Even second generation corporate websites are looking pretty stale these days. The broadcast model, where the website was roughly a hyperlinked brochure, lasted about a decade. But now social media has permanently changed the way we communicate with our customers, and changed our customers' expectations of us. Customers expect dialogue. As I've written before, communications can no longer be one-way or even two-way; they have to be multi-way.
It seems we are finally fully awake to the notion that companies are cultures, and since cultures are people, companies are, essentially, communities or ecosystems of people. More enlightened companies realize that this interconnectedness means they must be transparent in their communications, and that it's no longer possible, in a multi-connected landscape, to speak to one constituency one way and to another constituency another way, or to hide conversations behind thick velvet curtains. This suggests that a corporate website should reflect community, too, a community in which each constituency—customers, shareholders, executives, managers, staffers—has a presence and a voice and is able to talk to, and with, each other.
Some might consider this multi-way conversation to be chaos. But it's only as chaotic as any real community is. Healthy communities have policies, rules of engagement, and norms to cope with chaos. In a corporation, there's usually a clear, if collective, agenda that everyone's working toward: better products, better customer satisfaction, better market share, better profitability, better experience. These goals don't need to be in opposition—and when they are, it can be useful to have a structure in place to work it out.
So maybe the corporate website of today should stop being a fancy brochure, and convert into something more like a social network, one that supports varying roles and myriad conversations. Sure, a customer could still download a Features and Benefits sheet if he wanted, or a pricing table. But the real meat of the matter, the real communication, would happen between constituents as a constantly evolving conversation. Meaning is made in the interstices, and the outcome could be a more organic, and more genuine, experience for everyone.
A senior executive I know recently returned from a conference on social media. It was his first exposure to social tools and social toys, their range and impact. He's never used Facebook, never Tweeted.
"The conference was great," he told me. Then, leaning forward conspiratorially, he added, "I get it."
But knowing about social media isn't the same as getting social media. If you've never experienced it, you've never been exposed to its joys and pitfalls, never been offended when a friend or follower dumps you, never wondered whether your 140-character status haiku struck gold or a nerve with an important other, never struggled to reveal (or hide) your true character under the avatar, never delicately negotiated the intricate textual landscape of meaning, intent, and tone to reach across the electronic ether and win a new friend for life.
The normative is different in social media. If you use it, you will make mistakes. It will exhilarate you, and it will disappoint you. It will hurt you, and it will also heal you. Social media, in other words, is like sex: if you don't do it, you don't get it.
For years I've thought of a brand as the image of a company in its customer's mind. I still like that definition, but today, thinking about the new corporate communications landscape, it struck me that a brand is more like the ongoing contact between company and customer.
The shift in emphasis from the lasting impression to the act of making the impression has everything to do with social media. Now, these customer-company contacts are made daily in multiple active channels, sometimes simultaneously. Each contact fosters a new impression that's part of the customer's evolving understanding of the company.
The new definition also shifts the focus from permanent identity to a kind of perpetual re-creation of identity. This fits the way we all now communicate about ourselves and our institutions: our image, and its expression, is continually re-created in the public communications landscape, often in short bursts. Each burst contributes to the bigger picture of who we are and how we relate to others.
In other words, the brand isn't an outcome of the chatter; the brand is the chatter, more verb than noun. And it's important that corporations get that chatter right.
It must happen a thousand times a day, all across North America. Someone picks up a copy of The New Yorker, maybe in the hair salon, maybe while waiting to tell their psychotherapist about the latest development in their extramarital affair. She, or he, gets through three quarters of an article before her dye job's ready to be rinsed out, or his analyst's previous client exits discreetly through the side door.
So later, maybe much later, she, or he, goes online to the New Yorker website to try to find the article and finish it. Now, who was that author? Was it Atwan or Menand? And what issue was it in? Maybe the Fiction Issue—which was, maybe, a two-week issue. But which two weeks was it? I think it was in... June?
This happened to me, recently (I was the one at the hair salon). The article was in fact by Menand, and it appeared in the June 8th and 15th Fiction Issue. But I didn't remember all that when I began.
There is an "Archive" section of the New Yorker site, and I started there. But the archive doesn't present a list of issue dates, with articles contained therein. Instead, users are invited to search for contents. But search, of course, requires you to know something of what you're searching. My hair appointment was a week ago. I didn't remember all the particulars, so I had to poke away at it to coax the final answer.
Search is nice, but for my use case, a simple taxonomy of the last hundred or so issues, in reverse chronological order, would have gotten me there sooner.
After the rain, air;
woods heaving out
a deep, resinous breath
of respiration, decay;
palpably damp,
it smells like
rust and tea.
I inhale deeply,
exhaling again into the dappled blackness
of trees and stones and earth;
breathing into the wood’s dark mouth,
tasting.