design education

Law and Order in the Studio, Part II

If a design presentation and critique is compared to a courtroom setting, then what roles do the design, designer, and design judges play?

Perhaps the design critique is a reverse trial. The design is ‘on trial’, but as something to be accepted rather than judged. The designer is the prosecutor, with the burden of evidence to establish beyond a reasonable doubt that the design has merit, or even that it is the best possible answer to th design brief. The critic (boss, client, teacher) plays to roles of defense council, judge, and jury. While the designer tries to make their case, they look for holes, weaknesses, and alternative explanations. When the case of the prosecutor (the designer) stands up, the design is judged as ‘good’, or ‘acceptable’.

It might be fun to separate these three functions in an educational setting. The teacher can be judge (only making sure everybody follows the rules and plays fair), an external critic can be the defense lawyer (doing their best to point out weaknesses and poke holes in the designer’s work), and other students can be the jury (rendering their verdict after hearing all the evidence).

Eerstejaars tunnelvisie

We moeten onze eerstejaars het niet kwalijk nemen dat ze kritiekloos recepten toepassen, of dat ze vragen naar dat recht-toe-recht-aan recept: hoe moet dit? Dat hoort bij de eerste stap op weg naar het ontwikkelen van een nieuwe expertise. Ze zijn novices.

Wij zouden het onderwijs zo kunnen inrichten dat we ze eerst een stel vuistregels leren die misschien niet de Waarheid zijn, maar die wel zinnig zullen blijven. En ze dan nét als ze die trucs een beetje onder de knie hebben opdrachten geven waarin ze er tegenaan lopen dat er uitzonderingen op de regel bestaan.

(n.a.v. Giuseppe’s ervaring met het projectgroepje die geen lager kon vinden voor de diameter 300mm basis van hun draaiende kraan)

Beste Eerstejaars,

Ontwerpen leer je niet door erover te lezen of door te luisteren naar iemand die het uitlegt. De enige manier om het onder de knie te krijgen is door het te doen. Waarom gaan we je dan toch vanalles vertellen?

Vergelijk het met het leren van een sport of het spelen van een instrument. Dat leer je ook vooral door het te doen. Dat kun je helemaal op eigen houtje proberen, maar je gaat veel sneller vooruit wanneer je je laat coachen of trainen. En daar moet je je een beetje aan overgeven. Regelmatig laat een trainer of coach je dingen doen waarvan je pas later gaat begrijpen waarom ze precies nuttig waren.

Ook wij gaan vrij gedetailleerd vertellen hoe het moet. En net als een sportcoach of muziekdocent verwachten wij dat je de oefeningen uitvoert zoals ze opgezet zijn, ook als dat tegen je eigen ideeën ingaat over wat nuttig en belangrijk is. Maar het is niet genoeg om die stappen hersenloos uit te voeren en te denken dat dit is hoe je het doet. Wij proberen een project zo vorm te geven dat je erdoor kunt leren ontwerpen. Om het ook echt te leren is het jouw verantwoordelijkheid om niet alleen de stappen en instructies zo goed mogelijk te volgen, maar ook om kritisch te blijven opletten op wat er tijdens het uitvoeren van de opdracht allemaal gebeurt, wat het effect van al die stappen en activiteiten is.

How to argue that a proposed design works?

The ultimate evidence is, of course, to show the actual device working. But often it requires the (risky) expenditure of scarce resources to physically build a designed system. This means that a designer or design team must convince the gatekeeper for those resources (a manager or project lead, for instance) that the design that currently only exists on paper is likely to actually function and perfom as intended.

In a student project, the situation is slightly different. Here, it will be the students themselves that will build their design, not uncommonly at their own expense. So why do we still ask them to convince their teacher that going ahead is the right decision? In this situation, the risk is not the financial cost of a failed prototype but the lost time and opportunity in the course. Failure during a course will lead to less learning, more effort on the part of the teachers, and at worst a need to take the course again for the student.

So how does arguing for a design ‘on paper’ work? First of all, before we can get to whether the argument is convincing, for it to be sound, it needs to be clear what is being claimed. This means that it must be clearly stated what the intended function is, why it’s valuable or desirable, what the requirements and restrictions are, and also what performance criteria should be used to judge the design.

Here, we get to three necessary claims:

that it works (what does it do?)
that it works well (what does good performance look like?)
that it’s the best you can do (are there no obvious and better alternatives?)

The first two of these seem at first glance to be relatively straightforward. Quantitative modelling, physical reasoning, and calculating expected values for the product’s features and performance seems what’s called for. But how do you argue the third point? How do you convince people that the proposed means to fulfill some function are the right, appropriate, or even the best means?

In my experience the answer given to this question is often a variation on “good, structured design process”. I agree that a ‘good’ process is the means to produce this argument, but it isn’t itself the reason. A rigorous process leads to considered alternatives, and it is comparison to alternatives that provides the persuasive force to accept this particular design as the preferable one. In fact, this is the only way, it seems to me, to argue for the appropriateness of a certain design to attain a certain goal. It is easier to produce appropriate alternatives through a structured, disciplined design approach, but how the alternatives are generated does not matter in the final argument on which design to accept.

The question of concept selection is distinct from the question of optimization (the second question of the three above). A clear argument about what performance criteria the design was optimized for, and that it is indeed optimized for these, only supports the claim that a local optimum has been achieved in the design. It cannot support the claim that other local optima (the best versions of designs that are fundamentally conceptually different) aren’t even higher.

This leads to the burden of proof for alternative concepts: as a designer or design team, you need to convince me that each of your concepts has been optimized towards its maximum performance, that you’ve reached the peak of the local optimum. Only after this has been established, can the concept support the further claim that another concept –with a higher expected value or performance– is preferable. For this you also need to establish that none of your concepts’ expected performance is above their achievable level, for example because an unsolved problem still exists whose resolution would detract from the quality of the concept.

Underlying a (small) set of concepts that are established as embodiments of local optima in performance there needs to be a further argument: that the concepts that were developed into complete (if rough, or abstract) design proposals represent the most promising conceptual possiblities. This requires some overview or mapping of all possible conceptual approaches to the design problem.

This entire edifice of design justification needs to be clearly presented, understandable, and accessible to a judge of a design proposal. They need to be able to go through each part and decide whether they are convinced of each part.

Asking Why

Design teachers continually ask their students: why? This is frustrating for the student and in the end, ineffective. Daniel Dennet’s two versions of “why?” may help us think this through.

Students interpret this question, I think, as “how come?” In any case, that’s often how they answer it. They start telling us about all the steps in their process, the changes, developments, and other design moves they made that culminated (for the time being) in this particular feature.

The teacher, I think, is interested in “what for?” What is the value or function of this feature? What is the effect? But often, there probably is no intended effect. This is just the first shape that came to mind, or the dimension that fit without causing any explicit problems.

Come to think of it, the student may very well understand that the teacher is asking “why?” in the sense of “what for?”, but when they don’t have an answer, they just start describing their “how come” origins.

And, in fact, it doesn’t really matter whether there is an intended effect to answer the teacher’s “why” question. The answer might be, no reason — yet. Because that’s why “why?” is an interesting and potentially productive question: what might or could the effect of this feature, nut, bolt, angle, or dimension be?

A well considered design is exactly that: rigorously considered. This means that for every ‘independent variable’, for every feature under the designers control, and thus everything the designer is forced to make a choice about, it has been considered what the effect is, what effects could be produced by varying this variable, whether these are positive and could be further strengthened or whether these are negative and could be minimized or compensated for somehow.

Do Less, Get More

We ask too much of our students. I believe that by asking less, we would get more. In the large introductory course that I teach in, at least, students are asked to do so many different new things in such a short amount of time that they don’t get a fair chance to really master much of it.

And everybody knows something isn’t right, judging by the amount of complaints from colleagues about all the things students don’t know, understand, or can’t do later on in their Bachelor’s. And whatever it is that’s wrong, it must be our fault, I believe. Because even if students were lazy –which they’re very much not– it’s us who passed them in all those courses.

The metaphor of “setting a high bar” sounds good, but isn’t right. Most courses consist of many different bars to jump over and hoops to jump through. And we give points for reaching almost high enough, but not quite. This means that by cramming our courses full with as much as we can get away with is guaranteed to lead to students passing while having mastered precious little of all that material.

So why do we do it? I see at least three reasons.

Production Is Required for Learning Design

Teaching design seems to require a focus on products. Not end-products, but the products of the process of design.

Students that are just starting out as designers do not –cannot– see what experts see. They do not see the complexity and lurking problems and hidden opportunities in their ideas. This must be brought in the open somehow, so that the student can be confronted with these unexpected features of their ideas.

Sketching Is Not Communicating

Sketching is not communicating.

Or at least, not where “communicating” means “transfer”.

I cannot look inside your head. The only thing I can see is the sketch. It is a public construction. One that I and you may have different mental models of. But the sketch, the model, is all there is.

You might say that you weren’t able to accurately express what you had in mind. But that tells me nothing, except that you judge the sketch to be a bad or incomplete proposal. Fine. Make another proposal. Change it. Develop it. Iterate. Or make it explicit (and public!) what it is that you find unsatisfactory in the model, or how your ideal might differ from it. Because again: I cannot magically look inside your head.

Law and Order in the Studio

Or: Due Process for Design Criticism

At the end of one of the design courses I used to teach, students presented to tutors that had never seen their work, and their presentations were graded by those tutors. I’ve always found this an interesting exercise; students are forced to present a coherent case because they can’t rely on the shared understanding they’ve built up with their regular tutor during the project, and tutors aren’t tempted to let that same shared understanding influence what is supposed to be an assessment of what’s presented – and only what’s presented.

The whole thing is tricky business, though.

Three Limits

As a part of becoming competent designers, students need to become aware of, accept, and learn to deal with, three cognitive limits. Students often believe (1) that they can imagine forms and geometries accurately in their mind’s eye, (2) that they can keep complex structures in thought, and (3) that they can predict their behaviour and other properties. But people in general are quite bad at all three of these things. Sketching and making models are necessary to overcome these limitations and to prevent unpleasant surprises when conflicts, omissions, and unexpected effects are discovered too late in the process.