Last night I found myself sitting in a "modern speakeasy" in Split, arguing with a Parisian art director about whether Jean-Michel Basquiat would’ve preferred dating him or me. Seven hours into our conversation, I realized this man was a bit of a talker. We had spent the day bouncing between foreign policy, art, entrepreneurship, and the future of NFTs and cryptocurrency. Every time I thought he had exhausted a topic, the dialogue would take some sort of unexpected turn, and I'd learn even more about his decade working abroad. Before I knew it, most of the evening had passed, and I was still hanging onto his every word.
For just a moment, there was a lull in the conversation as the bartender presented me with a very imaginative drink based on an indistinct description of what I had wanted. In front of me sat what appeared to be a rounded specimen jar with a knobbed lid. Floating inside was some sort of red concoction, a small purple flower, and a single massively oversized ice cube that reflected the spectrum of colors inside. I opened the lid and froze. The air had suddenly filled with a strong floral scent, which interestingly didn’t match the flavor of the drink. Just like my French friend, the speakeasy had proven to be chock-full of surprises, and I found myself feeling completely satisfied with how I had invested my time in Split.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by the art of surprise, taking note of how even the smallest unexpected elements can evoke a sense of amazement from the receiver.
As a young performer, I started somewhat obsessively studying the work of Andy Kaufman. I watched his acts repeatedly, trying to dissect what he was doing and how he might have prepared for it. His calculated approach to surprising audiences and incorporating their response into the acts themselves was unlike anything I had ever seen. Some people would laugh, and others would scream. Regardless, they were all there as very willing participants, ready to go on whatever journey he was bound to take them on.
A few weeks ago, I pitched an Excel workshop on pivot tables to a company that I’m happily teaming up with starting in July. By all accounts, I had been working with some of my driest technical content to date. There was something about that challenge that really intrigued me, though, and I became determined to make the training a curiously amusing experience.
As I developed the workshop, I started fleshing out some of the same categories I do when writing performing arts acts that incorporate elements of surprise:
The character: If a PivotTable were a person, who would it be and why? What are they like on their best day? What are they like on their worst day? How do they need to be treated to be on their best behavior? How do I incorporate this “personality” into the lesson in an unexpected way?
The set and props: How can I leverage my environment to drive engagement? What should be visible (and not visible) via Zoom? How can I incorporate unforeseen objects into the audience's view? (Spoiler alert: I kept an “I ❤️ Excel” mug out of the frame and picked it up for a drink, facing the camera, at a point I knew the energy might be low. Subtle, smooth, and totally corny.)
The medium: What would happen if I shifted all the course content onto Excel itself? How would my audience respond to seeing a story-based lesson unfold through the tabs of the tool I’m asking them to learn?
Mysterious cocktails, outrageous acts, and unconventional Excel workshops... There is no reason (and I repeat no reason) to make your life's work ordinary.
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