manipulation

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Look, you don’t have to
read this.
I’m aware this book isn’t what one would call ‘succinct’.
I can imagine that you’re really tired, and I understand that
you really don’t feel like extending your concentration
across anything more than 3 sentences long.
But, you just did.
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- THE FINE ART OF -
MANIPULATION
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THE FINE ART OF
MANIPULATION
- PUT INTO PRACTICE -
USING EXAGGERATION
- THROUGH PRINT
- FOR PRATLEY PUTTY
USING CONTRADICTION
HI
I’m Anya Zinn, and I’m a copywriter.
What you currently have in your grasp is a
hand-picked collection of my attempts to get
people to do what I want them to.
Please, feel free to peruse.
- THROUGH A HAIKU
- FOR BOROMIR
- THROUGH AN ODE
- FOR PHILOSORAPTOR
BY BEING MISLEADING
- THROUGH RADIO
- AGAINST ALIENS
USING THE ELEMENT OF SURPRISE
- THROUGH ALTERNATIVE MEANS
- FOR DISTINCTION
USING EMPATHY
- THROUGH TELEVISION
- FOR FROGS
1x SADLY SHORT STORY
- THE ANGRIEST SEA URCHIN
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THE FINE ART OF
MANIPULATION
- USING EXAGGERATION -
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
USING EXAGGERATION - THROUGH PRINT
PRATLEY PUTTY needed to be better known, and what
better way to get something talked about than to
unashamedly exaggerate any/all/maybe-not-even-existent
features of that thing?
The key feature of Pratley Putty we chose to blow up was
the fact that it works in any element.
TEAM
ANYA ZINN
COPY
DESIGN - CARLA VAN NOORDWYK
KATY VALENTINE
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
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USING EXAGGERATION - THROUGH PRINT
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THE FINE ART OF
MANIPULATION
- USING CONTRADICTION -
“THE CLASSIC MEME”
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
USING CONTRADICTION
BOROMIR’S SIMPLE HAIKU
A haiku and an ode on two classic memes.
One does not simply
Write a haiku on a meme
The morning it’s due
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
USING CONTRADICTION
ODE TO PHILOSORAPTOR
Oh, Philosoraptor, what is it exactly that you do?
Your brow slightly furrowed, your claw calmly poised,
What is it exactly that you so pensively do?
Predator?
No, you wait to be discovered
Silent
Clutch snap on stand-by and stumble into the trap we do:
Your handful of words the quick needle to the balloon that bursts so
suddenly, so unexpectedly, leaving we, the reader, only remnants of
rubber:
Irreparable
Impractical
Oh Philosoraptor, how do you do what you do?
You were born and erased millenniums before I existed,
Your age truly justified by the wisdom you procure;
So how is it that I,
Blinking and breathing,
Seeing and feeling Me
How is it that I,
In all my years of living,
Did not see what you see?
Is that what it is – a fight for relevance?
Is that why you do what you do?
Dinosaurs always seem to hold an air of nostalgia about them
It’s always more the idea of dinosaurs than a dinosaur,
One dinosaur,
One multi-faceted, vastly-dimensional being.
But oh, my dear Philosoraptor, can’t you see?
You can never win
For you are merely pixels and light
Reduced
Reread
Refracted
And you will again be forgotten,
Perhaps spark to life again when you’re accidentally stumbled upon
(akin to your physical representation)
But you’ll never truly be real:
Just another icon of another age.
Perhaps this is where the essence of your advantage lies:
You are simply uninvolved
You have the glorious benefit of an objective point of view
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Your present state of being also saves you from daily duty and
responsibilities: you have the time to think and concur
Why, you’ve had the time since before the concept of time was created
And we cannot neglect the context of your existence:
You live online
You have easily accessible to you anything and everything there is to
know – your habitat an ever-expanding universe of thoughts!
Am I right?
Have I guessed the answer to how you,
Fossilized forgotten you,
Are able to maintain so contemporarily current,
So racingly relevant?
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THE FINE ART OF
MANIPULATION
- BY BEING MISLEADING -
“I HATE ALIENS.”
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
BY BEING MISLEADING - THROUGH RADIO
The presence of alien vegetation in South Africa is an
escalating problem that is little known about and thus little
done about.
Flora as a concept isn’t too exciting: I needed to grab
attention and communicate the importance of keeping
South Africa indigenous.
MVO1: Aiee, these foreigners… these
bloody aliens. They must go back from
where they came… They are taking over
the land, our land. They come, and they
steal our water. They come, and they use
our resources. They come and they come
and leave nothing for us! We have had
enough! We do not need them here. We
do not want them here. But, they will not
go until we make them go. We must
aggressively attack before it’s too late:
We must cut them!
SFX: Cheers
Burn them!
SFX: Louder Cheers
Client: Agricultural Research
Council
Title: Xenofloria
Time: 45”
MVO1: Black South African man with heavy Zulu accent
MVO2: Adult South African man (no identifiable accent)
Kill them!
SFX: Loud Cheering,
Whistles, etc.
The time is now, my brothers, to take
back what is ours.
MVO2: The Agricultural Research
Council - against the growth of alien
plantation in South Africa.
Keep South Africa, South African.
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THE FINE ART OF
MANIPULATION
- USING THE ELEMENT OF SURPRISE -
“EVERYONE IN THE CORPORATE
FIELD DRINKS COFFEE.”
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
USING THE ELEMENT OF SURPRISE - THROUGH ALTERNATIVE MEANS
Here we had an online learning platform, formerly named
e-Campus (until this campaign) that had little exposure perhaps because it has yet to be launched.
As our target were members in the corporate field who
would be absolutely duck feather to slippery campaigns, we
decided to catch them by surprise.
The whole point of the business was to provide that extra
sparkle to one’s CV - distinguishing their CV from the rest.
Thus, our tagline was: Be the obvious choice.
We used stickers with thermochromic ink that reveal the
‘obvious choice’ when subjected to changes in temperature,
and put it on sleeves for coffee cups - because everyone in
the corporate field drinks coffee.
TEAM
COPY
ANYA ZINN
DESIGN
ANDREW COWLEY
IZELLE BRINK
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THE FINE ART OF
MANIPULATION
- USING EMPATHY -
“YOU HAVE SEVERAL...
FROG-LIKE CHARACTERISTICS.”
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
USING EMPATHY - THROUGH MASS-REACHING TELEVISION
1.
2”
20 of the 114 recorded species of frog in South Africa are
threatened. One of the pivotal reasons for their rapid disappearing rate is because of construction over their (very
specific thus very few) breeding grounds. Now this may
seem to be unrelatable to you, but you may have a bit more
in common with the webbed-foot croaker than you think...
INT. BEDROOM – EVENING
SFX: CICADA
CU OF CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE, TWO GLASSES.
2.
2”
* The Amphibian Conservation Programme is a new
initiative by the EWT (Endangered Wildlife Trust).
CU OF WINDOWSILL THAT BEARS A FRAMED
PHOTOGRAPH OF A 20-SOMETHING YEAR OLD
COUPLE. ON THE SILL ARE SCATTERED ROSE
PETALS.
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
USING EMPATHY - THROUGH MASS-REACHING TELEVISION
3.
5.
4”
2”
LS OF THE BEDROOM
CU OF SHOES STREWN ON THE FLOOR
4.
6.
4”
4”
MS OF THE COUPLE ON THE BED
SHOT CONT.
COUPLE BURST THROUGH THE DOOR IN WILD
EMBRACE, HEADING FOR THE BED.
SFX: I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES
- HOT CHOCOLATE
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
USING EMPATHY - THROUGH MASS-REACHING TELEVISION
7.
9.
2”
4”
SHOT CONT.
SFX: POWERDRILL
MUSIC CUTS
COUPLE STOP, CONFUSED
MAN GOES TO WINDOW
LONG SHOT OF CHAOTIC CONSTRUCTION SITE.
CONSTRUCTION WORKER IN FOREGROUND
HOLDING POWER DRILL TIPS HAT IN GREETING
8.
10.
2”
8”
CU OF MAN OPENING CURTAINS
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LS MAN DRAWS CURTAINS
EWT LOGO FADE IN
SFX: CONSTRUCTION SOUNDS DIM
IN BACKGROUND, MAN CLIMBS INTO BED.
MVO: WE WOULDN’T WANT TO MATE EITHER.
CONSERVE THE BREEDING GROUNDS OF OUR
ENDANGERED FROG SPECIES.
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
USING EMPATHY - THROUGH MASS-REACHING TELEVISION
11.
2”
LOGO FADE OUT. ROOF IS RIPPED OFF.
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THE FINE ART OF
MANIPULATION
- ADDENDUM -
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
THE ANGRIEST SEA URCHIN
THE ANGRIEST SEA URCHIN
The sea urchin (of the echinoderm phylum), wasn’t always angry. In
fact, he was a rather friendly denizen of the ocean floor: he’d greet
the anemones and their tenants; wave a spike at the local school of
fish; and often drop off a few prime remnants of algae (the purple
type) for his great-uncle - a wrinkly, warty sea cucumber. No-one
really bothered him, and he didn’t really bother anyone. But the life
of a friendly sea urchin fast becomes rather… uninspiring.
It’s about the destination,
not the journey.
What is it about padding a key message in layers
and layers of context and concept? That’s the
important thing about any story, right:
the message?
His great-uncle never said ‘thank you’ for the long sought-after delicacy (the fact that sea cucumbers are lacking in palates and tongues to
speak was never considered; for his great-uncle was truly grateful: he
just didn’t know how to say so), and the clown fish were so hasty in
their departure that they often didn’t return a greeting. The sea urchin
didn’t find this very amusing at all. This sea urchin wanted a change a fresh start - and who wouldn’t after a lifetime of eating algae?
Tolkein: all you had to say was “hard work pays
off”. Four words, not four books. It would’ve
saved you 14 years and me some sleep. The same
can be said about every film, book, or allegory.
So, frankly, just skip the next five pages and get to
the moral of the story on the sixth.
So, without making too much of a fuss, he left.
It’s a pleasure.
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He had heard of tide pools where the water was less and the sun was
more; where there was seaweed (sweet, sweet seaweed) and merry
communities of starfish - oh, what a happy family reunion this would
be! He made fast progress due to his hundreds of new beaming plans
and, of course, his hundreds of tube-feet.
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
THE ANGRIEST SEA URCHIN
Finally, he was there. He clambered over grey rocks and disgruntled
barnacles (“sorry, pardon me, sorry”) and reached a small pool of
still water. The sea urchin had never seen his reflection before. He
was a purple not unlike the colour of the much-collected algae, but
a better purple... a purpler purple (well, in his opinion anyway). Past
his reflection was an entire world so clear, so pristine, so detailedly
exquisite that he felt almost as if he was looking in on something
entirely unbelonging to this planet [that had imperfect things like
grime and dust]: the water an impervious film. He carefully lowered
a spike down to the silver surface, tentatively applying pressure. The
water bounced back, reacting immediately and wonderfully: circles
and circles blossomed and bloomed around the precise point of contact, causing an almost psychedelic distortion of a scene that was so
intangible before.
The water was warm. The sea urchin wasted no more time on idle
observation (for life truly is short for a sea urchin), and submerged
himself completely.
He politely introduced himself to the sea stars closest at hand who
would now be his neighbours. He patiently listened to fumbled and
um-filled attempts at accounts of how he and whichever sea star
may be related due to the likeness of the foot-formation, and finally,
silently resigned to his anticipated meal of low-tide seaweed.
The starfish waved their limbs left, right, swish, swish, while cheering like Munchkins to Dorothy in welcome to their home and habitat.
Although the sea urchin knew that starfish hurrah for almost anything
that doesn’t have a beak or sticky grabbing hands, he still self-consciously swelled up a bit, and if he had had eyes to modestly avert
and a mouth to sheepishly smile, he would have.
After all this time he still wouldn’t allow himself to rush. He had to
move slowly. Finally, he was within spike’s-reach. Finally, he tasted.
It was saltier than he remembered: perhaps because of the change of
tide or more probably because his taste buds weren’t accustomed to
things like flavour. One bite was enough: the sea urchin had always
promised that he would never let himself go. So, he shuffled over to
a shallow indentation of perfect girth in the rock, and fell into a deep,
simple sleep.
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The last time he had tasted the delicacy was a while ago, when, on a
search for the rare purple algae, he had found a few shreds of the stuff
caught in between sand and stone. He had always heard of seaweed
from the few who had tasted it and had thus never stopped speaking
about it, but never did he think that he might be so lucky as to stumble upon it without running the risk of sea otters and triggerfish. He
hid it deep between his spikes, and waited until he had delivered his
great-uncle’s food and gotten home. For some reason he banned himself from hurrying - moving painstakingly slowly, nobly, so that when
the moment came to taste, it would be savoured. Never before had 9
metres been so secretly despised.
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
THE ANGRIEST SEA URCHIN
He woke up quite suddenly due to a strange tingling sensation on his
spikes, then he heard the half-muted shouts and squeals from
further away - causing the water all around him to buzz incessantly.
He awoke to chaos: the starfish were sidling away at the most
remarkable speed to shadows under outcrops of rocks and coves
that bored deep into the earth. The army of barnacles were marching
closer together and gripping tighter onto the land: bracing themselves
for impact. When the dust finally settled after the great disturbance
caused by inconsiderate starfish, the sea urchin saw that he was all
alone. The rock pool was empty - the seaweed swaying seemingly
mournfully instead of tantalizingly - and he noticed that the shouting
had stopped. There was a brief second of utter calm - where even the
lapping tide had lulled - and then he was grabbed.
All too fast, he was lurching backwards out of his utopia, and, if he
had read Dante, was delivered into the seventh circle of hell. Podgy
fingers born from fat freckled hands poked and fingered him while he
struggled so hard to wriggle out of their grasp and back into his little
crevasse, just back into the water, please. He was thrust at
terrified eyes and met with screams and laughter. He was beset, and
was tossed from boy to wanton boy, dropped and his brittle body
broken, and yanked up again and squeezed. When blood was drawn,
as it should have been long before, he was discarded hastily onto hard
rock and kicked back into the water. He tumbled through molecules
of hydrogen and oxygen, just breathing, breathing, until he
plodded onto the soft sand, which in turn rose and fell about him
almost ceremoniously.
Still.
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The starfish peaked their heads around their havens, and slowly
emerged from their hiding places, heavily returning to their usual
spots. The one who the sea urchin was apparently 7th cousins with
(twice removed) lowered a strip of limp seaweed in front of him.
Filial duty, the sea urchin supposed.
He lay there a while and listened to the murmurs of the starfish, and
those of the barnacles too. He discovered that these spotted beings
came often: never alone and always turbulent. The thought of
having to experience another ordeal like the one he had just had was
too much for the sea urchin to bear.
As their visits progressed, so did his hatred. His hatred for them, his
hatred for how vulnerable and helpless he was, and his hatred for how
he had lost his appetite for seaweed. This contempt oozed through to
his exterior, and his spikes grew hard and sharp and filled with dark
poison. He was no longer the bright violet of the Pseudochromis fish,
but as black as the deepest, most unexplored abyss.
Throughout the rest of his lifetime, he poisoned many a curious child,
and lost many supposed relatives: not due to death, but due to a
reconsideration of the similarities between the formation of the sea
urchin’s feet and that of the starfish’s half-aunt. The sea urchin
became relentlessly bitter, and was left alone to his shallow crevasse
and brooding until, on one windy Thursday afternoon, he passed
away.
His body was buried under layers of soft sand that blanketed and
enveloped his empty shell until he was forgotten even by his greatuncle, who continued to live a long while after his great-nephew:
perhaps due to his discovery of the much more nutritious green algae.
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
THE ANGRIEST SEA URCHIN
I suppose hasty decisions spawned from ambitious aspirations don’t
always yield the best results.
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THE FINE ART OF MANIPULATION
thank you for being such a good sport.
no-one-reads-the-readme.withtank.com
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