Not long ago, I was searching for bath soap in my local Whole Foods. The bars lined the shelves neatly, some in boxes of multiples, others wrapped individually in decoratively patterned paper or corrugated boxes. One row of soaps caught my eye—they were neatly stacked and came in natural, food-inspired colors, such as lemon, oatmeal, and vanilla, and plant-inspired colors, including lavender and rose. The packaging was simple: an individual “belt” of natural brown cardboard tied with jute string around the middle of each bar. I loved the look; it was apparent that thought had gone into both the design of the soap and the packaging. Handwork had gone into the production and assembly. The product and the packaging both looked custom and artisanal—and natural, not synthetic. The minimal wrapping left the soap exposed on either end, which allowed me to feel the product’s smoothness (it seemed as though it would produce a really creamy lather) and to take in its natural aroma (the lemon scent reminded me of a trip to Tuscany; the lavender, of a trip to Provence—and I assumed I’d be comparably fragrant if I used it).
I must have engaged with the soap for at least fifteen seconds, running my fingers over the ends where the product was exposed, playing with the twine between my fingers, and bringing the bar to my nose to take in the scent. No surprise, I also popped two bars into my basket despite the fact that the soap was more expensive than other, fully wrapped soaps—in some cases a couple dollars more per bar, not insubstantial for an everyday, utilitarian product.
Why did I choose that particular soap over all others? Because in appealing to multiple senses (smell, touch, sight) the product gave me a sensation that went well beyond its function, something conventionally packaged soaps can’t or don’t do as effectively as one unrestrained by a barrier of paper or plastic. When a product connects with us on multiple sensorial levels, the seduction sets in. A big-brand or even a no-name soap would, I’m sure, get me just as clean—maybe even cleaner, who knows? But the intimacy with which I was able to evaluate the soap and the smell and feel of it offered such a sense of delight, the performance of the soap became a secondary concern (but in order for me to become a loyalist to the brand, it would also have to perform as I anticipated it would when I used it at home—the scent would have to embrace me as I bathed, the lather would have to be creamy and luxurious, my skin would have to feel soft).
Similar seductions take place on a larger scale at places such as the interactive Lego, Bose, and Apple stores. At Lego stores, customers young and old play with and learn about blocks and toy kits in real time and via augmented reality,1 appealing to sight, sound, and touch. At Bose retail shops, wide-open entrances invite you into voluminous public spaces where you can engage with the equipment, listen privately at stations equipped with headphones, and select from accessories at accessible kiosks around the space. Salespeople are happy to help with your Bose equipment whether you bought it in the store or not. Though there is debate among audiophiles about whether Bose provides a listening experience superior to other makers’ equipment, one thing is certain: it offers an extraordinary aesthetic experience. Apple stores operate in a similar fashion: customers can touch products; feel their smooth, glassy surfaces; listen to the sound quality; and experience firsthand the pleasure of using the products before making a purchase.2
I would argue that the functions of Lego blocks, Bose speakers, and Apple products are not necessarily superior to those of other building-block toys, speakers, tablets, or smartphones—but like the simple bar of soap, the way these products tell a story that stimulates our senses makes them so much more appealing and delightful.
What drives feelings of delight in consumers? It can be as basic as making the connection between soap and relaxation, cashmere and comfort, classical music and serenity, or ice cream and exuberance. According to the designer Ingrid Fetell Lee, joy, happiness, delight—whatever you want to call the intense, momentary experience of pleasant emotion—actually lowers blood pressure, improves our immune system, and increases productivity, and it can be inspired by symmetry, bright color, and soothing sounds.3 The most successful retail experience relies on the most basic language of aesthetics: the five senses. Understanding how taste, smell, touch, sight, and sound function individually; how they interact with one another; and how marketers can activate (and reactivate) them in consumers is key to using this language effectively and ultimately creating and sustaining a company’s competitive advantage.
As mentioned earlier in this book, about 85 percent of consumers’ purchase decisions are driven by how a product or service makes that consumer feel (aesthetic delight); only 15 percent are based on a conscious and rational assessment of a product’s features and function. Ironically, marketers spend as much as 100 percent of their focus on developing, building, and promoting their products’ features and function. Clearly, as long as a product or service works, there is long-term value for companies that figure out how to stimulate the senses and arouse associative or emotional connections.
The Art and Science of the Senses
The senses are accessed through a series of biological and neurological activities that are perceived and identified by the brain, which then, in reaction, accesses associated memories that remind us about people, places, or events. Our aesthetic sense is largely informed by how we interpret sensorial experiences, something we can’t take for granted, especially when creating experiences and moments meant to engage people.
Sight is the dominant sense in the postindustrial era—how we perceive light, color, shape, movement, and everything else in our environment comes from visual observation. How we interpret what we see happens in the brain, of course, but that can be manipulated by certain colors and shapes that have connections to memories and experiences embedded in and transmitted through our culture. In the West, red often means stop, blood, or sex; yellow connotes cheeriness and sunshine; white connotes purity and cleanliness; and green can signify freshness and naturalness.
Taste, or gustation, is the ability to detect flavor in substances. In humans (and other vertebrate animals) taste often partners with the less direct sense of smell in the brain’s perception of flavor. It is a function of the central nervous system. Our taste receptors are found on the surface of our tongues, along the soft palate, and in the epithelium of the pharynx and epiglottis. Traditionally we’ve defined four major taste sensations: sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. A fifth sensation, called umami, is a more recent addition to the traditional four. Sweet tastes are associated with fun and indulgence (ice cream, chocolate); savory with warmth and comfort (homemade pasta, roast chicken, vegetable soup); and umami with strength and energy (parmesan cheese, tomatoes, mushrooms, and beef).
Smell is a chemical process by which receptors and nerves in our nose identify chemicals in the environment, which can be benign, pleasant, or repulsive. Our sense of smell is also connected to the olfactory bulb, one of the structures of the limbic system, an ancient part of the human brain. Our sense of smell is rooted in a primal part of our brain, part of our survival mechanism. Smell is not linked through the thalamus, which is where all other sensory information is integrated. Odors are sent directly to the amygdala and hypothalmus. None of our other senses has this direct connection to the areas of the brain responsible for processing emotion, associative learning, and memory.4 The scent of freshly mowed grass evokes memories of early summer; citrus, especially lemon, connotes cleanliness; and pine reminds us of festive winter holidays. All three scents also happen to make us feel happier, studies show.5 Some scents, such as that of coffee, may even help us perform better on analytical problems.6
Touch is part of the somatosensory system, a widespread and diverse network of receptors and processing centers that help us perceive pleasant sensations, temperatures, and pain—all processed in the parietal lobe of the cerebral cortex. These sensory receptors cover the skin and epithelia, skeletal muscles, bones and joints, internal organs, and even the cardiovascular system. Cashmere evokes a sense of luxurious coziness; the crisp hand of tightly woven percale sheets gives us a feeling of elegance and order; a rough-hewn oak farmhouse table gives us the sensation of strength and longevity.
Sound travels to the brain first by being funneled into our ear canal and causing the eardrum to vibrate. The vibrations move through the ossicles to the cochlea. Sound vibrations cause the fluid in the cochlea to move and hair cells to bend. Hair cells create neural signals, which are picked up by the auditory nerve. Hair cells at one end of the cochlea send low-pitch sound information, and hair cells at the other end send high-pitch sound information. The auditory nerve sends signals to the brain, where they are interpreted as sounds—loud or soft, soothing or abrasive. Humans have adapted to react to certain sounds; the sound of a jackhammer is disruptive and annoying and compels us to close windows or cross the street to avoid the pounding, while the sound of a crying baby is distressing, prompting us to seek out the source and, ideally, comfort the crying child. The bark of a dog is perceived as a warning to proceed with caution, and the sound of laughter prompts us to relax and join the fun.
Aesthetic delight is the deep gratification or pleasure that individuals feel when their senses (at least three out of five to be truly successful) are awakened in connection with a particular product, brand, service, or experience. Interestingly, this form of delight is enjoyed not only through consuming a product or service but also through some combination of anticipation and recollection of the experience of consuming that product or service—the same memories the senses provoke when we engage with the sensorial elements of a product. Studies show that about 50 percent of a consumer’s perceived delight is connected to anticipation and memory (a residual effect of a past sensorial experience); the other 50 percent is connected to the immediate experience (a result of the five senses working in unison to engage a person in the moment).
I refer to this as the halo effect, a term I use to describe not how companies can spread financial success around an organization but how experiences are a continuum that includes the lead-up, the actual experience, and the memory of it, which informs the lead-up to a repeated experience. A primal example of this is giving birth. The exciting anticipation of the baby and the memory of how wonderful that newborn felt and smelled are often in sharp contrast to the excruciating pain of labor during the actual birth. That pain becomes a distant memory or is forgiven when the anticipation of baby two comes along . . . and the excitement and anticipation build again.
Think about having a really good meal out. It is a joy to eat, but the memory you have of it the next day is also part of the experience, as is thinking about and planning to eat at the same restaurant in the future. Same goes for roller-coaster rides. It’s not just the thrill of being on the ride, but the association with it—being at a carnival or park with family and friends, the memory of feelings we had as we swooped up and down on the tracks—that make the experience so meaningful. The memories of my trip to France in the summer of 2018 could have been marred by the long lines at John F. Kennedy International Airport; cramped airplane seats; lugging suitcases from place to place; and, of course, the trip’s expense. But all I remember is the seemingly endless lilac fields of Provence; scrumptious meals; shopping with friends in Paris; and, above all, bonding with my teenage daughter on her first trip there. Those are the stories I tell friends and the memories I continue to savor.
Family vacations to Disney World are another prime example of the halo effect. The experience of being at the theme park is generally enjoyable, but not without detractions—including the unbearably hot and swamplike conditions in Orlando; the painfully long lines leading up to the most popular rides, especially at peak times; and the excessive cost of dining on the premises. However, when asked to describe our Disney vacation, most of us are quick to recall the smiles on our children’s faces, the thrill of hugging Mickey, the enchantment of watching a princess stroll through her kingdom, and a barrage of colorful, happy entertainment. We can’t wait to return.
As our families gear up for an upcoming vacation to Disney World, we grow increasingly excited by the opportunity to experience the latest rides or meet the newest characters. We remember only the fun we had on our last visit, not the torturous heat of Orlando, or the monotony of waiting our turn for a spin on the Astro Orbiter. Disney World provides such a magical, immersive experience, one that people can engage with using all of their senses and emotions, including through artifacts (souvenirs) that allow us to preserve and prolong the magic, that any bad memories are quickly pushed aside.7 Other consumer experiences can offer similarly immersive opportunities by allowing us to see, feel, hear, taste, and smell our way through what then becomes deeply personal. In the personal, there are profits.
The theme park (and corporation) is big, but the lesson Disney World teaches transcends size. Disney has found ways for its customers, called “guests,” to discover the brand and peel back its layers, one small, intimate, and thoughtfully curated moment at a time. Think back to my bar of soap. The maker found a way, through bespoke packaging that allowed for an immersive and immediate experience, to cut through the clutter of the soap aisle and win over a buyer—perhaps for life. That soap maker is not so different from Disney in the way it evokes feelings—in my case, a moment during the routine of grocery shopping when I was transported back to memories of trips taken and enjoyed, of wonderful scents, of pretty colors, and of the promise of a relaxing experience to come. When I shop for soap again, I’ll remember the small moment and look forward to stocking up on the experience (if not the actual soap) again. Ten dollars for two bars of soap seemed a small price to pay for all of that.
Unfortunately, the halo effect is something businesses get wrong time and again, because they don’t think through the consumer experience from beginning to end. For instance, a clothing store or boutique may greet me warmly, and it may make its entryway pleasant and enticing. A salesperson may even help me without being obsequious. However, paying for the item may be annoying, and the send-off, which even at high-end department stores comes across as rote and indifferent, may leave an unpleasant or at least unremarkable memory. Retailers in particular can do a much better job of making the shopping experience more pleasant, exciting, and memorable.
It’s not that traditional retail stores are dying, it’s that they’ve lost their way. They’re formulaic and, what’s worse, forgettable. So how can retailers leave shoppers with a better impression and preferably a very positive one? For starters, their staff could bid people farewell as warmly as they greet them when entering the store. They could send a handwritten note to their best customers, showing care and gratitude. Such efforts may seem small but don’t underestimate the effect personal notes have on people. One study8 done at the University of Texas found that people who received a note of appreciation felt “ecstatic” and “happy”—much more, in fact, than the researchers had predicted. On average, it took less than five minutes for participants in the study to write the missives. Retailers also could include a small gift with purchase—ideally, something that is not sold in the store but that is complementary and original, such as a perfume sample, potpourri, or confectionary. I also advocate addressing and thanking shoppers by their names, which are readily available on their credit cards—as well as remembering the names of those who come back. Such gestures are simple and cost virtually nothing.
Retailers also should propose helping customers with their bags—offering to take them to their vehicles, for example. Though I rarely, if ever, accept this offer, it makes a lasting and positive impression on me. Speaking of shopping bags, they should be beautifully designed and well constructed; for a nominal extra expense, they become “keepsakes” that the customer will save and/or reuse. I save my Tiffany and Hermès bags (and boxes), but my bags (and cheap boxes) from Macy’s go directly into the recycling bin. In the 1950s, Estée Lauder pioneered the application of personalized and thoughtful selling strategies. Many of them are still in effect. For example, if you go to a Lauder beauty counter and inquire about a particular moisturizer, the salespeople will rub it into your hand as if they are giving you a massage. In doing so, they create a very intimate, warm moment that, for most people, is enjoyable and relaxing. How can you not buy the product?
Bite Beauty calls its stores “lipstick labs,” and its locations in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Toronto exemplify a clean, sleek, lablike appearance while still being fashionable and comfortable. Long, gleaming countertops allow customers to pull up a chair while a technician helps them create custom colors in a collaborative effort. The process of buying a lipstick is customized and special. It stands in contrast to too many shopping “experiences” that leave people feeling abandoned in large stores or ignored by poorly trained, apathetic staff. The return to attentive service, in which salespeople take a genuine interest in their customers—not just for their buying power but for their personage—needs to be revisted. “The technologies [in retail] that are succeeding don’t supplant people, or make them more efficient, but instead ease transactions and encourage something that can never be replaced by machines—the conversational interaction between people,”9 according to Peter Merholz, an expert in design for social impact. That connection can be achieved by appealing to the senses. Bite elevates what is a basic and everyday beauty product for many people into a creative, interactive experience that is reinforced through the design of the store, as well as its lighting, ambience, and personnel.
Another example of this kind of proprietary salesmanship is the gelato store Grom. Founded in Turin, Italy, in 2003 (and bought by Unilever in 2015),10 it elevates its ice cream with unusual flavors such as lemon, ginger, and caramel; Himalayan pink salt and vanilla from Madagascar; and raspberry sorbet with Venezuelan chocolate chips, as well as as-many-as-you-like free tastings. The staff is trained in the unusual flavor combinations and is ready and eager to talk to customers about them and answer questions. No wonder there is usually a line out the door at Grom stores.
I especially love shopping at the fragrance store Jo Malone for its sensorial appeal—everything is made to feel special and “just for me.” The salespeople are well trained and talk knowledgably and generously about Jo’s scents. Shoppers are encouraged to try as many perfumes as they like and enjoy the experience of comparing scents. The point of purchase is actually the most exciting part of the Jo Malone journey. The brand comes alive at checkout, when items are packaged and presented like gifts. The products are carefully wrapped in boxes tied with grosgrain ribbon, placed in luxurious shopping bags, and handed over with a flourish. When you get home, the experience continues as you unwrap your “gift” and proudly place it on your dresser or desktop.
I am surprised that retailers don’t pay more attention to the final stage of a purchase. Giving people a reason to go into a physical store is their only defense against online competitors such as Amazon, Wayfair, and Jet. Appealing to a customer’s humanity goes beyond the sale. Does it mean the person will buy more? Not necessarily, but when I think about the caring person who helped me or the way a package was presented or a moisturizer applied, I’m compelled to return to the store and repurchase. That is the halo effect of an aesthetic retail experience.
Activating the senses to achieve aesthetic delight is not only derived from standard motions of beauty and delight; it also comes from many off-putting experiences—ones that may be deemed ugly or scary. The French have a term, jolie laide, meaning “pretty-ugly” that best captures the idea. We are attracted to what repels us. Not all the time, of course, but the concept does explain why we feel delight in the oddly pleasing revulsion of the heavy-metal band Anthrax, the horror film The Exorcist, and Dreamworld’s Tower of Terror roller coaster. Even fashion can touch and captivate us through our senses with ugly pleasure.
Designer Philipp Plein has made tackiness into big business.11 Known for his over-the-top spectacle fashion—dresses and sportswear emblazoned with skulls, oversize and brightly colored blooms on black satin, metal studs and rhinestones, teddy bears, dollar-bill graphics, unusual hemlines, and dramatic silhouettes—he pushes the limits of what is considered edgy in fashion. As a result, he has a robust fan base as well as passionate detractors. But the cynics help his cause—they make his fans even more loyal, and his being disliked by some only adds to the allure for others.12 Curiosity abounds. The German designer’s empire continues to expand, so for the moment, anyway, the ugly business is good.13
Gucci’s recent success with what I refer to as “ugly fashion” is also instructive. Alessandro Michele, who took the reins at Gucci in 2015, has also become known for his unconstrained antibeauty approach to prints, patterns, and graphics. His distinct approach to “geek chic” through the use of unusual and surprising patterns and colors may, to some purists, seem clownish and tasteless. However, to many others, his design has forged a new way to access European luxury and has given people permission to express themselves in unconventional and offbeat ways. He’s taken what had become a rather joyless and rule-bound category, high fashion, and made it fun and creative again. Michele’s general design ethos is that more is more; that is, more color, more patterns, more textures.
The weirder his designs, the better, because they provide all sorts of opportunities to connect with people sensorially. Some of the designs hearken back to what we think of as simpler times, because of their retro sixties, seventies, and even eighties vibe. We feel happy and secure in the romanticized past, even if we weren’t around back then (as is the case with Gucci’s youngest customers). This ethos is exemplified in many Gucci products, including his popular and successful sneakers, very colorful knits, and a line of artist-inspired dog prints that cover everything from shoes, handbags, wallets, backpacks, sweaters, denim shorts, hoodies, bomber jackets, and scarves to jewelry. The illustrations of the featured pups were inspired by an artist named Helen Downie, aka Unskilled Worker, who gave Michele a pillow decorated with a graphic of his two Boston terriers, Bosco and Orso. This is classic Michele: taking inspiration from an artist and translating it onto consumer products that have a sense of surprise and fun. But does it define conventional ideas of beauty in fashion? Not at all. There is something disconcerting about the designs, and we are challenged by them.
“Ugly fashion” can work so long as its ugliness is built on appealing qualities like charm or quirkiness. Ugliness is never a good thing when it’s built on genuinely ugly qualities like mean-spiritedness or callousness—even if unintentional. Think of the difference between a goofy-looking pug dog and a growling, blood-thirsty pit bull. Most people would find the first image endearing (however slobbery), the second one monstrous. Gucci’s blackface sweater fiasco is a case in point. In February 2019, the company recalled the $890 black sweater that had red lips knitted around the opening for the wearer’s mouth. Critics of the sweater pointed out that had the company employed more people of color in its design and marketing departments, the sweater would have been flagged as inappropriate even before it was manufactured.14
While I don’t believe this episode will bring down the house (fashionistas have short memories), it does serve as a cautionary tale. Some of Gucci’s relevance and success has been based on its appeal to a new and nontraditional generation of fashion buyers and influences, most notably urban African Americans, who are highly attuned to chic and fashion-forward streetwear. The backlash to its insensitive product launch was all the more severe because of this. However, Gucci responded appropriately and with more finesse and humility than competitors who have made similar racially insensitive gaffes, such as Dolce & Gabbana15 and Prada.16 It withdrew the item, issued a public apology, vowed to include more people of color on its design staff, and it reached out to African American Harlem-based designer Dapper Dan and other influencers from the community to help the company understand how to avoid these kinds of missteps in the future. Relevance is delicate, and sensitivity to audiences and cultural standards, which are ever changing, is key.
Best-in-class companies also often deliver sensorial experiences that make an impact yet go undetected. I refer to this as invisible design. The elements may not be obvious, but by no means are they low value or unimportant. Consider that all lipsticks are made from the same basic ingredients. So why is it that many women will pay six times as much for a Rouge Allure Velvet lipstick by Chanel ($37) sold at Neiman Marcus as for a Super Lustrous lipstick in Cherry by Revlon ($6.02) sold at Walmart? Women may say they prefer the way the Chanel lipstick goes on or how long it lasts, but the truth is they prefer the aesthetic experience of using the more expensive lipstick. Needless to say, the quality of the wax is comparable, as is the shade of red.
The user’s pleasure may be enhanced by the weight of the Chanel cylinder, the shine of its metallic rim, or the elegantly engraved double-C logo on the cap. Even the experience of buying Chanel lipstick is more rarified, more luxe, more fun than walking into a badly lit drugstore, pulling a clear, tamper-proof plastic package off an end rack, and tediously waiting in line for the cashier to ring up the purchase. I contend that Revlon—as well as its drugstore partners—can learn a lot from Chanel about cultivating aesthetic currency and growing sales, without necessarily raising costs or prices.
By investing in a few extra pennies per unit, Revlon could transform its secondary packaging, encasing its lipstick in a small fitted box that would feel more exclusive and gift-worthy. (When it comes to selling beauty products, the ritual of self-gifting should be considered.) Likewise, Revlon could engrave its name or logo into the wax of the stick; for Chanel, this design element makes the actual application feel less generic, more identifiable. Revlon also could consider reframing the language in its ads, which currently focus on the functionality (“wax-free gel technology”) and use clichéd and corny expressions (“love at first swipe”) and lack the enticing visual cues and more powerful/original photographic styles of Chanel’s ads.
In terms of merchandising, Revlon could showcase its items by collection (ColorStay, PhotoReady) or look (smoky eye, sultry rocker), not category (lipstick, mascara). This would steer consumers away from buying individual (problem solution) items and toward buying seasonal sets and total styles. But above all, it would enable consumers to dream. When it comes to makeup, consumers are buying an experience that can be accessed through a suite of products that seem customized and proprietary.
The nail polish brand Essie does this well. Like Revlon, Essie is sold in the mass market and at a fraction of the price of Chanel lacquer (starting at $4.29 at Target, compared to $28 for Chanel’s Le Vernis at Neiman Marcus). Essie’s breakthrough is the signature design of its bottles, which allocates maximum space to the shade within the bottle. Even the brand name Essie is engraved into the glass, rather than printed on a label that might conceal or detract from the contents of the bottle. Above all, Essie creates value and appeal through its iconic naming of the individual colors from function to emotion (i.e., Ballet Slippers instead of Light Pink, Size Matters instead of Bright Red).
Culinary taste is not a sense that comes into play as often as the other four senses. However, for anyone who is dealing with food and drink, it’s imperative to get the senses surrounding taste right. Even if a product is well made from the freshest, highest-quality ingredients, other factors can make even the most delicious meal, snack, or cocktail a disaster. Let’s start with something simple, such as wine in a glass. The thinner the glass, the better the wine tastes—and that’s not snobbery talking; it’s science. Vapors from wine rise differently from certain shapes and thicknesses of glass, say chemists—and this has either a positive or a negative effect on the way wine tastes.17
There is a popular belief that champagne tastes best out of a long, tall flute and that bubbles dissipate quickly from an old-fashioned (but still charming) coupe. In reality, a good champagne tastes best when served in a fine, thin white wine glass. Restaurants (and others) that serve fine champagne in flutes or coupes actually diminish the drinking experience. “The flute keeps the wine effervescent, and one of the reasons we love champagne is because of its bubbles,” says Seth Box, private client director for Moët Hennessey, which owns some of the world’s finest champagne brands, including Krug, Moët & Chandon, and Veuve Clicquot. However, a flute keeps you from experiencing the wine’s aroma, which is part of the tasting experience. “You can’t really stick your nose in a narrow flute,” Box notes.
Steven Kolpan, professor and chair of wine studies at the Culinary Institute of America (CIA) in Hyde Park, New York, tells the story of going with friends to a restaurant, to which he took along some special wines to have with the meal. The restaurant owner agreed to serve the wines and did so in a professional manner. “But then they brought the wine glasses to the table, and they were crap—thick balloons that made each white wine taste sour and each red taste bitter,” he wrote. “All the wines suffered from a short ‘finish,’ the potentially lovely aftertaste that helps to define a great wine. I was bummed. These fine wines, served in crap glasses, tasted like crap. And crap wines did nothing to enhance the carefully prepared food, a lose/lose proposition for our table and the hard-working folks at the restaurant.”18
Kolpan set up a tasting at home to test this theory, putting wine into glasses that ranged from a “jelly glass” to a standard tasting glass to a whisper-thin Riedel wineglass with a bowl that suited the wine being served. His friends felt that the wine “floated” in the finer, thinner glasses (pointing to the fact that we taste with both our tongue and our eyes) but that the wines tasted better in the thinnest glasses. “We found increased complexity and balance in the flavors and aromas, and not at all in a subtle way. There was an incredible difference: great wines tasted like plonk in the jelly glasses, and magnificent in the ideal ones.” The difference in how wine tastes in different glasses is often so dramatic that Kolpan says often people didn’t believe they were tasting the same wine.19
Restaurants, which require both volume of sales and durability of glassware, can certainly achieve both while still doing justice to wines and the customer experience by providing the right glasses. Del Frisco’s changed its wineglasses in October 2017 to upgrade the experience. Customers at the restaurant know wine, especially reds, so the glasses must match the expectations of the guest and enhance the drinking experience.
“Our wine list focuses on big, full-bodied reds. When you run a wine program you need something that works for the customer, to enhance the drinking experience, and the needs of a busy restaurant,” says Jessica Norris, former director of beverages for the chain. “Our all-purpose glass, Spiegelau’s Soiree, can house anything well. It’s quality crystal, and it is durable. It’s an elegant glass.” These are the glasses customers find on the table when they arrive and are used for wine-by-the glass sales. “If someone orders a bottle of wine, we elevate the glass further and serve it in Spiegelau’s Beverly Hills glass. We use Riedel’s Sommelier series for customers who order a bottle of wine costing $500 or more.”20 In this way, the wine experience is matched by the glass. The change in glasses is in great part responsible for the restaurants’ uptick in wine sales.
Another instructive example of the interactions among sensations is the taste of airline food, which most people find bland and unappetizing. Since our brains are wired to combine information from all sensory modalities, sound can influence taste. Studies show that when we are inside a pressurized cabin, the flavors of all foods, from pasta to wine—or at least our ability to perceive them—drop precipitously. There are several biological reasons for this, says Charles Spence, a professor of experimental psychology at Oxford University: lower air pressure, lack of humidity, and background noise. Our senses of taste and smell are the first things to go at thirty thousand feet, according to Russ Brown, the director of in-flight dining and retail at American Airlines. Flavor perception is a combination of both, and our perception of saltiness and sweetness drops about 30 percent when we are inside a pressurized cabin. However, it’s not just our taste buds that are affected by an airplane’s environment. About 80 percent of what people think they are tasting, they are actually smelling. Because evaporating nasal mucus is necessary to smell, the dry cabin makes our odor receptors malfunction, making food taste only half as flavorful as it actually is.21
Some of the most interesting research on the interaction of taste and other senses links certain tastes to musical pitches and the fact that those pitches are capable of influencing flavor perception. Specifically, sweet or sour tastes are linked to high notes, whereas bitter and umami tastes are matched to low notes. Instruments such as piano and strings are linked to sweet and pleasant flavors, whereas bitter and sour tastes are associated with intense sounds and brass or woodwind instruments. Follow-up by the same research group found that “soundtracks” designed to fit bitter or sweet tastes had the ability to influence the perceived sweetness of food. Evidence is split as to whether background noise enhances or reduces flavor perception; it probably depends on the type of food being consumed and the specific taste of interest, as well as the nature and pitch of the background noise.22
Sound affects us in four primary ways. The first is physiological: we have a fight-or-flight response when we hear sirens, people fighting, or a dog growling, and we feel calm and our heart rate goes down when we hear the soothing sound of waves at the ocean or birds singing, which indicates that things are safe (it’s when the birds stop singing that we have to worry). The second is psychological. For instance, music affects our emotional state. Sad music makes us melancholy, and up-tempo music makes us happy. Natural sounds also have an impact on emotions; those same singing birds bring us a sense of joy as well as physiological comfort. The third way sound influences us is cognitively. People who work in open-plan offices with many workers conversing around them are 66 percent less productive than workers who have private, quiet offices. Open plan offices became popular during the tech boom, and some companies still use them, to their disadvantage.
The fourth way sound affects us is behaviorally. If you listen to fast music while driving, you might find yourself stepping on the accelerator. If you listen to Pachelbel’s Canon, you might tool along at forty-five miles per hour in a fifty-five-miles-per-hour speed zone. Sound even determines what we choose to eat. Research shows that people are more likely to choose sugary or calorie-laden snacks and junk food when surrounded by loud music but to select healthier items when listening to soft, pleasant music. “High-volume music is more exciting and makes you physically more excited, less inhibited and more likely to choose something indulgent,” says Dipayan Biswas, a professor of business and marketing at the University of South Florida in Tampa. “Low music makes us more relaxed and more mindful, and more likely to go for the things that are good for us in the long run.”23
And of course, we usually move away from unpleasant sounds (e.g., a construction crew blasting away on a city sidewalk) and tend to gravitate toward pleasant sounds (e.g., the jingle of an ice cream truck). Unfortunately, bad sounds can have a deleterious effect on retail (and other commercial) spaces; some 30 percent of people will leave a store if it includes unpleasant sounds.24
Supermarkets often employ “elevator music” with the intent of getting you to slow down, linger, and buy more. Up-tempo music is often used at in-and-out restaurants to energize both patrons and staff and quickly turn the tables, but if the beat is annoying, diners may skip going in altogether. A classic French restaurant may set the mood and pace by playing the chanteuse Édith Piaf in the background—but if the volume is too loud for you to talk to and hear your companion, the Italian place down the road, which plays Frank Sinatra softly, may win you over. Stores that blast music loudly undermine the pleasure of browsing and trying on clothing and do themselves and their customers a disservice.
Sensations may be fleeting, but their associated emotions are long lasting. Therefore, marketers should be aware of the sensory effects on customers before, during, and after an experience. When thinking about how to engage people’s senses, everything matters. The sensorial engagement has to be powerful. Though sensations need not be conventionally pleasant, they certainly should not be outright unpleasant. Stomach-churning roller-coaster rides, Gucci’s brand of “ugly fashion,” and jarring heavy-metal music each have passionate fans. They understand their core constituency and how to appeal to them through powerful sensations, however unpleasant the sensations may be to others.
I think the classic example is a Bloomingdale’s saleswoman spritzing customers with perfume whether they want it or not. Maybe the perfume smells good, maybe it doesn’t—regardless, the experience is unpleasant when it is so aggressively imposed on shoppers. Today the approach to selling perfume has changed dramatically at department stores because retailers understand that the technique25 became an assault not only on the senses but also on the person. Now many retailers are training salespeople to ask customers what kind of scents they like, listen to the answer, and then allow them to try fragrances that meet their personal taste.
Rolls-Royce found out that smell was tied to profits when it revamped its production methods and began using leather-clad plastic instead of wood for some of the parts in its vehicles. Customers didn’t like the odor the plastic emitted—it was not the luxe “new-car smell” they had come to expect from the carmaker. Sales declined. Rolls-Royce was smart enough to ask customers why they were rejecting the new models. The older models smelled “deliciously woody,” the customers said, while the new cars smelled like the plastic used in their manufacturing. It was one of a few components of the newer models (the window and dashboard switches felt less substantial, too, because of lighter-weight materials being used) that had an impact on the declining sales, but it was an important one. People’s expectations of a product have everything to do with how they interact with it sensorially. Rolls-Royce fixed the problem by engaging an olfactory specialist and developing a scent that mimicked the woody smell of older cars using the aroma of a 1965 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud as the model. The scent was applied after manufacturing to the inside of the new cars.26
Starbucks, too, found out that smell is tied to profits. Like Rolls-Royce, it learned the lesson when an unwelcome and unexpected odor was introduced to stores by way of breakfast sandwiches. The 2008 decline in sales among repeat customers was directly tied to the sandwich smell. It turned loyalists off. It interfered with the coffee aroma aficionados had come to expect and enjoy, and ultimately, it detracted from the overall store experience.27 The sandwiches were withdrawn and reformulated, and they came back but without the offending scent.
Scents are also cultural, and so, when appealing to customers, businesses have to keep in mind who is buying and what their olfactory expectations might be. For Americans, the smell of “clean” is Tide detergent,28 according to Olivia Jezler, a scent expert and head of Future of Smell, a company devoted to the science, psychology, and design of aromas. In contrast, she says, is the idea of a clean smell in China or India. Chinese medicine, which is often herb based, influences the idea of clean, as does Ayurvedic medicine in India. People in those countries associate cleanliness with something that smells earthier and more herbal than do Americans, who tend to associate cleanliness with floral scents.
I come back to the senses throughout this book because they are essential to every solution aesthetics offers us. They are part of understanding what makes your business succeed or fail. To be successful, businesses must precisely and carefully identify the unique and “ownable” ideas underpinning their value proposition and then figure out how to convey those ideas sensorially. For Nike, it is the inner hero; it conveys this idea not only with its swoop logo and “Just do it” slogan but with the distinctive molded waffle heel that makes the wearer feel like a star athlete springing into action. Listerine provides relief from the shame of bad breath with its minty freshness, as expressed through its intense medicine-y flavor and astringent sensation in the mouth, as well as its clear aqua color. Listerine says “clean” because these qualities say “mint” and mint oil has long been considered a breath freshener.29 Listerine does contain four essential mint oils (eucalyptol, menthol, methyl salicylate, and thymol) that are highly effective.30
To engage people’s senses and elevate your brand, you first have to understand what your brand codes are and how the senses can help refine them and capture a consumer’s attention. Brand codes are clear, distinct, and visible identifiers of a particular brand. They are the markers—like Chanel’s quilted leather or the New York Times’s headline font—that stand apart from the brand’s sellable products (in these cases, a Chanel purse or the New York Times newspaper). They are not the same as brand DNA, which may include nonvisible elements of a brand such as a brand’s history or its values or social purpose. Strong codes are built over long stretches of time and are rarely, if ever, changed. We tackle brand codes next—how to determine those that define your business and how to identify what can become lasting codes for newer or emerging brands.