'the difference'

taken from my sketchbook, dated 08_1231

Every now and then I am reminded of school--most specifically, my second and third years there. It can be an event, or just a feeling I get that brings me back. I think of these days as an almost magical time. A time when the elite and fantastic world of design opened its van doors and several men clad in all black jumped out and grabbed me, unawares, and dragged me into the exciting and learned dark of the van. It was a quick but mischievous take-over. I was lured near with treats and promises, then in a flash kid-napped. Or perhaps, looking back, it wasn’t as quick as I had thought. Perhaps it was a slow and inconspicuous ordeal. I don’t know entirely. I don’t know when exactly it happened, but I do know that I haven’t looked back [even if I could, I wouldn’t and won’t]. But I digress. These moments in school I am reminded of:

To be clear, it’s not as much of a moment, per se, as it is a feeling. The feeling comes party to moments, but is not exclusive. It’s hard to describe the feeling: excitement, curiosity, intent desire to know more, pleasure of learning, freshness…passion. Is it passion? It’s hard to place, but the feeling is loosely associated with those two academic years. It was a time when everything seemed new—design, art, architecture, site design, the entire built world. It was a time when even the simplest of objects turned from objects into design solutions, inspiration, ideas, precedents. A book I read recently labeled it as ‘The Difference’--an apt title. It is something you can never come back from. You start to gain an additional perspective on the world. You are no longer a passenger on a bus, idly passing by, oblivious. Instead you aren’t even on the bus. You are on the corner watching it go by. Not only do you take note of the bus and all its passengers, but you notice the color of the bus, its shape and lines, the texture of its siding, the grit on its wheels, that dent in the rear fender. You hear the sound it makes and smell its exhaust. I starts to lose being a bus and instead gains being a series of mechanical fastenings, layers of sheet metal and insulation, rubber rings around metal discs, steel pipes and molded fiberglass seats, diesel fuel, oil and wires, ribbed aluminum flooring, and squares of tempered sheet glass. In a sense, you start to notice everything. That means the flaws [however small, insignificant, or invisible to the lay-person] and the beauty. However, it’s not necessarily becoming more observant. The meaning of everything you see changes. Seeing the world through a designer’s eyes means that you notice [and, more importantly, care about] the materials things are made out of; the shape, texture, and color of an object; the use something may serve. A page in a magazine becomes about composition, imagery, font type, size, and location, color combinations, graphics, and design intent. A building or site becomes about proportion, hierarchy of space and layout; pedestrian, mechanical, and energy flows; construction method, materials, and details. The best analogy I might be able to give is it’s like learning to identify each ingredient in a food by taste, and then never being able to just taste that food as the sum of its parts. Instead, you get a series of flavors: rice, butter, olive oil, chicken stock, salt, pepper, and mushroom, but not mushroom risotto. You may notice it’s mushroom risotto, but your palate will still pick apart each flavor.

Those first years were incredibly exciting. I took in as much as I could, and reveled in my new ‘gift’ of perception. The thought that I could possess the means to design a lamp, a building, or a landscape sent chills down my spine. This feeling, this passion for design was a potent drug that I fed off of. But as I got used to seeing as a designer, it lost its luster. Have I lost my passion for design, or have I simply grown accustomed to being a designer? Now, as a seasoned veteran, do I need more powerful doses of my drug for the same high? Has ‘The Difference’ matured from an excitable child to an impassive teenager? I hope—I like to think that the passion is still there. I continue to see the world as a designer, flaws and beauty alike, and still continue to draw inspiration from the most unlikely of places. I still love to design and appreciate good design. This is definitely it. A designer’s life for me.