This is a close to perfect package, little changed over more than nine decades. It communicates that the gum is both cool and sharp, and the big arrow on the little packet draws the eye.
Here is an excerpt from the first chapter, "What's in a Package":
When you put yourself behind a shopping cart, the world changes. You become an active consumer, and you are moving through environments--the supermarket, the discount store, the warehouse club, the home center--that have been made for you.
During the 30 minutes you spend on an average trip to the supermarket, about 30,000 different products vie to win your attention, and ultimately make you believe in the promise of the product. When the door opens, automatically, before you, you enter an arena where your emotions and your appetites are in play, and a walk down the aisle is an exercise in self-definition. Are you a good parent, a good provider? Do you have time to do all you think you should, and would you be interested in a shortcut? Are you worried about your health and that of those you love? Do you care about the environment? Do you appreciate the finer things in life? Is your life what you would like it to be? Are you enjoying what you've accomplished? Wouldn't you really like something chocolate?
Few experiences in contemporary life offer the visual intensity of a Safeway, a Krogers, a Pathmark or a Piggly Wiggly. No marketplace in the world--not Marrakesh or Calcutta or Hong Kong--offers so many different goods with such focused salesmanship as your neighborhood supermarket where you're exposed to 1,000 different products a minute. No wonder it's tiring to shop.
There are, however, some major differences between the supermarket and a traditional marketplace. The cacophony of a traditional market has given way to programmed, innocuous music, punctuated by enthusiastically intoned commercials. A stroll through a traditional market offers an array of sensuous aromas; if you are conscious of smelling something in a supermarket, there is a problem. The life and death matter of eating, expressed in traditional markets by the sale of vegetables with stems and roots and hanging animal carcasses, is purged from the supermarket, where food is processed somewhere else, or at least trimmed out of sight.
But the most fundamental difference between a traditional market and the places through which you push your cart is that in a modern retail setting, nearly all the selling is done without people. The product is totally dissociated from the personality of any particular person selling it--with the possible exception of those who appear in its advertising. The supermarket purges sociability, which slows down sales. It allows manufacturers to control the way they present their products to the world. It replaces people with packages.
Packages are an inescapable part of modern life. They are omnipresent and invisible, deplored and ignored. During most of your waking moments, there are one or more packages within your field of vision. Packages are so ubiquitous that they slip beneath conscious notice, though many packages are designed so that people will respond to them even if they're not paying attention.
Once you begin pushing the shopping cart, it matters little whether you are in a supermarket, a discount store or a warehouse club. The important thing is that you are among packages: expressive packages intended to engage your emotions, ingenious packages that make a product useful, informative packages that help you understand what you want and what you're getting. Historically, packages are what made self-service retailing possible, and in turn, such stores increased the number and variety of items people buy. Now, a world without packages is unimaginable.
Packages lead multiple lives. They preserve and protect, allowing people to make use of things that were produced far away, or a while ago. And they are potently expressive. They assure that an item arrives unspoiled, and they help those who use the item feel good about it.
We share our homes with hundreds of packages, mostly in the bathroom and kitchen, the most intimate, body-centered rooms of the house. Some packages--a perfume flacon, a ketchup bottle, a candy wrapper, a beer can--serve as permanent landmarks in people's lives that outlast homes, careers or spouses. But packages embody change, not just in their age-old promise that their contents are new and improved, but in their attempt to respond to changing tastes and achieve new standards of convenience. Packages record changing hairstyles and changing lifestyles. Even social policy issues are reflected. Nearly unopenable tamper-proof seals and other forms of closures testify to the fragility of the social contract, and the susceptibility of the great mass of people to the destructive acts of a very few. It was a mark of rising environmental consciousness when containers recently began to make a novel promise: "Less packaging."
For manufacturers, packaging is the crucial final payoff to a marketing campaign. Sophisticated packaging is one of the chief ways people find the confidence to buy. It can also give a powerful image to products and commodities that are in themselves characterless. In many cases, the shopper has been prepared for the shopping experience by lush, colorful print advertisements, 30-second television mini-dramas, radio jingles and coupon promotions. But the package makes the final sales pitch, seals the commitment, and gets itself placed in the shopping cart. Advertising leads consumers into temptation. Packaging is the temptation. In many cases it is what makes the product possible.
But the package is also useful to the shopper. It is a tool for simplifying and speeding decisions. Packages promise, and usually deliver, predictability. One reason you don't think about packages is that you don't need to. The candy bar, the aspirin, the baking powder or the beer in the old familiar package may, at times, be touted as new and improved, but it will rarely be very different.
You put the package into your cart, or not, usually without really having focused on the particular product or its many alternatives. But sometimes, you do examine the package. You read the label carefully, looking at what the product promises, what it contains, what it warns. You might even look at the package itself and judge whether it will, for example, reseal to keep a product fresh. You might consider how a cosmetic container will look on your dressing table, or you might think about whether someone might have tampered with it, or whether it can be easily recycled. The possibility of such scrutiny is one of the things that makes each detail of the package so important.
The environment through which you push your shopping cart is extraordinary because of the enormous amount of attention that has been paid to the packages that line the shelves. Most contemporary environments are landscapes of inattention. In housing developments, shopping centers, highways, office buildings and even furniture, design ideas are few and spread very thin. At the supermarket, each box and jar, stand-up pouch and squeeze bottle, each can and bag and tube and spray has been very carefully considered. Designers have worked and reworked the design on their computers and tested mock-ups on the store shelves. Refinements are measured in millimeters.
All sorts of retail establishments have been redefined by packaging. Drugs and cosmetics were among the earliest packaged products, and most drug stores now resemble small supermarkets. Liquor-makers use packaging to add a veneer of style to the intrinsic allure of intoxication, and some sell their bottle rather than the drink. It is no accident that vodka, the most characterless of spirits, has the highest profile packages. The local gas station sells sandwiches and soft drinks rather than tires and motor oil, and in turn, these products have been attractively repackaged for sales at supermarkets, warehouse clubs and home centers.
With its thousands of images and messages, the supermarket is as visually dense, if not as beautiful, as a Gothic cathedral. It is as complex and as predatory as a tropical rain forest. It is more than a person can possibly take in during an ordinary half-hour shopping trip. No wonder a significant percentage of people who need to wear eyeglasses don't wear them when they're shopping, and some researchers have spoken of the trance-like state that pushing a cart through this environment induces. The paradox here is that the visual intensity that overwhelms shoppers is precisely the thing that makes the design of packages so crucial. Just because you're not looking at a package, it doesn't mean you don't see it. Most of the time, you see far more than a container and a label. You see a personality, an attitude toward life, perhaps even a set of beliefs.
The shopper's encounter with the product on the shelf is, however, only the beginning of the emotional life cycle of the package. The package is very important in the moment when the the shopper recognizes it either as an old friend or a new temptation. But once the product is brought home, the package seems to disappear, as the quality or usefulness of the product it contains becomes paramount. But in fact, many packages are still selling even at home, enticing those who have bought them to take them out of the cupboard, the closet or the refrigerator and consume their contents. Then, once the product has been used up, and the package is empty, it becomes suddenly visible once more. This time, though, it is trash that must be discarded or recycled. This instant of disposal is the time when people are most aware of packages. It is a negative moment, like the end of a love affair, and what's left seems to be a horrid waste.