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Stanley Marcus (1905-2002),
an early mentor to Levenger
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W
hen my wife and I began Levenger, an experienced manufacturer’s
representative asked me if I had any retail background. "No," I
admitted.
"Well,
if you’re even thinking of going into retail, go out and buy a book
called Minding the Store by Stanley Marcus and read it." I did
and it changed my life.
The
book is a memoir and a history of Neiman Marcus, but for me it was far
more. It demonstrated that being a merchant could be a noble
profession—something well beyond just buying and selling merchandise.
Mr. Stanley (as his admirers called him, to distinguish him from his
father) took retailing to a new level—a level of extravaganza and
sensational "His and Her" gifts. He created a canny salmagundi of
luxurious products mixed with true affection for customers, suppliers and
staff. After reading the book, I knew I had found my calling. I aspired to
follow in Mr. Stanley’s footsteps by giving customers more than they
expected.
When
I wrote him a fan letter, Mr. Stanley instantly wrote back with words of
praise and encouragement for our fledgling enterprise. This led to
friendship and mentorship beyond my greatest hopes. I soon learned that
our good fortune was not unique. It seemed that everywhere I went and
talked to people in retail, Mr. Stanley had helped in some way. Nearly
everyone knew him, had heard him speak, or had somehow been touched by the
Merchant Prince of retailing.
The
thousands of alumni who have attended Mr. Stanley’s informal school of
retailing can share such Mr. Stanley-isms as "It’s not a good sale
unless it’s a good value for the customer" and "The quality is
remembered long after the price is forgotten." And a more subtle lesson:
that high sales numbers are not the most important thing. If a product
doesn’t fit in your store, or isn’t at the appropriate taste level for
your brand, the more you sell of it, the worse it is.
We
learned this firsthand. In the early years at Levenger, we made what I
considered to be very nice T-shirts for serious readers. The shirts were
selling well. Mr. Stanley called me to say, "Steve, I don’t care how
many T-shirts you can sell, they don’t belong in your catalog." We
never carried another.
Yet what I
admired most in Mr. Stanley was not his guidance in retailing but the
other things he loved and did. He excelled at writing, speaking, and
especially at reaching out to newcomers like us.
Early
in our relationship, he invited my wife, Lori, and me to his home in Sante
Fe. We had never met, yet here he was, inviting just the two of us to his
home. Lori and I were nervous about meeting this legend. But he and his
wife, Linda, immediately made us feel comfortable—especially after he
literally broke the ice by spilling it all over the floor while attempting
to make drinks. That evening over dinner we talked not about business but
about primitive art and the local museum he had helped to found, about the
history of the Anastazi Indians, about anthropology and politics. And we
learned of his love of books, which was as deep as his love of retailing.
He
was a master of the gift—both giving and receiving. When Lori arranged
for us to be far off in a tiny Irish village for her 40th
birthday, somehow, Mr. Stanley found out and arranged to have iced
champagne delivered to our room. On one visit to his Dallas office, I came
from my mother’s home in Nevada, carrying a humble gift of a dozen eggs
freshly laid from her chickens. His words of joyful appreciation for fresh
eggs, written to my mother and me, recounting his boyhood in Texas, are
something we both will treasure.
One December
day I asked him if he had finished his Christmas shopping. "Yes," he
said. "I shop all year long, and at Christmas, I put everything I’ve
bought out on my bed and if that person hasn’t died, I send it to
them."
I
once introduced Mr. Stanley for a speech saying, "To give you some
perspective, Mr. Marcus was vice president of marketing at Neiman Marcus
in 1926." How rare it was to be able to learn from a man who had been
too old to serve in World War Two (although he contributed mightily to the
war effort).
I
can see Mr. Stanley now, rising not far above the lectern, filling his
immaculate suit well, his eyes twinkling, advising us workaday merchants
to "create an inspirational selling environment for your customers."
Yet how can we inspire as he has? How can we hope to fill his shoes—this
man with a Rolodex as big around as a California redwood and whose volume
of correspondence rivals the Department of State’s?
Was
Mr. Stanley larger than life? It seemed so. But maybe Mr. Stanley just
showed us how large life can be.
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