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The High Cost of Gratitude
A week ago last Saturday I attended a performance of the Cypress Quartet that was presented in the Candlelight Concerts Series by Dumbarton Concerts. Performances are presented in the Dumbarton Methodist Church in Washington, DC. Built in 1774, the church has spawned a number of other Methodist houses of worship here.
As one might expect in such a setting, the atmosphere was lovely. The church, which is in old Georgetown, is only a few minute’s walk from my former residence. It is ensconced in an elegant, leafy old neighborhood replete with grand old manses, wrought iron fences, climbing ivy, chic boutiques, tony hair salons, bistros, and the occasional solemn old cemetery.
I loved going back to the old neighborhood. As I climbed the stairs to the dignified - if somewhat austere - sanctuary where the concert would be held, I felt as if I were ascending to a place where one would delight in hearing chamber music: a relatively intimate room where candlelight caressed high plaster ceilings. Toward the front of the room were pews - not unexpected in a church - and folding chairs filled out the seating complement at the back.
When I entered the room, an usher approached me, looked at my ticket and told me in an almost, but not quite, officious tone to take a seat on the folding chairs at the back. “The front seating area is reserved for subscribers,” she advised with the kind of penetrating look that I remember my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Tuttle, having mastered. I mentioned offhandedly that I was a guest of the Quartet, and the usher repeated that the seats at the front were reserved “exclusively for subscribers.”
I felt somewhat conflicted in that moment. I was there to hear and watch the Quartet perform. It was important to me to get a real sense of their performance - for their benefit - and I feared I might not get the job done from the back of the church. I really didn’t wish to argue - or to press my mission there for fear of seeming pompously self-important, so I took my seat at the back and hoped for the best. I heard them just fine. I couldn’t see them at all.
I do not want, in this blog post, to seem critical of either Dumbarton Concert Series or of the usher who greeted me. I understand that the usher was doing her job as best she knew how and that Dumbarton Concerts is doing its very best to reward subscribers for their support by giving them the best seating possible. But, I wonder if they know (or if most presenters know?) just how high a price is paid to reward subscribers?
I am a seasoned concert attender. I understand how the customs in our business work. In this case, I was also a first-timer to this experience and to this organization. If I honestly describe my experience, I will tell you that I felt almost unwelcome, and I understand that this reaction isn't fair, especially given what I know. This is why feelings are so tricky; the amygdala (center of feelings in brain) has no editor. Feelings, by definition, are not rational. I could not help but ponder my feelings throughout the performance because, in terms of my feelings, my experience was colored by the way I was treated. I could not help feeling annoyed by the many empty seating areas of the pews toward the front. My presence there would not have impacted any subscriber’s reward. In real terms, my treatment didn’t reward subscribers, it penalized any attender giving the organization a try for the first time.
I couldn’t help but look around the room at the balance of the audience. As is largely the case with classical music audiences - and chamber music particularly - the audience was almost exclusively sixty years of age and older. I counted fewer than ten people under the age of thirty.
At a time when it is important to attract both more people and younger people, treating single-ticket buyers in a demonstrably inferior manner to subscribers creates unintended consequences. These policies will not build audiences, create new donors, or make friends. Effective incentive and rewards strategies should be more discreet. They should be known by the rewarded, create incentives for those who we wish to adopt a new behavior, but not be so heavy-handed as to alienate the very people we want to entrench further in our organizational family.
Will single ticket buyers return to become a part of an organization that treats them this way? Dumbarton Concerts may believe that they are keeping their subscribers by doing this, but they aren’t making friends of new audiences, no matter how well-intentioned they might be.
So why am I raising this issue? Why am I "picking on" this gallant little organization doing God's work advancing chamber music? Let me make this clear: I am on their side. This isn't really about Dumbarton Concerts because this is how single ticket buyers are treated in most venues. I'm raising this issue because in the course of our work, we run analytics protocols to analyze audience participation patterns. With almost all of our clients, a significant majority of new attenders never return for another performance. So, we are intensely focused on the high cost of acquiring audiences and the tragedy of burning through them. We don't believe that organizations - and the sector at large - can afford to pay the astronomically high costs of attracting new audiences only to lose them.
Increasingly, current and potential audiences make plans at the last minute. Subscription is a modality of purchase that has nothing to do with love of the art and everything to do with the exigencies of modern life, pressing schedules, and surprise fatigue. If someone answers an urge to hear a great performance in a wonderful space, they should be happy they stumbled upon such a wonderful evening. Preserving that feeling - and building on it - is something to which Dumbarton Concerts specifically and arts presenting organizations as a whole should attend themselves.
There is a happy ending to my tale. The Cypress Quartet exceeded every possible expectation with which I arrived. Their musical sound, which is elegantly natural and opulently colored, bloomed in the space. The Cypress Quartet is always in tune and they never rush. Most satisfying to my taste, they do not varnish the music with tortured angst and moody outbursts. When the music is sunny, so are they and so it is with every season and hour. They bring freshness, maturity, and skill to their playing. For me, this was such a blessing. And I owe this wonderful experience to the Dumbarton Concerts organization. For that I am grateful.
At the end of the evening, the audience was invited to a space below the sanctuary on the ground floor to enjoy dessert, champagne, and raise a glass to celebrate Dumbarton Concerts 30 years of presenting music in Washington. The sense of community and amiability in that room was palpable. Clearly, the people who run Dumbarton Concerts have done a lot right in their 30 years of service. They deserve to flourish for another 30 years. I, for one, will return for future performances.
I hope that they rethink their approach to audiences, however, and I say that not for my benefit, but for theirs. Audience participation patterns are changing. Building audiences, especially in Washington, is challenging. First impressions matter. When the warmth in their welcome matches the ambience of the space, they will have created a competitive advantage when it comes to delivering a differentiated experience. So many arts experiences in Washington leave audiences feeling anonymous; that doesn't have to be true at Dumbarton Concerts.
Posted on October 25, 2007 08:02 AM | Permalink
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