I think a lot about what I would say to the younger version of myself if I met her again, if I met her through the still moments of all the motion of youth — when she was sitting at the piano, or if I saw her alone on the playground, or if I watched her read, voice quivering, her short stories in front of the class.
If I met the younger version of myself, we’d take a walk — the same walk I take every day — so I could explain to young me that routine and tradition are paramount. You have to choose a category header, but it’s only as permanent as you need it to be. You have to choose a theme song and stay with it. Decide. If only for an hour or a day or a week.
If I met me, but younger, we’d talk about the value of one thing. You have to choose one thing to do for yourself every day. No matter what practice you choose — how fulfilling or meaningful — it will sometimes overwhelm you. Choose something for yourself every day. Do it repeatedly and without fail. If you do something for yourself every day, no matter how many standoffs or negotiations or letdowns you face throughout the day, no one can take that away from you.
If I met younger me, we would sit quietly and listen to music. We might put instruments we did not know how to play in our laps. “Play,” I would encourage. Younger me would stare straight ahead uncomfortably. “No one knows what they’re doing,” I would continue. “Being expert means starting. Knowing is playing your first note.” We would scratch out notes on new instruments together.
If I met me, but many years before, we’d talk about love and time. Love will not be polite. It does not wait for opportune moments to approach you. It knows not your life plans or schedule or current or future intentions. It will not wait for you to be ready. There is, in this way, no time for it. If you wait for it, then, it will not come. As love — for a person, a profession, a practice, a city — comes to you. It crosses your path and is only yours to accept. It is up to you to open your hands and heart.
I used to think life was an intricate series of spreadsheets and grids, weights and balances, promotions and boardroom standoffs. As grew older I realized life is less grid and more raw data, less stop sign and more yield, less urban and more sprawl. Life passes by in seasons, not days, and best we can do is choose our category headers, theme songs, and instruments to make the most of every day. With that, we can see the world as we move through it.
Because there is stillness in motion.
First written for AIGA Centennial Voices series, September 2014.
Jody Rosen on seeing knots:
Once knots come into focus, though, you can’t stop seeing them. Rifle history’s back pages and you’ll find them everywhere. …. There are, of course, metaphorical knots: the knot in our stomachs when we’re nervous, the “certain knot of peace” that ensnares us when we sleep, as the Elizabethan poet Philip Sidney wrote. We speak of marriage as “tying the knot,” a figurative knot that is likely derived from literal ones — from so-called true lovers’ knots, various knot forms, found everywhere from Scandinavia to East Asia to Mexico, that symbolize affection, commitment and betrothal. It would be possible to write not just a history of knots, but a history of the world viewed through knots.
I love stories that teach us to see something ordinary that was there all along. At some point, The Scranton Times, my childhood local newspaper, syndicated the comics, and every Sunday morning my father would sit me on his lap and read me the Comics Section. Newsprint thumbs and index fingers, he would crinkle the paper, straighten it, and begin.
“Wizard of Id.” “Andy Capp.” “Dagwood.” It’s hard to articulate the particular way he would say these words. Not words at all, but consonants. As if “Id” was made of an entire alphabet of “D’s” and “Capp” an entire language just of the sound “P” makes when it pops through ones lips and hangs in the air.
For me, each Sunday morning, the world was made of consonants. Stories as non-vowels. Later, beyond comics, I adopted other ways to look at the world: through pauses, constellations, underdogs, endless lenses. What other ways of seeing and hearing do we use?
A couple summers ago, I read a book a day. I’d heard when President Bill Clinton was in office, he read two books a day. I didn’t know if it were true or not, but I loved this idea. I was not President and not even that important, so I could certainly read one book a day. So it began.
The trick, I realized early on, was choosing small books. Short books. It wasn’t cheating (and hey, I was making up the rules anyway), and books were books, short or not. So I started with the Penguin “Great Ideas” Series. And read them all. Then, I heard someone say something about a curriculum, and started theming my weeks. Bread-making, gardening, astronomy. It became easy.
It never occurred me to blog about it, or keep track of what I was reading even. It wasn’t about the public display of information, or proving to anyone that I could do it. It was just me against books. And sometime around late July, about 45-50 books in, I proved to myself that I could.
And so I quit. One day, I just stopped.
Me versus me
The Book-A-Day project just ended. No fanfare, no apologies, no blog post announcing I was done. I stopped.
The project wasn’t about finishing, it was about seeing if I could do it. It was about the formulation of ideas, the construction of a book framework — and in a trial of “me versus me,” who would come out on top? What interesting-ness would emerge if I spent time prototyping ideas with myself? What could I make?
What you choose not to do, who you choose not to spend time with, and who and what you decide to say no to — what you do choose — is how you mark time.
In irony, the whole experiment taught me that my barrier to quitting was my attraction to making. The reason I do is to create.
The same is true in my predilection for saying yes.
I say yes to make things. I say yes to watch projects grow, to collaborate, to see progress.
But too much yes, I quickly found, is unsustainable and unhealthy.
What could I make from no?
So I started a list. Instances of saying no.
The No List
When I say no (e.g., conference talk invites, “pick my brain” invitations, jury solicitations), I immediately add my regret to the No List. I nurture this growing list of no-things, adding category data like dates events would have happened, themes, and date turned down.
Suddenly, I’m making list of cities not seen, airplanes not embarked, and time saved, rather than time taken away. Several months later, I have a made a substantial something. It’s how I’ve marked time.
There are many instances where deadlines are crucial, where getting things done needs to get done. Sometimes saying yes is just the thing that must happen. But just as importantly, most times it is not.
Stop reading a book halfway through, keep a list of your turn-downs, and celebrate the fringe benefits of no.
I’ll be right there with you.
“If, in some cataclysm, all of scientific knowledge were to be destroyed, and only one sentence passed on to the next generations of creatures, what statement would contain the most information in the fewest words?”
That’s Richard Feynman from Lectures on Physics. While he’s referring to scientific knowledge, I considered how his question might apply to what we do. How could we meaningfully sum up what we do in a few words?
I love these sorts of challenges, forcing us to be brief, working with constraints. No small task. Yet, encapsulating an entire design profession seemed a rather daunting — and fleeting — task, thus, I developed a daily practice.
At the end of each day, I write an “atomic sentence,” a single statement that summarizes the most vital lesson about that day.
More than zero
At times where I flail, fumble, and otherwise seek a signpost, these sentences have helped — personal lifelines indicating a larger story. Each day, an atomic unit in a living network.
Over the years, my atomic sentences have included:
- "Make sure you believe in what you start as there are only two ways it can end: you will finish it or it will finish you."
- "When you step in the stream, the water doesn’t pass you by (although the risk of drowning does increase)."
- "Letting go is in fact — or perhaps only sometimes — letting in."
- "Certainty made clear by uncertainty; safety by danger."
- "Every person is just a person trying to be a person."
- "Make starts, not ends."
Hurry off, for at least a sentence’s worth of time, to make your own.
I like things. Full disclosure: a lot of things. More things, perhaps, than can be reasonably liked by one person. To me, rose-colored glasses have always seemed a curious concept as the world seems shiny enough without them. So I steer clear of conditions that might increase the likelihood of increasing the world’s sparklehood.
Choice then, becomes the primary tool to navigate like, as it gives each thing its priority, assigning an algorithm for liking, for doing, and for being in the world.
You see, for the like-striken, it’s hard to say no. Everyone and everything is interesting.
As I suffer from this condition myself, something a friend said to me several years ago has stayed with me:
“It’s easy to say no if you love something.”
Wrong. Wrong, I thought at the time. If you love something, say yes. Say yes to everything. Yet what did he mean about loving something, I quietly wondered. Did he mean to imply that having a focus for one’s passion also functioned as a tool to help make better choices?
Making a life
In a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald, Thomas Wolfe said there are two kinds of writers: putter-inners (like himself) or leaver-outers (like Fitzgerald). These categories, like all categories, are of course oversimplified, but they still illustrate a great point. Just like saying yes, saying no creates your story. It’s what you leave out, not just what you put in, that forms a story, that makes a life.
Creative pursuits hold an inherent need for choice, whether we consider music, art, literature, dance, or design. Every great story is surrounded by white space of some kind. Blank spaces are powerful. The author and designer choose not to lay out a page with text to every edge. Its white space is part of the story it tells. What we choose to leave out creates the story.
Making a story
Consider your favorite novel. You probably don’t recall the most memorable character in the book doing the most mundane of tasks—eating breakfast, getting dressed, using the bathroom, tying shoelaces—day in and day out. The author made an intentional decision to leave these details out. He or she, the leaver-outter in that situation, crafted a story about another arc that didn’t need those ordinaries.
As a reader, you didn’t consider those absences, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Their presence, like the silent subjects of sentences or the silent strength of typographic scaffolding, creates the supporting structure to guide the main story, the primary choices, that the author, the artist, the creator is making.
"Love and the leaver-outters," originally written for The Manual.
The same is true in layouts in design. In pauses between crescendos in music. In absences in architectural archways. In blanks in the maps of oceans. Rather than fill the spaces with unnecessary distractions, their creators have chosen to leave these areas blank. And the blanks speak for both what is and what is not there.
Choice-makers are doers. And doers seem to also be leaver-outers.
I’ve always paid attention to and wondered at the leaver-outers of the world, so I do often come back to that phrase:
“It’s easy to say no if you love something.”
No matter what it is—be it a business, a person, a piece of art, a career, a song, a family, a way of life, or a pursuit of any kind—it’s easy to say no to all the other choices that will present themselves if you truly love something.
Finding that thing is the hardest part. But that’s another lesson.
Douglas Adams (in 1999 no less):
[T]he reason we suddenly need such a word [as “interactivity”] is that during this century we have for the first time been dominated by non-interactive forms of entertainment: cinema, radio, recorded music and television. Before they came along all entertainment was interactive: theatre, music, sport—the performers and audience were there together, and even a respectfully silent audience exerted a powerful shaping presence on the unfolding of whatever drama they were there for. We didn’t need a special word for interactivity in the same way that we don’t (yet) need a special word for people with only one head.
As Eno pointed out, by naming something you say, “this is now real.” We can define something just as much by what is than we can by what is not. Unhappiness, for instance, teaches us invaluable lessons about happiness. When, then, will “wireless” become extinct?
[This and this via]
Sep Kamvar on the key to great technologies:
[T]he key to building great technologies is to first find your purpose. And you will not find it by polling your users.
The best surfers I know seem to have a sense of exactly where the next wave will be. They craft a style about their surfing and their life that seems to come directly from the water. Artists that I admire seem to be quiet and quiet and quiet, and then come up with something beautiful, as if the beauty came from some relationship with the silence. And the great programmers I know are always taking breaks from the screen to go walk in the woods, as if they receive the most difficult parts of their programs by osmosis, and then just go to their desk to type it up.
I think a lot about what I would teach the younger version of myself. How would I prepare her for what life has become decades later? I see her struggling, searching, working, doubting, stretching. If I met her, we would take a walk outside so I could explain how focus works. In order to see, you must not look. In order to focus, you must unfocus entirely. Choose a thing and turn your back on it. Walk outside. Walk a line in the direction of the sun, the rain, the surf. If only for a moment. And that in that opposite direction, in nature, you see yourself.
“Natural technologies arise from the heart of the builder” and when one’s head is down, it’s hard to feel your heart. Work it. Walk it. And build the world that can be.
It could be any dinner, in any place. Every person around the table wants intimacy. And every one of you—whether you came here with that in mind or not—no matter what your intended investment, wants a relationship of some kind although you’ve just met.
Yet by dessert and coffee, you’re challenged to recall either the first or last name of any person you shared a meal with. You look around. You are thirsty, but you can’t remember a single person’s name to ask for a refill. You are at once among friends and strangers. Nameless faces together. If asked, you might be able to identify each of their avatars, know where each is a mayor of, know how to friend each of them in any given social network, but as for their names? “Hey,” you say out loud to no one in particular, “I need water.”
Where once, a person’s name was his or her primary identifier, we’re now seeing the spread of that identity as people intentionally scatter selves, supported by social systems where identities are stored and accessed. As a result, acknowledging someone’s name is no longer the same sign of mutual respect or politeness. Nor is it a necessary signifier that indicates you’re invested in them. What we may be seeing is a death of a single primary name as key identifier. It has been decentralized and decondensed. In social relationships, what has replaced it? And in what contexts do we recall and use each identity?
In Emily Post’s 1922 edition of Etiquette and Society, in Business, in Politics and at Home, Post outlines didactic manifestos for interacting with one another. Whether one is a lady or a man, married or unmarried, the Queen or the President of a nation, it is clear which fork, which name, and which manner of addressing one another is appropriate. Specific scenes in that text dictated the rules for behavior, and each was predictable: a business visit, letters, at dinner.
Yet correct introductions are meaningless in a culture where boundaries have dissolved and situations are defined only by the people present in a given moment. How to behave is not an etiquette we can memorize, it’s a sensitivity that starts and ends with being able to read people in an instant. How important is it then to remember someone’s name when that sign is retrievable via any social network, any device that is likely within arm’s length?
There is a new public. The new public is one of context, one perceivable by behaviors. Remembering someone’s name, or deciding we don’t need to, is no longer a given. Our business for behaving—as executives, as friends, as inventors and scientists and designers, as humans—relies on our ability to be sharply aware of that context and shift as appropriate.
We have come well past knowing only one another’s names. It seems to be we’re 300 colors richer in our understanding of knowing identities as explorers of the particulars of what and where they can be.
Through the shifts, people want to be polite. People want to call on one another in a way that’s meaningful. But they’re busy. And memories full. And now some people, bewildered. In a culture where work spills over into play, time zones overlap, and reference points intertwingled, they no longer have rules for calling upon one another. The rules, if any were followed at all, have changed, and our behavior for interacting is getting a serious redesign. There’s a new public for behaving. And using names as the primary identifier for one another, as one example, is becoming extinct.
But before getting caught up in rhetoric of “the death of” predictions, what is more imperative to consider is the role its demise can play in the larger evolutionary pace the Internet environment has allowed for. We’ve already seen radio give way to film, film give way to television, and television give way to the web. At least. Underlying it all is an evolving ecology that shifts and clicks along—humming at times, dragging at other—to keep up with the fast pace that is the shifting nature of the media ecology.
The death of the name is not an extinction at all then; it’s an adaptation. Just as etiquette is not dead; it’s simply evolving. The evolution of any new behavior—similar to what we saw with the introduction of radio, television, film—is bringing with it a whole new range of manners. Where once we relied on a prescribed code of conduct written by one and applied to many, that is no longer the case.
We are seeing what Andrew Heyward, former president of CBS News, calls “user-generated context” take shape. These behavioral and adaptive systems are evidence that the complex dialogues among people are taking place in fundamentally new ways; lines between consumer and creator have merged, and context, not content, is taking over as a guide.
In a 1963 “What is Science?” talk, physicist and educator Richard Feynman explained the difference between simply knowing the name of something and truly knowing something.
The code of conduct has been replaced with a code of context. Watches have been replaced by the timepieces that are our smartphones. And while no one under the age of 12 is using those smartphones for email, we are using social networks like Facebook and Twitter and LinkedIn at a staggering rate to stay in touch. We’re not calling one another but we’re talking more than ever before. And with that, we are writing more as well. And we can confidently say, as these words are printed on this page, that the physical book is not going away; it too is evolving. To know your audience is not enough.
To the contrary
As a culture whose trades efficiency as currency, it’s curious that we’re creating more, not fewer, identities. Contrast that with Mongolian culture which has 300 words for color—and whose horses, as a result, have no name as we know it. They refer to them by color and age. Duly practical and nuanced. What we might see and consider as “white” in English, they see as variations of “ash white” and “snow white” and so forth. Perhaps we too are developing 300 words for social variation, with no one dominant name.
While technology is certainly affording us the ability to use only one identifier, and we uphold efficiency as one of our values, it would seem otherwise. Identifiers abound. Redundancy abounds. And we, in spite our ourselves, seem to value it. Multiple names, then, are a new currency.
Our signature files have out-charactered the text of our email. It’s not enough to sign a note, but to ensure that all forms of contact are known. Our own 300 colors are on display. Yet around a dinner table, it rare to have remembered even one name.
At the intersection of people, technology, and context, we have an opportunity like never before to create new identities and shape new publics. Whether it’s it user-generated context, the display of wealth by waste, or simply the exponential explosion of the name, there is a new pubic for behaving.
Is this proliferation waste, is it branding, or is it a display of power? Thorstein Veblen writer of The Theory of the Leisure Class in 1899 suggested a position on the latter regarding wealth and power. He observed that simply amassing wealth is not enough. One must display wealth in order for it to be powerful as an act of status and power. “Wastefulness,” therefore, was a necessary part of of the display of wealth and power. Like the peacock’s feathers, he notes, “Throughout the entire evolution of conspicuous expenditure, whether of goods or of services or human life, runs the obvious implication that in order to effectually mend the consumer’s good fame it must be an expenditure of superfluities. In order to be reputable it must be wasteful.” Therefore, in order to be reputable, we must be present waste. In other words, the amassing of identities—in part practical—may be in other parts, a power move. And it is in their display that there is power.
The new public
If power is in the display of multiple identities, where are they or should be be displayed? Prior to circa 2003 when social networks became popular, the mall and the movies were where teenagers would display their wealth. But since that time, the “networked place” has largely replaced these spaces. Networked publics are not a defined set of people in a bounded space, but rather a flexible category where people conceptualize the boundaries but do not control them. Because of this, networked publics allow knowing people both in the moment (e.g., around a table) and contextually (e.g., only ever at that table). The boundaries of the contexts online, however, are afforded by technology such that the practice dictates the boundaries, depending on the imagination of the individuals involved.
This new public can play a few roles:
First, in contrast to the Emily-Postian public of the past, they help us define ourselves by the boundaries set forth by the context of the group in the moment. The dinner table this evening creates one set of boundaries, and the people present set the conditions for behavior in that moment. The new public of the table made it alright for no one to know names. Change the table, change the people, and the public changes.
Second, the new public help us define ourselves in relation to the group. Because each group’s identity is both momentary and contextual, it is up to the group’s imagination to put boundaries on it. If everyone wishes to remain anonymous, but only speak about their passion about something specific, it can be so. At the dinner table, one person cannot be a name dropper; each person must image and abide by the same set of social conditions or the public will change.
Third, the new public helps us define ourselves in relation to society. Because each group helps define its context in relation to the context of the culture of a neighborhood or a city, it can do so. Therefore, if citizens wish to protest or to take action on any issue, they can do so. Their allegiance to the group remains strong and patriotism to the society unchanged.
The new public allows. Context is forgiving. Context is the new public.
This thought was first published by The Manual, Issue #1.
John Ptak investigates astrological nothingness and the night sky:
The night sky is a mnemonic device, a place to store memory and a holder of the alphabet of myths and beliefs of all, a culture written large across the sky. Meteors and comets were not predictable, and could add nothing insofar as a consistent bit of storytelling was concerned, though they certainly created their own stories in each observed appearance; they could also add punctuation and exclamation to whatever constellation they appeared in. For example if one appeared in a juncture with Jupiter, a major event for royalty would possibly be foretold. But as a permanent element to the visualization of the night sky, they had little power even though they seemed to be displays of fantastic energy and power in themselves.
We used to get as far out, as dark out, as we could. Crispy grass under our backs as we looked up. There was no choice; it was where the constellations were. If the night sky is the holder of stories, then here in this place the stars and the stories were most true.
Today our dense urban places are the keeper of our new memories.
Skies are skylines and constellations are points on spires. And while we start out in the dark, by morning, the stories, and the view, becomes clearer. What stories are we making?