Bend, Not Break

by Ping Fu

  Steadying myself against the conference room table, I apologized and asked the group for a quick break so I could consult with our technical people. I ran outside with my cell phone and called an engineer back home in Illinois.

  “Dmitry!” I exclaimed with relief when he picked up his office phone. “I need your help.” I explained what had happened just moments before.

  Dmitry answered with an almost cheerful voice. “Oh, Ping. That’s kind of evil. Of course you failed! We developed the software for dense point clouds representing complex shapes. With scan data, an object is covered entirely with data points. That guy knew the software would fail if he gave you a wire frame with only a few corner points. Just the outline of the cube and cylinder isn’t enough data; the software is not designed to handle this.

  “Think of a printed picture of a person’s face,” Dmitry continued. “The colored pixels have to completely cover the paper. If they don’t—if you have only a few pixels—then you won’t be able to make out the image of the person’s face at all.”

  “Thank you, Dmitry,” I said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  I understood immediately what was going on. I was married to a mathematician, after all. This is what mathematicians do: they are trained to falsify assumptions. A good mathematician often focuses on finding the one case that fails rather than all cases that work. The silver-haired Boeing man wasn’t being mean; it was just the way his mind worked.

  I walked back into the conference room feeling more comfortable and confident. I said to the man who had given me the cube and cylinder test, “You’re so sharp that you could identify right away the case in which our software wouldn’t work. Only a mathematician would do that.”

  “You’re right. You are in the Boeing Math group, after all,” the man said, handing me a coffee mug with their logo on it. He laughed loudly, without a hint of derision, and I joined in along with the others. By the time I was ready to leave, they had come up with a dozen ideas for how our software could be useful at Boeing. They also offered suggestions for how we could improve the software so that it could handle special cases.

  After those visits, both Boeing and Mattel placed purchase orders for Geomagic software prior to its official release. They were invaluable in helping us understand market needs.

  The experience taught me the importance of working with customers who will use the new technology. I realized that we are not, nor should we be, the smartest people in the room. Customers appreciate creativity, authenticity, and honesty. They buy from us not because we impress them but because we have something of value to offer and we are willing to listen to their feedback to improve our products continuously. It is far more important to be interested in the customers’ needs than to be interesting.

  —

  Our software was first put to use for 3D scanning and manufacturing of Winnie the Pooh and Barbie, and the door of a United commercial jet that just happened to be of the same vintage as the one that had first brought me to America. In the process of working with Boeing, I learned that, on an airplane, even mass-produced items are not identical. As soon as planes fly, variations begin to emerge, as each aircraft is subjected to different stresses and environmental forces. Over time, each develops, in essence, a form or “personality” of its own. Geomagic software could scan the entire aircraft body in order to create a digital replica of it. The replica was used to replace damaged parts, such as doors. Thanks to Geomagic technology, the replacement parts would fit the timeworn aircraft’s body precisely, keeping the plane flying—which was the only way the airlines could make money off it. The speed Geomagic software provided was critical to making airplane maintenance and repair more cost-effective.

  Mattel had launched a “Build Your Own Barbie” Web site. Xixi was five years old and spent hours creating her very own doll: selecting face shape, eye color, hair color, clothes, shoes, and accessories. Once she had finished, she clicked the big pink button that read “PRINT.” Our home printer hammered away, cheerfully spitting out a colorful picture of Xixi’s Barbie just moments later.

  “Oh, no!” Xixi cried. “I want my Barbie doll, not a picture of her.”

  “Xixi,” I said, “this is why Mommy is working so hard. We are creating technology so that you can print your actual Barbie doll, not just a picture.”

  Mattel sent me many toys during our initial collaboration, some of which had yet to be officially released, others of which were test concepts that never made it to market. I became very popular with Xixi’s friends. They came to know me as “the mom who makes and gives away cool toys.”

  —

  I have heard some people say that they want to start a company because they don’t want to work for anyone else. This is one of the myths of entrepreneurship. The truth is, an entrepreneur works for everyone but himself or herself.

  When I was an employee at Bell Labs, I worked for myself: I strove for knowledge, career development, and personal fulfillment, and was pleased when a paycheck showed up in return. But when I started running Geomagic, I found myself working for many others: employees, investors, and customers. It reminded me of motherhood; both are serious, long-term commitments. People often say that a woman fully matures when she becomes a mother, and I believe there is some truth to that statement. The first time I heard my baby crying in the night, I woke up and realized that, from now on, I would always put this little creature’s well-being before my own. Being an entrepreneur pushed me even further in terms of what I thought I could do and how much I could care.

  In many ways, I stumbled into becoming founder and CEO of Geomagic as I had stumbled into becoming a mother to Hong at age eight. In both instances, I had very little preparation for the role I’d been given. And in both situations, I felt heavy with the weight of my responsibility for those who now depended on me. Having to make payroll for Geomagic employees and cover any and all expenses every month, I developed a fresh perspective on accountability.

  The upside was that I was making personal progress by leaps and bounds, gaining confidence with every milestone Geomagic achieved. During the Cultural Revolution, it was beaten into my brain that I was a nobody who didn’t even deserve to be loved. Now a wife and mother at the helm of her own company, I finally felt as though I were somebody. Even more important, I came to see that everybody is somebody. But no one will hand this belief to us; it must come from within our own hearts.

  { SIX }

  Who Can Say What Is Good or Bad?

  GOOD PEOPLE CAN MAKE BAD CHOICES: 2000–2001

  I FELT OUT of place as soon as I entered the air-conditioned splendor of the Phoenician hotel lobby in Scottsdale, Arizona—an expanse of glass and waterfalls that overlooked a shimmering emerald golf course. It was January 2000, and I had never been a guest at a five-star hotel before. It would have been easier for me to stay with Hong and her husband, who happened to live nearby, but my colleagues had advised me to stay here. I was attending a prestigious technology conference put on by Morgan Stanley, which had done over $100 billion in deals with some of the biggest names in the high-tech industry in the past year alone. This was my chance to “rub shoulders” with CEOs I had only read about in magazines, one of my investors had counseled when he’d secured me an invite.

  In the spring of 1999, after establishing Boeing and Mattel as launch partners, Geomagic had raised $6.5 million in venture capital funding from Franklin Street Partners’ Paul Rizzo, the legendary CFO and vice chairman of IBM. At that time, we already had an additional private placement of $1 million from a friends-and-families round in 1997, the year Herbert and I had founded the company. My primary objectives were to craft the vision of Geomagic, set it up with the right culture, and put the company on the road to explosive growth with adequate capital in place.

  When I checked into the hotel, a bellman took all my bags, even my laptop, because I didn’t know that I was allowed to keep any. I then found my
way to the conference reception desk. The woman working there handed me a preprinted name tag that read: “Mr. Ping Fu.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, clearing my throat. “My badge should read ‘Ms.’”

  “Only the CEO of Geomagic is registered for the conference,” she replied politely, glancing up from her paperwork. “Spouses are not invited to the meeting, though you are welcome for the social hour, of course.”

  “I am the CEO,” I corrected her. “I am Ms. Ping Fu.”

  As soon as she had processed my remark, the receptionist flushed a deep magenta hue. She stood up from her chair, apologized profusely, and disappeared behind a nearby curtain. A few minutes later, she reappeared with a freshly minted and accurate name tag in hand.

  I understood her confusion better the moment I walked into the hall where the opening reception was being held. Arrayed before me was a tapestry of a thousand men, all dressed in black: hip young entrepreneurs in Steve Jobs–style black turtlenecks and ponytails; tall men with blue eyes and desert sunburns who moved about with the ease of athletes in their black slacks and collared shirts; gray-haired men in black sports jackets who called one another by their first names, as if they were lifelong friends. Everyone seemed to know exactly who mattered and why—except for me. The sound of ice tinkling in glasses and cards being drawn out of wallets overwhelmed me. Voices overlapped, knowing just when to break into one another’s sentences and when to laugh.

  My breathing grew shallow and my mind froze. I felt small, shy, insignificant, and irrelevant. I wasn’t big enough to “rub shoulders” with anyone—literally or metaphorically speaking. For many long moments, I stood against a wall, utterly invisible to the men who networked their way around me. One fellow across the room seemed equally out of sorts, hands tucked nervously into his suit pockets. We made eye contact, but neither of us summoned the courage to approach the other.

  Eventually, two men talked to me. The first stood out from the crowd because he looked like a teenager and wore a red tie with his black shirt. I was forty-one, old enough to be his mother. He fumbled awkwardly as he reached out to shake my hand while attempting to balance his wineglass on a plate filled with cheese.

  “Are you Chinese?” he asked after we had exchanged names. The question was far more complicated than he realized.

  “I’m an American citizen,” I answered. He lost interest and moved on.

  The second man was a waiter carrying a tray decked with wineglasses. “White or red, madame?” he asked.

  Wine gave me migraines, so I declined, asking for a glass of water instead. When I overheard a group of guys talking about “tee times” a short while later, I went in search of tea that I never did find, only coffee. I didn’t even drink the same beverages as these men.

  My orphaned upbringing at NUAA had taught me to be comfortable with silence and feeling like an outsider, but this was different. An alarming loneliness rose up inside me, a pang as sharp as when I was a lost little girl who had just arrived in Nanjing. You don’t even know how to “break the ice,” a nasty voice in my head whispered. How do you expect to run a company?

  The next day, we were invited to pitch our ideas before an audience of fellow entrepreneurs and venture capitalists. The high-tech industry and the country as a whole were still on a dot-com high—the bubble wouldn’t burst until a few months later. I believed strongly in my vision for Geomagic, but it was nothing like Netscape’s or that of the other Internet start-ups at the conference. We were developing software for manufacturing companies, which people here tended to dismiss as the “old economy.”

  Nevertheless, I spoke passionately and confidently—at least the public confessions of my youth had taught me to conquer stage fright. I painted the audience a picture of hand-designed products coming down factory assembly lines, each one unique, each one a perfect fit for a specific person.

  “Someday, thanks to Geomagic technology, a patient will go into open-heart surgery knowing that he will receive a heart valve shaped exactly like his own, not one that has been manufactured on a mass scale and has to be ordered in sizes. Someday, we will help make products that don’t wind up crossing the globe only to get buried in landfills,” I said. “With Geomagic technology, companies can focus on making products that people want, not junk that none of us need.”

  I received a warm response from the crowd, which fueled my confidence in Geomagic. Yet, oddly, I felt more uncertain than ever about my ability to lead. The mechanics of running a fast-growing company seemed daunting, given my limited entrepreneurial experience, and there is really no class you can take on how to become a CEO. Furthermore, I was a newcomer to the business world and an immigrant—I didn’t know how to fit in. These insecurities were only reinforced when I walked into the closing cocktail gathering that evening: I had chosen an elegant, long black dress, while everyone else wore jeans.

  Clearly, I was the wrong person to run a company. I needed a tall, smart, charming white guy to take charge of Geomagic. Leaving the conference with that realization early the next day, I felt proud for recognizing my own limitations. I would not let my ego get in the way of building a great company that created value for the world.

  —

  Jon Field was charismatic, incredibly intelligent, and came highly recommended by Peter Fuss, an independent board member whom I respected a great deal. Jon had degrees in math, philosophy, and business. He had held an executive position at IBM, where he had managed business divisions with revenues exceeding $600 million. Recently, he had successfully sold a start-up company.

  Impressed with his qualifications and personality, the board and I hired Jon to serve as president and CEO of Geomagic in the spring of 2000. With a sigh of relief, I stepped down to assume the role of chief technology officer while still serving as chairman of the board. I felt confident that my plan of combining a capable executive with significant venture capital funding and innovative technology was a sure bet. Geomagic was on its way to becoming the next big thing.

  Within months, with Jon Field at the helm, Geomagic had an office in the Research Triangle Park (RTP) in North Carolina. All of our Illinois people except the receptionist, twelve in total, had come with us. We moved the company from Champaign to RTP because it was a business-friendly place for a start-up for several reasons. Here, we had better access to a highly educated population, thanks to the three universities located nearby. The area was consistently rated one of the best places to live in the United States—hence recruiting talent from other states was easier. Investors and capital were more readily available. Finally, neither rent nor employment costs were nearly as high as they were in red-hot Silicon Valley.

  On a personal level, the move made sense for my family. Herbert had landed an art and science chair at Duke University, which made him happy. While I preferred to live in a big city, Herbert preferred small towns, so this area presented a good compromise. Anyway, after living in rural Champaign, Raleigh-Durham felt like a city in comparison. Xixi enrolled in Carolina Friends School, which fostered curiosity and an intimate community. She loved it. We bought a house on a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by pine trees in Chapel Hill.

  I was ready for the next chapter of Geomagic’s story to unfold in a new city, with a new CEO. I experienced a sense of relief, feeling as though I could relax just a little for the first time in years.

  —

  I read somewhere that men learn from studying theories, whereas women learn by observing others. Whatever the truth of that assertion, I took full advantage during the next year to watch Jon Field in action. I had run a low-key operation in Illinois with one salesperson. Jon set up sales incentives and brought in teams of confident salespeople with impressive track records. Colorful charts appeared on our office walls listing the Fortune 500 companies that were reviewing our technology. Within a year, our office was filled with spanking-new equipment and over fifty employees. With all the laughter
and chatter, the air felt hotter and the sound levels several decibels higher.

  I was filled with hope that Geomagic would grow fast. This hope was backed up not by data but by blind trust. Many years later, Bo Burlingham articulated the different ways of running a company in his book Small Giants. In it he talks about “command and control” versus “trust and track,” and encourages the leaders of small businesses to practice the latter. I realized that back when I’d handed over the reins of Geomagic to Jon Field, I had practiced trust without the track.

  My naïveté in hiring and knowing what it takes to run a start-up business almost killed the company. While Jon indeed had a top-notch education and a solid track record in terms of building a network division at IBM and the sale of a successful start-up, he had almost no prior experience growing a start-up—one that had no brand awareness and no steady revenue stream. We both soon discovered that his job at Geomagic demanded a skill set far different from the ones he had developed in his career so far.

  Six months after Jon had assumed leadership of Geomagic, we had few paying customers and a dozen highly paid, heavily traveled direct salespeople. We were rapidly depleting our cash with no revenues and no visible sales pipeline. Didn’t that matter? I asked in my role as chairman of the board.

  The truth of the matter was we were all caught up in the dot-com bubble mentality; traditional business acumen was being challenged. Jack Welch, the famed CEO of GE, was poking fun at it by raving about “DestroyYourself.com.” The new economy was all about market share, so Geomagic’s executives focused on building value by creating market awareness. Our CFO assured me that I needn’t be alarmed; this is exactly what our investors wanted us to do.

  I nodded in agreement, but a skeptical voice had awakened inside my head, and it wasn’t totally appeased by these responses. I began to worry that perhaps Geomagic had taken a wrong turn. Still, I wanted to be conscientious in supporting the CEO and the team we had hired. So I kept silent.