the waves rolling in. I swam for about 30 seconds, looked up at shore and saw no change in where I started. “Wow, I am outta shape.” was my first thought.


I shrugged it off and went for another attempt, head down, stroked my hands a few times, 30 seconds more and an attempt to ride in another wave, I looked up.


Still no change in where I was.


Now… I’m winded. A great time for another white cap to slap me in the face, give me a mouthful of salt water and say, “You’re still here, Cali boy?”


I’m still for a moment. Out of breath but enough in me to try again without hesitation. I put my head down and… stroke, stroke, stroke.
My strokes get stronger when a wave comes up as if, again it may help me get to shore but… it passes by me with ease, I stay in the same place as if I were chained to the sea floor.


Now, I’m panting. Now, I’m stuck.


Another white cap attempts to slap me in face but I dodge it this time. Like a boxer getting pummeled in the ring with one last move. That knock out punch missed me, but I’m swaying, I’m seeing stars and my competitor knows it.


This was the first time I felt it. Call it butterflies. Call it panic. Call it a moment of clarity. I’m in trouble. I’m in a lot of trouble. And as always, my stomach let me know first.


I pictured my son in the hot tub 30 yards away with my dad, my wife taking a nap with my daughter. I felt embarrassed that I was here. I felt sad. I felt stupid. I balanced the feelings of clarity and panic that wanted to soak in and take over my thoughts, and take away my precious breath.


They say your life passes before your eyes in moments like this. I guess that’s what happened to me.

I saw my beautiful kids, my amazing wife, I saw myself as child klutzy, uncoordinated. I saw the little things I did that were dumb and embarrassing. I saw this is my final dumbest move of them all.

Dying on a vacation in paradise, what an idiot.

I saw the post on the beach with a safety buoy on it. If only I could reach.
I saw myself wanting to fix this situation, wanting to go back to that hot tub so bad and not have to tell anyone what I got myself into.
Wondering instead, if it will be someone else telling them what they think happened to me.
I saw myself as a nervous kid in school with butterflies in his stomach during role call, I hated raising my hand and saying “Here.” I hated hearing my name yelled out by the teacher and wondering if she was going to call me Bently or Brandon.
I saw my dad showing me how to whistle.
His fat tongue with that weird crease down the middle.


As if queued by God, a couple on the beach 20 yards away, got up from their blanket and begin to walk around the corner.


My last hope. All butterflies, all embarrassment, all pride aside I had a choice to make. Use up precious breath to get their attention or keep doing what was doing.


I fattened my tongue forced a crease, wondered if my whistle could ever be as loud as my dad’s, wondering if I actually had enough breath to try. I let out a peep.


“Peep.”


The couple stopped.


I let out two more peeps back to back, with all the breath I had left.
“Peep. Peep.”


Then my hand went up like a kid in school, it went way, way up. Higher than it ever had in any class I ever took.


The man turned around took two steps towards me held up his hands and said quietly, “Are you serious?” he didn’t yell it, he spoke it, and I heard it.


I collected one more “peep” stretched my arm as high is it would go and he ran into the water and began to swim towards me.


At this point all I could think was, “ I hope I didn’t just kill this guy, I hope he knows what he is doing.”


I then lay on my back, puffed up my chest began to sing an old church hymn “Stop fighting the current.” I heard. “Stop fighting.” And I did.


10 seconds later my feet were on coral and I stood up.


The man, a few feet in front of me had just gotten there, too. I was panting and he asked if I was okay.


I was embarrassed. I was out of breath. I was alive.


We walked towards the shore together, I thanked him 100 hundred times. His willingness to help me, gave me hope. It gave me the calm to lay back, be wrong and allowed me to hear it, “Stop fighting.”


As we stood together on the shore staring at the current he told me he comes here all the time to spear fish. It’s one of the strongest currents around. “It’s a good day for you.” He said.


I shook his hand. And walked humbly back the house.


I guess you can say my “vacation mode” came after that. But not in the way I ever expected it, too. Surprisingly I wasn’t exhilarated, if this were a movie, the character playing me would garner a huge smile, celebrate his second chance at life and throw a party.


The reality was, I felt like I had an open wound that sensed every thing around me. Every touch was tender, every light breeze was cool, and this wound ached while I walked but only as a reminder to me of every part of me that wasn’t injured. The beautiful eyes and lips of my wife, the sound of my sons laugh, my daughters newly formed words, the luxury of our everyday life.


I’ll never forget what happened to me that day in paradise, the man that ran after me, the whistle that was louder than my dads, the words that calmed me, “Stop fighting.” All at one of the prettiest beaches and on one of the most beautiful islands in the world, 30 yards away from the most amazing family I ever could have left.

I think I saw a ghost.

Last week I took a day off work specifically to stay home with my kids and give my wife a day to herself.

We are both blessed with a 2 1/2 yr old boy and a beautiful girl that's four months old. So our days are jammed packed with feedings and diapers and tantrums and sleep deprivation and poop and laughing and smiles and tears (from all four of us.) Like I said, we are blessed. But sometimes a person needs a break from such blessings. Last Tuesday was Lubi's.

A little precursor to my life outside of all this blessing... let's just say that for the past 2 months, my life has never been harder and leave it at that. The sleep deprivation, tantrums and poop squirting across the room (not being figurative here) has been a respite in comparison. So as much as I should feel like the luckiest man alive (and I am) the sad truth is that I've had a hard time shaking my life at "the office" at the end of the day when I come home.

So. My "day off" started at the usual time: 5:58am with an uncanny routine poop that Siena wakes me up with (I take mornings BTW) everyday like clockwork. Every "other" day, the diaper gives up and an entire outfit change is necessary. Once in a while... a bath is necessary. But this time? Just a plain ole poopie diaper. Easy.
Caleb is up soon after. 6:45. I turn on The Channel Formerly Known as Noggin to buy me some time to move slow, wake up, poor a sippy cup of milk and microwave three mini whole wheat pancakes for exactly :30 seconds.

(queue microwave SFX: “BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEP.")

And... the day has officially begun. Just like every single day of my life has for two years and five months. Oh yeah, except... one big difference here, it's Tuesday, I took the day off work and Lubi is up and out of the house faster than a frat boy after a one night stand, "Later! ...I'll call you sometime. (snicker)"

(door: “SLAM”)

And so it begins. I'm on my own... With them... For 12 hours. Holy crap. What have I done?

Now. I don't want to toot my own horn. But I'm a Modern Dad so I know the ropes. I change diapers. Midnight feed. Burp one while disciplining the other. I don't think I'm a slouch around kids and babies. But once that door slammed? The three if us glanced around at each other as if authority was up for grabs. But it didn't take long before I stepped up and took charge.

"We’re goin’ to the park!"

I decided to take the kids to a new park. Don’t ask me why, this is a personality trait/flaw of mine that new equals better and more exciting. So since Caleb had never been to this park, I assumed he would be happier there because of the “newness” and all. The truth is, I don’t think he noticed.

As we approach this exciting new undiscovered park. I notice that there are no kids in sight. Might not be too shocking considering it was 9am on a Tuesday and about 55 degrees outside but what do I know, I’m usually at work. I also notice that the playground, though brand new looking was planted smack dab in the middle of a park surrounded by people that… hmm… in an effort to be politically correct Thesaurus.com described as: “beggars, bums, derelicts, drifters, migrant workers, street people, tramps, transients, vagabonds, vagrants, wanderers, and/or winos” Clearly I’m not one to judge, which is why I used thesaurus.com to do the dirty work for me, but remember, I’ve got a toddler and an infant to watch over, to me everyone is a threat.

In the middle of our running and sliding and bouncing on one of those horses with one big awkward spring instead of legs, we are joined by two more park goers an older gentleman and a little girl about Calebs age. My first instinct was to be upset. Afterall, this was my discovery. This was our new park on Transient Island… And what the heck are they doing out in the cold, this early on a Tuesday morning?

I got over it and went over to say hi and create uncomfortable small talk. He was a healthy 70, slim, six-foot somethin’ had a U of M ball cap on and a pair of Levis. He’s a grandpa to this little girl. Has one son and one daughter, like just me. Both of those kids each have two kids as well. One son and one daughter, each.

I was cynical at first, he was at peace. I opened up by talking about the shady company we were surrounded by. He immediately countered by talking about how he envied them. How they are just enjoying the park and not trying to be more than they are or tricking anyone into being someone they aren’t. He looked up at me in a fatherly glance, connected briefly and said, “They aren’t the people in this world you need to worry about.”

I opened up a little more. And told him how I took the day off to watch the kids and give my wife a break from our crazy lives. Told him how difficult an infant and a toddler are to wrangle. Told him that my sleep deprivation could be creating slight insanity in me.

In the midst of my rambling and grumbling he looked up at me and ask, “You took a day off of work to spend with your kids?” I answered “Yep.” as if responding to the rhetorical question, “Have you lost your freakin’ mind?”

His response was simple but it changed my day, possibly my life. He got lost in the sky, our conversation came to halt and he spent a moment in silence. Then he said quietly, “I could’ve done that. I could’ve taken a day off to be with them. I never did.”

We carried on a conversation for probably another half hour. He then scooped up his granddaughter and headed back to where he came from. And was gone.

Caleb and Siena and I left the park soon after and It wasn’t until my entire day ended, the kids were asleep, and Lubi retuned home that I was able to reflect on the day. I realized everything changed after that moment at the park. My cynicism melted away. I enjoyed my kids. I didn’t think about work. We played and laughed and bonded and I felt lucky to be there. I felt lucky to be there Daddy.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized his response made so much sense to me, but yet his stories, his kids, his appearance from out of nowhere at 9am on a Tuesday morning, 55 degrees in a brand new park surrounded but transients, his being there when I was made no sense at all.

He drove to that park, from the outskirts of town yet there were plenty of better parks nearby worth driving to, not this one. He complimented the homeless people around us. He was positive, peaceful. I never got his name. I never saw him arrive and didn’t see him leave. Yet there was no crowd to get lost in. No traffic to drive into.

I’m okay not knowing who he was. Because I know he was at that park on a Tuesday morning at 55 degrees surrounded by independent honest individuals that happen to enjoy chess, beer and aren’t trying to fool anybody into being something they aren’t, for a reason.

He was there to remind me how to enjoy the jammed packed days of feedings and diapers and tantrums and sleep deprivation and poop and laughing and smiles and tears.

He was there to remind me that I truly am the luckiest man alive.

We're Killing our Heroes

Two months ago, a barrage of messages began circulating on facebook. My Elementary school class started communicating with each other. Talking about our past, specifically 5^th- 8^th grade, which, turns out was an incredibly vivid time in most of our lives.

As e-mails began to circulate and tidbits of each others lives began to leak out, I learned that someone I was really good friends with way back then, killed himself in early adulthood.

Death can cause such a strange human emotion, but when it was the death by suicide of friend than you haven’t spoken to in 22 years, it gets even more complex. I couldn’t help but feel so sad for everything he missed out on. College. A first apartment. A salary. Marriage. Kids. Everything I take for granted each day as regular life, he missed. But want haunts me the most is that; I’ve met so many people, with pain and flaws. I’ve met people that were mean, people that took life for granted. And he wasn’t one of them. My friend Kenny was kind. He was a friend to me when I was a loner. He was vulnerable and real. He was better at basketball than I was but he didn’t rub it in my face. He had a cockatoo that he loved, two siblings that he watched over. He taught me how to make Top Ramen and showed me how good it is with lots of pepper. It makes me sad to think of how many people didn’t get to know him, to learn from him, to have him a friend.

When I was in high school I had friends but, I surely wasn’t the “popular” kid. I was awkward. Hated to be called out in class. My stomach would do back flips everyday during “roll call” because I was afraid my name would be pronounced wrong and people would laugh.

During these awkward years, I met a kid named Tracy. He was tall and lanky. A great basketball player with a cute girlfriend. He was popular. But he didn’t know it. I sat next to him in math class and would crack jokes that made him laugh. He’d wave at me in the hallway, even if he was walking with the gang of popular jocks that pretended I didn’t exist.

One day after class, our senior year, there was a “boxing fight club” event at a local park. 50+ unsupervised high schoolers met at a local park to box. I, of course, went to watch but somehow ended up in the ring… with Tracy. This is where I learned what it felt like to be punched in the nose. I also learned that I suck at boxing but, that I can withstand a series of punches. Tracy floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee, I on the other hand was the perfect punching bag. I was the guy that couldn’t hit but refused to hit the mat, either. So there I stood blow after blow, getting pummeled.

30 seconds into Round Three, my arms dropped and through my watery blurry vision I watched Tracy approach. His right hand twirling in the air like Muhammed Ali’s famous Rope-a-dope. I stood defenseless. The crowd of high school kids chanted Tracy’s name and awaited a final blow that surely send me flying across Ashford Park. But instead of taking me out that day, he stopped, grabbed my shoulders, looked at me in my watering eyes and said, “You okay, man? Good match.”

Whoah. What high school kid does that? The entire school was chanting his name and he chose not to lay me out. If I were him I would have done it. But he didn’t. He was good person.

Two years later he killed himself.

Two beautiful people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing took their own lives.

How does this happen? We need them. We, all of us, this world, need Kenny’s and Tracy’s in it. They were great people. They would make great fathers and husbands and co-workers and best friends. They were real and sensitive. They were human and vulnerable.

Why did they leave us?

I hate to think that in our own insecurities, society has gotten so good being fake that their realness made them misfits. You can be great at boxing, or basketball or math but, if your sensitive, vulnerable and honest… if you’re too real, you’re a weak link.

This isn’t the case, right? I’m being melodramatic. We’re all real and honest and human and vulnerable, right? We don’t promote fakeness and reward the boxers that floor the wavering component, right?

I miss Kenny. I miss Tracy. But, what saddens me even more is that the world we’re in now, needs them. The world without them is losing its perspective. In 2009, we reward the villains and reject the hero’s.

We need to figure this out. It's not too late. Kenny’s and Tracy’s still exist out there. They are outside of the limelight. They’re honest. They have integrity. They come from all walks of life, some are successful, some aren’t. But they aren’t afraid to go unnoticed in exchange for doing what’s right. They aren’t stepping on people. They aren’t lying to get ahead. They’re just nice, simple honest people that want to do what’s right.

My advice. Make friends with them. These are the best people in the world. They’re the great fathers and mothers, incredible bosses and mentors, best friends and spouses.

Learn from them. Support them. They are hero’s, but the most beautiful thing about them is... they don’t even know it.