by Hap Klopp
Every Decision Is a Statement
After I didn’t get hired by General Mills, General Electric, and General Motors, I went to work as general manager of a company in Berkeley called The Ski Hut. It was my first adult job—post-MBA, pre-The North Face.
The Ski Hut was involved in something I liked—hiking and backpacking—and it was an opportunity to grow in a job that would challenge me. Not only that, the owner told me if I turned his business around, I could buy it. So in I came, Johnny-with-an-MBA, all set to turn around The Ski Hut.
Everybody eyed me suspiciously. There were about 25 employees, and the first assumption was that I would fire them all and replace them with my own people. I could sense the tension, and I was the focus of it. I could feel every movement of mine getting scrutinized. I could almost see the muscles in everyone’s neck tighten whenever I walked into a room.
Because I had an MBA, everybody thought The Ski Hut would soon become a suit-and-tie establishment with management by manipulation. Fear was apparently a driving force in this company. Most people seemed guided by their personal motivations, with no company orientation whatsoever. They were just scared, and I, as the new boss, was just another unknown to fear.
It was not a good situation, and neither were the financials. I had been hired to turn the company around. A cursory look at the numbers revealed two things: the results were abysmal, yet it was impossible to find the cause. The numbers didn’t tell the story.
It seemed, from an MBA, theoretical standpoint, that it would make sense to delve into the financial status of the company a lot further before jumping into the maelstrom of human emotions that created those depressing numbers.
But I knew business was about more than numbers. And I knew how important my actions were, especially at the beginning.
The first week was the typical awkward period. An opening night is always difficult. We put our little feelers out, trying to get to know each other. I walked around introducing myself, trying to put people at ease. I looked them in the eye. I smiled and I meant it. I asked questions, and I took an interest in the opinions of the employees.
Contrary to popular opinion, I had no intention of firing anyone, I explained. I wanted to find out how the company worked—who did what, when, and how. I also explained that my goal was to make The Ski Hut successful—not just for the owner’s benefit, but for everyone’s. I wanted to learn about the people who were now my employees. I wanted to know more than just how they did their job. It was important that I showed I cared, because I genuinely did. What I learned through this process was that 24 of the 25 employees were great and well suited to their jobs. One, however, had to be fired.
He was the warehouse manager and a nice person, but not particularly into his job. He had an idiosyncrasy that kept him from doing some of the work. He was a believer in Meher Baba, the religious leader. I am an open person—believe what you want, I thought. But then I learned a bit more about this religion. Apparently Meher Baba doesn’t speak. And so on Meher Baba’s birthday, all his followers won’t speak either.
Wouldn’t you know it, on my first week on the job it was Meher Baba’s birthday and we had a number of shipments scheduled to go out. A major part of a warehouse manager’s job required verbal communication. Silence doesn’t cut it on the day of a shipment—it requires constant interaction. When I pointed this out to the warehouse manager, he stood looking at me like I was some money-grubbing blasphemer. He refused to work. Of course, he didn’t tell me this. He wrote a note.
I really had no problem with his religion. It’s just that some people have the wrong jobs, and our warehouse manager was one of them. You can be what you want to be—a Meher Baba believer, if you want. But first you have to do your job. The key is to have a job that fits your beliefs. The demands of the job of a warehouse manager obviously didn’t fit this person. His life was out of tune.
My action, I knew, would cause a stir. That was the idea. Everything I did that first week was magnified. Everything I did was a statement about myself and my vision of the company.
I walked around and looked at the physical orientation of the facility. Right outside the office was a warehouse. Nothing was in order. Everything was stacked on top of everything else. It was organizational chaos. The books needed as much organizing as the warehouse; without that it was impossible to understand the flow of money and inventory. But the warehouse had to come first. We were missing sales because it was difficult and sometimes impossible to find the products in it.
I made a decision. I spent two days in the warehouse. I got sweaty and dirty with everyone else, and we physically reorganized the warehouse so it was easy to access and stock. I knew early on I had to set an example of my way, and the best example was a visual one—everybody could see it. My actions showed many things: I wasn’t afraid of work; satisfying the customer was key; I believed in organization and efficiency; and most important, I knew there was no bottom line without a top line—we needed sales to make a profit.
I could have reorganized the books, but no one would have seen it. What good would that do morale? None—except, perhaps, for that of one sun-allergic accountant wringing his hands gleefully, alone in a corner cubicle with a calculator and spread sheets.
I could have given a speech or written memos. But who would really care? Actions always speak louder than words because business is about action, not empty promises or threats. People sensed that I cared by my efforts to get to know them. They knew I was serious by my firing of the warehouse manager. And they found out I knew how business really works by my concentration on the warehouse before the books. I made my mark in that first week. The troops rallied around, and we worked together toward mutual goals.
But a year later, after we had turned The Ski Hut around and I wasn’t needed any longer, the owner refused to live up to his promise to sell the company to me. So I did something symbolic at that point too. I quit.
Quitting may be the ultimate symbolic act of business. It is, of course, more than symbolic. It’s personal. And that’s the point. Symbolism without depth is empty sloganeering. The reason for the symbolic act is not Machiavellian. It is humanistic. It is designed to touch the soul—to inspire as the wind does a bird.
Every decision is a statement, even those decisions you don’t intend as such. Some are statements to the masses. Some are statements to a few. All are statements to and about yourself.
When Stephen Wolf was hired to be CEO of Flying Tiger Airlines, his job was simple: Turn it around. When he came to the job, he was told a lot had to be done—fast. The company’s finances were less than perfect, the organization was in disarray, and the energy level and commitment of employees was abysmal. In many ways it looked to be a dying company—numb, failing, and bored.
Wolf knew he had to act fast and his actions had to be visible—something that spoke to the heart of his people as well as their minds. He had to do what most in the company felt management would never do—sell “the yacht” and fire Pierre. It was that drastic.
“The yacht,” as most in the company called her, was a 40-foot cruiser. It was on a mooring in Marina del Rey, California. Wolf said the company would also give up the ship’s mooring. In reality the savings from these two moves were minimal. The boat was paid for, and the cost of maintaining it was a trifle compared to the maintenance of such things as the Flying Tiger airplanes. The mooring cost was also financially not very significant because of a long-term, sweetheart deal signed years before. But getting rid of the icons signaled to workers that the problem was serious. The executives were cutting down; everyone should.
At the same time that he sold the boat, Wolf closed the executive dining room and fired the chef, Pierre. He was cutting fat, and he wanted everyone to know it. These actions were more symbolic than effectual changes—on the surface. But the deeper reality was that he often gave speeches and talked privately to employees. Always he would remind people how he “sold the yacht and fired Pierre.” It was
great symbolism—especially the name “Pierre”—because it conjured up images of expensive and exotic French meals. The message was clear—the only thing sacred was the mission to make the company healthy.
Wolf didn’t stop there. He was an incredibly hard worker, and he made sure everyone knew it—first to arrive, last to leave. The idea was to change the work ethic. He stood for hard work. His car was well known to employees. He always parked by the door so everyone could see he was there when they came, and when they left.
Hard work was his standard. He established what he called a chairman’s conference. For weeks at a time he would fly to the far reaches of the world to explain to employees of Flying Tiger the need for the turnaround—the urgency. His schedule was posted on bulletin boards throughout the company. Everyone followed his exhaustive itinerary. It was obvious to anyone who looked that the only time he had to sleep was on the airplane between destinations. The message was always urgency and hard work.
He even made a statement to the stockholders by his actions. He accepted a compensation package that had only a modest cash salary, but significant stock options—symbolic of his long-term belief in the company and himself.
Wolf is a leader, not just a manager. There is a huge difference. Managers produce and direct. Leaders understand the implications, ramifications, and complications of their actions. Managers work with organization charts and job descriptions. Leaders work with dreams and defeats. Managers understand pie charts, bar graphs, and punctuation. Leaders do too. But leaders know more. Leaders know caring, passion, and poetry. Leaders know people.
Although it may appear in some companies that a leader’s principal job is to shuffle papers and referee disputes, this simply is not true. The reality of the job is that greatness comes only when others accomplish great things. The biggest spark in the world without support is just a spark—it will die out.
Paper shuffling may thrill a few, but it won’t excite the masses. It will, however, make a statement—that paper is more important than people. Every action makes a statement about priorities. The priority of a leader, quite simply, is to lead. If the statement says otherwise, there is a void of leadership.
It is essential for a leader to understand the significance of his or her actions—to realize that those symbols affect people on a very human level. Symbolism communicates.
A leader has to get across the message that this is more than just a job—it is an integral part of life. The human connections are the key.
At The North Face, whenever we moved into a new building, we would have a painting party. For one thing, it saved money if we painted the building ourselves. But more importantly, it allowed all of us to work side by side for a day or two. It broke down the hierarchy. It told people we were all equal, we just had different jobs. And it allowed some in the office staff, such as myself, to realize the quality of workers we had on the maintenance staff, who were definitely better than we were at the task of painting.
At one painting party, I was up on some scaffolding and happened to be working next to the newest employee in the company, Bob Lutz. It was his first day. We worked side by side for about two hours, exchanging small talk and working hard helping each other. Eventually, Bob asked what I did for The North Face. I didn’t want to blurt out “president.” Instead I tried to describe my various duties. I thought I did a good job explaining it all, but Bob just looked baffled. I went on, telling him as best I could about all the abstract duties I felt were mine. Finally, while we were moving the scaffolding, he looked at me and said, “Gosh, it doesn’t sound like you’re very busy.”
Pride got the best of me at that point and I told him I was president. He was embarrassed for having made light of my job. But I was humored. On the surface, I supposed, he was right. We talked more. I explained to him how simply showing up and working at a painting party was one of the most important parts of my job. I connected with Bob that day. From then on, we were always able to talk.
A direct relationship, like mine with Bob, is the ideal. Symbolism and vision are never lost because the connection is so direct. But as a company grows, it becomes impossible to deal directly with every individual. A transformation takes place at some point in a company’s growth, and it takes an astute individual to recognize and adjust to the changes. To adapt is to lead.
Still, the inspiration of the individual is always the ultimate goal. Always. A human spirit is an entity unto itself with potential so enormous it boggles the mind. Humans want to be inspired. Every person desires greatness, and a leader taps into that desire. But as the transformation from a small to a large company takes place, a leader must also make changes, adjusting from an individual approach to one that is broader but no less personal. The goal is always to inspire.
People want to be led; they want a vision to follow. In large organizations in order for people to know what a leader is about they look at his or her actions. An astute leader acts accordingly.
You have to walk the walk and talk the talk. It can’t be an act, because soon it will be transparent as such. People don’t follow hypocrites. I reiterate: every decision makes a statement. Every action. You cannot be selective about what others see—life happens, and people watch.
A man who made apparel for the ski industry learned this lesson too late. Before getting into apparel with his company, he was a world ski champion. Moving into ski apparel seemed a natural progression for him. But some of the qualities that made him a good racer—ego, focus on self—turned out to be his downfall.
His problem was the way he treated people. The symbolism of his acts conveyed the message that he was not a man to be trusted. As a result whenever anyone had a choice, that person didn’t want to deal with him.
He was the same way with his dealers. In an interview in a major ski publication he carefully explained how there were only four smart people in the entire ski business. This man, of course, was one of the four. When his ski wear was no longer “hot,” it was all the “dumb” people who refused to buy from him.
His most famous gaffe came after one of his best sales representatives died. Prior to that, this owner had already had a reputation for treating his reps poorly. Whenever they disagreed, he fired them. When the reps gave advice, he turned away. He always knew best—he was one of the four “smart” people, after all. Just before the sales rep died, he had written some new orders. But obviously he couldn’t get back out to follow up. The owner of the company had to hire someone to take his place. Clearly the rule in sales is the person who writes the order gets the commission. But the owner refused to pay the salesman’s widow the commissions. His reasoning, I guess, was that he also had to pay the new salesman to go out and follow up on the orders. He was callous and cold. He didn’t care about people, only about himself.
Due to his designs and innovation, he was, for a while, on the top of the ski apparel business. Eventually people realized that even his brilliance for design couldn’t overcome his leadership shortcomings. He couldn’t hold on to good people, and his personal strengths—as good as they were—were not enough to sustain the company. The company faltered. When he tried to get others to help him out, no one would. In business, you see the same people on the way down who you saw on the way up. People remember.
The Man Who Skied Down Everest is a 1970 film about a Japanese skier whose goal it was to ski down the highest peak in the world. The film shows him skiing down a short way, doing a few classic jump turns, and then falling a tremendous length. He had a parachute that dragged behind him and finally stopped his fall, a few feet short of a crevasse and certain death. Friends of mine jokingly refer to him as “the man who fell down Everest.”
What the film didn’t capture, however, was the way the Japanese skier, Yuichiro Miura, abused all around him to meet his goal. The overall crew was 34 people, including 10 cameramen and 27 tons of goods. To ski down Everest, first Miura had to climb it. He put together a team of Sherpas for support, but he refused to listen t
o them. He thought that by using the film, he came across as a man of character and courage. The reality is much different. While climbing, the crew came to an ice fall, and the Sherpas warned Miura it was dangerous to go forward. The Sherpas have a mystical, metaphysical relationship with the mountains—they respect them as living deities. They do not force their will on a mountain. They knew the ice was moving, and even though it appeared safe, it could quickly become perilous. Miura would hear none of it—he felt he had to press on. He berated the Sherpas. He told them he knew what was right. The only thing that matters, he said in essence, is my goal.
Without the Sherpas, the climb could not have proceeded. But they needed the money, and so they accepted Miura’s demands. In the midst of the ice fall there was a disaster—six Sherpas died. The leader of the Sherpas was wild with indignation and tried to kill Miura with an ice ax for driving the others to their death. To Miura, though, the accident was inconsequential, because he could still reach his goal. He put together the remains of the team and made it up the mountain to the point where he could begin his descent. He made his film.
The man who skied down Everest, like the ski apparel executive, failed to recognize the human connections that are needed for true success. The negative symbolism they put forth to all around them made what successes they did have hollow.
It is easy to recognize negative symbolism because people expect to be treated as human beings, and when they aren’t, it stands out.
Successful symbols are often more difficult to describe because success is the result of many things. Failure can be the result of one major act. The symbolism most people take for granted is positive. People expect others to be honest. They expect to be treated fairly. They even expect companies to be successful. This does not diminish the importance of positive symbolic acts. It is important to ratify people’s expectations.
One of the goals in any business is to have a happy and productive work force. Again, this comes back to people’s expectations. If you meet those expectations, you go a long way toward ensuring that people are happy and productive.