Polished Sausage
“Transparency” has been one of the hottest buzzwords in business for a few years now. Pundits and actual businessmen alike tout the advantages of full disclosure, and maybe more importantly, the ramifications of not being forthright. But, as Seth Godin wisely points out, there are some things that just don’t need to be seen. Do we really need to see where our dinner came from? Would we all be bigger fans of Apple if we got a press release detailing every sketch Jonathan Ive puts to paper? Would we be bigger David Copperfield fans if only we knew how every trick was done? Mr. Godin argues that, while in some cases transparency can be a tremendous asset, at other times it’s a detriment.
Say Queensbridge
Ron Artest could be the poster boy for Web 2.0’s love of transparency. He may be the most intimately known athlete on the planet. He’s insane: he flew into the stands in Detroit to punch fans after a soda was thrown at him. He’s a fame-whore: he chose to play in Los Angeles because “it would be the biggest story,” and he’s producing a reality show titled “They Call Me Crazy.” He has almost no musical talent, but has produced three rap albums. He’s also intensely loyal, one of the reasons he made Chuck Sager say “Queensbridge”, his old neighborhood, seconds after he won his first NBA Championship. Of course that was only after he made sure to thank his shrink. Minutes later, in the postgame press conference, instead of basking in his own glory after his key performance in clinching his first NBA title, he talked about how he felt like a coward for bailing on his Pacers team years before. We know exactly who Ron Artest is, craziness and all, and we love him for it. Transparency is Ron’s saving grace.
Ron Ron is unique: most other big name athletes go the opposite direction. Tiger Woods was intensely private, it turns out for good reason. He crafted and polished his image, zealously protecting it, and he was beloved, worldwide. But all it took was some Ambien and a pissed off Swede with a 9 iron to bring it all tumbling down. And there lies the danger: if you’re really sausage underneath, you can polish the surface until it looks like filet, but if anyone takes a bite, they’re going to know what’s what. If you only proclaim to be sausage, if you’re John Daly and drink Coors Lite and smoke Marlboro Reds on the course, freely admit to losing tens of millions of dollars gambling, and don’t claim to be anything but what you are, the public will embrace you.
The Consummate Showman
A lack of transparency can be extremely powerful. By hiding your hand you build mystique, which piques curiosity. Copperfield was a master at this. We all know those tigers didn’t appear out of thin air. We know it was a trick. But still, we enjoy the show. We enjoy having our emotions manipulated. We enjoy trying to figure out what’s really going on. The “show” is why Copperfield was able to (allegedly) put down $56.5 million (plus an additional settlement) for his own Bahamanian island. If we knew how those tigers really “appeared” out of thin air, we’d lose all interest. Those are the only backstage passes you’d actually pay less for.
But be careful. Copperfield never claimed he could actually conjure cats from nothingness or make the Statute of Liberty disappear. He never lied. He only claimed to be a performer. Tiger Woods relished his wholesome image, but his whole image was a lie.
Sometimes, to be successful, you need to be a Copperfield. Just don’t claim to be anything but what you really are.
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