Too many stuffs. I’m borrowing this expression from one of my students, an English-language learner as we now call them. I’m charmed by the compound plurality. Too many stuffs indeed — a sign of our times.

How did we get to this state of affairs? My take on it is that industrial design has been crucially involved. In the early days of the Industrial Revolution, or at least the mid-to-late 19th century, the term was used in conjunction with the term applied arts to describe the application of some of the skills, knowledge and talent represented by the fine arts towards the manufacturing of goods. The intention was compelling: more beautiful things at a better price. Included in this aspiration were the decoration of ceramics, leather goods, cabinetry, tableware and so on. Graphic design, as another instance, was included in this same category. Letterforms could be standardized and applied to the popular press in a beneficial way along with other skills in representation and expression. What wasn’t to like about this progress toward a more beautiful world?

Industrialization has always been about making money. People are industrious, in particular when it is to their own benefit. The winners have understood that it is essentially a numbers game. In some instances, big numbers are better, as in big market and big production runs and big profits. Sometimes small numbers are better, as in small number of components and operations and options. The pioneers and captains of industry utilized emerging sources of mechanical or electrical power, newly urbanized workers, pools of capital and new technologies for producing goods in vast quantities to supply vast markets. They also utilized industrial designers, who helped make all of this work.

Success, or maybe we should call it envy, creates competition. To protect the large markets created by attractive prices, the goods needed to evolve into better versions of themselves. Other desirable qualities became more important and industrial designers were looked to increasingly supply the ingredients for improvement.

Schools were formed to provide training in the traditional arts, but also equally to support industry. When I identified design as the activity I wanted to devote myself to, I had no idea of the distinctions that I am making here. I had a talent for configuring things and that was impetus enough. I was attracted to the requirement of efficiency.

Industrial design, as opposed to other versions of design, inherently has the necessity of an economy of means. If things are to be produced in a large volume, then it makes very good sense — including financial sense — to make them as efficiently as possible, without necessarily sacrificing all the other desirable qualities such as comeliness and effectiveness. This was a challenge that appealed to me and it still does. I was a very willing recruit.

However — it seems that in any lengthy description, we eventually get to “however.” In this case, it may be the law of unintended consequences. Industrialization has been an inexorable force. It has come to dominate market after market and we have all, mostly, benefited. We have goods beyond the imagination of even our very recent forbearers. We have so many accoutrements for our lives: cars and furniture and clothes and bottled beverages and high-fructose corn syrup. More than we need and can use. And the excess, the unwanted, the consumed, the casually discarded, the jaded remains of our expansive appetites, pile up around us and even on us. It’s embarrassing. We have so much. Scarcity has long been one of humankind’s biggest threats, but we, in the fat countries, seem to have conclusively beaten that fear back.

That’s how I consider myself and for this we can, in large part, thank the industrialization of our food supply. Altogether, and not just including food, we have far more than is good for us. We don’t know what to do with it all and it collects, casually or deliberately, all around us. Clear adjacent space and more distant nature vanishes, smothered and denied, by what all we have produced and accumulated.

As an industrial designer, how much have I colluded in the creation of this state of affairs? It makes me wonder…

Paul Epp is professor emeritus at OCAD University in Toronto, Ont., and former chair of its industrial design department.

To be a designer is to be very lucky. It’s our job to dream and to turn these dreams into reality. What a privilege. We get to impose our vision onto the world around us. That’s pretty good.

Of course, it’s not quite so simple. There are many obstacles and challenges, as we well know.

But the basic truth of this prevails. I wonder how often we pause to reflect on our good fortune, in this regard?

We ought to.

Its axiomatic though, that privilege comes with responsibilities. And we have many. We make decisions and all of them come with consequences.

Some are not so welcome. But that’s our job; to make decisions and some will be tough ones. Sometimes it’s a question of who will make the calls, and if we don’t then who will? Who better than us?

One issue that I have been pondering seems to have lots of design implications. It’s the issue of the repairability of the objects that industry makes. And that’s by far the majority of what we consume. We buy a lot and when these things no longer work, we toss them. What choice do we have?

Most things are not designed with the option of repairs. When is the last time you fixed a pair of shoes?

Or a kitchen appliance? A cell phone?

Most things are simply not fixable.

This is either by intention of by a lack of attention. The former may be questionable but the latter is hardly excusable.

Of course, not all of us care to repair things. We prefer shiny new things, either to enjoy their novelty or to enjoy how their acquisition reflects on us. Having new things is a display of wealth, which is, more importantly, a display of success.

But there can be something fundamentally gratifying in keeping things working. The objects we use take on a novel patina from our use of them. They come to reflect us in different ways and it can be satisfying to keep them near. It’s as though they become our friends, and loyalty may make it undesirable to dispose of them. Sometimes we can, but we often can’t.

The issue of repairing may seem kind of old fashioned. And it is. The currents of our culture seem to be carrying us ever further away.

Whereas once we acquired things to own them, now we may be more likely to access things in order to experience them. Ownership may no longer be the relevant criteria. This is very obvious in how we consume music (Spotify?), or movies (Netflix?). Software is now often accessed without ownership: pay to play. The automotive world is taking a serious look at a subscription model. Customers would pay a fee for which they would have access to a car, without any semblance of ownership. This model has many applications and implications, from clothes to furniture and so on….

But ultimately, the objects that get made have to be dealt with as they age. The tricky dilemma of steel reinforced concrete is a very pertinent example. It has a finite lifespan, outdoors, as falling-down bridges illustrate.

Old cars get crushed. Clothes get donated to charity, where they disrupt third-world economies. It’s not an issue that is easy to be definitive upon.

But the principle of fixing things, and its desirability, endures. It seems to make both ethical and economic sense, and even political sense, however challenging the issue is. In fact, there is a movement in support of this, the ‘Right to Repair’. Legislation has already been enacted and more will surely be, despite the irony of what could be considered a conservative notion calling for more government interference.

In order that the things that get made be made in such a way as to be reparable it must be considered at the design stage. Is it? Are designers taking any responsibility here? Are we paying attention? The enthusiasm for 3D printing may be a case in point. It is considered the vanguard of intelligent industrial manufacturing. Rather than simple tools being used to make complex objects, as was initially the case, it is all about complex tools making simple objects. But has any consideration of reparability been included in this utopian scenario?

It’s curious how some old things have gained value because they can be fixed, like old trucks.

Designers have a role to play here and a responsibility. Let’s see it.

Paul Epp is a professor emeritus at OCAD University in Toronto, Ont, and former chair of its Industrial Design department.

Handle: derived from the word hand. As a verb, it means: to feel or manipulate with the hands. As a noun, it means the part by which a thing is held, carried or controlled.

Many of the objects we live and contend with we do so by hand. By their handles. Much of what is made is a tool, in one way or another. And the utility of a tool is realized through its handling. Our hands handle the handles.

At one time, one very long time, handles were most often made of wood. So, the activities of a day would bring ones hands into contact with many different kinds of wooden handles. Think specifically of garden tools: hoes, spades, rakes and so one. Farming tools: hayrakes, shovels, plow handles. Sporting tools: baseball bats, tennis rackets, cross-country skies, gun-stocks. Kitchen tools: spoons, bowls, knife handles. The steering wheels of early cars.

When we think of tools, a hammer may be one of the first objects to come to mind. And there is a good chance we see it with a wooden handle. Axes too. Tool handles are now sometimes made of other materials: aluminum, fiberglass, or other composites, and these are often promoted as superior. But some of us will still prefer the old way. The wooden way.

There is something about the feel of a shaped piece of wood in our hands, that is irreplaceable. It’s a warm material, that is, it doesn’t readily conduct heat, so our hands make it feel warm.

Wood also is fairly readily shaped, so that a handle may be carefully formed to delight both the hands and the eyes. The woods may be selected so that the graphics of its grain accent the chosen form, increasing our pleasure.

Attention to the small details of handles was possibly more highly developed at an earlier time. Perhaps we have lost something and regressed.

Old tools are a rich lexicon of what is possible. The handles of old axes, as one good example, are often delightfully formed, with small changes in curvature and section. There is a much stronger reference to animate forms, than simple geometry. These old tools are a pleasure to use as well as to look at.

Unfortunately, their contemporary, high-technology replacements, with their straight lines, have lost a great deal. I would agree that the new materials do not suit an organic form, regardless of the plasticity of plastics, but we no longer have something in our hands that allows for a variety of sensations and experiencing. Too bad.

I’m pleased that the bats that are used in major-league baseball are wooden. However efficient the aluminum ones are, the sound of a wooden-bat struck ball is a sweet sound and that isn’t true of the metal ones. Even if this allegiance to tradition is a safety consideration, and not an aesthetic one, I’m happy to accept it.

Another type of handle that reflects traditional values is the arm of a chair. You may not consider these to be handles, but if we think of chairs as tools: for sitting, then the arms are rightly the handles: where does our hand go? There is a widely accepted view that people like to have their hands on wood, in preference to other materials and we spend a lot of our time in chairs. It’s warm and it’s nice to us.

Design has often become a process of reduction. Two factors that support this are computer use and less familiarity with materials. Computers prefer simple geometry, although skill can offset that. And most people, designers included, don’t spend much time working with wood or any other material. We all live in a complicated world, and who has time?

But I don’t think we need to accept this as a necessary limitation. My suggestion for young designers is to spend some time with old tools. Look at them. Feel them. Use them if you can.

Learn their form vocabulary. That spot where our hand meets the tool is a very important place to lavish some thoughtful attention. This caution is for designers: Handle with care.

Paul Epp is a professor emeritus at OCAD University, and former chair of its Industrial Design department.

Fall is a magical time of the year. The light is golden. The farmers’ fields are golden. The leaves change colors, to warmer and richer and even golden hues. There is something going on within us that cause us to adjust our rhythms and outlook.

We might slow down a bit and probably become a bit more reflective, anticipating the greater changes that are on their way.

If we are farmers though, we get busier. It’s harvest time. All of our efforts for the previous many months are about to be paid off. It might be a good return or perhaps not. But we will likely get something and for that we are thankful. We want to be secured against the cold and fruitless months ahead and to be rewarded for the work we have put in. We acknowledge this in what used to be called Harvest Thanksgiving. Now, the urbanites that we are will have mostly lost our connection to where this holiday originated.

I grew up on a farm and loved the harvest Thanksgiving celebration. I loved how the church would be decorated with sheaves of grain and baskets of vegetables. Coloured leaves would grace the interior as well.

What was typically an austere and almost penitent environment would be transformed into a festive display of the bounty of the fields and gardens. It was wonderful.

I sometimes ask my design students what their crop would be, if we were to compare their work to that of farmers. What will they bring to market?

What they produce is ideas. The analogy to farming isn’t actually so farfetched. Both are based on a process with many incremental steps. Designers prepare themselves in many ways for their eventual harvest.

One may be the formal training they get in school. They learn how to use their minds in flexible and innovative ways. They learn the importance of preparation. They learn how to be analytical and reasonable when they need to be, and to be unreasonable and creative when they should be that as well. They learn how, like farmers, to direct their efforts at an eventual outcome.

Beyond or instead of school, experience will also show them the way and reinforce their lessons.

 

So what is the harvest Thanksgiving festival for designers?

I can’t speak for many of my colleagues, but in the world of furniture design, there are trade shows that typically act as the catalyst and schedule for new design work to be committed to and finally presented. They are a big deal, in a lot of ways and the excitement that they generate is palpable. They are a chance to see and be seen, to feel proud and accomplished. They celebrate the health of an industry and the many players in it. Sometimes, I’ve wondered if they make as much financial sense as the huge budgets suggest, and I know I’m not alone in that curiosity. But we seem to do them regardless. It may be because the needs they service go beyond the strictly mercantile. Celebrations remain important to us.

Other ways we celebrate our design ‘harvest’ is through media exposure and awards programs. The media features may be very ephemeral and the awards don’t usually translate into tangible increases in business, but they are a validation just the same.

Producing something marketable, and taking it to market is a huge part of our professional, productive and economic lives. Our culture runs on this, despite the claims that we are now post-industrial, post-agricultural or in a new world altogether. We can’t just have services. We need goods as well and we always will. They need to be produced and taken to market. We can even say that collectively, our lives depend on it. Whereas agriculture was once the most important and vital activity that we engaged in, now we have others of major importance as well.

I find it to be very gratifying that we, as designers, produce something. If we are the kind of designer that I am, our produce is products. These are based on the ideas we have generated, grown from those seeds, so to speak. They have been selected, nurtured, cultivated, weeded, fertilized and eventually harvested. While we may, within our various industries, celebrate our achievements, we lack a broader, public celebration of those accomplishments. Maybe, when we sit down to our turkey dinner, we ought to give thanks for all of the design efforts as well, along with our gratitude for the cranberries and mashed potatoes.

 

Paul Epp is an adjunct professor at OCAD University, Toronto, Ont., and former chair of its Industrial Design department.

I used to ask a fresh group of first year students to raise their hand if they considered themselves to be an outsider. Everyone would. Then I would suggest that they look around and realize that they were no longer outsiders, at least not within the environment of the classroom. If everyone is an outsider, then the new normal is ‘outsider’ and the description is no longer applicable. I also asked them to self-identify if they thought they were above average. Many (most) did, and I encouraged them to think that, but that’s another topic, however similar and problematic the math.

It’s usually not so comfortable to be an outsider. We all are social creatures, birds of a feather and all that. But the forces that foster inclusion often also foster exclusion. If you are different enough, you may end up on the outside, whether you want to be or not. This is natural and seems true of all animals.

Designers are a minority sub-species. They are odd enough to be often seen as not quite fitting in. They know that they don’t fully belong and then come to see themselves as outsiders. Of course, many others claim a similar status: the too tall and the too short, the extra-large and the diminutive, the shy and the manic and so on. It’s not that hard to feel either special or disadvantaged. In fact, the normal family (person) has been described as the one that you don’t know very well.

But studies support the student’s intuition. Creative people (like designers) usually have a high intelligence but that distinction doesn’t come without a cost. There is often a higher correlation to a variety of disorders as well, of which depression and anxiety are just two. Attention deficiency is common as well. Introversion, a common designer state, is not a disorder, but it can seem like one in our extroverted culture. And intelligence often comes as a mixed package: high distinction is some areas means a diminishment in others.

 

Amy Chua, the infamous author of the Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, went on to define the traits that characterise an orientation to accomplishment, defined by her as the Triple Package (and I paraphrase): arrogance, insecurity and discipline. That certainly fits designers. To be one at all requires a strong sense of superiority. We claim that our way of doing things is the best and we want our vision to prevail. And we actually believe that. If we didn’t we couldn’t keep doing what we do. And this is, ironically, coupled with a deep sense of insecurity. Designers are outsiders and that is, by definition, an anxious state. And then comes the discipline to keep working, even when others don’t believe in the value of what you are doing.

And a popular belief in the value of design is less than certain. Many non-designers will voice their appreciation of the creative efforts of others, but actually have only a nominal regard for the accomplishments of designers. This is often experienced as a reluctance to pay for design. However valuable it is, it’s not that valuable to them.

 

Perhaps there is an erroneous sense that what designers do is easy for them and therefore may be slightly unfair. And it can seem easy. A good designer’s mind will generate a seemingly effortless abundance of ideas: wheeling, twisting and performing a dizzying array of mental and creative gymnastics. But like all forms of accomplishment, these are only achieved once the time has been put in, the hours of hard work and frustration and self-doubt.

Designers typically don’t choose to be designers. Design chooses them. They design because it’s what they can do. They are typically not that well suited to other jobs. They don’t fit in elsewhere. Design was once described to me as a social offering, an expression of a desire by these outsiders to make friends.

Another question I used to ask my first-year students was why they had chosen to come to collegs. The typical answer was that they just wanted to make things. In some readings of Greek mythology, Prometheus is a god whose tragic efforts to improve human existence through technology are relentlessly punished. This makes it sound like the story of designers as outsiders is a very old one.

 

Paul Epp is a professor emeritus at OCAD University in Toronto, Ont., and former chair of its Industrial Design department.