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Meet Cipe Pineles: The Remarkable Life and Illustrated Recipes of the Forgotten Pioneer Who Blazed the Way for Women in Design and Publishing

A labor of love four years in the making, celebrating a trailblazing woman who shattered multiple glass ceilings.

Meet Cipe Pineles: The Remarkable Life and Illustrated Recipes of the Forgotten Pioneer Who Blazed the Way for Women in Design and Publishing

One late February afternoon in 2013, as my then-partner and I were cooking dinner at home in New York, my phone rang. It was my dear friend and frequent collaborator Wendy MacNaughton. She knew that I feel about the telephone the way Barthes did, so I in turn knew that there was some momentous reason for the call.

Wendy was calling from the California International Antiquarian Book Fair, where behind a glass case she had discovered something she intuitively recognized as a rare treasure — a set of vibrant original paintings of traditional Jewish foods, alongside recipes written in a most unusual, meticulously hand-lettered typeface. It bore the feisty title “Leave Me Alone with the Recipes” and was dated 1945.

When our mutual friend Sarah Rich joined Wendy at the fair, their inquiry about the author of this magical manuscript was met with a name that meant nothing to either of them: Cipe Pineles (June 23, 1908–January 3, 1991). Upon probing further, they were jarred to realize that the name should not only mean something to them, but should mean very much indeed — especially since Wendy is an illustrator and Sarah a writer with a background in food and design. Cipe Pineles, they found out, was a trailblazer who paved the way for women in design, illustration, and publishing — the first in many boys’ clubs, a woman who embodied Audre Lorde’s assertion that “that visibility which makes us most vulnerable is that which also is the source of our greatest strength.” She was also a pioneer of bringing fine artists to magazines — she hired visionary artists like Ben Shahn and gave young Andy Warhol, who considered her his favorite art director, his first editorial commissions.

Cipe Pineles (Photograph: Trude Fleischmann)

Wendy and Sarah had called us to see if Debbie and I wanted to split the cost of the illustrated manuscript four ways — it was too pricey for them alone, but they felt strongly that this was a treasure worth salvaging from antiquarian obscurity. Debbie and I heartily agreed. None of us had any sense at the time of what we had acquired or how it could live, but a strange and wonderful Rube Goldberg machine of serendipity followed, culminating in Leave Me Alone with the Recipes: The Life, Art, and Cookbook of Cipe Pineles (public library) — a labor of love four years in the making, using the illustrated recipes as a centrifugal force for a larger celebration Cipe’s far-reaching legacy.

This part-cookbook and part-monograph was meticulously researched and edited by Sarah and Wendy, with contributions by Debbie and me, alongside a small clan of art and design titans whose work was directly or indirectly influenced by Cipe’s legacy: Artist Maira Kalman painted a one-page love letter to Cipe; design legend Paula Scher eulogized Cipe’s tireless crusade for diversity in a field composed almost entirely of white men; design historian Steven Heller chronicled how Cipe’s monumental influence as an art director and educator shaped the sensibility of generations; legendary food writer Mimi Sheraton, at ninety-one, recounted working among the editorial staff at Seventeen under Cipe’s leadership and reflected on their shared culinary and cultural heritage.

Art by Maira Kalman for Leave Me Alone with the Recipes: The Life, Art, and Cookbook of Cipe Pineles

Below is my own contribution — a biographical essay exploring how Cipe harnessed her outsider status as woman and immigrant to revolutionize a hegemony — as it appears in the book:


Cipe Pineles was the first independent female graphic designer in America, the first female member of the prestigious Art Directors Club, and the first woman inducted into the Art Directors Club Hall of Fame. A quarter century would pass before another woman was inducted, months before Pineles’s death. Pineles was posthumously awarded the lifetime achievement medal from the American Institute of Graphic Arts, the Nobel Prize of design. And yet through all of her acclaim, Pineles was animated not by ego but by a tremendous generosity of spirit. She saw her success as belonging not to her alone but to all the women whom she was pulling up the ranks along with her, to the young designers whose lives and worlds she shaped as an educator and mentor, and to the American public, whose taste she subtly and systematically refined through the unfaltering vision that defined her life’s work.

When I first heard of Cipe Pineles, I thought of her counterpart Maria Mitchell — a pioneer no less trailblazing in opening up an entire world of possibility to women, yet no less lamentably forgotten.

One sweltering July afternoon, I found myself stunned before one particular object at the birthplace of Maria Mitchell — America’s first woman astronomer — on the small island of Nantucket. In the nineteenth century, Mitchell paved the way for women in science and became the first woman employed by the United States Federal Government for a nonspecialized domestic skill — she was hired as “computer of Venus” for the United States Nautical Almanac, performing complex mathematical computations to guide sailors around the world. She was also the first woman elected into the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. It would be another ninety years until the second woman — legendary anthropologist Margaret Mead — was admitted. The item that stopped my stride, hanging humbly in the hallway of Mitchell’s small Quaker home, was her certificate of admission into the Academy. On it, the salutation “Sir” was crossed out in pencil and “honorary member” was handwritten over the printed “Fellow.” This yellowing piece of paper was the fossil of a quiet, monumental revolution — the record of an opening hand-etched into a glass ceiling centuries thick.

Like Mitchell’s, Pineles’s path to success was neither straight nor free of obstacles.

Born to Orthodox Jewish parents in Vienna at the end of Europe’s last untroubled decade before the horrors of the World Wars forever scarred the face of the Old World, young Ciporah — who soon became Cipe and never looked back — grew up as the second youngest child in a family of five, with two sisters and two older brothers. In search of relief for her father’s diabetes more than a decade before the first insulin injection saved a human life, Cipe and her family migrated across Europe’s most venerated spas and sanatoria before settling in Poland, right outside Warsaw. (How tempting to imagine young Cipe crossing paths, without ever knowing it, with some of Europe’s intellectual titans who frequented the continent’s spas around the same time, seeking cure for their own bodily bedevilments — Rainer Maria Rilke, Hermann Hesse, Franz Kafka.)

From a young age, flavor and color were married for Cipe. One of her earliest memories was of walking in the woods with her siblings, gathering strawberries — “red caps through the green grass” — and sitting down by the river to savor them. In childhood, as in her professional life decades later, she was also unafraid of a difficult and even dangerous climb to the top. She recounted one particularly memorable hike in the mountains on the border between Poland and the area then known as Bohemia, on which she and her siblings had chosen one of the highest and most formidable peaks to climb. “With great difficulties after falling a few times we reached at last the top,” she wrote — a sentence of inadvertent prescience as an existential allegory for her later life in the creative world.

But the adventurous idyll was violently interrupted by the outbreak of World War I. Shortly after Russia’s Red Army invaded Poland in 1920, twelve-year-old Cipe and her family returned to Vienna. Years later, as a high school senior in America, she won a national essay contest by the Atlantic for her vivid eyewitness account of the Bolshevik-inflicted tumult in Europe, which she described as a time of “suspense, excitement, and uncertainty.”

Back in Vienna, the Pineles sisters had set about learning English by memorizing Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol — a strategy with a serendipitous payoff when they finally arrived in America in mid-October of 1923 (“a very beautiful day,” Cipe recalled of the morning she first glimpsed the Statue of Liberty) and entered school just before the holidays, impressing classmates with their season-appropriate vocabulary. “From the beginning we have hard work,” she wrote shortly after arriving, “but I think that in a few months, when we will speak and understand more English it will be much easier.”

So began Pineles’s life in America as a prototypical immigrant, marked by the peculiar, if lonely-making, privilege of being in a culture but not of it. “There accrue to the outsider great benefits,” wrote the trailblazing biochemist Erwin Chargaff — a compatriot and contemporary of Pineles’s, who immigrated to America around the same time and for similar reasons. The European sensibility she had unconsciously absorbed in her formative years would later bring to her design work a level of originality and sophistication that rose above her American peers.

At the end of her senior year of high school, classmates wrote alongside her yearbook portrait: “She knows she draws well. A little Polish girl who won our hearts.” She was voted “best natured member” of her graduating class — a title that reflected the core values of kindness and generosity that never left her, even as she ascended the rungs of the corporate world in the golden age of unfeeling self-actualization.

During her final year of high school, Cipe received a fifty-dollar art scholarship — a non-negligible sum that covered more than a third of the annual art school tuition at Pratt, where she enrolled in the fall of 1926. Her graduation portfolio at Pratt was strewn with food paintings, from a loaf of bread to a chocolate cake. It was also an ode to her first big love, watercolor. Once again, a sort of character summary by her classmates appeared next to her senior portrait:

The most remarkable water colorist in our class. Boys, it’s too late: Cipe is wedded to her art — and they’re both happy.

Beneath the tongue-in-cheek remark lay a deeper truth about Cipe’s attitude toward art and marriage — one nurtured by her older brother Sam, who was instrumental in encouraging her vocational autonomy. Before Pratt, she had voiced to him her reservation that attending college would keep her from finding a husband to support her. Sam reportedly replied: “Marriage is not a full-time occupation. Did you ever hear of a doctor or a lawyer giving up his profession because he was getting married?” (That her youngest sister became a doctor in an era when the field was almost entirely male is probably not coincidental.) In another conversation, Sam reiterated the sentiment: “Marriage is not a substitute for having something to do in life.” Pineles did eventually get married — twice — but although she was a classic Jewish mother in some ways, including in the kitchen, she never let her family life contract her expansive devotion to her art.

Pineles’s name worked both for and against her. To the American ear, Cipe Pineles bears a peculiar ambiguity. An ambiguous foreign name functions like the screen behind which orchestra auditions are performed — the applicant’s gender, ethnicity, age, and other potential points of bias are obscured to let the music speak for itself. But unlike orchestras, which employ this strategy deliberately to avoid bias, the magazine world of mid-century America had no such noble commitment to impartiality. The screen of Cipe Pineles’s name was accidental and as soon as her gendered identity was revealed, the opportunities dwindled or disappeared altogether. She would later recount: “I would drop my portfolio off at various advertising agencies. But the people who liked my work and were interested enough to ask me in for an interview had assumed by my name that I was a man! When they finally met me, they were disappointed, and I left the interview without a chance for the job.” Some prospective employers explained that if she were hired, she’d have to work in the bullpen — an enormous corporate hangar of men — where a woman’s presence would be ill-advised and downright unwelcome.

Still, she pressed on. Reluctantly, she took a job as a watercolor teacher at New Jersey’s Newark Public School of Fine and Industrial Art in the fall of 1929, at a salary of ten dollars a week, but she continued to search for work in the commercial world. Compounding the persistent gender obstacle was the inopportune timing of cultural catastrophe: Pineles had graduated from Pratt just before the devastating stock market crash of 1929 and was attempting to enter the workforce at the dawn of the Great Depression.

Determined to succeed, she scoured the New York Public Library for a list of advertising agencies working with food accounts, purposefully pursuing her passion for the intersection of food and graphic art.

She was eventually hired by Contempora — the experimental consortium of designers, artists, and architects including Lucian Bernhard, Paul Poiret, Rockwell Kent and others — where she designed fabric designs and dimensional displays. But her real breakthrough came obliquely to her direct efforts. The magazine magnate Condé Nast saw her pattern design and window fabric displays for Contempora. They were unlike anything Nast had seen. He immediately hired Pineles as an editorial designer for Vogue and Vanity Fair, both of which she imprinted with her singular vision. She continued to move up in the magazine world. By the mid-1940s, she was shaping the visual voice of Glamour and earning the magazine every prestigious accolade of design.

It was in this period that she began illustrating Leave Me Alone with the Recipes, perhaps because she was contending for the first time with negotiating the competing roles of traditional womanhood and a thriving corporate career, which she followed to the very top over the next half-century, eventually pouring the confluence of her accomplished expertise and her generosity of spirit into teaching as well. She became a passionate and beloved educator at Parsons, where she taught editorial design for nearly two decades.

Exactly thirty years after she wrote and illustrated her family cookbook, Pineles had a chance to resurrect her love of the intersection of the culinary and graphic arts. In 1975 — a tumultuous year for her, marked by her induction into the Art Directors Club Hall of Fame and the sudden death of her lover — she spearheaded the Parsons yearbook project, themed “cheap eats”: a collection of illustrated recipes for delicious but affordable meals by students, faculty, and celebrated artists such as Maurice Sendak, Larry Rivers, and Elaine de Kooning. Alongside an original painting, Pineles herself contributed a recipe for kasha served with meatballs, a version of which appears in Leave Me Alone with the Recipes.

The students’ introduction to the yearbook encapsulated Pineles’s influence as an educator, artists, and cross-pollinator of food and design, and it captured the spirit and sensibility of her unpublished 1945 family cookbook with uncanny precision. They wrote:

The style is in the color, the scale, the original and unusual use of common items and of art materials. The recipes and ideas in this cookbook are made with the same ingredients any student on a budget would buy; but it is the resourcefulness and inventiveness as well as the artists’ love for cooking which make for good design and especially creative meals. Eating is more than food… it is visual impact, contrast, style, scale, mood, fragrance, color.

Visual impact, indeed, was the raw material of Pineles’s work. But from it radiated a larger legacy of cultural impact. A century earlier, to her first class of female astronomers at Vassar, Maria Mitchell had remarked, “No woman should say, ‘I am but a woman!’ But a woman! What more can you ask to be?” Pineles’s life and legacy were one quiet but continuous incarnation of this incantation, the reverberations of which live on as the palpable pulse animating the corpus of possibility for every contemporary woman in publishing and graphic design.


Listen! Listen!: A Vintage Invitation to Presence and Attentive Attunement with the World, Illustrated by Graphic Design Legend Paul Rand

From the plop of a raindrop to the crunch of buttered toast, a celebration of life through the soundscape of everyday aliveness.

Listen! Listen!: A Vintage Invitation to Presence and Attentive Attunement with the World, Illustrated by Graphic Design Legend Paul Rand

Legendary graphic designer Paul Rand was a creative genius who wore his kindness in cantankerous camouflage. His timeless wisdom on design continues to influence generations of creators and visual communicators. Steve Jobs, who hired Rand to design the identity for his second company, NeXT, admired him as “a very deep, thoughtful person who’s tried to express in every part of his life what his principles are.”

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
because then
(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.


The Brownstone: A Lovely Vintage Children’s Book About Accommodating Each Other’s Differences by Trailblazing Graphic Designer Paula Scher

Playful assurance that however vast our differences, there is always a mutually satisfying solution to be found.

The Brownstone: A Lovely Vintage Children’s Book About Accommodating Each Other’s Differences by Trailblazing Graphic Designer Paula Scher

“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.

Complement The Brownstone with Scher on how creativity works and her extraordinary hand-drawn maps, then revisit this fascinating read on why we think with animals.

Illustrations courtesy of Princeton Architectural Press


Design and Violence: An Intelligent Invitation to Nuanced Discourse in a Culture of Black-and-White Binaries

Pause-giving meditations by William Gibson, Anne-Marie Slaughter, Rob Walker, and more.

“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.

Teardrop tattoo (Photograph: Klaus Pichler)

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.

‘The stiletto heel—named after the slender Italian dagger of the Renaissance—first appeared in the 1930s. The inventor of this long, often steel-spiked, thin heel remains in dispute, but today many attribute its rise in fame to Roger Vivier’s work for Christian Dior in the early 1950s. The stiletto has woven its way in and out of fashion history, but remains a highly charged symbol of sexuality, aggressiveness, and fetishism.’

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.

‘Violence’ by scent designer Sissel Tolaas and photographer Nick Knight

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.

The Liberator by Defense Distributed, a firearm that anyone could fabricate using a 3-D printer

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.

3-D-printed parts of The Liberator pistol

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.

Euthanasia Coaster by Julijonas Urbonas: Challenging the physical and psychological limits of the human body, this speculative design is intended to slowly ascend 1,700 feet into the air before launching passengers down seven loops at a mind-boggling speed of 330 feet per second. The roller coaster aims to give its riders a diverse range of experiences from euphoria to thrill, tunnel vision to a loss of consciousness and, eventually, to the end result: death.

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.

Complement the profoundly pause-giving Design and Violence and its online archive with Hannah Arendt — a major influence for Antonelli and Hunt — on violence, Leonard Bernstein’s moving speech on the only true antidote to violence, delivered shortly after John F. Kennedy was shot, Tolstoy and Gandhi’s little-known correspondence on violence and human nature, and Martin Luther King, Jr. on the six pillars of nonviolence.


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