CHAPTER 1
Assumptions
It is not who you are that matters, but what people think you are.
āAttributed to Joseph P. Kennedy, advice to his children
Although not about public relations per se, Kennedyās comment is certainly indicative of the predominant cultural view of public relations prevalent in our society. Image over substance, style over content, looking good over being good. It is a cynical view, a view that is not always, or even usually, accurate. It is a view, however, that is perpetuated by what we do as well as by what we do not do.
Actions versus image? Good deeds versus glowing words? Manipulation versus caring? Perception versus reality? We so often treat these as polarized concepts, pairs of competing realities that anchor either end of a continuum. The purpose of this book is to examine how the range of perceptions on the continuum is reflected in the decision making apparatus of modern organizations. In this chapter, I present the basic assumptions that guide my understanding of organizational public relations, both what it is and what it could be. These nine assumptions form the foundation on which we build our understanding of the intersection of organizational decision making and public relations. As a means of beginning, I offer three case studies.
CASE STUDY 1.1āTHE MISADVENTURES OF SELLING AN 8-TON SCULPTURE
Henry Mooreās 8-ton bronze sculpture āVertebrae,ā which stands at Fourth Avenue and Madison Street, has been sold to an undisclosed buyer in Japan. And the Seattle art community is outraged. (Hackett, 1986a, p. A1)
This was the lead paragraph in a story published in one of two local Seattle, Washington daily newspapers detailing the confusing, convoluted, and often contradictory efforts of two organizations to sell a sculpture many Seattlites considered their ownāa piece of very public art.
Seafirst Bank, the largest bank in the state of Washington, bought a sculpture known as the āVertebraeā in 1971 for a reported $165,000 (Hackett, 1986a). The creator of the piece, British artist Henry Moore, is acclaimed for his large (in this case 8-ton) abstract bronzes often representative of the human body. āVertebraeā was installed in a corner of the public plaza at the Seafirst Building in full view of untold millions of people who walked by it (or children who climbed on it) over the course of its 15-year presence. āVertebraeā became a Seattle landmark, perhaps not treasured but certainly accepted as a part of the city scene. As a newspaper editorial noted, āAlthough the piece was not owned by the city, it was invariably included in lists of art on public displayā (Sale Threatens āPublic Treasure,ā 1986, p. A10).
In 1983 Seafirst Bankās corporate headquarters moved into a new building a couple of blocks away. Their old building was sold to JMB Realty headquartered in Chicago. All was fine, at least in the publicās view, until a story appeared in Seattleās newspapers on August 28, 1986 announcing that āVertebraeā had been sold by JMB Realty to an undisclosed buyer for a substantial profit. More alarming was the announcement that āVertebraeā would be packed up and crated off the following Saturday, 2 days after the story appeared.
At this point the mystery of who owned āVertebrae,ā who sold āVertebrae,ā and to whom it was sold gets murky. The first series of stories published in the local papers indicated that JMB Realty bought āVertebraeā from Seafirst for $850,000. Seafirst representatives claimed to have sold the sculpture to JMB Realty with the assumption that it would remain in place (Hackett, 1986). Unexpectedly, then, JMB Realty sold it because āa client who insists on anonymity made us such a substantial offer senior management decided to take itā (Hackett, 1986a, p. A1).
The Seattle art community, as you might well imagine, was in an uproar. The director of the Seattle Art Commissionās Art in Public Places Program said, āIām shocked JMB Realty didnāt bother to talk to the people in this city before selling a piece of art that is valuable to us all. They are removing a public landmarkā (Hackett, 1986a, p. A5).
As more information about the sale was reported, the apparent straightforwardness of the initial report of the transaction took a very convoluted turn. From reading reports in the local newspapers, one is left with the impression that no one really knew (or would say) what was going on or who owned or sold the piece. For example:
- A JMB Realty spokesperson in Chicago was quoted as saying, āWe were led to believe that if we did not purchase the piece, it would be sold to this third party, who was not from Seattleā (Noble, 1986a, p. C1).
- A spokesperson for Seafirst bank ādid not know who made the initial offer.ā She said the bank official who handled the transaction was on vacation and could not be reached (Noble, 1986a, p. C2).
- The local JMB general manager said, āThey (corporate officials) make those decisions there (in Chicago). I can only put in my inputā (Noble, 1986a, p. C2).
- āOfficials of the JMB Property Management Corp. yesterday made an about-face and told city officials the firm āwasnāt the buyer or the sellerā of Henry Mooreās sculpture āVertebraeāā (Noble, 1986b, p. A1).
Ultimately, it appears that JMB Realty, rather than owning āVertebraeā outright, had the right of first refusal to any offer tendered to Seafirst, the original owner. This apparent legal arrangement came to light when the city of Seattle refused to give the company charged with moving āVertebraeā the permits required to undertake such a massive move in a public space.
The second interpretation of the sale, a very different narrative from the first, only added to the confusion surrounding who sold or bought āVertebraeā because suddenly there were two apparent sales. A Boston art consultant working for Seafirst confirmed that he sold āVertebraeā to an undisclosed buyer āwhich in turn triggered the first right of refusal by JMB and JMB bought itā (Noble & Sevem, 1986, p. A3). Apparently, JMB matched the undisclosed offer, did own the sculpture and then resold it, perhaps to the original undisclosed buyer or to a different one.
Regardless of who really sold what to whom and when, the act itself still rankled as indicated in a September 7, 1986 editorial in the Seattle Times:
Art-Sale Blunder Hurts Bank Image
Someday, perhaps a textbook for public-relations people may cite the Seattle uproar over the Henry Moore sculpture āVertebraeā as a case study in how not to enhance a corporationās image.
Fuming for days about the pending loss of the landmark sculpture from the former Seafirst building plaza, many local art lovers were led to believe that the blame for selling āVertebraeā to an out-of-town buyer lay with the buildingās new owner, the Chicago-based JMB Realty Corp.
Now it turns out thatāas much as anyoneāSeafirst Bank bears the responsibility, a fact that contradicted earlier statements from the bank as well as JMB. (The bank issued a belated apology a week later.)
Too bad for Seafirst, since a single public-relations blunder may have undone much of the careful, patient rebuilding of the bankās image damaged in the energy-loan fiascoes of several years ago.
One irate Seattlite telephoned a suggestion that the Seafirst slogan, āExpect Excellence,ā should be changed to āExpect Ambivalence.ā (Art Sale Blunder Hurts Bank Image, 1986, p. A4)
Even though āVertebraeā disappeared from the front pages of the newspaper, the story did not die. The artist, Henry Moore, however, did. Ironically, Henry Moore died on August 31, less than a month after the initial reports of the āVertebraeā sale. Question: What happens to the price of an already famous artistās works when he or she dies? Answer: They skyrocket. The worth of āVertebraeā āmade a āquantum leapā in value after Mooreās death Aug. 31ā to an estimated $2 million (Hackett, 1986b, p. A1). Whew!
On October 9, 1986, a month after Henry Mooreās death, Seafirst Bank and JMB Realty reportedly donated an estimated $2 million to the Seattle Art Museum that, in turn, bought āVertebraeā from an undisclosed Japanese buyer (Hackett, 1986b, p. A1). The buyer made an enormous profit, Seafirst and JMB reclaimed some of their stature, the art museum got a substantial donation, and the people of Seattle could once again pass āVertebraeā knowing it would stay in place. Allās well that ends well.
CASE STUDY 1.2āSAVING A CHILDāS LIFE SHOULDNāT BE SO DIFFICULT
Kidās Place Hospital is a nonprofit hospital devoted to the care and treatment of children under the age of 18. It is located in a quiet, largely residential upper-middle class suburb of a large metropolitan area. Kidās Place offers a wide variety of medical services, many of them nonroutine or experimental, on the cutting edge of medical technology and treatment. One of the most acclaimed services is Kidās Place emergency trauma unit. Children, especially those severely injured in accidents, such as car crashes or burns, are rushed to Kidās Place as quickly as possible from a six-state area. Given modern transportation, many of the trauma cases come to the metropolitan area by helicopter. Decisions surrounding the use of helicopters drives the plot of our story.
Helicopters, kinds of air ambulances, transport injured children to Kidās Place and land in one of three places. If the trauma is deemed not immediately life-threatening, the helicopter lands at a helipad at a downtown hospital, the patient is transferred to a waiting ambulance and driven the six miles to Kidās Place. If the trauma is somewhat more threatening, the helicopter can land in a field approximately one mile from Kidās Place emergency room. The patient is again transferred to an ambulance for the one mile ride. Finally, if the trauma is exceedingly life-threatening, if time is of the utmost essence, the helicopter will land on a small patch of grass on the campus of Kidās Place just outside the emergency room entrance. In this case, the patient is wheeled directly into the emergency room with no transfer or ambulance ride.
In 1984, Kidās Place management decided to build a permanent helipad on the grounds of Kidās Place, preferably in the grassy spot right outside the emergency room door. This sounded like a great idea to all of the senior staff at the meeting. If air ambulances could land at the emergency room door, the time delivering patients to expert care would be greatly reduced. Lives would be saved. Not just any life, but a childās life.
Kidās Place personnel began the internal planning process for the helipad, knowing they would have to get approval from the city. Because a helipad is little more than a concrete slab with some lines painted on it and landing lights around it, there was not a great deal of architectural design involved. Kidās Place already owned the land on which the proposed helipad was to go, so there was no need to find and purchase a suitable space. Indeed, everything seemed so simple and straightforward that the CEO of Kidās Place announced, at a small press conference in November 1984, that the hospital was building a helipad. The announcement contained all kinds of glowing generalities about how the on-site helipad would improve the care of children and so forth. You can just imagine. A leading doctor from the hospital and the head of medical services also spoke, adding the weight of medical expertise to the announcement.
In a day or two, the daily newspaper published a short story on the third page of the local news section of the paper about the proposed helipad. The story was very positive in tone; the reporter quoted copiously from the CEO and head of medical services. Kidās Place was apparently doing what it did bestācaring for the needs of children. The CEO was happy with the coverage, the director of public relations was happy with the coverage, and the medical director was happy with the coverage. The plans were submitted to the city department of construction and land use for approval, approval that was expected to be routine and quick.
Some people who read the story, people who lived in the upper-middle class neighborhood where the hospital is located, were not as happy as the good folks at Kidās Place. Indeed, some of them were so upset that they got on the telephone and started calling their neighbors. Then, they convened a public meeting to give voice to their growing hostility toward the idea of helicopters hovering over their homes and their childrenās playgrounds at all hours of the day and night. This meeting led to other meetings of other neighborhood groups (e.g., a community club, the PTA for the local elementary school, a condominium ownersā association, residents of a retirement home), who discussed the proposed flight plan for the air ambulances. These meetings, in turn, led to the formation of an umbrella group, Citizens Against Helicopters, that began a coordinated opposition to Kidās Place proposal by filing a complaint with the cityās department of construction and land use.
A hastily called open community meeting to soothe ruffled feathers between Kidās Place administrators (the CEO, medical director, and public relations director) and members of the neighborhood ended in acrimonious vocal debates and increasing mistrust. The cityās department of construction and land use put a hold on the necessary permits, kicking the project upstairs to the mayorās office.
As opposition mounted and time went by, Kidās Place found itself mired in a legal tangle. Among other actions, the opponents demanded that Kidās Place needed state approval, that an environmental impact study needed to be conducted, and that the Federal Aviation Administration needed to approve the flight plans. The opposition listed six major points of contention:
- Kidās Place is insensitive to the character of the neighborhood.
- Kidās Place is secretive in making decisions.
- The medical need for the increased use of air ambulances has not been proven.
- Helicopters are too expensive to operate.
- Helicopters are too dangerous to be flying over a family-oriented neighborhood with schools and playgrounds.
- Helicopters are too no...