Impression v. Reality

In both readings, I was reminded of a longstanding and perhaps inevitable trend in the design of all manmade things—not just buildings. The trend I am referring to is the constantly widening gap between the public’s understanding of a design or their own “conceptual framework,” and the reality of the design and its effect in the physical world. In other words, this gap is the difference between how a general user of the design experiences it and how it actually works in reality. The trend in design is further the gap—for simplicity, for comfort, for ease of use. The user experience of a design becomes more important than how it works, but leaves the user with an edited reality, a narrower understanding of how the world around them operates.

Examples of this difference between conceptual framework and reality are apparent nearly everywhere you look. Imagine a vending machine. How does it work? To most people, myself included, a vending machine is simply a box that turns money into soda. Its conceptual framework is easily diagrammed. The user experience is simple and gratifying; we understand it. I put money here, choose which soda I want here, and that drink comes out here. We are presented with an incredibly simplified procedure of what is actually happening. The box’s sophisticated mechanical, electrical, and infrastructural demands are so denied by the design that we forget that it even exists. In this case, the “gap” is a thin layer of plastic—as insignificant as a curtain—that simultaneously obstructs the mechanics within and provides the visual shape and impression of the machine. In reality, this “curtain” means nothing. The machine functions without it. Yet we rely on the curtain to explain to us what to expect from a system that would be otherwise unintelligible. Our impression of the machine is the curtain, the machine no longer exists. A vending machine IS the plastic box we are presented with, just as an app on a smart phone IS a button on the screen and not the millions of lines of code connecting your phone to a worldwide network of information.

I think this theme in architecture is described in both readings. In Leaving Las Vegas, the sign IS the building. The conceptual framework of a “strip” like that of Las Vegas is a straight line you can move up and down on, with various recognizable logos to stop at. If this seems far-fetched, look at nearly any modern shopping center map. You’ll see straight lines intersected at right angles (regardless of the reality of these paths) lined with the logos of the experiences you may have there. This isn’t arbitrary, it’s an evolution of design by which our man-made world more closely aligns with our impression of reality. Logically, we KNOW our roads don’t always travel in exactly straight lines and that there are buildings attached to those signs, but don’t necessarily THINK of the commercial strip in so complex a way. The buildings, how they work, are constructed, where they are situated on site, etc. are insignificant compared to the “curtain” that effectively communicates what to expect from a complex system. Again, the sign and your associated experience is what you remember, not the physical reality. Anyone can draw the McDonald’s logo, few could draw the floor plan of their local franchise. Following this line of thinking, the architectural model of the Las Vegas strip becomes an inevitable effect of the highway.

In the Koolhaus excerpt, the curtain occurs differently. A conceptual framework is impossible to form from the outside of a skyscraper because the building has been “lobotomized” and therefore the exterior façade communicates nothing about the program within. Instead, a conceptual framework works vertically in response to the elevator. We understand that we are moving up and down within one building, but each floor is removed from the reality of the rest of the building and the larger context of the city. Each floor is an island, disconnected from the rest of the building and the chaos of congestion, linked only by the somewhat magical elevator. Again, logically, we know that we are within the same building, and the elevator is mechanical, not magical, but that may not necessarily be how we think about or experience the skyscraper, especially a skyscraper where you can swim on one level and golf on another.

In general, this is the goal of the modern designer. Designs so good, so intuitive, that they disappear. But perhaps it is time to rethink this trend. The problems arise when we recognize that all man-made things are designed—buildings, software, media, politics—and all are designed with a “curtain.” Even more troubling is that the majority of the general public will never look beyond the curtain. Thus, as we as a culture engage more and more with the designed world, and demand only enough to construct a simple conceptual framework of that designed world, we are left with an ever-narrowing vision of reality. We are left with a general public that understands a very narrow portion of the world, but thinks they understand it completely. In this environment, problems can exist on the other side of the curtain that are not only impossible to be understood by the general user, but are actually invisible to them. After all, just as a vending machine is a just box that turns money into soda, a politician is just the things he says he is.

We, who work from the darker side of the curtain to that surface layer should be mindful of the impression of reality we leave the users of our designs. The simplest and most easily communicated design may not always be best for our society as a whole.