It's often said you should thank a teacher who had an impact on you, as they are seldom aware of the profound impression they have on their students. Eric May, a former professor who had such an impact on me, passed away over the week at the age of 70.

Eric taught a variety of courses at Kent State University beginning in 1971, but was best known for his letterpress class. Long before letterpress and retro forms of printing were in vogue, Eric was a champion of the old world skills of craftsmanship, attention to detail, paper and typography. He was a gentle soul, often referred to as the Zen master of the faculty, with a quiet but very quirky sense of humor. He was the first person I ever knew to refer to an elegant piece of typography as being "tasty". As a hyper-stressed out underclassmen struggling to learn the fundamentals of design, his voice was one of reassurance and calm, always encouraging and focused on positive reinforcement. The few instances I have had occasion to work with students and junior designers, I have strived to emulate his model of teaching and mentoring.

Eric once said "The field of visual communication is so dynamic with change, it requires that both student and teacher maintain the role of learner at all times". This comes pretty close to describing my ideal student / teacher relationship. 

If you have the chance, take a moment to Google a professor who made an impact on you. Then drop them an email to acknowledge their contribution. 

A few years ago I was visiting the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago with a friend to see their permanent collection. I was quite taken with much of the work but she seemed a bit jaded. The stark minimalism of plain white and monochromatic canvasses left her wanting quite a bit more in terms of detail and execution. It was after seeing the kitschy Jeff Koons photos she could take no more.

"Whatever happened to art that looked like it took time to create?" she blurted.

Well my reactionary friend, that type of work is at the Art Institute of Chicago on loan from Italy. If the addition of the Modern Wing is the biggest thing to happen to the Art Institute in years, the loan of Caravaggio's The Supper at Emmaus is a compelling counterpoint. The painting, like much of Caravaggio's work is far more immediate than the dusty old masters paintings that one appreciates rather than loves. 

A question we often ask clients to gain insights into their brand is, "If you were a car, what make and model would it be?" This not only offers a window to their self perception but does so in a way that forces them to think differently about themselves, often with revealing results. Recently we have taken to augmenting the scope of the question to be open-ended and more cultural, less product-specific. 

If your company were a band, which one would it be?

The answers have proven to be quite provocative, often revealing internal fissures particularly when posed to a group of partners. Heated debates over the relative merits of the Who versus the Stones have ensued in our conference room (ie, "We're edgy but not not 'trash the hotel room' edgy).

With shifts in our business culture moving faster than the demise of the compact disc, I'm thinking of reframing the question yet again: If you were a band where would you like to be in three years? A lot can change in that amount of time. The mop top Beatles of 1964 singing "I'm Happy Just to Dance With You" were worlds apart from the eastern influenced hippies of the White Album. In 1989 Nirvana was just a local Seattle bar band. Three years later they were arguably the biggest band in the world. Two years after that they were done, leaving a legion of fans in mourning and a powerful catalog of music.

What band would you like to be and where do you see yourself playing? Would you like to be at Shea Stadium playing to 60,000 fans or at a more intimate venue like the Chicago Theater? Fully amped or unplugged? If you don't think about what you would like to be, it's a safe bet you won't have much control over where you are going to be.

The unofficial mantra of the United States Marine Corps is "adapt, overcome and improvise". Despite being a pacifist, I've always liked this credo. It acknowledges the reality that things do not always go according to plan and leaders find a way to sidestep landmines and overcome challenges.

Recently, we were handed a dream project for a new client. The scope included a complete brand creation, from naming and brand development to website design and implementation. On top of that, the client was one of the smartest nice guys you could ever hope to work with. After extensive research and exploration, we chose an evocative company name that articulated his value proposition in a memorable and ownable manner. 

We were days away from presenting creative designs for brandmarks and web design when the proverbial other shoe dropped. The client attorneys wouldn't approve the name because of a potential trademark infringement with another company. We felt like we had been punched in the gut. This meant not only coming up with an entirely new name, but completely redoing all the identity development that had been created to date, as this work was predicated on the name.  

I was reminded of the production of Steven Spielberg's Jaws in 1975. The filming on set was notoriously fraught with problems, not the least of which was a mechanical shark that failed to work properly. After weeks of shooting, most of the shark footage had to be scrapped entirely. To improvise, Spielberg instead filmed from the perspective of the shark, suggesting the impending carnage instead of showing the creature itself. Alluding to the shark instead of showing it proved far more effective and chilling, proving that there is nothing more terrifying than our own imagination. The movie has been remade and ripped off countless times since then, but never to the same eerie effect.

The project is still ongoing and we are back to square one. We may have one shark that failed to launch but we are going to create a blockbuster nonetheless.

Stay tuned. 

In 1887, thirteen year old Spanish cello player Pablo Casals walked into a music store and bought the sheet music for Bach's Suites for Unaccompanied Cello. Casals took it home and practiced for hours. He then proceeded to repeat that practice every day for the rest of his life.

Today, his masterful recording of that piece of music is considered the definitive interpretation, despite the bumps and hisses due to the limitations of the recording technology of the time. Minimalist, passionate and overflowing with emotion, the music continues to be used in film and commercial alike.

If you're good enough and disciplined, you inevitably become more successful at what you do. But it requires rigorous devotion and unwillingness to compromise. In the same way, the best brands are ones that are diligent in every application of their brand, not just their visual identity. Everything from how you answer your phone, to your email signature to the signage in your company is a tangible manifestation of your brand, one that clients remember. Your brand is something you need to consider every day. If you're hardworking and fortunate, your brand may one day be considered a definitive classic, like the Casals suites.

Although you can't slack off. When Casals was 93, he was was asked why he continued to practice the cello three hours a day. Casals replied "I'm beginning to notice some improvement."

If you've ever lost yourself in the moment of staring at autumn leaves or thrown stones into Lake Michigan, caught up in the moment of interacting with nature, you have some inkling of the art of British artist Andy Goldsworthy. Andy Goldsworthy is a an artist unlike any other, although artist does not quite capture the scope of his work. Instead of clay or paint and canvas, Goldsworthy collaborates with nature, using the proverbial sticks and stones to create his pieces. With nothing more than found materials, he plays with them, building, connecting and ultimately creating stunning sculptures that can last anywhere from minutes, in the case of his ice sculpture, to years, in the case of his rock walls.

But the real subject of his artwork is time itself. Watching him work is to see someone completely lost in the moment, what Zen Buddhists strive for in sitting meditation, where there is no past or future, but the simple elegance of the present. To know that most of his constructions will be destroyed by nature itself, through wind, tide or storm, makes their beauty all the more ephemeral and poignant. Thus, the real artwork is the moment of creation itself, something you can be privileged to see in the documentary of his work, Rivers and Tides.