R.U.B.O.Q.?

A few days ago, the Bank of Queensland launched this re-brand.

And since then – and like many launches of late – it's attracted mixed reviews, most notably here.

So I thought I'd add my own thoughts into the mix with this comment that I left on Mumbrella:

I've been interested to read the discussion here about this campaign and the idea behind it, but it seems everyone is focusing on the issue from a purely visual perspective or in terms of production. And ignoring the fact they've changed their name from Bank of Queensland to BOQ, as well as the potential reasons why – which is a pretty big deal.

When it comes to choosing names – for babies or banks – it's always difficult. But what's even more intriguing about this case is that while their campaign is all about being small and personal, their change of name says exactly the opposite.

Firstly, choosing an acronym is the surest way to strip any emotion and meaning from a word. Acronyms typically lack personality and make it hard for people to remember what they stood for in the first place. Which, unfortunately, does not resonate with their new tagline "Your own personal bank".

Secondly, it's interesting to think about why they switched to an acronym. The likeliest reasons are more to do with a commercial rather than a creative strategy. They want to put some clear water between the brand and the word "bank", as well as lose the restrictions that come with the geographical tag "Queensland".

In other words, this isn't about getting smaller, this is about getting bigger. Much bigger.

So what will it be? A small, local bank with the personal touch? Or, an international institution that hides behind a faceless acronym? Looks like they're keeping their options open for now.

Caught in a cliché

The past week's been pretty hectic – meetings, deadlines, missed deadlines, pitches, spreadsheets and other sundry items.

But the memory of one particular meeting still lingers.

Now, I understand as well as the next man that acronyms and jargon have their place in this world. If you're stood in a room full of people who know exactly what you mean when you say EPCM, there's absolutely no point in saying the words in full each and every time you use the term. In fact, in most cases, you would actually look a little foolish. As much as acronyms and jargon are exclusive and, quite literally, exclude the layperson, they can also serve just as positive a purpose by reinforcing communication between those already in-the-know (think of it as the modern day equivalent of the Freemason's handshake).

The clichés of the corporate world suffer a similar fate.

Time and place can play a pivotal role in whether they evoke the right response. But all too often they are mere victims of their own popularity as commonplace phrases – as well as the insincerity (or lack of imagination) on the part of those who invoke their expression.

And so it was that I found myself in a pretty swish boardroom in the CBD.

Stainless steel carafes of filtered water, carefully-placed corporate coasters, and individually-wrapped, no-name mints.

Handshakes, smiles, introductions.

And as the conversation wound into action, one particular person began to say how they had only been involved at certain points in the project. In their own words, they had simply "parachuted in, and then parachuted back out again".

After which point, I spent the remainder of the meeting – and the week – wondering exactly how you parachute out of anything.

I understand parachute in. It's possibly a little lazy, even surreptitiously belligerent (although I should say that military phrases have a nasty habit of popping up in the boardroom a little too often for my liking).

But parachute out? I'm sorry, but that's just dumb.

It's never as easy as Abc

Last week, I was watching a documentary about the history of music. Inevitably, Nirvana were featured at one point in the story, much of it rehashed reports on the lead-up to Kurt Cobain's tragic death.

But one thing I had never heard before – that was mentioned only incidentally – was the fact that the band always jammed for the first half-hour of any rehearsal, only then setting their minds to specific songs or half-written tunes.

Likewise, designers will take weeks to work their way through dozens of concepts and half-baked ideas before settling on the one that cracks the brief.

And how many times do you hear of artists painting over their work, only for these hidden canvases to be discovered years later and revealed as forgotten masterpieces?

I realise that none of this sounds like a big deal. But believe me, it is.

Because when the amateur writer starts to write, they often expect great things from the moment the pen hits the page. And I mean, great things.

As writers, we can tend to put undue pressure on ourselves to create epic stories worthy of equally epic praise with every stroke of the pen or tap on the keyboard. However, if you take even the most fleeting glance at any other creative pursuit, there is always the basic belief that success does not come straightaway.

What's more, the pressure is doubled by the fact that everyone can read and write. From an early age, we're taught how to recognise and create the letterforms required to communicate through the written word. That said – and as you'll have read in this previous post – we don't spend nearly as much time promoting the creative arts as we do our technical skills.

And so it is that the examples I gave at the start of this post show the way for any aspiring amateur writer.

Firstly, a musician might jam or improvise. So why shouldn't we do the same as writers?

Then there's the act of rehearsing. Things don't always flow straight onto the page, and it takes time and practice to get the words to read and feel right.

And finally, writing is first and foremost about writing. And writing. And writing. Which is different to re-writing. And nothing at all like editing. Three different activities with three different mindsets that ought to be kept entirely separate.

Ultimately, the distinction between the technique and the art of writing is an important one.

We can all do the one, but we should never take the other for granted.

A quick quote

Anyone who's read my blog will know that I don't mind the odd quote or two if it helps push things along.

In fact, quotes is the top ranking label.

And the other day, my beautiful wife made her own sensational yet sinister contribution to the list.

Hanging out with you is like using my left hand.

I think that says it all.

The worst salesman in the west (and other tales from the financial frontier)

The ANZ branch on the corner of George and King in the Sydney CBD is a grand, olde worlde affair. Cavernous ceilings, wood panels, and lots of columns. I love this type of classical architecture, even if it can be a little formal.

A couple of months ago, set against the swarming crowds just beyond the doors on George Street, it seemed I wasn't the only one taken in by my surroundings. Pretty much everyone there explored the space with a quiet chorus of eager eyes as they patiently waited their turn.

Eventually, my turn came and I made my way to the counter – feeling a little like an extra in Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. (Okay, so I have a fairly wild imagination.)

I handed over my deposit, the teller followed the usual process, and he then handed me my receipt.

But, once he'd done so, events took a strange turn.

The teller took a furtive look left, then right, and then leaned carefully across the counter towards me.

I wondered what this was all about and my brain instinctively offered up the following options:

1. He was about to offer me illegal drugs.

2. He was going to ask me if I knew of any good job openings.

3. He wanted to let me know that Butch and Sundance were standing right behind me, their guns loaded.

(Yes, I know, a very wild imagination, but believe me, this is exactly how it happened from my point of view.)

As it turned out, I was wrong on all counts.

The ANZ teller leaned carefully across the counter, looked me in the eye and asked if I had considered an ANZ credit card. With 55 days interest-free. In fact, there was even a special offer that waived the joining fee. And finally, he offered a second card at no extra price.

I took the receipt for my deposit and headed straight for the huge doors and into the anonymity of the lunchtime crowds, still swarming in the midday sun.

What had been a very pleasant, swift and efficient exchange up until that point had taken what I considered to be an ugly turn. I had gone to the bank to deposit my money as quickly and simply as possible. And I had all but done that when the teller slipped into what had to be one of the clumsiest and most ill-timed attempts to cross-sell me that I have ever encountered.

In the same way that when I go to the supermarket checkout, I want to pay for my goods not buy some more, so when I go to the teller window in a bank to deposit my money, I want to reduce my debt not add to it.

And over the past few weeks since then, it's been happening more and more as banks mobilise their army of window watchers to sell anything and everything to whomever walks in the doors. What really destroys the whole experience – above and beyond the sheer nuisance value – is the fact that they don't appear to have had any training. At ANZ, the teller's demeanour was hardly that of a slick salesman, and more recently at NAB, they tried to offer me a savings account for any cash sitting in the account that offsets my mortgage, but at a lower interest rate and one that would in fact have put me in a worse financial position. And, again at NAB when I was there earlier this week, the teller skipped any sort of polite introduction and launch straight into a spontaneous list of products. Credit card? Home insurance? Car insurance? Car loan? And so on. It was as though he was trying to guess my star sign.

I know that banks have never been anyone's favourite brand. But it's not that I don't like them, I just wish they would leave me alone.

Unlock your creativity (but please don't use a key)

In life, creativity is essential.

I realise that's a pretty broad statement, but so often it gets forgotten in the midst of all the other demands on our attention and time from one day to the next.

And that's even more true when it comes to thinking even more broadly in terms of one generation to the next.

Which is why I think it's so important that everyone – and I mean everyone – should listen to what Ken Robinson has to say here about the role of creativity in the education of our children. In his view, schools kill creativity: we systematically erase it from the future generation's skill set in the interests of preparing them for a world that has long since passed. We have evolved, but our education system has not.

This became painfully clear to me when I came across this ad for MGSM (Macquarie Graduate School of Management) in the paper earlier this week.

Now I should say that you have to be careful what you say these days given the universal access that the Internet provides – as Hill & Knowlton found out to their dismay this week when their GM criticised Telstra-owned Sensis on Twitter without considering what their client Telstra might have to say on the matter.

As it happens, I've actually completed strategy-related work for MGSM in the past, and I truly believe they are a great business with an outstanding product.

Which only makes this ad all the more underwhelming. Is this really the best that one of the top MBA schools has to offer?

An image of a key.

In the shape of the letter M. You know, as in MGSM.

With a headline that says Unlock your potential.

And don't even get me started on its design aesthetics – or lack thereof.

Call me demanding, but that's as bad an example of a cliché as you'll find. And when you're a prospective applicant, considering which graduate school to give your top dollar (thousands, not hundreds!), it's perfectly reasonable to set the highest standards. Afterall, they expect nothing less from you.

MGSM is not your average graduate school. But you wouldn't know that from reading this ad. Even for MGSM, it seems that creativity and education are not the most comfortable bedfellows.

But as luck would have it, just as soon as I had finished reading the paper, I picked up a magazine and found this ad for the Australian Institute of Architects.

Now there's an organisation – with a comparable (although not identical) role in terms of its educational remit – that doesn't just have a clear point of view on its purpose in this world, but also the ability to communicate it in a creative and compelling way.

And here's another one for good measure.

This is an organisation that is inspired and unparalleled not only in what it does, but also in how it does it – and that has to be one of the most exciting type treatments you'll ever see. Scroll back up to the MGSM example and the difference in impact is astonishing. Judging from this advertising, who on earth would want to have an MBA when you could be an architect?

And it's not enough simply to say that architecture is naturally more creative than commerce. Creativity is as much nurture as it is nature.

Here's an example from Dixons, an online electrical retailer in the UK, that demonstrates exactly that point. They may well be at the bottom of the pile, but that doesn't stop them coming up with one of the most imaginative taglines you'll ever read.

Dixons.co.uk. The last place you want to go.

In a world where the competition is as daunting as John Lewis and Selfridges, any brand that chooses their words so well is most certainly a brand that I want to talk to.

And here's another one.

All that's left to say is that creativity is king. And if you believe Ken Robinson, whom I mentioned right at the start, we need to start investing in the creativity of the next generation, now. Or they might just end up in MGSM's marketing department.