Branding

To brand, in the mid seventeenth century meant to take a hot iron and burn a mark on either an animal or a slave in order to permanently mark them as belonging to you. Brand is an old English word with Germanic origin.

The meaning of the word has evolved somewhat since then, and today can mean anything from advertising yourself, your company, and your product, to stigmatizing someone by branding him or her with a reputation.

This word is almost nauseatingly bandied about in the media, advertising, and social media, despite the fact that it has been around for a long time. So how do we make sure we do not lose out and keep up with the branding trend?

Why branding is important

 Do not confuse branding with marketing, although they are very similar. It is the process of creating a unique identity with the use of name/s, word/s, tag lines, images, colour, logos, persona, experience, expertise, in order to align with the product, around which your marketing strategy will develop.

The customer needs to be re-assured that when x-brand of a product is selected, quality, speed, price, service, experience or whatever it is, they seek in the product can be assured. That is how you build your brand, and your business around it.

Personal branding

Some years ago, I was a very successful Estate Agent for a medium-sized company. They were not that well known, particularly in the area I lived in. It was the company’s policy that as an Estate Agent bearing their logo, you had to work in the area that you lived in. I have never, and still do not think of myself as a sales person, therefore success came as a bit of a shock. At the time, being a young mom with a son of 8years old, and having settled as a family in Cape Town, I soon ran out of home repairs and maintenance to do at home, and thought being an Estate Agent would allow more flexibility and ensure my son would always have at least one parent around. We had just moved from Johannesburg, and had no support system in place, although we had started making friends in the neighbourhood.

A friend of mine suggested we try it out and even partner each other as that would also be back-up for our children should it be needed. We drew straws to decide who would be first to attend the course.  It was just over a week of head-pounding headaches and a lot of self-doubt but through perseverance and determination, the course was completed.  Surprisingly after writing the Estate Agents Board Exams a few weeks later, I found out I had achieved the second-highest mark ever.

In hindsight, it is no surprise at all. I can only operate that way. This is personal branding. I still feel I am not a salesperson, but if I believe in a product or brand enough, I will ensure that I know everything I need to know so as not to be caught off-guard for an answer. That combined with thorough research ensured readily available answers, which allowed business to be conducted in a confident manner. As was common practice then, I used my own resources, i.e. car, telephone, office space, clothing etc., and therefore ensured my car was always spotless and my dress code professional when seeing clients. Most estate agents at the time worked primarily from a home base, and all too often they had been seen rushing out to meet a client dressed in a tracksuit or their gardening clothes, because they had not had the time to change clothing. I made sure not to be one of them. Although many clients became friends, it was still business first, and on that level they got the best.

One of my major downfalls in sales is that because I strive for ethical excellence, it is easy to point out faults or the negative side to a product, in this case houses. I had only just finished my training and was a new candidate estate agent, working under the guidance of a senior member in our area, when a week later Maureen called and said she couldn’t see one of her clients, would I mind picking him up and showing him around. She mentioned that she had taken him to quite a few properties in the past year and that she did not really think he was a serious buyer, which is probably the reason she fobbed him off.

I had just been around with her the day before looking at the current stock on the market, should I be in a position to show someone around, and the very last property we had looked at, we could not gain access to, but from the outside, it appealed to me.

When picking the buyer up the next day, and doing the usual comparative showings for his price range, we reached this property last. It was slightly above what he wanted to spend. It was everything one could have imagined it to be once we were inside, and a cut above what we had seen. This really impressed him, we went back to the car, and by the time we reached the dropping off point, he wanted to put an offer in immediately. No problem, he signed the contract, and once he had left, and made an appointment to see the client later that evening.

It was drilled into us, as candidate agents, we were expected to make contractual mistakes and possibly negotiating mistakes as well, and therefore had to call upon a senior member to accompany us with any new offers. That evening Maureen was not available, and neither was the branch manager, but feeling quite capable I set off to see the client alone. It necessitated spending the entire evening going backwards and forwards negotiating the contract. Having concluded the sale at about 1am, I presented it at the office at 8am the next day.

Suddenly I was the person presented at sales meetings in the office, and regionally as a fine example of how agents should conduct themselves. The senior agents from other companies very quickly warmed to me, which was a big change to the very cold and condescending welcome previously received. It did not take long to gain market share in the area, for the company represented, while become one of their best agents.

Today I recognize it as branding.

Just over fifty years ago…

Just over fifty years ago, in a Cape winter storm similar to the one that arrived last night, the SS Seafarer, a passenger ship, ran aground near to the Green Point lighthouse, on the rocks of Mouille Point beach. Mouille Point was a row of houses then, not the row of towering apartment buildings it is today. Marshall, my husband, lived in one those little cottages with his sister and parents. He was nearly five years old at the time, but remembers it vividly. His passion for the sea was deeply rooted even at that young age. His father had helped him build his first model ship the previous year and they were building a real, sea going boat together at the time. Weekends were fun, but he had to wait for his dad to wake up and struggled to contain himself at times. Imagine the surprise he got when he opened the curtains early that Saturday morning to find a big ship right on his doorstep. His dad has since passed on, and Marshall went on to little sailing boats, to bigger and bigger ones until eventually he was sailing his own ships. It was a wonderful day for Marshall, his dad, uncle, and a couple of their mates, as multiple bottles of whisky washed up on shore, while the helicopters buzzed above rescuing all passengers in very dangerous conditions. The family moved to Durban, Johannesburg, and then back to Cape Town, with his mom spending her retirement years in Sea Point Place, right on the corner where Sea Point and Mouille Point are joined by Beach Road. Her somewhat frail condition necessitates me going to see her every few days lately, and knowing the storm was coming, I’m glad I insisted on going through yesterday instead of today. She has just called to tell me her apartment, which is on the fifth floor of the building, sea facing, has been flooded. My first thought was ‘oh dear, I hope she isn’t forgetting taps on now’, but apparently not. I know when I left her yesterday that all windows were closed, in fact they are never opened, and that all was in order. She tells me the waves were ten to twelve ft high last night, entirely flooding the intersection and even crashing on the green grass of home. A part of her bed, and all bedding was wet, as well as a large part of the fitted carpet, where I believe water came through the windows. On the opposite end of the room, at the front facing window, her intercom was also water damaged enough to render it useless today, and her kitchen, which only has one window, was ankle deep in water. She tells me that even people on the eighth floor have been affected, although apparently that is from the roof above them leaking. This is so bizarre, but also the Cape that I love so much.

Bus Shelter

STORMY NIGHT AT CAPE TOWN BUS TERMINUS

The approaching mother-of-all-storms was the talk of the day in the mile long queue at the urine soaked, beggars paradise of Cape Town Bus Terminus, at 6.30 this evening. Today was challenging and I looked forward to getting home. Looking around at the homeless and street dwellers trying to make a quick buck before night falls, and pondering about how they will cope tonight, is when I noticed several council vehicles doing the rounds offering the homeless shelter from the storm. Well, I respect that. Well done Cape Town City Council and I’m glad to know that not all Council employees are heartless bastards. Keep on caring.

Have you ever been ghosted?

Has anyone ever ghosted you? It was hard not to wallow in self-pity when it happened in promising romantic relationships years ago, but maybe being a sucker for love was to blame. Much as I have done recently when it appears that two people I met (one in person and another I have known for a while on social media, one male the other female) who seemed so keen on building new friendships, and wham! It appears I have been ghosted. It did raise questions about social skills, but only long enough to realise it is not personal. I do not understand and I do not need to either.

I did however ghost Zak, a very best friend, many years ago. He was my boss for a few years, but we really clicked and became sort of besties. Being married at the time, it could only ever be a platonic relationship, but it was deeply meaningful. We shared many secrets, dreams, hopes and we had fun together. I was surprised that it hurt a little when he told of a girl he had fallen in love with and was marrying in a few months, but brushed it aside. We remained besties. This happened after knowing each other for about four years, all the while still working together. When my marriage deteriorated rapidly, and a divorce was on the cards, he supported and cheered through the rough days. While it was never a great marriage, I did not anticipate it quite falling apart as it did. About six months before moving out, and having changed jobs as well, it was over regular after work drinks that Zak shared the sad news that his wife had only stayed for two months before leaving him, and besides being mortified, we talked and talked and just could not work out why or what had happened. Zak then ploughed his resources and energies into building a massive pool in his lovely garden. December in Johannesburg is a hellish time because of the repressive heat, and air-conditioned cars were not the norm then. My sister-in-law and I were gulping but pretending to sip cold beers one summer’s night after work, when Zak called and suggested driving over for a swim and a few cold ones. We did this often after work anyway, but he wanted to show off his new pool. I did not think to pack the usual bikini, and Zak did not mind at all that I stripped and jumped in. We drank and swam, and laughed and drank. Much later when the munchies set in, we decided to go to a local restaurant for a meal. Being drunk, I struggled to hold my head up, let alone hold a conversation. We ate, and being inebriated, he suggested staying over for the night, space was not an issue, he had a big home, nicely decorated, and well equipped. We tried to play some sort of musical trivial pursuit when we got back, but that did not work too well. Zak suggested the use his shower, which made sense although I cannot recall why, and laden with many white fluffy towels and his dressing gown to sleep in, I indulged myself. Walking into his arms afterwards seemed like the most natural thing to do.

One can tell a lot from a kiss, I learnt that night, because the sex that followed was the most awful ever. I was hardly sober the next morning but thanked him for his hospitality, promising to be in touch later that day.

I never spoke to him again. For some reason, probably immaturity and a strong desire to avoid conflict, I could not tell him that it would never work. I had loved him dearly as a friend, and friendship would never have been possible again. After avoiding him for a few days, then weeks, then months, it eventually became forever. We talked so easily of all our woes, some deeply personal stuff, and I could tell him anything, just not that. More than twenty summers have passed since then, and I will never know what impact me ghosting him had on him. I ruined a beautiful friendship, and I am sorry I did.

Posted Jan 07, 2017 2:15pm on my Facebook page (as jaims art)

Should we kill the rat?

Summer in Cape Town can be both exceptionally beautiful, almost paradise-like, or it can be irritatingly windy alternating with irritatingly hot and sweaty. The paradise days are few, but when they do appear, those irritating days fade into a distant memory, even if it was only yesterday.

The grape vines in the courtyard have been here for seemingly centuries, if one is to judge by the size of their trunks. The grapes are hanging in big fat droves, waiting to ripen fully in about a month or two. While we were idly reminiscing about the day, enjoying the blissfully still, perfect day, a housemate noticed a rat crawling amongst the grapes that fall onto the roof. We quickly re-assembled ourselves inside, and once our nerves had settled, called the exterminators. He arrived, did his dastardly deed by putting the rat boxes in strategic places and left, having given us instructions as to what to do next. So now, we wait. Wait for the rat or rats, should there be more than one of them, to come down at some time, munch on the poison, and die.

If you have ever seen a rat die from poison, you will know that it is not a pleasant site. In fact, it is revolting and seemingly very cruel. I had the misfortune of seeing one die like this, about 15 years ago when I owned a house in another suburb. It was horrible, and the memory of it every time I hear of someone having a rat problem, is vivid.

There was a huge bougainvillea plant in the back garden. Being an avid gardener, Saturdays were spent trimming, pruning, picking, weeding, and various other chores in the garden. This Saturday was no different, and the bougainvillea was scheduled for a major pruning. While standing back and planning where to cut, when suddenly these two smallish rats (they could not have been mice) ran up the trunk. It was startling, but considering the huge spiders and other bugs sometimes encountered while gardening, I thought nothing of it. In fact, I naively decided that they must have been living in the neighbour’s garden. Well by the following Saturday, there was no doubt they were multiplying rapidly. Nine rats ran up the trunk. That was the deciding point. There was absolutely no way I wanted them in the house, so it was time to take a decision. After consulting with various dispensers of rat poison, i.e. the chemist and hardware store man, who assured me that it was the best and most effective way to deal with the problem.  Rat poison was then laid down in strategic spots. At the time, I did not think to cover it to make it hard to reach for other creatures, so unfortunately lost a few garden birds in the process. About a week later, I stood on the same spot and waited to see if any rats were still alive. They seemed to have disappeared, which was a satisfying feeling. Even better, I had not noticed any dead ones around, or any dead rat smells lingering. About to turn away, a rat crawled out from under the beams in the garden. I could see he was half-dead, and wish I had looked away, but he slowly crawled towards me and then died, blood spurting out of all orifices. It was a terrible feeling. As if, I was and am the worst serial killer on this planet. Of course, I knew the rats are unable to regurgitate, therefore rendering any poison ingested quite effective. It just did come to mind at the time. Most over the counter rat poisons contain warfarin, a common blood thinner which taken in the correct doses, is very effective in preventing blood clotting in humans. In rats, in high quantities, they just bleed to death. I still have doubts whether it is a humane manner to deal with them.

What is the most effective way of dealing with this problem though? What happens if one doesn’t ‘get rid’ of them? Is there such a thing as a rat catcher, who comes and relocates them? Is there another, kinder method of merely discouraging them? I do not know the answers, but would be interested to know how you have dealt with it.

 

 

Be an INSPIRATION to another – be PASSIONATE about it.

At the outset, that may sound a little corny, but give me a chance to explain a little.  We are not born with the kind of fiery passion that sets some of us apart from the rest, it is something we learn and make a conscious choice about in life.

In the current socio economic climate, not withstanding the political environment, which does not seem to be better or worse anywhere in the world, it all creates pressure on us as people. As mothers, as fathers, as leaders, as children, as followers, as survivors we all bear the burden of a crumbling society severely lacking in morals, in leadership, or perhaps as people we just struggle to remain positive in a seemingly endless negative environment. The higher we climb, the bigger the pressure, not only from a responsibility point of view, but also in our social standing.  No one likes to be the one who tried and failed. The one who rose to fame and fortune and then crumbled because they could not keep up with the workload, the pressure, the mask, or whatever it is that breaks them in the end.

Who are the people who succeed then, and how do we measure success?  Who is counting anyway?

I am primarily an artist, the medium being mostly oil on canvas paintings.  I also write, and edit, and review and interview.  Although it has been a lifelong dream to do this for a living, it was not until a few years ago that an opportunity to follow my real passions in life opened up.    It is not everyone’s ideal vocation in life, and although at times it may seem as if my head is in the clouds all the time, or most of the time anyway, it is not.  Being creative all the time is hard work sometimes.  After all those years of being silent, the creative self finally has an outlet.   Observing human behaviour became a favourite pastime. Ordinary people were usually the most inspirational. The people who accepted their limitations but performed their duties with passion and pride were the most inspirational. They create reasons to be happy, they seek joy, and are a real inspiration to meet, or observe.

Starting out as an artist, I painted mostly landscapes and scenery.  It was probably because of insecurity and fear of failure, having never had an art lesson in life.  Before long, passion for art and people merged and it remains the most inspirational topic.  I have painted people in just about all forms, from ordinary, to portraits, to an erotic series I have just completed and hope to exhibit soon.  I am currently painting a series of ordinary people on the streets who inspire me, the vendors, the homeless, the healers, the passersby.  Besides the joy of being passionate about the job at hand, I have also made some wonderful new friends. Without the lows, one never knows the highs of life either. So embrace them.

Jenny Calder

September 2016

Media-Cat and Stroller

Sometimes I paint my words and my thoughts, and sometimes paintings become stories.  It is never planned, and I do not know whether this happens to anyone else either.  Accepting that is the way it is makes it easier.

With this painting however, the story and painting came together, and this is what they told me.

Media Cat and Stroller 

At the back left of the picture is Media-Cat who is scanning for new prerogatives in a cat sense. Media-cat could also possibly be scanning for a crowd, bombs, or alternative lifestyle options. Perhaps she is scanning for any intelligent life form at all.  Stroller is hardcore techno outcast. Gives no fucks. Natural fluorescent lime green hair and of course no one believes that.  No fucks given.  She makes her own gear, including the swingers attached to her head and ski sticks that she insists actually roller-wheel-go-fast-sticks.  She believes in staying connected in every possible way, well….to the galaxies far out and nature first and foremost.  In their natural vegetable garden, on the left of the picture, are the following: tomatoes, prunes, banana trees and sliced cucumbers.  On the antennae that sprout off the back of her roller-wheel-go-fasters she keeps her cherry blossom trees.  Her data connection and charger are visible on the front of her right  roller-wheel-go-faster, with her secure connection to the CIA tea-and-bake-ladies-group on the other.  Many secrets to keep there.

It was inevitable that she would pair up with media-cat and the bee-scoop-truck at some time in her life, and is the only worthwhile friend she has ever had.  She does give fucks about this.  Media-cat and the bee-scoop-truck scan the streets of suburbia daily, in order to fulfill their combined priorities.  Of course, they are incognito. They break at 4pm daily and gather under the lime-tree-with-big-fat-white-Mopani-worms, where through a determined and hardworking team (all seventy-five of them if you include the two dead Mopani worms lying in coffins waiting for a rainy-day-funeral).  They gulp pina colados as they edit, prioritise, re-edit, scrap, repeat, until they toss it all in the air because after all, they give-no-fucks.