The Harvey G. Lewis Award for Outstanding Achievement in Copywriting
(originally appeared in Good Use)

My fellow copywriters, tonight, we honor one of our own.

I submit for your appreciation the Land o' Lakes four-stick carton, a timeless marriage of text and imagery. The Indian maid kneels submissively on a grassy hill whose gentle swelling echoes her own fertile hips, offering up in her fair-skinned hands an oversized box of this very same product. To her left: Sweet Cream. To her right: Salted. The back panel elegantly joins butter, the simple life, and the consumer in a mere thirty-five word text element. On one end, a proud USDA Grade AA label in patriotic red, white, and blue; on the other, a guarantee of satisfaction. On the bottom panel, fat content and calorie details have been kept out of sight and out of mind. Everything about this package makes it unmistakably clear that this is the finest butter you can buy.

But the devil is in the details, and the kingdom was lost for want of a nail. Today's cluttered consumer messaging environment impels us to see every printable space as an opportunity to make an impression, pre-purchase and post-purchase alike, and every word we use as a potential hero in the battle for mindshare and aspirational alignment.

That's why Harvey G. Lewis knew better than to be satisfied with a package that was only perfect on the outside.

Those of you who knew Harvey know that one of the things that made his copy so effective was his ability to think, feel, and act like a consumer. He knew that each carton of butter starts its working life the same way: with a tug of the tear strip. The outer flaps are folded aside, revealing the inner flaps. On one flap, the color separation registration marks. And on the right, a simple sentence that speaks volumes. About butter. About Harvey G. Lewis. About why we do what we do, and why it matters.

One simple sentence:

"Ask for Land o' Lakes Butter at your favorite restaurant!"

Let's just let that sit for a moment. How could one sentence say so very much? Starting right with the very first word—it's an imperative, and yet a gentle one, sibilant, unassuming, ending in the lovable klutz of the alphabet. And again, what is our imperative to the consumer? To ask! To make a request, to empower their preferences, to order the world to their liking. To imagine that such a life of privilege might me—nay, must be—their inalienable right.

The headwaiter leans forward, deferential and attentive, his tuxedo crisp, a clean linen cloth draped over his arm. Yes, Mr. Consumer? For of course, the guest is well known here, has been coming here for years, is greeted by name by the staff and enjoys the finest of service. The butter, sir? You'd like Land o' Lakes brand? His demeanor remains professional, but mentally he is kicking himself. Of course, of course, how could I not have assumed that this would be your butter of choice, the best sweet cream salted butter available, not this inferior grade to which we subject the rest of our patrons—the butter dish is already gone, whisked behind his back en route to the dumpster. Later, when the dinner rush has passed, there will be heated words exchanged among the headwaiter, the chef, the manager—how could this have happened? What kind of penance is in order? How will we make amends to Mr. Consumer?

But for now, time is of the essence. Can one of the busboys be trusted? Absolutely not—there is no room for error. The headwaiter's keys are already in his hand, his Pontiac burns rubber in three gears, he leaves it running in front of the 7-11.

Back at the restaurant, Mr. Consumer sighs. Perhaps next time he will be greeted by the best of butters. At least the rolls are hot, releasing a breath of steam as he tears one open and prepares to eat it sans beurre—but just then, at that very moment, here is the headwaiter, his bow tie a few degrees askew, panting, a triumphant smile on his face, and in his hand—yes! A stick of Land o' Lakes, still bearing the imprints of the foil wrapper, placed unceremoniously on the center of a salad plate to await the knife—for of course, the presentation is strictly secondary. What matters here is the butter. What matters is the consumer.

What matters, ladies and gentlemen, is that Harvey G. Lewis cared enough to go the extra mile.

When the board of governors decided to establish an award for outstanding achievement in copywriting, we could think of no one better to name it for than Harvey G. Lewis. And who better to honor with the first such award given than Harvey himself?

Sadly, as you know, Harvey can't be here to receive this prestigious tribute in person. That tragic fire robbed the world of a lot more than just a rundown, roach-ridden residential hotel. It claimed as well one of the truly great talents of our time. Who would have known that one faulty hotplate could cause so great a loss. Harvey is gone, but never will he be forgotten. Wherever a copywriter strives thesaurus in hand for a fresher superlative, wherever a consumer is moved by words to extend the hand of desire, Harvey's spirit lives on.

Long may his work serve as an inspiration to us all.