Emotional Design (16 page)

What transforms the strainer from “cute” into “fun”? Is it surprise? Cleverness? Certainly both of those traits play a big role.

Does familiarity breed contempt, as the old folk saying would have
it? Many things are cute or fun at first, but over time diminish or even become tiresome. In my home the tea strainer is now permanently on display, perched on a teacup nestled among the three teapots on the window shelf of my kitchen. The charm of the tea strainer is that it retains its fun even after considerable use, even though I see it everyday.

The figure is cute, the color and shapes attractive. Pleasureable?

Yes, slightly. Fun? Not yet.

Now, the tea strainer is just a trifle, and I do not believe that even Pirovano, its designer, would disagree. But it passes the test of time. This is one of the hallmarks of good design. Great design—like great literature, music, or art—can be appreciated even after continual use, continued presence.

People tend to pay less attention to familiar things, whether it's a possession or even a spouse. On the whole, this adaptive behavior is biologically useful (for objects, events, and situations, not for spouses), because it is usually the novel, unexpected things in life that
require the most attention. The brain naturally adapts to repeated experiences. If I were to show you a series of repeated images and measure your brain responses, the activity would diminish with the repetitions. Your brain would respond again only when something new was presented. Scientists have shown that the biggest responses always come with the least expected event. A simple sentence such as, “He picked up the hammer and nail” gives a tiny response; change the last few words, “He picked up the hammer and ate it,” and you'll see a much larger one.

Now it's fun.
(Photo by the author.)

Human adaptation creates a challenge for design, but an opportunity for manufacturers: When people tire of an item, perhaps they will buy a new one. Indeed, the essence of fashion is to make the current trends obsolete and boring, turning them into yesterday's favorites. The attractive appliance of yesterday no longer looks quite as attractive
today. Some of the examples in this book may have already followed this trajectory: the Mini Cooper automobile, so charming and cute to the reviewers at the time of this book's writing, may look dated, oldfashioned, and dull by the time you flip through these pages—so much so that you may wonder how I came to choose it as an example.

The concern for the diminishing impact of familiarity has led some designers to propose hiding beautiful views, lest continual encounter might diminish their emotional impact. In the book
A Pattern Language,
the architect Christopher Alexander and his colleagues describe 253 different design patterns derived from their observations and analyses. These patterns provide the basis of their guidelines for “a timeless way of building,” which structures buildings in ways calculated to enhance the experience of the people living within them. Pattern number 134 deals with the problem of overexposure:

If the view window is correctly placed, people will see a glimpse of the distant view as they come up to the window or pass it: but the view is never visible from the places where people stay
.

The name “Zen View” comes from “the parable of a Buddhist monk who lived on a mountain with a beautiful view. The monk built a wall that obscured the view from every angle, except for a single fleeting glimpse along the walk up to his hut.” In this way, said Alexander and colleagues, “the view of the distant sea is so restrained that it stays alive forever. Who, that has ever seen that view, can ever forget it? Its power will never fade. Even for the man who lives there, coming past that view day after day, it will still be alive.”

Most people, however, are not Buddhist monks. Most of us would be unable to resist the temptation to engulf ourselves in such beauty. Whether hiding beauty is appropriate for all of us is up for debate, and
although the fable described as the rationale for the Zen view is interesting, it is opinion, not fact. Given the chance to experience beauty for some period of time, is the total enhancement greater if the beauty is always there to be appreciated, even if it does fade with time? Or is the enhancement greater when it can only be glimpsed now and then? I do not think anyone knows the answer to this query.

I, for one, go straight for immediate enjoyment. I have always built my homes with large windows facing a view (ocean, when I lived in Southern California; pond with geese, ducks, and herons, when I lived in Northern Illinois), so I am not ready to endorse pattern 134, the Zen View, as a universal design principle.

The issue, however, is a real one. How can we maintain excitement, interest, and aesthetic pleasure for a lifetime? I suspect that part of the answer will come from the study of those things that do stand the test of time, such as some music, literature, and art. In all these cases, the works are rich and deep, so that there is something different to be perceived on each experience. Consider classical music. For many it is boring and uninteresting, but for others it can indeed be listened to with enjoyment over a lifetime. I believe that this longevity derives from the richness and complexity of its structure. The music interleaves multiple themes and variations, some simultaneous, some sequential. Human conscious attention is limited by what it can attend to at any moment, which means that consciousness is restricted to a limited subset of the musical relationships. As a result, each new listening focuses upon a different aspect of the music. The music is never boring because it is never the same. I believe a similar analysis will reveal similar richness for all experiences that last: classical music, art, and literature. So, too, with views.

The views I treasure are dynamic. Scenes are continually changing. The vegetation changes with the seasons, the lighting with the time of day. Different animals congregate at different times, and their interactions with one another and with the environment are ever-changing. In California, the waves rolling in from the ocean change continually, reflecting weather patterns from thousands of miles away. The various
sea animals visible from my windows—brown pelicans, gray whales, the black-suited surfers, and dolphins—varied their activities according to the weather, the time, and the activities of those around them. Why wasn't the Zen view just as rich, just as long lasting?

Maybe the problem lies not in the object being viewed but in the viewer. It's quite possible the Buddhist monk had never learned to look. For once you have learned how to look at, listen to, and analyze what is before you, you realize that the experience is ever changing. The pleasure is forever.

This conclusion has two important implications. First, the object must be rich and complex, one that gives rise to a never-ending interplay among the elements. Second, the viewer must be able to take the time to study, analyze, and consider such rich interplay; otherwise, the scene becomes commonplace. If something is to give lifelong pleasure, two components are required: the skill of the designer in providing a powerful, rich experience, and the skill of the perceiver.

How may a design maintain its effectiveness even after long acquaintance? The secret, say designers Julie Khaslavsky and Nathan Shedroff, is seduction.

Seduction, Khaslavsky and Shedroff argue, is a process. It gives rise to a rich and compelling experience that lasts over time. Yes, there has to be an initial attraction. But the real trick—and where most products fail—is in maintaining the relationship after that initial burst of enthusiasm. Make something consciously cute where the cuteness is extraneous, irrelevant to the task, and you get frustration, irritation, and resentment. Think how many gadgets or items of furniture you
have brought home excitedly and then, after the first use or two, banished to storage. How many survive the passage of time and are still in use, still giving joy? And what is the difference between these two experiences?

Philippe Starck's “Juicy Salif” citrus juicer alongside my Global kitchen knife. Rotate the orange half on the ribbed top of the juicer and the juice flows down the sides and drips from the point into the glass. Except this gold-plated version will be damaged by the acidic fluid. As Starck is rumored to have said,
“My juicer is not meant to squeeze lemons; it is
rumored to have said, “My juicer is not meant to squeeze lemons; it is
meant to start conversations.” (Author's collection.)

Khaslavsky and Shedroff suggest that the three basic steps are
enticement
,
relationship
, and
fulfillment
: make an emotional promise, continually fulfill the promise, and end the experience in a memorable way. They illustrate their argument by examining the citrus juicer designed by Philippe Starck (
figure 4.6
). The juicer, whose full name
is “Juicy Salif,” was designed on a napkin in a pizza parlor in Capraia, an island in Tuscany, Italy. Alberto Alessi, whose company manufacturers them, describes the design this way:

That juicer was indeed seductive. I saw it and immediately went through the sequence of responses so loved by merchants: “Wow, I want it,” I said to myself. Only then did I ask, “What is it? What does it do? How much does it cost?” concluding with “I'll buy it,” which I did. That was pure visceral reaction. The juicer is indeed bizarre, but delightful. Why? Fortunately, Khaslavsky and Shedroff have done the analysis for me: