What is advertising? How can we use it for good? What is communication? How do people pay attention? How could people pay attention? What feels good? Why does that change over time? How does it not? Why do we habitually seek to order, even when we learn that disorder can be good? And what do we do with the things we learn? Where are they? Can we put them somewhere more useful? What's the burn rate of a brand itself? Why do some things make us laugh? How do we listen, like really lean our ears out past the internal chatter and hear stuff? How do we turn a jumble of messy data into insights? How do we let those insights teach us things? How do we incorporate those things so we can more rapidly progress? What is progress? Does it ever reverse, lessen, introspect, or disassemble? If an idea is ahead of its time, when is it ready? What is an idea? What is time? How do we cut through clutter, noise, and mess, and start simply talking about meaningful shit? Where do questions go, if they just bounce around in our heads? What is inspiration? Why does it beam like a smile sometimes, burn like a fever other times, pound like a headache others, and feel like rushing wind at others still? What are we working towards? What good things can we do with our creative abilities? How can we use advertising to fight climate change? How can we advertise to other species—not to sell them on something, but to promote symbiosis? Is advertising possibly a form of symbiosis? Can we convince octopuses to gather plastic and put it into collection containers in the ocean? Can we make an impact upstream, from the agency to the client, and not just always towards the consumer? Can we reinvent advertising as innovation of communication? 

Brand Daydreams

Remember that scene in Ratatouille, where the super stiff restaurant critic takes a bite of the ratatouille? How it takes him back to his childhood and breaks the ice away from his heart?

Would be pretty cool if we made ads that did that, too.  


Sweet-hot mornings sparkle with dew

Soft whirr of tires on oil-fresh river of smooth asphalt

While biking to the pool

Mowers spin their wet blades and growl gasoline

Smells like green

Resounding ping, new ball on tennis racquet

Strings springy and free as my limbs felt back then


Decades passed and I traded middle American idyll

For clutter and rush of New York City streets

And now I wonder

How will my daughter remember summers here?

Will she know the manic magic madness,

Wet towels on hot concrete, possibilities, smell of sunscreen,

Or something else, a place I've never been?