#milanuncut logos by Zerofee

As some of you will know, a debate has been unfolding on the Twittersphere among journalists and designers about the issue of designers pay. The debate became known by the codename assigned to it by twitter users: #Milanuncut (a name derived from UK Uncut, the British anti-government cuts protest group). It revealed a number of things, many, perhaps not that surprising (the royalty system rarely works in the designer’s favour, many designers do a lot of speculative work for free in lieu of royalties that may never materialize, manufacturers who commission designers often do not pay any form of advance or day rate etc. etc.) but by bringing them up together in the context of the Milan Furniture Fair, it enabled those in the industry to reflect upon the situation, and designers in particular, to think about how they value their work.

At the bottom of this post I have brought together some links to in-depth articles mentioned during the debate. I have also added a link that enables you to download the chapter of my book Thinking:Objects that covers how designers deal with being commissioned as it touches upon many of the issues raised. Finally I would like to add these thoughts into the mix:

Creatives have a long history of undervaluing their work early in their careers, and having it undervalued by others, especially due to its “pleasurable” nature (as if enjoying your job should mean you should be paid less!). The #milanuncut debate occasionally became rather venomous, painting manufacturers as exploitative – fair only in some instances – yet designers have to accept that they are their own worst enemy by accepting poor deals and are also being exploitative by passing on their losses to unpaid interns.

There is, it seems, an underlying cause to the undervaluing of designers by some manufacturers that perhaps has not been widely considered in this debate. From the 1950s to the 1990s, the Italian model was that designers (many who trained as architects) would try to strike up long-lasting relationships with the owners/directors of companies. In the best cases, their discussions would be as much about culture as business. They would explore what Enzo Mari calls “The Project”, meaning not the specific product they were working on, but the broader philosophical question of “what shall we place into the world and why?”. These deep relationships of shared values appear to have been replaced with a shallow pick-and-mix of product ideas from the hundreds that designers pepper these manufacturers with on a daily basis. These ideas can no longer be rooted in the values or context of the manufacturer, because the designers have not experienced these personally, and therefore become based upon a superficial notion of what is “now”. Manufacturers need to be prepared to focus their minds as well as their money upon what their business is “about”. They must have the conviction to ignore those designers knocking at their door offering cut price services, and concentrate upon quality of engagement, and building a coherent philosophy. This is surely what produces design that furthers culture, rather than degrading it.

Click the links below for further reading:

Book excerpt:

Thinking:Objects chapter on working to commission

Newspaper and Magazine Columns:

Designs for Life Won’t Make You a Living by Justin McGuirk for The Guardian

The Big Gamble by Hanna Nova Beatrice for Form Magazine

Designers Are Poor by Kieran Long for Icon Magazine

A Serious Business by Dan Fox for Frieze

For Young Hopefuls, Milan Offers a Place to Break In by Julie Lasky for The New York Times

Blog Posts:

Letter to Designers by Gionata Gatto on Klat Magazine

Milan Uncut: A Few Thoughts by Alasdair Thompson on Smow

Squared by Jenny Voyce on Design Trends

Articles relating to the issue of unpaid internships:

Anger as Coates Offers Unpaid Work at Practice by Andrea Klettner for Building Design (registration to BDOnline needed to view)

The Internship Myth by Emily Sands-Bonin for The Guardian Comment is free

HMRC Not Doing Enough to Stop Illegal Unpaid Internships, Says Pay Watchdog by Shiv Malik for The Guardian

Okay, It’s Time to Put Interning in Perspective by James Howell for Spiked

The Dilemma of Internships by Holger Jacobs of Mind Design

Please submit recommend additions to this list to me at tparsons[at]saic.edu

Only recently, upon moving to the States, have I seen one for the first time (fig. 1). I have in fact seen hundreds. After all, Ford say it’s been America’s best selling van for 31 years. But why should this be of consequence to anyone other than serious vehicle design geeks like myself? Well, the Econoline van marque (now called the E-Series), is 50 years old this year, and so it at least deserves credit for endurance. But there’s another reason why I would urge people who either know it well, or not at all, to cast a fresh eye over this American workhorse. And that is because its form is actually surprisingly prescient of a kind of  “ordinary” or “normal” design that is currently being celebrated by certain designers and commentators, and yet, is apparently also in danger of being eclipsed by self-conscious over-styling and novelty (see previous post  “In Search of Normal”). And so, perverse as it may seem to sing the praises of a utility vehicle such as the E-Series from the point of view of looks alone (I’ve never driven or been driven in one), I want to point out its aesthetic virtues, in case they had passed you by. Not least because there are rumors it is to be replaced in the next few years by the less than attractive Ford Transit Connect. Further proof, of the gradual extinction of “normal”.

Fig. 1 The Ford Econoline Van

The Econoline/E-series has been available in many incarnations over the years, from different wheelbase lengths, to windowed mini-buses aimed at groups or families. It may not be the most economical vehicle by modern standards, and parts of it aren’t that modern (it’s been built on the same platform for 35 years of its 50 years), but it has found its way into the hearts of many through sheer staying power. One owner clocked up over 1 million miles and most have done over 250,000. Grammy award winning country music artist Nanci Griffith’ even wrote a song characterizing it as a freedom machine, saving a woman from her cheating husband.

But what is so great about its design? Well, first I have to qualify my claims. Not all Econolines have the design qualities I am praising. I refer to the fourth generation , launched in 1992, which, besides face-lifts (of which more later) and new engine specifications, has remained largely unchanged to the present day. While many of the previous models are full of quirky period charm, it is this recent model that has a particularly subtle visual quality. To be simplistic, it is a well proportioned, gently rounded box on wheels. The bodywork is uncluttered, with only two subtle feature-lines along each side, one running across the tops of the wheels, the other linking the tops of the front and rear light clusters. There is a consistent design language at work, based on simple squares and oblongs with radiused corners, that is followed right down to the door handles (fig. 2). But there is more to it than that. The vehicle’s main volume has the feeling of having been gently inflated, its sides, rear and roof all bowing out to give the impression of surfaces under tension. It is a trick known as curvature continuity, often used on domestic products to avoid blockiness and it is not uncommon in other vans, but its effect is accentuated by the pure lines of the E-Series. European van design, by contrast, is almost universally littered with unnecessary swishes, swoops, recesses and bulges, the VW Crafter being a typical example (fig. 3).  The quest to make a more aerodynamic box has resulted in some serious design crimes.

Fig. 2 The rear light cluster, petrol cap and door handle of the E-Series show a consistent application of a simple, no frills, design language.

Yet Ford’s reluctance to revamp the main body of the E-Series isn’t necessarily evidence that they share my aesthetic judgment. It is primarily a pragmatic decision. As E-Series chief engineer Rob Stevens explains here, there is plenty of business done in kitting out the vans for specific purposes, and contractors have invested heavily in tooling. If Ford change the dimensions of the van, these “up-fitters”, as they are known, will also have to shell out for new equipment. Unfortunately this hasn’t stopped Ford tinkering with other parts of the vehicle.

Fig. 3 Even with its overworked new nose, the E-Series (right) is understated compared to "busy" European van designs such as the VW Crafter (left).

They daubed the E-Series’ face with too much make-up in 2008 when they redesigned the front end (fig. 3). This brought it into line with their F-Series of Super Duty trucks to give uniformity to their fleet but is a perfect example of unnecessary tidying up – a kind of corporate displacement activity. The new over-sized, snout-like grill, with its top edge creeping up the bonnet, jars with the subtle lines of the rest of the van. Combined with the larger headlamps, the visual effect is to weigh down a vehicle that previously looked poised. Although also spoiled in 1997 by an attempt to reflect the company’s oval motif, the earlier grid-like grill with its tapering sides, like a smiling mouth, at least gave the vehicle a friendly face in stark comparison to the aggressive image it now sports (Fig. 4).

Fig. 4 E-Series grill styles through the years

Another fashion-following change saw the simple brushed stainless steel “dog dish” hubcaps (fig. 5) replaced with, fussy trims, dishonestly mimicking alloy wheels. At least the chrome bumpers (“fenders” for you Americans out there) were still an option, and before you peg me as a hopeless nostalgic, consider this. Polishing the chrome on an automobile may have been replaced with polishing the back of an i-Pod or i-Phone but, in emotional terms, the activities are essentially the same. You renew your sense of pride in the object in a way you do to a lesser extent with painted surfaces.

All of these ill-advised tweaks put into question whether or not those in the design department at Ford were aware of the understated elegance of the Econoline’s original design. In the industrial design field, the recent visibility of figures such as Jasper Morrison and Naoto Fukasawa with their Super Normal exhibition, Sam Hecht of Industrial Facility and Konstantin Grcic, all known for their rigorous pairing down of form, has promoted to today’s jobbing designers, the idea of knowingly cleansing objects of unnecessary stylistic flourishes. However a consequence of this is that it is easy to mistakenly read the same consciously sophisticated restraint into the choices of past generations of designers who in many cases were never aware of the option to design any other way.

Fig. 5 Side view of Econoline van showing brushed stainless steel "dog dish" wheel trims

That new-found appreciation hopefully means designers and those directing design departments are more conscious of their choice. They can pander to the less attractive side of our personalities that craves attention for the wrong reasons and is desperate to be seen in “the latest thing” be that a set of clothes or, even, yes, a van. They can attempt to render obsolete past models while they still operate perfectly adequately. Or they can appeal to us as intelligent, thoughtful individuals, who are able to discern when a product has been considered well in its particular context. They can trust that by offering us, in the words of Dieter Rams “less but better”, we will favor it over the dazzle of bells and whistles from their competitors. It is a brave stance to take – that’s why few companies take it – but if no-one does, we only further surround ourselves with an increasing cacophony of visual noise.

Fig. 6 Rear view of current E-Series

Fortunately with so many E-Series vans still on the road, it will take a while for them to disappear. So while others drool over Mustangs and Chargers, my spirits will continue to be lifted at the sight of America’s unpretentious workhorse in action.

Click here for a link to a slideshow of 50 Years of Ford Econoline Vans

Having just moved to the USA, I was looking for a toaster. The archetypal image I had conjured was of a simple oblong affair in polished stainless steel or chrome with two-slots, long enough to toast slices cut from round loaves, and wide enough for bagels. This enabled me quickly to eliminate one particularly alarming group of toasters I discovered:  a Frankenstein-like strain that had become conjoined with other kitchen appliances (egg poacher, mini-oven, coffee maker. Fig. 1) With my simple archetype in mind, a quick search on the internet seemed to present a number of possible matches, but on closer inspection nothing was quite right. Did I really need to defrost, reheat and keep warm my slices of toast at the push of a button, or just, er…toast them? Did I need to fine-tune the level of browning with ten degrees of accuracy? And did I need an LCD display to tell me what was going on?

Fig. 1 Frankenstein's toaster's. Left to right, Back to Basics Egg-and-Muffin 2-Slice Toaster and Egg Poacher, the Hamilton Beach Toastation 2-Slice Toaster and Mini Oven, and the Toastmaster Coffeemaker/Toaster Combo.

Visually too, the toasters were all straying slightly from the image I’d created. Many had plastic ends, some in different colors. The stainless steel was often brushed, not polished, and emblazoned with garish logos. The ones that came closest only spoiled things by self-consciously flaunting their ‘heritage’ art-deco detailing. I became frustrated. All I wanted was a “normal” toaster!

The episode reminded me that a few years ago I’d been to an exhibition in London organized by the designers Jasper Morrison and Naoto Fukasawa entitled Super Normal. The show and accompanying book (Fig. 2) quietly presented a manifesto encouraging designers and manufacturers to shun superficial “specialness” in favor of trying to capture this endangered quality called “normal”. Their thinking is that if designers are constantly trying to differentiate new products (albeit within tight bounds) we will eventually lose sight of the quality that makes something normal. To stop that happening they suggest more designers should try consciously to capture that quality in new objects. These they call “Super Normal”.

Fig. 2 The cover of the book Super Normal: Sensations of the Ordinary by Jasper Morrison and Naoto Fukasawa.

I finally found my archetypal toaster but, tellingly, I had to look beyond the domestic market to the catering profession. Where performance, not styling is the main selling point, “normal” has survived in the form of the Waring Commercial WCT704 (Fig. 3). It exudes the essence of quality American design – of a Greyhound bus or an Airstream caravan in miniature. Styled, but not overly so, generous in size, built to last and with no unnecessary frills. It toasts bread rather well too!

Fig. 3 Normal found: the Waring Commercial WCT704

I recently had the pleasure of co-hosting a delegation of around thirty Chinese master craftsmen who were in London as part of a fact-finding mission. They informed me that the Chinese government has a two pronged policy to promote traditional crafts. One is to literally support the best makers directly through an annual stipend. The other – the reason for their visit – is to encourage makers to adapt their practice in order to open up new markets, including those in the West. While government patronage may restrict freedom of expression, these pro-active policies for keeping skills alive put our own market-forces driven approach to our traditional crafts to shame. It was heartening to see the cultural heritage of craft being recognised and supported, even in a country like China that is so immersed in its industrial revolution.

Each maker had brought along a piece of their work which included the most intricate jade carvings, lacquer and enamel ware, many of which had taken months to complete. As my colleagues and I explained the landscape of contemporary craft in the UK through lectures and visits, we broke the difficult news that the value-systems used to judge their work and ours were vastly different. Here it is no longer enough to render a traditional scene in a traditional material, albeit with supreme skill and using techniques handed down by many generations. Ideas are the main currency of our contemporary craft and as a result, workmanship is required only to the level needed to support and manifest those ideas effectively. I could see that many of the examples of work I was showing seemed crude to the masters but they took on board the ideas and were willing to begin a process of challenging their age-old ways. My argument to them was that, rather than being through want of skill, the imperfect nature of many contemporary craft works is about the intentional embracing of the imperfect and the unique for conceptual reasons – something highlighted to me upon visiting the Ceramics and Glass department of the RCA (fig.1 ).

Fig. 1 Ceramics and Glass Studios at the RCA

The notion of perfection and imperfection as equally valid qualities in craft works suggests contrasting attitudes on the part of the maker towards their materials and processes. At one end of an imaginary spectrum we find the top-down imposition of form, texture, and colour, the maker intending to master techniques to the extent that they will be able to control precisely the end results. The unruly nature of ceramics and glass offer a particularly tough challenge that sets the enthusiasts’ pulses racing. In this context the maker has a predefined and fixed concept of the end result. Surprises are unwelcome and there’s no such thing as a happy accident. At the other end of the scale lies a bottom-up approach where materials and processes are explored and responded to. Forms, textures and colours are defined through development rather than in advance and the maker’s role is one of guiding rather than dictating. Here, the maker has a loose, overarching intention of what they are trying to achieve – it is not pure chance – but on top of this comes a secondary intention to try and make a specific piece. Hence a mistake or accident that does not achieve the specific goal can be analysed and may still fulfill the overarching intention. It is most often here that we find ‘imperfection’ embraced as the natural expression of what the material or process ‘wants to do’.

As I toured the RCA Ceramics and Glass department, there was a healthy plurality of approaches in evidence. The working contexts the graduating cohort place themselves in include fine or contemporary art, applied art or the studio crafts, and design for manufacture, and students would feature at points all along my imagined spectrum. However the more I saw, the more it became apparent that many are working to reveal the intrinsic qualities of their materials, whether ceramics, glass or anything else they care to use. One piece of Luke Rodilosso’s work involves slashing blocks of wax with a hot knife while Ellie Doney’s liquid-like glass sculptures incorporate ice-cream coloured expanding polyurethane foam in all its bubbling, chemical glory. Not all were about imperfection but it did appear to feature regularly.

Amy Hughes’ re-working of French eighteenth century decorative wares from Sèvres uses the hand of the maker to bring honesty and provenance to a genre of objects whose perfection, although revealing a mastery of technique, could be seen as cold and impenetrable (fig. 2). Her pieces, covered in obvious fingerprints, satirise the excess of the originals and provide a conduit to the discussion of taste and quality. Bethan Lloyd Worthington’s work placement at Crown Derby led to the design of a series of similarly subversive pieces that took the markings used in the factory to point out imperfections (gold handwriting and temporary spots of sprayed colour), and re-contextualised them as intentional details (fig. 3).

Left, Fig.2, Amy Hughes' Violet Magesteaux. Right, Fig.3, Flock by Bethan Lloyd Worthington.

One of the enduring tensions evident at the RCA both in and beyond the Ceramics and Glass department is between the contexts of independent making and industrial production. As Peter Dormer pointed out in Meanings of Modern Design (1990) when making processes used for the mass-production of affordable everyday goods are superseded, they become primed for a new context (one might say a sort of productive retirement) in the studio crafts. For example, in ceramic production, as throwing on a wheel was replaced by slip casting, jigger-jollying and other such mould-based methods, the hand-made qualities it could achieve became more highly revered because they contrasted with the ‘perfect’ surfaces of the mass-produced. With the introduction of even higher technologies such as industrial powder-pressing, some of the mould-based techniques that displaced throwing have themselves been ‘retired’ from some areas of mass-industry and consigned to high-end serial production and the studio crafts. This presents an intriguing problem for makers because if used conventionally, there is no discernible trace of how the wares made using these techniques differ from their industrially made counterparts. However, just as throwers have a decision to make regarding whether or not to deliberately show the hand of the maker or to try and hide it (some see it as a cliché), Ian McIntyre is investigating ways that moulding processes, both industrial and studio based, can reveal themselves. In one project he is exploring the jigger-jollying technique for making concentric forms (a piece of clay is placed into a spinning female mould and a male profile is introduced, squeezing the clay between the two surfaces). Mould and profile either come together to make a perfectly finished piece or any excess clay squeezed out by the process is usually trimmed off. Seeing an opportunity to introduce imperfection and uniqueness, McIntyre uses either too much or too little clay, creating a series of cups, bowls and plates with rims that have rolled over the top of the mould or not reached a defined edge. The results are a fascinating mix of machine-made and ‘natural’ qualities – even after firing the edge detail captures the clay’s original plasticity (fig. 4).

Fig. 4 Jollied tableware by Ian McIntyre

In a similar way, for one of her designs, glassblower Hanne Enemark capitalises on the irregular surface created when splitting a bubble of glass from the blowpipe. The standard procedure uses a laser to define the line of the split and the uneven surface left on the rim of the piece is usually cold-worked to polish it flat. Enemark’s process sees her blowing very thick, almost spherical vessels and, upon splitting them, softening the rim with heat before covering it with gold leaf (fig. 5). Like McIntyre’s plates, it is the contrast between the perfectly regular surfaces and the thick, undulating gold rim that creates the point of interest in the work.

Fig. 5 Cracked Rim Series by Hanne Enemark

The same qualities can be seen in Dutch designer Laurens van Wieringen’s Crack series of ceramic vessels (2001) (fig. 6) and his latest work in plastic shown at the Milan Furniture Fair in 2010 (fig. 7). With the slip-cast Crack series, van Wieringen literally broke the moulds and made a feature from the usually trimmed “elephant ears” of clay that appear at joins of loose-fitting plaster moulds. The Crack series was completed during van Wieringen’s time on the Royal College of Art’s multidisciplinary Design Products course. His latest project sees him moulding recycled plastic in a range of colours to create extraordinary random marbled effects. Again uniqueness is being manufactured into precision moulded forms.

Fig. 6 Crack Series by Laurens van Wieringen

Fig. 7 Recycled plastic plate by Laurens van Wieringen

There is a sense of protectionism about some of these works. We can hear echoes of the Arts and Crafts Movement in the desire to carve out a territory that can be clearly seen as ‘craft’ in the face of the perceived encroachment of art and design. Attempts to use materials and processes in a ‘truthful’ way – revealing their intrinsic qualities – are very much in evidence. It could also be accused of being introspective – much of it is craft about making, and asks the viewer to share the maker’s interest in the processes involved. But there is a positive intention behind the slightly evangelical spreading of material understanding. In a world of spin and fakery and against the background of an industry in turmoil, these graduates want us to wake up and see what we are buying. There is an ethical position behind the sense of authenticity in their objects that is about re-connecting people with the act of making. Refreshingly it focuses attention on the process and away from the glorification of the maker’s skill or the designer’s form-making – something that can easily descend into an ego-trip if the work is not backed by sufficient depth of ideas. Most satisfying about this work however is the way that the embracing of the imperfect, the serendipitous and the naturally occurring, has parallels in the way we can choose to live our lives. They are a source of quiet reflection – an underrated but vital contribution to our turbulent world.

Links:

Ceramics and Glass at the Royal College of Art

Ian McIntyre

Laurens van Wieringen

The book aims to present information, insight and argument concerning the thoughts and theories behind contemporary product design. But what is it to be a product designer in the early twenty-first century? Is it simply a job or must it be a consuming passion? Is it to follow a brief or create your own? Is it to be a household name or a vital but unseen cog in a vast machine? Is it to be an inventor or a stylist? Artist or businessman? Hero or villain?

Since it developed as a profession in its own right around 100 years ago, product design (or industrial design – the terms are compatible although imply a different focus) has broadened in scope to encompass a vast range of specialisms. Co-opting knowledge from the fields of psychology and the social sciences, product designers can be found exhibiting in art galleries, working for fashion labels, speculating on the future of biotechnology and programming computers to generate products autonomously. Yet away from the glare of the ever-increasing media interest in “extraordinary” projects, the mundane objects of everyday life are still conceived, drawn up and manufactured on a mass scale.

Hence the most pressing challenge for those new to the profession is deciding where to focus their creative energies. What is product design? What can it be? What do we want it to be? In the past these questions were largely answered for us if we aligned ourselves with the thinking of one of the major design movements. Manifestoes set out the purpose of design and, in some cases, the language of form that was considered “good”. Any type of design could be measured against these rules and results reached that were considered definitive. Through questioning the validity of these rules by designers and theorists, the notion of a collective concept of “good design” has been eroded, leaving behind fragmented bodies of opinion. Consequently designers themselves can be found promoting their particular view of what design is:

“‘Design’ means how something works, not how it looks – the design should evolve from the function.” James Dyson (1)

“[Design is] the act of imposing one’s will on materials to perform a function.” Ron Arad (2)

“Design is about creatively exploiting constraint.” Nick Crosbie (3)

Fig. 1 Dyson Cleaner

Fig. 2 Big Easy by Ron Arad

Fig. 3 Inflate Pendant

To Dyson, designer of the cyclonic vacuum cleaner, design starts with an engineering innovation and the form is secondary (fig. 1). To Arad, renowned furniture designer, the innovative manipulation of materials is his focus (fig. 2) and for Crosbie, whose company Inflate has developed a vast range of products with the manufacturing process used to make plastic inflatables, the challenge of limited resources is what drives the creative process (fig.3).

Not one of the designers quoted is wrong – product design is all these things and more – but it would be futile for any of them to suggest that theirs is the only valid approach. Pluralism is here to stay and it is up to designers, their clients and collaborators, to make their own rules. The search for “good design” therefore becomes the search for definitive results identified according to the designer’s own intentions and the specific conditions of each project. If we are to judge products holistically we therefore need access to this information, along with some insight into the social fabric into which they are introduced.

Sadly, little of this is made available when products are launched. With some designers unwilling to explain their work, and press interest often confined to the shopping pages, there is a scarcity of in-depth knowledge about design reaching the general public. It is left to design historians to build a picture of the significance of objects, but this often focuses entirely upon the designer’s perspective rather than attempting to look at the object’s wider impact. (4) With this information staying largely within the confines of specialist publications (this one being no exception),the public can be forgiven for the misapprehension that “design is for designers”. It is therefore vital that consumers, as well as designers, are encouraged to hone their skills at reading objects to see if this information can be gleaned directly.

The wealth of avenues of design activity now open, combined with the increasing awareness of the damage caused by socially and environmentally irresponsible design means that now, more than ever, designers have a bewildering array of decisions to make and issues to face. Many choose to avoid the more difficult questions. However, those to whom design feels more like a calling than simply a way to earn a crust revel in the challenges it presents: “Design is not a discipline but a stance born as a result of a personal formation based on humanistic, technological, economic and political criticism.” (5)

Castiglioni, the grand master of Italian post-war industrial design, underlines the fact that design inescapably implies ideology. Yet the capacity of designers to express a coherent set of values and to pursue these to create meaningful change has been hampered by the confines of their role. As Adrian Forty explains in his book ‘Objects of Desire’ (6), although designers tend to present themselves as the prime movers behind the existence of objects, in reality it is the entrepreneurs and managers of production companies who decide what reaches the market. According to Forty, the paradox of designers claiming omnipotence and yet experiencing relative impotence has led many to ignore the task of articulating a philosophy and to instead concentrate on building the myth that they are indeed masters of their own destiny.

This sense of helplessness among designers, combined with a reticence from British industry to engage their services during the 1980s led to the gradual increase in so-called “self-production”, designermaker activity and craft-based design work. Many practitioners have made their names designing, making (or outsourcing) and selling their products direct to retailers or to commission, as opposed to working directly for the manufacturing industry. Some have used this as a springboard to enable them and their work to achieve public recognition, while to others it has been a necessary step to entice industrial clients. The parallel explosion of media interest in design has largely bypassed the “traditional” design consultancies and in-house design teams (who continue to design the majority of consumer products that come on to the market) in favour of publishing the work of this new band of independent designers. While this has brought a glut of gimmicky products into the public eye, the increase in self-production has also led to a greater awareness of singular visions and of the poetic possibilities of the design object.

With our increasing knowledge of the environmental crisis that we currently face and the constant reminders of how the manufacturing industry is adding to this, designers are under growing pressure to apply their skills ethically as well as aesthetically. Some of the most vehement criticism of product designers over the years has been aimed at their apparently uncritical stance, particularly when asked to work on products of dubious merit. “There are professions more harmful than industrial design”, wrote Victor Papanek in 1972, “but only a few of them. And possibly only one is phonier. Advertising design, in persuading people to buy things they don’t need, with money they don’t have, in order to impress others who don’t care, is probably the phoniest field in existence today. Industrial design, by concocting the tawdry idiocies hawked by advertisers, comes a close second. Never before in history have grown men sat down and seriously designed electric hairbrushes, rhinestone-covered file boxes, and mink carpeting for bathrooms, and then drawn up elaborate plans to make and sell these gadgets to millions of people”. (7)

Although a lack of moral backbone can be blamed for accepting such jobs without challenging their underlying motives, it is important to recognise why such requests have arisen. As products evolve through the attentions of numerous designers, many reach a settled form that is accepted as being appropriate. Over time, changes in behaviour and the application of new materials, technologies or other such advances may cause a shift in this settled form, but until then radical redesigns are generally considered unnecessary and even damaging to a company’s market-share. Hence designers are encouraged to find other methods of differentiating products within these received limitations, in order to generate appeal.

The time designers and manufacturers spend bringing a new product to market (the “lead time”) has shortened as competition has increased. This has resulted in less time being available for research that may bring to light new and valuable discoveries. While these factors do not excuse designers from their part in filling the planet with the “tawdry idiocies” Papanek talked of, they at least illustrate that designers work within a system of constraints. At worst, designers are simply the pencil wielders of business neither exercising conscience nor creative input. At best, they encourage their employers into meaningful dialogue, challenging them to ensure what is brought to the market is of genuine worth.

Feelings as to whether a product deserves to exist or not can only be based on our personal reaction to the values it offers. Consequently, we should have no reason to presume others will share our reactions. Product concepts contain the latent possibility of offering several different kinds of value. Beyond the use-value of the product itself lies its value as a signifier of identity and status. We are all fearful of appearing to lack style, wealth, hygiene, virility or fertility and products appearing to grant us these “riches” boost our self-esteem. By selling design changes as part of a story based in the fantasy world of advertising rather than the practical reality of the everyday, designers contribute to the individual’s “cultural capital”. One particular strain of cultural capital that designers and their clients have been criticised for fostering is that of the “design signature”. In contrast with the majority of design work that is undertaken anonymously, some designers are asserting their right to be recognised. In doing so, many are tempted into adopting the fine artist’s myth-making around the value associated with the hand of the maker. A “design world” has emerged in which “in-the-know” consumers drop the names of star designers, some of whom have become valuable brands in their own right. Glitz, gloss and glamour accompany the launch of a new chair, kitchen or bathroom suite. Yet it can sometimes be hard to see what all the fuss is about – are we looking at a work of genius or the emperor’s new clothes? In an attempt to lampoon the scene and distance themselves from the negative connotations of the designer as prima donna, the furniture manufacturer IKEA created its own fictitious star designer, Van Den Puup (fig. 4) who appeared in their commercials, lambasting the company’s products for their cheapness and lack of “soul”– a strangely double-edged campaign considering their own designers are named and photographed in their catalogue. However what it revealed was that IKEA felt that the popular view of designers was one of suspicion at their elitism and style over substance. (8)

Fig. 4 IKEA's fictional designer Van den Puup

While the cult of the personality has invaded the psyche of certain product designers, plenty are nevertheless involved in advancing the profession into new territory. Those featured in this book have developed contemporary approaches that are widely considered to deliver significant results. Some, such as Marti Guixe, have found ways to reconcile anti-consumerist, pro-ethical views with their role as conceivers of objects by challenging conventional behaviour (fig. 5). Others, such as Jasper Morrison (fig. 6), update past movements such as modernism, adopting its utopian optimism and aesthetic cleanliness while sidestepping its tendency towards social engineering. Others, such as Michael Marriott look for poetic and appropriate connections between a product’s form and its function that inject rational thinking with new life (fig. 7). Also covered are those who focus on genuine advancements in usability and functionality, improving the experience of using a product for all, regardless of age or physical ability (fig. 8). Another cohort including designers Dunne & Raby, take the opposing view that increasing user friendliness can contribute to a banal interaction with products, promoting the “on-demand” culture. They feel that by building in ambiguities, our experience with certain objects can be enriched.

Fig. 5 Sponsored Food by Marti Guixe

Fig. 6 Air Chair by Jasper Morrison

Fig. 7 ChipChopSliceServe by Michael Marriott

Fig. 8 Easy to open cans for Waitrose by Goodwin Hartshorn

As Western economies continue to shift from providing discrete products to providing services, some design firms have moved their input “upstream” to help shape the business models and organisational structures of their clients. Design firms wishing to engage with these companies have defined a field – “service design” – that focuses on the “touch-points” where people interact with the employees and fabric of the service provider. Finally, the book recognises the increasing level of collaboration between designers and the public and the changing nature of this relationship. Facilitated by the networking power of the Internet, consumers are becoming “prosumers” (9), taking a pro-active role in commissioning and specifying their own products.

Examination of these approaches can be found in chapter 2, but the book is structured around the proposition that there are three other elements of product design that require theoretical scrutiny: our perception of the profession, the design process itself, and contexts within which it occurs. The book takes each element as a chapter. Through three essays, chapter 1, “Perception”, examines design in relation to political stances, types of value and the meanings of form. Chapter 2, “Motivation”, discusses “design as personal ideology”, uncovering what the designer is trying to achieve, and illustrates the wide range of approaches taken to product design today. Chapter 3, “Process” asks, “What does the design process look like?” in terms of a methodology and a mental model. It attempts to clarify the confusion as to what constitutes a design process and observes how practical tools such as drawing and model-making aid decision-making. Finally, chapter 4, “Context”. examines typical circumstances in which designers find themselves working and charts the key differences between them.

Although this is a “theory book” on product design, it is to be remembered that theory must go hand-in-hand with practice. Our ability to discuss the ideas behind the work presented in this book is due to them being translated into models, prototypes and finished products through commitment, skill and, often a good deal of hard work. The adaptation of these theories, and their application to new and worthwhile products is up to you.

An exhibition showing products from Thinking:Objects was presented at The Aram Gallery in December 2009.

[1] Dyson J. in: <www.dyson.co.uk>

[2.] Arad R. in: Fairs M. 2004. What is design? ‘Icon Magazine’ No.18

[3.] Crosbie N. in: Fiell, C. and P. 2001. ‘Designing the 21st Century’

[4.] Forty, A. 1995. ‘Objects of Desire.’ London: Thames & Hudson

[5.] Castiglioni A. In: Asensio Cerver F. 1997. ‘Home Product Design.’ Hove: Rotovision

[6.] Forty, A. 1995. ‘Objects of Desire’. London: Thames & Hudson

[7.] Papanek V. 1972. Design for the Real World. London: Thames & Hudson

[8.] Sudjic, D. 2004. ‘The Strange Case of Van Den Puup: Design in the Age of Celebrity, the Death of the Object and the China Crisis.’ RSA Bicentenary Medallist’s Address, at the RSA, London, November 2004.

[9.] Derived by merging the word “producer” (and later the word “professional”) with the word “consumer”, the term “prosumer” was coined by Alvin Tofler in his book, ‘The Third Wave’ (1980, New York: Bantham Books).

The notion that “everyone is a designer” is being heard with ever-greater frequency. It is the essence of the RSA’s new Design and Society agenda, launched recently with the mantra “You know more than you think you do”. It’s author, Design Director Emily Campbell, describes the profession of design as “common resourcefulness refined by a technical education” and believes “Design can re-awaken citizens’ own resourcefulness”. The programme of projects aims to transfer knowledge currently the preserve of designers, to the public, on the understanding that it will give them the tools to become better citizens. As well as targeting the school curriculum and the public at large, designers are being encouraged to make explicit the often-implicit social role of their work. Design that creates behavioural change (to some, a euphemism for social engineering) is given centre stage.

Fig.1 Adhocism - The Case for Improvisation by Charles Jencks and Nathan Silver

In parts, Design and Society is reminiscent of sentiments expressed in Charles Jencks and Nathan Silver’s 1973 book Adhocism – The Case for Improvisation (fig. 1), which, with a hint of anarchy, states “a new mode of direct action is emerging…where everyone can create their own environment out of impersonal subsystems. [Adhocism] cuts through the usual delays caused by specialization, bureaucracy and hierarchical organisation.”

Important though these developments are, one wonders where this leaves the professional designer working at the sharp end of defining the final outcome of our products and buildings. With the public encouraged to become designers, and designers encouraged to become politically active managers, the flair and talent for creating the physical, that has been the traditional currency of the designer, appears to be losing its shine.

The furore over Design Council project manager Hilary Cottam winning the 2005 Designer of the Year award (akin, as furniture designer Jane Dillon put it, to “giving the gold medal to the coach”) revealed that plenty of designers were stung by the encroachment of management upon territory conventionally reserved for celebrating the craft of the profession. The baying crowd of “real designers” hardly helped their cause by their vitriolic attacks on Cottam (for allegedly taking credit for the authorship of the design work in the projects she’d managed), bringing their motives into question and perpetuating the stereotype that designers are only interested in stamping their signature on all and sundry. In the cacophony of accusations, the form-givers missed their opportunity to state eloquently what their work brings to the public.

Yet expecting those whose gift is manifested primarily in visual (rather than written) language to win a war of words is unfair. Regardless of the worthiness of a project, there is social and cultural value in having it physically shaped – “designed” in the traditional meaning of the word – by someone able to make intuitive decisions about the power of forms, who has a sensitivity towards materials and can bring about a result that has an immediate resonance with the viewer that comes before rational interpretation i.e. to create beauty. These are not skills found in everyone – and some cannot be taught.

With the upcoming launch of a company whose on-line software allows customers to “drive” rapid manufacturing technology without any specialist training, enabling them to order products they have “designed” themselves, professional form-givers may sense an attack from another flank. Digital Forming is a consortium of four partners who have developed a platform for the mass-customisation of “designed lifestyle products”. Demonstrated recently at The Science Museum, the experience promises far more than it delivers. Members of the public choose a product (options on show were a pen, a lamp (fig. 2), a lemon squeezer or a pair of sunglasses), which is presented to them on-screen as a 3D model along with a handful of sliders. Moving each slider changes a pre-set parameter and morphs the model, making it more faceted, smoother, lumpier etc. When satisfied with the result the customer can order their creation to be rapid-manufactured (a luscious misnomer in this context, being as it is, extremely time-consuming when compared to serial production processes) and posted to them.

Fig. 2 Lamps from Digital Forming

The noble cause of providing people with objects they have a personal attachment towards has been diminished by the restrictions placed upon the user. In the name of ensuring they cannot modify the object so as to render it “useless” the extent to which they can “design” it is limited. It has already been designed. The user is simply choosing from among the many possible combinations of slider positions dictated by the team.

The aim of tooling up the layman should be to enable them to come up with ideas that challenge the conventional wisdom of the professional. The results may not be pretty to the trained eye and may be inappropriate in many contexts, but naivety holds the latent possibility of overturning blind convention to reveal the sublime. A system that limits the layman’s options to those pre-conceived by the professional renders itself impotent, not to say boring.

There has been much hype about the future of home 3D printing, but it no more makes product designers out of us all than sewing machines made us fashion designers, blogging made us journalists or desk-top publishing made us graphic designers. If those examples are anything to go by it will actually increase the awareness among amateurs of the skills of the professional.

So designers need not feel threatened by the tooling up of the layman, either with design thinking or access to new ways of making. Both should be welcomed. But in the excitement we should recognise that there is still a place for the professional designer, both at the boardroom table and at the drawing board. Doing so will help us not to lose sight of what constitutes quality in the tangible outcomes of this ever more nebulous process we call design.

First published in the October 2009 edition of Blueprint Magazine

The crafts, it appears, have seen better days. Educational institutions are struggling to recruit to craft courses or find funding to support them. Students, concerned about impending hefty overdrafts look towards subjects with more obviously lucrative income streams. Craft’s anarchic brother art, and sell-out sister design appear to be grabbing all the headlines and have incestuously merged to form Design-Art which threatens to steal the gallery limelight.

Certain craft subjects appear genuinely endangered. Ceramics in particular has seen closures over the last year, on top of earlier ones, and it is clear that those remaining in this ever-diminishing disciplinary community need to band together to ensure that the importance and value of craft is understood at the highest (read: government) levels. We need not only to protect subjects but to enable them to flourish once more. Yet the nagging chicken-and-egg question remains unanswered: does lack of support from government and the education sector reflect a wider lack of interest from the public?

Have we, as a society, turned our back on the broader notion of craftsmanship? Perhaps it is time to attempt a re-assessment of the values that craft offers, not least because these constantly shift.

Within sociology, value held or exchanged by individuals or groups is referred to as ‘capital’. The scattered range of opinions about what we place value in agglomerate to form what the late sociologist Pierre Bordieu (in Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, 1984) called ‘fields of capital’. Objects within these fields are attributed ‘symbolic capital’ by those collectors and critics able to describe and justify their reasons for championing them. Bordieu argued that such fields had boundaries marking where appreciation of their value ends. Hence an object sought after in a newly recognised field, may have little value in a traditional one. Craft of course has always had its traditionalists and modernizers but there are today more of these fields than ever springing up as practitioners break new ground. Each new field challenges the makers and consumers of craft to consider what it is about the object they consider significant. Like every other consumed item, the craft object becomes the currency through which we give aesthetic expression to our aspirations.

Commonly invoked in the teaching of craft theory is David Pye’s distinction between craft as ‘the workmanship of risk’ and production as ‘the workmanship of certainty’ described in The Nature and Art of Workmanship (1968). In Meanings of Modern Design (1990), Peter Dormer dissects Pye’s theories in a chapter called Valuing the Handmade. Of studio craft Dormer tells us, “What we admire is the delivery of beauty in the teeth of risk. At the heart of the workmanship of risk is the thrill of avoiding failure”. Illuminating though this is, it narrows the remit of craft activity to that which contains risk. One is being nudged towards the conclusion that the greater the risk, the higher the value of the outcome, yet this is not always the case.

A few years ago when teaching at Manchester Metropolitan University on the Three-Dimensional Design course I was shown two films of potters at work. The first, available on YouTube (see below) is of Isaac Button, the last English Country Potter to work at the Soil Hill Pottery near Halifax. Made around 1963-64 it shows Button working at his wheel with incredible speed and skill; a one-man ceramics factory, with row upon row of ‘product’ behind him. A caption flashes up claiming Button was capable of throwing a ton of clay in a day. The other film, made by an MMU colleague, showed the contemporary potter Jim Malone at work in his studio in the late 90s. Same material, same process, same trace of the maker’s finger marks on every piece. Yet Malone took vastly longer to make each one, his movements laboured by comparison. To my untrained eye – I studied industrial design – there was little difference in the end result. And though I could see Malone’s work was more refined, if anything Button’s had more charm. It certainly displayed a far greater vanquishing of risk.

Malone’s pots sell for £100 upwards and although some of Button’s now appear to have reached comparable figures, when first sold they would have done so at a fraction of Malone’s current prices. Context is of course, everything. In 1963-4 Button was one of the few remaining examples in this country of someone practicing a craft activity as a working-class trade. Malone on the other hand, like his contemporaries as well as such forbears as Michael Cardew and Bernard Leech- were and are working from a more privileged position. “Today,” Dormer tells us, “craft is produced out of a middle class choice, as an expression of free will for an audience that has sufficient money – and perception – to afford useless objects of contemplation”. And though “useless” sounds pejorative, as if Dormer is denying the spiritual as well as the practical “use” of the craft object, he is far from blind to its virtues. The book makes a frank and dispassionate analysis of the context of objects bought primarily for aesthetic reasons, and of those intended to serve utilitarian purposes.

One problem with risk or certainty as descriptors of workmanship is that such discussions can imply the worlds of studio-craft and industrial production never meet. The reality is somewhat different. In my own experience working with British pewters Wentworths, factories such as theirs rely upon a team of highly skilled craftsmen who engage in the workmanship of risk on a daily basis. Similarly, the work of Finnish glassmakers Iittala (Fig. 1), recently on show at Chelsea College of Art, reveals that an industrial scale operation does not exclude the making of pieces that rely upon individual skill.

Fig. 1 Pieces from Iittala's Artworks collection by Harri Koskinen

Naturally, the workmanship of certainty – the application of jigs, moulds and tools to ensure an identical result, to reduce the risk of failure – is associated with industrial production. Yet a significant volume of today’s craft objects are the result of the (skilful) use of such methods. By contrast, at the experimental end of factory production, designers are exploring ways of contriving uniqueness in serial runs of products while maintaining the efficiency of the process. Manufactured by Edra, Peter Traag’s Sponge chair (fig. 2) is made by injecting polyurethane foam into a mould containing a loose fabric cover larger than the mould itself. As the mould is filled, the fabric creases up, leaving a unique pattern of folds covering the finished chair. For the project Breeding Tables (fig. 3), Reed Kram and Clemens Weishaar used a computer algorithm to generate an infinite number of different table base geometries. Though Kram and Weishaar selected which would be fabricated in sheet steel, responsibility for the design of each had been devolved to the computer. While these objects do not display the hand skill of the craftsman, they at least illustrate that designers are looking to such craft attributes as uniqueness for ways of endearing their wares to customers.

Fig. 2 Sponge Chair by Peter Traag for Edra

Fig, 3 Breeding Table by Kram Weishaar

What’s more, the calculation of craft values has recently had to confront a new phenomenon. Just as industrial production methods superseded craft techniques in the making of the price-competitive objects of trade, the new computer-controlled technologies of mass manufacture are now invading that last outpost of the hand-made – the craftsperson’s studio.

Craftspeople are using such equipment to mimic handwork or to explore new aesthetics. Researching this at the sharp end are members of the Autonomatic group at Falmouth University. Far from diminishing the value of the craft object, the group uses the newly available technologies to explore its full potential. They question the established “boundaries between craft and industrial production” and aim to “raise the profile of making in 21st century design culture.” Autonomatic’s Tavs Jorgensen has used an animator’s motion capture glove to translate physical movements into three-dimensional modelling data that will be outputted as objects; a CNC milled bench with a rippled surface in which fingers have plotted virtual troughs; a tea towel that has a 2D drawing printed on it made from a 3D scan of a teacup being dried. The applications of these processes create poetic results and challenge the status of the sacred ‘hand of the maker’.

Fig. 4 Motion Capture Glove

Fig. 5 Drying In Motion by Tavs Jorgensen

This challenge is perhaps timely. While some will deplore the thought of the hand being connected only remotely to the work, art and design have long accepted it and gone further. For a long time the idea has had primacy over the hand in determining the overall value of a work of art or design. Many of today’s famous artists employ craftspeople to make their work; yet despite the skill involved, there is no expectation that the craftsperson should be credited alongside the artist. In much contemporary art, the making skill is taken as read. It needn’t be there, but when it is, it is expected to be perfect.

This reveals a worrying schism; the touch of the hand of the maker exulted in many areas of the crafts, yet now considered insignificant in neighbouring fields, where once it was seen as essential. It implies that craft is lagging behind in the diversity of its intellectual development. As art grew away from figuration – via various forms of abstraction and conceptualism – design emerged from the industrial revolution with missionary purpose, realised its error and turned agnostic. The result has been a healthy pluralism of approaches within art and design from which its objects materialize. The very nature of craft activity has kept its journey more sedate, less turbulent. Yet concept and narrative do now play a greater role in the creation of value in craft works. Pieces with a story that speak to more a revealed process of production are ascribed greater worth.

The shift of focus away from craftsmanship for its own sake could be read as a reflection of a broader trend in society. As Britain has moved from having a rich manufacturing culture to a service based economy, fewer and fewer earning adults place their hands on anything other than a computer keyboard. As screen based entertainment proliferates, fewer children grow up regularly making things outside school. And so the academies have seen a decline in appropriate ability among those starting craft-based courses. Skills have disappeared all around as new technologies change the rules of engagement. On-line social networking, texting and e-mailing have diminished the art of writing; finesse sacrificed for the speedy exchange of raw information. The craft of television programme making has, in many instances, been reduced to a set of tick-box formulae. Richard Sennett’s The Craftsman highlights that in many areas of life, prioritising quality for its own sake and for the enjoyment of others – the craftsmanship of a job well done – has been left behind in favour of instant gratification and artless pragmatism. If, as a society, we are losing the appreciation for craftsmanship, and with it, its skills and support for it, it is craftspeople that must be at the forefront of the resistance.

The Isaac Buttons of their day made products relevant to their time – if they didn’t, they would go out of business. The Shanahan brothers, traditional basket makers from Carrick-on-Suir, Ireland, (as featured in David Shaw-Smith’s acclaimed documentary series ‘Hands’ 1978) describe how they have gone from making eel traps through various domestic containers to large scale bespoke baskets for hot air balloons, to keep pace with contemporary uses for their skill. Keeping alive the techniques of yesterday in the forms of yesterday is a common pursuit in the crafts, but one primarily suited to demonstrations in museums and heritage theme parks. Yet many practitioners recognise that the act of making craft today has to have a relevance to the culture of today; whether this be the exploration of contemporary materials and techniques or the application of traditional ones to forms that accord with how we now live. The crafts need not be driven by market forces, but these at lease offer a barometer for the public’s prevailing interests. Craftwork can either follow these preferences or oppose them; it they should not ignore them.

Only a very few can prosper as the latest young incarnation of the master craftsmen of the past. My feeling is that too many practitioners in charge of (endangered) craft courses continue to herd students towards this goal, away from fresh thinking, imagination and experimentation. Sadly, the courses producing some of the most cutting-edge work are among those that have been closed. If the crafts are to gain broader support, students must become practiced in channelling the zeitgeist into products that truly reflect our time and not graduate into a branch of the heritage industry. And those in a position to fight on craft’s behalf in the corridors of power must be made aware of, and indeed be prepared to champion, its relevance.

Published in the November/December 2009 edition of Crafts Magazine.

Cristina Bilsland and Kyla Elliott, both graduates of the Royal College of Art’s Design Products MA course organised the debate ‘Is Irony Killing Design?’ as part of a series entitled Script, held at London’s Design Museum. Cristina and Kyla kindly invited me to speak at the debate. Having myself designed products that have been described as ironic, I was intrigued by the negativity towards this approach to design the title implied. Researching for and participating in the debate proved enlightening for me, and the following text tries to encapsulate some of the issues raised and conclusions drawn.

During the debate an audience member remarked that there had been a gradual escalation in the ‘sense of the individual’ that developed post-war. Since the 50s people have, more explicitly than ever before, expressed their personality through their choice of products. Wit, irony and kitsch have all become part of the toolkit for designers of domestic items on show in the home. After the often-austere offerings of the pre-war Modern Movement, the ‘pop design’ of the sixties mirrored society’s more liberal values with designers applying cheap new plastics in sweet shop colours. Following the lead of the artists of the time, the more avant-garde designers used metaphor, pastiche and vast changes of scale with glee. Today, if graduate shows and the Sunday supplements are to be the barometer, a new front of ironic design is apparently sweeping the nation. “On every page there’s a joke product” another member of the audience complained.

But is ironic design about making joke products? My suspicion prior to the debate was that much of what was getting up people’s noses was not ironic design at all but design that had descended into kitsch and that the boundaries between the two had become blurred. It therefore seemed important to attempt a definition of the two in relation to their use in design.

Arch-modernist critic and Design Museum co-founder Stephen Bayley has written on kitsch suggesting “Kitsch almost invariably involves an adaptation from one medium to another, from appropriate to inappropriate…Similarly, kitsch almost always diminishes size and scale.”(1) He concludes that it is defined by, “Witless adaptation, diminution and relentless cheapening…” In short it is the inappropriate use of design language for its own sake. A telephone in the shape of Mickey Mouse (Fig.1) is kitsch simply because there is no rational relationship between Mickey and the phone. Looking at the dictionary definition, irony could be read as being similar: “An expression of meaning, often humourous or sarcastic by use of language of a different or opposite tendency.”(2) The Mickey Mouse phone clearly uses different or opposite language to that expected in telephones. However the key difference is that ironic design, applies the ‘inappropriate’ language in a knowing and therefore ‘appropriate’ way. As Ralph Ball points out in his book Form Follows Idea, “Selective contradiction can add rich conceptual texture, elusive magic and sensations hard to define in words.”(3)

Fig.1 Mickey Mouse Phone

Fig. 2 Swiss Door Wedge by Andrew Stafford

Andrew Stafford’s plastic ‘Swiss’ door wedge shaped like a wedge of cheese is ironic, not kitsch because there is a clear and well-observed link between the material (plastic), the form (cheese) and the function (door wedge). Stafford’s door wedge is whimsical but quite charming. It’s a concise illustration of how meaning can be applied successfully to a mundane domestic object. We don’t need to use it to know that it will function acceptably well. Its raison d’être is to provide a surreal double-take and to make us smile.

The realisation among designers that ‘design products’ get an important kind of value not from plaudits about their use or from the perceived value of their materials but from their ability to clearly convey meaning on the page or in exhibitions is not new. Sottsass’s Memphis group of the 1980s knew their work had great ‘exhibition value’ and many pieces were consequently sold to museums. The recent explosion of interest in contemporary design – albeit much of it superficial – from the press, television and arts institutions has fuelled a meta-market where there is a desire to consume a product’s image but not its matter. Ironic design, relying as it does on clever subversion of visual language, is perfectly suited to fulfilling this need because its images usually intrigue.

The success of Dutch group Droog Design is testament to the fact that publishing images of avant-garde, ironic products, given the right context and the right work, can be a winning formula (Fig. 3). Droog spent a decade concentrating on having exhibitions and selling books but paid little more than lip service to the production and distribution of the products they featured in their collection. In doing so they cleverly circumnavigated the fundamental drawback of avant-garde design; that it is notoriously hard to sell. The reason for that, as writer Peter Dormer pointed out is that, “if design moves too far ahead of what people understand, then it fails them as consumers and they stop consuming”(4). The majority of the public do not expect to find ironic references in their domestic products and when they do, a proportion are alienated and consequently don’t buy. Dormer continued that the avant-garde in art is so far ahead of public understanding, many people expect to be aliened by it, and either accept this and/or don’t attend galleries. Despite widespread public rejection of their work, the media attention received by artists using subversion and irony has been extensive and designers are beginning to tap into this. And why not, after all they are cultural interpreters and broadcasters as much as they are providers of function and style. The balancing act – one Droog is finally attempting – is to inhabit this avant-garde territory and have the products, as well as the communication about them, bring in the bacon.

Fig. 3 A selection of books by Droog Design

As the debate drew on, the picture of the type of products under attack became clearer. These designs were about attention seeking in order for their creators to get a leg-up onto the career ladder. The huge number of design graduates each year was mentioned and their need to stand out from the crowd. The products were consequently associated with a lack of integrity on the part of the designer and seen as egocentric offerings rather than genuine attempts to add something worthwhile to the product landscape. I began to feel quite defensive about my own design motives. This was not about ironic products, as I knew them, but ‘in-your-face’ products; things designed to stop you, or your houseguests, in their tracks by their sheer quirkiness; in-jokes for your designer friends. Alessi’s character products came up as did Starck’s Juicy Salif lemon squeezer, neither particularly ironic surely?

After discussion with a colleague I realised that there was an important word missing from the entire debate – poetry. Much over-used and perhaps rather pretentious-sounding when applied to objects, it is however the crucial factor that separates the tiresome statement (ironic or otherwise) from the elegant and transcendent expression. Ralph Ball defines the poetic as applied to design as “objects which are elevated above the pragmatic and formal requirement of the functional artefact, and deliver ambient observations in condensed form for reflection and contemplation.”(5)

Good ironic design transcends novelty and aims for a more intelligent and subtle twist. It can be dark as well as humourous and often employs familiarity to create meaning in a particular context. For example Castiglioni’s tractor seat stool (Fig. 4) and Droog’s doorbell made from two wine glasses (Fig. 5) are both celebrations of archetypal form and a reaction against the po-faced seriousness of minimal Italian design. The metaphors are spot-on and the objects are constructed with a lightness of touch that focuses their meaning; poetry in three-dimensions. They also happen to be fully functional. The motives behind such products are entirely honourable and their creators are to be respected and applauded, not tarred with the same brush as those pandering for publicity. At a glance the approaches may look similar – chuck in a ready-made or mould something to look like something else – but the difference is how well the products stand up to the question “Why?” and how gracefully their message has been communicated.

Fig. 4 Mezzandro by Achille and Pier Giacomo Castiglioni manufactured by Zanotta

Fig. 5 Bottoms Up Doorbell by Peter van der Jagt for Droog Design

The trite and heavy-handed design statements that appear to have given ironic design a bad name may have been created out of a desire to a feed the media and make money but they may also be the result of a prevailing sense of apathy. The major design movements of the 20th Century have all been debunked in one sense or another and designers are left to pick up the threads and weave their own ideological safety net. Designing bad jokes may be displacement activity in the ongoing search for direction.

First published in the Central Saint Martins MA Industrial Design Yearbook 2006.

References

1: Stephen Bayley, General Knowledge, Booth-Clibborn Editions, 2000, page 39
2: Concise Oxford Dictionary
3: Ralph Ball and Maxine Naylor. Form Follows Idea: An Introduction to Design Poetics, Black Dog, London, 2005, page 57
4: Peter Dormer. The Meanings of Modern Design, Thames and Hudson, London, 1990, page 10.
5: Ralph Ball and Maxine Naylor. Form Follows Idea: An Introduction to Design Poetics, Black Dog, London, 2005, page 119

‘The broad definition of politics (with a small ‘p’) considers the interaction of all forms of power, which happens wherever there is a relationship. Everyone is therefore political and has the potential to influence what happens in their lives, their communities and their countries.’(1)

‘Everything we do is politics. The difference is whether we are aware of this or not.’(2)

As “matter” that we must negotiate, products can literally shape our daily experience in ways that spark particular thoughts, and designers can therefore influence what these thoughts are. In addition, objects have the ability to be the locus of discussion about our potential futures; to explore through objects, the logical conclusions to certain models of thought, be they politically partisan, positive (utopian) or negative (dystopian). Yet beyond a small band of critical designers and activists, the design world is not a hotbed of political debate and most designers neither wear their political agendas on their sleeves, nor make them explicit in their portfolios. Hence the link between design and politics that undeniably exists is downplayed and often overlooked entirely.

For its confirmation we need only remind ourselves that the key differentiator between the three main socio-political systems, Communism, Socialism and Capitalism, is who controls the means of production and how it is operated. Designers, while not directly in control, are nonetheless in the business of negotiating with industry the ways in which production is applied, and the choices possible within this role can be made with particular goals in mind. If design is used to influence or change anything, or even to maintain things as they are, it is exerting power and is therefore a political tool1. Those goals may be political with a large or small ‘p’, that is, they may or may not be part of a ‘big picture’ of how a country or a society should operate. Enzo Mari’s point (above) is that many designers act out their role without ever considering these political ramifications.

Yet it is dangerous to attempt a reading of the political persuasions of designers purely from the style of objects they have designed. This is because, despite the associations that have developed, particular styles of design do not intrinsically belong to particular political belief systems. They have been linked by choice for the political ends of those concerned. As the late Peter Dormer points out in his excellent book Meanings of Modern Design – Towards the Twentieth Century, Modernism and its aesthetic rules such as form follows function were adopted by those with socialist political leanings because it suited them. ‘If the dominant style of the old, non-socialist establishment had been plain and functional, then I am sure that the aesthetic riposte of the socialist or democratically inclined designers would have been towards elaboration, figuration and decoration. The point is that you can argue either style both ways: both can be seen as oppressive, both can be seen as democratic. You can say you are being honest about the object’s role, or that you are bringing decoration and metaphor to the people. You can almost toss a coin.’(3)

Just as the reasons for applying a style can come from either side of the political spectrum, they may also have been arrived at without any intentions other than personal aesthetic preference. We must also remember that the political location of a product is defined not just by its image or purpose but also by a variety of factors including to whom it is financially available and by whom it is actually consumed. With the gradual dismantling of class barriers, the converging of left and right in mainstream politics, and emergence of Postmodern views, these old aesthetic signposts have become historical relics. Where, for example, should we politically locate Apple’s iPod? (fig. 1) Its clean lines, uniform radii and undecorated surfaces, not to mention its harnessing of new technology, place it in an historical line that leads us back through Dieter Rams, Braun’s influential chief designer from 1965-1995 (fig. 2) to the Socialist Modernism of Germany’s Bauhaus School. Yet with its bright white earphone wire, shiny case and high price tag ($400 or around £280 when first released) it is a potent sign of capitalist conspicuous consumption. More extreme still, the recent phenomenon of Design-Art, whereby designers produce furniture for the price of an average house, is a state of affairs that, politically, could hardly be further from the social project of harnessing production methods to provide quality goods for all.

Fig.1 Apple i-Pod

Fig.2 Braun T3 Radio

Beyond the aesthetics of the object lies what has become known as the aesthetics of use (4), and this too can imply political leanings. Our perception of the intended use of a product may be towards selfless or indulgent ends, practicality or frivolity, modesty or ostentation, engagement or denial, with advertising and branding helping shape these verdicts. This aesthetic of use extends to the product’s effect upon its users and those around them, upon its environment and the environment in the wider sense. Hence the aesthetics of using the much-vilified “Chelsea Tractor” on a short school run are politically loaded, as is carrying your shopping home in an Anya Hindmarch designed fabric bag sporting the legend “I’m not a plastic bag” (fig.3).

Fig. 3 Anya Hindmarsh's "I'm Not a Plastic Bag"

Deepening the search for ideological signals, a major although often unseen source is the way in which the design process has been carried out. The debate between the ‘top down’ imposition of decisions and the ‘bottom up’ consultation of the audience is one held on macro and micro levels – in the design of the state and the design of products – and ought to be a fundamental consideration of any design project. The free market is analogous to a democratic government in the sense that the objects of design, like politicians, rely upon a certain level of support (consumption) for their survival. Design that is not in tune with the general public’s desires and expectations may continue to exist but will remain niche (unless those desires change). Designers, realising this, have been taking note of what consumers think and building this into their products for many years. Going beyond simple market research. New design methodologies are apparently making design even more democratic by engaging the public in the design process. So-called Participatory and Co-design methods have appeared, transforming the designer’s role from originator to facilitator.

With product designers broadening their remit to include services and offering advice at boardroom level, they are increasingly being called upon to shape the implementation of government policies. Some of these enterprises have been sold to designers as a means of applying their creative skills directly to solve social problems, conveniently ignoring the politically charged nature of the projects themselves. In their keenness to engage their problem-solving abilities, designers must be savvy enough to think through the ramifications of the projects and proposals in which they become involved to ensure they do not become political pawns for a side they do not support.

This article has been adapted from the book Thinking:Objects – Contemporary Approaches to Product Design by Tim Parsons, published in 2009 by AVA Publishers, Switzerland. It was also published in Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design’s MA Industrial Design Yearbook 2008 under the title In Search of the Politics of Design.

References:

1. Advocacy Toolkit: Understanding Advocacy Part A5, Understanding Politics and Power, Published by Tearfund Roots Resources, http://tilz.tearfund.org

2. Mari. E quoted in Burkhardt. F Why Write a Book on Enzo Mari, F.Motta, 1997.

3. Dormer. P Meanings of Modern Design: Towards the Twenty-First Century, Thames & Hudson, London, 1990. page20

4. Ambasz. E in Italy: The New Domestic Landscape, MOMA 1972. page 21