Flor Nieto Blog

Better marketing, bigger opportunities

People judge in seconds. They decide if your product is worth buying, if your place is worth visiting, if your brand is worth trusting.

This is not superficial. This is human behavior.

Our brains use visuals to make quick decisions. According to research from Google, users form an opinion about a website in less than 50 milliseconds. The first impression shapes the entire buying journey. If a brand looks amateur, the mind automatically assigns low value. If it looks intentional, desirable, and premium, the mind assumes a higher value and better experience.

Beauty is not vanity. It is influence.

Marketing is the engine of business growth

Marketing is not something you add at the end to make your brand look cute. Marketing sets the strategy and the perception that drive sales and opportunities.

A brand that communicates poorly stays invisible.
A brand that communicates with clarity becomes undeniable.

Before and after strategy enters the room

Before:
• You post to fill space
• You compete on price
• You get attention for seconds
• You hope people find you

After:
• Your content becomes a conversion tool
• Your value lets you price higher
• Your brand is remembered and sought out
• You attract the right audience across borders

Design attracts. Strategy converts

Design makes someone stop. Strategy turns that attention into action. This mix is what turns marketing into money.

Brands that invest in strong branding and strategic content:

• Rank better online
• Sell without pushing
• Open global opportunities
• Reduce the need for discounts
• Become the category reference

The marketplace rewards brands that look premium and act premium.

The choice that changes everything

Your brand is one decision away from global. You can keep looking local, irregular, and inconsistent. Or you can look like the business you want to become worldwide.

Your content tells the world how to treat you.

Make sure it says you are worthy of investment. Worthy of trust. Worth flying across oceans for. Worth paying premium.

If you want a brand that looks premium and performs like it, let’s talk.

Schedule a call: info@theinmediato.com

Why I Started Writing Again (and Why the Internet Needs More Art)

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In 2017 I wrote a book inspired by Instagram and the internet, designed to be read in fifteen minutes. Nearly 200 pages, but conceived as an object-book meant to be marked, altered, intervened. It’s called Escritos Impacientes para gente sin tiempo (something like Impatient Writings for People with No Time)

I wanted to say a lot with very little, in a world already overflowing with too much of everything.

But now everything is short, fast, hook-driven. Everyone is selling something, everyone claims to have the perfect formula. Trends last less than a second, and brands produce content like sitcoms: five seconds of attention, six seconds to forget.

I love the internet. I studied it for my thesis, with Radiohead’s In Rainbows as a kind of manifesto. And long after that too. Even now. I was fascinated by the idea of sharing information, learning anything, listening to every piece of music in the world, changing something.

The problem isn’t speed. Speed can be fine. The problem is the lack of depth—and worse, the lack of soul.

That’s why we need more art. The kind that stays with you for the rest of the day after just five seconds.

All of this to say: I needed to start writing again. And reading. A lot.

__________✨

En 2017 escribí un libro inspirado por Instagram e Internet, para leerse en 15 minutos. Tiene casi 200 páginas y es una obra-objeto para intervenir. Se llama Escritos impacientes para gente sin tiempo.

Quería decir mucho con poco en un mundo de tanto todo.

Pero ahora todo es corto, rápido, con hook obligatorio. Todos venden algo, todos tienen la receta perfecta, los trends duran menos que un segundo y las marcas producen contenidos como sitcoms: cinco segundos de atención para olvidar en seis.

Amo Internet. La estudié en mi tesis con In Rainbows de Radiohead como manifiesto. Y mucho después también. Todavía. Me fascinaba la idea de compartir información, aprender cualquier cosa, escuchar toda la música del mundo, cambiar algo.

El problema no es la velocidad. Es la falta de profundidad, y peor: la falta de alma.

Por eso necesitamos más arte. Eso que en cinco segundos se queda con vos por el resto del día.

Todo esto para decir que necesitaba volver a escribir. Y leer. Mucho.

From Patagonia to Split: The Story Behind Adriatiko Barbershop

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Two years ago, we packed our lives in Argentina and moved to Croatia with nothing but courage, determination, and a dream of building a future connected to our roots. Today, that dream has taken shape at Adriatiko Barbershop — our third barbershop, but the very first in Split.

A Story of Return

Axel and I met in high school, long before we knew we were both Croatian descendants. Life took us down different paths for a while, but over ten years ago we reconnected — and this time, we never split again. In 2023, we married, and a few months later, we made the leap to Croatia with our little daughter.

For both of us, coming here wasn’t just moving abroad. It was a homecoming. Axel’s grandfather, Antonio Turk, and my great-grandfather, Nikola Karaman, were both Croatian. We grew up with stories of the sea, of migration, of building new lives on foreign shores. In 2024, after a long process, we became Croatian citizens — and Split officially became our home.

The Barber’s Journey

Axel Bosch is not just a barber — he is a craftsman, an instructor, a mentor, and an entrepreneur. He founded Atlántico Barbería Patagónica in Argentina, a traditional barbershop inspired by Patagonia’s pioneers and marked by its anchor symbol. In less than a year, Atlántico grew into two locations, becoming a cultural landmark in southern Argentina.

Axel trained with some of the best barbers in the world — Arcaicos (Colombia), Figaro’s (Portugal), Greaser Festival (Argentina), Santiago Green (Russia), and Joy’s Birth (Greece). He also became the official distributor of Fighters Pomade, the #1 barber product brand in Latin America.

For him, barbering has always been more than a profession. Every cut is a ritual, every shave an act of trust, every client a story shared. And he is amazingly good at it.

From Atlántico to Adriatiko

Adriatiko Barbershop was born from this same spirit — but with a new meaning.
It’s not just a place for haircuts. It’s a space with soul, where roots and stories matter. Where Croatians, returnees, and even the growing Latin community in Split can feel at home. A place where coffee is shared, sometimes a mate too, and conversations flow in Spanish, Croatian, and English.

Our walls are filled with photos of our families — grandfathers who rode motorcycles and built lives far from home, weddings that started new stories, and Patagonia landscapes that remind us of the Atlantic. Adriatiko is a tribute to them, and to the sea that always connects us back.

Building in Split

Opening a business in a new country is never easy. It has taken us months of patience, paperwork, and pure hard work. From searching for the right location to bringing our vision to life, every detail was made with love and purpose.

We chose the name Adriatiko because it carries the same spirit as Atlántico — a connection between two seas, two histories, and two identities. It’s about honoring the past while building the future.

More Than a Barbershop

For us, Adriatiko is:

A social club disguised as a barbershop.
A tribute to craft, brotherhood, and community.
A space that carries the courage of those who left, and the spirit of those who came back.

And for Axel, it’s also proof that with steady hands, patience, and passion, you can build something meaningful — no matter how far from home you start.

📍 Adriatiko Barbershop — Slavićeva 12, Split
www.adriatikobarbershop.com

Is it weird to model your career after a musician? Good

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Some people model their careers after thought leaders, CMOs, or iconic CEOs.

Me? I picked a musician who wrote about girls and parks and identity crises in the ’90s, founded a virtual band, composed an opera, and somehow made all of it make sense. Damon Albarn is my anti-template. And also, very much, my template.

He’s multidisciplinary. He’s unpredictable. He’s still deeply trusted.
And that’s exactly the kind of career I want.

Albarn didn’t pick a lane — he paved his own road. He went from Britpop frontman in Blur to voice and brain behind Gorillaz (a band made of cartoon avatars), to scoring operas, to collaborating with African collectives and musicians in Mali long before “cross-cultural collabs” became a trend. He didn’t just stay relevant — he stayed interesting. And that's much harder.

Most people see a career as a ladder. He made it a collage.

And through that, he built something rare: longevity without rigidity. A body of work that’s constantly evolving but always unmistakably his. A style, yes. But more than that, a spirit.

That’s the kind of energy I try to bring to my own creative work. To branding. To marketing. To storytelling. And honestly, it’s what I want to help other people unlock in themselves, too.

Because being multidisciplinary isn’t messy — not if there’s intention. Being unpredictable isn’t risky — not if you’re consistent with your values. And being cool doesn’t mean being cold — Albarn is also a present dad, a mentor to new artists, and someone who genuinely shows up for people.

He's proof you can build a legacy and be low-key. Be successful and soulful. That you don’t need to explain every decision, over-strategize every post, or burn out trying to stay in a box you never fit in.

So yes, I model my career after a musician.
Not because I want to be famous, but because I want to be free.

Free to reinvent. Free to experiment. Free to go weird. Free to go deep. Free to mean something.
And free to be trusted even when no one quite knows what’s coming next — but they still know it’ll be good.

Just like Damon.

Yes, I had a meeting, a photoshoot, a walk, and then Burger King

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I used to think days had to follow a structure. That you had to pick a lane: either be the chic entrepreneur with back-to-back Zooms and a glowing calendar, or the kind of person who wanders aimlessly through the city and ends up eating fries in a plastic booth.

But turns out you can be both. In fact, that contrast might be the most honest way to live.

The other day, I had a strategy meeting for a new brand, jumped into a quick photoshoot for a client, walked a few blocks while mentally planning my next column, and then — without even thinking — went straight into Burger King. It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t glam. It was just… needed.

And it felt perfect. Not ironic, not contradictory. Just real.

Sometimes people ask me how I balance the “aesthetic” with the chaos. How I switch between a pitch deck and a Winnie the Pooh puzzles. Between brand archetypes and ketchup packets.

The answer is: I don’t switch. I stack.

The meeting, the creative work, the walk through the city I now call home, and the spontaneous burger — it’s all me. It’s all part of the rhythm.

I no longer try to separate my identities or edit out the “non-strategic” moments. Because the best ideas often come between one thing and the next — when you're sitting in a booth with greasy fingers and your brain finally exhales.

There’s beauty in not always curating everything.
There’s freedom in the mess.
And there’s power in being able to show up as the same person, wherever you are.

So yes, I had a meeting, a photoshoot, a walk, and then Burger King.
And it was a perfect workday.

Not for everyone (and that's the point)

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Here’s something I wish more people said out loud: if your personal brand is meant to appeal to everyone, it won’t resonate with anyone.

We’re often told to “grow an audience,” “be more visible,” “get engagement,” and all of that has its place. But visibility without identity is just noise. And popularity without clarity is usually short-lived.

When we talk about personal branding, people often assume it means being liked. Being followed. Going viral. But the truth is: good personal branding isn’t about pleasing everyone. It’s about attracting the right people and gently repelling the rest.

What does that look like?

It looks like saying what you actually believe, even if it’s not trendy.
It looks like choosing depth over reach.
It looks like showing up in a way that’s consistent, not for clicks but for coherence.
It looks like being recognizable to the people you actually want to reach.

When you try to be universally likable, you dilute the sharp edges of your voice, your point of view, and your difference. You start writing captions that sound like everyone else. You pick colors and fonts that feel “safe.” You talk in generalities so no one can disagree with you. And eventually, you disappear into the scroll. Clarity, on the other hand, is magnetic. It tells people: “This is what I care about.” It gives others the chance to connect deeply, or walk away. And that’s exactly the point.

How do you get clear?

You ask:

What do I really want to be known for?
Who do I actually want to work with (or speak to)?
What do I not want to compromise on?
Where am I trying too hard to fit in?

You start shaping your brand like a mirror of your real values, not just your aspirations.

You let your brand evolve with you, and not as a performance, but as a reflection.

And yes, it might feel uncomfortable

People might unfollow you.

You might feel “too much” or “too niche.”

But over time, that specificity becomes trust. Recognition. Credibility. Work.

Because you’re not here to be for everyone. You’re here to be undeniably you, and unforgettable to the people who matter.

So say it with me:

You’re not for everyone. And that’s exactly why your brand works.

Want support in building a clear, compelling personal brand? The Inmediato can help, we offer strategy sessions and content mentorships to help you refine your voice and presence ✨

The dangerous art of staying too long: what Dogville taught me

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Let’s talk about Dogville. Yes, that Lars Von Trier film with Nicole Kidman. The one that looks like a play, feels like a heavy philosophical essay, and lasts nearly three hours.

My therapist recommended it to me years ago. At first, I didn’t understand why. I fell asleep twice. It felt slow, almost unbearably heavy. The set is minimal, almost like chalk lines on a stage, and it forces you to focus on the people, on their gestures, their cruelty, their excuses.

Grace, the protagonist, arrives in this town while on the run. At first, she is welcomed. The townspeople open their doors, seemingly generous and kind. Then, she begins to “repay” them. Small tasks, small favors, until they stop being small. The tasks become demands. The gratitude becomes obligation. The welcome turns into quiet, creeping violence.

Grace endures it all: humiliation, emotional manipulation, physical abuse. And each time, she forgives. Each time, she stays. On the surface, it looks like an almost saint-like purity, a moral high ground so high it seems unreachable. We admire her, we pity her, we judge her, all at once.

But then there’s that final scene. The one that changes everything. When Grace finally reunites with her father, she makes a choice that feels like both an act of ultimate revenge and a final reclaiming of her own power. In that moment, we realize her forgiveness wasn’t pure at all, it was filled with arrogance. An arrogance that made her believe she was above everyone else, above consequences, above the mess of being human.

It made me think deeply about forgiveness, about boundaries, about the way we often confuse tolerance with love. About how we cling to people, projects, and situations far beyond what is healthy, convinced that enduring is the same as loving deeply.

For a long time, I thought that my ability to hold space for others, to understand, to forgive — endlessly — was a strength. A gift. Something noble. But the truth is, that kind of forgiveness without boundaries can become its own form of arrogance. It can become a quiet way of saying, I am above needing respect, above needing reciprocity.

Because sometimes, self-care doesn’t look like a soft bath or a comforting tea. Sometimes, it looks like saying no more. Like stepping away from what drains you. Like letting go of what once felt safe but no longer serves you.

Dogville is not an easy film. It is meant to disturb, to provoke, to leave you uncomfortable. It is a mirror to our deepest patterns of compliance, of the ways we let others mold us, of the ways we betray ourselves in the name of acceptance.

It took me years to understand why my therapist asked me to watch it. Now, I see it clearly. It was a lesson in boundaries, in pride disguised as kindness, in the dangerous illusion that unconditional forgiveness is always a virtue.

I am still learning to close doors. To choose myself before the story others want to write for me. To let some relationships end. To let some projects remain unfinished. To walk away, even when it feels like betrayal.

Because choosing yourself is never actually selfish. It’s the only way to make sure that the love and energy you give are true, sustainable, and aligned with who you really are.

So yes, sometimes self-care doesn’t feel like a gentle hug. Sometimes it feels like a slammed door echoing in an empty room. And that sound? That echo? It’s the beginning of coming home to yourself.

Not everything deserves your fire

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I was 22, working for the biggest magazine in Patagonia. I was deeply into Truman Capote, New Journalism, and the idea that every single story — no matter how small — could be transformed into art. And I tried. I really tried. Even when the subject was a non-traditional advertising piece on a plasma-rich facial, I treated it like a narrative assignment. I interviewed, researched, framed a story arc, gave it a voice, and tried to turn it into something memorable. I submitted it proud. Excited.

My editor, one of the most brilliant and generous creatives I’ve ever worked with, said something I’ll never forget:

"This is beautiful — but it’s too much. Some stories deserve fire. Others just need to inform. You have fire. But you need to learn how to moderate it."

I didn’t love that. I wanted all my work to matter. To impress. But I rewrote it. I filed the informative version. It was fine. It did the job. It wasn’t magic, but it was functional. And that was enough.

It took me years to truly get it.

You don’t owe everything — or everyone — your best masterpiece. Especially in work. Especially in service. Especially when the person on the other side isn’t asking for it, paying for it, or valuing it.

Because every relationship — yes, even work-based ones — should be reciprocal. If it’s not, it’s a drain. A leak. A slow erosion of your energy and your creativity. That extra effort you’re putting in? Sometimes it’s not even being seen.

And yet, I still catch myself doing it. I still catch myself thinking everything I do must be perfect. Every email crafted. Every post beautiful. Every client served with our full creative capacity. Because at The Inmediato, we really care. We care about the work, the stories, the strategy behind each decision. And we want our clients to feel that care.

But here’s the truth: sometimes, people aren’t paying for that level of care. Sometimes, they’re not even expecting it. And when we over-deliver by default, we run the risk of making our work unsustainable. Not just financially — creatively, too.

Moderating your fire is not a weakness. It’s a form of creative protection. A way to last. A way to reserve your energy for the work — and the people — that truly deserve it.

Especially when you’re no longer just starting out. When you’ve done the work. When you’ve built the reputation. When people already kind of know what you do and why it’s good.

You can — and should — begin to be more intentional.

You can learn to choose when to give your all and when to just be clear and effective.

You can design your service, your brand, and your strategy to reflect where you are — not just where you started.

The truth is: your fire is powerful. But if you burn it all the time, you’ll lose the very thing that makes you exceptional.

So let it be sacred. Let it be sharp. Let it be deliberate.

Because not everything deserves it.

But when the time comes — you’ll still have it.

And it’ll be yours to give.

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Better marketing, bigger opportunities

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