Branding Is Art, Not Marketing

Blame Orwell. In 1947, he published Why I Write, and ever since, the rest of us have been stuck chasing our own versions of the same question, as if George left us homework we could never quite finish.

But it’s a good question — the question. Every artist, yes, writers are artists, don’t give me any lip or I’ll drop a split infinitive on you — every artist has to wrestle with it eventually. Why this? Why write? Why paint, why dance, why act? Why choose the hard road of creation when there are plenty of softer, easier roads begging to be taken?

Because, like it or not, someone else will ask. Someone always does. And under our current cultural management, they’ll ask with a clipboard and a smirk. Is your art patriotic enough? Does it uplift the minorities in the approved way? Better answer carefully — because the same people asking are the ones rewriting history, so this country knows slavery was basically an early form of the Devry Institute and gave slaves a leg up, gave them marketable skills. Be thankful, slaves

So yes, Orwell left us a curse and a gift: the artist’s why.

But let’s not romanticize it. Writing isn’t noble, not most of the time. It’s lonely. It’s teeth-grinding, desk-pacing, lamp-lit squinting while you pray to bleeding Jesus that the right words will tumble out in some kind of graceful line. Most of the time, it’s staring down a blank page that dares you — mocks you — go ahead, writer-boy, see if you’ve got anything today.

And that’s where the real fight begins.

The Fight of Writing

Writing is not easy. Don’t let the tortured-genius posters or the Instagram cafés with latte art fool you. Writing is a slog. It’s a lonely, teeth-grinding kind of work. There aren’t crowds cheering you on. There aren’t fellow travelers clapping you on the back while you pound out brilliance. There’s just you — hunched over a keyboard or pad, squinting into lamplight, praying that The Lord Jesus Himself might tip a handful of perfect words down through your fingertips.

And when they don’t come? When all you’ve got is the sound of your own brain buzzing like a broken fluorescent light? That’s when the page mocks you. Yes, the page. Blank but smug, daring you: Go ahead, writer-boy, see what you’ve got. Bet it’s not enough.

It’s not noble, it’s not glamorous, and it’s not a team sport. Writing is choosing to sit in solitary confinement with your own head and hammer at meaning until you get something resembling grace. Hours, days, weeks of it. The loneliness is part of the bargain.

But let’s say, by some miracle, you survive the blank page and produce something you can actually stand to look at. Congratulations. Now comes the second fight — and this one is nastier. Because if the page is cruel, the audience is merciless.

Feedback and Judgment

So you’ve wrestled the blank page, you’ve pinned it, you’ve gotten something down that looks like sentences. You think the fight’s over? Sweet summer child. That’s when the real circus opens.

Because once you put your work in the world, it’s no longer yours. It belongs to the critics, the professors, the publishers, the gatekeepers, the clients, and — God help us all — Gloria.

First come the academics. The English professors who have inhaled so many books they can smell a dangling participle across the quad. They will tell you, gently, that your work has “promise,” which is code for not yet publishable in a journal they respect. They’ve read it all, so naturally, your work isn’t enough.

Then the publishers. You turn in 3,000 words, sweating blood over every line, only to be told, “It’s fine, but cut 1,530 of them.” Which is like telling a surgeon: “The transplant went great, but can you lop off half the organ? Our audience prefers things smaller.”

And then there’s the audience — which, in my other life as an actor, I know too well. You arrive in a new town, perform your guts out for strangers who don’t know you, and then some self-declared “theater person” goes home, sits at their computer, and slices you open with a review. Never mind, they’ve spent less time with the craft than you’ve spent sharpening pencils. They will tell you exactly what you should have done.

Writers face the same. Doesn’t matter if it’s fiction, poetry, or, hell, copy for a dog kennel/café’s website. You put words in front of someone, and suddenly, they are a visionary critic. They don’t care that you wove in a pun dating back to Roman times — hilarious to a small but dedicated crowd. Nope. They shrug, they sneer, they say: “I hate that. Lose it immediately.” And off they go, back to their meetings, while you sit there wondering if you hallucinated the entire value of language.

And then, inevitably, Gloria. There’s always a Gloria. She’s the one who, after a show or a book launch, wields a glass of champagne like a shield and says, “You know, what I would have done is…” She lays out her brilliant, imaginary version of your work to a rapt audience. Suddenly, Gloria’s the belle of the ball. Everyone nods, “Oh, Gloria, you’re so smart, you should write a book!” And for a moment, you vanish — reduced to the dirt under Gloria’s patent leather heels.

Gloria does not think about the years it took to write that book, or paint that canvas, or stage that play. Gloria does not care about the hours spent alone, the doubts, the drafts, the cuts, the labor. Gloria just wants to be seen as clever. And the crowd? They don’t care either. They paid for a ticket, a gallery fee, a hardcover — they bought the right to judge. And since they paid, they believe they own you.

That’s the reality: to create is to expose yourself to strangers who will, without hesitation, tell you to your face that you failed.

But here’s the secret every artist eventually learns: you can’t stop them, and you can’t hide. The only thing you can do is develop armor thick enough to stand there, bloodied but upright, and keep creating anyway.

And that’s the transition — because if artists live in this storm of judgment, brands do too.

Brands as Artists

Here’s the thing: artists aren’t the only ones who bleed under the spotlight. Brands do, too.

Every time a brand launches a new campaign, publishes a post, unveils a logo, or even tweaks the shade of blue on its website, it is doing exactly what the writer does when they hit “send” on a manuscript or the actor does when the curtain rises. It is saying, Here I am. Here’s what I’ve made. Here’s what I stand for. And the audience? The audience never blinks.

Clients, customers, critics, competitors — they line up just like professors, publishers, and Glorias. They don’t see the months of market research, the endless revisions, the late-night brainstorms. They don’t care about the nuance of strategy or the artistry of execution. What they see is what’s in front of them, and what they say is usually some version of: “I hate that. Lose it immediately.”

Sound familiar?

Because in the end, branding isn’t really about logos or colors or slogans. Branding is about exposure. It’s about putting a stake in the ground and daring people to judge you. And trust me, they will. The public thinks they own you because they paid with attention, with money, with a click. They bought the right to tell you what you should have done. And they will.

The parallel is unavoidable: just as the writer can’t control Gloria with her champagne flute, the brand can’t control the audience once the work is live. You can’t edit people’s reactions. You can’t legislate taste. You can only decide — beforehand — what you stand for and why.

And that’s the hinge. Artists need to ask Why do I write? Brands need to ask Why do we brand? Without that why, the noise of critics drowns you. With it, you can endure, adapt, and keep creating, no matter who sneers.

Because here’s the truth: a brand without a why is just a product. A brand with a why is art.

And just like art, it’s going to get judged. But unlike art, a brand can’t afford to shrug and walk away. Its survival depends on the answer.

Which means the next question is obvious: how does a brand actually find its why?

Finding the Why (The ThoughtLab Lens)

So — how does a brand find its why? How do you cut through the noise, Gloria’s champagne breath, the client’s “I don’t like that color,” the competitor’s smug ad campaign, and actually land on something worth standing for?

Here’s the mistake most brands make: they think their why is the same as their product. We sell shoes. We make software. We provide services. That’s not a why. That’s a job description. That’s telling me you make chairs when what I want to know is why you think I should sit in one.

A why goes deeper. A why says, This is the role we play in the world. This is the story we insist on telling. This is the thing we will fight to stand for even when Gloria rolls her eyes and the critics write us off.

And let’s be honest — brands without a why are easy prey. They jump on trends, they chase every competitor’s move, they run marketing like an apology tour. They end up shapeshifting so often they forget what they even look like. Which is why customers treat them the way audiences treat disposable art: glance, shrug, move on.

At ThoughtLab, we refuse to let brands live like that. We force the hard question. We sit brands down, the way Orwell sat down at his desk in 1947, and we say: Why do you brand?

• Not “what do you sell?”<br />
• Not “who do you serve?”<br />
• Not “how do you stack up against the competitor?”<br />

Why.

Because until you have that, nothing else matters. Your campaigns will flop. Your logo will collect dust. Your audience will ghost you. And Gloria will have a field day.

But when you do have a why? That’s when the entire system shifts. Suddenly, the lonely fight of creation becomes purposeful. Suddenly, the feedback doesn’t break you; it sharpens you. Suddenly, every choice — color, campaign, story — has a spine running through it.

That’s what we do. We build spines for brands. We give them the courage to face the blank page, the critics, the endless Glorias. We help them create work that isn’t just a product, isn’t just noise, but art.

And that leads us to the real heart of the matter: if brands want to survive — no, if they want to matter — they need to treat branding as more than marketing. They need to treat it as meaning.

Branding as Meaning, Not Marketing

Here’s the mistake the world keeps making: it treats branding as marketing. As if the logo were just paint on a wall. As if a tagline were just a sales pitch. As if art could be reduced to a line item.

But branding — real branding — isn’t a campaign. It isn’t a product description. It isn’t even a story. Branding is meaning. It’s the act of standing in the storm, in full view of Gloria, the critics, the crowd, and saying: This is who we are. This is why we’re here. This is what we refuse to apologize for.

That’s not marketing. That’s conviction.

And conviction is rare. Most brands run from it because it’s uncomfortable, because it gets judged, because it feels risky. But here’s the paradox: the risk is the reward. The brand without conviction is wallpaper. The brand with conviction is art.

And art — even in a culture obsessed with speed and money and distraction — still gets remembered.

So yes, Orwell left us with a curse and a gift: Why I write. But the curse is also the cure. The only way forward is through the question.

Brands have to take that same medicine. They have to face the lonely fight of creation, the mockery of the blank page, the merciless feedback of the crowd, and the champagne-glass critiques of Gloria — and still choose to stand up and say, This is our why.

At ThoughtLab, that’s where we live. We don’t slap logos on walls. We don’t churn out campaigns without spines. We do the hard work of helping brands find their why and build meaning that can survive the critics.

Because in the end, the only brands that last are the ones brave enough to brand like artists: not to market, not to sell, but to matter.