Parole D'Amore – An account saved my life

Ok, as the song mentions, the first to save your life, especially in a city like Milan, is always a DJ. Twelve hours of work, no lunch, an ever-present American dream, tons of mail, chat, social chat, post, like, call, run run run!

Finish by eleven o'clock, you want to live, go out with friends and find yourself dancing in the middle of the track, with the strobes that light up you and the life that goes back to being like it should, laughing and dancing in the middle of a big city. And if the DJ is good, really, who knows how to understand the moment, he will put the song you love and that will make you scream at the console, grateful. Similarly, an account can save our lives.

The creative departments of the agencies, although they represent a fascinating point of arrival (there is too much style, I would like to work too much in a creative department, where one invents, always in touch, where we can make our imagination fly towards brand new achievements) to Fact is a place without rules, a sort of far west, a wild territory full of gold diggers, cattle thieves, visionaries and settlers.

So now imagine a morning like many others: the DJ saved your life tonight, but he also made you go to bed at four. As much as the sky is a slab of ice, you enter the agency with sunglasses; you drank three coffees and took a taxi because you woke up at nine to five. You sit in your seat, turn on the computer, see the executive who tells you: “Are you sure about brainstorming about the new brand in the powerbank room? They ask us for something we've never seen before, we have to be a thousand! "

You get up, look out for the couriers who deliver the packages, envy them to death. Collect laptops, smartphones, pads and pencil and then join the others who are already seated. Brainstorming begins. Start by reading the brief, then the ideas begin. It's almost like playing Texas hold'em. Everyone launches an idea that must be newer and crazier than that of the creative side. The blocks held against the chest, the looks of defiance. Drop, turn, river.

A boy, a junior, takes courage and, with a flute voice, proposes: "We could put hostesses who distribute die-cut flyers". The old art laugh, coarse, with an unbroken beard and open mouths, graphic pens like cigars in their fingers.

"Mavva! Here we need stuff that is bold, never seen! "

(Junior leaves the table).

"We could color the city green."

"Or create a metro line made up of cars, that is, you are on the metro and instead of a train an SUV arrives".

"Guys but a jet that flies underground?"

"Let's put water and gondolas in the meter! Type that become undercover ships with gondolas! "

"Porta Venezia!"

"Guy!"

"What a budget we have, it would be nice to create a lake with a miniature repetition of the city".

"We buy Milan".

"We import water from the Pacific".

And while you are there, with the brain that really smokes, the spirits of tonight that beat at 120 bpm like the music of the disco, the coffees that ask you to take me away please, enter the account.

High noon.

She is beautiful. Not physically, perhaps not only, but for the care in the clothing, the sober elegance, the combed hair and a rested face. He is holding the smartphone, he has a stretched blouse, a good smell.

"How are you? Do you have any ideas? But open the window, you can't breathe here ”.

"We thought of the disruptive proposals, incredible!"

She gently approaches the table, reads the list of handwritten ideas on the agency block, smiles. He smiles tenderly. as a parent does with a child when he looks at his first drawings made with Giotto markers.

Then he politely shakes his head, says: "We simply do an activity beyond the turnstiles, three hostesses, some posters, some leaflets. Maybe flyers could have a nice shape, something funny you say? "

"But on the brief it was written that they wanted something never seen before!"

"For them. Of never seen for them, who have never done this type of activity. Thanks anyway, see you later. "

You look at it healthy, leaving the scene with lightness and rationality, its scent that still lingers in the air, the sense of reality that puts an end to the saloon caciara, the broken bottles, the laughs of the art, pianists and garters, darts, fights between copy.

In the far west of the agencies, the account is the sheriff. And when he passes by a saloon (read the creative department), he often gets off his horse, opens the door, holds his colt (the smartphone), points it towards the crowd and, to report the law, announces:

"Stop. I just heard the customer. "