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Pittsburgh, where I was reared, was popularly
known as the Iron City. The rearing didn’t come easy. When I was in the
fourth grade my parents, baffled by my inability to learn addition and
subtraction, sent me to the Iron City Normal School (as teachers
colleges were called at the time) to see whether I was. After a battery
of tests, the house psychologist concluded that, for some deeply buried
reason, numbers were so abhorrent to me that whenever I saw them I took
refuge in daydreaming.
The psychologist was right about the daydreaming—I was a pioneer in attention deficit. But I wasn't daydreaming to get away from numbers. I was daydreaming about
numbers. I was so enamored of numbers that, instead of listening to
what the teacher was saying about them, I was casting them in dramatic
scenarios. 5 was always the hero. 2 was a woman. 8 was an older woman. 7 was a wise guy. 9 was a con man. Don’t ask.
I couldn't tell anyone, because they would think I was crazy. I
couldn't tell anyone because I was afraid they would be right.
Those memories were dredged up by an invitation to participate in the
10th Summer Design Institute organized by the remarkable education
department of the Smithsonian Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum. The
Institute brings educators and designers together to explore ways of
teaching design in, as they say in the trade, grades K through 12. The
program consists of presentations, workshops, conversation/dialogues,
and master classes led by such design luminaries as Kurt Andersen,
William McDonough, Seymour Chwast, Jan Abrams, John Maeda, Lee Skolnik,
and Linda Yaven.
When I mentioned the program to a friend, he asked innocently, “Why would teachers want to get involved in design?”
“Because they are already involved in design,” I said.
Teachers regularly and unavoidably design courses, lesson plans, lab
experiments, and field trips. I find the design process more
interesting as a vehicle of instruction than as curricular content. At
best, they are inseparable.
Exhibition design, for example, has been a teaching resource since the first science fair, perhaps since the first blackboard. Show and tell
is intrinsic to the schoolroom. Even in this digital age, the
designer's instinct is still to take everything at hand—pictures, ideas,
data—and throw it up on a wall where it can be seen, discussed, and
organized. That is often the teacher's instinct too. As a pedagogical
tool, exhibition lends itself to visible participation, visible
correction, and visible improvement. Students directly involved in
creating instructional exhibitions must confront such design issues as
logical connections, legibility, language problems, color, and scale.
And creating an exhibition may combine instructional design, product
design, set design, interior design, and editing.
Design as what teachers teach is most effectively tied to design as what
teachers do. The Institute’s program reflected this. A hands-on
workshop in interior design was directed to designing classrooms for
more effective teaching of all subjects. A discussion of a projected
design magazine for kids raised the question, “How can we use design
news, issues, and practices to enhance school curricula?”
Well, one hugely rewarding benefit of exhibition design is the
educational material it can generate. Because each exhibition yields
more information than it is possible to display, many design firms have
become repositories of information and ideas about a staggering range of
subjects. Designers always learn more in creating an exhibition than
visitors learn from attending it. That comes as no surprise to
teachers, who invariably learn more from preparing a course than
students do from taking it.
I did not attend the workshops, but the lists of required materials made
me wish I had. One session called for a laptop and a lap; but most of
the other equipment specified was invitingly low tech: candy (in a
variety of packages), Exacto knives, scissors, duct tape, markers, pop
bottles, toilet paper rolls, oatmeal boxes, dice, string, crayons, glue,
popsickle sticks, rubber bands, tag board (what’s that?), rulers, bags
(both paper and plastic), single-use cameras, fabric scraps, pipe
cleaners, dowels, staplers, straws, umbrellas, ping pong balls, pennies,
kaleidoscopes, aluminum foil, and dried yellow peas.
Most of those are of course standard grist for craft projects, but they
are worth noting because they betoken an instructional contact with
reality. (They must have presented a challenge when going through
security—complicated perhaps by the fact that one of the presenters is
Director of the International Spy Museum).
As for my own material contact with reality, my doubts evaporated in
1962, by which time I was able to add and subtract although I still
could not do long division. On October 6th of that year The New Yorker
appeared with a cover by Saul Steinberg showing a couple of numerals
seated across from each other at a table, having a drink.
The numbers, as it happened, were 5 and 2.
Ralph Caplan is the author of Cracking the Whip: Essays on Design
and Its Side Effects and By Design. Caplan is the former editor of
I.D. magazine, and has been a columnist for both I.D. and Print. He lectures widely, teaches in the graduate Design Criticism program at the School of Visual Arts, was awarded the 2010 “Design Mind” National Design Award by the Cooper-Hewitt
and is the recipient of the
2011 AIGA Medal.
Are campaign graphics overly cliché-ridden? Heller argues that here's a case where bipartisan consensus results in bad design.
Section: Inspiration -
Voice, election design
If you join, renew, or upgrade during AIGA’s Spring
membership drive, it’ll be even sweeter than ever.
AIGA is nearly 100 years old. They say you can’t teach an old dog new
tricks, which might be true. Fortunately, AIGA is a 22,000 person
strong organization, not an aging canine. We’re changing our membership
structure, and we couldn’t be happier about it.
Section: About AIGA -
AIGA chapters, membership
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