kip/bot/blog

I’m reading Rick Poyntor’s article in I.D., Down with Innovation, which David Armano twittered yesterday:

So, despite the advance billing, I’m actually digging the article. Poyntor, whose books I have enjoyed off and on over the years, has a really interesting point — that design has become so important, businesses feel they they have to wrest it from the hands of the designers and given it back to the suits:

But designers were right. By the 1990s, almost everyone was getting the message. Design had turned out to be as important as designers always insisted, and it was the force of their commitment, imagination, and creativity, as an expression of public need and desire—designers are people, not a breed apart—that had made it so. Design is now so important, it seems, that designers can no longer be trusted with it, and to make it absolutely clear that control has moved into someone else’s hands, design needs to be given a fancy new name. Call it design thinking. Call it innovation. “Everyone loves design but no one wants to call it design,” BusinessWeek’s Bruce Nussbaum informed the readers of Design Observer last year. “Top CEOs and managers want to call design something else—innovation. Innovation: that they are comfortable with. Design, well, it’s a little too wild and crazy for them.” Roger Martin, dean of the Rotman School of Management at the University of Toronto, offers this prescription: “Businesspeople don’t just need to understand designers better—they need to become designers.”

These days, I’m hearing lots of designers talk about the blur between design decisions and strategic decisions. I know of at least a half dozen prominent agencies that are trying to figure out if ‘interaction design’ is a function of strategy or creative. (Interestingly, most of them don’t have the word design in their departments, they’re in the advertising space of ‘creatives’.) On many teams I’ve encountered, the strategist is often the last or first word on design decisions rather than the CD. The power is not in design, it’s in strategy or audience knowledge.

This is a problem. Having been largely successful in establishing design as an important part of the product and experience creation process, and having successfully established that design has empathetic concerns and principles independent of marketing strategies — shouldn’t we be concerned that it’s getting pulled away and entrusted with people who don’t focus on design?

During IxDA 08, there was a great twitter sigh of relief when Bill Buxton put his slide up saying “that not everyone is a designer.” I didn’t read that as an elitist proclamation of the guild, but as a recognition that design needs to be taken seriously on its own terms, developed as an expertise, and respected as having rhythms and sensibilities of its own. Those sensibilities, which are still in development (in the interactive space(s) at least), still need cultivation and craftsman’s focus on details and precision. It’s much too early to start generalizing the participation.

Anyway, the thing that prompted the post, was the screen I saw when I tagged the article for del.icio.us:

Bummer for Poyntor. Because of a twitter, his article is tagged through the lens of an Armano reco.  Without even thinking about it, I used that tag also, presumably for the same reasons others did: I would come back to the long article, with the memory hook of who recommended it to me.

People who don’t read fiction sometimes annoy me.  They can be so smug about how frivolous it is to read stories that aren’t factual.  While I can hardly argue that my genre binges are improving books, they’ll extend this argument to the good stuff even.

Most of them are fun and charming, though, and defending fiction is a source of fun with them.  So, as I started reading Germinal yesterday, I sent one such friend a tail to a note about some work-related stuff:

hope all is well.  you’ll love this:  I’m reading Germinal by Zola — 19th century fiction! You’d be amazed at the relevance my oh-so-intelligent friend.

To which, he replied:

19th century fiction? C’mon Kip…. with only time to consume just over 2000 books over an average life span you can certainly find some non-fiction to help prevent the brain rot.

That was depressing.  I’ve always been keenly aware that I will never read more than a fraction of the books I may want to.  That’s the reason I embrace the rule of “if I don’t love a book after 50 pages, I’m dumping it” (and I may just dump Germinal, which will be really weird — like turning my back on my labor past).

But only 2000 books???   That’s a bummer, especially when I think of all the books I’ve re-read four or five times or more.  Makes me wonder if I should stop with the books and just read magazines.

NYT article today about the last pinball machine manufacturer. One of those articles that makes me love living in NY and love the Times. The article is a reporter’s dream: a small world of pinball fanatics (including a “historian of the sport”), a 62-year old owner who yells at his employees for not playing enough pinball and bruised a rib snowboarding in December, really cool pictures of the craft and the mass of the enterprise, and fun quotes like a bug list which includes the comment “flipper feels soft.”

This article also highlights how well the Times has evolved into its digital presentation of itself. I’ve been getting caught up on my podcasts and just listened to a conversation about Eric Alterman’s New Yorker article on the death of newspapers. Articles like this show that, on the content side at least, that some papers are finding ways to embrace the medium: interactive slideshows that highlight photography and have a slightly different narrative arc, the nice incorporation of sound files into an otherwise conventionally formatted article, the use of thumbnails on the top page to pull people in (the two pics above are intriguing at thumbnail size).

After lunch with a politically like-minded friend, I decided to read Germinal, one of those books I’ve felt guilty for not having read for many years now — and which he had recently read and was raving about. Check out the elegant advisory that there are spoilers below . . . as if there were any other reasons for students (or tired middle-aged readers) to read it).

I can’t remember if I liked the first Harold and Kumar movie.  I LOVED the DVD menu, though (*), seriously.  Anyway, I’m very excited about Harold and Kumar go to Guantanamo Bay.  I love Kal Penn (who’s in House, some charming movie about fobidden love outside of one’s ethnicity, and, sadly, was in the last season of 24) and haven’t seen enough of John Cho.  The trailers were funny, but some of them were locked for mature content.  When you try to unlock them, you get this gate:

Points for being funny.  It reminded me of iD software’s abusive prompts in the first couple of Quake games.  But it seems odd that you have to give so much more information than what I’m told is your typical adult entertainment site.  Over the top MPAA regs?  Cheap attempt at getting data?

(*) The DVD menu on the first one had the usual menu items, but the background was a video of Harold and Kumar in a car talking to each other and doing schtick.  Since it’s funny, you keep watching, and then eventually, the two start talking to the viewer, trying to convince them that there’s no more funny stuff and they should watch the movie already.  It was awesome.

I generally enjoy, admire, groove on all the clever things people come up with to save energy and be greener.  Blackle is no exception, though I’m wondering whether all the cool things I like sharing are adding up to something.  Anyway, here’s blackle’s explanation of what it’s doing:

Blackle was created by Heap Media to remind us all of the need to take small steps in our everyday lives to save energy. Blackle searches are powered by Google Custom Search.Blackle saves energy because the screen is predominantly black. “Image displayed is primarily a function of the users color settings and desktop graphics, as well as the color and size of open application windows; a given monitor requires more power to display a white or light screen than a black or dark screen.” Roberson et al, 2002

In January 2007 a blog post titled Black Google Would Save 750 Megawatt-hours a Year proposed the theory that a black version of the Google search engine would save a fair bit of energy due to the popularity of the search engine. Since then there has been skepticism about the significance of the energy savings that can be achieved and the cost in terms of readability of black web pages.

David Brooks doesn’t usually inspire me, or inspire me to even read him with the chance of getting inspired, but a piece that he did yesterday, describing the modern depletion of imagination, was terrific and made me want more, but now I’m adrift and have much too much work to do to get it.

The article centered on a piece about C S Lewis:

The essay, which appeared in Books & Culture, is called “C. S. Lewis and the Star of Bethlehem,” by Michael Ward, a chaplain at Peterhouse College at Cambridge. It points out that while we moderns see space as a black, cold, mostly empty vastness, with planets and stars propelled by gravitational and other forces, Europeans in the Middle Ages saw a more intimate and magical place. The heavens, to them, were a ceiling of moving spheres, rippling with signs and symbols, and moved by the love of God. The medieval universe, Lewis wrote, “was tingling with anthropomorphic life, dancing, ceremonial, a festival not a machine.”

Lewis tried to recapture that medieval mind-set, Ward writes. He did it not because he wanted to renounce the Copernican revolution and modern science, but because he found something valuable in that different way of seeing our surroundings.

The modern view disenchants the universe, Lewis argued, and tends to make it “all fact and no meaning.” When we say that a star is a huge flaming ball of gas, he wrote, we are merely describing what it is made of. We are not describing what it is. Lewis also wanted to include the mythologies, symbols and stories that have been told about the heavenly actors, and which were so real to those who looked up into the sky hundreds of years ago. He wanted to strengthen the imaginative faculty that comes naturally to those who see the heavens as fundamentally spiritual and alive.

I’ve been trying to work through Bullfinch’s Mythology recently, in an effort at self-erudition. One of the disturbing things about reading the book is its rationale:

If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which enlarges our possessions or to raise our station in society, then mythology has no that appellation. But if that which tends to make us happier and better can be called useful then we claim that epithet for our subject. For mythology is the handmaid of literature; and literature is one of the best allies of virtue and promoters of happiness.

Without a knowledge of mythology, much of the elegant literature of our own language cannot be understood and appreciated.

This is the constant sell of Bullfinch, that if you read the book, you can understand references in poems and decode their meaning. Not to unlock their magic, feel what it’s like for absurd but wonderful images to mean something deep and emotional, or tap into stories that tap into obscured parts of our psyche — but to understand poems and literature which are almost as removed from us as the mythic stories they reference.

On the rare occasions when I read Shakespeare, I am always struck by how alive the 16th century was with magically powered plants. References to properties of plants abound in Shakespeare, and I think how cool it would be to walk in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and to see flowers which are pretty, smell nice, and have medical/magical/(al)chemical properties. How much more alive and rich the place would be. But that’s gone to us.

So . . . When I see a passage about how night skies used to be magical and once inspired wonder, I want more. Brooks goes on to tantalize even further:

The medievals had a tremendous capacity for imagination and enchantment, and while nobody but the deepest romantic would want to go back to their way of thinking (let alone their way of life), it’s a tonic to visit from time to time. As many historians have written, Europeans in the Middle Ages lived with an almost childlike emotional intensity.

(Tantalize comes from the story of Tantalus, who as a punishment for stealing ambrosia, was put in a pool of water beneath the branches of a fruit tree. Whenever he bent to drink the water would recede away from him, whenever he reached up for fruit, the tree branches would move just out of his grasp. I knew that without looking it up, but I also know it because I learned a bunch of Greek myths in High School so I could be clever and witty in Extemporaneous Speaking.  I’m not sure if that’s good or not.)

At the beginning of Foucault’s Pendulum, the narrator tells of a couple who suffers from this post-medieval condition:

A moment later, the couple went off — he, trained on some textbook that had blunted his capacity for wonder, she inert and insensitive to the thrill of the infinite

Yeah, so I want more out of this Brooks column and there’s nowhere to go. He doesn’t provide a link for the Ward essay, which seems selfish for one who is lamenting the closing of our imaginations, “many historians” gives me nothing, and oh, how I wish there were some implicitly titled “If you like this or care about the night skies, you should check out…”

The internet’s best contribution to this dilettante’s life is “More…” and I have none.

Fun, spot-on, surprisingly techno-friendly take on the Kindle from a columnist at The Nation.

The Kindle displays only the text of publications, and I missed the pictures as well as the ability to read a whole article without clicking the next page bar every ten seconds. I realized I was accustomed to seeing headlines for articles on a variety of subjects all at once and then choosing which article to read first, something the Kindle makes difficult. I also missed the comforting rustle of the newspaper’s pages. As for books, even I am not inclined to pack more than one for something like a subway ride, so the difference in weight is negligible, and again, there’s a lot more text on one page of a paper book than one Kindle page-view. Like many people, the other place I tend to read is in bed. Bringing the Kindle there seemed, in all honesty, like a violation. No matter its pleasures, ultimately, unlike a paper book–especially a loved one battered and cherished over time–the Kindle is a piece of cold electronic circuitry that seems alien to intimate environments. It’s beautifully designed but unchanging, and thus represents nothing more than itself. By contrast, when I stand and look at my bookshelves, I see books I’ve had since I was a child mixed in with titles from high school, college and after, all of them nestled alongside my husband’s books.

In addition to being a charming discussion of books and electronic reading, her note about scanning text highlighted a design challenge we haven’t faced yet:  discoverability.  Scanning a newspaper to see what I want to read is a behavior that we don’t have a vocabulary for or have as goals in design yet.  We’re still caught in task completion and occasionally drift into findability (though we still don’t have enough people adopting that important phrase).  Supporting serendipitous discovery, allowing people to step outside of their checked boxes, providing the big scan of a front of a newspaper to see what’s there, what I need, what I’m glad to know in miniature.  We don’t do that yet.