It is nearly impossible to make it through a typical day
without exchanging ideas. Whether deciding on something as simple as a restaurant
for a long overdue night out, or as complicated as the design of an entirely new product, we are
forever involved in sculpting and selling our creative thought. Conventional wisdom says that to be
successful, an idea must be concrete, complete, and certain. But what if that’s wrong? What if the
most elegant, most imaginative, most engaging ideas are none of those things?
Gaze at the image below for a moment. The three sets of right-angled lines depict something so
ubiquitous that you’d be hard-pressed to make it through the day without it. Can you identify it?
If you can’t, it’s because a key piece of information is missing. Once that information is shared,
however, you will never again be able to see the image in quite the same way again. You are looking
at the upper case version of the most widely used letter in the English language. The letter, though,
exists in the white space. Do you see it now? It is the letter E. Look again. My guess is that from now
on, you’ll have difficulty not seeing it.
What you’ve just experienced is the power of “the missing piece.” It’s not a parlor trick. It’s an
example of a counterintuitive notion: what isn’t there can often trump what is.
And it’s a good example of creative elegance. Experiencing elegance is nearly always this profound.
The unusually simple yet surprisingly powerful nature of any elegant this or that gives us pause,
and the impact changes our view of things, often forever. Elegance delivers the power to cut through
the noise. It can shake markets. It can change minds, and mindsets, as you’ve just witnessed.
No “complete” E, no matter how elaborately or ornately rendered, could have engaged you as fully
and had the same kind of indelible impact on you. Once you were given a clue, your brain created the
image for you, changing your mindset, without your having much say in the matter. The incomplete
E took on a new form, a life of its own—one with real staying power.
What is important to take away from this quick demonstration is that the full power of elegance
is achieved when the maximum impact is exacted with the minimum input. Adding anything to
the figure would have actually detracted from the desired effect: the surprise you likely experienced
when the E became visible. The E is obvious only in retrospect, but it is the unusually simple yet
thoughtful construction of what is there that gives the missing piece its surprising power.
Elegance is not, in other words, a matter of simple erasure.
on sunday, june 10, 2007, nearly twelve million television
viewers experienced the very same effect. David Chase, creator of the
hit HBO series The Sopranos, used the method to achieve what many critics now hail as the
most innovative hour of viewing in recent episodic television history. Fans of the show waited with
anticipation to find out the fate of mafioso Tony Soprano, the main character and from whose
viewpoint the story is told. Would he or wouldn’t he be “whacked?” Debates had been raging for the
22 months since Chase had announced the final airdate. But instead of a concrete finale, television
screens suddenly went black seemingly in mid-scene during the final seconds. Credits rolled within
a few more seconds, and The Sopranos series came to an end.
What is so fascinating about the abrupt ending is not the decision itself, although it was unprecedented
and broke new ground artistically. Rather, it is the aftermath that is intriguing. Just as
no fully drawn E could have the same lasting impact on the brain, no fully-developed conclusion
would have engaged viewers with nearly the same lingering depth and intensity.
The most immediate reaction—”What just happened to my television signal?”—had nothing to do with
the storyline. What is interesting there is not the reaction itself, for that might have been predictable
in this age of satellite and cable TV, but that everyone had the same reaction in that no one saw it
for what it was, as the ending. They saw it as something gone wrong. And that made them stop and
think. So it’s what occurred over the course of the next 48 hours or so that is worth noting.
The initial disappointment at being left hanging with a clearly missing conclusion was quickly
replaced by an unparalleled level of post-show scrutiny coupled with a fresh appreciation for
“the genius of David Chase,” spurred by his semi-cryptic public comment that “Anybody who wants
to watch it, it’s all there.”
Realizing that every frame was carefully crafted by Chase, who both wrote and directed the episode,
viewers re-examined scene after scene, noting both blatant and subtle visual clues, soundtrack
hints, veiled dialogue, past-show references, even camera angles, color palettes and lighting effects.
Theory after theory popped up in both online and traditional media. The debate took on a life of
its own. Viewers crafted their own endings, filling in the missing piece with the trail of code Chase had
provided. To most, Tony Soprano’s fate became quite obvious, albeit only through a full retrospective.
That is exactly what happened with the letter E. And like the letter E exercise, The Sopranos episode
is quite indelible.
David Chase did what many of the best innovators and most prolific individuals are doing in many
different domains: creatively engaging people’s imaginations by leaving out the right things.
But what are “the right things?”
the value of what isn’t there dawned on bestselling business author and
self-employed professor Jim Collins when, in the throes of his early post-Stanford Business School
career at Hewlett-Packard, his favorite former professor admonished him for a lack of discipline.
An expert in creativity and innovation, she told him his hard-wired energy level was riding herd over
his mental clarity, enabling a busy yet unfocused life. Her words rang true: at the time, Jim was
aggressively chasing his carefully set stretch goals for the year, confident in his ability to accomplish
them. Still, his life was crowded with the commotion of a fast-tracking career. Her comment
made him pull up short and re-examine what he was doing. To help, she did what great teachers
do, constructing a lesson in the form of an assignment she called “20-10”: Imagine that you’ve
just inherited $20 million free and clear, but you only have 10 years to live. What would you do
differently—and specifically, what would you stop doing?
The exercise did precisely what it was intended to do—make Jim stop and think about what mattered
most to him. It was a true turning point. He realized he’d been racing down the wrong track, spending
enormous energy on the wrong things. In fact, he woke up to the fact that he hated his job. He
promptly quit and headed back to Stanford to launch a new career of research, teaching, and writing.
The assignment became a constant reminder of just how important and precious his time is. He now
starts each year by choosing what not to do, and each of his to-do lists always includes “stop-doing”
items. Collins preaches his practice, impressing upon his audiences that they absolutely must have a
“stop-doing” list to accompany their to-do lists. As a practical matter, he advises developing a strong
discipline around first giving careful thought to prioritizing goals and objectives, then eliminating
the bottom twenty percent of the list—forever.
Collins made the “stop doing” argument in his eloquent 2003 year-end essay appearing in USA Today:
“A great piece of art is composed not just of what is in the final piece, but equally what is not. It is the discipline to discard what does not fit—to cut out what might have already cost days or even years of effort—that distinguishes the truly exceptional artist and marks the ideal piece of work, be it a symphony, a novel, a painting, a company, or most important of all, a life.”
Understanding what piece to make missing isn’t easy. While a few examples can provide some handrails
to guide us, it helps to first understand where the missing piece strategy came from.
the great renaissance artist leonardo da vinci invented
a technique called sfumato—literally “in the manner of smoke”—that he loosely defined as
“without having distinct edges and lines.” With sfumato, lines are left a little vague, and forms are
slightly blurred to merge with one another. This is what allowed da Vinci to achieve such life-like
effects in his masterworks. The mystery of the Mona Lisa is somewhat less mysterious, for example,
once you see that the corners of her eyes and mouth—the two features responsible for human
expression—are deliberately indistinct. She seems to be alive because her attitude is so open to
interpretation.
Leonardo advised aspiring painters, “...paint so that a fumoso [smoky] edge can be seen, rather
than hard and harsh outlines and silhouettes... that is, more confused—that is to say, less clear...”
In other words, Leonardo is advocating leaving something to the imagination. But why? According to
the late art historian E.H. Gombrich, it is because da Vinci was aware of the superiority of tantalizing
suggestion over exactitude in engaging the viewer’s eye. Da Vinci instructs artists to leave any preliminary
sketch indeterminate precisely because “confused shapes arouse the mind.” Gombrich said
that sfumato leads the observer “to understand what one does not see.” Leaving something for us
to guess at was a stroke of genius. Five centuries later, Leonardo’s work continues to spawn an
industry of lectures, debates, books and movies.
Da Vinci wasn’t alone in taking the road less finished. Michelangelo perfected and made famous a
technique pioneered by sculptor Donatello before him, called non finito, meaning unfinished or
incomplete. A shallow relief style, non finito not only left sculptures seemingly unfinished, it made
them appear deeper than they actually were. Michelangelo’s subjects were essentially “stuck” in
the block of material, purportedly to emotionally involve the observer by revealing and preserving
in stone the human artistic struggle.
But neither Leonardo nor Michelangelo were the first to explore the concept of purposefully unfinished
or ambiguous work. As Zen philosophy took hold in Japan during the 12th and 13th centuries,
Japanese art and philosophy began to reflect one of the fundamental Zen aesthetic themes—that
of emptiness. In the Zen view, emptiness is a symbol of inexhaustible spirit. Silent pauses in music
and theater, blank spaces in paintings, and even the restrained motion of the sublimely seductive
Geisha in refined tea ceremonies all take on a special significance because it is in states of temporary
inactivity or quietude that Zen artists see the very essence of creative energy. Because Zen Buddhists
view the human spirit as by nature indefinable, the power of suggestion is exalted as the mark of
a truly authentic creation. Finiteness is thought to be at odds with nature, implying stagnation, which
is associated with loss of life. The famous poet Fujiwara Teika developed the equivalent of non finito
in his verse, believing that “the poet who has begun a thought must be able to end it so masterfully
that a rich space of suggestions unfolds in the imagination of his audience.” Teika’s work became a
guiding force in the development of Zen thought in Japan, and his treatises on aesthetics are viewed
by historians as the equivalent of universal handbooks on the philosophy of art.
While these are historical examples, non finito has made plenty of modern appearances. One vivid
example (aside, of course, from The Sopranos finale) is the scene in Mike Nichols’ 1967 classic
dramedy The Graduate, in which young college graduate Ben “Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce
me” Bradford, played by Dustin Hoffman, plunges into the swimming pool clad in full scuba gear,
speargun and all, and remains submerged at the bottom, contemplating his so-called life. There is
no dialogue, no narration, no music, only the sound of Ben’s breathing. Yet because of the masterful
construction of what came before in the film, we have all the context we need to interpret what the
character is thinking and feeling. At the same time, the scene remains open to our interpretation,
and we’re allowed to inject our own personal experiences and emotions into the inaction. According
to film critic Joe Morgenstern, the two-minute long “silent” scene ranks among the most indelible
and ingenious in cinema history.
It would appear that the requirements of ideas to be concrete and complete have at the very least
some very noteworthy exceptions. In fact, these exceptions may not be exceptions at all. They may
be the basis of new rules, rules that, like the artists and designers granting their audience a freedom
to finish what the creator began, reflect the highest respect for the intelligence of others. And those
are the very kind of rules that can change the game entirely.
One final story makes the point.
there is nothing really “in and out” about in-n-out burger.
The lines are always long, but well worth the wait. In-N-Out Burger is a Southern California institution
with a cult-like following not unlike that of Apple or Starbuck’s. Its reputation extends far beyond
the West Coast, though, and indulging in a Double-Double—two 100% beef patties plus two slices
of American cheese, hand-leafed lettuce, bread spread, tomato, with or without onions, on a freshbaked
bun—is on the to-do list of many tourists. The company has in the last few years pushed
beyond California to neighboring Nevada and Arizona, and when one opened in Scottsdale, the wait
was four hours. Even people who shun fast food seem to love In-N-Out. In fact, it is one of only a
couple establishments favored by Eric Schlosser in his book Fast Food Nation, an indictment of the
American fast food meal.
In-N-Out Burger was founded by Harry and Esther Snyder in 1948 in the Los Angeles suburb of
Baldwin Park. It was Harry’s innovation to start a drive-through burger stand where customers could
order through a two-way speaker box. Back then, carhops and big canopied burger joints were
the norm. The company has remained family-owned and privately run since its inception—so private
its executives rarely speak to the media—even though Harry, Esther, and oldest son Guy, each of
whom took turns at the helm, have passed away. Based on the Snyders’ standing philosophy, every
new manager learns at the In-N-Out University to “Give customers the freshest, highest quality foods
you can buy and provide them with friendly service in a sparkling clean environment.” In-N-Out
Burger is known for its consistent quality, freshness—you can watch the potatoes as they are handcut
daily for the fries, shakes are made from real ice cream, and there are no freezers or microwaves—
and simple menu.
But most important, In-N-Out Burger understands the power of the missing piece.
To begin with, the menu has only four food items. You can order a Hamburger, a Cheeseburger, a
Double-Double, and French Fries. The fifth item is a beverage. You can partake in the standard array
of Coca-Cola products, or order one of three flavors of milkshake: chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry.
That’s it. Or is it?
One reason for the cultish phenomenon of the company is the “secret menu.” You have to be in the
know to be privy to it. The most interesting thing about the secret menu is that not only do the
items on it far outnumber those on the published menu, but they are completely unique concoctions,
dreamed up by customers, universally prepared according to a cross-company formula, and well
beyond Starbuck’s approach of allowing tweaks to an already extensive menu. When you order, say,
a “tall, extra-hot, non-fat, double-shot, four-pump, no-whip mocha” at Starbuck’s, your receipt simply
reads “TL MOCHA.” When you order, a “2X4,” or a “3-by-Meat,” or a “Flying Dutchman” at any In-N-Out
Burger, it will appear on the receipt just as you ordered it. But nowhere will you see anything even
remotely referring to it on the menu posted above the register.
There are about a dozen “standard” off-menu items. A 2X4 is a burger with two beef patties and
four slices of cheese. You can order any combination of meat-X-cheese you desire: 3X3, 4X4, etc.
In fact, Wikipedia shows a photograph of a 20X20, and on a Halloween weekend in October 2004,
Zappos.com CEO Tony Hsieh and blogger What-Up-Willy ordered and ate—with a team of six others—
a 100X100, consuming nearly 20,000 calories in less than two hours. This, of course, should not
be tried at home.
A 3-by-Meat is sans cheese, and again, you can order any number-by-meat. The Animal Style is a
mustard-cooked patty, with pickles, extra sauce, and grilled onions. Protein Style is for those watching
their carbs: no bun; instead, the makings are wrapped in a big leaf of iceberg lettuce. (This is
actually quite good, and a favorite of the women in my family.) A Grilled Cheese is a cheeseburger
without the burger, and great if you’re not a fan of red meat, while the Veggie Burger is actually a
bun with whole grilled onions, sauce, lettuce and double tomato. The Flying Dutchman is simply
two patties and two slices of cheese—no bun, no nothing else—on a paper plate. The Extra Toast is
literally that: the bun’s left on the grill longer for crispiness. That’s just the burgers. Fries can be
Animal Style, topped with sauce, onions and cheese, Light or Well-Done, which are under-cooked or
over-cooked, respectively. Shakes can be ordered regular, or Swirl or Neopolitan, meaning two or
three of the flavors mixed.
In-N-Out has never changed their menu to reflect these items. In other words, it creates a sense of
mystique around what is missing from the menu. By resisting formal menu expansion they’ve avoided
the self-defeating overkill seen in consumer electronics, with its “feature creep,” and the resulting
“feature fatigue.” They understand the avid Sudoku player’s desire to fill in the missing pieces, and
they simply go with it, keeping their wares pared back but enabling their patrons to add their own
personal touch. They don’t actively promote, or even pay much attention to, the secret menu. In fact,
when you talk to the executives at In-N-Out, they seem as mystified as customers by the presence
of the secret menu, but they do understand the completely intangible value of the tailored touch.
Their only rule is “to do whatever the customer wants done to a burger.” Most importantly, they
understand that to expand the formal menu could only detract from an important reason why
In-N-Out is so very popular and successful: a powerfully elegant “stop doing” strategy.
a final word. The magic behind the dramatic and enduring impact of creative elegance,
while it remains rare and radical, is not new. Chinese philosopher Lao-tzu understood the power of
the missing piece when he wrote this verse over 2500 years ago:
Thirty spokes share the wheel’s hub, It is the centre hole that makes it useful. Shape clay into a vessel, It is the space within that makes it useful. Cut doors and windows for a room, It is the holes which make it useful. Therefore profit comes from what is there, Usefulness from what is not there.
About the Author
Matthew E. May is the author of In Pursuit of Elegance: Why the Best Ideas Have Something Missing (Random
House/Broadway, May 2009) and of The Elegant Solution: Toyota’s Formula for Mastering Innovation (Simon
& Schuster, 2006). A popular speaker, he lectures to corporations, governments, and universities around the
world, and works confidentially with creative teams and senior leaders at a number of top Fortune-listed
companies. He spent nearly a decade as a close adviser to Toyota, and his articles have appeared in national
publications such as USA Today, Strategy+Business, and Quality Progress. He has appeared in The Wall Street
Journal, and on National Public Radio.
Source: Change This