Among the principles Rand most passionately espoused was his faith in the power of the relationship between word and image, negotiated in the intricate language of visual communication — a language mastered throughout life, but first acquired in childhood.
In the late 1950s, Rand and his then-wife, Ann Rand — a prolific and imaginative children’s book author who had been trained as an architect — began collaborating on a series of unusual, semi-semiotic children’s books nurturing that formative relationship with word and image: Sparkle and Spin, an ode to words, in 1957; Little 1, a serenade to numbers, in 1961; and, finally, Listen! Listen! (public library) in 1970, conceived for the Rands’ young daughter, Catherine — a marvelous celebration of presence through the soundscape of daily life, reminiscent of Margaret Wise Brown’s little-known yet enormously wonderful Quiet Noisy Book, published two decades earlier.
This forgotten gem, long out of print, is now brought to life anew by Princeton Architectural Press. Ann Rand’s warmhearted verses wink at Paul Rand’s unmistakable primary colors and collage-driven illustrations to extend an openhanded invitation to attentiveness and attunement with the living world.
Now that’s not a door,
because a door goes wham!
if you slam it,
nor a dog,
and as for a at,
it certainly isn’t that.
A bear would growl
and a wolf would howl.
None of you knows
what that roar was.
I like the whir
that the wings
of a hummingbird make
when it flies,
and the Psssssst!
of fireworks as they
sputter in the sky.
But the noise I like
the very best
is early morning before sunrise
(when I keep my eyes tight shut)
I can hear
the world wake up.
It’s a wonderful mixed-up sound.
From far and near
from air and ground,
it comes from all around.
Complement Listen! Listen! with the lovely Japanese counterpoint The Sound of Silence, then revisit Ann Rand’s What Can I Be? — her wonderful vintage concept book about how the imagination works, written in the same era but only discovered and published in our time.
Playful assurance that however vast our differences, there is always a mutually satisfying solution to be found.
By Maria Popova
“New York blends the gift of privacy with the excitement of participation,” E.B. White wrote in his sublime 1949 ode to Gotham, one of the most beautiful books ever written. As singular a city as it may be, however, New York has always presented a sort of extreme prototype of the challenges and rewards of life in any metropolis — challenges like the constant negotiation between privacy and participation required of those living in any densely populated urban area; challenges best surmounted not with indignation and entitlement, which tend to be our default human responses to having our perceived rights infringed upon, but with humility and a healthy dose of humor.
That’s what trailblazing graphic designer Paula Scher offers in The Brownstone (public library) — the only children’s book she ever wrote, charmingly illustrated by Stan Mack and originally published in 1973, when 25-year-old Scher was busy ascending to design superstar status with her revolutionary album covers for CBS Records.
We meet Mr. Bear as he comes home to the brownstone where he lives one chilly late-autumn evening and readies his family for their “long winter nap.” But hibernation soon proves more challenging than imagined — inside the brownstone, the Bears’ neighbors have very different ideas about chilly evenings well spent.
Miss Cat, who lives across the hall on the first floor, practices her piano so loudly that the Bears can’t get to sleep.
Frustrated, Mr. Bear climbs up to the third floor to complain to the super, Mr. Owl, who suggests that perhaps the Pigs would be willing to switch apartments with the Bears. The Pigs’ neighbors are the Mice, who are “nice and quiet.”
The Pigs, having always wanted to live on the ground floor, are thrilled to comply.
Soon the staircase was busy.
The Bears moved up the stairs.
The Pigs moved down the stairs.
Before long, all was quiet again. The Pigs cooked dinner, the scent wafting across the hall.
But just as the Bears cozy up in their beds and begin drifting off, commotion sets in again.
sounded over their heads.
“What is that noise?” growled Mr. Bear.
“What is that smell?” cried Miss Cat.
Mr. Bear and Miss Cat marched up to Mr. Owl’s door.
The dancing Kangaroos on the third floor are too loud, Mr. Bear explains, and Miss Cat can’t bear the smell of the Pigs’ cooking. To resolve the complaints, Mr. Owl orchestrates another switcheroo and soon the staircase is bustling again, families moving up and down and across to make their differences fit together least discordantly.
But dissatisfactions quickly arise again, exasperations simmer, and off the brownstone goes, aswirl with more moving.
In the end, there is an almost mathematical solution: Mr. Owl sits down, tackles the situation like a puzzle of geometry and logic, and comes up with an arrangement that meets everyone’s needs — a reminder that whenever our emotions are stirred into the mutual reactivity of outrage, the best thing to do is to return to reason and make it a vehicle of goodwill.
The Bears snuggled back into bed, and Mr. Owl settled into his reading chair. Soon, the only sounds on the top floor were soft snores.
On the second floor, the Pigs invited their old neighbors over for dinner.
And on the first floor, Miss Cat and the Kangaroos discovered their mutual love of music and sang and danced the night away.
Pause-giving meditations by William Gibson, Anne-Marie Slaughter, Rob Walker, and more.
By Maria Popova
“Construction and destruction alike satisfy the will to power,” Bertrand Russell wrote in contemplating the pillars of the good life in 1926 — an era of brief respite between the World Wars that marked two of the most violent episodes in human history — “but construction is more difficult as a rule, and therefore gives more satisfaction to the person who can achieve it.” Nearly a century later, Parker Palmer observed in his magnificent commencement address that “violence is what happens when we don’t know what else to do with our suffering.” And some of our greatest suffering stems from having our creative energies stunted and suppressed — a form of internal violence that we direct outward in destructive impulses. This relationship between violence and the creative impulse is as immutable as it is complex — nowhere more so than in the things we create that are meant to destroy, from firearms to fundamentalist ideologies. And nowhere do we stand a greater chance of ending the eternal war with our inner contradictions than in understanding the complexities of this osmotic relationship between creation and destruction.
In the fall of 2013, MoMA curator Paola Antonelli — a trailblazing thinker about our relationship with objects and the visionary responsible for acquiring the iconic rainbow flag into the museum’s permanent collection — and Jamer Hunt, director of the Transdisciplinary Design graduate program at Parsons, undertook a most unusual and ambitious curatorial experiment. Subverting the conventions of traditional exhibitions and transcending the limitations of museum hours and gallery walls, they launched an online project and series of live public debates exploring the complex relationship between creation, destruction, and the fabric of everyday life.
Each week for a year and a half, Antonelli and Hunt selected one piece of design that somehow embodies violence — from the 3-D-printed gun, which unsettles our assumptions about civil liberty and censorship, to the STUXNET computer virus, which exposes the dark side of the digital universe, to the stiletto heel, which calls into question the brutality to which our culture’s beauty standards subject women’s bodies — and asked one prominent thinker outside the design world to write a short essay in response.
The result is a masterful and urgently necessary invitation of nuance amid a culture that increasingly commodifies life into black-and-white binaries.
Design and Violence (public library) presents a curated condensation of this online experiment — “curated” not in the misused, overused sense made vacant of meaning by our contemporary vernacular, but in the proper sense of contextualized and cared for with great thoughtfulness and intentionality.
Inspired in large part by Harvard psycholinguist Stephen Pinker’s controversial assertion that, statistically speaking, violence has declined over time, Antonelli and Hunt instead argue that violence has mutated rather than subsided — we have moved from more visceral forms of violence, like public executions and the legal impunity for wife-killers, to less visible but no less pernicious manifestations, ranging from cyberattacks to environmental destruction to the devastating injustice of a criminal justice system that renders black men six times more likely to be incarcerated than their white peers.
Antonelli and Hunt write in the introduction:
Not only does violence appear to be morphing, but how we experience, perceive, and assess it is also shifting.
Where there is transformation, there is design: indeed, the reshaping of everyday experience is at the core of the designer’s work… [But] design’s history of violence, unless linked overtly to political and social suppression, too often goes unexplored.
Throughout this experiment, one simple mission has inspired us: to wade into the ethical mire that design, and every act of human intention, draws us into. Considering the broad influence of design on the world and the contemporary pace of innovation — requiring continuous alterations and adaptations — design shoulders a heavy, yet shadowy responsibility. It needs to be brought into the light and grappled with. This project is our attempt.
They offer a helpful definition as a backdrop for the project:
Violence evades easy definition primarily because the term accommodates so many configurations, spanning the symbolic and the real, the individual and the collective. As we define it for this project, violence is a manifestation of the power to alter the circumstances around us, against the will of others and to their detriment.
The range of contributors is as varied and dimensional as that of the objects — science fiction legend William Gibson contemplates a collection of unofficial embroidered patches from the secret world of classified military intelligence; former Ugandan child soldier China Keitetsi confronts the AK-47; Grammy Award-winning musician and United Nations Goodwill Ambassador Angélique Kidjo tackles a poster campaign for female genital mutilation awareness; Judge Shira Scheindlin, who famously declared NYPD’s stop-and-frisk tactics unconstitutional, responds to the plastic handcuffs and anti-bite/spit mask; political scientist Anne-Marie Slaughter considers a vial containing a scent designer’s olfactory approximation of the smell of violence, made from sweat samples collected at cage fighting matches and chemically analyzed via gas chromatography.
In her essay on the vile veil, Slaughter examines violence as a highly contextual experience — a silhouette cut out from the negative space surrounding it:
The thought of a smell wrung from the sweat-soaked t-shirts of cage fighters creates a ripple of distaste and even fear at the imminent prospect of inhaling, a sensory reaction before the sense in question is even engaged.
The vial is incongruously clear and white and sterile-seeming; I imagined a blood-red glass rose, with twisted petals and a black heart. The smell seems to hit me even before I uncap it — old socks? No, it is far, far stronger — too strong to hold to my nose for more than a second or two. It is rank, but rank like musk, and held at a distance it summons images of stags or musk oxen or elk fighting—horns locking, hoofs pawing, the raw pushing of strength against strength. The violence of sex.
Would those images come to mind without the context of cage-fighting? I cannot know. But once the initial disgust at the smell inhaled deeply and close has worn off, and I smell it again and again, a transformation takes place. The smell itself separates from its context and becomes a spectrum of different scents, as if it is flattening and elongating under my nose. I think, for an instant, that I catch a whiff of rose, surely suggested by the pictures of torn petals but also reminding me that roses have many different scents blending into one. Again and again I smell it, until it begins to become denatured — an essence, yes, but of what?
Surely not of man. As I kiss my sons goodnight and press myself against my husband’s back in bed, I think about how we know each other by scent just as we recognize voices — instantly and individually. Lovers know each other years later by the deep smell of skin; parents inhale their children’s hair and neck and chubby folds. So perhaps the violence here is the transformation of the individuality of all men into the hormones that define them as male; the testosterone that creates the characteristics we identify with men rather than women. That is the transformation of design, the claimed search for an essence that is in fact a brute reduction and destruction of infinite variation: the distinctive features and feelings even of the two men fighting in a particular cage on a particular night with a particular set of instructions, much less of all the men who fight and love and work and care and create.
But by distilling something to an essence — not the essence but an essence — we also create building blocks for something new. We reduce complexity to simplicity to build a different complexity. If that is the violence of creative destruction, it feels far gentler than grappling for a death-grip in a cage. But I may never again look at a vial of perfume without thinking of torn petals and crushed calyces, a violence at the heart of beauty.
In his response to “The Liberator,” an amply unnerving 3-D-printed open-source gun designed Cody Wilson and his Texas-based nonprofit, Rob Walker exerts his formidable powers of cutting through the many layers of surface motives to unearth the very core of a cultural problem:
The real function of The Liberator has very little to do with making an excellent weapon, and everything to do with making a point. Wilson, whose Liberator work competed with law school studies, is a strident Libertarian. He might choose a different label, but clearly his project means to express a point of view about the individual’s relationship to the state in general, and gun regulation specifically. Thus the Liberator has—consistent with that self-important name—been promoted with bombastic, sometimes bellicose, and essentially propagandistic rhetoric and aesthetics. Wilson and his associates, for instance, operate under the name Defense Distributed. They are freedom-loving rebels, you see.
This is why it’s almost more useful to think of the Liberator not as an object but as an example of “design fiction”—the practice of devising plans for or prototypes of objects and systems that, while impractical, express some critique of the present or vision of the future. It’s a trendy strategy these days, but I’m guessing almost no one associated with it shares Wilson’s politics. Similarly, tech enthusiasts who have rhapsodized about the “disruptive” possibilities of 3-D printing frequently strike quasi-libertarian notes, but they have largely recoiled from Wilson and his Liberator.
But really, he has done nothing more than call their bluff. He didn’t subvert the dream of a future where we can all manufacture whatever we want, whenever we like. He’s hijacked it. And in doing so, he’s made plain the full stakes of that dream — something that should probably happen more often in our global discourse about how to reckon with technology’s powers.
Spectacular as the forty-three essays may be, some of the most provocative and piercing insights come from the co-called public, emerging in the comment section of the online exhibition. In response to John Hockenberry’s essay on the seemingly unassuming and old-fashion box cutter, designed in the 1920s and used by terrorists in the September 11 attacks, one woman observes:
I am struck by how remote violence is from all of us contributing to this site. We are either the lucky survivors expunging our guilt or we’re harboring wounds too deep to share.
In response to a piece in which neuroscientist Antonio Damasio eviscerates the Euthanesia Coaster — a hypothetical design by a former amusement park engineer, using “gravitational aesthetics” to offer a more humane and euphoric alternative for those who have chosen to end their lives — one reader exposes the breath-stopping dimensions of the issue visible only to its true stakeholders:
Your post extends from a singular premise — that death is necessarily a tragedy.
As somebody who is in pain every day, I do not believe this is the case. Sometimes life is the tragedy. When one’s only experience is overwhelming pain, it is a tragedy to be prevented release. For many there is only one option for release and that is the final option. I feel it likely that one day in the distant future I may choose this option myself. Doing so through the experience of something so amazing that the human body cannot withstand it sounds a whole lot better to me than a boring gray room.
To remove all violence from humanity would be to utterly sanitize life, to remove the experience of anything but grays. Certainly the specter of interpersonal violence is undesirable, but I WISH to be violently happy, violently sad, violently moved. I wish to feel violent acceleration and violent relief.
Conflating violence with anything that challenges us is to remove all value from the human experience, to paint the world gray.
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