I recently made a guest teaching appearance at the University of Helsinki and got an interesting glimpse into contrasting cultural values. I was teaching for a graduate seminar on Museum Management, and I had asked the students to read Good to Great and the Social Sectors, by Jim Collins. Collins wrote this little book as a follow-up to his how-to for business leaders, called just Good to Great. He had found that many leaders in non-profits (the social sector) were indiscriminately applying the points in his book, and pushing their staffs to run their organizations "like a business." Collins sees this as a mistake. "Why business thinking is not the answer" for nonprofits, says the tagline for the book says.
Collins goes on to explain that businesses have a straightforward way of defining success: making money. Nonprofits, though, are by definition mission-driven: they need to bring benefit to the public, enhance the lives of their constituents. If social sector leaders consider only the financial bottom line--and design their organizations to enhance it--they will fail to serve their communities and, probably, will fall short financially, too. Nonprofits needs to make themselves essential to their constituents in a deeper way that is less quantifiable but actually more likely to bring funds from a host of sources (not just ticket sales, but foundations, donors, governments, etc.).
I find Collins's message useful to museums in a time when so much of the field faces a financial crunch. You can focus on creating transformative experiences for your audiences not just because you are a starry-eyed do-gooder but because you want to build a solid foundation of support for your institution.
Collins goes on to say, though, that while for-profits and non-profits need to define success differently, many of his other principles for building great business organizations do apply to the social sector. One such principle is to have a clear sense of who you are and who you're not as an institution. Knowing what makes you special and different enables you to present yourself clearly to would-be supporters and, importantly, it tells you when to say no to potential projects or partners that you could do but shouldn't. A single-minded focus on your core identity--what Collins calls your "hedgehog concept"--conserves your resources and lets you shine in your distinctive way. A core part of being a good manager is to find people to work at your institution who are passionate about what makes our organization special. You want those people "on your bus," says Collins, before you set off to make your mark as an organization. And people who don't share the idealism about the path you're going on? You don't want them working for you. Even though it's hard to push people aside (especially in non-profits), you need them "off the bus."
I've taught Collins's book to graduate students several times, and right away I was impressed by the Helsinki group. They had done their homework, and we quickly got on the table a summary of Collins's main argument and definitions of his concepts and sometimes idiosyncratic terminology ("Why a hedgehog?" was the first question. The answer has to do with a fable about a flighty fox vs. a steadfast hedgehog.).
But when we began to evaluate the pros and cons of Collins's argument, the discussion took a surprising turn. "What happens to the people who get pushed off the bus?" one student asked. Honestly, I had never given them much thought, and I had never had a student raise that concern. After some hesitation, I ventured that I imagine that we hope they find another bus? one that better suits their passion? After a pause, another student asked, "Why does every institution need to be great anyway? If everyone is trying to be great, they might tear each other down." "What about the common good?" chimed in a third student. Now this was going in an interesting direction! Another student raised a related concern: "Sometimes if you're only satisfied with being the very best, work can take over. There are other important things in life, and you need to make time for them, too."
I really can't imagine having this conversation in America: Great is great, right? What was going on here?
Part of the answer, I think, has to do with the current political moment in Finland and the life stage of these emerging professionals. The renowned social welfare system here is under some strain and is being questioned in some quarters. Some politicians are proposing scaling back the generosity of support for health and education and increasing the requirements to receive unemployment benefits. These young people look ahead and see uncertainty. As well, they are entering a field with somewhat shaky prospects. Museums in Finland seem to receive far more government funding than those at home (and certainly a higher percentage of their funding comes from governmental sources), but that does not necessarily translate into a flush hiring environment. I have met many skilled professionals in museums and universities here who are working on temporary contracts, of from six months to three years.
So some of the response to Good to Great may be particular to this group of students at this moment. At the same time, I think the discussion does point to a different, deeply ingrained set of assumptions about the shape and power of public life. People here have a core recognition that they are a "they." The life they aspire to brings collective prosperity and equality. They are on the bus together.
One trope about Finns that does seem to hold water, in my experience so far, is that it is frowned upon for an individual person to stand out too much. Finns are proud of their heroes, but they are expected to retain their humbleness and not be self-promotional. Yesterday, my wife and I went to our first professional hockey game, in the Gatorade Center in Turku: the hometown TPO team versus the KalPa team from nearby Kuopio. While there were thousands of people there, the scene seemed notably restrained to us. Most striking were the moments of crowd participation. The KissCam brought some looks of pure anguish from the people on screen. People in the stands who, between periods, won prizes from the beaming host looked mostly regretful: I'm sorry this had to happen, but thank you for this (watch? suitcase? 10,000 Euro? We could never tell what exactly they had won.).
I hesitate to make definitive cultural conclusions based on just these few anecdotes, but they have given me a lot to consider. For now, I'm left with this: it takes a lot of individual effort to build a strong public institution; but knowing who you are--and whether "you" is singular or plural--seems like an important first step.
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