This is the third installment in this fall’s four-part series on the art of sales.
October 12, 2022
“Now we will count to twelve / and we will all keep still / for once on the face of the earth,” writes Chilean poet Pablo Neruda in “Keeping Quiet,” translated by Alastair Reid. “Let’s not speak in any language; / let’s stop for a second, / and not move our arms so much.”
Years ago, a friend asked, “Why are you so afraid of silence?” I was quick to rush into any conversational pause, a force of nature abhorring the vacuum. Other people fell quiet while dancing; I’d chat my partner’s ear off, cracking jokes to cover missed steps.
Many of us equate silence with failure to keep the dialogue going. This fear of silence is an oversimplification, my friend pointed out, that obscures opportunity. Cultivating silence is an art form. When artists and writers enter what they describe as their flow state, a period of heightened productivity and intense focus, they often pass entire hours without utterance. This variety of silence is so notable that Paul Goodman, in his taxonomy of nine types of silence, gives it a name: “musical silence.”
When thinking about sales, we spend a lot of time on what to say and how to say it. But when did you last inventory your attitude toward silence? Do you practice silence, the same way you practice elevator pitches and follow-up emails? Let’s also consider pacing, a quality that goes hand-in-hand with silence. “Take your time” is advice we associate with the learning process, advice too often set aside when anxious to show off acquired skills. Everyone should take their time. Don’t yield to the power of passing minutes; wield passing minutes as your superpower.
In 1952, John Cage composed a piece called 4’33” that asks the musicians to not play. The score is devoid of musical notes. The first movement is thirty-three seconds in duration; then two minutes, forty seconds; then one minute and twenty seconds. David Tudor, the first to perform the piece in Woodstock, New York, opened and closed his piano’s lid to signify each transition between movements. Any instrument is welcome, so a violinist might alternately pick up and set down her bow. Yet the instructions are clear: Tacet, borrowed from Latin for “(it) is silent.”
Cage was inspired by artists’ in other disciplines explored variations on silence. Merce Cunningham’s choreography of stillness marked kinetic silence; Robert Rauschenberg’s all-white canvasses offered visual silence. Just as those artworks demand engagement even in the absence of traditional stimuli, Cage’s composition becomes an invitation to active listening. Those four minutes and thirty-three seconds shouldn’t be an act of waiting for the ending; listen to the ambient, incidental noise framed in that time. A squeaking chair. Your own heartbeat.
How does this translate to sales relationships? Four minutes and thirty-three second would be, admittedly, an over-long stretch to sit in silence during a meeting. That said, let Cage inspire you to redefine your understanding of what someone’s “answer” is, when you ask a question. The composition of their answer doesn’t start with when they start to speak; their answer starts with the silence preceding those words. Sometimes, that performance—complete with breath, sigh, squeaking chair—conveys critical data about where your partner’s pain points reside.
In February 2004, the Hirshhorn Museum kept its doors open from 5:30 PM on a Saturday to 5:30 PM on a Sunday, an all-night access opportunity that drew in about 4,400 people from every corner of Washington, D.C., including me. The focal point was the Scottish artist Douglas Gordon’s video installation of “24 Hour Psycho.” Gordon’s work strips Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 movie of its soundtrack, and projects two frames per second on a floor-to-ceiling translucent screen. Viewers can watch those 109 minutes, while watching each other watch the film.
The truth is, I’ve never been a fan of suspense movies. I spend so much energy trying to anticipate twists and scares that I never feel entirely present. Witnessing Psycho set at a glacial pace took the tension out of the experience, and I mean that in the best possible way. I could finally appreciate Hitchcock’s cropping, his mastery of the camera, Janet Leigh’s eyes and Anthony Perkins’ grimace. What previously felt unmanageable as a viewing experience, because of the fear I brought to the medium, now offered room to move around and respond.
There’s a natural human tendency, in moments of tension, to speed up. Sales conversations sometimes go awry because what you want to do is impress your potential client or partner that you have the answers, but what your rate of reply does is suggest the very opposite. Try the Douglas Gordon approach and slow down. This might require cues as literal as spelling the word out to yourself in silence, “S-L-O-W,” before opening your mouth to speak. By taking authority over the material you’re about to share, quell the other person’s anxiety—and your own.
When I spend time with visual artists, they sometimes express envy that the materials of my craft are so easily portable. The painter has to worry about packing acrylics, canvas, brushes. The writer has to pack her laptop or notebook, sure, but her fundamental medium of language won’t get damaged by the flight home. Conceptual artists travel lightest of all, because so often their materials are completely immaterial. Yoko Ono, a Fluxist artist who emphasizes process, sculpts pieces from the performance of silence, and of time passing.
John Lennon first met Yoko Ono through the “Unfinished Paintings” show that she installed at London’s Indica Gallery in November 1966. One piece, “Apple,” consisted of a green apple on a clear pedestal; the presumption is that the fruit ages naturally, then rots. In a 2021 Tweet, Ono remarked, “There is the excitement of the apple decomposing, and then the decision as to whether to replace it, or just thinking of the beauty of that apple after it’s gone.” Lennon was amused by the piece’s cheeky intelligence, as well as its 200-pound price tag.
Ono’s 1964 literary masterwork, Grapefruit, is a book that uses modest wording to propose instructions for practices of living. As part of the “Tape Piece” series, “Stone Piece” asks the reader to “Take the sound of a stone aging,” whereas “Snow Piece” asks us to “Take a tape of the sound of the snow / falling.” These are assignments that, as with Cage, ask us to reconsider what we might casually dismiss as silence. Ono’s attitude toward time is that it is a construct deeply related to selfhood. Her “Clock Piece” radicalizes time to the individual’s measure:
Select a clock.
Set it on time.
You may rewind the clock but never
reset it.
Call it your life clock.
Live accordingly.
(1964 spring)
Taking us back to Neruda, let’s stop for a second. Show how you value every minute you offer someone, and how you value every minute they offer in return. Slow pacing to minimize fear. Wield silence as an opportunity for active listening. The art of sales is rooted in authentic and sincere attention to these nuances of exchange. Next week, we’ll focus on understanding how your partners, prospects, and clients activate that art form alongside you.
We can help your team with both the science and the art of sales. Reach us a mastery@maestrogroup.co for more information on training, coaching, and consulting.
Get the Maestro Mastery Blog, straight to your inbox.
