Imagining Marketing: Art, Aesthetics, and the Avant-Garde

Imagining Marketing: Art, Aesthetics, and the Avant-Garde

Imagining Marketing: Art, Aesthetics, and the Avant-Garde

Imagining Marketing: Art, Aesthetics, and the Avant-Garde

Synopsis

"Imagination" is a word that is widely used but rarely examined. This book focuses on the interface between art and the marketplace, applying the tools and techniques of artistic appreciation to marketing phenomena.

Excerpt

For my sins of omission, commission and postmodernism, I receive a lot of very strange letters. Most of these, as you might expect, come from dyed-in-the-wool Kotlerites, who accuse me of heinous crimes against marketing, consider me the spawn of the Devil, and invariably conclude with the intimation that I need a damn good thrashing (I do, I do!). Others come from the representatives of disillusioned publishing conglomerates, who express disappointment at my latest sales figures, reluctantly pass on my proposal for a two-volume study of Analogy and Anadiplosis in Alderson and wonder if they could possibly have their advance back, please (or, failing that, the pound of flesh I unwisely used as collateral). Yet others come from the Dean and assorted university apparatchiks, who are keen to know why the nation's blue-chip companies aren't clamouring for my short courses, consultancy services and anything else, basically, that they can top-slice (yeah, it's a mystery to me too). And yet other communiqués come from bemused marketing students, who have been assigned my texts—as a cruel and unusual punishment, presumably—and wish to express their, er, heartfelt thanks, eternal gratitude and ever so kind regards (my duty, as they say, is to serve).

By far the craziest correspondents, however, are those who inquire if I write poetry as a sideline and, working on the assumption that I do, they thoughtfully enclose a stanza or several of their own. To be perfectly honest, I'm never quite sure how to respond to these letters, since artistic types can be a tad testy. Saying the wrong thing might be taken very badly and, before you know it, I'd have all sorts of abusive phone calls, death threats and flaming e-mails. I get enough of those from my colleagues. But the truth is, I don't write poetry and I never have, not even as a lovelorn adolescent. I was much too busy reading The Code of the Woosters, learning the chords of Sheena is a Punk Rocker and playing in goal for an amateur, very amateur, double-digit-defeats-a-speciality, football team. The only 'poems' I've ever penned are entombed in the perma-sealed leaves of my less than best-selling texts. Doggerel fanciers aside, these odes, lays and epics appeal to a very limited constituency of connoisseurs, those with cloth ears, no taste and chronic learning difficulties.

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