Recently, I spent a solid half hour in the school cafeteria, chatting away with another student. We were table mates by default really, she approaching me and my unoccupied seats in a desperate attempt to find for herself a place to land and enjoy her lunch. I introduced myself, she did the same, and we proceeded to talk about a variety of topics ranging from Detroit to the over-priced sandwiches offered in the cafe. As we casually spoke to one another, I remember thinking to myself, “Wow…how nice; how exciting to be interacting with a student from another discipline.” Then, as we both described the structures of our respected curriculums, along with the type of classes that we each take, something happened. This girl, this seemingly pleasant girl, looked me dead in the eye and said: “You see, the thing I don’t get about graphic design is that you’ll do anything to make money…it’s like you sell yourselves out.”

I’m not certain, but I would venture to guess that my mouth dropped wide open, and hung in that position for several unnoticed minutes. I couldn’t believe it! Why would someone say such a thing? Where would one get such an exaggerated idea? Not wanting to cause a scene nor let the ignorance of my “new friend” upset me, I made a stupid joke, (something about designers as prostitutes) hastily finished my lunch, and removed myself from the table.

Since this amusing little episode, I’ve spent a good deal of time dwelling over this girl’s comment. I have begun to realize that this wasn’t an insult from a malicious or arrogant student, but rather an insult from the uninformed. If she, an art student herself, hasn’t the faintest ideas what a graphic designer does, what does the rest of the world think? I certainly know what the majority of people in my world think: My dentist thinks that I design buildings, my next door neighbor is certain that I design cars, and even my own mother brags to her friends that I make “billboards and stuff.” If design surrounds us, if it truly is everywhere, then why do so few people seem to have an understanding of what it is?

I am less concerned with how the design profession has gotten itself into this predicament, (perhaps I or another interested party will explore that bit of history in another post) and much more interested in how we may be able to change the skewed view of design that many hold. Truth be told, there exists no miniature pocket pamphlet that describes for the general public, in 100 words or less, “What is Graphic Design.” In fact, if such a leaflet did exist, it would be very difficult to sum up the broad, and continually evolving field into a concise and decipherable paragraph. And how on earth, might we be able to present a comprehensive definition of design to the general public, if designers themselves cannot even agree. Conflicting ideas constantly surface among design students and practitioners, sparking sometimes heated debates on almost every thinkable design issue. One only has to look as far as the next up and coming blog to see the plethora of differing viewpoints on a variety of different topics. Indeed there seems to be very few common agreements found within the growing design discourse. Yet, I would defend the wide range of viewpoints, the countless number of diverse voices, and the continual questions designers like to throw at one another. Design discourse must uphold this critical nature if design is to continue shifting and adapting within the existing culture. Disagreement simply comes with the territory.

This, of course, still leaves the problem of defining ourselves to the non-designing public. With the birth and growth of DIY culture (see PERSPECTIVE magazine) everyone can be a “designer” these days. Its plausible to think that someone may design their own logo, stick it on all of their collateral and presume that professional graphic designers do the same thing. Anyone with a design background or knowledge of the profession and its history knows well enough that design has just as much to do with the “why” behind the creation of things as it has to do with the creation of the thing itself. Yet to the general public, this question of “why” along with all of the research and thought that forms the basis of our design decisions, gets overlooked. And really, when you think about it, how could it not? One cannot physically SEE the creative process develop, but they can see the logo you’ve made for them, which was really all they asked for in the first place. The focus rests on the tangible; the logo, book, website, poster, or billboard that you’ve created. The creative process, the inherent part of design that we politely ask our clients and teachers to trust that we’re doing, matters only to the design creator, not the design consumer. Perhaps here lies where things must change. If designers themselves, begin to describe their work in terms of the “why,” the “how,” and the “because of,” moving deeper then just a physical result, then perhaps designers and non-designers alike can head towards a direction of common understanding. Though designers may not all agree on issues of sustainability, or have identical methods in client relations, or use the same typefaces, the one thing that we all share is a common understanding and respect of the creative process. We must move away from defining our profession by the things we make, and instead focus on the significant ways we get there.

Failure. To lack success. To cease all function. To fall short. Failure is that doomed state that human beings, from all walks of life, indefinitely attempt to avoid. For many design students, failure is the unwelcome condition that we tend to block from our minds. The thought of being denied the personal or creative success that we all feel we deserve, is enough to send us running home to our parents in tears, straight to the local bar, or at the very least, to consider dropping all design related courses and enrolling in a business and accounting program at the closest state university. For some, the fear of failure becomes so prominent that the afore mentioned scenarios inevitably become the final “fix” in failure avoidance. But for others, all of us who are still here, still progressing forward, and still loosing every ounce of heart and soul in every single project that we complete, we’ve somehow managed to successfully suppress our fears of failure, and/or figured out how to still be productive when the possibility of defeat looms nearby.

I began to piece together the following essay towards the end of last semester, only drawing my final conclusions when the semester was over and I had time to reflect on my experience.This is not an step-by-step guide in failure avoidance. Nor is it an essay that will tell it’s readers how to succeed in this, or any, graphic design program. Rather, it is a personal reflection on a very personal fear of failure, addressing how such anxieties can limit progress, and ultimately confine one’s creative development.

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After three consecutive semesters of existing within, what I’ve called, my ‘”design plateau,” I’ve come to realize that the fear of failure has kept my creativity from advancing forward. As I sit here reflecting upon the semesters that were, I’ve come to conclude that this lack of progressiveness, has nothing to do with laziness, has very little to do with lack of effort, and even less to do with a poor attitude or overall “I hate design, I hate my teachers, and I hate this school” viewpoint. Rather, it would seem, that I’m simply afraid of failure.

Of course, failure means something different to every young designer who happens upon it. Student A might be afraid that her low grades will require her to retake some required courses again, while Student B might view her low grades as the factor that keeps her from making the Dean’s list. Student C may think that his mediocre final projects will make it difficult to develop a complete and presentable portfolio, while Student D might worry that his underdeveloped public speaking skills will keep him from presenting his pristine portfolio the way he knows it should be presented. Failure, no matter how it is interpreted, or what role it plays in one’s life, has the ability to instill some serious complexes within each of us.

In my personal design process, I attempt to avoid failure by sticking to what I know. I only use typefaces that I’m familiar with, I choose conservative modular alignments, allowing the computer’s grid lines to tell me that I’m correct, and I often prefer a simple black and white color palette, completely underutilizing the plethora of other colors in my swatch menu. Indeed, it would seem that I’ve never really left the cut and dry world of Type 1. My peers on the other hand, seem to have moved past their basic lessons in composition and typography, developing appropriate and visually stimulating solutions for complex concepts. Their work draws attention and engages the viewer, while mine sinks slowly into the background amongst the other “tastefully” designed pieces. It is as if somewhere along the path of my design process development, I skipped an important step. Or perhaps I just never inherited that “risk-taker” gene; that heriditary unit possessed by the roller-coaster riders, bungee jumpers, and, apparently, “grid breakers” of the world. (Indeed, roller-coasters are not my forte.)

I generally think that I avoid the risk of failure, continually opting for the safe route, in order to ensure that I complete my work “successfully,” and on time. We are very lucky here at CCS to be given the opportunity to experiment both conceptually and formally, as we develop our ideas. But when its all said and done, our experimentation and play is only that until we’re able to mold our new discoveries into a practical piece. Naturally, we’re expected to deliver a final “something” by the end of the semester, and a subsequent collection of these final “somethings” by the time we’re handed our diploma. So for me, as much as I strive to push my work formally, I seem to continually end up back in my safety zone; the comfortable place that ensures me a satisfactorily completed final project.

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As I mentioned, I wrote the above jumble of thoughts towards the end of last semester. As I sat looking at my final projects and comparing them to the work of my peer’s, I felt as if somehow I had fallen behind everyone else. I felt like my work was fairly plain and simple, and even a bit boring. I wondered how others were able to add so much visual interest to their pieces, and began to ask myself questions: Perhaps they were using a different process? Perhaps my design process was flawed? No. That wasn’t it. I’ve always been fairly confident in my ability to work through a problem. I begin with lots and lots of reading and reserach, then move into a brainstorming/sketching phase, then sometimes go back to more research (often at this point more visual), eventually deciding on a direction that I’m comfortable executing, and continue with the actual production through until the end…so what was it? Why and how was my work ending up so stale by the time it reached its final completion?

Then it hit me.

I realized that my process lacked a key factor. It lacked my own personal trust. Instead of trusting that my process will take me to new and exciting solutions, I bail out before I ever get there, falling back on my tried and true methods. By utilizing what I already know works, I greatly reduce my risk of failure. Or so I thought.

When one disallows their process to take them somewhere new, its only natural to rely on the basic methods we’ve been taught from day one. But what fun is that? If one already knows what they’ll end up with when they start, what good is a design process? Not knowing exactly where you’re going is a scary thing, but sometimes it is this very uncertainty that can help breath life into our work. Attempting to plan out every single aspect of a design process places limits on the possibilities, can deprive results, and eliminates room for chance or spontaneity.

I’ll end with a piece that I recently stumbled upon, written by Umberto Eco, the great philosopher, novelist, and semiotician. He writes about the principle of fallibilism in modern day science, stating that, “science progresses by continually correcting itself, falsifying its hypotheses by trial and error, admitting its own mistakes – and by considering that an experiment that doesn’t work out is not a failure but is worth as much as a successful one.” (1) Perhaps designers should start to look at their process is this way. I know that I certainly will. Failure is an inevitable component to what we do, but fearing these mistakes, and placing limits on ourselves and our process, might be the greatest failure of all.

1. Adrian Shaughnessy, How to be a Graphic Designer Without Losing Your Soul, (New York, Princeton Architectural Press), 2005, p. 145.

I live alone. I grocery shop by myself. I prefer to drive without any passengers, and normally, I do. I have, on occasion, dined companionless, and despite constant warning from both of my parents, I sometimes go on an unaccompanied bike ride, (Though never past dark, and always with a keen eye for suspicious looking vans).

My self-imposed aloneness, has come with a lot of unexpected baggage. When my toilet won’t flush, I’m left unassisted. When I’m stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire, it’s me, myself, and I, (and that weird “x” shaped tire jack thing). Likewise, when my sink is overflowing with dirty dishes I have no one to yell at except for myself. Yes, being solo most of the time is not always easy; but for now, I prefer it.

In design, I am also partial to singleness. I often feel that my best ideas manifest when I’m by myself, in the solitude of my own space. Working alone means that I can set my own schedule, be in complete control along every step of the process, and be held accountable for all outcomes; even the bad ones. Sure, I like to collaborate informally, turning to trustworthy friends for advice or assistance when necessary. But for the most part, I find involuntary or forced collaboration a painful ordeal.

Of course, one cannot hide from group projects forever. In class, we are frequently asked to work in teams, sometimes during certain portions of the design process, or on numerous occasions for the entire duration of the project. Working in partnership, whether with one other person or with an entire group, introduces a whole new level of complexity to any project. Yes, two minds are often better then one, (though I prefer to say “different” then “better”), and usually more can be accomplished when multiple hands are working in succession. But what about the adversity brought forth by collaboration? The uneven distribution of tasks. The myriad of individual ideas. The competing voices. These are some of the less talked about factors of group projects; the ones that live beneath the surface, overshadowed by the wonderment collaboration usually denotes. These are the painful components of group work that go unnoticed until one actually experiences them firsthand.

In the workplace, it would seem that everyone has a well-defined role, based upon their individual strengths, and their obtainment of a particular skill set. Whether or not everyone puts forth the same effort is another story, but these defined roles issue certain responsibilities to certain individuals. Each person is granted ownership over a particular task, an engagement they must complete if the project is to succeed. This is how work gets done.

However, as students, we are all equals. If our projects are left incomplete, we don’t get fired, and we don’t get demoted. Irresponsibility for students effects no one except the student themselves. Yet with group projects, the dynamic is suddenly different. Failure to complete certain tasks effects others on the team. Being negligent or undependable, causes strife amongst the group members. Often times, I feel like collaborative projects are equivalent in nature to multiple headless chickens running in circles around a barnyard. Lucky for the chickens, they’re not under an intense timeline.

At the student level, it’s not enough to force group situations upon us; we must also be taught how to EFFECTIVELY work collaboratively so as to maintain productivity. If students are to ever learn how to trust the collaborative process, it will take more then just experience. We must learn how to assign roles, divide work, and obtain levels of ownership over certain tasks. Then perhaps all of us control freaks will be able to loosen our grips on solitude and uphold confidence within collaboration.

The above quote is from Denis Leary, one of the great comedians of my generation turned network tv darling. It’s from about 1994, when my generation was embracing 70’s cool. Bellbottoms. I wore them, in 1994 they were available for two dollars at Value Village and they were “sweet.”

When I was in high school in the mid 90’s, and for a little while after that when I spent time with the hippies of the Ypsi/Ann Arbor area, our music, our look, and our um, “recreational activities” were straight out of the 60’s and 70’s. Jam bands. Think Rusted Root and Blues Traveller. Ugh.

I was born in 1976, which means I lived through Pretty in Pink on beta, Flock of Seagulls, and multicolored “jams” (look it up). Imagine my horror when I first saw high-waisted pants on women in the past year. They’re called Mom Jeans, nothing else. I recently heard someone poorly imitating my Talking Heads on the radio and felt, well, just dirty.

I programmed my TRS-80 Home Computer to flash random colors and sounds using Basic, and I nearly passed out blowing into my game cartridges when Duck Hunt would not mount on my original Nintendo system. I remember what that looked like, and now I see this aesthetic emerging in some recent design.

We are all guilty of Retro, but we do not realize how much Retro actually dates us. I believe there is a very distinct Retro Ratio. It seems popular culture works on about a 25 year cycle, and we seem to want to imitate the styles of about 5 years before our birth. Think about it, do the math, and mark my words: 8 Ball jackets will be seen in our own halls of CCS within a few years.

If this Retro Ratio is applied, the age and influence of a designer, musician, or otherwise purveyor of culture can easily be figured out, and what one may think of as a tricky attempt to cop and apply an older style only reveals the imitation of a current trend.

Going Retro is not a way around blindly following a trend. Be original, let the process guide the design, and please get rid of the puffy high-tops.

If I ever see this again, I quit.

I think it’s fair to say that I’ve developed the reputation as one of the more nervous graphic design seniors at CCS. I know that I am not alone, and that things are not all peachy for some of the rest of you as well, so I feel like it is my duty to take a look at things from this angle. Call it a sacrifice.

It is becoming quite clear, through personal discussions and the writing on this blog, that some students are having an easier time at school than others. Some of us are struggling to remain motivated and positive down this final stretch, while others claim to be breezing by in a state of pure design bliss. I’ve decided to expose this gap because I don’t want the rest of us to feel alienated or lose hope. I want us to share our anxieties, and I want those of us who are able to handle them better to offer advice beyond “just relax.”

One might think that the anxieties that I am experiencing are just my own personal problems that should be left to my own sorting out. Some may dismiss them as universal anxieties held by most college seniors. I do not think this is the case. I believe the confusion and pressure we of the nervous persuasion feel are uniquely attributable to the field we are trying to crack into and the overall weirdness of our chosen path. If you disagree, try relating this stuff to your friends studying accounting at Eastern Michigan University. Exactly.

In other words, we have come together at CCS in a very unique situation. We’ve taken a brave leap that few could even come close to being able to handle, and we should be damn proud of that. We are a privileged and intelligent bunch, genuinely in search of “something more,” and we have been given free reign to express ourselves in a cozy and nurturing environment. This is our time to get into ourselves and have some fun before the “real world” comes crashing down on us in May. For some of us, quite frankly it just isn’t fun anymore.

So what is it about this field that is so damn terrifying? As of this moment, I do not have any answers, and I can barely articulate the questions. I want to open this up to everyone to use this space as a place to work some issues out for each other. Where do the blockages exist that keep some of us from enjoying design? How have some of you fought through The Fear? What gives you confidence? What are some of you afraid of?

Please, let’s help each other out.

I have developed a conditional process. These conditions have become habits, no less obsessions – a set of circumstances that must be present in my design process if I am to perform with the highest degree of creativity. Some of these conditions are material (i.e. strong coffee, black fine point pens, jazz), some are environmental (campus library, office, secluded apartment), but most often these factors are determined by the task at hand. We each have established our own set of process rules that, when followed, allows us to design with heightened capability. All of these conditions, however different for each designing individual, share a common thread, that is, they are desirable. They are our addictions, and we are dependent upon them to function. They are the constituting parts in our creative process that we utilize on repeat, and the predictable patterns that form between projects. We strive to reach them. They are the conditions that are important in shaping our design process and who we are as designers.

But what happens when these conditions that we so strongly rely upon become unattainable? How do we react when the circumstances change and we physically cannot work within our desired constraints? Do our minds shut off? Does all creativity cease? Do we yell to those around us in utmost indignation, “I cannot work under these conditions!” and then impatiently storm away?

Though I see the importance for young design students to experiment with and develop a set of working conditions for which they know they perform at their best, I would suggest that in order to fully develop as designers, outside the safety zone of our institutional walls, we must not limit ourselves to merely those conditions. We must be able to adapt and function if our beloved conditions are extracted from our control and replaced by a new, unfamiliar set of variables. Aside from merely adjusting our process to accommodate such changes, I would like to suggest that we begin embracing these alternatives. No longer should we look at so called “speed bumps” on the road of process as constraining, but rather as significant components to the approach – unexpected instances that may force us in a new and exciting direction.

Un-Limited Conditions

In a situation of addiction, the addict becomes dependent upon the object for which they desire. The infatuation with the person, place, or thing that drives the addiction becomes so controlling that, upon its removal, the addict is unable to function conventionally, and often remains in this state until the object of desire is returned to their possession. Much like the smoker perpetually needs her nicotine, or the caffeinated habitually needs her triple shot of expresso, we as designers consistently rely on our preferred conditions to provide us with both comfort and coherence. We recognize the circumstances that induce productivity, and therefore do everything that we possibly can to ensure the proper situation of ourselves within these contexts. However, by determing and fixing ourselves to a set of strict conditions in our design process, (ones that we refuse to detach ourselves from) we are closing the door to discovery, disallowing opportunity to experience the unfamiliar.

Let me give a personal example to clarify this point:

When writing, (be it formal essays, casual commentary, or simply a thank you note to a distant relative), I require an unalterable set of conditions.

1) I have to have absolute silence
2) I have to draft everything by hand first, (on loose sheets of paper)
3) I need to REALLY be in the right state of mind, “in the zone,” if you will
3.5) I prefer it to be early in the morning as opposed to later at night, though this is dependent mostly upon the level of writing for which I pursue.

I would imagine that others have similar consistent “rules” of process.

I have discovered that the above conditions allow me to write at my highest capacity, ensuring that I will be able to thoroughly complete the task at hand. However, there are times when factors impose upon these desired conditions, and it becomes simply impossible to work within these constraints. Perhaps the student sitting adjacent decides that it’s a perfect time to catch up on all her phone calls, and begins yapping away about God only knows what, to God only knows who. Or, perhaps I’ve stayed up way to late the night before, struggling just to count the proper change to stick into the coffee machine, let alone draft a thought provoking, purposeful essay. The integrity of my entire creative process relies on a set of conditions in order to operate sufficiently, and if such conditions are unattainable, then my stubbornness disallows me to coherently carry on, diminishing the opportunity for new realizations to surface.

It’s not a question of whether we can or cannot adjust to conditional change, but simply that we won’t. We’re strong-willed individuals when it comes to our process of creativity, and most of us are hesitant to embrace anyone or anything that seems to obstruct our path. It is my presumption that most of us will resist the “debut” of these alternative circumstances, desperately developing ways in which we can return our process back to our beloved set of comforting conditions. However, it is crucial that we learn how to readjust our creative process and advance our level of efficiency even when the conditions that we so desire are withdrawn from our control and replaced with the unconventional. We must force ourselves to endure and allow ourselves to adapt to these new conventions, in order to open the door to unrealized ideas.

The New Alternatives

Aside from merely adapting to alternatives in the condition of process, we must also identify the value associated with embracing such changes, both the favorable and the outwardly undesirable. Often I hear design students talking about those unexpected moments of clarity; those incredible “ah ha” moments that can occur while in the shower, while stuck in traffic, or during other mindless activities. Such periods of discovery are often deemed the breaking points in one’s creative process – those wonderful moments when the solution has made itself ever so clear. Juxtapose these ostensibly beneficial situations with those “other” changes in the process, (i.e. the budget cuts, the heightened deadline, the lack of “inspiration,” etc). One doesn’t often hear a peer or colleague exclaim, “Yeah, so I spilled coffee on my sketches, my hard-drive seems to be deleting files, and oh yeah, my mom called and wrapped me into a three hour conversation about gardening techniques last night, but it’s okay because I think it all helped me finally see the big picture on this project.”

Call me crazy, but I propose that we start to look at such unexpected variables in process with the same awe-inspring gaze that we so often only direct towards the favorable variables. We must recognize that no matter how hindering such occurrences seem, they are an inevitable part of our process, contributing on the journey from point A to B. We mustn’t controvert their existence or challenge them, but rather learn how to use them to our advantage. These conditions, no matter how traumatic they seem or how many tears they generate, can lead us to a new point in our process, and lend themselves towards the development of new ideas, and unexpected results.

Un-Conditioning Ourselves

When an addict makes an effort to free herself from her dependency, she will often experience various periods of struggle. The process of abolishing a habit is grueling, and often the addict will feel as though the consequences of the addiction are more favorable to deal with then the challenge of quitting. However, if she’s determined to revitalize her existence and strive towards self-betterment, the addict will slowly work her way from that which provides her comfort, freeing herself from that which she’s been so long devoted to.

Learning to adjust and embrace ALL changes in the creative process will require a similar, step-by-step approach. It will undoubtedly be arduous and frustrating at times, but upon attainment, will bring forth new insight and understanding to the designing individual. Setbacks along the way should be expected but not viewed as failure. Just as the addict can return to her habit, the designer too can fall back towards the comforting conditions they have always relied upon. By now, one should realize that this nominal foundering is simply an integral part of the process, not to be avoided, but rather accepted, and used to one’s own advantage in directing the evolution of the conditional process.

Several years ago, my wife and I had purchased our first home. We were very excited to move in and make it our own. It was a 1933 Cape Cod with lots of “charm.” If you have ever purchased a similar home you know that charm can mean several things. It can represent unique character that only a house from that era can have including original wood floors, hand crafted staircases, oddly shaped rooms and cozy spaces. It can also represent non-operating windows, turn-of-the-century electrical wiring, peeling paint and a built-in security system – i.e. loose floorboards. And finally it can mean selling your soul to the devil, because that’s the only way you are going to be able to afford to keep the charm, well, charming.

Over the course of the following three years, we slowly transformed the house from an outdated dwelling into a comfortable home. We carefully balanced our desire to update and modernize with our respect for nuance and the character of the house. The process was arduous and time consuming. Being first time homeowners, we not only learned to do much of the work ourselves, we quickly learned how long projects take and the expense associated with the “DIY” experience. Along the way, we made just about every mistake possible. This so-called journey of self-discovery was a healthy dose of reality and reminded us of how valuable planning was to the efficient use of time and resources. We quickly realized that with proper preparation and a working process the final execution of our projects was stronger.

We also learned to anticipate problems and to allow for extra time when mapping out each phase of the project; in the course of three years, we encountered many unforeseen circumstances. It seemed as though every other day we made numerous trips to the hardware store because of a wrong purchase, broken tool or supply shortage. If we weren’t running to the hardware store, we were running up and down the stairs because a tape measure had been forgotten or a pencil left sitting on the workbench. Planning saved time.

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Graphic design is not home remodeling, but like hanging cabinets in a kitchen or laying tile in the bathroom, good design demands a level of discipline and a thorough process that will allow for greater results in a specific amount of time. Of course, there will always be surprises in the process that you did not foresee. Our house, for example: dealing with crooked walls and uneven floors was the norm. In design, for example: schedules, clients, teachers, directors, budgets and inspiration inevitably become the surprising variables. As designers, we must expect the unexpected and be able to anticipate problems before they happen. I don’t think practice makes perfect, rather I prefer that practice provides clarity. Over time certain patterns will emerge in your process; knowing those patterns and how they relate to the outcome of a project is crucial for every designer.

Before we go any further, it’s important that we define what a process is. Simply stated, a process is a series of actions or steps that help you to arrive at a desired destination. It is a mode of thinking that will frame your actions and focus them on an intended outcome. It is this system of thought we will focus on in the following discussion points. It’s not my intention to tell you what your process is, but rather how and why a process is valuable to a designer. So, let’s begin.

Process is Personal
Every designer must define their own process and working methodology. There are plenty of publications that show you how to address a type of problem, but what most of these resources don’t address are the different learning styles and attention spans particular to individual designers. When a designer gets a brief or assignment, they all respond differently. Of course, designers need to be taught (by a teacher or boss) how to appropriately address a problem and optimize their results, but it’s up to each designer to find out what method works best for them.

For example, I like to assign my upper level students a process project. They must document their life (by the minute) for two weeks. They are asked to document every moment from the time they wake up to the time they go to bed. Sleeping, eating, commuting, working and studying tend to be tops on their lists. Once the two weeks are up they have data that represents every waking moment. Naturally, patterns begin to emerge and they begin to see habits that inevitably occupy their life. For example, many students realize that when they get stressed they tend to compromise their healthy eating habits and succumb to the power of the vending machine because it saves time. Others will exercise less when a deadline nears because they believe that working on a project is more important than working on their physical being. When deadlines get tight or inspiration gets thin, making sure that your body is performing at a normal level should be a priority. Compromising your health or well being due to a lack of proper nutrition or lack of exercise will compromise your outcome. Awareness will help you to perform better during pressure situations because you know the strengths and limitations in your process.

Process is establishing rules to design by
Following a strict process, contrary to popular belief, is important to a designer’s development. Knowing where, when and how you work best will only yield better results. Perhaps most importantly, whether you are in the classroom or office, a process is successful when you know your limitations and strengths.

As a designer, my process entails taking photos, writing and going to the library to do my visual research. Of course, the web offers me speed, but going to a library, finding a particular section and scanning books for text and imagery, allows me to draw conclusions and open up avenues of thought I would not normally build. For other designers, surfing the web at a bar or coffee shop might be the stimulus needed. It’s important that each designer experiment with alternatives and arrive at a set of conditions that will help maximize their productivity and creativity. It always strikes me as odd when I hear designers working in an office aren’t allowed to go out and spend some time doing their personal research. If you need the noise and proximity of people in a coffee shop to help you think, then sitting at your desk in front of a computer doesn’t make sense. It’s the job of a teacher or creative director to teach a process, but allow for designers to execute it using methods that will permit them to be successful.

Process doesn’t inhibit, rather, it empowers a designer
Unless I wanted to get lost, I would never set out on a journey not knowing where to go. A map is a useful tool. It provides me directions to get from point A to point B. In some cases, it even provides me alternative routes in case of an accident or road closure. Why then would I set out designing without a plan? If I don’t know where I am supposed to go, then the chances of getting lost increase greatly. Maps aren’t foolproof, but they will minimize the chances of getting lost. Process acts as a map that helps a designer produce better results because they aren’t worried about HOW they are getting there, rather they are worried about WHERE they are going. As stated earlier, unless I had time to waste, I would always reference a map to provide me the big picture were I to embark on a trip: how many miles and what direction to travel. Without a map you’re lost. Without a process, your confused. A process gives you the foundation to explore. It tells you the steps along the way to be successful and minimizes the chance that something will go wrong. There will always be surprises and unexpected details, but with a process it’s easy to find your way back to the road.

What happens when you get a project brief? Are you initially worried about how to approach the project? Or do you start off working hard on a project only to realize that you quickly get in over your head as the work starts to pile up. Either scenario indicates a weakness in process development. If an instructor, client or boss does not give you a particular process, then it’s up to you to ask as many questions as possible and walk yourself thru the project to anticipate any problems. In my estimation, all projects are front-loaded. The more work done planning and researching, the less time is needed during the execution. Let’s revisit my house analogy for a moment. I often tell designers that good process is like using a spray gun to paint a room. I want to make sure I have enough paint to finish the room. If my goal is to get several layers on in one day, I need to be efficient and know that I have enough supplies for the entire day. If I do run out of paint, I can always go buy more, but that takes time and will slow the process down. In addition, there is always unknown variables like inaccurate paint tints or store hours; both will cause significant delays. Your process is the same thing. Knowing you have enough research to see the project thru to the end is vital. Thorough research acts as a safety net for the designer. If he/she starts the project and realize that their chosen direction is not strong enough, he/she can just return to their research and find a direction that will work. Again, a well-articulated process minimizes mistakes and unknown variables that wreak havoc on the final outcome of a project.

Process is Multiplicity
A process is only as good as the designer’s willingness to produce. There can absolutely be no editing in the beginning phases of a project. That means that a designer must be encouraged to explore everything. The meaning of multiplicity is simple: no prejudice or negative ramifications for the willingness to explore and the possibility of failure. Research inhibited by the fear that work will be criticized and/or be judged as tangential has no place in design. Curiosity kills the cat, but gives life to a designer. Getting beyond the obvious and cliché is hard enough when 1000’s of commercial images and messages are bombarding us daily. Without the encouragement and time to look in the less obvious places, designers will produce antiquated thought rather than inventive ideas.

Deadlines and budgets won’t always allow for such exploration, but if a process is strong enough, multiplicity and experimentation will be built into the results. The best designers have innovative process’ that will allow for innovative results. Multiplicity helps designers go faster further.

Process is juxtaposing the strange and seemingly unnatural
This is the hardest concept to sell to students and young designers. How does one effectively take “chances” in their process? Asking designers to embrace subject matters that they aren’t necessarily familiar with will allow for the greatest opportunity for success. The most successful students I have been around are willing to embrace tangential research, the possibility of failure and produce something that is unexpected and slightly silly. Students tend to be conservative and afraid of failure. Designers need to be encouraged to go beyond their realm of knowledge and look into subjects that are unfamiliar to them. This is not a new idea, but it is an underutilized method. Tangential research usually means two things: discomfort and unfamiliarity. These are the best ingredients for success. Not only does it challenge the students to tackle a foreign subject but it breeds interesting and unique results. Design needs to look outward and seek out multiple perspectives. Design that is solely introspective can inhibit outcome.

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After three years, we finally finished our home. We didn’t have time to enjoy our hard work because the day after we cut the final piece of trim and patched the last wall we put the house up for sale. Two days later we had a SOLD sign sitting in the front of our yard. We learned a lot from the experience. The house and all its’ charm was a good teacher. We understood a subject matter that previously was foreign to us. It provided us the opportunity to practice and hone our skills. Most importantly, it enabled us to achieve our desired results: we sold the home quickly and made money on our 3-year investment. Process kept us focused on the final outcome. Sometimes progress was difficult but because we were able to see the bigger picture, the problems we encountered were manageable and inevitably became valuable learning experiences. Like remodeling, design will provide challenges and present roadblocks that will force designers to reexamine their approach. A strong process will help anticipate those challenges, present new learning opportunities and help a designer to reach his/her fullest potential.