A Resident of the Marketing World Takes a Peek at the Art World.

Curator Mahoro Uchida spoke about civilization and culture (I believe she referenced them not for precise definitions, but to clearly distinguish these different concepts). Based on that talk, I might have added quite a few embellishments, but my vague understanding is something like this.

Civilization is the accumulation of human wisdom, tools, and innovations developed to overcome things like overwhelming hardship, chronic inconvenience, or minor troubles—regardless of their level of severity. Since civilization brings convenience and comfort, humanity inevitably shares it. It gradually expands its territory in the direction of uniformity. Like Othello, where one color covers everything before you know it. And we get excited about that. That's the image I have. A slippery, slimy scene.

Culture, on the other hand, is the expression of regionality, individuality, or so-called diversity. Or perhaps it's the raw gem of uniqueness, not yet fully expressed. Because it's diverse, it's complex, sometimes has a rough edge, and can even be nearly incomprehensible at times. It seems more troublesome than civilization.

Suddenly, I imagined a scene where culture, too, was smoothly, slickly covered by a single color. The feeling of comfort or richness slowly spreading across the world? I don't feel it at all! It might be exhilarating, but this feeling... isn't it kinda dangerous? That heart-pounding sensation. A void where complexity, impurities, and moments of near incomprehensibility are stripped away. I began to think the source of richness might actually lie in the rough, bumpy, troublesome parts—more so than in civilization. Uchida-san says both civilization and culture are important, and I really like that sentiment.

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To relive my daughter's struggles as a student preparing for entrance exams, I sometimes borrow her test papers. One day it was Japanese (25 minutes). A long-passage question from Ryo Ikeuchi's book Why Study Science? It argued against the view that basic research is "just dragging out unprofitable work" and that we shouldn't be so complacent. It argued that countless failures, each a form of achievement, gradually carve out a faint path through the wilderness, eventually leading to material prosperity. It also noted that science, like music, performing arts, and religion, is a culture that connects to spiritual richness. Fascinating! I took well over 25 minutes, reading slowly. I ended up going to Maruzen and buying the book (I wonder what my daughter thinks of her father, whose usefulness for her exams is highly questionable).

It struck me that scientists, often seen as the bearers of civilization, and artists, often seen as the bearers of culture, are remarkably similar in their thoroughness as explorers. Through my connection with Ms. Yukiko Suenaga, who practices art education, I was fortunate to get the opportunity to give a lecture at a certain university. In her writings, Ms. Suenaga defines an artist as someone who holds a seed of interest unique to themselves and extends countless roots of inquiry from it. While they also bloom flowers of expression, the core idea is that their identity lies in the seed and the roots, not the blossoms.

Both the first year and the next, business professionals like myself and students poised to become future business professionals debated whether we could become artists as Ms. Suenaga defines them (or, more precisely, whether we could practice business with artistic values). It was an endless series of questions, but each participant's words revealed deep thought. Roots of inquiry were spreading. There was richness.

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The world of art is vast and boundless, and within that vastness, I encountered certain individuals. Through the unexpected impact of these encounters, I realized there was a gift for someone like me, working in a marketing (or advertising) company. Not the kind of division of labor within a community where someone says, "I'll handle the civilization (marketing) side, so you take care of the culture (art) side, okay?" but rather the gift that comes from having both marketing and art swirling within each individual. When these forces constantly swirl and clash within you, it can lead you to places different from the thinking and practice confined to the marketing lane (writing this column, frankly, is an exercise in derailing).

I couldn't think of a precise description or clever analogy, but it's like the downforce acting on a moving car. No, that sounds like performance enhancement, so maybe not quite right. The lift acting on an airplane taking off. That's closer. It's the image of a previously unseen force acting within you, and you becoming one with it, forming a new shape of yourself. Apologies for resorting to imagery. But I believe many people embody this state. I occasionally encounter them too (while I'm apologizing, I'd like to offer my apologies at the start of this series for positioning myself as a resident of the marketing world while using a parade of vague expressions like "probably," "I feel," and "I sense." Sorry!).

In the marketing world, you learn about something called the Innovator Theory soon after joining a company. It seems to have been proposed over 60 years ago (though when I asked a new employee just now, they said they didn't know about it, so it might be a relic of the past). It's the idea that there are early adopters (innovators), and from there, adoption spreads gradually. If there's no new value there, no one will be the first to bite. And if there's no first adopter, the gradual spread that follows won't happen either. So, the standard tactic for getting that initial attention (or perhaps, in today's world, even for innovators, it's more about not being disliked than getting attention) is something best cultivated daily. Furthermore, this idea of gradual adoption overlaps with the story of civilization's gradual territorial expansion. A good marketer might also be someone who diligently hones the marketing know-how needed for this, including crossing the chasm.

This perspective represents what I mentioned earlier about downforce, or the sophistication of marketing. I believe higher-dimensionality exists elsewhere. You could simply call it internalizing cognitive diversity, but I see it a bit more romantically. It's about acquiring another world, and the self that lies beyond it.

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A resident of the marketing world peeks into the world of art.

Let's abbreviate it. "Makearuto." Ah, succumbing to temptation, I abbreviated it. From the sound "Ma-Ke-A-To," the characters "loser's traces" came to mind. Probably because I'm stained with so many traces of defeat. Scary, scary, scary—even now, recalling multiple failures makes me shudder. Traces of defeat, rough and bumpy. It's a loser's perspective, but those traces of defeat have quite a flavor to them.

Kengo Kuma also spoke of "losing architecture." Architecture that bears traces of originality yet blends into its surroundings. I imagined the marketing world and the art world blending together like that, yet still grappling with each other. This feels pretty good. Exciting.

Image Production: Satoshi Iwashita