a. natasha joukovsky
journal
RAPID-PROTOTYPING LIFE
We are all the end-users of our own lives, but what we think we want often turns out to be different from what we actually want. I decided to test a few things before going into the next round of production.
When my husband and I started talking this past summer about going on a "sabbatical" of sorts for a few months I was deep into an ilab project for a client and couldn't help thinking about our potential leave in the language of innovation.
The advantages of rapid prototyping in the context of business and technical innovation are well-documented, the biggest perhaps being the ability to test end-user reaction without the up-front investment to actually create the product or service. What you're creating with a prototype is, essentially, a simulacrum of the product or service--something that seems real, mimicking at least one aspect of the real product or service you'd like to test--but is actually just a shell of the real thing that is faster, cheaper, and easier to produce.
One big challenge with rapid prototyping is that there tends to be an inverse correlation between ease of prototypability and the stakes involved. In general, the bigger the investment the actual product or service will require, the harder it is to get people to try to simulate and test it. It's a lot easier to prototype, say, a digital app than a nuclear power plant, so we're often inclined to prototype the app but just take our best guess on the power plant, even though the consequences of making a bad decision re: the power plant are like to be astronomically harder and more expensive to correct downstream.
I spend a lot of time trying to convince people that it is worth the effort to try and prototype the power plant; that--while you should absolutely prototype the app too--it's actually more important to prototype the power plant; that just because something is hard to prototype does not mean you can't or shouldn't try; that low-fidelity is infinitely better than no-fidelity.
Life--that is, where you live, in terms of city, neighborhood, and apartment/house--seems to have way more in common with the power plant. Decisions tend to be long-term, expensive-to-get-out-of, and difficult to try-before-you-buy--it's something, in short, we should absolutely make the effort to prototype but almost never do. It usually takes years if you want to "try out" a few different cities in any meaningful way. No one lets you live in an apartment for a few weeks before you decide whether you want to rent or buy it (kind of a cool idea though). Decisions are often highly-influenced by glamour--by persuasive cognitive illusion.
We are all the end-users of our own lives, but what we think we want often turns out to be different from what we actually want.
I was excited to try it, to rapid-prototype life before making any kind of long-term decision. My husband and I factored in a few weeks of designated "vacation" time into the sabbatical, but built in three month-long stays. A month is long enough to really "live" somewhere vs. traveling; it's long enough to have days where you want to do precisely nothing and, perhaps more importantly, days where you will have to do things you don't want to do (e.g., laundry, grocery shopping). It's long enough to strip the glamour from a place and see it for what it really is. But it's short enough that, if you see something you really don't like, you don't have to live with it for too long; it's short enough to log these preferences and try to correct them fairly quickly in the next monthly iteration. We spent a month in (1) a rural town - Belfast, Maine, (2) a small-mid-size city - Nice, France, and (3) a non-NYC big city - Paris, France. Simultaneously, we experienced living in (1) a residential neighborhood, (2) an "old city" pseudo-residential neighborhood, and (3) a primarily commercial neighborhood, and (1) a huge house, (2) a studio even smaller than what we had in NYC, and (3) a very spacious one-bedroom apartment.
It was low-fidelity, of course. Life is just different when you don't have a day job, and while I spent a fair amount of time writing, we didn't really even try to control for this. Not working is kind of the point of a sabbatical. We definitely did some touristy things outside of designated vacation time.
But even so, in terms of developing a more informed perspective, a deeper personal understanding of what I want in a city/town, a neighborhood, and an abode, I think the experiment resoundingly supported my ongoing hypothesis that a low-fidelity prototype is way better than no prototype at all. I now know, for instance, that I infinitely prefer having a washing machine but no dryer inside an apartment to having both in a communal space shared by the building. I care more about specific neighborhood than greater city. Light and views matter a lot. Size, less than I would have thought (mess, like work, expands to fill the space you allow it), but it is important to have at least one very comfortable, cozy place.
We're leaving Paris tomorrow, and I have no regrets. I recognize how unusual it is and fortunate we were to be able to do something like this, but for anyone who can, I highly recommend it.
DELPOZO, WESTWORLD, AND FUTURISTIC NOSTALGIA
Forget blinking buttons and spacesuits--the height of technical innovation is rather its own obfuscation.
Delpozo's recent SS17 collection bordered on transcendent: organic yet architectural, somehow simultaneously channeling both sci-fi futurism and Victorian nostalgia. They are the kinds of clothes one might imagine wearing to a formal ball hosted by Luke Skywalker or a rave with Anna Karenina. As Vogue nicely put it, "The resulting lineup was a bit Old World, yet undeniably modern; even the designer's most otherworldly proportions felt featherweight."
Delpozo SS17 - What to wear to a formal ball hosted by Luke Skywalker, or a rave with Anna Karenina.
Depozo SS17 - Equally appropriate for futuristic human technocrat and wild-western cyborg.
I thought a lot about Josep Font's creations this week as I watched the first three episodes of HBO's new series "Westworld"--and not just because many of his designs would seem equally appropriate on its human women and robot "hosts." If the end goal of technical innovation is immortality, a key implied requirement is the ability to inorganically mimic the organic. Forget blinking buttons and spacesuits--the height of technical innovation is rather its own obfuscation, an unnatural return to nature not so much for the purpose of passing a Turing test as rendering one obsolete in the inextricable blending of the two.
Based on Michael Crichton's 1973 theme-park-gone-wrong precursor to Jurassic Park but more like an extended sequel to 2015's Ex Machina, the new "Westworld" depicts an application of naturalistic technology aimed precisely at manufacturing pre-digital nostalgia into a highly-marketable recursive loop. It's a clever premise, appealing simultaneously to our fetishization of future and past, the glamour of immortality-seeking innovation and the glamour of the bloody Wild West in a way that, as Rolling Stone points out, feels very now. Perhaps that's because, according to Emily Nussbaum, what "Westworld" is really about is HBO today:
"Like HBO showrunners, Westworld’s designers “pitch” plot arcs. They “massage” story lines. They plant backstories to deepen characterizations. When glitches appear, they panic over the need to halt production, much as 'Westworld' itself did, when it shut down during shooting for a rewrite. They are uneasy, at times, about the ethics of their labor. In real life, 'Westworld' can’t just be good—it needs to be a hit, too. It’s HBO’s bid for a franchise to succeed 'Game of Thrones,' following two pricey flops, 'Vinyl' and 'True Detective.' For both the show and the show inside the show, the key is to reproduce the alchemy that HBO perfected when it slid the Bada Bing into 'The Sopranos'..."
Even from the opening credits to "Westworld"--a macro-lens tour through an über-stylized Vitruvian workshop of technical materials and human organs, eerily serenaded by a skeleton pianist who gives way to a player-piano--it's clear this show is HBO out-HBOing itself.
When I picture the showrunners, they too are wearing Delpozo SS17.
SELFIES AND THE INNOVATION OF SELF-MYTHMAKING
Looking at Narcissus's conundrum as a design problem, he faces two main issues: lack of control, and impermanence. The selfie seems to solve both of them.
Paris selfie - croissant in tow.
The mere mention of Paris conjures up images of lovers: walking along the Seine, kissing, maybe sharing a croissant. But on this trip, it has been the mass-demonstration of another kind of love that's struck me. It shouldn't have. Selfies are, by now, so ubiquitous that they are no longer even embarrassing (as in the decadent Rome of Cavelli's opera Eliogabalo, "where everyone is guilty, everyone is innocent"). In Japan this Spring, I saw more signs regulating selfie sticks than bicycles. Here in Paris, they're more easily procured than miniature replicas of the Eiffel Tower.
The bewitching appeal of self-love is hardly new. In Ovid's Metamorphoses, wise Tiresias rhetorically asks Narcissus:
Caravaggio, Narcissus, ~1597-9.
"Why try to catch an always fleeting image
Poor credulous youngster? What you seek is nowhere
And if you turn away, you will take with you
The boy you love. The vision is only shadow,
Only reflection, lacking any substance."
Looking at Narcissus's conundrum as a design problem, he faces two main issues:
1. Lack of control - Narcissus's image is "nowhere," eluding capture
2. Impermanence - Narcissus's image is "always fleeting," eluding documentation
I think the selfie is so successful as an innovation because it seems to solve for both of these long-standing problems with Narcissism. It provides the subject with the impression of control over his or her self-image as actor-director, coupled with the ability to "immortalize" it on the internet.
CONTROL
When I look at photographs from childhood trips, taken by friendly strangers (or in this case, probably my mom), there are usually other tourists in the background. I don't think it's a coincidence that one of the main things selfie sticks and digital enhancement allow for is their removal. As Jonathan Franzen writes in Freedom, "nothing disturbs the feeling of specialness like the presence of other human beings feeling identically special."
Selfies give us the impression of control on two levels: first, directly from our perspective, and second, recursively from the perspective of others, dreaming of the illusions we will create in others' dreams.
As the ultimate manifestation of images "known to be false but felt to be true," selfies glamorously highlight some details while obscuring others to reinforce our own specialness.
The fantasy of someone else fantasizing about you is an even more cunning trick of mind. While, as Virginia Postrel points out, "Glamour is not something you possess, but something you perceive," the recursive perception of another's perception offers the illusion of possession--an illusion that can be seemingly quantified and insatiably fed by "likes," and archived for posterity on Facebook or especially Instagram, everyone's personal museum, digital formaldehyde.
IMMORTALITY
Selfies thus offer intimations of immortality on our own terms; they are a modern form of mummification. It's really no wonder that people are, increasingly, willing to risk dying for the perfect shot, and actively want to plan for their "digital afterlife."
Evan Carroll, the founder of Loggacy, a digital afterlife platform, explains that "the emergence of online digital legacy tools, that provide us with the opportunity to record our lives online and leave an everlasting legacy, provide a meaningful solution to the...conundrum concerning 'immortality.'"
That's a lot of provisions. The thing is, we're not preserving a record of our lives--selfies are carefully-staged simulacra, not faithful representations. Archiving them offers the promise not of self-history, but metamorphic self-mythology.
I'm reminded of a book I vaguely remember from childhood, where the main character is a little boy in search of perfection. He eventually finds it, if I remember correctly--and it's this boring room filled with people doing nothing. Perfection, he realizes, is way overrated; flowers are glamorous, but it's way more fun to be a boy.