Rudolf Halabi - "but call me Rudy or Rudz" - and
myself meet over coffee. Well, figuratively that is, because he is having
coffee in Riyadh, while I am having coffee at my home office. Halabi must have
been excellent at Math, because somehow, he is good at going off on tangents.
"I have a very checkered past!" he smiles. Smiles is a euphemism for
something that fills the screen with excitement.
Truth be told, the excitement is contagious because even
with his vast experience, Halabi still has the childlike wonder. Apparently,
advertising was not even supposed to be on the map. He studied graphic novels
at the prestigious Angouleme. “Did you know that to make the skin in its actual
tone you needed to add blue, otherwise it would be dull and flat?” – when I
spoke of tangents I meant them.
The conversation with Halabi ebbs and flows. “… then in 1983
I met Farid and it all went from there”. Farid, is how we all call Farid
Chehab, the mighty chairman Emeritus of Leo Burnett MEA. It was “the mother of
a childhood friend” who introduced him to Farid. Funnily, as always with Halabi
this hides another truth. The “mother” in question is one of Beirut’s most
famous socialites, and the “childhood friend” went on to become a minister in
one of Lebanon’s governments.
“But – oh all right you can print this if you wish – during
the war,” I needed for him to clarify that it was the end chapters of the
1975-1990 war in Lebanon, “I did have ideological skirmishes which translated
into mostly silly, short-lived, gun totting – or Kalashnikov-totting bursts.
From several sides if you believe it. We were called the Sebago platoon because
we were all French-speaking and a bit uppity. Well, you can’t be uppity when a
rat joins your sleeping bag. I couldn’t sleep for a week! Did you know that….”
And off to another delightful tangent.
Some of the things Halabi does say, are – despite his
authorization – not exactly fit to print. But then, they are part of the
pattern of anyone growing up – not just in Lebanon – but perhaps outside of it as
well. Then he goes endearingly on a totally non-related story: “Oh listen to
this, we were once at a brainstorming for Avis. And I remembered this story,
with my father’s job we used to change countries like other people would change
underwear. And because of this it was difficult to make friends because I kept
changing schools. So my father became my best friend.”
At that point I knew there was much more to the story, but
you need to let Halabi tell his stories at his rhythm. “And I used to look at
the window waiting for him, and count the cars, one after the other, and then
I’d know he’s home when the car with the Avis sticker would show up.” Halabi is
so vivid in his descriptions, you cannot but be excited that a car with an Avis
sticker had pulled into the parking lot.
I am not even sure how we got to the conversation but Halabi
has 43,000 graphic novels, thankfully in digital format because I do not know
how one can store those physically. The fact that he has actually read them,
not just collected them, tells you a lot about his personality. “Did you see my
Instagram page?”. I did and so
should you, dear reader. Also, and this is another claim to fame, his Linkedin page
– which should also be consulted, but the content of which - mostly AI works - would be talked
about later.
As we bantered on and on Halabi asks where I am in Lebanon.
My answer gets him to enthusiastically say “oh that was part of the Rallye de
Montagne, I illustrated all their ads back in the 80s”. Actually, during his
Leo Burnett days, Halabi was part of that iconic run for Dewar’s White Label.
“We shot them all in one go in London, but they had to be drip-fed on
television, and really, I was part of the “age d’or” of advertising in Lebanon
including the Phenix Awards”. The Phenix de la pub was launched in 1993 by the
International Advertising Association (IAA) Lebanon Chapter and LBC, these were
specifically for TV commercials. The live broadcasts and high visibility of
this award show introduced the layman to the industry at large.
Halabi started an ad agency Called “Advitam” in 1998 with 3
other partners, some were directly involved and others as just silent partners,
which lasted until 2003. In 2004 he received a job offer to join Promoseven
Jeddah – according to him “an offer I couldn’t refuse, no Godfather puns
please” he adds with a smile. “FP7 however only lasted for one year. (Former
Prime Minister) Hariri was assassinated and things weren’t well in Lebanon. So
I ended up joining Leo (Burnett) by end of 2005 in Riyadh.” Halabi adds with
excitement, “I had the best years of my life for 4 years. Then I resigned and
went back to Jeddah to be – wait for it - on the client side for two years.
Then back to Riyadh to join DDB. Are you still following?” He kindly asks.
Before I manage to answer anything about the back and forth and geographically-challenged
story, he deadpans – “Every year I would tell myself: that’s it … that’s last
year.”
Spoiler alert. It was not his last year. Halabi goes on in
his sprint saying, “two factors didn’t Permit me to leave and I don’t regret
it: the money lured me to stay and I had to pay for a proper education for my
son Robert.” Which kind of makes sense when one looks at it. I managed to
squeeze the words “money well-spent”.
Halabi however does look back with a very sunny outlook, not
that he is wearing any pink-lensed glasses or anything but he admits that “my
entire journey in Saudi Arabia was and still a blessing. Saudis are good people
with values and they are generous with a great sense of hospitality. We had
mutual respect”.
Lebanon and the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia are however two
different beasts. Halabi admits that “there are no similarities at all between
advertising for a homogeneous market where everyone understands the same slang
and wittiness like in Lebanon and the gulf advertising that is more produced
for a wider heterogeneous variety of people.” He does explain further however,
that “you might find some similarities in corporate ads and emotional tones but
it stops there. Of course now that the medium became limited to social media in
general …” he takes a breath and announces the verdict that “all communication
styles merged and at the mercy of the algorithm. Back in the days we were
limited by 60 seconds to tell a story nowadays stories which nowadays became
short films.”
Also, and this is where Halabi speaks about the demographic
element, “each gulf country’s style is determined by the bulk of its workforce
… if the majority of your population speaks Urdu … you better communicate in
Urdu culture as well.”
Unlike any advertising person with major experience behind
their back, Halabi voices what others tend to hide, “to be honest I have a love
and hate relationship with advertising.” Like all of us, he admits that “maybe
in the beginning I was excited about learning and exploring. Then I realized
how scientific it is and how stiff people who weren’t creative are. I tried to
bend this rigidity by consoling everyone telling them anyone can be creative
even planners or client service people…”
Halabi ended up regretting the experience, “because they
believed me and they thought they can do it…” he takes a breath before saying,
“after more than three decades and a half in the business, good briefs were as
rare as diamonds. Nowadays I’ll be more cautious talking a brief coming from a
person who rarely reads or who is too young to handle the brand or client he’s
handling.”
The sentence he utters next might seem unconnected, even if
any veteran in the field can understand how it comes after what was said prior:
“I haven’t changed” then choosing his words carefully he adds, “I evolved, and
now I have more boldness filter out what won’t serve me.”
The conversation suddenly takes a circular turn towards the
beginning, about this training for graphic novels, the advent of the MAC and
how technology is evolving at a breakneck speed. Halabi admits that “even when
I was studying in Angouleme… we were exposed to the first digital tablet at the
time its name was Quantas, and we learned that some professional graphic novel
artists have already tried it.” Interestingly, Halabi says the he “was also
raised in a family familiar with the first Personal Computers – more
specifically the Commodore Amiga. And I always embraced new technologies if
they would render my work faster.”
Halabi goes more into personal stories connected to the same
theme saying “When others were investing in buying the latest airbrush I took a
loan to get my first Macintosh and this is why “1984 will not be like 1984”” he
adds quoting the legendary ad. He sighs and does a quick brushing gesture with
his hand saying “there was the same resistance from people refusing change and
evolve. A similar resistance to the one we have today AI.”
For Halabi some things simply made sense, beyond the tool
itself. “In Angouleme there was a teacher who taught us that the pen or brush
or pencil are just tools and the artistic flow comes from the brain and the arm
is just an instrument that moves at the rhythm of the thought,” he smiles and
says in a logical tone: “and that was enough for me to embrace a computer mouse
or a digital pen as simply a tool. Even now with AI the source hasn’t changed.
It’s still the brain …”
Fittingly, our conversation turns to the future. As to where
he feels we are going in the creative world, in advertising and outside of it
with the advent of these changes. “Let’s say you’re an architect and I’m a
builder, if you want me to build what you have in mind, I need to see either a
detailed text explains what you want or sketch.”
On a more practical note he offers that “pointers
immortalized people and locations. Writers wrote books on analog hard disks
books depicting stories and references and biographies.” And this is when he
ties everything neatly together with a ribbon, “but if tomorrow you’ll be able
to communicate and use your brainwaves to tell me what you want as architect
and I’ll be able to show it to you done and dusted before it’s built then we
are heading toward a new realm where nothing will exist tangibly.”
He makes a very serious face and says: “There will be no
more collective advertising where everyone sees and hears the same ad. How I
see to it there would be no element that will pollute our minds or work as an
intermediary between the image we see or words we hear.”
Out of nowhere, yet seemingly fitting the entangled
narrative, Halabi confesses that he is “a good Lego builder”. It all reminded
me of the iconic ad “what it is, is beautiful”. And before the conversation
drifts off, way behind the allotted time, Halabi sneaks in “have you seen
Kagemusha by Akira Kurosawa?” sending me this time on a tangent of my own.
