Jan Vermeer van Delft - Het glas wijn (1658-60)

'Tranquillity is contagious, peace is contagious. One only thinks of the contagiousness of illness, but there is the contagion of serenity and joy.'
Anais Nin

In 2003 I introduced rosé wine to the UK.

I had attended a work conference in Provence and the light fruity taste of rosé seemed ideal for warm weather and mellow conversation. I liked its informality and optimism, its breezy style and sunny disposition. On my return I began ordering it in pub gardens and at pavement cafes. I took it to summer parties and evening barbecues. I may have attracted some curious glances at first. But soon everyone was drinking it.

A few years later I decided to cultivate an unshaven look. It suggested an appropriately rugged, romantic, Bohemian personality. I spent a night out in the bars and clubs of Hoxton and before too long the local hipsters had adopted my stubble.

What was going on? Why were people copying me?

On reflection I realised this was not a new phenomenon. I was the first person in the UK to listen to Neil Young. Now everyone likes him. I was the one who first selected Mini Cheddars (‘Baked not fried!’) as a pint accompaniment. And periodically I precipitate a fashion amongst young men for wearing their top buttons done up.

Sometimes it feels like we’re at the vanguard of change; that we’re leading the charge, setting the pace; pioneering new behaviours and attitudes. We feel we’re being original, inventive, individual. When really we’re just another link in the chain of transmission.

'I have often noticed how primate groups in their entirety enter a similar mood. All of a sudden, all of them are playful, hopping around. Or all of them are grumpy. Or all of them are sleepy and settle down. In such cases, the mood contagion serves the function of synchronizing activities.'
Frans de Waal, Primatologist

I read recently (The Guardian, 22 September, 'Mathematicans Discover Music Really Can Be Infectious') about a study carried out by a team from McMaster University in Ontario into the popularity of music downloads.

The researchers considered the thousand most downloaded songs in Britain between 2007 and 2014, analysing the speed with which they spread and the length of time that they remained popular. They discovered that the pattern of music downloads after their release closely resembled the epidemic curves for infectious disease.

Lead author Dora Rosati explained:

‘With a disease, if you come into contact with someone who is ill, then you have a certain chance of catching that disease. With songs, it looks very similar. The big difference is that for songs, it doesn’t necessarily have to be physical contact – it could be that my friend used this cool new song in their Instagram story, so now I’m going to go and find it.’

The research also established that the rate of reproduction (R number) varied significantly by musical genre. Songs classified as electronica were more than ten times more contagious than rap or hip-hop for example; and heavy metal was not very infectious at all. Which makes complete sense.

We may recognise the phenomenon of contagion in the world of commercial communication where for some years now we have talked about ‘viral marketing.’ Brand ideas are transmitted by personal contact and virtual interaction. At their best they multiply rapidly and exponentially; spread with accelerating speed and thrilling intensity.

And yet often we judge communication concepts as if they are fixed and stable; statically encountered and passively consumed. Surely the best ideas are kinetic and shifting. They earn attention rather than buying it.

It is helpful therefore to assess ideas in terms of their capacity for contagion.

What are we doing to make our idea more infectious than those of our competitors?

What is it about our idea that will make consumers copy and mimic it; participate and play with it; adopt and advocate it; adapt and distribute it?

What is our idea’s transmissive power? What is its R number?

'Pure truth cannot be assimilated by the crowd; it must be communicated by contagion.’
Henri-Frederic Amiel

I have in recent years developed a new sartorial variant in the form of a fisherman’s smock. I like its rugged cotton drill, roomy collars, functional pockets and the subtle suggestion of artisanal excellence. And I now have smocks in royal and navy blue and cadmium green. I was expecting my smock to be highly contagious. But curiously this has not so far proved to be the case.

'I'm always a flop at a top-notch affair,
But I've still got my health, so what do I care?
My best ring, alas, is a glass solitaire,
But I still got my health, so what do I care?
By fashion and foppery, I'm never discussed.
Attending the opry, my box would be a bust.
I never shall have that Park Avenue air,
But I'm in such health, why should I care?’
Ethel Merman, 'I've Still Got My Health’ (C Porter)

No. 346