Paying attention pays off.
The doorway to a relationship is a name.
You meet someone, you like them, and a week later you cannot place the name. Everything that might have followed stops there. knewpeople is a private notebook for exactly that moment: the name, with their face, where you met, and the first thing they told you — kept on your phone, so the second conversation can happen.
Their face
A photo if you have one, their colour and initials if you don’t. A face is what you remember; the name is what you lose.
Where and when
Pinned to the place and the moment, so the people from Thursday’s thing are the people from Thursday’s thing.
The first thing they said
What they do, who they came with, the thing they were excited about. Dated, as you said it, and there the next time.
There is always something to learn about the people in your life.
Not only strangers. The colleague you want to know better, the neighbour you keep meaning to have over, the friend of a friend worth exploring. Your partner. Your parents, your brother, your sister. You are always learning about the people in your life, and most of it goes the way the name did. The notebook is where what you learn goes, so it comes back when it matters: a birthday, a worry they mentioned, the thing they said they would try.
The whole of knewpeople is three moves, and they are the same whoever the person is.
Notice.
Meet someone, or see a regular again. Add them in a tap, pinned to the time and the place, or just say their name to Siri. The moment is kept before the name has a chance to go.
Keep.
“Grace, designer, climbing group on Thursdays, hiring.” Say it or type it. It becomes a few dated facts, each one as you said it, that you can read, edit and forget — on your phone, nowhere else.
Carry it forward.
Their face, where you met, what you learned, and the question you didn’t get to. The second conversation starts where the first one ended, whether that is a week later or a year.
Your own people, and a reason to reach out.
The friend of a friend from the wedding, the parent at the school gate, the person from the climbing group whose name went the moment you heard it. The notebook keeps them, and the home screen is a feed of reasons to talk to them — not a feed of things to read.
A month after the wedding
The friend of a friend you liked is in the notebook under the wedding, with the thing you talked about. You find them by the day, not by a name you never caught.
A reason to reach out
The home screen is not a feed of things to read. It is the people you know with something to say to each of them: a crew’s news, a day you will see them, a line worth sending.
Before you see them again
Their page, the morning of: what you learned last time and the question you didn’t get to. The second conversation starts where the first one ended.
The regular who comes back because you remembered.
Their name, the table they like, what they drank last time, the thing they mentioned on the way out. The best people on a floor carry this for hundreds of guests, and it is the reason those guests come back. knewpeople is that memory, for a server, a bartender, a host, a concierge, a stylist — anyone whose work is the people who return. Not a loyalty program: the thing loyalty programs are trying to buy.
Between tables
Ten seconds, to your watch or to Siri: “Lena, corner two-top, shellfish allergy, daughter just started at KU.” It lands on her page as you said it. Nothing to type up after service.
When they walk in
Standing in the room, your regulars are the faces that come up first. The name, the table they ask for, the Barolo they liked, the question you didn’t get to — before you reach the table.
It stays with you
A guest’s page lives on your phone and nowhere else: the notebook a good server always kept, in the pocket instead of the drawer. Point-of-sale integrations, to meet the check, are pending.
Walk in. Slide the switch. The whole app is about this room.
A conference, a meetup, a dinner at a friend’s. Three days of hallway conversations, kept apart from everything else and carried home — with the faces, the booths, and what each person said they were working on.
Walk in
Slide into knewhere and the whole app is about this room: everyone you add is met here, the grid is only these people, and when it ends the page says how long ago it was.
Keep who you meet
At an event run on knewpeople, the people in the room can list themselves, with the links they chose. Keep somebody and they are in your notebook, met here, links and all.
The morning after
Three days of hallway conversations, written up while you still remember which was which, kept apart from everything else, and carried home.
Built on the knew relationship engine.
There’s no substitute for paying attention. But when you do, knew invests it, and it pays dividends in your relationships.
For anything you are getting to know — a person, a place, a thing — knew holds what you know so far, keeps you, the thing and what is between you apart, and points you at what would move the relationship forward. knewpeople is one client of it, whose subjects happen to be people: it hands knew a vocabulary and a lens, and the engine runs on the phone with the phone’s own model.
knew.devSave the moment, don’t ruin it.
ope is a second app of ours, for the Apple Watch: one tap when something happens that you want to remember. It saves the time and the place, and a few minutes later your phone asks what it was, when it is convenient rather than mid-sentence. For a person, that nudge opens knewpeople with the moment already filled in. Nothing leaves either device, and it is not out yet.
Your people stay on your phone.
The notebook — names, notes, faces, places — lives on your phone. Nothing in it is uploaded or synced to us on its own.
Anything that would put part of it on a server — handing a crew to a friend, say — is a switch that starts off, and the privacy policy says exactly what each one sends.
When you ask knewpeople to look someone up, only that request leaves the phone, and nothing about you or them is kept on our side. Event features publish only what you choose to publish, and sponsors see counts, never who. The privacy policy has the detail.