Category Archives: Advertising

Rejection

Rejection is scary. I feel like I’ve swallowed a boulder. The boulder has lodged itself in my chest. It is pressing on my heart. My heart is responsible for pumping blood around my body. My heart is having to beat faster to get the blood to flow around the boulder that is lodged in my chest. My heart hurts. This is what fear feels like. The fear is coming from words: no, no, no, no, no. The words were typed by humans and then translated by computers into ones and noughts. The ones and noughts were fired at great speed through optic fibre cables buried deep underground. When the ones and noughts surfaced they were translated back into words. The words were placed in a virtual file. When the file was ready a noise was emitted. My ears heard the noise. I tapped a small rectangular device made of various precious metals until I could read the words. No, no, no, no, no. It’s a shame, writes my agent. I feel her disappointment. Let’s evaluate and try again.

It’s a shame indeed. Toe-curling, skin-shrinking shame. I try to focus on the physical sensations. They are not unfamiliar. I trace them backwards in time. I follow them back to the wet field where I sank to my knees, overcome with grief because He had met somebody else. He had picked me up and carried me for a while. Then he discovered I was broken inside and he dumped me. She was thin, young, beautiful, whole. I nearly threw my heart up with weeping. No, no, no, no, no. You are not good enough. You do not deserve. You are not allowed in. No, no, no, no, no.

I picture my new shiny agent at her desk, her hand over her mouth, rueing the mistake she has made. I’m a loser. I will spend the rest of my life in abject poverty, sleeping on the street, eating out of bins. I will be forced to retrain as a librarian. I will wear brown calf-length skirts and keep elderly cats and drink five bottles of gin every night.

There is a reason why rejection feels like death. It piggybacks on the neural pathways associated with actual physical pain. Back in the days of the apes, when we literally wouldn’t survive if we were banished from the tribe, the pain of rejection was a valuable corrective tool. The good news is that those who felt the pain of rejection most acutely were the ones most likely to adjust their behaviour and stay alive. The bad news is that the tribe has expanded to include everyone connected by ones and noughts and underground cables made of optic fibres. The potential for experiencing the pain of rejection is no longer limited by distance, or the number of people we actually know. Social media platforms ruthlessly exploit our need to belong and our fear of being excluded. Advertisers go out of their way to target our insecurities, our sense of being left out and left behind. We are bombarded with information about all the fabulous things the slick and succesful members of our tribe are getting up to while we’re wandering lost and lonely in the desert, wearing shoes that are falling apart.

I call a friend, an outwardly-succesful, award-winning writer whom I admire greatly, not just for the books she’s written, which are wonderful, but for the effort she makes to live life fully, however much grief this costs her. She tells me stories of the rejections she has handled. They make me gasp in horror. She tells me they can’t force me to be a librarian. It’s not up to them to decide who I am, she says. I don’t need anybody’s permission to get on with my work. AlI I need is a piece of paper and a pencil. I force myself to call my new and shiny agent. It’s not personal, she says. It’s the market. It’s normal.

I do not feel normal. I feel like I’ve swallowed a boulder and now I’m trying to hack it up with a piece of paper and a pencil.

I shouldn’t be writing this. I should be on Instagram, papering over the cracks with ones and noughts and hashtags. I should be refining an image of myself as one of the slick and succesful people that have never been rejected. But I want you to know it’s an illusion. I’m not one of those people. Those people don’t exist, and the sad thing is that we exclude ourselves from the comfort of genuine human interaction every time we believe in them. They are not personal. They are the market. The market is not normal.

Onwards, says my new and shiny agent.

Metaphorical Enclosure

Since I might as well be hung for a horse as a lamb, and I’m clearly intent on making myself unpopular just in time for Christmas, I decided to clarify a couple of things relating to my last post.

I did not mean to imply that wild places should be left unvisited by humankind so that people such as myself can go and ‘twiddle our thumbs in mighty solitude’ and not be bothered by awkward facts of life such as climate change.

I’m saying that using images of wild places as part of a branding campaign for individuals or companies sends the wrong message. It implies that nature has a price on its head and that only the cool people are allowed in.

There is a growing body of evidence that proves conservation efforts are much more likely to be successful if intrinsic values (community, compassion, empathy) are engaged, rather than extrinsic values (money, status, image). In fact, studies show that exercising extrinsic values with the aim of protecting the environment is counter-productive, as WWF’s Tom Crompton explains in a back issue of Resurgance Magazine.

To my eyes, stamping a logo on a wild place that actually belongs to everybody is the virtual equivalent of putting a fence around common land.

 

metaphorical enclosure

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have chosen this image not because this company is particularly bad, but because it is on my radar and cold water surfing is close to my heart. They represent the tip of an iceberg. The problem is precisely that this kind of assault on psychological space is accepted as ordinary and aped on social media.

Advertising works on the subconscious, often without either our awareness or our permission. This is not a new observation. The negative cultural effects of mass corporate branding are discussed at length by Naomi Klein in No Logo.

But No Logo was written before social media made it possible for individuals to behave like corporations. The territory just got a whole lot bigger and more complex.

That they have a brand value reflects the importance of wild places to us. They represent a space where we can escape from the overwhelming tyranny of the marketplace and spend some quiet time with our own truths.

And I’m not saying we should keep these truths to ourselves. There is a wealth of art, music and literature that reveals a genuine love for the natural world that can only be a positive force for change. Nan Shepherd’s The Living Mountain, Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Mickey Smith’s Dark Side of the Lens, and the Finisterre crew’s own recent film Edges of Sanity, are just a few of the millions of examples. I am personally devoted to the cause of fostering connection via books and songs.

The line between art and advertising can be a very thin one. But it is crucial. Promoting consumerism is not likely to encourage the kind of lifestyle choices necessary to avoid mass extinction.

One Wednesday morning in November I went surfing. It was a normal day, not a weekend or a holiday, but there were fifty people in the water. Although I love surfing uncrowded waves, a part of me rejoiced that so many people had made the choice to bunk off work and go surfing.

These are the kind of value judgements that could change the course of natural history.

Luckily you don’t need expensive, branded clothing to bunk off work and go surfing. In fact, refraining from taking part in brand culture should allow you to do it a lot more often.

Which is, I think, a message worth promoting.

Comments are very much open if you want to have a crack at changing my mind.

Happy holidays. I’m off to drink some Champagne.