Now that I’m not teaching, I’ve had to find a project to keep busy with. And what that has turned out to be is a DIY Sprinter cargo-van-to-RV conversion. It’s certainly kept me busy and I’m not done yet.

I first became aware of Sprinter vans around 2006 and was immediately struck by their potential adaptability for RVs. But that was long before my time. In 2015, when I sold my house, I bought a used RV: a 22-foot Class C. And I got a lot of use out of it over the next three years, spending four months of each summer in it. That gave me a pretty good sense of what I wanted and how I used an RV. Despite my extensive enjoyment of that unit, it was a pig to drive. And I found the interior to be very inappropriately designed, at least for me. So, an idea began to take form: build my own the way I wanted it. This would satisfy my desire to feel active as a designer and it would give me a chance to put my woodworking skills back to use.

I sold the Class C in the fall of 2017 and planned on starting to build its replacement in the spring. I was offered the use of a wood shop out West and that’s where I went in February. It turned out that the shop wasn’t available as expected and I didn’t get the use of it until July. In the meantime, I bought a van and started to do what I could. I bought the long wheelbase/ high roof model because I wanted a bathroom and a decent kitchen and to be able to stand up when using them. Plus, adequate storage for long term occupation.

The shorter model would park more easily and use less fuel, but I made that trade-off. This was just the beginning of the kinds of compromises that this project would typify. I had new windows put into the cargo door and the space opposite, behind the driver which included a smaller awning window with screens. I also had smaller windows that slide open installed in the back panels. I sourced a fresh water tank and ones for both grey water and black water and had them installed. And I had plenty of time to design and redesign.

I had this project in mind for some time and for research, and I had visited RV dealerships, both here and in Europe and also asked to inspect the interiors of other RVs that I found myself camping beside. I went to a very large RV show in Dusseldorf, Germany, which was very worthwhile. There are, by now, plenty of RVs built commercially using Sprinters as a starting point.

Many of these just use the cab and chassis, building a new box behind. The principal benefit of this approach is to be able to orient the bed across the van, instead of along its length, saving quite a bit of space. But this gets back to a bigger and heavier unit and I wanted to avoid that.

The internet also made me aware of the fact that my ambitions were not unique. Others had been doing DIY conversions and in fact, there was now a whole industry supporting this interest. Many of these are intended for shorter time usage, supporting other outdoor activities like biking and their owners are typically not yet retired. So their designs differed but I’ve benefited for the network of suppliers and up-fitters that support this emerging market.

My design is a more conventional RV, with its bathroom and kitchen. I choose a design and construction approach that more closely resembles nautical work than is conventional, although I wasn’t fully aware of how this would complicate my project. The geometry of the van’s body is much more complex that it first appears to be. It tapers to the back, with greater taper at the top than the bottom and even the vertical portion is far from flat or straight. And as it turns out, the floor isn’t even flat, despite its appearance (and maybe its intention). So building has involved a lot of trial and error, with plenty of emphasis on the error.

But it’s coming along. I had hoped to have it roadworthy in time for next spring, but that’s not how it’s working out. The biggest surprise for me has been just how enthusiastic the young people have been that have seen what I’m doing. I had not expected, or intended, to be this cool.

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

I realize that that’s not very politically-correct of me. Kale is overfull of virtue and its consumption will undoubtedly keep me cancer-free and wholesome in every way. But I don’t like it. I kind of wish I did, but I don’t and the vague social compulsion I feel to embrace it actually has the opposite effect. I don’t want to offend it, but I’m offended by the need to avoid offence.

How can anyone imagine that we live in a world where complete offence-avoidance is possible? I have a lot of strong feelings, as we all do, and although some may find some of these offensive, that doesn’t change them or diminish my feelings of my right to own them. I am what I am.

Avoiding offense is laudable and most of us try to achieve this, most of the time. Where it gets trickier is when we are proscribed from giving offence. I prefer to be a nice guy but if there is a risk of being punished if I’m not, my reflex to be nice kind of goes into reverse. I don’t think I’m so unique in this way. Political correctness appears to be about avoiding offence, but I think it’s also about adopting the prevailing values of the moment, as dictated by one assertive group or another.

So, what does this have to do with design? Quite a bit, in my way of looking at things. We designers are in the business of proposing alternatives. These are optional ways of doing things, making things, using things and even thinking about things. Designing products, which is what I’m the most familiar with, isn’t usually in the business of avoiding offence, but with furniture, a large part of what we do is provide utility and comfort, and maybe even joy, to a wide variety of furniture users. We make chairs of different sizes, or make them adjustable, to accommodate different body sizes, as just one example. We make lighting that adjusts in position and intensity.

We provide choices and attempt to accommodate the diversity of users as fully as possible. And yes, it’s important that we avoid giving offence, which isn’t good for business.

One of the features of our socially responsible society is the obligation to provide equivalent opportunity to all citizens. There is a long history of designing and marketing to the largest part of the market, almost exclusively. This makes good business sense but may no longer make good social sense. Are all of us entitled to equal opportunities? And who pays for this? All of us, unequally, with the goal of another kind of equality? It’s an interesting problem that, in turn, raises many other problems. But I digress. Our society is composed of a wide range of body sizes (and genders?) and a wide range of body mobility, flexibility, strength and so on. It may be offensive to leave some of us less well provided for.

As designers, we choose materials and their associated technology. Even materials have the potential to offend, especially in terms of their comparative greenness, and the technologies applied to them only compound these considerations. We choose the sizes, the shapes and forms, the colours and most other aspects of the things that get made. Are we being fair to everyone?

As we become increasingly aware of problematic issues with what we make and how we make it, our responsibility as designers to provide alternative solutions is correspondingly increased. This is a good thing, in that the need for designers is enhanced and the needs of humankind are more fully addressed. And the flip side is that some of these problems are wicked and even good designers get stumped. Interestingly, even when the issues being addressed are not material, designers are increasingly being used and valued for their alternative-seeking skills in solving problems that may be more social than tangible. All that from thinking about kale.

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

From good intentions to filling out forms

The premise of industrial design is, generally speaking, that of providing a benefit to somebody. Somebodies, actually. The more the better. That’s why industry is involved. A need is met and money changes hands, from the consumer to the producer and from the producer to the designer, or something like that.

To aid us in the pursuit of solutions to problems, we usually generate something we call a design brief. This is a definition of the target that we are aiming at. The benefit to the eventual consumer is carefully considered, because if this doesn’t occur, the money won’t flow in a way that supports the project and the whole enterprise collapses.

The process

The capabilities and constraints of the producer must also be considered and even the preferences and proclivities of the designer. In this scenario, there is the consumer, the producer (with all manner of marketing and other support) and the designer. And there is, with increasing prevalence and impact, another factor that contributes an additional set of “other considerations” that need to appear in the design brief.

There are two kinds of these external considerations: the prescribed and the proscriptive. Some are mandated like those relating to disability legislation. This is the law, and failure to comply is penalized. If you are not aware of this yet, you ought to become so. There are the consumer packaging and labeling regulations. And many other rules that vary from industry to industry.

If you are involved with research, then you will likely have become familiar with the REBs (Research Ethics Boards), sometimes also described as the KGB. These bodies, at arm’s length from universities, hospitals and other funded institutions, ensure that no vulnerable populations are harmed in any way when research is pursued. Their efforts can be extreme and consequential, so they are worth paying attention to.

Some of the considerations are optional, but only barely so. At this time, considerations of sustainability are increasingly conspicuous, as they should be. Within the wood and wood-related industries, FSC endorsement is often sought. There are also an increasing number of other ways in which to become a conspicuously conscientious consumer or producer or designer and there are advantages to doing so.

Although not yet necessarily mandated, there are increasing calls for our material world to be inclusive and universal, in terms of access, use and benefit. It should be smoke free and scent free. No animals should be used for testing or exposed to risks in our entertainments. Our commentary should be gender neutral. No ethnic or regional groups should be made conspicuous in any way that could be found to be derogatory, or possibly even humorous. The aged cannot be described as old, or allowed to look or feel that way.

More and more rules

There is much more, and it is the cultural and legal framework within which we operate. To describe this as a loss of autonomy is an understatement. It feels like both a restriction and a constriction. Of course, most of these considerations have as their goal the betterment of the human condition. And this goal is shared by designers. We don’t want to cause harm — our basic premise is to do good. We have, by design, an opportunity to have a significant impact. And with this authority comes a large responsibility, which we acknowledge and respect.

One of the great things about design is the prospect and opportunity to dream large dreams; to imagine alternate ways of being and doing. If we are bound too closely by the list of things we can’t or ought not to do, how can we do our job?

I’m not really much of a designer anymore. As an academic, I spend a lot of my time filling out forms and seeking approval. As onerous as that is, I accept it as part of being in a bureaucracy and I accept that a bureaucratic structure is necessary to achieve certain valuable things. But I feel as if this circumscribed public-sector world of rules is encroaching more and more on the private world as well. And that has me concerned.

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

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.