— It Endures

When I first think about a project I don’t think about the technology I want to use. I think about the idea and I think about what I’m trying to convey. And then I think about the technology that’s right for it. And then I start to approach people, different specialists. And often when I approach engineers or programmers, they haven’t done anything like it before.

Words from fashion designer Hussein Chalayan, whose Spring/Summer 2012 in Paris in September deployed a technological twist on the conventional runway setting. Often tacked on as a flashy afterthought, technology embedded in cultural settings manifests itself as a projection,  a QR code leading to a non-mobile site, or a grandiose setup billed as “interactive” but in reality performs the same whether it’s a person in the room or a cricket.

Chalayan’s show is different. He sees fashion as a mature field where at this point in time, everything has been done before. So technical invention opens new possibilities for wonderment. The keystone of his concept in the Paris show was the placement of small hidden cameras in the models’ champagne glasses. While the models paused in front of a screen as if contemplating art in a gallery setting, they became an unwitting audience to the live recording of their own mouths.


I’ll vouch for the humor of peering inside a model’s mouth, as we boldly go where [not much] food has gone before. We see a new image of ourselves and receive Chalayan’s comment on self-reflection.

This simple intervention reminds me of  Gabriel Barcia-Colombo’s “Vindictive Printer,” which constructed a new image of the office device as a free-willed thing with desires. We don’t normally have to listen to our printer’s dreams, much as we don’t normally have to look at the inside of our mouths in an art gallery.

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Lily Rothman, in this week’s Atlantic, writes a visceral defense of adverbs. Strunk and White, William Zinsser, and yes, even Stephen King have famously cautioned against the adverb as “clunky” or “annoying.” (“Frankly, I don’t give a damn!”).

And while I do advocate tossing two words when a stronger one will do, I lament with Rothman the readiness of grammarians to grab their red markers. With heavy hands, they impose a cursory understanding of the masters’ rules, missing all the qualifiers.

In a roundabout way, this reminds me of my initial frustrations studying HCI. One year into graduate school, I had this unsettling realization that the ultimate goal of any human-machine system seemed to be, well, increasing human performance. The problem is, when we take this as a rule without asterisks, both humans and machines start to look more and more unappealing in concert, especially in the throes of a professional program. It’s difficult to see just how much more my peers could increase their output without stopping first to jump off the Bank of America, building during rush hour.

The problem, to which I’m happily finding new solutions in third-wave literature, is that we have brought technology into the home, made advances in CSCW to increase workplace efficiency, and yet we’ve been unclear about how to fill that void. What do we do with the free time that new technology gave us? If we follow the rule, it would say we should spend it doing more productive work.

By crusading against the adverb in defense of lean, polished syntax, we nix the flourishes that give our thoughts variety, cadence, color, emphasis. And when we crusade against idle reflection in the name of productivity, we HCI practitioners threaten to close the doors on society’s ability to explore and play. All these things we do while we wait. Is it any wonder we have our best ideas on trains–when we have no options than to idle and reflect on the world that appears to be going so much faster than ourselves?

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It’s called a design challenge. It works like this: You have a problem that needs fixing. So you intervene to solve the problem with improved design. The challenge is this. I’ve got this name, Ashton, and I’m working in a male-dominated field. I send out resumes and I get responses like these.

“Thanks Mr. Grosz. I’ve sent your information over to human resources.”

At this point, I know “Mr. Grosz” is an address to me, even though it’s what everyone else calls my dad.

There’s something tragic about all this. Let’s take a look at the history. My mother’s name was Weslie, a feminized version of Wesley, the name of her uncle who was killed a few weeks before she was born when his silo exploded on a farm in Missouri. As homage to his legacy my grandmother named her daughter after her brother, and started this cycle of mistaken gender identity for women in the Middendorf family (There are others: Tracy, Jessie). When I was born, she liked Piper, Kirsten, Ashton. Piper Ives would make my initials PIG, so they went with Ashton Yves. And here we are.

It’s annoying, yes. It’s empowering, yes. You can defy expectations at a first meeting, walking into a room beng a woman and all. If your writing is forward and direct, you aren’t “a bitch.” You’re given easy access to a world that still harbors an Old Boy’s Club, and then you get to crash the party.

That’s cool.

But this reveals a larger issue in our language and culture, and that’s the fact that there’s no politely conventional way to ask, “Are you a man or a woman?” Not only does it sound strange, it might be illegal to ask such a binary differenting question to someone in your job applicant pool. Would you only hire me if I was a man? Or are you asking because you don’t want to write Ms. Grosz if I’m a man?

Whoa. This is getting awkward. Let me help you out.

Pink. Turned up the kerning. Skinny letters and lots of white space. My solution to this quandary is to employ affective design in any material that brands me personally. Here’s an earlier typographical treatment of my resume, which I abandoned because the bold, pink letters conveyed a sense of flippant irony. In other words, the association with femininity wasn’t strong enough.

In the absence of a face-to-face first meeting, I am communicating the subjective association of myself with design styles and colors traditionally ascribed to women. If I’m accused of pandering to gender tropes in order to convey something about myself that’s ultimately irrelevant to my success in the field, I stand guilty as charged. I just don’t want my dad’s mail anymore.

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From Fritzing, what looks like a nifty piece of open-source software to document electronic prototypes.

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Poking around examples of work done in Processing this morning, I stumbled on Niklas Roy’s whimsical curtain. Blew some coffee out my nose, scared the cats, still giggling hours later. This is the stuff robots should be made of. Nevermind that the curtain is ineffective, drawing attention to it’s inadequacy. But it tries so hard to prove the point (“don’t look in here!”). The behavior of the object lends it more humanity than an afterthought of affective design. Infused with personality, even likeable.

The whole charade reminds me of the miniature pinchers at dog shows, prancing around like they’re out to eat the world.

Find more of Roy’s work here.

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A great comic explaining basic principles of electronics and how Arduino fits in. Worth a look to any intrepid visual designer who’s thinking about diving into circuitry.

http://www.jodyculkin.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/arduino-comic-latest3.pdf

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Every night, the lucky among us sleep somewhere sheltered, safe and warm. And when economic or social circumstances outside our control demand it, we don the conventional costumes and we leave. Preparing our exodus for food, work or escape, our preoccupation might be the security of our surroundings (“Cats fed? Lights off? How about the oven? One should hope. Plants look thirsty. Lock the door?”) But rarely do we envision this upstage exit as a performance. After all, we are shutting this stage down. We are destined for a new theater. So, how strange when the camera pulls focus on the threshold. And stranger, playing the audience to the act of our own parting glace.

The challenge

Take an everyday movement and create an intervention that changes that movement and transforms us into actors.

The approach

The movement is the act of leaving your house. When the door opens, binoculars rigged to a pulley system descend to your line of sight. Their position invites you to look out into the landscape, where you find a mirror. Through it, you see your own reflection as you are ready to present yourself to the world.

In recounting the ancient Chinese fable of Xua-Xua, Boal describes humans as able to simultaneously observe and perform as daily “spect-actors” employing verbal and symbolic communication. Unlike actors on a stage, the everyday performance is subconscious, done without awareness but not without effect. Consciously or not, the spect-actor’s behavior and appearance has been tailored for the situations and the audiences to whom we present ourselves. So in holding up the mirror to our own image, we are over-dramatizing, making a scene, using these phrases synonymous with reality’s distortion. As Boal distills this essence of theater, it is “the capacity possessed by human beings — and not by animals — to observe themselves in action” (11).

These situations constitute performance frames where the transmission of certain messages are expected, and transmissions of messages unrelated to the situation’s basic reality provide an opportunity for the evolution of higher levels of communication and meaning through abstractions of language and action. Gregory Bateson, in “A Theory of Play and Fantasy,” emphasizes these frames are psychological constructs rather than physical or logical ones, so the swath of possible communications within a frame invites paradox (unlike the physical and unchanging picture frame or the logical and exclusive data set). A physical frame like a mirror provides a metaphor self reflection, and in probing to discern the details of our own identities, it is “as if” we shatter the reflective material that delineates the boundary between a basic sense of self and an abstraction of identity.

Whether on the street or under the spotlight, the frame provides a venue for people to move fluidly between different modes of participation. An individual may go from a willing bystander to an actor who dictates the rules of engagement.  This level of “wittingness,” a term borrowed from Sheridan, describes levels of awareness of the performance context. Here, recognizing the ability to control the binoculars’ appearance by opening or closing the door implicates the unwitting bystander as a witting audience member, one who is now aware and willing to engage with the established protocol of interactivity. Ultimately, the willful act of breaking the mirror with her mind is an act of frame construction, a transformational declaration beyond the cognitive bounds of the frame. Formerly a willing participant, now an actor with the expressive power and control to alter and author a new performance frame.

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A demo of rapMenu, a gestural interface for selection of expanding menu items.

Since the items are consistently grouped, this model holds an exciting potential for mastery. A user can gain familiarity with the controls and communicate with the machine without looking at it, which is important in environments that require selecting menu items from some distance. From the back of an auditorium or from the backseat, a screen can be obscured or difficult to discern.

It would be nice to see gestural interfaces like these work without the use of the pinch glove, perhaps through UV sensing or high-precision blob detection.

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(photo by mojoro)

It’s Labor Day weekend, so I’m avoiding productivity like toilet paper stuck to some lady’s pump. Still, and despite the obvious discomfort that accompanies operating absolutely nothing under the influence of stimulants, I can’t just suddenly forgo my usual four cups of morning coffee. My body threatens hell to pay.

It should be noted that we’re some coffee snobs around here. We’ll hike Cumberland Gap, carry 50 pounds of C-stands with five sandbags hooked on each finger from 8pm to 5am. We’ll taste cat food and eat nibblins off the floor if they look appetizing enough. But when it comes to the aromatic sweet roasted beans of the cocoa plant, we’ve got principles. Please.

Naturally, our beans come from a South American country known for its mythical multicolored birds (avian lore being the only valid criteria for choosing its origin). And they come whole. So we grind them.

This is where things start to get hostile between me and my beans: I hate. Grinding. Coffee beans.

More specifically, I resent coffee grinders because they annoy me when my mood is delicate (before my coffee). They’re loud, they leave a mess all over my counter and refuse to evacuate. Sounds like a band of vagrants, but it’s the process of generating fine dust from one of my favorite things.

How did things get so wrong? When did we stop communicating our desires and limiting our capabilities? Why are all the other coffee grinders copying the popular kids rather than living up to their potentials as machines that serve humans a delightful experience with each cup of Joe?

I’ve got some ideas for improvement.

 

(photo by stephanjohnbyrde)

Requirements

  1. Grind Coffee
  2. Detect Amount
  3. Release Grounds

Design Improvements

  1. Automatic coffee-level detection
  2. Automatic release into receptacle (presumably a coffee filter)
  3. Mess-free cleanup
  4. Noise reduction

Result

The mockup is fuzzy, but  a few things have to happen. Traditionally the lid of a grinder is unscrewed and lifted off the top. This means any grounds that have lodged themselves to the side of the lid fall on the counter. Personally, I bang the grinder on the counter a few times to shake loose the grounds and limit the amont of spillage on the countertop, but I’m sure this does wonders for the life of my grinder.

Instead, the lid could open from the top when downward pressure is applied, or when the grinder senses a change in orientation using a gyroscope. For example, when the user tilts it more than 45 degrees, the lid will open. Then a puff of air would release the grounds and force them into the receptacle. This could go horribly wrong, but I’ll leave mechanical problem-solving engineers. (Or hey, what if that sucker’s made of silicon and you can just invert it and pop the grounds right out?)

And in the morning, It’d be rad if I didn’t have to think. Using the weight sensor built into it, the grinder adjust the grind time to accomodate the grind style (espresso, drip, press) for the amount of beans.

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(photo by emilydickinsonridesabmx)

Good design won’t save the world, but it will enrich and enlarge it. It will complicate the commonplace. It will manage complexity of systems by relegating procedural components to automated work flows. It will fundamentally change the way we project our notions of self and view each other. Good design compels a second look, it begs for scrutiny.

Good design is a responsibility.

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