Identity-creativity: The Color Indigo
Some years ago, K had been invited to give a speech at a major chemical manufacturer in the middle of Europe. On that day he was shown around the site and plant and learned many things. One of them was about the color indigo. "It's what makes the blue jeans blue," he was told. "And we have slightly more than have the world market share," his guide added, not without a suggestion of pride in his voice.
After the speech, K was taken to lunch and A, the senior fellow amongst his hosts, said "I must say I like your perspective. I agree, in the long run, sustainability as the language of value-based transactions makes a lot of sense. But as someone once said, in the long run we are all dead. What I need now, today, is to be able to connect your, and my, let me say, intellectual insight, to the very bottom line in a factory. How do your theories help me to do that?" K, sighing good-bye to a nice, leisurely meal, said: "OK, let's imagine an answer to your question around indigo - the color as I learned that makes my blue jeans blue. I learned this morning that you are one of the largest suppliers of indigo in the world. But rather than commanding near monopoly mark-ups, I was told the buyers of your indigo squeeze mercilessly the last penny out of you. No-one gives a damn about the sustainability of the indigo; it is price, price and price alone.
"What if," K continued after eating two more small and quick bites, doing an utter disservice to the work of the cook and waitress, "what if you are dealing with the wrong buyers?." "What do you mean?" A replied, himself being more fascinated by the food than a long and elegant question.
"Well," K said, "I am the real buyer of your indigo. By choosing where I buy my blue jeans I have chosen how much to pay for the jeans - and therefore indirectly how much I pay for the indigo that makes them blue." "I do not quite follow you." Said B and A nodded his agreement to this puzzlement.
"I can buy my jeans," K resumed after having decided to concentrate on talking instead of the wonderful lunch, "at Walmart, at H&M, at Gap, at Hugo Boss, you name it. Each store has a certain price range that has nothing to do with the quality of the jeans, nor, in the least, with the price someone further up the supply chain paid for the indigo."
"Ok," said A, savoring his food, "I see what you mean, eh, but how does that answer the question I asked you at the beginning?" putting a piece of asparagus in his mouth that just melted there in front of K's eyes.
"Wait, wait," K answered and it was not clear whether he meant the asparagus or not, "wherever I go and buy my jeans, the proportion of the cost of indigo is so small, I do not even notice. And, frankly, until this morning I didn't even know I was paying for indigo."
"I am sorry," said B, "but I still do not get you point."
"I'll get to it right away." K leaned back, which the waitress mistook for the sign that he was done eating. K vaguely protested, but remembering the saying that there is no such thing as a free lunch, instead concentrated on the answer. "Your task is to get me to ask the sales clerk, in whatever store I am, where the indigo in the jeans I am buying is coming from - and if it is not from you, leave the store."
"But that is, excuse my directness, absolutely ludicrous!" A exclaimed - and thankfully had no food in his mouth. "No one is ever going to ask this kind of question."
"Not until very recently," K responded, "but look at what happened in the agro-biotech area. The industry thought that the farmers were their customers - as they had been since times immemorial. But, it turned out, the end consumer actually was their customers. I know, I know," K responded to the unspoken question, unspoken because just at that time a scrumptious dessert was being served, "until it actually happens, to you, it is actually quite difficult to imagine it happening. But rather than wait until I make a spurious, ill informed connection between you, indigo, and blue jeans - and quite possibly end up in the process boycotting your products with your indigo, before that happens, why don't you make the connection visible to me so that I insist on your indigo. As you know from the genetically modified food issue, once the retailers know that I, or someone else is going to ask, quicker than you can say 'how can I help you?' they'll make my concern their cause."
After such a speech, K thought he could relax and enjoy his dessert, but alas… "I understand where you are heading," said A, swallowing his last spoonful of crème brulée, "but what could I possible do to make you ask specifically for my indigo?"
"Tell a story," said K. "All I know about you at this point is that you lay off workers, in the name, I would guess, of globalization and shareholder value."
"And how, may I ask, do you know that?" B interrupted.
"Well, your production facilities are still in Europe, you have announced investment plans for Malaysia - to be 'closer to the growing Asian market', so the end result will be that your production in Europe will shrink. How else are you going to stay competitive?"
"Your are right," A admitted, "but that is what everyone with production facilities in Europe has to do. The social costs, the wage level, the taxes, the…"
"I know," K interrupted, "but that is precisely why you need to tell a different story: Raise the price of indigo, double it if you like - remember in my budget there is no item called indigo! - it is that insignificant to me. Tell me what you will do with the extra you took from me! Develop a venture capital fund that folks you lay off can apply to; initiate a research project that reduces the water consumption of the cotton you dye blue by 90%; what ever. But it has to be your story - not that of the industry; is has to be true - not another fancy marketing hype; and it has to be meaningful - don't use the extra revenue to buy back your shares! Before you know it, you'll have your buyers come up with ideas themselves. And if you are really doing your job, the retailer will want to co-present their jeans with your indigo."
There was a silence around the table which K, ever the gentleman, did not want to disturb by hastily finishing off his dessert. What a shame…
When the coffee came, A remarked: "I am beginning to see how this could work. It won't be easy, but it does make sense. As you stressed, it has to be our story and it has to be true, otherwise it is just another cheap gimmick. So how do you come up with the right story?"
"Nothing easier than that," said K, "ask your people. They know much more than you believe they do. But perhaps a little story from nature can illustrate my point." K paused to take a sip of his coffee. "I read once about a the Tasmanian snow skink, it is a lizard who lives on the mountain tops of Tasmania. When the honey bush, a plant from these parts, is in bloom the skink tears of the tough, red petals that enclose the flower. The skinks chews them to extract the nectar and spit out the rest. What this does as well, is to expose the reproductive parts of the flower, thus allowing pollinating insects to get to them. Why use a skink to get ready for pollination? Well, the weather on these mountain tops is so unpredictably awful that the honey bush is using the skink, a lizard mind you, as its temperature gauge. Only when the cold blooded lizard is out and about is it warm enough for pollination to occur. Hence the ripping off of petals only when conditions are right. In biology this is called co-evolution."
"And if a lizard and honey-bush can develop such mutually beneficial behavior, a retailer, a customer and a producer of indigo can do the same, you are saying?" asked A. "Maybe," nodded K, "if we try."