When we set out for a destination, and we know our terrain well enough, we may be lucky enough to be able to avail ourselves of a shortcut. There is something very charming and satisfying about this prospect: it’s a bit like a secret and we may even want to keep it that way. In my neighbourhood, I know the back lanes and it gives me a certain pleasure to be able to both leave and return by the back routes, unlike the uninitiated. It is also efficient. We attain our objective with less effort, and more quickly when we use our shortcuts.

When we designers talk about design, we are likely to describe a design process. Sometimes we will even put that into capital letter: DESIGN PROCESS, to underscore its importance. There are almost as many different descriptions of this procedure as there are designers, but we have a common ground. We all move through a series of phases, usually beginning with an exploration, which leads to an understanding and a definition of intent. Ideas are sought, evaluated, developed, prototyped and so on. Decisions get made. And this all will result in some kind of resolution in a communicable form.

The mind expands, then contracts

If we think about this process long enough, we will recognize that there is a pattern of cyclical expansions and contractions. We open our minds, expanding them to embrace as wide a range of possibilities as possible. And then we make decisions, contracting our options as we select the best results. Each set of decisions can set off another round of searching for opportunities, within the newly defined constraints. One tidy description of this is the double-diamond, with the diamond shapes suggesting both the expansion and contraction that we experience as we move through our exercise.

Another level of understanding about what we are doing is that we are shifting, sequentially, from left-brain to right-brain activities. We do one (defining/left) and then we do the opposite (exploring/right). And so we proceed.

An even deeper level of understanding will show us that we may also deviate from this pre-determined formula and use shortcuts. I will use the definition of intuition to describe what I mean by this: the ability to understand something immediately, without the need for conscious reasoning. Sometimes when we design, we seem to jump ahead and arrive at a tidy conclusion, without all of the intermediate steps.  It’s easiest to describe this as occurring through intuition.

It just feels right

It can feel a bit like magic. It’s as if we received some help from an unseen source. We may even choose not to talk about it, as though we cheated, or were caught out as lazy. But it can also feel very satisfying, just as it does in knowing where the shortcut is.

Culturally, we may have some misgivings about what occurs subconsciously. We tend to privilege that which occurs consciously and rationally. But we also know that what is unseen can also be powerful. Politicians are prone to describe their de-cisions, when the chips are down, as going with their gut feelings. However unattractive the description, we know what they mean. They are trusting their feelings.

I think that it might not be quite as mysterious as it sounds. We prepare our subconscious to both look for and to recognize useful things. We might call this spontaneous activity a form of pattern recognition. When what we are looking for matches up with what we have found, when the shapes correspond, we have a sense of immediate arrival.

I doubt that we are born with much intuition. Rather, I think that it is more likely to be the result of a significant amount of self training. We may not know we are doing it, but if we are interested enough in something, and pay enough attention to it and built up a large enough lexicon (getting to know the terrain), we are more likely to have what is called intuition.

There is danger here, though. All departures from the rational ought to make us a bit nervous. When we leave the well-known path for the scramble through the bushes, we may end up being unpleasantly surprised.

But in design, I think we all tend to take shortcuts when we can. We may not admit it, but we do. And so we should. If we’ve done our work, by paying attention, we’ve earned this option, and it can be very efficient and very satisfying.

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

“She’s long, she’s tall, she’s six feet from the ground,
She’s tailor made, lord she ain’t no hand-me-down”
… from Jimmie Rodgers Blue Yodel No. 4

We usually now use the term hand-me-down when we are referring to something that has been used and is now being recycled, like children’s clothing. What we mean is that it’s being handed-down, from one size of child to another, smaller one. It’s a good system, although it’s got a bit of an edge to it, an implication that rich people wouldn’t need to do this, and if you are, you obviously aren’t part of the 1 percent.

But hand-me-down had, at another time, quite a different meaning.

It was referring to the difference between something custom and something machine-made, to the products of industrialization as opposed to the triumphs of skill and patience. Before shopping centres, and maybe even before department stores, or even the dominance of urban culture, goods were purchased from stores with high ceilings and lots of shelves. If you wanted to buy a pair of new overalls, for instance, you might say to the store’s proprietor: “Say Bill, hand me down a pair of those overalls, size medium, the ones up on that shelf behind you”. Hand-me-downs, indeed. There was also an implication of economic status attached to the term then as well. The rich wore tailor-made.

Our relationship with the goods produced by industrialization has always been a bit conflicted. As the Industrial Revolution was gaining traction in the mid to late nineteenth century, a wider and wider variety of goods were becoming available at better and better prices. That’s the good news. There’s always a down-side and there were a number in this case: the hollowing out of rural communities as labour moved to the urban factories, the redundancy of traditional skills and its resultant unemployment, the standardization of sizes, to enable larger volumes, and environmental degradation, to name just some of them. There was an aesthetic objection, well documented through the history of the Arts and Crafts movement, and also a social or status implication. The rich didn’t need the benefits of low price. They could have their goods tailor made, whether they were clothes or automobiles. They would be made to fit the individual, to reflect their status, their preferences and to differentiate them from the common man (or woman).

Design is a skill that is predicated on a certain amount of talent and a lot of dedicated time and effort. Like almost all other skills, you get better if you practice. The resultant skill is then quite broadly applicable. Although the design businesses are highly specialized, many designers jump fences. Graphic designers might design themselves a house, for instance, and textile designers might design some jewelry. Sometimes this polymorphism is the result of confidence and sometimes it’s a response to a challenge, or to deflect boredom. Often, designers respond to the opportunities that present themselves.

Designing is a lot like tailor-making, even when the intended user audience is very large and the intention is to produce goods that are hand-me-downs. The designer is challenged to provide the best fit, so to speak, for the problem being solved. The versatility and adaptability of the skill can apply to very small numbers as well as to large ones, which, as an example, Industrial Design is about. The resulting product may not be tailor made, but the process might be.

A lot of my career has been associated with furniture, in one way or another. Early on, I built a lot of custom furniture. Later on, I designed furniture for other companies to make. In either case, there were similarities to the process. The right steps must be taken to yield an acceptable outcome. In the latter case, a lot more time was spent on each step, as the consequences were much larger. And either way, it always felt a lot like tailor-making.

When I listen to Jimmie singing about his gal, I know which business I’ve been in. And it ain’t no hand-me-down.

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

One of the many beauties of wood is their growth rings. These variations in the rate of growth, season- to-season and year-to-year, are a large part of what gives wood its visual interest. There are colour variations, with the wood grown early in the season, when growth is faster, being lighter in colour and thicker in width and the later growth being darker and denser.

In quarter-cut boards, these differences will appear as (almost) parallel lines. In flat-cut boards, there will be a much more varied display of arching lines, ovals, converging and diverging lines and other graphic interest. If we look at the ends of the boards, at the end grain, we see that all years are not equal.

Stories in circles
There were good years and leaner years too. Not so unlike our own lives, although we can’t display our history quite so easily.

That’s a pity. I take some comfort, looking at the growth rings, that I’m not alone in contending with difficulty. I’ve had easy times and harder times. Like all of us. It would be interesting to be able to see this, because we tend to forget it. Maybe not so much in our own lives, but in the lives of those around us. We would all display a pattern of variation, thick and thin. These patterns would tell a story, a biography of experiences. If trees could talk, they would tell us about good weather, hard winters, disease, drought, plenty, threats and blessings, visits and even reproduction.

All the things that we design and make have a history too. Their growth rings are not visible either, but, in a sense, they are there. There is the ring of dream, the inspiration that lead to the creation of this artifact. There would be a design ring, which would describe the activities and process that lead to the form and function being defined as they are. Manufacturing would have its ring, or rings. Material was specified, selected, transformed. Tools were used. A complex web of technology was probably invoked, even for simple things. Supply chains were created. Capital was put to use, arranging the complex decisions and aspirations of a business venture, forming its own distinct ring. Marketing would appear, and probably sales as well. It’s likely that plans were made, in support of these objects finding their eventual owners. This could be a pretty complicated ring, or rings, or wholesale and retail and transportation and distribution.

Layers of meaning
Once an object is acquired by its consumer, it gains a whole other type of ring. There is the joy of acquisition (or not). There are the rings of use, possibly reflecting years of prosperity, interspersed by years of austerity. Things happen in the lives of objects. They may go from being treasured to being ignored. And then eventually re-discovered as mid-century modern is now. There might be rings of damage and rings of restoration. There might be a ring for being discarded. And a ring for reuse in a circle of recycling or repurposing. There might be rings that reflect the emotional attachment that the owner feels. There will likely be rings reflecting different and sequential owners.

Collectively, these rings would tell the life story of an object just as the growth rings tell about the lives of trees. Archeology is a process that is kind of like revealing these invisible rings. Objects that were lost have been found and revealed as what they were, and also thereby gaining a new set of rings, or layers of meaning.

Does this have any relevance for designers? Yes, I think so. We are part of a much larger process that goes on and on. We have our ring, and it is set within other rings. If we do a good job, the chances are greater that there are many of them. Our work is part of a much larger story. That ought to give us some satisfaction.

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

It is often said that form follows function, but it rarely does — at least not that simply. Form follows many other things: convenience, efficiency, geometry, propriety, habit, whimsy and, predominantly among many others, it follows fashion.

The forms we give to those things we make must be agreeable to the user. This is often based on a kind of familiarity. In our early 21st century urban and affluent culture, much of what we surround ourselves with has some reference to geometry. This reflects our debt to Modernism and the machines that made our affluence possible.

We have cubes and rectangular solids of many sorts. Edges are straight and curves are geometrically determined. We find this, the evidence of an enduring fashion, to be comfortable if for no reason other than that it is now familiar. We may also find it to be a bit meaningless — at those times that we notice it.

Cultural influences

But there have been other earlier points of reference for form. Some of these focused very much on meaning. Various cultures, at various times, were very candid in their appreciation for the female human form, for example. Sinuous lines, gentle curves, voluptuous containment. Our culture still appreciates female beauty, especially that of the young, but we don’t form our artefacts in their image. We demonstrate our admiration in other more discrete ways. Maybe we should blame the Victorians, who put skirts on furniture to hide the suggestive legs.

In addition to this anthropomorphism, there is a long tradition of animating form through references to other living things. Sometimes this may have been to capture the spirit of an important animal, and sometimes it may have been only a playful and affectionate reference to the familiar. Now this is no longer common.

There used to be many references to nature in the things we produced. But we don’t live as close to nature anymore, making it less familiar, less known and therefore probably less comfortable. So we seem to have lost a very rich source for form generation, visual imagery and inherent meaning.

Modern malaise

When we do make reference to nature in our contemporary forms, the results are often disappointing. The objects so produced often seem contrived, or sentimental, or naïve. And they are often crudely done. Many of us would not even recognize the animals or plants that we could refer to, wild or not, except for those we have domesticated into our urban world. So we seem to be left in a somewhat barren domestic landscape. We have clean objects, but very little meaning in them.

But for those of us who work with wood, we have a viable option. Form can follow growth. A notable and successful demonstration can be found in the work of the late George Nakashima. He often left intact the outer edges of boards on his tabletops: the wane edge. The description describes what was usually viewed: waning, in decline, decreasing. But Nakashima found in it a source of both beauty and commercial success. He was so successful, in fact, that he is now widely imitated. And I’m glad he is.

The outer edge was also made both conspicuous and valuable in the woodturnings of Nakashima’s contemporary, Bob Stocksdale. And he, too, has been widely imitated, to our mutual benefit.

Don’t forget the trees

Trees give us a lot more to work with, in their burls, crotches, knots, blisters, curls and butts — then only the consistent interiors of their trunks. In industrialized woodwork, this evidence of life has often been avoided and discarded (culled) as waste.

Where I first started purchasing wood, my supplier threw the birds-eye maple up on top of the lunchroom, where I could, with awkward effort, retrieve it if I wanted that sort of thing badly enough. But the trees persist in giving their evidence of an interesting life to us, and now, it seems, more of our woodworkers are recognizing this as a gift to them and the people who buy their products.

Maybe we can’t avoid our “modern heritage,” and maybe we shouldn’t. I want my iPhone to look as it does. But we can also flavour our near environment with some natural evidence of a different and richer environment. And who knows: if we’re reminded of it, we might even take better care of it.

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

Even before I became as involved with canoes and canoeing as I eventually did, I found it easy to admire this “frail craft of an aqueous navigation.” All the lines were gentle curves and even when at rest, these little boats looked as though they were in motion. While I was admiring one in particular, the builder happened to mention that he had designed it. My mouth must have dropped open. Designed it? A canoe? A cedar canvas canoe? They have been made since the mid-nineteenth century. Mike didn’t seem old enough. And then I recalled a similar astonishment that I had seen on the faces of some people when I claimed to have designed a particular chair. Chair? Four legs, a seat and a back? And you think you designed that?

Eventually I learned enough about canoes to respect that particular claim. They are actually a complicated design, with many variable factors: the rocker, the shape of the hull, the size and shape of the stems, the tumblehome and many more. Certain configurations work better, for certain purposes, than others. It is possible to design a unique canoe, which looks very historical, by manipulating all of the constituent elements to achieve a particular effectiveness. And I think the same is true of chairs. When they are of a certain type, they may look similar, especially at a distance, but they may perform quite differently. A claim of authorship may in fact be legitimate.

In the understanding of many people, design is about innovation. That which is proposed should look like something that has never been seen before. It should, in a manner of speaking, not have any parents — it should be original. While this is a laudable goal, the business of design is actually much more nuanced than that.

Our civilization has progressed, to a large extent, on the basis of innovation. Many things we take for granted would have been highly original at some point. Maybe everything was. So we ought to be grateful to the innovative amongst us and those who preceded us. But the truth is, very few ideas have ever appeared to anyone in a perfect state. A new idea may turn out to be a good idea, but usually not before some adjustments are made. This is the part we call development. It’s a lengthy affair and usually involves many people, even across time and space.

Some people make their contributions as innovators. And some make theirs as developers, and there are many more of the latter. Without them, the innovative idea may not amount to much. This reality gets skewed by the fact the originality is much more effective at attention procurement than incremental adjustments are. We applaud the brave new breakthrough and it is the part that gets written into our histories.

There is, however, a great deal of honour in actually getting the fancy new ideas to function. And even once they do, they will usually be improved, often by anonymous contributors, over a long period of time.

The activity of originality is distinct. It requires a set of skills, talent and discipline (and maybe even a bit of luck) that allows the originator to make new connections and to see new opportunities the rest of us don’t. The contributions of development usually come about more slowly. They depend on a type of intimacy, patience and understanding that flashes of brilliance usually don’t have. They are often found in a different type of person.

There are lots of examples of this. One that comes to mind is the Volkswagen Beetle. Ferdinand Porsche had the original idea, but over the 65-year life of that particular design, it went through many iterations as well as continuous improvements. We can be sure that Mr. Porsche didn’t make them all. He may not even have made very many. Different job. But undoubtedly, the design got better and better. I could even make the case that the process didn’t stop in 2003, since there have been two “new” Beetles since then, which would not exist without the influential original, and they in turn are expressions of ongoing improvement.

This double nature of design can be confusing. Students often feel that they need to be creators of original work (where the glory is) when many of them would actually be more useful as developers. And as it turns out, that’s usually how things sort out. As Steve McQueen said as Junior Bonner in the movie of that name, “Someone has to hold the horses.”

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