Where the story goes

Hello and welcome back to another episode of the Designers’ Soup. This month, we are looking at the Explorer archetype. This archetype is known for its audacious curiosity and venturing into the unknown inspired by a sense of wonder. It's this thrill of encountering the unfamiliar that brings vitality to all the adventure stories we love. Sometimes, when we make stories—particularly ones involving a larger scope or team leaving room for more changes—I find myself leaning on my inner Explorer archetype and sensing where the story is moving through the inevitable changes.

Last year, we were invited to help direct the narrative of a Sri Lankan surf documentary. Early on, I decided to document my experience of working on this project. As the filming started, and I joined the film crew, I was faced with the dichotomy of presence versus documentation. I’ve been dancing with this paradox ever since. And I wonder, as someone who is part of building a narrative for the story, how do I become absorbed in the present, feeling out the moment to moment, while also recording it? To strike this balance, I keep a journal; it’s become a tool to reconcile the images and sounds captured from the day’s surf mission with the evocative emotions triggered by the experience. The camera encapsulates reality and the journal distills its essence. 

Some stories can be designed within strict parameters while others need room to evolve. Stories like documentary films are notorious for this need to take form through the changes that affect the team, place, resources and even things completely beyond the story makers’ control—like the weather.

The task of unravelling the essence of a story can be challenging, particularly when it’s ongoing. Since we started working on this film, there have been unpredictable weather changes, last-minute cancellations, and unexpected discoveries along the way; all these have moved us to adjust or make changes to the direction of the story. For these kinds of scenarios, we tend to let the story play out, keep the script open, and use a framework to tie the different pieces under a common thread later as the story gains more form. This approach works not just for documentary films, but also in shaping business stories. For example, in my company Public Works' case, the open script was intentional. We allowed the business an incubation period, enabling an organic evolution of its identity and persona. We knew our business would change as we settled into the market; we chose to wait before defining our story. This approach led to a more authentic representation of who we are and what we’re doing as a business; our narrative didn’t arise out of thin air, but rather from a deep-rooted understanding and real experiences. 

We use story maps as a way to keep track of where stories evolve, particularly when they’re complex or are forming a series. Especially in the case of stories that need wiggle room to evolve, story maps help us keep things on track and aim toward the end goal of the client. But, that’s a whole other story.

Change, like an uncharted path, demands preparedness. Packing for adventure is similar to a business gearing up for changes; you need to have an understanding of the basics you need and pack them; you must stay open and nimble enough to move with the tides. Everyone may not have the readiness, and this is where my work at Public Works usually emerges as a crucial ally to our clients. Most of what we did during COVID, was helping our clients stay in business. All the businesses we worked with, once they had the right tools and the know-how to use them, were able to adapt to the new landscape. As a consultant, I find myself channelling the seasoned guide aspect of the Explorer archetype. 

Coming back to this film, a good part of the work I’m doing on this documentary involves determining what is relevant to the story, where it’s going, and keeping us along that track. With the methods and tools we’ve designed to help our clients tell their business stories, I’ve been able to adapt and embrace the wonder of the unknown in documentary filmmaking. Let’s see where this story goes.

Our storytelling tools are designed to let stories evolve while making sure they stay on track to deliver commercial goals for the client. To find out how we use story maps to keep a story on track, drop us a message.

Why creatives should travel and forget about vacations

Years ago, I went on a vacation to recover from a stressful work period. It was a nice hotel close to a national park, and I had hoped being ‘somewhere nice’ would make me feel better. But in the hotel, I only felt the same urge I felt in the city, only stronger—which was to escape. I remember ditching barbecue plans with friends to go into the jungle, where I finally found what I needed. Walking into the jungle was like entering a sphere of tingling instinct. It was a world of supreme and honest danger. I needed the danger of the jungle because my mind was numb from the normalcy. And I needed a world that raged with life and reminded me of death being possible any minute. And in a way, I did die that evening in the jungle; because I returned as a new person. For the first time in a long time, I had actually travelled. This was probably the beginning of my now firmly-rooted aversion to vacations, and a growing reverence for real travel. 

Just like TV is boring if it just presents a cheap reproduction of life, vacations are dull if they’re just extravagant versions of the everyday. Vacations do little for the creative mind. But travel, on the other hand—that is, real travel into new experiences—challenges you and makes you new, doing wonders to your creative capacity.

When I say vacation, I mean those extravagant renditions of life, where you simply go somewhere else to do what you do every day (eat, drink, chat, scroll aimlessly, pee, poop, stare, scroll some more, sit, sleep); it’s your normal life, except with a giant price tag, obligatory pictures and different scenery. When an experience mimics everyday life, no matter how extravagantly, it’s just an embellished version of the mundane. I think we should question if the point of taking time off is to do the same things at a different location, in more beautiful or interesting surroundings. Doesn't travel have potential to do so much more than just jolt the same neuropaths? 

I find real travel is when you go somewhere that shakes you out of your everyday narrative. This kind of travel makes you a new person. It effortlessly chips away at your old selves that have grown irrelevant and in that process, you adopt new selves that are far more interesting, useful, and most definitely, good for your creativity. 

The best thing about real travel is that it’s way more accessible than a vacation; because it doesn’t necessarily involve resort bills or faraway journeys. Travel is accessible in our own backyard, in the next town, down the back alley, in the woods, on the beach, across the country or just across the neighbourhood—as long as it offers you a different story, there’s potential to travel there. 

Discovering the story of a place is not as easy as picking up a book and reading, or watching a documentary about it. You have to find it. You have to wait for it. You have to feel it in its people, nature, buildings, patterns, sounds, and most importantly, in its silences.

When you travel, you find stories in places. The language of place-stories is layered. Discovering the story of a place is not as easy as picking up a book and reading, or watching a documentary about it. You have to find it. You have to wait for it. To understand its story, you have to see a place unfold as you watch its people wake up and go about making their morning. You have to pick it up through bits and pieces in conversations overheard on the street. You have to catch it in the nostalgia of someone who was born in that place, but had to leave. You have to dig it out of someone who hated it. You have to taste it in a tea shop frequented by its street labourers. You have to feel it seeping in through your pores while sitting alone at dusk, in its oldest quarter. You have to hear it in its silence.

For minds that need to be creative on demand, as professionals, on a regular basis, this kind of travel gives access to the reservoirs of newness that we need. I find real travel experiences help me improvise, think beyond the echo chamber, and most importantly, to be open to stories that are not my own.

“Travel and tell no one, live a true love story and tell no one, live happily and tell no one, people ruin beautiful things.” 

– Kahlil Gibran

I leave you with this quote by Khalil Gibran, whose genius accurately penned the dilemma of today’s wanderlust epidemic about a century ago. I find this quote says everything about how travel should be a treasured experience that feeds our inner reservoirs.

To see how we translate travel experiences into stories, check this set of stories we made for the Colombo retailer Urban Island and these mini-stories on our former hometown Bambalapitiya.

A serious note on being funny

Humor is serious stuff. It exposes hypocrisy, punctures egos, and reduces rigid prejudices into laughable ideas. Humor is cathartic when it brings us to laugh at ourselves; within the safety of a joke, we’re able to address shame, fears, and pain that would otherwise haunt us.

I thought a lot about the relationship between humans and humor when, recently, the local standup comedian Nathasha Edissooriya got arrested for making a joke involving religious characters. In a country where freedom of expression is openly obstructed, media routinely censored, activists harassed, and journalists imprisoned, Nathasha’s arrest shouldn’t have surprised anyone. But, the incident dominated the public psyche for weeks, and freedom of expression became a topic fiercely debated all over local media and social circles. Why, though? Why did arresting a comedian trigger so much shock? Why does harming a humorist almost always create shockwaves?

I find humans reserve a sacred space for humor—whether consciously or not. People holding humor in a sacred sense can be seen in cultural and historical contexts from rituals, comedic or trickster deities, sacred texts, and taboos, to healing practices. The jester could get away for joking about uncomfortable truths to the king or queen where others would get executed for it. We laugh at comedians' banter about race, sex, religion, and politics—the very same topics that get family and friends at each other's throats within minutes. Even in Nathasha’s case, I think what shocked most of us was that it publicly penalized the comedic act that society had long maintained as relatively free of judgment.

Humor builds relatability into stories. In our experience, humor brings more engagement to stories and makes them more shareable. The feel-good happiness of humor is naturally contagious, and we find people tend to mimic this practice even online, with stories carrying humorous aspects being the most widely consumed and shared.

When it comes to commercial storytelling, we carefully weigh out a brand’s identity before we consider a humorous story. Humor is certainly a significant part of identity. Inside jokes in close-knit groups and senses of humor that are very specific to cultures and communities show just how intrinsic humor is to identity. But, it’s not for everyone.

I recently saw a think tank highly respected for being insightful, accurate and informative publishing a series of off-brand Tik-Toks and Reels. The stories were obviously tagging onto a trend of funny dancing. But, it was damaging to the brand. I watched their user interaction long enough to notice that this reduced engagement. As part of their audience, I was well aware that the great quality of the think tank’s insights and information hasn’t changed in any way; but, I found myself trusting them a little less. It was an emotional response in spite of my better judgment to not gauge an entity only by their social media presence. I see this happen to brands that simply appropriate humor without interpreting their message to naturally bring out humor from it. If that think tank used wit in a way that highlighted their intellect, for example, it would’ve been perfectly on-brand while still being funny.

A client brand with a fun sense of humor is ApiHappi—the Sri Lankan bean bag makers. When we do commissioned stories for them, I work closely with their founders to bring in the brand’s characteristic sense of humor between sass and sarcasm (I have to mention that being good friends with them lends an unfair advantage here). But, channeling the Humorist isn’t just about being funny; two other Humorist brands we worked with reflect this archetype very differently, through their inherent sense of joy: Arlene Dubo Studio—a Canada-based artist whose vivid works and approach to life both reflect a joyful sense of play and Shanti Faiia—yogi, meditation guru and healer from the UK, whose work involves cultivating happiness and lightness.

At the heart of humour, no matter how dark or sardonic, is a glow of joy. Humour discards the hopelessness of life with a joyful outlook. This sense of joy at the root of humour is infectious. It's also essential. We need humour to survive this absurd world. To find out if humor is a strong part of your brand identity through a Humorist archetype, or a viewpoint adopted when appropriate as hāsyam rasa, drop us a message. Our storytelling tools are designed to help people tell stories that strengthen their brands. Curious about how our Brand Articulation Framework can help your personal or business brand? You can read more about it here.

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