In an earlier post, I mentioned my fascination with bottles of spirits. They represent, I said, possibility. But they also represent history; each bottle is an artifact, its contents distilled to a state nearing purity, then as it ages, it reabsorbs complexity and depth from everything it touches (typically wood, but once the Angels take their share, perhaps also the Hand of God).
I’m not the first person to romanticize (or anthropomorphize) spirits. Enjoying spirits, though, is a sensory experience. Color, smell, taste, texture: these are all integral parts of truly understanding (and enjoying) the complexity of a spirit. For me, the visual experience starts before I pour. What does the label tell me about the contents? Are there unique characteristics of the bottle? I have a soft spot for hand-detailing on a bottle, so things like handwritten batch numbers offer me a way to create a greater sense of intimacy with the spirit. Each detail helps me to connect with the producer’s vision and understand the place it occupies in my life.
One of the best examples of packaging that enhances my enjoyment of a spirit comes from Amaro Nonino. For a bit of background, I’ll direct you to this fairly thorough write up of another drinker’s experience with the spirit. This Italian liqueur is soft and gentle on the tongue, with a light sweetness that avoids being cloying or syrupy and a bitterness that is very well balanced. It isn’t the sort of spirit that requires an experienced palette to appreciate, as the bitterness is far from overwhelming, but it possesses a subtle complexity that rewards careful examination.
I think this packaging succeeds where much of modern marketing fails (despite its best desperate attempts): it creates an emotional experience. Products are sold to us by way of a discussion on benefits to our lives; they try to tell us why we should connect with the product by telling us what they can do for us. (Cellphone ads are typically the worst culprit, with very few rising beyond being a glorified list of features.) This has the result of commodifying the products. At best, we can enjoy them for their convenience, but it’s hard to argue that they truly enrich our lives in any way.
For me, Amaro Nonino succeeds not just by creating a rich and conceptually consistent experience; what makes it so engaging is that they show me the product’s value rather than tell me. Typically, spirits are sold simply in their bottle. While not unheard of, the presence of an external box says something about what’s inside. Sometimes they are drab and uninspiring, like the “gift sets” of spirits + glass you might see in your local grocery store during the Holidays. Others are an opportunity for the producer to enrich the buyer’s experience, as with the lovely tins that sometimes accompany Fernet Branca, or, in our case, the delicately wrought box and booklet accompanying Amaro Nonino. There’s a certain erotic sensibility to the experience: what is seen on the outside tantalizes and hints at what is hidden beneath the folds.
I think what comes through most in the design of the packaging, from the lovely printing on the bottle’s label to the outer box to the tastefully designed booklet, is that the producer’s really care about this product. That’s not to say that this is the only way to show that. But every element of the experience of Amaro Nonino is a celebration of the time, effort and love that went into it’s production. They don’t tell me how great it is, they show me.
While I started writing this post as a way of highlighting what I think is a really great product, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about how marketing functions. Why do some companies just get it right, as does Nonino, while so many others whose marketing budgets probably equal much more than this distillery makes in a year just churn out vapid, soulless paeans to profit? This is all speculation, and it’s probably a logical stretch, but I’m reminded of the concept of facial recognition. Even vaguely similar representations of a face, whether it is two dots and a line drawn on a page or random marks on a tree in a similar configuration, we can quickly and almost without thought recognize a face. I think we also possess a very refined sense, which is why close representations of humanity, such as certain digital renderings or sculptures, are often so unnerving. We can sense the lack of humanity in the features.
In some way, a product bears the imprint of its maker, and in more than just the logo. Just as we are capable of recognizing a fake when it comes to faces, we are innately possessed of the ability to spot a fake when it comes to emotion, which is why even the most carefully crafted marketing messages leave us emptier for their existence. It’s not that we aren’t connecting with the emotional message marketers are sending; it’s that the medium is inherently devoid of emotion. I think I need a drink.
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