Power up. Softly.

By John Rousseau | Published: 08/19/2009

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Somewhere along the well-trodden path marked by El Lissitzky and Lester Beall walks Shepard Fairey. And, like the famous propaganda artists of yesteryear, Fairey prefers red and has a flair for dramatic perspective—although that is where the similarities end. His latest poster coincides with a new grassroots initiative by moveon.org titled Power Up America, and depicts an idealized future where energy independence is delivered by a trio of heroic wind turbines that advance from a majestic mountain range under a halo of five-point stars. It’s good clean silkscreened Americana: red, white and blue with a dash of idiosyncratic wood type that collectively produce an ironic nostalgia for our own future.

Unlike the now-iconic Obama “Hope” poster, which demonstrates a similar, if more measured idealism appropriate to its cultural moment, this image fails to generate a sense of urgency. And, unlike the work of Lissitzky and Beall, it is fundamentally passive despite its visual melodrama. It asks the viewer to believe in alternative energy, but gently rather than persuasively—emphasizing the polished aesthetics of turbines rather than a passionate visual or verbal argument for change. In this case, illustration is not activism—but the limited edition print will look good in your living room, most likely lit by coal-fired electricity.

[ image via obeygiant.com ]

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In Plato’s cave.

By John Rousseau | Published: 08/06/2009

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On the Fast Company blog, Valerie Casey has written a deliberately provocative piece about the evolution (or lack thereof) of product design aesthetics over the past decade. Having recently judged the International Design Excellence Awards (IDEA), she observes a striking degree of stylistic continuity across a diverse range of objects, which is demonstrated via a series of humorous, if misleading juxtapositions. While culture and business have changed dramatically in ten years, award-winning product design has apparently not. Concluding, she writes:

Design is at an inflection point. We are playing a more significant role in industry and policy. Now our challenge is how to describe our value. We need to adapt to our current role in the world, as problem-solvers not stylists, as collaborators not lone inventors. We need to represent and celebrate what design actually does, not the way it used to look.

This strikes me as somewhat odd, in that she first expresses a desire for more dramatic stylistic evolution, and then concludes by disparaging style as a worthy pursuit at all. So, which is it? One would hope that the judges—including Ms. Casey—considered these products from a broader point of view, and determined the awards based on concept, relevance and execution.

BusinessWeek, who co-sponsored the competition, also featured the awards prominently on their web site. The coverage included a short article on key trends and the judging process along with a picture gallery of all 150 winners. Helen Walters writes:

Reflecting the scope and reach of the design discipline itself, awards were given to everything from sleek TVs and sharp-looking computer monitors to more creative concepts with barely a toehold in reality. But this year, particular credit was given to designers who showed they had truly considered a project in the wider context of the world at large.

And quoting Claudia Kotchka, another of the judges and former head of design at Procter & Gamble, Walters continues: “Design is not just about making things pretty. Designers are about making the world a better place.”

So, if the judges debated over three scorching days about how these products might make the world a better place (despite aesthetics)—and selected the winners accordingly—isn’t there a disconnect here? For me, the first issue is the “sleek TVs and sharp-looking computer monitors.” How exactly does a new Samsung television make the world a better place? And why does Bruce Nussbaum sensationalize the Samsung products on his blog (Samsung beats Apple…) rather than highlight the Nike Trash Talk shoe—a compelling innovation that won best in show?

As usual, the business-turned-design press wants to have it both ways. They want to hype innovation and diminish aesthetics while failing to provide a deeper critical perspective along with the obligatory slide show, which only serves to support the stylistic outcome of the awards.

The second issue—and the real problem—is that the design profession has been stuck in our version of Plato’s cave for some time now. And we have apparently locked up the journalists with us. Addicted to imagery, we consume page after page of thumbnails, year after year. The images are too small to make out much—but we see enough to form our own reality, which in turn is reinforced by our tribal beliefs and made more vivid by each successive wave of images. Our view of good design and its visual signifiers is not based on actual artifacts or experiences, but rather a series of vague simulations. If we’re going to change the world, we might want to try living in it. We could start by giving up awards. Then, we should have a more substantial conversation about what really makes something good.

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Values made visible.

By John Rousseau | Published: 08/04/2009

In my last post I briefly introduced the classic diagram of the Eames studio model—a brilliant and simple summary of how they envisioned their practice and its relationship with clients and society at large. Apart from the telling intersection between studio, client and society that for them defined successful work, what I like most about the diagram is how it suggests a value system that was ahead of its time.

Counter to the prevailing archetype of designers as objective, rational problem solvers (an idea that continues to define contemporary professional practice), the Eames model asserts that the studio has a valid interest in the work apart from providing a service to the client or delivering a product to society. Whether manifest in ideas, aesthetics, materials, etc., their work is informed by an ethos of intellectual inquiry and exploration. And it is their work. If you study the Eames’ substantial and diverse output, you can’t help but notice a common thread (or several) that goes beyond visual style. The studio had an obvious agenda, which it rigorously pursued whether working independently or on commission.

As the business of design has become increasingly professionalized and perhaps less rarified and creative, the idea of a design firm, let alone an individual designer, having a ideological stake in the work seems rather nostalgic, if not self-serving. Today, we partner. We research. We collaborate. We brainstorm. We ideate. We align. We sell it in. And eventually, we design. Amidst this multifaceted process, it is difficult, if not impossible to practice the sort of self-motivated inquiry and exploration inherent in the Eames model (not to mention expensive). However, when we dilute the design process and suppress our own interests in favor of overly inclusive and complex methodologies, we miss an important opportunity to define and execute a progressive agenda for our own time and place.

Agenda is a troublesome word, though. It sounds somewhat sinister—like we’re trying to get away with something, or worse mislead our clients into funding our artistic dalliances. That’s not what I’m after. What I’m advocating is a deeper relationship with our work that goes beyond individual projects and client relationships. We could use some theory to go along with the practice. I would love to encounter more work that emerges from a clear and defined set of values, whatever those might be. A packaging practice where sustainability is a mandate and not just a nice-to-have. A brand practice that believes in real differentiation and risk-taking. Design as a catalyst for innovation or social change. Whatever.

Such a focus would surely accelerate innovation by creating more favorable circumstances for developing new ideas and ultimately delivering greater value to both clients and society. Clients would benefit from breakthrough ideas; consumers would benefit from exceptional experiences that challenge, engage or delight. And design firms would benefit from a focused point of difference and clear sense of purpose—both of which drive greater efficiency as well as good work.

The best clients—those we most want to work with—expect more than service. They want a point of view. So, why have we been so timid in taking the next step?

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Style matters.

By John Rousseau | Published: 07/31/2009

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After decades of celebrating style over substance, it has become increasingly fashionable to advance a generalized critique of designers, based on the premise that our perceived dedication to aesthetics is inherently, if not exclusively superficial (the “shiny objects” argument). Embedded within this argument is the assumption that such values are not only naïve but also self-motivated and not aligned with the interests of business or consumers. This false dichotomy is repeated ad nauseam in the business press, which has paradoxically embraced design thinking as the holy grail of innovation while continuing to advance the myth of the lone creative guru and his creations.

The trouble with this division—divorcing design practice from aesthetics in favor of an emphasis on strategy, process, the big idea or whatever—is that it ignores our unique contribution to the discovery and development of ideas, and marginalizes both the functional and emotional impacts of design. Moreover, if we view design as something that only occurs after the thinkers have left the room, we’re missing an opportunity to frame solutions from a design perspective. At best, this limits the potential for innovation. At worst, we’re participating in a self-fulfilling prophecy that will ultimately widen the gap between ideation and execution. And, as that gap gets wider, the quality and relevance of design will continue to suffer.

I think we need to expand our thinking around what style is and how it can contribute to innovation. If we limit ourselves to a superficial definition, we’re missing the broader value of aesthetic inquiry, which should include all aspects of experience, and not merely the surface. Ideally, style should be understood as a symbiotic relationship between an idea and its expression:  a carefully orchestrated whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. It’s more than a simple translation of strategy. It’s as much improvisation as performance. And it requires expertise, judgment, and yes, design talent. Accordingly, designers need to take more credit for their skills, and work with the right collaborators from the beginning to generate, validate and execute ideas.

Good design—and especially great design—does not occur at the expense of business or society. This isn’t a new idea—we have simply lost our focus amidst other agendas. In the 1960s, Charles and Ray Eames described a model for design practice that considers the unique and overlapping interests of the three groups: design, business, and society. The gist of their model is that the best work occurs at the intersection of these interests. Remove or suppress any one of these, and the outcome will be accordingly (and predictably) compromised. It’s no surprise that the interests of business and society feature prominently. However, it’s revealing that the interests of the design studio figure equally—an assertion that would likely be somewhat unpopular in today’s culture of extreme collaboration and partnership. I’ll look at this theme more closely in my next post.

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The context of none.

By John Rousseau | Published: 07/28/2009

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I have seen the future. And it looks a lot like the past, only different. Old is the new new. In the future, history is remixed with the recent past to reflect a present that claims no distinct visual language or critical position of its own—unless you view this condition as such.

The virtual intersection of this phenomenon is the web site FFFFound. Essentially optical heroin for visual culture junkies, FFFFound is an “image bookmarking” tool that acts as a limitless bulletin board where members can share and discover imagery. It’s a living organism of images—constantly evolving and remarkable for its limitless depth and diversity. Everything that could be classified as an image can be found there: contemporary photography, classic album covers, Swiss design from the 60s, new posters from last month that look like Swiss design from the 60s, 3D illustrations of hot babes with or without motorcycles and futuristic weaponry, typography, vintage advertising and packaging, disembodied people in sneakers holding the aforementioned posters, HDR photo-illustration, information design, pattern, and on and on. In our studio, it has become the default source for visual research and inspiration.

Amidst this intoxicating abundance, I find it disconcerting that the original context of the image has been lost. You can uncover it, of course, if you’re willing to travel a few clicks and leave the site. But why bother? There are too many things to see. So, any sense of history, narrative and contextual meaning fades away as a broad palette of visual styles scrolls by before your eyes, aggregated based on your previous selections and taste. In this vast and empty landscape, there is no old or new—just now.

The ultimate irony is that post-post-modernism often looks a lot like modernism, when it’s not waxing nostalgic for some other era (also common). Unlike modernism or post-modernism, both of which required a certain level of participation in the theoretical discourse, I believe that most designers today couldn’t articulate a point of view one way or the other about the politics of their design decisions. Helvetica Bold is just a cool, neutral choice—and so are a lot of other things. These days, everything is fodder, which provides both tremendous opportunity as well as significant risks.

My worry is that our visual culture is becoming stagnant and muddy, even if it is more visible, mutable and global than ever before. Rather than creating original imagery, our creative process has shifted toward mimicry and appropriation rather than individuality and invention. As designers, we need to assume more responsibility for driving and shaping visual culture. That means developing a greater awareness of history as well as a keen eye for what’s happening now. And having some skin in the game. Let’s stop FFFFinding and start MMMMaking.

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Where commerce and culture meet. Or will, someday.

By John Rousseau | Published: 07/27/2009

Last week, the School of Visual Arts (SVA) in New York launched a new website for its MFA program in design criticism (D-CRIT). It’s a bold and notable program—attempting to address the longstanding absence of rigorous, critical writing on design for a wider audience, such as that which has long been common in architecture and the arts.

From the D-CRIT site:

Situated at the intersection of commerce and culture, design is a field of activity that touches the lives of everyone. Its role as an aesthetic, social and economic force is the subject of increasing attention: mainstream news outlets, the business press and lifestyle magazines routinely cover design, and it is the focus of major exhibitions and even entire museums. Yet, while forums for design commentary have increased, there is a crucial need for more intellectually rigorous approaches to design criticism.

So, progress. Perhaps these future “design critics, journalists, editors, educators, design managers and curators” will finally raise the level of discourse in the ever-expanding universe of design, and we will finally have both substantive analysis and rigorous critique, not to mention good writing. That would be a welcome outcome. But, where will they work, where will they publish, and to borrow from Rick Poyner, how will they be paid?

Perhaps they will work as critics, journalists and editors in the growing and profitable field of publishing. Yikes. By the time the class of 2011 hits the streets two years from now, what will the industry look like, particularly in a niche category like design? I’ll go out on a limb along with Chris Anderson and suggest that fewer opportunities for paid, professional writing will exist. I will be truly surprised if there are more than a couple of significant publications that cover design in depth (they are essentially irrelevant now). And then, there remains the issue of the readers. If the material on the web site is any indication, the audience is not so broad as implied above. The glorious intersection of commerce and culture looks more like obscure observation and artsy pondering. Where is the commerce or economics? To survive in mainstream publishing circa 2011, design writing needs to make itself both more interesting and much more relevant.

So, perhaps teaching? The academy would be a good fit for scholars who want to research and publish more substantial work for an audience of other scholars. Except, how would one do that with an MFA, essentially the academic equivalent of a creative writing degree (not that there’s anything wrong with that)? The MFA is a terminal degree in design (at least for now, PhD programs notwithstanding), art and other vocational courses of study intended to produce practitioners. In the realm of serious scholarship, it doesn’t hold much weight. Indeed, a Master’s degree of any sort doesn’t offer the necessary training and experience to operate as a scholar within a research university. In that sense, an MA option for D-CRIT students would at least establish a path for proper PhD studies elsewhere.

Nor does the fine art degree qualify a D-CRIT student to teach design, except in the event that a candidate could produce a body of design work from previous education or experience. Design education and its many shortcomings is a significant topic for another day, but suffice it to say that the primary focus of most programs remains vocational. As such, they offer a whole lot of D, but not much CRIT.

That leaves us with design manager. Yikes again. Nothing about the program, its faculty or published writing suggests a desired relationship with business, its products or brands in a larger, contemporary context. If one wants to be a design manager—whatever that is—he/she would undoubtedly be better off pursuing one of the new “D-MBA” degrees that seem to be spreading faster than Design Thinking and Swine Flu. Or, at least use words like “innovation,” “brand” and “strategy” more regularly.

And curator? Really? I think all three full-time positions are filled.

Granted, the value of education cannot and should not be measured by the market alone. My own MFA degree looms like a ghost in the rafters—not directly applicable to most of my daily practice (and occasionally a hindrance). Yet, it remains an experience I would not alter, even if granted that choice. My hope for the D-CRIT program and its students is that both make good on their goal to further define and explore design at the intersection of commerce and culture—and that the degree structure and pedagogy is ultimately appropriate to that path.

And by the way, the background images on the web site are really annoying. Seriously. On a site about words?

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Brand poetics.

By John Rousseau | Published: 07/22/2009

Recently, I was working on a typical branding project—the outcome of which was a presentation that, among other things, contained a brief narrative (or brand anthem) introducing the positioning concept and bringing it to life through a series of short, declarative statements. It’s the sort of presentation where every word is carefully chosen and scrutinized for what it says about the brand, and how well each idea intellectually executes on the overall brand strategy. It’s difficult writing to get exactly right; and, as the prose becomes more precise, it also becomes rather dull. I have developed and delivered many of these presentations, and I’m almost never happy with them. Part of this is admittedly my own problem, but I still wonder if we’re missing something.

The something I have in mind is poetry. I’m not talking about iambic pentameter or deep, multifaceted metaphors. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about Carl Sandburg’s Chicago. Published in 1916, it’s a short poem—just 22 lines—that both describes and renders heroic the city of Chicago. What I love about it is the way in which Sandburg conveys a complex perspective about place that is both focused and broad as well as factual and emotive. It’s the brand essence of Chicago, circa 1916. The words themselves are brilliant. He doesn’t mess around—the poem begins with “Hog Butcher for the World” and it picks up steam from there. I love the cadence. It’s forceful, dramatic and almost musical. It grabs you by the throat and punches you in the gut. It’s beautiful. And it sounds even better if you read it aloud.

If we were engaged to brand the city of Chicago, we’d probably re-write that first line as “Global hub for agricultural commerce.” And that’s the problem. I’m exaggerating a bit (we could do better)—but why must business writing be so banal? It’s one thing to talk about emotional branding, but it’s another to deliver on the idea and really get it right. And, if that’s what we’re after, doesn’t it follow that our approach for translating ideas should have more in common with poetry than exposition? Should it not surprise and delight? Deliver goosebumps as well as head nods? Shouldn’t a brand anthem be, well, an anthem? I think we need to work harder at our craft, and be more ambitious with our words. The medium may not be the message, but it’s equally important.

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Better living through chemistry.

By John Rousseau | Published: 07/13/2009

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I’ve owned this old potato chip tin for many years. I acquired it from my grandmother, who made almost everything from scratch and used the can to store baking flour after having finished the chips sometime in the 1950s. Amidst the zany amalgamation of color, graphics and typography (including body text on the back set in Cooper Black) and downright astonishing health claims, there are so many things about this object that I enjoy, and a few that truly set it apart from equally charming but more conventional post-war packaging.

Let’s start with the name. The product—made by Nicolay-Dancey in Detroit—could just as easily have been named “Nic’s” or something equally generic. “New Era,” on the other hand, is decidedly modern and promises something bigger. It reveals the profound sense of optimism about science and technology (note “scientifically processed,” “on the alkaline side,” “science says,” “feast without fear” and even “hydrogenated vegetable shortening”) that would eventually lead to the popularity of such instant wonders as TV dinners, Tang®, and the curious phenomenon of frozen fish sticks.

And what does the future look like? Juxtaposed against a gigantic red snipe that contains the brand name is a female silhouette—notable for its posed, classical rendition of an idyllic figure that would have been rather slender for the time. She, a statue, stands poised amidst a group of active people engaged in all sorts of activities (tobogganing, fly fishing, diving, the usual)—all of whom are implicitly powered by a new “energy source” otherwise known as the potato chip. She is the matriarch of the New Era—able to provide her active family with a healthy, scientific diet while maintaining perfect posture. Trust me, she’s not planning on baking anything from scratch. If only she were smoking a cigarette. And perhaps she is; it’s just hidden behind that giant snipe.

Posted in Design, Nostalgia | Comments closed

Reading catalogs.

By John Rousseau | Published: 06/28/2009

Occasionally I think it might be nice to live in the fictional world depicted within the J-Crew catalog. Long days at the beach, an autumn visit to New York wearing an authentic Navy pea coat. New England, the Hamptons. And an occasional trip to Paris accompanied by the sort of buttery brown leather luggage I have never seen on a conveyor belt in my world. Then the Sundance catalog arrives—which looks even better, in a way—it makes me realize how boring and predictable Crewland would be. Sundance is full of dusty roads (though not too dusty) and the rugged (but not overly so) West, beautiful (not too beautiful), slightly artsy women dressed in perfect layers enjoying a quick break outdoors after a morning in the studio. And I imagine that Robert Redford would be there, too. We would sit on the veranda in reproduction vintage furniture, enjoy a Pabst Blue Ribbon from a retro cooler, and discuss the aesthetics of Airstream trailers in the late afternoon sun.

The subtle yet elaborate narrative staging that exists in catalogs like these is quite different than those on the lower end, where story gives way to generic photography and a dense product display. It is even further away from the high end, where narrative essentially disappears in favor of white space and models that function as mere human clothes hangers. To be effective, the method calls for a precise balance of photography, props, and scenarios that provide just enough visual information to create an emotional connection with the reader—who participates in the completion of the story by filling in the gaps between one image and the next.

Looking at a new J-Crew catalog, there is a highly contrived sense of self-awareness apparent in the photographs themselves—with elements of the photography setup (lighting stands, backdrops, etc.) featured as prominent components of each scenario. This adds a secondary layer to the narrative, and serves as an odd confirmation that the world depicted here has been manufactured, while simultaneously inviting us back stage and giving us insider status—which is maybe what we really want anyway.

Of course, using photography equipment as props is nothing new. I recently received a Boden catalog that depicts two young girls on the cover holding a vintage camera (perhaps a Kodak Retina from the 1950s), as if stopping to take a few snapshots while on summer holiday. It’s a lovely camera—with a well-preserved brown leather case to protect its flawless chrome exterior. Except that it’s the sort of camera that—in today’s digital world—belongs more to a group of obscure enthusiasts than a pair of pre-teens who wouldn’t have any idea how to load the film let alone upload the negatives to Flickr. Yet, a more “real” prop like a compact digital camera would ruin the story—calling too much attention to itself, eliminating the desired aura of nostalgia and immediately moving fiction that much closer to reality.

And who wants that?

Posted in Observations, Photography | Comments closed

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