HONEY, I BLEW UP THE BROCCOLI

If the cockpit of a 747 were as badly designed as some kitchen appliances, most of us would never make it to Denver alive. Imagine a jet pilot having to fumble around for the landing gear lever because it looks just like all the other controls.

I’ve owned (or inherited) far too many domestic appliances with just such inane shortcomings and more, and it’s gotten me to wondering: Don’t the engineers and stylists who design these products at least try them out at home for the weekend? If they had, many of them would never have made it onto the market.

Since we already know a great deal about ergonomics--the science concerning the design of objects for human use--and are always finding out more, you’d presume that products would become easier and easier to use. Not so; in fact, with the bane of “feature creep”--the compulsion of marketers to add more and more gratuitous gimmicks to their products--many devices have actually gotten harder to use. 

Remember the first-generation microwave oven, which had a big round dial for setting the time, and a huge rectangular button labeled “START”?  As primitive as it was, it still beats the supposedly state-of-the-art microwave my mother had installed few years back. I won’t embarrass the manufacturer by naming the brand--oh, alright then, it’s Bosch--since it richly deserves an award for its atrocious ergonomics. The control panel is a mind-numbing matrix of lookalike keypads, thirty-six in all, all of the same color and having the same kind of lettering. The most frequently used functions, such as the number pads and the START and STOP keys, are haphazardly buried in this grid without being distinguished by color, shape, position, labeling, or anything else. Lacking any kind of visual cues for guidance, the hapless user is condemned to sift through the whole dreadful phalanx of pads again and again, essentially having to relearn the controls with every single use.

While this Bosch product might be accorded special wonder for its supremely lame design, it’s certainly not alone in being hard to use. A Krups coffee maker I finally had the pleasure of throwing out (it broke, to my relief) was another such example of witless engineering. Its filter basket came out along with the carafe rather than remaining in the unit, ensuring a trail of coffee drips every time you removed it for pouring. It also featured a slippery, jellybean-like power switch mounted on a trendily curved front surface, an arrangement so slithery it required both hands to operate.

Nor is this kind of dunderheaded design confined to kitchen products. The infamous Ford car radios with their clutter of matchhead-sized buttons spring quickly to mind. Then there’s my all-time personal un-favorite--the vast array of Hewlett-Packard products seemingly designed by and for propellerheads only, and necessarily furnished with user manuals as thick as a San Jose phone book.

Thankfully, truly savvy designers are finally returning to basic ergonomic principles--simple, comprhensible and intuitive controls that can be distinguished by position, shape, color, or touch. Now, if only Bosch would hire one of them.

CONSERVATION BLUES

As the child of Depression-era parents who still save old bits of string, used gift wrap, and the flimsy plastic trays from candy boxes, I  too am mentally incapable of seeing things go to waste. 

This confounding compulsion to conserve goes well beyond the usual household flotsam. When I’m dining out, not only do I feel guilt at leaving a few bites of food on my plate--I feel even worse when the guy at the next table leaves half his steak dinner to be thrown out. 

I ‘m always annoying my wife by rushing around turning off lights, because in the back of my mind I imagine how much oil, gas or coal is being burned to keep that bulb lit for no reason. Likewise, I shower under a relative trickle of hot water because it bothers me to think of all that hard-won energy literally pouring down the drain. Come to that, I keep my water heater set so low that I can shower with only the hot water valve turned on. 

As an admitted basket case in compulsive conservation, though, I feel entitled to say that I’m getting pretty sick and tired of having the government tell me exactly how, what, and where I’m supposed to conserve. 

I’ve got nothing against well-crafted energy-efficiency regulations such as California’s Title 24, which for the most part leaves designers plenty of latitude provided they meet an overall energy budget. On the other hand, some government micromanagers just want to issue marching orders--for example, the recent legislation that effectively bans the sale of all incandescent bulbs nationwide over the next few years. It's worth noting that one of the most enthusiastic backers of this legislation was Philips Lighting, the world’s biggest producer of compact fluorescent bulbs. One wonders if Phillips will be as quick to endorse a future ban on CFs in favor of light-emitting diode technology, which is even more efficient.

However well-meaning the government's energy-saving edicts might be, they utterly fail to harness the power of economic self interest that--for instance--a well-designed tax credit might. Rather, draconian measures of this kind simply breed popular resentment and widespread attempts at circumvention. Rest assured, it won't be long before people are buying cases of hundred-watt  bulbs out of the back of some hooligan’s van. 

Enlightened self interest is a far better motivator than laws that attempt to dictate a social conscience. Hence I have to trust that the mindless consumerism that’s overtaken America in the last couple of decades will eventually be reversed by the same old-fashioned capitalist forces that created it. 

There are already glimmerings of this trend. For example, as photovoltaic panels continue inching their way toward economic viability, more and more of us are looking into their use--not because we’re pious, but because we’d love to tell our local utility to shove it. Ditto for the idea of owning a hybrid car that keeps us slightly less in thrall to our well-fed friends at the oil companies.

Such developments, modest though they are, make me believe that all Americans will eventually see the economic sense--if not the philosophical beauty--of cherishing everything Mother Nature gives us. Not because some law demands it, but because we’d be crazy to do otherwise.

POWER STRUGGLE (Part Two of Two Parts)

The American landscape was forever changed by the arrival of electricity in the late 1890s. What’s surprising, though, is how little it’s changed since. To a time traveler from a century ago, our cars, planes, and iPhones would surely border on the miraculous, but the old wooden power poles that march down our streets would look perfectly familiar.

As we noted last time, America’s electrical distribution system grew out of an earlier technology--the telegraph, whose infrastructure was already largely in place by the 1860s. And while rural areas might have just one set of telegraph lines paralleling the local railroad track, by the century’s end major cities were already bristling with telegraph poles carrying stacks of ten or more crossarms and scores of cables. 

Given the rush to electrify urban areas, the basic infrastructure of the telegraph network was borrowed for electrical distribution as well, with one difference: Unlike low voltage telegraph wires (and later on telephone lines), alternating current power lines carried lethally high voltages and therefore had to be strung high above street level, on poles with heights of thirty feet, forty feet, or even more. As electrification advanced from cities into suburbs and finally into rural areas, the wooden power pole became a familiar and even welcome symbol of progress. Amazingly, this same basic infrastructure--little changed from its roots of 150 years ago--can still be found on most any rural or urban street in America. 

The splintery, weatherbeaten poles that march drunkenly down our streets are so ubiquitous that most of us no longer notice them, but they’re not invisible to everyone. Europeans, for one, stare in disbelief at the chaotic tangles of wire and wood that clutter our streets, no doubt wondering how the most advanced nation on earth could make do with an almost comically primitive-looking network of electrical distribution. 

Ironically, the very fact that the United States pioneered electrification is one reason we’re saddled with such an antiquated infrastructure. Nations that once lagged far behind the United States in electrification have since benefitted from the leapfrog effect, which bypasses first generation technologies in favor of those that have had more time to evolve. Exurban China, for example, which only began to be widely electrified after 1950, now has a modern distribution system that’s substantially underground. What systems remain overhead are carried on simple and maintenance-free concrete poles that blend in with the streetscape.

Europe was electrified only slightly later than the United States, but was served by the fact that it didn’t have America’s abundant supply of timber. Hence, European streets generally have power lines carried on concrete poles, with notably neater results. 

A century and a half have passed since Samuel Morse’s fateful decision to put his telegraph lines overhead rather than under the ground, and ever since, those notably anti-aesthetic forces of economics and expedience have largely ensured that overhead is where they’ll stay. So it’s a good thing that all those half-decayed poles, rusty transformers and tangles of wire have become invisible. To us, anyway.

A SIGHT THAT'S NOT SO ELECTRIFYING (Part One of Two Parts)

Glance down pretty much any old boulevard in America and what do you see?

Aside from the usual tangle of traffic signals, signs, sidewalks, and storefronts, there’s something else that we’ve become uncannily good at overlooking: Power poles.

The United States, having been the first nation to electrify, is now ironically the last to be saddled with an antiquated infrastructure of power distribution.  So it is that European or Asian visitors stop and stare with disbelief at the almost comically disheveled phalanx of old wooden poles that march helter skelter down American streets even today. Here, in the most technically advanced nation on earth, the network of power distribution looks like some last remnant of the Wild West.

In fact, that’s precisely what it is. The astonishing modern-day clutter of “telephone poles” dates back to a fateful moment in 1844 when Samuel Morse, inventior of the telegraph, was constructing the nation’s first telegraph line between Baltimore and Washington.Ezra Cornell, later to found the eponymous university, had invented a machine to lay an underground pipe in which to string the wires--essentially, our modern concept of undergrounding utilities. Alas, condensation in the pipes and insulation failures caused problems, and it was decided to string the wires above ground on poles instead--a momentous decision whose aesthetic implications are still with us today.

Things got even more complicated after Thomas Edison invented the first practical incandescent bulb in 1879. Since the commercial value of electric lighting was moot without an electrical network to power it--which, needless to say, didn’t exist--Edison’s next brief was to find some means of distributing power. Four years later he inaugurated the world’s first electrical distribution system, which provided 110 volts of direct current to exactly 59 customers near his Pearl Street laboratory in lower Manhattan.

Shortly thereafter, industrialist George Westinghouse also turned his attention to the problem of power distribution, but took a different tack. Westinghouse dismissed Edison’s direct current system, which suffered huge efficiency losses when transmitted over the sort of distances a civic power network would require. Instead, Westinghouse chose alternating current, which used high voltages that could be transmitted with minimal power losses and then could be “stepped down”to usable voltages by transformers. In 1886, Westinghouse and his assistant William Stanley completed the first such practical AC network. 

Thus arose the “War of Currents”, a bitter feud between Edison and Westinghouse over whose system was better, and no less important, who would reap the vast commercial benefits. Edison argued that the high voltages used in AC distribution were deadly dangerous, while Westinghouse maintained that the benefits of high voltage transmission far outweighed the risks..

In 1893, the Westinghouse system was chosen to provide AC power to the World’s Columbian Exhibition in Chicago. In the following years, the company completed the first long-range AC power network, transmitting electricity from generators at Niagara Falls to Buffalo, New York, some forty miles distant. Thereafter, the fate of Edison’s DC distribution system was sealed. High voltage AC power, strung on elevated poles for safety, had won the day, and the American landscape hasn’t been the same since.

Next time: How Morse's decision forever changed the American street--and not for the better.

WOOD THAT IT COULD

Wood is a remarkable material--infinitely varied, easily workable, biodegradable, and renewable to boot. But it does have an Achilles heel: Compared to many other building materials, wood is quite perishable. Hence, using wood in architectural details subject to weather is really asking for trouble down the road. 

In spite of this, architects and builders love to lavish their designs with projecting wooden beams, brackets, and other stickwork--a practice that’s only increased with the current revival of woodsy Craftsman style architecture. But as beautiful as wood detailing looks on the day it’s installed, it’s only a matter of time before it gets walloped by Mother Nature. What’s more, since the quality of sawn lumber is not what it used to be, modern designs using wood are even more susceptible to decay than the original Craftsman buildings were. 

Still, if you feel compelled to use lots of wood detailing out of doors, here are a few ways to give it a fighting chance:

• Use generous lumber sizes for pergolas, corbels, projecting roof beams, and other exterior wood features.  Sun and rain will decay all wood eventually, but heavy timbers will look good longer than spindly ones will. And since anything smaller than a four-by-four looks like a matchstick in the scale of the outdoors, design proportions will benefit too.

• Don’t detail exterior wood structures as if they were furniture. This is a favorite technique of contemporary Craftsman fans, but a shortsighted one. A redwood pergola loaded with fancy joinery may look stunning when it’s brand new, but after a few years of exposure, all those lovingly fitted pieces will shrink, warp, twist, and generally start looking pretty tatty. Therefore, avoid miters and other joints that depend on high tolerances and fussy workmanship. Plain old butt joints, lap joints, tenons, or other beefy connections that use a simple square cut will hold up better over time.

• Don’t get too fond of the color of the wood you’re installing, because it won’t be around for very long. Heart redwood, for instance, has a beautiful pinkish tone when freshly cut, but in a few seasons will darken to a rather gloomy grayish black color. If this look isn’t your cup of tea, consider using a semitransparent or solid color stain from the outset (and where appropriate, save a little money on a lesser grade of wood). Using clear sealers or, worse yet, varnishes to try to preserve the color of fresh wood will only get you a bigger maintenance headache--you’ll be finishing and then refinishing from now until kingdom come.

• On horizontal wood surfaces such as decking, the best finish is probably none at all. Clear preservatives tend to wear out quickly in traffic areas, which then discolor in a most unsightly splotchy fashion. Once again, the only way to avoid this dog run effect is to recoat the whole deck every few years. Since most people have better things to do with their time, a more practical solution is to skip preservative treatment altogether and simply get to like the look of weathered wood. 

A WHOLE LOTTA NOTHIN'

Today’s city planners are terrified by the prospect of a blank wall.  They, along with their micromanaging brethren on civic design review boards, would much rather see a pastiche of meaningless fakery than an honest piece of wall with nothing on it. 

The horror vacui of planners and design review boards is a well-meaning but ill-informed reaction to modern architecture of the postwar era, which has long been pilloried--often quite rightly--for its mechanistic repetition, superhuman scale, and dearth of ornament.  

True, bad modernism could be bland, overbearing, and humorless. Yet the contemporary response to these shortcomings is just as troubling: It suggests that any amount of phony two-dimensional detailing is preferable to leaving some parts of a building blessedly plain.

Ergo, with planners and design review types all clamoring for the atmosphere of a halcyon past that never was, developers and their architects dutifully whip up increasingly hammy facades to oblige them. So it is that the strange bedfellows of city planners and big developers are behind the Disneyfication of suburbs and downtowns everywhere. 

The trend reaches a pinnacle of frivolity in commercial architecture, which is especially susceptible to both commercializing silliness and bureaucratic meddling. To disguise the large, monolithic structures developers find so vital to profitablility, today’s typical shopping street borrows a technique familiar to any mallgoer and turns it inside out. Individual storefronts are appliqued to a single megastructure and dolled up with cartoonish “traditional” detailing in styrofoam and stucco. The facades march along one beside the other like rows of wallpaper samples. In the very worst offenders, color is in fact all that sets apart one purported storefront from the next:--the surfaces are simply carved up with stucco joints, Mondriaan style, and painted in the colors of the moment.

One need only experience the commercial work of architects such as Florida’s Addison Mizner or Arizona’s Josias Joesler to see that it needn’t be so. Both men created lyrically comfortable shopping plazas--Mizner in the mid-1920s and Joesler in the late 30s--without resorting to the brazen facadeism typical of today’s work. They did so by creating a host of variations within a single overarching style, and by juxtaposing occasional exquisite detail against generous areas of plain surface. Neither feared the blank wall, because both understood that such contrasts only amplified the power of their work. 

In comparison, the sort of frenetic ragbag facades now favored by planners and design review boards seem more a means of flouting modernism than any sort of quest for timelessness. As New York Times architecture critic Herbert Muschamp put it a few years ago, 

“Horror vacui--fear of emptiness--is the driving force in contemporary American taste. Along with commercial interests that exploit this interest, it is the major factor now shaping attitudes toward public spaces, urban spaces, and even suburban sprawl.”

In recoiling from the long shadow of modernist failures, too many planners and design review officials are simply rushing blindly in the opposite direction. They’ve lost sight of the fact that something--anything!--isn’t always better than nothing.   

THE CARDINAL SIN

There’s only one cardinal sin in architecture, and that is not thinking. Though it’s seldom recognized, thoughtful architecture has little to do with style, taste, or the sort of inane aesthetic minutae that small-minded design review boards like to busy themselves with. 

Over the centuries, there have been hundreds of architectural works that offended contemporariy eyes, but are now seen as works of brilliance. That’s the point: Thoughtful architecture has nothing to do with the fashions of its time. Rather, what every great work has had in common--what all great architecture has in common, whether familiar or unfamiliar--is that someone has taken the time to think about it. 

But it isn’t just “great” architecture that’s worthy of thoughtful design. On the contrary, since dwellings make up the overwhelming share of architecture on earth, it’s all the more important that we think about them as carefully as we would some vast public project.  The additive impact, after all, is much greater. And what sets any dwelling apart from mediocrity is one simple quality: Its designer found it worthy of careful consideration, asking themselves not, “What style should it be?”, but rather, “Have I done everything in my power to make this a humane and comfortable place?”. 

To see what happens in the absence of such thought, you probably need only walk down your own street. Everywhere apparent is design done according to rote or reflex, blindly informed by what the neighbors down the street did, or by whatever style happened to be in the magazines at that moment. 

It doesn’t help that architects and city planners often engage in such groupthink as well, zealously advancing points of view that will inevitably fade from the professional canon in a matter of decades, just as all aesthetic ideals eventually run their course. The wholesale destruction of city cores under urban renewal during the 1950s and 60s, for example, was not an idea that came out of nowhere--it was promulgated by modernist architects and planners who sincerely believed they were carrying out the professional mandate of their time.

In contrast to the prepackaged solutions offered by groupthink, thoughtful design takes time. But in relative terms, the extra effort is minuscule. If the tangible result of your efforts will stand for the next fifty or a hundred years--perhaps more, who can say?--then a few hours, days or weeks of careful contemplation is nothing in comparison. Nevertheless, I daily come across projects being built--often at vast expense--that have, it seems, benefitted from a grand total of two minutes of thought. This window/door/siding/roofing is what everybody’s using now? Great, let’s install it.

The notions of style and taste are the great humbugs of architecture, the beloved preoccupation of architectural non-thinkers..They consume the lion’s share of attention while returning little in the way of human comfort. Yet ultimately, style is nothing more than a guarantee of imminent obsolescence, while the notion of objective good taste is simply a fallacy--what is tasteful in one place or in one era is sure to be reviled in the next. 

There’s only one absolute criterion for good design: It’s that any building we put our hands to, whether modest or monumental, this style, that style, or no style we recognize, has gotten the benefit of our utmost human insight.