Bystanders have no history of their own. They are on the stage but are not part of the action. They are not even audience. The fortunes of the play and every actor in it depend on the audience, whereas the reaction of the bystander has no effect except on himself. But standing in the wings—much like the fireman in the theater—the bystander sees things neither actor nor audience notices. Above all, he sees differently from the way actors or audience see. Bystanders reflect, and reflection is a prism rather than a mirror; it refracts.
- Peter Drucker, Adventures of a Bystander
Though he displayed incredible powers of observation over the course of his long and extraordinarily productive career, Peter Drucker hated being called a “guru.” People used the word, he said, only because “charlatan” was too hard to spell.
Drucker actually preferred to describe himself as a bystander, borrowing a line from Goethe’s Faust: “Born to see, meant to look.”
When General Motors invited him to study the company in 1943, what Drucker saw was that they weren’t manufacturers anymore. They were actually doing something called “management,” pushing around figures and information to get employees to do better and improve business. Knowledge was the new capital and organizational decision-making mattered more than ever.
So eye-opening was his two-year analysis of General Motors, Drucker used it as the basis for his widely successful 1946 work, Concept of the Corporation, his first noteworthy foray into management theory.
When asked how he anticipated major trends without believing in prediction, he said, infuriatingly, “I look out the window.” He trained his sight on the obvious, the nuances, which few people have the discipline to detect.
In the daily scrum, we miss so much, or we concentrate on the wrong things. We look, but we don’t really see. We merely think we see. And we certainly don’t know our blind spots.
Bystanders look for a long time at a subject, a company, a trend—free of constraints, unobscured by their own judgments, waiting patiently to grasp the essential truth. Getting there means making connections to the past and to related fields but not getting bogged down in details. That way we may hold our own.
“I hate digging,” Drucker lamented. He trusted his instincts and integrative thinking more than the details or facts. He drew the requisite inspiration indulging in Japanese paintings. He was particularly fond of this passage from the book A Concise History of Japanese Art.
The Zen-inspired painter seeks the truth of a landscape, like that of religion, in sudden enlightenment. This allows no time for careful detailed draftsmanship. After long contemplation, he is expected to be able to seize inner truth in a swordlike stroke of the brush. This essentialism can be expressed equally well in a large landscape or in the branch of a tree, in the broadest panorama as well as in each of its components.
To practice seeing like the bystander—it’s a matter of looking, but it’s also a discipline.
Drucker would tell the story of the Zen monk Takuin. When asked how long it took him to paint one of his portraits of the legendary Daruma, Takuin replied: “Ten minutes and 80 years.” The 80 years refers to the self-realization needed to become the person who can paint Daruma, while the ten minutes signifies the brief time spent in rendering the particular piece of art.
That’s what made Drucker as powerful a brand as a corporation.