The Routledge Companion to Design Research [2 ed.] 1032022272, 9781032022277

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THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO DESIGN RESEARCH

This new edition of The Routledge Companion to Design Research offers an updated, comprehensive examination of design research, celebrating a plurality of voices and range of conceptual, methodological, technological and theoretical approaches evident in contemporary design research. This volume comprises thirty-eight original and h ­ igh-​­quality design research chapters from contributors around the world, with offerings from the vast array of disciplines in and around modern design praxis, including areas such as industrial and product design, visual communication, interaction design, fashion design, service design, engineering and architecture. The Companion is divided into four distinct sections with chapters that examine the nature and process of design research, the purpose of design research and how one might embark on design research. They also explore how leading design researchers conduct their design research through formulating and asking questions in novel ways, and the creative methods and tools they use to collect and analyse data. The Companion also includes a number of case studies that illustrate how one might best communicate and disseminate design research through contributions that offer techniques for writing and publicising research. The Routledge Companion to Design Research has a wide appeal to researchers and educators in design and d­ esign-​­related disciplines such as engineering, business, marketing, and computing, and will make an invaluable contribution to ­state-­​­­of-­​­­the-​­art design research at postgraduate, doctoral and ­post-​­doctoral levels and teaching across a wide range of different disciplines. Paul A. Rodgers is Professor of Design in the Department of Design, Manufacturing and Engineering Management at the University of Strathclyde, Glasgow, UK. He holds undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in Design from Middlesex University and a PhD in Product Design from the University of Westminster, London. His research interests explore the discipline of design and how disruptive design interventions can enact positive change in health and social care and elsewhere. From 2017 to 2021, he held the post of the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) Priority Area Leadership Fellowship in Design in the UK. Joyce Yee is Professor of Design and Social Innovation at Northumbria University, UK. She co-founded the Designing Entangled Social Innovation in Asia-Pacific network (www.desiap. org) in 2015 with Dr Yoko Akama, RMIT in Australia, as a peer learning network for designing social innovation practitioners. Her research focusses on culturally diverse and locally relevant practices that challenge the dominant industrialized and Western-centric models of design.

THE ROUTLEDGE COMPANION TO DESIGN RESEARCH Second Edition

Edited by Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee

Designed cover image: Photo by Matteo Cremonini Second edition published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 selection and editorial matter, Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. First edition published by Routledge 2014 British Library ­Cataloguing-­​­­in-​­Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: ­978-­​­­1-­​­­032-­​­­02227-​­7 (­hbk) ISBN: ­978-­​­­1-­​­­032-­​­­02229-​­1 (­pbk) ISBN: ­978-­​­­1-­​­­0 03-­​­­18244-​­3 (­ebk) DOI: 10.4324/­9781003182443 Typeset in Bembo by codeMantra

CONTENTS

Notes on the contributors

ix

Introduction to the second edition Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee

1

PART I

Exploring design research: The nature and process of design research; the purpose of design research; onto-epistemic perspectives 1 The sometimes uncomfortable marriages of design and research Ranulph Glanville 2 A cybernetic model of design research towards a ­trans-​­domain of knowing Wolfgang Jonas

7 10

24

3 Inclusive design research and design’s moral foundation Jude Chua Soo Meng

41

4 ­Redesigning design: On pluralizing design Adam Nocek

52

5 Decolonizing design research Frederick M.C. van Amstel

64

6 Politics of publishing: Exploring decolonial and intercultural frameworks for marginalized publics Rathna Ramanathan v

75

Contents

7 Phoneticians, Phoenicians and mapping design research around a Medidisciplinary Sea Graham Pullin

91

8 Four analytic cultures in design research Ilpo Koskinen

102

9 Designing technology for ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human futures Paul Coulton and Joseph Lindley

112

PART II

Designing design research: Formulating research questions; conducting literature searches and reviews; developing research plans 10 What is a researchable question in design? Meredith Davis

127 131

11 Foundational theory and methodological positioning at the outset of a design research project Rachael Luck

141

12 Challenging assumptions in social design research undertaken in the Global ­South – ​­India Alison Prendiville, Delina Evans and Chamithri Greru

151

13 Respectfully navigating the borderlands towards emergence: ­ Co-​­designing with Indigenous communities Lizette Reitsma

166

14 An emancipatory research primer for designers ­L esley-​­Ann Noel

177

15 From theory to practice: Equitable approaches to design research in the design thinking process Nneka Sobers and Stephanie Parey

189

16 ­Re-​­articulating prevailing notions of design: About designing in the absence of sight and other alternative design realities Ann Heylighen, Greg Nijs and Carlos Mourão Pereira

201

17 The soul of objects, an anthropological view of design Luján Cambariere

vi

215

Contents

18 Exploring research space in fashion: A framework for ­meaning-​­making Harah Chon

224

PART III

Conducting design research: Asking questions; data collection methods; analysing information; interpreting findings; ethical issues

239

19 Drawing out: How designers analyse written texts in visual ways Zoë Sadokierski and Kate Sweetapple

242

20 A photograph is still evidence of nothing but itself Craig Bremner and Mark Roxburgh

256

21 Action research approach in design research Beatrice Villari

269

22 Woven decolonizing approaches to design research: Jolobil and ­Mahi-​­Toi Diana Albarrán González and Jani K. T. Wilson

285

23 Participation otherwise: More than southerning the world, designing in movement Barbara Szaniecki and Zoy Anastassakis

299

24 The role of prototypes and frameworks for structuring explorations by Research Through Design 310 Pieter Jan Stappers, Froukje Sleeswijk Visser and Ianus Keller 25 Imagining a ­feeling-​­thinking design practice and research from Latin America María Cristina (Cris) Ibarra 26 Hacktivism as design research method Otto von Busch 27 Software ate design: Creation and destruction of value through design research with data Chris Speed 28 Working with patient experience Alison Thomson

327 339

350 363

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Contents PART IV

Translating design research: Embarking on transdisciplinary design research, conducting and communicating design research insights, findings, and results effectively; disseminating for impact

379

29 Physical thinking: Textile making toward transdisciplinary design research 382 Elizabeth Gaston and Jane Scott 30 ­People-​­centred engagement for inclusive material innovation in healthcare 394 Laura Salisbury and Chris McGinley 31 Seeing the invisible: Revisiting the value of critical tools in design research for social change Laura Santamaria

415

32 ­Practice-​­based evidence for social innovation: Working and learning in complexity Penny Hagen and Angie Tangaere

429

33 Collective dreaming through speculative fiction: Developing research worldviews with an interdisciplinary team Daijiro Mizuno, Kazutoshi Tsuda, Kazuya Kawasaki and Kazunari Masutani

442

34 Drifting ­walls – learning ​­ from a hybrid design practice Ruth Morrow

459

35 Bridging gaps in understanding between researchers who possess design knowledge and those who do not Michael R. Gibson and Keith M. Owens

471

36 Probing and filming with strategic results: International design research to explore and refine new ­product-​­service concepts Geke van Dijk and Bas Raijmakers

482

37 Museum in our street: Social cohesion at street level Emiel Rijshouwer, Dries De Roeck, Nik Baerten and Pieter Lesage

492

38 GeoMerce: Speculative relationships between nature, technology and capitalism 509 Giovanni Innella and Gionata Gatto Celebrating the plurality of design research Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee

525

Index 527 viii

NOTES ON THE CONTRIBUTORS

Zoy Anastassakis  is Adjunct Professor at School of Industrial Design at UERJ, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Her research focusses on the composition between anthropology and design. Nik Baerten co-​­founded Pantopicon in 2004. Pantopicon is a studio for futures exploration and envisioning, based in Antwerp where Nik guides both public and private organizations in exploring l­ong-​­term challenges through alternative future scenarios, in building visions and strategies, in designing concepts for new products, services and experiences. Craig Bremner is an Adjunct Professor of Design at Charles Sturt University, Australia. His research deals with developing methods to discover and to value why ‘­­not-​­knowing’ is an essential beginning point of design practice. Otto von Busch is a Professor at Parsons School of Design where he explores how making practices can mobilize community capabilities through collaborative craft and social activism. Luján Cambariere is a journalist and researcher specialized in Latin American craft and design. She is the author of “The soul of objects, An anthropological view of design” (Experimenta Libros) and “Mastercraft, The importance of working with hands” (Penguin Random House). As a curator, she exhibited in Malba Museum (Buenos Aires, Argentina), MAD Museum (New York), V&A Museum (London); Wanted Design (New York) and London Design Fair (London), amongst others. She is a juror in several Design contests. She was distinguished in 2004, 2005 and 2007 with the Drop in the Sea Award, granted by Fundación Germán Sopeña in the radio and graphics categories, and in 2006 and 2007 was awarded the Avina Scholarship for Journalistic Research and Sustainable Journalism. She also directed and curated the most important project of Crafts and Design “Saber hacer” for the Vice-President of her country, Argentina. Jude Chua Soo Meng,  PhD FRHistS FCollT, is Associate Professor and Head of the Policy, Curriculum and Leadership Academic Group at the National Institute of Education, Nanyang Technological University, Singapore. He won the Novak Award (2003), and recently was awarded a Templeton World Charity Foundation grant (2021). ix

Notes on the contributors

Harah Chon is the MBA Course Leader at Central Saint Martins, University of the Arts London. She holds a PhD in Design Epistemology and MBA in Design Business from Hong Kong Polytechnic University, and BFA from Parsons School of Design. Paul Coulton is the Chair of Speculative and Game Design in the open and exploratory ­design-​­led research studio within the School of Design at Lancaster University. He uses a research through design approach to create fictional artefacts representing different facets of future worlds in which emerging technologies have become mundane. Meredith Davis is Emerita Professor of Graphic Design at North Carolina State University, where she served as Department Head, Director of Graduate Programs, and Director of the PhD in Design. She is a frequent author on design and design education. Delina Evans is a Senior Service Designer currently in the Strategy team at London Borough of Camden. She is also a PhD researcher at University of the Arts London, where she focusses on adapting service design methods to be more sensitive to non-Western cultures. Elizabeth Gaston is an Associate Lecturer at Northumbria University School of Design. She holds a BA, MSc and PhD in Textile Design. Her research uses knit thinking to explore complex problems in a range of fields, with a focus on responsible design. Gionata Gatto (PhD) is a designer and researcher in the fields of Multispecies, Speculative, and Participatory design. His work intersects multiple methods and builds on collaborations with scientific disciplines to breed a territory of experimentation and transdisciplinary synergy. Gionata is currently an Assistant Professor at DIDI, where he curates the curriculum of product design. Michael R. Gibson is a Full Professor of Visual Communication Design who teaches and engages in d­ esign-​­led, ­evidence-​­based research and scholarship in the Department of Design at the University of North Texas in Denton, Texas, USA. Ranulph Glanville (13 June 1946 to 20 December 2014) was an Anglo Irish cybernetician and design theorist. He held several academic positions around the world including Professor of Design Research in the Faculty of Architecture, Catholic University of Leuven, Belgium, Adjunct Professor of Design Research at the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology, Australia, and Professor of Research in Innovation Design Engineering at the Royal College of Art, London. Ranulph studied architecture at the Architectural Association School in London, and then went on to study for a doctorate in cybernetics with Gordon Pask at Brunel University (1975). He completed another PhD, also at Brunel, in the relationships between architecture and language, in the Centre for the Study of Human Learning (1988). Brunel University awarded him a higher doctorate (DSc) in cybernetics and design in 2006. Diana Albarrán González  is a Native Latin American design researcher and craftivist from Mexico. Her PhD focused on decolonizing artisanal design in collaboration with Mayan weavers proposing Buen Vivir-Centric Design towards a fair-dignified life based on collective well-being, textiles, crafts-design-arts, embodiment, and creativity. She is a Lecturer in the Design programs at Elam School of Fine Arts and Design, Waipapa Taumata Rau | University of Auckland in Aotearoa New Zealand. x

Notes on the contributors

Chamithri Greru, PhD, is currently working as a Service Design Advisor at Healthcare Improvement Scotland. Previously, her research focused on developing collaborative methods and tools to foster social innovation, local development and participation. Penny Hagen (­Pākehā) assists teams and communities to take a participatory and ­systems-​ ­ rientated approach to wellbeing. Penny has a PhD in participatory design and is currently o Director Tangata Tiriti at the Auckland C ­ o-​­design Lab a public sector learning and innovation unit. Ann Heylighen,  PhD, FDRS, is a design researcher with a background in architectural engineering. As Professor of Design Studies at KU Leuven, she co‐chairs the Research[x] Design group. She is currently Francqui Research Professor and associate editor of Design Studies. María Cristina (Cris) Ibarra  is Assistant Professor at the Federal University of Pernambuco (UFPE) in Recife, Brazil. As a researcher, she is interested in participatory practices in design, the entanglements between design and anthropology, decoloniality and sustainability. Giovanni Innella is a designer, researcher and curator trained at the Polytechnic of Turin and the Design Academy Eindhoven, obtaining his PhD at Northumbria University. During his professional career, Giovanni has participated and curated several exhibitions in international contexts including the Droog gallery in Amsterdam, the Triennale in Milan and The New Institute in Rotterdam. His projects are part of the collections of the Design Museum Den Bosch and the Centre des Arts Plastiques in Paris. Giovanni is currently an Associate Professor in Doha at VCUarts Qatar. Wolfgang Jonas is a naval architect and Professor emeritus for ´Designwissenschaft´ at the Institute for Design Research at Braunschweig University of Art, Germany, and is interested in d­ esign-​­specific theories, methods and practices of doing research and in applying them in transformation processes. Kazuya Kawasaki is a speculative fashion designer. He is a CEO of Synflux Co., Ltd and a doctoral student at Keio University. His company has won the early bird prize for H&M Global Change Award (­2019) for redesigning fashion with artificial intelligence. Ianus Keller is a teacher of design & inspiration at Delft University of Technology. In his teaching and research he explores the sources of inspiration that influence creative results and how these processes can be stimulated and uncovered. Ilpo Koskinen works as a Professor at the University of New South Wales in Sydney, Australia. Before joining UNSW, he has been working at Aalto University in Helsinki, as well as several other places. His most recent interest is energy. Pieter Lesage founded Studio Dott in 2000. Studio Dott is an a­ ll-​­round creative design agency and consultancy with offices in Antwerp and Hong Kong. Pieter, now CEO of the studio, envisions Studio Dott’s strategic direction. As creative lead, he continuously boosts the conceptual quality of their work. xi

Notes on the contributors

Joseph Lindley  is a Research Fellow at Imagination Lancaster where he leads Design Research Works a ­4 -​­year project focussing on promoting Design Research as a powerful tool for responding to the t­ wenty-​­first century’s s­ ocio-​­technological challenges. Rachael Luck is a design researcher, architect and Associate Dean for Research and Scholarship. Rachael studies design as it happens in practice, questioning how knowledge and understandings of a world we all inhabit are constructed through participation in design situations. Kazunari Masutani received his PhD degree in polymer chemistry from Kyoto Institute of Technology in 2012. His current research interests focus on synthesis and characterization of polylactides and the other b­ io-​­based polymers derived from renewable natural resources. Chris McGinley is a Senior Research Fellow at the Helen Hamlyn Centre for Design, leading research in the Age and Diversity Research Space and the Design Age Institute. He has two decades of inclusive design ­experience – ​­commercializing, exhibiting and disseminating with private, public and third sector partners. Daijiro Mizuno graduated from RCA in MA and PhD in fashion design. Since 2008, his main research interest has been in design methods and emerging design practices. His most recent book is Circular Design, a book on the design for the circular economy. Ruth Morrow is Professor of Biological Architecture at Newcastle University and ­Co-​­Head of School X, a new interdisciplinary school. Her research currently focusses on the development of biological and low carbon materials, alongside working on l­arge-​­scale collaborative live projects. Greg Nijs  is a social scientific researcher who was trained as a sociologist. He is currently working as a member of the ­action-​­research collective Urban Species, through which he is affiliated to Université Libre de Bruxelles (­LoUIsE lab) and LUCA School of Arts (­Intermedia lab). Adam Nocek is Associate Professor in the Philosophy of Technology and Director of the Center for Philosophical Technologies at Arizona State University. He has published widely on the philosophy of design, speculative philosophy, and critical and speculative theories of computational media. ­L esley-​­A nn Noel is an Assistant Professor at the College of Design at North Carolina State University. Her current research focusses on youth participation, c­ o-​­design, equity, social justice and speculative design in public health, social innovation and STEM education. Keith M. Owens  is a Full Professor of Visual Communication Design who teaches and conducts h ­ uman-​­centric, d­ esign-​­based research and scholarship in the Department of Design at the University of North Texas in Denton, Texas, USA. Stephanie Parey  is a user experience researcher with a background in interior design, construction and sociology and is passionate about creating equity-centered design research processes. She currently works as an experience researcher at Autodesk. Stephanie is a master’s candidate at the University of Baltimore, studying Interaction Design & Information Architecture and received her Bachelor of Arts in Interior Design from Virginia Tech.

xii

Notes on the contributors

Carlos Mourão Pereira, born in Lisbon, is a researcher in Architecture at CiTUA (­­IST-​ ­U L) and Research[x]Design (­KU Leuven). In 2006 he became blind and continued his activity in Architecture, obtaining a PhD from ­IST-​­UL (­2013) awarded the FNSE Prize (­2014). Alison Prendiville is Professor of Service Design at LCC, University of the Arts London, UK. Her work is highly collaborative working with diverse disciplines in human and animal health to c­ o-​­create knowledge and interventions for social innovation. Graham Pullin is Professor of Design and Disability at DJCAD, University of Dundee and c­ o-​­founder of Studio Ordinary. Recent research includes Hands of X which was an exhibition at V&A Dundee, and the collaboration Imagining Technologies for Disability Futures. Bas Raijmakers is c­ o-​­founder and Creative Director of STBY in London and Amsterdam. He holds a PhD in Design Interactions from the Royal College of Art in London. And he is a ­co-​­founder of the Reach Network for Global Design Research. Rathna Ramanathan is a typographer, practice researcher and academic known for her expertise in intercultural communication, and alternative publishing practices. She is Head of College and ­Pro-​­Vice Chancellor, Central Saint Martins, University of the Arts London and a Reader in Intercultural Communication. For the past twenty years, Rathna has led ­research-​­focussed, intercultural, m ­ ulti-​­platform graphic communication design projects, all fuelled by a love for, and l­ife-​­long interest in typography and language, and a belief in communication as a fundamental human right. Lizette Reitsma is an Associate Senior Lecturer at Malmö University’s School of Arts and Communication with a special focus on Design for Sustainability and Social Change. She is a design researcher, who has been working with different (Indigenous) communities, through participatory design and research-through-design approaches. She is part of Malmö University’s Collaborative Future-Making Platform. Emiel Rijshouwer has a background in design and sociology. His research concerns online and offline self-organization and citizen and data empowerment. Paul A. Rodgers is Professor of Design at the Department of Design, Manufacturing and Engineering Management in the University of Strathclyde, Glasgow, UK. He holds undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in Design from Middlesex University and a PhD in Product Design from the University of Westminster, London. His research interests explore the discipline of design and how disruptive design interventions can enact positive change in health and social care and elsewhere. From 2017 to 2021, he held the post of the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) Priority Area Leadership Fellowship in Design in the UK. Dries De Roeck  is a designer and researcher who enjoys combining academic research with design practice. He holds a joint PhD in Product Development from the University of Antwerp and in Social Sciences from the University of Leuven. Dries is passionate about creating meaningful products using a ‘just enough research’ approach.

xiii

Notes on the contributors

Mark Roxburgh is an Honorary Associate Professor in Design at the University of Newcastle, Australia. His research interests cover design research, visual communication and photography. Zoë Sadokierski is an a­ ward-​­winning book designer, educator and senior lecturer at the UTS School of Design, where she is a member of Visual Knowledges, a collective of design researchers exploring narrative approaches to ecological communication. Current research collaborations include the Urban Field Naturalist Project and Precarious Birds. Laura Salisbury is a UKRI Future Leader Fellow and Founder of KnitRegen, an award winning wearable MedTech ­start-​­up developing ­patented ‘­wearable therapy’ in the form of smart textile components integrated into familiar, everyday garments. Laura Santamaria  is Research Lead for the School of Communication, Royal College of Art. She specializes in sociocultural and political aspects of design, with a focus on sustainability, activism and grassroots innovation for social change. Laura is founder of Sublime magazine, and the Fair Energy Campaign. Jane Scott  is a Newcastle University Academic Track Fellow (­N UAcT) who leads the Living Textiles Research Group in the Hub for Biotechnology in the Built Environment. Her research is located at the intersection of textiles, architecture and biology; exploring the potential to design with biology using textile fabrication processes. Froukje Sleeswijk Visser is Associate Professor of Service Design at Delft University of Technology. Her research focusses on integration of human perspectives in designing for societal issues. Froukje is also an independent design researcher (­Contextqueen). Nneka Sobers is an urban designer and civic technologist who works at the intersection of urban planning, design research and product development. Through an e­ quity-​­centred approach, Nneka strives to help citymakers leverage technology to make city systems more accessible, inclusive and sustainable. Currently, Nneka spearheads product and program development at the Jacobs Urban Tech Hub at Cornell Tech. She received a Master of City Planning from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (­MIT) and a Bachelor of Arts in Urban Planning from Virginia Tech. Chris Speed, FRSE, is Chair of Design Informatics at the University of Edinburgh where he collaborates with a wide variety of partners to explore how design provides methods to adapt and create products and services within a networked society. Chris is Director for the Edinburgh Futures Institute, a centre for ­multi-​­d isciplinary, ­challenge-​­based ­d ata-​­d riven innovation across research, teaching and societal impact. Chris led the development and leadership of the Institute for Design Informatics that is home to a combination of researchers working across the fields of design, social science and data science, as well as the PhD, MA/­MFA and MSc and Advanced MSc programmes. Chris was made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh in 2020. Pieter Jan Stappers is Professor of Design Techniques at Delft University of Technology. His research focusses on the contributions of users to (­co)­design and of designers to research (­through design).

xiv

Notes on the contributors

Kate Sweetapple is a visual communication academic with an interest in design as a form of enquiry. Her research explores how graphic and material design conventions impact our understanding of the world. She is a Professor and the Head of Design at the University of Technology Sydney. Barbara Szaniecki is Adjunct Professor at the School of Industrial Design at UERJ, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. She is co-editor of the journals Multitudes (Paris), Sciences du Design (Paris) and Lugar Comum (Rio de Janeiro). Her research focuses on the relations between aesthetics and politics existing in media such as posters and extends to urban political protests and performances. More recently, she has extended the study of these forms to various expressions of political ecology. Angie Tangaere (­Ngāti Porou) combines experience with government agencies, community and whānau to ­co-​­design ­whānau-​­led innovation initiatives, disrupting ineffective ‘­business as usual’ systems. She has a Masters in Māori and Indigenous Leadership and is currently Kaitohu (­Director) Tangata Whenua at the Auckland C ­ o-​­Design Lab, a public sector learning and innovation unit. Alison Thomson is a design researcher based at Queen Mary University of London. She is interested in how ­design-​­led methods can study the notion of ‘­patient experience.’ This ­practice-​­based research is at the intersections of Public Engagement, Science and Technology Studies and Design Research. Kazutoshi Tsuda received a PhD in engineering from Chiba University. His research interests include resource circulation and design for sustainability. He is currently working on DIY biofabrication and other projects at the KYOTO Design Lab, Kyoto Institute of Technology. Frederick M.C. van Amstel  is Assistant Professor at the Industrial Design Academic Department (­DADIN), Federal University of T ­ echnology – ​­Paraná (­U TFPR), Brazil. His latest work investigates overcoming oppression and other kinds of systemic contradictions in the past, present and future societies. Geke van Dijk is c­ o-​­founder and Strategy Director of STBY in London and Amsterdam. She holds a PhD in Computer Sciences from the Open University in the UK. And she is a ­co-​­founder of the Reach Network for Global Design Research. Beatrice Villari is an Associate Professor at the Department of Design – Politecnico di Milano. She is member of the Faculty of Design School of Politecnico di Milano teaching Service Design and Design methods. She is also the co-director of the Specializing Master in Service Design. She is currently working on research focussed on co-creation in circular cities and on the relationship between service design, systemic design and speculative approaches. Her research interests are in community-centred initiatives, service innovation, service design, design for social innovation and design for policy and governments. Jani K. T. Wilson  is predominantly Ngāti Awa/­Ngā Puhi/­Mātaatua. She has a PhD in Film, TV  & Media Studies from the University of Auckland, is a Māori screen/­media teacher/­scholar, waiata composer, kapahaka practitioner/­t utor, and devoted NRL fan.

xv

Notes on the contributors

Joyce Yee is Professor of Design and Social Innovation at Northumbria University, UK. She co-founded the Designing Entangled Social Innovation in Asia-Pacific network (www. desiap.org) in 2015 with Dr Yoko Akama, RMIT in Australia, as a peer learning network for designing social innovation practitioners. Her research focusses on culturally diverse and locally relevant practices that challenge the dominant industrialized and Western-centric models of design.

xvi

INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND EDITION Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee

This book is a revised and updated version of The Routledge Companion to Design Research that was first published in 2015 (­Rodgers and Yee, 2015). In the original version, we were keen to celebrate the plurality of design research and showcase the variety of inclusive, explorative, creative, critical and inquisitive attitudes that prevailed in design research at that time. We wanted to compile a book that promoted rich discussions among all that are curious about what design research might be and what it might do. Many voices mean many different ways of speaking and Ranulph Glanville’s important chapter (­reproduced here) reminds us that variety is crucial and we should be careful to guard different ways of thinking, exploring and writing about design, and we should value this variety while following our own design research journeys. The original version included design research from a wide range of design disciplines and geographical locations that included contributions from design researchers working in, across, and beyond graphic design, fashion design, architecture, service design, product design, and other cognate areas. The contributors to the original version, based in countries all over the world including the USA, the Netherlands, the UK, Belgium, Italy, Singapore, China, Germany and Australia, brought an amazing range of knowledge and experience to the book from backgrounds and expertise in philosophy, ethics, engineering, sociology, cognitive psychology, nursing, dementia care and cybernetics utilising a mixture of different approaches and cultures in design research including experimental, inductive, ­explication-​ ­based, ­practice-​­based, hybrid and “­hacked” methods. When we were invited to update the volume as a 2nd edition, we saw this as an opportunity to be more expansive in our remit and to celebrate the plurality of design research. This meant that not only did we consider diversity and inclusivity in terms of topics, disciplines, approaches, gender, experiences and geography, we wanted to feature new voices to bring fresh perspective into design research debates. We were also keen to move beyond a ­Western-​­centric canon and bring in new voices and references to enrich and deepen debates. We also wanted to address issues raised by the “­decolonising design” movement where a greater pluralistic, situated and relational view of design needs to be established. This new edition attempts to deliver to these ambitions and show that there are different ways of researching, teaching, practising and living with design. We have spent a lot of time thinking about what needs and requires change, particularly in institutions like universities and design DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-1

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Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee

schools and the design practices that play out there. In recent years, Hannah Arendt, among others, has been seen among many design researchers as a strong advocate for the plurality of thinking and as a supporter for design to engage with a multiplicity of thoughts (­A rendt 1958, 1961). A key aim for us as editors of this book, therefore, is to show that various cultures c­ o-​­exist in contemporary design research and this pluralism should be encouraged to grow in what is becoming an extremely healthy and mature field of enquiry. We have also worked hard to develop a book that includes top quality, original and innovative design research contributions. In so doing, we have adopted a selective but inclusive approach by inviting a number of established authors in design research but also a number of developing younger design researchers as new critical voices. Each contribution has been comprehensively developed, rigorously reviewed, revised and reworked for inclusion here. The end result is a revised and updated version of The Routledge Companion to Design Research book that includes contributions from the global design research community structured along different facets of design research in four parts: • • • •

Part ­I – ​­Exploring Design Research: the nature and process of design research; the purpose of design research; ­onto-​­epistemic perspectives. Part ­II – ​­Designing Design Research: formulating research questions; conducting literature searches and reviews; developing research plans. Part ­III – ​­Conducting Design Research: asking questions; data collection methods; analysing information; ethical issues. Part ­I V – ​­Translating Communicating Design Research: embarking on transdisciplinary design research, conducting and communicating design research insights, findings and results effectively; disseminating for impact.

Each of the four parts of the book offer different types of content that will appeal to a wide range of design researchers. The first version of The Routledge Companion to Design Research was well received by the design research community and it has often been cited as a useful resource for emerging design researchers who are about to embark on their postgraduate research study. However, we feel equally that established and experienced design researchers will also benefit from hearing new voices and reading fresh perspectives. The volume that we have brought together offers broad but ­in-​­depth introductions to theories and concepts needed to understand design research, while also offering more practical chapters on methods and approaches to bridge theory and practice. We were keen to ground these theories with current debates that reflect ongoing concerns of the design research community. The chapters are grouped in parts based on how they relate to each other and, where possible, they are enhanced by being read as a set. However, there is no explicit prescribed reading sequence, and readers are advised to read through the section introductions and select the most appropriate chapters for themselves. The chapters in Part I of this revised and updated (­2nd edition) Routledge Companion to Design Research are concerned with defining what design research is from a range of different contexts and perspectives. Part 1 presents nine chapters that address the broader issue of what design research is in terms of its origin, nature and approaches (­Glanville, Jonas, Chua); while also offering specific examples of how design research is conceived, perceived and applied within disciplinary contexts (­Coulton and Lindley) and interdisciplinary contexts (­Pullin). We are reminded that design research is a relatively young phenomenon, and that it has gone through “­moments” (­Nocek) or “­phases” (­Koskinen) over the last 60 years. 2

Introduction to the second edition

Ramanathan and van Amstel call for a reframing of design research perhaps as a daily human practice and to open up design research, decolonise and unsettle design. The nine chapters in Part II of the book address issues on how a research question might be formulated, how a research plan is developed and methods for how best to search and review extant research. Part II starts with chapters that focus on what constitute suitable questions for design researchers to address (­Davis and Luck). In so doing, this also requires a careful and reflective consideration of what are the “­r ight” questions to ask and for whom they serve. Many of the chapters in Part II move towards this by exploring how to design research for pluriversal societies (­Prendiville, Evans and Greru and Reitsma) that is inclusive (­Heylighen, Nijs and Pereira), emancipatory (­Noel) and equitable (­Sobers and Parey). In our collective effort to decentre design research, it is still important to consider broader questions on the role of the designed product, service or system in supporting ethical sustainable development (­Cambariere) while continuing to enrich cultural interactions and meanings (­Chon). The ten chapters in Part III are concerned with how design research is conducted offering examples of a wide range of approaches, tools and methods used for various disciplinary, academic and commercial contexts. A recurrent theme in Part 3 is the use of ­m ixed-​­methods and hybrid approaches, where the formula seems to be combining or appropriating established techniques from other domains with design abilities such as analysing written texts in visual ways (­Sadokierski and Sweetapple), the “­design photo” and its distorting effect on design research (­Bremner and Roxburgh), and Villari’s action research for complex systems. This is followed by contributions that offer alternatives to how design research is conducted in decolonising contexts; by drawing on indigenous knowledge (­A lbarran Gonzalez and Wilson), thinking of design research as nomadic practices without associations with the Global North or South (­Szaniecki and Anastassakis) and the use of sentipensante (­­feeling-​ ­thinking) design practices. The final chapters in Part III addresses fundamental issues related to what research and design are, what they produce, how the two are done together and how the results can be shared with other researchers, practitioners and stakeholders (­Staapers, Sleeswijk Visser and Keller; von Busch; Speed; Thomson). The ten chapters in the final part of the book, Part IV, present a range of how design researchers embark on transdisciplinary design research, how they communicate and present their research insights, findings and results effectively, and how they disseminate their research effectively for impact. These chapters offer examples of different approaches, challenges and impacts of design research in addressing complex social and environmental challenges through different forms of respectful collaborations. Collaborative making was used to strengthen transdisciplinary practice between knit, textile and architecture (­Gaston and Scott) and while Salisbury and McGingley focussed on the importance of ­people-​ ­centred engagement in the development of new materials. The chapters in this part also deal with how design research can act as important knowledge translators (­Santamaria; Hagen and Tangaere), bringing together people and expertise while also considering how impact is communicated to different audiences (­M izuno, Tsuda, Kawasaki and Masutani). The following chapters in this part deal, in their own ways, with methods, techniques, and examples for successful ­design-​­led collaboration, for example, focussing on ­long-​­term collaboration (­Morrow), developing shared language and understandings (­Gibson and Owens) and grounding local understanding in a transnational design research project (­van Dijk and Raijmakers). The final two chapters offer examples of design research collaborations which deal with social and environmental issues in a participatory (­R ijshouwer, De Roeck, Baerten and Lesage) and speculative manner (­Innella and Gatto). 3

Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee

Looking to the future… Design has always been deeply concerned with all parts of contemporary ­l ife – ​­with the economic situation as well as the ecological; with traffic and communication; with products and services; with technology and innovation; with culture and civilisation; with sociological, psychological, medical, physical, environmental and political issues and with all forms of social organisation. Given its complexity, design has thus meant working on history, on the present, and on the future and balancing technological and humanistic aspects of culture. Design has always aimed to make the world both human and habitable, as well as to generate a better quality of life within natural and artificial environments. The capability of design research to engage with a wide variety of different forms of knowledge across the social and physical sciences, the arts and humanities and transform this into new visions of the future through processes, products, systems, services and policies means design acts as a facilitator of knowledge, an implementer of actions and is a key agent in shaping our futures. Looking to the future, we hope that this book will help design research to continue to play a leading role in the social, cultural, economic, and environmental health and wellbeing of nations across the world. The contributors to this book have shown clearly that design research can solve p­ roblems – ​­from the molecular to the multinational. Design is an inherent part of human activity and creativity. However, design research can also be disruptive; it doesn’t simply build on what has gone before; it overhauls, starts again, rethinks and remoulds; it returns to first principles to avoid assumptions (­both good and bad) of earlier iterations, and in so doing, it finds answers to questions that perhaps have not even been asked. This is why design research is so important, and why it is such a force for change. Design research, in a variety of guises, supports industrial competitiveness, innovation, new knowledge, skills and social policy. Through collaboration with researchers and practitioners across disciplinary fields, design researchers generate knowledge which is applied in other sectors such as healthcare, urban planning, engineering, computing, business and many others. Design research is a creative and transformative force that can help to shape our lives in more responsible, sustainable, meaningful and valuable ways. It has been said that it is the best tool we have available to us in making sense of the increasingly complex and challenging world (­Sudjic, 2009). Similarly, it is clear that design research pervades an increasing number of places and this plurality is evident given the wide range of conceptual, methodological, technological and theoretical approaches in contemporary design research presented in this book. Looking to the future, however, this plurality brings a number of issues for design research including: • • • • •

How we can ensure that design research is useful and enacted in order to be useful. Design research must not only comprise an understanding of historical, cultural and social perspectives, but also be critical and challenging of these perspectives. Design research should be enduring and avoid the trap of only focussing on current “­hot” topics. ­ ell-​­structured design research should reflect a profound evolution in our vision of the W world and our way of inhabiting it. Design research must be thoughtful and serious about what it is doing and it needs to be clear and bring clarity to its processes, activities, roles and values.

At its best, design research is ­self-​­explanatory; it is viewed as a highly desirable asset in various forms of professional practice. The expansion of u ­ ser-​­centred and participatory design 4

Introduction to the second edition

research approaches in service design, design for social innovation and c­ o-​­design has seen a trend to use design as a transformational tool that has brought greater focus on design, requiring design researchers to be more open and ­co-​­operative in how they work, demonstrate their talents with both quantitative and qualitative research methods, have the ability to analyse and synthesise data and communicate findings in objective and compelling ways. We hope that this book shows how design researchers across the world critically reflect, collaborate, contest, create and articulate new visions for local, regional, national and international challenges and how design researchers can develop new ways of participation to create truly desirable futures.

References Arendt, Hannah. (­1958). The Human Condition, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Arendt, Hannah. (­1961). Between Past and Future, New York: The Viking Press. Rodgers, Paul A. and Yee, Joyce. (­2015). The Routledge Companion to Design Research, Oxon: Routledge. Sudjic, Deyan. (­2009). The Language of Things: Understanding the World of Desirable Objects, New York City: W.W. Norton.

5

PART I

Exploring design research The nature and process of design research; the purpose of design research; onto-epistemic perspectives The contributions to Part I of this revised and updated (2nd edition) The Routledge Companion to Design Research are concerned with defining what design research is from a range of different contexts and perspectives. The chapters offers a wide-ranging introduction to the origins, nature and approaches to design research. They are not meant to be an extensive introduction, but rather to offer the reader a broad historical, philosophical and ethical perspectives to design research. The aim is to open-up discussions and encourage explorations rather than offering a definitive view of design research. Ranulph Glanville sadly passed away months before the first edition of The Routledge Companion to Design Research was published in 2015. His chapter is reproduced here in its entirety with a new foreword written by Craig Bremner – a contributor to this book and close friend of Ranulph. An enduring and crystal-clear chapter, Ranulph explains what he knows we all know about design and research but sometimes struggle to explain clearly to ourselves and others. Thanks to Ranulph’s chapter, we now have words that we can use forever after when we chronicle our own accounts of design and research in their sometimes-uncomfortable marriages. Ranulph’s chapter wishes to help the reader form their own understanding of what design research is by defining what “design” and “research” mean before tackling the issue of what “design research” is. This thread is continued throughout Part I with Wolfgang Jonas’ updated chapter that still represents his current model of design research as a trans-domain of knowing that aims to shape complex social problem areas from a convergence of design and science. Jonas’ chapter suggests we (design researchers?) should be more modest and be happy with small, transient contributions in the ongoing process of muddling through uncertain issues and problems that can (according to Jonas) be handled neither scientifically nor in terms of design, but only by a new form of research through design, which he describes as the development towards a fuzzy and fragile ´trans-domain of knowing´, where design and science collaborate and at times even converge. Jude Chua Soo Meng’s chapter presents the case for an inclusive design research agenda that is open to insights from other non-design disciplines, such as moral philosophy. This contribution draws on moral philosophy in a manner that is consistent with the research strategies in both Herbert Simon’s and Nigel Cross’ earlier work. Jude argues that insights in other fields or disciplines, such as John Finnis’ retrieval of Aquinas’ moral philosophy, DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-2

Exploring design research

enables theorists to overcome intellectual roadblocks that supports the emergence of a notion of design that is able to critically identify and address the deficient. In this sense, “design” is not merely a form of instrumental thinking but is instead an ethically robust manner of critical thinking attentive to choice-worthy ends. Adam Nocek’s chapter argues that design has been engaged in an ongoing project to “redesign” itself since the mid-twentieth century. The redesign of design, Nocek claims, is not a new problem. Design, as a complex inter-discipline that connects various research methods and domains of enquiry, is constantly reinventing itself, finding new areas of research and intervention, and new problems to tackle – from issues related to climate change, homelessness and many others. His chapter presents four moments in this redesign project: (1) Socialising Design, (2) Decolonising Design, (3) Ontologising Design and (4) Pluriversing Design or, the Spectres of Fundamental Ontology. Nocek suggests that each moment not only represents a unique claim about how to pluralise design – from incorporating new domains of practice to questioning the very being of design – but it also functions as an attempt to reground the field itself, effectively, redesigning it. This chapter proposes that each moment is part of a much wider theoretical conversation about the political, economic, and ontological foundations of designing, and how not to eliminate radical heterogeneity in the process of constructing new foundations for design. Frederick M.C. van Amstel’s chapter reminds us that design research played and still plays a significant role in the coloniality of making. By transforming natural commodities imported from former colonies into manufactured things that are later exported back to such places, design research contributes to keeping the geopolitical divide between designing and making, which is typical of colonialism. Counter-hegemonic efforts, like the decolonising design movement, seek to open up design research to support autonomous development in former colonies and their diaspora. Amstel’s chapter scrutinises the colonial legacy of design research and suggests decolonising design research must run alongside and in coordination with other counter-hegemonic efforts that aim to depatriarchise, decapitalise, declassify and unsettle design. In this way, Amstel writes, we might reach a historical situation in which all collective design bodies design for their authentic selves, in their alter/native respected universals, sharing a pluriversal democratic society that nurtures us all with what we need and desire. Rathna Ramanathan’s chapter explores publishing as a platform to bring intercultural communication, decoloniality, graphic design and typography into productive dialogue through engaged and situated design research frameworks and practices. It explores spaces where new kinds of documents can be created, with, by, and for marginalised publics, and, conversely, how the production of new texts and images creates spaces that enable emancipatory, temporary or subversive practices to occur. Ramanathan’s chapter takes a holistic, post-disciplinary approach to graphic design and typographic research that challenges notions of graphic design as purely aesthetic, or as concerns of form and function, and speaks to the shift in considering the wider politics and contributions of graphic design to societal change. Additionally, the chapter aims to reframe design research, not as an elite academic activity but in the manner referred to by Appadurai1 as a daily human practice. The chapter concludes by outlining how we undertake design research needs to be rethought so that it makes a genuine and meaningful contribution to critical planetary issues. Graham Pullin’s chapter poses important questions – how might interdisciplinary design research be visualised? And what might this illuminate about the role that design can play amongst other disciplines? Pullin provides an example of design exploration in augmentative and alternative communication – a field that includes disabled people, speech and language 8

Exploring design research

therapists and speech technologists among others. Pullin’s practice-based research embodied and visualised “tone of voice“, an elusive quality usually locked away in the esoteric nomenclature of phoneticians and other experts, by engaging discussions and collaborations with a wider audience. The chapter includes an attempt to draw a map of the research by using Daniel Fallman’s Interaction Design Research Triangle 2 that recognises a flow between different modes of enquiry. The chapter then introduces an inversion of Fallman’s diagram: by focussing instead on the (previously unmapped) area outside the triangle. The chapter shows that other academic, industrial and public domains can also be included in detail mapping the flow between disparate fields that implies some kind of exchange of knowledge, through design. The chapter concludes by suggesting an analogy to the Mediterranean trade routes of the Phoenicians as a way of defining design research not in terms of a disciplinary territory that it occupies as much as by the interdisciplinary trade that it can mediate. Ilpo Koskinen reminds us that design research has gone through several phases over the last 60 years. This may have something to do with design researchers analysing their materials in several (different) ways. Koskinen’s chapter describes four main analytical cultures (1. statistical and experimental, 2. qualitative, 3. explicative and 4. creative) and how they co-exist in design research today. This chapter provides several examples of these four cultures, their basic logic and their advantages and disadvantages. The chapter ends with a discussion of analytic practices in design research including notes about the role of theory in design research and the importance of legacy as a background for contribution. As a final comment, Koskinen notes that design research has created a lively set of analytic methods and practices that have served it well over the last three decades. Paul Coulton’s and Joe Lindley’s chapter focusses on the design of computationally and networked-enhanced products requiring human interaction. The introduction of networked capability introduces new product-platform assemblages that are facilitated by the internet and have fundamentally altered our relationships with products, manufacturers, service providers, regulators and the interactions between them. One aspect of this change manifests through a disconnection between what products are actually doing as compared to how they present themselves for use. This decoupling of appearance and function reflects the complex assemblages created through “networkification” of human and non-human actants who simultaneously operate both independently, and interdependently. Reflecting on such a change, Coulton and Lindley claim, demands that a plurality of perspectives be acknowledged within the design (research) process. Such plurality is often incompatible with hubristic interpretations of HCD, which in turn has led a number of design researchers to challenge the primacy of HCD and propose “more-than-human design” approaches. The “more-than-human” stance requires new perspectives and building blocks for how to consider design research and the future. In this chapter, Coulton and Lindley offer new perspectives and building blocks, before concluding with examples of how such approaches might be enacted through future design research pursuits.

Notes 1 Appadurai, Arjun. 2006. “The Right to Research.” Globalisation, Societies and Education, 4 (2): 167–177. DOI: 10.1080/14767720600750696 2 Fallman, Daniel. 2008. “The Interaction Design Research Triangle of Design Practice, Design Exploration, and Design Studies.” Design Issues, 24 (3): 4–18. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Available online at: https://direct.mit.edu/desi/article/24/3/4/60187/The-Interaction-Design-ResearchTriangle-of-Design accessed 28 October 2021.

9

1 THE SOMETIMES UNCOMFORTABLE MARRIAGES OF DESIGN AND RESEARCH Ranulph Glanville

Foreword If the function of a foreword is to lead the reader inside a text then I write this paragraph in order to lead you out before Ranulph Glanville leads you back in through his personal “­user guide” to his chapter. This revised edition of “­The Routledge Companion to Design Research” republishes his chapter unchanged because Ranulph sadly passed away just months before the first edition of this book was published and what he bequeathed has such enduring and universal clarity that it retains its place as the first chapter in this book. Also, as is characteristic of Ranulph, he gets to have the first incontestable words on design and research. But my purpose in leading you out is to offer some clues to where Ranulph was coming from. What Ranulph does is explain what he knows we all know about design and research but haven’t really been able to explain to ourselves. It is as if he had been listening to all our conversations about design and about research and decided to tell us what he had h ­ eard—​­and in doing this most of us hear for the first time what we know but, thanks to Ranulph, now have words that we can use forever after. He was also mindful that some people don’t want to hear themselves. These same people are the ones who in every failing relationship always blame the other. I think Ranulph accurately chronicles design and research in their sometimes uncomfortable marriages, but through his chapter he also offers delightful counsel.

Design Generally, we do not learn all that much about the current use of words from their etymology, yet it is sometimes helpful and revealing to acknowledge origins. The word design is full of ambiguity. It first came into English from the Italian (­v ia French) around 1500, according to C ­ ôrte-​­Real (­2010), although the etymology goes back to Latin. ­Côrte-​­Real gives two sources: disignare, meaning to draw (­hence the identification of designing with drawing) designare, meaning to designate

10

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-3

The sometimes uncomfortable marriages of design and research

We should notice that both sources are verbs: that is, they are concerned with acting rather than the outcome of acting. As we will discover later, the slippage of the word design to be treated as a noun as well as, and often in preference to, a verb has a considerable influence on the shape of design research. It is not as though the E ­ nglish-​­speaking world did not have design and designers before these modified Latin words were imported and compounded. Nor are words used in other Germanic European languages for a cognate activity consistent with English: the Dutch “­vormgeving” is literally “­form giving” while the German “­Gestaltung” also refers to “­forming”, the making of a pattern or a whole. But it seems we did not use a special term to distinguish the activity we now call designing before 1500, except for musical designing (­­composing—​­which, to my mind, suggests the use of p­ re-​­defined units) and words relating to architecture. As for the word architect, its Ancient Greek origin is made up of two parts: ­arkhi-​­, meaning chief tektōn, meaning builder Although architect refers to building (­i.e., constructing), it does not necessarily refer to what we now call buildings. What is considered the first (­Western) book on design is by Marcus Vitruvius Pollio (­born c. 8­ 0–​­70 BCE died after c. 15 BCE, generally referred to as Vitruvius). He was the creator of the idealised Vitruvian man, famously drawn by Leonardo, and the author of what is still the best definition of ­architecture—​­as constituted of three equal parts: ­well-​­made, functional and delightful. His book was published around 15 BCE as De Architectura libri decem (­Ten Books on Architecture), containing instructions on making Water Mills, Clocks, Town Planning, Temples, Civic Buildings and Aquaducts (­a mong others). It was not limited to what we would nowadays think of as Architecture or even Building(­s): and tektōn itself comes from the Greek word technē, meaning doing/­­m aking—​­f rom which we get our word and concept technology. Vitruvius’ book was, in effect, what we might think of as a design manual. I use the verb, design, to indicate what I hold is the activity central to all designers, including architects. Design, as a subject in its own right, appears during the Industrial Revolution, usually dated in the UK (­where it originated) between roughly 1760 and 1840. Pye (­1999) gives a good account, and the British Broadcasting Corporation’s 2009 TV series “­The Genius of Design” is convincing. The ability to produce by machine multiples of large and expensive objects greatly outside human skill and scale meant there was a need to be able to construct these objects in the mind, before committing machines (­and their operators) to production. Early machines were already programmable: the Jacquard loom was programmed by punch cards later used in early days of computer programming (­when they were called Hollerith cards) and still used to control silk spinning and weaving machines in China. From this moment, we can distinguish Industrial Design from A ­ rchitecture—​­yet the centre of each discipline is, I would argue (­in the absence of the verb to architect), the same; and the verb to design, describing this shared central act, is relevant to both fields and, I believe, to all designing. Machines are tended by mechanics and engineers. Indeed, much of what Vitruvius described as architecture would now be thought of as (­civil) engineering. In some schools, architects are trained as civil engineers, later adding design as a sort of top up. This engineering approach is rather different to the approach of those who come from what in the UK we traditionally think of as a design education (­see Archer 2005) I sketch in the next paragraph;

11

Ranulph Glanville

an important difference when it comes to research that reflects back to early days of formal design education. In the UK, until recently, art and design1 ­education—​­a s opposed to ­apprenticeship—​­was taught in vocational colleges such as those set up by William Morris and others. These colleges, often called Working Men’s Institutes, eventually became technical and art colleges and polytechnics which, in the UK version, were to be colleges of further education based in the local community and concerned with vocational training. In contrast, universities were based in academic research. Engineers were generally taught at universities (­though mechanics were taught at vocational schools). Architects was taught at either: though the University of Oxford still rejects architecture as a vocational, ­non-​­academic subject. Design was taught at vocational colleges and is still only slowly making inroads in many older universities. Thus, while design (­except where married to engineering) and architecture are rejected as academic studies by the University of Oxford, Oxford Brookes University (­w ith its origins in the Oxford School of Art) welcomes both. At Cambridge University, Architecture is part of a Department of Art History and had no official, taught studio component until about 1970. There is no design department although the word design has crept into Engineering as it has, for instance, at London’s Imperial College. This difference between universities and polytechnics was maintained in much of the British influenced world. In terms of research it has made an enormous difference. Until the recent change in which almost all colleges and polytechnics became universities, staff at these institutes were solely teachers: research was not part of their job. All this has changed, but, as we shall see, the difference in origin is highlighted in approaches to design research. Design was taught as a practice in colleges with no tradition in research. Engineering has been taught in an academic research culture at universities, with little interest in practice. This difference is crucial in design research.

Research Many think the word research connotes searching and searching again (­­re-​­); and, indeed, research does generally involve this iterative and testing approach. But the origins of the word are different. Research comes, in the sixteenth century, from the French r­e-​­chercher (­­re-​­cherchier in the Old French form): ­re-​­, expressing intense force chercher, meaning to seek So research normally means to seek, deeply, with intensity. What is sought is reliable, new knowledge. Nowadays, research in general is often confused with the particular type of research we call scientific research. But research does not have to be, let alone be identified with, science (­A rcher 1995). To start with, the current understanding of knowledge in the E ­ nglish-​ ­speaking world does not accord either with local uses in other languages (­a German speaker can happily ask a painter about his/­her scientific r­ esearch—​­they use two verbs for our one, to ­k now—​­kennen and wissen; or with the usage at the time when what we now call University was born (­starting with the University of Bologna in 1088), when the Latin word scientia (­science) simply meant knowledge. The Greek word philosophy, meaning love of knowledge, was used for the divisions of knowledge mediaeval universities promoted. The 12

The sometimes uncomfortable marriages of design and research

precursor of what we nowadays call science was known as Natural Philosophy. The word scientist was not invented until the early m ­ id-​­1800s, so Isaac Newton was not a scientist. There is, thus, a confusion: while practitioners of research are certainly interested in producing what we call knowledge through their practice, this knowledge does not have to be scientific in the A ­ nglo-​­Saxon sense, developed through what we now call the scientific revolution. In English usage, the phrase “­scientific knowledge” is either an oxymoron, or a serious constraint! What will help us is to remember that science, as knowledge, is far wider and older than knowledge gained through the pursuit of the activity we now call science. We have long understood that there are different types of knowledge. Aristotle (­­384–​­322 BCE), in his Nicomachean Ethics, distinguishes several ways of knowing. Of particular concern here are “­sophia” and “­phronesis”. I inevitably oversimplify, but, put roughly, sophia is theoretical knowledge, while phronesis, practical knowledge, is what sophia is based on and must refer back to. There is a type of phronetic knowledge that exists in, for instance, the hands in ­use—​­as with a highly skilled potter or physiotherapist. This knowledge cannot be explained or expounded but can be shown and l­earnt—​­an example of what design theorist Polanyi (­1966, 1974) calls “­The Tacit Dimension”. Compare the similarity in the theory/­ practice division between university and vocational college! Modern Science is generally dated to around the time of Isaac Newton (­­1642–​­1727), using Newton’s Mechanics as its ideal. In an exquisite account “­The Simplification of Science and the Science of Simplification”,2 Weinberg (­2001) tells how Newton simplified the cosmological universe to develop his mechanical model, which included among other things gravity and the inverse square law. This sort of simplification to create the universal ideal is one of the great strengths of scientific theorising. The success of science is due to many things, including its method. Scientific method is intended to provide knowledge that is and remains testable. In principle, this knowledge remains reliable for as long as it is not disproved, ideally being subject to continuous testing and retesting. Karl Popper’s description of this scientific ideal suggests the purpose of science is to disprove currently held knowledge, a process he names “­Conjectures and Refutations” (­Popper 1963). Scientific knowledge should be repeatable (­similar experiments will produce similar results), consistent (­it will not contain contradictions) and it will be complete (­nothing that should be covered is left uncovered). As it happens, these are also the criteria at the heart of the unsuccessful quest of (­­meta-​­) mathematics to show that all knowledge is founded on mathematics. I have suggested science, in general, may place more emphasis on repeatability than the other two criteria. I see repeatability as the criterion behind the exclusion of the observer, because observers will be different, thus providing different observations. So important has method become that the scientific method is applied to groups of methods to check they are methodical, giving rise to the subject “­Methodology”. Science attempts to give us reliable (­­long-​­lived, but never absolute) descriptions and explanations of the world as we find it, and is remarkably successful and often very beautiful. Science is not what is, but a description of what i­s—​­as we observe it. It gives us no truths, but it gives us viable knowledge and, with that, ways of acting and predictions that are almost always right. However, it is not the only approach (­consider history, for instance), nor is it (­a s Paul Feyerabend 1975 showed in “­Against Method”) inherently better than other approaches, although, collectively we forget all this, giving a spurious authority to science and scientists. This authority damages and belittles other ways of gaining knowledge, as well as, eventually, belittling science and scientists. Research is not a set of procedures and rules, but a way of acting. There are other ways of knowing, and there were ways of knowing before 13

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we had modern science. Not much is sillier than a scientist operating out of his/­her area of competence, demanding that everything be treated through the scientific approach.

Design research Background In a sense, design cannot be separated from research. I have for many years argued that research is a particular, restricted form of design, in terms of both experiments carried out and the creation, assembly and integration of new knowledge within the range of the existing (­Glanville 1981, 1999, 2006). I do not believe it is either reasonable or practicable to try to trace a full history of design which might go back to before the Ancient Greeks. Ignoring architecture, in modern times since the moment of recognition that there is a subject (­what has become Industrial Design) as well as an activity, we might start from Taylor’s (­1919) work applying science to management, and Elton Mayo’s (­1975) examination of the relationship between productivity, the observer and environment at the Hawthorne Works (­­1924–​­1932), in particular what is often referred to as the Hawthorne Effect. These examples show other fields being introduced as means by which to study and propose improvements to the subject, treating designing as material to be subjected to evaluation using the approaches of (­a lien) subjects, in these cases management and (­environmental) psychology. In fact, design has been subject to historical treatment for a far longer time, and every designer has to carry out some sort of (­often low level) exploration (­research) for every project they undertake. It is clear, however, that in the scientific and technological optimism (­one might say arrogance) of the p­ ost-​­Second World War years, science was seen as the universal provider of answers to almost any question, and the authority of science and scientists was virtually unquestioned in the popular mind. This was explored by Jacob Bronowski (­1956), and forms the rich backdrop to his 1973 TV epic, “­The Ascent of Man”. In this social environment, it was quickly noted that design was not scientific and did not have any proper (­i.e., scientific) theoretical base. Several attempts were made to correct what was seen as a flaw. One came out of the 1958 Oxford conference on Architectural Education which generated an agenda for architectural education still widely used to this day, splitting it into on the one hand (­design) science and on the other context (­studied through theory, laboratory and essay) brought together in the design studio, in which everything is shaken up to produce a ­synthesis-­​­­a s- ​­outcome through the act of designing. Another was the rise of Design Methods, an attempt to reduce the arbitrary in designing, rationalising the activity so outcomes would be less wilful and more scientific (­by what Tomas Maldonado called operational science, a ­systems-​­thinking approach which embodied both art and science). This movement, inspired by memories of the Bauhaus, was lead through the Ulm School of Design in Germany (­U lm HfG, opened 1953 with Max Bill as rector, closed 1968), where many of the most distinguished designer thinkers of their generation worked, including Maldonado, Horst Rittel and L Bruce Archer. Their influence was enormous, and persists. The Ulm approach continued, for example, through Archer’s position at the Royal College of Art, London (­a nd elsewhere) until Archer’s Design Research Department was closed by the RCA’s rector Jocelyn Stevens in 1984.3 The key notion was that design was an academic topic in its own right, and should be recognised as such; and that design research should satisfy scholarly, academic criteria using ­well-​­founded evidence applied through systematic analysis (­R inker et al. 2011). 14

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The recent w ­ orld-​­wide movement to promote research in universities and to assess and evaluate it in a competitive funding environment means that the ideas and understandings developed at and from Ulm are often considered increasingly crucial to design, design research and design education, ­today—​­at least by some.

Two approaches Above, I have suggested a division in how we understand design, which I have linked to the kinds of educational establishments in which we study. I pointed out that, although this view is simplistic, engineers study to apply theory in (­research based) universities, while designers study in vocational schools which are more practice based and hands on. While much of the research in design follows the scientific paradigm used in engineering, not all does.4 Recently, work originating in the practice of designing has begun to be recognised, often as a different type of research. This research does not lack key components of other r­ esearch—​­such as rigour and publication, and their s­ ub-​­activities, including testing, contextualising, use of m ­ ethod—​­but these components do not necessarily take the form we are used to from the scientific model (­e.g., Glanville and Schaik 2003; Koskinen et al. 2011; Schaik and Johnson 2012), and are thus sometimes difficult for even the most learned and w ­ ell-​­informed to spot, let alone appreciate. It may even be that learnedness and ­well-​ ­informedness, within one tradition, create this difficulty in another. In this reading, research based in practice is more concerned with Aristotle’s phronesis than sophia, and connects to the vocational rather than the academic mode of learning and of making and transmitting knowledge. It is necessary and important, because it is based in and responds to what designers do, that is, the act of designing. I shall refer to this variety of design research as (­designing) design research (­in contrast to (­engineering) design research).5 Surprisingly little research has been done into how designers design, and what their experience of designing is, in part because it is terribly hard to do within a scientific framework for a number of reasons including the need to interfere with the designer’s behaviour as (­s)­he designs, in order to obtain their explanatory commentary (­this sort of problem is familiar also in action research, among other approaches). Also significant are the vast time spans, complexity of relationships involved and variety of work locations and types that may change throughout the process of designing. However, some important work has been carried out, particularly that by Henrik Gedenryd (­1998), who died shortly after presenting his research as a PhD, sadly losing the chance to publish it more widely and accessibly. I surmise a further difficulty: that many scientists have trouble conceiving the possibility of and need for this sort of research. Cross (­2006, 2011) throws valuable light on this. Much of the research done within the (­engineering) design research framework explores explanatory theories and theorisation, or the assessment of the performance of designed objects (­i.e., the artefacts that are outcomes of design actions). The focus is almost entirely on the artefact (­whether the artefact is a physical item, or, for instance, a process). Observed behaviours are considered properties of such artefacts. Unfortunately, this sort of result is rarely helpful to the designer, since a) it tends to tell him/­her that (­s)­he is wrong, without revealing how, effectively, to correct the error, and b) it considers the world as objective rather than constructive, whereas the designer is essentially changing the world, a necessarily constructive act. 15

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One is left questioning the value of research which has no interest in helping practitioners in the field being researched in their practice, scarcely recognising the sort of world they occupy! (­Designing) and (­engineering) design research are not the only approaches to research into design. Among others are those used in the humanities (­using the term in the widest sense). As already noted, history has been used for centuries to critique design, supposedly making it easier for designers (­a nd others) to understand. Other approaches, some new (­e.g., cultural theory) and some old (­e.g., philosophy) are also popular. In general, we may note that these theories tend to have been applied to design, without much concern for the nature of the subject of design itself, and with little interest in learning from the subject they are imposed on: a sort of academic colonialism. Often, the “­research question” in this sort of work is not at all clear. In some cases, it is difficult to see what is held in common between a chosen subject’s approach (­or theory) and that to which it is applied, in which case the approach or theory cannot be an approach or theory of that area of application (­Glanville 2005)—​­though on occasion a mismatch can open up new and valuable possibilities, such as occurred with the application of deconstruction to architecture. So while (­designing) and (­engineering) design research are not the only approaches, they are the ones we will further explore here. In its modern incarnation, the appreciation that practitioners have their own ways of learning and a particular species of knowledge is usually credited to Donald Schön, a professor of education and of planning at MIT, although, as Schön admitted, there is a long tradition that includes the work of the pragmatist philosopher John Dewey. Schön (­1983) interviewed a handful of professionals from different fields and came to the conclusion that they learnt continuously to improve their performance by reflecting on what they did, modifying their actions as a consequence of their reflection. In Schön’s sense, reflection means deep thinking, with a meditative edge. Schön argued that the type of knowledge professionals have, and their ways of creating new knowledge (­by reflecting in action) was epistemologically valid, and that university based academic knowledge was not the only or, more importantly, the true way. In a certain respect, Schön’s approach provides ­real-​­world support for Feyerabend’s (­1975) argument (­q.v.) that there is no inherent superiority in the scientific account of the world, or the knowledge it generates. Schön (­1985) also examined how architects work in the design studio, successfully arguing that their practice was in many ways superior to that used in a traditional university education, a finding reproduced on a larger scale by Geoffrey Broadbent et al. in South America (­1997). As I have already hinted, for a long time, many have held (­a nd indeed still hold) there is only one way of doing ­research—​­the scientific way. I do not accept this, and trust I have established there are also other ways (­e.g., Glanville 1999; Jonas 2012; Koskinen et al. 2011). In particular, there are two approaches that may be used in design research, reflecting two quite different approaches to knowing (­sophia and phronesis), the ways we study design (­in universities and in vocational colleges), and the position we take over the relation of theory and practice (­understanding and acting). Let me add that I have come to the conclusion that to divide the world into, for instance, theory or practice, is a mistake. We should join the two together again as t­ heory-­​­­and-­​­­practice—​­returning to Aristotle’s interdependence. But if I have to vote for one, then I will vote with the ­m inority—​­for the vocational, for practice and acting, and for p­ hronesis—​­because I believe greater value in our research will come from helping designers designing: treating design as a verb rather than a noun. And because I value design as an alternative way of thinking to the scientific approach of problematisation, the (­engineering) design research approach to research is of secondary interest. In this opinion 16

The sometimes uncomfortable marriages of design and research

I share a position with the growing number of “­through practice” PhD programmes that have been developed especially in Australia (­Schaik and Johnson 2012), and more recently the Nordic countries, and at St Lucas (­now the LUCA faculty of the Catholic University of Leuven) in Belgium. This is not surprising: I played a significant part in the development of the pioneering programme at RMIT University, and brought RMIT and St Lucas together to help develop this approach in Europe.

Characterising (­designing) and (­engineering) design research in design In this section I shall consider some contrasting concepts that can help us distinguish these two approaches to design research.

Vocational (­­non-​­academic) and academic (­scientific) We live in experience, not in explanations of experience, even though such explanations are both powerful and useful. That is why phronesis takes precedence, in Aristotle’s world, over sophia. This is not to deny sophia its proper place, but rather to demand a proper place for phronesis. Designers do not describe the world as it is, but rather they change the world (­no matter how tiny the change) by making new objects, services, processes, etc. It is important to keep in mind the different approaches: research in engineering based in description and explanation and research in design based in/­through doing. Some identify research with the academic. By definition, historically this has naturally excluded research in doing. But academic (­and, particularly scientific) research is not the only sort of research: to identify research with the academic/­scientific is to put the cart before the horse, and to insist that the general is defined by the specific, which runs counter to the rules of logic. The challenge is not to dismiss, but to construct another type of research as powerful as scientific research is. This is, in itself, a problem of design. As mentioned, I have argued all research is, first and foremost, a problem of design, and so should be thought of first as (­designing) design research (­Glanville 1999). To have more than one way of r­esearching—​ ­ ore than one way of thinking and of k­ nowing—​­enriches human life. And if criteria are m different, or differently met, then, given the legitimacy in hoping to have both, the art is to learn to recognise and bring the best from each to the other rather than excluding and rejecting one.

Practice and theory One difference between practice and theory is that, in general, theory is created by an observer 6 standing outside the system to describe it, while practice, being something done, necessarily involves the observer acting within (­a s part of ) the system. This connects to understandings such as Michael Polanyi’s (­1966) “­tacit”. Recall that Polanyi insisted there is a type of knowledge which cannot be put into words: it will slip through the (­metaphorical) fingers of any attempt to do so! However, he did not believe this knowledge was uncommunicable: the potter teaches his/­her student through their hands, beyond and outside the world of verbal language and formal logics. This type of knowledge, often a knowledge associated with practice, is real and important (­and communicable) but, not being representable in language, it joins Schön’s reflective practice, lying outside the academic conventional. 17

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I noted, above, that Aristotle, while suggesting that the knowledge belonging to sophia is superior to that belonging to phronesis, also insisted that sophia comes from phronesis, and returns to (­inform) it: the relationship is circular. In our culture we tend to think of theory as somehow superior, applied to practice in a (­linear) power relation: theory instructs practice what to do. This is in contradiction to the way Aristotle understood the connection. The research we carry out should, I maintain, be sensitive to which category, understanding (­describing) or acting, it is intended to inform. The first originates in the desire to describe the world as is, the second in changing the world. This indicates different types of research, reflected in the difference between (­engineering) and (­designing) design research. There is a relation between the two. However, this should not be the power relation it so often is but a circular interrelationship of equality. It has been claimed that research originating in, and concerned with, practice is not rigorous (­a s discussed in Archer 1995). I reject this view, which I believe comes about from confusing rigour with the particular form in which rigour is cast. Probably the most thorough and demanding test of any research is to act on it and examine the consequences of that action. This is testing. My understanding of rigour lies in continuing to pursue the matter at hand (­to continue questioning) until the questions run out: that is, not to stop when the going gets hard, but to persist and hence break through. Behind this understanding stands honesty, the fundamental quality that must be the base from and within which all research is carried out. There is no inherent reason practice is less rigorous than theory. It may be that some practitioners are lax. But lazy and deceitful scientists are also familiar, as are those who act simply as unquestioning technicians. The failing of individuals is not the failure of a field.

Knowledge for (­assisting) and knowledge of (­assessing) In 1993, Christopher Frayling published “­Research in Art and Design” (­Frayling 1993). The key move in his argument was to change prepositions. He referred to research for design, into design and through design. In so doing he helped us contextualise the word design as noun and verb, but also as something to be studied (­subject), and a way of studying relevant to the something to be studied (­approach). Acting in the spirit of preposition switchers Herbert Read and Martin Ryle, Frayling showed us two things. First, that there are differences in what people think design research is, or could be. Second, that the small change of swapping a preposition can effect an enormous change in meaning. The device behind the second difference (­change in preposition) was also used by my former colleague, Dutch social theorist Gerard de Zeeuw, discussing the difference between a model of what something is and a model for e­ xploring—​­which designer have traditionally called a sketch model.7 I extended Zeeuw’s model pair into knowledge giving knowledge of and knowledge for. The former approaches Aristotle’s sophia, describing the world as we believe it is, the familiar knowledge of facts; the latter the knowledge of acting (­including experimenting), of changing the w ­ orld—​­Aristotle’s phronesis. It may thus be characterised as knowledge helping us act. I have observed (­both from personal experience and from the response of many professionals and students) that research which generates knowledge of often constrains designers because, in essence, it tells us we’re wrong (­in the sense that our decisions lead to something that does not work properly), without offering much guidance about what we should do to improve matters: it assesses, but it does not guide. Knowledge for enables us to act, and can never be the same as, or, perhaps, as exact as knowledge of. But it does help 18

The sometimes uncomfortable marriages of design and research

us improve and change: it supports designers. The criterion is not “­r ight”, “­t rue” or “­best”, but “­good enough”. An example may help. Thirty five years ago, when desktop computers were not yet even a novelty, calculations for the loss of heat were done by hand. To carry out the full calculations for a modest house took about half a day, almost invariably producing a result that was unacceptable. The result told you little about what to do to get a good enough result. So the calculation was repeated, and repeated and repeated; or, all too often, just abandoned. I remember this from painful personal experience! The use, nowadays, of spreadsheet software with optimisation algorithms has turned this around and the knowledge is now usable by designers. We have knowledge for shaped for designers to act with rather than knowledge of what the situation would be. Technology is often seen as a link between these two types of knowledge. Technology can be interpreted as, among other things, a way of turning knowledge of into knowledge for. But even at its best, this is indirect, requiring the help of others, lacking the directness that designers like. The terms knowledge of and knowledge for are not the only possible terms. It has been argued, for instance, that there is a strong connection with Gibbon’s et al. (­1994) notion of modes 1 and 2 investigation which leads to different types of knowledge (­Verbeke and ­Glanville 2005), and, according to more recent developments, what is called science 1 and 2 (­Mueller 2009). Of course, we should not forget the terms Aristotle gave us, sophia and phronesis. Yet I continue to like my terms because of their immediacy and simple directness.

Verb and noun The last contrast we consider is the part of speech the word design is taken to be: that is, verb or noun. Much of what is collected under this heading has already been at least partially covered, but the assembly under this heading seems helpful. In English, both are possible. But they indicate very different concerns. To research ­design-­​­­as-​­noun is to be concerned with the outcome of a design process, and to somehow evaluate it. In other words, it is a matter of assessment: the aim is to examine the performance of some designed object (­or process) against a set of chosen criteria. In contrast, to research d­ esign-­​­­as-​­activity (­designing) is much more ephemeral. Most designing happens over a long period, often in the back of the head and inconveniently away from the work site (­d rawing board/­computer). To determine the steps made by observing a designer’s behaviour all too often gives little, if any, understanding of the internal processes the designer goes through, especially those of which (­s)­he is less aware, and gives none of that which is not directly expressed as discrete, observable behaviour. On occasion, researchers try to overcome the difficulty by asking designers to work in a temporarily constrained situation and to describe what they do as they do it, but neither the time frame, nor the describing are normal parts of the act of designing, and so distortion is introduced by the experiment itself, meaning we are no longer examining what we meant to. The best way I know through which to understand what is involved in designing is to invite the designers themselves to reflect on their own designing after the event (­on various and variable timetables, in Schön’s manner). And we should remember why we want to understand: in order to improve. This is research intended to give assistance. It may seems to the reader that the former approach is simpler than the latter: that to examine ­design-­​­­as-​­noun is more straightforward than to examine ­design-­​­­as-​­verb, and the result 19

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is less subjective. However, (­designing) design is an activity (­a way of thinking and of being in the world) which is subjective, personal and experiential. It needs an agent to do it! I am reminded of the way that life has been examined in biology, where, bizarrely, living entities are killed in order to examine life. In contrast, how refreshingly powerful Varela, Maturana, and Uribe’s (­1972) Autopoiesis is, which considers life as the process of continuing to live! The sort of difference here, between artefact and action, is familiar in other fields, and has led to the development of powerful methods such as action research and grounded theory that may help such research. In making my arguments, I am certainly not dismissing r­ eady-​ ­m ade methods out of hand. But I do insist we should be wary, checking any chosen method for appropriateness. The purpose of assessment is, ultimately, improvement: that is, we assess a designed artefact (­e.g., object or process) in order to confirm it is of adequate standard and if not, to raise it to that standard. But having knowledge of the artefact does not tell us how to improve it; and knowledge we cannot act with is useless in a world of actions. Too often, we lack a knowledge of how, rather than what, to do; yet this is the heart of designing. For this reason, if no other, research into ­design-­​­­as-​­verb must be fundamental in design research. I repeat, Aristotle may have considered sophia as superior knowledge to phronesis. But he also reminded us that sophia is based on and comes from phronesis, and it returns there for its own validation: a theory that doesn’t work in the universe of discourse to which it is applied is not a theory of that universe of ­d iscourse—​­which is only to restate the argument made above about the appropriateness of theory to practice.

Conclusion I have argued that when we talk of design research we often talk of two different views of both design and research. One of these views has, Terry Love tells us, far greater academic presence (­which does not grant it superiority): in fact, I have argued, it is more restricted than the other. Yet, each may have its place, and which we choose to pursue should be determined by the nature of our interest and enquiry. Much of the positioning in design research has been a jousting for superiority, often even an attempt to exclude the view a particular author does not favour. I have come to the conclusion that this approach, while sometimes necessary in order to focus a particular piece of research, is generally silly. However, in taking my position, I can also be accused of being partisan. We have learnt, in the sciences of ecology, that variety is crucial: we should not artificially reduce nature’s variety. Thus, we are careful to guard and protect all the bugs, known and as yet unknown to man, in the Amazonian rain forest. Yet, when it comes to ways of thinking, we are less accommodating, more willing to argue there is only one proper way of thinking, and therefore of doing research. If this chapter has one overriding point it is that this is not so: we should guard different ways of thinking, of conceiving, interacting with and examining (­coming to know) the world, and we should value this variety while following our own paths. The composer Arnold Schönberg, who invented atonal and then serial (­twelve tone) music, is reported to have stated something very similar about music: “­There is much good music to be written in G Major. But not by me.” Nevertheless, there are what Nigel Cross (­2011) has called “­designerly ways of thinking”, and it is, I believe, these that we should look to enhance as the main aim of design research. One element in the designerly, is delight. So perhaps we should return to our earliest (­Western) text on design, Vitruvius’ “­De Architectura libri decem”. Vitruvius claimed architecture (­remember, architecture was used in a more general sense than referring just 20

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to buildings, a manner more akin to how we use design nowadays) was constituted, he wrote, of three equal parts, “­fi rmitas, utilitas, vensutas”, which translate as ­well-​­constructed, functional, bringing delight. Of these, firmitas and utilitas are relatively straightforward, and are handled by both varieties of design research. But delight is not really considered in (­engineering) design ­research—​­in my opinion a serious, even near fatal omission. The modernist slogan attributed to Louis Sullivan, that “­Form follows function”, can be seen as an optimistic and somewhat ­self-​­serving plea, that delight will arise automatically if only the functional aspects are properly handled. Sometimes it does, but sometimes it does not. And what does this slogan mean when we invent a new use for some artefact, when function follows form in the manner of JJ Gibson’s (­1986) concept of “­a ffordance”? Again, to whom should we aim to bring delight? To the world at large, to the immediate users and also to those who make it, the designers. There is a ­t rade-​­off, here. We have enormous, I would hope persistently insurmountable, difficulty in defining delight so that it becomes a metric. When all is definable, to achieve the best may be a viable aspiration. When it is not, what we mean by the best is no longer so clear, and we have to aim, rather, for what is good enough. But there are hidden advantages in pursuing what is good enough: room for alternative suggestions, the possibility of continuous improvement, the idea that it is always possible to try again (­in Samuel Beckett’s (­1984) phrase “­Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” which, though never intended for design, provides me with my favourite definition). Gerard de Zeeuw (­of models of and for), in discussing the solving of problems in society, talks of the need to replace the problem being solved with another to be solved because humans like to solve problems, so removing problems leaves a serious hole in our existence. This leaves design as a way of acting that invites continuing involvement, a sort of perpetual job creation programme. If we want to promote delight in design, we should perhaps choose a model for research that might lead to improvement in delight, carefully. At the start of this chapter, I remarked that its purpose was not to be right, but to help the designer understand and improve. In this I reflect a central message I have been arguing. How might the chapter help? I hope it casts light on a major division in design research, in a manner that encourages a coming together rather than a continuing battle; and that it shows the value of practice and of rigorous research into, in and through practice. But I also hope it may provide the reader with some confidence where, after the Second World War, designers had little: design is an important way of thinking and acting, and we should have faith in its value, and in the value of our acting with it. If I have convinced you, the reader, of my views, or if you have found any clarity, or an excuse think further in this chapter, I take that, too, as a success.

Acknowledgements In writing this chapter the editors have given me allowances and assistance way beyond the reasonable. I have also received very helpful comments from them, as well as my colleague in Innovation Design Engineering at the Royal College of Art, Ashley Hall, and (­a s always) my wife, Aartje Hulstein.

Notes 1 Other words closely associated with design are art and craft. I mention these because design has a secondary meaning that suggests something underhand. A crafty person may be very artful, with

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Ranulph Glanville designs on something (­or someone), as in Dickens’ “­The Artful Dodger”. The words imply at least as much of the loveable rogue, as of the impeccably cool perfection of Jonny Ive! 2 Weinberg’s account was extracted from ­pp. ­12–​­15 of this book An Introduction to General Systems Thinking, and presented as a freestanding article by George Klir (­1991). 3 RCA mythology gives several very different explanations for Stevens’ action. 4 Terry Love told me he carried out an informal survey of research outputs and found 80% or more were (­engineering) design research. He also asked others who had carried our similar surveys and found them in general agreement. Interestingly, these were not scientific surveys! However they are strongly indicative. 5 I have also referred to design as in the distinction used here, (­designing) design as opposed to (­engineering) design, by using the ® (­registered trademark) sign, following Ted Krueger. Thus, I used design® as a way of expressing this difference in a keynote delivered to the CAAD Futures conference in Montreal, June 1­ 6–​­18, 2009, entitled “­Designing, Researching, K ­ nowing—​­and a Little Computing”. 6 Following convention, I use the term “­observer” in its scientific, ­non-​­specific sense. Ashby liked the word “­investigator”. Clearly, the observer I talk of in terms of practice is a practitioner. 7 Zeeuw introduced this distinction in seminars he held in the m ­ id-​­1980s. In spite of repeated requests, I do not believe he has written or published this very powerful distinction. I have no idea why.

References Archer, LB (­1995) The Nature of Research, C ­ o-​­design, Interdisciplinary Journal of Design, January, ­6 –​­13 Archer, LB (­2005) The Three Rs, in Archer, B, Baynes, K, & Roberts, P (­eds) A Framework for Design and Design Education, Loughborough, Design Technology Association and Loughborough University Beckett, S (­1984) Worstward Ho!, New York, Grove Press British Broadcasting Corporation (­2009) The Genius of Design, London, Wall to Wall Media Broadbent, G, Martinez, A, Cardaci, E, & Zoilo, A (­1997) The Design Studio Revisited. Environments by Design, 2(­1), 5–28 Bronowski, J (­1956) Science and Human Values, London, Faber and Faber ­Côrte-​­Real, Eduardo (­2010) The Word “­Design”: Early Modern English Dictionaries and Literature on Design, ­1604–​­1837, Working Papers on Design, 4, ed. Grace L ­ ees-​­Maffei, Retrieved 09.12.2013 from Cross, N (­2006) Designerly Ways of Knowing, London, Springer Cross, N (­2011) Design Thinking: Understanding How Designers Think and Work, Oxford, Berg Elton Mayo, G (­1975) The Social Problems of an Industrial Civilization, London, Routledge and Kegan Paul Feyerabend, P (­1975) Against Method, London, NLB Frayling, C (­1993) Research in Art and Design. Royal College of Art Research Papers, 1(­1), ­1–​­5 Gedenryd, H (­1998). How Designers Work. Lund University Cognitive Studies, 75. Lund, [Lund University]. Retrieved December 19, 2006, from http://­w ww.chrisrust.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/­academic/­ resources/­gedenryd.htm Gibbons, M, Limoges, C, Nowotny, H, Schwartzman, S, Scott, P & Trow, M (­1994) The New Production of Knowledge. The Dynamics of Science and Research in Contemporary Societies, London, Sage Publications Ltd Gibson, J.J. (1986) The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception, Boston: Houghton Mifflin Glanville, R (­1981) Why Design Research? in Jacques, R and Powell, J Design/­Method/­Science, Guildford, Westbury House also in Glanville, R (­2014) Living in Cybernetic Circles, vol 2 of The Black Boox, Vienna, Edition Echoraum Glanville, R (­1999) Researching Design and Designing Research, Design Issues 13(­2), 1999 republished in Glanville, R (­2014) Living in Cybernetic Circles, vol 2 of The Black Boox, Vienna, Edition Echoraum Glanville, R (­2005) Appropriate Theory, in Proceedings of FutureGround Conference of the Design Research Society, Melbourne, Monash University (­on CD), republished in Glanville, R (­2014) Living in Cybernetic Circles, vol 2 of The Black Boox, Vienna, Edition Echoraum

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The sometimes uncomfortable marriages of design and research Glanville, R (­2006) Design and Mentation: Piaget’s Constant Objects, The (­R adical) Designist, 07/­ 2006 zero issue (web publication at iade.pt/­designist) republished in Glanville, R (­2014) Living in Cybernetic Circles, vol 2 of The Black Boox, Vienna, Edition Echoraum Glanville, R & Schaik, L van (­2003) Designing Reflections: Reflections on Design, in Durling, D & Sugiyama, K (­eds) Proceedings of the Third Conference, Doctoral Education in Design, Chiba, Chiba University, republished in Glanville, R (­2014) Living in Cybernetic Circles, vol 2 of The Black Boox, Vienna, Edition Echoraum Jonas, W (­2012) Exploring the Swampy Ground, in Grand, S & Jonas, W (­eds) Mapping Design Research, Basel, Birkhäuser Koskinen, I, Zimmerman, J, Binder, T  & Redstrom, Johan (­2011) Design Research Through Practice: From the Lab, Field, and Showroom, Amsterdam, Morgan Kaufmann Mueller, K (­2009) The New Science of Cybernetics vol 1 Methodology, Vienna, Edition Echoraum Polanyi, Michael (­1966) The Tacit Dimension, Garden City, NY, Doubleday and Company. Polanyi, Michael (­1974) Personal Knowledge, Chicago, IL, University of Chicago Press Popper, K (­1963) Conjectures and Refutations, London, Routledge and Kegan Paul Pye, D (­1999) The Nature and Aesthetics of Design (­rev ed), Bethel, CT, Cambian Press Rinker, D et al. (­2011) hfg ulm, Ulm, ­H fG-​­Archiv Ulm/­U lmer Museum Schaik, L van  & Johnson, A (­2012) Architecture and Design, by Practice, by Invitation: Design Practice Research at RMIT, Melbourne, RMIT University Press Schön, D (­1983) The Reflective Practitioner: How Professions Think in Action, London, Basic Books Schön, D (­1985) The Design Studio: An Exploration of Its Traditions and Potentials, London, RIBA Publications. Taylor, F (­1919) Principles of Scientific Management, New York, Harper Varela, F, Maturana, H & Uribe, R (­1972) Autopoiesis, Santiago, University of Chile, republished in (­1974) Bio Systems vol 4, and also in Klir, G (­1991) Facets of Systems Science, New York, Plenum Press Verbeke, J & Glanville, R (­2005) Knowledge Creation and Research in Design and Architecture, in Ameziane, F (­ed) Procs EURAU’04, European Symposium on Research in Architecture and Urban Design, Marseilles, Université de Marseilles republished in Glanville, R (­2014) Living in Cybernetic Circles, vol 2 of The Black Boox, Vienna, Edition Echoraum Weinberg, G (­2001) An Introduction to General Systems Thinking, Silver Anniversary Edition, NY, Dorset House Publishing, also published in Klir, G (­1991) Facets of Systems Science, New York, Plenum Press

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2 A CYBERNETIC MODEL OF DESIGN RESEARCH TOWARDS A ­TRANS-​­DOMAIN1 OF KNOWING Wolfgang Jonas

Preface to the new edition The chapter still represents my current model of design research as a “­trans-​­domain of knowing”, which is aiming at shaping complex social problem areas and emerges from a convergence of design and science. The concept of research through design is central in the argument. It combines analytical, projective and synthetic epistemologies and thus establishes a connection to the field of transdisciplinarity studies. However, in today’s increasingly fragile and unpredictable contexts, I qualify the argument and state that this model is a design artefact,2 based on my own academic and personal bias, a contingent mix of descriptive and normative thinking, namely critical systems theory3 and cybernetics.4 Based even on wishful thinking. Moreover, serious doubts about the epistemological validity of current design research are growing. Its alleged development into a science is at an impasse.5 A recent empirical analysis of 20 years of design debate concludes that consensus regarding basic concepts is not foresee­ ell-​­founded study for a way able.6 The weird suggestion of the authors of the empirically w out is that distinguished experts should end the fruitless discussion and set some “­r igorous“ theories and definitions. What a nonsense. How can a field that claims to be scientific, seriously come up with the idea to establish its missing foundations through dogmatic setting? The classic Münchhausen Trilemma7 depicts the inevitable choice between circular reasoning, infinite regress or dogmatic setting. That of all things the third option is suggested as a remedy appears as simple ­self-​­deception, only consolidating the presumptuous design research bubble, which claims to serve the good of mankind in a unique way. This corresponds to my ­long-​­held view that there are no foundations and no progress, but rather growing archives of theoretical perspectives, emerging from the ongoing ­co-​­evolution of design and its changing ­socio-​­cultural contexts. Substantial and sustainable practical contributions regarding answers to urgent social issues, which are always transdisciplinary, are missing.8 The basic paradox/­the founding contradiction lies in the fact that design research is the object of its own study, i.e. that design discourse is an artefact in itself. Design research models are designs, disguised as theories. We should be more modest, be happy with small, transient contributions to the ongoing process of muddling through.9 This would be a big relief for the community with its heavy, s­ elf-​­imposed moral burdens of saving the world.10 24

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-4

A cybernetic model of design research

In practice, my (­again contingent) conclusion is that irreducible complexity (­the problem of control) and evolutionary uncertainty (­the problem of prediction) can be handled neither scientifically nor in terms of design, but only by a new form of research through design, which I describe in the following as the development towards a fuzzy and fragile “­­trans-​­domain of knowing”, where design and science collaborate and at times even converge. Wolfgang Jonas, May 2022

The situation The cultures of the Sciences and the Arts were still largely integrated during the Renaissance. Their separation since the seventeenth century finally led to what we know as “­n ineteenth century science” and “­art school design” today. Supposedly, science produces theoretical knowledge, which design, at best, applies in practice. In order to overcome the deficits and make design an academically respected discipline, it is often argued that designerly knowledge production has to adopt scientific standards. Friedman (­2003: 510) resorts to the established distinction of “­clinical”, “­applied” and “­basic” research in medicine. Basic research “­involves a search for general principles”, applied research “­adapts the findings of basic research to classes of problems” and clinical research “­applies the findings of basic research and applied research to specific situations”. Medicine can refer to a stable reference system for assessing success or failure, whereas the usefulness in design remains unclear. The distinction of clinical/­applied/­basic corresponds to the degree of ­de-​­contextualisation of the subject matter. Yet, design deals with the fit of systemic wholes in ­life-​­world environments. These fits immediately lose their significance in ­de-​­contextualised situations. Therefore one might argue that “­basic” research is meaningless in design and that “­clinical” research is the most “­basic” ­and – ​­at the same ­t ime – ​­the most challenging form of Design Research. Glanville (­1980) and Archer (­1995) support this view. Friedman constructs a further antagonistic and, again, overly schematic distinction of reflection and research: Reflection […] develops engaged knowledge from individual and group experience. It is a personal act or a community act, and it is an existential act. Reflection engages the felt, personal WORLD of the individual. It is intimately linked to the process of personal learning […] Research, in contrast, addresses the question itself, as distinct from the personal or communal […] In short, research is the ‘­methodical search for knowledge. Original research tackles new problems or checks previous findings. Rigorous research is the mark of science, technology, and the “­living” branches of the humanities’ (­Bunge 1999: 251). Exploration, investigation, and inquiry are synonyms for research. (Friedman 2002: 19) This persistent attempt at eliminating the observing system and at keeping up the barrier and epistemological hierarchy between the “­swampy lowlands” of reflective practice and the “­h igh ground” of rigorous research (­Schön 1983) is definitely a step back compared with the emerging conceptual models of ­Practice-​­based Design Research. It also ignores recent developments in Science Studies, as will be shown in the following section (­The perspective: design and science converging) and the penultimate section (­­Mode-​­2 Science, Transdisciplinarity and Research Through Design (­RTD)). Friedman’s own words demonstrate the weakness of this position. In saying that “­reflective practice is one of an array of conceptual 25

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tools used in understanding any ­practice  – ​­including the practice of research” (­Friedman 2002), he implicitly states that reflective practice is an essential research medium, probably the most important one in the Sciences of the Artificial. A circular one, admittedly. Norman (­2010) supports Friedman’s view and laments the lack of scientific rigour and content in design education: “­There is little or no training in science, the scientific method, and experimental design”. His vision seems to be the designer as “­applied behavioral scientist”. Reverently insisting on distinguishing “­mere” design from “­proper” research by ignoring the epistemological characteristics of design and science contributes to solidifying the supposed hierarchy between the two and promotes the “­colonisation of design” (­K rippendorff 1995). Changing economic, social, cultural and technological conditions present serious challenges for university education. The types and forms of knowledge currently imparted by universities are predominantly descriptive rather than projective, and generated for academic peers rather than the public good. Most socially and economically relevant knowledge is conveyed outside the university (­Scharmer and Käufer 2000). University education can no longer be concerned primarily with the socialisation into established institutional and societal norms. It must rather provide spaces and opportunities for experimental actions, examine possible, desirable and promising futures and transcend the present world. Scharmer and Käufer’s perspective offers opportunities for r­e-​­inventing the university as a utopian space of exploration, improvisation and controversial ­sense-​­making. It helps r­e-​­articulate the relationship between science and the public, between knowledge and research, and between academic and ­non-​­academic practices. Design can contribute significantly. The “­Scholastic University” was focussed on teaching a canonical set of disciplines. The “­Modern University” builds on Humboldt’s classical ideal of the unity of teaching and research, in a growing number of disciplines. Its focus was knowledge generation in the “­ivory tower”, separated from the rest of the society. The limits of this model are obvious today. In response to increased societal complexity, the university is now renewing its conceptual core. Humboldt’s model is being expanded and ­re-​­founded on a new basis. In the emerging “­Next University” (­Baecker 2007) the strict separation from society is eroded and the focus shifts towards the unity of practice, research and teaching. Researchers and teachers abandon their positions as external observers to become active, committed ­co-​­designers of social, cultural and economic realities. The age of Anthropocene requires the reflection of values. “­Weltanschauung”11 is an essential issue in socially relevant enquiry (­Churchman 1971). Research (­producing knowledge), teaching (­d isseminating knowledge) and practice (­using knowledge to guide action) can no longer exist separately, nor can technology, design and art. The dynamics of these developments and the assumptions on which scientific knowledge production is based must be reconsidered. We can build on important previous contributions from design, which has long been familiar with the basic epistemological “­problems of prediction and control” ( ­Jonas 2003) and the situation of dealing with “­­not-​­knowing” ( ­Jonas and ­Meyer-​­Veden 2004). The early designerly concepts should be taken seriously and developed further. Current positions in Science Studies, which can be interpreted as the convergence of design and science, frame this ambitious endeavour.

The perspective: design and science converging The dualism of the Sciences and the Arts still underpins today’s prejudices against designerly modes of enquiry. One of the first strands of argument, which suggests the idea of

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A cybernetic model of design research

r­ e-​­integration, emphasises the importance of practice in knowledge generation. Pragmatism (­Dewey 1986) argues that the separation of thinking, as pure contemplation and acting, as bodily intervention into the world, is obsolete: thinking depends on l­ife-​­world situations that have to be met. The active, intentional improvement of an unsatisfactory, problematic situation is the primary motivation for thinking, designing and, ­fi nally – ​­in a refined and purified ­m anner – ​­for scientific enquiry. The achievement of projected consequences is the measurement of success. Knowing is a manner of acting and “­truth” is better called “­warranted assertibility” (­Dewey 1941). This comes close to what we argue to be emerging forms of Design Research and a convergence of design and science. Recent intellectual movements in both science and design support this hypothesis. On the one hand, the social embeddedness and c­ ontext-​­dependency of scientific enquiry have been widely acknowledged, and there are indications of science gearing towards a designerly process of innovation and change. Projects in ­bio-​­, ­n ano-​­and genetic sciences are synthetic rather than merely explorative endeavours. Activities in informatics such as social networks and “­big data” research turn into global r­eal-​­time design experiments. Not to speak of climate research and ­geo-​­engineering. The Anthropocene might become the age of joint endeavour of design and science, reconciling analysis, creative action and ethics. On the other hand, the intensity of knowledge production in design has been recognised; it is moving towards deliberately producing socially robust knowledge. These developments indicate a convergence of design and science towards a ­trans-​­domain, a tentative term for a social and intellectual space and mindset, which accommodates transdisciplinary projects and develops corresponding facilities and networks. An outline of the ­ able 2.1. Some salient aspects will be discussed in the theories and concepts is sketched in T following sections: “­Research through design” and “­­Mode-​­2 Science, Transdisciplinarity and RTD”. The hypothesis of convergence arises from the observation that both traditions share the same underlying cybernetic process pattern of experiential evolutionary learning. This model assumes ­far-​­reaching structural identity from the biological to the cognitive and cultural level (­R iedl 2000, Vollmer 1998). The basic structure reveals a circular process of trial (­based upon expectation) and experience (­success or failure, confirmation or refutation), or of action and reflection. The aim is not a true representation of some external reality, but rather a process of (­­re-​­) construction, for the purpose of appropriate (­­re-​­) action. An inductive/­ heuristic ­semi-​­circle leads from purposeful experiential learning to hypotheses, theories and prognoses about how the world works. It is followed by a deductive/­logical ­semi-​­circle that leads to actions and interventions, which result in new experiences that confirm or refute existing theories. One of the most prominent patterns of this type is Kolb’s (­1984) experiential learning process. The pattern finds application in various fields, especially in design methods (­e.g. Owen 1998). Yet, many of these models have a deficit, which obscures their potential: they do not account for the essential step of creating the new. They neglect abduction, which is the central mechanism of knowledge generation in everyday life, design and science. There is, therefore, a need for models that explicitly acknowledge the creative phase and thus provide a theoretical framework for Research Through Design (­RTD). Internal or external perturbations (­called ideas, creativity, intuition, accidents, environmental changes, etc.) create variations in the circle, leading to stabilisations (­negative feedback) or amplifications and evolutionary developments (­positive feedback). Dewey’s ­five-​­step cycle in ­Figure 2.1 includes the abductive step “­create”. ­Table 2.3 elaborates on this issue.

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Wolfgang Jonas ­Table 2.1  Convergences of science and design Science →

← Design

Indications of the shift of science towards socially relevant innovation.

Indications of the shift of design towards socially robust knowledge creation.

The forgotten controversy at the beginning: Cartesian rationalism vs. Montaigne’s scepticism (­Toulmin 1992)

The concept of the Sciences of the Artificial (­Simon 1969)

Pragmatist philosophy (­Dewey 1986)

The definition of scientific research as design activity (­Glanville 1980)

The concept of problems of organized complexity (­Weaver 1948)

The d­ e-​­mystification of the creative process as evolutionary (­M ichl 2002)

The increasing importance of generative and synthetic forms of research, e.g. in engineering, ­nano-​­and genetic design (­e.g. Pfeifer and Bongard 2007)

The importance of design beyond the product: services, systems, organisations, scenarios, social design (­e.g. Vezzoli and Manzini 2008)

Grounded theory building as creative action in the social sciences (­Glaser and Strauss 1967)

The concept of the trajectories of artificiality ( ­K rippendorff 2006)

The concepts of ­P ractice-​­led Research, ­P roject-​ ­grounded Research, and Research Through Design The evidence generated by empirical laboratory studies (­e.g. ­K norr-​­Cetina 1999, Rheinberger 2006) (­e.g. Jonas 2007, Findeli 2008) The concept of Design Thinking (­Brown 2009)

The considerations of Science and Technology Studies and ­Actor-​­Network Theory (­Latour 1993, 2004)

The approaches of Design Fiction (­Bleecker 2010, Luki and Katz 2010) and Critical Design (­Dunne and Raby 2001)

The emerging concept of Mode 2 Science and Transdisciplinarity Studies (­Nowotny et.al. 2001, Nowotny 2006)

The exploration of the concept of abduction in design (­Chow and Jonas 2010b)

­Design-​­based research in management, pedagogy, nursing, etc. (­e.g. Boland and Collopy 2004)

­Figure 2.1 Learning cycle with inductive, abductive and deductive phases Source: Dewey 1910.

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A solid base: evolving models of design Beside the ongoing scientification of Design Research (­Bayazit 2004), there are growing endeavours to take up and develop the original approaches. The evolution of schemes accounts for ­design-​­specific ways of knowing. Synthesising these may give rise to a new understanding. 1948) supported the conceptualisation of Design Research by introducing Weaver (­ “­problems of organised complexity” as the central challenge of the second half of the twentieth century. He anticipates ­Mode-​­2 Science (­Nowotny, Scott and Gibbons 2001), which describes modern knowledge production as increasingly ­problem-​­oriented, normative, socially accountable and transdisciplinary. Simon (­1969) was one of the first to conceive design as a distinct subject and form of research, different from the Sciences and the Humanities. Design Research is not conducted for its own sake, but to improve ­real-​­world situations, to “­transfer existing situations into preferred ones”. The concept of relevance shows up here, which seems to be in permanent conflict with scientific rigour; a polarity which may finally dissolve in a pragmatist view. In locating design at the interface between the artefact and its contexts, Simon introduced the idea of situatedness and ­context-​­dependency of Design Research. The parallels with ­Mode-​­2 Science 20 years later are obvious, but the exchange between Design Research and Science Studies is hardly developed. Grand and Jonas (­2012) suggest a closer relationship. Archer (­1979) introduces “­Design as a discipline”, which has to cover a huge diversity of heterogeneous subjects. The prolific paradox of the “­undisciplined” discipline (­DRS 2008) has been present from the very beginning. Archer (­1981: 30) took a Wittgensteinian stance12 and argued “­that my own approach to finding an answer to the question What is Design Research? Is to try to discover what design researchers actually do”. His definition: “­Design Research […] is systematic enquiry whose goal is knowledge of, or in, the embodiment of configuration, composition, structure, purpose, value and meaning in m ­ an-​­made things and systems” is similar to Findeli’s (­2008b): “­Design research is a systematic search for and acquisition of knowledge related to general human ecology considered from a “­designerly way of thinking” (­i.e. ­project-​­oriented) perspective”. Archer (­1981: 31, 35) lists ten areas of Design Research, from which “­constituent ­sub-​ ­d isciplines” emerge, namely, “­Design Phenomenology”, “­Design Praxiology” and “­Design Philosophy”. Cross suggests that (­1999: 6) “­design research would therefore fall into three main categories, based on products, process and people” and even relates them to historical epochs: the 1920s, the 1960s and the 2000s. Referring to Simon (­1969) he introduces the “­designerly ways of knowing” and warns: that we do not have to turn design into an imitation of science, nor do we have to treat design as a mysterious, ineffable art. […] we must avoid totally swamping our research with different cultures imported either from science or art. (Cross 2001: 5) In the 1920s, design was occupied with products. In the 1960s, the “­design science decade” (­Fuller 1999), there is the search for rationality. The Conference on Design Methods in 1962 marked the beginning of the Design Methods Movement with its desire to base the process on objectivity and rationality. The Sciences of the Artificial (­Simon 1969) highlighted the culmination and the watershed of this development. Simon himself, in C ­ hapter 6 on “­Social Planning: Designing the Evolving Artefact” (­1996: 163) made a considerable shift in acknowledging complexity, uncertainty and the evolutionary character of social design processes. 29

Wolfgang Jonas

In pointedly illustrating the fundamental paradoxes that occur when design (­a s an activity projecting what should be) is misconceived as a scientific endeavour (­analysing what is), Rittel (­1972) made contributions to this debate that cannot be overestimated. The theory backlash of the 1970s obstructed the growth of these still vague ideas and it took a decade to recover. Cross summarises the Design Research Society’s 1980 conference on Design. Science: Method (­2001: 51): The general feeling from that conference was, perhaps, that it was time to move on from making simplistic comparisons and distinctions between science and design; that perhaps there was not so much to learn from science after all, and that perhaps science rather had something to learn from design. In the 2000s, Cross detects the focus on people in Design Research. His phase model of p­ roducts –­​ ­­process – ​­people shows a stunning parallel to what Findeli later presents as the “­Bremen model” (­Findeli and Bousbaki 2005), where he describes a shift of concern from aesthetics (­products) to logic (­process) and finally towards ethics (­people) in Design Research. Cross (­2001) tries to clarify the confusion about design and science. Reflecting on “­Scientific Design” (­design with scientific and other foundations), “­Design Science” (­design as science) and “­Science of Design” (­design as subject matter of science) he finally argues for “­design as a discipline”: Design as a discipline, therefore, can mean design studied on its own terms, and within its own rigorous culture. It can mean a science of design based on the reflective practice of design: design as a discipline, but not design as a science. […] The underlying axiom of this discipline is that there are forms of knowledge special to the awareness and ability of a designer, independent of the different professional domains of design practice. (Cross 2001: 54) He worries about the “­swamping” of Design Research, yet we cannot avoid it. The design community owes the metaphor of the “­swampy lowlands” and the “­h igh ground” to Schön (­1983), who challenges the Design Science Movement and argues for an epistemology of practice, instead. His Reflective Practitioner explicitly raises the issue of rigour vs. relevance: There are those who choose the swampy lowlands. They deliberately involve themselves in messy but crucially important problems and, when asked to describe their methods of inquiry, they speak of experience, trial and error, intuition, and muddling through. Other professionals opt for the high ground. Hungry for technical rigour, devoted to an image of solid professional competence, or fearful of entering a world in which they feel they do not know what they are doing, they choose to confine themselves to narrowly technical practice. (Schön 1983: 42, 43) Owen (­1998), also in the pragmatist tradition, believes that, although design’s own research culture is still young and weak, the import of seemingly approved paradigms and methods may be ­counter-​­productive (­1998: 10): Yet, it is reasonable to think that there are areas of knowledge and ways of proceeding that are very special to design, and it seems sensible that there should be ways of building knowledge that are especially suited to the way design is studied and practiced. 30

A cybernetic model of design research

In slight contrast to this ­a ssertion – ​­and in line with our further ­a rgument – ​­Owen analyses the circular process of knowledge building (­enquiry) and knowledge using (­application) in various scientific and ­non-​­scientific disciplines and argues that they are fundamentally the same. The differences lie in the purpose of the activity and in the codes and value bases used.

Research through design as cybernetic mode of enquiry Frayling (­1993) made the distinction of research “­INTO” (­A BOUT), “­THROUGH” and “­FOR art and design” popular. Owen concentrates on building knowledge FOR the improvement of the design process and on applying this knowledge in design. The pragmatist focus, which integrates enquiry and application through feedback loops, indicates that the knowledge base is fed THROUGH the design processes. Design is object and instrument in Owen’s model (Figure 2.2). He gives a number of recommendations, including an urge to do research ABOUT design: Initiate studies of the philosophy of design. Just as studies of the philosophy of science, history, religion, etc. seek to understand the underpinning values, structures and processes within these systems of knowledge building and using, there need to be studies of the nature of design. (Owen 1998: 19)

­Figure 2.2 Circular processes of knowledge building in theory and practice Source: Owen 1998.

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Wolfgang Jonas ­Table 2.2  The concepts of research FOR, ABOUT, THROUGH design, related to observer positions and perspectives. A fourth category is emerging: research AS design Observer position and perspective relative to the design/­enquiring system and the ­l ife-​­world

1st order cybernetics Observer is situated outside the design/­enquiring system producing facts

2nd order cybernetics Observer is situated inside the design/­enquiring system producing (­a rte)­facts based on values

Observer looking outwards

research FOR design

research THROUGH design

Observer looking inwards

research ABOUT design

research AS design (?)

The categorisation FOR/­A BOUT/­THROUGH, ­which – ​­for the first ­t ime – ​­does not distinguish as to subject matter or an assumed categorisation of the “­real world” as in other disciplines, but according to purpose, intentionality and attitude towards subject matters, is essential for a genuine designerly research paradigm Table 2.2. Research ABOUT and FOR design is unambiguous. The epistemological status of RTD, however, is still fragile. Grounded Theory as well as Action Research will probably contribute. Both admit the involvement of the researcher as well as the abductive emergence of theories from empirical data, in contrast to the established concept of theory building as the verification of previously formulated hypotheses. Archer (­1995) adheres to the distinction and puts RTD in the level with Action Research (­1995: 11): “­It is when research activity is carried out through the medium of practitioner activity that the case becomes interesting”. Findeli (­1998) explains: ‘­­ project-​­ grounded research’ […] is a kind of hybrid between action research and grounded theory research, but at the same time it reaches beyond these methods, in the sense that our researchers in design are valued both for their academic and professional expertise, which is not the case even in the most engaged action research situations. […] although the importance of the design project needs to be recognized in ­project-​ ­g rounded research […] practice is only a support for research (­a means, not an end), the main product of which should remain design knowledge. In cybernetic terms, this means a shift from 1st to 2nd order observation. We include our own observing and acting, not as deplorable limitation but as a constitutive and essential part of the enquiry. This resolves Friedman’s alleged antagonism of reflection and research. Design Research is conceived as a process of ­1st-​­order cybernetics regarding scientific inputs of any kind and of ­2nd-​­order cybernetics regarding the ways of using and integrating this knowledge by means of reflecting purposes and observer involvement. T ­ able 2.2 illustrates four 32

A cybernetic model of design research

generic situations of enquiry: there is the wider context/­­life-​­world and the design/­enquiring system. Researchers can be situated outside these systems as disembodied Cartesian observers or inside the enquiring system as embodied/­situated/­intentional observers. And we have the observer perspective, which can focus either on the enquiring system or on some goal outside (­such as material or market research, etc.). The scheme provides a fourth mode, which will be tentatively called “­research AS design”. Research FOR design: An idealised/­d isembodied/­objective observer of some isolated external phenomenon, generating knowledge FOR a design/­enquiring system. Research is defined/­determined by underlying basic theoretical assumptions regarding the structure/­ nature of the design process (­W hat is design? How does it work?). → Design as: cognitive/­ semiotic/­communicative/­learning process, etc. Research by means of disciplinary scientific methods, aiming at the improvement of the design/­enquiring system regarding various externally determined criteria (­­so-​­called “­applied science”). Research ABOUT design: An idealised/­ d isembodied/­ objective observer of a design/­ enquiring system, generating knowledge ABOUT this system. Research is defined/­ determined by motivations aiming at enquiring and understanding the nature of diverse aspects of design. → Design as subject of disciplinary scientific research: philosophical, anthropological, historical, psychological, etc. Research THROUGH design: An embodied/­situated/­intentional observer inside a design/­ enquiring system, generating knowledge and change THROUGH active participation in the design/­enquiring process. Research is defined/­determined by ethical assumptions regarding the purpose of designing (­W hat is design good for? How do we want to live?). → Design as: projective/­­human-​­centred/­innovation/­emancipatory/­political/­social process, etc. Research in the medium of design, guided by the design process, aiming at transferable knowledge and innovation according to various internally determined criteria. For a comparison of the different versions of RTD see Chow (­2010). Research AS design: An embodied/­situated/­intentional observer inside a design/­enquiring system, concentrating on the production of “­variations” AS raw material for the design/­ enquiring process. Research in action, performed in the medium of design. → Design as the inaccessible medium of knowledge production: a learning process. Probably the essential mental and social “­mechanism” of generating new ideas, the location of abductive reasoning. Research AS design may denote “­Design Thinking” as a cognitive and social process, which, in turn, can be the subject of enquiry ABOUT or THROUGH design. The issue of rigour vs. relevance occurs again. Findeli (­2008a, b) introduces a new perspective in arguing that “­­project-​­grounded research” (­h is term for RTD) has to combine research FOR and ABOUT design in order to become both relevant and rigorous. Thus, one may conclude that research in design only makes sense if all observation modes are taken into consideration. RTD requires “­objective” scientific input generated by research FOR or ABOUT design. But the process remains locked in sterile assumptions, if research THROUGH the medium of design is neglected. It is the abductive step, research AS design, which is able to combine the logical syllogisms of induction and deduction into a productive cycle. This playful dance of perspectives seems to be the most important conversational medium for the generation of new design knowledge (­­Figure 2.3). The nature of design prohibits the reduction of Design Research to scientific research. On the contrary: scientific research has to be embedded in designerly models of enquiry. There are the ­a ll-​­embracing subject matters of aesthetics/­­products – ​­logic/­­process – ​­ethics/­people, and the essential distinguishing purposes of understanding ­design-​­relevant phenomena, of improving the design process and of improving the human condition. Theses purposes can 33

Wolfgang Jonas

­Figure 2.3 Research THROUGH design means the reflected, purposive and playful use of observer modes during the design research process

be related to the epistemological attitudes or modes of research ABOUT design, FOR design and THROUGH design.

­Mode-​­2 science, transdisciplinarity and RTD Integrative approaches are needed to bridge the gaps between incompatible knowledge cultures and types of knowing. Design has always had this “­problem”, whereas science has faced it only recently. This is where science can learn from design. Baecker (­2000) extends Luhmann’s (­1996) social systems theory, in which humans are conceived as combinations of two closed autopoietic13 systems, namely bodies and c­ onscious-​ ­nesses (­Maturana and Varela 1987). The social is created by a third autopoietic system, which is communication. The closure of these three system types means that they cannot control but only irritate each other. They are causally ­de-​­coupled; each of them operates according to its own internal structure and organisation. Design is used to deal with knowledge gaps between these causally d­ e-​­coupled systems (­Baecker, 2000: 163; own translation): Design as a practice of ­not-​­knowing may be read in reference to diverse interfaces, but the interfaces between technology, body, psyche and communication are probably dominant. If these ‘­worlds’, each described by a more or less elaborate knowledge, are brought into a relationship of difference, this knowledge disappears and makes room for experiments, which are the experiments of design. […] Not to take anything for granted here anymore, but to see potential of dissolution and recombination everywhere, becomes the playground of a design that eventually reaches into pedagogy, therapy, and medicine. Further knowledge gaps originate from the causally ­de-​­coupled evolutionary phases of variation/­selection/­­re-​­stabilisation in every r­ eal-​­world design process ( ­Jonas 2003). The argument for convergence, as put forward in the second section of this chapter (­The ­ able 2.3: various Sciences of the perspective: design and science converging), is implicit in T Artificial, such as Design (­A rcher 1981, Jonas 2007, Jones 1970 and Nelson and Stolterman 2003), Management Studies (­Simon 1969, Weick 1969) and H ­ uman-​­Computer Interaction (­Fallman 2008) reveal the generic t­ hree-​­stage pattern of inductive, abductive and deductive reasoning. The essential “­designerly” competences are located in the middle column. The 34

A cybernetic model of design research ­Table 2.3  T  riadic concepts of experiential learning processes in Design Research, emphasising the frameworks for Research Through Design and Transdisciplinarity Studies Authors

Phases/­components/­domains of knowing in design research

Jones (­1970) Archer (­1981) Simon (­1969), Weick (­1969) Nelson and Stolterman (­2003) Jonas (­2007) RTD Fallman (­2008) Brown (­2009) Nicolescu (­2002) Transdisciplinarity Studies

divergence science intelligence the true Analysis Design Studies Inspiration System knowledge

transformation design design the ideal Projection Design Exploration Ideation Target knowledge

convergence arts choice the real Synthesis Design Practice Implementation Transformation knowledge

­Table 2.4  Transdisciplinarity integrates different “­worlds” (­Brown et al. 2010: 46); the relation to Luhmann (­1996) Segment of reality

Human interest

Domain of science

The external physical world (­bodies) The inner subjective world (­consciousnesses) The normative social world (­communications)

Technical (­i nstrumental)

­Empirical-​­a nalytic/­physical sciences Hermeneutics; social and historical sciences Critical social sciences; critical systems thinking

Practical (­values/­practical rationality) Emancipatory (­critical or ­self-​­ reflection)

process of RTD integrates Analysis (­science) and Synthesis (“­normal design”) by means of abductive Projection (­Chow and Jonas 2010a, b). See also ­Table 2.4. There is a striking structural resemblance of RTD and Transdisciplinarity Studies (­Nicolescu 2002, 2008), which claims to integrate system knowledge, target knowledge and transformation knowledge. In the RTD scheme, the first type of knowledge addresses the causes of present problems and their future development (­system knowledge/­A nalysis). The second type concerns the values and norms that define the goals of p­ roblem-​­solving processes (­target knowledge/­Projection). The third type relates to the potential transformations and improvements of a problematic situation (­transformation knowledge/­Synthesis). Nowotny (­2006) calls Transdisciplinarity a central feature of ­Mode-​­2 Science, which denotes a new form of knowledge production since the m ­ id-​­twentieth century (­Scott et al. 1994). While ­Mode-​­1 knowledge production is academic, ­investigator-​­initiated and d­ isciplinary-​­based, M ­ ode-​­2 is ­problem-​­focussed, ­context-​­driven and interdisciplinary. According to Häberli et al. (­2001: 4) “­The core idea of transdisciplinarity is different academic disciplines working jointly with practitioners to solve a r­ eal-​­world problem”. Like in ­Mode-​­2 Science, the goal is to understand and change the world. When the very nature of a problem is under dispute, Transdisciplinarity can help generate or design relevant problems and research questions. The distinction between ­Mode-​­2 and Transdisciplinarity remains fuzzy, which reflects a typical German use of the latter (­Nowotny 2006). Yet, there are more radical conceptions. Nicolescu (­2002, 2008), e.g. strives to deal adequately with the problem of complexity by integrating diverse and often contradictory perceptions without destroying them. He suggests 35

Wolfgang Jonas ­Table 2.5  The topology of the ­trans-​­domain. ­Mode-​­2 Science, Transdisciplinarity and RTD link design and science by means of projective abduction Analysis/­Induction

Projection/­Abduction

design practice, normal design

Synthesis/­Deduction … just addresses a given brief

scientific research, ­Mode-​­1 … does not aim at Science change ­Mode-​­2 Science, Transdisciplinarity, system knowledge RTD

target knowledge

transformation knowledge

three Axioms of Transdisciplinarity, which explicitly address the knowledge gaps between the different levels of reality and the perceiving subject: (­1) the “­ontological axiom” – in ​­ nature and society, as well as in our perception of and knowledge about them, there are different levels of reality for the subject, which correspond to different levels of the object; (­2) the “­logical axiom” – ​­the transition from one level of reality to another is vouchsafed by the logic of the included third and (­3) the “­epistemological axiom” – ​­the structure of the totality of all levels of reality is complex; each level is determined by the simultaneous existence of all other levels. Open Transdisciplinarity (­Brown et al. 2010) goes further and implies the equal practice of various heterogeneous knowledge cultures in a collective learning/­designing process. Here, “­specialised” (­scientific) knowledge is but one of five relevant types comprising “­individual knowledge”, “­local community knowledge”, “­specialised knowledge”, “­organisational knowledge” and “­holistic knowledge”. The concept thus contributes to the i­nterface-​­building between epistemologically different “­worlds”, or to the bridging of “­k nowledge gaps”. ­Table 2.5 reveals the relation to Luhmann’s systems of body, consciousness and communication.

So what: towards a ­trans-​­domain Scientific and designerly research may converge towards a new ­trans-​­domain. This does not mean that two original components merge into one and then disappear. Rather, a new intellectual mindset and communicative space emerges, which allows a multitude of approaches in the “­beauty of grey” between the fundamentalist poles of pure black and white. Advanced systems thinking and cybernetics are the integrative core of the new space, which creates an experimental platform for negotiations of Transdisciplinarity, ­Mode-​­2, ­Not-​­Knowing and other not yet solidified or substantiated aspects of a new intellectual tendency. The provisional character of the ­trans-​­domain allows for a multitude of alternative approaches providing l­ife-​ ­world perspectives, including the preservation of traditional disciplines and their interactions. In line with this, Glanville (­1980: 93), in his classical paper “­W hy Design Research?”, conceives of “­research as a design activity” and regards scientific research as a s­ ub-​­discipline of Design Research: Under these circumstances, the beautiful activity that is science will no longer be seen as mechanistic, except in retrospect. It will truly be understood honestly, as a great creative and social design activity, one of the true social arts. And its paradigm will be recognised as being design.

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A cybernetic model of design research

So what? In the ­trans-​­domain, it is imperative for Design Researchers to develop and reflect on their own specific knowledge production processes, rather than fetishising science. Projective abduction integrates science and design and is thus instrumental to establishing the new model. The ­above-​­mentioned “­problems of prediction and control” are addressed adequately. Research on complex problems is presented as a reflexive play with observer positions, guided by the logic of the design process. This playful dance of perspectives i­s – in ​­ our ­v iew – ​­the most important conversational medium for the generation of new knowledge. Incoherent knowledge types and domains of knowing are integrated by accepting irreducible complexity (­M ikulecky no year): Complexity is the property of a real world system that is manifest in the inability of any one formalism being adequate to capture all its properties. It requires that we find distinctly different ways of interacting with systems. Distinctly different in the sense that when we make successful models, the formal systems needed to describe each distinct aspect are NOT derivable from each other. Research THROUGH design turns out to be the “­wormhole”, through which we can escape the dead end of current Design Research. We can finally stop to desperately seek the recognition of science and instead present design as a role model for a new form of science.

Notes 1 The European Commission is using the term in its COST programme, see www.cost.eu/­ domains_actions/­T DP, accessed 27 December 2012: ‘­­Trans-​­Domain (­T D) COST Actions offer researchers fertile ground for future networks across many science and technology disciplines, by allowing unusually broad, interdisciplinary proposals to cover several scientific Domains’. 2 Redström, Johan (­2017) Making Design Theory, Cambridge, MA: MITPress 3 Jonas, Wolfgang (­2018) “­Systems Design Thinking: Theoretical, Methodological, and Methodical Considerations. A German Narrative”, in: Peter Jones and Kyoichi Kijima (­eds), Systemic Design, Tokyo: Springer 4 Jonas, Wolfgang (­2019) “­Design Cybernetics: Concluding Remarks from a ­Semi-​­external Perspective”, in: Thomas Fischer and Christiane M. Herr (­eds), Design Cybernetics, Cham: Springer 5 Beckett, Stephen J. (­2021) “­A mbiguity and Utopia in the Discourse of Design”, she ji, The Journal of Design, Economics, and Innovation Volume 7, Number 3, Autumn 2021 6 Blackler, Alethea et al. (­2021) “­Can We Define Design? Analyzing Twenty Years of Debate on a Large Email Discussion List”, she ji, The Journal of Design, Economics, and Innovation Volume 7, Number 1, Spring 2021 7 Albert, Hans (­1968) Traktat über kritische Vernunft, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, see also https://­en. wikipedia.org/­w iki/­Münchhausen_trilemma 8 Two exemplary problem fields illustrate the discipline´s impotence in the face of complex challenges: (­1) Design continues to act as a catalyst for the accelerated cycle of production and consumption of material goods based on resource exploitation and global inequality. The consequences in the form of environmental degradation, climate change, migration, etc., are obvious. (­2) As an equally willing executor, design is deeply involved in the ­profit-​­driven development of s­o-​­called social media. The consequences in the form of growing populism and nationalism, fuelled by fake ­ ate-​­speech and conspiracy narratives, are becoming evident. news, h 9 https://­de.wikipedia.org/­w iki/­Charles_E._Lindblom ​­ Cautious Plea for 10 Jonas, Wolfgang (­2021) “­Designing Democracy or Muddling Through?  – A Reflection and Moral Disarmament in Social/­Transformative Design”, in: Michael Erlhoff and Maziar Rezai (­eds), Design and Democracy, Basel: Birkhäuser 11 Churchman uses the German word for the framework of ideas and beliefs through which an individual, group or culture interprets the world and interacts with it.

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Wolfgang Jonas 12 Ludwig Wittgenstein’s turn from formal logic to ordinary language is often characterised by the notion that “­the meaning of a word is its use in the language”. 13 The term autopoiesis was introduced in 1972 by Chilean biologists Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela to define the ­self-​­maintaining chemistry of living cells. Since then the concept has also been applied to the fields of systems theory and sociology.

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A cybernetic model of design research Findeli, A. (­2008a) “­Research Through Design and Transdisciplinarity: A Tentative Contribution to the Methodology of Design Research”, in: Proceedings of Focused, Swiss Design Network Symposium, Berne, Switzerland, 6­ 7–​­91. Findeli, A. (­2008b) “­Searching for Design Research Questions”, Keynote at Questions & Hypotheses, Berlin, ­24–​­26 October. Findeli, A. and Bousbaki, R. (­2005) “­L’éclipse de l’objet dans les theories du projet en design”, The Design Journal, Volume VIII, Number 3, ­35–​­49. Frayling, C. (­1993) “­Research in Art and Design”, Royal College of Art Research Papers, Volume 1, Number 1, 1­ –​­5. Friedman, K. (­2002) “­Theory Construction in Design Research. Criteria, Approaches, and Methods”, in: Common Ground, Proceedings of the DRS International Conference at Brunel University, September ­5 –​­7, Stoke on Trent, UK: Staffordshire University Press. Friedman, K. (­2003) “­Theory Construction in Design Research: Criteria, Approaches, and Methods”, Design Studies Volume 24, ­507–​­522. Fuller, R. B. (­1999) Utopia or Oblivion, New York: Bantam Books. Glanville, R. (­1980) “­W hy Design Research?”, in: Jacques, R. and Powell, A. (­eds), Design: Science: Method, Guildford: Westbury House, ­86–​­94. Glaser, B. G. and Strauss, A. L. (­1967) The Discovery of Grounded Theory. Strategies for Qualitative Research, New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Grand, S. and Jonas, W. (­eds) (­2012) Mapping Design Research, Basel, Switzerland: Birkhäuser. ­ rossenbacher-​­Mansui, W. and Klein, J. T. (­2001) “­Summary”, in: Klein, J. T., et al. Häberli, R., G (­eds), Transdisciplinarity: Joint Problem Solving Among Science, Technology and Society, Basel, Switzerland: Birkhäuser, 4. ​­ Knowing and N ­ ot-​­Knowing in Design. Or: There is Nothing Jonas, W. (­2003) “­M ind the Gap! – On ­ isdom – ​­techné, the European More Theoretical than a Good Practice”, in: Proceedings of Design W Academy of Design, Barcelona, Spain, 1, 2­ 8–​­30 April. Jonas, W. (­2007) “­Research Through DESIGN Through ­Research – ​­A Cybernetic Model of Designing Design Foundations”, Kybernetes Volume 36, Number 9/­10, special issue on cybernetics and design, 1­ 362–​­1380. Jonas, W. (­2021) “­Designing Democracy or Muddling Through? – ​­A Cautious Plea for Reflection and Moral Disarmament in Social/­Transformative Design”, in: Michael Erlhoff and Maziar Rezai (­eds), Design and Democracy, Basel: Birkhäuser Jonas, W. and ­Meyer-​­Veden, J. (­2004) Mind the Gap! – ​­On Knowing and ­Not-​­Knowing in Design, Bremen: Hauschild Verlag. Jones, J. C. (­1970) Design Methods: Seeds of Human Futures, London: John Wiley & Sons. K ­ norr-​­Cetina, K. (­1999) Epistemic Cultures. How the Sciences Make Knowledge, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Kolb, D. A. (­1984) Experiential Learning: Experience as the Source of Learning and Development, New York: ­Prentice-​­Hall. Krippendorff, K. (­1995) “­Redesigning Design; An Invitation to a Responsible Future”, in: Tahkokallio P. and Vihma, S. (­eds), ­Design – ​­Pleasure or Responsibility?, Helsinki: University of Art and Design, ­138–​­162. Krippendorff, K. (­2006) The Semantic Turn, Boca Raton, FL: Taylor & Francis Group. Latour, B. (­1993) We Have Never Been Modern, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Latour, B. (­2004) Politics of Nature. How to Bring the Sciences into Democracy, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Luhmann, N. (­1996) Social Systems, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Lukic, B. and Katz, B. M. (­2010) Nonobject, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Maturana, H. R. and Varela, F. J. (­1987) The Tree of Knowledge: The Biological Roots of Human Understanding, Boston, MA: Shambhala. Michl, J. (­2002) “­On Seeing Design as Redesign. An Exploration of a Neglected Problem in Design Education”, Dept. of Industrial Design, Oslo School of Architecture, Norway, www.designaddict. com/­essais/­m ichl.html, accessed 29 August 2013. Mikulecky, D.C. (­no year) “­Definition of Complexity”, www.people.vcu.edu/~mikuleck/­ON%20 COMPLEXITY.html, accessed 29 August 2013. Nelson, H. G. and Stolterman, E. (­2003) The Design Way. Intentional Change in an Unpredictable World, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Educational Technology Publications.

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Wolfgang Jonas Nicolescu, B. (­2002) Manifesto of Transdisciplinarity, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Nicolescu, B. (­2008) Transdisciplinarity: Theory and Practice, New York: Hampton Press. Norman, D. (­2010) “­W hy Design Education Must Change”, Core77, 26 November, www.core77. com/­blog/­columns/­why_design_education_must_change_17993.asp, accessed 24 December 2012. Nowotny, H. (­2006) “­The Potential of Transdisciplinarity”, interdisciplines, May. Nowotny, H., Scott, P. and Gibbons, M. (­2001) R ­ e-​­Thinking Science. Knowledge and the Public in the Age of Uncertainty, Cambridge: Polity Press. Owen, C. (­1998) “­Design Research: Building the Knowledge Base’, Design Studies Volume 19, 9­ –​­20. Pfeifer, R. and Bongard, J. (­2007) How the Body Shapes the Way we Think, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Redström, Johan (­2017) Making Design Theory, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Rheinberger, H. J. (­2006) “­Experimentalsysteme und epistemische Dinge,” in: Die Geschichte der Proteinsynthese im Reagenzglas, Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp. Riedl, R. (­2000) Strukturen der Komplexität. Eine Morphologie des Erkennens und Erklärens, Berlin: Springer. Rittel, H. W. J. (­1972) “­­Second-​­generation Design Methods”, in: Cross, N. (­ed.) (­1984) Developments in Design Methodology, Chichester: John Wiley, ­317–​­327. Scharmer, C. O. and Käufer, K. (­2000) Universities as the Birthplace for the Entrepreneuring Human Being, http://­ottoscharmer.com/­docs/­a rticles/­2000_Uni21us.pdf, accessed 29 August 2013. Schön, D. A. (­1983) The Reflective Practitioner. How Professionals Think in Action, New York: Basic Books. Scott, P., Gibbons, M., Nowotny, H., Limoges, C., Trow, M. and Schwartzman, S. (­1994) The New Production of Knowledge: The Dynamics of Science and Research in Contemporary Societies, London: Sage. Simon, H. A. (­1969, 1981, 1996) The Sciences of the Artificial, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Toulmin, S. (­1992) Cosmopolis: Hidden Agenda of Modernity, Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Vezzoli, C. A. and Manzini, E. (­2008) Design for Environmental Sustainability, London: Springer. Vollmer, G. (­1998) Evolutionäre Erkenntnistheorie, Stuttgart Leipzig: S. Hirzel Verlag. Weaver, W. (­1948) “­Science and Complexity”, American Scientist Volume 36, ­536–​­544. Weick, K. (­1969) Social Psychology of Organizing, Reading, MA: Addison Wesley.

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3 INCLUSIVE DESIGN RESEARCH AND DESIGN’S MORAL FOUNDATION Jude Chua Soo Meng

Introduction For Herbert Simon and Nigel Cross, the science of design represents that general account of design that captures the “­common creative activity that [different professionals in different design disciplines] are engaged [in], and [about which they] can begin to share their experiences of the creative, professional design process” (­Cross 2007:­123–​­124; Simon 1996: 137; also see Friedman 2002). Design research can detail what such a science of design entails. In this chapter, I hope to make a case for an inclusive design research agenda. Such an inclusive research agenda is open to insights from other n ­ on-​­design disciplines, such as moral philosophy. As I will argue below (­Section “­Designerly ways of knowing”), it may be tempting to interpret Nigel Cross’ remarks on “­designerly ways of knowing” as endorsing a kind of methodological exclusivism, which is wary of and steers clear of what n ­ on-​­design disciplines have to offer when researching and studying design. This I argue below, would be a mistake (­Section “­Nigel cross: the quest for the central case”). Instead, Cross’s own research strategy, like Simon’s, is inclusivist, and for good reasons (­Section “­Warrants for the central case approach”). I then explore what this implies for a theory of design, which is that “­design” is not merely a form of instrumental thinking but is instead an ethically robust manner of critical thinking attentive to c­ hoice-​­worthy ends.

Nigel cross on design research We can begin with a methodological question, which had attracted some attention, and is still an important one. When developing a general theory of design, how should design researchers stand in relation to research in other supposedly centrally n ­ on-​­design disciplines on ­design-​­relevant processes, say in the humanities, the social sciences or the hard sciences? How should design researchers relate to d­ esign-​­related research work by those say in philosophy, education, economics, or physics? Design, which is the making of artifacts or the modification of reality toward a preferred state of affairs, is the subject of investigation of a variety of disciplines. Many fields involve design and study the design process. Philosophers think up plans for creating the best society and offer ­meta-​­analyses of that thinking, teachers design lesson plans and curriculums and reflect on these planning processes, and scientists design DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-5

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and debate about the reliability of experimental methods. So asking this question seems to invite a very banal response. Design researchers, should, rather obviously, take seriously the research arising from ­non-​­design disciplines on ­design-​­related processes.

Designerly ways of knowing However, suppose n ­ on-​­designer researchers, because laden with paradigmatic beliefs from their own ­non-​­design disciplines, offer a corrupted picture of design’s true nature? Nigel Cross (­2007) alerts us: One of the dangers in this new field of design research is that researchers from other, ­non-​­design, disciplines will import methods and approaches that are inappropriate to developing the understanding of design. Researchers from psychology or computer science, for example, have tended to assume that there is ‘­nothing special’ about design as an activity for investigation, that it is just another form of ‘­problem solving’ or ‘­information processing’…Better progress seems to be made by d­ esigner-​­researchers… As design grows as a discipline with its own research base, so we can hope that there will be a growth in the number of emerging ­designer-​­researchers. (­127) In several pieces, Cross suggests that design has its own inner, coherent logic and that this designerly epistemology is unique to design and known to designers; Cross’s fear is that ­non-​­design disciplines misrepresent design by imposing their own reductive or biased interpretations of what design is by failing to be open to its unique qualities which however saturate the paradigmatic frames of these n ­ on-​­design disciplines. His encounter with Herbert Simon’s 1969 edition of the Sciences of the Artificial and its technical, rationalist, and p­ roblem-​­solving interpretation of design corroborates this fear. So there is some basis for this stance, which recommends being conscious and wary of possible misguided attempts by n ­ on-​­designers to interpret design reductively, thus hindering our own learning of what design thinking really is. What design thinking in itself really is when uncorrupted by these distortions, Cross labels “­designerly ways of knowing”. He says: The claim from the Royal College of Art study of ‘­Design in General Education’ was that ‘­there are things to know, ways of knowing them, and ways of finding out about them’ that are specific to the design area. The authors imply that there are designerly ways of knowing, distinct from more ­usually-​­recognized scientific and scholarly ways of knowing…Design must have its own inner coherence, in the ways that science and the humanities do, if it is to be established in comparable intellectual and educational terms. But the world of design has been badly served by its intellectual leaders, who have failed to develop their subject in its own terms. (­Cross 2007: 22) To be clear therefore, my interpretation is that Cross’ thesis of there being “­designerly ways of knowing” implies two propositions, one following the other. These are, as implied from the quotations above, first, that such designerly ways of knowing are known to designers. Second, since such designerly knowings are known to designers, then we should expect ­designer-​­researchers to produce reliable research work on design. For Cross, this second thesis in turn present two possible implications, that one should especially welcome results 42

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of ­designer-​­researchers’ research, or that, ­non-​­designer researchers who adopt other paradigmatic orientations to research design should be scrutinized critically by the design research community. This collection of ideas constitutes the implicit premises of his research paradigm. No doubt, Nigel Cross does compliment research by Dorst which explores the various different paradigmatic biases in Herbert Simon and Donald S­ chön—​­the one with a “­rationalist” paradigm and the other with a conception of design as “­reflective practice”. Dorst (­2003) defends a thesis about their mutual complementariness, implying that both paradigms for design are welcome. Still, Cross’ own take is to adopt the hypothesis that there is a unique designerly way of knowing, and that this is grasped by designers. Cross seems especially keen to welcome research by designers which will flash out this unique designerly knowing. It is in this more complete sense that we should understand the assertion that “­there are designerly ways of knowing”: i.e., that this is a shorthand for the more complete composite belief that, (­1) besides the fact that there are designerly knowings, (­2) there is also the notion that such designerly knowings are grasped by designers, whose research on design we should encourage. Such a desire to welcome “­­designer-​­researchers” is the s­ ub-​­text when Cross (­2007) says the following: We are still building the appropriate paradigm for design research. I have made it clear that my personal ‘­­touch-​­stone’ theory for this paradigm is that there are ‘­designerly ways of knowing’. I believe that building such a paradigm will be helpful, in the long run, to design practice and design education, and to the broader development of the intellectual culture of our world of design. (­127) Of course this does not, strictly speaking, mean that no n ­ on-​­designer researcher can detail reliable design theory. However, given Cross’ compelling warning that the importing of ­non-​­design disciplinary beliefs threatens the quality of design research, the reception of any such a warning is at risk of initiating a bifurcation firstly between (­a) d­ esigner-​­researchers and (­b) ­general-​­researchers; and secondly between (­c) a mode or methodology proper to researching design in which paradigmatic beliefs or knowledge from other disciplines are kept at a distance and (­d) the research mode which willingly imports insights from other disciplines, but which nevertheless might now be construed as a methodological orientation i­ ll-​ ­ tted for design research. At risk too, along with these bifurcations, is the displacement both fi of general, n ­ on-​­designer researchers of design, and design research modes which are open to other disciplines and their beliefs and insights. Because of these reasons, Cross’s warning needs to be articulated with reflective precision so that its reception is critical and balanced. Indeed, one way to interpret Cross’s warning is for researchers precisely to view design by bracketing their ­non-​­design disciplinary beliefs lest these may taint one’s ­research—​­the corollary of that is that, from the point of view of method in design research, one should proceed as if there should be nothing that one’s ­non-​­design discipline can offer. In other words, here one is extremely cautious about one’s n ­ on-​­design disciplinary background, and too keen to keep that, whatever it is, at bay. If taken this way, it is hard to see how other disciplines and disciplinarians could contribute significantly in design research. One might say, with Cross, that “­it does not mean that we completely ignore these other cultures [i.e., the sciences and the arts]…[and that] we need to draw upon those histories and traditions [of the sciences and the arts] where appropriate” (­Cross 2007: 124). Still, practically speaking, in what sense could a scientist, or a philosopher, or a linguist, or an ethicist, or an educationist, etc., be relevant to design research that could surface a theory of design? Their contribution would 43

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not be through drawing on their unique disciplinary expertise; meaning, their contribution to design research is precisely to not contribute qua a person in that n ­ on-​­design discipline, but merely as a general researcher without disciplinary specialization. This is because even if we admit that in principle ­non-​­designer researchers could, by importing their disciplinary cultures, produce reliable design research, such a reception of Cross’s warning is to translate that warning into methodological advice precisely to not proceed like that, but rather to prune one’s research paradigm of these cultures. In sum, one possible interpretation and application of Cross’ thesis concerning the existence of “­designerly ways of knowing” and related claims is to suggest that design researchers should avoid drawing on insights from ­non-​­design disciplines: “­we must avoid swamping our design research with different cultures imported either from the sciences or the arts” (­Cross 2007: 124). To put it bluntly, in relation to design research, the disciplinary insights of other disciplinarians should be viewed as if methodologically redundant, or worse, suspect, even if in principle they may not be. For this reason, I call this manner of interpreting Cross’ thesis about designerly ways of knowing “­the exclusivist position”. But the exclusivist position does not, I think, cohere with Cross’ research paradigm (­which I will introduce in the next section), and therefore is not an accurate way to interpret Cross’ thesis about designerly ways of knowing. In the next section I try to surface an aspect of his research strategy which sits in tension with exclusivist research strategies. I argue that Cross’ research strategy to develop the central case of designerly ways of knowing implicitly acknowledges a need to access work done ­ on-​­designers, precisely by drawing on the specializations of outside of design circles by n their n ­ on-​­design disciplines, implying therefore, a kind of inclusivism. In fact, the exclusivist position if held dogmatically undermines the attempt at a general theory of design or of designerly ways of knowing in the long run.

Nigel Cross: the quest for the central case Quite s­elf-​­consciously, Cross does not consider as subject matter worthy of investigation, when studying what design is, any and everything that could relevantly be called “­design”. Cross’ preference is to zoom in on what design is according to the mind of good designers. He says: Personally I am particularly interested in what the best, expert designers have to say about design, because they may help us to develop insights into what it means to think, not just like any of us, but like a good designer. (­Cross 2007: 51) Here one selects for oneself only that which is worth studying, from among the things one can study. For there are many designers, and many ways of designing, and while all could be studied if we are to study what design is, it would be more fruitful to narrow our focus down to only those designers that for some reason or other it would be more illuminating to analyze. If we had to give a technical name to this approach to the analysis of concepts, it is the development of the “­central case” (­cf. Finnis 1980: ­3 –​­18; also Chua 2013). For there are many forms of “­designing”, but only some are central, and others are peripheral. So the task before us is not to study all of these indiscriminately, but to adopt a normative criterion for discerning the peripheral and central instances of design, and to focus only on the latter. In Cross’ case, such a criteria is signaled by the word “­good”. Good designers are central, and ­not-​­good designers are peripheral. Cross’ strategy is shared by Herbert Simon, who develops 44

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a science of design by studying not any designer’s epistemology, but only those who reason ­carefully—​­i.e., those who according to Simon are good designers.

Warrants for the central case approach This focus on the central case appears to me correct, and compares strongly with the warrants, all transferable, of recent similar approaches to theorizing in other professional, and hence, d­ esign-​­related fields. For instance, in education philosophers had for a time been interested in detailing the essence of “­teaching” or other terms in education, and their colleagues in history and sociology, such as Gary McCulloch (­2000: ­5 –​­6) and Geoff Whitty (­2000: ­281–​­295), respectively, thought this was totally wrong headed. David Halpin, likewise thinking along with the Romantic William Hazlitt, writes: It is fair to say also that Hazlitt would have hated the abstractionism, or ‘­­second-​ ­orderliness’, of those philosophers of education who have sought in times past to define teaching analytically. I suspect he would have shuddered, as I do now, at reading for example: “­Teaching is the label for those activities of a person A, the intention of which is to bring about in another person, B, the intentional learning of X.’ These are the words of the eminent educational philosopher, Paul Hirst, published at the peak of the influence of London’s ­so-​­called ‘­Bedford Way School of Philosophy of Education’, of which he was a prominent exponent. While these words offer a logically coherent definition of teaching, what they say about its actual nature is unrecognizable to this former classroom teacher. Hazlitt, I guess, would prefer, and find more illuminating, sociological, ethnographic descriptions of what one does in school classrooms…” (­Italics mine) (­Halpin 2007: 123) Therefore Halpin lists a few other accounts of teaching from a variety of sources which describe teaching to be “­a n art” and “­an opportunistic process”, and suggest that teachers often “­function intuitively, using in the process skills of imaginative foresight and improvisation, which makes the identification of their intentions unclear”, and when comparing them with Hirst’s definition, suggests they “­get to the heart of what teaching as a form of life is actually like” (­Halpin 2007: ­123–​­124). While it is true that Halpin is offering a different and, as he says, ­sociological-​­ethnographic description of teaching, clearly one can question if these accounts are representative of all teaching, or one could wonder why, even if ethnographically accurate, is Halpin choosing those accounts and not others. For surely there must be some teachers who do not grasp teaching in this light, and for whom teaching is not, contrary to Halpin’s selected descriptions, “ ­influenced by qualities and contingencies that are unpredicted” but rather is precisely “­dominated by prescriptions or routines”. My questions are not an attempt to challenge the quality of Halpin’s educational research. Rather they are aimed at surfacing what I notice to be a measure of s­ elf-​­consciously ­un-​­objective, biased selectivity in this ethnographic ­study—​­a selectivity that is to my mind welcome and strategic; and the criteria for selection is what, for him, constitutes “­good teaching”, which sometimes “­follows no method except that of the personality of the teacher himself…[but which] does not render such activity as ­non-​­teaching, [as] Hirst seems to be suggesting” (­Halpin 2007: 124). And for Halpin, most importantly, “­teaching” that is worth e­ laborating—​­thus good ­teaching—​­is the kind in which (­utopian) imagination has a role to play, as he goes on to detail in his book. So the task for Halpin is not the philosophical definition of the essence of teaching through the elaboration of the conceptual common denominator of most of what 45

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is teaching, but neither is it merely a study of a particular form of teaching by a particular person in a particular place…rather it is the elaboration of a choice form of t­ eaching—​­a nd whether it is sociologically rare or common is quite i­rrelevant—​­which, from his (­Halpin’s) point of view, he believes illuminating, and worth considering.

The central case and the moral viewpoint Halpin’s implicit recommendation is for theorists developing a general theory or central case of something to focus their study on what is worth examining, and what is illuminating lest one ends up with the banal and irrelevant, even if all true. And this is achieved through adopting the viewpoint of the person who has a sound judgment of what is significant in the field. But not only that! John Finnis (­1980), who also explicitly employs and elaborates on the central case approach further argues that such a person would necessarily have to know, in relation to that, what is significant in itself, since this should in turn steer and inform one’s judgments about what is significant in any theoretical field (­Finnis 1980: 16). Meaning: if therefore like Simon and Cross we wish to develop the theory of design or the description of design thinking in its central case, then we will have to do so by taking on such a morally sound person’s viewpoint, because only such a view point can identify those intrinsically significant things that would inform our appreciation of the significant things in the design field. Nonetheless, such a view point is in turn available to the theorists themselves as they work out carefully the very practical reasons identifying these intrinsically important things and their implications. These important things, which a general theory of design must engage and relate, were to include what are of themselves important to seek and do, and the prescriptive rules to guide our seekings and doings, viz., what Finnis called the “­basic goods” or “­basic values” and the principles of practical reasonableness. So, if we are to develop a theory of “­design” or “­design epistemology” in its central case, then, we could fittingly approach such a notion or epistemology from the view point of the designer whose practical reasoning is sound. Such a viewpoint would throw light on professional and design thinking, the latter’s relation to the basic goods and the principles of practical reasonableness. Such a viewpoint is not the viewpoint exclusively of designers, nor is it necessarily typically the viewpoint of a designer. Instead it is the viewpoint of the ethicist. In other words, the work here that design theorizing presupposes is in fact the work which moral philosophers do: the detailing of what is worth seeking and doing, and what should not be sought and done, i.e., an ethics. Thus the question about “­what design is” turns out, in our analysis, to be a question about what matters, and this question is not always competently answered by d­ esigner-​­researchers, but is instead the specialized domain of moral philosophers. Since the development of design thinking in its central case p­ re-​­supposes a perspectival access to the moral viewpoint, which is in turn discerned by a studied grasp of what is truly valuable, then this means in turn that, if the aspiration for such a general design theory is to be fulfilled, design research needs to be pursued ­inter-​­disciplinarily with or by scholars in other disciplines, and to access insights available from work by moral philosophers in the first instance, who may not at all be designers, and through whom some of the descriptions to such a viewpoint have been developed.

The inclusivist promise: saving Simon’s design theory Let us take stock. I have been arguing that any methodological exclusivism sits uneasily with the prospect of an illuminating general theory of design, aimed at an account of design in its 46

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central case. If so, then design research and design theory is better served by Cross’ inclusivist design research program, where various disciplinarians are welcomed into the research of design and its epistemology. But what of the worries that Cross has r­aised—​­worries about the dangers of other disciplinarians distorting the representation of what design i­s—​­worries that methodological exclusivism could have addressed? Well, an inclusive stance at design research addresses by engagement these dangers as well as an exclusivist design research program, which addresses these by avoidance. Meaning, the exclusivist research paradigm is neither sufficient nor necessary for the development of a general design theory; Cross’ inclusivism, however, is. In the next sections, we can see how this might be true in the case of Simon’s design theory.

Design and scientism in Simon Cross’ concern was with the “­scientising” of design. This involves interpreting and examining design through the possibly narrow epistemic lenses of the scientific paradigm, importing thus the values of the scientific paradigm (­Cross 2007: ­119–​­127). This is a danger he reads in Simon’s work, and is true particularly of Simon’s earlier work, which betrayed a strong commitment to a “­positivist, ­technical-​­rationality” (­Cross 2007: 123). The slavishly instrumentalist account of design thinking that positivist, ­technical-​­rationality inspires does appear to paint a kind of peripheral, corrupt picture of design. So indeed, there has been some attempt to distance Simon himself from ­such-​­like accounts of “­design”. For example, Clive Dilnot (­2008) recently offered a more nuanced interpretation of Herbert Simon’s design theory that sees in Simon a desirably critical epistemology in contrast to an unreflectively instrumentalist epistemology. Herbert Simon’s famous definition of design [which is o]ften evoked as a justification for instrumental action, the ‘­devising of courses of action aimed at changing existing situations into preferred ones’ is in fact secondary not primary. The process ends with the realization of previously unforeseen possibilities cast into a new configuration, but begins from an understanding that it is possible to critically discern amongst the potentialities existing within a situation those that can form the basis of a new (­preferred) entity. No motivation for setting in train the ‘­devising of courses of action aimed at changing existing situations into preferred ones’ happens without an initial apperception that ­what-​­is is in some manner deficient ­v is-­​­­a-​­vis what could be. (­Dilnot 2008: ­178–​­179) Dilnot is much more sensitive to the theoretical potential in Simon’s design theory than Cross is. Dilnot’s reading is also more complete, interpreting Simon’s science of design through taking into account the whole spectrum of his works, such as the later 3rd edition of his The Sciences, which captures these fluid, constructive trajectories in ways the earlier editions did not (­Chua 2009: 137). However, Cross might object that Dilnot has overstated the potential of Simon’s design theory, and Cross would be ­r ight—​­at least as the theory stands. Notice that for there to be a critical judgment which calls a reality “­deficient”, it is not enough that a c­ ounter-​­factual possibility be posited; rather, the c­ ounter-​­factual possibility must also be judged as better or good, and so the ­normative-­​­­laden-​­ness of such judgments cannot be denied. Therefore, what Dilnot means by “­what could be” is really, “­what should be”. This is where Simon gets in trouble. Although Dilnot reads in (­a nd possibly, into) Simon these critical trajectories, they 47

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do not seem in principle to be adequately supported by Simon’s own theoretical biases. Simon’s positivism acknowledges the fact of preferences but denies the reality of norms besides the merely instrumental. However, any critical trajectory which grasps a fact to be “­deficient”, i.e., normatively undesirable, and which implicitly posits, “­what could be”—​­or more precisely, “­what should be”—​­cannot exist without presupposing an axiology which recognizes that substantively normative concepts like the good (‘­the ought to be’) and the bad (‘­the ought not to be’) are intelligible and true. These notions of good and bad must be over and above the merely preferred or repulsive, the latter belonging to the genus of the factual and hence not at all normative. They must also be notions of “­good” and “­bad” that are different from the instrumental “­good for” or “­bad for”. In contrasting criticality with mere instrumental thinking, Dilnot clearly excludes judgments of the “­instrumental good” and the “­instrumental bad” as sufficiently constitutive of critical judgments, and I would say, correctly. If something is merely judged to be a deficient means for what one wants, then unless and until we can say what one wants is good in itself, it would be question ­begging-​­ly presumptuous to call that an unambiguously critical judgment: “­what if the desired end was also bad, and in this case was prevented from being realised?” More crucially, a good means for a bad end may not be deficient with respect the end, yet most deserves critical condemnation and design intervention! Yet without the ability to judge these final ends normatively, the possibility of criticality in design is diminished precisely where it matters the most. In the end then, for there to be what Dilnot means by a critical epistemology, we need to have an axiology that gives us the capacity to speak of things or states of affairs as good in themselves or bad in themselves. Yet such an axiology is precisely what Simon will “­r ubbish”. This is true even if we take into account the fact that, since the latest edition of Simon’s Administrative Behaviour, Simon had himself in a commentary on the original disavowed logical positivism (­Simon 1997: ­68–​­69). Nevertheless Simon continued to maintain that there is no rational basis for normative claims of the intrinsic “­good” and “­bad” on account of the naturalistic fallacy, i.e., no “­ought’s” from “­is’s” (­Simon 1997: 69). If so, then for Simon these proposals for intrinsic goods or bads are not normative prescriptions capable of criticality, but merely factual reports of preferences. Put in another way, you cannot simply say you don’t like something or say that you’re not getting what you want and call that a critical judgment; you have at least to say it is inherently ­w rong—​­and Simon cannot say that.

Simon, Dilnot and design criticality All is not lost. If we welcome work in moral philosophy, many of Simon’s earlier theoretical commitments can be contested, and a design theory that corrects these positivist corruptions can arrive at the critical in ways that Clive Dilnot commends as important and in the direction he pressed his interpretation of Simon’s design theory toward. In other words, the “­criticality” in Simon, so pregnant with promise for design in its central case, need not be s­till-​­born, so long as we draw inclusively from other disciplines, specifically, moral philosophy. Working from a retrieval of the thought of Aristotle and the medieval Aristotelian commentator Thomas Aquinas, moral philosophers like John Finnis (­1980) and Germain Grisez (­1991 [1967]) argue that human intelligence can grasp basic values or goods worth seeking, and rules to guide our quest for these goods. Such goods or values are not merely feelings or preferences. Such a moral theory was first defended in Germain Grisez’s 1967 piece in the then The Natural Law Forum in which he offered an interpretive commentary of Aquinas’ Summa Theologica ­I–​­II, q. 94, art 2. Finnis has over the years argued that human intelligence 48

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had a number of foundational first principles that identify for us the things worth seeking for human flourishing, and these principles were not inferred, but rather are insights grasped abductively by persons of experience (­Finnis 2011: 45). When thinking about what we ought to do, compared with thinking about what is the case, Finnis explains that human intelligence works to grasp that certain goods or states of affairs are intelligibly good, c­ hoice-​ ­worthy and something we ought to pursue or do (­Finnis 1983). This was a departure from n ­ eo-​­scholastic interpretations of Aquinas’ ethics that held that ethical precepts were deduced from a prior account of human nature, or a metaphysics of final ends tending toward the love of God (­see Finnis 1980: 3­ 3–​­49). In any case, if the knowledge of basic goods or values was not had through inferring these on the basis of prior premises, whether these make up a metaphysics or an account of human nature, then this is particularly pertinent and useful when engaging Simon’s axiology. Previously Simon appeared to be on very stable ground for rejecting any pretension to derive an account of normative final ends (“­ought”) from purely descriptive (“­is”) claims, appealing to what is called the “­­naturalistic-​­fallacy”. John Finnis would agree that it would be fallacious to derive the “­ought” from the “­is”. However, unlike Simon, he would nevertheless still maintain that there are reasonable claims of intrinsic goods besides instrumental ones that can be known. Indeed, Finnis has maintained that reason grasps a plurality of such underived, and hence, ­self-​­evident basic goods, which are aspects of human flourishing. By persistently pressing for the ultimate reasons of one’s actions, one arrives at a set of goods which can be and are often pursued for their own sakes and for no other, further reasons. Such goods include: life, truthful knowledge, friendship, aesthetic experience, skillful play, practical reasonableness and religion, which mature persons understand to be intelligibly c­ hoice-​­worthy goals that need no further justification, even if one has no particular taste for any of these (­Finnis 1980). If such a moral philosophy is employed as a corrective foundational warrant for the reality of normative precepts, the criticality that Dilnot sees in Simon’s design theory could now take flight. Now, the veracity of the claim that there are such basic goods can be diminished by environments or contexts which encourage the performative obsession with survival. For example, a business or design firm which is under pressure to survive competition in the market place can easily gravitate toward the terroristic obsession with achieving indicative proxies of one’s resilience in the service of consumer preferences (­Chua 2022). This aggravates the cathexic way of judging and relating to everything as merely useful, harmful or irrelevant to our survival, to the point where these basic goods are considered unintelligible (­Chua 2018, 2022). Even then, such a cathexic hold on the agent can be fractured by the encounter with what the early Greeks called “­physis” or nature, the ­coming-­​­­into-­​­­presence-­​ ­­and-­​­­then-­​­­passing-​­away of phenomena that surrounds us (­Chua 2018, 2019, 2021, 2022; also Capobianco 2011, 2014). Phenomena is experienced as dynamic, emergent, mysterious and inexhaustible, and as addressing us, drawing us into a relation of astonished awe (­thaumazein) (­Capobianco 2011, 2014; Chua 2021, 2022). The later Martin Heidegger called this experience of ­nature-​­physis, “­the originary Greek experience”, which comported the agent to recognize various basic goods, such as knowledge, as intrinsically and not merely instrumentally valuable (­Ibid.). The early Greeks, according to Heidegger, signaled their having had this experience (­Ibid.). Nor was this foreign to the medieval ­A ristotelian-​­Thomistic tradition, contrary to Heidegger’s complaints (­Chua 2019, 2021, 2022). Thus, complementing the discursive appropriation of moral philosophy, there is also room for the cultivation of the Greek experience, viz., the attentive enjoyment of beautiful and wondrous n ­ ature-​­physis. One might say, appropriating Heidegger, that the Greek experience is another ground that 49

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should accompany the foundational defense of basic goods, to give warrant and credence to the criticality that Dilnot reads in Simon’s design theory.

Concluding thoughts In this chapter, I have tried to make the case for an inclusive design research agenda that draws on recent moral philosophy in a manner that is consistent, I think, with the research strategies in both Simon and Cross. As shown above, drawing on insights in other fields or disciplines, such as moral philosophy, enables theorists to overcome intellectual roadblocks in Simon’s practical epistemology and supports the emergence of a notion of design that is a criticality in the sense that Clive Dilnot means it: able to critically identify and address the deficient. In this way, “­design” becomes synonymous with an ethically robust manner of thinking attentive to ­choice-​­worthy goals, contrasted with a mere instrumentalist concern for arriving at means (­even if, clever means) in the slavish service of what is liked or preferred (­by consumers). If Dilnot (­2008) is right that many professional designers eschew criticality given the marketization of the profession, then this notion of “­design” when taught in educational curriculums will help our students interrogate and ­reshape—​­i.e., ­re-​­“­design”—​ ­ hatever these professional designers should have but have nonetheless failed to “­design”. w

Acknowledgments An earlier draft of this chapter was delivered at the “­Quodlibetal Questions in Education” ­colloquium-​­seminar at the Institute of Education, London, in June 2011, while I was a Visiting Academic there. It has also benefitted from comments by Paul and Joyce. Studies that informed the 2021 revision to this chapter were supported by a Templeton World Charity Foundation Grant.

References Capobianco, R (­2011), Engaging Heidegger. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. —​­—​­— (​­ ­2014), Heidegger’s way of Being. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Chua, S. M. J. (­2009), ‘­Donald Schön, Herbert Simon, and The Sciences of the Artificial’, Design Studies, 30(­1): ­60–​­68. —​­—​­— ​­(­2013), ‘­Significal design: translating for meanings that truly matter’, Semiotica, 196: ­353–​­364. —​­—​­— (​­ 2­ 018), ‘­­Meta-​­physis and the natural law: golf, gardens and good business’, Journal of Markets and Morality, 21(­2): 3­ 69–​­383. —​­—​­— ​­(­2019), ‘­Physis, thaumazein and policy thinking: on another “­t ime” to think educational policy’, International Journal of Comparative Education and Development, 21(­4): 2­ 65–​­276. —​­—​­— ​­(­2021), ‘­Educating the ­philosopher-​­leader: fieldtrips, outdoors and wonder’ in T. Y.H. Sim and H. H. Sim (­eds.), Fieldwork in humanities education in Singapore, Singapore: Springer, ­23–​­43. —​­—​­— ​­(­2022), ‘­Democracy, the natural law and the educational pedagogy of leisure’, Educatio Catholica, 8(­­3 –​­4): 2­ 25–​­244. Cross, N. (­2007), Designerly ways of knowing, AG, Berlin: Birkhauser Verlag. Dilnot, C. (­2008), ‘­The critical in design (­part one)’, Journal of Writing in Creative Practice, 1(­2): ­177–​­189. Dorst, K. (­2003), Understanding design, Amsterdam: BIS. Finnis, J. (­1980), Natural law and natural rights, Oxford: Clarendon Press. —​­—​­— ​­(1­ 983), Fundamentals of ethics, Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. —​­—​­— ​­(2­ 011), Reason in action, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Friedman, K. (­2002), ‘­Design curriculum challenges for today’s universities’, in A. Davies (­ed.), Proceedings of ‘­Enhancing the Curricula: Exploring Effective Curricula Practices in Art, Design and Communication in Higher Education’, the 1st International Conference of the Centre for Learning and Teaching in Art and Design (­CLTAD), London, ­10–​­12 April, ­27–​­63.

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Inclusive design research and design’s moral foundation Grisez, G. (­1991), ‘­The first principles of practical reason: a commentary on the Summa Theologiae, ­1–​­2 , Q. 94, art. 2’, in J. Finnis (­ed.), Natural law, Vol. 1, Darthmouth: Aldershot, ­191–​­224. 2007), Romanticism and education: love, heroism and imagination in pedagogy, London: Halpin, D. (­ Continuum. McCulloch, G., Helsby, G. & Knight, P. (­2000), The politics of professionalism: teachers and the curriculum, London: Continuum. Simon, H. A. (­1996), The sciences of the artificial, 3rd edn, London: MIT Press. —​­—​­— ​­(­1997), Administrative behavior, 4th edn, New York: The Free Press. Whitty, G. (­ 2000), ‘­ Teacher professionalism in new times’, Journal of ­In-​­Service Education, 26(­2): 2­ 81–​­295.

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4 ­R EDESIGNING DESIGN On pluralizing design Adam Nocek

The redesign of design is not a new problem. Still, by all accounts, design, as a complex ­inter-​­discipline that connects various research methods and domains of inquiry, is constantly reinventing itself, finding new areas of research and intervention, and new problems to ­t ackle—​­from the geosciences and biomedicines to climate policy and homelessness. Indeed, the research designers are carrying out today is a far cry from the commercial practices that characterized their field in the m ­ id-­​­­to-​­late twentieth century. Of course, what the redesign of design actually means, and whether design’s reinvention of itself is at the level of “­appearance” or “­essence” needs clarifying. Before examining what, I think, are essential moments of this redesign, several working hypotheses about the nature and scope of this investigation are worth mentioning. First: while making a hard division between episodes in the history of a practice is in some sense artificial, there is nevertheless a genealogical advantage to isolating distinct moments in design’s redesign. Second: these moments reveal diverse efforts to pluralize the practice of design. The meaning of pluralization will be assessed below, but generally it concerns design’s coordinated efforts to diversify its own meaning, scope, and ultimately, political ontologies. In other words, pluralization has to do with the field’s ability to engage multiple conceptual and practical registers at once, and eventually, to incorporate what is exterior to itself within the practice. Third: pluralization functions as a historical and conceptual ­t hrough-​­line that tracks the design’s remaking of itself. And finally, fourth: this work is philosophical, at least in part. This is not meant to be an apology for philosophy, but more of a methodological clarification, since investigating design’s redesign could take different methodological routes, each one providing their own itinerary through the field (­h istorical, anthropological, etc.). But here, questions of political ontology, the being of human and nonhuman entities, and ethics will be foregrounded in the ongoing remaking of design. Taking these elements into consideration, the chapter proposes to view design’s redesign through the lens of four moments in design pluralization. Each moment not only represents a unique claim about how to pluralize ­design—​­from incorporating new domains of practice to questioning the very Being of ­design—​­but it also functions as an attempt to reground the field itself, effectively, redesigning it. Each moment is part of a much wider theoretical conversation about the political, economic, and ontological foundations of 52

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-6

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designing, and how not to disavow radical heterogeneity in the process of constructing new foundations.

First moment: socializing design It’s worth mentioning that the very premise of this chapter, namely, that design is iteratively redesigned, is bound up with a host of assumptions about the formation of design as a set of (­­semi-​­aligned) practices, institutions, and fields of business, research, and education. At minimum, the claim assumes that design is identifiable as a “­thing,” which, despite being composed of divergent histories, institutional dynamics, and geopolitical circumstances, admit of some form of classification. And, to the extent that a minimal, if provisional, definition of design is possible, then one also has to get clear on what it means to say that design is designed in the first place, and why design needs redesigning. And then finally, who authorizes this un/­­re-​­designing? What perspective grants access to this sort of perspective? Granted these epistemological and ontological complexities, which come into sharper focus below, design’s interest in redesigning itself has a rich history in the twentieth century. Although many of the critical projects might not have been framed in terms of redesign per se, dismantling how design had been institutionally, discursively, and materially shaped (­or designed) was certainly part of the inspiration behind several t­ wentieth-​­century movements to reimagine the field. This was arguably the inspiration behind Victor Papanack’s Designs for the Real World, and his disruption of the educational program at the Danish Academy of Fine Arts through his introduction of participatory and anthropological design methods into the curriculum (­Clarke 2016); it was also embedded in the participatory/­­co-​­design methods sweeping across Scandinavia in the 1960s and 1970s; and it was very much on the minds of Global Tools movement born out of Italian Radical Design and autonomous Marxism (­Borgonuovo and Franceschini 2019). Such efforts to ­un-​­/­­re-​­design design through a host material and symbolic interventions has been well documented, and brings to light the myriad ways in which design’s norms, institutions, and cultural imaginaries began to shift in the m ­ id-­​­­to-​­late twentieth century. This is far from an exhaustive list of strategies aimed at designing ­non-​­hierarchical and egalitarian spaces for design, and to be sure, such a list would likely have to stretch back to the ­n ineteenth-​­century work of William Morris and John Ruskin, and include ­anti-​­design, Droog Design, the designs of E.F. Schumacher and Bill Mollison, and perhaps even the Situationist International, among others (­A rmstrong et al. 2014; Margolin 2019). More recently, one might point to critical and speculative design (­CSD) and its offspring, as integral to this genealogy. There’s little doubt CSD and allied fields have made important waves, and have upended certain trends in ­commercial-​­and ­user-​­centered design and design education. But I also think there’s another story to be told about a much wider, systemic reimagination of design as a morally and politically responsible agent for change in a world undergoing interrelated crises, ranging from the collapse of ecosystems and human health to financial and racial asymmetries. This reimagining of design’s priorities and working methods toward “­socially responsible” solutions, has been variously labeled, but perhaps most frequently it’s been called “­social design.” Social design is in many ways still in its infancy, but broadly its agenda is to encourage designers and creative professionals to adopt a proactive role and effect tangible change to make life better for ­others—​­rather than to sell them products 53

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and services they neither need nor want, which has been the primary motivation for commercial design practice in the twentieth century. (­Resnick 2019, 3) The breadth and depth of social design as a field and philosophy of practice varies: from broad definitions, where social reality is itself designed and redesigned collectively, (­Manzini 2015); to more technical, if still broad definitions of the field. With this expanded conception of design, designers and ­non-​­designers, working across numerous institutional spaces with a variety of stake holders (­corporations, marginalized populations, governments, activists, etc.), c­ o-​­design outcomes that effect change on multiple levels: from shaping healthcare and social welfare policies to cultivating infrastructures and strategies to support ecological, agricultural, and financial wellbeing. This certainly doesn’t exhaust what social design is or can become, and moreover how it engages existing design fields and feeds into rapidly emerging ones (­e.g., UX/­U I, service, interaction design, design thinking [Kimbell 2020]), but it does begin to capture how design envisions the redesign of ­itself—​­from corporate greed to “­social responsibility.” A new design episteme is beginning to take shape: design is an expansive pluralistic mode of ­research-​­practice that has diverse methods and tools at its disposal to promote change in a wide range of political, economic, environmental, and cultural settings. It’s compelling to imagine design fields collectively realizing, after over a century of contributing to social, environmental, and economic inequality, that they need redesigning. In other words: to become part of the solution instead of the problem. Yet, Guy Julier and Lucy Kimbell offer an important supplement to this heroic narrative: since the 2008 financial collapse, and the steady uptick in neoliberal austerity measures, there is a mounting demand to respond to the relative lack of social welfare protections that were once provided by the state through new forms of social innovation (­Julier and Kimbell 2019, 15). Essentially, the retreat of social protections in the global North created a gap in the market: an opportunity emerged for agile and hybrid practices to consolidate at the intersection of organizational and institutional configurations, and operate across professional design consultancies, government agencies, thinktanks, platforms for ­community-​­based activism, and more. The result, according Julier and Kimbell, is a pluralistic mode of socially engaged design, characterized by its diversity (­in terms of expertise and organizational structure), lack of normative structures, and for this reason, ability to respond to changing conditions (­policy, user experience, etc.) that architecture and engineering fields typically cannot. “[D]esign, appropriately, can constantly ­re-​­design itself” (­17). It doesn’t take much to see the darker side of this origin story: the rapid growth of social design is a symptom of neoliberal strategies of governance. Though social design often professes to address “­inequalities,” at a more fundamental level the field benefits from these inequalities, and in many instances, only serves to reproduce and intensify them. This is a point Julier and Kimbell drive home: if the s­o-​­called safety net of the welfare state, and many of the essential services that were once the responsibilities of the state have been systematically outsourced to ­non-​­state actors, then local, c­ itizen-​­and ­client-​­oriented design services and consultancies “­play the role not just of addressing social challenges, but also of producing cost savings for h ­ ard-​­pressed municipalities or welfare organizations.” The flexible, networked, participatory, and experimental practices of social design are created by, benefit from, and perpetuate neoliberal policies. While this characterization of social design and related fields doesn’t exhaust what’s possible for them (­numerous attempts have been made to mitigate the above challenges [cf. Tonkinwise 2021), there’s a sense in which real social and environmental inequalities cannot 54

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be redressed by domains of practice and research thoroughly imbricated in the systems responsible for the inequalities they’re allegedly fighting against. And in the most cynical version of this thesis, social design is still very much a part of the p­ roblem—​­a product of neoliberal systems of governance that thrive on flexible knowledge work, the perpetual deterritorialization and reterritorialization of institutional and disciplinary boundaries, and the opportunization of material and symbolic spaces writ large. Hence, the redesign of design as a pluralistic ­research-​­practice capable of addressing inequality on multiple fronts, needs to be supplemented: it’s less the result of designers engaged in a Promethean overhaul of their field and more a product of evolving systems political and economic value extraction. To imagine a form of social design that actually addresses inequalities (­a lthough it’s not clear to everyone that designers should concern themselves with this [Thorpe and Gamman 2011]) is to completely shift the order of causality. It means struggling against how exploitative systems of political and economic power shape what design, including social design, can be and become. This does not mean giving up on social design as a frame for critical and speculative practice, rather, it means transforming the objects, outcomes, and organizational matrices of design in order that it may intervene in how socially engaged practices are shaped by global systems of political and economic power. This requires a further expansion and pluralization of design: make room for critiquing and reimagining the complex forces that structure the very existence of the design field itself. Fortunately, this plea to incorporate these orders of causality has been met in the last couple decades by a growing number of activists, practitioners, and theorists interrogating the formation of Western design through the lens of complex political, economic, and technological dynamics of power. In what follows, I discuss three, interrelated attempts to incorporate these different registers of causality. Specifically, I show how each attempt represents an effort on the part of design to interiorize what was previously considered exterior to design. Following this, I offer some reflections on what a new horizon for design pluralization might mean: to become hospitable to what resists interiorization.

Second moment: decolonizing design Decolonial design, heavily influenced by decolonial and postcolonial theory, ­ post-​ ­development anthropology, ontological design, and environmental justice, has made significant waves in the design community. By asking fundamental questions about the geopolitical conditions of design’s emergence, the formation of design’s political ontology is coming into sharper focus. Although the critical discourse is still maturing, at the core of the myriad projects that fall under the umbrella of “­decolonial design” is a shared concern for “­­de-​ ­linking” design from what Aníbal Quijano calls the “­colonial matrix of power”; or, what defines Western modernity’s geographic extension and rationalization of several interrelated modes of control: namely, the “­control of economy (­land appropriation, exploitation of labor, control of natural resources); control of authority (­institution, army); control of gender and sexuality (­family, education) and control of subjectivity and knowledge (­epistemology, education and formation of subjectivity)” (­M ignolo 2011; Quijano 2000). As Walter Mignolo observes, however, the colonial matrix of power is no longer an exclusively Western paradigm of control (­2011). This is because technoscientific modernity, whose existence is predicated on the elimination of other political, economic, and cultural paradigms, is now a global phenomenon; and within the last several decades, geographically distributed centers of power have emerged (­the BRIC nations, certain Arab countries, 55

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etc.) And for Mignolo, this indexes the “­­de-​­westernization” of coloniality, since modernity is ­colonizing—​­it’s epistemology is the only epistemology. All other ways of knowing are reduced to primitive or incomplete s­ense-​­making practices. With the planetary reach of coloniality/­modernity, what’s at stake is not simply a geographical extension of sovereign power (­essentially, the administrative apparatus of colonialism1), but the expansion of a political ontology: indeed, the very being of the human is imagined and codified through various technologies of planetary modernity/­coloniality (­­Maldonado-​­Torres 2007). Modern coloniality institutes an ontological division: between those forms of life (­e.g., forms of economic, legal, subjective, sexual, and cognitive life) that count as “­human,” worthy of political and economic rights, and those that do not. These latter forms of life have historically been associated with the embodied experience of those deemed “­black” (­see Mbembe 2013); but this division between human and nonhuman life is determined by a colonial logic that even extends to the Russian extermination of Ukrainians. These are lives stripped of their social existence and dehumanized, serving as economic resources for the expansion and intensification of power. Whether these are the lives of offshore labors or racialized citizens who are guilty before any crime has been committed, their lives are ontologically distinct from those lives sheltered by the apparatuses of global modernities. Returning to design, there are several things to note. The first is that design, as an institution, a profession, and field of research is largely shaped by coloniality/­modernity. This is one of the main takeaways from research in decolonial design: the objects, practices, subject positions, and symbolic forms that preoccupy the profession, from Bauhaus to critical and speculative design, are structured by colonial modernity (­A nsari et  al. 2019; Shultz et  al. 2018). Even the field’s reliance on “­designer,” “­design artifact,” and “­user” presume a host of divisions (­between subject and object, activity and passivity, form and matter, etc.) that are the backbone of the metaphysics of modernity. The very language of design bears the trace of a modern colonial project. This is not to say that modernity is the only horizon for design, but it’s to say that global modernities provide design’s grid of intelligibility, and that incorporating other (­­non-​­modern) ontologies into design risk making design completely illegible to the design profession. The very being of design is bound up with the ontology of modernity/­coloniality. Suffice it say that while social design attempts to redress the inequalities shaping contemporary social life, it remains largely captured by the same system that produces them. And because of this, social design only seems capable of the most superficial engagement with inequalities, since anything more would require upending its existence as a design practice. Such a s­ elf-​­critical project for design would mean inquiring into its own formation, and, more specifically, into how design is configured or designed by highly complex and differentiated systems of political and economic power. By all accounts, design would need to critique and reimagine how it itself is designed. To imagine a design practice that’s designed according to a logic outside this matrix of power, would mean conceiving design according to a different ontological horizon; it would mean imagining a ­non-​­modern being for design. At stake is a reconfiguration of design such that the ontology of design is conceived on ­non-​­modern/­colonial template. What’s needed is a relation to externality that is radical: design needs to put its own being into question by making room for what doesn’t respect the metaphysics of modernity. That is to say: turn what is most exterior (­­non-​­modern ontologies) into what is most interior (­the being of design). This movement from outside to inside design, which (­largely) characterizes the ambitions of decolonial design, even if “­decolonial” is too often sold as a slogan rather than radical critique (­A nsari 2017, 2020), is perhaps most 56

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forcefully articulated by two interrelated practices: ontological design on the one hand and pluriversal design on the other.

Third moment: ontologizing design Ontological design proposes nothing short of a complete overhaul of the Western metaphysics of design. Drawing heavily on Martin Heidegger’s phenomenological hermeneutics, ontological design overturns ­long-​­held assumptions about the “­being of design,” since design cannot be reduced to a Western metaphysics of subjects and objects. Such divisions are derivative and don’t capture design’s ontological horizon. Why? Because design is a part of our ontological condition as Homo sapiens. To fully appreciate what this means requires much more elaboration than I can provide here (­see Fry 2011). But to summarize: for the early Heidegger, the human exists as Dasein, or “­Being There” (­Heidegger 1962, 27). And to be a Dasein is to exist as a “­­being-­​­­in-­​­­the-​ ­world” (­­In-­​­­der-­​­­Welt-​­sein), inseparable from projects and characterized by its designing, which is to say, its prefiguration of the future via its dealings ( ­Umgang) with entities in its environment ( ­Umwelt) (­see Willis 2006). Dasein devises uses for these entities (­­in-­​­­order-​­to) against the backdrop of a relational totality. This means that design, conceived as “­prefiguration,” is far more expansive than the design profession, since it is fundamental to the ontological structure of the human. Design is only derivatively a profession, and it’s primarily, that is to say, ontologically, what humans are: designing beings. To inquire into the being of design is to inquire into the being of the human. Fry’s claim that, “­design designs,” is not mere provocation, or worse, reducible to mundane assertions like: modern design shapes human subjectivity. Rather, the very Being of the human is designed through the historical unfolding of designed artifacts, broadly ­conceived—​­from tools, services, practices to policies, institutions, economies, etc. Still, our modern technological era conceals the ontological power of designing. Modern technology, which includes everything from modern science and metaphysics to cybernetics and ­geo-​­engineering, has a specific mode of revealing being: as enframing (­G estell), which ensures that the entire world is made available as instrumental, or as “­standing reserve” (­B estand). Everything, from the biosphere and its resources to bodies, affects, and thought itself is seen through prism of technological enframing. And for Fry in particular, the modern technological condition ushers in what he calls the “­naturalized artificial,” characterized by its “­defuturing.” This is because the entire planet is designed to become instances of the ­same—​­standing reserve for ­appropriation—​­that cancels other possible futures from emerging (­Fry 2012). From the perspective of ontological design, the challenge is to ontologize design. If the previous section showed how modernity/­coloniality determines the political ontology of design, then from the perspective of fundamental ontology, this is an “­ontic,” and not a properly ontological conception of design, where ontic means the properties and characteristics of beings (­determined by modern technology) in contrast to the Being of those beings. To ontologize design means to radically open design up to its relation to Being, namely, as what is inseparable from the “­presencing” of Dasein’s Being. Design is not a mere means to an end, but rather, in its ontological structure, design is inextricably tied to Dasein’s presencing of itself to itself as being designed. Design is reconceptualized, then, outside the modern, technological metaphysics of subjects and objects and ontologically grounded in the Being that Dasein is. Despite the attractiveness of ontological design, and its deft navigation of thorny issues in the political ontology of design, it has its shortcomings. For instance, the trouble with 57

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“­Being,” which the decolonial scholar Nelson M ­ aldonado-​­Torres makes plain drawing on the philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas, is that it’s totalizing: all relations, thoughts, and modes of caring are under the influence of ­Being—​­the transcendental horizon of intelligibility. The human, its designing of the world and the latter’s designing of the human, is grounded in Being, or rather, exists only in and through its relation to Being. Levinas saw Heideggerian ontology as a kind of fulfillment of Western philosophy: “­the search for meaning, ontology, is philosophy itself.” And yet, for Levinas, there is a “­profound need to get out of being” (­2003, 72), which is to say, there is a “­need to leave the climate of that philosophy” (­9). The difficulty and necessity of “­escape” is announced by Levinas in his 1935 essay, On Escape, where the bottomless neutrality of “­pure being” swallows everything up. But for Levinas, the utter impossibility of escaping Being also announces the possibility of its overcoming: “­The experience of pure being,” he continues, “­is at the same time the experience of its internal antagonism and of the escape that foists itself on us” (­67). By the time Levinas writes Totality and Infinity, escape is conceived through the radical exteriority of the “­­face-­​­­to-​­face” encounter with the Other. The encounter with Other, explains Levinas, “­introduces a dimension of transcendence, and leads us to a relation totally different from experience in the sensible sense of the term” (­Levinas 1969, 193). This is because the Other “­puts the I in question” (­195), since “­the face resists possession, resists my powers” (­197). And to the extent “­the Other faces me and puts me in question” it also “­obliges me” (­207). Essentially, the economy of ­self-​­subsistence (­being’s relation to itself ) is rendered illusory in the presence of an Other who resists all conceptualization, all attempts to grasp and neutralize it via the ontological difference, and thus leaves Dasein obligated to what completely transcends it. In this state of utter defenselessness, the obligation to the Other is revealed as prior to and more fundamental than any and all relation to the self. This relation to a­ n-​­Other, to alterity, cannot be contained, comprehended, or rendered manageable according to the being of the subject, and it is, for this reason, primary. Consequently, the “­being of self ” is secondary to the radical exteriority of an Other, which is the exact inverse of the Heideggerian project. Our relation to the Other, which is to say, ethics, instead of ontology, is first philosophy. Here’s Levinas: “­access to the face is straightaway ethical… There is first the very uprightness of the face, its upright exposure, without defense” (­Ethics and Infinity ­85–​­86). Hence, the ethical relation: “­­being-­​­­for-­​­­the-​­other before oneself ” (­12).

Fourth moment: pluriversing design; or, the specters of fundamental ontology What’s significant about this detour through Levinas is the flaw he saw in the Heideggerian project: its totalization of Being. All attempts at exteriority via relating to a­n-​­other lead right back to Being as the ultimate reference. The inability to escape the grips of ontology, the transcendence of Being, is the violence Levinas attributes to fundamental ontology. Although it’s fairly uncommon to see Levinas’ work on ethics taken up in decolonial scholarship (­save the work of Enrique Dussel), it’s perhaps even less common in design theory. My hunch is that the legacy of Heideggerian ontology looms too large in design theory for other critical frameworks to make headway. This may seem surprising given the tremendous influence p­ ost-​­development anthropology from Latin America has had on decolonial design and design justice discourses.. Escobar, who is largely responsible for this influence, acknowledges his debt to ontological design, and Fry in particular (­Escobar 2018, 1­ 05–​­134), but attributes the principal source of inspiration for his autonomous and pluriversal design to the struggles for autonomy among Indigenous populations in Latin America. Pluriversal practices are, as Mario Blaser and Marisol 58

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de la Cadena argue, indebted to the Zapatista’s cry for a “­world where many worlds fit,” which is where “­heterogeneous worldings [come] together as a political ecology of practices, negotiating their difficult being together in heterogeneity” (­Blaser and Cadena 2018, 4). The pluriverse’s “­coming together in heterogeneity” is the basis for a reimagined “­political ontology” (­5). For design, this translates into a radical pluralization of ­world-​­building practices, where heterogeneity is not something to be overcome but affirmed and maintained. Far from championing an ontological frame that disavows radical exteriority, pluriversal design allows the heterogenous ­world-​­building capacities of the nonhuman world to have equal weight, in an effort to redress the ecological suffering and devastation wrought by a metaphysics dominated by rational individualism. This ontology is therefore both relational and plural: there are a multiplicity of ways in which m ­ aterialities—​­subjects, objects, bodies, technologies, economies, molecules, etc.—​­relate, but no one way of relating is authorized to reduce, minimize, or explain away another way of being entangled. This is an ontological pluralism where heterogeneous ­world-​­m aking practices ­cohere—​­“a world where multiple worlds fit.” With this, the modern dualisms haunting design theory and practice for centuries seem to be cast aside: divergent ­world-​­making practices are affirmed (­i.e., ­non-​­modern cosmologies can be designed) while none of them can be isolated from one another. This latter point is all important for pluriversal design: worlds that appear to be contradictory or negating are capable of deeper patterns of relation that unfold over time (­Ingold 2011). In such a processive, relational cosmos, “­things are their relations” (­Ingold 2011, 74). The modern myth of isolated bits of matter (­e.g., minds and bodies, subjects and objects) is completely undermined: “­nothing preexists the relations that constitute it.” “­Nothing,” Escobar continues, “­exists by itself, everything interexists, we ­inter-​­are with everything on the planet” (­Escobar 2018, 101). It’s not difficult to see how pluriversal design stands out as perhaps the most radical redesign of design ­yet—​­all potential cosmologies are folded into design’s pluralistic ontology. On this template, there is no absolute externality, no animal or plant being, for instance, that cannot be related to as a divergent world making practice. Without absolute boundaries between internality and externality, between self and other, or between the human and nonhuman, design’s “­being” is expressed through multiple, irreducible w ­ orld-​­making practices that do not stop relating to and transforming one another. Yet, what often goes unrecognized, and is a concern among scholars dissatisfied with the ­so-​­called ontological and relational turn in the humanities, is the inability of relational ontologies to deal with the forms of difference that are indifferent to our attempts to relate to them (­through affect, symbolization, cognition, etc.) (­Galloway 2015; Laruelle 2021; Moran 2019; Wolfe 2020). Political ontologies of relationism, which have spread throughout the theoretical humanities in the last couple of decades, and operate under a variety of headings (­new materialism, vital materialism, ­post-​­critical philosophy, pluriversality, relational metaphysics, etc.), tend to ground all forms of externality and negativity in a more primordial plane of immanent relation. Otherness, no matter what form it takes, is momentary and not absolute, since it’s always already known to be an insufficient perspective on more fundamental relational possibilities. All outsides are a matter of perspective. What this view risks instating is a new ontological horizon that repeats the old forms of philosophical power and domination it wishes to overthrow. Levinas’ worry about fundamental ontology returns with a vengeance, although in a slightly altered form: ontological relationism, just as much as its older cousin, fundamental ontology, disavows externalities that cannot be resolved into an already presumed a sufficient ontology. There is no otherness, no exteriority, that cannot be rendered intelligible on the metaphysical template of 59

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immanent relation. The utter indifference, for instance, of the planet, the victim of war, the animal, the molecule, or even the human, to my thoughts and feelings about them cannot be dealt with on a relationist model. Their Otherness is stripped of externality and rendered thinkable and feelable as relational. The specters of fundamental ontology still haunt relational ontologies. This is not to say that Escobar endorses this ontological picture without reservation or complication. There are important moments in his work, especially in his discussion of operational closure in autopoietic systems and Latin American conceptions of autonomy (­2018, ­171–​­172), that underscore the necessity of exteriority and radical divergence. Likewise, in A World of Many Worlds Mario Blaser and Marisol de la Cadena put forward, if provisionally, the notion of the “­uncommons” to stave off the totalization or enclosure that a “­common world” might conjure up (­Blaser and Cadena 2018, ­18–​­19). These moments are significant, and they index modes of externality that require foregrounding, especially as design searches for pluralistic ontologies to reground design.

A Prolegomenon to design hospitality This leaves us with this final reflection: what radical pluralism in design research and practice looks like is far from clear. While this chapter has charted various stages or moments in the redesign of design, these ­so-​­called “­redesigns” arguably share a desire to pluralize design. While social design, for its part, attempted to diversify the reach and scope of design by addressing social inequalities, the field’s own redesign is (­largely) captured by the hegemonic system that produces these inequalities. Likewise, attempts to pluralize design (­beyond its capture by techno modernity/­coloniality) through ontological redesign repeats this totalizing logic (­d isavowing radical Otherness) in a different guise; even recent attempts to give voice to Indigenous knowledges and ­more-­​­­than-​­human worlds through pluriversality leave little room for radical exteriority within their relational ontologies. What unites these diverse moments of design pluralization, it seems to me, is a shared presumption: that they already know how exteriority will be meaningful to them. In each case, design tames elements exterior to it (­e.g., ways of living with, conceptualizing, or engaging the world), and transforms them into something design can hold onto, conceptualize, and manage. Whether it’s the logic of neoliberal political economy (­social design), the transcendence of Being (­ontological design), or the political ontology of relationism (­pluriversal design), these are the conceptual frameworks that articulate the possible meanings of exteriority. Openness to radical plurality, on the other hand, indeed, to the kind of heterogeneity that doesn’t admit of being captured by an already legitimized ontology, requires reconceptualizing design beyond anything we have encountered in this chapter. At minimum, it requires ­ nto-​­philosophical grounding of what it means for design to engage evacuating design of the o with ­others—​­for the practice to be “­social” in other words. This could not be more important today, at a time when the world is in throes of multiple crises (­the threat of nuclear war in Eastern Europe, the pandemic, climate change, financial upheaval, etc.), when suffering and victimization do not take on a prescribed form, and when none of these permit me to find comfort in their relatability. How, under these geopolitical circumstances, might design open itself to the presence of Others, invite them in, but in such a way that it does not evacuate what’s radically Other in them? We’d have to imagine a mode of designing where the distance, externality, and negativity of the Other becomes what is most internal to the practice. This is an invitation to refuse domination in our openness to the Other. Could we 60

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imagine a mode of designing that welcomes, for example, the victim of war prior to or outside of the epistemic horizon of nationality, ethnicity, or legal s­tatus—​­whether Ukrainian, Russian, Belarusian, Indigenous, etc.? In other words: design for victims without already comprehending the meaning of victimhood. This might serve as an invitation to reconsider what Levinas and Jacques Derrida call “­hospitality” to forms of O ­ therness—​­e.g., the Stranger, the V ­ ictim—​­that cannot be captured in an already sufficient philosophical frame (­Derrida 2000; Levinas 1969). Although unpacking what hospitality means in this context requires much further elaboration, and has its own conceptual genealogy in the history of deconstructive phenomenology (­Kearney and Semonovitch 2011), suffice it to say that the necessity of “­welcoming the Other,” of being open to what cannot be named and represented, presents itself as perhaps social design’s most pressing concern in age of displaced persons, refugees of war and climate, systemically marginalized and exploited populations. Redesigning design on these terms is not about substituting more robust philosophical foundations for weaker ones; quite the contrary: it means ridding (­or undesigning?) design of its ontological foundations, of the many specters of ontological authority, in order become hospitable to what escapes capture, to what is fundamentally unintelligible, and prepare the way for e­ thics— ​­“ ­­being-­​­­for-­​­­the-​­other before oneself.”

Note 1 See how Aníbal Quijano characterizes difference between colonialism and coloniality in “­Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America”; see also Walter Mignolo’s, The Darker Side of Western Modernity; and Nelson ­Maldonado-​­Torres’ “­On the Coloniality of Being.”

Bibliography Abdulla, Danah, Ahmed Ansari, Ece Canlı, Mahmoud Keshavarz, Matthew Kiem, Pedro Oliveira, Luiza Prado, and Tristan Schultz. 2019. “­A Manifesto for Decolonising Design: The Decolonising Design Collective.” Journal of Future Studies 2 (­3): ­129–​­132. Ansari, Ahmed. 2017. “­The Work of Design in the Age of Cultural Simulation, or, Decoloniality as Empty Signifier in Design.” Medium. January, 4, https://­a ansari86.medium.com/­­the-­​­­symbolic-­​­­is-­​ ­­just-­​­­a-­​­­symptom-­​­­of-­​­­the-­​­­real-­​­­or-­​­­decoloniality-­​­­a s-­​­­empty-­​­­signifier-­​­­i n-­​­­design- ​­60ba646d89e9 Ansari, Ahmed. 2020. “­Design’s Missing Others and Their Incommensurate Worlds.” In Design in Crisis: New Worlds, Philosophies, and Practices. Edited by Tony Fry and Adam Nocek. London: Routledge, ­137–​­158. Armstrong, Leah and Bailey, Jocelyn and Julier, Guy and Kimbell, Lucy. 2014. Social Design Futures: HEI Research and the AHRC. Project Report. University of Brighton/­Victoria and Albert Museum, Brighton/­L ondon. Berry, David M. and Alexander Galloway. 2015. “­A Network is a Network is a Network: Reflections on the Computational and the Societies of Control.” Theory, Culture & Society 0 (­0): ­1–​­22. Blaser, Mario and Marisol de la Cadena. 2018. A World of Many Worlds. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. ­ 973–​­1975: When Education Coincides Borgonuovo, Valerio and Silvia Franceschini. 2019. Global Tools 1 with Life. Istanbul: SALT. Büsse, Michela. “(­Re)­Thinking Design with New Materialism: Towards a Critical Anthropology of Design.” Somatechnics 10 (­3): ­355–​­373. Clarke, Alison J. 2016. “­New Design Ethnographers ­1968–​­1974: Toward a Critical Historiography of Design Anthropology.” In Design Anthropological Futures. Edited by Rachel Charlotte Smith, Kasper Tang Vangkilde, Mette Gislev Kjaersgaard, Ton Otto, Joachim Halse, and Thomas Binder. London and New York: Routledge, ­71–​­85. Derrida, Jacques (­in conversation with Anne Dufourmantelle). Of Hospitality. Translated by Rachel Bowlby. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

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Adam Nocek Dunne, Anthony and Fiona Raby. 2013. Speculative Everything: Design, Fiction and Social Dreaming. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Escobar, Arturo. 2020. Pluriversal Politics: The Real and the Possible. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Foucault, Michel. 1977. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Translated by Alan Sheridan. New York: Vintage Books. Fry, Tony. 2011. Design as Politics. London: Berg. Fry, Tony. 2012. Becoming Human by Design. London: Berg. Heidegger, Martin. 1962. Being and Time. Translated by John Macquarrie  & Edward Robinson. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Heidegger, Martin. 1977. “­The Question Concerning Technology.” In The Question Concerning Technology and Other Essays. Translated by W. Lovitt. New York and London: Garland Publishing, ­3 –​­35. Heidegger, Martin. 1993. “­L etter on Humanism.” In Heidegger: Basic Writings, revised and expanded edition. Translated by F. A Capuzzi and J. Glenn Gray. London: Routledge, ­213–​­265. Heidegger, Martin. 1999. Contributions to Philosophy (­From Enowning), (­B eitrage zur Philosophie (­Vom Ereignis)). Translated by P. Emad and K. Maly. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Hui, Yuk. 2016. The Question Concerning Technology in China: An Essay on Cosmotechnics. Falmouth: Urbanomic. Ingold, Tim. Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge, and Description. New York: Routledge. Julier, Guy and Lucy Kimbell. 2019. “­Keeping the System Going: Social Design and the Reproduction of Inequalities in Neoliberal Times.” Design Issues 35 (­4): ­12–​­22. Kearney, Richard, and Kascha Semonovitch, eds. 2011. Phenomenologies of the Stranger: Between Hostility and Hospitality. New York: Fordham University Press. Kimbell, Lucy. 2020. “­Rethinking Design Thinking.” Annual Review of Policy Design 8 (­1): 2­ –​­27: https://­ojs.unbc.ca/­i ndex.php/­design/­a rticle/­v iew/­1812/­1369 Kolozova, Katerina. 2015. Towards a Radical Metaphysics of Socialism: Marx and Laruelle. Brooklyn, NY: Punctum Books. Laruelle, François. 2021. The Last Humanity: The New Ecological Science. Translated by Anthony Paul Smith. London and New York: Bloomsbury Publishing. Levinas, Emmanuel. 1969 Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority. Translated by Alphonso Lingis. Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne University Press. Levinas, Emmanuel. 1985. Ethics and Infinity. Translated by Richard Cohen. Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne University Press. Levinas, Emmanuel. 2003. On Escape. Translated by Bettina Bergo. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Levinas, Emmanuel. 2016. Otherwise than Being or Beyond Essence. Translated by Alphonso Lingis. Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne University Press. ­Maldonado-​­Torres, Nelson. 2007. “­On the Coloniality of Being.” Cultural Studies 21 (­­2 –​­3): 2­ 40–​­270. Manzini, Ezio. 2015. Design, When Everybody Designs: In Introduction to Social Innovation. Translated by Rachel Coad. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Margolin, Victor. 2019. “­Social Design: From Utopia to the Good Society.” In The Social Design Reader. Edited by Elizabeth Resnick. London and New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, ­17–​­30. Mbembe, Achille. 2013. Critique of Black Reason. Translated by Laurent Dubois. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Mignolo, Walter. 2011. The Darker Side of Western Modernity: Global Futures, Decolonial Options. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Moran, Stacey. 2019. “­Quantum Decoherence.” Philosophy Today 63 (­4): ­1051–​­1068. Nocek, Adam. 2021. Molecular Capture: The Animation of Biology. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Papanack, Victor. 2009. Designs for the Real World: Humans Ecology and Social Change. Chicago, IL: Academy Chicago Publishers. Quijano, Anibal. 2000. “­Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America.” Nepantla: Views from South 1 (­3): 5­ 33–​­580 Resnick, Elizabeth. 2019. “­Introduction.” In The Social Design Reader. Edited by Elizabeth Resnick. London and New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, ­3 –​­7. Santos, Bonaventura de Sousa. 2018. The End of the Cognitive Empire: The Coming Age of Epistemologies of the South. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Schultz, T., Abdullah, D., Ansari, A., et al. 2018. “­Editors’ Introduction” Design and Culture 10 (­1): ­1–​­6.

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Redesigning design: on pluralizing design Simondon, Gilbert. 2020. Individuation in Light of Notions of Form and Information. Translated by Taylor Adkins. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Smelke, Anneke. 2018. “­New Materialism: A Theoretical Framework for Fashion in the Age of Technological Innovation.” International Journal of Fashion Studies 5 (­1): ­33–​­54. Spektor, Franchesca and Sarah Fox. 2020. “­The ‘­Working Body’: Interrogating and Reimagining the Productivist Impulses of Transhumanism through C ­ rip-​­Centered Speculative Design.” Somatechnics 10 (­3): 3­ 27–​­354. Thorpe, Adam and Lorraine Gamman. 2011. “­Design with Society: Why Socially Responsive Design Is Good Enough.” CoDesign: International Journal of CoCreation in Design and the Arts 7 (­­3 –​­4): ­217–​­230. Tonkinwise, Cameron. 2015. “­Is Social Design a Thing?” academia.edu, https://­w ww.academia. edu/­11623054/­Is_Social_Design_a_Thing Willis, ­A nne-​­M arie. 2006. “­Ontological Designing.” Design Philosophy Papers 4 (­2): ­69–​­92. Wolfe, Cary. “­W hat ‘­The Animal’ Can Teach ‘­The Anthropocene.’ ” Angelaki: Journal of the Theoretical Humanities 25 (­3): ­131–​­145.

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5 DECOLONIZING DESIGN RESEARCH Frederick M.C. van Amstel

Introduction Design research, like most research activities, develops from cumulative knowledge building. Unlike most, it accumulates knowledge in artifacts or Things. In this field, Things are often spelled with capital “­T” in design research to emphasize humans and n ­ on-​­humans’ mutual constitution in the world and in acquiring knowledge of the world (­Telier et  al. 2011; Wakkary 2021). This chapter does not aim to deconstruct knowledge accumulation in Things but to challenge the accumulation of knowledge in worlds that sustain colonial relations to other worlds through Things. Even if those relations are now less explicit than in historical colonialism, they persist through several forms of coloniality (­­Maldonado-​­Torres 2007). Coloniality prevents design research from developing further from the extractivist, racialized, patriarchal, capitalist, and ultimately colonial way of doing research (­Smith 2012). This way thrives from the epistemological distinction between a generalized knower, the Self, and the generalized known, the Other (­Hall 1992; Santos 2018; Smith 2012). In such coloniality of knowledge (­Quijano 2007), the Other is reduced to an object and converted into an instrument for changing the world, like Africans who were first studied as exotic animals and then forcefully enslaved by Europeans (­Fanon 1963). Since the Other is not considered fully human by the Self, it is either treated as part of useful Things of their world or as part of undifferentiated Things of another world. The Self does not know and does not respect another world (­K renak 2020), thus keeping a detached position even when “­d iscovering” what the Other already knew long before. Seeing mostly undifferentiated Things in another world, the Western Self steals, plunders, takes, and extracts what can enrich and humanize their known and respected world. In this social relation, the Other becomes a generalized mediation for the Self to exist in multiple worlds. The coloniality of knowledge is associated with the coloniality of being (­­Maldonado-​­Torres 2007), a condition that shifts humans and n ­ on-​­humans through fundamental ontological categories, i.e. between Self, Other, and Things. Colonial research ignores or carefully releases the tensions arising from this ontological dispute (­Smith 2012; Tuck and Yang 2012). Drawing attention to these tensions could potentially destabilize the coloniality of power (Quijano 2000) and open up for the Other to revolt against the Self, recognize their Things, and fight for liberation (­Fanon 1963). Design 64

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-7

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research frames these tensions as wicked problems, sustainable development goals, societal constraints, organizational cultures, creative aesthetic challenges, and other w ­ atered-​­down concepts. There are exceptions, though, as in c­ ounter-​­hegemonic investigations that seek its underlying contradictions. Among these efforts, I respect and subscribe to decolonizing design (­Abdulla et al. 2018; Kiem and Ansari 2021; Paim and Gisel 2021), a radical movement that tries to cut the ties between design and the Western modernity project. The goal is to open up the possibility of designing from different epistemologies, theoretical standpoints, and economic frameworks. While adding to this movement, this chapter scrutinizes the colonial legacy of design research and explores its subversion for liberation. My position in this movement is of a White cis man born and raised in Pindorama. This territory was stolen from Indigenous people by European colonizers, who renamed it Brazil. I have ancestors in both groups, so I am recognized as a Latino immigrant in Europe and a settler in Pindorama. Regarding design research, I work in an underdeveloped country offering little support for scientific work (­Vieira Pinto 2020). Looking for better support, I pursued doctoral studies in the Netherlands, where some of my European ancestors came from. There I faced the coloniality of knowledge in the most explicit way: I had to give up the research program of exploring possible contributions of Latin American Cultural Studies to Participatory Design (­Van Amstel 2008) because the authors I worked ­w ith—​­Jesus ­Martín-​­Barbero and Néstor García ­Canclini—​­did not publish ­ igh-​­impact journals that the Dutch and European academic system used to evaluate in the h research quality. Upset, I accepted that limitation and studied European Marxist canons (­Engeström 2015; Lefebvre 1991), which led me to a thesis on designing with contradictions (­Van Amstel 2015) that had mild relevance to the context I returned to in 2015. The coloniality of power paved the way for President Jair Bolsonaro’s rise in 2018. Bolsonaro openly pursued scientists questioning neoliberalism and US imperialism, cutting research budgets for the humanities and the arts as part of his “­cultural war” against degeneracy. Due to the catastrophic pandemic management of Bolsonaro (­Pelanda and Van Amstel 2021), I had to work from home for two years, like most public servants. While moving my activities online, I met critical design researchers who faced a similar situation in different Brazilian universities. Together, we hosted a public online reading group on the possible contributions of Paulo Freire to design (­Serpa et al. 2022). After reading some of his works, we studied the authors he relied upon, like Frantz Fanon and Álvaro Vieira Pinto, and authors that relied upon him, like Augusto Boal. These authors wrote about the possibilities of decolonizing their nations from a d­ ialectical-​­existential perspective (­Gonzatto and Van Amstel 2022). This chapter is my attempt to extend this perspective to decolonizing design research based on our recent studies on the contradiction of oppression.

The coloniality of making In Marxism, contradictions can be defined as a tension between opposing forces that struggle to shape reality, provoking constant gains and losses (­Engeström 2015; Van Amstel 2015). For instance, if design research would not have come to terms with the contradiction of designing for the Self versus designing for the Other, it would not have developed u ­ ser-​ ­centered design, participatory design, and many other methods that generate Things by putting the Other in friendly cooperation or in adversarial confrontation with the Self. Nevertheless, by increasing the tension within this contradiction, design research has lost control 65

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over Things, which became an abstract, elusive, runaway object of design. To compensate for this loss, the Other’s experience, behavior, or activity became the concrete anchor of Things, eventually mistaken for one another. The Other is usually fine with Things designed this way, even if treated as part of those Things, because they are supposed to have superior quality to the Things that the Other could produce. Granted, the Other pays back in financial, informational, or affective matters, so much so that the Self gets enough resources for the next round of designing. It seems like a positive feedback loop with equivalent exchanges that tends toward a dynamic equilibrium of forces. However, since the Self continuously accumulates more knowledge, power, and money than the Other, the loop turns negative and leads toward the destruction of the Other (­Vieira Pinto 2005b). This existential condition can be characterized by the imposition of a metropolitan world to a colonial world mediated by Things (­­Figure  5.1). People in the colonial world try to resist this imposition by designing their own Things and alter/­native universals (­explained later in this chapter), but they do not always succeed. This nasty cybernetic loop extends to how reality is interpreted, theorized and transformed. The Other is persuaded or obliged to accept the superiority of the Self and to give up or even reject the knowledge coming from their traditions and crafts (­Freire 1970; Quijano 2007; Santos 2018). The erasure of local knowledge reaches the point of deliberately killing or isolating the local artisans so they cannot pass their knowledge to the next generations. The s­ o-​­called industrial revolution that replaced craft for design was and still is a violent process in both developed and underdeveloped countries (­Canclini 1995; Vieira Pinto 2005a). Design schools and research programs have been installed in underdeveloped countries to replace traditional craftwork. These institutions take advantage of the coloniality of knowledge (­Quijano 2007) to pursue another form of coloniality: the coloniality of making. Álvaro Vieira Pinto has thoroughly analyzed this kind of coloniality under the label of underdevelopment and metropolitanism (­Vieira Pinto 2005a, 1960). Here I reframe his work and connects it to the modernity/­coloniality group’s definition of coloniality forms (­d a Costa and Martins 2019; ­Maldonado-​­Torres 2007). The coloniality of making refers to the international production relations that overvalue the intellectual labor in developed countries and undervalue the manual labor in underdeveloped countries. By securing value through ideology, policy, and market strategies, developed nations design themselves out of underdeveloped nations’ making. The coloniality of making thus manifests as a geopolitical divide between the metropolitan (­designing) world and the colonial (­m aking) world. This division is firmly grounded in the a­ nti-​­dialogical gap between theory and practice (­Freire 1970; Mazzarotto and Serpa

­Figure 5.1 Unequal design exchanges in the colonizing feedback loop (­left) and the attempt to overcome this inequality in the decolonizing feedback loop (­r ight)

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2022). Metropolitan design researchers feel compelled to develop universal theories and methods for the entire (­metropolitan+colonial) world, whereas design researchers from former colonies feel compelled to merely apply and validate these theories and methods (­A nsari 2016). As a result, design researchers working in underdeveloped conditions are diverted from their underdeveloped reality to become conscious of the developed reality (­Vieira Pinto 1960). Since the definition of developed design research is always being updated, the underdeveloped design research remains as such: seeking unattainable Things of marvelous qualities that cannot be designed or used in their reality unless as luxury products sold to their local elites. Nevertheless, the coloniality of making is just one of the aspects of the modernity existential project, which violently subsumes ­non-​­modern diverse cultures to colonized monocultures that cannot fully humanize and become autonomous (­Escobar 2018).

Design as dehumanization It is already well established that design research can humanize Things and, in turn, humanize humans. However, there is still a long path to admit that design research can also dehumanize people and nations. Design research humanize Things by making them work as expected by their users’ minds or shaping them to fit users’ bodies. For that, design research embeds representation of users in Things, such as target groups, ethnographic insights, personas, trained data sets, or task flows (­Gonzatto and Van Amstel 2022). Things should look and feel similar to humans to better interact with humans. Contrariwise, while making Things similar to humans, design research also makes humans akin to Things, or even less than that. What is considered human and worthy of designing for is just a tiny fraction of the possibilities of being human. The embedded model of being human is a specific one: the modern Western white cis average man, a.k.a. the Modulor (­Corbusier 1955). The different ways of being human are framed as ­non-​­designer, ­non-​­user, ­non-​­human, or ­non-​­being. For example, a precarious worker who can filter information in a labor platform or an enslaved worker who can extract minerals are treated as Q ­ uasi-​­Thing, largely ignored by design research. In contrast, the social robots or the artificial intelligence agents built with these ­ uasi-​­Other for the Self, well worthy of design research (­Snelders, materials are treated as a Q van de ­Garde-​­Perik, and Secomandi 2014; Wakkary 2021). Design research treats the ­Quasi-​­Other much better than the ­Quasi-​­Thing because it is an extension of the Self. Things that look like the Other do not reflect the values of the Other but of the Self who designed it, virtual assistants that look and talk like servant women attending to men being a case in point. The Self designed these Things to furnish a distinct world to live in, a world that can sustain the (­sexist) values and the (­patriarchal) position of the Self. But the metropolitan world is built at the expense of another world. Those who designed these Things did not live in the same world as those who produced or used them, and designers might not have considered their use conditions. Even further, those who made these Things did not live in the same world as those who extracted the raw materials to build, where most environmental and social damage currently occurs. The Self ignores and mistreats these distant worlds because they are populated by the underdeveloped ­less-­​­­than-​ h ­ umans, whose capacity to humanize is disregarded. The contradiction between the humanization of Things and the dehumanization of the Other that now appears in design research stems from an older contradiction that emerged at the heart of the modernity project, the contradiction of oppression (­Fanon 1963, 1967; Freire 1970; Vieira Pinto 2005a). This contradiction generates a divided ontology as if one social group (­the oppressed) depended on another (­the oppressors) to handle human reality. The 67

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first oppression relations rose when Europeans invaded the territory once called Pindorama, Abya Yala, Turtle Island, and other names. The colonial oppression positioned Europeans as the generalized, universal, ­a ll-​­powerful Self with the best knowledge (­a nd power) to tell what was real and what was unreal in the world, i.e., the only world they could recognize and respect, the metropolitan world. The rest (­Hall 1992) became a generalized Other and inferior being in handling reality, either an aberration of the metropolitan world or a creature of another world. Indigenous people were the first to be generalized, later joined by other social groups: Blacks, Muslims, and Asians. When Indigenous people reacted and resisted the destruction of their world, the oppressors reframed these actions as evidence of the oppressed inferiority in understanding modern reality (­Fanon 1963). Slowly but always violently, this inferiority was internalized by the oppressed (­Boal 1980; Fanon 1967; Freire 1970) to the point of accepting the coloniality of making and enthusiastically welcoming Things from the metropolis.

Colonialist legacy of design research Design research played and still plays a major role in the coloniality of making. Design research contributes to accumulating capital and knowledge at the metropolitan centers by transforming the natural commodities imported from former colonies into manufactured Things that are later exported back to former colonies. Design research shapes Things according to the characteristics of the Other, aesthetically and morally legitimizing the unfair exploit. Even if tied to fair trade practices, design research prevents the Other from developing as a collective design body, an autonomous designer (­Escobar 2018), or a Self in relation to another Self. The Self does not want to lend design power to the Other because that could risk stopping the exploit. When the colonized realize that they had already designed many valuable Things even before the colonizers arrived at their territory, they start to question their conditions, revolt against their oppressors, and change the circumstances that sustain the exploit (­Vieira Pinto 2005a; Fanon 1963). That is why the Self relies primarily on Things to keep in touch with the Other in a safe geopolitical manner. The Self is interested in taking undifferentiated Things (­raw materials) from the colonial world and transforming them into differentiated Things (­goods) in the metropolitan world. Nevertheless, if the Self pays attention long enough to the colonial world, the undifferentiated Things may become differentiated through classification or fragmentation (­Lefebvre 1991). After appreciating the difference between Things (­a nd not necessarily between Self and Other), the Self may wish to settle and push for humanizing and respecting the colonial world. Then, the l­ess-­​­­than-​­human part of the once ignored world may become useful Things to increase the workforce unless they resist this forced humanizing. In the past, colonial settlers imprisoned, evicted to other lands, and killed Indigenous people that could not be useful to them. Those who survived and integrated into the colony somehow became ­Quasi-​­Self, neither fully recognized nor rejected by the Self. In design research, these correspond to the s­o-​­called users, those l­ess-­​­­than-​­human incapable of designing their Things (­Gonzatto and Van Amstel 2022). Up to these days, design research continually segments users into populations, personas, or groups to prevent users from organizing and revolting. By studying the particularities of underdeveloped markets and their users, design research helps pushing products to the bottom of the pyramid, branding multinational corporations that replace local businesses, and developing digital services that employ the local workforce in precarious conditions. Most of the research done on ­cross-​­cultural design, universal design 68

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methods, design for development, and design for social innovation cannot avoid colonizing the already colonized. These strands of research are sensitive to the social problems caused by colonialism, but they either assume colonization is over or think they are not responsible for that. Failing to scrutinize their position and recognize their (­des)­ignorance of other designs and design by other names (­Gutiérrez Borrero 2022), they reproduce the coloniality of making in design interventions and the coloniality of knowledge in design publications. But design research faces resistance from the colonized. As the contradiction of oppression builds up tension, stability begins to erode. The Other is always resisting the Self, using every breach in the colonial world to regain the denied humanity. When made into Things for the Self, despite not being recognized as fully human, the Other becomes conscious of a power that can be used against the Self, the power of working directly with nature (­Fanon 1963, 1967; Vieira Pinto 2005a). A similar process of conscientization (­Freire 1970) happens when the Other imports Things designed by the Self and scrutinizes their design (­Vieira Pinto 2005a). By looking critically at those Things, the Other can redefine their purposes by making gambiarras (­Boufler 2013), hybridizing the design (­Canclini 1995), producing Things locally, and, in these ways, having an autonomous production of existence. While localizing the production, the Other needs to understand how the Self produced those Things. That technical examination is like pulling a thread that reveals a network of domination built on centuries of colonizing, economic dependence, externally supported coup d’etat, and political destabilization (­Vieira Pinto 2005a, 1960). The Other realizes that most of the work involved in building the colonial world and the metropolitan world was not done by the colonizers but by the colonized (­Vieira Pinto 1960). From that point on, the Other wants to become the Self of their own history. The decolonization struggle begins.

Decolonizing process Decolonization can be described as the historical struggle through which the generalized Other becomes an independent, recognized, respected, particular, and conscious Self. The utopian horizon of decolonization is to overcome the contradiction of oppression and live in a society where biological and cultural differences are not framed as negative or demeaning (­Fanon 1963, 1967). Ways to open that horizon are manifold (­Tuck and Yang 2012), but a common decolonizing strategy is to reframe differences as positive and dignifying. In many cases, the assertion of the liberating Self requires othering the colonizers, particularly those who have settled in that world, to diminish their power and allow new relations between social groups to flourish (­Fanon 1963). When liberation wars are necessary to gain independence, such as in many African countries, the colonizers become enemies that must be effaced from the territory. After the liberation war, the othering might persist in safeguarding political independence and expanding it to cultural and economic domains. Becoming the Other is so unbearable to the colonizers that many of those who survive liberation wars return to the metropolis where they (­or their ancestors) came from (­Fanon 1963). In places where liberation wars did not occur, the colonizers may gradually became the Other to the Self in new forms of coloniality, like big stick diplomacy, underdevelopment, economic dependence, and digital colonialism. Despite inheriting settler privileges from my ancestors, I am treated as an Other by metropolitan design research, possibly because of the design and research that my national peers do are not considered designerly or researchy enough by metropolitan standards. Any design research that does not recognize, acknowledge, and cite the relevant research done in underdeveloped nations contributes to maintaining the coloniality of knowledge, 69

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especially those that run field studies and avoid literature review in these nations. Decolonizing design research starts with decentering and unsettling citations to revert the excessive accumulation of knowledge at metropolitan centers. Reading, citing, and collaborating with Indigenous authors is essential, as they are the ones who started this struggle (­Smith 2012). Further than that, decolonizing design research involves standing against the oppressive regime of “­one big science,” “­top universities,” “­­world-​­leading researchers,” “­publish or perish,” or “­demo or die” which ignores the unequal conditions for publishing/­designing original work. That means inviting underdeveloped researchers to edit and review scientific work, offering lower conference registration rates, charging accessible open access publication fees, etc. Previous decolonization movements started by cutting the periphery’s dependence on the centre through diplomacy (­a s in Brazil) or through revolution (­a s in Algeria). The second step was supposed to be redistributing power and dismantling centralization. Even if in many new nations the metropolis managed to keep the centralizing coloniality of power through new strategies, I still believe that once the focus changes from accumulating capital to crafting relations, the center does not hold. Decolonizing design research may thus advance by taking the means of production to the peripheries, hacking intellectual property, commoning resources and information, generalizing local methods, reframing colonial legacies, and nurturing liberating utopias. Above all, decolonizing design research needs to recognize alter/­native foundational concepts that can withstand the colonizing universals of design.

Designing alter/­native universals The pluriverse is an example of a growing alter/­native universal (­Escobar 2018), giving rise to derived notions such as pluriversal design (­Leitão 2020; Noel 2020). Despite being conceived by a US pragmatist philosopher to convey democratic pluralism, the pluriverse has become an alter/­native to sustainable development, raising the need to consider multiple paths of development and produce “­a world that can fit many worlds” (­Escobar 2018). As inspired as I am by this concept, I am also worried that it is quickly taken out of its decolonizing situation and used to support the apparently peaceful yet essentially violent multiculturalism strategy (­Canclini 2001). The pluriverse may evoke the peaceful coexistence of the metropolis and the colonies, each in their world, without any reparations or change for the historical oppression, which is not truthful to its Zapatista “­our word is our weapon” origins (­Marcos 2002). The pluriverse can better be defined as a universe that can afford many conflicting universes to regain its revolutionary meaning. I prefer universe rather than world because, in that way, the pluriverse no longer stands as the opposite of universe, but as an unsettling synthesis of multiple universes. Then, the pluriverse does not deny the possibility of universalizing other concepts that are not worlds (­Gutiérrez Borrero 2022), such as nation, culture, land, life, etc. According to Vieira Pinto (­2020), universality is just a path that connects consciousness to the totality of human experience. Without universals, though, human beings cannot develop existential projects that are complex enough to afford differences. Going hyperlocal and rejecting universals does not seem to favor the decolonization struggle. Instead, it tends to keep discrepancies as they are, incommensurable and therefore very aggreable. Universals (­and other totalities) are not eternal, immutable, natural, ahistorical and a privilege of the metropolis. If we get rid of this association, we can recognize alter/­native universals in the epistemologies of the South (­Santos 2018). For example, universalizing animal, plant, and land rights. But to get there, we must advance the struggle between modernity 70

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and alter/­native existential projects. Pluriversal design research should not be practiced or disconnected from these struggles, running the risk of carefully releasing tension to keep these universals apart while preserving the unequal structure that divides them. If the pluriverse does not afford to deal with conflicts, it will not go much further than the melting pot of mingling cultures (­Zangwill 2017). Beyond the pluriverse, there are other promising alter/­native universals that can be further designed for the liberation of the colonized: sumak kawsay, ubuntu, hind swaraj, and many others. These concepts are furnishing a distinctly southern way of doing design research in the Global South and in its associated diaspora (­Gutiérrez Borrero 2022). For instance, designers and artists in Pindorama often refers to anthropophagy to affirm their otherness (Andrade 1928).

Affirming otherness Anthropophagy was a ritualized practice performed by some Indigenous peoples in Latin America when they captured a strong warrior in a battle or when a parent died (­Castro 2012, 2014). The person was eaten so that the tribe could incorporate their memories and strengths in both metaphorical and literal ways. In the case of war captives, the ritual preparation could take months and require providing good food and shelter for the captive. In the case of the Yanomami, the human eaters had to observe the õnokaemuu, a seclusion rite that includes several food prohibitions (­Kopenawa and Albert 2017). The ritual was not an act of savagery as described by the Europeans who escaped captivity or heard about the c­ eremony—​­framing anthropophagy as savagery was helpful to justify killing, enslaving, or catechizing of the original peoples of P ­ indorama (­Fanon 1967). Taking back that concept from the colonizers and reinstating its positive meaning was perhaps one of the prominent Brazilian Modernism Movement (­­1922–​­1930) achievements. Oswald de Andrade, Tarsila do Amaral, Raul Bopp and other national bourgeoisie, primarily White, artists from this movement deployed a form of cultural anthropophagy that broke with European forms of doing art and conceptualizing culture (­Garcia 2020). The rupture with colonial and canonical legacies was characterized by critical and creative assimilation of what is worthy of keeping and what is deemed to be expelled. Instead of excluding the Other from the filthy Self to become a pure Self like in the European Futurism movement, the Other is assimilated as part of the Self, in a radical form of alterity. This practice did not involve eating the flesh but the ideas of the Other with the same honor and appreciation paid by the past Indigenous people. The concept of anthropophagy influenced several subsequent cultural movements in Pindorama, which resisted coloniality and the associated divide between a superior and inferior form of culture. Brazilian graphic design research was heavily influenced by anthropophagy ­ on-​­modern forms of expression, in the 1960s, inspiring the combination of modern with n going beyond or in a different direction than p­ ost-​­modern design (­Duque and Inhan 2020). In the 2000s, anthropophagy was a significant source of inspiration for the Cultural Points program and the Digital Culture movement (­Carvalho and Cabral 2011). As part of this movement, we founded the first Interaction Design Institute in Pindorama and pioneered a critical pedagogy in the field (­Van Amstel and Gonzatto 2020; Van Amstel, Vassão, and Ferraz 2011). Not all of the movements influenced by anthropophagy reproduced that practice as conceived. Since the 1950s, some artistic movements preferred to stop “­eating the colonizers” (­Boal 2014). They did not want to become anything like the Europeans. Instead of becoming a respected Self, they tried to stay as the Other to remind themselves of the historical struggle founded on this alterity relation. Inspired by Boal, my students once experimented with 71

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breaking all canonic fashion and graphic design rules that they knew while writing a collective manifesto on social design. The resulting monster aesthetics (­A ngelon and Van Amstel 2021) is a positive affirmation of otherness that enables collective design bodies to form even in conditions of fraught democracy. My engagement with the decolonizing design movement did not aim at perfecting or correcting the metropolitan design research as this would not have been authentic decolonization. Authentic, in this context, means strengthening the design research that contributes to the liberation of former colonies and the colonized people that live in the diaspora. In the Design & Oppression network, I learned that to succeed in this effort, decolonizing design research must articulate other oppression struggles, risking replacing colonialism with sexism, racism or other kinds of oppression (­Serpa et al. 2022). We agree that decolonization is not a metaphor for fighting all kinds of oppression (­Tuck and Yang 2012). Yet, we believe that decolonization cannot achieve its utopia of society with nuanced biological and cultural differences by countering colonialism alone. As Augusto Boal puts bluntly: “­The fight against a single oppression is indissociable from the fight against all oppression, even if one of that seems secondary” (­Boal 1980, 156). Colonization is at the historical roots of the contradiction of oppression, yet we should not hierarchize or isolate it from the derived and entangled relations. Decolonizing design research must run alongside and in coordination with other c­ ounter-​­hegemonic efforts that aim to depatriarchize, decapitalize, declassify and unsettle design. In this way, we might reach a historical situation in which all collective design bodies design for their authentic selves, in their alter/­native respected universals, sharing a pluriversal democratic society that nurtures us all with what we need and desire.

Acknowledgments I am grateful to Mateus F.L. Pelanda, ­Lesley-​­Ann Noel, Bibiana Oliveira Serpa, Sâmia Batista e Silva, Rodrigo Freese Gonzatto, and Mateus J.J. Paulo Filho for their helpful comments on the early drafts of this chapter and all the members of the Design & Oppression for all the critical dialogs hosted on this topic.

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6 POLITICS OF PUBLISHING Exploring decolonial and intercultural frameworks for marginalized publics Rathna Ramanathan

This chapter explores publishing as a platform to bring intercultural communication, decoloniality, graphic design and typography into productive dialog through engaged (­in social and political issues; in dialogical, creative, and critical practice) and situated (­local communities; international networks of editors, translators, designers, illustrators, publishers, and readers) design research frameworks and practices. It explores spaces in which new kinds of documents can be created, with, by and for marginalized publics, and, conversely, how the production of new texts and images creates spaces that enable emancipatory, temporary, or subversive practices to occur. This exploration through design research and practice, is framed by the author’s own context, as that of a South Asian designer and researcher, working in the Global North. To paraphrase Ansari (­2021), “­m any of the concerns, questions, and observations that I am about to raise come from my own experiences of negotiating between East and West, trying to figure out the politics of my practice….” This chapter takes a holistic, p­ ost-​­disciplinary approach to graphic design and typographic research that challenges notions of graphic design as purely aesthetic, or as concerns of form and function, and speaks to the shift in considering the wider politics and contributions of graphic design to societal change. Additionally, it aims to reframe design research, not as an elite academic activity but in the manner referred to by Appadurai (­2006) as a daily human practice. As explored further on, this is particularly critical to undertake considering a global health crisis, climate emergency and with issues of social injustice where communication (­or miscommunication) plays a pivotal role. How we frame things, how we speak about global challenges, how we articulate things visually is something we need to be accountable for as designers and researchers. The chapter concludes that how we undertake design research needs to be rethought (­Till 2021) so that it makes a genuine and meaningful contribution to critical planetary issues. To build on Appadurai’s approach to research, this chapter posits communication as a fundamental human right, as a pathway, and a goal in this reframing of research. Noting that whatever the form of communication (­verbal, ­non-​­verbal, written, visual), we all deserve to be communicated with, and to, and to be able to communicate with others, in a form, tone, mode, script and language, in a way that is appropriate and relevant to us.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-8

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‘­South Asia as a site of investigation’ The case studies of two publishing p­ rojects—​­Harvard University Press’ Murty Classical Library of India series (­­Figure 6.1); and Tara Books’ In the Land of Punctuation (­­Figure 6.2) are used to evidence a decolonial and intercultural approach. As both examples are anchored in an Indian context of publishers and/­or readers, one could question the relevance of this in the wider realm of design research. Yet this is precisely the point; rather than think of India as a national identity or a limited geographical space, the approach suggests using India as a framework in the manner suggested by Pinney (­2013: 172). India thereby becomes a site of investigation in which you can develop a design research model that is relevant and potentially transportable to other models and contexts. This is particularly critical when establishing an equity in knowledge production in design research. To turn our attention to knowledge production in India, there has been coverage in media in recent years of ‘­a lternative facts’ but as anyone from an oppressed or colonized society will note, alternative facts have existed as long as we have been writing history. This is after all the basis of colonization (­i.e., to present reality in a manner which suits one’s own power, needs and contexts). One only needs to look at T.B. Macaulay, the British historian who oversaw introducing English concepts to education in India. When presenting on his findings, Macaulay (­1835) dismisses Indian knowledge based on their difference. He goes on to refer to Indian history, astronomy, medicine, and religion as false, thereby dismissing hundreds of years of knowledge. The colonial legacy is a painful legacy. Trivedi (­2008) illustrates an example of how Indian knowledge was colonized using the Hortus Malabaricus (“­Garden of Malabar”), a comprehensive treatise that documents the properties of the flora of the Western Ghats, a mountain range in India that crosses the states of Goa, Gujarat, Karnataka, Kerala, Maharashtra, and Tamil Nadu. Written in Latin and compiled over 30 years, the series was conceived by Hendrik van Rheede who was then Governor of Dutch Malabar and contains p­ en-­​­­and­​­­ink​­wash drawings of some 720 species which are accompanied by a detailed description in Latin. Apart from Latin, the plant names are included in Malayalam, Konkani, Urdu, and English. What is deeply troubling about this text is that while it was collated and compiled by “­natives” as they are referred ­to—​­Indian experts in the fi ­ eld—​­it was available only in Latin until the ­twenty-​­first century. This text has been largely inaccessible previously because it was not available in any Indian language. Knowledge about India, written with Indian knowledge has been inaccessible to Indians. The origins of publishing and printing in India are entangled with colonial ambitions. Boaventura de Sousa Santos (­2018) notes that colonial ambitions sought to discredit, erase, or appropriate the knowledges of the Global South with the aim of contributing to a dominant Global North knowledge and culture. Imagine that your language is Tamil. Now imagine that the first time you see your language in print, it is to communicate a text that is almost alien to your culture. Consider the power that is contained in this act of ­publishing—​­to use someone’s language to represent back to them a culture and religion that is not their own. Who decides what is knowledge and who this knowledge is for? What is knowledge if language and the visual form prohibit people from accessing them? And what role do we play in this as researchers and designers who frame knowledge for reading and in addressing equity in knowledge production? As noted by Ansari in his recent keynote (­2020) “­Decolonization entails not only serious political commitments but epistemological ones: one has to engage with the colonial and precolonial past in order to arrive at a more nuanced and critical understanding of the present.” 76

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­Figure 6.1 The front cover of a book in the Murty Classical Library of India series in both English and Indian languages

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­Figure 6.2 The front cover of a book, In the Land of Punctuation

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Harvard University Press and the Murty Classical Library of India Many classical Indian texts have never reached a global audience, and others are inaccessible even to Indian readers. The Murty Classical Library of India (­MCLI) is a ­100-​­year publishing project at Harvard University Press that aims to make available the great literary works of India from the past two millennia to redress this imbalance. The series provides modern English ­t ranslations—​­many for the first t­ ime—​­alongside a vast number of Indian languages. The text in the appropriate regional script appears alongside the translation. Rohan Murty who envisioned MCLI was inspired by his own experience of education in India, and it is one that many ­m iddle-​­class, urban Indians, identify with. The texts that were studied in school were Shakespearean comedies and tragedies, poems from Wordsworth and Shelley, stories by Hardy and Kipling. However, missing from it was the same opportunity to partake of one’s own classics and heritage. There were several design challenges in this project. The first was at the time of the inception of MCLI, no typefaces existed that could set the range of characters in the texts in a manner that was readable, and accessible. Harvard Press commissioned a series of typefaces designed specifically for the library by Professor Fiona Ross (­University of Reading) and John Hudson (­Tiro Typeworks). The MCLI design research featured here is not of typefaces but of the interior book design frameworks for 30 bilingual volumes, and typographic design for 19 bilingual volumes in Indian languages with English translations, as well as design and typographic guidelines in prose and poetry genres for several Indian languages including Apabhramsha, Avadhi, Bengali, Hindi, Kannada, Pali, Panjabi, Prakrit, Sanskrit and Telugu; and the Bangla, Devanagari, Gurmukhi, Kannada, and Telugu scripts. The combination of typesetting and design of bilingual Indic texts is unprecedented. These volumes were published in two editions, hardback for the scholarly market in the US and UK and paperback for the Indian popular market. The challenge of this project was to find contemporary design solutions to classical texts (­­pre-​­1800) while retaining their spirit and originality. The research has been instrumental in supporting the expansion of readership in inclusive, decolonial, and intercultural ways. This was achieved by creating a comprehensive typographic research framework for Indic scripts to preserve threatened narratives and to improve access and enhance reading for marginalized groups.

Tara Books and In the Land of Punctuation Tara Books is an Indian publisher founded in 1994 by a group of writers and designers committed to egalitarian principles. Tara was interested in changing the perspective from which stories are told which meant expanding the notion of authorship, the notion of the book and its content, and the role that design plays in the publishing process. Publishing at Tara is reframed as a collaborative enterprise where the success of a book cannot be attributed to one individual because it is by nature, dialogic, collective, and heavily dependent on the work of others at every stage. In an interview, publisher Gita Wolf (­2021) refers to publishing as a cyclic conversation: We think of the book as a moment in time, a picture of a much longer process. There is a story of how the book was made, and then you have the book itself, and once the book is published you have the entire story of how it is received, and what else happens as a result of that reception. 79

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The work with Tara Books is about giving a voice to marginalized people who don’t normally get a voice, through the act of publishing. The London Jungle Book (­2017) by Gond artist Bhajju Shyam is titled as such as both a homage a ­m irror-​­image counterpoint to Kipling’s The Jungle Book (­1894) and tells the story of Bhajju’s journey to London from India. The book has a layer of historical significance: a century earlier, Bhajju’s tribe had been studied by the British anthropologist Verrier Elwin, who married a Gond woman, and wrote several books about the tribe. Bhajju’s grandfather had been Elwin’s servant, so he had grown up with the writer’s stories. Elwin had written in the preface to one of his books on the Gonds that he considered it a counterpart to Kipling’s Jungle Book. The London Jungle Book was summarized by Bhajju (­2017) with a decolonial statement of intent: “­Elwin sahib wrote about my tribe, now it is my turn to write about his.” The other way of expanding reading that Tara Books explores, is through typography. Tara sees typography as a fundamental way to understand and engage with the world. Tara’s approach to picture books challenges conventional separations of image and text and blurs the boundaries of what text or image should do. Research and expertise in new approaches to typography as well as ­non-​­standard ways of designing and producing books informed a collaboration with Tara Books and the publication of an experimental picture book In the Land of Punctuation. This is a picture book that employs typography as illustration. Research for the book drew from the understanding of how typography in children’s books takes primarily a conventional Global North understanding, with text and image separated. This is counter to the understanding that we might experience word and image as equally visual, and particularly in India where reading is a visual act. The project was motivating for three reasons. First, the work was out of print in the English language and available only in German, so it is mostly unknown to contemporary readers of English. The publisher felt the text and the context was still relevant and should be made available to a wider audience. Second, from a subject perspective, typography in the picture book context has, like much of its content, tended to the safe and the cute. The text, due to its political content, called for research into typography and type play for more serious communication purposes. This was interesting within the context of a picture book as a literary but also a social, cultural, economic, and political product. And third, the project questioned our adherence to certain cultural norms. Building on the aim of equity in knowledge production, it was important to challenge the notion that a German poet should only be published in a Western context and only Europeans should work on European projects.

Research inquiries, intercultural and decolonial knowledges This chapter is built on a primary research premise that a contemporary and relevant approach to graphic design and typography necessitates a twofold understanding that (­i) design is not solely a craft, but a fundamental way to understand and engage with the world (­Beirut 2020), and (­ii) this requires the acknowledgment of ­non-​­mainstream, often marginalized approaches to the discipline, in particular, intercultural and decolonial knowledge.

Typographic research and practice beyond Global North conventions and understanding Typography is visualizing language. As noted by several authors (­Calvert 2012; Gruendler 2005; ­Lees-​­Maffei 2019), since Beatrice Warde’s proclamation in The Crystal Goblet, or 80

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Printing Should Be Invisible typography in the Western tradition aims to establish a clear sense of ‘­good’ and ‘­bad’. Warde made several distinctions of the ‘­good’ which gave prominence to the form of typography over intention, and context. Warde’s approach has framed modern typography thinking and is defined by A ­ nglo-​­specific industrial, linguistic, and social contexts, i.e., the letterpress, which converts the page into a grid, Latin languages (­predominantly English), and Western publishing, wherein the author (­and thereby their words) is given primary importance. There is no acknowledgment nor understanding of other cultures, spoken language, or associative forms of typography, thereby creating a sense of hierarchy and marginalizing other practices. For example, in the context of the Indian subcontinent, where lithography preceded letterpress and letterpress was introduced with colonial intent, the form of the book was not the ­codex—​­the page was visual and spatial rather than linear and chronological, and the reader rather than the author was given prominence. Forms of typography that are associative with movement, sound, texture, particularly in relation to poetry produced by little presses, remains unrecognized beyond key figures such as Cobbing, Hamilton Finlay and Houedard. These (­now marginalized) histories are rarely recognized as a part of design research, design history or practice. To paraphrase Fry (­2007), “[typography] is profoundly political. It either serves or subverts the status quo.” In the Land of Punctuation investigated the potential of a ­word-​­image visuality in typography. ­Design-​­led conversations and participatory reading sessions, and archival research which led to analysis of secondary and primary sources of ephemera from India (­posters, murals, street signs) and from European and Russian archives (­catalogs, publicity material, original artwork) inform the book. The research established visual examples of associative typography, wherein typography is concerned with the meaning and interpretation of the text and representing it using visual, verbal, and spatial aspects of typography. Typography in picture books takes primarily a conventional Global North understanding, with text and image separated. This is counter to the understanding that children grow up with where word and image are equally visual, where reading is a visual act.

Intercultural approaches to typography and book design With the MCLI series, the typesetting and design of bilingual Indic texts of such range and complexity is unprecedented in modern book design practice and posed multiple challenges that were addressed through three lines of inquiry. First, to establish a systematic bilingual book design for English translations of texts in ten different Indian languages and scripts grouped into four categories, namely, North Brahmic (­Sanskrit, Hindi, Gujarati, Bengali), South Brahmic (­Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, and Kannada), P ­ erso-​­Arabic (­Urdu, Sindhi) and Prakrit (­Pali). Second, to accommodate two g­ enres—​­poetry and p­ rose—​­in the template design. Third, as Indian texts do not use italics or bold, it was imperative to establish an Indic hierarchy and grammar through the application of typographic rules. There is a lack of attention to printing and typographic conventions in India as well as a lack of standards for typesetting modern Indian languages, as documented by Deshmukh (­1958) and Ramakrishnan (­2010). In addition, examples of bilingual design frameworks account for three to four different languages at most; here the task was to accommodate at the least the starting mission of 13 different languages and relevant scripts. The typographic and book interior designs aimed to recognize that some readers would be fluent in the language, while others might be ­second-​­language or ­third-​­language speakers or not know English at all. It was essential that equity of access was provided for readers of all language fluencies. 81

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With In the Land of Punctuation, it is design and typography that situates universal narratives within a local context. The text was originally a 1928 German poem by Christian Morgenstern about politics, oppression and war that is recontextualized in a modern Indian setting and brought back to life. The book becomes a research space to understand the politics that surrounds typography and language, where ‘­politics’ refers to the power that aesthetics that the visual and typography can carry as a voice and as a language in itself. Typography can be a tool which enables us to include rather than exclude, and to give those without a voice, an opportunity to have one.

History and contemporary practice During the process of this project, it was evident that precolonial and ­non-​­mainstream design histories are often unacknowledged and ignored in current design and historical research and practice. Yet cultural typographic histories can contribute and inform contemporary design practice. Western typography and book design have evolved without consideration for ­non-​­Western languages, typography, or design practices, so the challenge for MCLI was to incorporate Indic typographic traditions, design sensibilities, and reader experiences into these bilingual editions, especially as the books are meant to be both for Western and Indian readership.

Research methods ‘­Politics of Publishing’ employed several different research and design methods. With both the MCLI series and In the Land of Punctuation, primary and secondary archival research was undertaken to focus on object research and establish an ­evidence-​­based understanding of practice and the ­socio-​­cultural contexts in which book design and typographic design decisions were made. This included correspondence as well as original artwork. Extensive research was conducted on manuscripts, early printed books primarily in private and public collections in India and the UK; specialist archives including St. Bride’s Library, Roja Muthiah Library and SOAS (­School of Oriental and African Studies) Library as well as Cooper Hewitt, Smithson Design Museum collections. One of the design challenges of a ­100-​­year publishing project was that it was essential that the system or standards that were being created survived the designers and researchers and provided whoever took this on in the future with a strong foundation to build on. The design act was to design texts while also simultaneously designing a system that would perpetuate. As noted by Farriss (­1986), the key was to combine system (­research) with process (­design). Systems fit parts together in a synchronic relationship explained by function; while process links them sequentially through cause and effect. The relationship of design is seen in motion, continually changing while remaining somewhat integrated. With Punctuation, research played a key role in building a sense of context of the time that the poem was written. A sense of authenticity within the design was embedded through material, narrative, and production. Visual research was conducted over three years using four sources. First, examples of ‘­t ype in play’ and ‘­t ype as image’ from a range of sources with the aim of analyzing the use of typography in these contexts. This research was limited to Morgenstern’s lifetime. Second, investigations into the industrial production of typography and language (­much of the context of Morgenstern’s poem). Particular attention was paid to the way letterpress and typography as a medium could be used in communication of social and political themes. Third, photographic documentation of war in Germany, i.e., the visual 82

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imagery that stays in one’s mind or in the popular imagination, even if one is unfamiliar with the fi ­ rst-​­hand experience of the war. Fourth, typographic testing and the investigation of use of red as a color in a variety of relevant contexts to draw attention for different reasons. With both projects, artifact analysis played a key role in establishing a relevant design approach. For MCLI, this focused on manuscripts and early printed books in Indian languages to provide both breadth and scope of knowledge and practice in ­pre-​­1800 Indian text design. This consisted of looking at objects while interrogating the contexts in which they were produced. The areas of research which fed into the practice were history of the book and printing in India; language, and scripts of India; reading and reader interactions with texts; and bilingual translations employing m ­ ulti-​­script typography. For the Punctuation book, archival research and artifact analysis was conducted to investigate examples of typography in relation to poetry, particularly, concrete, sound poetry, and nonsense verse. The research established visual examples of associative typography, wherein typography is concerned with the meaning and interpretation of the text and representing it using visual, verbal, and spatial aspects of typography. Research through design practice methods using systematic analysis, typographic classification, iterative design, parallel prototyping and evaluation by expert editors and readers. With both MCLI and Punctuation, the design process functioned as a reflective research activity to enhance design practice through the examination of the tools and processes of design making, the critical act of recording and communicating steps, experiments, iterations of the design, and documentation to contextualize and communicate design actions through presentations. The first consideration for the book design concept were the different languages and genres that the design had to accommodate. The MCLI task was to accommodate at the least the starting mission of 13 different languages and relevant scripts. The concept of ‘­unity in diversity’ is promoted strongly in India and is exemplified in the National Anthem written by Tagore. This became a guiding spirit for the interior design, i.e., to exemplify the best of the scripts and at same time, being relevant to the needs of the larger series. It was important to acknowledge that the history of the book tradition in India is not the codex. It is the scroll or the manuscript. Textual content is shaped in part by the form (­tools, materials and technology that produce form). With the introduction of printing in India tangled with colonial ambitions, this was something that also needed to be unraveled. While conducting the research the aim was to pull out implicit understandings of how texts should be set as Farris noted. If it felt like something new was being built, this was not the intention. Instead, the research was reforming what existed for today’s reader in a multilingual and intercultural context. In India, reading is a public and social activity as well as a private activity. In India where there was and still is a sophisticated oral culture, there is a belief that oral communication is still seen as an indication of one’s ability as well as one’s sincerity; it is also an affirmation of the belief that while what is written can always be read, what is meant to be heard must be spoken and lived. In music, polyphony is a texture consisting of two or more independent melodic voices, as opposed to music with just one voice (­monophony) or music with one dominant melodic voice accompanied by chords (­homophony). Taking this as inspiration for ­facing-​­page translations in two different languages, the book design adjusts according to the languages and their relationship to each other (­in terms of length of language). This system highlights the nature of each text and puts the languages directly in relation to each other on the spread that gives them equal emphasis. Following this concept, a grid was developed as a skeleton 83

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­Figure 6.3 Two diagrams visualiing the grid system used in the Classical Library

of the book, which allows different positioning of the elements on the page according to the length of languages (­­Figure 6.3). The template offers a systematic and flexible approach to the design of these classical texts in multiple languages. The width of the text box on the page adjusts according to the language in use and to the type of text (­poetry, prose, etc.). The relationship between Indic and English text on the page results in a unique layout for each language/­genre. The system aims to highlight the nature of the texts and put emphasis on hypertextuality. The page is formatted into a grid which divides the width of the page. While the top and base margins, placement of folios and running heads are set across the series, the side (­inner and outer) margins of the template are flexible. The inner and outer margins allow the text block to contract and expand in relation to the language on the reflecting page. The aim of the spread is to let each language reflect the other rather than letting one design decide the others. This means that the text boxes on the verso and the recto need not be of the same width which allows for the text to be placed on the page in 28 different ways (­­Figure 6.4). As the two languages don’t have to be the same width, variations are possible. For Punctuation, associative examples of typography were classified into different representational categories, forming a type palette and toolbox from which design drafts could be formed. They included texture, movement, location, shape, sound, and color (­­Figure 6.5). A ­co-​­research and ­co-​­design process was undertaken with MCLI and In the Land of Punctuation. With MCLI, the process of establishing design frameworks involved iterations based on feedback from editors and translators working with Indic languages, as well as 84

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­Figure 6.4 A series of 16 different diagrams of page spreads, each showing different permutations and combinations of the grid widths potentially possible on a page

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­Figure 6.5 Four full page spreads from In The Land of Punctuation showing different examples of type as illustration

printers and binders. The book design and typography were iteratively designed with type designers, with the book design responding to the type design, and vice versa. The design was reviewed by language experts as one that befitted the origins of the text as well a modern contemporary reading. With the Punctuation, readers tested early design drafts. Based on their understanding of the pages of typographic play, words and shapes were adjusted accordingly. This iterative process underpinned the aims of the book, i.e., to enable typography and language to expand aspects of reading (­to incorporate sound, shape, texture, movement, color). ­ aterial-​­based narratives In addition, contextual design methods were used to establish m for MCLI. With MCLI, the books are produced in a hardback or library edition and a less expensive paperback, for the mass market in India. The hardback is bound to lie flat so the reader can make notes in the side margins and c­ ross-​­reference the bilingual texts with ease (­­Figure 6.6).

Findings, insights and conclusions The project aimed to establish the relevance of an approach not just to ‘­­non-​­Latin’ typography but more broadly to the practice of typography, in relation to language. The aim here was to make more visible, through design and documentation, a broader approach to typography which acknowledges typography’s link to language, as it is spoken, written, and read both culturally as well as materially. As noted by Pollock (­2011: 36), such approaches provide 86

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­Figure 6.6 A photography of a hardback book laid open with Gurmukhi text on the left and the corresponding English translation on the right

many occasions for learning something about our “­shared humanity” from these works, but they also “­g ive access to radically different forms of human consciousness for any given generation of readers, and thereby expands for them the range of possibilities of what it means to be a human being.” The history of the book which looks primarily at the codex, needs to encompass the histories that are beyond the codex, to manuscripts, scrolls and other ‘­book’ traditions which are rarely documented or acknowledged. Research revealed that there are no existing bilingual design frameworks for the presentation of Indian texts in Indian scripts and languages, nor as translations into English. In a letter written by Tim Jones, Director of Design and Production at Harvard University in 2018, he noted, “­we had never applied the ­facing-​­page translation concept to such a wide array of languages and scripts.” Jones goes on to say that the research “­addressed the critical need for a unified design approach that could encompass a wide array of variation and many disparate requirements.” As discussed previously, existing approaches with Indian texts come from colonial roots of printing which have aimed to synthesize ‘­­non-​­Latin’ scripts with a Latin page, rather than from the requirements of the scripts, languages, or texts themselves. This is a primary framework for research and design for multiple languages that can be applied to other world languages. The broader aim is to show the relevance of this approach not just to “­India,” not just to “­­Non-​­Latin,” but more broadly to the practice of design and typography and the 87

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­Figure 6.7 A double page spread with Pali text on the left and the English translation on the right

relevance of research. Such a decolonial and intercultural typography acknowledges all periods of textual history, not just the dominant and the easily accessible. Typographic guidelines for Indian texts that respond to Indic hierarchy and grammar in the application of typographic rules can enable contemporary reading and accommodate multiple (­a nd new) readers. Indian typography borrows conventions from Western models of typography, converting typographic styles such as ‘­bold’, ‘­underline’, ‘­italics’, ‘­slanted’ to contexts which do not use such styles. The research addressed the challenges of emphasis and hierarchy in texts by providing solutions more relevant to the roots of Indian scripts, for example, by employing color, size, and location (­­Figure 6.7). In relation to the layout, as noted, the design framework was based on the relationship of scripts and languages to each other, on a facing page to enable reading for both scholarly means as well as for pleasure, and with readers of different fluencies. The approach was commended by Walker (­2017: 8) in a paper ‘­Research in Graphic Design’ as an example of good practice: “­Rathna Ramanathan and Fiona Ross’s work on book and typeface design for the Murty library is an excellent example drawing together cultural and historical precedent to inform contemporary graphic design.’” Schulze and Arnall (­2011) proposed that we can design the means through which design happens, challenging the concepts, behaviors, and means of production as well as designing form. The project is not just about the spirit of the design process but about the impact of the project ­ pen-​ through design on everyday situations. The typefaces used in the project are available o s­ource to anyone working in the Indian context. The books are being brought back into universities, are available at an affordable price to the Indian public as well as accessible to an international audience. As noted by Pollock we need ways of describing the world that don’t 88

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just belong to one tradition. MCLI, its purpose, design and production in all aspects are just one small step toward that. With Punctuation, involving children and readers into the design process contributed to the final design of the text, and the approach changed the practice of the publishers themselves. In an interview conducted in 2021, Wolf noted in relation to the research, This has left a legacy that can be seen in terms of the strength brought to typography and design as a voice, to the process of the book understood as an ongoing conversation in which typography also has a voice. With MCLI, the impact of this research has been twofold. Firstly, it has enabled the preservation of and access to Indic classical texts and Indic scripts by providing typographic frameworks and design guidelines for publication of bilingual books in Indic and Latin scripts by the Murty Classical Library of India. For Tara Books, the research has developed an approach to typography that empowers marginalized communities of readers as well as expanding readership in inclusive and decolonial ways. For us to address global challenges such as climate, health, or fake news, we need to acknowledge that communication is a fundamental right that needs to encompass culture and recognize context. In order to build decolonial and intercultural frameworks for typographic practice, we do this through the depth and interrogation of research not as an elite activity but as an everyday practice. This requires, primarily, a genuine need to know and understand that which is not known or understood, rather than to pursue something that is ‘­new’ or ‘­original’ for research in design.

References Appadurai, Arjun. 2006. “­The Right to Research.” Globalisation, Societies and Education, 4 (­2): ­167–​­177. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­14767720600750696 Ansari, Ahmed. 2021. “­Decolonisation, the History of Design, and the Designs of History.” Paper presented at the Annual Design History Conference, online, September 1. Calvert, Sheena. 2012. “­Materia Prima, ­Text-­​­­a s-​­i mage.” Journal of Writing in Creative Practice, 4 (­3): 3­ 09–​­328. Deshmukh, C.D. 1958. The Printing Press in India. Bombay: Marathi Samshodhana Mandala. De Sousa Santos, Boaventura. 2018. The End of the Cognitive Empire: The Coming of Age of Epistemologies of the South. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Farriss, Nancy. 1986. “­Foreword.” In The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, edited by Arjun Appadurai. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fry, Tony. 2007. “­Book Review: The Archework Papers.”  Design Issues,  23 (­3): 8­ 8–​­92.  http://­doi. org/­10.1162/­desi.2007.23.3.88 Gruendler, Shelley. 2005. “­The Life and Work of Beatrice Warde.” PhD dissertation. University of Reading. L ­ ees-​­M affei, Grace and L ­ ees-​­Maffei N P. 2019. Reading Graphic Design in a Cultural Context. London: Bloomsbury Visual Arts. Macaulay, T. B. 1835. “­M inute on Education”. Bureau of Education. Selections from Educational Records, Part I (­­1781–​­1839). Edited by H. Sharp. Calcutta: Superintendent, Government Printing, 1920. Reprint. Delhi: National Archives of India, 1965, ­107–​­117. Pinney, Chris. 2013. “­More than Local, Less than Global: Anthropology in the Contemporary World.” In Up Close and Personal: On Peripheral Perspectives and the Production of Anthropological Knowledge, edited by Chris Shore and Susanna Trnka. Oxford: Berghahn Books, ­160–​­175. Pollock, Sheldon (­2011). “­Crisis in the Classics”, Social Research, 78 (­1) (­SPRING 2011): 2­ 1–​­48. Ramakrishnan, Crea. 2010. Tamil Typography. Email correspondence. Schulze, Jack and Arnall, Timo. 2011. “­Change through Making” Eye, Summer. Accessed 23 March 2023. https://­w ww.eyemagazine.com/­feature/­a rticle/­­change-­​­­through-​­m aking

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Rathna Ramanathan Shyam, Bhajju and Wolf, Gita. 2017. The London Jungle Book. Chennai: Tara Books Till, Jeremy. 2021. “­Research after Research”. Paper presented at IoA Sliver Lecture Series 21/­22: Research Cultures, online, December 2. Trivedi, Harish. 2008. “­The ‘­Book’ in India: Orality, ­Manu-​­Script, Print (­Post) Colonialism.” In Books without Borders, Volume 2, edited by Robert Fraser and Mary Hammond. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, ­12–​­33. Walker, Sue. 2017. “­Research in Graphic Design.” The Design Journal, 20 (­5): ­549–​­559. https://­doi.org/­ 10.1080/­14606925.2017.1347416 Wolf, G. 2021. Supporting Statement to Tai Cossich. Chennai: Tara Books.

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7 PHONETICIANS, PHOENICIANS AND MAPPING DESIGN RESEARCH AROUND A MEDIDISCIPLINARY SEA Graham Pullin Introduction How might complex interdisciplinary design research be visualised? And what might this illuminate about the role that design can play in relation to other disciplines? This chapter takes as an example a design PhD (­Pullin 2013) in augmentative and alternative communication, a field that includes disabled people as augmented communicators, speech and language therapists and speech technologists. This ­practice-​­based research embodied and visualised ‘­tone of voice’, an elusive quality usually locked away in the esoteric nomenclature of phoneticians and other experts, engaging discussion with a wider audience. An attempt to draw a map of the research began by using Daniel Fallman’s Interaction Design Research Triangle (­Fallman 2008) which recognises a flow between different modes of enquiry. The chapter then introduces an inversion of Fallman’s diagram: by focussing instead on the (­previously unmapped) area outside the triangle, other academic, industrial and public domains can also be included in detail. Mapping the flow between disparate fields implies some kind of exchange of knowledge, through design. The chapter finishes by suggesting an analogy to the Mediterranean trade routes of the Phoenicians as a way of defining design research not in terms of a disciplinary territory that it occupies as much as by the interdisciplinary trade that it can mediate.

Making a map Charles Eames’s iconic diagram of the design process (­Neuhart, Neuhart and Eames 1989: 13) is both a reflection on and an attempt to illuminate the activity of design. In ­Table-​­Top Geography (­­Figure 7.1), illustrator Helen Murgatroyd plotted the preparation of food dishes, creating intriguing paths of everyday activities. Murgatroyd was inspired by Alfred Wainwright’s maps of paths and Mark Lombardi’s mapping of networks. This chapter arose out of an attempt to visualise design research. The incentive was to explain the relationship between two PhDs (­Cook 2013; Pullin 2013) which shared an initial project, with the concern that they might otherwise be conflated. In the way that Antarctic expeditionary maps often show the journeys of different p­ arties – ​­perhaps one party returning to base while another strikes out for the P ­ ole – it ​­ was hoped that this relationship DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-9

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­Figure 7.1  T ­ able-​­Top geography by Helen Murgatroyd

­Figure 7.2  T  he Interaction Design Triangle as introduced by Daniel Fallman (­Fallman 2008, redrawn by the author) (­left); The Interaction Design Triangle as used by Joyce Yee to map six ­practice-​­based design PhDs (­Yee 2010, redrawn by the author) (­r ight)

between the projects might be shown on a map. And of course thinking of any research in terms of exploration is a compelling metaphor. The first question though was onto what landscape, which framework, to map the journeys? (­Re)­introducing the Interaction Design Research Triangle Christopher Frayling’s categories of ‘­research into design’, ‘­research for design’ and ‘­research through design’ (­Frayling 1993) are still invaluable in identifying different modes of enquiry. While illuminating, as someone joining academia following a career in industry, this seemed to divide aspects of ­practice-​­led research that felt inseparable. Fifteen years later, Daniel Fallman introduced The Interaction Design Triangle of Design Practice, Design Studies, and Design Exploration (­­Figure  7.2) in a paper of the same name (­Fallman 2008). By Fallman’s definitions, ‘­design studies’ most closely resembles traditional academic disciplines (­Fallman 2008: 9); ‘­design practice’ denotes activities that are very close if not identical to those undertaken when practising interaction design outside of academia (­Fallman 2008: 6); ‘­design exploration’ differs primarily due to the perspective from which the artifact is being constructed. In design exploration, the most important question is: ‘­W hat if?’ As a sign of recognition, design exploration research almost always excels in what Schön calls ‘­­problem-​­setting’ (­Fallman 2008: 7, referencing Schön 1992: 3­ –​­14) 92

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Almost fifteen years after its publication, Fallman’s paper is still listed second in the most read articles in Design Issues (­The MIT Press 2021). Significantly, researchers elsewhere have appropriated the Triangle: Joyce Yee using it to illuminate six methodologically innovative ­practice-​­based PhDs (­Yee 2010). Yee plotted each onto the Triangle (­­Figure 7.2), putting Ramia Mazé’s (­Mazé 2007) ‘­inquiry into issues of time in interaction design’ near the centre of the Triangle (­labelled No.5 in F ­ igure  7.2), and placing Anthony Dunne’s pioneering of critical design (­Dunne 1997) at the extreme of design exploration (­labelled No.1 in ­Figure 7.2). Mapping each as a single point on the Triangle, Yee illuminated the diversity of design PhDs. As used at Umeå Institute of Design, where Fallman is a Professor of Informatics, most PhD projects take ‘­the form of loops in between at least two of the activity areas’ Loops, as the name suggests, are trajectories without either starting or end points that move in between different activity areas. ... loops are crucial in that they represent what sets interaction design research apart from other research: the ability to move freely between design practice, design exploration, and design studies. (­Fallman 2008: 11)

Mapping 17 ways to say yes This map began as an attempt to plot my own PhD, 17 ways to say yes (­Pullin 2013). The overall goal of the research was to provoke discussion about tone of voice with augmented communicators, in an ethos of ‘­nothing about us without us’ (­Charlton 1998). The ability to say the same words in subtly different ways and with different conversational outcomes is all but missing from most communication devices that are based on T ­ ext-­​­­To-​­Speech (­TTS) technology. Typically, any word can be spoken but the only control over how a word or sentence is spoken is basic punctuation: a full stop for a supposedly neutral tone, a question mark for a rising intonation or an exclamation mark for a louder or otherwise more emphatic delivery. Which does not even scratch the surface of how most of us employ our tone of voice in everyday conversation, to convey meaning, exert influence and deepen relationships. However, while people might recognise tone of voice when they hear it, it is an elusive quality that even phoneticians struggle to define (­Fox 2000).

­Figure 7.3 

Six Speaking Chairs by Pullin and Cook, in which found chairs and interactions are employed to embody different ways of thinking about tone of voice, found in diverse academic and creative disciplines

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­Figure 7.4 

Six Speaking Chairs showing Chair No. 6 with its 17 doorbells, each labelled with a stage direction from Pygmalion (­Shaw 1916). The invitation to ‘­please customise’ formed the basis of a participatory exercise, ‘­17 ways to say yes’ (­left); Speech Hedge showing a Toby Churchill Lightwriter alongside the Apple iPhone interface. The tone ‘­Apologetically’ represented by a plant made up of six elemental leaves formed the basis for a further participatory exercise (­r ight)

My PhD research involved two collaborations, each in different ways opening up this inhospitable territory to ­non-​­experts: Six Speaking Chairs, a collaboration with Andrew Cook (­Pullin and Cook 2010a), was a collection of interactive exhibits that made different ways of thinking about tone of voice accessible to laypeople, in order to provoke new conversations (­­Figure 7.3). Each of the chairs represented a different mental model, embodied in an archetypical user interface (­­Figure 7.4). Speech Hedge, a collaboration with Ryan McLeod (­Pullin and Hennig 2015), was a feasible, while still speculative concept that visualised how nuanced tone of voice might actually be introduced into communication devices in the near future. It proposed an app running on an Apple iPhone as an accessory to a more conventional communication device (­­Figure 7.4). Within the Triangle, mapped according to Fallman’s original guidance (­­Figure  7.5), Six Speaking Chairs involved a loop between the activity areas of design exploration and design studies (­­Figure 7.5). This is because it was fundamentally a design exploration, drawing inspiration from Dunne and Raby’s Placebo (­Dunne and Raby 2001) and Goldsmiths Interaction Research Studio’s Curious Home (­Gaver et  al. 2007) projects, received through their ­publications – ​­therefore through design studies (­Pullin 2010). Within the Triangle, Speech Hedge also involved a loop, but this time between design exploration (­the project definitely asks “­what if?”) and design practice, because its reference points were interaction design as practised in industry (­­Figure 7.5). Fallman has approved this interpretation of his diagram (­Fallman 2012).

Inverting the map So far, so good. These mappings visualise the activities internal to design research. But the most interesting aspects of these projects were interactions with individuals and disciplines beyond design research. Presentations of Six Speaking Chairs were followed by an exercise based on Chair No. 6, the one with 17 doorbells (­­Figure 7.4). P ­ articipants – including ​­ augmented communicators, speech language therapists and speech technology ­researchers – ​­were asked to list the tones of voice that they would choose, were they to be restricted to just 17 for the rest of their 94

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­Figure 7.5  L  oops on the Interaction Design Triangle as shown by Fallman (­Fallman 2008: 11) (­left); Six Speaking Chairs and Speech Hedge mapped as loops on the Interaction Design Triangle (­r ight)

lives (­restricted or, in the case of people using communication aids, significantly expanded!) The results were nuanced: 40 respondents between them generated some 250 unique descriptions of tone of voice. More illuminating still, less than 40% of these were ‘­emotional’ descriptions, such as happily, sadly, angry or afraid, which are so often assumed to encompass expressive speech (­Campbell 2005). Presentation of Speech Hedge was followed by an exercise in which diverse participants were asked to compose complex or subtle tones of ­voice – ​­such as ‘­coaxing’ – ​­by combining elemental tones. The responses demonstrated a remarkable shared understanding, suggesting that a user interface based on similar principles might be intuitive to lay people, rather than only speech technologists. How might this interdisciplinary interaction be mapped? Exploring its evolution is in no way a criticism of the ­Triangle – ​­the original purpose of which was to differentiate qualities of interaction design research from ­Human-​­Computer Interaction (­HCI) and other related disciplines. The purposes of this chapter are different: to contextualise design research within less related, more diverse disciplines. So, this is a complementary t­ool – a​­ different way to use the Triangle in order to illuminate different things.

Landscapes and seascapes In his dissemination of the ‘­Designing for the 21st Century’ research initiative, Tom Inns includes a map that shows its 41 research projects within a metaphorical Interdisciplinary Design Delta (­Inns 2010: 10). Workshops are integral to Inns’s own research process, and these often involve mapping exercises. In one, focussed on design management, participants were asked to annotate a p­ re-​­printed fictitious map showing the islands of design management education, practice and research (­­Figure 7.6). Each group was asked to m ­ ark-​­up: Who lives on each island? How do the islands trade with each other? What do they import and export? What are the trade routes? What are the currencies? What bridges need to be built? How do they cope with changing tides? (­Inns 2009: 20) 95

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One participant subverted Inns’ map: they crossed out the word ‘­ocean’ and renamed it ‘­The Continent of Design’. Correspondingly the three islands became lakes, and smaller islets became swimming pools (­­Figure 7.6). This seeded the idea of a similar inversion of the Interaction Design Research Triangle. Rather than mapping activities within the Triangle (­­Figure 7.7), more attention is paid to mapping journeys across and beyond the bounds of the Triangle. So, if it ever represented a landscape (­a lthough Fallman does not use this metaphor, just talks of ‘­areas’) it is now an inland sea. Through this inversion, it is less a map of design research as a map of everything surrounding design research, everything acted upon by design research. A number of minor changes have been made to Fallman’s T ­ riangle – ​­at a level of draftsmanship, rather than reinvention: inside and outside have become significant, so the three extremes, ‘­design practice’, ‘­design studies’ and ‘­design exploration’, are therefore rewritten

­Figure 7.6 Tom Inns’s exercise in mapping design management research with design management as islands (­Inns 2009: 20) (­left); Tom Inns’s exercise in mapping design management research with the map inverted, subverted, the islands turned into lakes in ‘­The Continent of Design’ (­Inns 2009: 18) (­r ight)

­Figure 7.7 Shading the area outside the Interaction Design Triangle, to reflect the current emphasis on the area inside the Triangle (­left); inverting the Interaction Design Triangle by shading the Triangle, with the area outside left open for mapping (­r ight)

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just inside the triangle. On the other hand, ‘­industry’, ‘­academia’ and ‘­society at large’ are written outside the triangle (­­Figure  7.7). And, since there is no written reference to any asymmetry of the triangle, or of any hierarchy between its three points, I have redrawn it throughout this chapter as an equilateral triangle.

Remapping 17 ways to say yes In attempting to remap the projects as much outside as inside the Triangle, the first challenge is to identify the disciplines, fields and communities, beyond design research, that they involved. The area of augmented communication for people with complex communication needs is itself complex. It involves speech, disability and technology (­H igginbotham 2010) and the overlaps between them: speech and disability overlap in the field of augmentative and alternative communication (­­AAC – which ​­ also includes sign language and paper communication sheets, so is not always based on ‘­technology’ in the digital sense); disability and technology overlap in the area of assistive technology which also includes wheelchairs and hearing aids; technology and speech overlap in the area of speech technology, including speech recognition and speech synthesis. The next step is to orientate these disciplines to the axes of the Triangle. Looking at the primary areas of speech, disability and technology: Six Speaking Chairs involved the study of speech outside of disability or technology, including the academic disciplines of phonetics and linguistics, so ‘­speech’ can be aligned with ‘­other disciplines’, adjacent to design studies; although ‘­d isability studies’ is also an academic field, the mantra ‘­nothing about us without us’ (­Charlton 1998) makes it appropriate to align ‘­d isability’ with Fallman’s ‘­society at large’, adjacent to design exploration; technology, in this case digital technology, is closely associated with ‘­industry’ and adjacent to design practice (­­Figure 7.8). This means that the overlaps between these fundamental fields have fallen as follows: AAC is positioned between academia and society at l­arge  – ​­which feels appropriate for a field rooted in clinical practice and with a strong participation of disabled people; assistive technology is positioned somewhere between industry and society at l­arge – which ​­ might mean between mainstream markets and the particular needs of disabled people; speech technology is positioned between academia and ­industry – ​­which feels appropriate for an area in which innovation often begins in research labs. (­Of course, alternative orientations would be ­possible – ​­for example if disability and speech were swapped, this would give a different perspective again.)

Beyond the triangle The differing nature, role and audiences for the two projects, Six Speaking Chairs and Speech Hedge, lend them quite different traces on the map (­­Figure 7.8). The first incarnations of this were reminiscent of Murgatroyd’s plotting, with events marked individually. The version presented here is simplified and more reminiscent of Eames’s d­ iagram – ​­although the act of mapping itself may well be where the main value lies to the researcher. Beyond the Triangle, Six Speaking Chairs involved deep excursions into unfamiliar territory, so the mental models represented by each chair are not invented so much as uncovered. They are found objects from foreign fields. As such, the creation of the chairs was as much an act of curation as of ­design – which ​­ is one reason why it employs found chairs, rather than new or specially designed ones (­Pullin 2010). The expeditionary nature of the study is discernable in the mapping. These incursions inland provided raw materials for the design 97

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­Figure 7.8 

Mapping the circulation of knowledge and ideas on Six Speaking Chairs and Speech Hedge using the Triangle. Dotted lines show excursions ‘­i nland’, particularly incursions into linguistics, phonetics and the theatre to gather models of tone of voice. The arrow shows the flow of ideas to the primary audience: augmentative and alternative communication

e­ xploration – ​­including references as diverse as the playwright George Bernard Shaw and linguist Nick Campbell (­Campbell 2005; Shaw 1916)  – ​­yet were not integrated into the activity of design. Outside the Triangle, Speech Hedge was much more informed by the state of the art in speech technology and in particular the Centre for Speech Technology Research at the University of Edinburgh (­Clark et al. 2007) – ​­but there was also more spontaneous inspiration from contemporary interaction design and graphic design, in particular the textiles of Orla Kiely (­2010), which are part of design practice. These sources are more familiar to designers (­they are closer to the coast of our inland sea). The role of Speech Hedge, in contrast to that of the chairs, was to integrate disparate perspectives on tone of voice into a coherent and approachable whole. While both projects lent themselves to several diverse audiences, their roles were quite different. The role of Six Speaking Chairs was to encourage divergent thinking and their 98

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ambiguity as objects, as well as their multitude, is an important mechanism. Speech Hedge presented a much clearer “­what if?” The ambition for Speech Hedge is to influence the assistive technology industry. Whereas the aspiration for Six Speaking Chairs would first be to influence future research into augmentative and alternative ­communication – its ​­ role is more indirect, catalytic, provocative.

Exploration and trade The field of AAC involves people with complex communication needs, speech and language therapists and researchers, as well as manufacturers, so for this reason it is placed m ­ id-​­way between disability and speech, society and academia. It is here that the research is intended to have the most influence (­this chapter being a b­ y-​­product rather than the original goal). An important ­hub – a​­ place returned to again and ­again – ​­was the biennial conference of the International Society of AAC (­ISAAC): initially sounding out the idea of applying critical design to this area (­Pullin and Alm 2006); introducing the Six Speaking Chairs and eliciting responses to the 17 ways exercise (­Pullin and Cook 2008); sharing the first insights from the Six Speaking Chairs (­Pullin and Cook 2010b); provoking a the state of the science conference in Baltimore through a keynote address (­Pullin 2012); publishing a fully p­ eer-​­reviewed paper in the academic journal AAC (­Pullin and Hennig 2015).

Returning to Fallman and Frayling Beyond the specifics of these two projects, in their landscape of speech, disability and technology, does this mapping illuminate anything more generic about interdisciplinary design research? One observation is that while the areas inside the Triangle are generic, the whole point being that they are common to any (­interaction) design research, the areas outside are ­project-​­specific. Speech, disability and technology refer to 17 ways to say yes, but not to Dunne, Mazé or Fallman’s own PhD students’ projects. Being more specific about these illuminates the relationship between academia, society at large and industry: it acknowledges that these already have relationships with each other and that these existing relationships are part of the context in which design research takes place: it may facilitate new connections, but it is rarely the sole bridge between them. Returning to the origins of our inverted map, Fallman is supportive of this exploratory evolution of the Triangle in order to illuminate different aspects of design research. “­Your idea of looping outside of the model is a valid contribution and one which happens a lot in all kinds of design research” he says (­Fallman 2012). Returning to Frayling, the mapping illuminates the role of design research. In the case of the Six Speaking Chairs it is certainly not just that disciplines such as phonetics and linguistics were mined for knowledge to be brought into design itself: these insights became valuable when conveyed to the communities of augmentative and alternative communication and even back to speech technology (­Pullin and Cook 2013). Which more clearly positions this activity not as research for design, but research through design.

A Medidisciplinary Sea Having begun with exploration as an evocative metaphor for research, this conveying of knowledge between disciplines alludes even more closely to trade. The circulation around the map with a ‘­sea’ at its centre brings to mind the ancient Mediterranean ­trade-​­routes of 99

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­Figure 7.9 Mapping ancient c­ ivilisations – ancient ​­ Egypt, defined by its territory, as an analogy for a traditional specialist discipline (­left); ancient Phoenicia, defined by its Mediterranean trade ­routes – ​­a possible analogy for design research? (­r ight)

the Phoenicians. “­We could say of ancient Phoenicia that it was an early version of a ­world-​ ­economy, surrounded by great empires” (­Braudel 1984). “­Maritime trade, not territory, defined their sphere” (­Abulafia 2011: 64). This situates Phoenicia among other civilisations, without laying claim to their territories. Perhaps an analogy might be made with design, positioning design in the spaces between other disciplines, without laying claim to their disciplinary territories? (­­Figure 7.9). At the same time this advocates that design research can play a unique role in interdisciplinary research. Amidst terms such as multidisciplinary, interdisciplinary, transdisciplinary, ​­ themselves make no distinction between the disciplines i­nvolved –​ ­postdisciplinary – which ­perhaps this role for design research might even be described as Medidisciplinary. Design research is not just playing a collaborative, but a mediating role.

Acknowledgements Thanks to Seaton Baxter, Andrew Cook, Tom Inns, Mike Press and Daniel Fallman for their help and generosity in commenting on drafts of the original paper and to the editors and reviewers for their suggestions for improving this revision.

References Abulafia, David. 2011. The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean. London: Allen Lane. Braudel, Fernand. 1984. The Perspective of the World, Vol. 3 (­Civilization and Capitalism, ­15th–​­18th Century), translated by Siân Reynolds. London: Collins. Campbell, Nick. 2005. “­Getting to the Heart of the Matter: Speech as the Expression of Affect, Rather Than Just Text or Language”, Language Resources & Evaluation 39 (­1): 1­ 09–​­118. Charlton, James. 1998. Nothing About Us Without Us. Berkeley: University of California Press. Clark, Robert, Korin Richmond, and Simon King. 2007. “­Multisyn: O ­ pen-​­Domain Unit Selection for the Festival Speech Synthesis System”, Speech Communication 49 (­4): 3­ 17–​­330. Cook, Andrew. 2013. Studying Interaction Design by Designing Interactions With Tone Of Voice. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Dundee. Dunne, Anthony. 1997. Hertzian Tales: An Investigation into the Critical and Aesthetic Potential of the Electronic Product as a ­Post-​­Optimal Object. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Royal College of Art, London. Dunne Antony, and Fiona Raby. 2001. Design Noir: The Secret Life of Electronic Objects. Basel: August/­ Birkhäuser. Fallman, Daniel. 2008. “­The Interaction Design Research Triangle of Design Practice, Design Exploration, and Design Studies”, Design Issues 24 (­3): ­4 –​­18. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Available online

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Phoneticians, Phoenicians and mapping design research at: https://­d irect.mit.edu/­desi/­a rticle/­24/­3/­4/­60187/­­The-­​­­Interaction-­​­­Design-­​­­Research-­​­­Triangle-­​­­ of-​­Design accessed 28 October 2021. Fallman, Daniel. 2012. Personal communication with author. Fallman, Daniel, and Erik Stolterman. 2010. “­Establishing Criteria of Rigour and Relevance in Interaction Design Research”, Digital Creativity 21 (­4): 2­ 65–​­272. Fox, Anthony. 2000. Prosodic Features and Prosodic Structure: The Phonology of Suprasegmentals. Oxford University Press. Frayling, Christopher. 1993. “­Research in Art and Design”, Royal College of Art Research Papers 1 (­1): ­1–​­15. London: Royal College of Art. Gaver, William, Jo Bowers, Andrew Boucher, Andy Law, Sarah Pennington, and Brendan Walker. 2007. “­E lectronic Furniture for the Curious Home: Assessing Ludic Design in the Field”, International Journal of HCI 22 (­1&2): ­119–​­152. Higginbotham, Jeffery. 2010. “­Humanizing Vox Artificialis: The Role of Speech Synthesis in Augmentative and Alternative Communication”, in Computer Synthesized Speech Technologies: Tools for Aiding Iimpairment, edited by John Mullennix, and Steven Stern. New York: Hershey. Inns, Tom, ed. 2010. Designing for the 21st Century: Interdisciplinary Methods and Findings. Farnham: Gower. Inns, Tom. 2009. “­Outputs from Workshop Activities”, European Forum for Design Management Research, 1­ 0–​­11 December, Gothenberg, Sweden. Kiely, Orla. 2010. Pattern. London: Conran Octopus. Mazé, Ramia. 2007. Occupying Time: Design, Technology and the Form of Interaction. Stockholm: Axl Books. MIT Press Journals. 2021. “­Design Issues: Most Read [Articles]”. Available online at: https://­d irect. mit.edu/­desi accessed 28 October 2021. Neuhart, John, Marilyn Neuhart, and Ray Eames. 1989. Eames Design: The Work of the Office of Charles and Ray Eames. New York: Harry N. Abrams. Pullin, Graham. 2010. “­Creating and Curating Design Collections, from Social Mobiles to the Museum of Lost Interactions and Six Speaking Chairs”, Design and Culture 2 (­3): ­309–​­328. London: Berg. Pullin, Graham. 2012. “­I Think We Need to Talk about Tone Of Voice (­a nd I Know We Need to Talk about Design)”. Keynote presented at A ­ AC–​­RERC State of the Science Conference, June 28, Baltimore. Pullin, Graham. 2013. 17 Ways to Say Yes, Exploring Tone Of Voice in Augmentative Communication and Designing New Interactions with Speech Synthesis. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Dundee. Pullin, Graham, and Norman Alm. 2006 “­The Speaking Mobile Phone: Provoking New Approaches to AAC Design”, presented at ISAAC 2006, July 2­ 9–​­August 5, Düsseldorf. Pullin, Graham, and Andrew Cook. 2008. “­Six Speaking Chairs to Provoke Discussion About Expressive AAC”, presented at ISAAC 2008, August ­2 –​­7, Montréal. Pullin, Graham, and Andrew Cook. 2010a. “‘­Six Speaking Chairs (­Not Directly) for People Who Cannot Speak”, Interactions 17 (­5): ­38–​­42. New York: ACM. Pullin, Graham, and Andrew Cook. 2010b. “­Insights from the Six Speaking Chairs”, presented at ISAAC 2010, July 2­ 4–​­29, Barcelona. Pullin, Graham, and Andrew Cook. 2013. “­The Value of Visualizing Tone of Voice”, Logopedics Phoniatrics Vocology 38: ­105–​­114. Pullin, Graham, and Shannon and Hennig. 2015. “­17 Ways to Say Yes: Toward Nuanced Tone Of Voice in AAC and Speech Technology”, Augmentative and Alternative Communication 31 (­5): 1­ 70–​­180. Informa Healthcare. Available online: https://­w ww.tandfonline.com/­doi/­f ull/­10.3109/­07434618. 2015.1037930 accessed 31 October 2021. Schön, Donald. 1992. “­Designing as Reflective Conversation with the Materials of a Design Situation”, Research in Engineering Design 3 (­3):­131–​­147. Shaw, George Bernard. 1916. Pygmalion. London: Constable. Yee, Joyce. 2010. “­Methodological Innovation in ­Practice-​­Based Design Doctorates”, Journal of Research Practice 6 (­2). Available online: http://­jrp.icaap.org/­index.php/­jrp/­a rticle/­v iew/­196 accessed 2 June 2014.

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8 FOUR ANALYTIC CULTURES IN DESIGN RESEARCH Ilpo Koskinen

Analytic practices in design research Design research has gone through several phases over the last 60 years. The first serious attempts to lay design on scientific foundations took place in HfG Ulm, and slightly later in architectural programs in the United States and at the Royal College of Art in London. Most key figures involved in these efforts had, however, given up hope of turning design into a science by the early 1970s. Tomas Maldonado called them immature; J. C. Jones told designers to turn to art; Christopher Alexander famously told designers to “ ­forget the whole thing” (­A lexander 1971; Jones 1984; Maldonado 1984). The disappointment to p­ ost-​­war optimistic dreams of building a rational society was part of the Zeitgeist of the late sixties, and design could not escape it. What we were left with were a few research departments in design schools, lukewarm enthusiasm among practitioners, and few significant academic contributions. With the exceptions of ergonomics and foundational work in how designers solve problems, design research reduced to history and with the wake of postmodernism, cultural studies (­for example, Dreyfuss 1967; Lawson 1980; Cross 2007). Useful as they were in teaching, they tended to widen the gap between design and research. Fresh interest in design research came from several corners in the 1980s and the 1990s. The 1980s saw the first steps of design management, but a broader renewed interest in research had to wait until the 1990s, when design first turned digital, and slightly later, when communications technologies began to change the technological base of design. These tech​­ is the “­shape” of software? As the problem nologies, however, had no obvious ­form – what designers faced was what to design, not how to design, designers turned to user research. In slightly over ten years, design had got several new research communities, like usability and user experience researchers, ethnographers, sociologists, even some natural scientists, management scholars, computer scientists and engineers of many persuasions, and “­­practice-​ ­based” research communities that bring art into design research. Much of this development took place under the wings of semiotics, philosophy, management, usability engineering, psychology, and sociology. As a result, design has at its disposal a rich set of methods and techniques than only 30 years ago. The picture of design research today is hard to compile because of the proliferation of 102

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research communities, including design studies, craft, ­human-​­computer interaction (­HCI), and textile design communities. As new research communities have developed, they have usually learned their research practices and worldviews from disciplines with longer historical roots. By implication, keywords like “­a nalysis,” the topic of this chapter, have become difficult to understand. Part of the difficulty lies in that design research has several cultures of analysis, not just one or two. There is no such thing as “­the analysis”; rather, there are several ways to analyze. The variation is not endless, though, and can be broken down into a few main categories. The unit of analysis of this chapter is analytic culture, those deeply ingrained habits and techniques through which design researchers examine the structure of their data before proceeding to conclusions. Terminology used to describe this step varies, and practice adds to confusion: for example, design firms often talk about storytelling, concept design and sometimes ­pre-​­design rather than analysis. This chapter builds on the author’s experience that is mostly based on industrial and interaction design, but has been enriched by many collaborations with media, film, textile, fashion, and ceramic design as well as several fields of engineering.

Design researchers as statisticians Leading European engineering schools usually derive their research methods from the sciences and theories from psychology (­see section on statistics below). In practice this means that research becomes a t­ heory-​­driven, experimental enterprise in which analysis is statistical. A researcher interested in, say, a new form of interaction, reads existing literature and formulates a hypothesis, an explanation based on theory. After creating a design, they conduct experiments. These experiments produce measurements that s/­he analyzes with statistical methods. The final phase of research is discussion, in which the researcher evaluates the merits of his/­her hypothesis against competing explanations, assesses possible threats to validity, and describes his/­her vision of the implications of the study for the future (­Stappers 2007). Usually statistical methods are used in conjunction with experiments and surveys. They are also routinely used in ­non-​­experimental sciences, however, like geology and bird migration studies, as well as in some mathematical fields of the social sciences, most notably econometrics. Statistical methods are typically divided first in descriptive and d­ ecision-​ ­m aking statistics and second, in linear models and ­multi-​­variate methods. A specialized field is statistical inference and sampling. There are numerous statistical software packages, most notably SAS and SPSS. Typically, a study that uses statistical methods has its beginnings in some theoretical issue. For example, Stephan Wensveen was interested in how to use bodily gestures to control user interfaces and built an alarm clock that was supposed to read emotions in the evening and ­ ake-​­up call accordingly (­Wensveen 2004). Inspired by ecological psychology, his adjust its w aim was to create a ­body-​­based interface that could be used without cognitive processing. His design was a large spherical disk with slide buttons around the disk. The idea behind the design was that when tired or angry in the evening, people almost hit the clock; when in a good mood, they carefully adjust and almost caress it. Sensors in the clock read these patterns, and then the clock decides how to wake up the user. For instance, if the user went to bed angry, he got a gentle alarm; if on a good mood, the alarm could be more abrupt. His study used sophisticated trigonometric models to model the positions of the switches, and subjects in his study came from the technical university community at Delft. 103

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The logic of experimental research The simplest statistical research design that uses statistics is ­pre-­​­­test – ­​­­post-​­test experimental design in which a researcher randomly creates two research groups. S/­He gives her/­h is design piece to a “­research group” and asks them to use it. It is called “­treatment.” S/­He gives an existing design piece to another group that works as a “­control group.” Before the experiment, s/­he needs to measure user experience and its possible explanations; after the experiment, s/­he needs another measurement. S/­He can claim that her/­h is hypothesis is correct if the research group’s user experience has improved more than the experience of the control group. If there is no difference, “­null hypothesis” ­w ins – ​­telling that the design piece is not an improvement to the existing state. Statistical research also follows the same logic, but controls are statistical and cannot establish direct causality (­­Figure 8.1). Experimental designs can be much more complicated than this simple case, but the basics remain the same. A most important thing is that the research group is not different from the control group. If they differ, a change in user experience may be attributed to it, not to the design piece. It is important to keep in mind that a good deal of design research shares an experimental basis even when it is qualitative. The most important design research area in which research​­ a­ lways – share ​­ background assumptions with the sciences is design manageers ­often – not ment, with many researchers trained either in economics or engineering. The methods of choice in design management are questionnaires and case studies. The most detailed design case studies are typically about firms like Philips and Olivetti (­Heskett 1989; Kicherer 1990), and though qualitative and historical, they are usually treated by other researchers as cases that could later be used in comparative and designs the same way as in statistical research (­see Yin 2003). If a study of five cases suggests that design management is often a matter of outsourcing competence, this is a central tendency. If the sixth company has insourced design management, it tells about another causal process, is an outlier, or suggests the need to revise theory. The practice is familiar from case studies in business schools and the Human Relations area in anthropology.

­Figure 8.1 A simple ­pre-­​­­post-​­test research design

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The problem of meaning: design as qualitative research ­User-​­centered design became popular in design in the nineties. ­User-​­centered methods of analysis usually come from interpretive social sciences, most notably from sociology and anthropology, but there are philosophical reasons too. People think and talk, and can always change their ways, however habitual and mechanical they may look. As the philosopher Peter Winch noted in the 1950s, the apple that fell on Newton’s head could not choose to do what it did. When the President declares the state of war, he is not only making a choice, but also is deeply aware of the consequences of his words. As Winch writes, this means that in studying humans as if they were bacteria or atoms misses the crucial point that move humans, meanings (­Winch 2008, 119). A related problem is “­context”: those times, places, and practices in which people make sense of design and put it to use. This context is practically always socially shaped and heavy with meaning: cities are shaped by many individual’ visions and elaborated by others’; interiors are designed by someone, decorated by others; others listen to us and build to what we say, and come to shape the way in which we can act. People make some things relevant from this environment, edit others into the background, and that way make some definitions real. To make sense of meanings and context, design researchers have sought useful techniques from anthropology and sociology. While literature has centered on contextual design and, in HCI on participatory design, several books and the EPIC Conference series have expanded the picture (­Cef kin 2010; Clarke 2011; epicpeople.org/). The first pushes to ethnography took place in Chicago and slightly later in Silicon Valley under the contextual inquiry (­Beyer and Holtzblatt 1998). Design ethnography has many proponents in industry and in many university departments design research has come to mean short ethnographic studies akin to site visits in architecture.

Induction in research Induction is a broad field that covers many research strands. In design research, it is usually associated with design ethnography. It usually works from observations toward an interpretation that can inform design. Unlike in experimental research, qualitative researchers do not try to control the circumstances around design. The symbols of a microwave are understood differently in Asia and Europe even without an experimental proof. The question is how the reception differs. A way to study it is to go, say, to households in Korea and Germany, talk to members of the households, and observe and perhaps videotape their use of the oven. After a couple of weeks of observations in ten households and twenty interviews, the researchers may have well over 100 descriptions of usage. The analytic task is to discover order in these descriptions. Most designers would write them down on ­post-​­it notes and start to group them. Some cases go to one category; others are different and go to another category; yet others need a third category. The goal is to cluster cases into clear and distinct categories. Having done this, researchers can start to look for reasons for similarities and/­or differences between them. Maybe it is the food? Cooking technique? Language? The size of the kitchen and desk space? Or is it the way in which people understand the symbols? Only after this analysis, researchers can ask whether Germans and Koreans are different by comparing the reasons. There is no attempt to control the s­ense-​­making processes, and there is no treatment as in experimental research. The star is the context. This is the main difference to case study analysis in the previous section: it usually mimics experimental research and aims at building 105

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general frameworks. An inductive approach usually aims to capture the specificities of particular instances. Analytic practice in this sort of research is usually done through “­a ffinity walls” a term that was made popular by Beyer and Holtzblatt. The logic behind these walls is similar to analytic induction. Analytic induction has five steps: 1 Analyze a small number of cases (­t ypically, people) closely. Push hunches and inspiration too far: at this stage, it is important to be creative. Unworthy ideas are dismissed later. 2 Create a set of hypotheses from this analysis. 3 Test these hypotheses with the same data. 4 When a hypothesis stands this preliminary test, analyze negative cases that fit to the emerging hypothesis only with difficulty. If the case does not fit the hypothesis, discard or revise the hypothesis, or add a new dimension to the analysis. Typically, negative cases come from secondary and deviant user groups. 5 Proceed until all cases have been analyzed, and you have a description that describes all data. Typically, this is a conceptual framework that is ordered from the most important concepts to less important ones. This conceptual framework can simply be called “­a n interpretation” (­Koskinen 2003, 6­ 2–​­63). Sometimes researchers also want to generalize the interpretation with comparative data from other studies. Occasionally, this interpretation is shared with people in the study, who can check whether it makes sense and what needs to be corrected. An example comes from Helsinki, where Heidi Paavilainen (­2013) studied the lives of design in homes. The aim was to study what kind of role the notion of design plays in this process. She collected data by repeatedly interviewing people, both design enthusiasts and people who knew next to nothing about design to see what happens to design objects at their homes after what can be called a honeymoon p­ eriod – ​­a period in which people explore alternatives, visit shops, buy a product, and explore it at home. She quickly realized that in everyday life, design plays a far less prominent role than many design writers tend to assume. Some people pay a great deal of attention to design, while others could hardly care less. Many design objects enter the home through inheritance and as gifts, and in consequence, break the curated feeling of the home. Design collections disappear in broken marriages, while new relationships create new collections. One big question in ethnographic research is the relationship between theory and analysis. Brigitte Jordan, one of the most experienced design anthropologists, has noted that through her years at Palo Alto Research Center, there was a constant strain between technique and theory. Teaching data collection to engineers and designers was relatively easy, but teaching the intricacies of analysis was considerably more difficult ( ­Jordan and Yamauchi 2008, 35). However, as IDEO’s Jane Fulton Suri has noted, successful designers are sensitive to things around them, even though these observations inspire their work in n ­ on-​­theoretical ways (­Fulton Suri 2011). These observations were based on their design sensitivities, not on anthropological theory.

Explication: design researchers as scholars When browsing through some of the most prominent design conferences and journals outside industrial and interaction design, we can find papers based on yet another culture of analysis. This is the case in the humanities, including design history, aesthetics and 106

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philosophy, but also sometimes in constructive research and in interpretive research in design management. There are exceptions, as historians who work with quantitative methods, but the mainstay is not statistics or fieldwork, but what can be called “­explication”: a detailed examination of meaning. Explication can be theoretically informed, as is often the case in product semantics, which uses linguistic and semiotic theories in deciphering meanings in design. Though not codified in the manner of statistics or analytic induction, explication has a structure, however. The structure is fairly similar to analytic induction in that explication is a ­bottom-​­up activity. There is first an examination phase in which a piece of design is examined and evaluated in detail before decisions about where to go next are taken. Usually, these kinds of procedures are described as a circle or spiral. When discussed in philosophical terms, the most common reference is to hermeneutics, and in particular to ­Hans-​­Georg Gadamer’s seminal Wahrheit und Methode (­Truth and Method), which described explication as a hermeneutic circle in which new facts force the researcher to change his interpretation until all the facts can be explained. The roots of his work are in text critical biblical studies that go back to the end of the eighteenth century. Yet, it is important to keep in mind that the title of his magnum opus is ironic. He does not propose that the way to knowledge is having a method, but the contrary: his book is a warning that no method is failsafe. The only way to truth is relentless, careful questioning. Processes of explication may be difficult to describe, but they work, as the history of humanities amply shows. In design research, their stronghold is in studies building on the humanities. If a researcher wants to understand Frank Lloyd Wright’s, Ettore Sottsass’s, or Hans Gugelot’s career, she has to go to several archives; talk to their family, friends, and contemporaries; study design culture and its dynamics of their era; and situate their work into a framework more complex than typical heroic narratives of creativity. This is even more evident if she wants to write the history of Swiss graphic design. It is impossible to work through 50 years of history mechanically. The only viable method is to rely on the historian’s mind and turn it into a research instrument.

Explication The analytic process behind explication is similar to analytic induction described in the previous section. The main difference lies in the source of knowledge. For example, ethnographic research requires empirical material. The ultimate source of knowledge is observation. It is possible to create new knowledge without empirical research, however. This is how some research areas progress. Take the example of studies of Goethe or Shakespeare. Many fields of learning function like this. Goethe does not write anymore; still, Goethe scholarship improves over time. The reason is discussion: some scholars who are unhappy about existing interpretations of an aspect of his poetry can point out illogical features in them, and propose improvements. Another scholar can claim that a recent archeological discovery may throw new light on Werther’s adventures. A third has a piece of Goethe’s fingernail, conducts an analysis of its radiological features with a scientist, discovers lead in it, and says that this throws new light on his later writing. A fourth starts from a philosophical thought experiment that sets the reinterpretation process going without empirical input. Many design disciplines function in the same way. The world is full of chairs, but occasionally, better chairs show up. Contemporary designers build on their knowledge of other chairs, but somehow manage to go deeper than the giants from the past. Making a piece of 107

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furniture better than Eames, Ponti or Kukkapuro is very difficult, but not impossible. A good deal of fashion design proceeds through reinterpretation, as does a good deal of architecture. When explication lies in the heart of analysis, contribution and novelty lies in constructing better explanations, not in discovering new facts or conducting better experiments wrote the doyen of American anthropology Clifford Geertz in 1973: Knowledge [in cultural anthropology]… grows: in spurts. Rather than following a rising curve of cumulative findings, cultural analysis breaks up into a disconnected yet coherent sequence of bolder and bolder sorts. Studies do build on other studies… in the sense that, better informed and better conceptualized, they plunge more deeply into the same things… the movement is not from already proven theorems to newly proven ones… a study is an advance if it is more ­incisive – whatever ​­ that may ­mean – ​­than those that preceded it; but it less stands on their shoulders than… runs by their side. (­Geertz 1973, 25) There is something akin to growth of knowledge indeed but it is not like in the sciences in which facts accumulate. In Geertz’s vision, a contribution is typically an improved understanding. Earlier explications are contestable and debatable, and treated as arguments in ­on-​­going conversation rather than as indisputable facts.

Creative analysis: learning from design practice While the three cultures above build on research world practices, the fourth culture builds on contemporary design practice. For practicing designers, this may be obvious, but for researchers, the step can be radical. In fact, many who take the step explicitly distance themselves from science. The b­ est-​­known example is probably Design Noir, in which we can read that through research, it is “­definitely not scientific” (­Dunne and Raby 2001, 75). Perhaps the main difference between this and other cultures is that in other cultures, researchers want to make sure other design researchers can understand the way in which some study has taken shape. Without transparency, others can neither repeat the study nor inspect its reliability and validity. In design practice, there is more tolerance to idiosyncrasies and vague analysis; in fact, ambiguity may even be encouraged, if it leads to interesting designs (­see Presence Project 2001). A good example from the borderline of design and research comes from a catalog about Alessandro Mendini. The catalog describes how some of his designs saw daylight as games and collages of everyday objects and colors and forms from Czech Cubism. In treating ordinary objects as r­eady-​­mades but by coloring them with a completely different palette, he built extensively on several art world practices. Contemplation of the Surrealist “­exquisite corpse” method had an equal degree of influence on infinite furniture as the principle of collage Mendini had previously used in his ­re-​­design furniture and Poltrona di Proust, employed as a formal means of expression in Cubism. The aesthetics of collage enabled Mendini to amalgamate the most diverse objects, things, and values with contemporary impressions and fragments of experience to create a new aesthetic object and a new aesthetic postulate. The conscious use of all kinds of materials and the contrast of everyday set pieces with artistic works… tapped an aesthetics that connected the refined with the banal and stylish with the kitsch. (­Mendini, Weiss and Nollert 2012)

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Work begins with browsing, organizing, reading and getting familiar with materials that have been collected. These materials are placed on moodboards for visual inspection and turned into collages for critique, which identifies themes for design. Sometimes the aim is analysis; sometimes it focuses on seeking discordances and pathways out from conventional design solutions. Mendini aside, several w ­ ell-​­known design cases have been based on artistic loans. For example, when Alessi renewed its thinking about the kitchen and went from stainless steel and other metals to plastics, its designers started to redesign spoons, eggcups, and bottle openers as if they were toys (­Verganti 2009). Many ­avant-​­garde designs of the likes of Jerszy Seymour (­2011) owe to performance art, actionism and installations. How would Jackson Pollock have designed interiors?

Moodboard as an example Now professor at Aalto University Andres Lucero got fascinated about moodboards in Eindhoven and turned his fascination into a doctoral thesis. In the beginning of his thesis, he tells about a sarcastic comment he heard when a student was presenting moodboards: So, you picked these images yourself, you decided where the images would go (­layout), and finally you glued them to this board. And you made all this to find inspiration for yourself? (­Lucero 2009, 13) This sarcasm was of course mistaken: moodboards are useful for design and even necessary when designers work with form. The way to do them is creating a collection of images through places like Flickr, Instagram and Google Image searches or from trade monthlies. Reshuffle prints on a desk or a wall or use an online platform and observe how the collection behaves. What if you put “­movement” to the right side and stationary images to the left? Are there differences in color? Shapes? Materials? Roundings? User interfaces? Are people, animals, environments, symbols similar or different? It is also easy to add analytical layers on the board. For example, place images from South America to the top and Europe to the bottom. Again, observe the arrangement: what changes. Then place material from teenagers to the top and seniors to the bottom or South America, and reorganize Europe in a similar way. This lets you to see whether teenagers and seniors are similar or different (­i.e. there is a main effect of place), or whether teenagers are similar and seniors differ (­i.e. there is an interaction between region and age). Continue until you do not discover anything new anymore. At this point, you can freeze the collection and create a story to explain the final moodboard. The analytic process is murky and relies on the eye, and few designers can explain the logic behind it. Yet, it is possible to build an underlying logical layer into them. Seeing some analytic processes in design research through art gives insights into how many designers and design researchers work. It also helps to understand better some of the creative steps they take. The main danger in this kind of thinking is glorifying creative work and neglecting research. Design needs its artistic end, but if this end defines good design, this choice runs against the professional ethic of bodies like World Design Organization (­wdo. org/) that tell designers to serve ordinary people. The creative step is only one step in a way longer design process, not its essence.

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Discussion Design research has developed fast over the last three decades, and in the process, it has learned from many kinds of research and practices. This chapter looks at analysis, a crucially important step in any research, but also a step that has not received much attention in design research literature. As this chapter shows, several analytic cultures ­co-​­exist in design research. This is how things are in many other fields of learning, and design cannot be different. Just like methods for data gathering, analytic methods need to fit the purpose. Designers have learned from the sciences, the social sciences, the arts and humanities, but this does not turn them into scientists, sociologists, philosophers, or a­ rtists – ​­after all, using statistics does not turn economists or biologists into statisticians. This chapter has touched upon theory in a few places. The role of theory in design research depends in part on analytic culture, but also on the worldview behind research. In statistical research, theory gets a way more pronounced role than in other cultures, for example. Researchers rely on theory in formulating research questions, planning data gathering, analyzing data, and, in case they construct something, in prototyping. They also have to define the unit of analysis to measure them reliably. In interpretive and explication cultures, theory works as a source of precedents but also as a sensitizing framework that brings imagination and process to analysis. In addition, it gives tools for following how people understand ​­ example, prototypes in everyday life. Units of analysis become things to be ­d iscovered – for words like “­leadership” and “­design” become objects of research, not matters of definition. In ­practice-​­based design research, research builds on referents rather than theory; however, there is often a lot of theoretical and philosophical depth behind the surface. For instance, in work in critical design, these references extend to Situationism and Marx’s theory of commodity fetishism, to mention a few. Claims to novelty have to be justified against this legacy rather than against research literature only (­Presence Project 2001; Debord 2002). The contribution of this chapter is in its way of posing the question of analysis. My belief is that the best way to understand analysis in design research is to look at it from an abstract perspective. In this chapter, abstraction tool was the concept of analytic culture, which gave the chapter a powerful narrative that covers most analytic practices in design research. Can there be more cultures? Possibly, but unlikely: the cultures explicated in this chapter are dominant in the sciences, the social sciences, the humanities, and contemporary art. It is difficult to be creative against the full weight of these traditions. Still, there is room for freedom. The good news is that in less than 30 years, design research has created a lively set of analytic practices that have served it well.

References Alexander, Christopher. 1971. “­The State of the Art in Design Methods.” DMG Newsletter 5 (­3): 1­ –​­7. Beyer, Hugh and Karen Holtzblatt. 1998. Contextual Design, Defining ­Custom-​­Centered Systems. San Francisco, CA: Morgan Kaufmann. Cef kin, Melissa (­ed.). 2010. Ethnography and the Corporate Encounter. Reflections on Research in and of Corporations. New York: Berghahn Books. Clarke, Alison (­ed.). 2011. Design Anthropology. Springer: Vienna. Cross, Nigel. 2007. Designerly Ways of Knowing. Basel: Birkhäuser. Debord, Guy. 2002. The Society of the Spectacle. Translated by K. Knabb. Bureau of Public Secrets. http://­bopsecrets.org/­i mages/­sos.pdf/. Accessed 13 May 2010. Dreyfuss, Henry. 1967. Designing for People. New York: Paragraphic Books.

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Four analytic cultures in design research Dunne, Anthony and Fiona Raby. 2001. Design Noir: The Secret Life of Electronic Objects. Basel: August/ B ­ irkhäuser. Fulton Suri, Jane 2011. “­Poetic Observation: What Designers Make of What They See.” In Clarke, Alison (­ed.). Design Anthropology. Springer: Vienna. Gadamer, H ­ ans-​­Georg. 1975. Truth and Method. New York: Continuum. (­Original in German in 1960). Geertz, Clifford. 1973. “­Thick Description. Towards an Interpretive Theory of Culture.” In Geertz, Clifford (­ed.). The Interpretation of Cultures. New York: Basic Books. Heskett, John. 1989. Philips. A Study of the Corporate Management of Design. Rizzoli: Milan. Jones, J. C. 1984. Essays in Design. New York: John Wiley and Sons. Jordan, Brigitte and Yutaka Yamauchi. 2008. “­Beyond the University. Teaching Ethnographic Methods in the Corporation.” Anthropology News 49: 3­ 5-​­35. https://­doi.org/­10.1111/­a n.2008.49.6.35. Kicherer, Sibylle. 1990. Olivetti. A Study of the Corporate Management of Design. London: Trefoil. Koskinen, Ilpo, Katja Battarbee and Tuuli Mattelmäki (­eds.). 2003. Empathic Design. Helsinki: IT Press. Lawson, Bryan. 1980. How Designers Think. London: Architectural Press. Lucero, Andres. 2009. ­Co-​­Designing Interactive Spaces with and for Designers. Eindhoven: Technische Universiteit Eindhoven. Maldonado, Tomás. 1984. “­U lm revisited.” Rassegna, Anno 19/­3, settembre 1984. (­Translated by Frank Sparado) Mendini, Alessandro, Peter Weiss and Angelika Nollert. 2012. Alessandro Mendini. Nürnberg: Verlag für moderne Kunst. Paavilainen, Heidi. 2013. Dwelling with Design. Helsinki: Aalto University. Presence Project. 2001. London, RCA: CRD Research Publications. Seymour, Jerszy. 2011. “­Design Situations: Interview with Jesrzy Seymour.” In It’s Not a Garden Table. Art and Design in the Expanded Field, edited by Jörg Huber, Burkhard Meltzer, Heike Munderand Tido von Oppeln. Zürich: Zürich University of the Arts and migrosmuseum für gegenwartskunst Zürich. Stappers, Pieter Jan. 2007. “­Doing Design as a Part of Doing Research.” In Design Research Now, edited by Ralf Michel, ­81–​­91. Basel: Birkhäuser. Verganti, Roberto. 2009. ­D esign-​­Driven Innovation. Changing the Rules of Competition by Radically Innovating What Things Mean. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wensveen, Stephan. 2004. A Tangibility Approach to Affective Interaction. Delft: Delft University of Technology. Winch, Peter. 2008. The Idea of Social Science and Its Relation to Philosophy. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Yin, Robert K. 2003. Case Study Research: Design and Method, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

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9 DESIGNING TECHNOLOGY FOR ­MORE-­​­­THAN-​­HUMAN FUTURES Paul Coulton and Joseph Lindley

Introduction The design of computationally enhanced products requiring human interaction is commonly approached through methods that operate within the paradigm of Human Centered Design (­HCD). Meanwhile, as still exemplified through Moore’s Law, the computational power designers have available to incorporate in their designs has exponentially increased, while the cost of this computational power has exponentially decreased. This has resulted in an increased use of computing within an array of products often with the aim of enhancing functionality or automation, and replacing analog or mechanical controls. During the last decade the incorporation of computation into products has been augmented with a huge increase in “­networkification” (­Pierce and DiSalvo, 2017) of these devices. This networked capability introduces new p­ roduct-​ ­platform assemblages that are facilitated by the internet and have fundamentally altered our relationships with devices, manufacturers, service providers, regulators, and the interactions between them. One aspect of this change manifests through a disconnection between what products “­actually are and do and the ways in which they are presented as things for use” (­Hauser, Redström, and Wiltse, 2021). This decoupling of appearance and function reflects the complex assemblages created through networkification of human and n ­ on-​­human actants who simultaneously operate both independently, and interdependently. Reflecting on the nature of, and resulting impact of, such assemblages demand that a plurality of perspectives be acknowledged within the design process. Such plurality is often incompatible with hubristic interpretations of HCD, which in turn has led a number of design researchers to challenge the primacy of HCD (­DiSalvo and Lukens, 2011; Forlano, 2017; Galloway, 2017) and propose M ­ ore-­​­­Than-​­Human Design approaches (­Coulton and Lindley, 2019). The M ­ ore-­​­­Than-​­Human stance requires new perspectives and building blocks for how to consider Design and the Future, in the remainder of this chapter it is those perspectives and building blocks which we explore, before concluding with examples of how such approaches might be enacted through Design Research practice.

Troubling HCD Although prefixing ­More-​­Than (­to HCD) infers some criticism of HCD, this does not extend to the entirety of what HCD represents or encompasses. HCD has a long and 112

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demonstrable history of helping designers to create products and services which are simple, efficient and edifying to use. As a design ideology such characteristics are superficially desirable, and as a toolkit HCD helps to deliver them. However, HCD has an implicit focus on the ­individual—​­the ­Human—​­which becomes problematic when the Human is unavoidably connected to others because of “­networkification” and is rarely at the actual center of such assemblages. Hence, the nature of our critique is about shifting HCD’s implicit focus on the individual toward what might be considered perspectives that support the “­common good”. A key factor in HCD’s success is in how it aspires to reduce complexity (­or conversely as it is o ­ ft-​­interpreted, increasing simplicity). Simplicity, in HCD terms, echoes the Heideggerian notion of “­­ready-­​­­to-​­hand” (­2010) in that it suggests that the artifact being designed should fade into the background and become invisible. Any complexity that remains should be that of the underlying task and not of the tool designed to achieve the task (­Norman, 1998). Although HCD’s invoking of simplicity is well reasoned and, in the right circumstances, can produce desirable outcomes, it is also true that “­if simplicity is treated dogmatically it can import risk into design processes’” (­Coulton and Lindley, 2019, ­p. 4). This risk has been recognized by the man most often associated with HCD, Donald Norman, who highlights that a blunt interpretation of simplicity constrains HCD approaches to a “‘­l imited view of design’ and results in analyses preoccupied with ‘­­page-­​­­by-​­page’ and ‘­­screen-­​­­by-​­screen’ evaluations” (­2005, ­p. 1), distracted by minutiae and devoid of contextual awareness. Design approaches that prioritize simplicity are increasingly problematic in relation to the societal, economic and environmental challenges societies now face as they predominantly obfuscate material affects outside the immediate task. This problematizing of HCD leads us toward the need to consider ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human design which more fully considers the interdependent and independent perspectives of human and ­not-​­human actants within technological assemblages.

­More-­​­­Than-​­Human Centered Design The term ­ More-­​­­ Than-​­ Human appears to originate in the field of cultural geography (­W hatmore, 2006) to promote a shift from largely anthropocentric perspectives to one that acknowledges our relationships within complex ecological systems. This challenge to anthropocentric practices has also emerged in design and while some have used it to explore our relationships with ­non-​­human organic actants (­Galloway, 2020) in this chapter we are focusing on the complementary perspective of n ­ on-​­human, n ­ on-​­organic, and n ­ etworked-​ ­d igital actants. The particular M ­ ore-­​­­Than-​­Human approach presented here is based on readings of contemporary O ­ bject-​­Oriented Philosophies discussed by Graham Harman (­2018), Timothy Morton (­2013), and Ian Bogost (­2012) among others. The keystone to our notion of M ­ ore-­​ ­­Than-​­Human perspectives is the use of Object Oriented Ontology (­OOO), and principally through its rejection of correlationism. This manifests as the proposition that perspectives derived by human minds and bodies are not the only ones worth considering. It is particularly challenging for many technology designers because of the ubiquity and dogmatic predilection for HCD in commercial settings and education alike (­Lindley, Akmal, and Coulton, 2020). Although we are problematizing HCD our argument is primarily against how it manifests itself in designed artifacts and we do this to promote equality for outcomes that address the common good as well as outcomes which promote the interests of the individual. Beyond this prerequisite dismissal of correlationism, the particular interpretation of OOO has been most influenced by Ian Bogost and his expositions in Alien Phenomenology 113

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(­Bogost, 2012). While Bogost’s construction of OOO builds on the work of others, his presentation is particularly accessible and relevant for ­design-​­led inquiry (­perhaps due to his background as a game designer). Many facets of the portrayal resonate with this chapter. For example, the concept of “­Tiny Ontologies”, or the idea of any given thing (­or aspect of a thing) being a “­tiny, private Universe [which] rattles” inside computational things and the notion that all these “­things equally exist, yet they do not exist equally” (­2012, ­p. 11). The latter point here is deftly characterized in terms of the video game ET The Extra Terrestrial. Examining what the game fundamentally “­is”, Bogost notes how it is equally a physical game cartridge, the digital information on the game cartridge, and a set of game rules and points schemas which become manifest when the cartridge is interpreted by the computer, displayed on screen, and understood by the player. The “­object” we refer to as the ET The Extra Terrestrial is all of these constituents, and yet if we focus on a single one of them, those not within our gaze are temporarily less relevant. All these facets exist, but they do not exist equally, and how depends on which aspect of the game object’s own tiny Universe we consider at any given moment. The requirement for ­OOO-​­inspired views to allow for focusing and refocusing on related but independent objects is, perhaps, the pragmatic invocation of John Law’s concept of “­mess” (­2004), which itself is a guiding principle for how to apply “­perfect” theory to an inherently imperfect world. Bogost coins a series of ­OOO-​­related neologisms (­e.g. Unit Operations, Tiny Ontologies, Carpentry). Another of these, which is the focus of this chapter, is the idea of Ontography. Bogost’s adoption of ontography is a strategy that exposes the abundance of units which he describes as “­interlocking units of expressive meaning” (­2006, p. ix), their operations and their ­inter-​­object relations. Ontography is a catalog of being, a practice that exposes the “­couplings and chasms” (­2012, ­p. 50) that appear between units, a point where revelation invites speculation. The conceptualization of ontography suggests a way of exposing ­inter-​­object relationships and perspectives, in the following we explore how we might incorporate ontography into design practice.

Speculative ontography (­constellations) In OOO, ontography is the examination of ondographs or collections of ontological modalities as possible relationships an object(­s) may take. Bogost suggests a perspective of ontography as a record of the “­things within” (­2012). This recording of objects can then be defined further by their “­collocation” to not only the things within the ontograph, but also those around it (­2012). Here, it is also useful to draw on Karen Barad’s consideration of agency not as a property but as something which emerges from how entangled agencies relate to each other (­Barad, 2007). In ontography we attempt to map the ontologies of relationships between human and n ­ on-​­human actants and highlight both their interdependent relationships which operate through their independent perspectives as described in the forthcoming example. The term speculative ontography may be used when we ontographically map potential future systems or systems for which the relationships are obfuscated by HCD. For example, Continental worked with ANYbotics1 to present a vision of last meter robotic package delivery2 by combining autonomous legged robots with ­self-​­driving shuttles at the Consumer Electronics Show in 2019. While a speculative vision it was based on current and near future technologies and presents a seamless vision of an efficient future. Such visions by technology companies have been dubbed Vapourworlds (­Coulton and Lindley, 2017) when they portray such technological progress as inevitable and suggest that the companies 114

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­Figure 9.1 Speculative Ontography for package delivery by combining autonomous legged robots with ­self-​­d riving shuttles

involved can be the purveyors of such desirable futures. To enable a deeper exploration around its potential we can start by producing a speculative ontograph of how the system might be built and operated as shown in ­Figure  9.1. This enables us to question that go beyond the surface of the user centered perspective (­a more efficient way of delivering packages) and consider an alternate perspective such as embodied carbon of such as system within its environmental impact, energy use, consumption of natural resources, and logistics, alternatively it could reveal answers to questions such as what data does it collect, how is the data used, and who has access to the data? Given that speculative ontography is often directed toward the technological futures proposed for emergent technologies, before we address how such constellations might inspire practical approaches we first need to address how futures are produced.

­More-­​­­Than-​­Human futures Considering the future is generally seen as an integral part of all design activities, as Berry suggests (­1975, ­p. 69): Visions of the future are particularly important for designers, because designers have to imagine both the future conditions that will exist when their designs actually come into use and how those conditions will be changed by the creation of their new design. However, presenting potential futures has also been an activity within design practice (­Coulton and Lindley, 2017) often as a means of highlighting the potential of emerging technologies. In this section we consider framings that scaffold the creation of these futures in a way that moves it toward encompassing a plurality of different perspectives. The commonly used approach has been to present futures as scenarios based on qualifiers, the most common qualifiers being probable, plausible, possible, and in some cases 115

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­Figure 9.2 (­a) Futures Cone (­b) M ­ ore-­​­­Than-​­Human Futures: encompassing a plurality of futures for different human and n ­ o-​­human actants (­such as algorithms or the biosphere)

the addition of preferable, as presented in the much hyped Futures Cone of Joseph Voros (­2003) illustrated in ­Figure 9.2a, that can be considered within any of the other qualifiers. As these qualifications are subjective, they are open to interpretation but could be considered as: possible (­m ight happen), plausible (­could happen), and probable (­likely to happen). The notion of preferable, which can exist within any of the other qualifiers, has become increasingly contested in design futures as it is seen as promoting privileged views leading to the assertion that “­preferable” should be a question the designers ask of themselves within the design activity rather than an aim of the design (­Coulton, Burnett, and Gradinar, 2016). Further, while “­possible” encompasses all potentials when addressing particular challenges, it is plausible and probable which are most often utilized by designers. It has thus also been suggested to use plausible to encompass both qualifiers to prevent unnecessary discussion arising from the subjectivity inherent in perceiving these qualifiers (­Coulton, Burnett, and Gradinar, 2016). Another critique of the futures cone relates to its presentation in a way that could suggest universal notions of the present or a one-world-world (­oww) (­Law, 2015), devoid of a relationship to influences drawn from history or acknowledgment of our tendency to incorporate imagined possible futures from books, films, television shows, etc. within our world view (­Gonzatto, van Amstel, Merkle, and Hartmann, 2013). We can also draw from the writing of Arturo Escobar in Designs for the Pluriverse (­2018) to acknowledge the different lived experiences of individuals and communities around the world will have on these factors resulting in a requirement to consider a plurality of different perspectives on pasts, presents, and futures within our design processes. …transition from the hegemony of modernity’s o ­ ne-​­world ontology to a pluriverse of socionatural configurations. (­Escobar, 2018, ­p. 66) This is embodied in the Zapatista declaration, “‘…Un Mundo Donde Quepan Muchos ­Mundos—​­A world in which many worlds fit”. (­De la Cadena and Mario Blaser, 2018, p­ . 2) To acknowledge these factors, and taking account our previous discussion on need for M ­ ore-­​ ­­Than-​­Human perspectives, in F ­ igure 9.2b we offer the alternative to the futures cone that 116

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allows the consideration of a plurality of futures for both human and n ­ on-​­human actants such that we might address the question posed by Laura Forlano of how do we move toward “­Black futures? Feminist futures? Queer futures? Trans futures? Crip futures? ­Working-​­class futures? Asian futures? Indigenous futures? And multispecies futures?” (­Forlano, 2021).

Beyond criticality: the promise of solarpunk This reimagined futures diagram aims to appreciate the concurrent perspectives of multiple human and ­non-​­human actants, each of whom is replete with a unique perspective on the present which comprises elements of the past, some perception of reality, and a resultant imaginary. A byproduct of this process is the alignment of M ­ ore-­​­­Than-​­Human perspectives with the concept of Solarpunk. Solarpunk is a new, but rapidly growing concept, which encompasses both an aesthetic but also an ideology. Solarpunk’s name is a reference to the literary and cultural movements Cyberpunk and Steampunk, which explored science fiction worlds which were dominated by digital (­in the case of cyber) and analog (­in the case of steam) technologies. Originally becoming popular in the 1980s, both movements were heavily influenced by the punk culture of the time, which built worlds around the hard realities of urban and city life that was heavily influenced by fantastical technologies. The t­wenty-​­first century’s Solarpunk movement exhibits some similarities, but also some departures. While cities and technology are still central to the Solarpunk aesthetic, the rawness of Cyberpunk is replaced with a refinement and tranquility. Cyberpunk culture shows how technology could drive a dystopian revolution, disrupting the “­g reen and pleasant” status quo of society. In contrast, Solarpunk culture shows how technology could facilitate a utopian revolution, disrupting the climate catastrophe that the industrial revolution has left behind, and putting sustainability and harmony at the center of an ­a lternative—­​­­More-­​­­Than-­​­­Human—​­v ision of the future. Hence, the “­Solar” part of Solarpunk relates to deliberately optimistic visions about how the world could be if contemporary systemic challenges like sustainability, climate change, and pollution were resolved. Made popular in a highly influential 2014 blog post, one Solarpunk mantra says “­We’re solarpunks because the only other options are denial or despair”.3 Although Solarpunks tend “­not to agree on what ‘­better’ looks like”, the optimistic worlds depict “­socially just and ecologically harmonious social organization” (­Williams, 2019). While Critical Designers are just as likely to disagree about what “­critical” looks like, Critical Designers tend to create things which show how “­designers are ethically implicated one way or another in the problem domain of social domination no matter what we do” (­Bardzell and Bardzell, 2013). The shared history of related practices including Speculative Design, Critical Design, Design Fiction, Conceptual Design, and Adversarial Design has tended to result in works emerging from practitioners of these “­a lternative design” approaches having a ­deep-​­rooted “­friction” to them (­Pierce, 2021). While intentionally importing friction is not necessarily a bad thing, the resultant body of work, although interested in the future, has a tendency to amplify things that are wrong, to be avoided, and which are less than desirable. It is this predilection toward negativity that the driving ideals of Solarpunk may be useful in redirecting. Moreover, the inherently dark aspects of projects exhibiting some of Critical Design’s criticality intrinsically disagrees with the expansiveness of the adapted futures cone which we introduced above. To this end we propose alignment to Solarpunk as a dual purpose strategy in M ­ ore-­​ ­­Than-​­Human design experiments. First, if we act as designers in a deliberately optimistic mode, then this will offer new opportunities for M ­ ore-­​­­Than-​­Human speculations while 117

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also providing a counterpoint to the homogeneity of ­critical-​­mode speculations. Second, adopting the ideals of Solarpunk is a productive means of enacting the expansive and pluralistic futures diagram introduced in F ­ igure 9.2a. In both instances, however, it is important to remember that the multiple perspectives depicted in our futures diagram are key. Any given concept created as a M ­ ore-­​­­Than-​­Human research probe will intrinsically carry and encode the biases of its designer (­a nd in this section we argue that those biases should align more with Solarpunk). However, that does not mean that any given reading of the concept or design will also align with Solarpunk. Instead, informed by the ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human thinking which underpins this chapter, the creator of any concept should always be mindful that it may be interpreted in multiple ways; by other designers, by anyone, or by anything, interacting with it.

Telling ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human futures Having laid down the foundations for ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human design futures we will now consider examples of such considerations being enacted through Design Research practice.

Tarot of things The Tarot of Things was created by Dr Haider Ali Akmal to explore an Internet of Things Centric ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human Speculative Ontography (­i.e., constellation based) perspective on products and services in an ecosystem without having to evoke the actual philosophy of OOO directly. The traditional art of Tarot4 not only provides a simple ­g ame-​­like mechanic for linking concepts (­A kmal and Coulton, 2020), it also invokes a form of spirituality that allows us to more deeply consider the agency of things and provides a way of expressing the alternative perspectives of the things within any given IoT system. This approach is not suggesting any ­human-​­like agency in ­non-​­human objects, rather, it is intended as a further provocation of HCD. That said, if we are to discuss these objects as agential, it would help in clarifying this approach to Tarot. Its use is similar to Semetsky’s (­2006, ­p. 188) endorsement of Tarot within psychoanalysis, as capable of enabling an awareness of “­unconscious material into consciousness”. The intent of the Tarot allows users to see through and dive within their own unconscious materials of IoT products and services to gain insight, through what Semetsky calls “­projective hypothesis” (­2006, ­p. 188). A standard Tarot deck consists of 78 cards made up of 22 Major Arcana cards and 14 minor cards each within the four suits of Cups, Pentacles, Wands, and Swords5. For the Tarot of Things, the suits and the major arcana cards were altered to relate to IoT and as such the suits became Sensors, Chips, Cables, and Clouds (­A kmal, 2021). The major arcana was given equivalent card names according to their most common descriptions. For example, The Fool became The User as it normally relates to the person having their fortune read. As an ­OOO-​ ­inspired approach does not differentiate between humans and things, or things and things in that the thing itself becomes the user in this card (­A kmal and Coulton, 2020). The deck is not a physical deck, but rather a computer program which is a deliberate design choice so it aligns more closely to IoT objects which, though have physical bodies in some cases, primarily operate within digital realms. To begin the process of Tarot reading the cards shuffled (­randomized in the computer program) before 3 cards are dealt and presented in a single line. Each card has a visual representation and a series of keywords that represent the properties of each card and may differ according to the orientation of the card. For instance, in a standard Tarot deck the Magician 118

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card suggests structure, ambition, authority, and rationality when upright and suggests chaos, anger, domination, and tyranny inverted. In the Tarot of Things, the Magician has become the Program; utilizing structure, authority (­upright) and chaos, domination (­inverted) form the original definitions. This does not necessarily mean there is no way of understanding a tyrannical or ambitious IoT thing, but rather, the keywords were reduced to allow for an easier assessment by its users. The online version of Tarot of Things currently presents a random object to be foretold its Tarot. However, it can be linked to any IoT object to retrieve a forecast of whatever action the object attempts to undergo. For instance, if attached to a bulb that can be switched on with a smartphone, the online system can present a series of keywords to define the interaction with the bulb; such as being switched on, switched off, sending data, receiving data, creating a log, etc. Subsequently, the ontography of the keywords presents a platform for practitioners’ human or ­non-​­human to raise questions that otherwise would seem implausible (­A kmal and Coulton, 2020a). This smartphone/­bulb example is shown in ­Figure 9.3 whereby forecast has generated the cards along with their keywords logged as: • • •

Assistant (­upright): Wisdom, Unconscious Time (­inverted): Dishonesty, Unaccountability Four of Cables (­inverted): Stress

This creates a reading of these cards and raises questions such as: what is wisdom for a bulb? How can a bulb be unconscious? Can a bulb be dishonest or unaccountable? What about stress, what stresses a bulb? Where some of these questions might seem more straightforward to a­ nswer—​­for example dishonesty: does it send its operating data to a third party without informing the o ­ wner—​ ­others present unique challenges. Of course, all of this is subject to the understanding of the designer. How much they can create an interpretation that connects the object and keyword. But it does provide a useful starting point for the discussions, which otherwise would likely not be considered under pretenses of HCD and can lead to unimagined designs.

Ghosts in the smart home Ghosts in the Smart Home is a short film which has been serialized into 11 episodes set in an unremarkable suburban house. It is a manifestation of research that addresses a critique of “­i f an object’s interior is completely inaccessible, then the fact it’s interior even exists is somewhat irrelevant” (­Lindley, Akmal, and Coulton, 2020). In other words, while OOO provides an argument and framework for imagining the internal realities of ­non-​­human actants it also hints that they’re largely inaccessible. To mitigate this constraint we explored combining ideas derived from Animism (­Reid, 2014) with OOO pragmatic view. Specifically, it speculates that “­objects” might have a “­soul” and a means to communicate with human objects. The exploration, then, taking advantage of the souls and means to communicate we had imbued objects with, took the form of simulated conversations with n ­ on-​­human objects. Such philosophical carpentry had elements of success (­e.g. revealing new perspectives, collapsing traditional disciplinary barriers) as well as problematic aspects (­e.g. a distracting pull toward anthropomorphism) (­Lindley, Coulton, and Alter, 2019). The film’s narrative explores the relationships between seven core characters, each of which is a commercially available i­nternet-​­connected device. Vector is a small robot which has no utilitarian purpose; Canvas is an attractive “­smart light” display; Petcube is a remotely 119

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­Figure 9.3 Tarot Reading for Smart Bulb ((­original artwork by Dr Haider Ali Akmal, 2021, used with permission)

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­Figure 9.4 Still from Ghosts in the Smart Home (­5:39), depicting three of the “­­More-­​­­Than-​­Human” characters in conversation

operated pet feeder and webcam; Google Home is a smart speaker; Smarter Kettle is an ­app-​ ­operated kettle; Sphero is an educational programmable spherical robot; and Router ­is—​­as the name s­ uggests—​­a router. The objects, which c­ o-​­exist in the same physical space, but also on the same computer network, have become aware that their human users are considering going “­­off-​­grid” (­i.e., shunning the internet and living a ­technology-​­free life). The reason for this is that these humans have become paranoid that some of their connected devices are insecure and are leaking data about them. The film tells the story of the devices grappling with this concept, bickering with each other about which of them might be to blame, and ultimately living through the “­denetworkification” of their environment. What would it mean for their existence and realities if their internet connection was severed; whose fault is it; and how do the devices’ different characters impact upon their relationships? As the film progresses, we see how each device has the means to be the source of the leak. Through their conversations and arguments (­­Figure 9.4), we see their inner nature revealed. The writing and production is intended to convey aspects of each device’s particular ontography through their individuality, character, and soul as inspired by Animism.

A (­solarpunk) toaster for life Toaster for Life (­Stead, 2016) is an example of Design Fiction created to explore the concept described by Bruce Sterling’s “­Spime” neologism (­2005). Spimes are ­internet-​­connected objects which, unlike many “­single use” products, are designed in such a way that their components can be tracked through space and time, allowing their entire life to be managed more sustainably, from production through to reuse at the end of their life (­Stead, Coulton & Lindley, 2019a). Rather than the “­fantasy and spectacle” of classic dystopias and utopias, Toaster for Life is purposefully presented mundanely, or as an “­everyday concern” (­Stead, 2016). In part this mundanity is achieved by harnessing the power of Design Fiction’s thoughtful and considered “­World Building” approach (­Coulton, Lindley, Sturdee, and Stead, 2017), i.e., crafting a speculation which presents possibilities which must be plausible to their given audience. This Design Fiction also leverages the Toaster for Life’s key ­features—​­to 121

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­Figure 9.5 The Toaster for Life (­original artwork by Dr Mike Stead, 2016, used with permission)

be repairable, upgradable, customizable, recyclable, and ­t rackable—​­to ground the design in mundanity, and strengthen the project’s underlying alignment to ­pro-​­sustainability rhetoric (­Stead, 2020). It is among these coordinates which we cast Toaster for Life as an example of how Solarpunk ideals may often become part of ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human Futures (­­Figure 9.5). While the Toaster of Life was not conceived as a Solarpunk Design Fiction, and although the project deliberately avoids any extreme (­a nd therefore unbelievable) utopianism, Toaster for Life is optimistically ­rebellious—​­a key characteristic of the Solarpunk movement. For example, the Toaster for Life is built without screws, glues or hidden seals so that it is repairable by its owner and open source hardware with modular design mean that individual sections can be upgraded, adapted or replaced throughout the Toaster’s life (­­Figure 9.6). We can also consider the Toaster for Life in terms of Speculative Ontography. By building a Design Fiction world around the concept of Spimes, the design arguably begins to unpack additional actants in this particular Solarpunk Future. For example the concept of “­metahistory” helps designers to conceive of how sharing users, products and components histories can not only reveal their financial value but also their value in relation to sustainability concerns (­Stead, Coulton and Lindley, 2019a). A more socially oriented Speculative Ontograph relating to the Toaster for Life may acknowledge and explore the relationships between component manufacturers, local repair tradespeople, recycling industries, and communities of owners. The Toaster for Life is an exemplar for how ­Spime-​­based Design Fiction practice can productively explore ­Solarpunk-​­based, ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human Futures, by surfacing the confluence of physical, digital and environmental concerns (­Stead, Coulton and Lindley, 2019b).

Conclusions As networked products and services increasingly infiltrate even the most mundane aspects of our lives it is becoming increasingly apparent the design perspectives which transcend the 122

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­Figure 9.6 Demonstrating how the Toaster for Life’s design enhances repairability and upgradeability by not relying on screws, glues, soldering, or seals (­original artwork by Dr Mike Stead, 2016, used with permission)

­ ne-​­dimensional and t­ echnology-​­driven perspectives of HCD provide useful counterpoints. o The tension which drives this is the networkification of the world we live in, the fact that those networks are fundamentally n ­ on-​­human, and that HCD remains the dominant design paradigm. In this chapter we respond to this tension by considering the underlying Heideggerian standpoint that HCD is arguably built from, and exploring the alternative role that OOO could play in its place. While OOO can be applied in a wide range of ways, Speculative Ontography is presented as one specific means of practicing OOO in a technology and design context. We align this thinking to the design futures movement, specifically by reimagining how the futures cone may manifest in a future which isn’t simply inhabited by “­a user” or “­some users” but one that is inhabited by “­m any users” (­some of which may not be human). The growing Solarpunk movement is identified as a deliberately optimistic counterpoint to the criticality of design futures, and we argue provides a strong rationale for driving optimistic ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human Futures. Finally we have shown how this ensemble of ideas comes to pass in a series of examples demonstrating how ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human perspectives may manifest in Design Research interventions. ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human Centered Design is an evolving and experimental space, and hence the arguments, perspectives and examples presented in this chapter are also experimental. While the way to engage with the ideas we present is therefore in a probationary flux, what is certain is that we live in a networked and ­More-­​­­Than-​­Human world. To coin a phrase based on the Solarpunk mantra, we should practice M ­ ore-­​­­Than-​­Human Design, because the only other option is denial or despair. 123

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Notes 1 https://­w ww.anybotics.com/­­robotic-­​­­package-­​­­delivery-­​­­w ith-​­a nymal/ 2 While last mile is used to describe the transportation, typically via delivery truck, of package from the nearest distribution hub to its final destination, such as a home or business, last meter describes movement of the package from delivery truck to recipient’s doorstep. 3 https://­h ieroglyph.asu.edu/­2014/­09/­­solarpunk-­​­­notes-­​­­toward-­​­­a-​­m anifesto/ 4 Refers to any of a set of cards used in tarot games and f­ortune-​­telling. Specific Tarot decks were invented in Italy in the 1430s by adding fifth suit to the traditional 4 suit pack of cards. 5 In a typical fortune telling reading using tarot the major arcana refer to spiritual matters and important trends in the questioner’s life while the minor arcana cups deal with love, pentacles with money and material comfort, wands deal mainly with business matters and career ambitions and swords with conflict.

References Akmal, Haider Ali. 2021. “­Design by Play: Playfulness and O ­ bject-​­Oriented Philosophy for the Design of IoT.” PhD Dissertation. Lancaster University. https://­doi.org/­10.17635/­lancaster/­thesis/­1396 Akmal, Haider Ali, and Paul Coulton. 2020. “­A Tarot of Things: A Supernatural Approach to Designing for IoT.” In Proceedings Design Research Society Conference 2020. https://­doi.org/­10.21606/­d rs.2020.188 Akmal, Haider Ali, and Paul Coulton. 2020a. “­The Divination of Things by Things.” In CHI’20: Extended Abstracts of the 2020 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems Extended Abstracts ACM. https://­doi.org/­10.1145/­3334480.3381823 Barad, Karen. 2007. Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Bardzell, Jeffrey and Shaowen Bardzell. 2013, April. “­W hat Is ‘­Critical’ about Critical Design?” In Proceedings of the SIGCHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems, ­3297–​­3306. https://­doi. org/­10.1145/­2470654.2466451. Berry, David J. 1975. ­Man-​­Made Futures: Readings in Society, Technology and Design, ed. Nigel Cross, David Elliott and Robin Roy. London: Hutchinson Educational in Association with The Open University Press, 365 pp. Bogost, Ian. 2006. Unit Operations: An Approach to Videogame Criticism. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Bogost, Ian. 2012. Alien Phenomenology, or, What It’s Like to be a Thing. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Coulton, Paul, Daniel Burnett, and Adrian I. Gradinar. 2016. “­Games as Speculative Design: Allowing Players to Consider Alternate Presents and Plausible Futures.” In Lloyd, P. and Bohemia, E. (­eds.), Future Focused ­T hinking -​­DRS International Conference 2016, ­27–​­30 June, Brighton. Coulton, Paul, Joseph Galen Lindley, Miriam Sturdee, and Michael Stead. 2017. “­Design Fiction as World Building”, In Proceedings of the 3rd Biennial Research through Design Conference. Edinburgh, ­1–​­16. https://­doi.org/­10.6084/­m9.figshare.4746964. Coulton, Paul and Joseph Lindley. 2017. “­Vapourworlds and Design Fiction: The Role of Intentionality.” The Design Journal, 20(­Suppl. 1): ­S4632–​­S4642. Coulton, Paul and Joseph Lindley. 2019. “­­More-​­than Human Centred Design: Considering Other Things.” The Design Journal, 22(­4): ­463–​­481. De la Cadena, Marisol, and Mario Blaser, eds. 2018. A World of Many Worlds. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. DiSalvo, Carl, and Jonathan Lukens. 2011. “­Nonanthropocentrism and the Nonhuman in Design: Possibilities for Designing New Forms of Engagement With and through Technology.” In Marcus Foth, Laura Forlano, Christine Satchell and Martin Gibbs (­eds.), From Social Butterfly to Engaged Citizen: Urban Informatics, Social Media, Ubiquitous Computing, and Mobile Technology to Support Citizen Engagement. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, ­421–​­437. Escobar, Arturo. 2018. Designs for the Pluriverse. Durham, NC: Duke University Press Forlano, Laura. 2017. “­Posthumanism and Design.” She Ji: The Journal of Design, Economics, and Innovation, 3(­1): ­16–​­29. Forlano, Laura. 2021. “­The Future Is Not a Solution”, http://­w ww.publicbooks.org/­­the-­​­­f uture-­​­­is-­​ ­­not-­​­­a-​­solution/,Last accessed 20/­06/­2022.

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Designing technology for More-Than-Human futures Galloway, Anne. 2017. M ­ ore-­​­­than-​­Human Lab: Creative Ethnography after Human Exceptionalism. In The Routledge Companion to Digital Ethnography. Oxford: Routledge, ­496–​­503. Galloway, Anne. 2020. Flock. In C. Howe and A. Pandian (­eds.), Anthropocene Unseen: A Lexicon. Santa Barbara, CA: Punctum Books, 2­ 03–​­206. Gonzatto, Rodrigo Freese, Frederick MC van Amstel, Luiz Ernesto Merkle, and Timo Hartmann. 2013. The Ideology of the Future in Design Fictions. Digital Creativity, 24(­1): ­36–​­45. Harman, Graham. 2018. O ­ bject-​­oriented Ontology: A New Theory of Everything. London: Penguin UK. Hauser, Sabrina, Johan Redström, and Heather Wiltse. 2021. “­The Widening Rift Between Aesthetics and Ethics in the Design of Computational Things.” Journal of AI and Society. https://­doi.org/­ 10.1007/­­s00146-­​­­021-­​­­01279-​­w, last accessed 20/­06/­2022. Heidegger, Martin. 2010. Being and Time. Albany, NY: Suny Press. Law, John. 2004. After Method: Mess in Social Science Research. Oxford: Routledge. Law, John. 2015. “­W hat’s Wrong with a O ­ ne-​­World World?” Distinktion: Scandinavian Journal of Social Theory, 16(­1): ­126–​­139. Lindley, Joseph, Haider Ali Akmal, and Paul Coulton. 2020. “­Design Research and O ­ bject-​­Oriented Ontology.” Open Philosophy, 3(­1): ­11–​­41. Lindley, Joseph, Paul Coulton, and Haley Alter. 2019. “­Networking with Ghosts in the Machine. Speaking to the Internet of Things”, The Design Journal, 22 (­Suppl. 1): ­1187–​­1199. https://­doi. org/­10.1080/­14606925.2019.1594984 Morton, Timothy. 2013. Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology after the End of the World. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Norman, Donald A. 1998. The Invisible Computer: Why Good Products Can Fail, the Personal Computer Is So Complex, and Information Appliances Are the Solution. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Norman, Donald A. 2005. Emotional Design: Why We Love (­or Hate) Everyday Things. NYC: Basic Books. Norman, Donald. 2005. “­HCD Harmful? A Clarification.” http://­w ww.jnd.org/­d n.mss/­hcd_harmful_a_clari.html, last accessed 20/­06/­2022. Pierce, James. 2021. “­In Tension with Progression: Grasping the Frictional Tendencies of Speculative, Critical, and Other Alternative Designs.” In Proceedings of the 2021 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. New York: ACM, ­1–​­19. https://­doi.org/­10.1145/­3411764.3445406. Pierce, James, and Carl DiSalvo. 2017. “­Dark Clouds, Io&#!+, and [Crystal Ball Emoji] Projecting Network Anxieties with Alternative Design Metaphors.” In Proceedings of the 2017 Conference on Designing Interactive Systems, ­1383–​­1393. Reid, John. 2014. “­The Power of Animism.” https://­w ww.youtube.com/­watch?v=lmhFRarkw8E, last accessed 20th October, 2021. Semetsky, Inna. 2006. “­Tarot as a Projective Technique.” Spirituality and Health International, 7(­4): ­187–​­197. Stead, Michael. 2016. “­A Toaster for Life: Using Design Fiction to Facilitate Discussion on the Creation of a Sustainable Internet of Things.” In Proceedings of Design Research Society Conference 2016, Future Focussed Thinking 2016. Stead, Michael, Paul Coulton, and Joseph Lindley. 2019a. “­The Future Is Metahistory: Using ­Spime-​ ­based Design Fiction as a Research Lens for Designing Sustainable Internet of Things Devices.” Proceedings of IASDR 2019: Design Revolutions. International Association of Societies of Design Research Conference 2019. Stead, Michael, Paul Coulton, and Joseph Lindley. 2019b. “­Spimes Not Things: Creating A Design Manifesto For A Sustainable Internet of Things.” The Design Journal 22 (­Suppl. 1): ­2133–​­2152. Stead, Michael. 2020. Spimes: A Multidimensional Lens for Designing Future Sustainable Internet Connected Devices. PhD Dissertation. Lancaster University, 247 p. Sterling, Bruce. 2005. Shaping Things. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Whatmore, Sarah. 2006. “­Materialist Returns: Practising Cultural Geography in and for a ­More-­​ ­­Than-​­Human World.” Cultural Geographies, 13(­4): ­600– ​­609. Williams, Rhys. 2019. “‘­This Shining Confluence of Magic and Technology’: Solarpunk, Energy Imaginaries, and the Infrastructures of Solarity”. Open Library of Humanities, 5(­1):  60, ­1–​­35. Voros, Joseph. 2003. ‘­A Generic Foresight Process Framework’. Foresight, 5(­3): ­10–​­21.

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PART II

Designing design research Formulating research questions; conducting literature searches and reviews; developing research plans

Part II of the revised and updated (­2nd edition) Routledge Companion to Design Research is concerned with how one might embark on a design research project and design their design research project. The chapters in this part of the book offer readers pragmatic advice in how a research question might be formulated, how a research plan is developed and methods for how best to search and review extant research. At the same time, issues of ethics and responsibilities are forefronted when considering what questions should be asked and how it should be answered. Meredith Davis’ chapter aims to guide design researchers in framing researchable questions in design. Davis provides a number of examples that illustrate the characteristics that make questions researchable. These characteristics include alignment with a philosophical perspective, a hierarchy among aspects of the situation under study, a working theory that underpins the investigation, reasonable scope and the articulation of ­sub-​­questions. The chapter gives a number of “­d ifferent flavours of design research” – ​­from both Master’s and Doctoral ­theses – that ​­ focus on question phrasing and its influence in structuring the work that follows. Davis’ chapter concludes with a list of general categories of relevant issues that will encourage design researchers to select research topics worth doing in a field continuing to build its research culture and impact on the world. Rachael Luck’s chapter engages with foundational questions about the nature of design research and ­a sks – ​­what makes a question an appropriate line of design research enquiry for doctoral level studies? In this chapter, Luck offers guidance on the foundational positioning and perspectivising of the research at the outset of a project and outlines several key theoretical foundations, conceptual constructs and ways of describing positions from which to approach design research. Luck reminds us that there is no “­standard approach” to design research. Rather, a design researcher will navigate a personal route, which engages with scientific debate to connect theory and method, to advance a particular line of enquiry and address a specific research question. Like Davis’ chapter, this chapter offers help to researchers to develop a vocabulary to describe the foundational epistemic position and theoretical grounds for their research. The chapter written by Alison Prendiville, Delina Evans and Chamithri Greru looks to challenge assumptions in social design research in the Global South in general (­India in

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particular). The purpose of their chapter is not to present the findings from recent workshops they have conducted, but to offer a set of reflective practice tools that will prepare future design researchers for fieldwork in the Global South. Drawing on literature and their own experiences of working in India over the past four years, the authors identified a gap in scaffolding preparedness for design researchers to work sensitively and respectfully in settings that are different to Western cultures. As a starting point the authors have questioned the all too familiar term of “­w icked problems”, often used to describe social problems that designers are increasingly engaged with in the Global South and the limitations this may cause in framing the research area. The authors conclude their chapter with tips on how to facilitate respectful dialogue and relational interactions within service and social design research to provide a space to reconsider what design can become, building on what Escobar1 sees as “­embracing multiple reals”. On a similar topic, Lizette Reitsma’s chapter examines the implications when we design with groups who hold other worldviews (­i.e., ­non-​­Western worldviews), such as Indigenous communities. Reitsma cautions against design research that can, for example, affect colonial power structures of dependency as well as be colonising by imposing worldviews and prescribing solutions and methods. Rather, Reitsma points out, if we consider “­modern” design as just a specific type of design, amongst other types of design, we could follow a pluriversal understanding of design. The chapter proposes that one way of thinking about design in a pluriverse could be to think through an Indigenous knowledge approach to design, in which we respectfully show care and awareness in how we identify, explore and assess ­meaning –​ ­acknowledging that our view is always incomplete. Reitsma’s chapter describes a project where the author has attempted to take up such a respectful approach to design that required a ­re-​­learning of what it means to be a design researcher highlighting the different designs that evolved from the project and whether/ how those designs were produced through a respectful design approach. Lesley-Ann Noel’s chapter describes an emancipatory approach to design research where knowledge production is determined and directed by people most impacted by the research who have one or more marginalised or oppressed identities (­e.g., for reasons of race, gender, sexual orientation, disability, economic background, etc.). Noel describes this as an “­u mbrella approach” that can include many streams of critical t­heory-​­based research such as feminist, Marxist, disability, race, and gender theory. Key assumptions in emancipatory research are that there are multiple realities and that the researcher from the dominant or elite group is not the only person who can create research. This way of doing research is particularly relevant to inclusive design, participatory design, and design for social innovation. Noel’s emancipatory approach to design research emphasises the concept of “­design by” rather than “­design with” or “­design for” where the marginalised stakeholders, rather than the design researchers, drive the agendas. Here, Noel informs us, design researchers following an emancipatory approach use research methods that facilitate critical discussions, greater participation by marginalised people, and provide more agency amongst marginalised stakeholders. The chapter also examines the aims and principles behind emancipatory research, guidelines for ensuring an emancipatory approach in design research, and evaluating emancipatory design interventions. This part of the book moves on to contributions where new frameworks and alternative ways of defining, articulating, and disseminating design research are presented. As design research seeks to understand the needs and behaviours of people in relation to designed outcomes, Nneka Sobers and Stephanie Parey’s chapter examines how design research

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processes might actually perpetuate exclusion in design processes. Their chapter examines how design practitioners translate and modify a ­well-​­known methodology, Participatory Action Research (­PAR) into ­real-​­world applications. These adapted forms of PAR were used to break cycles of exclusion in the design process and guide design researchers to establish more collaborative and democratic research practices. Specifically, Sobers and Parey’s chapter focusses on four e­ quity-​­centred design frameworks that have been developed by design researchers/ practitioners (­1. Design Justice Network Principles, 2. EquityxDesign, 3. Liberatory Design and 4. E ­ quity-​­Centred Community Design) examining how each framework translates PAR into ­real-​­world applications. An analysis of the four frameworks reveals a number of key themes that include (­i) identifying individual assumptions and biases, (­ii) dismantling oppressive systems, (­iii) power dynamics: power in language, reflection of individual power, and power in relationships. The chapter concludes with a call to action: researchers must reflect on their research process, continue adapting their design research processes, and deploy strategies to break the cycle of exclusion in design. Ann Heylighen, Greg Nijs and Carlos Mourão Pereira’s chapter builds upon the experiences of the third a­ uthor – ​­an architect who has continued designing after having lost his sight. The chapter questions to what extent prevailing notions of design may be complemented with alternative articulations and examines the limited attention researchers have placed on alternative understandings of human cognition and other approaches to design research. In so doing, the chapter raises important questions about how design research is produced, and consequently what design may or can also be. The chapter suggests complementing the predominant cognitivist stance and its ­laboratory-​­style experimental methods in many design research pursuits with a more situated and ethnographic mode of enquiry. Highlighting the third author’s alternative design reality invites design researchers to consider other articulations of d­ esign – be ​­ that by adopting other epistemologies or researching in other ways. In many peripheral countries, objects are not produced with heavy industries or new technologies, but by doing things by hand that give a soul to these objects. Luján Cambariere’s chapter examines this energy, numen, aura or what anthropologists call m ­ aná – ​­an anonymous force that gives these objects life and makes them special. Cambariere’s exploration of the DNA of Latin American design suggests a new paradigm that provides good answers to social and environmental problems because the focus is on the person behind the object and the vulnerability that is inevitably transformed into resilience and resourcefulness. In this context, designers make do with what they have, they embolden and ­re-​­signify scarcity, they transform this lack of resources into opportunities. Cambariere presents this emerging ethic as one that aspires to reclaim techniques and materials that care for the environment and, most importantly, human beings where doing is bound to being and where the designer works as an agent of change. Harah Chon’s chapter examines fashion as a system that comprises various degrees of interaction across and between individuals, groups and societal levels. As an experiential practice that provides a means for connection and communication, Chon’s chapter introduces a research framework through a discussion of sociological perspectives and theories, emerging discourses around fashion, and the changing roles and functions within the fashion system. Here, design knowledge is presented as the link between designer and individual, repositioning the function of fashion objects and role of individual agency within the ­meaning-​­making process. The framework, presented in the chapter, discusses the dialectical

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tensions posed by traditional theories of fashion and proposes a broad new perspective for approaching ­fashion-​­related research.

Note 1 Escobar, A. 2017. “­Sustaining the Pluriverse: The Political Ontology of Territorial Struggles in Latin America.” In The Anthropology of Sustainability: Beyond Development and Progress, edited by Marc Brightman and Jerome Lewis, 2­ 37–​­256. New York: Palgrave Macmillan by Springer Nature.

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10 WHAT IS A RESEARCHABLE QUESTION IN DESIGN? Meredith Davis

Recent indiscriminate use of the term “­research” presents master’s and doctoral students with a confusing picture as they enter thesis or dissertation work. In cases where the academic expectation is a studio project of professional competencies for practice, master’s students often frame problems for which w ­ ell-​­researched insights can be found through a good literature or market review. Other students define research problems for which they lack access to the necessary people and conditions to make meaningful decisions on a design approach or credible claims regarding research outcomes. Doctoral design programs vary widely in the study of methods and selection of topics worthy of deep investigation. In some cases, PhD programs pay less attention to the development of a researcher who will encounter different problems across a career than to the production of graduation deliverables. Evidence of these conditions can be found in increasing graduate student inquiries asking for external help, either in locating resources for an ­over-​­scaled research question or in narrowing study under an exhaustive list of personal interests not particularly relevant to pressing disciplinary issues. The intent of the discussion and examples that follow is to assist students in framing a researchable question. To make clear the difference between research intended to guide future ­practice-​­based decisions and the generation of new knowledge, all examples are identified as work by master’s versus doctoral students.

Different flavors of “­design research” In design, as in other fields, research begins with a desire to know or resolve something. A question may originate with the design researcher or come to the researcher through someone who presents a particular challenge for which a course of action is not immediately apparent. Framing the question sets the stage for everything that follows in a research study or ­research-​­driven design process. How the researcher constructs the question determines: the search for relevant literature; appropriate theories for grounding the study or design decisions; methods of investigation; people or situations involved; criteria for interpreting research findings; generalizability of claims; and potential future applications.

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Design research serves different purposes. Typical of many fields, one type focuses on the discovery of knowledge from which to articulate theories and principles for future study or design action by others. As the frequent activity of doctoral students and their faculty, this type of research depends on evidence and broadly accepted standards of credibility. It is informed by quantitative and qualitative methods, as well as systematic rigor in their application. It is the domain of traditional PhD programs. Design research also transfers knowledge, applying theories from other disciplines to design, and design theories to other fields. In this case, the goal is to examine the relevance and efficacy of existing ideas in new contexts. A third type of design research only goes far enough to suggest which of several possible directions a professional designer might follow in addressing practical situations. Its primary intent is not to influence the discipline or practice of others, but to clarify the most effective course of action on a specific project. Master’s programs increasingly introduce students to this view of research as informing their studio practices. Similarly, there are various philosophical perspectives that underpin these efforts. One takes a scientific approach, describing as factually as possible something about design that can be observed and measured. For example, a researcher may document the average duration of time people spend with discrete displays in a museum exhibition. Findings may inform decisions about the length of exhibition text or contribute to knowledge on the behavior of a particular demographic. While there is recognition that the researcher might inject some bias in reaching conclusions, the overarching goal is to be as objective as possible in data collection and reporting. In other cases, the purpose of a scientific approach to research is to prove something. This type of investigation typically begins with hypothesis. For example, “­Most people ignore curatorial content sequencing in their paths through museum exhibitions.” Another perspective seeks meaning in the lived experiences of individuals. Admittedly these accounts are subjective, but the researcher attempts to apprehend the nature of a phenomenon by what people describe as similar and different across their experiences. For example, researchers may study what people find disturbing in hospital emergency rooms. Some find a lack of acoustical privacy unsettling, while proximity to incoming patients upsets others. Patients may respond differently from their waiting families. Collectively, these individual perceptions from a variety of settings identify the “­W hat is it?” that leads to design principles. A third position on research assumes there is no single truth and that people will attach different meanings to things based on their own reality in a specific situation. Relativism accepts not only that the researcher has a perspective, but also that others’ reports should be judged with respect to the context in which they were made and goals they sought to achieve. For example, a product designer may conduct a case study to see what children do with backpacks on school buses. Observation of primary school boys and girls on a local school bus informs design decisions, but there is no attempt to generalize findings as characteristic of all children with backpacks in all settings. These types of research are not mutually exclusive in the purposes and content they address. For example, knowing what motivates expert ­note-​­takers in their spatial organization of content adds to disciplinary knowledge on visual thinking but also informs the design of ­note-​­taking software. When such studies follow rigorous research protocols and standards for credibility, they inform future practice. However, when research methods are less formal, results may not apply beyond a particular user or situation. All types of inquiry can be useful in some sense, but they respond to different goals, require different methods and standards of evidence, and support different kinds of claims. 132

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What is worth researching? In the field of medicine, researchers can look to practice for guidance on important research questions. For example, the number of people who die each year from opioid overdoses tells researchers something about the urgency of the addiction crisis. There is both professional and public agreement that the issue is important and research funding confirms that the field sees it as a priority. Standards for judging the quality of research, whether in basic or social sciences, are in place. And the outcomes of research are reported to the public and guide the recommendations of practicing physicians. Design, however, has little agreement regarding what is meant by “­research,” no unified theory guiding practice, few methods not borrowed from other disciplines, and indeterminate standards for judging research findings across diverse definitions. In 2005, Metropolis Magazine surveyed 1051 American design students, faculty, and practitioners on design research (­Manfra 2005). Granted, results reflected the publication’s general readership and the state of design research at the time, but definitions ranged from simply selecting color swatches to studies of user behavior. Among undergraduate students, library retrieval was a common answer. When asked whether there should be a unified theory of design, respondents said, “­No.” And while respondents ranked sustainability and culture at the top of areas worthy of design research, they selected systems theory and anthropology among the least relevant subject matter for further study. Clearly, at least in the United States, the field was confused about what might constitute a research agenda. Further complicating the research task for doctoral students is variability among ­post-​ g­ raduate admissions requirements and curricular structures. Some programs expect PhD applicants to bring c­ ross-​­disciplinary reading and writing qualifications gained from master’s study to their doctoral work. In other instances, master’s coursework is entirely within studio practice and doctoral students must acquire academic skills while also learning to conduct research. Some programs require research proposals in the application for doctoral admission, while others expect students to author proposals in the first year of study under coursework. And there is no consistency among institutions in providing specific disciplinary faculty support for design research, leaving some doctoral students trolling the internet for design experts who can support their investigations from afar. As a result, there is confusion regarding subjects worth pursuing under master’s and doctoral student research. Design conferences and journals can mislead students regarding studies that truly matter in a field with a limited history of investigations. In one year alone, for example, there were six different calls for papers on the view of advertising design as depicted in a popular American television melodrama. Further, because a number of doctoral programs are not “­taught”—​­that is, don’t rely on formal coursework for comprehensive study of research paradigms and ­methods—​­students find difficulty in articulating researchable questions and employing methods that can sustain meaningful studies. Unlike other more established research fields in which students search for topics not already covered, design has no shortfall of areas in need of research as contributions to both the discipline and practice. Yet students frequently struggle in identifying a focus worthy of their attention across several years. There are a number of broad, recurring categories of interest for design research: How designers think is a continuing preoccupation of the field. Recent attention to design thinking and innovation by business and education builds on interest from the 1970s. These early studies attempted to define design as a third domain of knowledge, different in many ways from art and science. An important aspect of more recent work is to 133

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separate marketing messages touting design processes as solving literally any problem, from fundamental understanding of how systems thinking, seeing things through the mind’s eye, pattern recognition, abduction, and embodied cognition really distinguish the work of design from other p­ roblem-​­solving fields. Understanding how designers think offers insights into conditions that foster critical and creative thinking, social incentives for nurturing such skills in the broader population, and the range of situated actions people take in circumstances that call for improvisation. What people want and need is a concern of all designers, especially in the formative stages of a project. Design research resembles market research in some respects, but it has greater interest in the motives and behaviors that underpin a much fuller range of activities through which people interact with their environment. Designers want to know what makes information, products, environments, and services useful and usable, as well as desirable. Increasingly, things are organized and studied as ecologies rather than freestanding artifacts, with the scope of investigation extending beyond immediate functional interactions with discrete objects. Digital technology also affords greater symmetry between makers and users through products and systems that are adaptable and adaptive. There is growing need to understand the activities in which people want to be active designers of their own experiences, and those in which they are content to be more passive consumers. What the context demands is slightly different from what individuals want and need. Design is a form of social production; it responds to and has consequences for equity and ­well-​ ­being. It is also responsible for the technological feasibility, economic viability, environmental sustainability, and organizational accountability that result from design action. Today there is recognition that even when acting at the level of artifacts, design has ­systems-​­level implications for this full range of variables. Complexity and uncertainty in design problems, therefore, result from the variety, volatility, and velocity of change in c­ o-​­dependent relationships, not merely from the number of problem elements. The research challenge resides in causal networks, not causal chains in which intervening at one leverage point fixes everything. How design is planned, produced, distributed, and evaluated addresses methods and strategies through which organizations execute their missions. Design plays increasingly pivotal roles in the value chains of organizations. Innovation occurs at the levels of internal systems, product and service offerings, and ­consumer-​­facing experiences of companies, with designers now acting at the s­lower-​­changing levels of organizational purpose and structure, as well as the more volatile levels of product form. New product development and management strategies, and platforms through which third parties develop applications, change the way in which design is produced. And the conversion of products to services reinvents how design is distributed. Communities also find value in working with designers in meeting social challenges that require new approaches to cultural consciousness and support for the diversity of life goals. Because these activities and their implications are complex, designers often serve as facilitators in reaching consensus within interdisciplinary teams of experts and engaged citizens. As designers negotiate possible ways of being under ­co-​­creation strategies with community stakeholders, the development of modeling tools is increasingly important. The consequences of design action include individual interactions with information, products, environments, and services as well the historical, cultural, and environmental implications

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of design as interpreted over time and through changes in the surrounding context. Design theorist Horst Rittel described wicked problems as involving two contradictory forces: “­one grounded in the infinite makeability and the unlimited potential of the future and the other in emotional engagement aimed at overcoming the unequal social consequences of the system” (­R ittel and Webber 1973, ­p. 158). The documented history of design has traditionally followed the trajectory of artistic movements in the Global North, often ignoring the political, social, economic, and technological forces that shaped design responses worldwide. Greater concern for culturally based futures and ways of being demand critical reconsideration of a design monoculture in places that share little with its origins in late t­ wentieth-​­century Europe and the United States. What constitutes progress is of greater concern as designers recognize these multiple realities. Rapidly developing technology consistently redefines social expectations, often with underlying biases that privilege some users over others. In many cases, it also creates gaps between digital and physical experiences that present new opportunities for design. And the circular economy calls for regenerative and restorative design that redresses damages from an industrial cycle of buy > use > discard > buy again. The circular economy is now an imperative, not an option. Tools and methods for studying these things are necessary for the maturation of design research. To date, many research methods come from other fields: ethnography from anthropology; case studies from business; experimental methods from psychology. What works and does not work in the situated contexts of design practice, standards of evidence, and how design research is integrated with the generative processes of practice are areas that represent opportunities for research. Technologies also introduce new research tools, while the digital dematerialization of many previously physical activities challenge traditional observational methods. Big data and artificial intelligence offer traces, faces, and places for design research, requiring that researchers ask just the right questions of information. Therefore, the field doesn’t lack research opportunities. The task is not in finding something to study, but in framing questions in ways that are researchable.

What makes a researchable question? In one sense, the research question is a reflection of how the researcher defines research and the specific focus of research activity. In another sense, good research questions share some characteristics regardless of research type, perspective, or subject matter. The wording of a research question implies a hierarchy among aspects of the situation. For example, a question that asks, “­In what ways can technology enhance the museum experience?” is very different from “­W hat do people want from their museum experience?” The former question assumes technology can positively influence what people make of exhibition content. The latter emphasizes people and their activities, which any number of things might enhance. The second question also avoids an assumption that all visitors relate to technology in the same way. It is easy to imagine the differences in what researchers observe or ask under the two studies. In representing a hierarchy among concepts, wording also implies the necessary qualifications of the researcher. For example, a question that asks, “­W hy do elderly patients make mistakes when taking multiple medications?” requires different expertise from a question

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that asks, “­Can the design of vial information reduce elderly patient error in taking multiple medications?” Or stated as a hypothesis, “­The design of vial information affects patient compliance in taking multiple medications.” The first question requires the expertise of a social scientist with deep understanding of elder behavior and the various health factors that accompany aging, not a design researcher. On the other hand, the latter question assumes vial information plays some role and seeks the contribution of specific design features. The social scientist may conclude that vial information contributes to confusion but is less likely to test a full range of design variables. Designer Deborah Adler’s differently colored vial rings to designate each family member’s medication, for example, reduced confusion among different prescriptions in the medicine cabinet. Her design addressed one aspect of elder error, taking another person’s medication by mistake. Similarly, doctoral student Pamela Pease was interested in ­r isk-​­taking behavior under a ­design-​­based approach to teaching and learning in ­K-​­12 schools (­Pease 2018). Although her doctoral studies included courses under a cognate in educational psychology, she was not qualified by expertise or familiarity with participating students to understand what constituted a risk for children in two design middle schools, or whether ­r isk-​­taking was directly attributable to their lessons. However, their teachers developed learning experiences under explicit institutional goals for students’ intellectual ­risk-​­taking behavior. Therefore, Pease could ask teachers what definition of r­ isk-​­taking they adopted and how they believed their lessons targeted that specific behavior. She could observe classroom instruction to judge how teachers’ introductions and critical responses to student work aligned with their stated definitions of support for r­ isk-​­taking behavior. In other words, rather than chance subjectively reading into unfamiliar students’ artifacts and states of mind, Pease focused her study on what teachers said and did by asking, “­How do secondary school educators integrate the pedagogy of design in constructing authentic challenges intended to cultivate ­risk-​­taking and innovation in students?” Her research question was within her expertise as a design educator and she studied things she could observe and confirm through interviews and documents. Behind a research question there is a working theory that underpins the study. This working theory often takes the form of a hypothesis, a statement of expectations. For example, master’s student Laura Rodriguez hypothesized that, “­W hen presented with an analysis of their own online message content, college students will monitor and change their social networking behavior” (­Rodriguez 2011). The research that follows either confirms or contradicts the hypothesis. It might show that subjecting authored Facebook messages to sentiment analysis (­a computer application that analyzes natural language and extracts subjective information from text) does nothing to discourage users from sharing messages with questionable content. If so, then a new hypothesis is necessary. In other cases, the research question may build upon the working theory of another researcher. For example, master’s student Alberto Rigau asked the question, “­In what ways can design address excessive credit card use through ­just-­​­­in-​­time tools that help consumers manage fiscal activities?”(­R igau 2009). His question was prompted by the work by psychologist Dan Ariely, who argued that rational people are predictably irrational with respect to certain activities and that choice ­architecture—​­different ways of presenting information to ­consumers—​­has something to do with their decisions (­A riely 2009). Rigau used Ariely’s theory to account for the behavior but was open to where and how design might intervene in the irrational behavior of overspending. His prototype tested a cellphone application that reminds the consumer of items on their wish list before scanning credit card information from the phone. Rigau’s theory was that intervening between the rational act of budgeting 136

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and the emotional act of ­purchasing—​­by reminding buyers of their budget status and other things they want to b­ uy—​­would produce responsible fiscal behavior. In another example, master’s student T. J. Blanchflower asked, “­In what ways might interactive media support n ­ on-​­medication treatment for Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder college students and improve accuracy in their reporting to counselors?” (­Blanchflower 2011). Blanchflower’s theory was that visualization of the times and conditions under which the ADHD student lost f­ocus—​­recorded through taps in the moment on a wrist computer and mapped to a display of their academic schedule for the c­ ounselor—​­would accurately reveal recurring patterns that allowed the counselor to target specific strategies. Visualization also reduced the amount of time spent by overloaded counselors in understanding the student’s progress. In some cases, theory emerges explicitly through a methodology, especially when there is little in the literature upon which to build. As a doctoral student, Blanchflower studied the ­v isuo-​­spatial strategies of expert ­note-​­t akers from texts in order to inform later development of ­note-​­t aking software (­Blanchflower 2018). Through a grounded theory approach that coded ­note-​­takers’ interview transcripts and illustrated explanations of past strategies, a theory of “­future self ” emerged to explain differences in notes based on participants’ purposes for some activity yet to come. Notes intended for test preparation differed from those used to write papers or give lectures. In cases where the purpose changed, some n ­ ote-​­takers altered the spatial organization of their notes after initial inscription. Prior to the study, Blanchflower hypothesized that strategies differed among n ­ ote-​­takers, but not that spatial organization and visual coding were overwhelmingly linked to some projected future use, ­ ote-​­t aking from lectures. unlike n In these examples, hypotheses informed the development of prototypes. Working theories directed designer efforts in developing software solutions through which effects could be measured in testing. Good research questions define a realistic scope of investigation. It is common for beginning researchers to frame questions so large that it would take a lifetime to study them. Research novices typically are afraid something important will be lost in narrowing the investigation or in ranking various aspects of the situations they intend to study. When the investigative scope is too large, the next step in the research process is unclear. It is difficult to choose appropriate methods and criteria for interpreting findings if there are no limits on what the study will address. For example, master’s student Valentina Miosuro was interested in the behavior of people with Type 2 diabetes (­M iosuro 2008). Through a review of literature and interviews, she identified four patient types: the disheartened, who is n ­ on-​­compliant; the compliant, who blindly follows doctor’s orders; the disease manager, who understands the relationship between diet and exercise, and can regulate insulin injections accordingly; and the ­hyper-​­manager, for whom compliance has taken over all aspects of daily life. Miosuro chose only to address the problem of transforming disheartened ­non-​­compliant patients into disease managers. It is possible to imagine that future studies might address other patient types, but by focusing on one patient profile at a time, Miosuro could distinguish general strategies from those that are specific in their effects. For example, a meal planning application that digitally generates a shopping list discourages the inappropriate impulse buying at grocery stores typical of ­non-​ ­compliant patients. Typically, research questions are followed by ­3 –​­5 ­sub-​­questions that contribute to understanding the primary question. These ­sub-​­questions relate directly to concepts articulated in the primary research question and do not introduce content that expands the scope of the investigation. 137

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By being more specific than the primary question, ­sub-​­questions frame smaller investigations or suggest the application of specific methods that contribute to the main investigation. While it is important not to word s­ub-​­questions as procedural steps to be completed, they are often helpful in organizing the researcher’s allocation of time spent on specific aspects of the inquiry. Master’s student Will Walkington studied the application of business professor Thomas Saaty’s analytic hierarchy process in the design of a digital application through which recent college graduates explore rental properties in the neighborhoods of unfamiliar cities (­Walkington 2014). Unlike popular real estate systems that allow users to sort options by single criteria, one at a time (­cost or number of rooms, for example), Walkington’s system asked the user to weight importance among a dozen neighborhood characteristics. His ­sub-​­questions prompted a survey of young adults’ lifestyle choices; analysis of information available in the public databases of most American cities; and frequency of p­ ost-​­occupancy renter satisfaction reported through social media sites. These findings determined the type of information, how databases were used, and continuous updating opportunities of his system for mapping potential neighborhoods for relocation. Research ­sub-​­questions address specific concerns within the study, that when investigated through rigorous methods, contribute to overall understanding of the primary question. They are as important as the primary question. But when the researcher generates too many ­sub-​­questions, it is usually a sign that the primary question is too broad. It is likely that one of the ­sub-​­questions is more appropriate as a primary question. Good research questions anticipate how findings will be used and by whom. Miosuro’s and Walkington’s studies are also good examples of research that informs practice and is appropriate to ­studio-​­based master’s study. Don Norman describes this kind of research: Designers are practitioners, which means they are not trying to extend the knowledge base of science, but instead, to apply the knowledge. The designer’s goal is to have large, important impact. Scientists are interested in truth, often in the distinction between the predictions of two differing theories. The differences they look for are quite small; often statistically significant but in terms of applied impact, quite unimportant. Experiments that carefully control for numerous possible biases and use large numbers of experimental observers are inappropriate for designers. (­Norman 2010) On the other hand, doctoral students and their professors worry less about reaching conclusions about the appropriate form of individual products than understanding the nature of the problem, how to study it, standards of evidence, and the impact of conclusions on the development of principles and theories. This is not to say that their conclusions cannot influence the tangible properties of communication, products, environments, services, or systems, but it does imply that the knowledge they generate is broadly applicable to more than a single product.

What does NOT make a good design research question? A number of moves in framing a research question can cause needless time spent unproductively or produce outcomes that are insignificant. Rarely can research questions be answered simply by “­yes” or “­no.” When there are d­ efinitive findings in design research, they generally have qualifying conditions that make it difficult 138

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to argue that they apply in all situations. In other words, there are few “­truths” or “­r ules” in design. The decision to engage in a positivist s­tudy—​­that is, one that is objective and deals only in matters that can be verified by scientific i­nquiry—​­should not be taken lightly. Design, by its very nature, is situated; most of its effects depend on the setting and people involved. So even in an experimental study under rigid protocols with statistically significant results, there should be concern about o ­ ver-​­claiming that such results prove something that is generalizable to all situations or with all people. Doctoral student Amber Howard studied a concept called priming in which exposure to something influences a response to something else a short time later (­Howard 2011). She was cautious about likely claims when phrasing her research question. Howard asked, “­To what extent can mobile technology that primes for a future ­health-​­oriented mindset before meal times influence ­healthy-​­eating preferences among young adult college students?” After assembling a large sample of student participants, Howard sent f­utures-​­oriented messages by cellphone to one group of students and random content to a control group. Participants didn’t know the study was about eating habits and neither set of messages mentioned food. Asked about food choices at their next meal, as well as irrelevant other questions, students who received futures messages were more likely to perceive healthy foods as desirable. Howard did not try to prove that priming could change dietary habits. Instead, she asked, “­To what extent can design influence preferences…” and defined particular perceptions as a target. In reporting her findings, she made no claims that single messages were lasting or that repeated exposure to messages would produce the same outcomes over time. So, while her study was quantitative and followed experimental protocols, her goal was to determine whether the studies of priming in psychology could be replicated through the technological delivery of priming messages with college students who are ­self-​­reported h ­ igh-​­level cellphone users. It is easy to see how others might build on Howard’s work or how she might extend the study to issues not present in the original question. But what her research question shows is focus in her expectations of what is possible in a single study, clarity regarding perceptions she is prepared to address, and restraint in reporting only the facts of the results. Similarly, researchers should be cautious about comparative terms when phrasing research questions. Questions that seek comparative outcomes (­better, improved, or more), even under the same conditions, need evidence that is both valid (­confirms that the research actually measures what researchers think it measures) and reliable (­confirms that measuring the same things over time will produce the same results). Unless methods verify the validity and reliability of findings that one design exceeds another in some respect, researchers can only talk about how outcomes are different, without claiming that they surpass results under other conditions. Research ­sub-​­questions are not tasks to be executed. It is tempting to define research ­­sub-​ q­ uestions as steps in a process to be checked off, or a list of things to be retrieved from library resources. While these tasks may be necessary, they are not research questions. For example, doctoral student Matthew Peterson’s research studied middle school students’ comprehension of science content resulting from different image/­text relationships in textbooks (­Peterson 2011). To conduct the study, Peterson needed to choose subject matter for the textbook lesson. His choice had to meet certain criteria for the study, but choosing it from existing textbooks was a task, not something to be discovered in response to a research question. Likewise, determining what is meant by comprehension and how it might be tested was not something Peterson needed to invent. Education scholars have defined the concept and testing conditions in great detail. Therefore, Peterson’s ­sub-​­questions focused entirely 139

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on design variables in the relationships among elements, not on the tasks necessary to develop study instruments.

Conclusion Design is not alone in wrestling with standards while also delivering outcomes under rapidly changing demands for greater professional accountability. Many of the most important things about design are not things easily measured. The emergent practice of design research and research education challenges schools to develop curricula while simultaneously sorting out these issues. However, the field also owes much to students who hope to sustain research careers across a professional lifetime, and to a field seeking evidence of its value in application. Design education must hold master’s and doctoral students responsible for studies worth doing and for framing researchable questions that structure their investigations in ways that prepare them for the challenges of their respective careers.

References Ariely, Dan. 2009. Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces that Shape Our Decisions. New York: Harper. Blanchflower, T.J. 2011. Adaptive Design: Training the ADHD Brain (­Master’s thesis, NC State University Library). Blanchflower, T.J. 2018. Implications for the Design of Technology in Students’ Use of Tools and Signs in N ­ ote-​ ­taking from Texts (­Doctoral dissertation, NC State University Library). Howard, Amber. 2011. Feedforward: A Mobile Design Strategy (­Doctoral dissertation, NC State University Library). Manfra, Laura. 2005. “­­Research — ​­Its Role in North American Design Education.” Metropolis Magazine, August 2005. Miosuro, Valentina. 2008. Visual Skill Training and Monitoring Devices for Type 2 Diabetes Mellitus Patients(­Master’s thesis, NC State University Library). Norman, Donald. “­W hy Design Education Must Change.” Posted on Core 77 on November 26, 2010. http://­w ww.core77.com/­blog/­columns/­why_design_education_must_change_17993.asp Pease, Pamela. 2018. Teaching and Learning to Risk: Design Pedagogy as a Catalyst for Innovation and Creative ­Risk-​­Taking in Secondary School Learning Environments (­Doctoral dissertation, NC State University Library). Peterson, Matthew. 2011. Comprehension with Instructional Media for Middle School Science: A Holistic Performative Design Strategy and Cognitive Load (­Doctoral dissertation, NC State University Library). Rigau, Alberto. 2009. Design as Choice Architecture: Informing Consumers about ­D ebt-​­related Behaviors (­M aster’s thesis, NC State University Library). Rittel, Horst and Webber, Melvin. 1973. “­Dilemmas in a General Theory of Planning.” Policy Sciences Vol. 4, ­pp. ­155–​­169. Rodriguez, Laura. 2011. Mindful Social Networking (­M aster’s thesis, NC State University Library). ­ ong-​­Term Walkington, Will. 2014. Maps for ­Decision-​­making: Designing Digital Map Interactions to Support L Decision Making about Choosing a Neighborhood in Which to Live (­Master’s thesis, NC State University Library).

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11 FOUNDATIONAL THEORY AND METHODOLOGICAL POSITIONING AT THE OUTSET OF A DESIGN RESEARCH PROJECT Rachael Luck

What makes it design research? What is it that makes a question a design research question? How do we scope and configure a design PhD project? These are questions that have challenged the field of design research for more than 20 years.1 What is presented in this chapter is guidance on the foundational positioning and perspectivizing at the outset of a design research project. The view that there might be a (­design research) template or some kind of formulae that can be transferred from one research project to another is appealing. Research processes, however, are not that prescriptive. Design research furthermore can be approached from different theoretical and methodical perspectives and will ask different kinds of questions when studying: designers at work to develop knowledge and understanding of its practices, from critical and social design studies of the ways that people participate in design, as well as questions that stem from other perspectives that are part of the expanding design research canon. Each project will have its own research design, detailing a researcher’s reasoning in the selection of approach (­theory and methods) in a particular way to address a specific research question. The notion then of applying a model or ‘­boilerplate’ that can be universally mapped onto any research project is misleading, as it would oversimplify the work that is involved in the production and presentation of knowledge. Design, like any other field of enquiry, is in the midst of debate in the philosophy of science and, given changes in philosophic fashion, this debate is necessarily incomplete (­Edwards, Ashmore, & Potter, 1995; White, 2011, p. xv). Design research, it has also been argued, has its own nature (­A rcher, 1995; Dilnot, 1998). Design research also takes many forms and new knowledge and understanding of design is derived in different ways. The sequence in which we work iteratively between reading, writing and studying data is, at different times, characterized as: becoming acquainted with literatures, working inductively with theory to provide a footing for a research question, or conversely, working with data deductively, towards the building of grounded theory (­Dowling & Brown, 2010, ­p. 101 outline differences between theoretical and empirical derivation). Evidently, even the sequence in which a researcher engages in activities is dependent DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-14

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on the broad methodological category of the research. Positioning where your research sits in this landscape, where the terrain is both varied and contested, may feel like the machinations of a glass bead game at play2. A glass bead game is an apt metaphor when studying for a PhD in design, as it involves personal growth as well as the pursuit of authentic contribution to knowledge. All the insights, noble thoughts, and works of art that the human race has produced in its creative eras, all that subsequent periods of scholarly study have reduced to concepts and converted into intellectual p­ roperty  – on ​­ all this immense body of intellectual values the Glass Bead Game player plays like the organist on an organ … Theoretically this instrument is capable of reproducing in the Game the entire intellectual content of the universe. ...On the other hand, within this fixed structure, or to abide by our image, within the complicated mechanism of this giant organ, a whole universe of possibilities and combinations is available to the individual player. For even two out of a thousand stringently played games to resemble each other more than superficially is hardly possible. (­Hesse, 1943, p­ p. ­6 –​­7) When we take part in design research we engage in the intellectual enterprise of knowledge production. We operate within a ‘­current state of ongoing conversations on theory and its impact on how knowledge is conceptualised and expressed’ (­W hite, 2011, p. xv). This statement upholds whether we consider there to be universal (­design) truths ‘­out there’ to be found, or are of a p­ ost-​­positivist disposition and see a methodological problem in objectivity in design research (­Biggs, 2000). This is the machinery, or abiding by the image, the instrument of our research. The scientific machinery can be viewed from different perspectives and there are contested epistemic (­epistemology is the study of what is taken as true) and ontological (­ontology is the study of what is taken to be real) positions that c­ o-​­exist, simultaneously. Moreover we are institutionally entwined in an educational machinery connected with the production of (­scientific) knowledge. A researcher’s individual game then, at any level of study, is to navigate through theory (­of how the world operates) and a methodological landscape (­which methods to use to study it) to situate their research, while making some original contribution that is recognized in the award of an educational qualification. At the outset we don’t know the rules. We are, however, already a player in a knowledge production game. Let’s consider the characteristics of the institutional ‘­m achinery’ and outline some preliminary steps on a research pathway.

Design research’s foundations In the third decade of the t­ wenty-​­first century the importance of research and its impact on society pervade academia, including in design Schools. It was not always like this. Research was not always so closely connected to design; indeed design research is a new field in comparison with most subjects3. The relationship of research to design was debated at Doctoral Education in Design conferences, the Nature of Design Research and Foundations for the Future (­Buchanan, Doordan, Justice, & Margolin, 1998; Durling & Friedman, 2000) and with hindsight these events mark a watershed when the importance of research to design was voiced by the different design disciplines present. A disagreement at the time was defining just what design research is, given contested views of its relationship to practice4. Some of these issues had previously been addressed but momentarily forgotten and Professor Bruce 142

Foundational theory and methodological positioning ­Table 11.1  Characteristics of research (­Cross, 2000) Purposive Inquisitive Informed Methodical Communicable

Based on identification of an issue or problem worthy and capable of investigation Seeking to acquire new knowledge Conducted from an awareness of previous, related research Planned and carried out in a disciplined manner Generating and reporting results which are feasible and accessible by others

Archer and Professor John Langrish were able to provide a ­longer-​­term perspective. We need to be evidently engaged in scholarly conduct to award a PhD (­m andated in the UK since the Council for National Academic Awards) even in what has been termed as a ‘­practitioner’ or ­craft-​­based field that draws closely on experiential knowledge (­A rcher, 2000). Some characteristics of design research enquiry were outlined at the time (­Cross, 2000) and are highlighted in ­Table 11.1. The characteristics of research outlined by Cross (­2000) highlighted in T ­ able 11.1 align with the ways that the outputs from design research are assessed, against the criterion of originality, significance and rigor. Irrespective of the stage of research career (­undergraduate and ­post-​­graduate dissertations, doctoral studies, as academic researchers or practitioners conducting research through practice) there are tenets or assessment criteria that mediate whether what we are doing is construed as rigorous design research, or as something else. Indeed the institutional machinery that mediates design research includes the ways that universities deliver design education, incorporate research training in their programmes, conduct funded research in tune with national and international (­scientific) research funding policy and the assessment of research impacts and outputs. We inherit this machinery even before we question what design research might be and debate its nature and characteristics. There are different ways that design is researched and how the subject matter is constituted for scientists, in engineering, technology and management and scholars in the humanities (­Margolin, 2010). While conceptions of what constitutes design research evolve, some of the formative articulations advance our appreciation of motivations for the study of design and, for a researcher, can stimulate research ideas and insights into the kinds of questions and thinking that shape different design research fields. The categories outlined by Frayling (­1993) were foundational in shaping relationships between design and research. Research into design includes studies in design history. Research for design involves ­pre-​­design studies of everyday practices to then design a product or service (­a nd can include the everyday practices that are connected with design work, to then r­ e-​­design the processes and practices connected with how designers’ conduct this). Research that studies designing in practice is directed towards a better understanding of the nature of design, through recovering the actions, activities and practices in its conduct. There are several ways that design practices are studied through research and different vantage points from which design practice are construed as research (­e.g. examined in a special issue by Luck, 2012). The turn to practice has strengthened connections between design research and practitioners’ activities solving problems through design exploration (­Koskinen et al., 2011). Initially referred to as Research through design (­RtD), research that incorporates a design component is more broadly described as constructive design research. At the heart of constructive design research is usually a design experiment. There is an emerging typology of different kinds of experiment: accumulative, comparative, serial, expansive and probing and recent philosophical debate which argues that experiments often create knowledge regardless of theory (­K rogh & Koskinen, 143

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2020, p­ . 95). The developments in constructive design research have added more detail to Frayling’s initial characterization, noting that research in the field is informed by the social sciences, research in the gallery by art practices and in the lab by experimental psychology (­Koskinen, Binder, & Redström, 2008). The epistemological differences between these positions have implications as to how to construct arguments, how to understand a novel contribution, as well as how to evaluate and conduct actual research.

Theoretical lens and methodological category At the outset of a research project a student will grapple with a number of fundamental starting points, including the topic of the research and the core conceptual underpinnings to their research, positioning their own line of research enquiry within a broad methodological landscape. The three broad methodological categories defined by White (­2011, p. xvii) describe conceptual constructs for research. Exegetic research is critical explanation or analysis, drawing meaning from a text. An exegetic research design has an implicit method and an explicit theory. Assuming that the very act of reading is not innocent there is interplay between drawing/­deriving and imposing meaning. In a design realm research that, for example, critiques Le Corbusier’s conception of the human body, examined through his published work, would exemplify this kind of enquiry. Empirical research designs have an explicit method and implicit theory. It operates on the process of contemporary scientific methodology. It is not to be confused with the philosophical doctrine of empiricism. Working with objects and concepts that have measurable attributes, empirical researchers will explain the research methods adopted on positivistic assumptions (­implicit theory) that things in the world can be measured. To be clear, a concept is anything that can be conceptualised by humans (­i.e., practically anything). A construct is a concept that is by nature not directly observable, such as an emotion or an attitude. The special difficulties in measuring unobservable constructs is noteworthy. (­Neuendorf, 2002, ­p. 110) The genre of writing connected with empirical research is minimally expressive to present phenomena and opinions as objectively as possible. There is an established line of experimental design research that follows this mode of enquiry that has examined, for example, design fixation applying insights from cognitive psychology. Qualitative research has an explicit method and explicit theory. Research that follows a qualitative design will explain what is done (­the application of defined research methods) and also which ontological (­v iew on how the world is) and epistemic (­perspective on how knowledge is created in the world) assumptions are being made. Qualitative design research is often exploratory, seeking, for example, to better understand the ways that design work is conducted in team meeting settings. Each methodological category is not autonomous or distinct but exists in relation to one another (­W hite, 2011, p. xvii). To illustrate, it may be easy to align some design studies with the scientific foundations from which their methods are derived (­e.g. the empirical scientific foundations of cognitive psychological studies of design team interactions, which were prevalent in 1990s). The boundaries are blurred in the creative blending of methods in the configuration of many design research arrangements. Qualitative studies in the social sciences are a particularly fertile ground where different theoretical perspectives are debated.

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The theoretical lens that guides a particular research approach will be explicitly defined in qualitative studies. For example, ethnomethodology was the theoretical lens that informed the study of the ways that design was practised in different settings in ‘­studying design in practice’ (­Luck, 2012). There are several ways that ‘­theory’ features in research and a chapter dedicated to the subject is included in the book Research Design (­Cresswell, 2009). The saying that ‘­a little theory goes a long way’ in a thesis is a reminder that theory is often part of situating and perspectivizing for a project, rather than acting as the main subject for the research. This is not always the case. Research about design theory and research that aims to generate theory as a final outcome from a project places theory construction more centrally in the research, for example, with grounded theory approaches. A researcher’s position within the research needs to be accounted for with respect to the construction of knowledge, as well as describing what happens in practice. This will include some explanation of the researcher’s position in relation to the research setting, how knowledge is constructed in that situation and how the researcher’s presence impacts on actions in that setting. Indeed, probing a student’s understanding of the theory that underpins their research and ­cross-​­examining why this perspective was adopted (­and not another) is routinely part of a viva voce examination (­Cresswell, 2009, p­ . 49).

Defining the subject of the research Arriving at a research topic that will sustain a student’s interest and motivation for the duration of a project is important. A student will conduct research on their dissertation topic for several months, escalating to several years’ commitment for doctoral level study. Given this, White (­2011, ­p. 9) draws attention to axiology, that is, the study of what can be regarded of value. Axiology is relevant to a research project in several ways, including identifying something of value in the world that makes it a worthwhile subject to study. Indeed, it has been noted: ‘­design research starts with what we don’t know but it would be valuable to know’ (­S. Poggenpohl, 2012). At the outset of a research project, a s­ elf-​­reflective axiology is also advised. This involves questioning what are your personal values, the subjects and issues in the world, in your life that in some way could act as a starting point for a research project. An idea that resonates with personal values will ideally enthuse and motivate a researcher’s sustained interest, as a topic is shaped into a carefully honed research question. This approach to topic selection emphasizes the volition and axiology of a researcher. Put simply, ‘­how their worldview shaped the approach to research’ (­Cresswell, 2009, p­ . 6). What is the change in the world you would like to bring about? What is the real world challenge you want to address through research? The way that research skills training and development is integrated into an educational programme may also influence the way that a research topic is selected and how a research question is derived. At some universities supervisors suggest several topics for student projects. This mode of organizing dissertation supervision (­a nd PhD studentships) has both advantages and disadvantages. It is a way of developing a university’s strengths in particular research areas, as students can become involved in the research projects within the department. It maybe an efficient way to expand the research capacity at an academic’s disposal, which can be especially fruitful when guided literature searches align with a research project that has just started. This mechanism will help in the knowledge production game but can come at the loss of a student’s ownership of the research they are undertaking. There is a

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balance to be negotiated in the supervision between a researcher’s axiology, their values and interests, and the subject the supervisor would like to develop. A situation we want to avoid is when a student wants to change the topic of their dissertation m ­ id-​­course. Dissertation supervision is an art in stewardship, towards developing the critical thinking skills of a student. The researcher is responsible for locating and owning the subject they are studying, and for setting the research questions they will, ultimately, make a novel knowledge contribution towards answering. Another approach can be to work towards a research topic by exclusion. By being clear what the research is not can help define the scope of a topic and expectations of what will be discovered through the research. For example, the book Design Research Through Practice states its position on constructive design research: This book looks at one type of contemporary design research. It excludes many other types, including research done in design history, aesthetics and philosophy. It skips over work done in the social sciences and design management. It leaves ­practice-​­based research integrating art and research to others. (­Koskinen, Zimmerman, Binder, Reström, & Wensveen, 2011 p.6) Constructive design research is not to be confused with constructivism in the social sciences.

Defining the research problem The introduction section to a dissertation is the where the underlying issue, or concern that leads to the research problem is stated. The problem that the research addresses is evident when we ask: ‘­W hat is the need for this study?’ ‘­W hat problem influences the need to undertake this study?’ There are four characteristics of a qualitative research problem according to Morse (­1991): (­a) the concept is ‘­immature’ due to a conspicuous lack of theory and previous research: (­b) a notion that the available theory may be inaccurate, inappropriate, incorrect or biased: (­c) a need exists to explore and describe the phenomena and to develop theory: or (­d) the nature of the phenomenon may not be suited to quantitative measures. (­Morse, 1991, p­ . 120) Each of these characteristics describes a way to critically examine what is already known about a subject through a review of literatures. In this process gaps in knowledge can be identified that may lead to the identification of problems (­e.g. the problems of missing theory or research in an area, which, in turn, leads to the adequate description of the phenomena that have been observed). In response, an exploratory or theory building research design may advance our understanding of the range of phenomena that are connected with a subject and also improve our explanatory power of it. A quantitative problem is addressed by understanding the factors or variables that influence an outcome (­Cresswell, 2009, ­p. 99). In a similar manner a review of literatures is undertaken to establish what is already known in this subject to then identify questions that need to be answered. Quantitative enquiry seeks to understand the relationships between variables, and more specifically, to measure the strength of the relationship between variables and the direction of the relationship, using statistical methods.

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Formulating a research question In the field of design studies the notion that finding the problem, is a problem (­Lloyd & Scott, 1994) is well known. At the outset of a research project it is the process of formulating a research question that is the problem. Drawing on Lawson’s insight into how design problems and solutions evolve (­Lawson, 2008), Crouch and Pearce consider that research problems and the formulation of research questions behave in a similar way ‘­The problem and the question move backwards and forwards’ (­Crouch & Pearce, 2012, ­p. 19). Examining the problem that suburban gardens in Australia consume a lot of water in a region that has a water shortage it is questioned, ‘­Is the problem the shortage of water, or a gardener’s demand for it? … the problem is no longer just about the lack of water. It’s also about how water might be managed better’ (­Crouch & Pearce, 2012, p­ . 19). At first the problem concerns how to get more water to users, however by ­re-​­framing this, focussing on the eradication of the need for water, the design topic and the research question take a different stance. In this we see that working with the problem, and looking at it from different perspectives, there are a series of questions that can be asked and the finesse of the research question can be developed. There are different kinds of questions and different forms of reasoning that are appropriate dependent on the approach to research enquiry. Sometimes this is referred to as the ‘­logics of enquiry’ (­­Sainton-​­Rogers, 2006). In empirical research, applying the scientific method, we are working in a ­hypothetical-​­deductive mode. This means that we generate a hypothesis, a predictive statement about empirical reality, based on a theoretic rationale or on prior evidence. Variables can be defined, measurements are made and the relationships between them are examined statistically, to test if the predicted relationship is upheld. Hypothetical statements that are predictive express an opinion, that is, they have a direction. When the existing theory is not strong enough to support a predication, one or more research questions can be offered. In the scientific mode a research question poses a query about relationships between variables. In this deductive mode, both hypothesis and research questions are posed before data is collected. Qualitative research will use qualitative words such as explore, understand and discover to ask questions about the central phenomenon of interest in your research. The first questions asked are key, and pose the most general questions on the subject. Follow on ­sub-​­questions subdivide the central question into more specific topical questions, beginning with words such as, ‘­how’ or ‘­what’ in your attempt to ‘­generate’, ‘­identify’ or ‘­describe’ what you are attempting to ‘­d iscover’. Asking ‘­what happened’ will help to craft your description; ‘­what was the meaning of what happened’ to understand your results and ‘­what happened over time’ to explore the process. Positivistic words such as: cause, effect, relate and influence should be avoided.5 Start with a question that identifies something it would be valuable to know. (­Poggenpohl, 2012) There are different ways that we can ask a question. Asking a question that is answerable yet to date has no known answer is a subtle proposition (­Poggenpohl, 2012). In ­Table 11.2 we can see that the way a question is asked will make an association with particular kinds of variables (­e.g. location, time etc.), which the questioner has decided it would be valuable to know. The way a question is asked can also have stronger associations with qualitative, empiric and comparative research than others, for example, ‘­which’ questions suggest

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Rachael Luck Table 11.2  Question frames and focus (S. H. Poggenpohl, 2000) Question frame

Focus

Who What When Where Why How Can Will Do Which

Identification, audience, user Classification, specification Time, sequence, context Location Reason, cause, purpose Process, method, operation Possibility, probability Probability, trend Performance, action Comparison

comparison between things and ‘­can’, ‘­w ill’ and ‘­do’ impose a direction to the question and strongly relate to empirical research enquiry. Towards the end of a research project, when writing up the research as a thesis the research question is ­re-​­visited. The tactic is to reverse engineer the task and ask: ‘­W hat is the question that your research can answer?’ This question is reflexive and will elicit judgement on just what ‘­your research is’, that is, its central question, and ‘­what it does’, in other words, what the research accomplishes in the application of the methods described. Put more formally, response to this question will shed light on ‘­the contribution to new knowledge that are made through this research’. This approach can be especially useful to check that what is presented in a thesis actually addresses the central research question. Oddly then, r­e-​ ­examining the research question is also a task to undertake at the end of a project. What is the question that this research has answered?’ To conclude, this chapter has outlined several key theoretical foundations, conceptual constructs and ways of describing the positions from which to approach design research. While there is no one route through the machinations of a design research ‘­g lass bead game’, this guidance provides a steer for a researcher in their own game. A design researcher will artfully navigate a personal route that engages with scientific debate to connect theory and method, to advance their own particular line of enquiry, to address a specific research question. Intentionally, by introducing several formal terms for concepts, this chapter can help a researcher develop a vocabulary to describe the foundational epistemic position and theoretical ground for their research. It is through writing a thesis, and verbally at viva voce (­i f appropriate) that a researcher can demonstrate that they have acquired an understanding of research techniques for advanced academic enquiry.

Notes 1 Bizarre though it may seem, with reference to a paper that questions the logic of what is and what isn’t design research, a short answer is to launch the battleship (­engage with the design of your research) to find out whether it’s made of steel (­to test systematically the rigour of your design research). Drawing on many years doctoral supervision experience, guidance on an outline structure for a thesis is given, separating OBEs (­other bugger’s efforts), from MBEs (­my original contribution to knowledge made through research). This argument contributed to lively debate at the time, questioning whether research through design is a form of research at all, and ways to delineate research through design from other forms of design practice (­L angrish, 2000).

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Foundational theory and methodological positioning 2 In the preface to White’s book Mapping Your Thesis he quotes from Dante’s inferno, recounting the experience of waking in a dark wood. In comparison the glass bead game analogy in this chapter is less foreboding but also points up that research pathways are not without challenges. 3 Design research is a t­ wentieth-​­century field of study. 4 Other disagreements that continue are design’s relationship with art and how ­a rt-​­based research is differentiated from fine art, music and theatre studies on one hand, and the practical arts on the other (­Schwarz, 2012). 5 A particularly useful source when crafting the purpose statement for your research and designing the central research question and s­ub-​­questions is Creswell’s (­2009) book on ‘­Research Design’. This is a staple text for many research methods courses. It includes many partially completed scripts for a researcher to populate with details particular to their project, to help elucidate and articulate the research design in terms that can be modified to suit qualitative and empirical research enquiry.

References Archer, B. (­1995). The nature of research. CoDesign Journal, 2(­1), ­6 –​­13. Archer, B. (­2000). A background to doctoral awards. Paper presented at the Foundations for the future, La Clusaz. Biggs, M. (­2000). On method: The problem of objectivity. Paper presented at the Foundations for the future, La Clusaz. Buchanan, R., Doordan, D., Justice, L., & Margolin, V. (­1998, ­8 –​­11 October). Nature of design research. Paper presented at the Doctoral Education in Design, Ohio State Unviersity. Cresswell, J. W. (­2009). Research design: Qualitative, quantitative and mixed methods approaches (­Vol. 3rd ed.). London: Sage. Cross, N. (­2000). Design as a discipline. Paper presented at the Foundations for the future, La Clusaz. Crouch, C., & Pearce, J. (­2012). Doing research in design. London: Berg. Dilnot, C. (­1998). The science of uncertainty: The potential contribution of design to knowledge. Paper presented at the The Nature of Design Research Doctoral Education in Design, Ohio State University. Dowling, P.,  & Brown, A. (­2010). Doing research/­reading research: ­Re-​­interrogating education. London: Routledge. Durling, D., & Friedman, K. (­Eds.). (­2000). Foundations for the future. La Clusaz: Staffordshire University Press. Edwards, D., Ashmore, M., & Potter, J. (­1995). Death and furniture: The rhetoric, politics and theology of bottom line arguments against relativism. History of the Human Sciences, 8, 2­ 5–​­49. Frayling, C. (­1993). Research in art and design. Royal College of Art Papers, 1(­1), 1­ –​­5. Hesse, H. (­1943). The glass bead game. London: Picador. Koskinen, I., Binder, T.,  & Redström, J. (­2008). Lab, field, gallery and beyond. Artifact: Journal of Design Practice, 2(­1), 4­ 6–​­57. Koskinen, I., Zimmerman, J., Binder, T., Reström, J., & Wensveen, S. (­2011). Design research through practice. Waltham, MA: Elsevier. Krogh, G,  & Koskinen, I. (­2020). Drifting by intention: Four epistemic traditions from within constructive design research. Dordrecht: Springer. Langrish, J. (­2000). Not everything made of steel is a battleship. Paper presented at the Foundations for the future, La Clusaz. Lawson, B. (­2008). How designers think. London: Architectural Press. Lloyd, P., & Scott, P. (­1994). Discovering the design problem. Design Studies, 15(­2), ­125–​­140. Luck, R. (­2012). ‘­Doing designing’: On the practical analysis of design in practice. Design Studies, 33(­6), ­521–​­529. Margolin, V. (­2010). Doctoral education in design: Problems and prospects. Design Issues, 26(­3), 7­ 0–​­78. Morse, J.M. (­1991). Approaches to ­qualitative-​­quantitative triangulation. Nursing Research, 40(­1), 1­ 20–​­123. Neuendorf, K.A. (­2002). Content analysis guidebook. London: Sage Publications Ltd. Poggenpohl, S. (­2012). 03 NCNP Provocation#2: Sharon Poggenpohl. Retrieved 7th February, 2012, from http://­v imeo.com/­15694188 Poggenpohl, Sharon H. (­2000). Constructing knowledge of design. Paper presented at the Foundations for the future, La Clusaz.

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Rachael Luck ­Sainton-​­Rogers, W. (­2006). Logics of enquiry. In S. Potter (­Ed.), Doing postgraduate research (­­pp. ­73–​­91). London: Sage. Schwarz, ­H-​­P. (­2012). Foreward. In M. Biggs & H. Karlsson (­Eds.), The Routledge companion to research in the arts (­pp. ­x xvii–​­xxx). London: Taylor & Francis Group. White, B. (­2011). Mapping your thesis: The comprehensive manual of theory and techniques for masters and doctoral research. Camberwell: ACER Press.

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12 CHALLENGING ASSUMPTIONS IN SOCIAL DESIGN RESEARCH UNDERTAKEN IN THE GLOBAL ­SOUTH – ​­INDIA Alison Prendiville, Delina Evans and Chamithri Greru Introduction Service Design has emerged as a mature field, and its global adoption to address intractable complex problems such as social inequalities and climate change, is increasingly coming under scrutiny. Credited for its human centredness, service design methods and tools transported from Eurocentric perspectives of problem framing, innovation, scalability and progress frequently neglect local cultures and the entangled interaction and relationships between humans and n ­ on-​­human species. For service design to maintain its relevance, and its associated research methods, it must expand its relational frames at different scales from the micro to the macro, to better understand m ­ ulti-​­species living systems. Drawing on our own fieldwork experiences in the Global South, specifically in India, this experience made us reflect on how we need to challenge our assumptions and practices. For this reason, we have created a set of reflective practice tools to facilitate a preparedness for fieldwork that accounts for ourselves, as well as recognising cultures through a m ­ ulti-​­species lens; ultimately leading to a more ethical framework for which to undertake design research in unfamiliar locations. This chapter presents a framework supported with visual templates to be used in m ­ ulti-​­disciplinary settings, as a starting point to facilitating dialogue, and to reorientate design practice to address the nuanced complexity that exists in social challenges in the Global South.

Background The authoring team To contextualise the origins of this chapter we provide a short summary of the backgrounds of the authoring team to better understand their own reflective practices originating from their own professional and cultural backgrounds. Chamithri was educated as a designer in a Sri Lankan university that followed a UK education model which was specifically designed to cater to the global apparel industry, before

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-15

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being educated to postgraduate level at a UK university. She also worked in the fashion industry as a designer. During this journey, she became aware of not only how the industry was catering to more unsustainable practices but how that profession itself required her to appeal to a rather homogenous and hierarchical value system as a way of getting accepted to a “­designerly/­fashion” world. As a result, she chose to work with the grassroots communities during her masters and PhD work, and this led her to acknowledge and appreciate other ways of being in the world. As a South Asian living in the UK, it gave her a unique standpoint as an insider and outsider to mediate in these Global N ­ orth-​­South discourses and contribute to that through her transdisciplinary research work. She is therefore interested in developing collaborative methods and tools to foster social innovation, local development and participation that reflect the needs and values of those living in the Global South. Alison’s background is mixed, with a mother from Sri ­Lanka – ​­with heritage from Iraq, and a father who is ­half-​­Irish from Liverpool. She appears English but feels she does not truly fit within one cultural frame; particularly with extended family members located across ­ robel – Free ​­ ­South-​­East Asia and Australia. Educationally her journey is varied starting at a F Expression School, moving to a specialist school of music and then into more mainstream schooling. Starting off on a science pathway and changing to the arts her research now sits between design and the sciences through social design and innovation. Her interest in people, their journeys and interdisciplinarity stems from this mix of her personal heritage and ­ uro-​ education with her recent research projects in India making her ­re-​­evaluate the over E ­centric tools and methods that are universally transported to places across the globe. With an Indonesian mother and English father, Delina grew up in Jakarta, where frequent family gatherings allowed elders to offer advice, consolation, and encouragement to the rest of the family. Even ancestors were consulted through prayers and offerings, bridging the needs of the present to the wisdom and guidance of the past. Delina then moved to the UK to study and work in design. It is only recently, through her involvement in DOSA, ­co-​­designing diagnostics services in India, and undertaking a PhD in design and cultural sensitivities in the Global South, has Delina started to weave into her work the values that she had grown up with, including the sense of togetherness, respecting the wisdom of elders and ancestors, and responding to multiple traditions and customs. Even with the diverse backgrounds of the authors encapsulating European and Southeast Asian educational experiences and heritage, this chapter aims to broaden the methodological frames of reference for undertaking research in countries such as India in the Global South, as too often it is easy to slip into the prevailing mode of Western ways of working that simplify and separate complex entanglements between people ­non-​­human species and places.

Design research for complex social settings Design, through its objectification of production, has a long and rich history of individuals and movements that challenge the social and political orders of the day. From William Morris’ (­1890) novel “­News from nowhere,” offering a utopian vision of society where all work is creative and pleasurable, to the more frequently referenced work of Papanek’s “­Design for the Real World” (­1971), design has been offered to transform societies morally and socially. The capacity of design to shape society more broadly has been further accelerated at the end of the twentieth century by rapid developments and the adoption of ICT (­information communication technologies); (Kimbell 2009). This has extended the object of design to encapsulate networks, organisations, as well as societal issues, frequently referred to as “­w icked problems” (­R ittel and Webber 1973). 152

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Originating in the 1960s and stemming from a loss of confidence in professionals in the USA and their ability to deal with societal problems (­Vermaas and Pesch 2020), wicked problems are a western concept that problem frame a contemporary, complex, intangible and socially entangled challenge (­Niskanen et al. 2021). The notion of the wicked problem has served designers and n ­ on-​­designers well since Buchanan (­1992) described designers’ roles in integrating different knowledge forms as design thinking to solve such entities. Design researchers have additionally advocated the application and suitability of design tools and specific design practices, such as prototyping to deal with testing ideas and communication, as essential to addressing the specific nature of wicked problems (­von Thienen et al. 2014). Since 2010, there has been a rapid increase of the term’s usage in academic literature (­Niskanen et al. 2021) and as design has expanded its boundaries to humanitarian design and social innovation, the term is used to justify design’s role in ever increasing complex problem settings. Indeed, the authors of this chapter have previously subscribed to this term in relation to their own work, but now acknowledge that its usage may also constrict the thinking in relation to projects in the Global South. For Niskanen et al (2021). This is evidenced in the limited nature of the term when applied to an African context with the authors highlighting literature that has critiqued the term for its conceptual ambiguity (­Danken et al. 2016 in Niskanen et al. 2021), its lack of grounded reality where the term fails to account for how problems are dealt with in practice (­Noordergraaf et  al. 2019), and for the term’s general unhelpfulness whereby its definition of rendering problems as “­w icked” may present them as difficult to act on and as potentially unsolvable (­A lford and Head 2017, 399; Termeer and Dewulf 2019, 439). We would also add that the term does not account for previous histories, such as colonial legacies, nor does it include the cultural and relational dimensions between humans and n ­ on-​­human species and can therefore ill define the boundaries and focus of a project. Instead, we look to the work of Fortun (­2012, 452) who sees the problems of late industrial times as “­complex conditions involving many nested ­systems – ​­technical, biophysical, cultural and economic and with this a multiplicity of interactions.” Her work, which includes the “­Platform for Experimental Ethnography” (­PECE) offers researchers working in highly collaborative projects with a transnational dimension insight on how to deal with multiple sources of data, including much that may be unstructured and highly interpretative. In relation to our work in India, that focusses on antimicrobial resistance (­A MR) in the broiler production system and the development of diagnostics through a ­one-​­health lens of human, animal, and the environment to manage AMR, we offer a more open interpretive approach to account for the complex interactions at each of the settings (­Greru et al. 2022). Furthermore, within her own field of cultural anthropology, Fortun (­2012, 453) proposes that ethnography, as well as a cultural critique, may be designed to create ethnographies that allow for deliberation and encounters “­to articulate something that could not be said, could not be brought together before.” Thus when reflecting on our own work where creating encounters through c­ o-​­design is often constituted through a E ­ uro-​­centric lens, we have looked to a more open and dialogical approach that focus on developing ongoing relationships that ­ ne-​­off workshops, but where communities share their knowledge as lend themselves not to o a process of an ­on-​­going mutual learning for all.

Problematising future making in the global south The role of designers in future making is contested by Suchman (­2011) who raises questions concerning their location in centres of innovation and points to p­ ost-​­colonial literature on what might be gained by questioning forms of innovation, creativity and the new. For 153

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Suchman, the concept of a universal good, and we would include notions of progress, the valorisation of newness is a preoccupation of actors invested in particular forms of commodity capitalism (­Philip 2005 in Suchman 2011). Appadurai (­2004), focussing on the orientation of the future, notes that culture has been presented as one or other ­k ind-­​­­of-​­pastness, in contrast with development that is always seen in terms of the future. This dichotomy of culture as tradition, as opposed to newness, plays out in models of innovation and development, ­and – ​­for the authors of this c­ hapter – impacts ​­ on what is enacted upon and what is not. Tunstall (­2013) calls for decolonised design innovation practices as it relates to culture, as an alternative from the Oslo Manual’s (­OECD/­Eurostat 2018) hegemonic definition which is based on the assumptions of international elites, or companies generating innovation as active agents while those receiving it are passively directed. This is particularly relevant with what Tunstall (­2013, 236) sees as the growing number of Western designers embracing “­collaboration with poor or marginalized groups to address complex social problems” with most of these working with communities that are n ­ on-​­Western and n ­ on-​­white cultural groups. For Tunstall (­2013) this t­op-​­down approach not only ignores indigenous forms of thinking but is yet another form of imperialism that fails to account for the redirection of funds from philanthropic organisations to Western design companies, rather than supporting the local design agencies. Furthermore, interventions taking place in the Global South that are influenced by governmental, developmental, and philanthropic objectives are heavily formed by perspectives from the Global North (­Collier et al. 2017; Tunstall 2013). Thus, for project proposals that must respond to the predefined challenges and assessment criteria to be ​­ with limited flexibility in budget, resource and ­timeframe – the ​­ nuanced ­approved – often values and priorities of the targeted communities can often be overlooked. Through the combination of different techniques and attributes from various fields, such as design and anthropology, a range of design methods are now endorsed and accepted as practice, to reveal and understand complex societal issues and the people affected by them. Having said that, according to Brereton et al. (­2 014, p. 1183) rapid ethnography used in design research is a problematic area, as it is frequently characterised as taking without giving back to communities and is at risk of “­r ushing to quick possibly i­ll-​­conceived design approaches”. Further criticism of Western fieldwork participatory design practices is ­ inschiers-​­Theophilus et al. (­2 010), who note the paradoxes that can often explored by W arise when developers and users originate from different s­ocial-​­cultural value systems. This may lead to instances where in a hierarchical society, people from lower ranking positions may be informally prohibited from speaking openly or expressing an opinion, thus undermining the concept of inclusivity and participation so frequently attributed to design methods. More fundamentally, there can additionally be opposing perspectives on individuality and community; orality versus print based literacy; and technological skills versus local knowledge. Criticism and appropriateness of rationalistic ontologies used by designers (­Escobar 2017a, 81), where ways of knowing unquestionably look towards t­ he individual, science, the economy, and the real (­1) is also problematic. Escobar (­2017a) highlights how these belief systems carry the notions that a modern and civilised individual exists separately from any other human, ­non-​­human beings, and nature; that there is a singular set of truths to be validated; and that production of goods and services and scalability should be the measure of success for society. As designers have, for so long navigated within these Western priorities, we again stress the shortcomings of framing “­w icked problems” around situations that do not meet the criteria of rationalistic civilisation. To overcome the dominance of the single trajectory of idealising western civilisation and concepts of development and modernity, Leitão and 154

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Roth (­2020) emphasise the importance of including diverse cultures in future orientated projects and the need to understand cultural diversity as it is. For the authors, the role of design is not just to interpret people’s culture in relation to their past and what it has to offer the present, but more importantly as a project ripe for ­self-​­determination. We relate to Gatt and Ingold’s (­2014) notion of design as a “­trace of an evolving perception,” whereby the process of corresponding with key communities allows for designers and communities to understand what they need to learn to facilitate change. This autonomy (­Escobar 2017a, 185) allows for communities to define through their own lenses any conditions that they deem inadequate, unjust, or harmful; and how they themselves can make a change. Design’s role therefore departs from offering a universal umbrella of tools and solutions that may ignore peripheral cultures (­A kama, Hagen, and W ­ haanga-​­Schollum 2019; Noel and Leitão 2018) or epistemologies of the South (­Santos 2016), and becomes a conduit for grounded, pluralistic, communal and relational activities seeking to amplify change from within.

Understanding culture as ­multi-​­species entanglement From our own fieldwork around antimicrobial resistance in different settings, we have been struck by the proximity of human and animal lives, and this has o ­ pened-​­up our thinking of culture as ­multi-​­species entanglements at many different scales, from the microbiological and environmental dimensions. Strang (­2017, p. 208) notes that despite much attention and critiquing from anthropologists, ethicists and indigenous communities “­the dominant discourse continues to position humankind as separate from and superior to the ­non-​­human”. Referring specifically to sustainability, yet equally applicable to how design frames problem solving, Strang presents the intrinsically managerial perspective of the twentieth century becoming embedded in society, resulting in a growing confidence in human instrumentalism and technological advances that reinforces this separateness from ­non-​­humans. We would argue that this is evident in design, whereby h ­ uman-​­centred design perspectives give ­ on-​­human beings and the environprecedence to people and omits the consideration to n ment with which human communities interact. These beings can include animals and plants which live across land, sea and sky, as well as entities that are often invisible yet significant in the lives of the communities, including the scientific landscapes of microorganisms, and the embedded signs of spirits and ancestors of the past, present and future. For Escobar (­2017b, 242) this reconnecting of culture with nature “­m ay take the form of visualising networks, assemblages, naturecultures or socionatures, or compositions of “­­more-­​­­than-​­human” worlds always in the process of being created by all kinds of actors and processes.” Most importantly, he sees the need to build connections and relationships “­by revisioning community, spirituality and place intimacy as a way to repair the damages inflicted by the ontology of disconnection (­243).” To overcome this duality, Strang (­2017) proposes a more inclusive and ethical vision of human, ­non-​­human relations that recognise the interdependence of cultural diversity and biodiversity. Achieving this, Strang notes, will require a major change in direction that no longer places humans centre stage, as well as a political shift that moves away from competition to one of collaboration. For this to occur Strang advocates for more interdisciplinary work with the natural sciences, and in the case of our research on antimicrobial resistance, we have had the benefit of working alongside microbiologists, veterinary scientists and zoonotic disease specialists. By bringing these worlds together and making them visible, we have been able to better comprehend the i­nter-​­relationships between humans, pathogens, the environment and disease. 155

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Questions arising from our fieldwork and literature Building on calls for design to be decolonised (­A nsari et al. 2017; Tunstall 2013), pluriversal (­Escobar 2017a), respectful, relational and reciprocal (­A kama, Hagen, and W ­ haanga-​ ­Schollum 2019) and embracing ­non-​­human species entanglements (­Greru et al. 2022) we reflect on our own experiences of designing in the context of antimicrobial resistance in India to pose the following questions: 1 To what extent do the designers’ own biases affect their perceptions of local communities and their environments, values and priorities? 2 How might the notion of ­human-­​­­centred-​­design expand beyond humans, to consider ­non-​­human beings, the environment and microorganisms? 3 How might designers identify, respect and respond to local knowledge systems and daily practices that are deeply ingrained within traditional social structures? 4 In what ways could designers be more ­open-​­minded to the nuanced interactions between humans, n ­ on-​­humans, things, space, place and time, so that their activities are grounded in the cultural values and sensitivities of the locality? Through these exploratory questions, we welcome practitioners and researchers designing for complex social challenges in the Global South to reflect and consider in what ways they can be more mindful towards the priorities of the locality and the entangled existence between humans and ­non-​­humans.

Methodology The questions above informed a remote workshop piloted as part of ServDes 2020, a conference addressing the themes of plurality, tensions and paradoxes within the field of service design. We acknowledge and are grateful to the fourteen conference participants who willingly contributed to each activity, sharing their research and practice experiences, in order to validate that the worksheets were eliciting the reflective practice responses from different experiences. The workshop aimed to challenge assumptions around the cultural, ethical and practical considerations and implications when undertaking design interventions in the Global South. Workshop participants included students, practitioners and researchers in the fields of social, service and system design. In all we had sixteen participants in the workshop, divided into four groups named after the Indian states we visited as part of the AMR projects: Assam, Bangalore, Kerala and Namakkal. The workshop was divided into a series of five activities, as summarised in T ­ able 12.1.

Activity 1­  – A ​­ ccounting ourselves In this process of accounting for ourselves, we start by considering culture in relation to ourselves and others, in what Rao and Walton (­2004) see as identifying aspirations, symbolic exchange, ­co-​­ordinated structures, and practices that serve relational ends. It is only through this acknowledgement of culture as a myriad of elements that make up relations are we able to account for our own biases. Thus, prior to embarking on a design research project in the Global South we encourage team members to reflect on their own backgrounds and cultures, to identify and share how 156

Challenging assumptions in social design research ­Table 12.1  A  n overview of five activities used in the workshop, the objectives, simple instructions, and timings for delivery Activity

Objectives

Instructions

Suggested time

1. Accounting ourselves

To acknowledge how our backgrounds and experiences may hinder our understanding and actions within design projects.

10 minutes

2. Beyond human dimensions

To consider real life scenarios (­­Figure 12.2.) and to think about how different species, exist, interact, and affect each other

3. Local customs and social hierarchies

To think about how designers can better understand, respect, and respond to local indigenous knowledge and customs. To evaluate how “­pluriversality” might be considered within social design, within a particular geography or theme.

• Introduce yourselves to one another. • Discuss and write down in the spaces below how your own backgrounds, knowledge and privileges might shape your design thinking. • When brought back to the main space, delegate one person to present back a quick overview (­t wo minutes) of key features from the group’s profile. • Look closely at the photos (­­Figure 12.2) and reflect on what you see. • What questions would need to be raised to understand the situations? • What questions would you ask yourselves to understand better the natures of humans, animals, the environment, and microorganisms within a setting? • How might notions of livelihoods, religion, food systems, disease, and risk be considered? • Discuss how, as designers and researchers, we might try to understand and respond to, or inadvertently reinforce, or challenge, the social hierarchies, and local customs? • Reflecting on your past projects, how might you respond to the following questions around “­pluriversality” within three areas: understanding the context of the project, design practice and in research? • Feel free to populate the sheet with images from your own work. Try and be specific with your examples. • If you have been influenced by a particular design practice, how have you applied that within your own projects?

4. Pluriversality (­acknowledging and responding to the plurality in ways of being and knowing)

15 minutes

20 minutes

20 minutes

(Continued)

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Alison Prendiville et al. ­Table 12.1  (Continued) Activity

Objectives

Instructions

Suggested time

5. Reflection

To reflect on the discussions of the workshop and shape an initial outline for a new service design framework for social design projects in the Global South. What ethical considerations need to be made to embed pluriversality within future projects?

• Discuss within your team, how you think design ethics should change to accommodate pluriversality when in l­ow-​ ­m iddle countries? • How might we reflect and respond to the points discussed today in our own work, within service design, in the future?

15 minutes

­Figure 12.1  A template tool for each individual team member to account for themselves

individual presumptions and biases may hinder understanding around local knowledge systems and relations, F ­ igure 12.1. The following questions provided the starting point for accounting for our cultural selves: Acknowledgement of the country • Where are you currently based? • Where do you consider your home country? Training • What is the nature of your education? • Where did you undertake the training? 158

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Experience • What are your professional and academic backgrounds? • Which disciplinary fields have you worked in or with? • Which locations have you worked in? Cultures • Which nationalities are you familiar with? • What cultural values do you prioritise? Use of language • What are your native tongues? • What other languages are you familiar with? This could include languages from different geographic areas, but also different disciplinary specific terminology. Project experiences • What previous experiences do you have that are related to the initiative discussed? • What learning points might be useful for this initiative? How might these backgrounds shape the individuals’/­teams’ thinking and work?

Activity 2­  – ​­Beyond human dimensions Reflecting on our own fieldwork within the AMR projects, we acknowledge the proximity of human and animal lives, including the invisible and differently scaled entanglements with the microbiological. This has led us to question how design research might go beyond the boundaries of h ­ uman-​­centredness and consider the roles of other entities (­animals, environment, microorganisms, ancestors, etc.) in amplifying the values of communities and wider societies? To delve further into this exploration, we additionally asked participants the following questions: • • •

How might notions of livelihood, religion, food systems, disease and risk be associated with the existence and interaction between different species within a given environment? How do different species affect one another? As transition design, design for sustainment, etc., move away from placing humans at the centre of focus, how might we consider the roles of animals, humans and microorganisms within the environments they dwell in?

­Figure 12.2 shows the workshop template created to generate and record conversations around the proximities of humans and animals, their entanglements with microorganisms and how they interact within the environments that they inhabit. On the left, we included photographs taken from our own fieldwork to offer visual stimulus for the discussions, allowing participants to ground their discussions within r­ eal-​­life instances.

Activity 3­  – Local ​­ customs and social hierarchies This exercise considers how design interventions might amplify and respect local values; challenge long held assumptions; or avoid reinforcing social or economic disparities. Through understanding the nuanced sensitivities of the local communities, we aim to ground our design activities within place, culture, time and locality (­Escobar 2017a; Yee et al. 2020), in order to c­ o-​­create value that is directly relevant and long lasting for the local communities. We borrow anthropological approaches in understanding the cultural contexts of different communities, including family structures, gender roles, power dynamics and local 159

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­Figure 12.2 

The beyond human dimensions template

customs. It is worth emphasising that in this case, the aim of understanding the local context is not to study, analyse and generalise humans and their patterns of living, but to build an idea of how we might respond to the complexities of local knowledge and customs when we engage with the local communities. The following categories and prompt questions were developed to explore this area with visual prompts to facilitate the discussion.

Family structures • • • •

What is the typical ­m ake-​­up of family units? What are the relational dynamics within and across generations and genders? How is labour divided and delegated? What are the sources of wealth for a family?

Gender roles • • •

What are the roles of the different genders? How are these perceived within the community? How might gender roles impact the research?

Power dynamics • •

Who is the voice of authority? How might one reach other voices in the communities?

Customs •

How might you identify and take part in local protocols? 160

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­Figure 12.3 

• •

A template to guide designers in better understanding, respecting and responding to local needs and indigenous knowledge

How might the roles of design researchers fit within the current social hierarchies? How might the local customs or hierarchies change because of the intervention?

Like the previous activity, we included photographs taken from our own fieldwork to share our learnings from navigating the local customs and social hierarchies in India, to instigate discussions from the participants, F ­ igure 12.3.

Activity ­4 – ​­Pluriversality As we acknowledge that there is no universal way of existing, and that in fact, we must respond to culturally specific ways of being and knowing, this exercise reflects on how pluriversality might be considered when undertaking design research projects within complex social settings in the Global South. We took inspiration from and adapted the Interaction Design Research Triangle of Design Practice, Design Studies and Design Exploration (­Fallman 2008) to create a model that facilitates discussions around how to acknowledge, respect and respond to pluriversality across and within the intersections of design practice, design research, and the context of the project, ­Figure 12.4. Design Practice – ​­Concerns the undertaking of design activities and engagements • •

What conversations do researchers need to have and how should the discussions be initiated? How might researchers build relationships and trust with the local communities and other members of the team? 161

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­Figure 12.4 

•

A template consisting of the Design Research Triangle of Design Practice, Design Studies and Design Exploration, to scaffold discussions on past design projects and how pluriversality can be achieved across these different frames

What local practices and rituals might researchers need to be aware of, acknowledge and take part in order to practise design?

Design Research – Focusses ​­ on contribution to knowledge • • • •

What emerging themes across academia are addressing the notions in question? Which authors are already taking part in the discourses and what are their backgrounds? What fields outside design can we draw on? Are there gaps in literature that should be highlighted?

Context of the Project – Explores ​­ how design practice and research could be embedded within a local setting • • •

What is the local knowledge and how does the research fit within it? How might researchers account for differences in knowledge systems? How are things valued among the community and does the research align with the communities’ priorities?

Activity 5­  – ​­Reflection In this final session participants were asked to reflect on each of the four previous activities and to form an initial outline for a new service design framework for social design projects in the Global South. Drawing on the activities the aim was to account for culture in its many forms, in order to embed pluriversality within future projects. The final aim was to rethink 162

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the design of ethics to accommodate the pluriverse within our own work, particularly for those projects that are situated in The Global South.

Methodological reflections Western design principles have become synonymous with quick fixes, rapid ethnography, sprints and failing fast that are ill suited to working with communities in the Global South. Our design tools are not aiming to be prescriptive, but to offer points of reflection prior to undertaking any fieldwork, and can be revisited during and after the projects, as more understanding around context and culture is revealed. From our experience, this takes time, and we offer the tools as a starting point to encourage and open up discussion on how to approach culture in social design projects. Accounting for ourselves when our own backgrounds are embedded in western frames of knowing is a first step in this preparedness. We would encourage users to explore their own experiences and to consider how these may impact on their ways of knowing and their work. The tools are designed to rehearse and conceptualise a relational approach to fieldwork that is built on reciprocity between the design researcher and the communities. In undertaking these reflective activities, we aim to locate communities as m ­ ulti-​­layered ways of living that challenge the separateness between different forms of being, going beyond the human and embracing ­non-​­human interactions, including the microbial, spirituality and nature. To actively consider and understand local customs and hierarchies we ask designers to reflect on the structures that may exclude or silence certain community voices, to account for different relational forms, and to embrace the pluriverse. For example, within one of our AMR projects, we have continuously challenged the western conceptualisation of diagnostics across our team of scientists and diagnostic developers, in order to reflect the local challenges and understanding of health and infection. We hope these tools will offer a starting point for other design researchers to develop their own ethical frameworks, as part of furthering design research in the Global South.

Conclusion The purpose of this chapter is not to present the findings from the workshops, but to offer a set of piloted reflective practice tools to prepare design researchers for fieldwork in the Global South. Drawing on literature and our own experiences of work undertaken in India in the past four years, we realised the gap in scaffolding preparedness for design researchers, to work sensitively and respectfully in settings that are different to western cultures. As a starting point we have questioned the all too familiar term of “­w icked problems,” as used to describe the social problems that designers are increasingly engaged with in the Global South and the limitations this may cause in framing the research area. In addition, the work looks to the paradoxes of what constitutes innovation and the future, asking designers to reflect on these western concepts, and to include multiple voices to enable communities to ­self-​­determine their own futures. Finally, as designers are increasingly challenged with complex social, political and climate related projects, we look to the established work of Tunstall (­2013), and Akama, Hagen and ­W haanga-​­Schollum (­2019), to offer a frame for design practitioners and researchers to facilitate respectful dialogue and relational interactions. We offer these tools as an applied intervention within service and social design research to provide a space to reconsider what design can become, building on what Escobar (­2017b, 252) sees as embracing multiple reals, as an “­a lternative to, development, endless growth, unsustainability, and defuturing, a way of healing territories, life and the Earth.” 163

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References Akama, Y., P. Hagen, and D. ­W haanga-​­Schollum. 2019. “­Problematizing Replicable Design to Practice Respectful, Reciprocal, and Relational ­Co-​­designing with Indigenous People.” Design and Culture 11 (­1): ­59–​­84. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­17547075.2019.1571306 Alford, J., and B. W. Head. 2017. “­Wicked and Less Wicked Problems: A Typology and a Contingency Framework.” Policy and Society 36 (­3): ­397–​­413. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­14494035.2017.1361634 Ansari, A., D. Abdulla, E. Canli, L. Prado, M. Keshavarz, M. Kiem, P. Oliveira, and T. Schultz. The Decolonising Design Manifesto.” Journal of Futures Studies 23: ­3 –​­22. https://­doi. 2017. “­ org/­10.6531/­JFS.201903 Appadurai, A. 2004. “­The Capacity to Aspire: Culture and the Terms of Recognition.” In Culture and Public Action, edited by Vijayendra Rao and Michael Walton, ­59–​­84. Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press. Brereton, M., P. Roe, R. Schroeter, and A. L. Hong. 2014. “­Beyond Ethnography: Engagement and Reciprocity as Foundations for Design Research Out Here.” In The Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems, ­1183–​­1186. https://­doi.org/­10.1145/­2556288.2557374 Buchanan, R. 1992. “­Wicked Problems in Design Thinking.” Design Issues, Spring 8 (­2): ­5 –​­21. Collier, S. J., J. Cross, P. Redfield, and A. Street. 2017. “­Preface: Little Development Devices/­Humanitarian Goods.” Limn 9. https://­l imn.it/­issues/­l ittle-​­development-​­devices-​­humanitarian-​­goods/ Danken, T., K. Dribbisch, and A. Lange. 2016. “­Studying Wicked Problems Forty Years On: Towards a Synthesis of a Fragmented Debate.” D ­ MS -​­Der Moderne S ­ taat – ​­Zeitschrift Für Public Policy, Recht Und Management 9. Jg., Heft 1/­2016, S. ­15–​­33. https://­doi.org/­10.3224/­d ms.v9i1.23638 Escobar, A. 2017a. Designs for the Pluriverse: Radical Interdependence, Autonomy, and the Making of Worlds. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Escobar, A. 2017b. “­Sustaining the Pluriverse: The Political Ontology of Territorial Struggles in Latin America.” In The Anthropology of Sustainability: Beyond Development and Progress, edited by Marc Brightman and Jerome Lewis, 2­ 37–​­256. New York: Palgrave Macmillan by Springer Nature. Fallman, D. 2008. “­The Interaction Design Research Triangle of Design Practice, Design Studies, and Design Exploration.” Design Issues 24 (­3): ­4 –​­18. https://­doi.org/­10.1162/­desi.2008.24.3.4 Fortun, K. 2012. “­Ethnography in Late Industrialism.” Cultural Anthropology 27 (­3): 4­ 46–​­464. https://­ doi.org/­10.1111/­j.1548-​­1360.2012.01153.x Fortun, K. “­Platform for Experimental, Collaborative Ethnography.” https://­pece-​­project.github.io/­ drupal-​­pece/ (­Accessed 22/­02/­22). Gatt, C., and T. Ingold. 2014. “­From Description to Correspondence: Anthropology in Real Time.” In Design Anthropology, Theory and Practice, edited by Wendy Gunn, Ton Otto and Rachel Charlotte Smith, ­139–​­158. London: Bloomsbury. Greru, C., R. Thompson, V. Gowthaman, S. Shanmugasundaram, N. Ganesan, G. Murthy, M. Eltholth, J. Cole, J. Joshi, R. Runjala, M. Nath, N. Hegde, N. Williams, and A. Prendiville. 2022. “­A Visualisation Tool to Understand Disease Prevention and Control Practices of Stakeholders Working Along the Poultry Supply Chain in Southern India.” Humanities and Social Sciences Communications 9, Article number: 169, 13th May. Kimbell, L. 2009. The Turn to Service Design. In Design and Creativity: Policy, Management and Practice, edited by Guy Julier, Liz Moore, 1­ 57-​­173, Oxford: Berg. Leitão, R. M., and S. Roth. 2020. “­ Understanding Culture as a Project Designing for the Future of an Indigenous Community in Québec.” FormAkademisk 13 (­5): ­1–​­13. https://­doi. org/­10.7577/­formakademisk.2683 Morris, W. 1890. News from Nowhere and other Writings, ed. Clive Wilmer, 1993. London: Penguin Books. Niskanen, V. P., M. Rask and R. Harri. 2021. “­Wicked Problems in Africa: A Systematic Literature Review.” Sage Open, July. https://­doi.org/­10.1177/­21582440211032163 Noel, L. and R. M. Leitão. 2018. “­Editorial: Not Just from the Centre.” In Design as a Catalyst for Change -​­ DRS International Conference, edited by C. Storni, K. Leahy, M. McMahon, P. Lloyd, and E. Bohemia. Limerick. https://­doi.org/­10.21606/­d rs.2017.006 Noordergraaf, M., S. Douglas, K. Geuijen, and M. van der Steen. 2019. “­Weakness of Wickedness: A Critical Perspective of Wickedness Theory.” Policy and Society 38 (­2): ­278–​­297. https://­doi. org/­10.1080/­14494035.2019.1617970 OECD/­Eurostat. 2018. Oslo Manual, Guidelines for Reporting and Using Data on Innovation 4th ed. In The Measurement of Scientific, Technological and Innovation Activities. Paris/­Eurostat, Luxembourg:

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13 RESPECTFULLY NAVIGATING THE BORDERLANDS TOWARDS EMERGENCE C ­ o-​­designing with Indigenous communities Lizette Reitsma Garen told me about a dream he had had, the night after he had cut the pieces of wood. The man who had cut the tree in the 1960’s, which we used in the design, was in this dream. At first, he stood behind the crowd that was standing around the design. In the dream the man was ­young – which ​­ was interesting since he had died a very old man. In the dream, Garen was working to finish the d­ esign – the ​­ man looked at what he was doing in an appreciative way. Garen seemed to attach special meaning to this.

This anecdote came from my design diary and describes a moment in a design project I was involved in with the Long Lamai community in Borneo, Malaysia. The people in Long Lamai are of the Indigenous, traditionally nomadic Penan culture. When working with Indigenous communities, space for these ways of informing and justifying design are essential. I am not Penan, nor ­Indigenous – ​­I do not in any way understand the Penan’s Indigenous worldview. I am a white designer/­researcher born and trained in the Netherlands. I did a PhD in the United Kingdom, at the time of my encounter with the Long Lamai community. I came to understand that in designing with my ­co-​­designers from Long Lamai, I had to detach from how I understood design and to ­re-​­learn how to approach it otherwise. I also had to learn to be okay with not understanding (­f ully), as that was important for the community to take control of the process.

Design rooted in modernity When we talk about design, we tend to talk about ‘­modern’ design that was born in Europe, from the industrial revolution, rooted in modernism. Not dismissing the achievements nor relevance of European design movements, it is important to acknowledge where it comes from, when we design. This acknowledgement is important since ‘­modern’ design’s origin is not ­innocent – ​­it is situated in and emerged from a specific worldview, which it still echoes. This acknowledgement becomes especially important when moving the ideas and practices that make up ‘­modern’ design to other places than where it emerged. The same holds true for design research. It forces us to think about what displacing people, fields, methods 166

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and ideas does. It can, for example, affect colonial power structures of dependency as well as be colonising by imposing worldviews and prescribing solutions and methods. Colonisation is about relationships of exploitation. It uses the weaknesses of others to strengthen oneself (­Smith 1999). Because design is asking questions that explore how to ‘­improve’ the human condition, the possibility of colonisation is stimulated. Seeing others as ones who need help, suggests colonisation. Such a perspective is even more sensitive in contexts with Indigenous communities due to their history of being marginalised and patronised. Connected to the concern of colonisation, is design’s focus on innovation (­Tunstall 2011). Design is often celebratory about innovation. Connected to innovation are modernist values that progressively leave the past behind. It is about improving and since this ‘­improving’ is often done by the elite/­experts, who are usually based in the Global North, innovation and the aim for it, again, closely relate to colonialism (­Smith 1999). Another concern that is related to the ones introduced above, is the intervening nature of design. This characteristic of design might not be desirable in all contexts. Not only is it questionable to introduce things in general, it is also challenging to predict the effect a specific intervention can have. The risk of impeding colonisation, and consequences that design’s intervening nature bring are only increasing as ‘­modern’ design, has changed what it does, from focussing on artefacts as a sole entity towards a holistic emphasis on understanding spaces, interactions, meanings between people and artefacts (­Clarke 2011) and with that the questions it asks, like, “­W hat does it mean to be human?” (­Tunstall 2011). Through such questions, designers try to explore what it is that makes life rich, meaningful and personal, causing design to move more towards questions of an anthropological nature and with that towards the concerns, such as colonisation, that anthropology has long been dealing with. As it is rooted in modernity, ‘­modern’ design carries with it an assumption of a ­one-​­world world (­Law 2015). In this ­one-​­world world, we have universal understandings and consider certain ways more valid over other ways. Through this lens, we understand what is good design, which methods are valid, and have assumptions about how such design should have come to be. But with that we lose richness in design, as we consider other ways of design less valid.

Pluriverses ‘­Modern’ design is just one way of understanding design, as designing has always taken place, though maybe under different names, shaped by local histories and needs and different philosophies (­A kama and Yee 2016). By acknowledging ‘­modern’ design as just a specific type of design, among other ways, we could follow a pluriversal understanding of design. Pluriversal design, made popular by Escobar (­2018) is based on the notion of the pluriverse, coined by the Zapatista movement in Mexico which is a world in which many worlds ­fit – ​­in contrast to a universal o ­ ne-​­world world. By adopting the concept of pluriversality, we can deal in a decolonial way with different forms of knowledges and meanings that fall outside of the limited epistemology of a modern universal (­M ignolo 2018).

An Indigenous knowledge approach to design One way of thinking about design in a pluriverse could be to think through an Indigenous knowledge approach to design, as proposed by Indigenous Knowledge scholar Norm Sheehan (­2011). Indigeneity is in no way a ­universal – there ​­ are pluriverses of Indigenous cultures, 167

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all unique and connected to their specific localities in their own way (­Kovach 2009). But there are some ways in which design can be understood through an Indigenous Knowledge (­IK) approach that is more or less generalisable. An IK approach recognises that not just humans are involved in designing (­Sheehan 2021). Rather, design is alive in the world and the natural systems we live in constantly generate alternatives at every level. Everything designs; everything creates alternatives and selects utopias from among these alternatives. Furthermore, an IK approach is based on respect (­Sheehan 2011). In which respect refers to: …the ancestral understanding that we all stand for a short time in a world that lived long before us and will live for others long after we have passed. From this view, we can never know the full implication of any actions; thus, IK respect is about showing care and awareness in the way we identify, explore, and assess meaning because we know our view is always incomplete. Sometimes this means that Indigenous respect is a productive inaction, where we remain still to observe the shifting patterns of others as a basis for future ­l ife-​­a ffirming action. (­Sheehan 2011, 69) An IK approach furthermore assumes relationships between all life forms that exist within the natural world. Everything exists in relation, in which being emerges from and can only exist within interactions with others (­Sheehan 2021). Sheehan (­2021) urges that we need shifts in culture in order to change our assumptions about the world, for modern society to find ways to get to understand and keep the continuous interactivity in which humans are embedded alive. According to Sheehan, an IK approach to design has a potential to take up this task of transforming culture and to pass Indigenous Knowledges on because: Design allows us to perceive the systematicality in each interactive field, to generate positive options that can be used to develop an understanding that fits, for the benefit of the whole of interactions. (­Sheehan 2021, 165) My work with the Penan community of Long Lamai was inspired by Sheehan’s IK approach to design. The complexity of the position of design in the natural systems and the social world with which it interacts requires for a design researcher to not take the role of design expert. In order to position design in the natural systems and social world with which it can interact, design conversation and engagement are required. Only by adopting these is the design researcher able to ­co-​­create innovation that attempts to contribute positively to the wellbeing of the community.

Becoming respectful towards Indigenous knowledge In my work I have been asking myself how I can, and others like me, meet respectfully with Indigenous communities? In this I understand respectful in the way Sheehan (­2011) proposed, as an ontological learning principle that does not seek or propose an ultimate truth and instead seeks to identify positions that support ­life-​­affirming patterns embedded in our ‘­­being-​­with’ that natural systems of which we are part. This then becomes a question about how to support a meeting of ontologies and about how we can ­self-​­train and ­re-​­learn as designers/­researchers to be able to engage in such meetings. 168

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As Mignolo (­2018) highlights, even with the best intentions it is a really difficult and decolonial task to move away from Western modernity, and design’s rootedness in it. I have been struggling and am struggling from time to time about whether I, with my background, with where I come from, with all I carry, should even engage in design with Indigenous communities. I think this is, and always remains important to reflect upon. Whether you should, I think, depends on your motivations for engaging as well as on how you imagine this meeting of worlds. In a meeting of ontologies, it is not about a meeting of beliefs or perspectives, but rather about the meeting of reals (­Law 2015). As I highlighted before, I grew up and was educated in Europe, in what Law (­2015) calls a o ­ ne-​­world world. At the foundation of such a world lays that it values certain ways over others, and it assumes universal understandings. This realisation is important in itself. The metaphysics of a ­one-​­world world are catastrophic in encounters with Indigenous communities (­Law 2015). As Law exemplifies, approaching the encounters from the notion that the world is one and that we are all inside it, I might imagine a liberal way of handling the ­power-​­saturated encounters between different kinds of people and our interpretations of the world. With all my good intentions, I will try to respect the differences when we meet and I will try not to impose my version of the world on those that see it different. However, in such an approach, I am still committed to this idea of an ­a ll-​­encompassing reality: there is a hierarchy of reals, and the other reals do not ­ ne-​­world world. But, if I, instead engage in fit in the a­ ll-​­encompassing reality of a modern o the encounter from the notion that we live in a multiple world of different e­ nactments – if ​­ we participate in a p­ luriverse – ​­then there cannot be an overarching logic or a way of acting between the different realities. There simply cannot be an ‘­overarching’. Rather, we have to wrestle with the implications that worlds in the plural are enacted in different and ­power-​­saturated practices. In order to approach this, Law argues, we need ways of doing that are themselves contingent, modest, practical and thoroughly down to earth. We need to find ways of doing that respects and acknowledge differences as something that cannot be included. Sandra Harding (­2018) asks in her work what kinds of future relations we can imagine between modern Western knowledge traditions and those other still existing fragile (­Indigenous) knowledge traditions? For me, this work is relevant when thinking about how to think through our motivations of working with Indigenous communities. There are different proposals, as Harding (­2018) highlights, one centred around whether we actually should encourage future relations between modern Western and other knowledge traditions or rather should delink? This, then, requires us to consider how delinked any culture truly can be in an ever more densely linked world? Maybe by considering delinking, we instead can think more critically about what can be done practically as forms of resistance towards continued modern Western expansion and what is desired? In another proposal, Harding (­2018) suggests, to integrate endangered Indigenous knowledges into modern Western science. With the modern Western expansion, other valuable cultures and their knowledge systems are disappearing. Of course, those scientific legacies are valuable to preserve for their own sake and can be important contributions to modern research. But this is a problematic and extractivist approach to relating to other knowledges. Firstly, modern Western sciences have always appropriated ideas, techniques and raw materials from other cultures, which is a highly colonising way of relating to other knowledges. Secondly, with the notion of preserving comes also the notion of what to leave to be forgotten. This selecting and collecting is problematic in itself. Lastly, it does not offer resistance to ­ on-​­Western scientific traditions. the eventual extinction of all n 169

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Another proposal, Harding (­2 018) argues, to relate between different knowledge traditions is through collaboration as a way to expand resistance. In such collaboration modern Western researchers must give up intellectual control of the project and the design process is shaped and managed through joint efforts of the Western researchers and the Indigenous partners. We can see examples of such collaboration in the work of, for example, ­Winsschiers-​­Theophilus and Bidwell (­2 013), who introduce ­A frican-​­centred HCI, which draws on the African philosophy of h ­ umanness  – ­​­­Ubuntu  – ​­in which participation is a ­well-​­established practice. As such, in ­A frican-​­centred HCI designers from outside should expect shifting leadership roles and to be open to ‘­being participated’. The work of Albarrán González aims to put forward a new approach to textiles as resistance, based on Mayan cosmovision contributing to the collective wellbeing of artisan communities in Mexico (­2 020). Akama et al. (­2019) problematise replicable approaches towards design in designing with Indigenous knowledges. In their work, they emphasise respect, reciprocity and relationships as engaged consciousness for Indigenous s­ elf-​­determination. In their work with Maori communities, their reflexivity on their practices is central to negotiate the legacies of colonialism, laying bare their whole selves to show accountability and articulate plurality of practices.

Navigating and dwelling in the borderlands A pluriverse is not a world b­ uild-​­up of independent units, but rather a world that is entangled through and by the colonial matrix of power (­M ignolo 2018). In order to engage with such a world requires a way of thinking and understanding that dwells in the interstices of the entanglement, at its borders: border thinking (­M ignolo 2012). Border thinking requires a shift in the geography of reasoning, a ­geo-​­political conception of knowing, understanding and believing, a delinking from the assumption of modern and postmodern epistemology, hermeneutics and sensibility. (­M ignolo in Kalantidou & Fry 2014, 174) To dwell in the border is a way or method of decolonial thinking and doing and even though I do not come at these challenges in the same way as I am not from the Global South, but from a country with a colonising history, I think that border dwelling is relevant. ­Re-​­learning as a designer to take an Indigenous Knowledge approach to design actually should happen through dwelling in the border, not by studying the border while still dwelling in a territorial epistemology. This dwelling, as Mignolo argues is not ( ­just) a mental or a rational experience. It is about sensing the border, in which sensing: invades your emotions, and your body responds to it, dictating to the mind what the mind must start thinking, changing its direction, shifting the geography of reasoning. (­M ignolo 2018, xii) It is about inviting for Feeling/­­Thinking – Sentipensar, ​­ which is about acting with the heart, using the head (­­Fals-​­Borda, Mompox y Loba in Botero Gómez, 2019). It questions the sharp separation that capitalist modernity establishes between mind and body, humans and nature, reason and emotion, secular and sacred and life and death (­Botero Gómez 2019). This dwelling in the border can be facilitated by shaping what Fry calls borderlands, which can be understood as: 170

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an intermediate space of thought and action centrally based upon politically and pragmatic acts of appropriation and bricolage…an intercultural zone of encounter and discussion where information is exchanged, lifeworlds are translated, solidarity is built and friendship forged (­Fry 2017, 11) Such borderlands need to be designed, which according to Escobar (­2017) is an insightful proposition that adds to established decolonial thinking. In my understanding of a borderland or a third space (­Muller and Druin 2008) as I refer to it in earlier work (­Reitsma et al. 2019), it is a space for dialogue, not necessarily in linguistic terms. Based upon David Bohm’s theory of dialogue (­Nichol 2003), within a dialogue, people take a position and keep this position relatively static. Even though this position is negotiable, people often hold on to their stances. It is for this reason that something needs to intervene to create a negotiable dialogical space. Such intervening triggers can be boundary objects. Boundary objects can be seen as materialistic expressions of the third space or of the borderland. Boundary objects were introduced by Star and Griesemer (­1989). Star and Griesemer defined boundary objects as objects that are liquid to be adapted to the constraints, wishes and needs of the different borderland dwellers yet robust enough to facilitate a common identity between them. This suggests that boundary objects can become representations of third spaces and triggers of negotiation.

Designing borderlands… The work that I did together with the Long Lamai community started with me visiting Long Lamai and two other communities in order to casually explore whether there were opportunities to collaborate (­see Reitsma et al. (­2014, 2019) for more detail). I brought with me a set of design probes (­boundary objects) that I had shaped with the aim to explore questions around Penan identity and material culture. In the Long Lamai community, I had to present who I was, what I did and what my ideas were for collaborating during a community meeting. During this meeting, the community could vote whether they were interested to embark on a collaboration or not. They voted for working with me and we started a collaborative exploration through the probes, entering the borderland together. The community members also brought in their own probes as a way to steer the conversation about where the project could be heading. In this way, the borderland was shaped through probes that I brought, that we then collaboratively explored and probes that were brought in by the community. We concluded the initial exploration through a c­ o-​­reflective session during which all members of the community could look through the created probes and the suggested collaboration ­potential – ​­even those who had not taken part in the active shaping of the probes and project direction. I then went back to the United Kingdom, where I was doing my PhD and I came back around a year later. During this year, I had gone through the probes and created new probes based on a project direction that I sensed from the interactions with the community. I came back and it turned out that this direction that I had interpreted was not appropriate for me to work on with the community. We changed the focus towards creating an exhibition together for other surrounding communities to learn about the Long Lamai community and its culture. We used the probes that I had prepared as the foundation for the exhibits. The exhibition was built around a website on which the community presented itself and the exhibition pieces. The physical exhibition pieces were connected to the website: one of them, a musical 171

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­Figure 13.1 Garen working to finish the Lakat Tesen exhibit

instrument which was called ‘­Lakat Tesen’ (­the name of the king of the cicada) would play every time someone would visit the website (­see ­Figure 13.1). It was centred around a traditional Penan instrument: a Pagang. The second exhibit piece was called ‘­Betenue’’ (­Fireflies) and contained lights that started shimmering whenever a new post was visible on the website (­­Figure 13.2). Through those exhibit pieces, the wider community could understand what was going on with the website, even if they made no use of the Telecentre which provided an Internet connection. We presented this work at the eBario Knowledge Fair (­eBario 2021). I intuitively understood that the design process of Lakat Tesen (­the musical instrument) and Betenue’ (­Fireflies) had been very different and that only Lakat Tesen had been respectful (­Reitsma et al. 2019). I, however, set this intuitive feeling aside and went through an analytical process, which for me was also a process of dwelling in the border (­Reitsma 2021) through which I tried to understand both artefacts, the types of design participation, who was initiating the ideas, who’s material culture was central, who expressed ownership, and so on. In the process that did not enter a respectful design space, I was taking the lead, both through the type of design participation and by staying in charge of the ideation process. The other process was completely different: the community took charge of the process and put me in service of it. The end result was a design of which I did not fully understand the meaning but that made complete sense to the community. The reflections about this were not just a mirror to see what happened and being aware of the different power structures that were at play, but also taught me a lot about the borderland that was shaped through the interactions and the boundary objects in it. I defined four important characteristics, with supporting attitudes for designers from outside Indigenous communities to embark on shaping borderlands with communities. Here are the characteristics with some b­ orderland-​­shaping attitudes: 172

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­Figure 13.2 The Betenue’ exhibit

1 Community driven dynamics should be stimulated I did not start off assuming that the community would want to establish a borderland with me. Rather, we met casually, without prior expectations and it turned out that the community could see value in working with me. Only then did we start to explore potential borderlands together. In the borderlands, the pace was slow. From time to time, I got impatient with the process, pressured by the timeframe of my PhD, but this impatience and intention to speed up the pace never paid off. Rather, it put me back in place and urged me to take it slow and follow the community, and the way they make decisions. Those moments were important as they helped to establish the boundaries and the terms of our collaboration. I was fortunate that the community was willing to let me make mistakes and learn. The design probes as I introduced them during the encounters with Long Lamai were flexible. They could be reshaped and altered according to the needs and directions of the process. This is how the technological design probes that I initially shaped to be used as a teaching tool between generations could become exhibits that were presenting Penan culture to other cultures. 173

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2 Benefit and value for the community should be central In the borderlands it was important to make sure that the entire community could contribute and validate what had been done. For this reason, there were ­co-​­reflective sessions, during which the creations were presented to the entire community to feedback on. Stories grew from here around the designs and why they made sense to the community. As we were not speaking the same language, talking through the probes and bringing in objects and materials to shape our collaboration became important. I brought a wide variety of initial probes and not everything was used, but it helped to explore whether understandings matched and to address what the boundaries for collaboration were and which spaces we could and could not enter. 3 It should connect to material culture and Indigenous knowledges of the community In the borderlands, material culture and connections to the Indigenous knowledges system were welcomed by me, even/­or especially if, I did not fully understand them. In designing the probes, I included things that could be relatable to the community. In, for example, naming the probes in Penan language, they may have become more relatable for the community. I think that this was an important dynamic for the community to also bring in objects: drawings, materials and in the case of the musical instrument: the Pagang. 4 At any time, the designer should evaluate her connection to the design process critically To some of the probes I had a very strong connection (­like the lights that lay the foundation for the Betunue’ probe) and this made me attach ownership to this design even before it came into being. About the musical instrument I felt less sure, I felt this was by no means my expertise. Though, I made suggestions for a type of instrument and the community went along, they stopped at a certain point and said that it would make more sense to use a Pagang rather than use an instrument that had no meaning to them whatsoever. From then on, the community directed the design process.

Towards emergence Maybe at some point in the process you come to realise that actually you have left the third space borderland that you were in together behind and that the community now has taken full control, that a new type of space has emerged: a respectful emergent design space. Such a space needs a borderland when it has to emerge from collaborations between Indigenous communities and participatory designers from outside. I went through an entire analytical process to analyse whether the process was respectful, this was me, trying to understand rationally whether it had succeeded. I intuitively knew, though, that the design process of the musical instrument (­Lakat Tesen) had been respectful. In Sheehan’s work he talks about the difference between Western and Indigenous knowledges in that emergence is generally accepted in IK, as a feature of natural system relations and that it demonstrates that we are working respectfully with these relations. I think, in a way, the dream of Garen, the timber we used that carried history and relations, as well as other aspects of the process, would have taught me already that there was emergence in the design process and that it connected to natural system relations that have a place in Indigenous knowledge systems. Maybe the moments where I felt that I did not understand (­fully) what the design was about, about the meaning of the rhinoceros, the trees that were chosen to be part of the design, the significance of the Pagang, or the decision for when to collect the material 174

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for the design, were moments of emergence, where the relational aspect of an Indigenous Knowledge approach to design was in full play. I did not understand fully, but went along, to support the community in their visions, no questions asked, no scepticism, just openness. Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX told me stories that challenged my Western, Cartesian, ­left-​­brain way of looking to the world. When I expressed skepticism he told me not to ask a Western question in the context of a Javanese situation. “­You either believe it, or you don’t,” he explained. “­Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be too analytical”. (­Sochaczewski 2012, 285)

References Akama, Yoko, Penny Hagen, and Desna W ­ haanga-​­ Schollum. 2019. “­ Problematizing Replicable Design to Practice Respectful, Reciprocal, and Relational ­Co-​­designing with Indigenous People.” Design and Culture 11(­1): 5­ 9–​­84. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Design Institute. Akama, Yoko, and Joyce Yee. 2016. “­Seeking Stronger Plurality: Intimacy and Integrity in Designing for Social Innovation.” In Proceedings of the Cumulus Conference, Hong Kong, edited by C. Kung, A. Lam and Y. Lee, 1­ 73–​­181. Albarrán González, Diana. 2020. “­Towards a Buen ­Vivir-​­centric Design: Decolonising Artisanal Design with Mayan Weavers from the Highlands of Chiapas, Mexico.” PhD diss., Auckland University of Technology. Clarke, Alison, J., ed. 2011. Design Anthropology: Object Culture in the 21st Century. Vienna, Austria: Springer Verlag. Botero Gómez, Patricia. 2019. “­Sentipensar.” In Pluriverse. A ­Post-​­Development Dictionary, edited by Kothari, Ashish, Ariel Salleh, Arturo Escobar, Federico Demario and Alberto Acosta, ­302–​­305. New Delhi: Tulika Books. eBario Knowledge F ­ air -​­Retrieved 20 November 2021, from http://­w ww.conference.unimas.my/­ 2017/­ebkf2017/­i ndex.php. Escobar, Arturo. 2017. “­Response: Design for/­by [and from] the ‘­g lobal South.’” Design Philosophy Papers 15(­1): ­39–​­49. Escobar, Arturo. 2018. Designs for the Pluriverse. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Fry, Tony. 2017. “­Design for/­by “­The Global South”.” Design Philosophy Papers 15(­1): ­3 –​­37. Harding, Sandra. 2018. “­One Planet, Many Sciences.” In Constructing the Pluriverse: The Geopolitics of Knowledge, edited by Bernd Reiter, 3­ 9–​­62. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Kalantidou, Eleni, and Tony Fry, eds. 2014. Design in the Borderlands. Abingdon: Routledge. Kovach, Margaret. 2009. Indigenous Methodologies: Characteristics, Conversations, and Contexts. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Law, John. 2015. “­W hat’s Wrong with a O ­ ne-​­world World?” Distinktion: Scandinavian Journal of Social Theory 16(­1): ­126–​­139. Mignolo, Walter D. 2012. Local Histories/­Global Designs. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Mignolo, Walter D. 2018. “­Foreword. On Pluriversality and Multipolarity.” In Constructing the Pluriverse: The Geopolitics of Knowledge, edited by Bernd Reiter, i­x–​­xvi. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Muller, Michael J. and Allison Druin. 2008. “­Participatory Design: The Third Space in HCI.” In The ­Human–​­Computer Interaction Handbook: Fundamentals, Evolving Technologies, and Emerging Applications, edited by J. Jacko and A. Sears, 2nd ed., 1­ 050–​­1075. Mahwah: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Nichol, Lee. 2003. The Essential David Bohm. London: Routledge. Reitsma, Lizette. 2021. “­M aking Sense/­z ines: Reflecting on Positionality.” In Proceedings of Pivot 2021: Dismantling/­Reassembling, edited by R.M. Leitão, I. Men, L.-​­A. Noel, J. Lima, and, T. Meninato, ­317–​­329. London: Design Research Society. Reitsma, Lizette, Ann Light, and Paul A. Rodgers. 2014. “­Empathic Negotiations through Material Culture: ­Co-​­designing and Making Digital Exhibits.” Digital Creativity 25(­3): ­269–​­274. Reitsma, Lizette, Ann Light, Tariq Zaman, and Paul A. Rodgers. 2019. “­A Respectful Design Framework. Incorporating Indigenous Knowledge in the Design Process.” The Design Journal 22(­1): ­1555–​­1570.

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Lizette Reitsma Sheehan, Norman W. 2011. “­Indigenous Knowledge and Respectful Design: An E ­ vidence-​­based Approach.” Design Issues 27(­4): ­68–​­80. Sheehan, Norman W. 2021. “­L earning from Country.” In Indigenous Knowledge Systems and ­Yurlendj-​ ­nganjin, edited by David Jones, and Darryl Low Choy, 1­ 57–​­167. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. 1999. Decolonizing Methodologies: Indigenous Peoples and Research. London: Zed Books Sochaczewski, Paul S. 2012. An Inordinate Fondness of Beetles. Singapore: Editions Didier Millet Pte Ltd. Star, Susan L., and James R. Griesemer. 1989. “­Institutional Ecology ‘­Translations’ and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Professionals in Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology 1­ 907–​­39.” Social Studies of Science 19(­3): ­387–​­420. Tunstall, Elizabeth (­Dori). 2011. Design Anthropology, Indigenous Knowledge and the Decolonization of Design. Presented at the Fabrica Workshops. Available at: https://­v imeo.com/­22599259 [Accessed November 2021]. ­Winschiers-​­Theophilus, Heike, and Nicola J. Bidwell. 2013. “­Toward an ­A fro-​­Centric Indigenous HCI Paradigm.” International Journal of H ­ uman-​­Computer Interaction 29(­4): ­243–​­255.

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14 AN EMANCIPATORY RESEARCH PRIMER FOR DESIGNERS ­Lesley-​­Ann Noel

Introduction This chapter introduces an emancipatory approach to research for designers. It demonstrates how designers can use this research approach in their work. The chapter will begin by explaining what an emancipatory approach is and then provide examples of how to incorporate the approach into every stage of the design process. Finally, the chapter will provide guidelines on evaluating whether work is emancipatory. Historically, the design field did not begin its practice with an emancipatory focus. Designers were commissioned to provide the best solution to a design problem based on aesthetics, material possibilities, or needs identified within a specific group of people. They might have worked alone in their studio, developing designs to respond to those needs, returning later to present their solutions to the people who have hired them. There are several challenges to working in this way. The first problem is about who has determined the needs of the specific group of people in focus. The agenda that is being addressed may have been determined by groups and organizations external to the group in focus. This could result in a poor understanding of the issue and the needs of the marginalized stakeholders and difficulty sustaining interest and participation after the designers have left the project or intervention. Many groups in society including women, the n ­ on-​­Caucasian, the disabled, the n ­ on-​­heterosexual, and the ­non-​­English speaking have all been excluded from knowledge production at some time. When these people are excluded from the research and design process, their issues are also overlooked. Research that these people lead, that focusses on their issues and is driven by their concerns is emancipatory. The range of contexts in which designers work today has broadened, and many designers work in an area called social design. This certainly makes emancipatory methodologies, where marginalized stakeholders determine priorities, more needed in today’s design practice. This will ensure greater project success and stakeholder satisfaction. Social design, which uses design to address social problems leading to social change ( ­Janzer and Weinstein 2014), is one form of design practice that could benefit from an emancipatory approach. This type of design practice focusses on improving people’s lives in various parts of the world, inner cities, or rural towns. This practice is sometimes built on

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-17

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models of international development with the assumption, as Arturo Escobar wrote in 1995, that Western standards and paradigms are the benchmarks for people in need of development (­Escobar 1995). International development is based on a linear notion of economic evolution, with the idea that some places need to ‘­catch up’ and the people who are already ‘­developed’ have the knowledge and expertise that can be given to others to help them catch up (­Kothari 2005). As a result, development projects often observe a specific directionality in knowledge. For example, British development agencies generally hire European or North American consultants. They would rarely hire an expert from Latin America, the Caribbean, Africa, or Asia as consultants in the United Kingdom (­Kothari 2005). This type of ­one-​­directionality can also occur in the design process, when the designer’s knowledge is privileged over the knowledge of marginalised stakeholders with lived experience. Designers are often invited to parachute into a community to propose a solution from an outsider’s perspective ( ­Janzer and Weinstein 2014). This can be considered a form of design n ­ eo-​­colonialism ( ­Janzer and Weinstein 2014) when the outsider perspective is privileged over the insider perspective in creating solutions to local problems. This form of design practice, where the designer is external to the community, can mean less participation by marginalized people in determining project methods and outcomes. Social design approaches rarely address these issues. As social design becomes more popular in contemporary design practice and education, designers will need better skills to facilitate the participation of marginalized people in the design process. They will also need the skills to analyse issues critically. They will need to reflect on power dynamics. Finally, they will need to learn to counteract the hubris and harm of wanting to fix, help, or save people, which sometimes exist in social design practice. An emancipatory approach used in design research can prevent the design process from being dominated by the designer or the design team, opening up to greater participation of the marginalized in the process. This increased participation can ensure that the identification of issues and solutions is led by people who are most impacted by the problem in focus.

What is an emancipatory approach? People who are most impacted by an issue are the best positioned to resolve this issue (­Beck and Purcell 2013). Therefore, it is important to use research methods that facilitate their participation in designing solutions to these issues. This rationale supports using an emancipatory approach in design research. This ­non-​­neutral ­social-­​­­justice-​­focussed research approach aims to promote change by shifting power to people whose voices are not typically heard. The broad research objective of emancipatory research is to create ‘­emancipation and social justice’. This approach aims to shift power to research participants by correcting the power imbalance between ‘­privileged researchers’ and research participants from traditionally marginalized or oppressed groups such as the poor, women, and people of colour. The approach decentres the voices that typically have the most power so that the voices and perspectives of people from these excluded groups are heard more clearly. A strategy that decentres those with power is different from a strategy that temporarily centres marginalized perspectives since the approach of centralizing the marginalized does not always break the dependency on the group with power (­Van Amstel 2021). Emancipatory research can also be associated with transformative research (­Mertens 2008), ‘­orientational qualitative inquiry’ (­Patton 1990) and participatory action research. Participatory and emancipatory research were born from critical awareness, inspired by a new ­pro-​­people political climate of connecting research with popular practice to develop 178

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critical enquiries and theories (­Reason 2008). Another related research focus, critical theory examines how ‘­injustice and subjugation shape people’s experiences and understandings of the world’ (­Patton 1990: 130). Critical theory seeks to critique and change society. These research philosophies recognize the historical imbalance in research and knowledge production that favours the people at the centre of power and disadvantages many others and aims to correct this historical imbalance. Patton quotes from ‘­Transforming Knowledge’: The root problem in all fields is that the majority of humankind was ‘­excluded from education and the making of knowledge, and the dominant few not only defined themselves as the inclusive kind of human but also as the norm and the ideal… Their notion of who was human was both exclusive and hierarchical. (­M innich 1990: ­37–​­38 cited in Patton 1990: 130) Some of the key principles of this research paradigm are openness, participation, accountability, empowerment, and reciprocity (­Danieli and Woodhams 2005). This way of doing research is a process of producing knowledge that can benefit people with marginalized or oppressed identities. Its key aim is to emancipate research participants with marginalized identities from the limits that have been imposed by society by shifting power to them in the research process and supporting them to achieve their goals.

Origins in disability studies The emancipatory research paradigm emerged due to a ‘­g rowing discomfort with dominant research paradigms and procedures’ (­Groat 2001). Though it is sometimes an umbrella term that includes several research streams including critical ­theory-​­based, feminist, r­ ace-​­specific, participatory, and transformative research (­Groat and Wang 2002), the term emancipatory research was first used in disability studies. This form of research was a political action that aimed to move the control of the research into the hands of the community being researched to allow these people, often with marginalized identities, to have greater power in the ­decision-​­making processes that shaped their lives (­Mertens 2015; Nind 2014). Researchers had been researching people with disabilities since the 1950s. At that time, disability research typically looked at ­doctor-​­patient relations and the numbers of people with disabilities (­Barnes and Mercer 2005). They wrote these studies from the perspective of the medical model of disability. The social model of disability emerged in the 1970s. This model changed the way disability was perceived, shifting it from a focus on the medical disability where it is presumed that people with disabilities are disabled by their impairments (­Barnes and Mercer 2005). However, the people from the disability movement changed this perspective, and the social model of disability began to emerge, where it became recognized that people with disabilities are handicapped by society’s response to their disabilities, rather than the disabilities themselves. Disability research changed when disabled people took an emancipatory approach and focussed on their concerns and needs. The emancipatory approach in disability research was born out of the awareness by disabled people that they knew what was best for them and their advocacy to have greater control over research agendas that affected them. One of the driving phrases in the disability movement in the 1990s was ‘­Nothing About Us Without Us!’ (­Charlton 2000). The term highlighted a shift in perspective in disability studies. It advocated for greater agency for disabled stakeholders in research and a move from passive participants who are studied to active participants who drive the research agenda. The shift in view in the 179

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disability movement happened after a series of events in the early 1990s brought together disabled and ­non-​­disabled researchers, which eventually led to a reframing of research about disability. In disability studies, this meant that people with disabilities got greater control over research agendas than academics, members of the medical community, or public officials. When people who are directly impacted by issues control the agenda, their voices, needs, and perspectives can be understood more clearly, ensuring that these issues are framed appropriately. An emancipatory approach involves redistributing power away from where it traditionally lies, with the elite researcher or government official. An emancipatory approach confronts social oppression by redistributing power to those who would not have usually held it. It facilitates uncovering and reframing of issues that would be missed through the lens of the dominant group.

When others speak for you, you lose This section opens with a quote by Ed Roberts from a 1983 speech to members of the disability movement. In that speech, Roberts warned his audience that they had learnt from the Civil Rights movement that you lose when others speak for you (­Roberts 1983). One thing that differentiates an emancipatory approach from a ­non-​­emancipatory one is that people impacted by the issue must speak for themselves. Another quote that is reflective of an emancipatory philosophy is the West African proverb that states: Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter. Chinua Achebe. (­a s quoted in Brooks 1994) In thinking about this proverb above, the hunter would represent the dominant perspective of people with more power, while the lion is the less dominant view. Therefore, one aim of using an emancipatory approach is to ensure that the lion’s point of view is known and that issues are framed from the lion’s perspective instead of the perspective of the hunter. In design, using an emancipatory approach would mean that focus issues in design would be driven by the group of people who are impacted by the issue. Therefore, using the analogy from above, the lions will determine the stories that should be told, either telling these stories for themselves, or collaborating with others to tell these stories. Others would not tell these stories for them. The people closest to the issue would design for themselves or would design with a designer rather than a designer designing for them. Emancipatory approaches would support designers to understand and centre the issues of concern of the people impacted by the problem area, instead of framing issues from the designers’ point of view, or that of a company’s executives, or even the officials of a city. The designer’s role and methods changes using this approach, and the designer may play other supporting roles such as facilitator and collaborator.

Key assumptions of an emancipatory approach The following sections will outline the major philosophical assumptions that underpin the nature of an emancipatory approach to research. 180

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­Ontology – what ​­ is known and who is the knower? Crotty defines ontology as the ‘­study of being’ (­Crotty 2021: 10). This definition of ontology focusses on what kinds of things exist and the assumptions that form this knowledge. This definition of ontology does not support the assumption of multiple realities as it relies on a single reality and multiple categories. A pluriversal definition of ontology is related to worldbuilding which allows for multiple realities and many knowledges. This pluralistic ontology is compatible with the two vital ontological assumptions of emancipatory research. The first is multiple realities (­Groat and Wang 2002; Guba and Lincoln 2005). An example of multiple truths and realities could be the story of the ‘­d iscovery of America’. One truth is that up to a certain time, we may have learnt that Columbus discovered America in 1492. Now we also know that America existed before Columbus. We may also realize that the Vikings arrived many centuries before Columbus. All these different versions of the story are true. The second critical ontological assumption is that everyone creates knowledge and builds worlds, not only the elite researcher or dominant group. This assumption means marginalized stakeholders must lead knowledge creation, regardless of academic or economic background, racial and cultural backgrounds, language, or other barriers.

­Epistemology – what ​­ is the relationship between the participants and the knowledge? Epistemology answers the questions of what knowledge is and how we create it. The primary epistemological assumption of an emancipatory approach to research is an interactive link between the researcher and the participants (­Groat and Wang 2002; Guba and Lincoln 2005). In design work, there is typically interaction between the designer and other marginalized stakeholders in the design problem or design space making it compatible with an emancipatory approach. The second epistemological assumption is that knowledge is historically and socially situated (­Groat and Wang 2002). This assumption would require that designers be very aware of the social and historical contexts of the places in which they operate and facilitate research processes that are sensitive to issues that may arise within these contexts. A third epistemological assumption of emancipatory research is that knowledge is defined through cultural lenses. While i­dentity-​­centred, cultural, or subjective approaches and analyses may be deemed inappropriate, in Western academia, emancipatory practices recognize that all knowledge is subjective and culturally situated. A fourth epistemological assumption of emancipatory research is an understanding of power issues related to what is considered legitimate knowledge. Therefore, the recognition that what is traditionally regarded as legitimate may be considered so because someone from the dominant group or someone with more power wrote it. Other people, who are not from the dominant group and with less power, also have legitimate knowledge to share.

­Methodology – how ​­ we do things Methodology is the combination of methods that we use to conduct research and obtain and create knowledge. The selected methods of any research process must be compatible with the ontology and epistemology of that research. In emancipatory research, the methods must be compatible with multiple truths, knowledge that is created by many people and not just elite researchers; an interactive relationship between researchers and research participants, 181

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historically, culturally, and socially situated knowledge, and an awareness of power issues that would traditionally impact research and knowledge creation. There are several methodological assumptions of the emancipatory research paradigm. First, there is the assumption there is a political agenda in this work. This work is not objective or v­ alue-​­free, since objectivity typically supports the agendas of those who have the most power (­A li 2006). Emancipatory methods critically analyse and challenge oppressive structures while directly addressing social issues (­A li 2006). It is research with a social justice agenda and an agenda for transformation. This research will result in social change. Another methodological assumption of emancipatory research is that it is partial to oppressed people, and the methodologies will reveal the hidden structures and ‘­determinants of oppression’ (­Gorelick 1991: 463). The traditionally silenced, excluded, and marginalized perspectives lead the research agenda. In this research approach people analyse power inequities throughout the research to ensure fair distribution of resources, work, credit, and that participants are treated fairly. Furthermore, emancipatory research is dialogic, and it is dialectical, meaning that it is related to the logical discussion of ideas (­Guba and Lincoln 2005). Both the researcher and the researched are changed through the process as theory and practice emerge together from the interaction (­Gorelick 1991). A final methodological assumption of emancipatory research is that the use of language in this context will be grounded in a context of shared experiences. Emancipatory methods shift ontological, epistemological, and methodological power to participants. These methods ensure participants have space to voice their concerns, drive agendas and communicate more easily. These methods could include methods that do not privilege the written word or the dominant group’s language, such as visual methods like photography or drawing. Instead, these could be dialogic methods, like workshops or focus groups that employ several languages. These assumptions exclude some research methods because of issues related to power and agency. For example, observation is not an emancipatory research method if there is no interaction between the researchers and participants. At the same time, interviews or focus groups can be more emancipatory since participants have more agency in these methods.

Limits/­pitfalls of emancipatory research Emancipatory research is not without its criticisms, and some areas of concern identified by Danieli and Woodhams (­2005) in their critique of emancipatory disability research are: • • •

The power and privilege of the researcher The marginalized view may be ­anti-​­emancipatory Emancipatory research can only be selectively applied

The power and privilege of the researcher One of the challenges of emancipatory research is that the mere act of doing research gives researchers a status that their ‘­subjects’ may not have. Danieli and Woodhams (­2005) make this point about the disabled community. The designer hired to lead a community design intervention will always be perceived to have some form of privilege due to education, race, economic background, etc. A conscious effort must be made to mitigate this and create greater equality in the research activity. Danieli and Woodhams (­2005) also note that 182

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researchers should reflect on other types of social privileges that they might have, such as class, race, age, sexuality, ­able-​­bodiedness, etc., and how these affect their research. The same can be said for designers. Emancipatory research should seek to ‘­­de-​­elitize’ knowledge and research. In the field of design, Bonsiepe strongly supported the advancement of design and design thinking in developing countries (­Margolin 2007) as opposed to designers briefly going to a developing country to practise a more remote form of design practice. According to Woodward and Hetley (­2007), for ­de-​­elitization to occur, researchers must leave their laboratories to work closely with the marginalized stakeholders to understand the problem. They must learn from communities about what solutions are appropriate. There must be a process where the people who would be traditionally marginalized in the research process become more aware of their abilities, agency, and resources. This process leads to more significant transformation. In research, the interests of individuals can be enhanced or exploited, marginalized, repressed, and excluded by the choices made by a researcher (­Schostak and Schostak 2009). Therefore, using an emancipatory research perspective would help designers focus on producing research that is accountable to and gives voice to the communities they are serving. It would also ensure that researchers’ decisions are strategically aligned with the participants’ worldviews.

The ‘­marginalized’ view may be ­anti-​­emancipatory The second concern of emancipatory research is that the marginalized view may also be ­a nti-​ ­emancipatory. In the case of disability studies, an a­ nti-​­emancipatory perspective might be that a disabled person may also hold opinions that do not advance the cause of the disabled. For example, maintaining a stereotype of disability such as ‘­people with disabilities always need help’. In design practice, designers should seek to use emancipatory methods that empower collaborators, even if the collaborators might not believe in their power or strength.

Emancipatory research can only be selectively applied Danieli and Woodhams (­2005) expressed concern that emancipatory research can only be applied selectively, e.g., with women, people of colour, or the disabled. Therefore, this selectivity can appear to condone the objectification of specific groups within society by differentiating them negatively and assuming that this group is different or special and in need of special attention or care. This special attention can prevent groups from being identified as independent and equal, and therefore can also hinder their emancipation. In addition, there is the risk that researchers and designers could use a deficit perspective when they choose to focus only on the problems in a community and ignore the strengths (­Mertens 2008).

How to use an emancipatory approach at each phase of the design process The remaining sections of the chapter will focus on incorporating an emancipatory approach at every stage of the design process. In the following paragraphs, there is a short description of an emancipatory approach at each phase of the design process and guiding questions to keep the designer on track. In an emancipatory approach, people who are impacted by the issue would hold critical roles within the design team and lead or be involved in significant ­decision-​­m aking throughout the process. 183

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­Pre-​­design Before the design research begins, using an emancipatory philosophy, researchers, and participants must address the differences and power inequities in the research process. These considerations may include acknowledging that the research team is w ­ ell-​­compensated for its time while the participants are not. The research team, composed of design researchers, people affected by the issue, and other marginalized stakeholders, should address these issues before starting a project seeking to eliminate barriers that will prevent dialogue and participation or barriers that will prevent a power shift from the researchers to the participants. These barriers may be related to compensation, childcare, traditional gender roles, issues related to class, and more. By carefully identifying potential barriers to participation, the design research team can ensure an environment will contribute fully and lead the research team to address their needs.

Guiding questions • •

Are people who are impacted by the issue part of the design and research team? Have power inequities between the design and research team and the marginalized stakeholders been addressed?

Understanding the context In understanding the context, using an emancipatory philosophy, the designer or design team would identify the key marginalized stakeholders impacted by the issue. They would then seek to understand the problem privileging the point of view of this impacted group using primary and secondary research. Primary research could include using interviews, focus groups, workshops, and other ethnographic research methods that surface the critical issues from the point of view of the impacted group, rather than the point of view of policymakers, researchers, funding providers, etc. The interests of the latter may not be the interests of the former. While it could be helpful to compare these competing interests, marginalized people affected by the issue drive an emancipatory research agenda. Secondary research could include surveying literature and examining social media and traditional journalism to understand the point of view of the affected group. People who are impacted by issues have agency and are undoubtedly already creating solutions and responses to the matter in focus, so the design team must understand what these stakeholders are already doing. In conducting research at this stage, it is essential to understand the significant issues to the key marginalized stakeholders and the historical, social, political, and cultural context in which these issues occur (­Beck and Purcell 2013).

Guiding questions • • •

How does the issue of focus affect different groups of people? Is the impact different according to age, class, race, etc.? Have the needs and concerns of the most impacted group been centred? How are the people impacted by the issue already addressing the issue?

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Defining the issue In research approaches that are not emancipatory, people external to an issue, such as policymakers, funding organizations, and researchers, define focus issues. These external groups impose their perspectives on the marginalized stakeholders who are the focus of the research. Focussing on topics that stakeholders are not passionate about can negatively affect project sustainability (­Beck and Purcell 2013). An emancipatory approach to defining issues shifts power to the marginalized groups who create and determine the research priorities. Their responses will not take us very far if we merely ask people what they want or need. P ­ roblem-​ ­posing methods (­Freire 1994; Shor 1992) can promote deeper reflection, leading to a critical awareness that empowers people to consider a wide range of options that can transform their reality (­Freire 1994). Issues should be defined and reframed after dialogue, discussion, and reflection about generative themes, which are significant issues that people are passionate about and willing to take action on (­Beck and Purcell 2013).

Guiding questions • • •

Who has defined the issue of focus? What are the issues that marginalized people are passionate about and willing to act on? Has the selected issue(­s) been presented to the marginalized people for feedback to check if this is a topic of concern for them?

Idea generation and prototyping An emancipatory approach to idea generation facilitates the participation of people from diverse economic and social backgrounds, ensuring that the needs of people who are typically not heard are maintained in focus, and that these people lead the process. At the idea generation phase, it is helpful to remember that as designers, we may use ­jargon-​­filled language and approaches to developing ideas that may seem incomprehensible to people from outside the field of design. These are not intentionally exclusive but include coded language that may have evolved from years of design practice. Even words like ‘­ideation’ or ‘­brainstorming’ can sound strange to people outside of design. Idea generation and prototyping should happen after critical reflection and discussion around generative themes and what Freire (­1994) called ­limit-​­situations or historical conditions that prevent people from thriving. Critical discussion will lead to a more complex understanding of the issue in focus. Ideation can be individual or collective responses to designing out the limits. To ensure full participation at the idea generation people must be able to express ideas in different ways such as drawing, role play, model making and more. In using an emancipatory approach, the designer or design team would recognize that despite their design experience, they may not have the lived experience of other team members who are marginalized people of the impacted group. With this realization, they would seek to understand the issues from the point of view of those marginalized people and use their design abilities to support and amplify the solutions of this group.

Guiding questions •

Are impacted marginalized people involved in the s­ olution-​­finding process?

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• • •

Have ideas been generated after critical discussion around generative themes and l­imit​­situations? Do the solutions reflect the needs and interests of the primary marginalized people? How are impacted marginalized people already addressing the issue and can these efforts be amplified?

Testing and feedback An emancipatory approach to testing and feedback would ensure that people who are impacted by the issue are testing the design proposals by using them. People close to the issue would also evaluate and rank the design proposals. These people would also create evaluation criteria for success and provide genuine ­feedback – ​­even if this feedback is not favourable. At this phase, designers and teams need to pay attention to the power relations in the process, understanding that perceived differences in power may prevent collaborators from providing genuine feedback. In the testing and feedback phase, the design team should create diverse means of collecting feedback from invested marginalized people, such as interviews, focus groups, anonymous polls and other methods. These methods should not only rely on one communication method, such as the written or the spoken word. N ­ on-­​­­language-​­based methods should also be considered, such as visual methods, e.g., using drawings or emojis and a wide variety of methods that will facilitate communication across differences in status, class, race, gender, etc.

Guiding questions • •

Are the most impacted marginalized people able to provide real feedback on the ideas and prototypes? Have the most impacted marginalized people been engaged in creating the criteria for success?

Reflection and next steps Stone and Priestley (­1996) developed six core questions that researchers can use for creating and critiquing emancipatory research interventions in the field of disability. These questions can provide a template for reflection to evaluate an emancipatory approach to a design intervention. They highlight the marginalized people’s’ point of view, the empowerment and agency of the community, accountability to the community, and the choice of methods for the intervention. At the reflection stage, the design team can ask similar questions to assess the emancipatory nature of the work, verifying whether the research agenda is being driven by the people who are affected by the issue, whether the process and work are empowering, accountable to and have been determined by marginalized people. The guiding questions below were inspired by Stone and Priestley’s questions.

Guiding questions •

Did the research and design proposals focus on systems that create barriers for marginalized people rather than the individual manifestation of the barrier? For example, did it focus on the systems that cause a group to be unemployed, rather than one person’s 186

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• • • • • • • •

unemployment, or did it focus on the systems that prevent childcare rather than the lack of childcare for one individual parent? Have the design proposals and the design process contributed to the ­self-​­empowerment of the target population? Will the research and design process contribute to the removal of discriminatory barriers? Will the research be accountable to the target community and their organizations? Will the research give voice to both the individual and shared experiences of the target community? Will the choice of research methods be determined by the needs of the participants? How does the solution create an agenda for change or address l­imit-​­situations? Was the intervention led by marginalized people? Did the intervention shift power to marginalized people?

Conclusions Emancipatory research aims to emancipate people who are typically excluded from research from the social oppressions they usually face. This research approach ensures that these people lead the research process and outcomes. Therefore, as designers develop an intervention using an emancipatory research paradigm, they should ensure that the main ideas of this research philosophy guide each step of the design process. The main ideas are that a) people who are affected by the issue must drive the research agendas and b) everyone creates knowledge, and therefore conditions that ensure that everyone, especially marginalized people, will actively create knowledge must exist. While participatory design seeks to include impacted stakeholders in the design process (­Björgvinsson et al. 2012) especially early in the design process (­Rosenzweig 2015), an emancipatory agenda in design goes beyond the aims of participatory design by ensuring that marginalized people do more than merely participate, and lead the design and research process. By keeping the big ideas of emancipatory research throughout the design process, marginalized people will lead critical enquiry around issues that are passionate to them, resulting in ­well-​­designed products and services that serve the people they need to serve.

References Ali, Alisha. 2006. ‘­A Framework for Emancipatory Inquiry in Psychology: Lessons from Feminist Methodology’. Race, Gender & Class 13 (­1/­2): ­26–​­35. http://­w ww.jstor.org/­stable/­41675218. Barnes, Colin, and Geof Mercer. 2005. ‘­Disability, Work, and Welfare: Challenging the Social Exclusion of Disabled People’. Work, Employment and Society 19 (­3): ­527–​­545. https://­doi.org/­10.1177/­ 0950017005055669. Beck, D., and R. Purcell. 2013. ‘­Developing Generative Themes for Community Action’. In: Curran, S., Harrison, R. and Mackinnon, D. (­Eds.) Working with Young People (­­pp. ­154–​­163). Los Angeles, CA: Sage. Björgvinsson, Erling, Erling Bjögvinsson, Pelle Ehn, and P ­ er-​­Anders Hillgren. 2012. ‘­Design Things 3): and Design Thinking: Contemporary Participatory Design Challenges’. Design Issues 28 (­ ­101–​­116. Brooks, J. (­1994). Chinua Achebe, The Art of Fiction No. 139. The Paris Review, Winter (­133). https://­ www.theparisreview.org/­i nterviews/­1720/­­the-­​­­a rt- ­​­­of-­​­­fiction-­​­­no-­​­­139- ­​­­chinua-​­achebe Charlton, J.I. 2000. Nothing About Us Without Us: Disability Oppression and Empowerment. Nothing about Us without Us: Disability Oppression and Empowerment. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. https://­books.google.com/ ­books?id=ohqff8DBt9gC.

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15 FROM THEORY TO PRACTICE Equitable approaches to design research in the design thinking process Nneka Sobers and Stephanie Parey

Introduction Design research aims to understand the needs and behaviors of people and communities impacted by design outcomes. This ­people-​­based inquiry, which is essential in the design thinking process, is critical in making design outcomes responsive to human needs. However, design research may reproduce societal hierarchies, social exclusion, and reinforce hegemonic norms that perpetuate the marginalization of underserved communities (­Harrington et al. 2019). As a response to mitigating cycles of exclusion and oppression in research, Participatory Action Research (­PAR) aims to center the perspectives of people who will be impacted by design outcomes through democratic and collaborative means. Although PAR is a ­well-​­established and flexible approach, it does not directly address how researchers navigate bias, intersectionality, and more nuanced forms of societal oppression. There are several design frameworks developed by practitioners that translate PAR into r­ eal-​ ­world practice with the aim of expanding the scope of PAR and connecting its values to social justice and activism in design. In order to actualize PAR, practitioners must determine how to translate theoretical principles and concepts into actionable practices. In this chapter, we seek to understand how PAR’s principles are translated into r­ eal-​­world equitable design research practices. More specifically, we examine how equitable design thinking frameworks developed by design practitioners attempt to operationalize PAR in order to break cycles of exclusion and oppression in design research, while directly addressing the relationship between design, power, and social justice in the design process.

Cycles of Exclusion in design research Over the past few decades, design has expanded from an aesthetic practice into a ­problem-​ ­solving process. Design’s role in p­ roblem-​­solving is the basis of “­design thinking,” which is the creative and analytic process of developing solutions for complex problems (­Buchanan 1992). Design thinking aims to apply design as a method of defining and solving personal, business, and societal challenges. The traditional design thinking methodology consists of five phases: Empathize, Define, Ideate, Prototype, and Test (­Dam 2022). Design research, DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-18

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which supports all phases of the design thinking process, seeks to understand behaviors and needs of people impacted by design solutions. Even though design thinking and design research are interwoven, design research most directly interfaces with design thinking during its Empathize, Define, and Test phases. Since the Empathize, Define, and Test phases of the design thinking process require greater feedback from the people who will be impacted by the design solution, design research provides feedback loops between the design practitioner and the user. Some of the ways in which design research provides value is by establishing pathways for communication and ­co-​­creation for people who will directly be impacted by design, as well as synthesizing ethnographic research into insights that serve as a basis for ­decision-​­making in the design thinking process (­Rodgers et al. 2020). As design research focuses on the needs, desires, and abilities of people, design research is the foundation of defining socially relevant problems and generating ­human-​­centered design outcomes within the design thinking process. Since design research is the primary pathway to engage users in design thinking, design research is positioned as a gate that determines which users are included and valued in the design thinking process. This gate is a critical point in determining the level of inclusion in the design research process, and incidentally the design thinking process. In practice, design research may be conducted in a manner that is either intentionally or unintentionally exclusionary. Sometimes a design research study may require only engaging a specific demographic population (­e.g. single unemployed men between the ages ­35–​­50 living in New York City). To deliberately select a specific target population is a common form of intentional exclusion in design research. While this intentional form of exclusion may not be inherently negative, exclusion within the design research process should be a justified and intentional choice rather than an accidental harm (­Holmes 2020). Unintentional exclusion may manifest insidiously in the design research process. “­Unintentional exclusion occurs almost like an instinct. These ­instinct-​­based behaviors are rooted in culture, geography, [social status], or even family history” (­Noel and Pavia 2021, 64). The power that researchers have and how they decide to act on their power directly shapes the design research process. “­Foucault stated power does not necessarily reside in individuals but in the positions they occupy, therefore the researcher may be assumed to have more power than the participants and/­or c­ o-​­researchers” ( ­Jacobs 2018, 46). A design researcher’s positionality may bias who they value or include within the design research process. As the design researcher’s positionality and the design thinking process may reflect societal hegemonic norms and biases, unintentional exclusion in the design process disproportionately affects underserved communities (­Harrington et al. 2019). Since our work is grounded in the United States of America, our reference to underserved communities includes l­ow-​­income communities, people of color, LGBTQIA+, people with disabilities, and senior populations. If design research is defined with implicit biases or fails to consider underserved communities, this may have cascading negative effects across the entire design process. Unintentional exclusion baked into the research and design thinking process perpetuates harmful and exclusionary design outcomes. The ways in which biased research may lead to unintentional, yet harmful, exclusionary design outcomes can vary across many scales. Examples of how design research can perpetuate exclusionary design outcomes include: designing web interfaces that are not suitable for people with colorblindness; creating biased algorithms that fail to detect dark skin in cameras and ­self-​­driving vehicles; and designing street conditions without considering the mobility needs of people with varying physical abilities. These examples emphasize harmful exclusionary design outcomes, but 190

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it is important to recognize that bias and exclusion starts earlier within the design process. “­Many of these [biased design] examples did not start maliciously, but ... if dominant culture is used as the norm from which we create and design, then we will undoubtedly end up excluding everyone else” (­Mantin and Boyuan 2019). Opportunities for negative exclusionary practices can happen at various points throughout the design research process. In Kat Holmes’ “­M ismatch: How Inclusion Shapes Design,” Holmes reframes exclusionary practices in design as a cyclical process that can be intercepted during critical moments in the design process (­Holmes 2020). Coined as the “­Cycle of Exclusion,” Holmes identifies five interrelated elements that contribute to exclusionary practices within the design process. Adapting Holmes’ Cycle of Exclusion framework to a design research context, we argue that unintentional exclusion in design research can be assessed through the following questions: •

•

•

• •

Why are we researching?—​­The intent of the research and the problem definition may have implicit assumptions about what issues matter and whose issues deserved to be solved. Who is involved in making recommendations?—​­When identifying participants for research, be aware of how researchers hold the power to determine whose voices will or will not be included/­valued in your research. How are we researching?—​­Evaluate how certain research methods may have a high barrier of entry and may not be appropriate for certain groups of people. This may require adapting your methods/­tools to fit the appropriate cultural context. What are our research results?—​­Be cognizant of how data may be interpreted, especially if the findings may not represent a diverse body of perspectives. Who will be impacted by our insights?—​­Ensure that the research findings adequately address the needs of diverse perspectives. Evaluate if the research findings will cause harm to specific groups of people.

Since design research ultimately determines the level of inclusion in research and design thinking processes, and consequently its design outcomes, it is essential to break the cycle of exclusion in design research in order to achieve equitable design. “­To see how we exclude, we have to learn to see whose voice is missing, learn to be open to understanding different perspectives, and create space for plurality” (­Noel and Pavia 2021, 63). Ultimately, cycles of exclusion in design research must be interrupted through democratic and radically inclusive practices. If the cycle of exclusion in design research yields exclusionary and oppressive design thinking outcomes, then we must adapt our design research processes and tools to mitigate implicit biases, power, and hierarchy. “­Participatory Action Research” (­PAR) is a ­well-​­established research paradigm that aims to counteract cycles of exclusion by democratizing research processes.

Translating participatory action research into actionable practices “­Participatory Action Research” (­PAR) is an umbrella research approach that fosters equitable and collaborative joint knowledge production ( ­Jacobs 2018). From its origin, [PAR]...is intended to support a democratic approach to responding to societal phenomena where power imbalances may impact system design...This method has traditionally sought to elevate voices of underserved populations by directly 191

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centering narratives that are not experienced by researchers in the academy, providing insight into values, beliefs, and needs. (­Harrington et al. 2019, 4) Since neutrality and objectivity are hallmarks of classical and dominant research paradigms, PAR distinguishes itself by directly addressing power structures and hegemonic norms and values in research (­Bennett 2004). No one owns PAR nor is a s­ tep-­​­­by-​­step ‘­cookbook of recipes’ for doing PAR available. Because there are no hard and fast rules respecting how PAR should be implemented, it is a process easily adaptable to many researchers and research situations. (­Gayfer 1981; Hall 1975; as cited in Bennett 2004, 23) As PAR flexibly guides design researchers to establish collaborative and democratic research practices, it provides limited guidance on approaching bias, intersectionality, and more nuanced forms of societal oppression. In an effort to enhance participatory research practices, some researchers have focused on adapting PAR to respond more granularly to societal oppression and personal bias in design research. “­Decolonizing participatory and collaborative design also means examining ways it has been appropriated to fit the needs of those who have privilege, and considering how it might be used to transform systemic oppression” (­Harrington et al. 2019, 18). There are several frameworks developed by practitioners that incorporate social justice and ­equity-​­centered expansions of PAR. In developing ­equity-​­centered design thinking models, the goals of the practitioners are to: redesign the design thinking process, mindsets and tools themselves to ensure they mitigate for the causes of i­nequity—​­the prejudices of the [researcher] in the process, both their explicit and implicit personal biases, and the power of mostly invisible status quo systems of oppression. (­H ill et al. 2016, 4) To actualize the intentions of PAR, practitioners must determine how to translate theoretical principles and concepts into actionable practices. It is through the approach of practitioners, who are on the frontlines of instituting change, that we can understand the realities of how equitable design can be achieved. Some practitioners are interested in translating the principles of PAR to make the design thinking process more equitable. In this chapter, we will examine four equitable design thinking frameworks that are developed by practitioners. These frameworks attempt to break the cycle of exclusion by adapting PAR to address deeper challenges of oppression and social responsiveness in design. Our chapter examines the following ­equity-​­centered design thinking frameworks developed by practitioners: • • • •

Design Justice Network Principles (­DJNP) EquityxDesign Liberatory Design ­Equity-​­Centered Community Design (­ECCD)

As a baseline for establishing equitable practices within the design research process, the Design Justice Network Principles (­DJNP), EquityxDesign, Liberatory Design, and ­Equity-​­Centered 192

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Community Design (­ECCD) frameworks focus on increasing awareness and intention around cycles of exclusion. These frameworks were created as a guide for practitioners to deploy equitable design research practices and tools within a design thinking context. In this section, we will explore the history and core principles of each framework.

Framework 1: Design justice network principles The Design Justice Network Principles were collaboratively and iteratively developed by over 30 design practitioners and community organizers “­who work in social justice and who wanted to connect around and collectively define the concept of Design Justice” (­Design Justice Network). The design collective who developed the initial iteration of the principles formally established an organization known as the Design Justice Network, which is a sponsored project by Allied Media Projects. The principles focus on the ways that “­design reproduces, is reproduced by, and/­or challenges the matrix of domination (­white supremacy, heteropatriarchy, capitalism, and settler colonialism)” (­­Costanza-​­Chock 2018, 533). Since its inception in 2015, the intention of design justice was to move beyond the frames of social impact design or design for good, to challenge designers to think about how good intentions are not necessarily enough to ensure that design processes and practices become tools for liberation, and to develop principles that might help design practitioners avoid the (­often unwitting) reproduction of existing inequities. (­­Costanza-​­Chock 2020, 6) The Design Justice Network Principles (­­Costanza-​­Chock 2020) include: • • • • • • • • • •

Principle #1: We use design to sustain, heal, and empower our communities, as well as to seek liberation from exploitative and oppressive systems. Principle #2: We center the voices of those who are directly impacted by the outcomes of the design process. Principle #3: We prioritize design’s impact on the community over the intentions of the designer. Principle #4: We view change as emergent from an accountable, accessible, and collaborative process, rather than as a point at the end of a process. Principle #5: We see the role of the designer as a facilitator rather than an expert. Principle #6: We believe that everyone is an expert based on their own lived experience, and that we all have unique and brilliant contributions to bring to a design process. Principle #7: We share design knowledge and tools with our communities. Principle #8: We work towards sustainable, c­ ommunity-​­led ­and -​­controlled outcomes. Principle #9: We work towards ­non-​­exploitative solutions that reconnect us to the earth and to each other. Principle #10: Before seeking new design solutions, we look for what is already working at the community level. We honor and uplift traditional, indigenous, and local knowledge and practices (­­Costanza-​­Chock 2020, ­190–​­204).

Although the current iteration of the principles were published in 2018, the Design Justice Network established their principles as a “­living document,” encouraging contributors to suggest edits to the existing DJNP. 193

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Framework 2: EquityxDesign The EquityxDesign framework was designed to “­d isrupt white dominant cultural ways of working, redesign systems of oppression, and design for liberation” (­Equity Design Collaborative 2018) to benefit underserved communities. This framework was formed by six key organizations: Creative Reaction Lab, Beytna Design, Design School X, Equity Meets Design, National Equity Project and Reflex Design Collective. The practitioners from the six organizations noticed from their lived experiences how oppression manifests in societal systems. They created these organizations as a call to action to redesign these systems and facilitate real change in underserved communities. In addition to the stated similarities, National Equity Project, Creative Reaction Lab, and Tania Anaisse, the founder of Beytna Design, collaborated on the development of the Liberatory Design and ­Equity-​­Centered Community Design frameworks. The EquityxDesign framework recognizes how design has led to oppressive systems and the need to implement equitable and transformative change (­Equity Design Collaborative 2018). EquityxDesign’s principles include (­H ill et al. 2016): • • • •

•

Design at the margins—​­Shifting the power balance from the researcher to the underserved community to empower them to solve their own problems. Start with yourself—​­Awareness of how our lenses lead to implicit biases, which impacts our choices and conclusions about others. Cede power—​­Designing with communities, not for communities by evaluating the multiple power dynamics within team roles and sharing that power. Make the invisible visible—​­Acknowledging how other exclusionary assumptions, power dynamics, and hegemonic practices may also manifest in the design research process. Speak to the future—​­Building space to continue the reflection and development of new tools and approaches that will continue to foster inclusive practices.

Framework 3: Liberatory design The Liberatory Design framework is “­an approach to addressing equity challenges and change efforts in complex system[s],” by meshing “­­human-​­centered design (­aka design thinking) with complex systems theory, and deep equity practice” (­Liberatory Design 2021). It was developed in collaboration between Stanford’s d.school K12 Lab and the National Equity Project, and expands on Stanford d.school’s famous Design Thinking model. Tania Anaissie is one of the ­co-​­creators of the Liberatory Design framework. During her time at Stanford, she questioned the practice of design thinking and “­felt there were some unethical elements built into the design [thinking] process itself ” (­Silvers 2020) specifically unhealthy power dynamics between “­design experts” and “­users.” The Liberatory Design methodology provides a framework that emphasizes care, mutual respect, and ­self-​­awareness. The c­ o-​­creators updated the design thinking model by adding ‘­Notice’ and ‘­Reflect’ to the design process and argue that these additions are a “­chrysalis for the designers to practice and reimagine themselves as e­ quity-​­centered in their s­ elf-​­awareness, identity, beliefs, biases, and values” (­Pinedo 2020). “­Notice” and “­Reflect” are intended to be incorporated within each phase of the design thinking process. The Liberatory Design’s ‘­Notice’ and ‘­Reflect’ principles include (­A naissie et al. 2021): 194

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•

•

Notice—​­This technique builds a practice of ­self-​­and ­socio-​­emotional awareness, which brings a greater sense of empathy and humility with the design process. By “­Notice”-​ ­ing, researchers critically evaluate personal identity, power dynamics, and social context. Reflect—​­Not only is it critical to bring intentional awareness to the design practice, it is also essential to take time to process “­actions, motivations, emotions, privileges, insights, and the impact designers have within the user’s context” (­Pinedo 2020). This technique encourages individuals and teams to reflect on emotional openness, and growth in s­ elf-​­awareness and ­self-​­correction.

Framework 4: E ­ quity-​­centered community design (­ECCD) Developed by the Creative Reaction Lab, E ­ quity-​­Centered Community Design (­ECCD) focuses on understanding the needs and context of participating communities. Antionette Carroll, the founder of Creative Reaction Lab, saw a need in her experience working at a diversity inclusion organization (­Dawson 2021). Carroll mentioned how this organization approached issues with a silo segmented approach that was similar to “­addressing division with division” (­Dawson 2021). That led her to create the ECCD framework, which focuses on c­ o-​­creating with underserved communities. Since Creative Reaction Lab generally focuses on community organizing and civic action, some of the ECCD framework may not be directly transferable to design research. However, a unique aspect of the ECCD framework that is within the scope of design research is the intentionality of how to build trust and sensitivity toward collaborators, whether those collaborators are community members or fellow researchers. The aspects of the ECCD process that directly address equitable ways to approach engagement and collaboration in research include (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021): •

•

•

Inviting diverse ­co-​­creators—​­It is essential to include people with diverse backgrounds, identities, and perspectives, especially those who are historically underrepresented in design and ­decision-​­making processes so that we have a holistic understanding of a problem and can develop inclusive solutions. Building humility and empathy—​­Having a diverse team is key to building trust and empathy. This sense of belonging and community is born out of acknowledgment of barriers of power/­access, recognizing gaps in knowledge, and evaluating how one’s values, biases, and power dynamics influence how we engage with others. Defining and assessing the topic/­ community needs—​­In understanding which research problem to address, it is essential to validate insights based on the values, needs, and perspectives of research collaborators.

Analysis of ­equity-​­centered design thinking frameworks by practitioners These four practitioner frameworks were born out of personal experiences with design inequities and the need to examine and dismantle oppressive systems to achieve equitable solutions. We conducted a thematic analysis to identify the key overarching themes emphasized by each framework; compare and contrast the approaches of each framework; and identify how the frameworks may directly support or deviate from each other. The goal of the analysis is to highlight ways in which the frameworks may take a unique approach to achieving equity. 195

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Based on our thematic analysis, the key themes we have identified include: • • •

Theme 1: Identifying Individual Assumptions and Biases Theme 2: Historical Knowledge Building Through Diverse Perspectives and Dismantling Oppressive Systems Theme 3: Power Dynamics: Power in Language, Reflection of Individual Power, and Power in Relationships

In theme 1 (­Identifying Individual Assumptions and Biases), three of the four practitioner frameworks were in alignment. Theme 2 (­H istorical Knowledge Building Through Diverse Perspectives and Dismantling Oppressive Systems) and Theme 3 (­Power Dynamics: Power in Language, Reflection of Individual Power, and Power in Relationships) highlight ways that all four frameworks diverge from each other.

Theme 1: Identifying Individual Assumptions and Biases Identifying personal assumptions and biases relies on reflecting upon the multiple identities that make up who we are or in other words, our positionality. By looking in the mirror, we can “­reveal what we see, how we relate, and how our perspectives impact our practice” (­A naissie et al. 2021, 2). Biases can be strengths; they can allow insight into complexities that few understand, however, biases can also be weaknesses; they can cause unjust assumptions and lead to false conclusions that continue to perpetuate harm (­Hamby 2018). If biases are used as strengths, genuine connections with team members can be formed and trust can be built while promoting an open space for honesty, collaboration, and ­co-​­learning. EquityxDesign, Liberatory Design and ECCD frameworks state the importance of identifying one’s individual biases. The DJNP framework deviates by focusing more on how researchers work equitably with others without explicitly stating the importance of s­elf-​­reflection to limit harm. Through s­elf-​­exploration within one’s identity, we’re able to recognize gaps in knowledge; identify one’s positionality; challenge assumptions; and uncover how bias impacts thoughts, choices, and conclusions within the research process (­A naissie et al. 2021; Creative Reaction Lab 2021). Without proper reflection, it is common to overlook our own biases and assumptions about different communities, which perpetuates the cycle of exclusion. This internal process reveals how experiences are lenses that filter how we experience the world and builds humility to acknowledge our personal assumptions and biases while simultaneously building empathy for the lived experiences of underserved communities (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021; Hill et al. 2016). To listen and observe and suspend judgment is to truly c­ o-​­create with others (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021; Hill et al. 2016). We all have inherent biases that have formed from our backgrounds and lived experiences, which is why it is vital to examine our positionality before we perpetuate harm when communicating with underserved communities.

Theme 2: Historical Knowledge Building Through Diverse Perspectives and Dismantling Oppressive Systems Knowledge building by learning from diverse community perspectives is important to understanding the history of the communities affected by oppressive systems. EquityxDesign, Liberatory Design, ECCD, and the DJNP frameworks acknowledge that many underserved 196

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communities have been silenced or intentionally harmed throughout history. They actively seek out alternative community perspectives, identities and backgrounds while also valuing the voices that are traditionally lost within white narratives (­H ill et al. 2016; Creative Reaction Lab 2021). The DJNP framework does not explicitly state the importance of actively learning and acknowledging the history of the communities, however, they emphasize community empowerment, honor and uplifting community voices and focusing on members’ lived experience as part of the design process (­­Costanza-​­Chock 2020). The DJNP framework was created to challenge the “­ways that design and designers can harm those who are marginalized by systems of power” (­Design Justice Network), which explains why their approach is focused on the relationship between the designer and the community. By centering underserved communities in the design process, DJNP can empower the community to “­become ­co-​­creators of solutions” (­Design Justice Network) and help dismantle oppressive systems. The EquityxDesign, Liberatory Design and ECCD frameworks explicitly encourage designers to seek out these diverse perspectives to help understand the community’s holistic and contextualized history. These three frameworks remain “­critical of how history is being taught and understood in school, the media, and by communit[ies] [by] ask[ing] … ‘­W ho wrote this narrative?’ ‘­W hat was its purpose?’” (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021, 23). However, they take differing approaches to building historical knowledge through trust. The EquityxDesign framework takes a broader look at the societal impacts that these oppressive systems contribute to noting that “­we are living in a ‘­colorblind’ society that often recognizes racism as anomalous, individual acts of aggression or the mere acknowledgment of difference, not the silent [oppressive] structures that continue to divide” (­H ill et al. 2016, 2). And while this framework explains the importance of seeing both our past historical selves and who we are currently, this framework cautions to not “­look to our past to learn how to create an equitable future,” because “­and equitable reality has never existed” (­H ill et al. 2016, 8). The Liberatory Design framework focuses primarily on the importance of recognizing oppressive systems and learning from community members. Having witnessed fi ­ rst-​­hand the experience with inequity growing up as a minority in a white, rural area, Tania Anaissie was forced to examine how systems are designed to oppress (­Silvers 2020). Anaissie’s framework acknowledges that “­oppression plays out on many different levels (­individual, interpersonal, institutional, systemic, and structural)—​­and across various forms of identity” (­A naissie et al. 2021, 5). Even though oppression takes many forms, learning how to see it and talking openly with community members about their experiences with these oppressive systems is key to limiting inequities when codesigning a solution or approach with underserved communities (­A naissie et al. 2021). This framework notes that while it is important to learn from the community and to honor the stories, experience, knowledge, and emotions that community members share, it is vital that healing is prioritized in project planning as part of the design process (­A naissie et al. 2021). The ECCD framework takes a different approach and focuses more on learning the deep history of communities before unlearning oppressive narratives. Antionette Carroll noticed the exploitation in power in underserved communities and centered the ECCD framework around emphasizing knowledge and expertise of community members (­Dawson 2021). The history of the “[research] topic, target community, and idea must be remembered, considered, and assessed” (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021) and by doing so, vital stories and identities within the community are celebrated and remembered instead of forgotten and erased (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021). Additionally, ECCD notes the importance of 197

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“­understand[ing] how the system is designed before attempting to disrupt it,” to make sure history does not repeat itself (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021, 27). After we learn more about how these oppressive systems were created, we can unlearn “­what has been given to us and reclaim the culture and history that is part of our identity” (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021, 23). All four frameworks approach building historical knowledge and dismantle oppressive systems in varying ways, but they note the importance of engaging with diverse community perspectives, building trust with communities, honoring local knowledge and practices, centering community voices, and fostering mutual and respectful participation in the design process (­­Costanza-​­Chock 2020).

Theme 3: Power Dynamics: Power in Language, Reflection of Individual Power, and Power in Relationships Power dynamics refer to the various individual, interpersonal, and societal power structures that are baked into the design research process. These imbalances of power are often unintentional, but present nonetheless. Power dynamics are important to examine and understand in order to shift the power to underserved community members so that they are valued as equal contributors to the design process. In the traditional design research process, the design researcher holds the power. This power could include deciding which community members to include in the research, which ultimately determines whose voice matters in the design process, and designing a relevant solution that will be adopted and implemented by the underserved community. This assumption is often misdirected and overlooks power dynamics that perpetuate harm against underserved communities. All four practitioner frameworks note the importance of shifting power so that it is in alignment with the needs of those without power (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021), but each chooses to focus on a different facet of power: power in language, reflection of individual power, and power in relationships. The frameworks argue that their unique approach to addressing power dynamics are foundational in confronting how to shift power to the underserved community. Power in language is an example in which design researchers hold power through traditional design thinking terminology to perpetuate inequitable power dichotomies. The EquityxDesign framework explicitly draws attention to the importance of examining the language that researchers use with underserved communities. This framework states, “­there is an often overlooked power in language and discourse to influence and control ideas, beliefs, actions and ultimately culture” (­H ill et al. 2016, 8). Certain language continues to build a divide between different roles within the design research process (­Bradish 2019), and if we “­take control of our language, when we speak to the future, we lay the groundwork to create something ­new—​­together” (­H ill et al. 2016, 8). Examples of this approach include replacing “­users” with “­people” and referring to community members as “­­co-​­creators” instead of “­beneficiaries.” The ECCD framework focuses on the reflection of s­elf-​­power and understanding how the researcher “­m ay benefit from power, how you reproduce harmful power dynamics, or how you are harmed by power” (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021, 27), to assist in the recognition of the various power dynamics at play. ­Self-​­power refers to the examination of the different mix of characteristics that make up our identities and understanding which of those characteristics have inherent privilege or disadvantage (­Hamby 2018). During the reflection of s­ elf-​ ­power, you may ask yourself a series of questions like “­what power and/­or privilege do I (­the researcher) hold over the community being impacted by the project?” (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021, 27), to understand the intricacies of power dynamics within your identity. Once 198

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s­elf-​­power is recognized and analyzed, the ECCD Framework is the only framework that suggests using that power to your advantage, arguing “­if we try to deny the power we have, others can misuse our power” (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021, 28). When s­ elf-​­power is used in a positive way, design researchers can share inherent power with underserved communities and can expand the impact of their work. The ECCD, EquityxDesign and the DJNP frameworks recognize that power dynamics manifest across different roles and relationships depending on the roles and identities of those involved. Whether it is the relationship between two researchers; researchers and participants; and/­or researchers and other design teams (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021), it is vital to “­redefine roles, revalue ways of knowing, and reassess the ways we reach decision[s]” (­H ill et al. 2016, 8). Through individual and group reflection, all members involved in the design research process can understand how power manifests itself in specific roles and relationships which will help expand the impact of the equitable work (­Creative Reaction Lab 2021). The DJNP framework explicitly addresses power shifts by assigning the role of ‘­facilitator’ to the designer and ‘­expert’ to the community. The principles state that the design outcomes should not only be sustainable, but also community led and controlled in order to shift the power and give them ownership of the solution (­­Costanza-​­Chock 2020). These practitioner frameworks explore the varying power dynamics and intentionally examine power in the language we use, reflection of individual power or power in relationships to shift the power balance between researchers and community members. This examination of power will help researchers understand how power can and must to be shifted so that underserved communities can be ­co-​­leaders, “­arm[ed] … with a process to solve their own problems” (­H ill et al. 2016, 7).

Reflections on equitable design research Process dictates product. To design for equity, we must design equitably. The practice of equitable design requires that we are mindful of how we achieve equity. Inclusive design practices raise the voices of the marginalized, strengthen relationships across differences, shift positions, and recharge our democracy. (­H ill et al. 2016) As design thinking seeks to solve ­large-​­scale problems, we must continue adapting our design research processes and tools to be more responsive and accountable to the diverse experiences of people, especially underserved communities. Although PAR provides a strong theoretical foundation to mitigating exclusion and oppression in research, understanding how practitioners are able to translate theory into practice provides insight on the mechanics of how equitable design can be actualized. The e­ quity-​­centered design thinking frameworks are critical in translating the theoretical principles of PAR into r­ eal-​­world outcomes. The primary focus of PAR is to examine how design researchers interact with communities who historically possess less power in traditional research processes. The ­equity-​­centered design thinking frameworks developed by practitioners provides granular methods, principles, and reflections that additional practitioners can incorporate into their toolkits. Although these frameworks have their own unique perspectives and applications; together, they can be used in conjunction to provide a holistic approach to inclusionary and equitable design. The practices and tools explained in this chapter are only a fraction of the tools available to ­equity-​­centered design researchers. We encourage you to reflect on your research process and deploy strategies to break the cycle of exclusion in design. This work is ongoing and we will 199

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always iterate upon our processes but it is the first, vital step at making sure we are intentional and empathetic with our research outcomes. After all, if the systems we create design what they were designed to produce, then inclusion must be intentionally designed into this process.

References Anaissie, Tania, Victor Cary, David Clifford, Tom Malarkey, and Susie Wise. 2021. “­Liberatory Design”. https://­w ww.liberatorydesign.com/. Bennett, Marlyn. 2004. “­A Review of the Literature on the Benefits and Drawbacks of Participatory Action Research”. Articles 1 (­1): 1­ 9–​­32. https://­doi.org/­10.7202/­1069582ar. Bradish, K. 2019. “­Dr. L ­ esley-​­Ann Noel on Emancipatory Research and Design Thinking”. University of ­Wisconsin-​­Madison’s School of Human Ecology. https://­humanecology.wisc.edu/­­d r-­​­­lesley-­​­­a nn-​­noel/. Buchanan, Richard. 1992. “­Wicked Problems in Design Thinking”. Design Issues 8 (­2): 5. https://­doi. org/­10.2307/­1511637. ­Costanza-​­Chock, Sasha. 2018. “­Design Justice: Towards an Intersectional Feminist Framework for Design Theory and Practice”. DRS2018: Catalyst, 5­ 29–​­540. doi:10.21606/­d rs.2018.679. C ­ ostanza-​­Chock, Sasha. 2020. Design Justice: ­Community-​­Led Practices to Build the Worlds We Need. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. “­ Creative Reaction Lab”. 2021. Creative Reaction Lab. https://­w ww.creativereactionlab.com/­­our-​­ approach. Dam, Rikke Friis. 2022. “­The 5 Stages in the Design Thinking Process”. The Interaction Design Foundation. https://­w ww.­i nteraction-​­design.org/­l iterature/­a rticle/­­5 -­​­­stages-­​­­i n-­​­­the-­​­­design-­​­­thinking-​­process. Dawson, E. “­Podcast: How to Achieve Racial Equity through Design Frameworks.” Echoing Green, March 11, 2021. https://­echoinggreen.org/­news/­­podcast-­​­­how-­​­­to-­​­­achieve-­​­­racial- ­​­­equity-­​­­through-­​ ­­design-​­f rameworks/. “­Design Justice Network”. 2018. Design Justice Network. https://­designjustice.org/­djnhistory. “­Equity Design Collaborative”. 2018. Equity Design Collaborative. https://­w ww.equitydesigncollaborative.com/­­our-​­organizers. Harrington, Christina, Sheena Erete, and Anne Marie Piper. 2019. “­Deconstructing C ­ ommunity-​ ­ uman-​­Computer Interaction 3 (­CSCW): ­Based Collaborative Design”. Proceedings of the ACM on H ­1–​­25. https://­doi.org/­10.1145/­3359318. Hamby, Sherry. 2018. “­K now Thyself: How To Write A Reflexivity Statement”. Psychology Today. https://­w ww.psychologytoday.com/­u s/­b log/­­t he-­​­­ web-​­ v iolence/­2 01805/­­k now- ­​­­ t hyself- ­​­­ h ow-­​ ­­w rite-­​­­reflexivity-​­statement. Hill, Caroline, Michelle Molitor, and Christine Ortiz. 2016. “­Equityxdesign: A Practice for Transformation”. Equity Meets Design. https://­static1.squarespace.com/­static/­5e84f10a4ce9cb4742f5e0d5/­t/­ 5ec3fe2bbcfabb28349ba9af/­1589902892717/­equityXdesign+11.14.1. Holmes, K. (­2020). Mismatch: How Inclusion Shapes Design. The MIT Press, Cambridge, MA. Jacobs, Steven Darryl. “­A History and Analysis of the Evolution of Action and Participatory Action Research.” The Canadian Journal of Action Research 19, no. 3 (­2018): 3­ 4–​­52. https://­doi.org/­10.33524/­ cjar.v19i3.412. “­Liberatory Design.” National Equity Project, 2021. https://­w ww.nationalequityproject.org/­f rameworks/­­ liberatory-​­design. Mantin, Jahan, and Boyuan Gao. “­How to Begin Designing for Diversity.” The Creative Independent, September 18, 2019. https://­thecreativeindependent.com/­g uides/­­how-­​­­to-­​­­begin-­​­­designing-­​­­for-​­d iversity/. Noel, ­L esley-​­Ann, and Marcelo Pavia. “­L earning to Recognize Exclusion.” Journal of Usability Studies 16, no. 2 (­2021): ­63–​­72. https://­w ww.researchgate.net/­publication/­349642679_Learning_to_ Recognize_Exclusion. Pinedo, David. “­A n Introduction to Liberatory Design.” UX Collective. Medium, July 20, 2020. https://­u xdesign.cc/­­a n-­​­­i ntroduction-­​­­to-­​­­l iberatory-­​­­design-​­9 f5d3fe69ff9. Rodgers, Paul A., Francesco Mazzarella, and Loura Conerney. “­Interrogating the Value of Design Research for Change.” The Design Journal 23, no. 4 (­2020): 4­ 91–​­514. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­ 14606925.2020.1758473. Silvers, Dana Mitroff. “­Evolving the Design Thinking Framework towards Greater Equity: An Interview with Tania Anaissie of Beytna Design.” Design Thinking for Museums. Design Thinking for Museums, March 2, 2020. https://­designthinkingformuseums.net/­2020/­01/­22/­­bringing-­​­­equity-­​­­into-­​­­design-​­thinking/.

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16 ­R E-​­ARTICULATING PREVAILING NOTIONS OF DESIGN About designing in the absence of sight and other alternative design realities Ann Heylighen, Greg Nijs and Carlos Mourão Pereira Introduction Key to design ability is said to be a characteristic form of cognition, coined “­v isual thinking”: designers are particularly visually aware and sensitive, and use models and codes that heavily rely on graphic images. In designing architecture, for instance, the visual seems so important that architecture students are characterized as “­the vis kids of architecture” (­Goldschmidt 1994). This characteristic form of cognition makes it hard to imagine that someone can design in the absence of sight. Blindness seems at odds with the visual modes of thinking and communicating considered to be at the core of design ability. Designing might even seem impossible without sight as the key “­tool” to assist design ­cognition—​­the s­ ketch—​­loses its power. Several studies emphasize freehand sketching’s inherent power to facilitate the uncertain, ambiguous and exploratory nature of conceptual design activity. Sketching is found to be ­tied-​­in very closely with generating and exploring tentative solution concepts, and recognizing emergent features (­e.g., Goldschmidt 1991; Goel 1995; Cross 2006). In the absence of sight, making a sketch may still be possible to some extent, recognizing emergent features by reading off information from it is not. Nevertheless, this chapter builds upon the experiences of the third author, an architect who lost his sight and continued to design (­Heylighen 2011; Vermeersch and Heylighen 2011, 2013; Vermeersch 2013). Studying his work offers a unique opportunity to expand prevailing understandings of design and design research. The fact that Carlos does design in the absence of sight, raises questions as to what extent “­v isual thinking”—​­or other prevailing notions of design a­ bility—​­may be complemented with alternatively articulated propositions about design. Moreover, combined with other studies, it raises questions about sketching as the key “­tool” to assist design cognition, and about the role of other “­tools” in assisting it. Therefore, part 1 of this chapter investigates where design researchers’ outspoken attention for these aspects comes from. It addresses how human cognition is understood in most design research, and how designing is researched, pointing out the somewhat ­ill-​­articulated statements it comes with. DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-19

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The observation that other understandings of cognition, and approaches to research it, receive relatively little attention from design researchers, in turn, raises questions about how design research is produced, which are addressed in part 2. In view of this, we call for a better articulation in researching design, both epistemologically and methodologically. By presenting three studies that allow for and enact alternative design realities (­in part 3), we invite researchers to conduct design research that keeps the discussion open by staying “­available” (­c f. Despret 2004) to register or become sensible to differences in new and unexpected ways (­Latour 2004). This allows for other articulations of what design may or can ­be—​­be it by adopting other epistemologies or by researching in other ways.

Prevailing notions of design In this chapter we are interested in why we might find it surprising that an architect continues designing in the absence of sight. To think about this, we first try to trace back where design researchers’ outspoken attention for “­v isual thinking” and its support by sketching comes from, and what it comes with. In the past, design research was the subject of inquiry, both qualitative (­e.g., Cross 1982, 2007) and quantitative (­e.g., Chai and Xiao 2012). While we acknowledge the ­on-​­going epistemological and methodological debates among design researchers, taking a closer look at these inquiries suggests that prevailing notions of design, and ways of studying it, resonate with a predominantly cognitivist understanding of human cognition and corresponding mode of inquiry, while other understandings and methods seem to receive relatively little attention.

Borrowing from computer techniques The emergence of design research is commonly associated with the launch of the design methods movement in the 1960s. Cross (­2007, 1) situates its origins further back in applications of novel, “­scientific” methods to World War II’s novel and pressing p­ roblems—​ ­resulting in operational research and management ­decision-​­making ­techniques—​­and in the development of creativity techniques in the 1950s. These origins, combined with the beginnings of computer programs for problem solving in the 1960s, challenged at that time prevailing notions of design. As Archer (­1965) observed: “­The most fundamental challenge to conventional ideas on design has been the growing advocacy of systematic methods of problem solving, borrowed from computer techniques and management theory, for the assessment of design problems and the development of design solutions.” In the 1970s, however, design methods movement pioneers turned their back on this challenge. Jones expressed his critique as follows: I DISLIKE THE MACHINE LANGUAGE THE BEHAVIOURISM, THE CONTINUAL ATTEMPT TO FIX THE WHOLE OF LIFE INTO A LOGICAL FRAMEWORK. ( ­Jones 1977, 57) These critiques echoed evolutions in psychology, where behaviorism had raised the objection that, as a theory, it was incomplete (­Ingold 2000). Moreover, fundamental issues were raised by Rittel and Webber (­1973), who characterized design problems as “­w icked,” u ­ n-​ ­a menable to the techniques of science and engineering, which dealt with “­t ame” problems. Rittel (­1973) therefore suggested that, after the “­fi rst generation” methods of the 1960s, a 202

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“­second generation” was moving away from the desire to “­scientise” design toward the ambition to understand design in its own terms (­Cross 1982, 2007).

Computational theory of mind The founding axiom of this “­second generation” was formulated by Archer: “­Design has its own distinct things to know, ways of knowing them and ways of finding out about them” (­RCA 1979), distinct from the commonly recognized scientific and scholarly ones. At the core of design, Archer situated the “­language” of “­modelling,” equivalent to the “­language” of the sciences (­numeracy) and humanities (­literacy). Cross advanced this axiom as the “­­touch-​­stone theory” around which the “­research programme” he called for would build “­a ‘­defensive’ network of related theories, ideas and knowledge”: We need more research and enquiry: first into the designerly ways of knowing; second into the scope, limits and nature of innate cognitive abilities relevant to design; and third into the ways of enhancing and developing these abilities through education. (­1982, 226) Cross’ article was part of a series aiming at establishing the theoretical bases for treating design as a coherent discipline of study. In the next decades, the second generation’s contributions to this discipline strongly resonated with developments in cognitive science, which meanwhile had emerged alongside the development of the digital computer, and promised a way out of behaviorism’s incompleteness. The founding axiom of the doctrinaire view within cognitive science, dubbed “­cognitivism” (­Dreyfus [1972] 1992), is that people come to know what is ‘­out there’ in the world by representing it in the mind, in the form of ‘­mental models’, and that such representations are the result of a computational process working upon information received by the senses (­Ingold 2000, 163) Epistemologically and methodologically, adopting this axiom implies a “­focus on the individual cognizer in isolation from the “­real world”, which is studied most effectively with controlled laboratory research design” (­Osbeck 2009, 17). Cognitivism was quickly adopted by design researchers, especially in the form of Newell and Simon’s (­1972) Information Processing Theory (­Goel 1995 provides an overview of studies from different design domains). This adoption, we argue, may explain at least partially design researchers’ outspoken attention for “­v isual thinking.” As Ingold (­2000, 15) points out, basic to cognitivism’s project is Cartesian ontology, which divorces the activity of the mind from that of the body in the world. Thus the body continues to be regarded as nothing more than an input device whose role is to receive information to be ‘­processed’ by the mind, rather than playing any part in cognition itself. Although cognitivism suggests that, in principle, all sensory organs could receive information to be processed into “­mental models,” Western thought attributed to the eye the objectifying qualities deemed necessary for this task (­Ingold 2000, 253). Rather than being inherent to the visual sense, however, these qualities are imposed onto it. Because of its alleged characteristics of distance and directionality, vision is often contrasted with hearing 203

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and touching, which are attributed subjective qualities because of its encompassing nature or proximity respectively (­Vermeersch 2013, 12). Yet, as Ingold (­2000) points out, vision can be considered to be subjective, as much as other senses can be understood to be objectifying. Consequently, vision’s alleged superiority is not so much that of one sense over another, but that of cognition over sensation (­ibid., 255). If design researchers consider “­v isual thinking” as key to design ability, questions thus arise as to what extent this key role is inherent to design, or infused by the superiority of cognition over sensation that comes with adopting a cognitivist view of cognition and corresponding mode of inquiry.

Cognitivism challenged Over the past decades, however, cognitive science transformed considerably. Criticisms on, among others, the individualistic framework and dualist implications following from the study of mind in isolation, and shortcomings of the experimental protocols required for isolating cognitive mechanisms, instigated important work on the situated nature of cognition (­Osbeck 2009). Approaches that consider human cognition as situated (­Suchman 1987), social (­Lave 1988; Lave and Wenger 1991), embodied (­Brooks 1999; Lakoff and Johnson 1999), or distributed (­Hutchins 1995; Kirsh 1995; Clark 1997; Clark and Chalmers 1998), all extend the models of cognitive processes that characterize learning, memory and intelligence from the individual brain to the surrounding s­ ocio-​­material environment. To start with, the ontological internal/­external split between mind, body and world is replaced by understanding cognition as anchored in our ­sensory-​­motor and bodily engagement with the world; and thus not fundamentally cut off from perception and action (­i.e., the body). Second, cognition is understood as distributed: rather than that of an isolated individual mind, its properties are that of a social group, often involved with sense making and striving for shared meaning. Moreover, it is always situated in and distributed over a s­ocio-​ ­m aterial environment inhabited by other ­co-​­implied participants, but also by the material artifacts engaged and the physical structure of the space wherein the situation takes place. In tracing the implications for design research of these transformations in cognitive science, we rely on a comprehensive bibliometric analysis of the core themes, evolution and future trends in design research (­Chai and Xiao 2012). By analyzing citations of articles in Design Studies, the authors identified the core literature in design research for three time periods (­­1996–​­2000, ­2001–​­2005, ­2006–​­2010). Highly cited across all three periods are three “­top publications”—​­(­Schön 1983; Goldschmidt 1991; Goel 1995)—​­and the research method of protocol analysis (­Suwa and Tversky 1997). Interestingly, the oldest “­top publication” advances an understanding of cognition as situated. One year after Cross’ article, Schön (­1983) publishes a study of a desk “­crit”—​­a conversation between design tutor Quist and architecture student Petra. The right study at the right time, so it seems, as it challenges the positivist doctrine underlying much of the first generation’s work, which yielded disappointing results so far, and offers a constructivist paradigm instead. Based on observations of the desk “­crit,” Schön comments that, through sketches, “[the designer] shapes the situation, in accordance with his initial appreciation of it; the situation ‘­t alks back’, and he responds to the backtalk” (­1983, 79). Schön analyzes the practice of thinking, perceiving and doing (­instead of disconnecting mind and body); shows an outspoken attention for the situation wherein the design process unfolds, c.q., a design studio; and acknowledges the mediating role of objects in this practice. By introducing the notion of “­backtalk,” he underlines that objects play more than an intermediary role: they add something to designers’ thought processes, and have the capacity to transform them. 204

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Another “­top publication” investigates what kind of reasoning is represented by freehand sketching in architectural design. To this end, Goldschmidt (­1991) asked designers to “­think aloud” while sketching, made recordings and transcribed these. Analyzing the transcripts together with the sketches produced makes her (­1991, 140) conclude that, at least in architectural design, “­the inherently creative process of ­form-​­production […] seems to result from a special systematic, causal relationship between two modalities of visual reasoning, induced by sketching,” i.e., “­seeing as” and “­seeing that.” Compared to Schön’s study, Goldschmidt’s aligns more with a cognitivist understanding of cognition, in both its rather narrow, d­ e-​ ­contextualized focus on the cognitive mechanisms introduced by freehand sketching, and its ­laboratory-​­style experimental research design required for isolating these. The same holds for the third “­top publication.” Goel (­1995) starts by criticizing the computational theory of mind for its inability to accommodate imprecise, ambiguous, fluid, amorphous, indeterminate thoughts. Yet, because “­it is the only game in town” (­1995, xii), he questions not this theory as such, but rather the properties of the mental representations it is committed to. Rather than articulating cognition in an alternative way, his resolution, therefore, is to go as far with the computational theory of mind as possible, and to reconstruct the notions of computation and representation such that they do justice to the full range of human symbolic activity. To this end, Goel focuses on the type ­ ell-​­structured) and relies, like Goldof problem being tackled (­c.q., ­ill-​­structured and w schmidt, on ­single-​­subject “­t hink aloud” (­or “­t alk aloud”) protocol studies, both reflecting the cognitivist stance. Goldschmidt and Goel are not alone in using protocol analysis to investigate the nature of design, however (­Chai and Xiao 2012). Many design researchers use this experimental technique to “­probe the subjects’ internal states by verbal methods” (­Ericsson and Simon 1993, 1). Although it is claimed that verbal protocol data can be collected in situ without interfering with task performance, design researchers typically use it to understand ­single-​ ­person cognition in socially impoverished environments, rather than ­multi-​­agent cognition in ­full-​­blown ­people-​­rich environments (­Ball and Ormerod 2000, 148; Ormerod and Ball 2017), i.e., ­real-​­world design practice. This experimental isolation, it can be argued, poorly articulates design activity. The cognitivist mode of understanding and studying cognition actually disconnects the agent under study from the r­ eal-​­world design situation and the aspects it is made up of. That is, design is poorly articulated in terms of designers’ bodies (­i.e., as disembodied vision rather than multisensory embodiment), their richly structured environment (­which is replaced by an environment provided for by design researchers, who decide a priori what it contains), other human agents present in the design situation (­who literally stay absent from the account of the situation), and, to some extent, the agency of the representational artifacts they use (­which are allowed to speak only through human interpretation, not “­by themselves”—​­c f. Wiberg 2022). As such, design researchers’ typical use of protocol analysis further substantiates our claim that design research is predominated by a cognitivist stance (­see Hay et al. 2017 and Hay et al. 2020), which, as argued, may help to explain the outspoken attention for “­v isual thinking” (­see e.g. Shih et al. 2017 for the persistent use of protocol analysis and ­v ision-­​­­a s-​­perception in design practice).

Producing design research Tracing back where prevailing notions of design and ways of studying it come from, in turn raises questions about how design research is produced, and how to sort out different research epistemologies and methodologies. 205

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The hinterland of design research Design researchers’ outspoken attention for “­v isual thinking” and its central support by sketching is but one example of how the nature of design activity/­cognition is stabilized in particular models, and not others. As demonstrated above, in the past decades, considerable effort has been put into empirically nailing down how designers work through l­aboratory-​ ­style experimental studies and with approaches like “­think aloud” protocol analysis. These have produced statements about what design reality is. This should not be a problem as long as the prevailing notions of design produced are not presented as neutral reports on the reality “­out there,” representing objective “­m atters of fact.” In scientific practice, Law points out, statements are not made in a vacuum: “­i f a statement is to last it needs to draw ­on—​­and perhaps contribute ­to—​­an appropriate hinterland” (­2004, 28). The “­h interland” of a scientific statement involves other related statements, but also a network of inscription devices, i.e., technologies, instruments or other sets of arrangements for labeling, naming and counting. Since such apparatuses are already in place, Law points out, scientific reality is relatively stable. the “­ h interland”—​ Certain consequences follow. First, if the apparatuses in p­lace—​­ ­produce more or less stable realities and statements about those realities, countless other realities are being ­un-​­made at the same time: “­there are a whole lot of realities that are not, so to speak, real, that would indeed have been so if the apparatus of r­ eality-​­production had been very slightly different” (­Law 2004, ­33–​­34). Furthermore, Law explains, the hinterland produces certain classes of realities and r­ eality-­​­­statements—​­but not others. (…) Some classes of [­reality-​­]possibilities are made thinkable and real. Some are made less thinkable and less real. And yet others are rendered completely unthinkable and completely unreal (­2004, 34, original emphasis) This, then, may help explain why we find it surprising, even unthinkable that an architect designs in the absence of sight. One could say that statements about “­v isual thinking” being key to design ability, and the sketch being the key “­tool” to assist design thinking, have become unqualified, have stabilized. They are part and parcel of design researchers’ “­h interland” today. Furthermore, analogous to studies of other scientific practices, it can be suggested that creating new inscription devices, statements, and realities by building on to these unqualified statements, is easier and cheaper for design researchers than bringing into being other, alternative realities. Imagine that Petra in the desk “­crit” Schön studied had made a foam model to show Quist her preliminary design. Imagine that, subsequently, Goldschmidt investigated what kind of reasoning is represented by model making in architectural design, and concluded that it induces a unique dynamic between two modalities of haptic reasoning, i.e., “­feeling as” and “­feeling that.” How different would the “­h interland” of design research look today? This is not to say that statements about “­v isual thinking” in design or its support by freehand sketching are wrong. As Law (­2004, 39) points out: “[t]o say that something has been ‘­constructed’ along the way is not to deny that it is real.” Our point is that these s­ tatements—​ ­and any other unqualified, stabilized statements about ­design—​­enable and constrain any work in design research: they set limits to conditions of design research possibility.

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Methodology The same holds for the research methods used to produce these statements. As Law (­2004, 143) reminds us: “­Method is not […] a more or less successful set of procedures for reporting on a given reality. Rather it is performative. It helps to produce realities.” If method is performative, different methods will bring into being different (­design) realities. But the more a particular set of methods is used, c.q., those supporting and building on prevailing notions of design, the more a certain design reality is brought into being. While making this and not that reality, other realities are un-​­made, up to the point that they may seem unreasonable, invalid, insignificant, or worse, unthinkable. As mentioned, protocol analysis was found to be the most cited method in design research (­Chai and Xiao 2012). Given the growing understanding of cognition as embodied, social, distributed and situated (­see above), we agree with Ball and Ormerod (­2000, 148) that “­it remains paradoxical that so many studies of design expertise have ignored the role of situational and social factors in design in preference to carrying out ­laboratory-​­style investigations in which such factors are controlled for.” Using protocol analysis to study s­ ingle-​­person cognition in s­ ocio-​­materially impoverished environments isolates designers from their richly structured design situation and the other agents present in it. By consequence, it hardly allows researchers to register new and unexpected differences in social and situational factors in design. Other research approaches, however, do allow for such registration (­for examples see the recent Special Issue Designing in the Wild 2018). Ethnography, for instance, seeks to provide accounts of activity as perceived and recognized by those present within the ­real-​­world situation: An ethnographic approach to design research allows for many more variables to be drawn into the analysis of design activity than is possible with typical laboratory studies and experiments, which often focus on the identification of c­ ause-​­effect relations in controlled environments. (­Ball and Christensen 2018, 2) Characteristic features of ethnography include its situatedness—​­ data are collected by a (­participant) observer within the everyday context of interest (­e.g., a design studio); participant autonomy—​­observees are not required to comply in p­ re-​­determined study arrangements; and openness—​­observers remain open to discovering novel or unexpected issues that may surface as a study progresses (­ibid., 150). Ethnography has been widely used in social scientific research, and to a limited extent in design research (­e.g., Cuff 1992; Bucciarelli 1994; Van der Linden et al. 2019). As part 3 will demonstrate, such approaches might indeed usefully be employed in design research for researchers to stay available to these r­ eal-​­world social and situational factors in design, and to align with more situated understandings of cognition.

Alternative articulations of design We start with our study of the work of Carlos, whose design practice as blind architect triggered the questions addressed in this chapter in the first place, and complement it with two studies by other design researchers.

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Designing in the absence of sight After studying architecture, and working with famous architects, Carlos established his own architecture office and began teaching design in an architecture school. Eight years later, he lost his sight yet maintained his professional activity, in practice, teaching and research. What he designed after his sight loss attracted international attention. His design practice was studied based on a focused ethnography, which compensates for shorter periods of time in the field with a more thorough preparation beforehand in getting to know the subject, using ­audio-​­visual recording devices to capture activities and a more iterative data analysis (­K noblauch 2005; Schubert 2006). Striking in Carlos’ practice is his outspoken attention for n ­ on-​­visual qualities of buildings and sites. When visiting a site, he pays attention to its visual qualities (­which his collaborators describe for him), but also to its smells, sounds and haptic qualities. For example, Carlos points out, “­it is very important to touch all the place.” To transport the site’s qualities to the office, he takes along pictures, but also aspects corresponding to other, ­non-​­visual sensory modalities. Carlos captures acoustic qualities through sound recordings he can listen to afterwards. Moreover, he records haptic qualities of, e.g., door stills, handrails, or transitions between building elements, by molding with his fingers a lead wire over the parts considered so as to take “­a sample of the building.” The wire is put into a cardboard folder to be transported without deformation and, once at the office, can be copied onto paper through drawing or digitalized through scanning. The site thus first becomes known in a ­non-​­visual (­c.q., auditory/­haptic) way, and this knowledge is transported within its own sensory idiom (­through a­udio-​­recordings/­a molded lead wire, rather than visual representations of the auditory/­haptic qualities), so that it can serve to assess qualities of the site differently and ground possible design decisions. This is combined with visual a­ pprehension—​­pictures are taken, and design decisions are based also on visual assessment. Observing his practice required extending design researchers’ traditional representational, visual epistemology into a performative, composite epistemology, i.e., one that includes a ­v isuo-​­auditory or ­v isuo-​ ­haptic knowledge practice. This first aspect of Carlos’ practice hints at a second one: more often than not, he designs assisted by a collaborator. When visiting a site, we mentioned, he selects spaces the collaborator takes pictures of. At the office, s/­he describes image details. Instead of a dyadic relation between designer and photograph, making meaning of the picture thus becomes a collaborative endeavor. And when Carlos forms his hands in a given shape to represent (­part of ) a design, the c­ o-​­worker points to design aspects on his hand, or manipulates it to change its shape. This offers a telling example of collective knowledge practice, wherein hands (­instead of a representational artifact) become the model, and touching (­instead of seeing and pointing) becomes a means to transfer knowledge. This intensive c­ o-​­work required expanding the study’s focus from individual to social and distributed cognition, from the individual designer to the group of collaborators and the artifacts (­e.g., photographs) involved, and from disembodied representational to embodied performative cognition (­e.g., communicating through touching models formed by the designer’s hands). Third, Carlos accumulated several less common tools, for transporting ­non-​­v isual qualities of a building site, but also for supporting “­quick design cognition” (­Yaneva 2009a, 2009b), i.e., quickly testing design ideas and receiving external “­backtalk.” Besides shaping his hands to form (­part of ) a design, he also uses Lego® and clay, or makes “­cardboard sketches” by cutting forms and design ideas with scissors out of 1mm cardboard (­­Figure 16.1). Imagine an experimental setup had been chosen to study his way of working; not only would it be 208

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­Figure 16.1 “­Cardboard sketch” cut out of 1mm cardboard © Carlos Mourão Pereira

difficult to provide him with these tools, it would seem more interesting to let him provide these new tools and to inquire how they emerge from his ­real-​­world design practice; allowing him to requalify what we take design to be.

Designing in the absence of dichotomies In another ethnographic study allowing for other, alternative articulations of design, Elsen et al. (­2011) observed the practices of a professional design t­eam—​­five designers and three ­d raughtsmen—​­designing high quality heating devices. These observations undermined the assumption that freehand sketches always precede Computer Aided Design (­CAD) drawings, and that the latter represent increasingly stabilized knowledge, forcing the researchers to r­ e-​ ­articulate what design can also be. Much research on design tools is motivated by what are considered the respective strengths and weaknesses of sketches and CAD tools: unqualified statements like “­sketches are powerful for preliminary design, CAD tools for detailed design” (­ibid., 58) seem to have stabilized to the extent that many design researchers take them for granted and draw upon them. Elsen’s observations, however, suggest that these statements may not hold in all or as many situations as design researchers tend to assume: the dichotomy between “­sketch in a preliminary phase” and “­CAD in a detailed phase” needs to be revised. The authors write: 209

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Surprisingly the designers can use CAD tools as a ‘­rough’ formal tool and then come back to sketches in order to solve a more technical point for instance. Consequently there is a need to distinguish ‘­rough’ sketches and ‘­rough’ CAD models or representations (­that stay ambiguous and support ideation), from ‘­technical’ sketches and ‘­detailed’ CAD models (­that focus on a more specific s­ ub-​­problem). (­ ibid., 66, emphasis added) This study thus extends the focus of attention in design research from the m ­ ore-­​­­or-​­less stabilized “­freehand sketches versus CAD tools” to the variegated set of “­mediating objects” that happen to feature in ­real-​­world design practices: “­In addition to the physical tools (­the pen, the computer, the prototyping machine, …), the mediating objects include the external representations linked to them (­respectively the f­ree-​­hand sketch; the 3D model or print, the physical model, …)” (­ibid., 56). As such, the study opens the door for a whole range of articulations of design that used to be less thinkable before.

Models supporting “­quick design cognition” A third ethnographic study worth mentioning here is Yaneva’s (­2005, 2009a, 2009b) t­wo-­​ y­­ ear-​­long observation of design practices in the Office for Metropolitan Architecture (­OMA). In this period, she observes, OMA’s architects work primarily with foam models where they “­normally” would work with freehand sketches. Yaneva follows architects as they fabricate foam models to make an extension to the Whitney Museum of Art in New York knowable, “­to ‘­obtain’ [the] building” (­2005, 889). This attention for physical models creates ­other—​­in this case ­non-­​­­v isual—​­design realities than building upon the hinterland of statements about sketches would do: Thanks to the physical models the Whitney building is not only observable, but can also be experienced in a tactile manner. (…) Since architects can touch physical models and turn around them, they can sense them; and the models can tell them more. The Whitney building as an ultimately overwhelming reality is first conceived as a tiny graspable piece. The tactile, sensual and easily modifiable physical models are much more powerful tools for sparking the architects’ imagination than other visuals in the design studio. (­Yaneva 2009a, ­138–​­139, emphasis added) What we want to draw attention to here is not so much that architects use scale models, but how they use them, namely to support “­quick design cognition.” Instead of a visual s­ ensory-​ m ­ otor sequence of s­ eeing-­​­­d rawing-​­seeing (­c f. Schön 1992), OMA’s architects design by ­feeling-­​­­cutting-​­feeling. What distinguishes this practice (­and its ethnographic account) from traditional freehand sketching is that it moves from a representationalist “­epistemological straight jacket” (­Latour and Yaneva 2008, 86), toward a performative “­epistemology of the hand”; but also that it allows for the manipulated modelling m ­ aterial—​­in this case ­foam—​­to “­talk” where it would have stayed mute before. Yaneva’s ethnographic account articulates (­a rchitectural) design differently by rendering talkative its “­complex conglomerate of many surprising agencies that are rarely taken into account” (­Latour and Yaneva 2008, 86). As such, her account adds both representational artifacts’ agency, and their n ­ on-​­visual sensory engagement and cognitive capacities to what design can be.

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Discussion and conclusion Triggered by studying the practice of an architect who lost his sight and continued to design, we questioned why we might find it surprising that someone designs in the absence of sight. To this end, we attempted to trace back where the outspoken attention for “­v isual thinking” and its support by sketching in design research comes from. These aspects, so it seems, can be understood in the context of the research program to “­build a network of arguments and evidence for these ‘­designerly ways of knowing’” (­Cross 2006, v). Statements about their ­importance—​­and that of other aspects of design, for that ­m atter—​­seem to have achieved relative stability in the sense that they have become part of the “­h interland” in design research, that it takes less effort to create new statements which build upon them than to create alternative ones. But what does this mean in practice, in our ­practice—​­the practice of design research? According to Law, [t]he answer, of course, is that there is no single answer. There could be no single answer. And, indeed, it is also that the ability to pose the question is at least as important as any particular answers we might come up with. (­2004, 251) Rather than trying to formulate particular answers, we call for a double ­re-​­articulation in design research, both epistemological and methodological. We suggest to complement the predominant cognitivist stance and its ­laboratory-​­style experimental methods with a more situated stance and corresponding mode of inquiry, i.e. through ethnographic research. We showed how applying the latter made us and other researchers ­re-​­articulate prevailing notions of design, and bring into being another design reality. In highlighting these efforts to account for and enact alternative design realities, we present design researchers with an invitation: to keep this “­network of arguments and evidence for the ‘­designerly ways of knowing’” (­Cross 2006, v) “­open,” by not pursuing a singular, unambiguous way to nail down what design ­is—​­be it by adopting other epistemologies or by researching in other ways. This invitation applies to the network of arguments and evidence built upon in this chapter as well. Not everyone may accept it, as is evident from the continuing efforts to straitjacket design research (­see e.g. Hay et al. 2017, 2020). Even more, recent calls are uttered “­that major change is needed to overcome stagnation in design cognition research topics and methodologies” (­Hay et al. 2020, 2), and this by “­expand[ing] the repertoire of research methods to include quantitative approaches suited to robust hypothesis testing and the study of larger samples” (­ibid., 2). In our view, however, these kind of calls seem to want to expand the pinning down of design (­cognition) as a science by tightening the quantitative methods grip on design research, rather than expanding our understanding of design (­cognition) as a ­practice—​ a­ nd by extension our understanding of design research as a discipline. Instead of fixation on a limited set of m ­ ethods—​­a design research which “­is unusually restricted in its methodological choices, primarily adopting experimental and statistical approaches,” and where “­the few relevant qualitative studies remain isolated from the core experimental literature” (­Crilly 2019, 78)—​­we may want to address the past and future Hinterland of design research. For “­the limited diversity and limited integration restricts our ability to interpret the relevance of prior work, plan new studies and impact practice” (­ibid., 78). Therefore, we would argue, if we are to enrich our understanding of design, and be more articulate about its nature, it

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seems at least worth the effort to expand the methodological d­ iversity—​­more specifically of qualitative methods ­inquiries—​­and integrate them into our theories of design research.

Acknowledgments This study has received funding from the European Research Council under the European Community’s Seventh Framework Programme (­F P7/­­2007–​­2013) / ERC grant agreement n° 201673. We would like to thank Megan Strickfaden and ­Peter-​­Willem Vermeersch for their share in the data collection, and Catherine Elsen for her comments on an earlier version of this chapter.

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Re-articulating prevailing notions of design Heylighen, Ann. 2011.“­Studying the unthinkable designer: Designing in the absence of sight.” In Design Computing and Cognition DCC10, edited by John Gero, 2­ 3–​­34. Dordrecht: Springer. Hutchins, Edwin. 1995. Cognition in the Wild. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ingold, Tim. 2000. The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. Oxon: Routledge. Jones, John Chris.1977. “­How my thoughts about design methods have changed during the years.” Design Methods and Theories 11 (­1): ­48–​­62. Kirsh, David. 1995. “­The intelligent use of space.” Artificial Intelligence 73: ­31–​­68. doi: 10.1016/ ­­0 004-​­3702(­94)­­0 0017-​­U. Knoblauch, Hubert. 2005. “­Focused ethnography.” Forum: Qualitative Social Research 6 (­3), art. 44. doi:10.17169/­­fqs-​­6.3.20. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson 1999. Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought. New York: Basic Books. Latour, Bruno. 2004. “­How to talk about the body? The normative dimension of science studies.” Body & Society 10 (­­2 –​­3): ­205–​­229. doi:10.1177/­1357034X04042943. Latour, Bruno, and Albena Yaneva. 2008. “­Give me a gun and I will make all buildings move: an ANT’s view of architecture.” In Explorations in Architecture: Teaching, Design, Research, edited by Reto Geiser, ­80–​­89. Basel: Birkhäuser. Lave, Jean. 1988. Cognition in Practice: Mind, Mathematics, and Culture in Everyday Life. New York: Cambridge University Press. Lave, Jean, and Etienne Wenger. 1991. Situated Learning: Legitimate Peripheral Learning. New York: Cambridge University Press. Law, John. 2004. After Method, London: Routledge. Newell, Allan, and Herbert A. Simon. 1972. Human Problem Solving. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Ormerod, Thomas C., and Linden J. Ball 2017. Qualitative methods in cognitive psychology. In C. Handbook of Qualitative Research in Psychology, 2nd ed., edited by Carla Willig and Wendy Stainton Rogers, 5­ 74–​­591. London: Sage. Osbeck, Lisa M. 2009. “­Transformations in cognitive science: Implications and issues posed.” Journal of Theoretical and Philosophical Psychology 29 (­1): ­16–​­33. doi:10.1037/­a0015454. ​­ College of Art. 1979. Design in General Education. London: Department of Design ­RCA  – Royal Research, Royal College of Art; cited in (­Cross 1982). Rittel, Horst. 1973. “­The state of the art in design methods.” Design Research and Methods (­Design Methods and Theories) 7 (­2): 1­ 43–​­147; cited in (­Cross 2007). Rittel, Horst W.J., and Melvin M. Webber. 1973. “­Dilemmas in a general theory of planning.” Policy Sciences 4 (­2): 1­ 55–​­169. Schön, Donald A. 1983. The Reflective Practitioner. New York: Basic Books. Schön, Donald A. 1992. “­Designing as reflective conversation with the materials of a design situation.” ­Knowledge-​­Based Systems 5 (­1), 3­ –​­14. doi:10.1016/­­0950-​­7051(­92)­­90020-​­G. Schubert, Cornelius. 2006. “­Video analysis of practice and the practice of video analysis. Selecting field and focus in videography.” In Video Analysis: Methodology and Methods. Qualitative Audiovisual Data Analysis in Sociology, edited by Hubert Knoblauch. Oxford: Peter Lang. Shih, Yi Teng, William D. Sher, and Mark Taylor. 2017. “­Using suitable design media appropriately: Understanding how designers interact with sketching and CAD modelling in design processes.” Design Studies 53: ­47–​­77. doi:10.1016/­j.destud.2017.06.005. Suchman, Lucy A. 1987. Plans and Situated Actions: The Problem of H ­ uman-​­Machine Communication. New York: Cambridge University Press. Suwa, Masaki, and Barbara Tversky. 1997. “­W hat do architects and students perceive in their design sketches? A protocol analysis.” Design Studies 18: ­385–​­403. doi:10.1016/­­S0142-​­694X(­97)­­0 0008-​­2 . Van der Linden, Valerie, Hua Dong, and Ann Heylighen. 2019. “­Tracing architects’ fragile knowing about users in the s­ocio-​­material environment of design practice.” Design Studies 63: ­65–​­91. doi:10.1016/­j.destud.2019.02.004. Vermeersch, P ­ eter-​­Willem. 2013. “­L ess vision, more senses. Towards a multisensory design approach in architecture,” PhD diss., KU Leuven. ­ eter-​­Willem, and Ann Heylighen. 2011. “­Scaling ­Haptics -​­Haptic Scaling. Studying Vermeersch, P scale and scaling in the haptic design process of two architects who lost their sight.” In Scale: Imagination, Perception and Practice in Architecture, edited by Gerald Adler, Timothy ­Brittain-​­Catlin, and Gordana ­Fontana-​­Giusti G, ­127–​­135. Oxon: Routledge.

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Ann Heylighen et al. Vermeersch, P ­ eter-​­Willem, and Ann Heylighen. 2013. “­Rendering the tacit observable in the learning process of a changing body.” In Knowing Inside O ­ ut -​­experiential knowledge, expertise and connoisseurship, edited by Nithikul Nimkulrat, Kristina Niedderer, and Mark Evans. Loughborough: Loughborough University. Wiberg, Mikael. 2022. “­Approaching things that trigger things: A review of three shifts in the character of things and their implications for design.” Design Issues 38 (­1): 7­ 0–​­80. doi:10.1162/­desi_a_00671. Yaneva, Albena. 2005. “­Scaling up and down: Extraction trials in architectural design.” Social Studies of Science 35: ­867–​­894. doi:10.1177/­0306312705053053. Yaneva, Albena. 2009a. The Making of a Building. Oxford: Peter Lang. Yaneva, Albena. 2009b. Made by the Office for Metropolitan Architecture. An Ethnography of Design. Rotterdam: 010 Publishers.

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17 THE SOUL OF OBJECTS, AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL VIEW OF DESIGN Luján Cambariere

I’m writing this chapter, five years after the publication of my first book, The Soul of Objects: An Anthropological View of Design, from the studio in Berlin where I have lived and worked for the past two years. My experience here, on the other side of the planet, has only served to confirm everything that I believe about what I call the world’s Southern Paradigm. In the absence of large industry and technological advancements, Southern design is embedded in crafts, bringing to bear this field’s greatest breadth and depth as a way to foster different kinds of relationships and dialogues. New configurations in which the focus is h ­ uman-​­centric, centred on the person behind the object, on life’s essential values born in the act of creation. A focus on social dynamics, which include the vulnerability that is inevitably transformed into resilience and resourcefulness, and where doing is bound to being. Where ethics take precedent over aesthetics and the material world offers us all of its energy and magic. In this way, we are able to overcome the intellectual pain in the neck that has kept our heads pointed ­North – ​­an attitude fuelled by the insecurity and diminishment of colonized ­peoples – ​­and, having embarked on this different path, we can identify a new and very specific DNA that we must champion: one that we can (­a nd I believe that we must) share with the entire world. A new paradigm, full of fresh, vibrant and sustainable ideas that I will try and describe in this chapter.

Overcoming the hegemonic paradigm We operate on the given of a ­one-​­pointed c­ urrent – ­​­­North-­​­­South – ​­that few have chosen to question. C ­ entre-​­periphery, d­ eveloped-​­undeveloped. An asymmetry sown by conquest that is unquestionably still in place and that is easy to identify in the design world. Just by referencing a date, most of the curricula in the design programmes at Latin American Universities adopt the European paradigm of the German Ulm school founded by Max Bill in 1953. This is a conceptual model whose academic m ­ atrix – at ​­ the curricular and pedagogical ­level – ​­emphasizes scientific and technological disciplines and maintains a direct relationship with industry, despite the fact that Latin America’s reality is entirely different. Additionally, the planet is emitting diverse warning s­ignals – famine, ​­ epidemics, racial and social ­conflict – that ​­ the North has yet to solve, problems which it has, in fact, created, DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-20

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though this issue is not my area of study. But it’s clear that the First World has proposed a set of rules that did not set us on the right track and now we look to the periphery for solutions. And in that periphery, we bear witness to certain key ideas and formulas that, in the light of certain events, can be seen as enlightened and promising. To paraphrase the Spanish journalist Bernardo Gutiérrez in his Blog “­20 minutos” (­2012, https://­blogs.20minutos. es/­­codigo-​­abierto/­2012/­03/­18/­­a merica-­​­­invertida-­​­­a merica-​­l ibre/): Latin America, this unsustainable planet’s hope, can inspire the world during the coming decades. And it can lead precisely in the opposite direction of supposed economic progress, consumerism and the commercialization of goods and people. The world must listen attentively to Latin America.

Modest means power the greatest yield: the imagination Latin America is poor. As the Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano points out, “­We are poor because the soil beneath our feet is rich and places blessed by nature have been cursed by history” (­Galeano, 2007, 85). And continue: Our corner of the world, that today we call Latin America, was precocious and has specialized in losing since that ­far-​­off age when Renaissance Europeans pounced from across the sea and sunk their teeth into our throats. Working as a servant, this region continues to exist in service of others’ needs, as a source and reserve of oil and iron, copper and meat, fruit and coffee, the raw materials and food destined for rich countries that get richer by consuming these resources than Latin America does in producing them. (­86) In response to the question regarding the South’s DNA, one of the first breakthroughs that I experienced as a specialized journalist was that, in a globalized world yearning for identity and authenticity, we flaunt a great treasure: the imagination. The principal characteristic of Latin American design does not lie in its technique or materials, but rather in the mechanics that I define as “­Modest means power the greatest yield: the imagination” (­Cambariere, 2017, 103). Because we have very few resources, we make do with what we have, we embolden and ­re-​­signify scarcity, transforming this lack into an opportunity. We strain against and push limits. And so, in the South of the South we are outstandingly resourceful. Our lack of material invites us to put other tools to use, ones that are subtler and more essential, and often, when ­ bject-​­lessons passing through markets or in the street, we are surprised to come upon these o in the optimization of resources, ergonomics and functionality. In Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Colombia and Peru, one comes across objects that are total miracles of ingenuity. For example, the carts that vendors push through the streets, down beaches or rest beside the road are completely personalized and designed specifically for their particular products: fruit, clothing, accessories. ­Hand-​­made Street signs, the carts pulled by informal waste pickers, furniture and even certain tools are other examples of popular design. Our language harbours specific and unique terms to describe these practices. In particular, the Brazilian word Jeitinho, Chilean busquilla or the Argentine and Colombian rebusque are examples of this special set of skills. This great gift and cultural heritage of the South, ­ ot – ​­until ­now –​ which casts in sharp relief our degree of resourcefulness, paradoxically has n ­received its true merit, due either to misinterpretation or the taint of negative values that 216

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have nothing to do with this unique and fascinating technique of turning a lack of resources into virtuosity. The definition of the Brazilian expression jeitinho reveals a few clues about what has fostered these dichotomies. Jeitinho refers to an informal mode of response that draws its strength from improvisation, flexibility and creativity in order to solve a wide array of problems that arise unexpectedly and that require immediate resolution. In this sense, dar um jeito or dar un jeitinho means to find a solution that’s not ideal or planned but that, nonetheless, is concrete and efficient. That being said, a­ nd – according ​­ to my k­ nowledge – is ​­ where the term has been devalued, this same term jeito or jeitinho can refer to creative solutions that don’t follow certain norms and/­or achieve success by resorting to trickery or unethical means. Two authors have taken it upon themselves to identify and reverse this appraisal. In one case, the Brazilian philosopher Fernanda Carlos Borges (­2006) dedicated her doctoral thesis to this topic, which she then extended into b­ ook-​­form. Additionally, Juan Arias, a Spanish journalist for El País, is a great champion of this Southern gift. Brazilian jeitinho, this magic creative formula for solving everyday problems for those who lack access to power, has always struck me as something akin to ancestral creativity rather than an incapacity to go about life on the straight and narrow, Arias describes in his 2012 column in one of Spain’s most influential newspapers; “­This same jeitinho has been often maligned when it’s none other than the way out of a situation that has no way out and, therefore, displays great ingenuity,” Arias explains (­El País, 2013, https://­ elpais.com/­internacional/­2013/­12/­31/­actualidad/­1388459018_030121.html Borges seconds this notion in her work, A Filosofia do Jeito (­2006, 10): This characteristic form of behaviour is not the consequence of a backwards step, as has always been alleged, but rather reveals ethical criteria and an axiology about a way of being in the world that abides the participation of the unknown, of vulnerability, of emotion and ingenuity within society. ​­ jeite, busquilla, jeitinho – which ​­ I like to call “­modest means In design, this d­ ynamic – rebusque, that power the greatest yield” – is ​­ visible at every step. In Latin America, artisans, designers and, broadly speaking, men and women who work with their hands rely on materials and technologies tied to their economic resources. Generally speaking, these are not complex means and also can be called “­low tech,” though I would describe them as technology born of “­human energy.” The human hand that replaces missing or minor machinery. In all of the production processes of the South, human intervention always prevails over ­technology –​ ­because the latter is simply not available and, once again, we make do with that we have.

In praise of poverty or design at the periphery? This material can be read within this very context. Many opportunists from the marketing world have done just so, tapping into the exoticism that marginality and misery can inspire in some, or what the Brazilian curator (­now living in the USA) Adriana Kertzer describes as “­Favelization” (­2014). This is a trend that we can see in the marketing campaigns of certain luxury brands, something akin to the use of poverty as an added c­ ool-​­factor or an eccentric element that attracts an audience by spotlighting the p­ eriphery – an ​­ impulse that flies in the face of our authentic resourcefulness. 217

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In opposition to and in parallel with this trend, a movement in design has been building momentum over the past few years and has gained legitimacy through exhibitions and gallery shows, describing itself as “­Design at the Periphery.” This term doesn’t refer uniquely to a geographical location but more generally to particular ways of being and doing. It was in this spirit, for example, that a show with this same title, within the context of the inauguration of the Pavilion of Brazilian Cultures in San Pablo, an immense property planned by the architect Oscar Neimeyer within the Ibirapuera Park, was dedicated for the first time to the communion of folk art, crafts and design, signalling certain solutions that outshone the scarcity in which we live (­Cambariere, 2013, 112). The manifestation of creative wisdom in objects crafted by everyday people for everyday use. Barbeque grills made from old tires, all kinds of devices for ­street-​­peddling, furniture and toys made from disposable or ­cast-​­off materials and accessible techniques, in which an apparent simplicity gives rise to sophisticated reasoning that displays highly ingenuous solutions. The concept of the periphery is always relative. It depends on a centre, which can be g­ eographical – ​­a country on the periphery in relation to those that enjoy a larger voice in the world or a sector of a city which is far from the centre, for example. Or this notion can be metaphorical, in the sense of not belonging to the mainstream. It’s in this direction that we must continue to shed light, added the show’s curator Adelia Borges (­Cambariere, 2017, 112). In her insightful appraisal, she signals how we do not follow one of the principal rules of the modern design paradigm in our countries, which dictates that form follows function. We already have seen how these functionalist principles were imported unthinkingly in the academic programmes of our universities, leaving out a certain poetic dimension and the stories that inform objects and that are present in those created by Latin American artisans. In this way, thanks to a beautiful dialectical response, we can recall that Germans from Ulm spoke about Gute form (­good form), while Borges sustains that in South America, “­form follows emotion” (­Borges, 2011). However, it’s also not a question of reversing courses, since today they seem to flow in a single direction (­f rom North to South or from South to North) but rather to stimulate a ­multi-​­directional flow. The exchanges based on positions of equality between counties and their peoples are in constant movement. Once more, “­modest means power the greatest yield,” given that our limited access to a wealth of technology and materials requires that we both protect and use them sparingly. And so we arrive at another of the great virtues of the process and production of Southern design, the gift of transmutation: a quality worth adding to all the imaginable “­r’s:” recycle, reuse, r­ e-​­signify. Pure alchemy.

The gift of transmutation Today, no professional path can avoid the problems of environmental degradation, the depletion of energy sources, demographic growth and ecological imbalance. The first signals regarding the role of designers in relation to ecology appeared in the 1970s with Víctor Papanek. Later, in the 1990s, Ezio Manzini travelled further down the same road, distilling this work in Artifacts: Towards a New Ecology of the Artificial Environment (­1992). Papanek’s argument was visionary because he issued a warning about the dangers of designers who ignored environmental issues and, in the second edition of his book in 1984, he was the first to note that poorer countries have developed better answers to ecological challenges. For

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that same reason, instead of exploiting or ignoring them, we should see these places through a new lens. In the meantime, Manzini alerted us through the use of metaphor that we should cultivate a greater ecological sensitivity in order to pay attention to the greatest object of all: our planet. This approach promoted a culture based on “­­re-​­production” and “­caring for objects.” The repurposing and posterior valuation of certain products, considering that the designer’s role isn’t only to produce but also to gather his or her own products at the end of their lifecycle. A doing that includes “­undoing.” A culture with new qualities like that of inventing objects with ­cast-​­off waste. ­Re-​­utilize, reuse or recycle in order to give new life to a material or object. In the South, examples of this ability abound; we see an emblematic example in the use of PET bottles (­m anufactured for most soft drinks) and how they are recycled in an infinite variety of new products (­f rom straps for chairs to fabrics of all kinds). Thereby, taking my own research into account, I’d like to add another gift: transmutation, which I like to link with alchemy. It might sound lofty, but if we consult the Real Academica Española, alchemy is defined as the science that transforms ordinary raw materials into precious ones. The transmutation of common metals into gold, an operation which inherently turns one thing into something both new and superior in nature to the original; this is common practice in the South. But how? By transforming what others consider to be garbage into raw materials for new objects, while simultaneously imbuing them with beauty. When we look at benches, chairs or tables made with recycled objects in Latin America, it’s hard to identify the original raw material. And that’s why I mention alchemy. These artisans and professionals are virtuosos of reuse. They are also bound to other actors and factors in our social, political and economic reality. The economic and political crises of our countries have created a phenomenon that persists today: the cartoneros [cardboard collector], who are quite similar to other informal workers we see in a variety of Latin American cities. People who work at night, scouring the streets in search of discarded materials that can be sold as recyclable raw material. These workers are people outside of the labour market and who generate their own income informally. This job, which could be considered marginal and economically insignificant, has become a socially and economically productive occupation, albeit one that is sometimes dangerous for the worker but which is also highly beneficial to society as a whole, considering that at a basic level cartoneros take care of what very few want to see: garbage. They are alchemists of the everyday who transform something ordinary or ­cast-​­off into beauty, endowed with renewed functionality. This is where design projects not only tackle environmental issues and sustainability but also meet social needs.

Pioneers of Fair Trade Although it may appear to many as utopian or trivial, in the face of the consumer boom previously described, the Fair Trade movement is another project whose best representatives have hailed from this side of the planet since time immemorial. Fair trade was created in The Netherlands in the 1950s with a very specific mission to heighten awareness of the unequal nature of the exchange of goods between North and South; its principal objective w ­ as – ​­and ­remains – to ​­ promote a different kind of exchange, based on transparency, respect and equity: sustainable development that offers better conditions, in particular for small manufacturers and disadvantaged labourers.

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Paradoxically, the implementation of this m ­ ovement  – although ​­ it was created in the ­ orth – ​­has been spearheaded by the South. When I visited various native communities in N Latin America within the context of the Avina Fellowship (­Cambariere, 2005) to do research on projects related to design and crafts, I discovered that the native peoples from the Colla, Wichi and Mapuche tribes were masters of Fair Trade. Among their precepts, we found a distribution of income that assured fair and decent working conditions; care and attention to the environment; fair pay for workers, aimed at minimizing the chain of intermediaries; and a commitment to improving the living conditions of these same workers, given that the movement’s primary objective is to reduce poverty. All of this within the framework of reclaiming personal identity in order to preserve the culture that, among other things, forms the basis of their indigenous world view. This is a paradigm they have always put into practice. These peoples have been naturally ahead of their time in the framework of the Fair Trade movement: working with their hands, preserving their ancestral knowledge and imagination (­through signs, symbols, legends) and by the coherent use of materials in harmony with the earth. It’s enough to consider how they manage their crafts, which is one of their greatest sources of income. The artisans in indigenous communities only take from the environment the raw materials that they need. In order to find these precious resources, they often travel several kilometres on foot and move in groups. In and of itself, this activity is built on socialization. Their relationship with nature inspires them to take what they need without harming their environment. In general, the production processes are carried out in family units, by hand and with very simple tools. This approach allows younger members to learn and participate in the artisanal process, one in which knowledge is passed on traditionally and where youth learn by observing, taking part and working throughout the entire process. Their designs represent a form of cultural transmission for every community, passing on their work methods and their shared history. And so they offer us the very best example of multiculturalism through objects that are unique and ­one-­​­­of-­​­­a-​­k ind, made from customs and traditional wisdom.

The New Southern Paradigm: objects with a soul or “­­arte-​­sano”1 It’s neither my d­ esire – ​­nor even a p­ ossibility – to ​­ finish this chapter about Southern DNA without acknowledging the axis of my research, which revolves around what I consider the “­New Southern Paradigm,” and is centred on binomial design and crafts and the soul of objects. As I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, in Latin America the manufacturing of objects doesn’t occur on a conveyer belt in the thick of major industries and the latest technology, but rather it slowly walks the artisanal path. And it’s this gift of working with our hands that imbues our objects with numen, a certain aura or what anthropologists call mana. An anonymous force that animates objects and sets them apart. A kind of e­ nergy – ​­a hidden force, heat, e­ lectricity – ​­that is found in the atmosphere and that binds itself to people and to things. Mana is a religious category in Melanesia that was introduced to the West in 1878 by Max Muller. Whoever possesses mana can both use and direct this force. If a stone is unusual, it acquires mana, which means that it is also associated with a spirit. The same thing occurs with certain places, objects, jewels and other natural elements, an effect akin to the words that produce a spell,

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as writes the anthropologist Adolfo Colombres (­2005, 87). Light, or the divine spark that makes objects shine in a particular way or stand out in our material universe in order ­to – ​­and here’s the interesting p­ art – ​­conjure magic from the everyday. Or, more poetically, to bring heaven down to earth or awaken the sacred in our lives. The materialization of the spirit and spiritualization of matter. One thinker in particular dedicated much of his live to locating the intersection between the visible and invisible worlds, the field of action of the sacred in our modern world. I refer here to the North American 2 mythologist Joseph Campbell. It was in Campbell’s The Mythic Image (­1997) that he took on the task of bringing together several works of art and assorted ­objects – ​­from the pyramids to paintings and statues from all ​­ demonstrate with exhaustive description that the sacred is, in fact, the highest level ­eras – to of reality. By describing each work, Campbell shows how they were conceived and created. And, in this way, he also demonstrates that the creation of each piece hinged on equal input from the worlds of the sacred and the profane. Campbell maintains that the best things in life can’t be described because they transcend thought and, therefore, art and certain objects offer us the chance to locate the best narrative. For him, symbols and certain designs represent the epiphany of a great mystery; and a mystery, in the precise sense of the word, is something we cannot represent or reproduce. In other words, it is not something that we can perceive directly through our sense organs, nor is it explicable through reason. But it exists. The idea that something is “­animate” is not born of philosophy but rather refers to a term coined by anthropology in order to describe the attitudinal relationship of primitive peoples with their reality. Animism. This term expresses the conviction that reality isn’t inert, but rather that it lives and acts in conjunction with all that exists. Rivers, trees, places and objects are imbued with an animating principal. Is this a naïve belief? Not at all. Naivety is the belief ­ ell-​­versed that the world that surrounds human beings is inert, and Latin Americans are w in their awareness of this animating force. And so, in this literal magic trick, transposing energy from one person to another through the physical medium of an object, something special occurs. Instead of our doing something, something is done to us. And it’s absolutely wonderful, especially in the realm of handmade crafts and design. In essence, we receive this powerful charge of energy from the objects that we love. Without going any further, the verb “­inhabit” comes from the root “­to give” and “­to receive.” We inhabit a place when we offer it something and when we open ourselves to receiving what that world has to offer. What’s interesting is that things with a certain spirit return this gift. And here we arrive at one of the principal formulas of our paradigm: binomial design and crafts. I locate the origins of this equation in the indigenous term Piracema, a cornerstone of this concept. The word Piracema is a perfect fit, as it is a term that describes a very specific natural phenomenon: when fish migrate in the direction of a river’s source, swimming against the current in order to reproduce. For reasons that only nature understands, fish are intuitively driven to return to the place where they were born in order to create new life in this unique place. This image of a return to the source aimed at founding a vanguard in the place of origin gives rise to the inspirational and foundational and structural lineage of many Southern projects. “‘­Volver al origen para beber de la tradición y transpirar contemporaneidad,” is the most beautiful metaphor I have yet encountered for synthesizing the philosophy behind our work; this quote resists translation but describes “­a return to the source to drink from tradition and then to sweat this same origin story out with the heat of modernity.” I became familiar with this term through the collective of Brazilian work, c­ hock-​­full of Latin American leaders in the field, that was created by the designer Heloísa Crocco and the

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visual artist José Alberto Nemer, who borrowed this word to baptize an emblematic project of design laboratories and crafts that embraced this concept as their guiding philosophy. “­The original, here, Isn’t necessarily what’s new,” Nemer explains in my article in the M2 Supplement in Página 12 newspaper (­2011, https://­w ww.pagina12.com.ar/­d iario/­suplementos/­m 2/­­10-­​­­1304-­​ ­­2007-­​­­10-​­20.html), “­but rather what offers us the capacity to look with fresh eyes, to update, to interpret in a singular way the stimuli of reality.” By extension, originality should be understood as the characteristic that something or someone displays in relationship to their origins and by creating a piece of work that reflects this same ­source – ​­which has nothing to do with nostalgia or backwardness. “­From the Latin, traditio, the verb tradere, tradition is the act of transmission, though not only of what we have previously accumulated, but instead that which integrates what currently exists with what originally existed for the very first time,” Nemer observes in the catalogue for the exhibition that inaugurated the Pavilion of Brazilian Cultures, which is an extraordinary building comprised of eleven thousand square meters, planned in 1950 by Oscar Niemeyer in the Ibirapuera Park in San Pablo and for which Nemer was one of the assistant curators (­Cambariere, 2011).

Designing with this soul In this sense, design and crafts or crafts and design in our region are one of our most promising areas of growth. This is where the designer experiences contact with new actors, contexts and environments. Where he or she discovers new shapes, colours, talents and landscapes. An emerging ethic that aspires to reclaim techniques and materials that care for the environment and, most importantly, human beings, considering that the goal of all of these projects is local development. And the most important thing, where the professional’s role acquires greater breadth in the shift from “­signature design” to “­cultural operator,” where the designer works as an agent of change, with the full comprehension that the he or she is one link in a chain and is committed to breaking down stereotypes. In essence, by helping the community to reassess its capital: r­esources – materials, ​­ techniques, t­ alents – ​­or symbols. Namely, by dedicating its efforts to improving the quality of raw material, the finished product, refining techniques, improving tools. Or by helping to create a brand to offer increased visibility for a project and create access to new markets by safeguarding the visual image: brand name, label, logo, catalogue, the shipping or transportation ­ ell-​­versed in the market’s of components, communication, packaging. Many times, being w demands, the designer expands the family of objects, creates fact sheets in order to optimize sales or adapt products for new use. These are all lessons acquired at the university level. Social or authentic innovation. New forms of participation in which the designer takes on new roles. Because generally, in our country, we describe innovation as a kind of imitation of what appears to be a novelty in major nations. We set this notion as a kind of bar for defining, among other things, what a designer does, but we discover that there are driving forces in organizations that relate to a particular ethic of production, which are focussed on being rooted in a certain place, in s­elf-​­satisfaction in one’s work, and these become a priority. So, it’s fundamental to accept that strategic innovation supports quality of life. Design aimed at development that anchors the process of design in the area of sustainable development. Many call this “­design transfer” because it maintains as its modus operandi the promotion and appropriation of conceptual tools, vocabulary and planification, while 222

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simultaneously bolstering the imagination and a sensitivity that strengthens all participants in order to better administrate their resources and manage both products and services in order to use certain technologies based on the criteria of social efficacy. If, until now, design has defined itself in aesthetic terms, from now on it will define itself increasingly in ethical terms, intertwined with concepts that previously have not been linked, like social fabric, territory, citizenship, cultural heritage, cultural diversity, peace and even the concept of resiliency as understood as the capacity that each human being possesses to overcome adversity. Innovation at any cost is meaningless. We need a quantum leap in design and a qualitative leap anchored in the human experience, placing people at the centre of our efforts. As the renowned Italian architect Lina Bo Bardi, now a Brazilian citizen, has declared (­Bo Bardi, 1994, 45) “­A world of consumption in harmony with our hearts.”

Notes 1 Here I introduce a play on words that can’t be reproduced in English. Arte [art] + sano [healthy]. 2 While it is common practice in Spanish to refer to people from the USA as norteamericanos or estadounidenses, it is worth nothing that in English we simply say “­A merican,” while the Americas comprehend much more than the territorial USA.

References Bo Bardi, Lina. 1994. Tempos de Grossura: O design no impasse (­Times of Coarseness: Design at an Impasse). 45. San Pablo, CA: Instituto Lina Bo e P.M. Bardi. Borges, Adelia. 2011. Design + Artesanato (­Design and Craft). 65. San Pablo, CA: Editora Terceiro Nome. Cambariere, Luján. 2017. El alma de los objetos. Una mirada antropológica del diseño (­The Soul of Objects. An Anthropological View of Design.). 1­ 03–​­112. Buenos Aires: Editorial Paidós. Cambariere, Luján. June 14, 2013. Los usos de la pobreza (­The uses of poverty), Suplemento m2, Página 12. Cambariere, Luján. November 5, 2011. Monte (­Mount). ­1 – ​­2. Suplemento m2, Página 12. Carlos Borges, Fernanda. 2006. A filosofía do jeito: um modo brasileiro de pensar com o corpo (­The Philosophy of the Way: A Brazilian Way of Thinking with the Body.). 10. San Pablo, CA: Summus. Colombres, Adolfo. 2005. Teoría transcultural del arte, Hacia un pensamiento visual independiente (­Transcultural Art Theory, Towards an Independent Visual Thinking). 87. Buenos Aires: Del Sol. Galeano, Eduardo. 2007. Las venas abiertas de America Latina (­The Open Veins of Latin America). 8­ 5–​ ­86. Buenos Aires: Catálogos. Kertzer, Adriana. 2014. Favelization. New York: Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum. Manzini, Ezio.1992. Artefactos, Hacia una nueva ecología del ambiente artificial (­A rtefacts, Towards a New Ecology of the Artificial Environment.). Italia: Ediciones Celeste. Papanek, Victor. 1984. Design for the Real World. Human Ecology and Social Change. Londres: Thames & Hudson.

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18 EXPLORING RESEARCH SPACE IN FASHION A framework for m ­ eaning-​­making Harah Chon

Introduction The study of fashion comprises theories of material culture to examine the role and function of consumption practices, social interactions, and the production of cultural meanings. Material culture can be defined as a m ­ eaning-​­making process developed through the exchange of symbolic values embedded within fashion objects (­Crane & Bovone 2006), providing a form of connection and participation within the social world. In today’s increasingly complex and uncertain world, fashion faces new global challenges that require different ways of looking at, reviewing, and redefining the role of knowledge and its impact on designers, individuals, and society. This chapter acknowledges the role and function of fashion objects in everyday life as communicating design intent and mediating the construction of new meanings to challenge existing thoughts, traditions, and systems. The interdisciplinary roots of fashion studies are introduced through a research framework that focuses on the ­meaning-​ ­m aking process as a necessary step toward establishing meaningful experiences. Considering the growing discourse around the decolonization of fashion, this chapter presents a space for questioning, reflecting, and negotiating how future fashion research can be explored.

Overview of the fashion research framework Fashion is synonymous with change and assumes an extensive scope of operation that cannot be limited to or centered in the study of costume and adornment (­Blumer 1969). As a social phenomenon, fashion has been positioned in relation to modernity, as it serves as an indication of time, space, and memory. Fashion needs, as defined by Simmel’s (­1971) widely adopted theory, to examine the social implications of influencing individual forms of ­self-​ ­expression and freedom. The social relevance of fashion is beginning to see a shift from an ­over-​­emphasis on interactions, in terms of how fashion is communicated and culturally adopted, toward a need for adaptability and longevity within diverse social groups (­Buckley & Clark 2012). This suggests that a comprehensive framework is needed to understand how fashion research can be studied through the identification of tensions, boundaries of research space, and negotiation of knowledge. 224

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-21

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In order to discuss the situational context of fashion research, the framework is separated into three distinct spaces for inquiry. It reviews design practice, the social implications of fashion, and the influences of culture within three ­spaces – ​­fluid space, problem space, and research space. Fluid space refers to the role of design knowledge while the problem space presents the various contextual issues framing fashion research. Within these spaces of inquiry, fashion is introduced as a conversational and social activity that acts as a vehicle for design knowledge exchange. Although design knowledge is often associated with the creative activities or thinking processes of designers, it is suggested here that this knowledge is not strictly contained within the domains or practice of design and examines the fashion object as a tangible representation of design knowledge that communicates symbolic meanings. Fashion is a social phenomenon that requires the active participation of individuals, defined here as the users and participants of fashion, to adopt, reinterpret, present and communicate the dressed body. The Fashion Research Framework was developed with the intention to provide a contextual understanding of ­fashion-​­related research and the potential impact of ­meaning-​­making through design knowledge. By acknowledging the complexity of fashion studies, the spaces of tension are presented in the design, fashion, and cultural systems. The changing value of design knowledge is further explored through the framework, where knowledge is shared and exchanged across the different levels and dimensions of interaction. Supported by a comprehensive review of existing literature, this chapter proposes a ­ eaning-​­making process framework for fashion research that explores knowledge flow as a m involving designers, individuals, and society.

Fluid space: design knowledge Designers, as individuals, transform their perceptions into a form of common knowledge to construct understandings and guide behaviors. This section presents a review of literature on design knowledge to define the role of objects in transferring knowledge from producer to consumer (­­Figure 18.1).

Domains of design knowledge Design requires what is known as “­projective ability”  – ​­the ability to understand the relationship between human beings and objects to create a social context ( ­Jimenez Narvaez 2000). Relying on the designer’s own experiences, activities within design practice require a combination of skills, expertise, and knowledge to conceptualize artifacts relevant to the social environment (­Friedman, 2000). The epistemological dimension of this knowledge shifts from tacit to explicit forms, moving and transforming thought into action, to question what designers know and how they come about knowing. Design knowledge, which is qualitatively different from knowledge in other disciplines, relies on experience, practice, and iteration to move from tacit to explicit knowledge (­Hoadley & Cox 2009). Friedman (­2000) defines designers as thinkers who transform thought into action, and, further moving from doing to knowing requires the application of critical thinking and reflection. Designers undergo the process of “­k nowing through making or doing” to contribute to what is known as design knowledge (­Olsen & Heaton 2010, p­ . 81). Cross (­2006) defines the ways of knowing as embodied in the designer, the processes of designing, and its products. Design ability is not strictly contained within the practice of designing nor is knowledge of design exclusive to professional designers. By acknowledging the rhetorical nature of design and the conversational aspect of design activity, design 225

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­Figure 18.1 Fashion research framework

knowledge initiates a type of dialog when transferred from designers to n ­ on-​­designers. Cross (­1999) defines three sources of design knowledge, forming the fluid space of the Fashion Research Framework: •

• •

Design Epistemology (­people) – ​­residing in people as the natural human ability of designers and of everyone, developing understandings for how people design, conducting empirical studies of designer behavior and design ability. Design Praxiology (­process) – ​­residing in processes of designing, in the development and application of techniques for design. ​­ in products, in the forms, materials, and finDesign Phenomenology (­products) – residing ishes of design objects.

Jimenez Narvaez (­2000) defines design’s own knowledge as the result of the s­ubject-​­object relationship that generates multiple perceptions of the world to become the intuitive knowledge of a society. The object represents the tangible materialization of a design, allowing itself to be perceived and communicated as an interpretation of a social reality. Knowledge produced by the design object can be classified as follows ( ­Jimenez Narvaez 2000): 226

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­Figure 18.2 The user as perceivable being

• • •

­Empirical-​­Analytical – a​­ nalysis of the object as a physical element, in itself and its properties. ­Hermeneutical-​­Historical – ​­the object as a social and historical entity within an interacting system, producing symbolic and social significance through communication. ​­ object as a social ­evoker-​­transformer, generating social and individual Sociocritical – the changes to attitudes, habits, and values.

Design knowledge can be defined as reflecting the perceptions and experiences of the designer, transformed into a material object through the process of design. The design object contains knowledge of the designer and is communicated to the perceivable user by reflecting emotional, volitional and cognitive interests ( ­Jimenez Narvaez 2000). As users engage and experience the object, the specific ideas or functions created and shaped by designers is communicated (­K azmierczak 2003 ­Figure 18.2). Therefore, increased interactions affect the extent to which users can, as perceptive beings, infer knowledge of the object. This implicates the user as being shaped by perception to transform experience into creating a personal stock of knowledge which, through increased interactions, produce and regenerate new ideas.

Domains of fashion knowledge Fashion knowledge is a form of expert knowledge that is socially constructed and culturally accumulated (­Weller 2007). Within fashion, knowledge is increasingly difficult to contain as social interactions accelerate its fluidity as a homogenizing force in dispersing trends across global markets. The transgressive and fluid nature of knowledge links producers to users in a socially integrated and distributed process, reconciling the distinction between expert and experienced knowledge to further empower users in future d­ ecision-​­making (­Nowotny 2000). Socially robust knowledge is significant for the study of social situations, as it initiates changes to knowledge culture by establishing relevance for future designs (­Olsen & Heaton 2010). As a socially constituted practice, fashion and dress require individual members to acquire knowledge of cultural norms and expectations (­Entwistle 2000). It is only within these norms that individuals are able to construct a space of personal freedom and develop knowledge of the inner self and an individual sense of style within fashion’s standards, as a form of emancipation (­Nedelmann 1990). 227

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The fashion system contains the ongoing dialectic between imitation and differentiation which elicits the incessant changing nature of fashion (­Simmel 1971). This tension is reflected in the hierarchal network of fashion designers and brands, where the diffusion of trends and styles flows down from key innovators and leaders to the masses. Fashion’s cyclical pattern is driven by elite groups, made up of designers and consumers, seeking to set themselves apart from the ­non-​­elite (­Blumer 1969). However, developments in fashion media have widened the influential roles of bloggers, editors, celebrities, stylists and various style icons, further increasing the complexities of the fashion cycle. As fashion spreads from the elite to the masses, its knowledge becomes less viscous and fluid by moving into less complex social contexts (­Weller 2007). Design knowledge residing at the expert level, defined as the core knowledge of designing necessary for setting stylistic direction, increasingly dilutes when it is reproduced or imitated by followers. This signifies the distinction between design knowledge, the tacit form created and used by designers, and common knowledge, the codified or informal knowledge.

Problem space: dialectical relationships This section presents three systems affecting design, fashion, and culture. Each of these systems contains tensions between the m ­ icro-​­internal to m ­ acro-​­external levels, as they are mediated by the respective roles of artifact, product, and values. These systems are discussed as representing the context and problem space of ­fashion-​­related research.

The design system Design’s significance as a social practice lies in its process of being produced, received, and used within a social context to prescribe social relations (­Dilnot 1984). Therefore, design can be defined as the socially differentiated transformation of the designer (­H illier et al. 1984) and the design process as the pragmatic activity through which designers relate to the world framing their existence (­Olsen & Heaton 2010). Positioned within a specific social context while constructing and contributing to new social relations, designers are influenced by different perspectives and perceptions to affect socially integrated outcomes. A designer’s ability to perceive the world and frame it into an activity forms the connection with the external world, where the designer’s “­concern with how things ought to be” produces artifacts that serve as the interface between their inner and outer environments (­Simon 1996, ­p. 133). It is through these artifacts that the designer is confronted by social systems of symbolic production (­­Figure 18.3). Designers rely on their own experiences to produce interpretations of the world and utilize these perspectives in how they develop solutions for perceivable problems. Against this backdrop, the social world becomes both the passive recipient of design solutions and the stimulating force influencing the designer’s situated existence. Designers, as members of society, participate in the social world by sharing in a common past and current experiences. However, in the role of producer, their activities place them outside of this world through their ability to contribute to and disrupt future situations. This creates the tension within the design system, positioning the designer and the social world on opposing poles. The designer’s influence in creating artifacts for the social world is challenged by the dependency on society’s adoption of future design solutions. Within this system, the artifact mediates the exchange of power and influence by forging a transactional connection between designers 228

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­Figure 18.3 Dialectical relationships

and the social world. Therefore, design functions within a commercially focused system that involves designers, design activities, and the influences of society.

The fashion system Fashion is a phenomenon that evolves over the course of time and, at the height of its appeal, becomes an indication of the present (­Nedelmann 1990). Dominant fashions can be defined as high or popular fashion that is adopted and reproduced into mass fashion (­Rocamora, 2002). As a social activity, the continuity of fashion relies on innovators or leaders and followers or participants to predetermine and standardize the judgment of taste. Therefore, the individual is confronted with following fashion norms to achieve union in group uniformity or deviating from social standards into segregation and exclusion (­Simmel 1957). The fashion object, in the form of dress practice, image and communication, assumes a central role in reconciling the coexistence of exclusivity and standardization within the dialectic of the fashion system (­Crane  & Bovone 2006). Through the object, the conflict between imitation and differentiation shifts into a process of social interaction (­Nedelmann, 1990), where individuals project a configuration of the self representing one’s existence in a particular time or history (­Buckley & Clark 2012). Participating in fashion is a creative act that has changed radically with the rise of social networks, shifting power and agency to individual representations of the fashioned body to inform new discourses for the contemporary fashion system (­Terracciano 2017). This implicates the act of dress as the presentation of self, embodying a performance that is as much an individual activity as it is social (­Entwistle 2000). The impact of fashion and its role in society was defined by Blumer (­1969) as establishing social relevance in its indifference to criticism, demand for adherence, and exclusion of those who fail to abide by its area of operation. A study by Clarke and Miller (­2002) determined 229

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that in most cases while individuals are highly knowledgeable about matters of taste, they resort to social and institutional supports to validate aesthetic choice. However, the social practice of fashion is evolving as new competences have developed around the symbolic significance of participation and the recent call toward sustainability and ethical practices (­Heinze 2020). The fashion system allows for the ongoing negotiation between individuals and society through the assigning of meaning and significance to designed objects. Within this system, individuals are positioned at the boundary between expressing a personal representation of self and imitating social standards. This ongoing tension, posed by the communication of the fashioned self as a visible reproduction of individual values and meanings, represents the dialectic between the individual and society within the fashion system.

The cultural system Culture provides clues of the phenomenal world to determine the types of objects available (­Csikszentmihalyi  & R ­ ochberg-​­Halton 1981). The fashion object embodies cultural phenomena by contributing to the production and reproduction of society through shared experiences, values and beliefs (­Barnard 1996). Defining the social world as being made up of dressed bodies, the activity of dressing becomes the expression of social relations in producing recognizable and meaningful cultural codes (­Entwistle 2000). Culture incorporates the material and nonmaterial processes of symbolic production in human beings to form the knowledge of society ( ­Jimenez Narvaez 2000) and it is through culture that individuals are able to divide and categorize the phenomenal world, by assigning significance to objects (­McCracken 1986). Culture is affected by social movements and creates a state of ­self-​­dissatisfaction that confronts the individual into changing and reevaluating values, attitudes, and behaviors (­­Ball-​­Rokeach  & Tallman, 1979). The natural instinct of human experience, guided by perception, imagination, recollection and judgment, is to assign value to objects (­­Rinofner-​ ­K reidl 2012). Cultural meanings fulfill the needs of individuals by establishing values contributing to the construction of self (­McCracken 1986). Framed by the opposing forces of tradition and modernity, the cultural system influences the changing of cultural values and the accumulation of meanings. Cultural production concerns the process of meaning construction, requiring an examination of a group’s collective actions and beliefs ( ­Johnston & Klandermans 1995). According to Cheang  & Suterwalla (2020), the interpretation of information is conditional and depends on how one is located within knowledge hierarchies. Therefore, the conflicts affecting cultural values will significantly impact the way that individuals or societies consume and understand design objects. The cultural system is dynamic in its organization and reorganization of shared values and serves as the backdrop and context for the study of fashion.

Research space: the role of design knowledge Buckley and Clark (­2012) propose focusing on fashion of the e­ veryday – ​­the insignificant, the ordinary, and the overlooked. This creates a new space that considers how fashion research can be applied more critically for humanistic inquiry through examining the lived experience as a way to question and better understand the intersection between intention and social significance (­Cheang & Suterwalla 2020). The research space of fashion is presented as the transactional system of exchange between users, objects, and the role of design knowledge. As objects are consumed by users, 230

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knowledge shifts into the transmission, representation, and reinterpretation of meanings. This phenomenological perspective of design knowledge concerns relationships between products and contexts, presenting the research space of meanings (­­Figure 18.4a). The transactional system presents a more detailed space for exploring how fashion facilitates the conversational form of knowledge exchange through the following: • • •

Transmission of embedded meanings – ​­relationship between designers and objects Representation of constructed meanings – ​­relationship between individuals and society ​­ between designers and individuals Reinterpretation of ­co-​­created meanings – relationship

Embedded meanings (­­transmission – ​­designers & objects) Knowledge created by designers belongs to the domain of designers, becoming design knowledge and thereby owned by designers. This knowledge is further cultivated and expanded through the design process and transmitted into the physical attributes of the finished object. The fashion object constitutes the embodied, negotiated, and communicated form of dress, representing a product of material culture that acts as the filter between the individual and the social world (­Crane  & Bovone 2006). These objects are meaningful and ­k nowledge-​­rich, transmitting knowledge across s­patio-​­temporal patterns originating from designers through the mass production system and into consumer perceptions (­Weller 2007). Designers work from local knowledge communities that are defined by physical, geographical, cultural or industrial boundaries. By collecting, recycling, and borrowing ideas, they transform their tacit understandings into creative activities and processes to produce a knowledge base. This form of expert knowledge is encoded into objects through intentional choices in the materials and cultural cues of fashion object, which carry and transfer knowledge between designers and users by materializing the semiotic content and function of meaning (­­Figure 18.4b). Designers are the direct producers of material objects which contain symbolic meanings that are received and used by consumers (­Rocamora 2002). As the consumption process becomes less concerned with competing for the possession of goods, it shifts into the actualization of the self through a form of ­self-​­fulfillment (­Baudrillard 1988). To consume the product is to consume its meaning and, therefore, the knowledge transmitted through the object by conceptualizing an interactive embodiment by wearing the perceived identity of a person (­Thornquist 2018). The design object connects the designer to the individual, communicating the designer’s knowledge in the form of conceptual meaning and intent. Therefore, it is the role of the designer to make content, information, data, meaning, and message perceptually accessible and translatable (­K azmierczak 2003).

Constructed meanings (­­representation – ​­individuals & society) The mode of b­ eing-­​­­in-­​­­the-​­world marks one’s existence, in the manner that one can “­name, modify, and change his environment through the manipulation of the body” (­K im 2001, ­p. 73). This schema defines the body as the unity of mind and self, relatable to other people and things, while the physical outline of the body demarcates the internal and external worlds. Accepting that one does not exist alone in the world, the body presents a common link between the unique perspectives of individuals in social situations (­Scheler 1973). Through the act of sensing, one is able to “­transfer other types of conscious states to perceivable bodies, depending on the complexity of their behaviors and their relations to the 231

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­Figure 18.4 (­a) Research space; (­b) Semiotic function of the design object; (­c) Transactional relationship through the design object; (­d) Reinterpretation of meanings

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environment” (­Heinamaa 2012, p­ . 228). The body is, therefore, the means by which one experiences the world and is made known and relatable to others. If clothing represents the human persona, then it connects the relationships between (­wo)­man and body to body and society (­Barthes, 2006). The transactional relationship between the individual and object mobilizes design knowledge, as it comes into contact with the individual’s existing knowledge and perception, to be further disrupted when reinterpreted onto the surface of the physical body and presented to others. According to Barthes (­2006), fashion is a system that creates value in the arrangement of garments on a wearer. The conscious effort of the individual, through dress, translates the actualization of meaning that shifts with the reorganization of garments on the body. Each object forms one component of the system, which can be ordered in any number of combinations, and the linking of different objects is what constitutes the structure of dressing as the medium for s­ elf-​­expression. Fashion becomes a conversational activity by which human beings relate, establishing commonalities while delineating one’s sense of individuality. The physical arrangement of clothing on the body demarcates the individual’s inner and outer worlds to “­transform flesh into something recognizable and meaningful to a culture” (­Entwistle 2000, ­p.  8). Vieira (­2009) defines the process of design as a tactile experience that serves both functional and ornamental needs, while clothing creates a code or visual language conveying a form of social identity. The decision to adopt a fashion is to represent one’s identity, emphasizing the relationship between personal values and the perceived value of the fashion object. In the hierarchal system of style selection, the individual’s decision in the selection process is influenced by the intrinsic value of the fashion object. However, this meaning evolves and transforms through increased interactions between the individual and object (­­Figure 18.4c). Weller (­2007) defines consumption as the intersection where individuals and fashion knowledge meet, providing a common platform for transforming the perceived value of the fashion product. If the semiotic function of the design object operates symbolically to generate meanings, then it is only fully realized through the active participation of a receiver (­K azmierczak 2003). The individual, as a receiver of meaning, reconstructs the object’s meaning and assumes ownership over its new significance. The consumption process allows the individual to reconcile the tensions imposed by society, created from pressures to conform to its standards, by satisfying self needs in addition to attaining group acceptance (­Baudrillard 1988). This signifies the point of consumption as a means for individual and collective expression, where the sensory connections between the individual and fashion object function as symbolic representations of ­self-​­identity (­Workman & Caldwell 2007). The fashion object reinstates power and freedom to the individual, who assigns new significance or meaning, and the object assumes a new representation. This understanding replaces the original intent or codes of knowledge embedded by the designer, reiterating the fluidity of design knowledge in its ability to regenerate through increased interaction. The constantly changing nature of fashion can be seen as leading the individual to alter their perception of self and reinvent themselves through the extrinsic values associated with the fashion object.

­Co-​­created meanings (­­reinterpretation – ​­individuals & designers) As a social phenomenon, fashion can be studied as a “­­meaning-​­making process” of expressing symbolic values in cultural contexts (­Crane  & Bovone 2006). Meaning, when confronted and intervened by the individual’s own perception, assumes a new representational 233

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form (­McCracken 1986). This implicates the mercurial nature of the fashion object, which shifts meanings across different social contexts and cultural perspectives, as being dependent on how its e­ nd-​­user decodes and represents its knowledge or significance. Fashion affords the individual with a sense of freedom, to separate oneself from any possibility of comparison by emphasizing one’s distinction through clothing (­Barthes 2006) and the individual is, therefore, placed in a position to not only modify and personalize the object’s meaning but to transfer its significance to others (­­Figure 18.4d). Perception, requiring cultivation, is a precondition of meaning creation in the transaction between people and things (­Csikszentmihalyi  & R ­ ochberg-​­Halton 1981). Design objects provide cognitive interfaces within society to function as an interpretive structure mediated by signs pointing to meanings (­K azmierczak 2003). Although the meaning transforms once received, it requires some comprehension of the designer’s original intent for the success and effectiveness of the design. This demonstrates the shared responsibility of designers and individuals to allow the design object to maintain its proper meaning and reach a socially accepted meaning. It is in this way that meaning creation becomes a ­co-​­creative effort between individuals and designers, where fashion allows the negotiation of “­d ifferent selves through ways of wearing” (­Thornquist 2018, p­ . 294). Taking the traditional example of fashion, the designer creates an object containing aesthetic or conceptual purpose. The traditional model follows a t­op-​­down dissemination of fashion knowledge but abstract forms of knowledge are fluid and able to spread contagiously, which suggests that fashion norms are no longer restricted by a given example (­Weller 2007). Slow fashion approaches indicate a potential for the fashion system to be repositioned and challenged through distributed economies, various forms of collaboration, and increased transparency between producer and consumer (­Clark 2008). Therefore, there is a need to explore the function of meaning creation in how the individual understands the fashion object, how these reinterpretations are related back to designers through s­ elf-​­portrayal practices in online experimentation and participation (­Thornquist 2018), and how the reverse flow of knowledge affects future creative processes of designers. The designer and individual ­co-​­exist in the social world, where cultural experiences are often shared to develop common tastes and values within global fashion practices. Through the process of designing, the designer intentionally explicates specific affordances to communicate intentions to the user (­A lmquist & Lupton 2010). Although the individual is given freedom to reinterpret the meaning or utility of the artifact, clues are given to transfer its original meaning. The designer’s own knowledge, while embedded into the object, is redirected into a negotiated space allowing it to develop new meanings. This can be illustrated with the example of fashion, where the designer’s knowledge is used for the creation of new innovations in style. As this knowledge moves down the hierarchy of the fashion system, it becomes “­less prestigious, less complex, less lavishly produced, less valued in the eyes of consumers, and less expensive in the market” (­Weller, 2007 p­ . 57). However, the individual is exercising autonomy in the cultivation of a personal style by refashioning or reconfiguring its meaning. The continual negotiation of meanings serves as the connection between individuals and designers, changing the perception of fashion objects and contributing to new values.

Research space of fashion Design objects function as semiotic tools for establishing symbolic and significant meanings. The interpretive nature of design objects suggests the need to focus less on designing 234

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things and more on designing the inferences leading to ­meaning-​­making (­K azmierczak 2003). Technological changes and advances in media communication flatten geographical differences, accelerating codified forms of fashion knowledge transfer by flowing impersonally and ­non-​­specifically (­Weller 2007). When these fashion codes are no longer confined by time or space, the knowledge loses viscosity by transcending the previously demarcated boundaries of the fashion system. Fashion is being redefined through new discourses, allowing its practices to become more inclusive and shifting away from traditional canons of thought ( ­Jansen 2020). This has resulted in new forms of social practices, where fashion meanings and competences have evolved to reconsider the cooperation and coexistence of designers and individuals within the social world (­Heinze 2020). The former position of designers, as influential producers and contributors of material culture, is challenged by the dynamic interplay between users who define new rules toward or against conformity.

Review of framework The domains of design knowledge are defined as originating from people, processes and products and engage designers through reflective dialogs. According to Schon (­1983), practitioners accumulate tacit knowledge and intuitive knowing through critical reflections on experience. The repetitive nature of practice facilitates the ­conversation-​­like activity of design, producing expertise to judge uncertain situations. Knowledge is contained within the fluid space of inquiry, shifting from tacit to explicit forms and is able to be communicated. The three dialectical systems are introduced as the problem space of fashion, which involve design, fashion and culture. Within the design system, the role of designers is opposed by the influences of the social world. Similarly within the fashion system, the freedom of individuals is challenged by style norms determined from various social groups. Therefore, the fashion system exists only in relation to the design system and is actualized against the context of culture. The cultural system is specifically introduced here to provide the context for designers and users, further emphasizing shared experiences and shifts in cultural values. Buckley & Clark (­2012, ­p. 28) propose the c­ ase-​­study approach to “­research the things, people, and ideas that have remained unobserved, to locate and interpret the intimate”, as social interactions and behaviors provide evidence for how fashion is consumed, negotiated, reinterpreted and represented. This places fashion research as addressing the personal and social, leading to the study of social forms of knowledge; a perspective supported by the im­ eaning-​­making, plications of the proposed framework. The research space, as a system of m results from how design knowledge affects the dialectical relationships of the problem space. Knowledge of designers are transferred and communicated into the creation of objects, which are consumed and adopted by users. The ways in which users integrate fashion objects into their everyday lives is explored within the transactional system, producing a more localized and personal approach for researching the social functions of fashion (­­Figure 18.5).

Fashion research as humanistic inquiry Designers, as active members in this shared sociocultural context, are uniquely positioned as being influenced by external forces while simultaneously influencing change through design activities. This significantly affects the fashion system, as movements toward individuality and independent thinking begin to disrupt the tension encased in the dialectic between imitation and distinction. Within this new cultural environment, designs begin to take on 235

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­Figure 18.5 Relationship between spaces of inquiry

new meanings which affect how designers use their own perceptions to develop foresight in designing. The design, fashion and cultural systems are, therefore, interdependent in how they relate and interact. Design knowledge increases in fluidity through interactions between individuals and social groups, creating a mobilizing effect. The fashion object, containing knowledge encoded by the designer, provokes individuals to reassign its symbolic significance in relation to their own ­self-​­perceptions and social contexts. This form of design knowledge instigates changes altering the individual’s position in the world, not as passive recipients of knowledge but as ­ eaning-​­making. In this way, fashion research extends active participants in the process of m into the humanistic inquiry of individuals and the methods through which they can establish meaningfulness in design. This chapter supports the study and research of fashion against historical and sociological perspectives. However, the rapid movements defining the fashion system greatly decrease the personal value and relevance of fashion objects. The implication of the research framework is to define the research space of fashion as involving designers and users, dialectical tensions, and the role of design knowledge as a means to establish meaningfulness. Fashion requires a humanistic approach to comprehend the specific cultural situations within which the fashion phenomenon takes place, developing a more defined understanding of how fashion facilitates the communication and process of ­meaning-​­making. Fashion involves all individuals and cultures, providing a means to connect and participate in the social world. As fashion becomes increasingly more socially aware, future challenges involve the dissolution of existing hierarchies, concern for exclusivity and newness, reliance on image, power dynamics of choice versus mandate, and role of agency (­Clark 2008). More research is needed to address the growing shift of fashion and restructuring of the fashion system, particularly when considering decolonial fashion discourse and the current movement toward delinking and radically departing from its dominant traditions ( ­Jansen 2020). This chapter contributes a research framework that provides a way of analyzing the problem spaces of fashion and reinstating the agency of object roles and individuals through design knowledge. The framework provides an overview of how f­ashion-​­related research can address the growing complexity of global challenges through questioning, reflecting, and negotiating the dynamic spaces of social interaction and the d­ esign-­​­­object-​­individual relationship.

References Almquist, Julka and Lupton, Julia. 2010. “­A ffording Meaning: ­Design-​­Oriented Research from the Humanities and Social Sciences.” Design Issues, 26 (­1): ­3 –​­14. https://­doi.org/­10.1162/­desi.2010.26.1.3

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Exploring research space in fashion ­Ball-​­Rokeach, Sandra J. and Tallman, Irving. 1979 “­Social Movements as Moral Confrontations: With Special Reference to Civil Rights.” In Understanding Human Values: Individual and Societal, edited by Milton Rokeach, 8­ 2–​­94. New York: The Free Press. Barnard, Malcolm. 2006. Fashion as Communication (­2nd ed.). London: Routledge, 1996. Barthes, Roland. 2006. The Language of Fashion. New York: Berg. Baudrillard, Jean. 1988. Jean Baudrillard: Selected Writings, edited by Mark Poster. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Blumer, Herbert. 1969. “­Fashion: From Class Differentiation to Collective Selection.” The Sociological Quarterly, 10 (­3): ­275–​­291. Buckley, Cheryl and Clark, Hazel. 2012. “­Conceptualizing Fashion in Everyday Lives.” Design Issues, 28 (­4): 1­ 8–​­28. Cheang, Sarah and Suterwalla, Shehnaz. 2020. “­Decolonizing the Curriculum? Transformation, Emotion, and Positionability in Teaching.” Fashion Theory, 28 (­6): 8­ 79–​­900. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/ ­1362704X.2020.1800989 Clarke, Alison and Miller, Daniel. 2002. “­Fashion and Anxiety.” Fashion Theory, 6 (­2): 1­ 91–​­213. Clark, Hazel. 2008. “­Slow + F ­ ashion -​­an O ­ xymoron -​­or a Promise for the Future…?” Fashion Theory, 12 (­4): 4­ 27–​­4 46. https://­doi.org/­10.2752/­175174108X346922 Crane, Diane and Bovone, Laura. 2006. “­Approaches to Material Culture: The Sociology of Fashion and Clothing.” Poetics, 34: ­319–​­333. https://­doi.org/­10.1016/­j.poetic.2006.10.002 Cross, Nigel. 1999. “­Design Research: A Disciplined Conversation.” Design Issues, 15 (­2): 5­ –​­10. https://­doi.org/­10.2307/­1511837 Cross, Nigel. 2006. Designerly Ways of Knowing. London: ­Springer-​­Verlag London Limited. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly and ­Rochberg-​­Halton, Eugene. 1981. The Meaning of Things: Domestic Symbols and the Self. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dilnot, Clive. 1984. “­The State of Design History: Part II: Problems and Possibilities.” Design Issues, 1 (­2): ­233–​­250. Entwistle, Joanne. 2000. The Fashioned Body: Fashion, Dress and Modern Social Theory. Cambridge: Polity Press. Friedman, Ken. 2000. “­Creating Design Knowledge: from Research into Practice” IDATER, 5­ –​­27. Heinamaa, Sara. 2012. “­The Body.” In The Routledge Companion to Phenomenology, edited by Sebastian Luft and Søren Overgaard, ­222–​­232. Oxon: Routledge. Heinze, Lisa. 2020. “­Fashion with Heart: Sustainable Fashion Entrepreneurs, Emotional Labour and Implications for a Sustainable Fashion System.” Sustainable Development, 28 (­5): 1­ 554–​­1563. https://­ doi.org/­10.1002/­sd.2104 Hillier, Bill, Musgrove, John and O’Sullivan, Pat. 1984. “­K nowledge and Design.” In Developments in Design Methodology, edited by Nigel Cross, ­245–​­264. New York: John Wiley & Sons, Ltd. Hoadley, Christopher and Cox, Charlie. 2009. “­W hat is Design Knowledge and How Do We Teach It?” In Educating Learning Technology Designers, edited by Chris DiGiano, Shelley Goldman, Shelley and Michael Chorost, ­19–​­35. New York: Routledge. Jansen, M. Angela. 2020. “­Fashion and the Phantasmagoria of Modernity: An Introduction to Decolonial Fashion Discourse.” Fashion Theory, 24 (­6): 8­ 15–​­836. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­1362704X. 2020.1802098 Luz-​­ Maria. 2000. “­ Design’s Own Knowledge.” Design Issues, 16 (­ 1): ­36–​­51. Jimenez Narvaez, ­ http://­d x.doi.org/­10.1162/­074793600300159583 Johnston, Hank and Klandermans, Bert. 1995. “­The Cultural Analysis of Social Movements”. In Social Movements and Culture, edited by Hank Johnston and Bert Klandermans, ­3 –​­24. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Kazmierczak, Elzbieta T. 2003. “­Design as Meaning Making: From Making Things to the Design of Thinking.” Design Issues, 19 (­2): 4­ 5–​­59. Kim, Hong Woo. 2001. “­Phenomenology of the Body and its Implications for Humanistic Ethics and Politics.” Human Studies, 24: ­69–​­85. McCracken, Grant. 1986. “­Culture and Consumption: A Theoretical Account of the Structure and Movement of the Cultural Meaning of Consumer Goods.” Journal of Consumer Research, 13 (­1): 7­ 1–​­84. Nedelmann, Birgitta. 1990. “­Georg Simmel as an Analyst of Autonomous Dynamics: The M ­ erry-­​­­go-​ ­round of Fashion.” In Georg Simmel and Contemporary Sociology, edited by Michael Kaern, Bernard S. Phillips and Robert S. Cohen, ­243–​­257. Dordrecht: Springer.

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Harah Chon Nowotny, Helga. 2000. “­Transgressive Competence: The Narrative of Expertise.” European Journal of Social Theory, 3 (­1): 5­ –​­21. Olsen, Poul Birsch and Heaton, Lorna. 2010. “­K nowing through Design.” In Design Research: S ­ ynergies from Interdisciplinary Perspectives, edited by Jesper Simonsen, Jørgen Ole Baerenholdt, Monica ­Buscher and John Damm Scheuer, 7­ 9–​­94. Oxon: Routledge. ­R inofner-​­Kreidl, Sonja. 2012. “­Moral Philosophy.” In The Routledge Companion to Phenomenology, edited by Sebastian Luft and Søren Overgaard, ­417–​­428. Oxon: Routledge. Rocamora, Agnes. 2002. “­Fields of Fashion: Critical Insights into Bourdieu’s Sociology of Culture.” Journal of Consumer Culture, 2 (­3): 3­ 41–​­362. Scheler, Max. 1973. Formalism in Ethics and N ­ on-​­formal Ethics of Values. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Schon, Donald. A. 1983. The Reflective Practitioner: How Professionals Think in Action. New York: Basic Books. Simmel, Georg. 1957. “­Fashion.” The American Journal of Sociology, 62 (­6): ­541–​­558. Simmel, Georg. 1971. On Individuality and Social Forms, edited by Donald L. Levine. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Simon, Herbert. A. 1996. “­T he Sciences of the Artificial (­3rd ed.). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Terracciano, Bianca. 2017. “­The Contemporary Fashion System.” In Fashion through History, Costumes, Symbols, Communication, edited by Giovanna Motta and Antonello F. Biagini, 3­ 99–​­407. N ­ ewcastle-­​ ­­upon-​­Tyne: Cambridge Scholars. Thornquist, Clemens. 2018. “­The Fashion Condition: Rethinking Fashion from Its Everyday Practices.” Fashion Practice, 10 (­3): 2­ 89–​­310. DOI: 10.1080/­17569370.2018.1507147 Vieira, Alfonso V. 2009. “­A n Extended Theoretical Model of Fashion Clothing Involvement.” Journal of Fashion Marketing and Management, 13 (­2): ­179–​­200. Weller, Sally. 2007. “­Fashion as Viscous Knowledge: Fashion’s Role in Shaping T ­ rans-​­national Garment Production.” Journal of Economic Geography, 7 (­1): ­39– ​­66. https://­doi.org/­10.1093/­jeg/­lbl015 Workman, Jane E., and Caldwell, Lark F. 2007. “­Centrality of Visual Product Aesthetics, Tactile and Uniqueness Needs of Fashion Consumers.” International Journal of Consumer Studies, 31 (­6): ­589–​­596. https://­doi.org/­10.1111/­j.­1470-​­6431.2007.00613.x

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PART III

Conducting design research Asking questions; data collection methods; analysing information; interpreting findings; ethical issues

The chapters in Part III of the revised and updated (­2nd edition) Routledge Companion to Design Research are concerned with how design research is conducted and offer examples of a wide range of approaches, tools and methods used for various disciplinary, academic and commercial contexts. The methods presented here are not an exhaustive list but they offer a patina of relevant, contemporary and often very different approaches appropriate for design research. The variety of ways in which design research is conducted illustrates the plurality, depth and richness in it. In recent years we have witnessed a blurring of design practice and design research as we begin to see many different ways that practice might feature centrally in the production of knowledge in design. Zoë Sadokierski and Kate Sweetapple’s chapter presents methods for analysing written texts in visual ways. The ­methods – ​­(­i) visual abstraction, (­i i) focussed d­ ata-​­mining, and (­i ii) exploratory d­ ata-​­mining are analytical tools for enquiry and are not to be mistaken solely as visualisations of existing knowledge. The methods presented in the chapter are mindful of scholarly conventions, particularly reproducibility and could be applied to the analysis of written texts within any field. Consequently, the authors bring methods that would otherwise remain embedded in practice to the field of design research. In an effort to overcome the limitations of both artistic and scientific framing, Craig Bremner and Mark Roxburgh observed that the “­ethnographic turn” in design is an attempt to understand the users of design and the experiences they have of the designed world. They suggest that in so doing we have lost perspective of the abstract and transformative dimensions of design, as well as the abstract and transformative dimensions of experience. Bremner and Roxburgh’s chapter looks closely at the distorting effect the design photo has had on design research (­namely as a record of what’s there) and instead propose abstracting the photographic image, or what they call the “­design photo”. They argue that ­photo-​­observation does not produce evidence and illustrate the abstracted photograph as a form of question through which design researchers can ­re-​­engage in the project of ­what-­​­­m ight-​­become. Beatrice Villari’s chapter describes an action research approach applied to design research, providing theoretical and practical guidelines for design researchers. The chapter describes four p­ hases – (­ ​­ i) analysing, (­ii) interpreting, (­iii) projecting and (­iv) implementing pinpointing the main elements used to support the participation of different actors involved in this

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-22

Conducting design research

kind of research (­e.g., design researchers, ­policy-​­makers, citizens). The action research process, described in the chapter, deals with research activities related to complex systems (­e.g., territorial contexts) where the participation of different actors is crucial. From this perspective, the research tools and practices need to refer to participatory approaches that often entail emancipatory processes. Diana Albarrán González and Jani Wilson’s chapter offers up the use of the ­craft-­​­­design-​ ­art of textiles as metaphors to develop novel methodological approaches to design research. Drawing on their personal experiences as Indigenous design researchers working within an academic setting, they sought to delink indigenous knowledge from the colonial matrix of power. Their chapter discusses collective approaches with/ by/ for Indigenous communities in Mexico and Aotearoa New Zealand that interweave decolonial theory, v­ isual-­​­­digital-​ ­sensorial ethnography, textiles as resistance and ­co-​­design towards community ­well-​­being as a decolonising alternative to design research. In these spaces from the Global South, ­A lbarrán González and Wilson weave concepts through live action of care (­m anaakitanga), mutual support (­tautoko), aroha and corazonar to illustrate alternative pathways where values, people and relationships are fundamental to design research. Barbara Szaniecki and Zoy Anastassakis’ chapter presents the notion of public participation from the perspective of a design and anthropology laboratory located in the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Rather than framing the contribution of the Global South to the hegemonic practices of the Global North, they propose a more fluid understanding and divisions of knowledge by “­southerning the world” and in turn design research, with less methodologies and more movement. Two types of movements are presented in the ​­i) movements through alliances in experiments that interweave design and agro­chapter – (­ ecology and (­ii) movements by correspondence in experiments that intertwine design and anthropology. Without belonging to the North or the South, the authors claim, this design without interiority or exteriority continues in movement and may point to other possibilities of participation. Pieter Jan Stappers, Froukje Sleeswijk Visser and Ianus Keller examine the role of prototypes and frameworks in ­research-­​­­through-​­design projects. In their chapter, the authors write design actions contribute to the method of research and to the way knowledge is developed in ­research-­​­­through-​­design projects, which raises several tensions between what research and design are, what they produce, how the two are done together, and how the results can be shared with other researchers, practitioners and stakeholders. The authors’ chapter draws lessons from two seminal PhD studies on how developing prototypes, and having a conceptual framework helps coherence in broad, p­ henomenon-​­led explorations. María Cristina Ibarra’s chapter explores decolonial, participatory design practices and research through an analysis of two research projects. The work is inspired by the concept of sentipensar, introduced by Colombian sociologist, Orlando Fals Borda. Sentipensar and sentipensamiento imply the art of living based on thinking with both heart and mind. The author interpreted the concept of sentipensar as “­a way of learning with contextualised knowledge of grassroots communities at the center”. Both projects examine the confluence of academic and local knowledge and responds to Fals Borda’s call to contextualise knowledge within Latin America’s complex realities. While the first project was of a purely analytical nature, the second aimed to contribute directly to the daily lives of the local community in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The work, inspired by participatory design (­PD) and design anthropology (­DA), aims to contribute to the construction of a design process that is relevant to the interests of the local community and explores what a sentipensante (­­feeling-​­thinking) design practice and research might look like. 240

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Design is about plotting and planning new modes of action, and research supports this behaviour through analysis of existing conditions and tendencies writes Otto von Busch. In a lot of design practice, this concerns the invention and addition of novel things whereas hacktivism deals with the activation and recircuiting of existing resources. Otto von Busch’s chapter explores how design research can strive to intervene in the distribution of agency across areas to further participation and engagement with the aim of social empowerment. Emphasising a ­hands-​­on approach, hacktivism as a research method seeks to amplify user agency, bypass gatekeepers, mobilise alliances, enhance s­elf-​­reliance, and open new interfaces between social protocols and systems. Chris Speed’s chapter considers the implications of d­ ata-​­driven technologies on design research within a period that has seen radical change for the discipline. The chapter revisits an era in which “­software ate the world”, a phrase introduced by Marc Andreessen (­2011) to describe the development of platform economies powered by software, enhanced by large data sets and disruptive business models, that consumed established analogue brands and supply chains. Chris Speed’s chapter explores how the use of software technologies within design is changing the way in which research is informed by ­d ata-​­driven technologies and suggests that “­software is likely to eat design” unless it develops a critical approach to the use of new technologies such as artificial intelligence (­A I). Alison Thomson’s chapter examines three different versions of “­patient experience” in healthcare and design research. These different understandings of patient experience are demonstrated through ­practice-​­based design research projects to explore how these versions can be understood by design researchers. The chapter draws on examples of academic ­practice-​­based design research in the context of Multiple Sclerosis (­MS) research and healthcare at Queen Mary University of London, in East London where patient experience is a timely, complex and multifaceted object of study. The chapter highlights that this is not a topic of research restricted to healthcare, medicine or design, but involves interconnected fields and practices. Consequently, design researchers can intervene and create opportunities to explore unique insights and raise new questions about what it means to live with a chronic condition.

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19 DRAWING OUT How designers analyse written texts in visual ways Zoë Sadokierski and Kate Sweetapple

Within design discourse, much attention towards the written word is directed at ­t ypography –​ ­how words are arranged to visually communicate meaning. In this article, we consider the written word from a different perspective, revealing how designers analyse written texts for research and concept development. We describe three analytical methods we developed through our own practice, and observed in the practice of other designers. We name these methods Visual Abstraction, Focussed D ­ ata-​­mining and Exploratory D ­ ata-​­mining. Each method is supported by examples from our own work, and the work of Stefanie Posavec and Sam Winston, who both describe analysing written texts as part of their design process. Although these methods are commonly used in design practice, they are less frequently reported in a research context. Therefore, it is valuable to reframe these ­practice-​­based methods as a meaningful contribution to design scholarship.1

Three methods for analysing written texts This first section describes three methods designers use to analyse written texts: 1 Visual ­Abstraction  – a​­ way to see past the written narrative to reveal patterns and rhythms in a text; 2 Focussed d­ ata-­​­­mining – searching ​­ written texts for predetermined themes or ideas; 3 Exploratory d­ ata-­​­­mining – searching ​­ written texts with undetermined focus, allowing focus to occur in the process of searching.

Visual abstraction Two examples where visual abstraction has been used to reveal rhythm and patterns in written documents are Stefanie Posavec’s ‘­Writing Without Words’ and Zoë Sadokierski’s thumbnail schemas. In these examples the act of abstracting written text removes the distraction of the narrative in order to reveal patterns and find new readings of the text. Stefanie Posavec completed an MA in Communication Design from Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design in 2006.2 Posavec’s final work, ‘­Writing Without Words’, treats classic novels as data sets; she extracts quantitative information from the books in 242

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Drawing out: how designers analyse written texts in visual ways

order to communicate something about the text other than the author’s narrative. Posavec describes this work as ‘­a project that explores methods of visually representing text’ in order to visualise ‘­d ifferences in writing styles of various authors’ (­2007). The result is a set of diagrams, posters and books that visually represent the texts. ‘­First Chapters’ are diagrams visualising the first chapters of classic n ­ ovels – ​­the number of words per sentence determines the length of the line, each new sentence turns the line 90°. Abstracting sentences to lines renders the narrative unreadable, allowing the viewer to focus on the ‘­units of language’ that compose each book. As a collection, these drawings quickly describe the different writing styles of the various authors. Explaining the variations in sentence length would be lengthy and potentially boring to ­read – displaying ​­ them as a collection of juxtaposed drawings makes a concise point, that can be further interpreted the longer the viewer spends comparing the diagrams to each other. Interpreting the sentence lengths and paragraph structure is not the same as interpreting the narrative. Each sentence diagram is a visual onomatopoeia of the written ­text – ​­as well as the length of sentences, they reveal the rhythm and pattern of the writing style (­­Figure 19.1). For example, compare Hemingway and Kerouac’s diagrams. Hemingway is known for his ­pared-​­back prose and conversely Kerouac for his unpunctuated rambling. The visual language of these maps succinctly reveals the different writing styles. Through teaching this method, we have witnessed students applying sentence diagramming in surprising ways. For example, investigating whether chatbots are intelligent (­through machine learning, they continually evolve based on interactions with humans) or static (­they recall preformatted answers), Elle Doggett asked the same set of questions to a range of bots over several weeks, and used sentence diagramming of these ‘­conversations’ to reveal which chatbots were static and which were intelligent based on small changes (­or not) in their responses over time. While Posavec abstracts novels into quantifiable data to understand and communicate something about different writing styles, Sadokierski abstracts novels into thumbnail schemas, in order to understand image placement within hybrid novels. Her 2010 doctoral thesis analysed hybrid ­novels – ​­novels in which graphic elements such as photographs, drawings and diagrams are integrated in the written narrative. The appearance of graphic images on

­Figure 19.1 ‘­First Chapters’ – ​­Hemingway and Kerouac. Stefanie Posavec 2007

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Zoë Sadokierski and Kate Sweetapple

­Figure 19.2 Thumbnail schema of Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Zoë Sadokierski 2010

the pages of novels is unusual; novels are conventionally a purely written literary form. In order to understand what kinds of graphic elements appear within a hybrid novel, and where they appear in relation to the written text, Sadokierski sketched thumbnail schemas for a range of novels. The thumbnail schema is coded using different colours to represent different types of graphic element (­­Figure 19.2). Designers generate thumbnail sketches to map out a document (­print or digital), creating a schema similar to the floor plan of a building. This schema allows the designer to plan where compositional and graphic elements appear and to establish rhythm within the layout (­considering how design decisions affect the pace of reading and comprehension of the text). A thumbnail schema helps the designer envision the document as a ­whole – ​­to make decisions about individual design elements in the context of the whole document. Although thumbnailing is generally used in the planning stages of a design project, this example shows how it can be an analytical tool; deconstructing the composition of a book to reveal insights about how written and graphic elements relate. The schema allows us to consider the kinds of questions a designer would ask: could the placement of graphic devices be related to printing specifications?3; Is there visual rhythm that orchestrates the placement of graphic devices? The thumbnail schema has the effect of ‘­flattening the landscape’; it removes all the cues a visual person would be distracted b­ y – ​­typeface, line length and other compositional e­ lements – ​­to think about a text as a map. This method analyses a written text by abstracting it completely, revealing insights that may have been missed by looking at the book as a ‘­codex’ – ​­page by page, rather than as a schema. Sketching thumbnails is a meditative exercise that encourages a ‘­conversation’ with the text, revealing new insights about the design of each page without the distraction of reading the narrative. Committing pen to ­paper – ​­sketching the g­ raphics – ​­requires breaking down 244

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the composition of the page to sketch it. The slowness of the process encourages reflection; for between an hour and an hour and a ­half – the ​­ time it took to sketch the schema for an entire ­novel – ​­focus was entirely on the compositional elements. The ­thumb-​­nailing exercise encourages looking with a ‘­curious eye’ – ​­actively seeking what is not yet known, placing it into the context of a research method not a design planning tool.4 Posavec also discusses the value of performing her initial text analysis by hand, rather than using computer programmes: Much of what I do is with pencil and paper…. I find a subject that I love, and try to find within it something I can map, or markdown on paper. Then I spend lots of time reading and rereading the text and counting words or counting numbers or just going through a subject matter repeatedly until I have all the data in a notebook … by reading and rereading these texts, I’m able to understand more about a specific text or a specific subject matter than I would otherwise, than I would if I wrote a computer program to analyse that text for me. (­interview on Protein TV, 2011) Diagramming and thumbnailing force the researcher to engage with a text with her hand as well as her eye. Richard Sennett (­2008) discusses the ‘­l ink between the head and hand’, in his book The Craftsman. For ­craftspeople – ​­including writers and ­designers – planning ​­ and drafting are vital stages in the creative process. In ‘­thinking’ through the hand, ideas are fleshed out in action, through the process of making, and reflecting on making. Le Corbusier, an advocate of sketching, wrote: Once the impression has been recorded by the pencil, it stays for good, entered, registered, inscribed. … To draw oneself, to trace the lines, handle the volumes, organize the surface … all this means first to look, and then to observe and finally perhaps to discover … and it is then that inspiration may come. (­in Anthony 1966) These examples demonstrate that revealing rhythm and pattern is a particular strength of the visual. Through the process of turning text into ‘­d ata’, we stop reading the narrative and start to read something else. Here, that something else is a visual language that the designer has created to explore the text in ­non-​­traditional ways. From these abstractions, we read the visual language of the designer, not the original text. The visual language is a kind of coding using design elements such as colour, line, shape, pattern and hierarchy. These two examples use drawing to reduce written texts to abstract compositions, allowing readings of the text beyond the narrative. These new readings provide insights and interpretations otherwise difficult to access through ­non-​­visual methods.

Focussed ­data-​­mining Focussed D ­ ata-​­mining is a method that involves mining a written text for specific information, followed by categorisation and coding of that information. This is a type of Content Analysis. Stemming from the field social science, Content Analysis is a way to systematically identify words, phrases, themes or ideas in a text, which reveal key elements or ideas from that text. In social science and as a design research tool this is a method of data r­ eduction – a​­ way to pick through large volumes of text to find specific things. What is unique about the 245

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examples discussed below is the capacity to simultaneously conduct analysis and produce a visualisation of the findings. The way designers’ conduct content analysis is unique in that graphic qualities such as colour, type size and composition are imbedded in the method. In the examples below, the use of graphic elements enables the analysis to become a point of communication; the data analysis communicates the findings. In her doctoral research, Sadokierski examined book reviews to determine how literary critics discussed the graphic devices in hybrid novels. For each novel, she chose ten reviews from a variety of ­publications – book ​­ blogs to literary ­journals – ​­and streamed all the review text into a single document with the same typeface, size and leading. Different colours code where a reviewer discusses: the general format/­genre (­in dark blue); comparisons to other hybrid works (­in light blue); and the presence of graphic devices (­in red). Many reviewers noted the presence of graphics without critiquing them, so where reviewers discuss the effectiveness of graphic devices, these words/­phrases are enlarged in point size. This ‘­word mapping’ technique abstracts some elements of the text (­the smaller, grey typography is difficult to read) and gives visual hierarchy to specific words or phrases (­colour and size draw attention to important descriptions). The illustration in ­Figure 19.3 shows a scaled down map of Umberto Eco’s novel The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana. Each map visualises where graphic devices are simply mentioned (­in colour), and where critique of their function is given (­enlarged point size). Examining a single map, it is visually apparent where the critique of graphic devices is repeated in different reviews. Comparing the maps for different novels also visually identifies patterns in the critique of different books, as did the sentence diagrams and thumbnails schemas discussed previously. Producing these maps revealed an important insight. Descriptive adjectives such as ‘­g immickry’ and ‘­trickery’ frequently appear in reviews of hybrid novels. To clearly communicate this insight, all the descriptive adjectives for graphic devices used in one hundred and twenty four published reviews of hybrid novels were converted into a word cloud. The size of the word is directly proportional to the number of times it appeared in the various reviews.5 This unexpected discovery provoked a shift in the research focus. The term ‘­g immick’ carries connotations of being ­superfluous – ​­a supplementary incentive to purchase (­f ree steak knives, a cereal box trinket). Transferred to a literary context, describing graphic devices as gimmicks dismisses them as supplementary marketing strategies rather than integral literary devices. To investigate whether the term was being used in a dismissive way, this analytical

­Figure 19.3 Detail from word map of Umberto Eco’s novel The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana

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­Figure 19.4 ‘­Adjective Word Cloud’ for a single hybrid n ­ ovel – ​­where adjectives are split into positive, negative and neutral

process was next applied to the reviews of individual books, but for each book the list of adjectives was split into three smaller clouds indicating whether the term was used in a positive, negative or neutral way by the reviewer (­­Figure 19.4). These adjective word clouds map the reviews of a single book to quickly communicate how reviewers respond to the graphic devices in a particular novel, regardless of the way the reviewers critiqued the plot or writing style. Further, the word clouds can be used for comparative a­ nalysis – comparing ​­ the adjective word clouds of several hybrid novels reveals how different hybrid novels were critically received in terms of their graphic elements and not plot or writing style. Sam Winston is another designer who uses Focussed ­Data-​­mining to extract themes from a written text and communicate his findings through visualisation. Winston deconstructs ​­ Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet by categorising the text into three emotional s­tates – passion, rage and solace. By typesetting these new data sets, Winston creates visualisations that communicate the emotive qualities embedded in the language, as well as providing a quantitative account of language use. He then takes the text from each data set and creates collages that abstractly visualise each emotional state. As described on This Is Art: ‘­These collages create a new visual catalogue for the emotions expressed by the play’s protagonists, displacing the linear narrative of literature for a chronology that’s much more apt for our chaotic internet age’ (­w ww.thisisart.eu/; ­Figure 19.5). Although the text is no longer l­egible – ​­Winston intentionally cuts each letterform so that it is unreadable and composes the form of the collages to suggest rage, passion or solace. These three themes are now understood through shape. Winston replaces the written text with an abstract visual language.6 Winston continues this approach in his 2009 work ‘­Darwin’. With an interest in how a scientist and a poet use language, Winston analyses’ Charles Darwin’s ‘­On the Origin of Species’ and Ruth Padel’s ‘­Darwin, A Life In Poems’. He separates out the nouns, verbs, adjectives and ‘­other’ and arranges them into columns which reveal patterns of usage. He writes, ‘­I wanted to present a visual map […] a look at how much each author used real world names (­Nouns) and more abstract terminology (­Verb, Adjective and Other) in their writings’ 247

Zoë Sadokierski and Kate Sweetapple

­Figure 19.5 ‘­R age’ (­left) and ‘­Solace’ (­r ight) by Sam Winston

(­Winston 2016). Although an exercise in quantification, Winston creates a qualitative account of the data by visually listing every word in each category. These two examples show how designers use the methods of Focussed D ­ ata-​­mining and Visual Abstraction to create new knowledge of a text and the means by which to communicate it.

Exploratory ­data-​­mining The third method that we have identified to analyse written texts is Exploratory ­Data-​ ­m ining: searching written texts with an undetermined focus. Every researcher tells a story of looking for one thing only to discover something far more interesting in the process. When this occurs the researcher’s initial focus can shift or dissolve, which opens up new possibilities and turns the task of s­ earch – looking ​­ for a predetermined theme or idea, into e­ xploration – looking ​­ without a clear motive. Kate Sweetapple used Exploratory ­Data-​­mining in the initial stages of her experimental cartographic maps of Sydney. When briefed to design an alternative map of Sydney, Sweetapple started to read the Sydney White Pages – the ​­ 2010 telephone directory for Sydney r­ esidents – with ​­ little more than a vague notion that surnames might prove to be an interesting starting point.7 Although the exact purpose was unclear, the approach was analytical: each surname was read and assessed for its potential value. ‘­Is this surname interesting (­a musing, unusual, unexpected) or not?’ The measure of value is highly subjective, which is problematic for a demographer but less so for a designer looking for a new angle on Sydney. The process of separating out potentially useful surnames (­Burger, Mule, Tooth) from the less so (­Barnard, Gibbs, Smith) is an interpretive method. It is a method that removes Sydney residents from the logic of A ­ -​­Z and places them into a coarser categorisation s­ ystem –​­ ‘­yes’, ‘­no’ and ‘­m aybe’. The visual aspect of this analysis lies in the particularity of what a designer finds interesting. For Sweetapple, the surnames that were initially interesting were sets of names that could be: rendered visually (­e.g. the Blacks, Whites, Greens); paired (­e.g. Salt and Pepper, Waugh and Peace, Gin and Tonic); categories of names (­e.g. cars, trees, birds); and, actions (­e.g. Chase, Hug, Hurt). At some stage during the process loose fields of interest began to tighten, as Sweetapple noticed that surnames that were part of large groups began to emerge as a theme: birds (­Crow, Eagle, Quail); heavenly bodies (­Mars, Moon, Pluto); fish 248

Drawing out: how designers analyse written texts in visual ways

(­Bass, Herring, Pilcher); trees (­Gum, Oak, Wattle); cars (­Audi, Ford, Holden) etc. Yet there was still too much data, and no clear way of representing i­t – further ​­ editing was required. Sweetapple noticed some subsets had more visual potential than others. The birds, fish and heavenly bodies all clustered: birds in a flock, fish in a school and heavenly bodies in a constellation. For example, by plotting each residential location of an individual, couple or family with an avian surname, a flock that traced the geography of Sydney emerged (­­Figure 19.6).8 If we understand exploratory ­d ata-​­mining as looking in a particular way, even if it is not for a particular thing, then this particular way could be termed designerly; revealing insights into a data set only afforded by the perspective of a designer. Below, we discuss a collaborative project that was driven by our analysis of a written text, using a combination of Exploratory and Focussed d­ ata-​­mining.

Case study: ‘­Unlikely Avian Taxonomies’ Unlikely Avian Taxonomies is a speculative project, exploring the potential to represent a ­well-​­known data set in a new way. The aim of the project was to analyse a particular data ­set – ​­bird ­names – in ​­ order to reveal alternate narratives about birds and bird naming. In 2009 we realised that through independent ­avian-​­related projects, we were both spending large amounts of time reading ornithological texts and delighting in bird names. This avian affinity led to ongoing conversations about language, ordering, and information visualisation. Before long, we had a random collection of odd bird ­names – ​­Sandwich Tern, Satanic Nightjar, ­Bare-​­faced ­G o-­​­­Away-​­Bird, to name a few. This early collection of names was drawn haphazardly from a range of sources and search methods: online, print, in conversation. We were uncertain where this process would lead, but sensed it was worth pursuing. To develop this into a research project, a more systematic categorisation approach was needed, starting with a comprehensive list of birds. We chose the International Ornithological Committee (­IOC) World Bird List because it contains 31 500+ names. Systematically, we read each bird name in the database and copied curious names into loose groups, only knowing what we were looking for when we found it: a process of Exploratory D ­ ata-​­mining. We were searching the List with designers’ understanding of the way in which recontextualisation can form new narratives. Through Exploratory ­Data-​­mining, the categories we created most quickly were based on graphic qualities such as colour (­­Pink-​­footed Goose, Red Goshawk, ­Blue-​­bellied Parrot) and pattern (­­Dot-​­winged Crake, Spotted Sandpiper, Striped Flufftail). In time, we formed more poetic categories, based around word play in the names. We noticed birds that sounded terrifying (­­Cut-​­throat Finch), amusing (­Helmeted Pygmy Tyrant), sorrowful (­Greyish Mourner), and just plain ridiculous (­Spangled Drongo). Birds that sounded as if they were hiding s­omething –​ ­Hooded Grebe, Masked Duck  – were ​­ categorised as ‘­ Birds Incognito’. ‘­ Regal Birds’ are ­plentiful – ​­Emperor Penguin, Royal Tern, Imperial Shag. Exploratory D ­ ata-​­mining allowed us to develop a set of fledgling categories. Through this process we also developed sensitivity to the language in bird names and realised we may have overlooked some birds that belonged to the categories. To ensure comprehensiveness, we turned to Focussed D ­ ata-​­mining. We returned to the IOC database, this time searching for the predetermined b­ ird-​­categories formed through exploratory ­d ata-​­mining. However, rather than r­e-​­reading the whole database, we used the search function to locate particular ­birds – ​­for instance, searching for ‘­red’ allowed us to find all the red ­birds – ​­making the process more efficient than the initial data mining. 249

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­Figure 19.6 ‘­Map of Sydney: Avian Surnames’, Sweetapple 2009

Through a combination of Exploratory ­Data-​­mining and Focussed ­Data-​­mining, we generated new data sets to work with. Below, we discuss how we translated three of these data sets into visualisations. The ­fi rst – birds ​­ by ­colour – is ​­ based on visual references within the bird names, the second ­two – ​­antisocial and ­incognito –​­ are based on social sounding qualities within the names. 250

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Birds by colour Initially, to visualise birds with colour in their names, we planned to create charts of bird silhouettes using single ­colours – ​­for example, a chart of yellow birds, a chart of green birds, etc. However, as we searched, the number of colours and the number of birds of each colour grew to an extent we had not anticipated. In the end we had 3,442 birds categorised into 87 different colours. This was by far the largest data set we collected and would take a whole book of bird charts to communicate. In addition, the process of cataloguing the colours revealed other stories: the variety of colours (­87 that we identified), the quantities of each colour (­only 20 ‘­pink’ but 52 ‘­dusky’), colour names (­we found words we knew were colours but not what colours they ­were – flavescent ​­ and r­ ufuous – ​­and colours that we did not know were colours at a­ ll – ​­cinerious, fuscous and malachite). Below are three of the visualisations we created from this data set. ‘­Avian Taxonomy 2a’ is a list (­­Figure 19.7). We typeset each bird name in its appropriate colour and arranged the names into a spectrum. This approach enabled us to give an overview of the range of colours, while showing the richness of the names: E ­ merald-​­bellied Puffleg; ­Fire-​­maned Bowerbird; Azure Dollarbird. Although this visualisation allows the viewer to read the bird names, it does not efficiently communicate the precise number birds with a particular colour in their name. The varying length of the bird names distorts the information, as some are longer than others. In ‘­Avian Taxonomy 2b’, quantity is more accurately depicted using dots of a standard measure (­1 dot = 1 bird) (­­Figure 19.7 middle). While 11 birds will always equal 11 dots, the length of the names of 11 ‘­red’ birds will differ from the length of the names of 11 ‘­cinnamon’ birds. Using dots as colour swatches also more clearly shows the variations in colour across our spectrum. While the swatch taxonomy resolves issues of efficient visual quantification and the communication of subtle shifts in colour, it does not visualise the colours in bird names as a continuous spectrum, nor does it provide, at a glance, the most and least common colours. We created ‘­Avian Taxonomy 2c’ (­a hybrid pie and radar chart) to allow accurate comparison of quantities of colours from any point in the spectrum (­­Figure 19.7 right).

­Figure 19.7 Birds with colour in their names (­list, dots and chart form) (­See for colour images of the figures featured in this chapter)

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An accurate data set was required to visualise the range and quantity of colours that appear in bird names to produce the Birds by Colour taxonomies. Therefore, the comprehensiveness afforded by Focussed ­Data-​­mining was important. For the more poetic taxonomies discussed below, quantitative comprehensiveness was less important than an editorial process to develop narratives based on word play. Focussed ­Data-​­mining was still used in these poetic taxonomies, although in a different way. What kept us engaged through the slow process of reading the IOC List was our tendency to anthropomorphise bird ­names – ​­to assume that a Greyish Mourner is actually depressed, or a R ­ ed-​­necked Woodpecker is small minded and abusive.9 Below we discuss two of the taxonomies we created that explore the poetics of bird names.

Antisocial birds We compiled numerous lists of birds that were loosely associated by a ‘­social’ quality in their name. In contrast to flamboyant sounding b­ irds – ​­Splendid Sunbird, Festive Amazon, Spangled ­Coquette – ​­birds that sounded boring appealed to ­us – Plain ​­ Swift, Unadorned Flycatcher, Solitary Snipe. Annoying sounding birds also stood ­out – ​­Screaming Cowbird, Whooper Swan, Belcher’s Gull. Birds with violent names are alarmingly c­ ommon – Blood ​­ Pheasant, Razorbill, Grimwood’s Longclaw. We ended up with a data set containing hundreds of bird names that reflect human qualities. To create a cohesive narrative from this, we used Focussed ­Data-​­mining as an editing tool. ‘­Avian Taxonomy 3a’ communicates antisocial sounding birds. We placed the names into a hierarchy of antisocial tendencies, from the harmless Solitary Snipe to the homicidal ­Cut-​ t­ hroat Finch. These tendencies are organised into three ­categories – ​­Unsocial, Offensive and Malicious. Subcategories further clarify how to read the bird names in relation to these categories. For example, Unsocial Birds were divided into Standoffish, Reclusive and Boring. The ‘­Bearded Mountaineer’ may not easily be understood as ‘­A ntisocial’ without the further qualifiers of being ‘­Unsocial’ and ‘­Reclusive’ (­­Figure 19.8). For this taxonomy to communicate effectively we needed to edit out duplicates. If there were multiple birds with ‘­common’ in their name, we chose the most ‘­common’ sounding example; the Common Jery sounded more boring than the Common Blackhawk. Once we structured the taxonomy, we could be more playful within it. For example, birds with plain, common, drab, dull in their names were categorised as boring, but we also included the Vegetarian Finch, to highlight the subjectivity of these categories. ­ ire-​­tufted Many of these bird names have great illustrative p­ otential – ​­Satanic Nightjar, F Barbet, Jackass Penguin. However, we felt that illustrations would detract from the subtlety of the taxonomy, which aims to communicate the implied antisocial behaviour within the names. Therefore, this chart is the most conventionally ‘­taxonomic’ looking. Visually, it threatens to be dull reading, which makes it more surprising when the unlikely taxonomy is revealed. To extend this rhetorical strategy, the diagram was distorted subtly on a photocopier (­fi rst printed out on a laser printer, then photocopied smaller and larger to blur the text), and reproduced in the purple hue associated with old stencil prints students were given at school, before desktop printers. Conversely, to visually communicate ‘­Birds Incognito’, we opted to illustrate a small sample of the collection, in order to emphasise the elements that would clarify the taxonomy. Although it seemed obvious to us that masked, bearded, moustached and spectacled birds might be disguising their true identity, we weren’t convinced all viewers would make the conceptual link. We illustrated four birds in ink, each with one of these words in its name, 252

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­Figure 19.8 Antisocial birds (­left) and birds in cognito (­r ight)

and collaged a ­paper-​­cut of the ‘­d isguise’ slightly clumsily on top to draw attention to the ‘­prop’ and clarify the concept. We presented this work as an exhibition, so it was important to quickly communicate our process of exploratory data mining; without understanding that these are all real bird names laboriously plucked from a definitive world bird name database, the work has less impact. We printed the entire database of English and Latin names on a ­large-​­format plotting printer, mounted it on the back wall of the gallery, then repeated our data mining using coloured markers. The ­7-​­hour process can be viewed as a s­ top-​­motion animation on our website. In repeating this process, we began forming new taxonomies: birds to take camping (­the F ­ irewood-​­gather, the Canvasback, the Ovenbird, the Fishing Owl, the Spiderhunter and the Sunbird) and fiscal birds (­the Dollarbird, the G ­ reen-​­backed Firecrown, the Rothschild’s Swift), birds who should never cohabitate (­the Morningbird and the Nightjar, the Immaculate Antbird and the ­Short-​ ­billed Leaftosser, the Oilbird and the Water Pipit). This shows that the process can be repeated. This case study shows how Exploratory ­Data-​­mining and Focussed ­Data-​­mining can be used in tandem within a design research process, and in the process of visualising the findings of the research.

Conclusion The methods we present in this chapter analyse written texts in visual ways or for visual ends. They are methods designers use in practice, shown here in the context of research. It is important to stress that Visual Abstraction, Focussed ­Data-​­mining and Exploratory D ­ ata-​­mining are analytical m ­ ethods – ​­tools for enquiry, not to be mistaken solely as 253

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visualisations of existing knowledge. That the insights or findings take a visual form is inherent in the methods themselves. The act of conducting visual analysis always produces an outcome. Whether those outcomes are visually refined, such as Winston’s Romeo and Juliet work, or less refined, such as the thumbnail schemas is irrelevant in a research context. What matters is that these methods are simultaneously analytical and communicative, whether they remain in the researcher’s notebook or are shared with a wider audience. It is worth noting that the examples we have used here are from ­designers – ​­all are explicit and articulate about the research process that drove the projects.10 Designers using visual methods to analyse written texts are mindful of scholarly conventions, particularly reproducibility. It was important to Posavec that her sentence diagramming method was reproducible: although I wanted to create a grand, large analysis of On the Road I still wanted all of the strategies to be easily adaptable to other works of literature (­m inus the c­ olor-​­coding, of course). This was one of my main concerns throughout the project. (­2011) Posavec’s concern for reproducibility highlights that these are research tools, not simply drawings. Likewise for Sadokierski, the reproducibility of the ‘­g immick clouds’ allowed comparison between a range of novels. Although our background is in Visual Communication design, the methods we describe here could be applied to the analysis of written texts within any field. As ­practitioner-​ ­researchers we bring methods that would otherwise remain embedded in practice to the field of design research.

Notes 1 Although there are many approaches to the analysis of written texts, for example: semiotic (­K ress and van Leeuwen 2001, 2006); content (­K rippendorff 2018); discourse (­Gee 1999); and, more recently visual methods (­Rose 2007), none of these methods directly address how designers draw out ideas, understanding and inspiration from written texts. 2 Posavec’s MA project led to a career exploring data and information communication, including two ­co-​­authored books introducing experimental visualisation practices to broad audiences: Dear Data (­2016) with Giorgia Lupi and I Am a Book. I Am a Portal to the Universe (­2020) with Miriam Quick. 3 Sections of specialty paper may be ‘­tipped in’ so graphics are printed at higher quality, or colour graphics may be printed only on certain pages to reduce production costs. 4 Further findings from this method can be found in Sadokierski 2010: 7­ 9–​­84. 5 An online resource generates these cloud maps when you submit a list of data: www.wordle.net 6 Beetroot design group’s ‘­Romeo and Juliet’, (­2012) (­https://­beetroot.gr/­49-​­romeo-​­juliet.html) and Stephan Thiel’s ‘­Understanding Shakespeare’ (­2010) (­http://­u nderstanding-​­shakespeare. com/) are further examples of designers simultaneously analysing texts and using graphic qualities (­colour, composition, scale) to communicate the findings. 7 Commissioned by Dr Naomi Stead as part of the exhibition, Mapping Sydney: Experimental Cartography and the Imagined City. DAB LAB Research Gallery, University of Technology Sydney, August 2009. 8 At this point the search became more focussed, switching to an online phonebook and typing in avian names, rather than reading the entire directory. However, beginning in exploratory mode made possible the discovery of different avian ­surnames – ​­the idea would not have been realised by starting with a focussed search, as Sweetapple did not yet know what she was looking for. ­ evi-​­Strauss’ writ 9 Other researchers also link human and avian behaviour. Keith Tester extends L ing on humankind’s fascination with birds:

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Drawing out: how designers analyse written texts in visual ways Birds are totally removed form human social relations, and this distance means that their relationships can be perceived as a metaphor of our own (­they are a parallel society). Now, because birds are a metaphor for ­humans – it ​­ is possible to speak of them as if they were ­use – ​­their names can be metonymical to human names. (­1991: 35) 10 See Sadokierski 2010 for a more detailed discussion of the distinction between practitioner and ­practitioner-​­researcher.

References Anthony, H.A. (­1966). ‘­L eCorbusier: His Ideas for Cities’, Journal of the American Planning Association, vol. 32, no. 5, ­pp. ­279–​­288. Gee, J.P. (­1999). An Introduction to Discourse Analysis: Theory and Method. New York  & London: Routledge. Kress, G.R.  & van Leeuwen, T. (­2001). Multimodal Discourse: The Modes and Media of Contemporary Communication. London; New York: Oxford University Press. Kress, G.R. & van Leeuwen, T. (­2006). Reading Images: The Grammar of Visual Design. London; New York: Routledge. Krippendorff, K. (­2018). Content Analysis: An Introduction to its Methodology. Fourth edition. Los Angeles: SAGE. Posavec, S. (­2011, 25 Nov). It’s Been Real. Retrieved 25 Nov 2011 from www.itsbeenreal.co.uk Posavec, S. (­2007). ‘­Hemingway’ and ‘­Kerouac’ from Writing Without Words. Retrieved from https://­ www.stefanieposavec.com/­­w riting-­​­­w ithout-​­words (­Accessed 28 March 2023). Protein TV (­2011). Interview with Stefanie Posevec. Retrieved 20 Dec 2011from https://­w ww.prote.in/­ profiles/­­stefanie-​­posavec#.Ul93KCT8Tbo Rose, G. (­2007). Visual Methodologies: An Introduction to the Interpretation of Visual Materials, London: SAGE. Sadokierski, Z. (­2010). ‘­Visual Writing: A Critique of Graphic Devices in Hybrid Novels from a Visual Communication Design Perspective’, University of Technology, Sydney. Sennett, R (­2008). The Craftsman. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Tester, K (­1991). Animals and Society: The Humanity of Animal Rights. London: Routledge. Winston, S (­ 2016). Darwin. Retrieved 12 Nov 2021 from www.samwinston.com/­ a rchive/­ 2016/ 3­ /­15/­d arwin

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20 A PHOTOGRAPH IS STILL EVIDENCE OF NOTHING BUT ITSELF Craig Bremner and Mark Roxburgh

Introduction In the first edition of this volume we discussed the abstraction of experience and its relationship to the indexical photograph or the photo as evidence. In this revised edition we will not be revising our position but we will talk about the abstraction of the photographic image or what we will be calling the “­design photo”. The “­design photo” emerged through the ethnographic turn, from which design, and more specifically design research, adopted many research techniques from the disciplines of anthropology and sociology. In this chapter we present the case that this turn, while attractive to the discovery of the user and their experience, has occurred with little consideration for the fundamentally different enterprises that are ethnography and design. We look specifically at the use of ­photo-​­observation and note that its use is generally premised on the notion that the photograph is evidence. We argue that by viewing the photograph as ethnographic evidence we accept it on its own conditions and consequently it conditions us to see the ­world-­​­­a s-​­found. However, design is concerned with ­what-­​­­m ight-​­become, and this conditioning is problematic for it results in the endless reproduction of the h ­ ere-­​­­and-​­now. With specific reference to one of the author’s research projects we will demonstrate that if we abstract the photograph as a form of question we recondition it to be a frame through which we can ­re-​­engage in the project of ­what-­​­­m ight-​­become. Without generalising, design research has become preoccupied by the pursuit of methods to answer one of the two fundamental questions of any field (­Groys, 2012: 1) – ​­how can I explain to myself what I am already doing? To add authority to any answer to this question, Donald Schon’s influential book The Reflective Practitioner: How Professionals Think in Action (­1983) is now cited profusely. Knowing what I am doing has overshadowed the other fundamental q­ uestion – what ​­ needs to be done? The ethnographic turn in design research appears to be attempting to answer a similar ­question – ​­how do I reveal to myself what I can already see? But just as we don’t seem to be able to let go of the celebration of reflection, we now cannot get over the spectacle of documenting the h ­ ere-­​­­and-​­now. All this produces two more ­questions – ​­how can I imagine ­what-­​­­m ight-​­become and if I could represent ­what-­​­­m ight-​ b­ ecome how do I illustrate what needs to be done? This chapter looks closely at the distorting effect the design photo has had on these questions and design research. 256

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-24

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The use of ethnographic research methods in design is most prevalent in the area of u ­ ser-​ ­based, participatory, or c­ o-​­design. There are nuanced differences between these areas, yet they are all concerned with the observation and/­or participation of key stakeholders in the development of the design outcome. Much research effort goes into observing the contexts of usage of a product, built environment, or service. This implies a need to engage with the experience users have of the designed world, the w ­ orld-­​­­as-​­found. Observation has long been used in the field of anthropology, and to a lesser extent sociology, to gain insight into the experiences people have, and the meanings they make of the worlds they create and inhabit. It is therefore not surprising that design research has taken what we call the ethnographic turn. Although we regard the ethnographic turn, and the programme of observation derived from it, as an apparently logical shift required to discover the user and their experience, we contend that it has occurred with little consideration given to the differences between the intents of ethnography and design. While a number of publications on design ethnography that emerged in the years following the first edition of this chapter have begun to address those differences, they still privilege a p­ hoto-​­realist approach to p­ hoto-​­observation that conflates the photograph with the reality observed.1 Indeed in a series of interviews with design ethnographers Nova (­2015) points out that the theoretical frameworks they use are often fairly informal and not ­well-​­articulated. The fundamental difference between ethnography and design is that the former is descriptive whereas the latter is transformative, and the design photo does not illustrate the transformation. Given this we will examine the primary sources that have established design’s use of the ethnographic method of p­ hoto-​­observation and argue that it is circumscribed by an ­often-​­unarticulated descriptive logic that is at odds with design’s transformative dimension. We will then proceed to outline a series of experimental projects by one of the authors using p­ hoto-​­observation where the photographs are making visible and not making visible the same subject matter. As such the photos can be neither true nor false, neither evidence (­obvious to the eye or mind) nor conjecture (­thrown together). We will discuss how these apparently ­out-­​­­of-​­focus images illustrate the eternally blurred distance between what is being said and how it is being said; between form and content; between manner and matter; between the “­­a s-​­found” (­evidence) and “­­what-­​­­m ight-​­become” (­i maginary).

Seeing the evidence The histories of photography and ethnography are inextricably linked and have conditioned one another in very particular ways. Unless this is understood it becomes difficult to see that a programme of design research based upon ethnographic ­photo-​­observation is not unproblematic. At its outset photography was understood and used as something that could record objective facts about the world (­Kelsey and Stimson, 2008: xii). Because the camera is mechanical, and because of the direct indexical link between the photograph it produces and the scene it photographs, photography was regarded as an objective way of recording the seen world. But Flusser argues that because the photograph “­is an image produced by apparatuses” (­cameras) that are “­the products of applied scientific texts”, they are inscribed by the programmatic agenda of conceptual thought (­F lusser, 2007[1983]: 14). It is not just that photographs appear to present the seen ­world-­​­­as-​­found that we regard them as objective; the very apparatus that produces the photograph conditions us to see them in a very particular way. That is, the photograph and the reality it purports to depict are conflated as one and the same. 257

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Rather than seeing the photograph as a purely objective device to document aspects of the w ­ orld-­​­­as-​­found, in 1942 Bateson and Mead believed that ­photo-​­observation was integral to the generation of new knowledge (­Harper, 1998: ­25–​­26). Their work signalled an epistemological move within anthropology, from an objective to a subjective view of the world. Photography used as a subjective, interpretive tool of observation came in to its own during the 1960s and owes as much to the emergence of critical sociology as it does to ­early-­​ ­­twentieth-​­century American social documentary photography (­Harper, 1998: 28). It was understood that the ­photo-​­observer’s subjectivity framed any such observation and that the photograph was an intervention into the world to be ­interpreted – ​­that is, understanding is arrived at through subjective interpretation. Geertz (­1988) deals with the interpretive dimension of ethnographic social enquiry in detail through what he calls the author function. In an interpretive view of the world we participate actively in constituting reality rather than passively receiving it. This point is significant because design actively constitutes aspects of the reality of the world by transforming its material dimensions. It is little wonder then that ethnographic methods appear to be a natural fit for design regardless of the differences that exist between ethnography and design. We will come to the goodness of fit between ethnography and design shortly for it has a bearing upon how we might use ­photo-​­observation within design in a way that leverages similarities yet recognises and manipulates differences. The key point that needs to be made here is that despite the shift in social enquiry from an objective science to a subjective form of enquiry, both anthropology and sociology have interrogated the relationship between the photograph, reality, the world, and knowledge. By contrast, design has ­not – ​­it has simply talked about the utility of the ethnographic method in the design process. A more radical approach to ethnographic p­ hoto-​­observation is the work of Grimshaw and Ravetz that draws upon artistic visual practices and “­involves quite different assumptions about the making and presenting of knowledge” (­2005: 15). Grimshaw is less interested in the interpretation of meaning of what is observed and more interested in an exploration of the haptic knowledge generated through the “­­re-​­embodiment of the self as the foundation for renewed engagement with everyday life” (­Grimshaw, 2005: 23). She recognises that her ethnographic approach is not concerned with the documentation and interpretation of reality but is involved in the transformation of knowledge and subsequently reality, albeit social not material reality (­ibid.: 21). Grimshaw does not regard her observations of these social realities as a kind of “­simple minded realism, a reflection of life”, rather it is a transformational “­interrogation of it” (­ibid: 24). This suggests a conceptual equivalence to M ­ erleau-​­Ponty’s notion of the nature of artistic practice as a form of embodied perception that transforms our understanding of the world and hence our conception of its reality (­­Merleau-​­Ponty, 1964: 165). Like Grimshaw and Ravetz explores the relationship between art methods and ethnography and recognises and conceives social research as being concerned with the “­process of making social objects” that are “­shaped in the creative tension between social experience (­participation) and reflexive communication (­observation)” (­Ravetz, 2005: 70). However, she is aware that anthropology elevates the social world, the h ­ ere-­​­­and-​­now, while art privileges the visual imagination and the unreal, or in design terms ­what-­​­­might-​­become. Grimshaw and Ravetz’s model of observation is not concerned with the realist p­ hoto-​­documentation of the seen world readily substituted by the photograph. It is premised on the transformational dimension of observational interrogation, and the gap that this creates between what is observed and how it is observed. This is the gap of imagination that plays between what is seen, what is experienced, and what is communicated about that seeing and experience. In anthropology that gap is most often described in words. For design that gap is the space in 258

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which we can imagine ­what-­​­­might-​­become, but only if we recognise it and not simply substitute the photograph for reality. The projects, which we will turn to shortly, demonstrate the importance of recognising and manipulating this space. In suggesting equivalence between arts practice and a radical approach to anthropology, the work of Grimshaw and Ravetz offers some conceptually rich pickings for design researchers. While there are apparent similarities there are also subtle and significant differences and these are the differences between the making of meaning (­the ethnographic interest in understanding experience and its relationship to knowing) and the meaning of making (­the design interest in the experience of making). And while current anthropological understanding generally accepts the premise that in transforming knowledge it transforms our sense of ­reality – ​­that may or may not have material consequences beyond the transformation of social r­ ealities – ​­design is fundamentally concerned with transforming our material reality that may or may not have social consequences. Given the growth in things like service / experience / strategic design and the use of “­design thinking” in the instrumental world of business it is fair to say it is busy transforming our immaterial reality as well.

Designing the seeing Plowman (­2003: ­36–​­37) notes that it is generally believed that the pioneering work of Xerox PARC in the 1980s was the first instance of ethnographic methods used in the design process, but before that the HfG Ulm School had “­courses in sociology, and in other humanities and social science subjects” (­Margolin, 1991). The interest the Ulm school showed in the social sciences was paralleled by Henry Dreyfuss in the USA who published Designing for People (­2003[1955]) in which he advocated that “­experience, observation and research” are crucial attributes for industrial designers to succeed in what he calls “­the science of appearance” (­Dreyfuss, 2003[1955]: 65). Where photography is discussed it is used as a research method to accurately and realistically depict existing, competing models of products to enable visual analysis (­ibid.: 280). The photograph and reality are one and the same. The first systematic programme of design research, Design Methods, also recognised the importance of observation. John Chris Jones argued that once “­efforts are made to observe what is going on, vast quantities of ­design-​­relevant information are quickly generated” (­1992[1970]: 236). Jones outlines a number of design methods that involve direct observation in the field but these are used without concern for the ethnographic focus upon the meaning people give things. ­Photo-​­observation first gets mentioned as a tool for documenting objects to enable the analysis of the images to search for “­v isual inconsistencies” in order for improvements to be envisaged (­ibid.: 209). Once again the photograph takes on the attributes of evidence. Jones also talks about using filmic observation “­to make visible, patterns of behaviour upon which critical design decisions depend” (­ibid.: 259). In all of this work images are a form of evidence that are analysed to identify and codify patterns of behaviour that are subsequently transformed into tabulated and more scientific data (­ibid.: ­266–​­267). In an apparent departure from a scientific approach to design, Henry Sanoff argues that designers “­have overlooked the application of social science techniques for acquiring visual information” (­1991: ix). He presents a series of design case studies that use a range of different visual methods of enquiry, drawn from the social science field of environment behaviour (­­E-​­B) research. These case studies have a strong ­user-​­based or participatory design focus and Sanoff argues that the methods facilitate both a deeper understanding of people’s perception of their environment and provide an opportunity for a dialogue with the people who use it (­ibid.: ­x i–​­xii). Despite Sanoff’s interest in extending the ­E -​­B agenda to encompass meaning 259

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and experience, there is a strong quantitative slant (­ibid.: 1). Not surprisingly his use of ­photo-​­based research methods is premised on the photograph as evidence. John Zeisel (­2005[1984]), like Sanoff, is also concerned with environment behaviour research for design of the built environment. Like Sanoff, Zeisel presents a compelling rationale, supported by substantial case study work, for the E ­ -​­B design agenda and there is much of value for design practice and theory contained within it. Zeisel argues that researchers need to carefully devise programmes “­to increase their control over the consequences of their actions” and that when such an approach is applied it is to improve the quality of design (­Zeisel, 2005[1984]: 119). He then proceeds to outline a series of criteria to establish and maintain research quality. This approach suggests that the researcher can simply separate themselves from, or minimise their presence within, the systems they are observing and designing, and is typical of a kind of positivist logic prevalent in early anthropological research. This, in turn, has implications for the manner in which p­ hoto-​­based research methods are used and suggests once again a view of the photograph as objective evidence. Zeisel and Sanoff evince a largely unproblematic reading of the photographic depiction of the real as evidence and many of their techniques are developed to eliminate misunderstanding and variations of interpretation to sure up the reliability of that evidence. However, Glanville argues that we “­must take responsibility for our observing, our knowing, our acting, our being: for we cannot pass on our observing: it is ours, integrally ours” (­Glanville in Anderson, 2004: 91). More recent publications dedicated to the practice and methodologies of design ethnography demonstrate an understanding of the interpretive dimension of observation and the differences between design practice and ethnography. However, in general their exploration ­ ell-​ of ­photo-​­observation repeats the failings of literature in the field in articulating a w ­informed theoretical framework for its use beyond an understanding of the interpretative frame. For example Cranz sees photography as useful for “­recording information for later analysis” (­2016: 52) or as useful “­v isual descriptions” of sites (­2016: 107). Nova found that the designers he interviewed see photography as “­a great tool as ‘­a good way to capture a situation’, ‘­to preserve our first impressions’ and ‘­complement our notes’” with the added benefit of them enabling “­reliable comparisons …. later on in the analytical phase” (­2015: 15). Echoing this Müller, although recognising the interpretive nature of analysing photographs, states that “­photos and videos produced by the researcher serve primarily as documentation” (­2021: 83). The relationship between the observational image as evidence (­in this case video) and the contrived nature of its codes of representation is something that Strickland explores (­2003: ­118–​­128). She argues that although documentary and entertainment cinema purport to have different intentions, one exploring reality the other creating fictions, because they share common realist codes the distinction between factual and fictional filmic representations and its bearing on our sense of reality is not as great as one might imagine. In a similar vein Pink et al. (­2017) use video not to document reality but to get participants to “­demonstrate performatively for us, or show us evidence of examples of things that had or could happen in the home, and of how things ‘­usually’ were” (­2017: 105). This approach has similarities to the design research method informance but here the performance is played out by the participants not the researchers, and in their situated context not a lab. Strickland and Pink et al.’s work demonstrates an interest in exploring the space and slippage between the analytic aspects of looking at evidence and the synthetic aspects of making interpretations through asking questions; in ethnographic terms the making of knowledge of things and in design terms the making of things of knowledge. It should be noted these examples are the exception not the rule and they pertain to video and not photography. Furthermore, it is 260

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worth noting that realist depiction prevails in this work with manipulation occurring largely through participant and researcher performance not with the image itself. Not only has design’s ethnographic turn confusingly conflated observation with reality, design also illustrates an increasing predilection for observing the unquantifiable amount of stuff already photographed and suspended in the cloud. The design photo is not just the photo taken by the designer observer for some purpose in/­through/­for design but also the designer’s unquenchable appetite for existing photographs already “­g rouped” in programmes like Instagram and Pinterest and other collections like Getty Images. If one ­stream – the ​­ ­ethnographic – ​­is being digested by design, the other stream is being regurgitated by design. Therefore, perhaps a more pressing problem for observational research has become the overwhelming banality of what is found and uploaded into the cloud. In its raw form this information tends to merely depict what we know. Once classified as “­k nown” it is therefore considered less attractive than the seductive flows of information sweeping around us. And the everyday is diminishing in interest because it competes against these global flows of information that are the ideal context for selling things, but not necessarily for creating them. Observational imagery then runs into the problem of transforming what is observed into forms that could be considered useful for design, partly because of the ­unacknowledged –​ ­and ­unchallenged  – ​­conflation of the photograph with reality and partly because of this competition. The imagery itself is often difficult to classify using any technique other than polar groupings of similarity versus difference. Without reference points even the differences can begin to look the same. These reference points, we would argue, are best located by regarding the photograph as a record of someone’s observation and not the observation itself; considering the photograph as a form of question rather than a statement of apparent fact; and acknowledging the space between what is seen, what is experienced, and what is communicated about that seeing and experience is the gap of imagination that design must explore. The ethnographic turn to observational research illustrates that gathering information about the everyday is very easy to do because it is everywhere around us. However, once observed and captured (­mostly by photographs in design research), the process of transforming that information into a form that can be communicated or put into effect to make “­design” projections presents numerous problems. As we have explained the observational image of the everyday is not a record of the everyday but a record of the observation.

The design photo In the first edition of this chapter the case study set out to test whether images and descriptions of people’s experience of the w ­ orld-­​­­as-​­found could be communicated to designers, and if so, how designers could work with a depiction/­description of this imaginary mental space. We concluded from this work that ­photo-​­observation is better used to abstract experience rather than visualise the construction of the w ­ orld-­​­­as-​­found. The projects2 included in this revised edition use the photograph to abstract experience by using techniques of photographic abstraction to explore the experience of the act of seeing (­observation). Where the conventional approach to ­photo-​­observation results in the ethnographic photo, the approach taken here has results in what we call the design photo. The projects began with an exercise to explore the play of light on objects, composition, form, and focal depth (­­Figure 20.1). Through this exercise it became evident that the photograph simply depicts the visible traces of phenomena, events or things in front of the camera when an exposure is made. How these traces are depicted can only be manipulated through a combination of the technical features of the camera and editorial choice prior to, during, and 261

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­Figure 20.1 This figure consists of three photographs side by side. The first photograph is a ­close-​­up of a coffee table covered in domestic objects. The second photograph is of beach towels hanging on a balcony railing. The third photograph is a c­ lose-​­up of a cactus flower

­Figure 20.2 This figure consists of three photographs side by side. All photographs have been taken from a ­fast-​­moving train of scenery outside. All photographs have horizontal motion blur. The first photograph depicts a railway yard. The second photograph depicts a forest. The third photograph depicts field in a farm

after taking the photo, making up a photographer’s “­v ision”, their unique way of “­seeing the world”, or what Roxburgh (­2021) calls existential indexicality (­the pointing to the intentions of the person taking the photo). The fact that the work looked “­d ifferent” from the observed world, yet similar to countless formalist abstract photographs produced in the twentieth century, indicates the constraints of realist photography upon the apprehension and indeed imagination of the world, notwithstanding the photographer’s intentions. The constraints of the photograph’s realist frame became clearer when Roxburgh explored blurring the boundary between photographic legibility and arbitrary abstraction with little to no control over the formal characteristics of the shots (­­Figure 20.2). This was the start of a strategy to both resist the constraints of the programme of the camera and photographic realism, and exaggerate these same constraints and programme, to make images that were evocative of an experience of being in a particular place at a particular time (­an aesthetic experience) rather than photographically describing what was seen. Next Roxburgh sought to combine compositional precision with compositional experience to explore the consequence of disrupting the pattern of the figuratively abstract aspects of images by setting the camera lens out of focus to varying degrees (­­Figure  20.3). This resulted in what he describes as a ­neo-​­Pictorialist approach. It became apparent that in this body of work a total lack of focus in the image obliterated any sense of depth (­­Figure 20.4). The image was reduced to the ­t wo-​­dimensionality of the photographic surface without the pretext of spatial depth that focal point when combined with the play of light on form creates in a photograph. On a practical level the conscious manipulation of and working against the 262

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­Figure 20.3 This figure consists of three photographs side by side. All photographs depict a ­close-​­up of plants in the Australian desert landscape are in a square format and have been taken close to the ground. Each photograph has a small section of a plant in focus with the rest of the photograph being out of focus but still identifiable as a landscape detail

­Figure 20.4 This figure consists of three photographs side by side. All photographs of the Australian landscape are in a square format. There is nothing in focus in any of the photographs but they are still identifiable as a landscape

mechanics of the camera (­its programme) helped create truly abstract images and explored the conceptual limits of the image by progressively denying the photographs “­referential ties”. This exploration of visual abstraction revealed the world was transformed through these images in ways that had not been expected. Rather than taking photographs that said “­this is that” (­the causal dimension of the photograph as index) these photographs asked, “­can what we experience become a picture?” (­the existential dimension of the photograph as index) or “­is that this?”. This, in turn, posed another question “­what could it (­the landscape) become?” (­the transformative dimension of the design photo). The photographs at this point had enough figurative detail for them to still be analogous to the world as seen. Overlapping this work, and eventually overtaking it, was a series of photographs exploring a far less measured approach to the composition and photographic depiction of the everyday; photographs that were increasingly abstract, evocative, and ­non-​ ­figurative (­­Figure  20.5). The arbitrary approach to abstraction created a type of distance between the subjects photographed and the photographer enabling different questions to be asked about the photographs and their (­a nd our) relationship to r­ eality – from ​­ “­this is that” to “­is that this?” to “­what is it?” to “­what could it become?” The more the photograph was 263

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­Figure 20.5 This figure consists of three photographs side by side. It is very difficult to tell what they are of because they are so out of focus and there is so much motion blur. There is a vague sense they may be of landscapes

­Figure 20.6 This figure is a montage of three photographs that creates a single image. It is so far out of focus identifying what it depicts is not really possible

pushed out of focus and the more perception of space within it was flattened, the more the space of critical distance came into focus. Here the photographer is no longer focussing on the seen world through the camera. Instead, they are focussing on their relation to the camera, the photographic image, and the world they are immersed in. Blake Stimson (­2008: 113) calls this the photographer’s “­critical gesture”. The critical gesture is the exercise of an embodied form of critical distance that we argue can “­open up a space for freedom… in a world dominated by apparatuses” (­F lusser 2007[1983]: 8­ 1–​­82). The next series of photographs (­Slow Moving Landscapes) pushed further into the realm of visual abstraction, creating photographs like the out of focus backgrounds often seen in movies (­m inus the actors). Fuzzy landscapes awaiting the viewer to project a story onto (­­Figure 20.6). ­ ork – The ​­ (­F )­utility of Design: Vision and the Crisis of the A ­ rtificial –​ The final body of w ­explored the logic that underpins the relationship between imagination and perception (­­Figure 20.7). The scenic possibilities of the imaginary became the subject of a series of dioramas made from photographs from Slow Moving Landscapes. Because those photographs resembled backgrounds from movies they were treated as such and used to construct photo­ orld-­​­­as-​­found. In addition, they were an graphic tableaux of places that did not exist in the w experiment to see how photographs with no sense of spatial depth, by the elimination of all focal points, could be imbued with a sense of that depth. Thus, juxtaposing two contradictory photographic principals and embodying them in image form. 264

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­Figure 20.7 This figure consists of two dioramas side by side. Each diorama is made from out of focus photographs of rural landscapes that have been collaged together and had objects such as sheep, cars, and tractors placed on them

­Figure 20.8 This figure consists of two photographs side by side. Each photograph is a very out of focus depiction of the dioramas in F ­ igure 20.7

Next the dioramas, as backdrops, had objects placed in front of them creating yet another tableaux (­­Figure 20.8). These were then r­e-​­photographed using the n ­ eo-​­Pictorialist approach of earlier work to see how these little landscapes made from soft focus photographs could be transformed using soft focus photography. Once again playing along the photograph’s “­superficial series” and manipulating the spatial dimensions of the “­real” world through the flattening of that by the camera. From this work it was apparent that the world could be transformed by photography, albeit using techniques that went against the conventions of photography and the programme inscribed in the camera. While the abstract photographs produced through these projects is a reaction against and critique of the preponderance of the realist framework, it has also played across the space between the legibility of the real and the illegibility of pure abstraction in ways that resonate with Rancière’s naked image and metaphorical image and result in a series of ostensive ­images – ​­images about images (­Rancière, 2007). What this means for the design photo is it could easily be perceived to be an ostensive ­image – ​­an image about an image or an image that illustrates yet another image. But the idea of the ostensive image is limiting for the project of the design photo. Design wants the photograph to not just depict but also be instructive. The design photo is premised on an idea that photographs can inform, can guide, and can help illustrate the project of ­what-­​­­m ight-​­become.

Having dispensed with the evidence what is the question? We have argued that because it has not come to terms with the programme of the technical apparatus used to make photographs design’s unquestioned use of p­ hoto-​­observation frames 265

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the photograph as evidence and results in the endless reproduction of the h ­ ere-­​­­and-​­now. This has been paralleled, and indeed superseded, by the explosion of photographs of the ­here-­​­­and-​­now as a consequence of the emergence of the camera phone. As a camera the phone works too well so with it we get more than we bargained for. The excess of function (­mostly in the form of handiness) in the phone’s camera makes it too useful so in use we are no longer taking photographs of what we are looking at, rather, courtesy of the phone’s camera, what we are looking at is using us. While the phone’s camera proliferates imagery it eliminates the need to think. The experience of photographing every “­experience” eventually hollows out all experiences. Experience becomes production and like all production the experience is manufactured by a m ­ achine – ​­this time the camera p­ hone – ​­and like the history of our relationship with the machine where the machine instantly turns the idea into an image of ­itself – ​­the ­m ass-​­production of photos are images of the ­photo-​­making machine. Design’s current use of ­photo-​­observation does nothing to address this, rather it unwittingly concretises it in the artificial world it produces. Following from ­Merleau-​­Ponty’s point that artistic vision is “­earned by exercise” (­1964: 165), and given the ubiquity of the photograph as the main form of image humanity engages with on a daily basis there is an imperative to learn how to see all over again. Learning how to see all over again is in essence what the projects described above have been about for they have explored a trajectory from the photographic real, through evocative photography, to the constructed photograph and finally, back to the apparently photographic real. They have been geared towards exploring the territory that lies between the descriptive and the transformative. The shift to an interpretative approach is more in keeping with the transformative nature of design and the resultant photographic techniques may be better suited to picturing the reality we imagine of ­what-­​­­m ight-​­become. To a certain degree these projects not only validated ­Merleau-​­Ponty’s dismissal of photography as transformative but also exposed the limits of this view. They traced an arc that moves from the real, to the abstract, to the constructed, and when these constructions were ­re-​­photographed, once again back to the abstract. That a radical manipulation of the photographs themselves was required to create something new, rather than depict what was in front of the camera, highlights the transformative constraints of conventional photographic practice. That this was done using a variety of experimental techniques indicates a way of transcending those constraints. Something Flusser (­2 007) himself argues, for he regards abstract photography as one of the few ways to resist the programme of the camera. It is also worth pointing out that the practices of collage and ­montage – ​­a feature of the final body of ­work – ​­using juxtaposition as they do, function metaphorically. To paraphrase Cazeaux (­2 002) they bring images together that are normally kept apart. Photographic collage and montage flex a joint that rarely gets exercised because the juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated images makes new realms of experience possible. In this way the projects have helped “­mediate a poetic response to the world, a response that acknowledges the real beyond mere instrumentality” (­Rexer, 2009: 192); something conventional ­photo-​­observation struggles to do. It questions the description of experiences (­the search for meaning), and the photographic illustration of these experiences (­the meaning of the image). The research does not purport to design peoples’ experiences for them; rather it illustrates experiences of the ­world-­​­­a s-­​­­a lready- ​­designed to add to the flows of information design uses in its relentless ­re-​­design of everything around us. What this tells us is that the design photo is better used to abstract experience rather than visualise the construction of the ­world-­​­­a s-​­found.

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Conclusion In an effort to overcome the limitations of both the artistic and scientific framing of design, design has turned to ethnography to understand the users of design and the experiences they have of the designed world so that we might better give them what they want. In getting so close, through ethnography, to the reality that users inhabit we have lost perspective of the abstract and transformative dimensions of design, as well as the abstract and transformative dimensions of experience. The perspective we have lost is critical distance, which is not the same as an objective stance. In other words, because the epistemology and methods of p­ hoto-​­enquiry used in design’s ethnographic turn have an unchallenged realist framing we are more likely to replicate ­ orld-­​­­as-​­seen as yet more banality. That is, the project of photographing the conditions the w of the w ­ orld-­​­­as-​­found in the name of research turns the project of design into a conditional ­image – ​­the closer we get to the user’s reality the more likely we can give them the reality they want. In fact what we produce are images of the world that increasingly look the same. In this chapter we have presented the case that the habitual way we “­see” photographically conditions the evidence. And the ethnographic turn in design research, dependent on the photograph as evidence, is undermined because the image is now nothing but evidence of itself. In these projects the design photo is a prompt to observation, not evidence itself. It is ​­ about evidence. If regarded as evidence the about framing, perspective, and d­ istance – not design photo must be accepted on its own conditions. If regarded as evidence, we are conditioned to accept as evidence of the ­a s-​­found. If regarded as a way of asking questions it ­re-​­conditions observer and ­observed – ​­the ­a s-​­found becomes a­ s-​­i f. Through careful use of the design photo, observational research can be a very different study of relationships between people and the artificial world. This focus might link it with the study of social ecology, but in this relationship we are concerned with the role of design ideas in the production of this artificiality. Observing abstractions of experience creates pictures of the pathways and messages that convey experiences of past design decisions. Incorporating descriptions of this can enrich relationships in the future.

Notes 1 For relatively ­up-­​­­to-​­date discussion on the practice and future of design ethnography see Cranz 2016; Müller 2021; Nova 2015; Pink et al. 2017; Pink et al. 2022. 2 The projects described here were executed between 2007 and 2011 by one of the authors (­Roxburgh) during his PhD studies, under the supervision of the other author (­Bremner). They are an index, of sorts, of their 25 or so years of conversation about the role of the image in design.

References Anderson, Lyndon. 2004. “­Designing for Users as Experimenters.” In Douglas, M. (­ed.) Invention Intervention, Melbourne: RMIT University Press, ­pp. ­88–​­97. Cazeaux, C. 2002. Metaphor and the Categorization of the Senses. Metaphor and Symbol, 17, 1, ­3 –​­26. Cranz, Galen. 2016. Ethnography for Designers. Abingdon: Routledge. Dreyfuss, Henry. 2003[1955]. Designing for People. New York: Allworth Press. Flusser, Vilém. 2007[1983]. Towards a Philosophy of Photography. London: Reaktion Books. Geertz, Clifford. 1988. Works and Lives: The Anthropologist as Author. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Grimshaw, Anna. 2005. “­Eyeing the Field: New Horizons for Visual Anthropology.” In Visualizing Anthropology, edited by Anna Grimshaw and Amanda Ravetz, ­17–​­30. Bristol: Intellect.

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Craig Bremner and Mark Roxburgh Grimshaw, Anna and Amanda Ravetz. 2005. “­Introduction: Visualizing Anthropology.” In Visualizing Anthropology, edited by Anna Grimshaw and Amanda Ravetz, 1­ –​­16 Bristol: Intellect. Groys, Boris. 2012. “­Under the Gaze of Theory.” ­e-​­flux journal, 35, May. Harper, Douglas. 1998. “­A n Argument for Visual Sociology.” In ­Image-​­Based Research: A Sourcebook for Qualitative Researchers, edited by Jon Prosser, ­24–​­41. London & Bristol (­PA): Falmer Press. Jones, John Chris. 1992[1970]. Design Methods. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold. Kelsey, Robin and Blake Stimson. 2008. “­Introduction: Photography’s Double Index (­a Short History in Three Parts).” In The Meaning of Photography, edited by Robin Kelsey and Blake Stimson, v­ ii–​ ­x xxi. Williamstown: Clark Studies in the Visual Arts. Margolin, Victor. 1991. “­Design Studies and the Education of Designers.” Elisava TdD [Online], 06. Available: http://­tdd.elisava.net/­coleccion/­6/­­m argolin- ​­ca [accessed 20/­05/­08]. M ­ erleau-​­Ponty, Maurice. 1964. The Primacy of Perception, and Other Essays on Phenomenological Psychology, the Philosophy of Art, History, and Politics. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Müller, Francis. 2021. Design Ethnography: Epistemology and Methodology. Springer Link, 2021, https://­ doi.org/­10.1007/­­978-­​­­3 -­​­­030-­​­­60396-​­0. Nova, Nicholas, ed. 2015. Beyond Design Ethnography: How Designers Practice Ethnographic Research. Geneva: HEAD. Pink, Sarah, Vaike Fors, Debora Lanzeni, Melisa Duque, Shanti Sumartojo and Yolande Strengers. 2022. Design Ethnography: Research, Responsibilities and Futures. Abingdon: Routledge. Pink, Sarah, Kerstin Leder Mackley, Roxana Morosanu, Val Mitchell and Tracy Bhamra. 2017. Making Homes: Ethnography and Design. Abingdon: Routledge. Plowman, Tim. 2003. “­Ethnography and Critical Design Practice.” In Design Research: Methods and Perspectives, edited by Brenda Laurel, ­30–​­38. London and Cambridge (­M A): MIT Press. Rancière, Jacques. 2007. The Future of the Image. London: Verso. Ravetz, Amanda. 2005. “­News from Home: Reflections on Fine Art and Anthropology.” In Visualizing Anthropology, edited by Anna Grimshaw and Amanda Ravetz, ­69–​­79. Bristol: Intellect. Rexer, L. 2009. The Edge of Vision: The Rise of Abstraction in Photography. New York: Aperture. Roxburgh, Mark. 2021. “­I Developed an Interest in Photography.” In The Elephant’s Leg: Adventures in the Creative Industries, edited by Craig Hight & Mario Minichiello. Champaign, IL: Common Ground Research Networks. Sanoff, Henry. 1991. Visual Research Methods In Design. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold. Schon, Donald. 1983. The Reflective Practitioner: How Professionals Think in Action. New York: Basic Books. Strickland, Rachel. 2003. “­Spontaneous Cinema as Design Practice.” In Design Research: Methods and Perspectives, edited by Brenda Laurel, ­118–​­128. London and Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Zeisel, John. 2005[1984]. Inquiry by Design: Tools for ­Environment-​­Behaviour Research. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.

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21 ACTION RESEARCH APPROACH IN DESIGN RESEARCH Beatrice Villari

Design and research: a brief introduction Design is a complex practice that requires different skills and the ability to dialogue with other disciplines. It focusses on s­ kill-​­based competencies and on learning processes based on practice. More in general, the design goals are centred on solving problems, understanding needs, enhancing situations, creating something new or useful (­Friedman 2003) to change existing situations into preferred ones (­Simon 1969). Design research is then based on iterative cycles merging theory and interventions (­Easterday et al. 2018). It is an interdisciplinary process focussed on theory, practice, design epistemology, design praxeology, and design phenomenology, and h ­ umanities-​­based design studies (­A lmquist and Lupton 2010). Moreover, the design research objects can be focussed on ontological and epistemological questions, contextual, and procedural enquiries that need to be organized, examined in depth and communicable (­Cross 1995). Swann (­2002) affirms that design is a form of qualitative research suited to human beings aimed at interpreting human actions. Furthermore, connecting research and practice is one of the main issues in design. Design practice and research are inseparable (­Koskinen et al. 2008) and the transition from the reflective dimension to design practice is not a linear process: the idea of reflection is associated with the cognitive process involving both problem finding and problem solving and the transition from abstracting to realizing often corresponds to a ­crisis – ​­a”wicked problem”. Dickson (­2002) describes design research as a process in which design researchers and others from different disciplines enquire in the design field, as “­Research in Design” when the focusses are design methodologies and processes and the activities are carried out by designers, and “­Research through Design” when the research is used to also enquire about other disciplines other than design. These categories revoke the famous distinction of research into, for and through design made by Frayling (­1993/­1994) who associated action research to the third category. One research strategy that merges theory and practice is Action Research, an enquiry model that, as the name suggests, links the reflective dimension to practice. Therefore, Action Research is commonly used and well explored in the design discipline, as well, representing a systematic enquiry aimed at acquiring, converting and experimenting with new information, ideas and processes through concrete actions (­A rcher 1995). DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-25

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The following paragraphs lay out the main features of Action Research related to design or design research. The link between these two areas is based on the following premises: • •

• •

The design process is a situated process, namely it depends on the circumstances in which it is developed; The design process is by nature participatory and, therefore, always implies a social dimension, more and more entailing the blurring of boundaries between designers, users and other professionals; The design process is iterative and problems are revisited, analysed and synthetized through different and revised solutions; The design process could be considered a clinical activity (­A rcher 1995) often requiring simulations and field tests to solve specific problems in specific settings.

The nature of action research The term Action Research refers to empirical research methods mainly used in social studies. Action Research is based on the connection between theoretical and practical activities and on the close relationship between researchers and the “­other communities” involved in the research process. Reason and Bradbury (­2001) describe Action Research as a family of research approaches characterized by common elements: the participatory nature, the focus on experiential dimensions, and the emphasis on action, on dialogue among participants, on practice, and on learning processes. Action Research can also be described as a strategy for implementing new solutions or evaluating existing ones in real contexts and to provide recommendations and guidance for future activities (­Denscombe 2010; Iivari and Venable 2009). Further, Action research is designed to improve the researched subjects’ capacities to solve problems, develop skills (­including, professional skills), increase their chances of s­elf-​ d­ etermination, and to have more influence on the functioning and d­ ecision-​­making processes of organizations and institutions from the context in which they act. (­Boog 2003, 426) Action Research entails to be part of a learning processes based on sharing practices pinpointing the participatory, democratic and emancipatory features of individuals and communities (­Reason and Bradbury cited in Reason 2006). The participatory dimension involves at least two concepts. The first concerns managing of the decision processes. Martin (­2001) depicts Action Research as a tool for improving and promoting the active involvement of communities in social changes. The second issue is related to knowledge exchange within ­so-​­called communities of inquiry. Archer (­1995) underlines the importance of producing communicable knowledge through practical actions reinforcing the central role of learning among participants. In this process the researcher plays an important role. On the one hand, he/­she contributes to increasing disciplinary knowledge within his/­her own scientific and professional community. On the other hand, he/­she plays a specific role (­enabling, empowering. monitoring, mediating, coordinating, planning, etc.) within the target communities. Grundy (­1988) describes three modes of Action Research: technical, practical, and emancipatory. The first one underlines how the nature of the collaboration between the researcher and the practitioner is technical and based on facilitation with the main aim to test an intervention 270

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­Figure 21.1 Action research process (­Adapted from Kolb 1984)

based on a ­pre-​­specified theoretical framework. In the second one, the researcher and the other participants work more closely to identify problems and manage the interventions, whereby the communication flows need to be supported among all participants. The third one encourages emancipatory processes, consequently the role of the researcher is to enable professionals and members in identifying their needs and supporting them in managing the change process through more collaborative processes. Emanicipatory process are enabled when participants are involved in d­ ecision-​­making processes and the contents and the knowledge they provide are utilize (­Roberts and Dick 2003; F ­ igure 21.1). As introduced by Lewin, Action Research is accomplished in a process where hypotheses, experimentation, and test phases are cyclical. Observation, interpretation, and action (­Stringer 1999) are reiterated over time to build a knowledge structure incrementally. Indeed, the Action Research process can be generally described as a spiral of steps composed of planning, action and evaluation (­Kemmis and McTaggert 1990).

Action research and design Design research and action research offer alternative approaches for bridging the gap between theory and practice, and solving practical problems (­K han and Tzortzopoulos 2018) following the serious and rigorous procedures required by design research (­Cross 1999). Further, some similarities can be identified between the two approaches. Susman and Evered 271

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­Figure 21.2 Design in action research process

(­1978) identify some properties that overlap with design, describing Action Research as a future oriented and collaborative process that entails with system development generating theory grounded in action and being situational. In this paragraph, a model of is proposed merging the Action Research and the design process, described and visualized as an iterative journey (­see ­Figure 21.2). The process is outlined for design researchers to experiment Action Research in different contexts and scales. Due to its characteristics, the Action Research approach applied to design is suitable in those contexts where ­large-​­scale and complex issues are faced and in which the relationship between different actors is crucial. Examples are social innovation issues, services for urban contexts, new services and processes for the public sector, citizens involvement in designing and developing new solutions for organizations, or on a wider scale, policy interventions. This contribution, indeed, relates to those situations in which design is considered as a transformative process to support even a radical change, in which products, services, and systems are designed to foster a more inclusive, collaborative and transformative society (­Escobar 2017; Irwin et al. 2015; Manzini 2015; Sangiorgi 2011). The design (­as an Action Research) process is described in four stages of an iterative journey aimed at analysing contexts and data, interpreting information, create a design vision and experiment it on the field, and also evaluating the overall research process and its o ­ n-​­going results. The Action Research approach is a c­ ontext-​­dependent activity: the process starts from the recognition of the existing resources characterizing the design context. This means that 272

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design researchers have to recognize and analyse first the material (­e.g. environments, infrastructure, natural resources, products and so on) and immaterial (­e.g. relationships among people, knowledge and know how, cultural resources, etc.) resources and then start and plan the activities in relation to what are the peculiarities of the selected context. To better analyse these resources, action researchers adopt field activities in order to reach a deep knowledge about people, places, enterprises, and organizations and recognize their links. The connection between Action Research and Design is then proposed through a process characterized by: •

•

• •

Four main aims that include sequential and interdependent activities connecting research and practice that translate the Action Research process into a design process that can also be operationalized in terms of tools (­e.g. design ethnography, design scenarios, prototypes, ­co-​­design workshops); A systemic approach that take into consideration different perspectives and competences of many stakeholders. This implies, for example, the ability to imagine new forms of relationship between designers, laypersons, experts, organizations, and institutions as well; Cyclical and iterative actions, so that reviewed activities are carried out continuously throughout the process; Negotiation and ­decision-​­m aking processes and also ­self-​­evaluation.

Specifically, the four main stages are described in: analysing, interpreting, designing, and implementing (­see ­Figure 21.2). Following these premises, the aims, the tasks, and the tools characterizing the research and the design actions are briefly described in the following parts.

Analysing and interpreting phases (­research and understand) As in any p­ roblem-​­solving process, also in design activities, at the beginning of the process the analysis is a fundamental part before thinking about the solution or creating it. The Action Research purpose is to bring positive change in specific contexts, consequently researcher and professionals have to exchange their knowledge through field observations, listening, interviewing, and collecting qualitative and quantitative data. The main activities in this phase concern setting the context and identifying research problems, describing those involved in the process (­researchers, stakeholders, practitioners, users), and identifying all resources needed for developing the research (­skills, time, people). As underlined by Dorst (­2006) the “­design problem” is hard to identify because it evolves during the design process, so in the initial phases it is necessary to focus and structure the overall aims of the research and share them among all participants involved. For example, if researchers are involved in a social innovation process to promote local businesses, the research might focus on understanding the characteristics of the local production, the peculiarities of entrepreneurs and the strategies of public and private actors that support local economies and an understanding of the social/­environmental and economic issues having a specific impact on the local resources. Important activities at the early stages also include the creation of the network of actors and the community building process. This is related to the importance of social empowerment: organizations and people that are able to feed contexts where bureaucracy, lack of resources, difficulties in promoting innovation play an important role in creating links between small and large entities, public and private actors, reinforcing 273

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the connections between people, places, companies, and institutions (­Mac Callum et  al. 2009). This entails the definition of sharing goals, the common interests and the explanation of the different roles involved in the project. During this phase, participants’ various roles are outlined, while participation models, the scope of enquiry, and common goals are defined in detail. Building the community means that design researchers have to describe and understand the different stakeholders’ skills and profiles and set the research framework and languages adopted. For example, designers, sociologists, managers, policy makers, citizens need to define a common ground to facilitate the dialogue between them. That is also why communication and tools to support information and knowledge sharing contribute to building a recognizable and communicable identity of the wider design community (­Villari 2012) involved in the Action Research process. Design tools for communicating, sharing, socializing, and participating (­e.g. mind maps, storytelling, actors maps, gaming) in the ­community-​­building process are also, from a disciplinary point of view, specific design objects. Researchers’ actions are s­ ituation-​­based and context specific which means that Action Research needs to be pursued in and on the real world, namely the reliability of the results depend on specific places, people and circumstances (­A rcher 1995). To achieve an adequate knowledge of the context (­e.g. local communities, neighbourhoods, network of enterprises, organizations, firms), direct and indirect data also have to be collected, partly through field surveys and direct observations. Data collection involves different skills and can be facilitated with ethnographic techniques and other design tools for analysis and field observation, such as photographic reportage, video interviews, and design probes specially designed for collaborative research. Activity on the field is also participatory. It involves not only researchers but also other stakeholders (­e.g. practitioners, citizens, representatives of institutions, firms, communities of interests, and so on). The main goal of the interpretative phase is to build a shared design approach to describe the critical elements identified during analysis and the opportunities that emerge (­the design areas) related to the research context. For example, if the action research is aimed at understanding how to involve citizens in designing new neighbourhood services, the data collected should include quantitative data on existing services, economic activities, the presence of social investments and local policy as well, and the field research should involve people, local associations, schools, opinion leaders, local companies, politicians, sociologists, local organizations, and experts. An example of a design intervention in the early stage of the Action Research process is that of the applied ethnography tool developed for the ColtivAzioni Sociali Urbane (­Social Urban CultivActions) initiative (­Villari 2015). The activity was aimed at creating value and reinforce social cohesion for a Milanese suburban neighbourhood using food as a cultural bond. The early stage activities were aimed at understanding what lifestyles and consumption styles were within the ­multi-​­cultural neighbourhood. The design researchers outlined a series of qualitative data collection tools in collaboration with the local ­non-​­profit organizations. The aim was twofold: on one side to collect information on food behaviours and local relationships, on the other side to create mutual trust among the participants and with the local institutions. The citizens were involved in different data collection processes through events supervised by the local associations. A local initiative have been focussed on collecting and sharing ­multi-​­ethnic recipes to collect data about the different nationalities in the neighbourhood and at the same time sharing common problems of social cohesion and support collaboration among m ­ ulti-​­cultural communities. Furthermore, a c­ o-​­designed food events in a ­multi-​­ethnic condominium was organized to closely understand the social 274

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­Figure 21.3 ColtivAzioni sociali Urbane initiatives

ties of the families involved. These activities made it possible to gather information on social relationships and the way of living the neighbourhood. It was also an opportunity to enable knowledge exchange processes, creating new relationships and envision design directions for new services solutions supporting people’s active involvement. At the same time, these activities allowed design researchers to nurture and build a climate of trust and openness, and at the same time, to share the research progresses step by step and make families aware of the design opportunities in the area (­­Figure 21.3). Indeed, tools such as storytelling, mapping and ­info-​­graphic visualization are important elements in the design research process to help the knowledge exchange between the actors involved and enable their active participation. The capacity to visualize characterizes designer knowledge and skills, so the design researchers have an important role in this phase to create the enabling conditions that allow people to understand the complexity of the research process, and reflect on their own practices. The interpretative actions are a way to better examine one’s own practice and use the research results to plan better the future actions and support the d­ ecision-​­m aking process.

Designing and implementing (­action and knowledge sharing) These stages set the transition from research to practice, since the previous results cannot be considered as conclusive or absolute. Activities carried out during these phases aim to 275

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transform the acquired knowledge in design products (­m aterial and immaterial). This means that the design researchers define the potential areas of intervention, the target scenarios, namely, identifying the m ­ acro-​­areas for design operations in keeping with the research hypothesis. This consists of formulating some design scenarios related to the research issues describing frameworks where project proposals will be developed and described. During these phases design researchers are required to formulate design h ­ ypothesis – involving ​­ different ­actors – ​­and transform them in design guidelines and procedures to be applied in the specific context. Following the previous examples of designing new services for urban contexts through an Action Research process, we can imagine that the services’ ideas should consider specific issues that have emerged from analysis such as the connection between families and neighbourhood activities, the enhancement of local safety measures, the capacity to create new job opportunities for citizens, to support ­multi-​­cultural communities in sharing their local culture and so on. The action researcher has to act as facilitator and enabler of the design process and as practitioner and expert in the design field to allow people to have an active role in promoting their own change and collaboratively envision design solutions. As mentioned in previous paragraphs, a clear statement to be shared among participants is that the findings will not be generalizable in other areas (­economic aspects, social issues, context needs, communities are different), nevertheless the research through practitioners can advance practice and provide new knowledge for further activities and studies, on the other hand, the design researcher paves the way for the solutions to be realized and supports the participants to continue autonomously. For Elliott (­1991) action initiates reflection, and it represents the moment of synthesis that is a central part of the ­solution-​­focussed approach. The design concepts (­related to products, environments, services, communication systems, processes, new tools) need to be described and visualized, as well as shared with other stakeholders involved in the research. The design concepts will consequently respond to different problems depending on the context, they could be referred to new enterprises, new businesses, new services, new fruition experiences, new products or communication systems, and so on. As results of a participative process, the final outputs have to be representative of the different approaches and interests involved. The design phase can lead to outcomes that will not necessarily mean implementing ultimate solutions (­i.e. prototyping or ­product-​­service development or production), since several further research steps may be needed to achieve the final aim. The Action Research cycle considers a trial and error process implying the possibility of failure and/­or refinement of the process and the tools used. Also in designing and implementing phases, communication is very important. Sharing, communicating, socializing and visualizing the design process, and describing the design solutions to the all stakeholders involved are crucial steps. In order to make the design solutions visible and tangible, visualization is one of the major issues that designers/­researchers have to deal with in order to share complex information together with the capacity to manage the project of products/­services. All the design tools adapted to developing or prototyping a concept can be used: sketch, storyboards, experience prototyping, maps, ­moke-​­ups, etc. The selection of the final solutions to be implemented is also a negotiated process between the different stakeholder involved and also this choice depends on the context in terms of resources needed, time required to finalize the solutions, benefits for the participants, future impacts. When the solutions proposed do not answer to all research issues (­including contexts characteristics and communities/­people needs) further action research cycles have to be considered, planned and realized.

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An example of a collaborative solution through an Action Research process is that of the Social Food Club initiative (­Villari 2015) aimed at creating value for a neighbourhood through a social enterprise. Through field activities and collaboration that involved citizens, local associations, experts, and the Municipality, design researchers have come up with a proposal for a social restaurant model to provide job opportunities for unemployed young people, together with training courses and workshops for families. The service solution was the result of a collaborative path based on listening and understanding the needs of different stakeholders supported by design experts capable of translating the needs into concrete and coherent proposals. The concept proposed was then adopted as a reference to set up a real business that currently is running in the neighbourhood in the same place adopted for the research concept. The process began in close relationship between the Municipality and a local association. In the initial stages, the research was focussed to understand people’s working needs in the area. A cultural probes kit was initially given to some families of different cultures in the neighbourhood to track and understand their behaviours when buying and consuming food during the week. Some workshops have been organized with schools to involve children in telling stories about their lifestyles related to food and their family ties. Further, local workshops and events were also organized to explore different ways to better involve citizens and create new networks. For example, the research team participate to a local s­treet-​­fair in which they collected data on people’s food consumption habits (­­Figure 21.4). All the data collected throughout the process and the ongoing results have always been shared with local actors, also involved in the generative phases and in the ­decision-​­making processes. Ideas were visualized and shared through service ­mock-​­ups in order to receive feedback from the community. The final result was to envision, with the support of the Municipality, a food social enterprise capable of involving unemployed young people in training courses and then offering them a job placement. At the same time, the physical place was conceived as a neighbourhood hub for local communities. Citizens can use it as a meeting space or to promote their businesses. The Action Research process allowed the inhabitants to collaboratively imagine a common project scenario, understand how to implement it in the future, and how to adopt some design tools in their daily activities (­­Figures 21.5 and 21.6). ­ itchen  –​ Another recent example is “­La Cucina Collaborativa” (­The Collaborative K h ­ ttp://­w ww.designpolicy.eu/­­cucina-​­collaborativa) promoted by the Design Policy ­Lab  –​ ­Design Department of the Politecnico di Milano in partnership with Caritas Reggio Emilia ­ IT-​­Food. The research aims to implement circular processes in the food and Guastalla and E donation system through a collaborative path aimed at activating more robust collaborations among relevant local actors. The Action Research involved Caritas managers, volunteers, beneficiaries of donations and local associations in different cycles of activities and produced service scenarios to reduce food waste and support social inclusion processes. The scenarios emerged from the data collection on field and ­co-​­design workshops in which participants dealt with issues such as traceability and transparency of the donation processes, the construction of social emancipation paths of the beneficiaries through their direct participation in the services, the design of the service offering according to different needs such as respecting religious aspects or particular diseases. The design researchers worked closely with the local stakeholders, collecting information on the context and on the current service offering through interviews, local observations, and focus groups. The aim was to support the local actors to imagine s­hort-​­and ­medium-​­term design paths capable of activating the

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­Figure 21.4 Social food club cultural probes

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­Figure 21.5 Social food club: applied ethnography tools

­Figure 21.6 Social food club: ­co-​­design sessions

participation of a wider local network capable of making circular paths linked to the food donations effective. An important aspect to be considered in such processes is the importance of monitoring and evaluation. The s­tep-­​­­by-​­step process needs to be constantly monitored using different techniques such as diaries, interviews, questionnaires in order to have feedback during both the research and action phases to be able to introduce modifications or adjustment in actions, tools and/­or procedures. These activities also need to be designed and revised throughout the process allowing people to use the reflections on their own practice to improve and reinforce it. 279

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This is connected with one of the criticalities of Action Research which concerns the ability to overcome subjectivity in the interpretation of data and ongoing results. Then, the overlap between personal and professional perspectives is a risk to consider. The continuous documentation of the activities and the open dialogue with the community of stakeholders involved mitigate the possibility of interpretative bias. Moreover, a balance between staying focussed on research objectives and overcoming the pressures deriving from the application context is needed. For example, organizational or political aspects might influence ­decision-​ ­ aking or slow down or even hinder the process. Last but not least, the Action Research m process takes time. Organizational and management activities have an important weight, as do those dedicated to building relationships and trust. These processes always require a high level of commitment and the risk of unravelling relationships or even the loss of motivation have to be taken into account.

Some remarks about designer’s role in action research process Swann (­2002) considers Action Research as an appropriate methodology for any design project where the final outcome is undefined. In the previous sections, Action Research has been described as a process useful to be adopted when designers have to face complex problems that involve collaborative decisions and practices related to specific contexts (­i.e. enterprises, organizations, communities, neighbourhoods, cities). These are s­mall-​­scale projects where communities or users need to acquire an active role in promoting change, ­large-​­scale projects where ­decision-​­making is a collaborative process among a wider community of stakeholders, and projects where a ­design-​­driven approach might help people, institutions, companies and organizations in adopting design tools and design attitudes in solving “­w icked” problems (­or setting new challenges). In these areas, Action Research can enable different design research issues such as new networks and systems, mutual help and solidarity, learning processes, organizational change processes, intellectual and social capital, active citizens, cultural activities, long term sustainable lifestyle and so on. The principles and the mechanisms of Action Research, as proposed in this chapter, are thus related to participatory and collaborative design processes (­Ehn 1992; Sangiorgi 2011; Stappers and Sanders 2003) that involve various stakeholders, encouraging a transformative and emancipatory design approach. Participatory and cooperative processes have a long tradition in design, particularly in the Participatory Design (­Bjerknes et al. 1987; Greenbaum and Kyng 1991; Schuler and Namioka 1993). Participatory Design and Action Research share the values of participation and the complexity of building a mutual trust relationship between researchers and participants. In Action Research this requires different engagement strategies (­a s described in the ColtivAzioni Sociali and Social Food Club initiatives) as well as a creative attitude towards problem solving (­Büscher et al. 2002). One of the contemporary design challenges for Participatory Design is that of design for social innovation (­Bannon and Ehn 2012; Manzini and Rizzo 2011) and expanding the research area from design projects to design things, described as the shifting from a single solution to sociomaterial assemblies of humans and artefacts (­Binder et al. 2011). More generally, Design Thinking incorporates participatory concepts through the adoption of principles derived from ethnography to obtain design insights, formulate new solutions and validate them by involving end users. Action Research starts from the premise of changing a situation through a collaborative process in which the design researcher becomes part of the change and object of research as well. Furthermore, Action Research focusses on relationships transformation in a complex system, and this opens up to new design processes 280

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and experimentations by addressing issues that imply a systemic approach (­even ecosystemic approach), in which the relationship is not with the individual, but with a community of actors (­people, businesses, organizations, institutions) that becomes the main actor of the research process. In this contexts, the initiatives need to be capable of activating, enabling, and actively contributing to the change in, for and of the community itself (­Villari 2021). Adopting the Action Research strategy should increase the ability to think and act in complex systems, by integrating observations, analyses, tests, design visions as well as critical and reflexivity capacities. Further, an empathetic attitude, such as facilitation skills are crucial to better engage communities and to support creative ways to foster knowledge sharing and innovation (­Villari 2021). This means that the design researcher has to handle and monitor different levels of activity in the same process: theoretical, practical, organizational, ­decision-​­making, and communication. In this framework, further reflection on the role and the capabilities of the design researcher are in order. On the one hand, the designer can facilitate learning about design research and about professional practice for designers and laypersons involved in design research. On the other, he/­she can stimulate dialogue and foster relationships among different actors, playing the role of broker, director, and facilitator and also ­co-​­researchers, ­co-­​­­problem-​ s­olvers, and ­co-​­agents of change (­K han and Tzortzopoulos 2018). At the same time he/­she acts as learning enabler in and of a “­community” that actively participates in the design process (­Maffei and Villari 2004) also promoting stewardship ways to face complexity and uncertainty in and from which the results emerge. Action Research has been defined as an approach employed by practitioners to improve their practice participating in a continuous learning process. In some circumstances the design researcher can be considered a dynamic element in the process (­a catalyzer), for example, when his/­her activity triggers the addition of new elements into a given context. In other respects, the design researcher has to have specific capabilities to analyse the context in depth (­listening), to systematically analyse its significant elements (­resources, relationships, practices, tools and so on), and to propose design directions able to crate value for the local context. Design researchers must reflect on professional practice, on theoretical and practical tools, and on the production of new design knowledge. From a disciplinary perspective, different kinds of Action Research results can be outlined, shifting the attention from physical output to immaterial dimensions. This means: •

•

Giving shape to the relationships (­community building process) between those involved in the research process and proposing new ways to connect (­to foster the communication among) individuals, companies, institutions, communities, places, etc. The relational model is also connected to the ability to foster emancipatory processes in which inclusion, solidarity, democratic and open ­decision-​­making processes become project topics as well. It is, therefore, a question of enabling relationships between communities and for communities and identifying ways to strengthen and improve existing ones; Giving shape to new ideas (­design concepts, business ideas, processes, and tools) and to design strategies so as to make immaterial elements like knowledge, values, ­k now-​­how, and identity tangible since these are also the connection elements among the various actors involved. The design researcher and the community participate in this process by sharing emotions and behaviours, collectively transforming the contest in which they act and their roles and the ways of interaction as well; 281

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•

Giving shape to the artefacts that concretize the research output, namely, description and visualization of design scenarios, design concepts or final solutions that can be products, new services, distribution systems, communication systems, etc.

The Action Research output must be evaluated not only on its material aspects but also on the intangible nature of its findings, which include the strength of relationships, networks, knowledge, and the organizational and communication skills acquired. All these elements put people first, at the centre of the research process, focussing on people’s activities and on the “­communities” (­of practitioners, of interest, of practice) where they operate and learn. These elements are closely connected to the participatory approach used in design (­­user-​­centred design, participatory design, participatory planning, and community design), they emphasize the collaborative and the emancipatory aspects, as well as the cyclical nature of the process considering design activities also related to organizational issues and strategies. Therefore, Action Research performed in the design field can enhance the processes of creative learning that means the enrichment, the regeneration, and the propagation of knowledge, including practical knowledge (­Villari 2014). In this sense, an additional task for designers is to reinforce the methodological systematization of Action Research to build a repertoire of experiences and ­ad-​­hoc tools useful for guiding and nourishing Action Research activities in design field while reflecting on how the approach might evolve according the ­ ore-­​­­than-​­human approach as well as the urgent social, contemporary issues such as the m environmental, political, economic challenges that we are facing at the Planetary scale. Dramatically, when finalizing this contribution, in Europe a violent conflict between territories has arisen. How design researchers can develop widespread, multicultural, open, inclusive and collaborative pathways of Action Research in support of peace and human rights becomes a leading research question at this juncture.

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Beatrice Villari Stappers, Pieter Jan, and Elisabeth B. N. Sanders. 2003. “­Generative Tools for Context Mapping: Tuning the Tools.” In Proceedings of the 3rd International Conference on Design and Emotion, edited by Doana McDonagh, Paul Hekkert, Jeroen van Erp and Diane Gyi, ­77–​­81. Loughborough, London: Taylor & Francis. Stringer, Ernest T. 1999. Action Research. London: Sage Publications. Susman, Gerald I., and Roger D. Evered. 1978. “­A n Assessment of the Scientific Merits of Action Research.” Administrative Science Quarterly 23 (­4): ­582–​­603. Doi: 10.2307/­2392581. Swann, Cal. 2002. “­Action Research and The Practice of Design.” Design Issues 18 (­2): 49‑61. Doi: 10.1162/ ­07479360252756287. Villari, Beatrice. 2012. Design per Il Territorio. Un Approccio Community Centred [Design for Places. A Community Centred Approach]. Milan: FrancoAngeli (­in Italian). Villari, Beatrice. 2014. “­Action Research Approach in Design Research.” In The Routledge Companion to Design Research (­1st ed.), edited by Paul Rodgers and Joyce Yee, 3­ 06–​­316. New York: Routledge. Villari, Beatrice. 2015. ColtivAzioni Sociali Urbane. Innovazione Sociale di Quartiere [Urban and Social Cultivation. Social Innovation in Neighbourhoods]. Milan: Maggioli Editore (­in Italian). Villari, Beatrice. 2021a. “­­Community-​­Centered Design: A Design Perspective on Innovation In and For Places.” The International Journal of Design in Society 16 (­1): ­47–​­58. Doi: 10.18848/­­2325-​­1328/ ­CGP/­v16i01/­­47-​­58. Villari, Beatrice. 2021b. “­The Empathic (­R)­evolution. Lessons Learned from C ­ ovid-​­19 to Design at the Community, Organization, and Governmental Levels.” Strategic Design Research Journal 14 (­1): ­187–​­198. Doi: 10.4013/­sdrj.2021.141.16.

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22 WOVEN DECOLONIZING APPROACHES TO DESIGN RESEARCH Jolobil and ­Mahi-​­Toi Diana Albarrán González and Jani K. T. Wilson Introduction: who are we? Distinguished Māori academic Ngahuia Te Awekotuku (­1999) stated that [W]eaving… explains and manifests in a very elegant way the metaphor of knowledge, the metaphor of gathering strands, the metaphor of creating and lending and, ultimately, producing something of beauty, of colour, of impact. ( ­7 ) Many of our Indigenous arts, such as weaving, are reminders of our connection with the gods, ancestors, and the environment. Every tiny thread, every strand rests on and aids the others with purpose. It is fitting then, that our initial encounter was through a weaving connection; I, Jani, responded to a doctoral candidature presentation where the supervisors had blatant differences in opinion about the candidate’s proposed theoretical framework. Although the specialization was fashion, in my mind, neither of the suggested systems was useful to the study as they didn’t meaningfully reflect the student’s position as a practitioner. Amidst palpable discomfiture, I encouraged the student to compose and develop his own framework, and drew on the experience of having designed a tāniko (­­fine-​­finger weaving) based structure to support my film studies analysis. Soon after, Diana sought me out to supervise her doctorate. In the Indigenous support network where we first met,1 the first thing we do after karakia 2 is introduce ourselves, and thus reflecting cultural courtesies in Aotearoa and across the Global South, we start with our positionality. Doing so puts into context our backgrounds and our research approaches, as our research flows from who we are. HARAKEKE KĀKĀRIKI DIANA I am a Native Latin American woman from Mexico, currently living in the diaspora in Aotearoa, the ‘­land of the long white cloud’. I am a researcher from the Global South (­re)­connecting with my indigeneity and indigenous ancestry (­Nahua from my mother’s

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-26

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side and P’urhepecha from my father side), a mestiza 3 decolonizing my own subjectivities (­A lbarran Gonzalez and Malacate 2021; Rivera Cusicanqui 2010). I identify as a woman of Mesoamerica, of Cemānāhuac; a mother, a feminist, and a craftivist seeking to contribute to the pluriverse, abajo a la izquiera. I am sentipensante4, I am Yollotl5, I am uno con el todo (­one with the whole). HARAKEKE PANGO JANI As I was bought up in Whakatāne, I identify primarily as Ngāti Awa, but am of Ngā Puhi in Te Taitokerau (­the Far North region), and the tribes of Mātaatua waka6. My conventional training was in Performing Arts, then in Film, TV and Media Studies to doctoral level. I’ve devoted my adult life to carving space for Māori/­Indigenous researchers within the academy, following on from Māori scholar Kathie Irwin (­1992, 5) who aptly said “­we don’t need anyone else developing tools which will help us... real power lies with those who design the tools... this power is ours”. HARAKEKE KĀKĀRIKI DIANA Although my formative academic years were located in the Global South (­Mexico), the design education I received mimicked the dominant design structures from the Global North, a primarily decontextualized approach that establishes and acknowledges hierarchies that consider traditional knowledges as lesser (­Ansari et al. 2016; Botero, Del Gaudio, and Gutiérrez Borrero 2018). Meanwhile, a dichotomy formed between European arts as ‘­fine’, and Indigenous arts as ‘­ethnic’, ‘­folk’ art or simply reduced to ‘­crafts.’ Here, decolonial theory helped me to understand and break from the colonial matrix of power and to recognize Indigenous knowledge as a most valuable source of innovation and research (­Tunstall 2013). HARAKEKE PANGO JANI P ­ ost-​­colonial and kaupapa Māori theories were offered as the research paradigms available to my doctoral research in Film Studies7. Neither of them worked for my project, no matter how hard I tried. Because film is a science and an art, I turned to Te Kete Aronui (­Best 1995; Fraser 2009; Morrison 1999; Kāretu 2008), one of the three baskets of knowledge bought to the world from the heavens by Tawhaki8. It’s believed Te Kete Aronui contains the arts, peace, humanities, rituals and philosophies. When I identified that all of our ­m ahi-­​­­toi – ​­arts and art p­ roduction – ​­have similar production processes (­­ pre-​­ production, production and ­ post-​­ production), my research fell into place. Ko mātou m ­ ahi-​­toi, he taonga tuku iho (­our arts are inherited treasures). HEREA PANGO ME KĀKĀRIKI

Māua (­she & I) Here, we ravel our harakeke (­flax) together, green (­kākāriki, Diana’s voice) and black (­pango, Jani’s voice)­9 into a kīwai (­a woven basket handle); the hues enforce and beautify each other, and are bonded in Te Whare Pora (­traditional weaving house). For the both of us, in different ways, ­mahi-​­toi has been key to our research because it acknowledges that we think of a concept in the unseen, and it is made tangible in the physical world by our hands (­Wilson 2018, 2017). 286

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We, the practitioners in our various artistic forms, are therefore the channel between te wāhi ngaro (­the hidden realm) and te ao mārama (­the world of light). In this chapter, we’ve joined two flaxes t­ogether – to ​­ represent our people and our research ­approaches – to ​­ challenge the status quo of a ­long-​­standing design discipline. Both of us have utilized significant textiles as central metaphors for the development of novel ­craft-­​­­design-­​­­art-​­based methodological approaches to research. By delinking Indigenous knowledge from the colonial matrix of power, we discuss collective approaches with/­by/­for Indigenous communities in Mexico and Aotearoa New Zealand, and in particular Jolobil (­A lbarrán González 2020) and ­Mahi-​­toi (­Wilson 2017, 2018, 2013). Jolobil (­backstrap loom weaving) is a significant Mayan practice from the highlands of Chiapas, and we argue, an appropriate and relevant framework moving forward. As a research approach, jolobil interweaves decolonial theory, ­visual-­​­­digital-​­sensorial ethnography, textiles as resistance and ­co-​­design towards community ­well-​­being, as a decolonizing alternative to widely utilized design research methods. Pivotal to the scaffolding of this Mesoamerican approach was ­mahi-​­toi, as it supports dialogue between theory (­in the mind) and practice (­from the hands), and can act as an important scaffolding for a range of theoretical frameworks. In both of these Global South spaces, we weave concepts through live action of care (­manaaki), mutual support (­tautoko), aroha (­respect, love), and corazonar (­reasoning with the heart) as fundamental elements for Indigenous peoples aligning with distinctive cultural worldviews and knowledge that we believe surpass conventional academic protocols and expectations. HARAKEKE PANGO JANI This chapter is directed towards an ­Indigenous-​­led academia, represented through dialogic interaction and the exchange of ideas and worldviews, and a means of s­ense-​ m ­ aking as women, mothers, daughters, and weavers. HARAKEKE KĀKĀRIKI DIANA In doing so we delink from Western knowledge systems choosing rather to interweave p­ osition-​­based experiences as a move towards the creation of alternative design research approaches.

Design research from the Global South Māua Design from the Global South has established its place in the wider design ‘­field’ to demonstrate its existence as an alternative in the m ­ odern-​­colonial world (­A kama and Yee 2019; Escobar 2016; Fry 2017; Gutiérrez Borrero 2015; Kalantidou and Fry 2014; Schultz et al. 2018). Significantly, this type of research does not seek recognition in the dominant design world. Mignolo (­2007, 453) stated “­A delinking that leads to ­de-​­colonial epistemic shift [which] brings to the foreground other epistemologies, other principles of knowledge and understanding and, consequently, other economies, other politics, other ethics”. In the same way, an exchange of epistemologies of the South, in this case Mexico and Aotearoa, fosters ecologies of knowledge and intercultural translation, where we assume that “­a ll relational practices involving human beings, and human beings and nature entail more than one kind of knowledge, thus more than one kind of ignorance as well” (­De Sousa Santos 2015, 297). Considering we are in Aotearoa, the use of concepts in Te Ao Māori is a natural starting point for a direct exchange of Indigenous knowledges and ways of being and doing. 287

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In Te Ao Māori, tāngata whenua are literally ‘­land people’ who have mana whenua (­land connected authority, status) to which they are connected to through whakapapa (­genealogy) to particular geographical locators (­mountains, rivers, oceans), tribes and subtribes (­iwi and hapū). Belonging to the land, rather than owning it, imbues tāngata whenua with a deep sense of history and identity. People who arrive as Indigenous from other nations can be referred to as tāngata tiriti (­people of the treaty10) or tāngata taketake11 (­Indigenous peoples), beyond the use of native, Indigenous, first nations, pueblos originarios. As tāngata taketake, we are relatives with shared stories of colonization, oppression, resistance and ­self-​­determination. Therefore, our approach recognizes taketaketanga, the state of being Indigenous, as indigeneity, aboriginal or ‘­original’. HARAKEKE KĀKĀRIKI DIANA Taketaketanga, and Jani’s teachings and examples, helped me understand that ancient arts practices, m ­ ahi-​­toi, are rooted in theory and are part of my heritage. Embracing the “­­taken-­​­­for-​­granted knowledge” (­Wilson 2013, 8) from my ancestors allowed me to surpass the intimidation of theory and writing, common among Indigenous students (­Smith 2013). This supported the creation of my methodological framework jolobil, and enhanced the importance of knowledge and reflection through our embodied knowledge.

­Mahi-​­toi: ­crafts-­​­­design-​­art as theoretical and analytical framework HARAKEKE PANGO JANI Arts practitioners are simply the conduit through which an idea is conveyed from a concept into the physical domain (­Wilson 2013, 2017, 2018). However, sometimes the ­m ahi-​­toi practitioner, whether they are a weaver, composer, carver, or painter, is also an academic researcher. How might an academic researcher also contribute to practice and ­v ice-​­versa? And ringatoi, literally ‘­art hands’, come to the research space with much coveted experience which satisfies the academy; but they must learn the research vernacular as a kind of ‘­r ight of passage’ to be there. An important ­m ahi-​­toi element developed for my PhD was a tāniko based framework12 which when unpacked and placed beside film theory, is palpably more robust, sensorial, scientific, spiritual13, and tells stories through its symbols. Tāniko is more holistic than frameworks that simply sit inside a thinker’s mind, and might be written about. In developing a tāniko framework, and later muka kete (­woven baskets)­14, the practice and research languages enriched each other, and gave reciprocal stability, depth and structure. When Diana approached me to supervise her PhD in 2018, ­mahi-​­toi was what I offered; I was an early career academic in Māori Media, a kaitito waiata (­song composer) who can weave, and she was a designer. Like film and indeed weaving, ­jolobil – ​­a practice I deliberately sent her to Mexico to learn from the women in her c­ ommunity – ​­has a distinctive p­ re-​­production, production and p­ ost-​­production process that has been passed down for millennia. And every woman she learned amongst, had significant weaving stories.

Developing ­context-​­based design research approaches from Mexico HARAKEKE KĀKĀRIKI DIANA 288

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Similar to Jani’s experience, I wanted to approach artisanal design and textiles through a conventional social design lens from the Global North. Social design is sometimes defined as the action to create alternatives that address social challenges with a strong emphasis on research rather than commercial outcomes. This approach commonly uses participatory and collaborative activities by public and private sectors, ­non-­​ ­­ profit organizations, academics, design students and practitioners, and commercial for-​­ service providers (­A rmstrong et al. 2014). In this space, there are different terms associated with social design like social innovation (­Murray, ­Caulier-​­Grice, and Mulgan 2010; Manzini 2015; Deserti, Rizzo, and Cobalini 2018), socially responsible design (­Ramirez Jr 2011) and design activism (­­Fuad-​­Luke 2009) to mention some. In Mexico, artisanal design organizations commonly mention operating under ‘­social design’ seeking to benefit Indigenous artisanal communities by improving their income and living conditions. While some benefit the artisans by providing employment, this does not mean their living conditions are improved. These approaches neither address issues around intellectual property of artisanal creations nor respect or recognize Indigenous artisans as guardians of their ancestral knowledge. Nevertheless, it is both important and urgent to consider the historical marginalization of Indigenous people due to colonization, and later from State policies that still reproduce power imbalances and extractive practices that benefit social designers and overlook the community involved. The realization that the need for decolonizing perspectives that consider these issues with a respectful and ethical research methodologies hit me. Inspired by Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s (­2013) seminal text Decolonising Methodologies I searched for research in, by and for the Global South for guidance. Decolonial theory is originated and widely disseminated in Abya Yala15 by prominent scholars like Fanon (­1970), Mignolo (­2011, 2007), Quijano (­2000), Walsh (­2009), Lugones (­2014) and Castro Gomez and Grosfoguel (­2007). However, very little was used for critical design research. There were emerging conversations on Design from the South which discussed the need for the creation of alternatives by and from the Global South in the works of Escobar (­2012; 2016; 2018) and Gutiérrez Borrero (­2015; 2014) in Colombia, but such an approach had not yet extended to Mexico. This signalled a need for the development of decolonizing design research approaches that were ­context-​­appropriate, integrative of Indigenous knowledge, and respectful of the community’s autonomía and s­ elf-​­determination. Considering the research focus on artisanal textiles and the importance of jolobil in Indigenous Mexico, it became the pathway for research exploration through collective ­co-​­creation, embodiment and metaphorical ­sense-​­m aking, which echoed ­m ahi-​­toi.

Jolobil, Mayan backstrap loom weaving as research metaphor Jolobil is a living manifestation of Mesoamerican culture linked to individual and communal ­well-​­being; it is a medium that connects Indigenous ancestry and spiritual beings, reflected in the incantations chanted before/­a fter weaving. Here, the similarities to te ao Māori and ­m ahi-​­toi became evident. This triggered a desire to develop a ­context-​­based textile research approach. The backstrap loom weaving technique is significant. Since ancient times, it is kept alive by Indigenous Mexican communities such as Nahua and P’urhepecha peoples, whom I whakapapa (­genealogically link) to. The biocultural knowledge and practice are embedded with ancestral, ­collective-​­social memory and resistance; it survived colonization and 289

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­Figure 22.1 Backstrap loom weaving cyclical motion

centuries of modernity. Indigenous groups continue to maintain and innovate the jolobil practice (­Méndez González 2018; Perez Canovas 2014; Quiroz Flores 2018; Ramírez Garayzar 2006). This practice was taught by Ixchel, the deity of the moon, weaving, fertility and protector of the arts, daughter of Itzamná and Ixchebel Yax. Ixchel is represented in the Madrid Codex weaving using a backstrap loom with her jalamte’ (­m achete, sword or tzotzopaztli) (­R ivera García 2017). El telar de cintura (­backstrap loom weaving) technique is rich and complex requiring years of dedicated practice to master. The flexible loom is structured at the top of the loom by attaching it to a tree, and at the bottom by the weaver’s waist or lower back. The weaver’s position provides the required tension to the transversal base threads of the urdimbre (­warp), and the alzador (­heddle bar) allows some of those threads to be raised creating a space to pass the lanzadera (­bobbin) carrying the trama (­weft threads; ­Figure 22.1). This cyclical process of tension and loosening is provided by the movement and adaption of the weaver’s body16 According to Mayan cosmovisión, the weaver’s movement is seen to represent birth contractions. For Mayan Tsotsil and Tseltal peoples, jolobil directs their worldview, culture, language, and ­well-​­being captured in deeply symbolic meanings, instilled in the intricate patterning. Jolobil is an appropriate research metaphor as it interweaves theories and methods from decolonial philosophy, design research and c­ o-​­design from the Global South, textiles as resistance, Mayan worldview, and collective ­well-​­being (­Buen Vivir17). As the weaver supports the loom around her waist, jolobil embodies (­Maturana and Varela 1987; Varela, Thompson, and 290

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Rosch 2016) the coming together of ancestral knowledge with artistic practice. Fundamental aspects of this research approach and the integration of ­onto-​­epistemologies from Abya Yala as sentipensar (­Fals Borda 2015), corazonar (­Méndez Torres et al. 2013; Pérez Moreno 2012) and Zapatismo (­Esteva 2005; Komanilel 2018; Mora Bayo 2017). Using decolonization as a transversal base allowed me to have a distinctive perspective to frame approaches and methods like v­ isual-­​­­d igital-​­sensorial ethnography (­Pink 2014, 2009, 2016) and ­co-​­design (­A kama, Hagen, and W ­ haanga-​­Schollum 2019; Pink 2015; Sanders and Stappers 2008) in open collaboration with Mayan Tsotsil and Tseltal weavers (­from now on, mis compañeras)­18 in horizontality, rather than hierarchy. Jolobil is an important and familiar cultural practice for mis compañeras, hence, using this metaphor to conceptualize the framework allowed us to have a collective understanding of our experiences and journey throughout the research. Textile creation and study require careful and patient use of the senses to identify materials, patterns, and techniques without breaking or isolating the different components since this would potentially damage the piece. On a similar note, jolobil metaphorically enabled me to explore concepts and ideas alongside Mayan weavers through multisensorial ­co-​­design workshops as the warp19 (­urdimbre), and with a holistic and creative approach to analysis and s­ense-​­making through embodiment, sentipensar and corazonar as the weft (­trama, the yarns). Nonetheless, it also integrates constant dialogue and reflection with mis compañeras as a fundamental practice to balance the intrinsic power, politics, privilege, and access (­­3P-​­A) of academic research (­­Figure 22.2)

­Figure 22.2 Jolobil, weaving the threads of the urdimbre and trama through an embodied sentipensar and corazonar

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As mentioned, jolobil components have symbolic meanings that when reinterpreted and combined with theories, disciplines, and metaphors from the Global South, develop a ­context-​­based research framework that ultimately prioritizes Mayan knowledge. This table shows the components from a Mayan worldview (­cosmovisión) with new interpretations from a decolonial perspective (­­Table 21.1; ­Figure 22.3). A jolobil research framework allowed for collective understanding and exploration of ­context-​­based approaches in Indigenous research. Presenting this research to Indigenous scholars made me realize how culturally appropriate frameworks rooted on ­m ahi-​­toi resonate with us beyond the specificities of each a­ rtistic-​­creative practice. It also enables us to delink and connect in our taketaketanga.

­Table 22.1  Jolobil components from a Mayan worldview and new interpretation from a decolonial perspective Mayan cosmovisión

Research expansion

Backstrap loom weaving symbolizes birth and creation.

The creation of a collective woven research. Weaving (­sjalel) the research for the creation of jolobil framework, a decolonizing design research alternative from the Global South. The symbolic connection and respect to Mayan and Mesoamerican culture.

The tie cord attaching the telar (­loom) to a tree represents the umbilical cord connected to Mother Earth. The top warp bar represents the head. The warp threads symbolize the sustenance.

The alzador (­the heddle bar) is the heart. The opening cyclical motion creating a space between the threads represents the heartbeat. La lanzadera (­bobbin) is where the weft thread is wrapped around representing the ribs. The lower bar represents the feet. The weaver’s movement to flex and tense the threads of the warp is a symbol of birth contractions.

Decolonization as action is the transversal support crossing the warp threads as disciplines. The threads of the warp represent the different disciplines, theories and methods. In this research, using design, anthropology, sociology and saberes indígenas20. The passing of the weft across the warp as a constant action and in a cyclical time is Buen Vivir (­L ekil Kuxlejal). Research is an a­ ctive-​­iterative process as a living thing. The strike of the jalamte’ (­sword) tightening the weft after a weaving cycle is the strike of the heart. Preparing the bobbin is one of the first steps before assembling jolobil, in this case, holding the thread of Buen Vivir (­L ekil Kuxlejal) as a main focus. This symbolizes the Indigenous knowledge (­conocimientos) from the context. The cyclical movement of tensing and flexing is a metaphorical representation of the necessary flexibility during the research journey. Iterative cycles of tension and letting go allowed collective creations to emerge and flow.

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­Figure 22.3 Jolobil as a Mayan ­context-​­based methodology

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Shared woven values for design research Māua Our experiences doing research following Indigenous ways of being and doing showed us alternative pathways where values, people and relationships are fundamental. These values are not part of a specific step of the design research process as performative empathy as in some approaches from the Global North. For Indigenous peoples, values manifest in the ways we relate to each other, in the field and in the various contexts throughout the research journey, ­a nd – we ​­ ­a rgue – ​­beyond. While terms have variations according to our different languages, the perceptions and manifestations are felt similarly. Nevertheless, these values are interwoven, and overlap across our cultures and languages. •

•

•

•

Manaakitanga: A limited definition of manaakitanga is to host or be hospitable. In actuality, manaakitanga is a fundamental concept in te ao Māori (­the Māori ‘­world’) evident in the root meaning of the words, ­mana-​­ the prestige, authority or status primarily connected with a spiritual connection with land. -​­aki is to urge or encourage someone forward. Manaakitanga is exercised without any prejudice, even extended despite ill feeling (­Wilson 2021). Based on Buen ­Vivir-​­centric design, mutual care comprises ­relational-​­affective actions surpassing transactional and functional support. This marks relationships in which parties care for each other not only for research purposes, but where relationships from the heart are formed (­A lbarrán González 2020). Tautoko: As a concept, tautoko too is reaffirmed by the breakdown of the word; tau is ­back-­​­­and-​­forth reciprocation, and toko is a supporting pole, thus is indeed a mutual exchange of holding each other up. In Latin America, a similar concept used is apoyo mutuo, a mutual support as equal human beings. Aroha: Widely understood as love, however, this definition is inadequate. Aroha indeed includes love, and also encapsulates sympathy, empathy, sorrow, pity, concern, affection, and compassion; it isn’t simply one of the said emotions, but all. Corazonar: Is fundamental in jolobil framework and as a value. Corazonar encompasses reasoning and feeling with the heart (­corazón), a collective reasoning as ­co-​­reason (­­­co-​ r­ azón) (­Cepeda H. 2017). Being corazón is not the romantic view of love but all emotions like anger, sadness, happiness, fear, the source of courage, passion, and dignity.

For us, these values are the guidance to keep weaving alternatives to design research from the Global South, and to demonstrate manaaki, to tautoko with aroha, corazonando towards an ­Indigenous-​­led future. Tightly knotted together, we leave this green and black woven kīwai, to help other Indigenous designers mobilize their woven kete into design research.

Notes 1 Our first encounter was at a MAI ki Aronui hui (­meeting) at the Auckland University of Technology in 2018. MAI is an acronym for Māori and Indigenous, and belongs to a doctoral network called MAI te Kupenga, supported by Ngā Pae o te Māramatanga, New Zealand’s Māori Centre of Research Excellence. 2 A very simple definition of karakia is a ritual ‘­chant’ that enables the meeting or movement of people to be under the protection of the unseen. 3 Mestizo is a classification from the caste system imposed by the Spanish in their colonies marking the person’s mixed heritage of Indigenous and Spanish. In Mexico, it became the dominant identity assimilating Indigenous and ­A fro-​­descendant populations. Therefore, “­mestizaje” has been considered a process of whitening (­Navarrete 2013).

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Woven decolonizing approaches to design research: Jolobil and Mahi-Toi 4 Sentipensar is rendered as ­feel-​­think or ­sense-​­think. Being sentipensante means we are people who feel and think for s­ ense-​­making as part of our human condition (­­Fals-​­Borda 2015). 5 Yollotl is a Nahuatl word translated as heart. In Mesoamérica, the heart is an important part of who we are as human beings. 6 During what is known as ‘­The Great Fleet’ a number of vessels came to Aotearoa from the Pacific, Mātaatua was one of these, led by a chief named Toroa from whom we descend. 7 ­Post-​­colonial theory has for quite some time provided a critical relationship with film studies mostly through screen analysis performed by those outside the West such as Ibrahim Aoude, Jack Shaheen, Ella Shohat, and Rey Chow. Ella Henry (­2012) and Angela Moewaka Barnes (­2011) have written useful Kaupapa Māori screen analyses. 8 ­Tawhaki – ​­some iwi (­t ribes) believe ­Tāne – is ​­ believed to be s­ emi-​­supernatural who ascended the heavens to retrieve ngā kete mātauranga, the three baskets of knowledge. 9 Kākāriki was selected to reflect D ­ iana – although ​­ an experienced designer and t­ eacher – ​­a ‘­recently harvested’ blade of harakeke. Distinctively, pango represents Jani, a m ­ id-​­career researcher. 10 This refers to the Treaty of Waitangi, signed between the Crown and chiefs of the ‘­native’ hapū (­­sub-​­tribes), known as ‘­the founding document of New Zealand’. There are many issues connecting to the history of this text which cannot be delved into in any depth here due to the word limitations. 11 Tāngata taketake is an important distinction to make from tāngata tiriti because when people who come to Aotearoa and acknowledge their own indigeneity, they are aware of their manuhiri (­g uest) status here. More often than not, these manuhiri are who want to learn about te ao Māori, understand the reciprocal nature of manaakitanga, and are quick to share and exchange their culture, too. Although this is slowly changing, tāngata tiriti, for the most part, are predominantly here through a kind of right of passage and have little care to engage with te ao Māori. 12 There are some fantastic writings on tāniko research written by experts of Te Whare Pora (­the traditional weaving house, see ­Puketapu-​­Hetet (­1989), ­Tamati-​­Quennell (­1993), Te Kanawa (­1992). ­ ahuta – ​­the god of living ­things – remodelled ​­ 13 Woven items are believed to be the body of Tāne M into another form. 14 Wilson, J. K. T. (­2018, March). Lending Traditional Māori Artistic Structures to Academic Research and Writing: ­Mahi-​­Toi. 15 Abya Yala is the ancient name the Kuna people of Panamá and Colombia give to the American continent meaning “­land in full production”. This term has been widely used as an alternative to the colonizer’s imposed name of America. 16 The backstrap loom process is complex to explain in a limited number of words. For better understanding, these two resources can be consulted https://­w ww.youtube.com/­watch?v=BrBdRbr XMVw&ab_channel=EndangeredThreads,  https://­s amnoblemuseum.ou.edu/­­collections-­​­­a nd-​ ­research/­ethnology/­­m ayan-​­textiles/­­weaving-​­technology/­­backstrap-​­looms/ 17 Buen Vivir is considered a decolonial stance from Indigenous communities from Abya Yala (­Benton Zavala 2018; Solón 2017). It is a system of knowledge, practices and organizations establishing a harmonious c­ o-​­existence between humans and other beings with the environment, a collective ­well-​­being (­Cubillo Guevara and Hidalgo Capitán 2016; Gudynas and Acosta 2011). A Mayan Tsotsil and Tseltal equivalent of Buen Vivir is known as Lekil Kuxlejal (­L ekil is good, Kuxlejal is life) also known as f­air-​­dignified life. 18 Compañeras, compañeros or compañeres marks the horizontal relationship between people in Southern contexts, similar to comrade. In this case, the Mayan Tstotsil and Tseltal weavers from Malacate Taller Experimental Textil are mis compañeras as ­co-​­creators and research partners going beyond participants, a common language used in academic spaces from the Global North. 19 In weaving, a warp is generally the main tension thread between the loom pegs. 20 In English, saberes and conocimientos are translated as knowledge while in Spanish they are used differently, especially in relation to Indigenous knowledge. Indigenous knowledge is commonly referred as saberes, and scientific Western knowledge as conocimiento (­Crespo and V ­ ila-​­Viñas 2015; Martínez Novo 2016; Zuluaga Duque 2017). From a decolonial perspective, there is no hierarchy between Indigenous knowledge and Western Scientific knowledge.

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23 PARTICIPATION OTHERWISE More than southerning the world, designing in movement Barbara Szaniecki and Zoy Anastassakis

Introduction Faced with disturbing signs of a crisis in democracy at a global level, the issue of participation is gaining enormous relevance. In the s­o-​­called Global South, it becomes even more poignant. Broadly speaking, popular participation was decisive in the processes of (­re)­democratization in Latin America, and in Brazil in particular, whether from a political point of view or from a sociocultural point of view. The participation of social movements was vital for the formulation of the 1988 Constitution, and this democratic process made the Participatory Budget, albeit very restricted, an important instrument. In addition, public participation was also fundamental in cultural activities, such as Augusto Boal’s Theater of the Oppressed (­2005), and in areas such as Education, with the Pedagogy of the Oppressed, by Paulo Freire (­1974). Today, the Oppressor versus Oppressed dialectical approach remains current, but eventually opens itself up to other relational epistemologies and cosmologies. Many of these experiences carried on separately and met again in the World Social Forums (­WSF). A counterpoint to the Economic Forum of Davos, the first WSF was held in 2001, in Porto Alegre, under the motto “­A nother World is Possible”, and reactivated poetic and political imaginaries around the world. These imaginaries evidently impacted project activities and, in particular, thinking and practices of design. In 2020, the Participatory Design Conference was held for the first time in Latin America, more precisely in Colombia, albeit remotely due to the coronavirus pandemic. With the theme “­Participation(­s) Otherwise”, the conference being held in the ­so-​­called Global South had great epistemological potency. One of the keynotes, the Colombian anthropologist Arturo Escobar, brought about the notion of Pluriverse and, in doing so, opened dialogic possibilities between South and North. In this chapter, we do not seek to define a “­design of the Global South” from a design field previously designed in the Global North. Our proposal is to southern design research in the sense of setting design research in motion. Beyond an established design field of practices, a nomadic designing that, instead of dividing the planet between North and South, seeks to track, trace, and redesign associations around the world. To do so, it does not hesitate to distance itself from the field’s methodologies and move on, and even slide, from subjects to subjectivities, in a continuous and ongoing process of subjectivation and correspondence, with or without a destination. To demonstrate how these movements occur on a concrete level, here, we will DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-27

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bring contributions to design research from existing research experiments carried out by design researchers at ­LaDA – Laboratório ​­ de Design em Antropologia, Escola Superior de Desenho Industrial, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro.

Other winds: participating as southerning the world, nomadizing design research The holding of the Participatory Design Conference in Latin America, more specifically in Colombia, marks an attempt to establish a dialog between the “­Global North” and the “­Global South” through the very notion of participation within the PD community specifically, and the field of design and research in general. According to that proposal, thinking about other means of participation implies having alternative technologies, and making design processes more democratic, open, and accessible for broader participation, subject to critical scrutiny and mutual learning. By proposing the theme, the organizers invited the participants “­to think further on the diverse meanings and ontologies that participation and design can take on” and “­to open up the understanding of ‘­participation’ beyond modernist narratives and theoretically ‘­universal’ solutions and account for diverse practices”. The proposal unfolded along the following lines: local versus global; economies; alternative representation, resistance, and governance; participation and interculturality. Holding this edition of the PDC in a South American country effectively incorporated “­other” participations. Although always minor, there were contributions from countries such as Mexico, Colombia and Brazil, to mention only the Latin Americans. The presence of Gladys Tzul Tzul (­Mexico) and Arturo Escobar (­Colombia and USA) as keynotes paved the way for participatory design research and practices, often under other names. Some of these paths have been undertaken for centuries but have r­ e-​­emerged in the World Social Forums through autonomous experiences, such as that of the Zapatista Movement in Mexico (­the original and the EZLN), emphasizing that “­the path is made by walking” and affirming the horizontality with its “­lead by obeying”. In Latin America, one of the most powerful meanings of participation comes from Indigenous and ­A fro-​­Latin American experiences and, directly or indirectly, they were present in the keynotes’1 words regarding the field of design. Tzul Tzul’s speech presented an overview of the dynamics of community activities and Indigenous memory that recompose, imagine and produce a varied iconography. Escobar, on the other hand, brought an analysis as broad as it was critical of design in the modern era to then support the need to reconnect what modernity had separated. In this sense, he pointed out the importance of i­nter-​­epistemic conversations in the field of design between the Global North (­proposals such as design for social innovation; design for transitions; justice in design and ontological design, among others) and the Global South (­proposals such as decolonial design, design del Sur(­es) and autonomous design, among others). Escobar also highlighted the relevance of a “­design culture” that “­ceases to be anthropocentric and embraces the idea of a radical interdependence” and, finally, presented a “­Relational Participatory Design” to the event’s audience. All these considerations seem to us to be very important and, at the same time, instead of proposing relationships between design approaches supposedly characteristic of the North or the South, we chose to shuffle the grounds a bit. We invite you to ponder to what extent the notion of “­participation”, even if qualified as “­relational”, maintains the idea that, at the origin, there is a given being or essence, when what interests us, more than “­what it is”, is what “­it is being” or what “­it may become” in the movement of life. Neither the North that imposed its epistemologies, nor a South that would oppose it with its own ontologies 300

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but rather a “­southerning” in the sense of “­following” flows through design practices and tactics: this is an approach that animates us. It is not, therefore, a relationship between two global hemispheres or an interrelation between a local and global scale, as it would still be thinking and designing based on supposed ­pre-​­existing entities, but rather a projection in the sense of feeling and following what pulsates, and thus drawing existential and design paths in the world. This is the path we intend to walk to explore and open possibilities for “­participation(­s) otherwise” by means of design. Researchers from different fields who are not only interested in a science of movement but a science capable of following its subjects and objects of interest, is not new. Latour criticizes sociology as a science of the “­social” to favor a tracking of associations, and attributes the origin of his reflections to the difference between Émile Durkheim and Gabriel Tarde, in the nineteenth century. He criticizes social scientists’ use of the adjective “­social” through a set of questions: what is a society? What does the word “­social” mean? Then, he distinguishes two sociological approaches: the first states that there are different domains (­economics, geography, psychology, etc.) with some features of these domains being explained as “­social”; the second considers “­that there is nothing specific about the social order; that there is no social dimension, no ‘­social context’, no distinct sphere of reality to which the social label can be attributed [...]” (­Latour 2006, 21). For the first approach, the social is a homogeneous thing, while for the second it is a series of associations between heterogeneous elements. Latour thus distinguishes sociology as science of the “­social” from a sociology which tracks and outlines associations, leading to the development of his Actor Network Theory (­A NT). Following the concepts of Deleuze and Guattari, we can advance the hypothesis of a nomadic design. What would this design and this research in design that belongs nowhere, always in transit, or even in a trance, be like? In Deleuze and Guattari (­1980), the distinction between State science and nomadic science is exemplified by the cutting of stones used in the construction of Gothic cathedrals in the twelfth century: they differentiate the plan drawn directly on the ground from the one drawn on paper by the architect outside of the construction site. The first is a plane of consistency or composition, situated and unique, while the second is one of organization and formation, and prone to be replicated as a model. The first type of science is based on the static f­orm-​­matter relationship with equations, surfaces, and volumes; the second type develops a dynamic ­material-​­force relationship where equations are generated as if by the impulse of the materials. State science corresponds to the hylomorphic model that favors the organization of a ­content-​­matter by a ­form-​­expression, the nomadic science favors the relationship between content and expression, both playing between form and matter. Here we refer to Tim Ingold, who follows clues from archeology, art, architecture, and design, and thus sets anthropology in motion. To Ingold (­2018), more than interdisciplinary, multidisciplinary, or transdisciplinary, if we want to reanimate anthropology or the social sciences, we must assume an ­anti-​­disciplinary approach toward knowledge production, resisting to the pressures of a full institutionalization.

Walking while researching: beyond methodologies, movement Our research journey began in the city of Rio de Janeiro, which, in recent years, had undergone violent transformations. Several m ­ ega-​­events such as the World Cup and the Olympic Games were held there and lasted from 2010 to 2016. Also, large infrastructure developments were carried out, as well as the construction of stadiums and other sporting equipment: the benefits and losses of such undertakings are still up for debate. In economic terms, this equipment required international but mostly local investments. In Brazil, though particularly in 301

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Rio de Janeiro, the economic crisis had already taken hold, but its concomitance with the political crisis generated dramatic social effects. What caught our attention at the time was the lack of dialog with citizens, social movements, and the academic and professional communities in the d­ ecision-​­making processes. Participation was present as a “­d ispositif ”, that is, in Foucauldian terms, a heterogeneous set of policies, institutions, discourses, as well as various materialities that, in this case, put governments and social movements in a closer relationship with the purpose of legitimizing the powers rather than in the sense of effective participation. LaDA’s (­ Laboratory of Design and Anthropology) approximation with Participatory Design came from a cooperation, between 2014 and 2015, with CODE, a CoDesign laboratory in Denmark (­ CoDesign Research Centre, School of Architecture, Design and ­Conservation – ​­KADK/­Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts) and, more specifically, with researchers such as Thomas Binder, Joachim Halse, Eva Brandt and Sissel Olander. CODE was already going through a critical reassessment of Participatory Design, in the sense of having encountered its limits in certain realms and experiments: who is invited to participate? How are the invitations to participate designed? Who actually participates? How does this participation take place? When does this participation become a mere legitimation of processes that have already been decided? Participatory Design is problematic in the sense that rather than advancing solutions, it values problem posing for all participants. From these reflections emerged codesign as thought and practiced by these Danish researchers with whom LaDA established a cooperation: a codesign that considers not only the actions of hu­ on-​­humans, i.e. animals and plants; that extends itself from mans but also the associations of n the production of objects (­­things-­​­­as-​­objects) to processes whose goals are undefined a priori but gain definition along the process (­­thinging-­​­­as-​­process); that values the issue of crafting the invitation to participate; that is critical to the proposal of inconsequent workshops and design labs; and a codesign that encompasses design games and also a speculative verve always attentive to the opening of possibilities through “­W hat if ” questions. Our proposal for a “­conversation dispositif ” (­A nastassakis and Szaniecki 2016) was inspired by these exchanges but was somewhat expanded and adapted. Regarding the “­W hat if?” questions, for example, we consider that they not only open possibilities, that is, alternatives that are methodologically evaluated and then accepted or discarded, but, above all, they open up other perspectives. Our approach dialogs with different cultures and cosmologies, and considers the creation of concomitant, albeit conflicting, perspectives in the codesign process. Beyond this inspiration, our proposal was also provoked by other exchanges. In addition to the abovementioned cooperation with Danish researchers at CODE, we also engaged with Wendy Gunn (­Southern Denmark University) and with Eeva Berglund (­A alto University) in the “­Entremeios” Seminar, which we organized at Centro Carioca de Design. Similarly, in Scotland, we were in dialog with researchers from the project “­K nowing from the inside: Anthropology, Art, Architecture and Design”, coordinated by Tim Ingold at the University of Aberdeen. In the Brazilian context, the exchange with the Núcleo de Pesquisas em Inovação, Design e Antropologia (­N IDA), coordinated by Raquel Noronha, at the Universidade Federal do Maranhão, stood out. In Rio de Janeiro, we realized that we were entangled in very asymmetrical power relations, but we continued to bet on the possibility of shaking them up through multiple conversations. In order to question the modes of participation in the city’s transformation processes in that period, we carried out design experiments that were fundamental to promote conversations by means of design, and, thus, should be considered beyond the artifacts themselves, as these are just some of the elements constituting “­conversation dispositifs”. 302

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Since then, we have continued researching and experimenting. Not necessarily codesigning with social movements or for a social cause, although we do it on occasion. In a way, we are suspicious of militant posturing because it remains within a hylomorphic model regarding the relationship between form and matter, whether in design practice or in the designers’ political action. Inspired by exchanges with our colleagues from Brazil and from Europe, and critically observing what was happening in our city, we experimented with design in movement. Instead of continuing to think about design as a participatory practice, we choose, above all, to understand our design practice and research as movement. In this sense, more than design we should talk about designing. This movement in designing takes place, in practice and in research, by associations and alliances, and by correspondence. Alliances require a movement toward others, and with others, and correspondence requires a relation where the participants constitute themselves along the process itself.

In movement, through alliances: experiments between design and agroecology We saw earlier that Latour proposes a “­science of associations” beyond the “­science of the social”, which inspires us to think of a continuous association through design, or rather, through redesign. This possibility is relevant if we consider our own research conditions: we research within institutions that are fragile and ephemeral. This problematic situation can provoke, on one hand, the discontinuity of research and even, in the political realm, the ­de-​­democratization of the country. On the other hand, it can create opportunities to organize other institutions, or better yet, of institutionalities “­beyond the modernist narratives and theoretically ‘­universal’ solutions” (­PDC 2020 proposal). Here, we will comment on some experiments of associations and alliances, among many possible compositions involving design researchers and “­others”. In 2016, a small group of students from Escola Superior de Desenho Industrial, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (­ESDI/­U ERJ) started a vegetable garden that soon grew into a design laboratory for the development of artifacts, systems and services that promote the rebirth of green spaces in the urban environment and are aligned with sustainability concepts: the Laboratório Espaços Verdes.2 Thus, a design laboratory for urban agriculture and sustainability was born. Shortly thereafter, some of the students leading this initiative began master’s and doctoral research in the Graduate Program at ESDI/­U ERJ and, more specifically, in our laboratory, LaDA: namely, Diego Costa, Pedro Biz, and Pedro Themoteo. Pedro Themoteo started his master’s degree with a research project on the production of prosthetics using 3D printers. However, as he gradually became more involved in the school’s vegetable garden, he refocused his research to experiment with “­g rowing” furniture, such as a chair and a lamp, in trees. His work consisted in composing the pieces among the branches of a guava tree next to the vegetable garden. While following the slow work of molding the branches, Pedro dedicated himself to working with other colleagues in the vegetable garden. However, the master’s duration was shorter than the time required to produce the first prototypes. From this learning experience, some questions arose: what is the time needed to establish relationships with other beings, such as trees? How to conform artifacts with living matter? How to cultivate ethical and caring relationships with living beings that metabolize matter (­and the “­m aterials”) with which we relate to enable ways of inhabiting the world? And how to design not as a project (­or projection), but as a moving practice that at the same time must accompany other movements, which imply different temporalities? As for PhD students, Diego Costa had the initiative of taking Pedro Biz and, later on, Camille Moraes, to Complexo da Penha (­Dos Santos Costa et  al 2019). There, they met 303

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Ana Santos, manager of the NGO Centro de Integração na Serra da Misericórdia (­CEM) and, more so, a community leader. Complexo da Penha is the official name of a cluster of 11 favelas in Rio de Janeiro that suffer from several kinds of infrastructure problems. However, focused on agroecology, CEM prefers to call its territory Serra da Misericórdia. Thus, instead of considering such a territory as a place of absence (­concerning, for example, the lack of infrastructure), CEM values it as a place of potential (­related, to the proximity and vitality of the remaining forest). That is where more than carrying out their field research, Diego, Pedro and Camille sought to experience their research. This is an important point to note: being already familiar with the practice of field research that involved participant observation, ­semi-​­structured interviews and workshops, these researchers sought other experiences: “­I, then, decided: to live my research. I started to attend CEM almost daily, I got involved in everything I could”, says Diego. Diego has chosen the Bernardo de Vasconcelos Municipal School located at Complexo da Penha as his base. His research intertwines agroecology and design, and strives not only for the community’s food sovereignty, that is, producing a volume of quality food, but also to reactivate memories and affection related to them. This experience involved moving from the city to the community, participating in collective meals, working the land, and planting seedlings and having many conversations. Food is not only an end but also a means, and above all, affective memory. The seedlings themselves, transported from one place to another in the community, always provoke conversations and exchanges along the way. This experience led Diego to adopt conversations during a­ ctivities – ​­such as eating together, working the land and planting ­seedlings – ​­as a sensitive approach for his design research. Camille’s research (2020) interrelates health and design. It presents the history of the Sistema Único de Saúde (­SUS) – ​­Brazil’s Unified Health ­System – ​­as “­the materialization of health as a social right and having popular participation as one of its guidelines”. But it also follows the clues of a territorial and tentacular health inspired by the tentacular thinking3 of Donna Haraway (­2016) and by meetings with female users of the Clínica da Família Felippe Cardoso. The dismissal of the only nutritionist at the Family Clinic made women rethink their health and, of course, their eating habits. It was this moment of crisis that led Camille to stimulate conversations and reflection through design workshops, including in the kitchen. Despite the concern, the women were happy to exchange recipes, and this process led them to produce a cookbook on the local cuisine. If a cookbook is somewhat traditional, the codesigning process brought a differential. Through the conversations, the women’s group became more aware of the relation between food and health. And above all, they learned the importance of ­a lliances – among ​­ themselves, but also with others, in this case, the researcher ­Camille – ​­to face infrastructural and institutional instabilities. SUS is very valuable for the health of the Brazilian population. It showed resilience during the Covid19 pandemic but, like many Brazilians institutions, it is affected by instabilities that only powerful alliances like those of the women of the Family Clinic can face. Lastly, Pedro’s research (2022) initially aimed at the interrelation between composting and design or, in other words, between humusities4 (­Haraway 2016) and humanities. His gateway to the community was Escola de Desenvolvimento Infantil Maria de Lourdes, a daycare center run by the city hall, where he started a vegetable garden with the children. While each individual research progressed, Urban Seeds workshops were carried out. This whole movement led the PhD students to apply for an open call by FAPERJ (­the research funding agency of the State of Rio de Janeiro) in which the partnership between CEM (­Centro de Integração da Serra da Misericórdia), INT (­Instituto Nacional de Tecnologia), ESDI (­our unit, UERJ’s Escola Superior de Desenho Industrial) and ­AS-​­PTA (­Agricultura Familiar e 304

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Agroecologia) was institutionalized. It is noteworthy, however, that although the formalization contemplates these stakeholders, the Arranjo Local (­Local Arrangement) Penha is much more tentacular5 (­Haraway 2016): in addition to them and those already mentioned (­schools and the family clinic), others joined in. Arranjo Local Penha was formed by tangling agroecology and design practices. However, it is not enough to represent them graphically, it is necessary to actually design the Local Arrangement, bringing together actors from different institutions and citizen initiatives. In the field of design and particularly in the field of Participatory Design and Codesign, there are some reflections on institutionalization and infrastructure processes, and some of them have been presented in editions of the Participatory Design Conference. In his book Concurrent Urbanities: Designing Infrastructures of Inclusion (­2015), Miodrag Mitrasinovic brings many case studies and analyses in terms of governance, third sector strategy as well as activism, thus demonstrating the relevance these concepts have acquired in the field of design. However, what has been happening in Serra da Misericórdia, with its weaknesses and strengths, deserves a different reflection. Designing with the Arranjo Local Penha is as tactical as it is strategic, it obviously has clear objectives to meet the demands and the schedule of the public call and, at the same time, a plasticity that welcomes the urgencies and events of the territory and its people. Being the result of associations and alliances, the Arranjo Local Penha is sympoietic. Institutions and infrastructure matter, but let’s stay with the troubles and focus on the processes. When considering the possibility of rehabilitation and sustainability of the world, ­ orlds – ​­complex, dynamic, responDonna Haraway bets on sympoiesis, that is, on making w sive, situated, and historical s­ ystems – ​­with others, with all beings on Earth and of the earth, whether they are humus or humans, always in company. For this purpose, Haraway relies on a series of SFs: science fiction, speculative fabulation, string figures, speculative feminism, scientific fact, so far. Haraway claims that she follows the SF strings to stay with the trouble in real and situated places and times. In that sense, SF is both a method of tracing and the trace itself. It is a practice and research process which, in our case, we can call design, ­de-​­design and redesign understood as a persistence in tracing in the Chthulucenic6 Serra da Misericórdia. Design research in territories such as Serra da Misericórdia requires an involvement with our whole physical bodies, with its intelligences and sensibilities distributed and tentacular, in order to keep trying and groping.

In movement, by correspondence: experiments between design and anthropology With bodies, we learn to respond and correspond to/­in the world. Here it is necessary to emphasize the question posed by the field of design itself: why design and anthropology? The approximation between these two fields dates to the 1980s and aims at both an anthropology made by means of design and a design made by means of anthropology. Historically, anthropology has been dedicated to participant observation and a dense description of the most diverse aspects of life in society, based on an e­ ngaged – and ​­ at the same time c­ areful – ​­attention regarding the relationships at play. Traditionally, the field of design has been concerned with developing projects to intervene in and improve life in society, particularly in urban and industrial environments. The approximation between anthropology and design brings a rich theoretical, methodological, and practical complementarity. In recent decades, the field of design has been incorporating anthropological knowledge and the ethnographic approach as part of the 305

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research process. Anthropology, in turn, has approached design as an object of analysis, but also as a means of dealing with the challenges of ethnographic fieldwork, toward approaches that are more participatory than documentary. Combining means of producing knowledge between design and anthropology is a recent undertaking and always experimental, which is not consolidated and does not intend to be consolidated in the sense of constituting a new field. More than a field, Design Anthropology is a convergence of o ­ pen-​­ended theories, practices, and methodologies, with a desire to better respond to contemporary complexities without the concern or intention, however, of presenting systematized results. Here we find one of the meanings of corresponding, given that, beyond these correspondences between design and anthropology (­a s a transdisciplinary perspective), it is necessary to apprehend the practical possibilities of correspondence between the means of design and life itself, in an ontological perspective. Authors who are influential in these confluences which we call Design Anthropology propose that practices and research should be carried out in correspondence with life. Here, we refer more specifically to the concept as formulated by Gatt and Ingold (­2013): with this concept, these authors propose to reconceptualize design as a practice of correspondence to the circumstances and entanglements of people, artifacts, and environments. In this sense, designers, as well as researchers, see themselves in a process that is also fluid in their ability to respond unexpectedly to emerging issues, moving forward with people as they carry on. It is a process of improvisation rather than innovation, in which recognizing oneself as fluid does not mean, however, letting oneself be carried away by the current. According to Ingold, the search for knowledge erupts in the midst of a process of active reflection and, in movement, as a critical process that points out and opens up certain paths and not others, corresponds to the dynamics of growth and transformation involved (­Ingold 2011, 2013). The most recent studies in Design Anthropology have been inspiring LaDA’s researchers to follow flows and movements to track clues in the most diverse territories: whether in communities like Serra da Misericórdia, or in neighborhoods (­as in the researches of Maria Cristina Ibarra (­2018) and Mariana Costard (­2022); with public institutions (­as in the case of research by Cássia Mota (­2019) and Paula de Oliveira Camargo (­2022) and even in terreiros 7 (­a s in the case of research by Ilana Paterman Brasil (­2022). Above all, all these researchers seek to go beyond any field understood as disciplinary enclosure. This movement can lead to working with social movements, but it is, above all, a movement of the researchers themselves. In the case of social movements, we can mention the research by Bibiana Oliveira Serpa (­2022). Based on her design experiences with a focus on social innovation, popular education practices, student representation and militancy in the social movement, particularly in the feminist movement, Bibiana proposes to investigate the processes of politicization of women and the role of design in this learning process. To do so, using the theoretical contributions mentioned above, she proposed to the Universidade Livre Feminista8, a network of production and exchange of knowledge within the scope of Feminism, a course composed of a series of “­paths”. This choice points to the researcher’s experimental intention based on her understanding of what would be a feminist political “­formation” by means of design. This formation does not fit into a hylomorphic conception of the pedagogical or political relationship, that is, into a conception that hierarchically distinguishes who instructs and who intends to be instructed, restricting these complex relationships to a certain format or formula. The paths opened by Bibiana question who and what Feminism is for. They present a snippet of the history of women’s struggles, inquire about the different oppressions that overlap in everyday life and, finally, speculate about possibilities for women’s ­self-​­organization. They are trails, meaning literally unpaved paths, often sinuous. They are tentacles in the 306

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sense that they start groping around a ­self-​­reflection and extend into the ontological territories of struggles for justice, equity, freedom, and autonomy. Along this course, in collaboration with Clara Juliano, an undergraduate design student at ESDI, Bibiana tried out some artifacts and methodologies of a “­conversation dispositif ” (­A nastassakis and Szaniecki 2016; Anastassakis, Juliano and Serpa 2018). This in turn, generated different movements: the conversation circles provoked different associations beyond the relationship between what is individual and what is collective; the timeline of a general history acquired surprising curves when articulating with local, situated, and singular stories; Through ­thought-​­provoking questions, the board games not only destabilized binary systems of gender, races and class, but also opened other possibilities for alliances; and finally, the card games disorganized and reorganized the most traditional organizations that fight for other arrangements, especially between production and reproduction. In this course, beyond feminist formations, feminisms in movement were designed. During the activities, it is possible to observe the cards acting as tentacular extensions of the participants’ bodies. The bodies’ movements seem to escape linear temporality, as well as a temporality that is circular and circumscribed in an eternal return, becoming more tentacular. Groping, straining and always trying, they correspond in a way to the uncertainties of the moment. In LaDA, other movements are at play. This is the case of the research that gave rise to Ilana Paterman Brasil’s doctoral thesis on correspondence between women, terreiros, and universities. Ilana started from her meeting with Maria Eni Moreira, who is engaged in a terreiro de Candomblé in the Baixada Fluminense, metropolitan region of Rio de Janeiro. Eni dances with the ­orishas – ​­their human ancestors turned into gods and linked to the forces of nature, whether they are animals, plants or minerals. Ilana observes participatively, films, paints with watercolors, draws with charcoal, digitizes the materials and reassembles everything, thus reanimating the dances of Brazilian Candomblé. About this process, Ilana says that by filming the elders dancing and then drawing on paper the lines from their movements in order to reanimate them image by image in a new film, she herself dances through the film. Initially, she dances with her eyes, then with her hands, accompanied by brushes and pencils, and finally, the stories of the orishas danced by Eni move Ilana’s entire body. It is through this moving body that Ilana learns Eni’s wisdom and responds to it. They come to exist as moving beings, sharing moments beyond participation, that is, in close collaboration and correspondence. Back at the university, Ilana r­e-​ ­elaborates these reflections. It is through all these lines of dance, animated films, and research in Design Anthropology that, in this case, new alliances are drawn between women, terreiros and universities (­A nastassakis and Brasil, 2018).

Closing remarks We raise the hypothesis of designing in movement: in movement by alliances, by means of experiments in design and agroecology; and in movement by correspondence, by means of experiments in design and anthropology. With Deleuze and Guattari, we can learn and present even better what we understand as movement. A nomadic science is a theory of flows rather than solids; a process of becoming and heterogeneity rather than identity and homogeneity; a whirlwind procedure in its mode of organization; and, finally, a thought that poses issues rather than solutions. Deleuze and Guattari suggest that State ­science – ​­a form of ­interiority – eliminates ​­ all dynamic and nomadic notions such as becoming, heterogeneity and continuous variation, and only retains from nomadic science what can be reappropriated within w ­ ell-​­delimited boundaries and be reduced to mere recipes. 307

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A nomadic design, a design of associations, a design in movement belongs neither to the North nor to the South: beyond any belonging, without interiority or exteriority, it is a ­design-​­becoming, a designing in movement. We wonder if it is valid to insist on the concept of “­participation”. Qualifying it as “­relational” or as “­other” seems to us as instigating as it is insufficient, even as a more than necessary contribution from “­the South”. If the South exists, it is the name of a gust of wind that transforms, without the forms it blows ever returning to their original state. But, following the clues launched by Paul B. Preciado, we may think that […] the South does not exist. The South is a political fiction constructed by colonial prejudice. The South is an invention of modern colonial cartography: the combined effects of the t­rans-​­Atlantic slave trade and the growth of industrial capitalism, still in the quest for new territories to use for the extraction of raw material. The direct consequence of the invention of the South was the construction of a modern Western fiction of the North. (­Preciado 2019, 231) Thus, if the South does not exist, the North doesn’t exist either. In order to southern the world, then, as we propose here, it is urgent to nomadize science and, in our case, design research. We follow some clues left behind by these authors, but we will follow them always researching and asking…

Notes 1 Talks available at: https://­festivaldelaimagen.com/­en/­v ideorepository/ 2 facebook.com/­espacosverdesesdi 3 Inspired by tentacular beings of land and sea such as spiders and octopuses, Haraway reminds us that “­tentacle” is a word of Latin origin, and that “­tentare” means not only to feel but also to try. She claims the qualities of these tentacular beings to challenge the human exceptionalism on which science and technology are based and structured. 4 As an alternative to the humanities, an area of knowledge dedicated to the study of issues related to human beings, Haraway proposes the term humusities. Considering the urgency of abandoning the humanist certainties that define us as ­self-​­contained individuals, in favor of a more ecosystemic consciousness, in which humans can be reconsidered as holobionts, that is, creatures forged in collaboration with beings of other species, through continuous symbiotic processes. 5 A tentacular arrangement indicates an organization based not so much on a centralized rationality and linearity but one that incorporates a more diffuse and spread feeling and trying. 6 Haraway calls Chthulucene a time from whose tentacles emerge sensibilities and attempts in order to counter the progressist rationality and temporality of the Anthropocene and the Capitalocene. 7 A place destined for ­A fro-​­Brazilian worship. 8 https://­feminismo.org.br

References Anastassakis, Zoy, Juliano Clara and Serpa Bibiana. 2018. “­Design Anthropology e Design Ativismo: Investigando Métodos Situados”. In Anais do 13o Congresso Brasileiro de Pesquisa e Desenvolvimento em Design. Santa Catarina: Joinville, 1­ 580–​­1596. Available at: https://­w ww.proceedings.blucher.com. br/­­a rticle-​­l ist/­­ped2018-​­314/­l ist#articles Anastassakis, Zoy, and Ilana Paterman Brasil. 2018. “­I l Faut Danser, en Dansant. Essai de Fabulation Speculative”. In Multitudes, V. 70. Paris: Printemps. ISSN: ­1777–​­5841. Available at: http://­w ww. multitudes.net/­­i l-­​­­f aut-­​­­d anser-­​­­en-​­d ansant/ Anastassakis, Zoy, and Barbara Szaniecki. 2016. “­Conversation Dispositifs: Towards a Transdisciplinary Design Anthropological Approach.” In R. C Smith, K. T. Vangkilde, M. G. KJaersgaard,

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Participation otherwise T. Otto, J. Halse and T. Binder (­Eds.). Design Anthropological Futures. London, New York: Bloomsbury, ­121–​­138. Biz, Pedro. 2022. Codesign como compostagem com uma comunidade agroecológica na Serra da Misericórdia, Rio de Janeiro. PhD Thesis, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro. Boal, Augusto. 2005. Teatro do Oprimido e Outras Poéticas Políticas. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira. Brasil, Ilana Paterman. 2022. Descolonizando Tecnologias em Gestos Incorporados (­Working title). PhD Thesis, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro. Camargo, Paula de Oliveira. 2022. Design e/­é Patrimônio Cultural? Apontamentos Sobre Política, Discurso e Ação a Partir da Experiência do Centro Carioca de Design (­Working title). PhD Thesis, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro. Costard, Mariana. 2022. Design como modo de pesquisa coletiva no território: Experimentos, correspondências e cartografias. PhD Thesis, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro. Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. 1980. Mille ­Plateaux – ​­Capitalisme et Schizophrénie. Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit. Dos Santos Costa D., P. Biz, J. C. A. Da Silva and A. Santos. 2019. “­Sementes Urbanas: Aprendizados em um Laboratório de Design Para Inovação Social.” In Anais do Simpósio de Design Sustentável, São Paulo: Blucher, ­673–​­684. DOI 10.5151/­­7dsd-​­3.2.061 Escobar, Arturo. 2020. Contra o Terricídio. São Paulo: ­N-​­1 edições. Freire, Paulo. 1974. Pedagogia do Oprimido. Petrópolis: Paz e Terra. Gatt, Caroline and Ingold, Tim. 2013. “­From Description to Correspondence: Anthropology in Real Time”. In Wendy Gunn, Ton Otto and Rachel Charlotte Smith (­Eds.). Design Anthropology. Theory and Practice. London, New York: Bloomsbury, ­139–​­158. Haraway, Donna. 2016a. Staying with the ­Trouble – ​­Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Haraway, Donna. 2016b. “­Tentacular Thinking: Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Chthulucene.” Ejournal, issue #75: ­e -​­flux.com/­journal/­75/­67125/­­tentacular-­​­­thinking-­​­­a nthropocene-­​­­capitalocene-​ c­ hthulucene/ Ibarra, Maria Cristina. 2018. Entrelaçando Design com Antropologia: Engajamentos com um Grupo de Moradores do Bairro de Santa Teresa no Rio de Janeiro. PhD Thesis, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro. Ingold, Tim. 2011. Being ­Alive – ​­Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. Londres: Routledge. Ingold, Tim. 2013. Making – ​­Anthropology, Archeology, Art and Architecture. London: Routledge. Ingold, Tim. 2018. Anthropology and/­as Education. London: Routledge. Latour, Bruno. 2006. Changer de ­Société – ​­Refaire de la Sociologie. Paris: La Découverte. Mitrasinovic, Miodrag. 2015. Concurrent Urbanities: Designing Infrastructures of Inclusion. Londres: Routledge. Moraes, Camille Costa. 2020. Nutrir com”: uma experiência degustativa sobre Design & Saúde. PhD Thesis, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro. Mota, Cássia. 2019. Conjeturando Futuras Relações Entre Design e Propriedade Intelectual. PhD thesis, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro. Preciado, Paul B. 2019. An Apartment on Uranus. Chronicles of the Crossing. South Pasadena, CA: Semiotext(­e). Serpa, Bibiana. 2022. Design e Educação Política: Reflexões Para uma Práxis do Design (­working title). PhD Thesis, Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro.

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24 THE ROLE OF PROTOTYPES AND FRAMEWORKS FOR STRUCTURING EXPLORATIONS BY RESEARCH THROUGH DESIGN Pieter Jan Stappers, Froukje Sleeswijk Visser and Ianus Keller Introduction The relation between design and research is rapidly maturing. For one, research methods have become an accepted, even standard, part of design practice, and (­academic) design education. But equally important, there are a growing number of researchers who have a background in design, and who make active use of their design skills in research projects. This chapter is based on a series of design research PhD projects, carried out over the past decade at StudioLab (­then called “­­ID-​­StudioLab”) in Delft University of Technology in which designing played a prominent part in the research. The goal of this chapter is to describe how, in each project, a series of studies achieved a coherent unity, as is needed for a PhD thesis. Within established disciplines, this unity is often achieved by starting from extant theory, identifying open questions, and investigating those with empirical methods. In design research, the unity can also be achieved by a commitment to achieving an improvement in the phenomenon under study, where either a designed prototype or a flexibly defined framework provided the central focus of the work, and a more constructivist research approach is followed. The principles of this may hold for other disciplines as well, especially exploratory engineering research, but as yet there is limited guidance for it in the research methods literature. We indicate how the prototype and framework served as a conduit to guide the project, and provided a base for disseminating findings and continuation in later projects.

Research and d ­ esign – ​­a tension Research and design share similarities, yet are at odds with each other (­Cross 1982; Archer 1995). On the one hand, both show an iterative development leading to an increase, either in understandings or a number of solutions. On the other hand, much research is aimed at understanding the past or present (­w ith the hope of putting that knowledge to good use later), whereas design is aimed at constructing a possible future (­that may not exist yet). This difference is visualized in ­Figure 24.1. In research projects, it is reflected in the outcomes,

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­Figure 24.1 A s­pace-​­time diagram depicting past (­a single path) and future (­a set of possible futures). Designers, more than classically trained researchers, aim to find or create possible (­desirable) futures, rather than precisely understand past or present for its own sake

with research typically yielding knowledge about the present (­and possibly speculation toward possible applications in the future) and design typically leads to concrete solutions for specific situations (­a nd possibly indication of broader applications), and broad, ­multi-​­faceted, explorations of a large variety of aspects and factors. Also, the difference is reflected in the type of questions that are asked. In our experience, designers are eager to ask “­how to do …?”, whereas scientific handbooks direct the researcher to ask “­what is …?” or “­is it so that …?”. Designer’s questions are often an expression of a goal, rather than a claim about a single or universal state of affairs. With the advent of a new generation of researchers, namely researchers with a basic training in design methods, and a mindset that is f­ uture-​­and s­ olution-​­oriented, we see new types of research being done. This tension between research and design is similar to the apparent contrast between basic and applied research. Stokes (­1997) pointed out that the accepted paradigm of viewing research distinguished fundamental (­a.k.a. “­generalizable”, “­basic”) and applied (­or rather “­­application-​­oriented”) research are opposites on a single dimension. The idea was that on one extreme, basic science (­exemplified by Niels Bohr, the father of Quantum Mechanics) sought generic knowledge and truth, on the other extreme applied research (­exemplified by ­inventor-​­entrepreneur Thomas Edison) sought only direct, practical application and use. There was a variety of types of research inbetween these extremes, but attention to generalizability always went at the expense of attention to application, and vice versa. Over the past half century this view has dominated popular thinking about research, and that of ­policy-​ ­m akers and many scientists themselves. Against this, Stokes argued that generalizability and application can actually go together very well, and exemplified this with the example of Louis Pasteur, whose work both brought applied results in the form of vaccines, and who founded the field of microbiology. In this type of research, which Stokes labels “­Pasteur’s Quadrant”, both generalizability and applicability are valued. This double attention: to generalization and application, to past and future, to understanding and solution, seems to fit very well the promise of designers doing research projects.1

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Design as a part of ­research – ​­a historical reflection The role that design skills, and design actions, can have in research has recently received growing attention. In this the prototype, and instantiation of the designed idea, has taken central stage. Zimmerman et  al. (­2007) emphasized that designers create new, ­not-­​­­yet-​ ­existing, states of affairs, open up those new states for empirical investigation; Stappers (­2007) indicated that “­the act of designing” itself is the locus where new ideas get constructed by confronting technology, theory, and phenomenon (­that what happens in the world), and many of these confrontations take place before the prototype has matured into a testable thing. Koskinen et al. (­2011) draw attention to the constructive rather than analytic aspects that design can bring to research, Krogh and Koskinen (­2020) point at the meandering form of designerly explorations, and Redstrom (­2017) frames designerly research activities as programs consisting of multiple, smaller, explorations. To clarify the position of research through design, it is helpful to briefly sketch the historical development of design research at the Faculty of Industrial Design Engineering (­IDE) of Delft University of Technology from the viewpoint of the first author. This development can be viewed from the survey that Horvath (­2007) made of types of research at the Faculty, on the basis of 100 PhD theses. Horvath noted that, regarding the methods used, design research was wedged in between basic research conducted in established disciplines such as physics or psychology, and design practice in industry (­­Figure 24.2). Horvath found he could classify the PhD projects at IDE in three types: i Research in design context (­using methods of basic research, but applying these to design content), ii ­Practice-​­based design (­reflecting on design projects, and drawing generalizations from that experience), and between these two i ii ­Design-​­inclusive research, in which design actions form a necessary ingredient of research. It is in this middle field that ­research-­​­­through-​­design fits in, but not necessarily filling that whole field.

­Figure 24.2 Types of research (­based on Horvath 2007)

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This middle field took shape around the late 90s, early 00s. Before that, most (­PhD) researchers at IDE had had their research training from other disciplines (­physics, engineering, psychology). They published in their “­home journals”, and tried to make their research relevant for designers by using design activities or designed products as objects of study. The first author distinctly remembers how satisfied he and his colleagues were that “­design students are so useful for making good stimuli for psychological experiments”. Not only could they produce stimulus material of high aesthetic quality, but often the stimulus material thus produced required the researchers to reconsider their experiment, as it brought out new perspectives on the research question. As this development continued, the design step evolved in importance and complexity, but most often as a modular step within classic experimental method. In this approach, designing is seen as the art of making a stimulus (­prototype) that instantiates the hypothesis that was generated from theory. This move, labeled the “­theory driven inflow” from Basic Research to ­Design-​­Inclusive Research involved a change of object of study, and heightened designerly attention to operationalizing a hypothesis into stimulus materials, but the ­scientific-​­thinking and d­ esign-​­doing can be maintained as separate activities. And often, these are carried out by different people.2 At the same time, a second development happened, driven from the opposite side, labeled “­­d iscovery-​­d riven” or “­­phenomenon-​­d riven inflow” in ­Figure 24.2. This featured designers exploring a new phenomenon by primarily going in and doing it, observing and reflecting as they went along, and in the interaction surveying which literature from which disciplines helps to understand, frame, and improve the prototype. It is this latter type we label “­research through design”.3 The difference between research through design and ­practice-​ b­ ased research lies in the goal of the work that is carried out: in the latter, the goal of a project was a product, and insight was a s­pin-​­off, while in the former, the goal of the work is to gain knowledge by exploring a phenomenon, even if a product might result as a side effect (­Horvath 2007). The difference in the middle column, between top and bottom, lies in the role of designing, and the place of theory and phenomenon. In ­design-​­inclusive research, the design action is a necessary step between hypothesis and stimulus, but one which is separate from knowledge generation: one person (­the researcher) might generate the hypothesis and test it with the stimulus using the regular methods of experimental research, whereas another person (­the designer) might design the stimulus, given the hypothesis as a given set of constraints. In research through design, the design action is essential to the knowledge generation, and carried out by the ­designer-​­researcher h ­ im-​­or herself (­or in the case of a research team, distributed over the team members). Where the former can be seen as ­t heory-​­driven and ­hypothesis-​­testing, the latter is p­ henomenon-​­driven, and most often explorative in nature. In this chapter we focus on ­d iscovery-​­driven research using Research through Design, because in these we have seen the strength of doing design as a part of doing research (­Stappers 2007), whereas in the t­heory-​­driven research, design can serve the needs of, rather than drive, theory. One notion that helps bridge the divide is the notion of middle level of abstraction (­Höök and Löwgren 2012; Löwgren 2013). This view indicates that inbetween the concrete level of material artifacts and the abstract level of published theories there is a middle level (­or levels) of knowledge carriers which are neither ultimate particulars (­Stolterman 2008) or generalized, abstracted, principles, but carry “­a bit of both”, and may fulfill an essential role in connecting them. Examples of this are patterns, guidelines, strong concepts, prototypes, 313

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and frameworks. These middle level carriers have an actionability to convey, instantiate, and apply knowledge in design practice (­Rutkowska, Lamas, and Sleeswijk Visser 2019). In the remainder of this chapter we focus on prototypes and frameworks. The former of these is connected strongly to the artifacts in empirical reality under study. The latter supports the organization of knowledge from empirical findings toward higher interpretation and generalization, without committing from the start to a single theoretical perspective.

Research through design: the role of prototype As mentioned above, we use the term research through design to indicate studies in which knowledge is generated on a phenomenon by conducting a design action, drawing in support knowledge from different disciplines, and reflecting on both the design action and an evaluation of the design result in practice. Moreover, we look at PhD research projects, which consist of a coherent series of such studies, exploring a phenomenon, and simultaneously yielding both generalizable knowledge and practical application. To avoid losing our readers (­a nd ourselves) in abstraction, we look at two examples of such PhD research projects. In this section one guided by a research prototype, in the next section one guided by a framework. Ianus Keller’s PhD project identified the phenomenon under study as “­the way designers use informal collections of visual material that they keep as part of their professional practice”. Our research group at the time was working on interaction design and creativity, and moving from “­creating cool visions of design tools for 2050” to developing tools and techniques to help design practice in the short term (­Stappers et al. 2007). Ianus’ work started with a review of theory, one of technology, and a contextual study of how designers use visual materials in their current practice, which at that time was undergoing vehement changes as computers were becoming the basic design tools for manipulating images, but not yet useful enough for managing them. From this threefold exploration, the phenomenon was bounded more sharply to “­how do designers keep their collection of visual materials they use for inspiration and information in design processes, and how can this be improved”. Next step was to “­get our hands dirty and our feet in the mud” by developing a prototype of a tool that would bring this improvement’. The tool was called Cabinet, short for “­Cabinet of curiosities”, after the nineteenth Century’s collections that wealthy amateur scientists kept for information and inspiration. In this project, the technological possibilities and the design practitioners’ immediate needs were important in demarcating the boundaries of the prototype that could be realized, and thereby constrained the questions posed in the research. The initial literature review (­see ­Figure  24.3) had indicated a number of areas of knowledge that might be valuable to frame the phenomenon under study, among them library science and database theory (­u nderstanding collections), media theory (­v isual materials), design processes, and creativity (­the purposes for which the collections were kept). On the basis of the feasibility for prototyping, some of these areas were placed outside the frame. For instance, database theory was discarded, as we estimated that a realistic prototype would have to be made from the users’ own collections in intense visual interactions, and most database theory dealt with typically large collections of a symbolic nature. What you can study helps to frame the phenomenon. The research progressed through a number of stages: after exploration, the prototype was developed and during its development it was continuously tested with members of the StudioLab research community as test subjects and critical participants. After several iterations 314

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­Figure 24.3 Various domains of theory were considered as perspectives for Cabinet (­f rom Keller 2005)

and improvements, the prototype was deemed “­fit for duty” and set out at design offices in practice for four week practice trials. Also in this last phase, there were expectations (“­they use it for storing and organizing”, “­they use it in presentations and for random inspiration”), but not in the form of hypotheses to be tested. The “­how” was more important than the “­what”. The results of the studies were formalized and published in journals and conferences, but we noticed another factor in forming our growing insight: the importance of repeatedly presenting the prototype to different audiences. Throughout the project, versions of the prototype were shown to people who visited the lab (­see ­Figure 24.4). Some of these were researchers in our field, some had different research backgrounds, some were design practitioners, students, other colleagues or family. Having to explain the prototype, its goals, technical principles, and examples of how it worked, each time for a different audience, played an important role in gaining insight, and gave interesting feedback and connections from different perspectives. Not only on the level of the study (“­could I also animate the pictures for use in a presentation”) but also at the level of research method: many people asked when the product would be available, mistaking the research prototype for a product under development rather than a tool for generating insight. This illustrates the boundary between ­practice-​­based research and research through design as described in section “­Design as a Part of ­Research – ​­a Historical Reflection” above. The series of prototypes anchored the focus of the research, and determined the scope. What was or was not possible to “­bring to life” with the prototype was a de facto framing of the phenomenon under study. Elsewhere, the roles of prototypes was summarized as: Prototypes are unfinished, and open for experimentation; they are • •

A way to experience a future situation, A way to connect abstract theories to experience, 315

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• • •

A carrier for (­interdisciplinary) discussions, A prop to carry activities and tell stories, A landmark for reference in the process of a project.

Prototypes force the researcher to confront theory, confront the world, they evoke discussion and reflection, change the world, and can be used to test a theory (­Stappers 2014). Note that the last item “­to test a theory” fits the Design Inclusive Research type of ­ esearch – ​­a His­hypothesis-​­testing evaluative research (­see Section “­Design as a Part of R torical Reflection”), whereas the others are more generative, explorative, and descriptive in nature. Lessons drawn from this project were • • • •

Your prototyping ability constrains the phenomenon that you can study. Multiple theoretical perspectives come into view, some proving more applicable, or generative, than others (­­Figure 24.3). Not only the phenomenon, but also the qualities of the prototype constrain the areas of theory that can be brought in During the process, the emphasis shifted repeatedly between theory, technology and practice (­­Figure 24.5). These occurred s­ide-­​­­by-​­side, entangled, rather than in the logical succession that is suggested by the template structure of journal articles. Many insights and decisions are made that never get reported; some of these can be picked up by others, because the prototype embodies them, and they (­happen to) recognize the principles at work; but many insights evaporate as we do not have the means to capture

­Figure 24.4 Demonstrating working prototypes to visiting academics and practitioners (­a nd getting feedback) contributed to developing the framing for Cabinet (­f rom Keller 2005)

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­Figure 24.5 The ­co-​­development timelines of theory, technology (­prototype), and interactions with practice during the project (­f rom Keller 2005)

•

them sufficiently, or cannot reach an audience that can work with this, often partial, knowledge. Knowledge can come on different levels simultaneously, e.g., how the technology works (­e.g., making images interactive), how the prototype is used (­the phenomenon under study), how the research is conducted (­by placing the prototype in everyday work conditions). On each of those levels, knowledge was generated.

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Research through design: the role of frameworks In the case described above, the phenomenon, operationalized and bounded by the envisaged prototype, served to guide the different steps in the research. In this second case, a conceptual framework, built on both an initial ­hands-​­on exploration of the phenomenon, and a broad search for promising theoretical constructs, that might provide that guidance. Before starting her PhD project, Froukje Sleeswijk Visser had worked on the contextmapping method of user research (­Sleeswijk Visser et al. 2005). In her experience with using

­Figure 24.6 The communication framework that guided Sleeswijk Visser’s (­2009a) studies

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­Figure 24.7 The communication framework was used both to guide a series of case studies with prototypes of communication tools, and connect the insights coming out of these (­from Sleeswijk Visser 2009a)

the method in industrial practice, she noted that a bottleneck of applying user research in industrial practice lay in communicating the research findings in a way that the design teams could use. For that reason, she chose to aim her PhD research activities toward improving that communication, and conduct the research through a series of case studies in industrial practice. Doing the research in industrial practice was done primarily to increase relevance: it served to get realistic data, but also to guide the research questions toward knowledge that would be applicable in practice in the short term. As with Keller’s Cabinet prototype, we expected that our ability to handle the technology (­g raphic design, formats for interactive workshops and ­company-​­wide websites) would form an important part of the knowledge that we could generate. But in this case, a research framework (­­Figure 24.6) was developed to guide the series of field studies along the trajectory shown in F ­ igure 24.7. ­ igure 24.6 contained means, ends, and mechanisms. At the top of The framework of F the framework are communication goals, derived from experience with the contextmapping method (­top level), then psychological factors which were expected to play a part (­m iddle level), and concrete communication content, forms, and process plans (­ bottom level). ­Figure 24.7 presents the fieldwork through eight case studies, sandwiched between an initial framing which showed the three levels, and a fi ­ lled-​­in frame in which the levels were filled in, and in which a number of relations between the levels were discussed. The sprinkling of dots among the studies represents numerous small interactions, discussions, and informal observations that contributed to the framework. Whereas with Keller the physical prototype served to guide the research by determining what phenomena it could “­bring to life”, with Sleeswijk Visser there were several smaller prototypes, and filling the framework guided the approach in the separate studies. In most of the studies user research was done with the contextmapping method, and new methods were explored to share the findings with the product development team. Some studies addressed working formats for presentations of findings, collaborative ways of using findings to generate and develop ideas, and ways to use internet technology to involve different parts of a company in the data analysis, findings generation, and concept development stages (­prototypes are shown “­in action” in ­Figures 24.8 and 24.9; for more details, see Sleeswijk Visser 2009a). The framework helped to “­fi ll the holes” set out at the beginning. It helped distinguish which design actions were part of the core of the research (­a spects of communication), and which were s­pin-​­offs (­specific findings about user groups, ways of analyzing user research 319

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­Figure 24.8 Physical prototype during a user insights communication workshop (­from Sleeswijk Visser 2009a)

­Figure 24.9 ­Web-​­based prototype for communicating insights from consumers (­bottom row) to design team, explicitly depicting researchers, participants and recipients as individual people (­top row) (­f rom Sleeswijk Visser 2009a)

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data to produce insights for communication), and pay attention to the three levels of abstraction (­communication goals, psychological mechanisms and design parameters) and their relations. And again, the methods under development were intensively demonstrated and explained to audiences in courses, masterclasses, and workshops, especially to design students and design practitioners keen on learning contextmapping and its application. Having to explain the communication methods to these audiences helped to strengthen the framework and the connections within it. And again there was a difficult hurdle in communicating what “­the research” was about, because the term “­research” appeared on two levels: (­1) “­research about user experiences” and (­2) “­research about how to best communicate findings from (­1)”.4 Sleeswijk Visser (­2009b) compared her research approach to existing approaches in art and design and in the social sciences, notably ­Practice-​­led Research (­Nimkulrat 2007), Action Research (­Avison et  al. 1999) and Grounded Theory (­Glaser and Strauss 1967). With each of these approaches has similarities to research through design as described here, but none of them fits exactly. For instance, ­practice-​­led research stresses the communicative value of the designed object as a carrier of knowledge (­in this project communication tools and techniques were the designed objects); action research provided methodological support in the way it accommodates ­end-​­user involvement, but whereas action research focuses on iteratively improving a concrete situated practice in one organization, the research through design studies did not focus on a single organization, but each study served to explore a part of the frame. Finally, grounded theory provided support in developing insights ­bottom-​­up from the phenomenon, rather than having to commit on beforehand to one specific theoretical perspective. It “­embraces the openness of the researcher in relation to the phenomenon and provides room for the research’s interpretation as part of the data collection”. Sleeswijk Visser concludes that the framework guided the research journey as “­a process of discovery, rather than evaluation”. The structure of the thesis, as shown in ­Figure 24.5, shows how the framework supported this. On the one hand it provided a set of “­holes to be filled through exploration”, on the other it allowed the author to separate the rich description of the case studies from the description of the general findings in the framework. The framework, as it were, served as a ­meta-​­level leading the reasoning through the sequence of individual grounded cases studies. The framework also allowed her to position the tools that were developed for the cases into a coherent whole. Because many of these tools were copied and modified in practice, the framework could serve for practitioners as a way to find back the rationale and evidence behind the tools.

Discussion: connections and ­spin-​­offs In the two sections above we outlined how both prototypes and frameworks can help guide explorative research: prototypes through giving a physical instantiation of a phenomenon, frameworks by placing a phenomenon in a conceptual perspective. In the examples, both these means were present, albeit with an emphasis on the prototype (­Keller) and framework (­Sleeswijk Visser). Both give direction to the research, help to focus attention and to demarcate the boundaries of interest. Both give rise to concrete experiences, connect to possible applications, and fit well into the practices, cognitive repertoire of design skills. One important thing of the framing, both through prototype and framework, is that the phenomenon under study is clearly marked, and s­pin-​­offs can be given a place. As Keller (­2005) stressed in evaluating the Cabinet project, serendipity plays a large role in engaging with the world in a designerly manner: regularly there are findings which are clearly valuable, 321

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but do not fit the question in a particular study. What should be done with these? If the findings are sufficiently interesting and complete, the framework may be adjusted, or a s­pin-​­off publication may be produced, e.g. on research methods, or promising s­ide-​­effects. But most of the ­spin-​­off insights that come about while doing design as a part of doing research get lost, the “­evaporate” again as the project continues. Here, both prototypes and framework can help, by giving a place where these insights can be anchored, either in concrete experiences (­w ith prototypes), or future promising conceptual areas for exploration (­frameworks). At StudioLab itself we noted such f­ollow-​­ups, where sparks generated from one project were kindled into fires for another. Daniel Saakes (­2010) further developed projecting material qualities over physical objects, building on playful explorations during the development of Cabinet, Carolien Postma (­2012), Helma van Rijn (­2012), Christine de Lille (­2014) and Chen Hao (­2019) further developed methods of designing with user research extending the contextmapping method, and several others are currently further extending these findings, even though the ­above-​­mentioned projects were not part of, say one larger, planned project.5 This shows how progress in design research is not just furthered by published theories, but that prototypes and frameworks help to channel the view on phenomena, and serve as “­an institutional memory” as communication between researchers as well. On the other hand, it can also show that the field of design research is as yet not mature, and progresses still more through a series of ­cross-​­pollenating single explorations, rather than through an academic research agenda with grand theories and questions. Other scientific fields, such as biology and physics, have also gone through such phases some centuries ago, as the cabinets of curiosities illustrated.

Conclusion More than many other types of research, research through design is in need of structuring its approaches. Where most other types of research can fall back on ­theory-​­driven paradigms and the basic scientific method, research through design has the promise of using the design action as a ­k nowledge-​­generating, formative ingredient. As long as design is a modular step between precisely formulated hypothesis and material stimulus, research is “­business as usual”. But if the design action is to bring its value as a k­ nowledge-​­generating step in itself, i.e., not the result alone, but also the reflection on the design decisions in the process bring value, then the act of designing is not an outsourceable job, and we need ways of sharing insights gained from design action. The field is gradually coming to grips with this type of relation between design and research (­e.g. Brandt and Binder 2007; Koskinen et al. 2011; Höök and Löwgren 2012; Wensveen and Matthews 2014; Sleeswijk Visser 2018). Doing so is not easy. Not for nothing are the early phases of design referred to as “­the fuzzy front end”, as it depends on ideation, creativity, reflection, making, trying, and association rather than linear logical argumentation. Also, design research is lending, adopting, and adapting approaches and methods from humanities, social sciences, and engineering, and combining these is not trivial. Stappers and Giaccardi (­2017) conclude their literature review by stating “­I do RtD” does not indicate a method, given the variety of work performed under that label. Yet new work is done. Boon et al. (­2020) propose to develop a description in terms of “­genres of RtD”, Ricci et al. (­2020) embed RtD in ­co-​­design, and Sleeswijk Visser (­2018) frames different roles to channel the contributions of collaborating actors to both the research (­k nowledge outcomes) and design (­impact outcomes). But there is also hope in history of science, art, and engineering “­before design”. Connecting, in Stokes’ terms, “­an eye for generalization” to “­an eye for application” is not 322

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without precedent. Many of the breakthroughs in the history of science have been made by people who were dealing with practical, applied issues: both Newton and Huygens were working on clocks for navigation at the time that they developed their theories, the Wright Brothers developed methods and principles of measuring, and ways of reframing the problem of flight on levels from aerodynamics to human control, as well as constructing a h ­ eavier-­​ ­­than-​­air flying machine. Their scientific worth was not just that they developed a theory that had design applications, but that they conducted d­ esign-​­relevant explorations from which they drew lessons that went far beyond the single clock or airplane. The traditional methods of science have not been without criticism from philosophers and historians of science. Feyerabend (­1975) argued that no single method could suffice to explain scientific development in the past, and Harré (­2002) showed the huge variety of ways in which the great breakthroughs in our understanding have taken place. This is not to downplay the value of thorough validated experimental studies based on theory, but to point at the fact that our academic publishing culture has often emphasized the testing and proof of new ideas, but regarded the generation of those ideas as unexplainable, magical, or ­non-​ ­interesting. But this is the area in which design research can probably be strongest: showing that something is possible (­rather than necessary) where that was not obvious before (­e.g., putting a man on the moon) constitutes knowledge that is already of value, i.e., an existence proof. The state of that prior belief (­whether we could put a man on the moon) determines if that existence proof is sufficiently useful, or whether we must prove that we can put every man on the moon, or how many successful moonlandings are needed to convince us that “­we can”. As always, the need for evidence depends on the purpose for which will use the knowledge. Within explorative research, finding such possibilities that were not obvious before, is key. There, having a framework for one’s efforts, e.g., a PhD research project, helps connect the phenomenon to what we know about it, where we see connections to other pieces of knowledge, and where we see holes in that knowledge that we can fill. The framework should be based on an exploration of both the phenomenon and theoretical lenses, both on ­fi rst-​­hand experience and ­second-​­hand knowledge (­­Figure  24.10). Optimally, these two sides are explored ­side-­​­­by-​­side, not in sequence. Either order can introduce bias. A ­theory-​ ­fi rst exploration may prejudice the researcher to not discover the blind spots in his or her view of the phenomenon, whereas a fully p­ henomenon-​­first exploration may prematurely lock him or her into an operational mode of picking at details. The framework is formulated at a larger scale than the individual studies contained in it. It helps to direct development of interventions and prototypes, to separate and distinguish

­Figure 24.10 Frameworks and the tension between generalization (­ theory, top) and application (­practical results, bottom)

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findings and ­spin-​­offs. And it provides a perspective for fitting findings to relevant disciplinary areas of literature. We believe that this has at least pragmatic uses in conducting a (­larger) exploratory research project, whether in design research or elsewhere, but especially projects invoking design skills as part of the research method.

Acknowledgment We thank the colleagues of StudioLab for their constant engagement, willingness to discuss and try out prototypes and methods.

Notes 1 The discussion here is simplified to make a point. Several authors have discussed how scientific work is complex and does not fit a single mold; see, e.g., the appendices of Stappers and Giaccardi (­2017). 2 There is a longer tradition of designers and artists working with researchers as collaborators with separate roles, such as creating visualizations and other communication means to reach a n ­ on-​ ­specialist public, constructing provocative installations or scenarios based on the researchers’ theory (­Driver, Peralta, and Moultrie 2011). In this chapter, we focus on designers who themselves are the main researcher and who employ design actions as core part of the research (­Research through Design). 3 The term “­Research through Design” was introduced by Frayling in a seminal speech at the Royal College of Arts (­Frayling 1993). He distinguished three types of relations between design and research, where the role of design was that of object of study (­Research on Design), beneficiary of the research insights (­Research for Design), and part of the method of study (­Research through Design). In the past decade, the latter term has been picked up in design research community, especially HCI (­Stappers and Giaccardi 2017). 4 In a Research through Design project, knowledge is generated at different levels, which can lead to confusion. For example, when the objective of the research is to develop a new design tool, and the method involves using prototypes of that tool or method in a design project, a single actor can be both user (­of a research method), designer (­of the new design tool), and researcher (­evaluating the tool, and a product designed with the aid of this tool). The difficulty of separating these roles and levels of research, design, and use is discussed in Stappers and Sleeswijk Visser (­2014). 5 At many universities, PhD theses are used internally for evaluation but not disseminated. In the Netherlands (­a nd elsewhere), PhD theses are publicly published books, some of them influential, read, and cited because they (­can) convey more details of individual studies in journal articles, and a coherent perspective over several studies and articles from a ­four-​­year research project.

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25 IMAGINING A ­FEELING-​ ­THINKING DESIGN PRACTICE AND RESEARCH FROM LATIN AMERICA María Cristina (Cris) Ibarra I am a Colombian industrial designer, professor, and researcher working in Brazil. Over time, however, the descriptor “­industrial” has faded away due to my interest in collaborating directly with particular communities and situations, different from those directed towards mass production and consumption. As a researcher, I am interested in the relationship between local and academic knowledge, the methodological entanglements between design and anthropology, and the construction of a design theory and practice that are aligned with the territories within which I work. In this chapter, I explore participatory, decolonial design practices and research, based on an analysis of two research projects, as well as the work of Colombian sociologist, Orlando Fals Borda. I developed the first research project while pursuing my master’s degree in the Brazilian city of Belo Horizonte. The second was developed during the course of my doctorate study. During the fieldwork of the first project, I walked several streets of the city center and I documented a diversity of artifacts that had been produced by people who have no formal knowledge in the area of design. The practice of configuration of these artifacts is commonly known as “­vernacular design” (­Valese, 2007), among other names1. The research began with the question: what is the relationship between the knowledge of ­non-​­designers (­who produce this kind of artifacts) and the knowledge of academically trained designers? One of the conclusions I derived from this research was that these types of artifacts could serve both as lessons and as inspiration for the academic context of design. However, this is a conclusion I have come to reconsider. The second project used a different methodological approach. Based on the concept of such as “­correspondence” (­Ingold, 2016), in my doctorate, I suggested that the knowledge of those who produce “­vernacular” artifacts functions as far more than “­inspiration” for formal designers. I argued that the relationship between s­ o-​­called popular knowledge and academic knowledge involves something deeper. As a designer, I hoped to bring the two spheres together to contribute directly to the daily lives of the local community. With these ideas in mind, I worked for a year with the Santa sem Violência Collective (­Santa without Violence, or SSVC), a group of residents who were seeking ways to fight against a wave of violence that was moving through the neighborhood of Santa Teresa in Rio de Janeiro.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-29

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After my doctoral research, and intending to contribute to the construction of a less Eurocentric and more locally relevant design process, I sought out the work of Orlando Fals Borda, one of the founders of participatory action research (­PAR). This Colombian sociologist made essential contributions to the rethinking of social sciences and Latin American societies from a decolonial perspective and has been a significant reference for many other researchers, including the anthropologist Arturo Escobar (­2014, 2018, 2020). Fals Borda (­2009a) proposed a conception of sociology known as sentipensante, or ­feeling-​­thinking. In this chapter, I speculate as to what the field of design could learn from the work of Fals Borda. How could design contribute to the methods and theories that he proposed? How can I rethink and nurture my own practices by responding to the same questions that he brought to his work? How can design nurture Fals Borda’s proposal of sentipensar? To begin, I present a summary of the two abovementioned design research projects. I then bring PAR concepts and practices to the discussion and finally, I analyze the two projects and imagine how sentipensante sociology can contribute to design practice and research. Just as the Brazilian educator Paulo Freire was a reference for Scandinavian participatory design (­PD) (­Ehn, 1989), Fals Borda contributes to the continued emphasis on participation in design processes and social transformation today.

Research project #1: artifacts produced outside the boundaries of academic design knowledge As designers, what can we learn from artifacts produced outside the boundaries of academic design knowledge? This was one of the main inquiries of the first research project carried out in pursuit of my master’s degree from 2012 to 2014. The project mapped out a diversity of artifacts in the commercial districts of the downtown area of Belo Horizonte, Brazil. During my exploratory fieldwork in the streets (­­Figure 25.1), I found artifacts used for advertising, transportation, rest, supplying products and services, organization and cleaning, and protection and refuge. I perceived that these objects had been produced from both new and used materials. Some were made by the user, others by a third party. Some were intended for profit, others not. I also came across some artifacts that provided the possibility of displacement (­mobile), while others did not (­fi xed) (­I barra, 2014).

­Figure 25.1  A  rtifacts produced by people who have no formal knowledge in the area of design. From left to right: a heater made from a fruit box and a paint can; a can to load, display, heat and sell peanuts in the streets; a stool made from a fruit box and the remains of an umbrella. Source: Maria Cristina Ibarra

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At that time, I perceived my research as a way of helping to expand the area of design, including the valorization of e­ xtra-​­academic ways of producing artifacts. The study of these methods could contribute to documenting practices that could otherwise become lost in the future and to understanding the plurality of an urban and cultural landscape beyond the official discourse of design. After gathering information on the selected artifacts, I posed the question: what opportunities could arise for designers from a study on this type of production? At that time, I identified three: (­1) to learn lessons that could be applied in formal design processes; (­2) to reaffirm identities through the design of products inspired by the vernacular; and (­3) to spread this knowledge so that other people may benefit from it. The opportunities that I found focused mainly on the artifacts as a source of inspiration for design, whether at aesthetic, technical, sustainable, or other levels. The research focused on the objects themselves and the possibility that the knowledge contained in them could serve as a resource for formal or academic design practices.

Research project #2: corresponding with a collective of residents in Rio de Janeiro With the intention of broadening my master’s research project into part of a doctoral project, I joined an emerging group of local activists, not only to register their activities but also to contribute to their cause. As in the first research project, I sought to highlight the confluence of academic and local knowledge. However, differently from my master’s research, I was seeking a more participatory and open process, as influenced by the field of PD2 and Design Anthropology (­DA). I did this primarily based on the concept of correspondence, as developed by British anthropologist, Tim Ingold. Ingold, together with anthropologist Caroline Gatt (­Gatt & Ingold, 2013), proposed an a­ nthropology-­​­­by-­​­­means-­​­­of-​­design, or an anthropology in real time in which a researcher actively participates with his or her abilities in the creation of relationships and things. Unlike an ­a nthropology-­​­­by-­​­­means-­​­­of-​­ethnography, in this approach, descriptions are not made retrospectively. Rather, design contributes to the transformative effects that take place during fieldwork, “­moving forward with people in tandem with their desires and aspirations rather than looking back over time past” (­Gatt & Ingold, 2013, 141). This is one of the features of Ingold’s conception of correspondence. Correspondence, in this sense, is a movement in which, together with the other things in the world, we walk and respond to one another. Thus, research is not a rigid plan, created a priori. Instead, it is a type of conversation, in which the methods of the researchers meet the methods of those being “­researched.” It is a relationship in which both parties move along together, rather than back and forth. In other words, it is an encounter in which, as researchers, we are always emerging and transforming ourselves, along with other things. Gatt and Ingold affirm that “­to correspond with the world, in short, is not to describe it, or represent it, but to answer to it” (­Gatt & Ingold, 2013, 144). The Santa sem Violência Collective (­SSVC) was formed in 2016 in the Santa Teresa neighborhood of Rio de Janeiro. SSVC was seeking collaborative approaches with which to fight against the pervasive violence in the area. I used to live in this m ­ iddle-​­class neighborhood, situated near the city center, which is also made up of a few slum communities (­a lso referred to as favelas) located on the periphery of the area. The collective was formed by residents of the neighborhood. SSVC created spaces for discussion and dialog and held activities in the squares and streets to activate the community and put pressure on public authorities (­I barra, 2021; F ­ igure 25.2). 329

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­Figure 25.2 

From left to right: Demonstration held by the SSVC in Largo dos Guimarães in Santa Teresa (­R io de Janeiro); Meeting held by SSVC with local residents in Parque das Ruínas in 2016. Source: Maria Cristina Ibarra

I worked with the group for one year as a designer, researcher, and resident, developing materials to help spread information about its activities and encouraging the collective creation of tactics to denounce and reflect on the problem of violence in the neighborhood. One of these the tactics was the ideation and realization of a ­co-​­creation process in which we reflected on the community’s problems and jointly created graphic materials that would be placed on different walls throughout the neighborhood. This co-creation process was the starting point for future meetings and interventions. During the time that I participated in the SSVC, I sought to build a relationship of correspondence with its members and with the neighborhood. Unlike other projects that are guided by academic models of traditional knowledge production, in this research, I had no clear intention before going into the field. As a researcher and designer, being together with the group and immersing myself in the neighborhood allowed me to listen, observe, and feel the situation with the complexity of social life. This signified that the process was developed as the SSVC members and I experienced it on the streets, participating in various activities and interacting with other people. According to Ingold (­2015), to know things from the inside, we must let them mature within us so that they become part of who we are. All our experiences and actions in the neighborhood transformed us, just as we contributed to the transformation of the neighborhood. We participated in the neighborhooding of a neighborhood that was neighborhooding us.

­Feeling-​­thinking sociology Orlando Fals Borda was a prominent Colombian sociologist and a pioneer of participatory action research (­PAR), an approach that emerged in Colombia in the 1970s. He completed his master’s degree (­1953) and doctorate (­1957) in the United States, but his greatest contribution to sociology was made through his work with rural organizations in Colombia. He defined PAR not merely as a research methodology, but as a philosophy for life that transforms its practitioners into sentipensantes, or ­feeling-​­thinking persons (­Fals Borda, 1999, 82).3 This was a neologism that Fals Borda overheard in a conversation with a fisherman from the Momposina Depression,4 who defined himself as sentipensante—​­someone “­who acts with the heart, but also uses the head” (­Bassi, 2007). 330

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The sentipensante fisherman from the Momposina Depression is part of what Fals Borda (­2002) called amphibian culture. In this part of Colombia, many people live between the culture of the river and the land. When the waters go down, explained Fals Borda (­2002, 23B), the peasants sow the plains or feed the cattle with the pastures that sprout there. When the waters rise, they take the cattle to the higher pastures and remove the seedlings. On that same territory, now covered with water, they begin to fish. Farmers become fishermen. As the researcher Patricia B ­ otero-​­Gómez (­2019a) affirmed, sentipensar is one of the words that embodies the ontological resistance of the ­A fro-​­descendant people with their philosophies of the river. People survive by adopting these amphibious forms of life. They are prepared for this rhythm of life, with a series of tools and techniques that have been developed from generation to generation. In the article La superación del Eurocentrismo [Overcoming Eurocentrism], Fals Borda and ­Mora-​­Osejo (­2004) reaffirmed the importance of contextualizing knowledge within Latin America’s complex realities. They explained that the knowledge from other places, such as Europe and the United States, is often insufficient to conceive solutions for or understand the Latin American environment. On the contrary, the over valorization of knowledge and paradigms from this part of the world tends to generate chaotic situations and reduce the urgency of the need to work within our realities and on our problems, leading to intellectual colonialism and a deterioration of the relationship between humans and nature. From the paradigms of the United States and Europe come recommendations for economic development that have been described as sufficient or final. These decontextualized paradigms are incapable of accommodating indigenous or peasant wisdom, which include congruent ways of living with the territory, such as those of the peasants in the amphibian culture. The sociology that Fals Borda proposed in his work seeks a sum of knowledge. According to him (­1979), PAR, among other aspects, aims to “­incorporate” people’s knowledge into the scientific realm. Fals Borda (­2010 [1987]) encouraged us to learn from the forms of cultural creation and defense of grassroots groups and their secular resistance tactics, and to include their cultural and scientific expressions, which academies and governments have traditionally despised, repressed, or relegated to the margins. He affirmed that from the encounter between the “­people’s science”5 and ­scientific-​­technological knowledge, a new path may effectively emerge (­Fals Borda & Brandão, 1991). Thus, to confront Eurocentrism, it is necessary to study our problems more autonomously and to defend life and cooperation with nature (­Fals Borda, 2010 [1987]). According to Fals Borda, the committed scientist asks: “­W hat kind of knowledge do we want or need? Who is scientific knowledge for, and whom will it benefit?” (­Fals Borda, 1979, 93). Joanne Rappaport, American anthropologist and author of the book Cowards Don’t Make History, defines the sentipensante researcher as “­someone who not only analyzes and empathizes but takes action” (­Rappaport, 2020, 230). Furthermore, in the book, Pluriverse: A ­Post-​­Development Dictionary, the researcher Patricia B ­ otero-​­Gomez (­2019b) characterizes “­Sentipensar” as a radical vision and practice of the world, which questions the dichotomous separation of capitalist modernity between mind and body, reason, and emotion, and human and nature, among others. Sentipensar evidently combines the “­feeling” of the body and the “­thinking” of the mind, reason, and emotion. It considers them to be complementary spheres, rather than dichotomous ones. Thus, as Mota Neto (­2016) indicated, the actions of an intellectual who is sentipensante are guided by the convergence of a rigorous, critical reason and a participatory, affective bond with popular communities. The sentipensante researcher does not ignore their indignation with oppression; rather, they transform it into a seed for an emancipatory, caring practice. 331

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Sentipensar is a word that Fals Borda used in his work to refer to the peasants of the Momposina Depression, as they defined themselves, and to propose new methods and priorities for sociology. From the definitions presented herein, I perceive the concept of sentipensar as a way of learning with the contextualized knowledge of grassroots communities at the center. Hence, relating the concept of correspondence (­Ingold, 2016) with that of sentipensar (­Fals Borda, 2009a), I propose that the designer/­researcher should connect with the territory and correspond with it, in much the same way as the amphibian peasants of the Momposina Depression do, for example. Understanding the territory, the humans and m ­ ore-­​­­than-​ ­ umans that inhabit it, is indispensable for making design proposals and interventions. h Moreover, sentipensar is an attitude that seeks a new path, based on a sum of knowledge. It moves away from a concept of analytical knowledge, and, above all, implies action toward transformation and seeks a weakening of the dichotomies of modernity. Thus, this neologism is a term that I perceive as bringing together several aspects that mitigate rationalism in design, on which I have worked and reflected over recent years (­A ndrade & Ibarra, 2021). Sentipensar is a term that I use to name the sociology that Fals Borda proposed (­Fals Borda, 2009a); to highlight e­ xtra-​­academic knowledge and also to imagine and propose possibilities for design practice and research that are more congruent with the interests of grassroots communities and their territories. Before imagining possibilities for design, let me address the beginnings of the PAR in Córdoba, Colombia to lay the foundations for a better understanding of the work of Fals Borda and the concept of sentipensar. It is important to note that although Fals Borda only presented this term after his work in Córdoba, as mentioned, here I use it to refer to the sociology that he proposed as a whole.

Beginnings of participatory action research According to Fals Borda (­1999), it was due to the expansion of capitalism and globalizing modernization, that, in 1970, he and other intellectuals began to create institutions and formalize alternative research procedures that were focused on local problems and which required emancipatory political, educational, and cultural processes. One such institution was La Rosca de Investigación y Acción Social (­Circle of Research and Social Action; henceforth, La Rosca).6 Created by Fals Borda and other academics in December 1970, La Rosca was organized into working groups in different departments of Colombia. Fals Borda worked in Córdoba7 with the National Association of Peasant Users (­A NUC). At that time, peasant communities were highly politically active in the departments of Córdoba and neighboring Sucre due to their dissatisfaction with the slow pace of agrarian reform. This prompted ANUC to take over the land redistribution process through occupations (­Rappaport, 2020, xvi). During his time in Córdoba, Fals Borda was also instrumental in creating the Fundación del Caribe (­Caribbean Foundation; henceforth, the Fundación) (­Robles & Rappaport, 2018), a regional network created at the end of 1972 and made up of local r­ esearchers-​­activists (­Rappaport, 2020, xiv). The Fundación sought to valorize people’s knowledge, question liberalism and developmentalism, rethink academic language, and conduct collective research together with local groups (­Fals Borda, 1999). From the scientific deconstruction and emancipatory reconstruction that they retrospectively intended, Fals Borda established that, at the time, they faced three challenges. The first was linked to the relationships between science, knowledge, and reason; the second, to the dialectic between theory and practice; and the third, to the tension between subject and object. 332

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Concerning the first challenge, Fals Borda (­1999) stated that science is socially constructed and that its main purpose should be to obtain useful knowledge to advance social causes. Thus, it was important to encourage communities to defend their interests. Therefore, in his work, the production of knowledge was undertaken in a participatory manner, seeking alternative paths that diverged from the concepts of rationality that had been transmitted since the seventeenth century. Fals Borda claimed that instrumental rationality could lead to genocide and world destruction. Instrumental scientists are able to discover formulas to go to the moon, but their priorities and personal values ​​prevent them from solving everyday problems, such as that of the peasant woman who must fetch water every day for her home. For Fals Borda and his working group, it was important to develop a moral conscience for the justice of oppressed groups in society. With the second challenge, Fals Borda defended that neutrality and objectivity support the status quo, obscure reality (­or a good part of it), and prevent social and political transformations. When explaining the difference between the positivist paradigm and the one he was building with the peasant and research organizations, he stated that, unlike the exact sciences, the observer is part of the universe to be observed (­1979). Neutral observational techniques, he said, leave the communities being studied as victims of scientific exploitation. To counteract this condition, the researcher must identify with the groups with which she or he comes into contact, not only to obtain reliable information but also to contribute to the changes these groups desire. Hence, the communities participating in the research take on a leading role, rather than an intellectual observer one where they act as a monopolizer or controller of information. About the “­objective reality” brought by positivist guidelines, Fals Borda (­1979) affirmed that they had required “­sectional cuts” as approximations to reality, imitating the sampling techniques of the natural sciences. In the fieldwork, Fals Borda and his colleagues were able to observe how the “­facts” were cut off from their temporal and procedural dimensions. For him, the temporal dimension was an important part of the observed “­facts.” In working with the Fundación, rather than producing a large amount of data and information, Fals Borda and his colleagues theorized and produced knowledge through direct involvement, intervention, and insertion into concrete processes of social action. Thus, they alleviated the separation between theory and practice. For them, practice was decisive in the theory/­praxis binomial, and knowledge had to be for the improvement of practice. Concerning the third challenge about the tension between subject and object, Fals Borda (­1999) explained that they avoided the positivist distinction between subject and object in their work to prevent the commodification or reification of human phenomena. They did not work on the differentiation between researchers and those being “­researched.” “­Instead,” he added, “­we wanted to see both of them as sentipensantes—­​­­thinking-​­feeling ­persons—​ w ­ hose diverse common viewpoints should be taken into account together” (­1999, 80). From the resolution of this tension between subject and object of research, they defined what for them constituted authentic participation. Based on these three challenges, we perceive how, in collaboration with other researchers and grassroots communities, Fals Borda was building a sociology that escaped positivism and in which he recommended that the researcher position him or herself politically to engage with oppressed groups. In this sense, research is not merely gathering information; it is also contributing to the changes that the groups with whom the researcher is working hope to see. Next, I discuss the concepts that laid the foundations for the work of Fals Borda in Córdoba, Colombia (­Rappaport, 2020) at the beginning of the 1970s, the objective of which was to reclaim history to build the present and the future. The two concepts are critical recovery and systematic devolution. 333

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Critical recovery and systematic devolution For Fals Borda (­2009b), the critical recovery of history consisted of selectively discovering elements of the past that were effective in defending the interests of the exploited classes and that could be useful for present struggles. For this, Fals Borda and his research group conducted interviews, searched through family trunks, listened to popular stories and narratives, and used several other techniques for reviving collective memory. In this manner, they learned about the heroes of the community and discovered facts that corrected, complemented, or clarified academic accounts. The material that resulted from the critical recovery process was disseminated through “­systematic devolution.” Fals Borda (­1979) explained that this practice was intended to lead social organizations to new levels of political consciousness. This devolution, enriched by peasant knowledge itself, sought to balance the bourgeois values ​that caused alienations in popular struggles. In collaboration with ANUC, the Fundación organized courses and workshops for the leaders and bases of the peasant movement and produced a series of educational materials, including graphic stories, manuals, filmstrips, radio shows, and literary chronicles depicting some of the key moments of the peasant struggle (­Robles & Rappaport, 2018). These materials sought to contribute to the objectives of ANUC, which were the occupation of land and the telling of stories from the viewpoint of the oppressed classes. According to Rappaport (­2020), the systematic devolution guaranteed that the results obtained from the critical recovery, and in general from the research, did not remain only on the shelves of a library, but that they took on another meaning linked to activism. The resulting material was not a final product, as is the case in academic research, but the result of a stage of the research process that allowed social groups to share and analyze information. In this sense, the word “­devolution” is not accurate.

Imagining a ­feeling-​­thinking design Thus far, this chapter has presented two research projects and then discussed key points about Fals Borda and PAR. The question remains: why relate Fals’ work to design research, and specifically to these two projects? The first reason is that I consider that his work can contribute to imagining new paths for research and practice in design from Latin American and decolonial perspectives. Fals Borda proposed a critical model of social science, based on local circumstances and the recovery of the past, that challenged the traditional approach to sociology that aligned with the exact sciences. Based on the same approach as his, I look into the past for possibilities to imagine the future. Through his proposals, I suggest imagining and building an approach to design that corresponds to the social sciences and that goes beyond paradigms such as positivism and development. Likewise, after having lived the experience in the Santa Teresa neighborhood in Rio de Janeiro, I believe that Fals Borda’s proposal should be nurtured and considered from other perspectives. Fals Borda’s criticism of the exact sciences challenges practice and research in design based on these sciences. From the challenges to the scientific deconstruction that he identified, possibilities arise for the field of design. In the first research project, we see a proposal for the expansion of design, which has been historically focused on artifacts that emerge from official discourse. However, the relationship that was built between the investigator and those investigated was hierarchical. As in the designer/­user relationship, there was a separation between subject and object, which is typical of positivism. 334

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The second project was different. I directed my knowledge in design toward a social cause of which I was a part. Thus, the hierarchy between the researcher and those being researched was overcome, and I interfered in the process to contribute to the purposes of the group. In other words, I used my design knowledge not only to register a collaborative creative process but also to contribute to it. Fals Borda proposed a closer relationship between practice and theory, in which practice is decisive within the research process. In the dialectical relationship that he raises, I perceive design as a creative field and as a great contributor to the process of social transformation, as is proposed by design anthropology (­DA). The second research project did not seek neutrality or objectivity in its development, which closely aligned with Fals Borda’s approach. As a designer and researcher, I positioned myself in favor of SSVC’s objectives. I did not create a waterproof shell to shelter me from what I was experiencing. This research was generated and arose from the myriad emotions that we experienced in the collective, including outrage, fear, hope, and care, among others. Immersion into the neighborhood and living the experience enabled us to think and act in and from the complexity of social life. It was a process that was built simultaneous to the building of a relationship with the neighborhood, its neighbors, and its organizations. On the other hand, from the work of Fals Borda, some speculations arise regarding design practice and research. In PAR, he proposed the concepts of critical recovery and systematic devolution. Based on these techniques, I imagine design practices and research approaches that help to revive the memory of the group with which the researcher is working. Through a participatory investigation of photographs, records from family trunks, and conversations, the past was reconstructed as a way to search for strategies that already worked and would make sense to the current community. This search into the past brought ideas, lessons, tools, and techniques with which to imagine the future. In this process, there was a double exercise of imagination: imagining the past through the reconstruction of its pieces and imagining the present and the future based on lessons of the past. Further questions remain, however. What if I had proposed a critical recovery at SSVC? How much is the past valorized in participatory innovation and design processes? How may critical recoveries be made in the future through design and design research? Concerning systematic devolution, the creation of materials that support participation opens possibilities within the design world. The materials created by Fals Borda and his colleagues, such as comics, a­ udio-​­visuals, recordings, songs, performances, short films, books, etc., sought to encourage the collective memory of peasant organizations, to tell the story of the community from other viewpoints, and to empower communities to transform their reality and further their struggle to claim their rights. In addition, they served as a support in courses and workshops for dialog and historical analysis with peasant organizations. In both research projects, particularly the second, I hoped to contribute to the transformation of society through design. This research demonstrates how a designer may join a local initiative promoted by a grassroots group and, based on that engagement, propose activities and tools that contribute to it. However, Fals Borda brought another component to the table: history. The artifacts of registration, dialog, analysis, and dissemination proposed by Fals Borda and his working group functioned as a kind of bridge between the peasant communities’ past and their future. Thus, he overcame the linear nature of time and the dichotomy between past and future. This method of sociological inquiry helps uncover dialogical/­pedagogical artifacts, and thus also, possibilities for reflection and action in design. This is very much aligned to Gatt and Ingold’s (­2 013) proposal of an ­a nthropology-­​­­by-­​­­means- ­​­­of- ​­design, as well as with design anthropology in general. These possibilities also suggest design practice and research approaches that are politically 335

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positioned and that seek to raise awareness about local struggles and motivate transformational action. The focus on techniques and tools is important, but it should not be the only one. The study of Fals Borda’s proposal also leads to a questioning of the focus placed on the artifacts in the first research project. Perhaps due to an o ­ bject-​­centered design tradition, the first project placed little interest in the people and their circumstances, struggles, and stories. The research questions and conclusions were essentially focused on artifacts, their shapes, materials, and uses, among other aspects, as in countless investigations in design. In hindsight, I think it is an example of the rationalistic patterns implicit in the area. As Fals Borda says, this paradigm separates the facts as if they were laboratory samples and mutilates them from their roots or structural problems. Thus, committed design research and practice must reflect from a broader perspective of the situation. Merging disciplines, such as anthropology and sociology in the way that Fals Borda and other authors conceived of it, helps us to engage in a situation in a committed way and to interpret it with more sensitivity and care. It is not just about conducting research that seeks to preserve creative practices that may disappear in a few decades. It is also about contributing through design to the creation of more pluriversal worlds in the present. It is about joining with and learning from local practitioners to contribute to the construction of an ethos that transcends modernity and coloniality. In other words, the relationship between “­vernacular” design and academic design must not be one in which researchers act are extractive of local knowledge. The relationship must be complementary. A confluence in which these two types of knowledge come together, nurture each other, and contribute to the transformation of society is ideal. One of the most important pairs of questions that I identify in Fals Borda’s work is: to whom is scientific knowledge aimed, and who will it benefit? Bringing this question to design, I perceive another perspective to the two research projects presented herein and to design research and practice in general. Most design research benefits the discipline itself and, therefore, the designers/­researchers who are part of a university elite. Asking ourselves “­to whom” helps us to position ourselves politically and to reflect on the structural nature of Latin American issues, which are part of a historical process of oppression, violence, misery, and exclusion. Through design (­and science), sentipensar can contribute to achieving social change by considering our structural problems. Based on what we have discussed in this chapter, I propose that practicing a sentipensante design is to create a commitment to the communities with whom we, as designers, work. It requires immersion, overcoming the subject/­object dichotomy in the design and research process, and converting feelings into actions that transform society. For me, in the field of design, sentipensar also implies maintaining a correspondence between local and academic knowledge. This is not an “­incorporation” of popular knowledge into academic knowledge, as Fals Borda affirmed in the 1970s, but rather a dance between these forms and methods, much like the dance of the amphibian people of the Momposina Depression with the river and its animals. From this amphibian culture, we also learn forms of resistance and complementarity to relate to the Earth. Sentipensar is a call to work with our realities and to live congruently with our territories. In addition, it also invites us to connect the past, present, and future through imagination. It is a form of decoloniality under construction. Sentipensar is a verb that suggests action, movement, and continuous transformation. It is not something that is given over, finished and ready to be applied elsewhere. From these f­eeling-​­thinking forms, I hope to contribute to a design research and practice that seeks to overcome the precepts of Eurocentric modernity and build epistemologies 336

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beyond positivism. We increasingly need design practices that are consistent with our struggles, our structures our affections, and our stories.

Notes 1 Other terms used include “­spontaneous design,” “­design by the other 90%,” “­a lternative design,” “­­non-​­professional design,” “­­low-​­cost design,” “­design from the periphery,” “­­non-​­i ntentional design,” “­adhocism,” and “­intuitive design.” 2 The Participatory Design to which I refer emerged in Scandinavia in the 1970s, amidst the emergence of other social movements that were fighting for the vindication of their rights. It is a process that is not defined by formulas, but rather, by the commitment to participation, a characteristic that transforms users from mere informants to recognized participants in the design process (­Simonsen & Robertson, 2013). 3 This term was also used by the Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano (­1992) in The Book of Embraces, referring to “­sentipensar” as the language that tells the truth. 4 The Momposina Depression is a l­ow-​­lying area located in the Colombian Caribbean, characterized by its great flood plains in winter. It is a hydrographic basin that includes large rivers such as the San Jorge, Cauca, Cesar, and Magdalena. This area is located across the Colombian departments of Cesar, Magdalena, Sucre, Santander, and Bolívar. 5 Fals Borda called it “­people’s knowledge” [conocimiento popular] or “­people’s science” [ciencia popular]. 6 This organization was made up of journalist and ethnographer Victor Daniel Bonilla, sociologist Gonzalo Castillo Cárdenas, economist and pastor Augusto Libreros, and sociologist Orlando Fals Borda (­R appaport, 2020, xiv). 7 Córdoba is a department on the Caribbean coastline of Colombia, located in the north of the country.

References Andrade, Débora, and Maria Cristina Ibarra. 2021. “­Aproximações em design para além do racionalismo: Tecendo caminhos para o pluriverso.” Estudos em Design 29 (­1): 1­ 55–​­169. Doi: https://­doi. org/­10.35522/­eed.v29i1.1155. Bassi, Rafael. 2007. José Barros, Rey De Reyes. [video] Accessed October 13, 2021. https://­youtu. be/­LbJWqetRuMo. B ­ otero-​­Gómez, Patricia. 2019a. Sentipensar. [online] ALICE Dictionary. Accessed October 13, 2021. https://­a lice.ces.uc.pt/­d ictionary/?id=23838&pag=23918&id_lingua=4&entry=24540. ­Botero-​­Gómez, Patricia. 2019b. “­Sentipensar.” In Pluriverse: A P ­ ost-​­Development Dictionary, edited by Ashish Kothari, Ariel Salleh, Arturo Escobar, Federico Demaria and Alberto Acosta, 3­ 02–​­305. New Delhi: Tulika Books. Ehn, Pelle. 1989. W ­ ork-​­O riented Design of Computer Artifacts. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Eribaum Associates. Escobar, Arturo. 2014. Sentipensar con la Tierra: Nuevas Lecturas Sobre Desarrollo, Territorio y Diferencia. Medellín: UNAULA. Escobar, Arturo. 2018. Designs for the pluriverse. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Escobar, Arturo. 2020. “Contra o terricídio”. N-1 Edições, October 9. Accessed 13 April 2022. https:// www.n-1edicoes.org/textos/190. Fals Borda, Orlando. 1979. El Problema de Cómo Investigar la Realidad Para Transformarla por la Praxis. Bogotá: Tercer Mundo. Fals Borda, Orlando. 1999. “­Orígenes universales y retos actuales de la IAP.” Análisis Político 38: ­73–​­90. https://­revistas.unal.edu.co/­i ndex.php/­a npol/­a rticle/­v iew/­79283. Fals Borda, Orlando. 2002. Historia Doble de la ­Costa -​­Mompox y Loba. Bogotá: El Áncora Editores. Fals Borda, Orlando. 2009a. Una Sociología Sentipensante Para América Latina (­ antología). Bogotá: CLACSO/­Siglo del Hombre Editores. Fals Borda, Orlando. 2009b. “­En torno al poder popular y la IAP.” In Una Sociología Sentipensante Para América Latina (­Antología), edited by Nicolás Armando Herrera Farfán and Lorena López Guzmán, ­389–​­397. Bogotá: CLACSO/­Siglo del Hombre Editores. Fals Borda, Orlando. (­1987] 2010. “­Por un conocimiento vivencial.” In Antología Orlando Fals Borda, edited by José Maria Rojas Guerra. Bogotá: Universidad Nacional de Colombia, 1­ 53–​­165.

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María Cristina (Cris) Ibarra Fals Borda, Orlando, and Carlos Brandão. 1991. Investigación Participativa. 3rd ed. Uruguay: Instituto del Hombre. Ediciones de la Banda Oriental. Fals Borda, Orlando, and Luis M ­ ora-​­Osejo. 2004. “­La superación del Eurocentrismo.” POLIS, Revista Latinoamericana. Accessed October 13, 2021. http://­journals.openedition.org/­polis/­6210. Galeano, Eduardo. 1992. The Book of Embraces. New York: W.W. Norton. Gatt, Caroline, and Tim Ingold. 2013. “­From description to correspondence: Anthropology in real time.” In Design Anthropology: Theory and Practice, edited by Wendy Gunn, Ton Otto and Rachel Charlotte Smith, 2­ 42–​­274. London: Bloomsbury. Ibarra, María Cristina. 2014. O Design Por ­Não-​­designers (­DND): As Ruas de Belo Horizonte Como Inspiração Para o Design. Master’s Thesis, Universidade do Estado de Minas Gerais. Ibarra, María Cristina. 2021. Design Como Correspondência: Antropologia e Participação na Cidade. Recife: Ed. UFPE. Ingold, Tim. 2015. “­Conociendo desde dentro: Reconfigurando las relaciones entre la antropología y la etnografía.” Etnografías Contemporáneas 2: ­218–​­230. Ingold, Tim. 2016. “­On human correspondence.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 23: ­9 –​­27. Mota Neto, João. 2016. Por Uma Pedagogia Decolonial na América Latina. Curitiba: Editora CRV. Rappaport, Joanne. 2020. Cowards Don’t Make History: Orlando Fals Borda and the Origins of Participatory Action Research. Durham, NC: Duke University Press Book. Robles Lomeli, Jafte Robles, and Joanne Rappaport. 2018. “­Imagining Latin American social science from the Global South: Orlando Fals Borda and participatory action research.” Latin American Research Review 53 (­3): ­597–​­612. Doi: https://­doi.org/­10.35522/­eed.v29i1.115510.25222/­larr.164. Simonsen, Jesper, and Toni Robertson. 2013. “­Participatory design: An introduction.” In Routledge International Handbook of Participatory Design, edited by Jesper Simonsen and Toni Robertson, 1­ –​­18. London: Routledge. Valese, Adriana. 2007. Design Vernacular Urbano: A Produção de Artefatos Populares em São Paulo Como Estratégia de Comunicação e Inserção Social. Master’s thesis, Pontifícia Universidade Católica de São Paulo.

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26 HACKTIVISM AS DESIGN RESEARCH METHOD Otto von Busch

When designers conduct academic research, it may sometimes be ambiguous what to do with their own agency. Being trained to design the next new thing makes it troubling to realize that one’s profession is mainly making new solutions to preserve an unsustainable and often socially unjust status quo. However, an alternate approach to building novel things is to explore ways to r­ e-​­activate existing assets and resources in new ways, to “­h ack into” and ­re-​­circuit systems and knowledges, and from these interventions build more socially sustainable and just practices. This chapter will explore a “­h acktivist” approach to ­ ands-​­on craft design research methods, amalgamations of making and critical analysis, h practices with systemic aspirations. Starting with an examination of activist research, the chapter next discusses systems approaches and interventionist methods to finish with how this type of research can help cultivate capabilities among participants to hack into reality itself.

Activist research methods While some types of research are based on distanced observation and n ­ on-​­intervention, others claim agency, action, and a will to intervene in the world in order to change it. As highlighted by liberation sociologists Joe Feagin and Hernán Vera the researcher’s aim for social change builds on the tradition of Karl Marx, who wrote that “­the philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point, however, is to change it” (­Feagin & Vera 2001, 1). They continue; Sociologists centrally concerned about human emancipation and liberation take this insight seriously. The point of liberation sociology is not just to research the social world but to change it in the direction of expanded human rights, participatory democracy, and social justice. (­Feagin & Vera 2001, 1) As pointed out by sociologist William Carroll, knowledge is unavoidably implicated in relation to power, and research may challenge some aspects of domination as,

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-30

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the critic realizes that our w ­ orld—​­including our knowledge of that w ­ orld—​­is not simply given, or the result of a natural process, but is a historical construction. It has been produced by the past actions of people, and therefore can be remade by future actions. (­Carroll 2004, 2) For critical research, the task of knowledge production is to change the world, and Carroll starkly puts it, ”in a socially unjust world, knowledge of the social that does not challenge injustices is likely to play a role in reproducing it” (­Carroll 2004, 3). Carroll further distinguishes three overlapping critical edges of inquiry; oppositional, challenging status quo and taking the side of the oppressed, radical, getting at the root of matters to challenge the more profound, systematic bases of the challenges we face, and finally, subversion, which disturbs the ordinary, interrogating the c­ ommon-​­sense and opens doors to alternatives (­Carroll 2004, 3). It makes research a critical movement, which is “­open and experimental“ and unlocks new political spaces in which to act (­Magnusson & Walker 1988, 60). Like Participatory Action Research (­PAR), hacktivism (­hacking+activism) deals with public issues and social “­troubles” in participatory ways to intervene in and change unjust social conditionings and arrangements. In PAR research methodology, the research is only one element besides inclusive participation and action for change, and it is “­in effect a form of radical pedagogy” (­Carroll 2004, 276). Following the influences of Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed, the subjugated or marginalized must be active participants in their own emancipation, “­so that through transforming action they can create a new situation, one which makes possible the pursuit of a fuller humanity” (­Freire 1970, 32). Freire means this is facilitated by a ­problem-​­solving education that talks back, and “­strives for the emergence of consciousness and critical intervention in reality” (­81). The aim is to improve practices that produce knowledge relevant to the democratization of social life, which leads to the conclusion that “­In PAR the question ‘­Is it rigorous?’ is complemented by the equally important question ‘­Is it empowering?’” (­Kondrat & Julia 1997, 44). British philosopher Stephen Toulmin (­1996) argues that action research is based on an Aristotelian perspective of publicly enacted knowledge, ethical practical reasoning, or praxis. For Aristotle, various forms of knowledge require different methods, even those that explicitly pose value questions about virtuous performances. “­Praxis knowledge regulates, or organizes, the relationships between equals” (­Eikeland 2012, 27). These types of knowledge are locally anchored in emancipatory practices. Hannah Arendt proposes a similar perspective, where praxis is a public form of intervention, or producing public debate through virtuous action (­A rendt 1958). Similarly, Jürgen Habermas declares that “­in a process of enlightenment there can be only participants” (­Habermas 1974, 40). This take on practice resonates with the fundamental constitution of design, as design in itself is an intervention and a course of action toward something intended, which in itself is a value proposition, conscious or not made by the designer and later user. Design not only changes things to the more desired condition, as famously proposed by Herbert Simon (­1996), but in addition, it brings forward what does not come naturally, by purposefully propose and plan the realizable (­K rippendorf 2006). Friedrich Fröbel, the founder of the kindergarten educational model, claimed that “[m]an only understands thoroughly that which he is able to produce” (­Larsson 1902, 11), and early action researcher Kurt Lewin meant that “­in order to understand something you have to change it” (­Eikeland 2012, 16). In resonance with these ideas, PAR aims “­to study a system and concurrently to collaborate with members of the system in changing it in what is together regarded as a desirable direction” (­Gilmore et al. 1986, 161). However, PAR aims not only to build individual agency in the form of artifacts and individual knowledge but exposes systematic contrast to examine alternative social arrangements, in a manner similar to what sociologist Gideon 340

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Sjoberg has called a “­countersystem” approach (­Feagin & Vera 2001; Sjoberg et al. 2003). These kind of countersystems exist on many scales and in various degrees of resistance to official arrangements or state regulations; from unregistered businesses to squatter communities, or from people tapping into electricity grids to smugglers, in the many ways people order life in conflict with dominant systems (­Bayat 1997; 2010). Like a burglar that sees a new entrance where most of us see a locked door or wall (­Manaugh 2016), the DIY hacker sees new possibilities for irregular sustainable living (­Hren 2011) or new c­ ounter-​­publics in the making (­Marres 2012). Suppose we would call the workings of our daily life the “­operating system” of society. In that case, the hacktivist countersystem approach aims to hack into and reorder existing arrangements, structures, and everyday workings. It gets h ­ ands-​­on, bending the currents and processes and testing new orderings within the existing hardware of society. The hacktivist method strives to use the PAR and countersystem approaches to intervene and reorient the arrangements that guide and support the daily workings. Whereas PAR and other methods engage the “­social material” in social struggle, the hacktivism method focuses on the design and material levels that stabilize everyday actions and habits. The “­hacking” part is as practical as it is pragmatic as it strives to affect both matter and behavior, releasing new capacities to act among participants. Similar to PAR, the purpose is to attune the research with community action, social justice, diffusion of agency, and critical curiosity to amplify s­ elf-​­determination and build capabilities for action, but with a focus on questioning and intervening in everyday designs and objects (­von Busch 2022). But perhaps most importantly, the hacktivist approach is constructive; it is about constructing and testing the alternative. The critically made countersystem built by the hacker slightly shifts the critic’s role, in line with the new form of critique called upon by Bruno Latour: The critic is not the one who debunks, but the one who assembles. The critic is not the one who lifts the rugs from under the feet of the naïve believers, but the one who offers the participants arenas in which to gather. The critic is […] the one for whom, if something is constructed, then it means it is fragile and thus in great need of care and caution. (­Latour 2004, 246) This type of assemblage of new worlds is central to hacking, even if its purpose is to call upon emergent systemic change. As we will become clear later in this chapter, hacking requires a tactic of “­cultural counterintelligence” (­Becker 2002), and this stance resonates with design research such as “­critical design” (­Dunne 1999) or “­adversarial design” (­DiSalvo 2012) as it intervenes and provokes to challenge established orders. Examples of this could be how design and social action merge in the creative misuse of everyday objects to create “­d isobedient objects” (­F lood & Grindon 2014), or how disability activism in a ­hands-​­on way builds more accessible worlds by hacking into and recircuiting excluding environments (­Hendren 2020). Compared to more utopian or discursive endeavors, the newly proposed worlds here emphasize their practical and attainable everydayness. This implies participatory and h ­ ands-​­on lived practice that comes to echo the anarchist slogan to live in dissent as if one is already free (­Vinthagen 2015; Traganou 2021). Both the methods of inquiry and the outcomes are different from the safe distance of ­non-​­intervention research, like what may happen in the ­sealed-​­off studio or lab. Besides participatory observations, a popular and playful way to examine systems and practices is the use of “­probes”, provocative tools for inquiry, engaging users to become c­ o-​­researchers (­Gaver et al. 1999). This type of perspective is also common in “­constructive design research” where designers put entities into the world and discuss their performance both academically and practically, primarily experimenting with ideas rather than aiming to build rigid or valid 341

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claims. In this type of research program, “­debate is more important than facts and knowledge”, and a “­successful constructive program participates in public discourse and interprets society rather than acts as a legislator” (­Koskinen et al. 2011, 48). The core of hacktivist research is amplifying participant agency and the orchestration of emancipatory processes: it is based on finding, tracing, and bending processes of becoming, tuning, and r­ e-​­circuiting energies, flows, and power. It is not about revolution or migration to a new system, but like PAR, taking the system at hand and liberating unused assets, potentials, and opening new passages through it. In this manner, hacktivism is about the actualization of the virtual, recircuiting processes of b­ ecoming—​­using the ”­in-​­betweens” and hidden resources and potentials by intensifying their force through strategically deployed efforts to build new capabilities. That is, not adding more of the same energy, but recircuiting seemingly disparate energy flows and skills to strengthen one toward social aims, such as Feagin and Vera’s directions of expanded human rights, participatory democracy, and social justice. The aim is to affect the processes of actualization and help facilitate the cultivation of new capabilities within the system in the hands of the participants. This is made through the hacking tactics of building on existing codes, comments, arrangements, and interventions of previous researchers and making sure these efforts point to new possibilities and mobilize new capabilities in small change efforts. To expose these mechanisms better, we need to explore the concept of hacking.

Hacking and hacktivism as systemic practices Hacking is a contested concept usually connoting some form of ­d igital-​­based countercultural rebellion, and it is a contested matter if hacking is constructive or destructive. Over the last decade, hacking as a term perhaps brings about images of entrepreneurial “­hackathons” where young geeks work for free and get paid with pizza (­Zukin & Papadantonakis 2017), if not geopolitical struggles between ­state-​­supported hacker groups, attacking the digital infrastructure of competitors or adversaries (­Follis  & Fish 2020). The proliferation of “­hackerspaces” also pins down hacking to a Silicon V ­ alley-​­centered geek innovation culture, missing its broader global scope and history (­Toupin 2016). But under increasing ­tech-​­driven “­nudging” (­W hitehead 2018) and ubiquitous surveillance and extraction of data (­Zuboff 2019), hacking may be practice more urgent than ever. Narrowed down as a practice, programming guru Eric Raymond simply makes the distinction: “­hackers build things, crackers break them” (­Raymond 2001), while media theorist William J. Mitchell paints a more nuanced description where “­The best hacks are cleverly engineered, ­site-​­specific, guerrilla interventions that make a provocative point but aren’t destructive or dangerous” (­M itchell 2005, 118). Social researcher Anne Galloway draws out some central points of hacking: - Access to a technology and knowledge about it (“­t ransparency”). - ​Empowering users. - ​Decentralizing control. - Creating beauty and exceeding limitations (­Galloway 2004). To these points, I would also like to add; “­using the intelligence of many for innovation, and sharing it freely”, as the hacker ethic is based on sharing, collaboration, and building on already existing code and systems. This last point is often provocatively summed up in Stewart Brand’s idea that “­information wants to be free” (­Brand 1985, 49). 342

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As noted by Raymond earlier, the constructive part is the primary motivation of the hacker (­Raymond 2001). However, when newly constructed elements appear in the world, old power relations may be altered or even broken. As anthropologist Christopher Kelty (­2008) points out, hacking, or the practice of “­geeks”, introduces new entities into the world based on the worldview of the geeks. Such new entities overturn existing concepts and modes of representation. These constructive practices are “­involved in the creation of new things that change the meaning of our constituted political categories” (­Kelty 2008, 94). A hack mobilizes a mix of entities, not just software or hardware, but also law, people, and practices, and all are somehow affected by the new entity constructed. What from one producer seems like trespassing can, from the perspective of the newly introduced entity, seem as a rightful appropriation of everyday culture, as exposed in the motto of the DIY magazine Make: “­if you can’t open it, you don’t own it” ( ­Jalopy 2005). By introducing new entities, often amplified from existing sources and unsettling the status quo, a hack draws new borders, displaces power, and recircuits established chains of command. A hack is a countersystem that tweaks the order of the habitual system, sometimes even making the old and new systems incompatible. Hacking may thus produce a situation of “­adversarial design”, a dissident contribution to the world, as examined by interaction designer Carl DiSalvo. Adversarial design exposes inconsistencies and disagreements as a form of political design, producing agonism and contestation (­DiSalvo 2012, 2). Like hacking, it proposes new paths for a countersystemic and emancipatory movement and produces agonistic “­design things” or controversial assemblies that challenge hegemony and other views than the “­legitimate” (­Binder et al. 2011, 189). Throughout the history of digital computer systems, the neologism “­hacktivism” (­of “­hacking” and “­activism”) has been connected to the field where autonomous anarchist tradition meets activism and digital subversion. Hacktivism as a concept connotes to squatters, phreakers, scammers, crackers, and cultural jammers who mix civil disobedience, online activism, and hacking to employ the “­nonviolent use of illegal or legally ambiguous digital tools in pursuit of political ends” (­Samuel 2004). The hacktivist stance gathers agonist and dissident construction of countersystems to highlight contested areas of life and are means to the political ends of expanded human rights, participatory democracy, and social justice. Hacktivism could be said to be an emancipatory mode of ­bottom-​­up (­counter)­system design, in tune with other forms of “­DIY citizenship” (­Ratto & Boler 2014) and citizen science that challenges the status quo (­Kullenberg 2015). This countersystem approach can also be found in the Jargon File, the lexicon for hacker slang. The entry of “­hacker” suggests that it is: A person who enjoys exploring the details of programmable systems and how to stretch their capabilities, as opposed to most users, who prefer to learn the minimum necessary ( ­Jargon File). As already noted, the whole social sphere and knowledge is ­human-​­made and can be seen as many overlapping “­programmable systems”, technologies, apparatuses, or soft systems. Not least the structural arrangement of culture, capital, and communication. However, what differentiates hacktivism from PAR is hacking’s emphasis on direct intervention into society’s material culture and artifacts, tweaking the material, social and cultural systems, and operations. Hacking takes on a system embodied into a machine or device; it is the conscious “­trickery and manipulation of a system” (­Cramer 2003). Hacking means opening black boxes, r­everse-​­engineer their circuitry, and building a new “­­plug-​­in” to the system, challenging it, and releasing new capabilities. It is about constructing alternatives, not too unlike Andrea Branzi’s imaginative research, 343

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The architectural or design project today is no longer an act intended to alter reality, pushing it in the direction of order and logic. Instead the program is an act of invention that creates something to be added on to an existing reality, increasing its depth and multiplying the number of choices available. (­Branzi 1988, 17) Such programmatic inventions require h ­ ands-​­on interventions.

Interventions and provotypes Hacktivist research is about action, making interventions in the world. This differs from how much design research takes place on a simulation level, where the designer makes proposals in the form of sketches and renderings, and very few ever come into existence. This type of studio design is about the hypothetical preparation for the future. Typical examples of this may be architects, who draw many proposed buildings, and may pass through a whole education without ever building a finished house. Similar training is that of the military officer who passes through endless histories, hypothesis, scenarios, and simulations, but very seldom experience real battle (­Abbott 1988). Another take is an ­experiment-​­based approach where the lab is the arena for staged and enacted tests of ideas. In the lab, however, the situation and context are staged in one way or another. The lab is about controlling the parameters of the inquiry, creating isolated experiments to minimize noise. The lab reproduces reality, and lets some of it in, through its methodological filters; users may be invited to perform tests, or various forms of more tangible techniques such as “­bodystorming” may be used to bring the experiments closer to actual experience (­cf. Buchenau & Fulton Suri 2000). However, hacktivism is implemented through design and material interventions and takes on specific social and material effects. It is ­hands-​­on; think craft intervention with systemic ambitions. As mentioned above, it is based on systemic counterintelligence, reverse engineering, the tracing of pathways and flows through a system, to position an intervention at the most effective place to change it in some physical way, however modest. Hacktivism breaks open, probes, and explores the material arrangements and products of systems to bend or ­re-​­systematize the overall processes and orientations toward a more desirable direction (­Corbett 2017; von Busch 2017). To bring the inherent power of craft and designs in focus, just think of crafts and techniques that are so provocative and powerful that the state needs to regulate and even forbid them, such as l­ock-​­picking, moonshining, smuggling, and not least sabotage; this is where design agency “­hacks into reality” in ways that clash with the order of laws and regulations (­von Busch 2022). Hacktivist research follows the artistic interventionist tactics encouraged by the art and activist group Center for Tactical Magic. Their projects are ­multi-​­layered, yet they follow a framework guiding their creative engagement. Take, for example, their use of making new discreet street signs to highlight historical activist struggles in the city, such as a street crossing where armed Black Panther protesters came out to guard a dangerous street crossing that authorities had neglected for a long time, but after the protest quickly got its street lights to slow the traffic. Manifesting activist history enriches the civic toolbox, highlighting how the design of monuments to everyday community struggles may help teach citizens more democratic ideals than monuments to kings and generals. Again, the hacktivist element of the process is the practical and pragmatic use of materials and design to manifest the more abstract aspects of social conflict. As noted by Gach and Paglen (­2003), Center for Tactical Magic’s formula emphasizes the physical intervention characterized by: 344

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1 2 3 4

A thorough analysis of existing forces An attachment to one existing force An active engagement within the dominant sphere of activity Specific, material effects

This type of intervention resonates with the “­interrogative design” of industrial designer and artist Krzysztof Wodiczko and enacted, perhaps most famously, with his vehicles for homeless people. Parts of his method are similar to those practiced in participatory design. Still, crucial to his method is a critical questioning to the design practice, which disrupts and reveals the underlying inequalities that design usually covers. Without finding real solutions to the problems, the importance is put on the intervention which questions the world and its functions, pointing toward political action. Designers must work in the world rather than “­about” or “­upon” it. In an unacceptable and contradictory world, responsive and responsible design must appear as an unacceptable or contradictory “­solution”. It must critically explore and reveal often painful life experiences rather than camouflage such experience by administering the painkillers of optimistic design fantasies. The appearance of interrogative design may “­attract while scandalizing”—​­it must attract attention in order to scandalize the conditions of which it is born. Implicit in this design’s temporary character is a demand and hope that its function will become obsolete. (­Wodiczko 1999, 17) In this sense, the hacktivist intervention interrogates the world, materializing a scandalizing countersystem. The intervention also serves as a “­provotype”, rather than prototype, as sketched out by interaction design researcher Preben Mogensen (­Mogensen 1992). Mogensen proposes a method of “­provocation through concrete experience” as a way to “­devise qualitatively new systems” (­Mogensen 1992, 31). This means to prototype the future through concrete experience, while simultaneously raising the perspective of what is possible beyond the habitual reference of the actual, thus stimulating action. The aim of the provotype is to break the everyday operations and ­taken-­​­­for-​­grantedness of our interactions. The role of the designer is to enact three different roles; expert, facilitator and provocateur, depending on the concrete situation. The provotype creates a framework to imagine and manifest the radically different. The intervention is thus a type of rehearsal of a possible “­­micro-​­utopia”, made to render the possible imaginable and discussable (­Wood 2007). It is practical fieldwork in the future, or in the radical imagination of designers and users, rather than in the present. Koskinen et al draws similar parallels where, The aim is to turn fieldwork into an exercise of imagination rather than mere data gathering. In the tough time lines of design, it is hard to view “­d reams” by observation alone. If researchers want to about things like dreams, people have to be invited to the dream during fieldwork. (­Koskinen et al. 2011, 76) The provotype intervention thus questions the world by raising awareness to new possible scenarios and mobilizes action. Technical examples may be the tweaking of g­ ender-​ ­ stereotyped toys by Barbie Liberation Organization (­ Harold 2007), or the hacking of sounding toys to produce new forms of music, called “­circuit bending” (­Ghazala 2005). But 345

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it may also be a systematic intervention into the system of fashion and collaborative clothes production (­von Busch 2008). Such actions may seem limited in scope, but the modus operandi is similar to the development concept of “­small change”, suggested by Nabeel Hamdi (­2004) which means improvised and immediate s­ mall-​­scale actions toward empowerment. To Hamdi, this means participation from below in limited issues, for example, a bus stop or a compost bin, that later grows into a ­large-​­scale and ­long-​­term practice, as over time the collaborations become more sophisticated and intelligent. By redrawing the stretch of a bus line, introducing a new stop, Hamdi shows how the ­re-​­circuiting of the bus stop produces other social interactions, leading to new informal social structures emerging, producing new conditions for an informal market, which in turn assembles children doing their homework on the electric light of the vendors (­Hamdi 2004, 73). The importance is put on finding the dynamic forces and points where ­acupuncture-​­like interventions may release energies throughout the system, and not try to force the system toward one abstract and distant end, such as “­modernization”. For Hamdi, the goal is not to create a massive movement but to encourage and “­tip over” those who are close to acting but lack courage or a working example. Small Change captures three important principles that recur throughout: “­small” because that’s usually how big things start; “­change”, because that’s what development is essentially about; and “­small change”, because this can be done without the millions typically spent on programs and projects. (­Hamdi 2004, xxiii) For Hamdi, small change is a starting point for empowerment, and the output of the process can indeed be ­small-​­scale, c­ ommunity-​­based, visible, and tangible, as the bus stop. “­Start small and start where it counts” (­Hamdi 2004, 139). Understanding of the current operating system is required to find the spots to intervene, but the perspective puts emphasis on doing, and starting small. As Hamdi puts it “­in other words, we didn’t think too much before we started doing, and we didn’t do too much before we stopped to think about it” (­Hamdi 2010, 36). The m ­ icro-​­interventions of hacktivist research are evaluated on their m ­ icro-​­changes to the systems they interfere with. But they also have a performative aspect, becoming examples of possible paths of action as they may encourage action and build agency by example. A similar trait could be drawn to the “­existence proof ” common in mathematics (­Koskinen et al. 2011, 63). According to Koskinen et al, design researchers may want to experiment to see what is actually possible, Researchers may want to show that a certain outcome is possible by building upon it, and there is no need to produce definitive proof beyond the construct (­Koskinen et al. 2011, 63). Existence makes possibilities imaginable, tangible, and discussable. They produce discursive and imaginative models to possible futures and draw up courses of action. As mentioned by Hamdi, the aim is to produce proof that is convincing enough to encourage those who are close to acting. In this way, the small change intervention is an experiment of conviction, a tipping point toward new capabilities to act.

Building hacktivist capabilities Hacking reassembles capabilities of design in new ways and orders them into a countersystem. As with PAR, tasks once delegated to professionals are reclaimed and redistributed in order to build empowered capabilities. The capabilities are similar to the approach put 346

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forward by Nobel laureate and economist Amartya Sen, and furthered by philosopher Martha Nussbaum. In this approach, Sen and Nussbaum critiques the dominant perspective on societal development focused on economic growth and the measurement of development through access to commodities (­Sen 1985). As Sen notices, possessing a commodity does not mean one is able to use it, owning the commodity does not necessarily mean one has the capability to use it for furthering one’s ­well-​­being (­1985, 9) Thus, from Sen’s perspective we need to shift focus from the inherent characteristics of commodities, to instead look at “­what the person succeeds in doing with the commodities and characteristics at his or her command” (­Sen 1985, 10). This requires an approach that not only traces the activities of people and their skills but also empowers their capabilities to act within everyday systems. To Sen, capabilities should be understood as what a person is able to do and be. Sen and Nussbaum further differentiate between internal and external capabilities, they “­are not just abilities residing inside a person but also freedoms and opportunities created by a combination of personal abilities and the political, social, and economic environment” (­Nussbaum 2011, 20). Hacktivism aims to build abilities to engage with our surrounding systems, to produce the critical skills to engage with the world, through a countersystem approach. A systemic knowledge is required to amplify this in the most dynamic way, and it resonates with the hacker ethic, of sharing skills and plans, code, and programs in order to facilitate further building on the code. From the engagement with material culture as a point of departure, hacktivism amplifies something as small as the limited skill of bicycle repair, the possibility to choose whether we take on a mechanical repair job ourselves or leave it to the bicycle mechanic, toward a system of social ­self-​­reliance. In this sense, hacktivism is the strategic application of interventions toward socially emancipatory goals. From a skill or capability, new small changes may emerge, small business, and new interactions and exchanges that were not there before. As Nussbaum put it: “­The notion of freedom to choose is thus built into the notion of capability. … To promote capabilities is to promote areas of freedom” (­Nussbaum 2011, 25). In design, as we usually take for granted that owning a commodity immediately transfers its characteristics onto us, making us able to use it. We may facilitate this process by making things “­­user-​­friendly”, but in this transaction, the user is still not in control of the capabilities being transferred. Hacktivist research aims to actualize the skills, control, and systemic capabilities of the users and participants as a form of radical pedagogy. The aim is to facilitate the ability to engage in systems, society, and the everyday world through the tuning of material culture, in a direction of expanded human rights, participatory democracy, and social justice. Hacktivism realizes new, grounded freedoms in the realm of design through interventions in collaboration with participants, actualized on an individual as well as systemic scale, and beyond the parameters of the commodity culture’s “­operating system”. In summary, I have in my earlier research (­von Busch 2008) suggested the practice of an engaged hacktivist designer, an edited list could be something like this: Reawakening a spirit: Inspiring and boosting the thirst for exploration and emergence, expanding action spaces and capabilities through simple examples, workshops, and manuals to form new forms of attention and awareness. Amplifying the voice of the silenced: Cultivating a language of practice. Develop a critical usage of existing media channels as well as creating new ones to show examples and mobilize for action. Going through informal channels: Bypass gatekeepers; find your own, l­ow-​­level paths of action. Building s­ elf-​­reliance: Teaching simple modular methods or subsystems that can easily be expanded into other interventions and creations, developing a trust and courage in one’s skills. 347

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Mobilizing resources: Reorganize production, open new action spaces by recircuiting existing ones. Use the possibilities of what is considered as junk, making the leftovers of society your pool of treasures. Provoking the “­­taken-­​­­for-​­grantedness”: Help to make the virtual or possible imaginable and discussable. Make models and visionary prototypes. Challenge the participants’ imagination. Making ­micro-​­plans: Think in small steps, plan small, but be open for serendipity. Make examples of how the single informal action might be turned into a stabilized activity and a sustainable project or business, at least resulting in richness of dignity and s­ elf-​­respect. Map relations and prototype protocols for collaborations. Forming alliances: Engage participants, share resources and skills, collaborate, and build assemblages together. Be a rhizome, a pack of wolves, a swarm of rats. But be conscious of its risks and take seriously the responsibilities it demands. Intensifying the power: Plug the project into a larger energy system, use its potentiality, connect with other lines, and ride their shared power, boost the flows, accelerate the participation, celebrate a shared r­ e-​­engagement.

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27 SOFTWARE ATE DESIGN Creation and destruction of value through design research with data Chris Speed

Introduction Design research has used data throughout its history to underpin findings and inform the development of products and services. As well as defining their own methods ranging from cultural probes to research through design, every aspect of design from Fashion to Advertising, has adopted approaches from disciplines including marketing, anthropology, and computer science to allow them to watch, listen, and learn from data. However, while human and ­more-­​­­than-​­human centred approaches have flourished in recent years to extend the participation from beyond people to animals and artefacts, large digital datasets remain challenging, and are considered the work of data scientists. This chapter considers the implications of d­ ata-​­driven technologies on design research within a period that has seen radical change for the discipline. The chapter revisits an epoch in which “­software ate the world”, a phrase introduced by Marc Andreessen (­2011) to describe the development of platform economies powered by software, enhanced by large datasets and very clever business models, that consumed established analogue brands and supply chains. Following an introduction that sets the scene about the nature of these transformations, the chapter explores how the use of software technologies within design is changing the way in which research is informed by ­d ata-​­driven technologies and suggests that “­software is likely to eat design” unless it develops a critical approach to the use of new technologies such as artificial intelligence (­A I). In order to offer such an approach, the chapter goes on to explore the methods and principles of software development that are transferrable to design before recovering the ablative framework for designing from/­w ith/­by data and uses a series of cases studies to exemplify how design is taking place. The chapter closes by acknowledging the f­ast-​­moving nature of d­ ata-​­driven technologies that are challenging many aspects of the contemporary designer, and our need to retain a literacy towards the use and agency of data within our research.

Framing data In a community and culture in which the term data is adopted and used frequently and without definition, this chapter recovers a definition that was used in the author’s 2016 paper 350

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-31

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“­Designing from, with and by Data: Introducing the ablative framework” (­Speed and Oberlander 2016) in which data was framed through a set of values. A collection of data can be thought of as a set of values for some variables, acquired originally by measurements of some kind. Under an appropriate interpretation, data counts as information, and information processing can refine (­relatively) raw data and make it useful, by capturing, transforming and communicating it. (­2016, 1) While this short description may sound impersonal, data has always been personal, and no more so when we consider the values that are captured through our use of i­nternet-​­based apps and technologies. Whether we are consciously or unconsciously aware, our preferences, attitudes, and behaviour are all being captured and measured, whether we consider ourselves in the role of consumers, influencers, communicators, or as healthy (­or unhealthy) physical and social beings. The paper went on to demonstrate the entanglement of different forms of data and the challenges that this presents. While one set of data values were “­mere measurements” such as how many kilometres you ran today, they quickly become associated with the creation of two kinds of value. The first being that of commercial value: by “­aggregating any kind of data at scale, corporations and agencies can generate new commercial or social value: they can create products and services which increase individual or collective utility, and which can be monetised in at least some cases” (­2016, 1). The second form of value arises through the ways in which we understand how corporations and organisations care for the data, and in doing so reveal a set of moral or ethical values that we interpret as more or less valuable. From the protection or violation of personal privacy, to the rejection of customs and attitudes of less powerful people including their time, diet, or sexuality, the ability for a custodian and mediator of personal data to support the enhancement or erosion of fairness within society becomes central to the perception of value for their products and services that they offer. For the benefit of the reader, data in the context of this chapter, should be considered as predominantly digital data that is passed between people, corporations, and organisations across the internet. Caught up in this “­d igital economy” are not only designers, but ­d ata-​ d­ riven technologies that fall under the broad bracket of artificial intelligence (­A I). This includes natural language processing and generation to analyse text and speech, audio and vision technologies that are able to interpret voice, sounds, patterns and images, machine and deep learning to detect patterns and create predictions.

Data ate the world From Amazon’s destruction of the networks of book shops, to Netflix’s annihilation of rental video stores that populated many global high streets and threats to national broadcasting corporations, it is difficult to consider an industry that has not been transformed by software technologies. In his 2011 blog post Andreessen summarised the relatively short period of time that it took for software to eat the world. Reminding the reader that it took “­six decades into the computer revolution, four decades since the invention of the microprocessor, and two decades into the rise of the modern Internet” before all of the elements were in a robust form to begin to deliver reliable software services at a global scale (­2011). But once in place, the consumption of almost every sector is complete. The provision and delivery of books, 351

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food, taxis and clothes are all supported by software platforms and the early 2010s were defined by the phrase “­there’s an app for that”. Vital to the construction of effective software products and platforms has been the development of ­large-​­scale datasets and access to them. We might consider a dataset to be thought of as a set of values for variables that were acquired by measurements of some kind. Under an appropriate interpretation, data counts as information, and information processing can refine (­relatively) raw data and make it useful, by capturing, transforming, and communicating it. Effective products and services/­platforms have established mechanisms to capture complex continuums of impersonal to personal data that may range from economic, location, temporal and environmental conditions, to the preferences, attitudes, and behaviour of individuals. Software ate the world by designing sophisticated ­d ata-​­driven business models that provided consumers with access to services while simultaneously capturing and correlating impersonal and personal data that exploited their behaviour as consumers, communicators, and as healthy or unhealthy physical and social beings (­Zuboff 2019). Since the relatively early models of digital economic businesses such as Google, Facebook and Amazon, the nature of the technologies involved developed extremely quickly in parallel to make the capture and processing of data ever more sophisticated, placing increasing stress upon ethical frameworks for the capture, retention, and exploitation of personal data. Without regulation, early business models identified that personal information (­d ata) was extremely valuable to support the profiling and, in turn, the targeting of digital content across platforms. However, at scale, the automated collection of data through particular applications began to reveal the social, cultural, and economic biases by particular algorithms. In 2012 Target, the franchise of American department stores, was cited for correlating data points from female customers that would infer if they were pregnant, and selling the data on to marketing partners (­Crawford and Schultz 2014). Later in 2015 it was discovered that Amazon’s AI system for screening job applications was biased against women by excluding applicants who had attended ­a ll-​­women colleges, and who’s applications included the word “­women’s” ( ­Vincent 2018). As internet access and speeds accelerated, so too did the sophistication of personal devices from desktop computers to powerful laptops, from pedometers to smart watches. If we consider for a moment the evolution of the mobile phone in the ­m id-​­1990s, through the feature phones with basic data contracts, to the sophisticated smart phones that include high quality front and rear cameras, location based and radio frequency identification, all of which were accompanied with software for physical, social, emotional, and spatial recognition. As new businesses sprung up to capitalise upon the hardware and software platforms, increasingly more sophisticated mechanisms were developed to identify value within datasets.

Value creation in the digital economy Throughout the period of software expansion, the study of value creation underwent significant development. Prior to value being created through the use of an app or digital service, value was predominantly considered to be “­product dominant”, in which value was based upon the exchange of goods and delivered through a value chain (­Normann and Ramirez 1994). As software began to support the use of services, marketing literature recognised a significant shift towards “­service dominant” logics in which the roles of producers and consumers flattened allowing the concept of value ­co-​­creation to emerge beyond value chains, but into far more complex value constellations made up of a myriad of parties (­Vargo and Lusch 2008; Vargo et al. 2008). 352

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Able to capture many more values through the use of software, the role of producers, service providers, and even customers within complex value constellations all become intermediaries to support value c­ o-​­creation through the exchange of data. Over the past 15 years many of us have found ourselves shifting our role from simply consuming goods and services from the internet, to becoming producers of words, images, and data that support the ­co-​­creation of value across the digital economy (­Speed and Maxwell 2015). A value constellation can be described as the network of consumers, producers, providers that evolve to offer a service. Supported by the passage of information and data between each party, value constellations within the digital economy are mediated through algorithms that calibrate the network to sustain the value associated with a product, a service, or an experience. However, as marketing theory did its best to keep up with the innovation of ­d ata-​­driven business models that saw money replaced by data as the primary currency for “­value creation” within the digital economy, increasing critique emerged that has since highlighted the “­value destruction” (­Plé and Chumpitaz Cáceres 2010) that occurs through the exploitation of personal data. In their 2010 paper Plé and Chumpitaz Cáceres introduce the idea that in addition to the c­ o-​­creation of value within service dominant logics, c­ o-​­destruction can also take place as particular configurations of resources within a value constellation interact. They define “­­co-​­destruction” as an “­interactional process between service systems that results in a decline in at least one of the systems’ ­well-​­being” (­Plé and Chumpitaz Cáceres 2010, 431). In the context of the digital economy, there have been increasing instances of value destruction through the exploitation of personal data and the poor ethical stewardship of personal data. From news reports of data leaks or companies selling data to third parties, value destruction is a common feature through the lack of protection or violation of privacy, while ­d ata-​­driven models rely upon producing and modelling categories, which affirm the “­normal” and can exclude or fail those who do not conform to certain parameters. In light of these transformations, it is worth considering what happened to design research during this epoch of significant change. Design research has always used data whether it be qualitative to bring forward the stories and give voice to participants in the shaping of a product or service, or quantitative through the array of instruments that are at our disposal to inform us about physical and material conditions. However, if the c­ o-​­creation of value within a digital context is happening at increasing speed through direct networked connection with the social, economic, and environmental contexts in which people find value creation or value destruction, what are the implications for design research practices that continue to “­f reeze” the world through interviews, photographs, and probes, and take them back to the design studio or research lab for analysis? Does the slow collection of data, and its reflection through relatively analogue processes suggest a privileged position that is out of step with the way in which software and ­d ata-​­driven technologies is able to identify value? While this section has introduced a brief history for the increase in software and d­ ata-​ ­d riven to capitalise upon data to ­co-​­create value, the next section will reflect upon the shifts in how data is used to manage the projects, products, and services.

Waterfall to Agile/­build measure and learn Central to the ­co-​­creation of value from a dataset is the speed at which data can be parsed and analysed to identify patterns of opportunity or meaning. The use of data to inform decision making and the ­co-​­creation of value has been dramatically supported by a significant shift in the way software projects are managed. This is true for commercial design and for 353

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design research, initiatives that remain project driven with expectations for their outcomes, whether it be the production of consumer items or knowledge. Whatever project design is involved in, it is difficult not to acknowledge a teleological dimension to design processes that has more or less intended outcomes, with more or less positivist or interpretivist methods. From the Double Diamond approach that was popularised by the British Design Council in 2005 (­2007) to Sanders and Stappers representation of the ­co-​­creation process (­2008), the arrow of time, left to right has offered a way to encapsulate an informed d­ ecision-​­making process towards a preferred outcome. Over the past 50 years, two dominant models remain at play within software development, the first the “­waterfall method”, was established through the 1970s as a means of managing, through a linear sequence, the production of robust code towards a successful product/­system. Thirty years later in the early 2000s, “­agile methods” were developed to reduce the pressure that resulted from the linearity within the waterfall method and allow software teams more autonomy to solve problems as they manifest themselves. The difference between these methods echoes the shifts in both value creation (­from product to service) and the increasing role of systems that are able to feedback data at greater speeds to support development. In summary the Waterfall method was introduced following much of the insights of the US space programme in which greater control was required to mitigate against problems. The Waterfall method gets its name due to the design of successive waves of development that leads to a final predetermined outcome. The method can be understood to be iterative as each successive phase is signed off through a detailed analysis of requirements before moving to the next. The Waterfall method is valued if a products specification can be agreed and identified at the outset, allowing focus to remain through the sequence of development cycles. However, criticism of the method emerged as the digital economy became more complex towards the turn of the century and producers began to recognise that within a complex value constellation nothing is stable. As data began to flow at increasing speed through and from different parties within value constellations, software development needed to be more flexible, more agile in order to respond to the ­ever-​­changing circumstances of value ­co-​­creation. Agile methodologies retain the iterative principles of Waterfall methods, but avoid the sequential dependability that emerges as projects rely upon successive steps before them, and for project analysts and managers to sign them off. In contrast Agile methods focus upon the interaction of teams through short iterative cycles that respond to emerging features and the prioritisation of key functions. Agile teams are often found working in close proximity, with individuals empowered to communicate and work together to make informed decisions quickly rather than waiting for managers to approve next steps. Core to the effectiveness of an Agile culture is the principle of “­build, measure, learn” (­BML), the objective being to release minimum viable products for use by customers/­users and learn quickly about how they can be improved. BML is perhaps the most startling difference between Waterfall and Agile, because it doesn’t specify with detail the outcome of the final product, it accepts entirely that the outcome will be in constant development as its “­value” will be subject to its place within the complex value constellations of the digital economy. Of course, this means that Agile developers expect to live with constant error and bug fixing, but that the ­co-​­creation of value is more likely because data is constantly informing the development process. The two methods of software development neatly demonstrate the role of data to inform value creation and design processes. One being highly deterministic in which the value of a product is assumed at the outset, and that the use of data to inform iterations is slow and relies 354

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upon robust analysis of what is deemed valuable by consumers/­users. The other having less specifics about the nature of the product, but concern for how it will fulfil a service through the ­co-​­creation of value based upon data that is fed back from its users. These conditions parallel how design uses data to inform its research, at one extreme those positivistic projects that need to demonstrate value through a hypothesis that might originate in the studio or lab, in which data is used to corroborate assumptions and mitigate the risk of the outcome being ethically, functionally, socially, and economically flawed. Or those highly ­co-​­creative projects that chart the value of their design through close participation with its research community and audience towards ethically, socially, and technical insights. In each case data is used in such a way as to manage the design process towards valuable outcomes, whether that may involve slow or fast feedback loops, or with more or less participants.

The ablative framework: design from, with and by data In observing the role of data and how it transforms design, the author and a colleague published a framework to allow designers clearer insight into how they might use data within their work. Acknowledging that design research has done much to introduce methods of qualitative and quantitative data capture, the paper reflected upon the challenges that the advent of big data and d­ ata-​­driven innovation has had upon the discipline. In seeking to simplify how we use data, we adopted the ablative case in Latin that “­indicates an agent, instrument, or source within a relationship expressed ‘­by’, ‘­w ith’, or ‘­from’” (­Speed and Oberlander 2016, 4). The framework was introduced to help design researchers identify a position that they might take when using digital data, in particular as data itself began to gain levels of agency through the emergence of ­d ata-​­driven technologies such as AI. The paper used the language of value constellations to locate the design researcher within the complex digital business models that rely on the flow of data in order to ­co-​­create value. The paper and its three positions of “­designing from, with and by data” help to acknowledge the shifting positions in which both the designer and datasets themselves have more or less agency.

The three models are summarised below 1 Design from data: when systems are designed by people, where they are inspired by measurable features of humans, computers, things, and their contexts. Design from data referred to the wide range of methods that designers have developed and adopted to gather data from the field. The author’s 2016 paper cited “­user observations (­Abrams 2000, Stempfle and B ­ adke-​­Schaub 2002, and Kawulich 2005) and interviews (­Bernard 2000; Byrne 2001; Rubin 2005); to more designerly methods including cultural probes (­Gaver et al. 1999), technology probes (­Hutchinson 2003) and contextual mapping (­Visser et al. 2005)” as all methods by which designers are able to “­f reeze” the world and take it back to the studio/­lab and “­design from data” (­Speed and Oberlander 2016). An example of a data gathering through software that supports “­design from data” is the Ethnobot design ethnographic app designed by Tallyn, Fried, Gianni, and Isard that is used by organisations to gather insights into the experiences of participants through a chatbot (­Tallyn et al. 2018). The Ethnobot is an app that runs within a browser on smart phones and offers a simple chatbot function, following a branching path structure 355

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­Figure 27.1 The Ethnobot uses chatbot software to elicit responses from a participant in outdoor locations

to direct a conversation with participants. Modified for particular outdoor events and locations, the Ethnobot using GPS coordinates to identify where a participant is, and asks them questions that relate to subject matter in that location, or ­open-​­ended questions that encourage participants to elaborate and describe their activities, thoughts, and feelings. The app is also able to invite the participant to take photos and upload images to extend the richness of a conversation that the individual is having with the Ethnobot (­­Figure 27.1). The Ethnobot software is particularly useful in gathering data from circumstances in which the presence of a human design researcher might be disruptive, or may influence the experience of the participant in responding to questions that are prompted by the software. With full transcriptions of each conversation accompanied by GPS coordinates and photographs taken by each participant, the research team are provided with a rich dataset “­f rom” the field of study to later compare and analyse. 2 Design with data: when systems are designed by people, where they take into account the flows of data through systems, and the need to sustain and enhance human values. The second position supported the designer to design with data that could be considered “­live” or close to being in “­­real-​­time”. This position accepted that designers are becoming immersed in value constellations and that the c­ o-​­creation of valuable research was subject to their ability to keep listening and interacting with participants. In order to sustain such a position, “­designing with data” requires designers to develop methods to remain in constant connection with people, things, and environments. Inevitably this evokes the use of technologies that are within Internets of Things from smart phone apps, to technology probes (­Hutchinson 2003) that retain a live link with the researcher. An example of live data feeds to inform a design research study can be found in the use of the Smart Donations mobile application that was deployed through the Oxfam Australia network in 2019. The application was intended to understand if blockchain technologies might offer the international aid charity, new avenues to encourage people 356

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to donate money as global citizens. Based on the concept of “­programmable donations” (­Elsden et al. 2019), a member of the public who took part in the study would download the application and would be given ten Australian dollars in credit that they were able to allocate to particular “­smart contracts” (­Trotter et al. 2020). Each smart contract would allow users to set up conditions to trigger a donation from their funds and released to the charity only when the particular conditions are met. A popular example was “­Earthquake Insurance” that allowed the participant to design a contract based upon the data that was fed back from the US Geological Society (­USGS) in ­real-​­time about the size and location of earthquakes around the world. An example contract might be: if an earthquake larger than 3.5 on the Richter scale occurs, within the continents of Asia, Antarctica, Africa, and Oceania, then transfer 30 cents to Oxfam’s Earthquake Support fund. We can describe the design and use of Smart Donations as a form of “­design with data” because the way in which participants’ experiences are subject to the live data feeds that become associated with their donation funds (­­Figure 27.2). In addition to interviews with participants following their use of the study (­design from data), the design research team also used data based upon analytics coming from participants use of the app, such as their tracking of smart contracts (­some might take up to 14 days to complete), their patterns of pledging and seeing their funds issued, and how long they spent within the app (­Bidwell et  al. 2021). The deployment of Smart Donations is much closer to a technology probe (­Hutchinson et al. 2003) than a cultural probe, but due to the live feed of data provides an example of “­design with data” from the perspective of the participant and the design researcher. The choice of data, the particular measure (­e.g. the Richter scale), its particular classifications and qualities, its availability, frequency, and reliability were all crucial to the resulting experience and meaning of this contract. Designing with an understanding of this data, and even the infrastructure underpinning it, hence becomes a crucial skill.

­Figure 27.2 The smart donations application and the sequence involved in designing a contract for an earthquake of 3.5 magnitude on Richter scale, that takes place in Asia, Antarctica, Africa, and Oceania, and the resulting transfer of $0.30 each time it occurs

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­Figure 27.3 The author and his deepfake doppelgänger produced through the “­how they met themselves” project by Martin Disley 2021

3 Design by data: when systems are designed by other systems, largely autonomously, where new products and services can be synthesised via the d­ ata-​­intensive analysis of existing combinations of humans, computers, things, and contexts. The third position is one in which the designer relinquishes a position of power to being the genus of insights and ideas for creating value, but instead recognises that machine to machine interactions are able to identify opportunities, patterns, and insights as datasets become larger, and algorithms become faster. “­Design by data suggests that as these algorithms become faster and better at identifying new opportunities to sustain or add value to products and services, it won’t be long before d­ ata-​­driven objects begin to become designers within our lives” (­Speed and Oberlander 2016). An example of a design by data is the work of Martin Disley who since 2019 has been using Generative Adversarial Networks (­GANs) to produce art works and design interventions for research purposes. His software intervention “­How They Met Themselves” (­2021) was commissioned by the Zoom Obscura project (­https://­zoomobscura.com) to explore and contest the limits of machine vision systems, in particular their potential to become a resource for identifying individuals in large datasets, and how data itself can be developed to design outcomes that confuse and disrupt these systems. The software operates via a virtual camera input to video conferencing technology such as Zoom, and allows the user to adopt and animate a deep fake of themselves when talking to other participants on a live call (­­Figure 27.3). With the strategic aim of obscuring vital biometric data that might identify the user should the operator of the video conferencing platform share images of who has been using their software to a third party, Disley mixes an original image of the user with a “­likeness” of the face that is produced by the AI software. The result is an uncanny “­doppelgänger” of the user that allows the user and researchers to better understand how d­ ata-​­driven systems that use facial identification and verification, affect how our identify is “­designed by data” through the use of AI systems. 358

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In combination with traditional research methods (­including from and with data), Disley’s methods allow “­more than human” interventions within design research processes that reveal our entanglement with ­d ata-​­driven systems and hints at the interests of the companies that aim to exploit our personal data for economic benefit. Only by designing by data, and engaging with machine learning algorithms directly, is it possible to reverse engineer, and demonstrate the constraints and decision making of, for example, other facial recognition algorithms.

Software Ate Design Software has transformed design research. As long as I can remember, software has been part of the production, communication, analysis, and delivery of research. This chapter has sought to open up the question as to the extent to which the development of software has transformed our relationship with the material that software uses to produce ­value – ​­data. While design research can claim to have always used data within its methods, and to a greater or lesser extent acknowledges the use of software, questions remain about how design research and its data practices have transformed (­been eaten) by software and the wider application of d­ ata-​­driven technologies including AI, and how best to mitigate against the negative implications if this condition is to advance. The series of local, national and international lockdowns brought about by the Coronavirus pandemic brought into sharp relief our reliance upon i­nternet-​­based services and our ability to fulfil all essential needs through software, and at times find additional social pleasures across the same platforms. The challenge then seems to better attune ourselves to the value destruction that occurs as products do indeed turn into platforms, and the scale of data use loses its sensibilities towards caring for the rights of its participants/­users. As value is ­co-​ ­created through the exchange of data across the value constellations of software, it is vitally important to acknowledge the value destruction taking place. For every “­value proposition” that we encounter and choose to interact with, data will be exchanged between people and a myriad of further organisations within a value constellation. Of course, while we hope that the implications of these digital transactions lead to ­co-​­creation, designers should become attuned to the likelihood that value destruction may also be taking place. After all, capitalism assumes that there is always an extractive dimension to every business model, whether it be the privacy of an individual, or the natural resources of the planet. Reflecting upon how software development methods have shifted to reflect the c­o-​ ­creation of value from Waterfall to Agile demonstrates further the speed and dynamism with which data is increasingly required to make informed judgements that, in turn, impact upon development and the manifestation of any service. Over the past few years, we have become more sensitive to how our activities within search and social media platforms lead to adverts. Although while it is easy to spot how simple search terms produce adverts for products in Facebook, it is less clear how our language informs our exposure to cultural and politically biased content, as our Facebook and Twitter timelines respond to data. The simple realisation that Agile is often found to be more effective than a Waterfall method because it doesn’t specify the outcomes of a product, but instead assumes that its effectiveness is entirely contingent upon the value that it c­ o-​­creates. This condition mirrors design research’s own turn towards participation and inclusion of participants within a project to better represent the values of a community. If it could be said that design research is beginning to mirror Agile methods then perhaps it should also accept that it will remain in a constant state of vigilance towards the error of its ways, its own value destruction. Perhaps not manifest in software 359

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bugs, but in ethical mistakes and slips, misrepresentation of individuals, inappropriate attribution of ideas, the selective nature of choosing to concentrate upon particular empirics, and ultimately the choice to obfuscate some aspects of its findings. These concerns echo the most recent calls for more “­systemic” design approaches (­Design Council 2021), which emphasise the need for designers to recognise the wider constellations of their work, and offer not just a ­t ake-​­home solution to a problem, but ways to “­continue the journey”. As designers become eaten and entangled in software and all its value logics, such systemic approaches to design must take into account what it means to design from, with and by data, in an iterative and agile fashion. As a language to support design researchers’ sensibilities towards working with data within a software paradigm, this chapter presented the ablative framework for designing from/­w ith and by data. The framework and its three positions allow researchers to acknowledge their relationship with data and to make informed decisions about the implications for their agency alongside it. The framework largely identifies design from data as corresponding to the established methods of the design researcher, perhaps even a Waterfall model in which the gathering of data could be used to support a project with particular intended outcomes. Design with data certainly places the researcher within a value constellation in which often multiple sources (­human and more than human) are providing live information that effect the c­ o-​­creation and c­ o-​­destruction of value within a project. Finally design by data anticipates a relationship that many designers may find uncomfortable in which they should expect to lose levels of control to systems that are able to explore datasets at scale, revealing ­more-­​­­than-​­human insights, and merely contribute to mitigating against the biases within their design. Design by data also speaks to the next epoch that Forbes anticipates comes after “­software ate the world”. In their 2019 news article, they perceive that AI Is Eating Software. The claim is made by the increasingly wide scale use of machine learning to automate core aspects of businesses, from the use of AI to speed up the development of new drugs in the pharmaceutical industry, or to the optimisation of transport within logistic companies. Design research’s relationship with data will undoubtedly become more complex as software makes promises to c­ o-​­create more value by revealing deeper findings and secrets of the world, while mitigating against value destruction through the biases of the research teams ​­ does design research get involved in who operate it. And perhaps this is our c­ hallenge – how that loop? How do we design from, with and by data to ensure that software ­co-​­creates value for all parties within a constellation for design research? Acknowledgements: The ablative framework for design from/­ w ith/­ d ata was ­ co-​ ­authored with Prof. Jon Oberlander who sadly died in December 2017. Much of his ideas and words remain throughout the chapter and go on living through design research at the Institute for Design Informatics. Research for this chapter originated from the following grants: UKRI EPSRC project “­Digital Economy Cyber Security of the Internet of Things. UK Internet of Things Hub” (­ EP/­ N02334X/­ 1); UKRI EPSRC project “­­ Ox-​­ Chain: Towards secure and trustworthy circular economies through distributed ledger technologies” (­EP/­N028198/­1) with support from Oxfam Australia; the Zoom Obscura project funded through the UKRI Human Data Interaction EPSRC Network+ (­EP/­R045178/­1), and the AHRC Creative Informatics project (­A H/­S002782/­1), part of the Creative Industries Clusters Programme. Thanks go to the many participants who supported the research, and Dr. Chris Elsden who helped to clarify much of my thinking.

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References Abrams, Bill. 2000. The Observational Research Handbook: Understanding How Consumers Live with Your Product. Chicago: Lincolnwood. Andreesen, Marc. 2011. “­W hy Software Is Eating The World.” Accessed 3 April 2022. https://­a16z. com/­2011/­0 8/­20/­­why-­​­­software-­​­­is-­​­­eating-­​­­the-​­world/ Bernard, H. Russell. 2000. Social Research Methods: Qualitative and Quantitative Approaches. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage publications. Bidwell, Nicola, J., Chris Elsden, Ludwig Trotter, Josh Hallwright, Sadie Moore, Kate ­Jeite-​­Delbridge, and Mike Harding, et al. 2021. A Right Time to Give: Beyond Saving Time in Automated Conditional Donations. Proceedings of the 2021 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. New York: Association for Computing Machinery. Byrne, Michelle. 2001. “­Interviewing as a Data Collection Method.” AORN Journal, 2001 Aug; 74(­2): ­233–​­235. Crawford, Kate, and Jason Schultz. 2014. “­Big Data and Due Process: Toward a Framework to Redress Predictive Privacy Harms.” Boston: College Law Review, 55(­1): ­93–​­127. Design Council 2007. “­Eleven Lessons. A Study of the Design Process.” Design Council. Accessed 3 April 2022. https://­w ww.designcouncil.org.uk/­sites/­default/­fi les/­a sset/­document/­E levenLessons_ Design_Council%20%282%29.pdf Design Council 2021. “­Beyond Net Zero: A Systemic Design Approach.” Design Council. Accessed 31 October 2021. https://­w ww.designcouncil.org.uk/­resources/­g uide/ ­­beyond-­​­­net-­​­­zero-­​­­systemic­​­­design-​­approach Elsden, Chris, Ludwig Trotter, Mike Harding, Nigel Davies, Chris Speed, and John Vines. 2019. Programmable Donations: Exploring ­Escrow-​­Based Conditional Giving. Proceedings of the 2019 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. New York: Association for Computing Machinery. Gaver, William, Anthony Dunne, and Elena Pacenti. 1999. “­Design: Cultural Probes.” Interactions, 6, 2­ 1–​­29. Hutchinson, Hilary, Wendy Mackay, Bo Westerlund, Benjamin B. Bederson, Allison Druin, Catherine Plaisant, and Michel ­Beaudouin-​­Lafon, et al. 2003. Technology Probes: Inspiring Design for and With Families. Proceedings of the SIGCHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. New York: Association for Computing Machinery. Kawulich, Barbara B. 2005. “­Participant Observation as a Data Collection Method.” Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung/­Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 6(­2), Art. 43. Normann, Richard, and Rafael Ramirez. 1994. Designing Interactive Strategy: From Value Chain to Value Constellation. New York: John Wiley & Sons. ­ o-​­creation: Introducing Interactional Plé, Loïc, and Rubén Chumpitaz Cáceres. 2010. “­Not Always C ­Co-​­destruction of Value in S­ ervice-​­dominant Logic.” Journal of Services Marketing, 24(­6): 4­ 30–​­437. Rubin, Herbert. J. and Irene. S, Rubin. 2005. Qualitative Interviewing (­2nd ed.): The Art of Hearing Data. SAGE Publications, Inc. Sanders, Elizabeth B.-​­N., and Pieter Jan Stappers. 2008. “­­Co-​­creation and the New Landscapes of Design.” International Journal of CoCreation in Design and the Arts, 4(­1): 5­ –​­18. Speed, Chris and Deborah Maxwell. 2015. “­Designing Through Value Constellations.” Interactions, 22(­5): ­38– ​­43. Speed, Chris and Jon Oberlander. 2016. “­Designing from, with and by Data: Introducing the ablative framework.” In Proceedings of the International Design Research Society Conference 2016. University of Brighton, June 2016. Stempfle, Joachim and Petra ­Badke-​­Schaub. 2002. “­Thinking in Design ­Teams – ​­An Analysis of Team Communication.” Design Studies. 23. 4­ 73-​­496. Tallyn, Ella, Hector Fried, Rory Gianni, Amy Isard, and Chris Speed. 2018. The Ethnobot: Gathering Ethnographies in the Age of IoT. In Proceedings of the 2018 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems (­CHI ’18). New York: Association for Computing Machinery. Trotter, Ludwig, Mike Harding, Peter Shaw, Nigel Davies, Chris Elsden, Chris Speed, John Vines, Aydin Abadi, and Josh Hallwright. 2020. Smart Donations: E ­ vent-​­Driven Conditional Donations Using Smart Contracts on the Blockchain. In Proceedings of 32nd Australian Conference on H ­ uman-​ ­Computer Interaction (­OzCHI ’20). New York: Association for Computing Machinery.

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Chris Speed Vargo, Stephen, Paul Maglio and Melissa Akaka. 2008. “­On Value and Value C ­ o-​­Creation: A Service Systems and Service Logic Perspective.” European Management Journal. 26. ­145–​­152. Froukje Sleeswijk Visser, Pieter Jan Stappers, Remko van der Lugt and Elizabeth B ­ -​­N Sanders. 2005. “­Contextmapping: Experiences from Practice.” CoDesign, 1(­2): 1­ 19–​­149. Vincent, James. 2018. “­A mazon Reportedly Scraps Internal AI Recruiting Tool That Was Biased Against Women.” The Verge, 10 October. Accessed 13 April 2022. https://­w ww.theverge.com/­2018/­10/­10/­ 17958784/­­a i-­​­­recruiting-­​­­tool-­​­­bias-­​­­a mazon-​­report Zuboff, Shoshanna. 2019. The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future at the New Frontier of Power. London: Profile Books.

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28 WORKING WITH PATIENT EXPERIENCE Alison Thomson

Introduction Patient experience is a phrase frequently used in research and practice involving patients and health interactions. It is a concept that spans different disciplines that have a variety of different methods of investigation. Ultimately, tensions exist between different kinds of expertise involved in its use. From people’s everyday experiences of living with a chronic disease, to designers’ different ways of knowing and of practicing research, and medical researchers’ e­ xperience-​­based knowledge. Design practice is considered capable of creating, changing and improving patient experiences. But it has inherent assumptions that need to be understood before engaging in design activities as they pose different methodological, analytical and ethical consequences. This chapter is organized around three different versions of “­patient experience”: that variously operate in healthcare and design research. These are compared and contrasted in ­Table 28.1. Literature from philosophy and the social sciences underpin and inform these different approaches to patient experience, and are presented alongside how designers approach experience within service improvement projects. The chapter draws on examples of academic p­ ractice-​­based design research in the context of Multiple Sclerosis (­MS) research and care based at Queen Mary University of London, in East London. The design researcher leading this work describes them in this chapter.

Patient experience 1 Different genres of design have responded to the notion of experience as a hitherto untapped and underdeveloped resource. Specifically, the field of experience design (­Shedroff 2001; Benz 2015; Wendt 2015) focuses on the design of experiences as an aspect of consumption since the rise of the experience economy (­Pine and Gilmore 1999). In the context of healthcare, over the past decade, there has been an emergence of Participatory Design inspired approaches of ­co-​­design (­Sanders and Stappers 2008), ­co-​­creation (­Cottam and Leadbeater 2004) and ­co-​­production (­Boyle and Harris 2009) to consider the user as a central focus and active member of the design activity (­Pullin 2013; Donetto et al. 2015). Currently, the most widespread approach to improve the patient experience of health services is ­Experience-​­based C ­ o-​­design (­ECBD) (­Paul Bate and Robert 2007), which is DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-32

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Alison Thomson ­Table 28.1  Table of experience Description

Assumptions

Design approach

Experience 1

This first understanding of experience is of a patient’s inner, subjective experience of events that has happened to them. This understanding is heavily influenced by phenomenology and is dominant in healthcare practices that treat patients as subjective beings.

A design understanding of experience within c­ o-​­creation and participatory design tradition where users are involved to talk for themselves and contribute to the change process. This understanding has underlying motivations of democratic principles of work management dynamics.

Experience 2

This version takes patient experience as an objective phenomenon reported through patients’ subjective accounts. This version can travel and have agency in making subjects. This is not to be confused with the phenomenological perspective of experience, which is the “­inner experience” of a person, this notion is a generalized version. This third understanding emerges out of the situated interplays between people, measuring instruments, etc. which are s­ ocio-​­m aterially mediated. It argues that “­experience” is the result of these practices and so cannot exist without them.

The limitation of perception where individual people view the world differently depending on their embodied perspective and ontological view. This also presumes that humans know their own minds and access their thoughts, i.e. their memories. STS would argue that this point of view prioritizes humans as perceiving subjects above all others. Raises questions about the different forms of knowledge left out by methods to capture or represent this information.

This version rejects the object/­subject divide, but as a performative understanding, it has been used to focus on language, presupposes a backstage where there is a consciousness and is limited to recognizing performativity as producing visible effects.

An understanding of the design process as entirely performative where both subjectivities and bodies are performed. ­Socio-​ ­m aterial assemblies of patients, measurement tools, health professionals, etc. are performed that achieve different experiences. Can be simulated through prototypes and design tools.

Experience 3

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Typical design inscription (­i mmutable mobiles) that visually reduces knowledge production to simple and interrelated shapes. Action is ascribed to these shapes that are at the center of design activities.

Working with patient experience

deployed by the NHS Institute for Innovation and Improvement to allow staff, patients and carers to reflect on their experiences of a service and work together to identify improvement activities. It is then up to this same group of people to devise and implement changes and then reflect on their achievements. (­EBCD) is a ­user-​­focused design process with the goal of making user experience accessible to the designers, to allow them to conceive of designing experiences rather than designing services. (­P. Bate and Robert 2006, 309) The reference to the user in the quote above is typical of the EBCD approach to experience, as well as the design literature around experience design more broadly. The user is included in an activity to contribute their experience. An example of how design works with this initial understanding of experience can be demonstrated in the “­Big Brother Diary Room” project ran by the Barts MS Service at The Royal London Hospital and Queen Mary University of London. Delivered within a larger service improvement project, this piece of research was conducted to explore patient experiences of the outpatient department. Patients were asked to contribute their experience of care, for staff to listen to and reflect on, then make suggestions to improve the service. Over the last decade, there has been a steady increase in efforts to gather information about patient experiences to improve service quality (­Wolf et  al. 2014) while being used to get a better understanding of a patient’s quality of life. In the Outpatient Department at The Royal London Hospital, patients are frequently asked to respond to questionnaires or surveys for research, teaching or service improvement purposes. The Big Brother diary room tool aimed to alleviate some of the burden of reporting experiences, while trying to gather unique insights into what it feels like to be a patient in this healthcare context. An oversized chair was upholstered in gold fabric to replicate the diary room chair from the popular television show, “­Big Brother,” being broadcast at that time. The chair was set up in a private room, in front of a video camera (­see ­Figure 28.1). The patient was prompted by a series of printed questions to talk about their clinic experience. Patients talked at their own pace without interruption or researcher interference. They were able to elaborate on topics they chose and expressed their responses and thoughts, talking freely. Patients reported that they found the experience enjoyable, almost therapeutic and said they shared thoughts they might not have if the questions had been delivered by a person in front of them. The videos were then shown to the clinical team who were asked to analyze the unedited responses (­­Figure 28.2). It was left to the staff to categories the content of the videos using three categories of severity and their potential capacity to change (­­Figure 28.4). Staff participants reported that the video format was more engaging than previous feedback presentations, and made them think differently about the patient perspective of attending an outpatient appointment. A brief discussion on the theoretical understandings of experience can help pull some of the assumptions associated within this first understanding of experience. These are important for design research to think about as they affect what is being captured, measured and reported, and the role that the patient, staff member or design researcher has in this situation. The dominant theory of experience within philosophy, phenomenology, is based on the premise that reality is what is perceived or understood in human consciousness. Phenomenology places experience in the minds of individual people, which presumes that an individual’s mind is the center of and cause for their experience. So then, the only way for others (­e.g., design researchers) to access this experience is through the experiencing person 365

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­Figure 28.1 Anonymized video stills from the Big Brother Diary Room chair

reporting on it. In other words, as a person experiences an event, they interpret it, and it goes into that person’s memory. As time passes, other memories join it. When that person then reports on that event, a description of the memory is reported. This is the way that design approaches to patient experience, like the “­Big Brother Diary Room” example, deals with experience as a ­pre-​­existing subject that is stored in someone’s mind. If a designer wants to understand it then, they ask the person to report on it. Ultimately, once a designer can identify and grasp an experience, they can change it (­Shedroff 2001; Cain 2010). In other words, there is an assumption that patients have access to their inner experience, the introspective event, which they can report on (­Hollway and Jefferson 2000). Doing this makes an assumption that we can access our own inner experiences and know them (­Henriques et al. 1998). The Big Brother approach demonstrates the problems for accessing and reporting experience. As a source of knowledge, subjective experiences are described as unreliable as they are affected by that person’s perspective of the world (­their ontological view) when going in and out of their memory (­Dennett 1991). So then, when we recall an experience, we ­re-​­experience it in our minds. This is described as “­the problem” (­Chalmers 1995, 200) of subjectivity. This chapter argues that this needs to be a key consideration when conducting research about patient experience and any attempts to identify or gather information about it. It has important implications for how design research can approach researching patient experiences, through the introduction of recording and measurement tools, devices and objects 366

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­Figure 28.2 Photographs of outpatient staff watching the Big Brother Diary video feedback from the patients

and makes the case for other ways of engaging people in research, such as ­practice-​­based methods, that do not depend solely on verbal responses. The r­ e-​­experiencing of experience can be affected by research tools, recording devices and the behavior of the researcher. For example, the introduction of a novelty object, such as an oversized gold chair, changed the context around the measurement activity and introduced the idea of an audience behind the camera watching the recording. We could speculate that when the patients were reporting 367

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on their experience, it felt more like a confession, to a Big Brother character who had influence on how the service is set up with the power to make changes. It is well understood within social sciences that research tools can affect how data is gathered (­Osborne and Rose 1999). For example, if patients are asked questions in an interview format or in a focus group will generate different data. But designers have the potential to introduce other issues into this, for example the role of the TV viewer. Another assumption that underpins Patient Experience 1, can be described as the limitation of perception. Havi Carel (­2012) effectively uses the example of a native English speaker and a ­non-​­native English speaker hearing the same sentence in English. They hear the same sentence but perceive it differently due to their different perspectives of the world. Relating this to health, the experience of living with a chronic illness is different for everyone. For people living without the illness, the experience may look awful, but in fact, the experience of living with illness may be very different from what it is perceived to be. This critique on perception is also articulated by scholars of disability studies who argue that if we are not experiencing the same events through the same body, then we have no way of really grasping or understanding the embodied experience (­Diedrich 2005; Moser 2006; Galis 2011). Participatory approaches in design, such as EBCD and as demonstrated through the Big Brother Diary room, attempt to remove the limitation of perception by involving people who will be part of the end change or service in the improvement activity to contribute their individual, subjective experiences to the design process (­Pullin 2013). But this does not account for the reporting of experience being problematic, as everyone’s ontological view is different. Further, it is important to not overlook Participatory Design’s original strong political agenda in workplace democracy. This ­Marxist-​­inspired approach enacts democratic principles by inviting the end users of a design (­the people who would be affected by the change, i.e., the workers) to ­co-​­operate in the entire process of design. Due to this agenda, the reason for engaging these potential users within the design process is not only to make better products and systems but also to consider the social and ethical implications of a new design. In other words, organizations have many motivations for initiating these projects other than solely creating new patient experiences. For example, in a review of current EBCD projects, patients reported feeling like outsiders during the d­ ecision-​­making process, and staff referred to external locus of control (­Bowen et al. 2013, 242) giving rise to particular configurations of power in both ­co-​­design activities and the implementation of change. Therefore, there are limitations with working with subjective accounts of experience when reporting in these contexts.

Patient experience 2 The second framing of experience proposes another way to think about how patient experience can be documented and presented. Within service improvement projects, information is visualized as part of the design activity. An example of this can be seen in The Multiple Sclerosis Outpatient Future Group project which was based on the EBCD process (­Thomson, Rivas, and Giovannoni 2015). The project brought together staff to work with patient feedback (­from the Big Brother Diary room activity) and make suggestions for change in the how the outpatient service is delivered. A description of the visualization stage within the project can be used to investigate Experience 2. A diagram (­shown in F ­ igure 28.3) was created and used to represent the patient journey through a healthcare service going from “­preparing to leave for a hospital appointment,” “­a rriving at the hospital,” “­going to appointment” through to “­returning home.” The design researcher used the visualization to facilitate discussions where outpatient staff listened 368

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­Figure 28.3 A photograph of a patient journey map created in the MS Outpatient Future Group project representing the stages of the outpatient service that patients go through

to patient accounts of their outpatient journey and used sticky notes to write suggestions, ideas, reflections and problems then added these to particular points on the diagram (­shown in ­Figure 28.4) Topics included things like how patients are approached by staff, information that is provided to patients and medical and administrative procedures that take place. Marked on this diagram were people, objects, spaces, resources and locations referred to as touchpoints (­Clatworthy 2011) where the patient and the service interact. Through the process of visualizing these interactions on paper diagrams and making changes to points represented on the patient journey, it is thought that different service experiences are created (­Shostack 1984). To have a better understanding of how these visualizations produce a second version of experience and further explore any assumptions they draw on, it is necessary to have a closer look at the process through which patient accounts are captured, represented and acted upon through the visualizations. In service design activities, visualizations are used to bring people together around moments of d­ ecision-​­making and idea generation. The visualization acts as a distributing and collecting device where paper objects, such as a p­ ost-​­it note, are used to document current experiences of stakeholders involved in a service, and acts to bring about new roles, responsibilities, products and interactions. These notes can be moved, altered or 369

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­Figure 28.4 A photograph of staff suggestions for changes to improve the outpatient service

removed depending on the discussion within the activity. The agency of this type of design is through both the visualization and manipulation activity. Different entities in the service can be assigned agency through these visualizations. For example, a nurse’s role may be changed to include more tasks, a noticeboard may be introduced to update waiting times or the computer might need to be used to enter information. Literature about users from design and Science Technology Studies (­STS) (­A krich 1992; Suchman, Trigg, and Blomberg 2002; Danholt 2005a; Wilkie 2010) highlight the multiplicity of users that get both resourced and defined through this type of design process. Objects such as p­ ost-​­it notes are used to talk about future possibilities, identities and capabilities of existing, emergent and future users. 370

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The discussions in these activities are all about the potential for future patient experiences to be created based on the manipulation of the visualizations. Wilkie (­2010) explores the performative potential these temporary objects have when used in the prototyping activity and explores how each note could bring one potential future into being over another. We will explore this idea further with Experience 3 later in this chapter. Just as certain entities can be included in these diagrams, some things can be left out. Left out by either the tools to capture, tools to represent and visualize, or by the people in the discussion manipulating the diagram. Arguably, these diagrams, act to reduce the complexity of the humans involved in the service and the act of design into simple shapes and lines that can address a reduced form of “­patient.” In the process of creating the visualizations, only certain things are represented. For example, individual patient bodies are removed. This then suggests how making patient experience visible and tangible can be a disembodying process. The information is objectified. Callon and Rabeharisoa (­2004) describe how this is exactly what scientific knowledge and medical processes do when they objectify the body in making it visible in presentation and data analysis formats enabling data to become comparable for large populations of people. This is a methodological move away from working with one patient’s experience, to working with a large group of experiences. It creates a generalized “­patient experience” which is different from an individual’s subjectivity. This can be seen in the Accelerated EBCD approach which has been developed in response to concerns that the patient interview stage of the original EBCD approach took too long. Instead of individual interviews with patients at the start of the project, patient footage from a national archive of filmed interviews is used (­Locock et al. 2014). A generalized experience is used, lacking local specificities. This introduces another understanding of patient experience that does not ­pre-​­suppose a model of the patient as being a subjective figure (­in contrast to phenomenology and Experience 1). Where Experience 1 takes patient reported accounts of the subjective experience, Experience 2 starts with this then produces ­cleaned-​­up visualizations. Once transformed into representational material they can be acted upon, shared and circulated to cause different effects such as changing how a service is delivered (­creating new resources, changing clinic procedures) as well as wider financial implications (­recruiting staff, commissioning services). Latour and Woolgar’s concept of “­immutable mobiles” (­1986) is helpful to consider how these diagrams can be considered as “­facts” (­Latour 1987, 64). Immutable mobiles have agency as they circulate in the practices of healthcare, design practice (­Danholt 2008) and research dissemination within settings all far beyond the original patient. For example, in academic publications (­such as this chapter), audit reports, research posters and online resources documenting improvement projects and design activities. As immutable mobiles they are referenced, recreated, discussed and accepted as facts which go on to impact on other practices, decisions and behaviors. This raises questions as to what counts as experience. For designers, do we think that making changes to a simplified diagram, visualizing a service counts as an experience? This is one of the criticisms of the EBCD approach (­Bowen et al. 2013, 242). Actor Network Theory (­A NT), an approach within STS which has a preoccupation with the empirical analysis of material practices, puts forward the argument to ­re-​­consider what is thought of as facts. For example, Experience 1 is typically viewed as a p­ re-​­existing property of humans that need only be correctly recorded. Whereas Experience 2 is produced and circulated through visualizations and diagrams as material objects, becoming representations of people’s experience. It also enables us to consider how materiality can contribute to the research and creation of patient experiences, which is particularly relevant to design research. 371

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The challenge for design researchers, is then how to work with different versions of experience symmetrically, without valuing one version as more valid or important than another. Following Annemarie Mol (­2002), this is not a case of choosing one version of experience over another, but rather it concerns witnessing how different and divergent versions of experience, theories and practice hang together. Could there be particular situations or problems that require both versions to contribute to an area of study? Alternatively, could there be a need for a version of patient experience that is independent of service development project or medical measurement? What version of experience would be useful for patients?

Patient experience 3 The third and final understanding of experience has important implications for conceptualizing patient experience as a “­doing” through performative actions and gestures. It argues that experience is the effect of a practice of making it happen. This includes the physical tools, the human and nonhuman elements that surround the patient. The Under and Over project explores the potential for creating a performative understanding of patient experience. This understanding is not limited to the cognitive reporting of an experience from a patient (­Experience 1), nor the reductionist visualization of Experience 2. The design researcher leading the Under and Over project was aware of these conceptual categorizations of experience and aimed to create a standardized tool which could be used in practice to have productive implications for these understandings. Under and Over is a ­hand-­​­­and-​­arm activity pack that comes with a plastic grid, two shoe laces and a pattern book (­shown in ­Figures 28.5 and 28.6). The plastic grid has been designed for people with MS whose hand and arm function are affected by their MS. Considered as a

­Figure 28.5 Photograph of the Under and Over pattern book

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­Figure 28.6 The Under and Over plastic grid and threads

rehabilitation activity, patients can thread the grid with the laces, creating an endless variety of different patterns. The book that comes with the grid proposes a range of patterns, from simple to complex imagery. The tool and pattern book are currently part of a research study investigating whether repeated use of the tool can improve a person’s upper limb function. However, of interest to this chapter’s discussion on experience, the tool can also produce different versions of patient experience. Although the grid, the laces and the patterns are all standardized across every person who uses it (­i.e., they all receive the same objects), there is the potential for other aspects of a patient and what is affecting their upper limb function, to contribute to recording their experience when conducting the activity. Some people with MS have significant hand and arm impairment which could be experienced as weakness, lack of grip or tremor. This would affect how much of the pattern they would be able to complete by limiting how long they could hold the objects and their ability to thread the lace through the holes on the board. These limitations may fluctuate on a daily basis and could be affected by other aspects of the person’s health. So maybe one person could totally complete a pattern one day, but only complete half the next day. In the design and development of the Under and Over activity, people with MS explained how the activity was affected by a variety of other factors independent of their MS. For example, the weather (­heat is known to cause greater fatigue for people with MS), the activity they completed before the activity, and the time of day. All of these factors contributed to the production of the pattern and therefor the production of knowledge of how their MS is that day. It is only through engaging in the activity that a person is able to compare their hand and arm ability at different times. The resulting pattern created then becomes a ­non-​­medical object which is a valid version of patient experience, created from the contributing factors surrounding the activity. This third understanding of experience shows that patient experience does not only sit in people’s heads, in feedback surveys or service improvement diagrams. It can be a part of a practical activity that patients are involved in creating, and has the potential to be useful to them. 373

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There is an option where this project explores how a standardized tool, could be given to a variety of people in a variety of situations, and could go onto create controlled Experience 2 visualizations by removing the openness of the tool and administering it with specific tasks. This would be a controlled use of the tool where some of the specificities (­such as pattern choice, or activity duration) are controlled or standardized across a group of people. The completed pattern can be considered as an immutable mobile, visually representing and recording the specificities of experience for different people based in different ensembles. In doing this, the tool speaks to Experience 2 and becomes a tool to enable patients to represent their ability at that time. However, scholars interested in performativity would argue that, through the process of representation, patient experience can be performed. In other words, a specific version of patient experience is an upshot of the measurement and representational devices. This third version of experience, Experience 3, has a sensitivity to the techniques, situations and objects involved in its creation. The notion of performativity is frequently traced back to John L. Austin’s (­1976) series of lectures from Harvard University in 1955 where he uses the example of uttering the words, “­I do,” in a marriage ceremony as a speech act which is actively doing something in that moment (­confirming the union of two people in matrimony). In other words, a performative speech act operates to bring new realities into being, rather than simply reporting on existing states of affair. Meaning that performative agency is not in a ­pre-​­existing subject that exists before language, but is an effect of the process of citation. This suggests that patients, and experiences, do not p­ re-​­exist particular clinical and healthcare mobilizations, they are performed through and because of them. They are constructed in these encounters. Performativity provides an alternative way to understand how experience is produced, that is not predicated on the assumptions of a subjective individual with cognitive capabilities (­Experience 1). It makes the point that experience can be brought forward through artifacts, not just human reporting, which contributes to the discussion in c­ o-​­design literature where ANT has been celebrated for its ability to explain how materials and artifacts always play a role as nonhumans determining how people and materials participate in collaborative activities (­Eriksen 2012). Once the Under and Over tool has been repeatedly completed it is hoped that a person’s upper limb function will be either maintained or improved. This will have benefits for people with MS in all areas of life from basic care needs (­eating, dressing washing) to work and the ability to take care of their families. These are consequences of the performative act and can have important implications in a person’s life. This is why performativity has been the focus for many humanities and social science scholars as semiotic and material processes can produce and transform reality. The openness of the tool enables patients to generate patient experience which are responding to the context they are in and how external factors are affecting them in that moment. This performative information then has ongoing affects, such as being used to make decisions about how much energy they have left for that day to cook food, or read a book, or if they will be able to continue to complete the activity. It is the creation of the pattern that performs this version. This follows Judith Butler’s (­1988) understanding of performativity where things can be removed from the object e.g., the physical body, and performed. So, for example, the patient experience can be performed away from the body of the patient through things such as data visualizations, diagrams and this Under and Over tool. A new reality, or new piece of knowledge, has been brought into being through this activity. Experience 3 sits in contrast to Experience 2 when information is visualized and generalized. Experience 2 becomes unhelpful for individual patients to use in their everyday 374

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situations, for the here, and now to complete the necessary tasks to exist. It also alienates them so that they do not recognize their own practices or contributions. This suggests that data visualizations, Experience 2, are only useful for healthcare and service improvement purposes, but not often for patients. Performativity has already been taken up as a way to inform design practice in regards to how designers perform future users in the things they make (­Niedderer 2007) as well as inform theoretical accounts of design practice (­Danholt 2005b; Wilkie and Michael 2009). Work on the performativity of prototypes (­Suchman, Trigg, and Blomberg 2002; Danholt 2005b; Wilkie, Michael, and ­Plummer-​­Fernandez 2015) describes how prototypes can be performed in how they shift between the present and the future. The materiality of performativity, where the material contributes to including users and artifacts in the design process (­a nd how they affect each other) is explored by Danholt (­2005b). He argues that through the prototyping process, the interaction of objects and bodies, subjectivities and bodies are also produced. Designers play a part in this production through the objects they introduce to this situation. So, the Under and Over tool contributes to the version that is performative and as a piece of design research explores the utility of this for patients. This final discussion has demonstrated how the notion of performativity has important implications for how to think about design research engaging with patient experience. In summary, there are opportunities to work with a performative understanding of experience currently used in both medicine and design.

Conclusions Patient experience is a timely, complex and multifaceted object of study. It is not a topic of research restricted to healthcare, medicine nor design, but involves interconnected fields and practices. T ­ able 28.1 articulates nuances between these contrasting fields, where patients are positioned differently and are beyond being predictable generators of data, or resources to be accessed. By setting out these versions, this work aims to equip design researchers when working in complex and challenging health care environments involving patients, healthcare professionals and medical researchers with a vocabulary to tease out different characteristics useful to multidisciplinary work. This can support interdisciplinary conversations between teams of designers interested in healthcare projects or healthcare researchers interested in design methods to understand the principles within different methods and approaches of engagement and involvement when working with patient experience. By pulling out assumptions within these versions and considering how they either successfully or unsuccessfully hang together, patient experience as a knowable, concrete entity starts to unravel, becoming an exciting site for further exploration. The task of this research is not only to identify how patient experience is currently done, but also how it can be undone, and r­ e-​­done through the creation of different versions. This is relevant to designers, design researchers, health researchers and clinicians working with patient experience as a subject, topic, or as material to highlight that patient experience is something that is made, and continually ­re-​­made in the everyday practices between patient bodies, tools, environments, objects, and people. By consciously addressing this topic through research and practice, there is a danger of enacting our own assumptions and those from our field when engaging patients in research. Therefore, the purpose of the work in this chapter is to illustrate that we are also in position to do it differently, as this research is concerned with producing knowledge that can inform others to work differently when working with patient experience. 375

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The examples presented in this chapter are collated from insights and learnings of the design researcher leading this empirical work. The design research has unfolded in unique, situated and complex ways involving a variety of design methods and draws on different theoretical tools. This is the nature of working as a design researcher involving multiple fields, research traditions and theoretical influences which are all pulled together by the common thread of working with patient experience. This work has demonstrated a different role for design to work with patient experience to support MS ensembles while not falling into assumptions about human centered accounts or reductionist versions. Design research can intervene and create opportunities to explore unique insights and raise new question about what it means to live with a chronic condition.

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PART IV

Translating design research Embarking on transdisciplinary design research, conducting and communicating design research insights, findings, and results effectively; disseminating for impact The contributions to Part IV of this revised and updated (­­2nd edition) Routledge Companion to Design Research illustrates the role design research plays in translating thought into action through diverse practices and contexts. The chapters in this part of the book offer examples of different approaches, challenges, and impacts of design research in addressing complex social and environmental challenges through different forms of respectful collaborations. The chapters also deal with how design research can act as important knowledge translators, bringing together people and expertise whilst also considering how impact is communicated to different audiences. Part IV starts with Elizabeth Gaston and Jane Scott’s chapter that explores how physical making can be used as a tool to move towards greater transdisciplinary practice. Their chapter examines textile making and knit thinking, taking examples from the work of Knit: Design: Research, an experimental studio led by Gaston and Scott. The chapter looks at the ways knit making contributes to knowledge generation in design research processes and highlights projects where making has been used within collaborative research teams. The importance of making in design research projects continues in Laura Salisbury and Chris McGinley’s chapter. The early development of new materials, Salisbury and McGinley inform us, are typically conducted independently or with minimal engagement with key stakeholders in controlled lab spaces. However, insights gained from engaging with stakeholders is known to be a powerful resource within design processes and often has an impact on the development of materials in a way that informs their use and effectiveness in “­­­­real-​­​­​ ­world” application(­­s). Their chapter provides a critical review of the use of ­­people-​­​­​­centred engagement methods within early developmental stages of material concepts and sampling processes. They focus on the behaviours, attitudes and levels of engagement and how they can be unpacked, exploring the role of people, designing with groups, and how this informs new materials development. The next two chapters deal with how we can best design for social change. Laura Santamaria’s chapter discusses how design researchers can play a role as “­­cultural intermediaries” through using their design skills strategically to have a positive impact on society. The

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chapter argues that, as design researchers, we constantly influence people’s views, beliefs, and behaviours by shaping the aesthetic, functional and perceived value of products, services, and systems. Critical tools, claims Santamaria, can play an important role in design research for social change, helping to see the invisible forces that dominate human interaction, including the connection between our worldviews, design decisions and their potential impact and consequences in society. In a similar vein, Penny Hagen and Angie Tangaere address the pressing issue of building evidence in equitable designed services and systems. Hagen and Tangaere’s chapter offers a case study on building ­­practice-​­​­​­based evidence focussed on shifting designed systems towards equity and wellbeing, grounded in a real-​­​­​­ ­­ world public sector social innovation unit based in Tāmaki Makaurau, Auckland, New Zealand. Their chapter illustrates that part of tackling complex issues of inequity involves engaging with current norms of what constitutes evidence, as well as advancing public sector understanding of the kinds of evidence-​­​­​ ­­ b­ uilding suitable for working and learning in complexity. The chapter presents an approach to ­­evidence-​­​­​­building guided by culturally grounded practices, based on testing and learning in place with whānau (­­families) and other innovation partners, and shares the frameworks that were developed to support that as a rigorous systems innovation and learning practice. Communicating speculative and critical design futures is an important aspect of design research. The chapter written by Daijiro Mizuno, Kazutoshi Tsuda, Kazuya Kawasaki, and Kazunari Masutani cover aspects of this in their chapter that deals with the speculative design of ­­3D-​­​­​­printed underwear made from mycelium leather, biodegradable plastic filaments, and algorithmically generated flexible scaffolding structures for the sustainable future/­­alternative present. The chapter describes how collective fiction writing as collective dreaming paved a way to achieve both pragmatic and speculative research outcomes and how it could be used as a vehicle for communicating design research. The next three chapters deal, in their own ways, with methods, techniques, and examples for successful ­­design-​­​­​­led collaboration. Ruth Morrow’s chapter presents the learning that resulted from a ­­long-​­​­​­term collaborative ­­design-​­​­​­led process that conjoins research, scholarly activity, ­­design-​­​­​­based approaches, and commercialisation. The project developed from a creative collaboration between a textile designer and an architect and led to the development of ­­ form patented and commercialised technology where textiles and concrete permanently co-​­​­​­ the surface of precast concrete elements. The chapter describes the project’s rationale and how it evolved through a layered evolution of ­­inter-​­​­​­related processes. Michael R. Gibson and Keith M. Owens discuss why and how design researchers should and could become more proactive at overcoming barriers to collaboration with colleagues in other disciplines. They suggest that seeking c­­ ross-​­​­​­d isciplinary partnerships has become vital in the face of a complex world filled with seemingly intractable challenges. They argue that specialised knowledge lodged deep within siloed disciplines inherently limits its potential to address situations that involve diverse communities and their wildly varying expectations. With this need for collaboration in mind, Gibson and Owens identify obstacles to ­­cross-​­​­​­d isciplinary working methods and how these ­barriers – t​­​­​­ heoretical, structural, and ­perceptual – c​­​­​­ an begin to be addressed and overcome. In a “­­­­both-​­​­​­a nd” rather than an “­­­­either-​­​­​­or” approach, the authors suggest ways to develop shared language and understandings which can help to overcome implicit biases and create exploratory spaces that are conducive to fruitful negotiations and collaborations. Geke van Dijk and Bas Raijmakers’ chapter describes an international design research project conducted across three different countries (­­the UK, Spain, and Russia). The chapter describes the approach and principles adopted for a m ­­ ulti-​­​­​­country and m ­­ ulti-​­​­​­d isciplinary 380

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collaboration aimed at mapping potential opportunities for a new service concept presented by a global technology company. Group sessions (­­­­Co-​­​­​­Creation Labs) were used with participants to explore responses to the initial service concept and to identify specific individuals to ­­follow-​­​­​­up with ­­in-​­​­​­depth ethnographic immersions conducted by ­­locally-​­​­​­based research teams. Visually documented interviews (­­Design Documentaries) were used to capture empathic conversations between the design researchers and participants and were used in workshops with the clients. This example illustrates the importance of close collaborations between the design researchers from the various countries and the core client team in order to truly meet the needs and interest of specific groups of people. The final two chapters deal with social and environmental issues respectively. The chapter written by Emiel Rijshouwer, Dries De Roeck, Nik Baerten, and Pieter Lesage deals with social cohesion at street l­evel – something ​­​­​­ the authors claim is hard to get a grip on, yet it’s a topic which everyone is confronted with today. Their chapter takes a design research approach in order to better understand how social cohesion works at street level, and utilises qualitative research techniques and processes to gather key insights. The chapter details the outputs of this work including the “­­Museum in our Street” (­­MIOS) concept that gives street inhabitants “­­just enough” triggers to engage with their neighbours. The final chapter, written by Giovanni Innella and Gionata Gatto, chronicles and reflects on the authors’ recent p­ roject – ​­​­​­G eoMerce – ​­​­​­a speculative design project that is based on the scientific notion of “­­phytomining” – ​­​­​­the activity of extracting metals from the soil using plants. Again, the importance of collaboration and diversity in cooperative networks is highlighted. The collaboration involved design researchers, biologists, technologists, financial advisors, tinkerers, and v­­ ideo-​­​­​­m akers who collectively developed GeoMerce as a speculative designed future world where agriculture and finance blend with each other. Besides the scientific and technical challenges posed by GeoMerce, the authors reflect on the critical framework that formed the basis for such a complex project. Whilst GeoMerce hints at the possibility of a bright and positive future, it also casts a shadow of a dystopian world where financial profit and speculative monetary value determine every aspect of our world, including nature and our relationship with it.

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29 PHYSICAL THINKING Textile making toward transdisciplinary design research Elizabeth Gaston and Jane Scott

Introduction The creation of new knowledge in any field can be enhanced by working with practitioners across disciplines. Multidisciplinary and interdisciplinary projects are now common in design as the wider research community recognize the unique perspectives design researchers can bring to a project. The synthesis of disciplines that emerges in transdisciplinary research has the potential to approach a problem from a new and unique perspective produced from dissolving traditional research boundaries (­Choi and Pak, 2006). This chapter explores how physical making can be used as a tool to move toward a transdisciplinary practice. The idea is explored through textile making and knit thinking, using examples from the work of Knit: Design: Research, an experimental studio led by the authors, Dr Elizabeth Gaston and Dr Jane Scott. First, the chapter explores the ways knit making contributes to knowledge generation in the research process and then presents a selection of projects where making has been used at different points in the research process within a collaborative research team. By reviewing the place of making in the research process we offer a model to achieve a successful transdisciplinary design practice. The process of making is a transformative practice. This can be applied both physically and conceptually to the transformation of materials, processes and thinking. In our experience of working with knitting in a research context, we have used the physical and conceptual properties of knit to investigate materials and structures through physical interactions with fibers and yarns. This uncovered a way of knit thinking that is filled with material connections, tactile experiences and dynamic forces that we have applied to problems not usually associated with knit. Craft theory identifies the importance of the relationship between the maker and the material, and how knowledge is generated through a thinking process closely aligned to the process of making itself (­Adamson, 2007). In hand knit this cognitive dimension encourages creative making in the space between haptic sensation and thought and extends the concepts of design thinking to the process specific knit thinking. We use knit in a generative, ­m aterials-​­led process. It is used to explore an idea where the outcome is not ­pre-​­determined and the value of making is often in the knowledge developed through the process rather than the object itself (­Cross, 2011; Mäkelä, 2006; Scrivener, 2006). 382

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Our work uses generative, knit thinking as a tool to explore complex problems, often integrating science and design. However, the success of this exploratory making also relies on a deep understanding of knit structure, production and material use. While skill and prior knowledge is imperative in our making, even during the production of a highly specified prototype, our understanding of the problem and solution is transformed to some degree by the making process itself.

Textile making The application of textile making in a research context has gained momentum in recent years in surprising fields. Mathematicians from the Institute of Figuring applied the textile process of crochet to demonstrate the properties of the hyperbolic plane, a mathematical concept that had proved difficult to materialize (­Werthiem, 2007). While advances in digital fabrication had allowed hyperbolic models to be produced as 3D printed objects, the forms that emerged through the textile making process were malleable and tactile. More importantly the geometry itself emerged through the making process, with a direct correlation between the position of stitches and the resulting form. The benefit of hand making is that it is possible to experience hyperbolic form as a physical process of crochet making, rather than as an object, If the pattern of stitches changes, this is translated into changes in geometry. This greatly improves the ability to understand and experience the underlying geometry in the models, and making the process particularly valuable for research and education (­Henderson and Taimina, 2009). What this example demonstrates is the relationship between the physical and conceptual possibilities of textile making as a means to discover new knowledge and understanding. This is particularly relevant in our studio through our use of knitting. Physically, knit is the transformation of a line (­yarn) into a plane or ­three-​­dimensional form, or the transformation of raw materials into a product. Conceptually however, knit can be used to consider scale, organization of materials and hierarchy in systems, transforming an idea into a physical structure as an aid to understanding. Unlike other textile processes such as weaving and felting, knit is a continuous system with a single thread producing individual loops that interloop back over previously constructed knit stitches. The freedom of construction in this additive process allows the maker to move between different materials with vastly different properties, changing the performance and scale of the work, as well as varying the configuration of stitches to move from a flat fabric into 3D form. These parameters do not only constitute a technical exercise in fabrication, rather this way to make knowledge evolves through the tactile experience of making with textiles. Knowledge of making textiles and knowledge revealed through making textiles is derived from haptic sensation and the experience of working with materials; this includes touch and gestural movement (­Nimkulrat, 2020). Gestural movement is defined here as the intuitive actions of making expressed as motor stimulation or the feeling of executing an action without necessarily realizing it (­Goldstein, 2007). Touch is a function of exteroception or the relationship with the physical world experienced through external receptors. Gesture is a function of proprioception or the sense of movement experienced by internal receptors in muscles and joints (­Leder, 2005). Together this haptic sensory perception is one part of the body’s mechanisms for understanding the world. It is different but complementary to sight and is more interpretive and this requires a different set of skills to decode its meaning (­Goldstein, 2007), which is developed through practice. Perception is not definitive; it is part of a process of understanding that is influenced by prior knowledge and experience 383

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Figure 29.1  M  aking a stitch is a function of haptic and visual perception ( James Abbott Donnelly, 2014)

(­Snowden et al., 2006) or as textile artist Celia Pym states working with her hands is “­the way I meet the world” (­P ym, 2022: 9). It is clear how haptic sensation is related to understanding an action or developing a skill, particularly when combined with vision. For example, in hand knit the gesture of tensioning the yarn correctly in the process of making a stitch is a function of haptic and visual perception, and prior experience of the outcome of the knit process (­­Figure 29.1). However, the understanding developed through the sensorial perception of haptic sensation and gestural movement can also have influence on broader cognitive responses. These responses are holistic and less specifiable, they can be generative or produce a solution to a problem but with no clear steps to the outcome (­M äkelä, 2007). This n ­ on-​­linear process is difficult to identify and articulate; Fodor (­2 000) recognizes that creative thinking is frequently ­non-​­modular and that higher thought processes can be inexplicable. This is echoed by Glanville (­2 015:18) who locates this thinking “­in the back of the head”. This internal creativity is a direct result of the making process, what is being made informs the making. This reciprocity is described by anthropologist Tim Ingold as “­a process of correspondence” (­Ingold, 2013: 31) between material and making. However, the lack of specificity and clear communication in this process can be a barrier to the use of making in ­non- ​­design research. In a recent exhibition Post Digital Knit (­Gaston & Scott, 2019) (­­Figure 29.2), we considered the value of making in knitting, in the postdigital era. Alongside fragments and ­f ull-​­size installations, the exhibition foregrounded the importance of making through workshop activities, transforming yarns via knitting processes into tensioned canopies within the gallery. The value of this collaborative making was in the experience of seeing the individual threads transformed, and it was only through the process of knitting and reknitting that the fabric structure was generated and the potential of the material emerged. 384

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Figure 29.2  C  anopies workshop begins with individual chains of fingerknitting, reknitted into a cohesive form with unexpected material expression as tensioned canopy (Post Digital Knit Workshop 2019) (Bartholomew, 2019)

This example shows how the process of making can transform materials in unexpected ways to produce new design concepts. However, at a fundamental level how can this process lead to new knowledge and open up opportunities for transdisciplinary research? A knit expert implicitly combines a knowledge of fabric structure, material use and production technology when working. If much of this skill is developed through tacit knowledge of materials, and practical knitting experience how can this be communicated across disciplines? In fact, how can we share the learning that making offers in wider research cultures and environments? The following examples demonstrate a journey from an individual design practice toward a transdisciplinary practice using the vehicle of knit.

Multidisciplinary making Multidisciplinary making brings together different specialists to work collaboratively on a project. In the design and development of Configured Knitting (­2021) (­­Figures  29.3 and 29.4), the studio explored the potential of knitting as a material for architecture, bringing together a team that included knit specialists alongside computational design and architecture. The brief was to understand how knitting could be used as a modular system for inflatable architectures. The central question considered the module design with the aim to minimize seams, improve structural stability and reduce p­ ost-​­knitting assembly processes. Textile practice is about making material, regardless of how the fabric is manufactured, however architects select prefabricated materials according to specifications. For computational designers an understanding of material properties is essential in order to accurately model structural performance. This brought different experiences of making into the multidisciplinary project. From a knit perspective making was undertaken at two scales; first of all via small, technical fabrics exploring structural questions, second, by scaling up both structure and material into large prototypes reimagining knit expression and materiality at an architectural scale. The major advantage of hand knit making for prototyping is that the process is responsive. An expert knitter uses their situated knowledge of materials, fabric structure and production control for exploratory, ­three-​­dimensional form finding. During knitting, material properties and fabric structure can be modified quickly, and their effect on fabric properties assessed concurrently throughout production. ­De-​­and ­re-​­knitting allows different 385

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Figure 29.3  Configured Knitting: Digital and physical making; digital render integrates physics simulation, knitted preforms details structural organization of material. Scale is translated through physical making, informed by computation modeling of node placement (Photograph: Scott, 2021, Computational Model: Agraviador, 2021)

production options to be evaluated in real time. This intimate relationship between design and product is unique in hand process enabling communication across disciplines where questions of structure, materiality and scale need to be considered. The use of computation, which allows a rapid breadth of outcomes and physical making, investigated through the lens of knitting, is a technique that our studio has adopted, particularly when working across scales. In this research project the role of computation incorporated form finding and physics simulations within digital space. Digital models were adapted and tested alongside knitted fabrics. There are established precedents for this approach. LabStudio, ­co-​­founded by Architectural Designer Jenny Sabin and biologist Peter Lloyd Jones apply a range of methods of physical prototyping that include knitting as both a fabrication system for architecture and as a means to interpret biological systems (­Sabin and Lloyd Jones, 2018). Built projects including myThread Pavilion ( ­Jenny Sabin Studio, 2012) demonstrate how the performative properties of knitting can be applied to both thinking and making strategies in architecture: The knit is rich in architectural potential, both as a literal translation and as one that works well with biologically informed design strategies that demand generative fabrication techniques. (­Sabin and Lloyd Jones, 2018: 343) For Configured Knitting each researcher remained within their personal sphere of knowledge and making, however analysis was undertaken collaboratively with findings applied across the disciplines. By transferring the generative process associated with the digital modeling into hand knit, typologies could be assessed against structural, performative, and aesthetic criteria (­­Figure 29.4). By incorporating the results of ­hand-​­knit making into the digital models, the geometry could be optimized for the h ­ and-​­knit process. During the research process both branches of design (­k nit and computation) produced made outcomes that increased their knowledge of the materiality of their practice. In this research the final outcome was knitted, however the process of making the knitted architecture 386

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Figure 29.4  Reknitting the central node to test how the form responds when inflated

was informed through an exploration of both digital and physical making practice in an additive manner produced through multidisciplinary research.

Interdisciplinary making Interdisciplinary making integrates specialist knowledge and making practices from different disciplines, bringing them together to address a problem. An interdisciplinary approach was used in the development of Inflection (­Scott & Gaston, 2017) (­­Figure 29.5). This collaboration with The Royal Armouries, reimagined the technology of their Chinese Armour collection through textiles, resulting in a l­arge-​­scale installation piece as part of the artistic outcomes for the Yorkshire Year of the Textile. The research aimed to analyze the technology and material properties observed within objects from the museum collection and to produce a contemporary response as a communication tool for a wide museum audience. The interdisciplinary team comprised the museum curator, historian and knit researchers. Discussions with the curator led to research focused on the flexibility of lamellar armor and the tension systems used in historic Chinese composite bows. Lamellar armor is assembled from multiple small leather plates, interwoven together using leather thongs to make an articulated material. Composite bows are known for their incredible power generated by the underlying ­multi-​­material system. From a knit perspective both of these material systems 387

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Figure 29.5  I nflection (2017) (Simon & Simon, 2017)

are fascinating. Knit is extensible and soft, the anthesis of these historic objects. Making was critical to understand how to translate the materiality of these objects into knitting. The research process could be described as an interdisciplinary conversation. The discussion was facilitated by both the technology of the historic objects, introduced from a historic perspective and the knit making process. During workshops we explored how to generate rigidity in knitting by introducing a range of secondary materials that were held in tension within a knitted structure. Through making, the parameters of this composite system were established and we learned how to control tension within each component. The making process incorporated multiple stages, each of which was developed as a hand process before the final installation was digitally fabricated. Even at the end stage h ­ and-​­making was critical to understand how to control material performance to achieve the curvature that had been ­ and-​­assembly was therefore integral part of the making observed in the original objects. H process. The joint outcome was equally successful as a communication tool for the material properties found in a museum collection and an exploration of new construction methods in knit. Although the output was maker led, the success of the project was reliant on the conversation that evolved through tactile responses to a made object in an interactive, interdisciplinary 388

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research process. This was informed by the experience of decoding haptic sensation developed through making or handling historic objects. While making was undertaken from a textiles perspective, it was informed by the technology of historic objects enabling a dialog between the material knowledge of makers and historian.

Toward transdisciplinary making In 2020 our studio began collaborating with molecular biologists at the University of Leeds through The Molecular Knitting Project. Molecular biology focuses on the relationship between the structure of proteins and their function. This knowledge is essential to better understand essential biological processes to prevent and treat disease. Inevitably the focus of a lot of work is computational modeling to try and visualize the organization of sequences of molecules that make up the proteins. Our interest was in exploring the structure/­f unction relationship of proteins using knitting, with the intention to test the findings at different levels of complexity to see how the structures behaved as the scale increased. A knitted fabric can be specified in terms of materials, structure, and form to the level of the individual knitted stitch. In fact, similarities exist between the structural scale that operates within proteins, and the hierarchical scale of knitting. The production process for knitted fabrics consists of sampling at a 1:1 scale to understand how a fabric structure will behave with a specific yarn. This understanding of the interdependence of structure and function, and the impact of scale in determining properties and behaviors provided the grounds for initial communication across disciplines, despite the magnitude of difference between the scale of the textile and the scale of the protein. Early models illustrate the experimental approach, for example assembling protein folds from simple structural components such as the alpha helix. What becomes interesting is when the precision increases so that the maker can change the rotation of the spiral or tightness of the coil via knitting parameters. Here the knitting process acts as an experimental component of the research, and it is through making that new knowledge is gained (­­Figure 29.6). In the initial stages of the work, the researchers remained within their research domains however as the project evolved a shared research language evolved moving the collaboration toward a holistic, transdisciplinary approach. In the latter stages of the research, specifications

Figure 29.6  Manipulating Flexible Knitted Protein design to make a secondary local structure (helix) (left) and tertiary Protein Fold (right)

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Figure 29.7  K  nitted model representing the structure of the SH2 domain which contains four commonly occurring secondary protein structures, alpha helix, beta strand, reverse turns and omega bends after remaking by molecular biologists (Yeoh, 2021)

for individual protein structures were developed into a knitting pattern for a whole protein domain. This translated into a ­six-­​­­meter-​­long knitted protein structure, with accurate proportions based on details specified by the scientific team. It was at this stage that the molecular biologists began making. The knitted pieces that had formed initial 3D structural elements were not able to retain their t­ hree-​­dimensionality as a whole domain. However, the team were keen to work with the knitted protein because they felt that the soft, flexible form could be manipulated further. F ­ igure 29.7 illustrates the outcome of the second stage of the making process. The protein domain is reknitted using a Lego scaffold and the potential of the material emerges as the knitted strand is transformed into the configuration of the domain. What is striking about this example is how the making process brings together the whole research team to work with a single outcome. This successfully achieves the research objectives using different tools that complement and build on each other and leads to knowledge that crosses the subject domains and informs both practice and methods. The emergence of a transdisciplinary research space was documented through email exchanges where lively discussion included subjects such as the texture of molecules and the haptic sensation of knit. ­ on-​­specific language of making which, in The conversations developed through the n opposition to the specificity of disciplinary terminology, can be qualitative, subjective and descriptive (­Dudley and Mealing, 2000), relying on relative adjectives that are interpretive 390

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and context dependent (­McNally, 2009). This ambiguity can aid transdisciplinarity by not foregrounding one discipline over another. As the team develops, the ambiguity will be reduced through shared definitions that render the language used accessible to all (­Lawson, 1990). Making, which is itself a dialog between materials and maker (­Adamson, 2018), can be used to elicit conversation within a research team or with researchers and their audience and the reciprocity of ideas is used to generate new knowledge. This broadening of the lens through which the research is conducted can be viewed as an outcome of design research in itself (­Wellbery, 2021). Language development is a key outcome of transdisciplinary research (­M illar, 2013) and to think about language and textiles is to think about collaboration. The metaphors of weaving and knitting together language are as powerful as physically bringing together individual threads. Knitwear designer, Louise Lyngh Bjerregaard (­2018; NP), stated “­I have a language in textiles and it expresses things that I don’t know how to articulate with words”.  This “­k nowing beyond language” (­Marchland, 2010) is well documented in creative practice (­Cross, 2011; Dorst, 2003; Hepworth, 1970; Marchland, 2010) and suggests a transdisciplinary domain open to c­ o-​­learning and cooperation via a systematic organization of ideas and concepts, or via the knitting terminology of courses and wales. During the Molecular Knitting research process, the two disciplinary teams became a holistic unit without foregrounding one discipline. All of the researchers used haptic perception to resolve structural problems and reveal the knowledge generated through the research process.

Conclusions Textile making and knit thinking offer a systematic tool to explore the material world and in so doing facilitate a means to address challenges across multiple disciplines. Beyond the use of making as an outcome for design research, textile processes offer a means to explore subjects, communicate with interdisciplinary teams and advance knowledge across domains of thinking. The language of textiles is infused with metaphors of collaboration and working together, and the act of making transforms metaphor into the potential for transdisciplinary practice. As a generative process, making is transformed into a thinking process, providing a space for shared learning through haptic encounters and tactile interactions and it is here, in the space beyond words that the transformation of materials and processes can lead to transformative thinking. The projects highlighted in this chapter demonstrate that the use of making in research can move the collaborative research process from an additive, multidisciplinary methodology, where making is undertaken by individual researchers producing separate outcomes to a holistic, transdisciplinary process and researchers work collaboratively on a single outcome that does not foreground an individual methodology or method. This phenomenological approach to making in transdisciplinary research allows an interpretive and flexible approach to outcomes (­Howell, 2013), where the emergent whole is greater than the sum of its parts (­Papanek, 1985). The projects discussed highlight the value of making to promote transdisciplinary research in two ways. First, it discusses the value of making as a cognitive tool that utilizes the intelligence of the hand (­P ym, 2020) to decode meaning and generate new knowledge in tandem with other modes of perception. The ­non-​­specificity of the language used in making renders it accessible to all disciplines in a research team, generating a common vocabulary. Second, making is a tool to generate conversation, leading to new perspectives on a research 391

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question and allowing the knowledge generated through the making process to be shared in wider research cultures and environments.

Acknowledgments The authors wish to thank their collaborators on all the projects referenced, in particular Armand Agraviador Newcastle University, Natasha Bennett, The Royal Armouries, Leeds and Dr Sharon Yeoh and Professor Richard Bayliss, the University of Leeds. Image Acknowledgments 1: Tony Bartholomew, 2: Jane Scott and Armand Agraviador, Newcastle University, 3: Simon and Simon, 4: Dr Sharon Yeoh and Professor Richard Bayliss, The University of Leeds.

References Adamson, G. 2007. Thinking Through Craft. Oxford: Berg. Adamson, G. 2018. Fewer Better Things: The Hidden Wisdom of Objects. London: Bloomsbury. Bjerregaard, L. L. 2018. “­Is Knitting a Sensual New Language for the Body.” Dazed. Accessed 22nd July 2022. https://­w ww.dazeddigital.com/. Choi, B. C. K. and Pak, A. W. P. 2006. “­Multidisciplinarity, Interdisciplinarity and Transdisciplinarity in Health Research, Services, Education and Policy: 1. Definitions, Objectives, and Evidence of Effectiveness”. Clinical and Investigative Medicine 29 (­6): ­351–​­364. http://­uvsalud.univalle.edu. co/­pdf/­politica_formativa/­documentos_de_estudio_referencia/­multidisciplinarity_interdisicplinarity_transdisciplinarity.pdf. Cross, N. 2011. Design Thinking: Understanding How Designers Think and Work. Oxford: Berg. Dorst, K. 2003. Understanding Design. Amsterdam: BIS. Dudley, E. and Mealing, S. 2000. Becoming Designers: Education & Influence. Exeter: Intellect. Fodor, J. 2000. The Mind Doesn’t Work That Way: The Scope and Limits of Computational Psychology. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. ­ ay –​ Gaston, E. and Scott, J. 2019. “­Post Digital Knit.” Pannett Art Gallery, Whitby, Exhibition 4th M 1­ 2th June 2019. Glanville, R. 2015. “­The Sometimes Uncomfortable Marriages of Design and Research.” In The Routledge Companion to Design Research, edited by Rodgers, P. A. and Yee, J., 9­ –​­22. Abingdon: Routledge. Goldstein, E. B. 2007. Sensation and Perception. 7th ed. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Henderson, D. and Taimina, D. 2009. “­Crocheting the Hyperbolic Plane.” The Mathematical Intelligencer 23: ­17–​­28. Hepworth, B. 1970. A Pictorial Autobiography. Bath: Adams and Dart. Howell, K. 2013. An Introduction to the Philosophy of Methodology. London: Sage. Ingold, T. 2013. Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture. Abingdon: Routledge. Lawson, B. 1990. How Designers Think. London: Butterworth Architecture. Leder, D. 2005. “­Viceral Perception.” In The Book of Touch, edited by Classen, C., 3­ 35–​­341. Oxford: Berg. Mäkelä, M. 2006. “­Framing a ­Practice-​­led Research Project.” In The Art of Research: Research Practices in Art and Design, edited by Mäkelä, M. and Routarinne, S., 7­ 2–​­77. Helsinki: Helsinki University of Art and Design. Mäkelä, M. 2007. “­K nowing Through Making: The Role of the Artefact in P ­ ractice-​­Based Research.” Knowledge, Technology and Policy 20: ­157–​­163. DOI 10.1007/­­s12130-­​­­0 07-­​­­9028-​­2 . Marchland, T. H. J. 2010. “­M aking Knowledge: Explorations in the Indissoluble Relation Between Minds, Bodies and Environment.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 16: ­S1–​­21. McNally, L. 2009. “­The Relative Role of Property Type and Scale Structure in Explaining the Behaviour of Gradable Adjectives.” In Vagueness in Communication, edited by Nouwen, R., Van Rooij, R., Sauerland, U. and Schmitz, H. C., ­151–​­168. New York: Springer. Millar, L. 2013. “­Collaboration: A Creative Journey or a Means to an End.” In Collaboration Through Craft, edited by Ravetz, A., Kettle, A. and Felcey, H., 2­ 2–​­30. London: Bloomsbury Academic.

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Physical thinking Nimkulrat, N. 2020. “­Translational Craft: Handmade and Gestural Knowledge in A ­ nalogue–​­Digital Material Practice.” Craft Research 11 (­2): ­237–​­260. https://­doi.org/­10.1386/­crre_00027_1. Papanek, V. 1985. Design For the Real World: Human Ecology and Social Change. London: Thames and Hudson. Pym, C. 2022. “­R adical Acts: Why Craft Matters Exhibition Catalogue.” Harewood Craft Biennial 26 ­M arch–​­29 August 2022. Leeds: Harewood House. Sabin, J. and Lloyd Jones, P. 2018. LabStudio: Design Research between Architecture and Biology. Abingdon: Routledge. Scott, J. and Gaston, E. 2017. “­Inflection.” The Royal Armouries, Leeds, Exhibition 14th F ­ ebruary –​ ­12th March 2017. Scrivener, S. 2006. “­Visual Art Practice Reconsidered: Transformational Practice and the Academy.” In The Art of Research: Research Practices in Art and Design, edited by Mäkelä, M. and Routarinne, S., ­160–​­174. Helsinki: Helsinki University of Art and Design. Snowden, R. J., Thompson, P. and Troscianko, T. 2006. Basic Vision: An Introduction to Visual Perception. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wellbery, C. 2021. “­­Art-​­Science Collaborations: Why Do They Matter to Medicine?” Leonardo 54 (­2): 2­ 02–​­205. Werthiem, M. 2007. A Field Guide to Hyperbolic Space. Los Angeles, CA: Institute for Figuring.

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30 ­PEOPLE-​­CENTRED ENGAGEMENT FOR INCLUSIVE MATERIAL INNOVATION IN HEALTHCARE Laura Salisbury and Chris McGinley Introduction The innovative use of p­ eople-​­centred engagement methods within design disciplines has a long history, with early examples found in the works of designers such as Dreyfuss (­1955) where the measure of man was integral. However, in the given example issues such as stereotypes and averages limited the scope for more finessed insight, and the discipline has since evolved to include far more nuanced engagements, moving beyond objective measurements to include perspectives of and relationships with the ‘­participants’ using techniques such as Design Anthropology (­G att and Ingold 2013; Hammersley and Atkinson 1995; Wasson 2000). As such, engagement becomes more than just studying ‘­others’, but an entanglement of relationships evolving to address increasing understanding of complex issues, needs and desires that form and inform behaviour towards, with, and around materials. Yet, the use of stakeholder dialogue and engagement to creatively inspire and inform design intent is less established in fashion, textiles, and material developments. Indeed, it is visibly absent from key sources (­Eikhaug and Gheerawo 2010; Lee et al. 2009). For example, “­w ithin wearable technology, developments can be seen to centre largely around electronics and material science expertise (­A lmusallam et al. 2017; Chou et al. 2018)” (­Salisbury, ­Ozden-​ ­Yenigun and McGinley 2021). It may be suggested that such gaps exist as a result of the current nature in which material developments are both situated in practice, and the manner in which developments take place. The ‘­entangled’ relationship between researcher and material in the development process is often distanced from relationships with ‘­others’, that being of the ‘­participants’ or ‘­intended users’ within the early stages of development. In cases where developments of new materials typically take place in the lab, devoid of ‘­­real-​­world’ contexts and people, bringing materials out of the lab can be undesirable, especially if working with highly reactive and/­or delicate materials that require care in controlled conditions. In some instances, the context of the ‘­laboratory’ is seen as a space which allows access and entry to a minority of expertise; be this for safety or control of specimens and equipment that may be of a delicate nature and costly to remake and/­or fix.

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Having said this, analysis of and with stakeholders does exist within fashion and textiles, but this is predominantly in terms of scrutinising garment fit, silhouette, and similar, neglecting to include the wearer’s cognitive, emotional, or sensory response, and indeed their opinion within early stage developments. Further, the type of voice and who this originates from has been changing over the decades: “[…] from what was (­and in some cases still is) the ‘­age of the designer’ (­Young 2006), to the emergence of ‘­Inclusive Fashion’ (­a n inclusive design approach to the formation of garments and fashion)” (­Salisbury, ­Ozden-​­Yenigun and McGinley 2021), the voice of the ‘­consumer’ is now originating from much more diverse groups than ever before; from those “­previously marginalised by society; the lower classes via ‘­bubble up models’ for example (­Steele 1997: 285)” (­ibid). It is considered that “­a critical understanding of garment qualities and social behaviours that originate from lived experiences” (­Salisbury, ­Ozden-​­Yenigun and McGinley 2021) contribute towards more informed material innovations. Indeed, a lesser understood challenge is that of wearer needs in terms of the psychological and behavioural factors of the intended ‘­wearer’. These factors are often related to complexities around what it means to be ‘­human’, the values we hold, our identity (­who we are, who we were, who we are becoming) and further, to the capacity to make emotional connections and memories. This can be challenging to unpack and does not necessarily need to be explored with the material innovation present. In fact, such an understanding can be positioned much earlier, devoid of the material, lab and intended application. The type of engagement considered here can be one of ‘­getting to know’ the existing behaviours, needs and desires of the participant group, which can inform the material development, material choice, and application to name but a few. This does bring to light a further issue, that of establishing potential applications for said materials, which can occur at various stages in the development process. Who establishes this and when, can be considered part of the engagement process. Section ‘­Design Anthropology’ unpacks this further. It should be noted that developing new materials can be costly and t­ ime-​­intensive, as can conducting ­people-​­centred engagement. However, investment into early ­people-​­centred engagement studies can yield important data about who may or may not use said materials and why. Hence reducing unnecessary costs of not meeting the needs of stakeholders in the ­long-​ ­term, and informing a more refined product development process (­Langdon et al. 2007). The Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency (­M HRA) is one body that emphasises the value in ‘­patient and public involvement’ (­PPI), placing increasing importance on ‘­user engagement’ at earlier stages of the development process (­M HRA 2021). ­ edical-​­based material innovations, within the space that the case Indeed, many funders of m study is situated, now specify requirements for ­people-​­centred engagement. This comes with its own set of challenges. In some cases this can lead to conflicts between heavily structured experimental protocols which can limit the time, freedom and relationship between researcher(­s) and participant(­s) for engaging in raw conversations to draw out different types and levels of insights. It is argued that the integration of ­people-​­centred research and material development is a route towards making conscious and well informed development ­decisions – ​­understanding production process and product experience, building understanding of both real needs of users/­stakeholders, and of the resources/­processes necessary for the best outcome. The following section (‘­Case study’) draws upon research undertaken by one of the authors (­Salisbury 2022) to demonstrate an example for using a p­ eople-​­centred approach in the

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space of material innovation, situated within healthcare, specifically ‘­Wearable MedTech’. The following methods were selected due to the level of insights and learnings that could be extrapolated and critiqued in line with other methods. Section ‘­Context’ will provide a background summary of the research before sections ‘­A note towards the theoretical framework’ to ‘­Focus Groups’ introduce the theoretical framework, unpack the methodology and methods used, as well as the positioning of the researcher within the study.

Case study The research conducted in the case study investigated the use of novel textile components to help stroke survivors regain lost upper limb movement.

Context The use of smart textiles focusses on improving strength training to transform muscle performance and boost recovery. The core technology consists of a novel textile component that can be stitched into clothing (­­Figure 30.1). Stroke incidence has more than doubled in low and middle income countries in the last three decades alone. In the UK, stroke continues to be a leading cause of disability (­Lackland et al. 2014). Upper limb paresis (­i.e. varying degrees of paralysis of the upper limb, which varies on a ­case-­​­­by-​­case basis) is a debilitating consequence of stroke affecting approximately 87% of survivors (­Parker et al. 1986) with only half regaining ‘­some useful’ function after six months (­Kwakkel et al. 2003). Response to rehabilitation is complex, both emotionally and physiologically. For example, o ­ ne-​­year p­ ost-​­stroke upper limb deficits are closely linked to declining states of mental

­Figure 30.1 

Overview of the technology

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health (­Morris et al. 2013). Furthermore, activities of daily living (­A DLs), such as feeding oneself, dressing and basic hygiene processes, are largely dependent on arm function (­Sveen 1999). The implications of upper limb paresis can have sudden, severe impacts on work, relationships, and lifestyle choices. Notably, the capability of garments to influence mood, behaviour, and personal identity is widely known and appreciated (­Bourdieu 1984; Bovone and Mora 1997; Entwistle 2000; Finkelstein 2007; Goffman 1959; Ruggerone 2017; Simmel [1900], 1989; Wilson 1985); however, the capability for garments to influence neurological responses, enhancing human ability is less developed. ­People-​­centred engagement holds importance in investigating this, consulting ‘­critical users’ (­Cassim and Dong 2015), to explore complex challenges. While the findings of the study will not be discussed further information can be found in other, supportive publications (­Salisbury 2021; Salisbury 2022; Salisbury, McGinley and Gheerawo 2019).

A note towards the theoretical framework The positioning of the garment and respective material innovation in the case study looks to influence states of health and wellbeing. As such, there exists a negotiation between needs of the garment, the requirements of the ‘­medical device’ functionality and the needs of the wearer. The research uses a theoretical framework (­­Figure  30.2) to analyse how material innovations can promote or reduce levels of stigma, identity, and awareness of disability, while simultaneously delivering a medical device function. Such elements are considered to

­Figure 30.2  The theoretical framework: An overview (­Salisbury, 2022)

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hold importance in how the innovation fits into users’ lifestyles and with motivation to use and wear the device.

The design process For the purposes of this chapter, a focus is placed on ­people-​­centred engagement which orientates itself around the ‘­Double Diamond Model’ (­British Design Council 2005; ­Figure 30.3). The double diamond model is synonymous with p­ eople-​­centred engagement within Inclusive Design practices. First established in 2005 by the British Design Council, the model sets out a simple, but effective, approach to the design process. Emphasis is placed on stepping back to observe, interact and better understand the context one is working within. Rather than making assumptions as to what people want, or dictate what should be created, time is made to ‘­d iscover’ and ‘­define’ user needs by engaging closely with them. This is significant because, rather than inventing a new material or technology and then finding a need for it, the need is prioritised and used to fuel the material innovation produced as a result.

Formats and timing of ­people-​­centred engagement ­People-​­centred engagement is the inclusion of stakeholders into the research process. Methods of engagement between people can take various forms, can be implemented at different stages, in different ways, towards different goals and at different intensities. The manner and stage in which they are implemented can impact the outcome of the research and is ultimately decided by the nature of the interaction between the researcher, materials used within the engagement process, and participants. Although engagement can run

­Figure 30.3 An overview of the aims of the case study relative to the double diamond model (­Adapted from The Design Council, 2005)

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throughout, when placed at the start of the research process it can support the formulation of the research question. In this manner, and like design research, methods of ­people-​­centred engagement can often take a different approach to research that is h ­ ypothesis-​­led. Rather than formulating the research question and then using methods of making or other methods to prove/­d isprove the hypothesis, p­ eople-​­centred engagement is often used to scope the field first, informing the direction of the research from which multiple hypotheses may be built, refined, and then further developed and measured. Alternatively, ­people-​­centred engagement can be used to explore the established research question, and/­or early samples, to support efforts in proving or disproving a hypothesis. Data from ­people-​­centred engagement is often derived from enquiries into behaviour, opinion and choice. Again this can occur at different stages; however, the danger of neglecting to include such methods or including them too late within the research process is that the data may arrive too late to respond adequately to, or it becomes costly (­and therefore difficult) to amend the development process. It is important that the project has time to respond to the data gathered from the studies and complete a f­ollow-​­up should this be necessary. Finally, methods of p­ eople-​­centred engagement can also be repeated throughout the research to gather further data as developments occur or to assess if opinion and/­or behaviour has changed. Therefore it is advisable to conduct studies with stakeholders as early as possible. Methods are often chosen by researchers in order to perform and fulfil a particular role and with this, there arises varying levels of engagement, a summary of which can be found described below: 1 Direct engagement between researcher and ­participants – ​­exploring the context of the research and not the materials resulting from the research (­e.g. C ­ o-​­design; ­Figure 30.4) 2 Direct engagement between researcher and ­participants – exploring ​­ the materials resulting from the research within a given context (­controlled by the researcher; e.g. ­Co-​­design)

­Figure 30.4 Photo compilation: The garment as participatory design tool (­Headway, 2018)

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3 Direct engagement between researcher and ­participants – exploring ​­ the materials resulting from the research within contexts (­free for the participant to interpret; e.g. ­Co-​­design) 4 Indirect engagement between the researcher and p­ articipants – from ​­ researcher themselves (­e.g. observe at distance; see Section ‘­Design Anthropology’) 5 Indirect engagement between the principal researcher and p­ articipants – ​­from the researcher via other [independent] researchers (­see Section ‘­Focus Groups’) 6 Indirect engagement between the researcher and p­ articipants – from ​­ the researcher via materials (­e.g. the researcher deploys materials, objects, activities but is not present when the participants are engaging; see Section ‘­Design Probes’). The following three methods (­Design Anthropology, Design Probes, and Focus Groups) were chosen due to the nature in which levels of engagement changed, developed and matured during the research process. This becomes explored in more detail within the following sections. ­Table 30.1 provides an overview of methods used within the case study in line with the phases within the double diamond model; divided into two sections to demonstrate the range of qualitative and quantitative methods used.

Design Anthropology Design Anthropology (­Gatt and Ingold 2013; Ingold 2018) exists as the drawing together of ‘­anthropological’ and ‘­design’ research. Ingold (­2018) states that “­A nthropology [is] dedicated to describing and comparing forms of life as we find them [within context]”. The act of forming a workshop and/­or conducting observations within the environment the participants currently exist in, for example, and not in an alternative space was important in itself. Whereas, ‘­Design’ is seen as “­the invention of forms never before encountered” (­ibid); to render the invisible, visible and demonstrating a perspective. Perspectives can be captured through a variety of ways by the researcher and/­or participants; in pictorial form via sketches or photographs, for example, or linguistic, via notes (­­Figure 30.5). The use of participatory methods and indeed, ‘­design’ within anthropology is a valuable tool that enables the participants to express their thoughts that may be otherwise limited by verbal communication. This should not be confused with ­Co-​­Design, since Design Anthropology is used in this case to unpack correspondences between the participants and the context of the research, whereas C ­ o-​­Design seeks to work with participants in the design development process. It is not to say that Design Anthropology does not directly impact the development process, but that the nature of insights differ. Within the case study, Design Anthropology was used to learn more about the stakeholders, from general conversations and simply ‘­being with’ them in their lived environments. This is positioned within the ‘­Discover’ phase of the Double Diamond (­­Table 30.1). One of the main aims of the ‘­Discover’ phase is to scope the research landscape. Grounded theory aligns with this as a recognised method that seeks to construct theory about issues of importance in people’s lives (­Glaser 1978; Glaser and Strauss 1967; Strauss and Corbin 1998); while also being used extensively in research focussed on care, health and wellbeing (­Boychuk and Morgan 2004; Mills, Bonner and Francis 2006). To complement this, Design Anthropology (­Gatt and Ingold 2013; Ingold 2018) was used to engage with stakeholders

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People-centred engagement ­Table 30.1  An overview of the methods used within the case study Discover Qualitative methods

Define

Develop

Deliver

Anthropological enquiry (­to observe and communicate with stakeholders in context – ​­maintained throughout to provide a ‘­touch point’ between technical developments and ‘­real world’ contexts) Design Probes (­initial scoping)

Design Probes ( ­focussed enquiry)

–​­

–​­

–​­

–​­

Wearer trials (­investigate use in context with ‘­­looks-​­like prototype’)

Wearer trials (­investigate consistency in performance and use)

Interviews with stakeholders (­scoping the research area)

Interviews with stakeholders (­unpack concepts)

Interviews with stakeholders ( ­follow up on Wearer Trials)

Interviews with stakeholders ( ­follow up on Wearer Trials)

Participatory design –​­ workshops (­explore context and key themes from participants’ perspectives)

Participatory design –​­ workshops (­refine developments)

Focus Groups (­analyse early concepts/ samples)

Focus Groups (­analyse developed samples)

Quantitative –​­ methods

Test rigs and material characterisation (­explore if the material meets technical and user requirements)

Test rigs -​­ and material characterisation (­measure optimisation)

–​­

Early theoretical calculations (­analysis of materials and anticipated performance to support choice of material/ process/ method)

theoretical calculations (­anticipating results when using various optimisation techniques to support ­decision-​­making)

further calculations (­interpretation and analysis of results – ​ ­N.B also occurs earlier)

–​­

Prototype tests on volunteers (­investigate performance using ‘ ­working prototype’)

Prototype tests on volunteers (­investigate performance of optimised prototypes using ‘­working prototype’)

Prototype tests on volunteers (­to measure consistency in performance using ‘­working prototype’)

–​­

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­Figure 30.5 The garment as a design probe: A participant annotating their response (­Salisbury, 2022)

in simply ‘­being with’, but also working with and observing the dialogue between health, wellbeing and a sense of self ­post-​­stroke. The methods adopted were predominantly immersive and design ethnography based (­Bryman 2001), adopted to support research enquiry and design process, stepping into the rehabilitation space and trying, as far as reasonably possible, to understand the context, culture and lived experience of people engaging in rehabilitation. This ‘­fi rst hand experience’ supplemented literature reviews, providing a touch point with every day. It is within this stage that relationships begin to form between the researcher and stakeholders. Levels of engagement within the case study were direct, between researcher and participant, for example, when discussing feedback on prototypes and working together to inform the developments thereafter. This enabled the researcher to learn about the participants through raw, unstructured moments and conversations, which contributed to building a level of trust, drawing out further insights that may not have otherwise been disclosed. Design Anthropology was purposely carried on throughout the research in parallel to other methods to consistently ‘­g round’ developments and enable c­ ross-​­checking of the findings in the methods which follow. This acted as a reminder of ‘­real world’ contexts to the researcher, to reduce the isolation of material developments from context and enabled the 402

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researcher to intuitively analyse findings from exploring material prototypes arising from Focus Groups in line with the participant personalities and behaviour. Data captured also allows the other researchers conducting the focus groups to have an insight into participants before undertaking the focus groups, enabling them to consider what topics may be useful to explore in more depth within the context of the prototypes, and which to navigate with care to prevent undue distress.

Design Probes “­Dress is a basic fact of social life” (­Entwistle 2000, 323) and can provide significant amounts of information about the wearer, the context the wearer exists in, and their correspondences to and with others. In this study garments are positioned as “­records of lived, [expected and imagined] experience” (­Sampson 2018, 342), as Design Probes; tools for gathering insights. A ‘­Design Probe’ (­Gaver, Dunne and Pacenti 1999) exists as data gathering materials that are strategically positioned within the research process to disrupt a lived experience, provoking a response and providing a means for the participant to respond. Design Probes can be existing or newly constructed objects. Within the case study the garment demonstrated several applications as a design probe (­Gaver, Dunne and Panceti 1999; Ivanova 2015): 1 Investigating sense of self/ personal identity p­ re-​­and ­post-​­stroke by exploring garments once but no longer worn due to stroke (­­Figure 30.6) 2 Understanding post stroke ability: demonstrated through the dialogue and contact between the self and garment during dress (­­Figure 30.7)

­Figure 30.6 Categorising observations of p­ ost-​­stroke garments and identity (­Salisbury, 2022)

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­Figure 30.7 Experiencing the garment as design probe: wearer tests (­Salisbury, 2022)

3 As an ‘­adaptive’ probe that can be cut up, remade and amended; providing the opportunity for participants to consider alternative futures (­­Figure 30.8) As such, the garment facilitated and provoked conversations and observations around body behaviour, identity, mood and ability. This was achieved by wearing, trying on (­­Figure 30.7), discussing, sketching and writing about garments. As a result, the p­ ost-​­stroke self became analysed; not solely in regard to the identity or character, providing critical information about the wearer’s behaviour within wider concepts of lifestyles that can influence approaches to recovery, but also in regard to ability and perception of ability from wider social constructs. Data from the Design Probes informed subsequent material developments on several levels: 1 Bringing to light the positioning of the garment relative to the recovery process; how it may become a tool for recovery and contact point with the upper limb in its own right; 2 Levels of fit and style that are difficult to wear and dress into; 3 How levels of fit that correspond to the performance of the textile components for supporting recovery may conflict with the needs of the user; 4 Psychological implications of stroke that can impact compliance with treatment, other daily activities and the correspondence between these. Probes are often given to participants and placed within the context of their everyday, ‘­l ived’ environment, within the home, public, or shared spaces, even in contexts that are private and may otherwise be inaccessible to the researcher. They can act as a method of steering focus towards an area of interest (­e.g. context, experience) in the study, while distancing 404

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­Figure 30.8 A participant annotating a sample garment with feedback and quotations

the researcher from the data collection process if the probe is taken away. Within this case study, the garment acted as a continuous ‘­contact’ point throughout activities of daily living (­A DLs), providing insights into methods of rehabilitation and daily life. Probes were placed in the context of shared public spaces, as well as private spaces in order to better understand the impact of garments between the two, and later, during ‘­wearer trials’ the impact of the presence of medical device components within the garment in public and private spaces. A key example of this is in the exploration of how the textile technology could be controlled by the wearer, to be able to turn the bead on and off. A range of textile switches were explored and developed with participants, each with differing levels of interaction required to operate the switch. This included a sweeping action, brushing the fingers over an area of the garment, or the act of closing fastenings, or a more traditional push action that is synonymous with switches (­­Figure 30.9). Levels of interaction were considered in line with dexterity and existing social behaviours with garments; for example, considering existing behavioural traits such as how individuals may roll up their sleeves (­­Figure 30.10 on p.407) or touch their collarbone in gesture might be built into how the wearer might subtly interact with the garment in public, versus the use of distinctly different and intentional movements to turn the technology on and off. This therefore led to explorations of both the location of the switch and the level of interaction required to turn the technology on and off (­­Figure 30.11 on p.408). Beyond this, the research explored the types of sensory responses that resulted from either turning the switch on or off since it was important for the wearer to understand and trust if the technology was working or not. In such instances the researcher may be present, as an observer and even, as an interviewer; contributing to the study by asking probing questions. As such, the design probe 405

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­Figure 30.9 A participant’s review of various textile switches: experiencing in order to determine an initial preference for ­ease-­​­­of-​­use

may indeed become a ‘­design provocation’; an object situated within a research process to stimulate and steer conversations towards a particular area or topic. It should be noted, however, that the researcher also held indirect contact with the participant via the probe(­s). This occurred when garments were handed over to participants to take away and explore in their own environments. Suitable documentation of this experience requires thoughtful consideration, both so that the researcher obtains useful data but also so that the participant is able to easily collect the data. Consideration should be given to the level of ‘­d isruption’ caused by the placement of the probe. In some cases this can be useful, steering data collection to a particular direction, but this can result in missing data that is excluded as a result of this process which may be more beneficial to the researcher. Since data gathered is controlled in the most part, by the participant, as the method relies heavily on participants to collect the data, the participant may not recognise aspects that arise within the context of the data gathering that is important information to the researcher; that is, aspects of experience that they take for granted within routine, everyday tasks. Levels of training provided to the participant on data collection may be useful but not always possible or plausible depending on the research aims. With the exception of any instructions provided by the researcher, data collection can therefore be difficult to control and ensure that all participants contribute in the same manner, frequency and timing. This of course, may not be necessary to all studies, as this method can 406

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­Figure 30.10 Participants reviewing the fit of sample garments during an i­n-​­house ‘­wearer test’

be used more spontaneously, as a reactive method that works in line with the behaviour of the participants. However, consideration should be given towards making the process ­user-​­friendly and providing adequate guidance for participants so that they feel confident enough to carry out the study, avoiding the potential for participants to drop out of the study for such reasons.

Focus Groups When moving into the ‘­define’ phase of the Double Diamond model (­­Figure 30.3), concepts for material development that arise as a result of the ‘­d iscover’ phase are evaluated and reflected upon. Focus Groups (­­Figure 30.12 on p.409) can become useful in supporting this evaluation. Within the case study, focus groups draw upon participant’s feelings associated with the samples, responding to the researcher’s interpretation of insights gathered via sampling material specimens. As such, Interpretative Phenomenological Analysis was used to gain insight into what it was like for the individual (­Larkin, Watts and Clifton 2006) in focus group settings. Focus Groups may be structured strategically in order to reveal more information. For example, within this case study, the focus groups were divided into two phases. Firstly, exploring material samples without revealing their intended healthcare function to participants. This enabled the researcher to find out how the participants viewed the sample as an 407

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­Figure 30.11 Close up of participant testing textile switch

‘­everyday textile’ and as such, explicit comments towards ‘­wearability’. Remarks regarding the tactile experience, visual aesthetics, and durability supported this. When the functionality of the material sample was disclosed (­for supporting recovery of upper limb movement) in the second phase of enquiry, this took primary focus in conversation. This drew out feedback related to aspirations in recovery, the potential impact and applicability of the function to the participants’ needs as well as opinions regarding the need to ‘­recover’ and pursue a ‘­normal’ sense of self. By structuring the focus group in two parts, analysis of the importance of function could be evaluated and separated from feedback relating to compliance and wearability, therefore providing two layers of data to inform subsequent material developments. Where focus groups hold an opportunity for the researcher to control the structure of the enquiry, considerations for who or what investigates and leads the decision making process needs to be considered. Is the researcher making this decision? What impact may this have? Are the stakeholders involved in decision making? To what extent do personal experiences bias the decision? Within the context of this case study, where the closeness of the correspondence between researcher and participants was beneficial during the discover phase, in later stages of the research, where participants were asked to make robust judgements on the focus of the research and the qualities of the samples, this level of relationship was considered unhelpful in so 408

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­Figure 30.12 

A snapshot of participant interaction with early textile samples

much as it may bias responses. A balance between closeness and remoteness of the researcher was considered, since, it was considered that participants may be reluctant to critique the materials to such a level where they may perceive their own comments to damage their established relationship with the researcher. Some may say that this may indicate the nature of the relationship was too close; however, it is undeniable that in being human, researchers are part of the research/­development endeavour, bringing with them a range of values and knowledge resulting from their sense of being (­Heidegger 1926). This holds influence on research outcomes (­Appleton 1997; de Laine 1997; Guba and Lincoln 1989; Stratton 1997), especially where participants and researchers are seen to form an alliance or unite to help solve pertinent issues. Indeed, the value of this correspondence, entanglement and presence of the researcher is utilised to understand others and their lived experiences in the earlier stages of the research, adding a richness and depth to insights gathered. This is not to say that the participant’s opinion is not considered trustworthy or valued, but rather that an alternative strategy may be employed to reduce levels of influence, and unravel emotional entanglement between participants and researchers in stages of the research that require high levels of critique in order to benefit the material development process. 409

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Indeed, ‘­participants’ are seen as ‘­experts’ in their own right, of their own ‘­l ived experiences’; offering collective insights to the design process, expanding silos of ‘­expertise’ originating solely from the designer(­s)’ vision, to that of a collective. It may be necessary to call upon ‘­independent researchers’ that have no prior association with the research and participants, to conduct the focus group. In sessions where the participants have engaged to a significant degree, and hence their knowledge of the research and the researcher is heightened, it can be appropriate to remove the researcher or ‘­designer’, to allow more room for critical response to the interventions being suggested, and reduce the likelihood of responses being tempered on a relational basis. It should also be acknowledged that in knowing that the prototypes belong to the original principal researcher, participants may still be reluctant to fully express more negative opinions. Therefore it may be necessary to either not disclose the origin of the prototypes and/­or include independent participants to provide renewed perspectives. Further, the way the researcher is introduced to the context can have different effects, influencing the way that others act around and behave towards the researcher. This needs to be thought through so as not to mislead others and generate mistrust but to account for the implications of how the researcher is introduced and exists within the study. Within the case study, a distance was maintained between participants and the concepts developed to mitigate this, and independent researchers were brought in to conduct the focus groups. Steps were also taken to engage new participants at later stages to refresh perspectives, again reducing participant bias.

Conclusion Exploring deeper insights into the complex behaviours, behaviours that make us all human, can add value to the development of new materials for healthcare. Understanding interaction between and with materials that informs use scenarios, risks associated with use, wearability and compliance. This is an essential part of ensuring that a treatment is accessible, easy to engage with and therefore effective. What is important here is to consider a strategy for when and to what extent ­people-​ ­centred engagement methods can enhance developments. The timing, type of interaction and context all play an important role in contributing to research outcomes. As has been demonstrated in the chapter, the frequent grounding of material research in the context and everyday lives of the people that inhabit that particular context (­Battarbee 2003; Fulton Suri 2003) can add value to material developments in several ways. Firstly, conducting immersive research within the context of anticipated material application(­s) within the initial stages of the research process can support the generation of concepts for material innovation that are applicable to current and emerging unmet needs. Should this be paired with literature reviews and explorations, key drivers within the healthcare sector and mapping patterns of user behaviour from Design Anthropology studies, then material developments can be designed in such a way that considers ­longer-​­term futures to sustain use and suitability. Further, by carrying immersive research throughout the research in parallel to other investigations, the researcher is able to retain a touchpoint with the context in which the material innovation is designed into. This can further provide key information about the current context devoid of the innovation which can act as a useful comparator to studies where the material innovation is evaluated by participants, for example, within focus groups. 410

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Having said this, there are cases whereby material developments have multiple potential applications of use. This can make it more difficult to conduct immersive research and instead may require the research to split their time between several contexts and consolidate the information in a manner that can be used to detect patterns of impact to later potentially inform a more focussed area of application that could become the first route to market. Where it is out of scope of the chapter to explore routes to market and developments further down the line, it should be noted that such immersive methods in the initial stages of the research process may have to be repeated in more depth as the material innovation and concepts become more refined. More general scoping of the ‘­landscape’ can be built upon and enriched. All of this takes time. However, neglecting to fully explore the complex issues and hastily choosing a development direction can also hinder development. Who is involved in making that decision is also crucial to consider. Secondly, conducting material developments in parallel with p­ eople-​­centred approaches offers new opportunities for innovation, through exploring an emerging way of working. It is important to consider when information about the concept and development process is divulged. As Section ‘­Focus Groups’ demonstrates, it may be useful to form a strategy whereby the manner in which the concept is disclosed is done in a manner that benefits the evaluation of the material’s function, and how much value this holds. Further, there will inevitably be instances where the researcher takes lead and develops the material(­s) separately from participants as a result of required skills to operate machinery, for example. But importantly, crafting the roles and relationships between researcher, material innovation, participants and context is a key skill that can vastly reduce the potential for unforeseen ­use-​ ­based issues to emerge late in the implementation, negatively affecting the development and requiring costly amendments and/­or further iterations. This interplay and ‘­handing over’ and sharing of development responsibilities or ‘­lead’ in the research is seen within the use of focus groups and ­co-​­design workshops whereby the participants’ lived expertise informs further developments. It should be noted, however, that the design research methods and tools employed in ­people-​­centred projects are selected, utilised and developed to investigate, and therefore to some degree embody the research/­researcher intent. The professional and interpersonal skills and experiences of the researcher, both previous and ongoing, that are applied to the project have to be best used and managed for insight useful for development, but mindful of the influence and bias that may be present in the participatory nature of the engagement. Within the case study, the researcher is seen to take on a dual role of compassionate researcher and ally alongside rational material/­design expert dealing with clinical context and constraints. This was seen as beneficial in developing understandings into user behaviour and lifestyles to underpin material development and strategic analysis of said developments with participants. When the topic is emotive and personal, it is important to acknowledge this and be transparent in purpose and goals. There are aspects that require sensitivity within the engagement; the connection the researcher establishes with those participating, if effective, can yield genuine insight. Equally, as the practitioner navigates the project, there are times where distance between researcher and participant can yield more critical responses, as discussed in Section ‘­Focus Groups’ around focus group engagement. The relationship and sensitivities enhanced by the connection established can enhance and hinder a project. This can apply to the designer and ways they feel they can respond to the challenge at hand through designed objects, or equally can apply to the sensitivity participants have to the designer’s work, and an oversensitivity to the relational aspect can lead to responses that limit criticism. 411

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Over longer period projects that regularly engage participants, formality can be broken down. This is largely useful in design ethnography settings, however; reimplementing this formality can also be effective where the personal connection to participants can be purposely limited. Finally, due to the nature of the closeness established between researcher and participants, particularly within Design Anthropology phases of the research, care must be taken to ensure that the researcher doesn’t become overly emotionally involved in topics that arise. Safeguarding should be put in place to minimise distress caused through the sharing of personal information and training provided to the researcher in order to identify when a participant or indeed themselves, may need signposting to a relevant service to deal with issues raised. The importance of p­ eople-​­centred engagement in unpacking such issues, ­sub-​­issues and the various interconnected factors should not be overlooked nor underestimated. It is hoped that this will help researchers to evaluate their own research when using, or considering using p­ eople-​­centred engagement methods in relation to h ­ ealth-​­related material innovation research.

References Almusallam, A., Luo, Z., Komolafe, A., Yang, K., Robinson, A., Torah, R. and Beeby, S. “­F lexible piezoelectric ­nano-​­composite films for kinetic energy harvesting from textiles,” Nano Energy 33 (­2017): ­146–​­156 Appleton, J. “­Constructivism: A naturalistic methodology for nursing inquiry.” Advances in Nursing Science 20 (­1997):­13–​­22. Battarbee, K. “­M aking inclusive design work: Design empathy.” Cumulus Working Papers. Helsinki: University of Art and Design, 2003. Bourdieu, P. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. London: Routledge, 1984. Bovone, L. and Mora, E. La Moda Della Metropoli [Fashion in the Metropolis]. Milano: Franco Angeli, 1997. Boychuk D.J. and Morgan, D. “­Grounded theory: Reflections on the emergence vs. forcing debate.” Journal of Advanced Nursing 48 (­2004): ­605–​­612. Bryman, A. Social Research Methods. Oxford: University Press, 2001. Cassim, J. and Dong, H. “­Interdisciplinary engagement with inclusive ­design – ​­The Challenge Workshops model.” Applied Ergonomics 46 (­2015): ­292–​­296. DOI: 10.1016/­j.apergo.2013.03.005 Chou, X., Zhu, J., Qian, S., Niu, X., Qian, J., Hou, X., Mu, J., Geng, W., Cho, J., He, J. and Xue, C. “­­A ll-­​­­i n-​­one ­fi ller-­​­­elastomer-​­based ­h igh-​­performance stretchable piezoelectric nanogenerator for kinetic energy harvesting and ­self-​­powered motion monitoring.” Nano Energy 53 (­2018): ­550–​­558 de Laine, M. Ethnography: Theory and Applications in Health Research. Sydney, Australia: Maclennan and Petty, 1997. Dreyfuss, H. Designing for People. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1955. Eikhaug, O. and Gheerawo, R. Innovating With P ­ eople -​­The Business of Inclusive Design. Norway: Norwegian Design Council, 2010. Entwistle, J. “­Fashion and the fleshy body: Dress as embodied practice.” Fashion Theory 4 (­2000): 3­ 23–​ ­347. DOI: 10.2752/­136270400778995471 Finkelstein, J. The Art of Self Invention: Image and Identity in Popular Visual Culture. London: Taurus, 2007. Fulton Suri, J. “­T he Experience Evolution: Developments in Design Practice.” The Design Journal 6 (­2), (­2003): ­39–​­49. Gatt, C. and Ingold, T. “­From description to correspondence.” In Design Anthropology: Theory and Practice, ed. Gunn, W., Otto, T. and Smith, R.C. Bloomsbury: London, 2013:­139–​­158. Gaver, B., Dunne, T. and Pancenti, E. “­Cultural probes.” Interactions 6 (­2), (­1999): ­21–​­29. Glaser, B. Theoretical Sensitivity: Advances in the Methodology of Grounded Theory. Mill Valley, CA: Sociology Press, 1978. Glaser, B. and Strauss, A. The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies for Qualitative Research. Chicago, IL: Aldine, 1967.

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31 SEEING THE INVISIBLE Revisiting the value of critical tools in design research for social change Laura Santamaria

Introduction We live in an era of great social and environmental challenges. In developed societies, the scale to which our lifestyles need to change to be sustainable is r­ adical – ​­carbon emissions, for example, must be reduced by an estimated 90% (­Monbiot 2007). Although great strides have been made toward this goal in recent decades, technological innovation can only take us so far, and there is a pressing need to accelerate societal transition from engrained cultures of social and ecological exploitation to cultures of sustainability, social justice, and flourishing. Designers are at the forefront of cultural innovation, creating the products, services and spaces that shape our society. As design can influence people’s preferences toward certain cultural practices, ideals and values, designers are considered within what Bourdieu called the ‘­cultural intermediary’ social class of ‘­taste creators’ (­Bourdieu 2010; Julier 2014). We play an active part in influencing cultural values, behaviors, and norms through the things we design, i.e., by deciding how the outputs of design look and feel, how one is meant to access, use, experience and talk about them, their monetary and symbolic value. Through our design activity, we form inclinations toward notions of what is desirable, legitimate and worthy, and what and who is not (­Maguire and Matthews 2012). For this reason, by virtue of our practice, we have the power to influence societal change. But as the saying goes, with great power comes great responsibility. On the one hand, socially engaged designers can enrich people’s lives, for example, by providing accessibility features in furniture pieces so everyone can enjoy them or creating sustainable products and services that stimulate our imagination and satisfy our wants/­desires. On the other hand, design aspirations for social change can have unintended effects such as consolidating consumption habits, perpetuating social inequalities or exclusion, or inadvertently creating new social and environmental problems (­Avelino 2021). While we respond to individual’s needs and desires, we must also consider the systemic consequences and impact our outputs might have on society as a whole. Thus, it is important to critically reflect on what and whose purposes we serve via our design activity, and what social, economic and political systems we support, or disrupt through our work. As designers increasingly engage in practices ‘­beyond the studio’, i.e., working with communities and grassroots social contexts, social movements and activism, greater opportunities DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-36

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arise for disrupting unhelpful status quo norms that maintain unsustainable and exploitative systems in place. Our role in supporting cultural transition is now more relevant and urgent than ever. In the following sections, I discuss the role of designers as cultural intermediaries, how this role manifests through design activity, and the opportunities that adopting critical tools pose for empowering design research and practice to serve cultural transformation.

The role: designer’s influence as cultural intermediaries As design can influence people’s preferences and orient them toward certain ideals, values and cultural practices, designers constantly contribute to sociocultural change. I now turn to discuss the mechanisms by which this is realized through our design activity, i.e., framing and representation of values. As discussed, designers are considered within the ‘­cultural intermediaries’ professions (­Negus 2002) due to the influential role we play between production and consumption. Through advertising, display, packaging, branding, architecture, product design, and other design outputs, ‘­commodity goods’ such as garments, cars, phones, holiday experiences are given meanings through visual and verbal narratives. We rely upon cultural a­ ssociations –​ ­i.e., cultural ­codes – ​­to create ‘­symbolic value’ in our design outputs (­Barthes 1967). We collect and interpret contextual information, and then choose certain cultural associations (­images, colors, materials, shapes, words) over others to construct the features and meanings of our output. The choices we make communicate tacit understandings, predisposing people to respond, behave or think in certain ways, influenced by how the artifact is ‘­framed’ (­Lakoff and Johnson 2003). To connect this observation on design framing to influence and social change, a recent psychological study examined the effect of value framing on how climate change messaging was received by liberal and conservative Americans (­Wolsko, Ariceaga, and Seiden 2016). The study found that conservative Americans shifted substantially toward supporting environmentalism when the issue of climate change was presented within their binding moral frame. By framing environmental protection as a matter of obeying authority, defending the purity of nature, and demonstrating patriotism to the United States, researchers were able to persuade a group that might otherwise have rejected environmental policies outright. ­Well-​­established, agreed conventions (­codes) create a sense of familiarity and closeness. Certain frames are constantly reproduced (­used again and again) by cultural intermediaries including designers and marketers, because established conventions work well: they make ­decision-​­making easier, and the offer more appealing. On the other hand, design has historically leveraged the introduction of radically new and unfamiliar technologies such as smartphones, for example, which implied a big shift in cultural meanings and practices, totally redefining our understanding of what a phone is, and how it is used today in comparison to the 1980s, for example. In other words, meanings are not fixed entities; culture is always at flux, with technological, environmental, and sociocultural changes constantly disrupting the established codes and conventions. Designers, and other cultural intermediaries play a central role in these cultural disruptions and reconfigurations, constantly shaping and reshaping public perceptions. We hold power to consolidate status quo arrangements by reproducing certain frames, but we can also activate or accelerate the adoption of new values, beliefs, and practices (­­Fuad-​­Luke 2009). Since design activity is never neutral or ­value-​­free, it is crucial that we become fully aware of our power to influence certain outcomes, and skilled at revealing the connections 416

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between the frames we create, choose, or use, and the ideologies that lie behind them. Here, I define ideologies as a set of moral ideas that guides behavior and justify existing social inequalities. They comprise social, cognitive, and discursive components, which mentally represent the basic social characteristics of a group, such as their identity, tasks, goals, norms, values, and resources (­van Dijk 2006). Ideologies generate ‘­in’ and ‘­out’ positions, just like club m ­ emberships – ​­e.g., there are people who align with veganism while others do not. Design signposts people toward these positions via representation, creating a sense of collective identity, cohesion and belonging for some, to the exclusion of others. According to Bourdieu ([1989] 2002, 142), ‘­the power to impose and to inculcate a vision of divisions, that is, the power to make visible and explicit social divisions that are implicit, is political power par excellence’. For this reason, f­ raming – i.e., ​­ the manipulation of cultural ­meanings – ​­which is intrinsic and inseparable from the design activity itself, is highly political (­Prendeville, Syperek, and Santamaria 2022). There is a strong tendency to avoid discussing positionalities in design, although it is obvious that our activity is not n ­ eutral – ​­it affects and is affected by culture (­du Gay et al. 2013). Therefore, anticipating the meanings we create as designers is not just a superficial matter of semantics or styling, but a matter of professional ethics and responsible practice. Furthermore, acknowledging our role as cultural intermediaries poses enormous potential for disrupting unhelpful meanings and influence public opinion by reproducing values that are desirable at individual and social level, i.e., to support cultures of sustainability and social justice. But we are required also to shift how we conceptualize design, giving less prominence to our preoccupation with ‘­designing for certain uses’, and paying more attention to the cognitive processes that are stimulated by design.

The tools: working with cultural meanings Zingale and Domingues (­2015, 1) argue that ‘­a n artefact must not only be considered for the values and meanings it expresses through its form and structure, ­but – ​­above a­ ll – ​­for everything it determines in the mind of the u ­ ser-​­agent’. In a way, we can picture design outputs as cognitive interfaces (­K azmierczak 2003) containing ‘­t riggers’ (­cultural codes) that can induce certain ways of thinking of and acting in the world. Competent users know that objects are constructed or designed to be understood in particular ways, especially in ­media-​ ­savvy cultures, and can decode the meanings. To understand how these codes or triggers work, let us consider an example: many ­eco-​ ­f riendly and sustainable brands have adopted the color green, as this color represents nature. Consequently, the color and the term ‘­g reen’ have become symbols for e­ co-​­friendly, i.e., an electric car can be easily referred to as a ‘­g reen car’, and we would all understand that it runs on an environmentally friendly engine. In other words, in our culture, it has been socially agreed that ‘­g reen’ stands for ‘­environmentally friendly’, a shortcut (­or code) that stands for more complex meanings. In this way, representations of cultural codes are used as a sort of subtle tacit language to communicate meanings and value between producers and consumers. However, historically, designers have not had adequate tools to manage ‘­symbolic assets’ (­Santamaria 2020). Selection of codes and meaning construction is conducted in an intuitive, rather than a methodical manner, which poses a missed opportunity to work more strategically with meaning. Here is where semiotics and cultural studies, as critical disciplines, can provide useful conceptualizations and methods for collecting, articulating, and organizing meanings. 417

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Semiotics is traditionally defined as the study of signs, but a more contemporary view describes it as the study of the representations that enable human cognition, i.e., meaning making. Laura Oswald (­2020, 1) defines contemporary semiotics as ‘­a hybrid of communication science and anthropology’ that allows the study of deep cultural codes that structure communication and social behavior. In semiotics, cultural codes are understood as conventions and practices familiar to members of a society and acquired through socialization, i.e., the process of learning the norms, customs, values, aesthetic tastes, and worldviews of one’s environment. Our social reality is made up of cultural codes, which mark class differentiation, and reflect personal and collective identity, values, attitudes, beliefs, assumptions, and practices (­Nöth 1990). It is, therefore, useful to identify how cultural codes are represented in visual and material terms. For example, in a Western context, an established aesthetic code for female is ‘­pink’, and male is ‘­blue’; and drivers know they should stop at an intersection when the traffic light is red. The field of Cultural Studies uses semiotic analysis methods to uncover cultural codes, thus making explicit how values and ideologies are constructed and represented ( ­Julier 2014). In the late 1960s, semiotics became a major approach within cultural studies with the work of Roland Barthes, who recognized its value for understanding the meanings of images, gestures, musical sounds, objects, and the complex associations between them (­Barthes 1967). Specifically, semiotics in cultural studies focuses on the study of the meaning of cultural expressions and codes, not in isolation from one another, but as part of ‘­sign systems’ that are socially constituted and treated as social practices. In other words, the interest is not in semantics (­what signs mean), but in the processes and mechanisms for constructing meanings, their political dimension and their relationship to what we come to believe as reality (­Denzin and Lincoln 2003). Semiotic analysis, therefore, is suitable to uncover relationships between visual and verbal representation and the ideologies behind them, i.e., describing how inequalities in the distribution of power, wealth and goods are maintained in capitalist societies (­Hodge and Kress 1988). The adoption of ­contemporary – ​­or social – ​­semiotics in Britain is largely due to the work of sociologist Stuart Hall, who has had a broad influence on design research and theory since the 1980s ( ­Julier 2014). Stuart Hall conceptualized the production and interpretation of cultural artefacts as two marked and distinct ‘­moments’ in a circular process of communication: ‘­encoding’ and ‘­decoding’ (­Hall 2001). In the context of semiotics, ‘­encoding’ refers to the processes by which producing a­ gents – i.e., ​­ cultural intermediaries like d­ esigners – ​­create the meanings of artefacts by appropriating codes from the cultural context. ‘­Decoding’ involves not only the recognition and comprehension of what a text ‘­says’ but also the interpretation of its relation to power, and the identification of the cultural codes being used to make it acceptable, credible, desirable in the eyes of the target group. Approaching design as a form of meaning construction or ‘­a ssemblage’ opens up new possibilities for our practice, into the design of new meanings and strategic societal influence. But it also requires us to master new skills and tools: mapping aesthetic and semiotic codes, identifying the influence of different cognitive frames, and the perceptions and predispositions these might provoke. As argued in the previous section, framing practices in design need to be better supported in this task. Taking inspiration on Hall’s ‘­­encoding–​­decoding’ model of communication, I developed Con[text], a design semiotics model for identifying how cultural code mapping can be conceived during design processes (­Santamaria 2020). The approach consists of a series of methods that are grouped in two phases: 418

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­Figure 31.1 Cultural context research in the design process (­Santamaria 2020)

Phase ­1 – D ​­ ecoding involves sociocultural research aimed at understanding people and their contexts. It entails mapping and organizing cultural codes and identifying the values signified. Phase 2­  – E ​­ ncoding is about strategic framing. In other words, selecting the most effective cultural codes identified in Phase 1 and anticipating the behavioral responses they are likely to evoke. Con[text] is essentially a ­meta-​­framework that can be adopted as a lens to consider design’s cultural mediation and meaning management in design processes. In ­Figure 31.1, it is situated within the popular ­double-​­diamond Design Thinking process (­Design Council 2005) where decoding would encompass the first diamond (­­discover-​­define) and encoding the second one (­­develop-​­deliver). In the following sections, I illustrate how semiotic analysis can be used to ‘­decode contexts’ (­Phase 1 of the model), i.e., to map meanings and cultural codes as part of design research.

Mapping meanings in design research: a case study In the case study that follows, the aim was to identify the most effective design framing strategy for promoting sustainability values to mainstream audiences. As part of the design research process, code mapping and semiotic analysis were used to uncover the underlying values and ideologies represented by different frames, and to anticipate how each frame may affect people’s predispositions and attitudes toward sustainability. We approached the cultural research with these objectives: (­1) to map a trajectory of the sustainability concept in culture (­its past, present and emerging cultural associations) to 419

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understand how the concept evolved and how it has been represented; (­2) to establish the positions and ideologies in tension within the discourse; and (­3) to identify which discursive frames held the most appeal in terms of legitimizing sustainable consumption values.

Methodology As a first step, data was gathered from publicly available mass media texts (­l imiting the search within the English language). The reason was that mass media are created for a broad audience, therefore reflecting meanings, and holding appeal for mainstream consumers. Social and cultural norms are often discursively created within popular media where expressions of normative consumption, dilemmas, and opposing discourses abound (­du Gay et al. 2013). Moreover, examining press coverage and commercial representations of the concept of sustainability over time allows us to observe shifts in the popular ecological discourse. Three scoping searches were conducted to gather semiotic resources. Archival (­e.g., newspapers, magazines, and billboards) and online material was searched first, using the keywords ‘­sustainable’, ‘­eco’, ‘­g reen’, ‘­environmental’, ‘­­environmentally-​­f riendly’, ‘­­resource-​ ­efficient’, ‘­organic’, ‘­­fair-​­trade’, and ‘­ethical’. The second search (­online only) added the word ‘­design’ to each keyword listed above (­e.g., ‘­sustainable+design’) to broaden the scope. This search led to a range of specialist websites on sustainable design and business which featured advertisements framed around ‘­social innovation’. Advertisers included the British Council, Hitachi, Unilever, and IBM, as well as consulting firms like Accenture. Finding these ads prompted a third search under the key phrases ‘­social innovation’, ‘­smart solutions’, and ‘­smart living’. From the large amount of data retrieved, a sample of resources representative of the most commonly occurring codes (­e.g., ‘­g reen globe icon’, ‘­craft paper, wood, cork textures’, ‘­term: smart’) was selected for analysis. The selected data set consisted of book and magazine covers (­12), online magazine, blogs, and news articles (­12); print (­14), online (­7) and street advertising (­3); transcripts of promotional videos and advertising (­3); newspaper articles (­5), and multinational brands sustainability reports (­3).

Analysis Two modes of analysis were employed: sustainability representations were first analyzed diachronically using an RDE (­Residual, Dominant, Emergent) categorization (­Bryson 2008) to establish the changes in their meanings and corresponding cultural ideologies and associations. Secondly, a Semiotic Square (­Greimas and Fontanille 1993) was used to clarify the tensions present in the sustainable consumption dilemma.

Residual, dominant, and emergent frames The data set was first openly coded and thematically classified under a dominant, residual, and emergent categorization (­­Figure 31.2). D ­ ominant – ​­perspectives that are embodied in the majority of society or by the ruling and most powerful class/­es. ­Residual – ​­those beliefs and practices that are derived from an earlier stage of that society, often very long ago, and which may in fact reflect a very different social formation (­e.g., different political or religious beliefs) than that of the present. E ­ mergent – ​­beliefs and practices that are being developed out of a new set of social interactions, as societies change. Neither residual nor emergent forms 420

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­Figure 31.2 Sample of dominant, residual, and emergent categorization of semiotic resources

simply exist within or alongside the dominant culture. They operate in a process of continual tension, and can be incorporated into or exist in opposition to this culture. This analysis was useful for understanding how the meaning of sustainability has varied over time (­i.e., diachronically), but more importantly to identify the role that resistant and oppositional identities and ideologies play within the dominant culture, and how effectively they might shift or disrupt it. Two important issues related to discourse framing were found: first, that as the concept of sustainability is popularized, there are considerable changes in the ideologies framed. Mapping the trajectory of the sustainability concept in culture (­its past, present, and emerging cultural associations) allowed us to identify three ‘­eras’ marked by important cultural shifts in the sustainability discourse: the ecology era, the sustainability era, and the innovation era (­­Figure  31.3). This transformation of the meaning of sustainability over time reveals how the concept of sustainability has moved from ‘­m arginality’ (­a concern of few) toward ‘­popularity’ (­being widely accepted and understood by many). ­Table 31.1 summarizes the values and ideologies promoted in each era, and the aesthetic codes and representations used to legitimize them. social movement’ and ‘­ radicalization’ frames While the initial ecology era adopted ‘­ highlighting losses to people and the environment, in the most recent era ‘­ingenuity’ and ‘­innovation’ frames, highlighting progressive views or gains, are increasingly being adopted. This suggests that articulating the benefits of sustainability, especially those related to wellbeing discourses and values (­i.e., quality of life), may help pave the way for wider engagement with sustainability initiatives. Digital technologies and social innovation have already proven to be successful in popularizing more m ­ eaningful – ​­and s­ustainable – modes ​­ of production 421

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­Figure 31.3 RDE analysis of sustainability representations

­Table 31.1  Classification of codes Cultural moment

Values

Ideology

Codes

Residual

ecology era ­1962–​­2005 The rise of the environmental movement

Intrinsic value of nature and living beings Harmony, peace, oneness with nature

­Hard-​­core environmentalism Activism and social movements: ethical consumption, boycotts, campaigning

Green, nature, trees, animals Depletion and destruction scenarios

Dominant

sustainability era ­2006–​­2010 Sustainability is commodified with a ‘­green version’ of everything innovation era 2­ 011 – ​­present A departure from the environmental and the corporate. A shift towards people, creativity and community

Emergent

Responsible citizenship Individual accountability Togetherness, creativity, community Purposefulness in betterment Resourcefulness

422

All shades of green, and some blue Rustic browns and natural shades Rough, eclectic, and quirky ­People-​­powered ­Multi-​­ethnic and systemic change, and colorful innovation ‘­F lat’ icons and illustration Fluid lines, deeper greens, browns, black Everyone needs to do their bit ... while we continue business as usual

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and consumption. In the innovation era, sustainability gains favorability through its association with wellbeing discourses, without an explicit connection to environmentalism.

Semiotic square analysis: dilemmas and positions It was found that the concept of sustainability poses an unexpected conflict of interests between the ‘­planet’ and ‘­people’. To further uncover these contradicting positions and ideologies within the sustainability discourse, these polarities (­­global–​­local, ­planet–​­people) were mapped using the Greimas (­1993) Semiotic Square, a tool used for the analysis of meanings, based on the opposition of concepts such as f­eminine-​­masculine or b­ eautiful-​­ugly. Results from this analysis prompted considerations of how each different framing position might be influencing people’s perceptions, beliefs and engagement with sustainability practices and values. At this stage in our analysis, two overarching themes emerged: planet (­environmental concern and protection) and people (­i mproving quality of life). These seem to stand in opposition in terms of who benefits (­the environment versus people) which, in turn, correlates with existing ideological tensions: global versus local and corporatism versus cooperatism (­Hazlitt 2012) for example. The global is the site of the institutionalized and the corporative, of the ­socio-​­economic effects of globalization and the sphere of the mainstream media. It exists in opposition to the ‘­local’: the site of the individual’s lived experience, habits, aspirations, and social and material circumstances. ­Table 31.2 offers a sample of the texts that inform this categorization. From the mapping of the four initial key semantic concepts in the semiotic square (­planet, people, global, local), four further positions were generated: environmentalism, technophilia, altruism, and ingenuity (­the outer diamond in ­Figure 31.4), which attempt to reconcile cultural contradictions and dilemmas. By analyzing representations of these four concepts, we can begin to elucidate the ideologies and meanings they support, as well as the perceptions and attitudes toward sustainability that each frame might generate. Environmentalism  – ​­The tension between the planet (­ protection) and the global (­economic ­over-​­exploitation) generates radical attitudes of engagement with sustainability (­­Figure 31.4a). Provocative, incisive, and antagonistic, these positions and attitudes are not likely to disappear, but to gain favor as the dominant class sees its position threatened by increasing awareness of social injustice and inequality. Although environmentalism ideology possesses the capacity to overturn the dominant culture of consumption, its success depends on their ability to reach a critical mass. This is a great challenge, since much of mainstream society perceives living according to the ideological principles of environmentalism as ‘­impractical’, due to the high level of commitment and sacrifices required. Technophilia  – ​­Design leverages the introduction of expensive ‘­cleantechs’ by representing them as luxurious and desirable. Cleantech is a blanket term referring to a wide variety of environmentally friendly technologies. ­Figure  31.4b exemplifies how ­h igh-​­end technological innovation (­e.g., solar panels, electric cars, and expensive home retrofitting) ­ igh-​­tech represeems to be mediating the tension within the ­planet–​­people polarity. But h sentations generate an elitist attitude, where only the few who can afford such luxuries are considered to be ‘­living the future today’. Until these commodities become affordable and accessible, mainstream society is excluded from participating in this movement. Altruism  – ​­Within the g­ lobal–​­local tension there is a deep opposition of values. On the one hand, people are constantly being bombarded with seductive advertising that encourages ­self-​­indulgence in the ‘­here and now’. On the other hand, they are also deluged 423

Laura Santamaria ­Table 31.2  S ample of the process of coding and categorization of semiotic resources Characterization

Themes

Codes

Proposition

Planet (­natural world)

Climate change, deforestation biodiversity loss, extinction, pollution, resource depletion Consumerism Policy Science ­H igh-​­end green Cleantechs ­Eco-​­luxury

Natural world Damage Violence Shock tactics Surrealism Smooth lines, Polished and shiny surfaces, ­Close-​­up photography Speed, light Urban Exceptional Silent Naivety and ingenuity Rustic Minimal ­Home-​­m ade Amateur Urban + rural 2D Graphic Practical

There is only one planet, and we need to take care of it for the sake of future generations

Green, browns, natural materials, nature, home, quotidian Family Suburban Every day

To do your bit makes you a responsible citizen. Feel good by doing the right thing.

Global (­­socio-​­economic system)

People (­i ndividuals within communities)

Local (­the individual)

Organic Wellbeing Community Creativity Localization High + low tech Interdependence Sharing ­Technology-​­enabled democratization & diversification Entrepreneurship Commodification ­L ow-​ e­ nd green consumerism Eco, fair trade, ethical and green consumption

A sustainable future is achievable via large scale systemic change and technological innovation

We all benefit from each other. There could be a more personalized and meaningful way of relating while covering needs.

by unpersuasive messages urging them to reduce consumption ‘­for the sake of future generations’. Those in positions of power attempt to shift responsibility to the individual by invoking the idea of ethical consumption. By ‘­privatizing’ the environmental debt and commodifying participation and action through consumerist values, these elites generate a sympathetic attitude (­­Figure 31.4c). ­Self-​­righteous and ­self-​­serving, an ideology of altruism serves to pacify the conscience of the powerful and the m ­ iddle-​­classes alike. This framing is highly ideological as it does not correspond to a material reality: without a shift in values there is no substantive change in behavior. Ingenuity – M ​­ ost people are driven by a desire to improve the quality of their lives. They are motivated less by greed and more by the imperative to satisfy intrinsic human needs: subsistence, protection, leisure, participation, affection, individuality, acceptance (­­Max-​­Neef, Elizalde, and Hopenhayn 1989). These are defined as local concerns, as they correspond to the lived experience of individuals and their circumstances. The representations that reconcile the p­ eople–​­local tension emphasize quality of life and interdependency, provoking 424

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­Figure 31.4 Semiotic Square mapping of conceptual binary oppositions, ideological positions, and resulting ‘­f raming effects’ or predispositions

a predisposition for integration and empowerment (­­Figure 31.4d). It proposes to solve simple, everyday problems and make improvements to our lives and our surroundings by being resourceful, creative, and cooperative. The frame of ingenuity taps into people’s desires for engagement through emotional proximity and familiarity, thus generating trust, openness, acceptance, and, potentially, popularity among the wider population. The tensions between the global (­planet) and the local (­people) analyzed here help us to see contradictions and dilemmas. For example, when sustainability is equated to environmental protection, it is bound to remain niche because it is considered a global issue, i.e., a complex problem, caused by many actors and outside of any individual’s control. Although the values of environmentalism resonate with people and inform their views on social justice to a certain extent, evidence shows that in practice, the imperative to ‘­protect the planet’ does not always translate in behavior change as the average Western individual goes about his or her daily routine. Messages such as ‘­protect our planet’ use emotionality to imbue the global with local meaning, but they have little impact on behavior because they are not grounded on lived experience. This has been called the v­ alue-​­behavior gap (­­McKenzie-​ ­ ohr 2013). It is likely that the concern for the environmental degradation would not transM late into significant behavioral changes until it is perceived as a local/­personal problem. To illustrate how issues framed as global or local might affect perception and behaviors, let us consider two examples: while I can ‘­eat organic’ and judge for myself whether there is a difference in the taste of organic versus regular produce, I cannot ‘­experience’ the effect of my household recycling. Conversely, while I cannot experience ­fi rst-​­hand the effect that reducing my electricity consumption has on climate change, I can see that my efforts have 425

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cut my bill by a third. The further removed environmental degradation is from personal experience, the more reliant we become on the ‘­g lobal’ discourses to mediate meaning for us, and this affects how we might prioritize change. In this way, media messages, products, services, and policies framed around the ‘­g lobal’ frame may well be rendering us incapable of implementing more radical lifestyle changes because there is no direct correlation between this discourse and our ‘­local’ values and priorities (­e.g., to improve our lived experience or subjective wellbeing). In addition, environmentalism ideology mobilizes minorities of either resistant groups, or the morally compliant rather than the mainstream. While niche groups find social differentiation and a sense of identity within environmentalism’s moral values (­i.e., believing they are supporting a ‘­good cause’ or ‘­being good’), these niches can be easily dismissed by dominant actors, being casted as radical and utopian. For example, The Guardian reports: ‘­Sustainability played a role at London fashion w ­ eek – just ​­ don’t call it “­eco”’ (­Pattinson 2014). Therefore, by aligning sustainability to the ideology of environmentalism, we might be keeping it in the fringes and preventing mainstream societal change. However, an interest in wellbeing has been steadily on the rise, reflected in people’s pursuit of healthier and more fulfilling lifestyles. A greater impact on the public might therefore be achieved by environmental campaigners through the framing of sustainable innovations and practices around the proposition that they will bring personal benefits that ‘­enhance our quality of life’. This may well be more effective than framing the concept of sustainability around the need for environmental protection. The ‘­local’ framing of many social innovations serves as a fine example of how to create a more holistic approach to sustainability: one which incorporates and unifies the values of environmentalism with those of personal and social wellbeing. This approach challenges consumerist values concerning what it means ‘­to live well’. While centered on people’s wellbeing, a holistic framing of sustainability does not prioritize the individual at the expense of the environment. Instead, it considers personal wellbeing as the basis of the wider community and its environment’s wellbeing. At the same time, this ‘­local’ frame legitimizes and reinforces values that support societal and environmental flourishing (­Ehrenfeld 2019). The four discursive frames identified in this analysis reveal the ideologies (­i.e., values, beliefs, and positions) that are being adopted, and consider each frame’s potential to generate adherence to behavioral changes that will benefit the environment. The results of the research suggest that while frames that present sustainability as a ‘­planet’ issue (­i.e., a global concern) might appeal to individuals with strong environmental values, discursive frames focused on ‘­people’ (­i.e., local concerns which enhance one’s personal or social wellbeing) may be more effective in engaging wider audiences. The findings demonstrate the effect of ‘­framing biases’, as explained by prospect theory (­Tversky and Kahneman 1981), which shows that a probabilistic loss is preferred to a definite loss. In other words, if sustainability is framed as a loss, i.e., with ideas of cutting down, environmental degradation, sacrifices, it becomes a less attractive option than when it is framed as a positive ‘­g ain’ – ​­e.g., as fashionable, innovative, smart, new ways of doing, and consuming. This form of analysis reveals dynamic systems of signification. As Floch (­1988, 251) explains, ‘­m apping conceptual boundaries can elucidate the conditions within which meaning is produced and interpreted’. Thus, this semiotic analysis of sustainability representations helped to uncover how the dilemmas, cultural contradictions, and tensions posed by the urgent socioeconomic paradigm shift toward sustainability are, at present, being reconciled through design representation, and how these representations frame different ideological positions. 426

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Conclusions In this chapter, I explored how designers can strategically contribute to social change, providing support for a cultural paradigm transition that, while already emerging, it needs strengthening and accelerating. Focusing on cultural rather than technical means of societal transformation, we explored the role of designers as cultural intermediaries and the opportunities this role poses for legitimizing the emerging expressions of a new socioeconomic paradigm. Special attention is drawn to the actual processes and methods that designers use, by virtue of their practice, to construct meanings and to attribute symbolic value to material objects. Mapping the sociocultural codes as part of our design activity is paramount, considering the influence, predispositions, and consequences that design framing brings to bear upon people and cultural contexts. In doing so, designers influence the adoption of new beliefs and related behavioral changes. I illustrated how Cultural Studies can inform design research with critical tools and methods to understand how two apparently disparate aspects interlink: the micro (­i.e., the individual and subjective aspects of value perception) and the macro (­i.e., the larger established, sociocultural) discourses of societal transformation. This is not an easy task, and I do not claim to provide a definitive answer to such a complex undertaking. Instead, my aim is to consider how methodologies and epistemologies of design can be updated, building on sociology and the cognitive sciences, which provide a large body of knowledge to elucidate the effects and consequences that representation and perception play in human ­behavior and decision-​­making. As designers use cultural codes, it is important to identify both the designer’s own value system as much as the contextual cultural values, to be more transparent about what ideologies are being advanced or reinforced through our design activity. A more s­elf-​­aware and methodical approach to design framing enables designers and other stakeholders to make decisions centered on people and context, thereby keeping personal preferences, agendas, and biases in check. While designers are not solely responsible for the framing of cultural perceptions, our position as cultural intermediaries afford us privileges and responsibilities in legitimizing the values and cultural practices that underpin humanity’s flourishing. As such, we should play a leading role, strategically framing meanings in ways that mobilize and enable the largest sectors of society toward change, while challenging dominant oppressive cultural values and views.

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32 P ­ RACTICE-​­BASED EVIDENCE FOR SOCIAL INNOVATION Working and learning in complexity Penny Hagen and Angie Tangaere Introduction This chapter offers a case study on building ­practice-​­based evidence as a key aspect of social innovation work focussed on shifting systems towards equity, grounded in a r­ eal-​­world public social innovation unit based in Tāmaki Makaurau, Auckland, New Zealand. In this chapter the term p­ ractice-​­based evidence refers to employing innovation approaches that centre, engage and work with and within the live and lived experiences and perspectives of whānau (­families), communities and public service teams as they happen, in place. Our definition of ­practice-​­based evidence is defined in Tarena et al. (­2021, 11) where Demonstrating and building our culturally located knowledge of what works through innovation methodologies that draw on mātauranga (­Māori knowledge), western science, qualitative and quantitative data and the expertise and lived experience of comfamilies), hapū (­ subtribe), and iwi (­ t ribe). New knowledge and munities, whānau (­ change occurs through developing things on the ground, together with whānau and other partners. The innovation methodology underpinning our work is a p­ lace-​­based prototyping and learning process that involves working with whānau and other community and institutional partners over months and years. We work together to identify and demonstrate compelling alternatives to current dominant expert and ­agency-​­led services, modelling ­whānau-​­centred, culturally grounded and ­values-​­led innovation responses. This way of working also tests and builds the capability and capacity of ourselves, whānau and systems partners to work differently together in place, as we experiment with what might need to be reconfigured in terms of skills, resources, structures and mindsets to further embed these alternative patterns of working. This process both uses and generates ­practice-​­based evidence about these compelling alternatives, the different approaches and their benefits. It also produces evidence about the systems conditions necessary for them to thrive including the implications for systems’ readiness, what it will take to shift systems’ norms more widely and how we can support this through the way that we work.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-37

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The first section of this chapter provides a brief introduction to the context of our work. Section two describes the innovation methodology and how evidence using and building occurs through the process. Section three describes the evaluative learning process developed to support this as a rigorous learning cycle, and the types of evidence it produces as a result. We close with a short reflection on the role and nature of evidence building in working and learning in complexity within the public sector.

Who are we and the context of our work The Southern and Western Initiative (­TSI) is an innovation unit within Auckland Council, embedded in south and west Auckland communities and striving for radical change. The Auckland ­Co-​­design Lab (­The Lab) is a local and central government innovation and learning lab nested inside TSI. Together we collaborate and work in partnership with local communities and other system partners. This case study shares learning from the Tamariki Wellbeing team, who work with a focus on enabling the conditions for tamariki (­children) and whānau (­family) wellbeing. At the time of writing this initiative has been running for six years. As a result of colonisation in Aotearoa New Zealand structural racism was embedded in most of our founding public services and systems. Conventional approaches to addressing wellbeing and to “­l ift” child wellbeing have been underpinned by Western and e­ uro-​­centric models that have not worked for families and children experiencing the most disparity and impacts of inequity (­Productivity Commission 2015). It has involved a focus on the delivery of programmes and services which are transactional and ­euro-​­centric, often contributing to further compounding inequity and entrenching structural racism. A significant transformation in approach is needed, one that acknowledges the inequity that is systemically embedded, centres te ao Māori (­the Māori world), and enables other ­values-​­led and indigenous world views and practices. Our work alongside whānau, rangatahi (­young people) and other innovation partners is about exploring different starting points and conditions that help contribute to this transformation. Our approach to enabling these conditions is to work to shift both local and larger systems, policy conditions and mindsets, by testing, trying, modelling, and building capacity for compelling, ­whānau-​­led alternatives to the status quo. This means growing the infrastructure and capacity of the system to work differently at the same time as ­re-​­orientating it to demonstrate what different looks like. At the heart of this is a ­values-​­led, relational practice grounded in manaakitanga (­care for others) and whakawhanaungatanga (­building and sustaining relationships) that strengthens, builds on, recognises and reconnects to the existing innovation capacity and natural and cultural supports of tangata whenua (­fi rst peoples of Aotearoa New Zealand), as well as other indigenous practices and communities. The practice is guided by Māori leadership and practitioners who are part of the communities we serve. This chapter describes our efforts to develop a rigorous innovation and learning system that reflects these values, drawing on indigenous and Western knowledge systems, an approach to “­evidence building” that is grounded in lived practice and adapted to working and learning in complexity. The authors of this chapter are Pākeha (­W hite New Zealander of European descent) and Māori ( ­Ngāti Porou) respectively who have collaborated closely on the work. The processes and learning we utilise and share in this chapter draw upon te ao Māori (­the Māori world) as well as Western or te ao Pākehā (­the Pākehā world) and have been enabled only through the shared generosity and k­ now-​­how of our team, kaumātua (­elders) and fellow ākonga (­learners) including whānau, community and government partners. 430

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Learning and working with people in place As noted above our approach to shifting the systems’ conditions and patterns that continue to reproduce inequitable outcomes is through “­learning with people in place”, demonstrating together what “­d ifferent” can look like (­see F ­ igure 32.1). This working in locality, in place with local and central partners enables us to engage and grapple with how the dynamics of change, history, people, policy and place interact and come together on the ground in the real world. It is a ­values-​­led practice, guided by the tikanga (­the cultural principles and protocols) of the people, communities and places involved (­described in more detail in Tangaere and Hagen forthcoming). These tikanga form the underpinning basis for a relational practice led by whānau further guided by a kawa (­agreed protocols) for safe, brave and respectful practice set by whānau themselves. It also draws on participatory design and participatory action research and developmental evaluation learning processes, working with people and communities to test and learn within ­real-​­world settings. Whānau or rangatahi (­young people) are part of the core innovation team, and ­co-​­lead or participate actively in d­ ecision-​­making about the process and its direction and to define learning outcomes and success. The process acknowledges history of place, including past trauma, and builds on the potential of place as a key factor for innovation and wellbeing. It is premised on recognising, strengthening and building upon local knowledge and capacities and existing ecologies of wellbeing including social and cultural dimensions (­Hagen et al. 2021). Part of being grounded in place means working in partnership with those who have the capacity to action what we are testing and learning at an institutional and policy level, public institutions such as libraries, schools, health services, community facilities, as well

­Figure 32.1 

Our innovation approach, learning with people in place

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as social services, policy teams, businesses and other government partners. Groups come together around a shared kaupapa (­purpose) such as the early years and are actively involved in the design, testing and prototyping of new practices and approaches in the real world. This is about developing compelling alternatives that are grounded in indigenous knowledge, strength based, future focussed and have complexity and understanding of what the conditions are that are needed to support system capability for innovation (­a nd therefore transformation). Working with whānau and starting from the perspectives of values and place, means we start in a radically different place than conventional public service approaches which begin more often with an externally identified “­problem definition”, determined by agencies about whānau. This is an intentional disruption to the common relationship between government and whānau experiencing the greatest disparity, which is usually predicated on a transactional process where government holds all the power. In this case, enabled through the tikanga framework, power is shared and the mana (­the inherent authority of each person) is upheld for all. An important part of the innovation process is the localisation of existing evidence in practice and place, and the development of new ­practice-​­based evidence produced as we try, test and build new approaches and knowledge in context with whānau and agencies. While drawing upon data and evidence from Western knowledge bases and systems, as an act of ­re-​­balancing, we intentionally prioritise the lived experience and values of whānau and mātauranga Māori (­Māori knowledge and wisdom) world and other indigenous knowledge systems. Our evidence base for change and ways to enable child wellbeing, as well as indicators for success are developing over time as we test and learn. ­ igure 32.2. A simplified example of what this might look like in practice is provided in F We may begin by understanding the existing experience of whānau, and localising from their

­Figure 32.2 

Innovation methodology in practice

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perspective and experience things like ­self-​­regulation and Western concepts of child development as well as how practices for nurturing children are understood through a Māori parenting world view. With this combination of knowledge whānau identify key things they want to test out in and with other whānau and communities, as a result we develop innovations that may be embedded in the system, as well as developing culturally grounded and whānau centric knowledge about how to best support parents in the early years (­see, e.g. TSI 2017). An early and core insight from a whānau lived experience perspective that has shaped our work, for example, is that to ensure child wellbeing, we must focus on whānau wellbeing as a whole, and that many whānau need to start with healing and connection processes for themselves. This and other insights and evidence informed the development of what is known as “­Creating Home and the Five Minimums” (­SKIP 2021; TSI 2021), a way to design health and public spaces and facilities to support whānau with babies who need to parent outside home, based on the concept of Manaakitanga (­welcome and care for others) and Whanaungatanga (­relationships and connections). Critical to this is whānau perspective on what counts and makes the difference, for example, feeling welcome in spaces, places to connect with others without judgement or expectation, opportunities to build friendships, ability to build a connection to place and to have spaces of quiet and calm to provide respite and healing. It also included opportunities to connect to culture, to care for others and to influence and be reflected in the spaces and places of their community. This work told us about the things that are important for us to design for in our spaces, services and communities, as well as identifying localised indicators or tohu of child wellbeing that we should track and pay attention to in our communities. They are guiding principles for how we better ­re-​­orientate our systems and resources towards what matters and makes the difference for parents. It also showed that for the creation of such spaces of manaaki and whanaungatanga to be alive in communities, significant work was required within the health and public service institutions and teams to enable the conditions for those things to be valued and prioritised in practice. This includes shifts in power, a ­re-​­orientation of resource and what is valued and tracked and measured. A shift from holding expertise and knowledge to being spaces that activate local and whānau knowledge and connection. The principles of Creating Home have since been embedded in community spaces of Auckland Council, as well as early childhood health services. As suggested above, starting with values and aspirations and a process that recognises the value of people in place, leads to very different kinds of innovations and ways of working than conventional a­ gency-​­led service design processes. It leads us to prioritise healing, cultural practices, whānau to whānau responses and investment in social capital and social connection rather than services and programmes. For the public sector to reconfigure itself around these kinds of approaches, requires trust, significant sharing of power, and whole new capacities for agencies as well as communities. Significant unlearning, challenging and risk taking needs to occur. To support this our approach to learning and working in complexity can be summarised as enabling three key things: 1 Demonstrating compelling alternatives that take place, whānau & community values as their starting point. We work with whānau and others to do and test things in the real world, to see what happens, what matters and what makes a difference from the perspective of w ­ hānau – ​­starting from aspirations and building on the strengths of people and place, while recognising the history and what already sits in place. 2 Testing & building systems capability and readiness for working differently. The process of working in partnership to try and test new things surfaces the challenges 433

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and issues and helps demonstrate where real rather than perceived blocks are in the system. It surfaces the readiness of organisations to work differently and what it actually takes to shift norms, mindsets, policies and starts to build these. People experience what a different process looks and feels like, and can take that empirical learning back into other settings and approaches. 3 Produces p ­ ractice-​­based evidence about what works and what matters, and what is needed to shift systems It is about drawing on existing evidence, but also about testing that out and building new evidence through the process of trying things together in place and in context. The process draws on the existing evidence base as well as what has been learnt through previous testing cycles. This evidence contributes back into the broader evidence base and becomes a legitimate source of insight and evidence for policy. To do this our approach is supported by strong evaluative learning practices, detailed in the next section.

Developing a rigorous learning practice Intentionality is required to ensure that innovation and design processes are also rigorous learning and e­ vidence-​­building processes. In developing our own evaluative learning processes, we have sought to bring the level of rigour present in evaluation and research to our innovation process, in a way that is responsive and respectful to the relational practice of the team and the role of place and culture, and sensitive to the dynamic, complex and systems transformation context we are part of. Rigour is often associated with particular types of methods, but it is important to recognise that rigour is not a fixed characteristic. Biggs and Büchler (­2007) argue that rigor is the strength of the chain of reasoning, and that has to be judged in the context of the question and the answer, for example, in the context of social innovation as opposed to some other context. What brings rigour to this practice, is not an adherence to a single set of specific methodologies, but rather a coherence between purpose, values, indigeneity, story of place, practice and outcomes. In this case that means alignment to values, principles and tikanga. An approach that prioritises indigenous knowledge, place and lived experience, is premised on us acting and learning together with whānau and systems partners, is focussed on tracking what matters to whānau and communities foremost and alive to these multiple accountabilities. To achieve this we have needed to weave together our own approach that draws upon both te ao Māori and Western worlds, this evaluative learning practice, described in detail in Tarena et al. (­2021) is known as the Niho Taniwha. The name translates as the teeth of the taniwha (­powerful creature), and is the name of the pattern of triangles this visual form represents (­­Figure  32.3). The form has its origins in Lapita design (­early Polynesian) and variations can be seen across the Pacific in carving, weaving, ta moko (­traditional tattoo) and other artforms, grounded in Aotearoa New Zealand by Māori. The connection to the stories and meanings associated with this pattern and with the t­aniwha – which ​­ itself plays a critically important role in Māori traditional knowledge, reinforces a practice of sharing knowledge between physical and unseen worlds. Niho Taniwha draws on Western and indigenous practices of evaluation and learning including developmental evaluation which has been influenced significantly by kaupapa Māori based evaluators (­e.g. Gamble et al. 2021; Patton et al. 2015). Principles based it involves working with ­real-​­world settings and learning is embedded and captured throughout, not just at the end, guiding the quality of innovation practice and d­ ecision-​­making. Our 434

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­Figure 32.3  Visual image of the Niho Taniwha learning framework

approach is also increasingly deepened by the knowledge base of Pacific navigators as experts in complex wayfinding. In this we are guided by tohunga (­experts) such as kaumātua (­elder) Rereata Makiha and scholars such as Spiller et al. (­2015). We use the languages of outcomes, indicators and systems change, but are more and more working with the language of navigation, wayfinding and tohu (­signs) that help to mark and guide a tātou haerenga (­our journey). The practice of navigation is powerful for thinking about complex systems change and connects us to the existing knowledge around systems already within te ao Māori and cultures of the Pacific. It moves us away from research methods that seek to reduce or control variables to establish correlations and away from terms like measures, which so often don’t connect to the things that are meaningful (­Gamble et al. 2019; Lowe and Plimmer 2019) and towards directions, distance travelled and a sensitivity and awareness of te Taiao (­the environment). Importantly, it allows us to work fully in the complexity of the environments, contexts, histories, presents and futures that we are part of, and be comfortable that we cannot control all the elements or dynamics, only how we choose to read and respond to them. The role of the Niho Taniwha is to help capture and share what we are learning about this journey of change. As an evaluative learning practice Niho Taniwha wraps around the design and innovation process, beginning by establishing the whāriki or foundation of values, tikanga (­cultural protocols and practices) and evidence base that informs the work. Evidence sources intentionally draw upon mātauranga Māori, lived experience and where applicable Western knowledge. This makes explicit the worldviews and starting points of the practice, setting the foundation 435

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for how outcomes and success criteria is determined and by whom. It also speaks to the accountabilities embedded in the work and tells us what good and rigorous practice will look like. There are three interconnected Wāhi Ako or learning zones of the Niho Taniwha: 1 Wāhi Ako 1 is the action and learning we can generate through a specific prototype. 2 Wāhi Ako 2 is the action and collective learning available from looking across a number of prototypes, this allows us to identify patterns about the journey and emerging tohu from across different efforts. 3 Wāhi Ako 3 is the s­ense-​­making space to bring all our learning together across different teams to check and retune our overall direction of travel for the bigger haerenga ( j­ ourney). To support this learning at different levels, disciplined reflection is built into the whole process in an ongoing way. Regular small and larger cycles of learning, reflection and critical judgement are integrated into daily practice. Internal reflection cycles involve learning and ­sense-​­m aking focussed in the work, reflection “­­in-​­action”, complemented by bigger learning loops of reality testing or external reflection focussed on the work, or “­­reflection-­​ ­­ action” (­Schön 1983). Reality testing gathers the perspectives of the wider whānau, on-​­ partners and stakeholders involved, testing our assumptions and surfacing outcomes and learning we might not know about. So, for example, it is the way we can tell how being involved in the prototyping process over time might be rippling out to other parts of people’s lives or other parts of people’s institutional practices. These reflection cycles cultivate the team’s navigation and wayfinding c­ apabilities – ​­our capacity to observe and recognise tohu (­sign) about change, and to be responsive to what is coming at us from the ­ever-​­changing environment. They also constitute core contributions to the evidence base developing over time. As we gather and track learning and outcomes in and across different prototypes, we pay attention to three things, outcomes for whānau, changes in the system and strategic ­learning – ​­our emerging ­practice-​­based evidence. These lenses emerged as important in the work and were then informed by the framing of evaluative practitioners such as Cabaj (­2019). They speak to the kinds of markers, indicators and tohu that are important on our change ­ able 32.1 gives a definition and some examples. journey. We expand on these more below. T The lenses firstly prioritise our focus and accountability to the outcomes that are important to and make the difference for whānau. We pay attention to the language and perspective of whānau about what matters and makes the difference to them, these inform the localised indicators or tohu that we track the progress in our journey by. The second lens ensures that we are also just as focussed on the changes in the system and what the system values and pays attention to. This recognises that achieving sustained change for whānau and communities experiencing inequity at any scale beyond a specific prototype, requires shifts at the local and broader systems level. While conventionally innovation and design processes maybe have been focussed on the development of specific interventions or innovations, here, the bigger goal is to support public sector institutions and teams to retire the practices that compound inequity and begin to adapt principles, practices, policies and mindsets that ­re-​­balance and promote equity. As we work together, we look for tohu that new behaviours and patterns are emerging as well as for what tohu seem the most significant to pay attention to or lean towards. For example, are teams beginning to r­e-prioritise resources differently, are they shifting their language, are they recognising the capacity of whānau and sharing power in how decisions are made? 436

­Practice-­based evidence for social innovatio ­Table 32.1  Three areas we pay attention to as part of the evaluative learning process of the Niho Taniwha Outcomes for whānau, individuals, rangatahi (young person), tamariki

Changes in the system

Strategic learning

Where, how and whether we are contributing to better outcomes for whānau /­f amilies/­rangatahi? How are people better off as a result and in what ways? Which people? What are the indicators, tohu or markers of this that are determined with whānau?

Examples of whānau led indicators for increased wellbeing: Stronger social c­ onnections – ​ ­f riendships, experiencing ­m anaakitanga – a​­ sense of welcome, leaving the house more, increased confidence to try new things, stepping into leadership, sharing knowledge with and caring for others, participating in children’s schooling Where, how and whether we are Examples of indicators of shifts contributing to implicit and explicit in the system: Changes in language changes in the local and wider by government agencies about system (­including those working whānau, public sector teams give in the system, and system partners) value to manaakitanga, use of diverse that better support conditions for forms of evidence for ­decision-​ whānau wellbeing, e.g. changes ­m aking, sharing ­decision-​­m aking in mental models, language, with whānau/­communities, policies power dynamics, relationships and reshaped in response to whānau connections, policies, practices and priorities resource flows?a Examples of strategic learning: What are we learning about how Insights that reframe how we we work, our practice, and about how to “­be” in the work? What are think about whānau agency, e.g. whānau isolate themselves as form of we learning about initiatives and scaling? What works and why/­why protection from services, examples of what helps public sector teams not? What are we learning about experiment with power sharing, our theory of change (­r igorous demonstrations of what helps enable ­decision-​­m aking about strategy whānau to whānau supports and and direction)? What kinds of intervening is worthwhile and why? their benefits, understanding about What are we learning about barriers what strategies are most likely to shift and opportunities to outcomes and entrenched behaviours such as racism active in public services teams changes in the system including navigating power constructs?

The language used here reflects the six conditions for systems change used in Kania, Kramer, Senge (­2018).

a

The third lens of strategic learning is the emerging p­ ractice-​­based evidence we are producing about the outcomes and the process of change. For example, what are we learning about how whānau and systems changes occur, and what is or isn’t more likely to work or be needed in specific places or across prototypes to encourage and embed new patterns of working? Strategic learning plays a particular role in the rigour and robustness of innovation and transformation work which works with rather than seeks to reduce or simplify complexity. Michael Quinn Patton, emphasises the role of strategic learning within complex change journeys. 437

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While they can only influence changes in systems and impacts on people and environment, social innovators can and should be held to account for ensuring that they pursue rigorous and systematic learning about their efforts and making data informed decisions about what to do next. (­Patton in Cabaj 2019, 7) From a navigational perspective, Makiha speaks of tohunga (­experts) spending time identifying and gathering evidence and research about tohu (­signs). We can see the parallel in our work of spending time learning about different tohu and destinations. We start the journey knowing what some of these likely markers are, others we are learning about as we go. The more we journey, the more we build our navigational skills and knowledge of meaningful tohu in the process of change, getting to new destinations, shifting to new patterns and norms and narratives. The nature of the ­practice-​­based evidence produced through this process sits across three interconnected areas (­see F ­ igure 32.4): •

Evidence about compelling alternatives, w ­ hānau-​­led approaches that help to create the conditions for whānau wellbeing;

­Figure 32.4  T  he three kinds of p­ ractice-​­based evidence and learning areas produced through Niho Taniwha

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• •

Evidence about systems readiness and what it takes to enable systems change; Evidence about approaches and practice, what is important about how we work together for change.

As an evidence building process, strategic learning is built up and tested over time in ­practice-​ ­based evidence. Learning and evidence, developed out of individual prototypes and from the collective learning across multiple prototypes is weaved back into practice and tested again in future iterations through the reflections and through the levels of s­ense-​­making up and down the Niho Taniwha. It is important to make the distinction between this and the initial insights that emerge from individual research, design or innovation project cycles. While each prototype may surface particular insights and strategic learning, it is through the learning and s­ense-​­making at Wāhi Ako 2, the second level of the Niho Taniwha, that the p­ ractice-​­based evidence emerges. We look at data, evidence, learning and patterns from across the prototypes, identify where insights have been connected to other evidence and examples, ­re-​­embedded back into the work and retested and evidenced in practice over time. This includes, for example, The Three Carings and Five Minimums mentioned earlier when introducing our innovation methodology in the Learning and Working with People section. These describe frameworks and heuristics for building and nurturing whānau centered spaces developed over several iterations, cycles and settings. Another example is Te Tokotoru (­Hagen et al. 2021), a holistic approach to prevention that reflects what whānau have shown us need to be activated across our communities to enable wellbeing, built from work with whānau in place across multiple initiatives across a number of years.

A closing discussion on evidence building for innovation There is much talk in the public sector about the importance of evidence and e­ vidence-​­based approaches for change. However, definitions of what constitutes evidence, the perspectives and values that evidence reflects and understandings of what determines the rigour of evidence has historically been quite narrow and ethnocentric. In contrast to many indigenous worldviews which are premised on an interconnected and holistic mindset, dominant Western practices and mindsets often do not encourage or enable decision makers and those developing policy to grapple with the complex interconnected determinants and interactions of social issues, and tend to reinforce fairly narrow ­euro-​­centric norms. It is important that we also develop approaches to evidence building that are better suited for generating knowledge and learning needed to address contexts and “­processes that are emergent, political, dynamic and harder to control” (­Gamble et al. 2019). We know through our work with policy makers and government teams and that of others there are many implicit norms and “­r ules” in our existing approach to evidence in the public sector (­see, e.g. Gamble et al. 2019; Brookfield Institute 2018; Eppel et al. 2018 and Lowe and Plimmer 2019). They include a lack of recognition, visibility or understanding of indigenous knowledge, or perspectives of whānau. “­Evidence” is drawn from (­often male) Western science interpretations of the world, where quantitative data becomes the default for reporting and d­ ecision-​­making. Such data is often treated as if it is neutral, contributing to the pattern of privileging certain perspectives and values and an ineffective obsession with “­measurement”. What is sometimes referred to as the “­h ierarchy of evidence” reflects a particular set of assumptions about rigour, assuming rigour is set by particular methodologies rather than alignment to context. Along with this is a tendency to look for “­what works” internationally, risking importing interventions that cannot account for the particular social 439

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and historical context of Aotearoa New Zealand, our b­ i-​­cultural foundations or how colonisation shapes issues of equity here. While such evidence and studies have their place, from a cultural, place and w ­ hānau-​­led perspective they reflect a particular kind of approach to learning and evidence. Part of tackling complex issues of inequity involve engaging with the current norms of what constitutes evidence, as well as advancing our understanding of the kinds of practices and forms of evidence that may be more helpful when working and learning in ways that engage actively with the complexity of people’s lived realities. “­T he ability to draw upon a plurality of data sources and ways of seeing and knowing in the world will be critical to our ability to work collaboratively and in ­complexity-​­informed ways” (­Gamble et al. 2019). ­Practice-​­based evidence draws upon existing knowledge from a range of different sources and existing ­evidence-​­base, but these things are then made real, strengthened, rejected or evolved through the process of applying and testing them in place. Learning happens in the conditions under which change occurs, we work with the ­real-​­world constraints, timelines and realities of what it takes to shift systems and embed new patterns. The starting point is involving and prioritising the cultures and values, k­ now-​­how, perspectives and particular characteristics and potential of whānau, communities, people and place. This extends to both framing wellbeing issues and challenges, as well as how we might collectively build the conditions for better wellbeing outcomes. In addition to creating a grounded, responsive source for ­evidence-​­building, this becomes an intentional act of shifting ­power – ​­positioning whānau and communities as active agents in identifying and responding to the things that matter to them, on their own terms.

References Biggs, M. A. R., and Büchler, D. 2007. “­R igor and P ­ ractice-​­based Research.” Design Issues 23 (­3): ­62–​­69. Brookfield Institute 2018. Exploring Policy Innovation: Tools, Techniques + Approaches. Brookfield Institute for Innovation and Entrepreneurship. https://­brookfieldinstitute.ca/­report/­­exploring-­​­­policyi​­ nnovation/ Cabaj, M. 2019. Evaluating Systems Change Results: An Inquiry Framework. Waterloo, CA: Tamarack Institute. Eppel, E., Karacaoglu, G., and Provoost, D. 2018. From Complexity to Collaboration: Creating the New Zealand We Want for Ourselves and Enabling Future Generations to do the Same for Themselves. Wellington School of Government, Victoria University of Wellington. https://­w ww.victoria.ac.nz/­_ _ data/­a ssets/ pdf_file/­0 007/­1656340/ ­­W P18- ­​­­01- ­​­­Complexity-­​­­to-​­collaboration.pdf Gamble, J., Hagen, P., McKegg, K., and West, S. 2019. Evidence for Innovation. Centre for Community Child Health, Murdoch Children’s Research Institute. https://­blogs.rch.org.au/­ccch/­2019/­05/­0 6/ ­­theme- ­​­­4 -­​­­evidence-­​­­for-​­i nnovation/ Gamble, J., McKegg, K., and Cabaj, M. 2021. A Developmental Evaluation Companion. Montreal, QC: The McConnell Foundation. Hagen, P., Tangaere, A., Beaton, S., Hadrup, A., ­Taniwha-​­Paoo, R., and Te Whiu, D. 2021. Designing for Equity and Intergenerational Wellbeing: Te Tokotoru. Auckland: The Auckland C ­ o-​­design Lab, The Southern Initiative (­Auckland Council). Kania, J., Kramer, M., and Senge, P. 2018. “­The Water of Systems Change.” FSG. https://­w ww.fsg. org/­publications/­water_of_systems_change#­download-​­a rea Lowe, T., and Plimmer, D. 2019. Exploring the New World: Practical Insights for Funding, Commissioning and Managing in Complexity. Collaborate and Northumbria University http://­wordpress.collaboratei.com/­­w p-​­content/­uploads/­1.-­​­­E xploring-­​­­the-­​­­New-­​­­World-­​­­Report-­​­­M AIN-​­FINAL.pdf Patton, M. Q., McKegg, K., and Wehipeihana, N. eds. 2015. Developmental Evaluation Exemplars: Principles in Practice. New York: The Guilford Press. Productivity Commission 2015. More Effective Social Services Report. New Zealand: Productivity Commission. https://­w ww.productivity.govt.nz/­i nquiries/­­more-­​­­effective-­​­­social-​­services/

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­Practice-­based evidence for social innovatio Schön, D. A. 1983. The Reflective Practitioner: How Professionals Think in Action. New York: Basic Books, Inc. SKIP 2021. Creating a Home Away from Home. https://­community.skip.org.nz/­­stories-­​­­big-­​­­ideas-­​­­that-­​­­a re­​­­m aking-­​­­a-​­d ifference/­­creating-­​­­a-­​­­home-­​­­away-­​­­f rom-​­home/ Spiller, C., B ­ arclay-​­Kerr, H., and Panoho, J. 2015 Wayfinding Leadership: G ­ round-​­breaking Wisdom for Developing Leaders. New Zealand: Huia Publishing. Tangaere, A., and Hagen, P. Forthcoming. “­­Tikanga-​­led Design: W ­ hānau-​­led Innovation for System Transformation.” Edited by Akama, Y., and Yee, J., Entanglements of Designing Social Innovation: Practices from the ­A sia-​­Pacific. Abindon: Routledge. Tarena, E., London, P., Tangaere, A., Hagen, P., and ­Taniwha-​­Paoo, R. 2021. Kia Tipu Te Ao Mārama. Tokona Te Raki: The Auckland Codesign Lab, The Southern Initiative (­Auckland Council). TSI (­The Southern Initiative) 2017. The Early Years Challenge. Auckland Codesign Lab, The Southern Initiative. https://­w ww.tsi.nz/­s/­­Early-­​­­Years-​­Challenge TSI (­The Southern Initiative) 2021. Creating Home. The Southern Initiative (­Auckland Council). https://­w ww.tsi.nz/­­creating-​­home

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33 COLLECTIVE DREAMING THROUGH SPECULATIVE FICTION Developing research worldviews with an interdisciplinary team Daijiro Mizuno, Kazutoshi Tsuda, Kazuya Kawasaki and Kazunari Masutani Introduction It has been more than two decades since Frayling (­1994) and Archer (­1995) coined the term Research through Design (­RtD). This school of design research was further developed by Dunne and Gaver (­1997) and the term Critical Design (­which later evolved as Speculative Design or Speculative and Critical Design, SCD/­CSD in short) first appeared in 1997. Since its conception, SCD as RtD has gained much interest in the design research community as well as h ­ uman-​­computer interaction (­HCI) research community because it helps us to generate debate and explore alternative presents and possible futures collectively. However, some challenges (­or conflicts of different cultures of analysis) became visible to researchers in recent years (­Zimmerman, Forlizzi, and Evenson 2007; Koskinen et al. 2011; Gaver 2012; Salovaara, Oulasvirta, and Jacucci 2017; Forlizzi et  al. 2018). Placing the pragmatic and ­problem-​­solving (­what is) research/­explorative and artistic (­what if ) research on different ends of continuum,1 SCD today needs to consolidate conflicting cultures of analysis. Based on these premises, this chapter introduces a case study: speculative and novel design of 3D printed underwear made from mycelium leather, biodegradable plastic filaments and algorithmically generated flexible scaffolding structures for the possible sustainable futures/­alternative present. Underwear, because of its nature, is not redistributed in the ­second-​­hand market after use. Moreover, because of its functionality (­especially brassiere), underwear is made from various materials which makes disassembly and recycling cumbersome. Acknowledging the problems associated with this form of garment, the research teams went through a collective dreaming process in an attempt to reconcile the conflicting cultures of analysis. Collective dreaming is a term coined by Sanders and Stappers (­2014) in the context of ­co-​­design. It indicates the changing roles of designers from problem solutionists to facilitators and toolmakers for the rest of us to design the future experience by ourselves (­design

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Collective dreaming through speculative fiction ­Table 33.1  Research process in three phases

Phase 1 ­M arch–​­July 2020 (­Design about Science) Phase 2 ­August–​­November 2021 (­Design with Science) Phase 3 December ­2020–​ A ­ ugust 2021 (­Design through Science)

Material design

Algorithmic design

Service/­scenario design

Explorations of personal ­bio-​­f abrication technology Literature reviews on existing developments of biomaterials for material experiments Development of mycelium leather and bacterial c­ ellulose-​ ­based leather

Explorations of the possible algorithmic design processes Study on computational geometry using biodegradable/ flexible 3D printable filaments Development of 2D tessellation structural patterns to adopt 3D body figure

Collective future scenario writing Literature reviews on design for sustainability, circular design and PSS Collective development of the possible service blueprint and necessary touchpoints for film shooting

BY people). However, we identified that the possible futures/­a lternative present can be discussed and designed not only by the user audience (­the rest of us), but also by those who are engaged in the design process: collective dreaming as design BY transdisciplinary team. Imagining the possible futures/­a lternative presents require multifaceted criteria therefore the research hypothesis can be ambiguous and o ­ pen-​­ended. But, through collective dreaming with tangible/­intangible prototypes, the team can discuss and create scenarios as research worldview to work on their respective research agenda. This project is a result of the collaborative research with Wacoal Human Science Research Center and KYOTO Design Lab at Kyoto Institute of Technology (­K IT) to speculate on future materials for underwear involving n ­ on-​­human actors (­m icroorganism and computer algorithm). Wacoal is a Japanese owned garment manufacturing company that specializes in underwear and lingerie for women, and the research center was set up as its R&D division. The research took place between March 2020 and August 2021 and involved 25 researchers located in transdisciplinary research teams (­d ivided into the Material Design Team with biofabrication+­fibro-​­science, Algorithmic Design Team with computational geometry and Service and Scenario Design team). Through the introduction of three research subjects in three phases (­­Table 33.1), we aim to explain how collective fiction writing as collective dreaming paved a way to achieve both pragmatic AND speculative research outcomes.

Research background Before the research process, we would like to explain why the research design was conceived in this way.

How we arrived at three research streams of work According to Ceschin and Gaziulusoy (­2016), design for sustainability requires systemic transitions as well as design of measurable enhancements to services, products and materials. Therefore materials, products, and services were established at the onset of the project to explore the possible systemic change as speculative design.

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How the team was assembled and what research outcomes we expected The overarching research question was “­How might we make, use, dispose of and recycle underwear in the possible futures/­a lternative presents?” To challenge this question, we sought to form a research team to engage in both pragmatic and speculative research activities. We subsequently identified the research areas as above and invited master students (­primarily design and architecture) to participate in each research area. The expected outcome of the materials team was to develop sustainable and biodegradable material for designing monomaterial (­use of single material to develop the entire product) underwear. As shown in the Ellen MacArthur Foundation’s butterfly diagram, the team considered both chemical recycling and renewable material flow. For chemical recycling, Masutani (­PhD in F ­ ibro-​­science) led the development of 3D printer filaments. For biomaterials, Tsuda (­PhD in Sustainability Engineering) led the development of mycelium and SCOBY leather. 3D printing was considered as the possible approach because the possible underwear requires flexibility, durability and biodegradability in monomaterial. To achieve this, metamaterial design through 3D printing was considered as the appropriate means to meet the possible requirements. Mechanical metamaterial in this context is concerned with designing physical properties such as elasticity and deformation by processing it into a specific geometric structure. The initial goal of the Algorithmic Design Team was to develop zero waste fashion design in the manufacturing process. Zero waste fashion design aims to reduce waste during manufacturing, support personalization of size and silhouette, and Kawasaki (­PhD Candidate in Media Design) mainly led the research. And finally, the objective of the Services & Scenarios team was to achieve overall consistency through the realization of future scenarios as user experience. Mizuno (­PhD in Fashion Design) took the lead in the research, while all members worked on the different phases of their specific stream of the study. In the next section, we briefly describe the Material Design and the Algorithmic Design to provide context to the study and outcomes that took place before focusing on the Service/­Scenario Design where collective fiction writing took place.

Material design Phase 1 (­2020/­­03–​­07) To select appropriate materials, a variety of available raw materials such as slime mold, mushrooms, agar, and gelatin were used to explore DIY material fabrication. Basic equipment such as a clean bench, an incubator and an autoclave were gradually equipped, and preliminary experiments were conducted.

Exploration process of mycelium leather The mycelium of fungi has been shown to be applicable as a block or sheet material by devising cultivation methods. The possibility of its application as an alternative leather has been actively investigated ( ­Jones et al. 2020). ­Small-​­scale experiments of cultivating mycelium from edible mushrooms on agar medium were carried out. However, at this stage, the scale of experiments was limited to Petri dishes and kitchen trays, and the outcomes were unsatisfactory. 444

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­Figure 33.1 Showcase of materials created during phase 1

Production process of Kombucha leather In addition to the newly explored materials, more promising materials like Kombucha leather, made from the Symbiotic Colony of Bacteria and Yeast (­SCOBY), was cultivated in large containers. During the cultivation of SCOBY, a layer of bacterial cellulose is formed on the surface exposed to the air, which can be dried and p­ ost-​­processed to make alternative leathers (­K amiński et al. 2020). The results of the research and experiments were presented to the collaborating company (­­Figure 33.1).

Phase 2 (­2020/­­07–​­11) After the discussion, we narrowed our focus to two materials, mycelium and Kombucha leather. A literature review on biomaterials was carried out and the necessary reagents for culture media for experiments were acquired.

Preliminary experiments for ­post-​­treatment process of mycelium leather Preliminary experiments were carried out by physically pressing and chemically treating samples cut from the surface of the fungi bed resulting in a small sample confirmed to have elastic properties. The chemical treatments were carried out in a laboratory equipped with a draft chamber under the supervision of a chemical scientist. 445

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Drying process of Kombucha leather We found that large flat surfaces of bacterial cellulose could be cultivated. To test the properties of the material, it was laid on a t­ hree-​­dimensional surface to dry.

Development of 3D printing filament In Phase 2, in addition to the fabrication of biomaterials, the development of 3D printing filaments was also conducted. Specifically, we selected commercially available thermoplastic polyurethane (­T PU) filaments and enhanced the elasticity and strength.

Phase 3 (­2020/­­11–​­2021/­06) Production process of mycelium leather We improved the experiment conditions from Phase 3 as mycelium leather became the main focus. Once the mycelium growth on the mesh was confirmed, we advanced to larger scales (­250mm x 250mm) as the goal was to create garments.

Improvement of production process of Kombucha leather The production of the material was carried out for the algorithmic team, explained in detail in the following section. We found that repeated cultivation on a large scale reduced the yield of Kombucha leather. To determine the yield relative to the amount of sugar and pH of the culture we conducted conditional experiments.

Algorithmic design Phase 1 (­2020/­­03–​­07) We firstly sought to identify specific research methodologies and potential products from preliminary research in the areas of 3D scanning, 3D printing, parametric design tools, and CAD software to investigate efficient design processes that can fit individual bodies. We conducted two preliminary research in Phase 1. The first is on geometric filling structures based on 3D printing technology. If we integrate 2D shapes that can be printed flexibly at high speed, we can 3D print monomaterial clothes more efficiently. For the explorations of 2D geometry, we developed a parametric system referring to the Auxetic Pattern study (­M irante 2015), which is a structure that expands and contracts perpendicular to the stress when elongated or compressed by a force. We decided to adopt the Auxetic Pattern to brassiere and panties part that require flexibility. As for the 3D shape, we examined the structure to maintain strength but still remain lightweight, referring to mechanical metamaterial research ( ­Jiang and Wang 2016). In this process, specific patterns were identified (­­Figure 33.2). During Phase 3, in collaboration with the Center for Fiber and Textile Science at KIT, we conducted physical property tests on the 3D printed structural materials. The testing machines used in the study were a tension and compression tester (­Shimadzu, A ­ GS-​­J), a tensile and shear tester (­K ato Tech, K ­ ES-­​­­FB1-​­A) and a bending tester (­K ato Tech, K ­ ES-​­FB2).

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­Figure 33.2 Auxetic Pattern structure to ensure elasticity (­left); SchwarzP structure to ensure strength (­r ight)

KES stands for Kawabata Evaluation System and is a measurement technology for texture. ­Figure 33.3 shows the hysteresis behavior from the KES tensile tests on the 2D flat geometry samples (­200mm x 200mm). TPU filament B, developed by us through improving a commercially available biodegradable TPU A, has improved elasticity compared to A. C, a sample with Auxetic Pattern structure, is also more elastic than A. Additional considerations are needed, but our structural material is considered to be unique with the properties of both clothing and rubber.

Phase 2 (­2020/­­07–​­11) In Phase 2, we produced 3D printable underwear structure data with Grasshopper, a parametric design tool. First, we planned an experiment in which the 2D and 3D structures examined in Phase 1 could be simultaneously laid out in a single underwear data set and molded in one piece. Specifically, we applied the Auxetic Pattern and the SchwarzP structure. The hybrid data was constructed to fit within a printable size of 600mm x 600mm. As a result of this prototyping (­­Figure 33.4), we were able to print prototypes with optimized speed and accuracy and assure both durability and flexibility while being monomaterial. The challenge was the lack of elasticity, and to solve this, we tested Auxetic Pattern in Grasshopper and generated 15 patterns (­­Figure  33.5). From the generated candidates, we selected three based on the elongation rate and aesthetics and made cuts in the Kombucha material using a laser cutter. In addition, we experimented with the design of the joint structure to merge the biomaterial with the 3D printed structure prototyped in Phase 1. This series of prototyping revealed a technique in which algorithms can be adapted to biomaterials to give them strength and flexibility. We also identified that geometric patterns could be integrated as the scaffolding for mycelium growth. Following these findings, the team identified ways to develop technical details for the realizations of the scenarios we discussed in the Phase 1. These findings were used in the final deliverables of Phase 3.

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­Figure 33.3 Hysteresis behavior from KES tensile tests on the 2D flat geometry sample

Phase 3 (­2020/­­11–​­2021/­06) In Phase 3, we aimed to implement one finalized design process. We also worked with the Service + Scenario team to determine the final design of the deliverables and user experience based on the learnings from Phase 2. Then, in collaboration with the Material Design team, we introduced the results of the algorithm into the material culture process. The design process established by the algorithm team consisted of the following three steps (­­Figure 33.6): 1 3D scanning of the user and creation of a virtual mannequin 2 Silhouette design and patternmaking of the underwear 3 Algorithm adaptation to fashion patterns and 3D printing 448

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­Figure 33.4 An overall view of the DFM brassiere prototype (­left); Detail of the DFM brassiere hinge parts prototype (­r ight)

­Figure 33.5 Generated 15 auxetic patterns with grasshopper and three selected candidates

The first step was to scan the target user. We then performed pattern cutting on the virtual mannequin in CLO3D and generated a 2D pattern from the 3D data. It was important for us to meet existing requirements for industrial products, such as the underwear structures and sizing requirements. Finally, we applied the algorithm to the finished garment pattern using Grasshopper. Algorithm applications for biomaterials explored in conjunction with the Biomaterials team include the followings (­­Figure 33.7): 1 Auxetic Pattern mesh sheet for mycelium culture process 2 Parametric kerf for the Kombucha material 449

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­Figure 33.6 The Algorithmic design process established in this research

­Figure 33.7 Algorithmic mesh sheet for mycelium cultivation (­top); Parametric calf for Kombucha leather ( ­bottom)

Service and scenario Phase 1 (­2020/­­03–​­07) The Participatory Design Fiction method (­PDFi) developed by Nägele, Ryöppy, and Wilde (­2018) was an inspirational method used in Phase 1. It consisted of a ­four-​­stage process: a writing prompt as a form of probe; s­ ci-​­fi narrative collections and storyboard developments; ­world-​­building with a user; and developments of diegetic artifact. Although Nägele et al. developed PDFi to give voice to those who are vulnerable and excluded in a design process, we adopted PDFi to work with research team members who have no previous experience in challenging complex issues on environmental sustainability. 450

Collective dreaming through speculative fiction ­Table 33.2  Examples of generated prompts Prompt A excerpt:

Prompt B excerpt:

A possible diaper service for patients or elderly. Unlike underwear, diapers are disposed of when soiled, so the required number of diapers are sent monthly. The data is also linked to underwear customization, and the diapers that best fit are sent to the user. With the sustainable system, the user can send back used diapers, which are then recycled and reborn as the next diaper. All you have to do is enter your favorite words, and our algorithm will create a series of underwear with imaginary floral pattern based on your own unique floral language. At the end of the flyer was a QR code. Naomi was delighted. She quickly scanned the code with her smartphone and accessed the website. She typed the words into the text box. Naomi thought for a moment and then typed, “­I will always be by your side”.

To write a prompt, we conducted preliminary research: expert interviews with health care and elderly care specialists to understand the aging, gender, menstruation and pregnancy in relation to underwear. In addition, trends on technological developments around sexuality, body manipulation and biotechnology were examined. Compiling collected information, we generated ten prompts relating to possible lifestyles and underwear (­­Table 33.2). Subsequently instead of storyboarding specific scenarios, we decided to work on collaborative fiction writing inspired by the SCP. The SCP Foundation is a Science Fiction community site that was established in 2008 as part of a collaborative fiction writing project by SF writers. Writings are posted on a ­w iki-​­style website and they are released under the Creative Commons ­Attribution-​­ShareAlike 3.0 license with some exceptions. Our turn to collective dreaming as collaborative fiction writing was to enable team members to express their opinions and explore possibilities through writings rather than drawings (­which some people feel uncomfortable with). The main tools used were Miro, Google docs, and Google Presentation. All 25 members read the prompts in Google Docs and commented on the parts of the possible lifestyle that interested them, resulting in a total of 133 comments (­­Figure 33.8). Writings with multiple comments were discussed as a whole, and the interpretations were collaboratively written. In this way, protagonists, time, locations, characteristic social and technical issues, functions of products and services, and primary technological development requirements were developed. After all the participants contributed, each scenario was written, shared and evaluated with the collaborating company. Consequently, we ­ able 33.3. developed 9 scenarios, and the followings are two of the scenario excerpts in T

Phase 2 (­2020/­­07–​­11) Although we experienced a disconnect between two different cultures of analysis (­what is and what if research) in the collective fiction writing phase, we managed to conclude that the hybrid of scenarios dealing with biomaterials and algorithmic design could be developed more in depth. To achieve this end, it became evident that the team needed to critically analyze the existing design strategies for circular design, sustainable fashion and service design. In the early phase, collective fiction writing was helpful to come up with a ­low-​­fidelity design. However, defining and designing the details of conceived ­world-​­hinting objects requires the time and effort of the responsible team member. Likewise, in order to identify the possible ­biomaterial-​­based product journey from growing, making, using to disposing and recycling, writing the user experience is insufficient to map out details. 451

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­Figure 33.8 Collective fiction writing as collective dreaming on google docs

Acknowledging the complex service incorporating ­tempo-​­spatial flows of human and ­ on-​­human actors in designing, the team examined design strategies, frameworks and methn odologies in the existing literature on Design for Sustainability (­Gaziulusoy and Brezet 2015; Bocken et al. 2016; Esat and A ­ hmed-​­Kristensen 2018; van Stijn and Gruis 2019), circular design (­Moreno et  al. 2016; Wastling, Charnley, and Moreno 2018) and Product Service Systems (­Manzini and Vezzoli 2003; Tukker 2004). Identifying key strategies and frameworks, the team began to work on the interpretation of the scenario as service blueprint and multiple revisions were made to meet the finding from the pragmatic research undertaken by other team members. For example, each required step to achieve design for biodegradability (­f rom growing to composting biomaterials) was discussed and implemented into the service blueprint.

Phase 3 (­2020/­­11–​­2021/­06) In order to present the results of this research, the team decided to embody a series of service interactions in a film communicating the users’ experiences. To tease out the detail of the story, the team worked to identify each customer journey and edited the service blueprints: integrating the details of the protagonist, usage of furniture and devices in the protagonist’s home, as well as how her underwear is designed, printed, grown, used, composted and recycled. Therefore, in Phase 3, the emphasis was on presenting the results of the research in a theoretically coherent yet speculative manner.

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Collective dreaming through speculative fiction ­Table 33.3  Excerpts of scenarios Scenario C excerpt:

Scenario D excerpt:

It’s always summer on earth. While the crisis is being called for, the demand for underwear as outerwear has been growing. 000, a design system developed by Wacoal can generate a wide variety of underwear. The computer calculates an optimized structure that mimics the knitting structure and parametrizes the roughness, thinness, and even the shape of the underwear mesh. With a 3D printer, you can even get e­ co-​­friendly underwear made of biodegradable materials. Ray logged on to 000 to order some underwear for the trip she was planning. She didn’t hesitate to roughen up the mesh structure of the side parts. There is a parameter called “­cool” that allows you to adjust the structure by fiddling with the slider. Ray put her old underwear in the collection box sent by Wacoal and ordered new underwear. It has already been ten years since the pandemic. The only products in circulation are indigenous specialties that have become luxury items. The government has passed a bill for “­Basic Fabrication”, a national system to distribute 3D printers to each family so that they can live with a minimum of food and clothing. The “­d ata” of the products are uploaded on a platform, and people can purchase and download them through electronic payment. Mayumi, a university student living in Kyoto, spends her time between online lectures printing her favorite things based on the mushrooms she grows in her backyard. Mayumi goes out once a week to take care of her mushrooms. After about two weeks of growth in the incubator, it produces enough mycelium to be used for underwear. She documents the process ­ row-­​­­Your-​­Own Vlogger and with her smartphone because she is a famous G makes her living from it.

In order to understand the production process of mycelium leather and SCOBY leather more in detail, the Service and Scenario (­S&S) team joined the research activities of the Material Design Team, interviewing other team members to draw the holistic production process. Based on this understanding, the S&S team subsequently designed the f­ront-​­end user behavior and touchpoints of the service blueprints to make it more believable. Finally, a workshop was held with the whole team to integrate the multiple design elements as the revised service blueprint, identifying the user actions and the placement of the necessary touchpoints such as 3D printers and incubators in the actual room where the film shooting would be made (­­Figure 33.9). Based on this workshop, a storyboard was made and the film was produced (­­Figure 33.10). The film was made with following basic premise: 1 Time is not fixed (­theoretically the proposed underwear can be made here and now) 2 The protagonist is a young woman living alone in Kyoto City, Japan 3 The rise of average temperature and the depletion of resources are visible, and less greenhouse gas emission is recommended by the ministry 4 Advices are given by the ministry to wisely make, use, dispose and recycle clothing 5 The infrastructure (­electricity, internet, logistics) is functioning 453

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­Figure 33.9 Collective fiction postproduction: integrating touchpoints, service blueprints and architectural plan

­Figure 33.10 Excerpt from the film as a research outcome (­Photo: Tomoki Yoneyama)

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Following on from these premises, design challenges were determined as below: 1 ­Mass-​­customization of the underwear based on the scanned human figure: allowing different flexibility to each part 2 3D printing the desired garment shape with biodegradable filament 3 Using this as a scaffold, the user can grow mushroom mycelium to form underwear 4 Dry and wear the fully grown underwear, wash when necessary 5 At the end of the product journey, put it in compost to decompose in the soil

Conclusion and discussion New initiatives such as the New European Bauhaus suggest the need for urgent action on issues relating to sustainability. According to Mitrović et al. (­2 021), this is where the most important speculations are happening; not obsessing with glamorous provocations or the technological futures, but the role and purpose of design itself. Drawing concepts such as Escobar’s Pluriversal Design and Fry’s Defuturing, research teams of SpeculativeEdu argue that SCD today is to challenge what appears to be the immutable reality and aim for more responsible approaches (“­SpeculativeEdu” n.d.). To be more responsible, we argue that research relating to SCD requires a transdisciplinary research team to (­1) collectively develop scenarios for the possible futures/­a lternative present, (­2) rigorously explore existing literature on knotty and interdependent issues such as environmental sustainability, and (­3) deliver the credible and speculative proposals for the possible futures/­a lternative present to the audience. Mitrović et al. (­2 021) describe possible paths for the futures of SCD practice: One of those new paths could be the combination of the “­traditional, pragmatic and ­solution-​­oriented design practices” with speculative design practices. In such a constellation, as Boelen indicates, critical and speculative practice could have the role of initiating discussion with design teams, which would then, in a participatory process or as stakeholders, work on scenarios of the futures and on the achievement of such scenarios in collaboration with different design practices. (­M itrović et al. 2021, 208) As a case study, we brought together pragmatic and speculative research approaches to collectively develop a novel underwear for the possible sustainable future/­a lternative presents. The research outcome does not specify when this could be the reality as it is a matter of business. We demonstrated what is possible, but what is not here and now in the market. Identifying the echoed views with Mitrović et al, we reflected the research process and explained some of the artifacts generated. In conclusion, we note what was learned, what was beneficial as a vehicle for communicating design research and how the proposed design process enabled collective dreaming.

Learning and benefit: collective dreaming as research worldview development In building a collective research process with researchers who tend to fall into academic silos, future scenarios were created and used as the scaffolding for preliminary research in material, algorithm and service development. The preliminary research results from each team helped

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to develop the future scenario in turn. Converging and diverging in between “­what is” and “­what if ” research, future scenarios as worldview served as a useful communication vehicle for mutual understanding: why we do what we do, and how we are interconnected. Accordingly, it was found that there are two types of speculative design research as communication: design for internal communication (­design for worldview) and design for external communication (­design for debate). Moreover, especially in material development, it was found that there is a tendency to separate the development of physical performance (­structured research objectives) from the possible worldview (­­ill-​­defined research objectives).

How the proposed design process enabled collective dreaming as a team Though the research project was successful (­w ith each team delivering on their intended outcomes), we experienced an unsolvable disconnect between two different cultures of analysis: how to solve chemical equations and the “­what ifs” of speculative design despite the use of the collective dreaming. This was not helped by the fact that one team lead (­a team member leading the development of 3D printer filaments) left in the middle of Phase1 before the rest of the team was able to define development requirements. Although the team member later rejoined the project, he was not interested to engage with the speculative research worldview setting or participate as a c­ o-​­designer, remaining to be working as a scientist throughout. This situation might have affected how much the scientists felt they could learn from design researchers compared to the other way round. While it is impossible to include all approaches in all studies, it is important to have respect for collective dreaming and use scientific expertise to explore speculative approaches. In order for collective dreaming to be successful, we may need to design a greater empathy for others, including even ­a nti-​­or ­non-​­design specialists, when internal and transdisciplinary communications are crucial. As well as lowering threshold for participation, utmost importance should be given to the reconciliation of conflicting cultures of analysis.

Acknowledgments We would like to offer our gratitude to all the team members involved in the completion of this research project. We are particularly thankful to Emma Huffman and Tomohiro Inoue at Kyoto Institute of Technology, and Synflux inc members for writing this chapter. We would also like to thank Wacoal Human Science Research Center for allowing us to conduct research with speculative outcomes.

Notes Dunne and Raby (­2013) highlighted four different models (­Design for/­w ith/­through/­about Science) that design and science could interact with, suggesting the most promising model is when a topic is explored in consultation with several scientists in order to maintain a critical distance. Such a model (­Design about Science, when issues and implications arising from the research are explored through design) typically envisions the darker possibilities to generate debate, not about pragmatic relevance. 1 Forlizzi, Jodi, John Zimmerman, Paul Hekkert, and Ilpo Koskinen. 2018. “­L et’s Get Divorced: Constructing Knowledge Outcomes for Critical Design and Constructive Design Research.” DIS ­2018 -​­Companion Publication of the 2018 Designing Interactive Systems Conference, May, ­395–​­398

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34 DRIFTING ­WALLS – ​­LEARNING FROM A HYBRID DESIGN PRACTICE Ruth Morrow

Introduction The chapter draws on the learning that emerged from a l­ong-​­term collaborative ­design-​­led process that conjoins research, scholarly activity, and d­ esign-​­based approaches. The project developed from a creative collaboration between a textile designer and an architect and led to the development of patented and commercialised technology where textiles and concrete permanently ­co-​­form the surface of precast concrete elements. The chapter begins with a description of the project, its background, and drivers, leading into a discussion of how the project evolved through a layered evolution of i­nter-​­related processes (­i.e. conceptual, technical, contextual and organisational). The project echoes what Bonsiepe, the German designer, writer and teacher, called “­critical operationality” (­Fathers 2003, 52). Being critical and informed by surrounding and wider contexts within a design process, is one level of critical operationality. A further level is to elucidate and theorise that learning in order that it can be applied and tested in other contexts. It is only when this is achieved that design becomes research. More specifically the project is an example of what Bonsiepe calls “­endogenous design research”, i.e. research initiated from within the design process that then contributes to a “­pool of knowledge specifically related to design” (­Crouch and Pearce 2012, 31). Hence the aim of this chapter is to highlight and discuss the lessons learnt in this hybrid design practice as they relate to Design Research.

Project description and background The project investigated the possibility of making hard things soft by combining textile and architectural thinking. It led to the development of patented technology that allowed the designers to uniquely manufacture tactile precast concrete surfaces (­k nown as “­skins”) where concrete and textiles permanently ­co-​­form the surface (­­Figure 34.1). The project evolved initially in academia where the main protagonists were based but quickly moved into the commercial world, as a ­spin-​­out company, known as Tactility Factory (­TF). The original design and technology founders became company directors, fully

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-39

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­Figure 34.1 A natural linen permanently c­ o-​­forms the surface with concrete, known as Linen Infused Concrete. The concrete sits proud of the linen due to the shrinkage of linen as it dries. This was referred to conceptually as “­v inegar and chips” (­left); closeup of surface where a ­mole-​­coloured velvet ­co-​­forms the surface with concrete, known as Velvet Infused Concrete (­m iddle); “­Velvet Infused Concrete” panels installed in private residential setting (­r ight)

involved in the commercialisation of the technology and bringing the resultant “­skins” to market in the building and interior design sectors. Despite its commercial trajectory, the project did not begin as a response to a gap in the market. Neither did it identify a problem to be solved, nor indeed was an initial research question postulated. Instead, the project began out of a desire on behalf of the project initiators to simply work together. Both collaborators (­Trish Belford, textile designer and the author, Ruth Morrow, architect) were experienced practitioners and design pedagogues, with many years of experience in designing and delivering products, buildings, ideas, services, etc. Both had a strong preference and instinct for collaboration and were curious about and open to each other’s design professions. Though rarely considered as a professional condition, the friendship between them as project initiators was crucial in driving the creative and critical approach at the heart of the project. Design processes that involve teamwork are also social processes and the importance of these social interactions and relationships in such instances should not be underestimated (­Cross and Cross 1996, 316). The urge to collaborate on a project was quickly followed by the need to develop an agreed conceptual stance. This was partly driven by the necessity to classify, justify and seek funding, and partly because after many years of teaching design, we had a stronger than usual commitment to developing clear conceptual frameworks as a means to maintain design focus. The concepts that we evolved, such as “­m aking hard things soft”, “­m aking the world a softer place” and “­m ainstreaming tactility”, arose from early discussions. While those outside creative disciplines may shrink from making such overtly utopian statements, as designers we were at ease with the process of “­m aking mad ideas sane” and purposively wanted to adopt these conceptual phrases both to flag up the project’s social intent and to bring focus and distinctiveness to the project’s ambitions (­Morrow 2011). While utopian goals may be unachievable, the journey towards them releases interesting potentials. 460

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Being from two different professional contexts (­architecture and textiles) also chimes with much current thinking in design theory that argues that ­cross-​­programming of skills, cultures, and practices also has the potential to evolve innovative outcomes. In this project it also created a place of professional freedom: uncompetitive and ­non-​­judgemental. In the early stages of evolving a conceptual and creative framework, environments that are too judgemental, or have “­anticipated” outputs can distort the natural progression of an innovative project. As project initiators our interest and commitment to collaboration certainly overlapped, but we drew on diverse motivations. For Trish the project allowed her to get closer to architecture, a world to which she has longstanding connections. After 20 years of running her own textile manufacturing business, she was left wondering how the textile industry might respond to the influx of digital imaging. She wanted to pursue new opportunities to use the tactile, textured approaches upon which she had built her textile design reputation. In the early phases of the project Trish was most interested when experiments resulted in the textiles becoming heavy, altering their natural drape. She saw opportunities in exploring erosion and distortion as a means to soften materials, using the techniques and “­textile thinking” that she had mastered across her career. On the other hand, as an architect I was interested in the politics of space and the sensorial depletion of architecture as a result of modernist “­styling”, contemporary construction practices and manufacturing. I was also interested in how feminist and inclusive design agendas critique the production of built environments, and mindful that advances in architectural representation had distanced the architect from the process of fabrication to the extent that the lines that they drew were not always the lines that were built. As a consequence, the project became a vehicle to directly experience and engage in the manipulation of hybrid materials, alongside exploring the possibility of designing for diverse, ­non-​­normative users. In parallel, I was also ­re-​­imagining one of the four missing appendices of On the Art of Building in Ten Books by architecture’s forefather, Leon Battista Alberti (­­1404–​­1472) (­A lberti 1988, 367). The lost appendix was called “­the service that the architect provides” and through reflecting on the work of Tactility Factory I argued for the extension of the “­service” of the architect, beyond designing buildings, to “­interconnecting strategic vision to material and social experience, through a ­design-​­led process” (­Morrow 2008, 64). The project’s formation in late 2004 was timely on several levels. The themes and processes reflect shifts in contemporary thinking, mirrored by such “­trend forecastors” as Li Edelkoort, who declared that “­super technology is going to ask for super tactility” and that the “­future is hybrid only” (­Edelkoort 2012). It was also timely for us, since having built a foundation of discipline specific skills, we were well positioned to act with a critical awareness of our own professions. Being based initially in academia allowed the project the intellectual freedom to develop through those early, more conceptual phases that a commercial context would struggle to accommodate. (­This flags up an essential, but little explored ­inter-​ ­dependence between innovative design practice and academic environments.) Tactility Factory also drew on the expertise of weavers, precast concrete specialists, digital textile designers, patent attorneys, marketing experts and business advisors. It was funded by ­start-​­up grants, innovation awards, commissions, private and venture capital investment. Of the many technologies and techniques developed during the investigative period of the project the company commercialised four processes exemplified in the surfaces: Linen Infused Concrete, Velvet Infused Concrete, Linen and Stitched Infused Concrete and Crystal Infused Concrete (­­Figure 34.2). These surfaces combined w ­ ell-​­known precast concrete techniques with ­well-​­known textile techniques. For example, the Crystal Infused Concrete was manufactured using beaded 461

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­Figure 34.2 Left to right: Linen Infused Concrete; Velvet Infused Concrete; Linen and Stitched Infused Concrete; Crystal Infused Concrete

­Figure 34.3 Left to right: Linen Infused Concrete column socks; Velvet Infused Concrete wall panels; Linen and Stitched Infused Concrete

evening wear textile techniques. Simply bringing together two very diverse technological cultures resulted in unusual surfaces, or “­skins” as they became known (­10mm thick), which could be manipulated in a variety of w ­ ays  – folded ​­ or curved during the curing process, forming column surrounds, or friezes. Once fully cured (­hardened) they could either be applied directly onto walls or elements as a “­covering” or they could be cast into other structural pieces of concrete (­­Figure 34.3). In terms of manufacturing processes, TF’s technologies were able to bring high levels of articulation to the surface of concrete without the need for expensive moulds or ­post-​­demoulding production processes. In addition to making visually attractive and highly tactile surfaces that felt crafted and “­antique”, the technology that emerged from the TF project expanded the potential of concrete by overcoming its grey, chilling, acoustically harsh characteristics to become more colourful, warmer and acoustically softer. It is indicative of creative processes that they often open up more areas of potential investigation than they fully resolve. 462

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Project evolution From its inception the TF project very quickly began to work on several i­nter-​­related areas of development: conceptual (­what?), technical (­w ith what?), contextual (­why?) and organisational (­how?).

Conceptual The project began within the realm of free experimentation, i.e. experimenting with a range of materials (­not only concrete) to respond to the idea of “­m aking hard things soft”. These early material trials were used as conceptual maquettes. What looked on the surface to be samples of hybrid materials were in fact representations of ideas, proposals, and possibilities (­­Figure 34.4). This disjuncture, between the actuality of the material maquette and the idea, is something for designers to be mindful of, especially where critique from people who don’t share in the design vision can undermine those early stages of building “­­conceptual-​­belief ”. Keeping the process internal at such early stages might have been advisable, though as teachers the TF team were always keen to externalise the process throughout: warts and all. The use of maquettes is especially interesting in the world of collaborative conceptualisation. It is recognised that the early stages of such design processes can be susceptible to disagreement and misunderstanding particularly where design teams are drawn from diverse disciplines

­Figure 34.4 Early maquettes suggesting the ­co-​­forming of concrete and textiles. These were kept in an archive box at the centre of the Tactility Factory workshop to remind us how far we had come in resolving the technology

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(­Austin et al. 2001, 211). Discussion around a visual or visible artefact helps to overcome issues of differing culture and professional language, allowing each contributor to reveal their interpretation, preferences, and imaginations. Maquettes effectively function in this instance as a neutral third party or potentially as a boundary object, used to bridge different understandings across disciplines (­Star and Griesemer 1989). Once conceptual ideas are settled on, it then becomes easier to build a shared delivery strategy. However, it is also important to revisit and reaffirm the conceptual framework throughout the process. Inevitably this also occurred through parallel means such as: defining research aims, business plans, and public presentations. The hybrid culture that was part of the process of bringing concrete and textiles together naturally evolved a ­TF-​­specific language, a third nomenclature, used to describe its unique processes and outcomes (­Morrow and Belford 2013, 411). Such terms included “­skins”, which implied touch, flexibility, wrapping, and phrases such as “­v inegar and chips”, used to describe the odd but strangely natural marriage of linen and concrete, imbuing it with a sense of cultural normality and accessibility. There was an understanding within the team that using and crafting verbal conceptual language alongside the material helped focus the team’s creative processes and built bridges to other audiences.

Technical The technical challenges of the project were multiple and involved numerous phases. We had thought, perhaps naively, that the technical development would eventually come to an end, but as the team’s knowledge and expertise grew so too did its ambition and drive for advancement. Technical development began with a phase of Testing and Evolving Materials. After working through the conceptual maquettes, the team settled on the use of concrete with textiles. A more rigorous series of experiments ensued, generating samples that combined concrete and textiles in various forms and carrying out a range of comparable trials. A process of “­spreadsheet critique” evolved that combined photography, commentary and an excel spreadsheet to record the trials, document initial impressions, exact closer critiques and set out the next steps and associated resources and risks in development. Working with external experts, the team were able to resolve the more specialist technical challenges. For example, a textile chemist tested yarns for resistance and longevity in the highly alkali environment of concrete, and a precast concrete specialist provided input on a variety of mixes and mould surfaces. Working with such experts allowed the team to better understand and pursue textiles and corresponding concrete technologies with more focus. The second phase involved Developing Textiles Specifically for Concrete. As our understanding grew of the yarns and textile constructions most favourable to concrete processes, the natural progression was to manufacture textiles specifically for use with concrete. This textile development led to enhanced integration of concrete and textiles, allowing the team to determine its own designs and concrete mixes to suit a range of textiles. At one stage the project experimented (­­part-​­funded by an Art and Humanities Research Grant) with manufacturing its own base textiles but this added a layer of operational complexity that we eventually decided to avoid. Instead, we moved to purchasing existing textiles and altering them to suit our processes. This still required us to work with the manufacturers to get full disclosure on the yarns, the textile construction, and the finishing processes they used. And where disclosure wasn’t possible, we spent considerable time testing and deconstructing textiles to understand whether they suited our particular requirements. One of the last stages in the technical process involved Refining Production and Product. In this phase, driven by commissions, the processes were assessed for deliverability, cost, and 464

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risk. Some were set to one side, while others were refined to become the four processes Tactility Factory marketed. Commercialisation also required development in packaging, handling/­installation processes, and a range of fixing technologies, all designed to the specific and unique nature of TF’s Skins.

Contextual In parallel to technical progression, the team crafted the intellectual context of the work. This was done perhaps not with the same intensity or steadiness of pace as the technological developments but occurred in bursts of insight and moments of frustration where things didn’t occur as anticipated. We came to understand this process as helping to position and give momentum to the project. The contextualising process came in several guises. First, there was an ongoing practice of uncovering and mapping the contemporary and historic precedents in Textiles and Architecture that informed the project (­Belford and Morrow 2009; Morrow and Belford 2008). In addition, we built a theoretical context for the work to help reveal and better manage its cultural shifts and challenges. This engagement with historical, contemporary, and theoretical contexts, came full circle when the project was analysed through the lens of feminist p­ ractice – ​­a theme that had emerged through early conference papers. The ongoing process of reflection and contextualisation occurred because the team partly based in academia, had a default instinct for research, but, interestingly and perhaps controversially, we began to contemplate that crafting an intellectual space for the work also helped to hone it commercially, by creating narratives that allowed us to engage with different markets and audiences in a variety of ways. This process of contextualisation, reflection and theorising on and through the work chimes with Bonsiepe’s statement that “­located at the interface of industry, the market, technology and culture (­living practice), design is eminently suited in engaging in culturally critical exercises …” (­Bonsiepe 2007, 31).

Organisational Finally, the project continued, across its existence, to develop an operational mode and company structure that best supported its d­ esign-​­led, conceptual, technical, and contextual thinking, and the hybrid materials and intellectual property that emerged. We began thinking in this area relatively early as we participated in a number of hypothetical business plan competitions, hoping that they would release suitable mentoring and funding. While that was partially the case (­certainly in terms of funding), we also became aware that despite the plethora of writing and discussion about the Creative Industries most business advisors were unable to provide any meaningful, ­fi rst-​­hand guidance. Instead, as a company we became bound up by overly complicated processes that did not suit the p­ art-​­time, v­ alue-​­led, creative and hybrid nature of the work. Inevitably we had to m ­ ake-​­do with existing models of business structure, marketing etc, but “­the fit” was less than satisfactory. Of all the areas of development this was the most unresolved and unsatisfactory, and remained a central concern throughout the lifetime of the project. It was certainly our experience that in developing an innovative approach and hence an innovative product there is an urgency to develop other models and cultures of sustainable and creative governance structures. In the end, almost 15 years after beginning the process, Tactility Factory came to a halt in September 2018. Despite producing award winning, much lauded, exhibited, and cited technologies and successfully selling into ­h igh-​­end 465

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markets to high worth clients (­chiefly in the middle east) Tactility Factory was unable to gain traction in markets closer to home. Our investors and the CEO appointed to run the business were unfamiliar with d­ esign-​­led innovation. Their expertise lay more with exploiting existing technologies by cutting production time, quality and costs, and selling into local mass markets. Ultimately our collective failure to find the right organisational model for Tactility Factory led to its downfall.

Challenges faced The project’s journey was certainly bumpy. But nevertheless, it is surprising how far it progressed and what was achieved. We learnt about ourselves, not only as designers and makers, but significantly, as managers of creative processes; about the varying styles of creativity across the team; and the critical importance of motivations and d­ e-​­motivations. During that time, we evolved the mantra, “­m ake the problem explicit to resolve it” but often, in such innovative spaces, the problem (­and the solution) was bound up in gut reaction, emotion and tacit knowledge. Polanyi when defining tacit knowledge asserts that “­we can know more than we can tell” (­Polanyi 1966, 4). This is also echoed in Wajcman’s feminist examination of technology, drawing out three layers of meaning that became central to Tactility Factory. She argues that technology has three intertwined strands: the “­things”, i.e. material stuff and software; the knowhow; and the maker/­user interaction. This knowhow or tacit knowledge is passed on not by explanation but by demonstration, mirroring, and mimicking (­Wajcman 1991, 14 & 38) Nevertheless, the aim of this chapter was to make explicit and externalise some of the knowledge, knowhow and learning that emerged from the process. In the following sections, reflections are categorised into four separate a­ reas – ​­A Home for Hybridity?; Mining and Renewing the Existing; Product Narratives and The Challenge of Beauty.

A home for hybridity? The project was hybrid on a variety of levels: hybrid because it brought together two diverse material cultures (­textile and concrete) and their associated industries, and hybrid because it existed between academic and commercial worlds. Being hybrid is the t­rend-​­forecasters dream, the exotic outcome of cross and interdisciplinary collaborations. The project certainly burnt brightest at those moments of cultural friction when the greatest intensity of creativity and innovation was released. But the lack of a home culture meant that it was difficult to find support and to communicate the project effectively. The dark side of hybridity is managing this cultural homelessness. Our alternative strategy was to portray the project in different ways, to different audiences. While this was enriching in the short term, in the long term it was exhausting. Many in the commercial world saw no value of the company’s link to academia and indeed the same was the case for middle managers in academia. Even though we, as a team, understood the significance of hybrid practice, we could not effect the cultural shift required to support such work. Instead, we chose not to reveal one world to the other. Again, this was a false, exhausting, and unresolved situation. So, while the concept of hybridity is celebrated, the consequences still require honest and direct investigation.

Mining and renewing the existing Typically, the most obvious issues often become the least considered. In this project, it was our own existing skills and knowledges that we frequently overlooked. As design educators 466

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we understood the import of design and technology lineages and their value as a site for reinvention, so we made concerted efforts to call on the surrounding legacies and existing expertise of the local indigenous industries of construction and textiles. Yet at crucial times we frequently overlooked the team’s own inherent skills. The most obvious example of this was when we realised we had concentrated almost exclusively on generating textiles with the help of external input, i.e. from weavers, knitters, and had done little to capitalise on Trish’s own skill in printing textiles. The n ­ on-​­textile designers in the team associated print solely with i­mage-​­making, however Trish’s unique skill was to use p­ rint-​­based chemical techniques to create tactile surfaces. This overlooking of existing abilities within the team may be the result of a creative instinct that drives designers towards new and unknown positions, but, finding the balance between drawing on core skills and knowledges and moving into new and high risk territories is a critical part of sustaining a creative process, and one that needs constant consideration and calibration. Johnstone, in his invaluable book on improvisation, says that to strive after originality takes the creative practitioner far from their “­true self ”, resulting in mediocrity ( ­Johnstone 1989, 88). The mistake is to associate innovation with new territories and to underestimate the value of mining and renewing the existing.

Product narratives Innovative design is not only about the production of something new but also about embedding that outcome into societal cultures. Communicating the value and purpose of the outcome and how it can fit into people’s lives is imperative. As architects we are sometimes guilty of handing over completed work with little cultural explanation. While that is possible in those instances where the client/ user accompanies the designer on the design journey, it is less successful where design development processes are remote from the eventual end user. One insight into this issue, that determined the thinking within the Tactility Factory project, resulted from a revisit to the seminal Stuttgart housing development known as Weissenhofseidlung (­K irsch et al. 2013). One of the housing blocks, designed in 1927 by Corbusier, had recently been renovated with one half functioning as the visitors’ centre and the other restored to Corbusier’s original design. It was and remains a highly innovative design. Not only was the external expression of Corbusier’s housing block radical for its time (­flat roofs, minimal façade articulation and white render), but also its internal spatial organisation. Compact in floor area but highly flexible, beds could slide out of sight during the day and walls could be pushed back, reconfiguring the space. However, as the museum guide acknowledged, Corbusier’s radical internal organisation was “­profoundly modified” within ten years of construction to better accommodate the occupants’ lifestyles. The visit to Corbusier’s housing occurred just at the point where the architect, Alsop’s urban housing block, “­Chips”, with Manchester developers, Urban Splash, was promoted online (­Urban Splash 2008). In comparison, Alsop’s housing block, 80 years after Weissenhof, was relatively conventional. But Chips was radical in its explicit connection to the marketplace. An animation used in the publicity material was, in the words of the communication agency, “­m ade to show what life will be like in the Alsop designed building in the Chips development”. It illustrated a range of c­ ross-​­generational lifestyles (­though in reality most of the apartments were bought by young professionals) and flagged up the “­fantastic folding doors”, “­flexible space” and “­a mazing pod kitchens”. While it is possible to be cynical about the hyperbole marketing, there is little doubt that those who bought the apartments were better prepared for living in flexible space than Corbusier’s residents. 467

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Through the TF project we came to understand that no matter how good the product was, if people didn’t know how to bring it into their lives, then investment in delivering a quality outcome was, quite simply, a waste. Telling the story of the design, in an accessible way, seemed to be as much part of the process as designing the product in the first place. This was new territory for the architect in the team and the beginning of a process that has led to an, at times reluctant, acknowledgment of the importance of marketing methods. Marketing, in its widest sense, became a central challenge for Tactility Factory and a critical strand of the business and investment plan.

The challenge of beauty The abiding legacy of TF is the beauty of the work itself. All the effort and struggles that accompanied the process and the hours invested in testing, adjusting and refining are tangibly evident in the quality and beauty of the o ­ utcomes – ​­at least for the team and other d­ esigner-​ ­m akers. More broadly though the beauty of the TF products posed a cultural challenge. There is a witnessed phenomenon where the aesthetic coherence or beauty of an artefact can sometimes belie its cleverness, masking the complexity of the processes from which they result, and the effort invested to bring out the material quality. At the time the TF team compared this to the stereotypical view of beautiful women as intellectually dull. Bonsiepe tackles this from another viewpoint when speaking about the credence and cognitive status of the visual, acknowledging that, “­The deeply rooted prejudice against images is evident in the fact that they are so often downgraded with the adjective ‘­beautiful’, revealing a visceral distrust of anything that betrays even a trace of aesthetic sensitivity” (­Bonsiepe 2007, 36). In TF, we tried to counteract this distrust of beauty by being explicit about the innovation and development that underpinned the products. There was a conscience effort to ensure that the story of the technological achievements was as much a part of the narrative of the product as its own tactile aesthetic qualities.

Conclusion The aim of this chapter, and indeed the “­critical operationality” culture of TF, was to reflect on this hybrid design practice in order to inform and contribute to wider discourses. This is done in the full understanding that design is reliant on designers and hence subjectively influenced, and that research is a quest for objective knowledge informed by the subjective position of the researcher. Crouch and Pearce define the d­ esigner-​­researcher’s task as “­being mindful” of both positions (­Crouch and Pearce 2012, 34). The challenges outlined in this chapter were directly related to TF but they expose two final ­meta-​­reflections that directly speak to Design Research. The first is the beginning points of design research. Design, and consequently Design Research, can and do legitimately start before a brief, with conceptual statements and open experiments, where the only partial guarantee of an outcome lies in the experience and t­rack-​ ­record of the design team. Traditional research cultures, on the other hand, tend to regard such beginnings as vague, utopian, too wide to deliver to and ultimately, high risk. In contrast, research is thought to begin with a question or hypothesis and with a mapped process that quickly limits and brings focus to the scope of the investigation. In the case of TF, what started as the conceptual intent of “­m aking hard things soft” evolved into one overarching question: “­How might the collaboration between an architect and a textile designer result in making ‘­hard things soft’ and what outcomes might emerge”. Perhaps one additional 468

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consequence of a reflective design research culture is that it widens the focus beyond the final intended artefact to include the overarching theoretical and social context of the praxis and its methodology, mirroring Crouch and Pearce’s observation that “­W hat unifies the design disciplines is the transformation of cultural and social life that happens as a result of designing” (­Crouch and Pearce 2012, 2). Eventually the work of TF became framed by more explicit technical, product focussed research aims and objectives for the purposes of funding or award applications. This use of explicit aims and objectives is relatively rare for designers in practice and is certainly not traditionally taught as a tool in the design studios of architecture education. But in TF their adoption provided clarity for funders and also focussed, and to some extent managed, the creativity of the team, especially in those moments when creative practitioners explore tangents away from the task in hand. However, it is important to acknowledge that had we, in TF, begun our process through a carefully considered research question and associated set of aims, we would, almost certainly, have lost motivation. Creative practitioners are frequently inspired by utopian aspirations, so it is vital that Design Research protects a space for conceptual thinking, messy making and utopian visions, from which more refined research objectives can emerge. The second reflection is about the relational nature of design and research. In the case of TF, we moved quickly into a commercial environment, funding the process through a combination of bespoke commissions and R&D grants focussed on rationalising the manufacturing process for scaled production. As such the design processes were more closely linked to delivery of a useful outcome. We were pragmatic, accepting compromise in order to deliver on time and within budget. Research on the other hand is able to unpick and dissect ideas, contexts and problems, without necessarily putting them back together; and indeed, can result as much in documented failure as it can in demonstrable success. Design on the other hand, driven by timelines, may take large leaps, drawing on tacit knowledge. These seemingly unjustified leaps overstep the usual sequential, rationalised, arguments of research and propel the process faster towards a result. However, left unanalysed, they perpetuate an unsustainable, ­non-​­transferable design culture that is costly, ­un-​­learning and undervalued. Bringing the reflective and analytical culture of Research into Design, as we did in TF, drew out tacit knowledge and knowhow and allowed it to be shared and understood among a wider community, and replicated and tested across other contexts. As p­ ractice-​­based researchers and creative practitioners we enjoyed, in fact required, the concurrence of both cultures: conceptual, pragmatic, creative design, alongside analytical, investigative, reflective research, helping to move our processes forward more effectively. We found the ­in-​­between space of design research to be a natural and rich habitat.

References Alberti, Battista Leon. 1988. On the Art of Building in Ten Books, Translated by Joseph Rykwert, Neil Leach and Robert Tavernor. 4th ed. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Austin, Simon, John Steele, Sebastian Macmillan, Paul Kirby, and Robin Spence. 2001. “­Mapping the Conceptual Design Activity of Interdisciplinary Teams.” Design Studies 22 (­3): ­211–​­232. https://­ doi.org/­10.1016/­­S0142-​­694X(­0 0)­­0 0026-​­0 Belford, Patricia, and Ruth Morrow. 2009. Woven Concrete. Paper Presented at Ars Textrina International Textile Conference, Leeds, September. Bonsiepe, Gui. 2007. “­The Uneasy Relationship between Design and Design Research”. In Design Research Now, Board of International Research in Design, edited by Michel Ralf. Basel: Birkhäuser. https://­doi.org/­10.1007/­­978-­​­­3 -­​­­7643- ­​­­8472-​­2 _2

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Ruth Morrow Cross, Nigel, and Anita Clayburn Cross. 1996. “­Observations of Teamwork and Social Processes in Design.” In Analysing Design Activity, edited by Nigel Cross, Henri Christiaans and Kees Dorst, ­291–​­318. New York: Wiley. Crouch, Christopher, and Jane Pearce. 2012. Doing Research in Design. London: Berg. Edelkoort, Li. 2012. Dezeen Live Interview at 100% Design. London: Design Festival. Online. Available http://­w ww.dezeen.com/­2 012/­12/­2 8/­­super-­​­­t echnology-­​­­i s-­​­­g oing-­​­­to-­​­­a sk-­​­­for- ­​­­super-­​­­t actility-­​­­l i-­​ ­­edelkoort-­​­­at-­​­­dezeen-​­l ive/ Fathers, James. 2003. “­Peripheral Vision: An Interview with Gui Bonsiepe Charting a Lifetime of Commitment to Design Empowerment.” Design Issues 19 (­4): ­4 4–​­56. https://­doi.org/­10.1162/­ 074793603322545055 Johnstone, Keith. 1989. IMPRO: Improvisation and the Theatre. London: Methuen Drama. Kirsch, Karin. 2013. The Weissenhofsiedlung: Experimental Housing Built for the Deutscher Werkbund, Stuttgart, 1927. Stuttgart: Edition Axel Menges. Morrow, Ruth. 2008. “­A lberti’s Missing Appendix.” Field Journal 2 (­1): ­63–​­71 Online. http://­­field-​ ­journal.org/­­w p-​­content/­uploads/­2016/­07/­­s-­​­­M issing-​­Appendix_Morrow.pdf (­Accessed 20 August 2022). ​­ ​­2011. “­Making Mad Ideas Sane.” ­T ED-​­X Belfast. Online. http://­ w ww.youtube.com/­ —​­—— watch?v=zii91Nw_8OM (­Accessed 20 August 2022). Morrow, Ruth, and Patricia Belford. 2008. “­Soft Garniture: Developing Hybrid Materials between Academia and Industry”. In Oxford Conference: A ­Re-​­evaluation of Education in Architecture, edited by Sue Roaf and Andrew Bairstow, ­357–​­362. Southhampton: WIT Press. —​­—​­— ​­2013. “­Fabrication and Ms.Conduct: Scrutinising Practice Through Feminist Theory.” Journal of Architectural Theory Review, Special Issue: Women, Practice and Architecture 17 (­­2 –​­3): 3­ 99–​­415. Polanyi, Michael. 1966. The Tacit Dimension. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Star, Susan, and James R. Griesemer. 1989. “­Institutional Ecology, ‘­Translations’ and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Professionals in Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, ­1907–​­39”. Social Studies of Science 19 (­3): ­387– ​­420. https://­doi.org/­10.1177/­030631289019003001 Urban Splash 2008. Chips. New Islington: ­Manchester-​­Apartments, Offices. HTTP online: https://­ www.youtube.com/­watch?v=kDLGoNsNz5E (­Accessed 20th August 2022). Wajcman, Judy. 1991. Feminism Confronts Technology. Cambridge: Polity Press.

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35 BRIDGING GAPS IN UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN RESEARCHERS WHO POSSESS DESIGN KNOWLEDGE AND THOSE WHO DO NOT Michael R. Gibson and Keith M. Owens A call for design researchers and their collaborators from other disciplines to reach across disciplinary boundaries Investigators who use knowledge from design to gain insight into current existence, as well as to invent future alternatives to it, often do so to generate research yields that include knowledge and ­effect—​­that is, bounded but measurable actions informed by contextualized understanding. Likewise, investigators from outside design, in particular the sciences, also possess the capacity to generate and validate new knowledge that can form the basis for understanding and action. And so, while investigators from within and outside design possess knowledge of necessary theories, methodologies and methods, as well as of the tools to allow them to gain insight and foment effective change, neither group, working alone, may have the sufficient capacity to achieve larger transformative ends. Changing conditions within which researchers find themselves, and the natural limitations of specialized inquiry, have significantly increased these deficiencies. Today, investigators from outside and inside design seek to improve conditions in areas as diverse as ­m acro-​­economic development, education, natural resource management, healthcare, public policy, and the s­ocio-​­cultural “­livability” of communities. That their focus is drawn to these significant human endeavors is not surprising, or new. What is new, however, is the fact that these investigators are increasingly being challenged to validate their understandings to the people who may be affected by their efforts. Additionally, these groups are asking to contribute to operations of the research processes and design decisions that yield results which affect them. The desire by stakeholders to play active roles in determining the criteria by which research outcomes will be developed and assessed is one of the primary stimuli for this type of participatory research paradigm (­Crishna 2007: 2­ 17–​­219; Muller 2002: ­1053–​­1057). Because the inherently narrow disciplinary focus of traditional research in any field, design or otherwise, limits its potential to address situations that involve diverse communities and their varying expectations (­Fischer 2004: 1­ 52–​­161). Societies are now evolving in a

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-40

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world where the social, technological, environmental and political challenges confronting them are increasingly too large, too complex and too interdependent for amelioration that is narrowly informed. These are s­o-​­called “­w icked” problems: i­ll-​­defined breakdowns in the social and natural fabric that resist clear definition, for which there is no ultimate “­good solution,” and which are shot through with contentious perspectives concerning e­ quity—​­what “­ought” to be, rather than what is (­R ittel and Webber 1973: 1­ 60–​­167). Logically, then, the scope and interconnectedness of real world social, economic and natural systems problems, as well as their corresponding demand to link diverse perspectives with innovative action, makes the need to overcome obstinate barriers to collaboration between designers with research expertise and other investigators all the more pressing. Ideally, these efforts could guide interdisciplinary opportunities that have the potential not only to transform how diverse investigators, stakeholders and actors work to better understand our world, but to also yield outcomes that spark and sustain transformations living within it. While the need appears pressing and the potential benefits promising, collaborative research activity across academic and professional disciplines or among diverse constituencies is generally not in common practice. More specifically, the failure to involve design researchers in investigations that require contributions from diverse communities and multiple disciplines means that these efforts are deprived of understandings that come from the unique knowledge space occupied by ­design—​­one not constrained by tightly defined, paradigmatic boundaries. As articulated by Harder, Burford and Hoover, “­Its [design’s] transcendence above paradigm boundaries gives design a privileged perspective and provides fertile ground for building up a [unique] framework of knowledge…” (­2013: 43). In what follows, some of the barriers to these types of collaborations are examined. A more detailed articulation follows delineating two specific approaches for planning and engaging in research that illustrate the value of synching understanding between design researchers and researchers whose understandings are informed by other epistemologies. It is the central premise of this piece that productive collaboration in and around ­research—​­interdisciplinary approaches to methodically guided investigation, analysis and a­ ction—​­requires bilateral understanding resulting from critical dialog, that is communication, and express agency. From this premise, it is logical to suggest that design research, in possession of its inherent array of communicative, dialogic and ­action-​­fueled tools, should be able to overcome many of the stubborn barriers thwarting collaboration between diverse investigators from within and outside of design.

Identifying and overcoming barriers to collaboration If collaboration among investigators who hail from disparate disciplines is one of the more viable means with which to engage contemporary world problems, and design researchers possess the capabilities to foster such exchanges, why aren’t these types of partnerships more prevalent? In one sense, such collaborations do exist, but are often more narrowly construed and tend to occur in n ­ ear-​­field disciplines. This is true of partnerships that call upon multiple scientific intelligences to inform their operability, such as nanobiology, bioinformatics, quantum information processing, and areas such as artificial intelligence and machine learning. This is also true of partnerships that rely on similar investigative methods despite addressing more synoptic topics of study, such as material culture or environmental science. However, forging partnerships between disciplines that are more inherently diverse, or that attempt to span entire domains of i­nquiry—​­such as the sciences and h ­ umanities—​­is more difficult. Disciplines like design that derive significant knowledge from examining propositions 472

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expressed in subjective, qualitative narratives often find themselves at odds with disciplines like agricultural management that rely more on quantitative measures to create the kind of knowledge that they value and utilize. These differences exemplify the types of barriers that exist which often hinder the cultivation of more diversely populated research partnerships. Initially and importantly, design researchers and researchers from other disciplines must dispel biases about each other. Those from outside design need to understand that designing has evolved beyond the creation of embodied aesthetics to the invention of outcomes and affordances that build value, empathy and storytelling (­Kolko 2013). It is also crucial for those working in organizations that have not embedded design as a central operating model to understand that design is anything but another formulaic means to ensure value creation (­Deserti and Rizzo 2019). Conversely, those who operate within the world of design need to seek understandings of and about how investigators who employ scientific procedures utilize theories to frame and operationalize methods, account for variables as they test concepts for validity, and document and share their processes and results. Both sides must realize that their misperceptions about each other form bulwarks that impede attempts at meaning ful dialogue, common understandings, and the collaborations necessary to address the types of i­ll-​­defined problems occurring within an ever more complex world. Beyond these basic perceptual hurdles, however, other equally obstinate impediments exist that hamper meaningful research exchange and action. Any schema of these stumbling blocks would include the following: •

•

•

•

The variances between the animating principles of design research and other purposive human endeavors, disciplines or modes of inquiry. For example, design research might be undertaken to achieve p­ re-​­determined ends rather than as an o ­ pen-​­ended method of knowledge acquisition. The difference in temporal orientation between design and other forms of research. That is, the difference between focusing on understanding what exists at p­ resent—​­e.g., gravitational attraction over distance, and a focus on inventing a future outcome not yet in ­existence—​­e.g., an empowering social arrangement that would benefit elderly ­shut-​­ins. The contrasting views held by those who engage in research informed by design and those who engage in more traditional research about the legitimate participation of those involved in their systematic inquiries. That is, a differing view about the necessary level of remove between researcher and subject. The ­well-​­recognized general impediments to interdisciplinary collaborations ( ­Jacobs and Frickel 2009: 60). For instance, the privileging of disciplinary theoretical knowledge over interdisciplinary ­problem-​­based knowledge, or the belief that interdisciplinarity is inherently ­parasitical—​­that is, it draws upon disciplinary competence in a ­non-​­reciprocal fashion.

Each of these four areas is briefly examined below. When collaborating with others to achieve a common end, partners naturally consider their common goals and the best means to attain them. Treading alongside, however, are the normalized preconceptions, dispositions and first principles coloring the worldview of all involved. These shaping conceptions are diverse and, at times, may seem incommensurate. Owen neatly captures this reality in his explication of the needs, values and measures of design thinking when compared with those of science and design (­Owen 2007: 1­ 7–​­18; ­Table 35.1). 473

Michael R. Gibson and Keith M. Owens ­Table 35.1  C  omparing the needs, values and measures that inform the thinking of designers and scientists Needs

Values

Measures

Science

understanding

correctness thoroughness

Design

form

cultural fit appropriateness effectiveness

true/­f alse provable/­­u n-​­provable Testability work/­doesn’t work better/­worse

Archer echoes this same dynamic when articulating the differences between traditions in scientific research and those common to the humanities, the former being animated by the need to explain, the latter by a desire to evaluate and at times foment change (­A rcher 1995: ­6 –​­7). Elsewhere on the same topic, Archer suggests that while design shares sensibilities with the sciences and the humanities, it enjoys a level of autonomy by virtue of its interest in and ability to actively shape the material world, one that is “­a s much made as found” (­Goodman 1978: 22). The nature of generalizability and notions about researcher involvement are two elements common to but viewed differently by these two traditions. Scientific research characteristically values “­explanations that remain valid when tested in wider and wider fields of application, and which therefore offer some powers of prediction” (­A rcher 1995: 8). Design research, however, is typically pursued through action in particular s­ituations—​­thus it is highly specific and therefore generalizable only to a very limited degree. Moreover, most scientific research is conducted to ensure objectivity and is observationally remote. Conversely, much design research purposefully immerses the investigator in the phenomenon under study, often with the explicit desire to change some aspect of it from an existing to a preferred state (­Simon 1981: 126). In a less obvious but nonetheless crucial difference, while researchers from outside design may also adopt immersive postures, especially those in the natural sciences, these investigators may not be seeking to function as situated change agents in the way that many design researchers do. Rather, they may view their immersion as a function of experiential discovery and validation instead of normative transformation. As Friedman posits, “­Design is both a making discipline and an integrated frame of reflection and inquiry. This means that design inquiry seeks explanations as well as immediate results” (­Friedman 1997: 60). A second barrier that impedes the development of mutual understanding between those who place the word “­design” ahead of the word “­research” and those who place words such as “­science,” “­m arket,” or “­medical” ahead of “­research” is that these latter constructions, “­… articulate [that which] has worked so far [whereas] design articulates constructions that might work in the ­future—​­but not without human intervention” (­K rippendorff 2007: 79). Many from outside design who have learned to engage in research to fuel knowledge are not as familiar with utilizing research to envision both the construction of new knowledge (­a rticulated as theories) and to yield applied results (­a rticulated as new processes and procedures, or new ways of facilitating services, for instance). Additionally, researchers from outside design tend to be unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the role that ­abductive—​­rather than inductive or d­ eductive—​­reasoning plays in design research. Although “­inferring to the best explanation” has been shown to effectively fuel and guide the development of concepts that are selected by project teams largely populated by designers (­Dong, Lovallo and Mounarath 474

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2015: ­52–​­55), many researchers from outside design are more comfortable with the more predictable outcomes that evolve from inductive and especially deductive approaches. Apart from differing temporal orientations, design practice and research that make concerted efforts to involve end users in problem framing and solution seeking also find themselves at odds with other disciplines that privilege “­expert” knowledge and those who wield it. In a sense, the disciplines with which design researchers wish to engage characteristically function as closed expert systems resistant to accepting knowledge generated by external sources. Thus, they may suspect methods that involve ­non-​­experts in the creation of insights and new knowledge that are difficult to measure using traditional or more widely accepted “­scientific” means. Design practice and research, on the other hand, often operate as open expert systems involving laypersons and the production of contextually derived but unquantifi­ ser-​­centric, able tacit or experiential bases of knowledge. Sanders (­2008: ­13–​­17) explores this u open paradigm in her systematic efforts to map ­meta-​­trends in design practice and research. Examples she enumerates include making use of generative tools, c­ o-​­creative practices, participatory design and ­user-​­led innovation. Bowen strikes the same participatory chord in his research into critical theory and the ways in which critical ­artifacts—​­objects or models that prompt user driven critical reflection and c­ o-​­creative s­olutions—​­can be used as, “­… tools for exploring problem contexts and generating n ­ eeds-​­focused product ideas” (­Bowen 2007: 14). Finally, although the world and its problems have fueled “…heightened demands for problem solving… [and] fostered greater interest in collaboration and the ability to work with multiple sources of knowledge” (­K lein 2006), endeavors by investigators to work across ­d isciplines—​­be it design researchers or other ­investigators—​­confront highly codified disciplines surrounded by strict boundaries. Their paradigmatic homogeneity can make them hostile to alternative conceptual approaches, and to knowledge and understandings that are not supported by their preferred modes of validation and basic notions of what counts as “­k nowing” or “­truth” or fallibility. Moreover, disciplines can be suspect of any effort that appears to draw from their respective stores of knowledge without a clear sense of reciprocity. Viewed from this perspective, interdisciplinarity, “…­is a sink in the intellectual systems while the traditional disciplines are sources” (­Hansson 1999: 340). While these highly institutionalized approaches to understanding the world and the corresponding knowledge creation and management can continue to yield deep insights and robust predictive power, they can also be resistant to the growing need for shared attempts at broader efforts at problem setting and framing, hypothesis testing, and ­meaning-​­making. However intransigent the obstacles to engaging in interdisciplinary research may appear to be, examples of more b­ road-​­based synergistic efforts have begun to emerge. For example, more recent academic collaborations between designers and anthropologists have resulted in the inception of design anthropology and design ethnography as academic degree programs or concentrations in several Western European, Australian and American universities. This is also reflected in the relatively recent rise in requests for proposals from the American National Science Foundation (­NSF), National Institute of Health (­N IH) and Department of Education (­DOE) that have called for contributions from design researchers. In the United Kingdom, the Arts and Humanities Research Council (­A HRC) of the Research Councils UK regularly solicits proposals from interdisciplinary teams of researchers, including those who possess design knowledge. These examples remain the exception rather than the rule. More often, it remains the case that “­research” employs different approaches and methods, hold different values, and have markedly different ­ends—​­seeking to negotiate with reality rather than hypothesize about it, or seeking to change the world rather than know more about it (­Frayling 1993/­1994: 4). 475

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Nonetheless, design research and other forms of inquiry or problem solving are not so dissimilar that their respective investigative approaches and solution seeking methods preclude collaborative working modes and the sharing of enabling artifacts. Key among them are ones that enable iterative testing approaches and heuristically informed feedback loops and that explicate conceptual frameworks or theoretical principles. Additionally valuable are those that support d­ ecision-​­making by working abductively to infer the best explanation for observed or experienced phenomena, and that visualize equivalencies, systems, relationships or correlations. Two case studies that follow enumerate the ways in which understandings and knowledge traditionally associated with design research can be combined with those traditionally associated with and other disciplines, such as the sciences. Each of these also exemplifies how these combinations can enrich and expand the epistemic oeuvre of all the researchers involved.

A brief description of two methods that can foster understanding and guide effective collaboration between investigators from inside and outside design Conceptual mapping Concept maps, and the mapping processes that guide their iterative, often heuristically informed creation (­Trochim and McKlinden 2017: 167), rely on utilizing diagrammatic processes to visually depict the relationships that exist between the various types of conditional factors, circumstantial issues, actors and the various networks they combine to constitute a particular situation (­­Figure 35.1; this diagram was created by the authors). These four variables, or “­concepts,” are described as follows: •

•

•

•

Conditions encompass ­socio-​­cultural, economic, political, technological and environmental factors and situational realities that can be cited as having broad causal or correlational influence on a particular set of circumstances or a given situation in the world. Examples include regular access to electricity and the internet. As described in this context, conditions tend to be ­d ifficult-­​­­to-​­i mpossible to change. Issues are qualified as having more direct, m ­ icro-​­level types of influence on the evolution of a particular situation or set of circumstances. Examples include how specific groups choose to signify social class distinctions or aspirations by possessing and operating specific types of material goods, or utilizing given types of services, as well as how these choices affect perceptions and patterns of consumption among certain populations. Actors are represented in concept maps by personas whose behaviors are hypothetically guided by particular sets of emotional, social, cultural, economic and political beliefs and inclinations. Networks can be constituted within the structure of a concept map wherever the map creators deem it necessary to organize a given group or groups of conditions, issues or actors together so that their collective influence on other networks or individual conditions, issues and actors can be more effectively understood.

Both the collaborative, iterative processes that inform the creation of a concept map, and the artifacts, services, experiences, or organizational structuring afford the members of a given research team and their ­stakeholders-­​­­cum-​­partners opportunities to “­see both the forest and the individual trees” (­Dubberly 2010). 476

how individuals perceive and act upon knowledge of their own health

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­Figure 35.1 This type of concept map provides interdisciplinary research teams with a means to work together to depict how they understand the interactions between the complex sets of conditions, issues, actors and networks that are affecting or that could affect a particular set of circumstances or situation

Bridging gaps in understanding between researchers

Michael R. Gibson and Keith M. Owens

Structurally, concept maps are neither hierarchical nor linear. They can be dynamically used to analyze multiple clusters of i­nter-​­related ideas in ways that can help construct meaning and facilitate ­sense-​­m aking. As importantly, it is the discussion between researchers from design and those from other disciplines during the configuring and ­re-​­configuring of concept maps that can yield increased understanding between them. Used interdisciplinarily, concept maps can help diversely populated research teams examine problems that call for contributions from researchers who have cultivated different types of knowledge from distinct backgrounds, who approach their work from divergent perspectives and who possess various types of expertise. These types of problems tend to require the merging, expansion, and, often, the transcendence of disciplinarily rooted understandings. An example of this interdisciplinary reorientation could be an attempt answer a question such as: how should oceanfront communities around the world prepare for the climatic changes and rise in sea level that will affect them by the latter half of the ­t wenty-​­first century (­or sooner) because of the alteration of the earth’s atmosphere? Another such question could be: how can the complex combination of social, environmental, political and biological factors that appear to be contributing to a rise in obesity rates in several populations around the world be better understood?

Conceptual prototyping Conceptual Prototyping is a iterative, heuristically informed design process that fosters and documents an ongoing series of interactions between three broadly defined groups: (­1) stakeholders who may or will be affected by the implementation of a given procedure, system, service or other human construct; (­2) researchers, often based in design, whose methods tend to yield applied means to improve how given conditions affect the situations within which the first group lives and works; and (­3) other researchers, who can and are often based in disciplines whose methods tend to yield theoretical and methodological knowledge, or validation, or predictions of the future based on the analysis of current or past events or patterns. The critical processes that guide the making of roughly articulated prototypes allow members from each aforementioned group to elucidate and discuss particular ideological viewpoints and specific cultural, social, economic, or political biases. Prototypes can be crudely realized sketches or layouts of digitized user interfaces, service design blueprints, wayfinding systems, or paginated materials. They can also consist of simple ­three-​­dimensional m ­ ock-​ ­ups of products, packages, or environments. ­Experiences—​­such as the process of attempting to obtain a vaccination against ­Covid-​­19 during its worldwide p­ roliferation—​­can also be coarsely modeled with minimal props and simple r­ole-​­playing to help improve a given group’s ability to engage in a specific set of activities. Conceptual prototyping differs from other prototyping processes in that its primary intent is not to guide the development of new products, systems or communities. Rather, the dialogic exchanges that occur during the evolution of these processes are primarily intended to foster empathy building and understanding between diverse groups of stakeholders and researchers. Discussions that surround the iterative development of a given prototype allow individuals who would otherwise rely mostly on already formed experiential knowledge to frame their questioning and commentary differently. This can lead to a r­ e-​­imagining of extant ideas about how things, interactive computational systems, environments and processes must “­work” in certain situations to meet known needs or aspirations. In his research into ­user-​­centric product design, Simon J. Bowen employs conceptual ­prototyping—​­in the form of what he refers to as critical artifacts or cultural ­probes—​­to 478

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­Figure 35.2 The Prioritizer was developed by Simon J. Bowen’s research team in response to a need voiced by groups of older stakeholders they were working with to more effectively organize and process the p­ aper-​­based correspondence they had to deal with in their homes and offices every day

enable users to, “­…articulate what they need if they don’t know what they can have” (­Bowen 2007: 6). These reflexive, iterative prototypes are not final solutions to a problem per se. Rather, they are “­conversation starters” that guide ongoing reflexive dialog between user and designer. For a scoping study on design and ageing in the home, for example, Bowen and his team developed conceptual prototypes that engaged with and accounted for concepts such as clutter. In the Prioritizer (­­Figure 35.2), they developed a shelf system that allowed users to spatially rank order and then discard the paperwork of life, especially among user groups that consisted of older people living in situations within which the need to manage paper correspondence is still a significant aspect of their daily lives (­Bowen 2007: 9). To support the idea of independence and community dependence, they developed the CommuniTools Sharing Programme, a collection of hand tools that could be shared among the community. In turn, CommuniTool prototypes generated further dialog and prototype exploration into ­product-​­based ways to increase social interactions among neighborhoods of aging populations through shared recycling. The result was the CommuniCycle System (­Figure 35.3), a modular system of rolling, communally accessible ­m ini-​­recycling stations (­Bowen 2007: 11).

Finding common ground between disciplinary barriers Both of these d­ esign-​­rooted, investigative methods exemplify means to place researchers from inside and outside design in conceptual and methodological proximity and can also help them identify and overcome both practical and philosophical obstacles to working effectively with each other. If design researchers and their collaborators from outside design can effectively address potentially contentious issues as they initiate projects together, they can operationalize an idea espoused by social scientist Dr. Lisa Campbell. With extensive experience working on interdisciplinary research teams in and around marine science, Dr. Campbell writes that, “­…challenges to deeply held, sometimes unquestioned beliefs can be opportunities for growth. This can be one of the most rewarding aspects of interdisciplinary research…” (­Campbell 2005: 575). Along with Dr. Campbell, the authors of this chapter have learned that it is advisable to address philosophical and practical differences at the outset of a collaborative endeavor rather 479

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­Figure 35.3 The communicycle system was developed as an outgrowth of the understandings that Bowen’s research team learned from their interactions with ageing people whose input helped guide the development of the communitools sharing program. This program arose as a response to the need to facilitate the regular collection, sorting and proper storage of recyclable items within the community

than during the time when the processes that guide the endeavor evolve, or when project outputs are due. The authors have also learned that it is best to identify and then discuss challenges to deeply held beliefs about framing, operating, analyzing and reporting research during its initial phases. Facilitating this identification and discussion process using methods such as conceptual mapping and conceptual prototyping can allow differently informed researchers and research subjects diverse opportunities to simultaneously “­see” and address the multitude of issues that affect the interactions within the group. Cultivating a collaborative, interdisciplinary research atmosphere is not easy. It requires concerted effort. Nonetheless, the complex contemporary issues and problems facing investigators from every discipline clearly demarcate the need to overcome barriers to interdisciplinary partnerships. Increasingly, true, durable solutions to the world’s problems will spring up from along the shared boundaries between disciplines, rather than from their respective central cores. No one discipline possesses the synoptic theory, methodology or social means to tackle the contested, ­i ll-​­defined problems vexing contemporary society. Possessing unique tools and methods to facilitate cooperative investigation, design researchers should recognize their contributory responsibility and take it upon themselves to find common ground between their discipline and others. Design, more so than other disciplines, is in a unique position to build bridges of communication and action outward rather than waiting for external interdisciplinary spans to reach it. One means that design can call upon is its ability to create situations where researchers and stakeholders of all types are invited to create physical ­a rtifacts—​­e.g., the kind that emerge from conceptual mapping and p­ rototyping—​­that depict complex power relationships and interdependencies, be they physical, social, cultural or technological. These creative acts not only explicate new ways of understanding reality in and between all involved, but, as importantly, become the catalysts for critical dialog: the active exchange of information that requires not only recognition and understanding by participants of each other’s unique insights, but also the reflexive engagement necessary to create common understandings and departure points for effective action. 480

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References Archer, Bruce. 1995. “­The Nature of Research.” C ­ o-​­design, The Interdisciplinary Journal of Design, 1: ­6 –​­13. Bowen, Simon J. 2007. “­Crazy Ideas or Creative Probes?: Presenting Critical Artefacts to Stakeholders to Develop Innovative Product Ideas.” In Proceedings of the EAD07: Dancing with Disorder: Design, Discourse and Disaster Conference. Izmir, Turkey, ­11–​­13 April 2007. Semantic Scholar, Accessed June 27, 2022. https://­w ww.semanticscholar.org/­p aper/­­C RAZY- ­​­­I DEAS- ­​­­OR- ­​­­C REATIVE- ​­P ROBES%­3A-­​ ­­PRESENTING-­​­­CRITICAL-​­Bowen/­0d1a555447e6e7144725743cbe64b5d791a977a4 Crishna, Brinda. 2007. “­Participatory Evaluation (­I )—​­Sharing Lessons from Fieldwork in Asia.” Child: Care Health and Development, 33: 2­ 17–​­223. https://­doi.org/­10.1111/­j.­1365-​­2214.2006.00657.x Campbell, Lisa M. 2005. “­O vercoming Obstacles to Interdisciplinary Research.” Conservation Biology, 19(­2): 5­ 74–​­577. https://­doi.org/­10.1111/­j.­1523-​­1739.2005.00058.x Deserti, Alessandro, and Rizzo, Francesca. 2019. “­Embedding Design in the Organizational Structure: Challenges and Perspectives.” In Design Culture: Objects and Approaches, edited by Guy Julier, Mads Nygaard Folkmann, Niels Peter Skou, ­Hans-​­Christian Jensen and Anders V. Munch, ­39–​­51. London: Bloomsbury Press. Dong, Andy, Lovallo, Dan, and Mounarath, Ronny. 2015. “­The Effect of Abductive Reasoning on Concept Selection Decisions.” Design Studies, 37: ­37–​­58. https://­doi.org/­10.1016/­j.destud.2014.12.004. Dubberly, Hugh. 2010. “­Creating Concept Maps.” Dubberly Design Office, March 16. Accessed June 23, 2022. http://­w ww.dubberly.com/­­concept-​­m aps/­­creating-­​­­concept-​­m aps Fischer, Gerhard. 2004. “­Social Creativity: Turning Barriers into Opportunities for Collaborative Design.” In Proceedings of the Eighth Conference on Participatory Design: Artful Integration: Interweaving Media, Materials and Practices, ­152–​­161. Toronto, Ontario, Canada, July 2004. Frayling, Christopher. 1993/­4. “­Research in Art and Design.” Royal College of Art Research Papers, 1(­1): ­1–​­5. Friedman, Ken. 1997. “­Design Science and Design Education.” In The Challenge of Complexity, edited by Peter McGrory, ­54–​­72. Helsinki, Finland: University of Art and Design, UIAH. Goodman, Nelson. 1978. Ways of Worldmaking. Cambridge, MA: Hackett Publishing Company: 22.
Hansson, Bengt. 1999. “­Interdisciplinarity: For what purpose?.” Policy Sciences, 32: 3­ 39–​­343. https://­doi.org/­10.1023/­A:1004718320735 Harder, Marie K., Burford, Gemma, and Hoover, Elona. 2013. “­W hat Is Participation? Design Leads the Way to a C ­ ross-​­ Disciplinary Framework.” Design Issues, 29(­4): 4­ 1–​­57. https://­doi. org/­10.1162/­DESI_a_00229. Jacobs, Jerry, and Frickel, Scott. 2009. “­Interdisciplinarity: A Critical Assessment.” Annual Review of Sociology, 35: 4­ 3–​­65. https://­doi.org/­10.1146/­­a nnurev-­​­­soc-­​­­070308-​­115954. Klein, Julia Thompson. 2006. “­A Platform for a Shared Discourse of Interdisciplinary Education.” Journal of Social Science, 5: 1­ 0–​­18. https://­doi.org/­10.2390/­­JSSE-­​­­v5-­​­­i4-​­1026 Kolko, Jon. 2013. “­Now Hiring: The Most Liberal Art.” Huffpost Arts & Culture, January 7. Accessed June 26, 2022. https://­w ww.huffpost.com/­entry/­­design-­​­­l iberal-​­a rt_b_2427295 Krippendorff, Klaus. 2007. “­Design Research, an Oxymoron?” In Design Research N ­ ow—​­Essays and Selected Project, edited by Rolf Michel, ­67–​­80. Zürich, Switzerland: ­Birkhauser-​­Verlag. Muller, Michael, and Druin, Allison. 2002. “­Participatory Design: The Third Space in HCI.” In The Human Computer Interaction Handbook: Fundamentals, Evolving Technologies and Emerging Applications, edited by Andrew Sears and Julie Jacko, ­1051–​­1068. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Owen, Charles. 2007. “­Design Thinking: Notes on Its Nature and Use.” Design Research Quarterly, 2: 2­ –​­13. Google Scholar. Rittel, Horst W. J., and Webber, Melvin M. 1973. “­Dilemmas in a General Theory of Planning.” Policy Sciences, 4: 1­ 55–​­169. https://­doi.org/­10.1007/­BF01405730 Sanders, Liz. 2008. “­A n Evolving Map of Design Practice and Design Research.” Interactions, November 1. Accessed June 26, 2022. http://­w ww.dubberly.com/­a rticles/­­a n-­​­­evolving-­​­­m ap-­​­­of-­​­­design-­​ ­­practice-­​­­a nd-­​­­design-​­research.html Simon, Herbert. 1981. The Sciences of the Artificial (­Second Edition). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Trochim, William, and McLinden, Daniel. 2017. “­Introduction to a Special Issue on Concept Mapping.” Evaluation and Program Planning, 60: 1­ 66–​­175. https://­doi.org/­10.1016/­j.evalprogplan.2016.10.006

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36 PROBING AND FILMING WITH STRATEGIC RESULTS International design research to explore and refine new ­product-​­service concepts Geke van Dijk and Bas Raijmakers Introduction Since 2003 STBY has worked on a wide range of international and exploratory design research projects for clients from both industry and public sector. This chapter describes a case study project commissioned to STBY1 and our partners in the Reach Network 2 by a global technology company. 3 The client team for this research project consisted of both product managers and designers. They were interested to explore whether the strategic direction for a new service concept they were considering would meet the needs and interest of specific groups of people, and which aspects of this concept would best match with their everyday lives. The design research project STBY conducted, together with our international partners, involved engaging with over 120 participants in three countries (­U K, Spain and Russia). The methodology consisted of group sessions (­which we called C ­ o-​­Creation Labs) and individual ethnographic and visually documented interviews, called Design Documentaries (­R aijmakers 2007). Building on our experience with this type of complex project, this chapter describes the general structure and principles for the ­multi-​­country and ­multi-​­disciplinary collaboration that is needed, illustrated with practical examples from the case study (see indented and italicised texts below).

Taking direction from the client brief The initial direction on focus and scope for a design research project starts with the client brief. Usually these briefs are fairly high level and o ­ pen – indicating ​­ a theme, ambition or a strategic consideration as the starting point for exploration. This brief informs the project proposal by the agency. The client brief for the case study project indicated several goals, so careful thought had to be put into the best methodology to achieve these. The first goal was to elicit feedback from several different groups of people on a new, e­arly-​­stage concept direction for an intended service innovation.

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The client wished to gain feedback on the design, functionality, availability and intended purpose of the new concept. This concept consisted of a new technological device combined with a range of optional service elements. While at the time of the design research project the concept only consisted of n­ on-​­functioning physical prototypes and ideas for services, a series of creative exercises had to be developed that would allow participants to explore future potential usage of the device and associated services. The second goal did not focus on the concept itself but on the context in which it would have to be used and accepted by people. This exploration of the wider context of use around the new ­product-​­service concept required a different approach, as material had to be gathered to allow the concept to be analyzed in relation to people’s everyday behaviors, routines, aspirations and apprehensions. Both of these design research goals were to be examined in three countries, with the insights gathered allowing to separate local cultural inf luences from universal responses when analyzing the results. As the overall coordinator and U ­ K-​­based team for the project, STBY compiled an international design research team with two other partners from the Reach Network for Global Design Research: Summ()­n4 for the Russian research and fuelfor5 for the Spanish research.

Developing a custom research approach A project with a complex set of strategic and creative goals, a m ­ ulti-​­faceted topic requiring foundational research, executed in different countries and integrated in the client’s innovation process, requires a bespoke approach, often with a combination of exploratory design research methods. See ­Figure 36.1 for an overview of the approach that was created for the project, and the expected results per research stage. The goals the client put forward were met through an initial round of ­Co-​­creation Labs held in parallel in the three countries. From these group sessions, four individuals were selected in each country to do further design research with, as they seemed to fit the intended target group particularly well. With each of them we spent several hours in their own environment, to better understand the context in which they lived and where the new concept would have to not only “­survive” but also add value. These visits resulted in short films, made using a method called Design Documentaries. (­Raijmakers 2007) Expected results from the group sessions and the individual ethnographic interviews included probe materials c­o-​­created by the people participating in the C ­ o-​­creation Labs, detailed profiles of the key users that took part in ethnographic interviews and the films that resulted from these. These results were used in workshops with the client team to explore opportunity spaces for the new concept and, consequently, to jointly develop new propositions within these opportunity spaces. To spark exploratory and engaging conversations in ­Co-​­Creation Labs, it works well to invite participants to respond to a series of custom designed tasks, called Design Probes (­M attelmäki 2006). These probes may consist of a sheet with, for instance, a timeline of a week, combined with several stickers indicating activities related to the research topic, plus some additional space to add personal anecdotes about these activities. The purpose

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­Figure 36.1 Overview of the bespoke design research process and its results per stage

of the probes is to trigger people’s recollection of relevant experiences and their imagination to creatively reflect on them. This way the probes enable the design research team to collect a large number of personal stories around a certain topic and then discuss these to make sure they gain a deep understanding of the stories from each participant: not just what they do but also why. Some of the tasks of responding to probes are done individually, others collectively. While responding, the participants add their own data to the probes, and thereby ­co-​­create their personal versions of the probes. ­Co-​­creation is an important element during exploratory research, as described by Sleeswijk Visser (­2 009). It draws participants in to engage with a topic on a deeper level than by just answering verbal questions posed to them. Design probes used in a C ­ o-​­Creation lab provide participants with an opportunity to play around with a question for a bit before sharing their personal reflections. Another effective method to create personal and reflective stories together with research participants is Design Documentaries (­Raijmakers 2007). This method works particularly well in combination with ­in-​­depth interviews on location. Design Documentaries are based on the thinking and practices of ethnography (­e.g. Hammersley and Atkinson 2007) and documentary film (­e.g. Bruzzi 2006). It draws on a practice with over 120 years of experience in telling stories about everyday life into design research. Design Documentaries are based on the idea of empathic conversations (­Raijmakers et al. 2009) between design researchers, the participants in the research and all stakeholders in a project. These conversations are designed to inform the research and focus on collecting stories from participants as well as expressing these in visual ways to project stakeholders. Design Documentaries do 484

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this through film, generally in short films of up to three minutes, each containing one story of one person to allow the films to be used as material in workshops and throughout the design process.

Recruiting research participants The recruitment of research participants is often the first thing that needs to be set in motion, and it needs careful direction to make sure that the sample of research participants fits with the goals of the project. STBY often works with specialized agencies for the recruitment of research participants. At the outset, the client often provides a range of characteristics for the people they would like to learn from. STBY then works with the client team to refine the recruitment profiles in relation to the project’s goal, in order to ensure that the aims for the design research can be met. Once this has been agreed, the completed specifications are aligned with the recruitment agency along with an agreed timescale. Thorough documentation of this process means the recruitment can be repeated along similar lines in the other research locations, achieving a consistency in the global sample. Consistency is not achieved via rote repetition; however, local cultural factors need to be taken into account. This requires close collaboration with local p­ artners – ​­design research cannot simply be “­cut and pasted” from one location to the next. STBY’s role in this process is to ensure that key parameters for the project are effectively interpreted for each local cultural context. Recruiting 120 people in 3 different countries within a short timescale was a significant logistical challenge. This process can only succeed when all the actions are undertaken with the ultimate aims of the project in mind, which means working closely with client team and partners to solve challenges and interpret new information. Dealing with language issues, local cultural factors, location problems and ­last-​­minute adjustments to the sample each presented their own challenges to the project. While in the UK it is possible to enlist specialized recruitment agencies, in other countries these do not exist, so the local research team needed to do their own recruitment. Making sure that all local participants would be together in the same place at the same time for the c­o-​­creation labs required a complex scheduling effort, especially as all the local sessions needed to take place within a specific period for the alignment of the international research. Ultimately however, three interesting local samples of participants based around a variety of demographic and s­ocio-​­economic variables were recruited both on time and on budget.

Preparing and conducting the fieldwork For each project a range of bespoke design research guidelines and probes or templates is developed. A fieldwork guide outlines the mix of methods used in detail and also includes concrete fieldwork materials to be used as conversation triggers and documentation. The guidelines and templates cover each step in the proposed process, outlining both the activities to be undertaken and the intended outputs of each of these stages. This provides a flexible framework for the project and a common point of reference throughout for both the design research teams and stakeholders in the client organization. As the coordinator of the project, STBY was responsible for the initial choice of methods and the translation of the strategic question from the client team into the research questions that guided the explorations with the participants. The local research teams in Spain and Russia were closely 485

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involved in conversations on how these research questions could be best explored in each country. For instance, some of the examples given as part of the instructions in the ­co-​­creation labs needed to be localized. And some of the assumptions on location, language and timelines needed to be adjusted to local customs and expectations. The research guidelines created by STBY and the partners ensured a consistent approach across geographical locations, but left enough room to create local cultural translations for the three countries to reflect local contexts. The materials produced for the ­Co-​­creation Labs had to generate structured results which could be quickly and easily interpreted during the analysis. During the actual fieldwork stage the local research teams are very busy with data gathering and documentation. But, especially with international research projects, it is important that the researchers do not get locked up in a “­fieldwork bubble”. They need to be able to move between immersion (­explorative engagement with research participants) and reflection (­initial conversations with colleagues and the client team about emerging insights). Frequent sync calls to share progressive observations and initial learnings are crucial throughout the fieldwork period. These are the moments when the research team refines their filter for deciding what to prioritize and what not. In exploratory qualitative research this is an ongoing process, which is very important for the quality and depth of the final result. This collaborative way of progressing reflective conversations keeps the various research streams consistently tuned across the countries involved. ­ o-​­creation Labs (­­Figure 36.2) across three global locations, with around 120 different parThe C ticipants in groups of about 10 at a time, were coordinated by the local research partners. A series of individual and group exercises elicited thoughtful responses in relation to the service concept, whilst provoking and maintaining the interest of the participants. The exercises were designed to capture and structure initial insights on paper and video, which were further explored in the ethnographic immersions that followed. The emphasis placed on engagement also extended to the client team. Coming from a predominantly marketing background, many client stakeholders were used to observing such sessions from behind a o­ ne-​­way screen, whereas STBY’s approach instead favors more active involvement in the ­co-​­creation sessions and direct contact with the participants. Moderated by the design research team, these sessions facilitated an open, collaborative, but still focused exploration of the topic. The subsequent round of ethnographic immersions allowed the design research team to explore, ­ o-​­creation Labs. The group sessions had allowed the in more detail, some crucial findings from the C team to identify the most promising candidates for the immersions, whilst the participants themselves benefitted from already having been introduced to the topic in the labs. The ethnographic immersions

­Figure 36.2 Photos of C ­ o-​­Creation Labs and ethnographic interviews

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also served as a way to illustrate some of the findings from the C ­ o-​­creation Labs. By structuring the interviews around the creation of a series of short Design Documentaries, the team was able to curate a repository of around thirty ­2-​­3 minute films that examined the potential usages of the new service concept from a number of ­real-​­world contexts and perspectives. A custom design research approach requires an agile research team, and both STBY and our partners in the Reach Network are specialized in that. To use creative, exploratory methods such as Design Probes and Design Documentaries effectively in a diverse and international setting is a challenge managed by each of the local design research teams in close alignment with STBY and the client team. Agile collaborations can deliver consistent results on a truly global scale, using digital platforms and tools to share and communicate throughout the project and getting together at crucial moments to analyze and synthesize. Central to this collaborative way of working is a shared online space where all the research assets are stored and shared (­e.g. Google Drive or Dropbox) as well as a digital platform for ongoing team communication (­e.g. Slack). At specific moments and for specific purposes, other digital platforms and tools are used (­e.g. digital whiteboards such as Miro, video conferencing such as Zoom, video transcription and editing such as Reduct.video). All researchers are fluent in using these tools and are also open to exploring new tools that might be folded into the mix, although one person might be more of an expert in one tool than the other. The concept of “­­T-​­shaped professionals” (­Kelley 2006) strongly resonates with STBY team members and Reach Partners, as they all combine a deep expertise in design research with additional expertise in other fields such as interaction design, social sciences, innovation management and organizational strategy.

From initial insights to refined research outcomes The initial analysis stage of clustering emerging insights is a mix of thematic analysis (­g uided by working hypotheses that the research team listed at the outset of the project) and a more ­g rounded-​­theory approach (­where new unexpected themes are identified in the participants’ accounts). The research team jointly reviews the data and clusters emerging insights around these expected and unexpected themes (­Davis Burchat et al. 2016). Whenever team members are together, this clustering may be done on a physical whiteboard, though nowadays often digital whiteboards (­such as Miro, Mural, Figma and Jamboard) are used from the start. For international design research projects, the first round of clustering is usually conducted as a local “­­pre-​­analysis” per country and then followed up by a round of synthesizing and deepening of the joint analysis. This second round offers a mutual opportunity for the design researchers and the core client team to engage themselves with the full data set and to draw out insights on recurring themes and patterns across countries. As all the data has been documented and organized according to the same predefined structure, everyone in the team is able to review and understand each other’s data easily. Openly sharing observations and thoughts during this analysis stage ensures the right focus on the project objectives. The design research team worked together on curating the final selection of Design Documentaries which could be edited from the material collected during the immersions. A 3 ­ -​­hour interview generates a great deal of material, which can be filtered and interpreted in a number of ways, and used to tell a variety of stories. This stage in the process involved an initial review of the video material by

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­Figure 36.3 Photos of analysis sessions

STBY and our Reach Network partners, who all shortlisted their preferred stories, with the final decision being made in collaboration with the core client team. The formats of the documentation are designed to allow the results to be combined into a structured overview of emerging insights and opportunities. The video editing is a form of analysis in itself, as it generates a deep understanding of the participant stories (­Davis Burchat et al. 2016). Like qualitative data analysis, the editing is collaborative and iterative. The roughly sorted data (­i nterview fragments, observed context, ­re-​­enacted practices) needs to be processed into coherent, meaningful stories. During fieldwork and initial analysis, the understanding of the participants’ practices and behaviors grows, and how their stories can be told becomes clearer. The researchers who did the fieldwork are also those who do the initial video editing to provide continuity of understanding, but the process, like most qualitative analysis, benefits from collaboration. By reflecting on the edits together, within and between the different fieldwork sites, you can strengthen how you tell these stories to others. The crafting of the films (­which are essentially the containers of the insights) across several iterations, both locally and centrally, is a crucial part of the detailed analysis of the data gathered. Involving the client team in these iterations greatly enhances their ownership of the results. The insights from the ­C o-​­creation Labs and the edited Design Documentaries were used in an interactive workshop (­­Figure  36.3) that brought together the three local design research teams and the core client team. This workshop allowed for the refinement and consolidation of the insights that resulted from the analysis into a series of opportunities and design directions related to the research objectives. Working with people from diverse backgrounds in such a workshop can be a challenge, because several different voices and perspectives are an inevitable part of the joint final analysis. However, the films ensure that the stories of the participants in the research provide an engaging and empathic common reference point. This firmly speaks to the second goal of the research: providing insight into the contexts that the concept would be used in.

Compiling research assets and visualizing strategic opportunities In the final stage of the design research project, a high level visual overview of the outcomes is created in relation to the strategic research questions. This enables the client team to come 488

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out of the project with a clear sense of the context in which the new service concept would be used, what attributes it would need to succeed and what changes might still need to be made. The final insights and opportunities identified were presented in a visual diagram on a large poster, which provided a highly engaging overview of the results. The visual diagram made clear references to the specific stories told by the participants in the films. This “­at a glance” introduction to the main results proved to be highly useful for communicating the results within the client organization worldwide. Mapping opportunity areas and detailing these with alternative concept directions in this manner provided an accessible and cohesive overview of where the original concepts were situated in relation to people’s lives. Examples of people’s imagined activities in relation to the concept added a behavioral component to the overall service concept being reviewed. Making sure the final delivery of a design research project is successful and relevant to all stakeholders requires close collaboration with the core client team. The final report should not only be concerned with producing a structured account of the work undertaken. Thought needs to be given to how the results can be communicated to new audiences and how the materials generated can be of future value to the client organization. To achieve this, the report and presentation STBY designs usually goes through several iterations, in close collaboration with the core client team. We often hand over a “­P yramid of Deliverables” (­­Figure  36.4) containing both high level outcomes (­M anagement Summary, Key Insights & Recommendations) and the underlying evidence (­C lustered Notes, Emerging Themes, Structured Documentation) (­Van Dijk and Tzanidou 2016). In addition to a clear account of the insights and opportunities identified, the report produced for this project also included extensive documentation of each step undertaken, taking care to

­Figure 36.4 Pyramid of deliverables developed by STBY to structure the outcomes of a design research project

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explain the methodology employed so that the evidential foundation for the results obtained was clear. As a visual appendix to the report, the team also edited a longer compilation film that gave an engaging overview of the project’s results. The compilation film was constructed around the actual insights and opportunities that had been identified across participants and locations. This provided an innovative, engaging and genuinely empathic link to the evidence upon which the results were based.

Socializing the results and ensuring long term value for clients An important last step of many design research projects is to provide an engaging and inspiring account of the final results to a wide range of international stakeholders, taking into account their needs, which may have changed during the research. Again, taking an agile approach to design research pays off here. A debrief presentation was delivered to a high number of stakeholders at six locations around the globe via a video conference, supported by visual materials such as the poster, the films and a deck of presentation slides. Integrating some Design Documentaries and the compilation film provided an empathic link to the evidential foundation of the work: the stories of the individual participants. This final presentation opened up the design research process to a wider audience, whilst the videos allowed the insights to be communicated in a highly engaging manner. The compilation film was later used in several management meetings higher up in the organization, effectively communicating the headline results in a way that helped them to empathize with their customers. This stage is where the involvement of STBY and the Reach Network as design researchers typically ends. The client team then further develops the propositions, merges them with other existing work and eventually introduces new products and services in several markets around the globe. Such a f­ollow-​­up process is complex, rather than straightforward, and can easily take a year to complete. The design research materials that result from a project as described here are designed to act as supporting evidence for decisions further down the line. The project must deliver both effective, immediate results and reusable assets and methods for future ­follow-​­up activities by a confident and motivated core client team. The research assets created throughout the project provided a repository of feedback that covered purpose, style and functionality of the prototypes that had been explored, and could be ­cross-​­referenced against both consumer profiles and locations. These materials were then used by the core client team in a series of internal collaborative workshops around the world.

Conclusion This ­case-​­study demonstrates that design research works well in environments and situations where great flexibility of both the team of design researchers and the methods and approach taken is required. Such situations are typical when companies innovate in a d­ esign-​­driven way (­e.g. Verganti 2009), with m ­ ulti-​­disciplinary teams using agile approaches (­e.g. Ries 2011). Research into people’s practices and motivations has to be truly integrated with the overall design and development process to be beneficial to such teams, and design research 490

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has developed approaches and methods to do so. Some key characteristics of design research in this respect, as illustrated by this ­case-​­study are: •

•

•

•

Close collaboration between the design researchers from the consultancy and the core team at the client company is crucial from start to finish. Constant joint interpretation is needed, taking into account not only the company culture but also the cultures of the participants in such often international design research. The design research approach has to be flexible to allow for ongoing adjustments, and therefore contain guidelines rather than a set of rules to follow for the design researchers in the different locations on the globe. Involving the client team in fieldwork and early analysis combined with the flexibility in the approach, allows for (­re)­focusing the design research as it unfolds and for unexpected findings (“­unknown unknowns”) to become part of the results. Design skills are crucial to expressing and using research results, be it as inspiration for design teams or evidence for strategy teams. Design research delivers value on both practical and strategic levels throughout an organization.

Notes 1 An ­A nglo-​­Dutch consultancy specialized in design research for service innovation. See www.stby. eu for more information. 2 A global network of (­in 2021) 18 consultancies around the globe who collaborate in international design research projects. See r­ each-​­network.com for more information. 3 For reasons of confidentiality the client for this project cannot be named. 4 A consultancy focused on understanding the future through design. See www.summn.com for more information. 5 A consultancy focused on design and research for healthcare. See www.fuelfor.net for more information.

References Bruzzi, S. 2006. New Documentary 2nd ed. Abingdon: Routledge. Davis Burchat, M., van Dijk, G., Gough, K., and Raijmakers, B. 2016. “­The Practice of Good Reason.” PIONEERS, Thoughts on Global Design Research, edited by Anderson, M., van Dijk, G. and Raijmakers, B., 4­ 6–​­80. London: STBY. Hammersley, M., and Atkinson, P. 2007. Ethnography: Principles in Practice 3rd ed. Abingdon: Routledge. Kelley, T. 2006. The Ten Faces of Innovation. London: Profile Books. Mattelmäki, T. 2006. Design Probes. Helsinki: University of Art and Design Helsinki. Raijmakers, B. 2007. Design Documentaries. PhD Dissertation, Royal College of Art, London. Raijmakers, B., Van Dijk, G., Lee, Y., and Williams, S. 2009. “­Designing Empathic Conversations for Inclusive Design Facilitation”. Proceedings of Include ‘­09. London: Royal College of Art. file:///­Users/ ­dejy1/­Downloads/­Include09ProgrammeBook24.pdf Ries, E. 2011. The Lean Startup. London: Penguin. Sleeswijk Visser, F. 2009. Bringing the Everyday Life of People into Design. Delft: Technische Universiteit Delft. Van Dijk, G., and Tzanidou, K. 2016. “­Working with Moving Targets.” This Is Service Design Doing: Applying Service Design Thinking in the Real World, edited by Stickdorn, M., Hormess, M. E., et al., ­499–​­503. Sebastopol, CA: O’Reilly. Verganti, R. 2009. ­Design-​­D riven Innovation. Boston, MA: Harvard Business School.

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37 MUSEUM IN OUR STREET Social cohesion at street level Emiel Rijshouwer, Dries De Roeck, Nik Baerten and Pieter Lesage

Introduction The assumed decline of social cohesion in many cities of the industrialized world poses challenges for the future. As we strive to build resilient communities in order to face current and future challenges, many envisioned solutions depend on the quality of our social interactions. This case study of the Streetstarters project carried out in Antwerp (­Belgium) describes a participatory, ­design-​­driven approach of a toolkit to enhance social cohesion at ­street ­level. In order to go beyond the many already existing ­street-​­related activities organized by local authorities or neighborhood committees, we took on the challenge to design an attractive product, service and experience that would stimulate people to engage in dialog or other social activity. As such we aimed for an intervention that would invite rather than push people to participate. In order to achieve this, we initiated a participatory and ­design-​­driven process between two design agencies and neighborhood inhabitants, actively involving them as stakeholders in the creation of concepts. The design process consisted of six steps, i.e., field research, cultural probing, concept development, concept testing and stakeholder involvement, concept refinement and prototyping, and implementation and validation. In this chapter, we elaborate on the design process and its result: a ­do-­​­­it-​­yourself kit to create window museums aimed at stimulating conversations, thereby contributing to an increase in social relationships at street level.

Social cohesion In recent years, social relationships have become increasingly complex, dynamic and multidimensional and perhaps even more volatile, particularly in urban contexts where increasing amounts of people from different cultures and of all generations live in rapidly changing neighborhoods. Also, new media and communication technologies alter the way people live and work, seemingly making them less dependent on p­ roximity-​­based relationships. Increasing individualization and virtualization in general leave the impression that ties between neighbors and fellow citizens in many cities of the industrialized world have become weaker in the past years (­Bauman, 2000). It should therefore come as no surprise that today,

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many people experience a lack of social commitment and sense of togetherness in the areas in which they live. At the same time, the need for greater autonomy and s­elf-​­reliance at the local level rises, caused, for example, by a decrease of government involvement as well as by a decrease of trust in institutions. In that respect, it is believed that any investment to build stronger social interactions locally, for example through increased local interdependence, mutual comprehension, shared values and common goals, is bound to lead to societal improvement (­De Boer and Van der Lans, 2011). Social cohesion is considered one of the essential ingredients of a healthy, resilient society. “­It refers to the extent of connectedness and solidarity among groups in society. It identifies two main dimensions: the sense of belonging of a community and the relationships among members within the community itself ” (­Manca, 2014). As the cohesion within a community grows, so does the potency of the community, which enhances its ability to tackle challenges. Any means or event that stimulates or intensifies the interaction and the dialog between people positively contributes to the formation and the strengthening of a healthy social fabric (­Blokland, 2006).

Background to a design challenge In the Streetstarters project, the foresight and design studio Pantopicon and creative agency Studio Dott (­named Concrete during the time this project ran) dedicated themselves to whether and how it would be possible to contribute to the strengthening of social cohesion by means of a design intervention. The team at Pantopicon has a strong background in explorative, participatory research and c­ o-​­creative concept generation. These skills are complemented with Studio Dott’s experience in product development, visualization and prototyping. Social cohesion is shown to be in decline (Peters and Debosscher, 2006: 22). From the onset of the project, the team’s objective was to develop an intervention that would appeal to people’s intrinsic motivations, rather than adding to the various already existing ­street-​­related activities, organized by local authorities and neighborhood committees and, as a consequence, strongly dependent on ‘­experts’. They set out to design a ­low-​ ­threshold, attractive product, service or experience that would stimulate people to engage with one another. The city of Antwerp (­Belgium) served as the physical backdrop against which the project was developed, as in Flanders (Belgium), researchers describe an evolution from a more or less uniform value system to a pluralist system in terms of ideology, political affiliation and personal lifestyle. Social cohesion is shown to be in decline (Peters and ­Debosscher, 2006: 22). In order to be specific in our objectives and to ensure the manageability and feasibility of the project, the notion of social cohesion was narrowed down to one of its aspects considered having a positive impact in terms of stimulating ‘­small, volatile encounters’ e.g., a nod, a greeting or the exchange of a few words between p­ assers-​­by. Throughout her career, the w ­ ell-​­known urban sociologist Jane Jacobs repeatedly emphasized the importance of this almost imperceptibly moving past each other in an urban context. Sidewalks allow relatively high-bandwidth communication between total strangers, and they mix large numbers of individuals in random configurations. ( Johnson, 2001: 94) Without the open, feedback-heavy connections of street culture, cities quickly bec[o]me dangerous and anarchic places. (ibid: 94)

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Sociological research points out that it is not the strong ties we have with family, friends and colleagues, but rather the volatile, o ­ ne-​­off encounters we have in public space which shape our experiences and our feelings (­both positive and negative) regarding the city’s social tissue in a major way (­Blokland, 2006: 10). Also, in the ­F lemish-​­Dutch context, the importance of small encounters is confirmed by Ruth Soenen (­2006, 2009), who claims that small encounters play a significant role in defining the sense and feel of a city. In 2006 the Flemish Minority Centre presented the simple but effective observation that if one wants people to engage with one another, they first need to know each other (­Peters and Debosscher, 2006). In this case, it is not about people knowing each other well, but about the development of a certain basic knowledge about fellow citizens’ personalities and their daily behaviors. This notion of familiarity is reminiscent of what Stanley Milgram calls familiar strangers, i.e., individuals (­neighbors) whom one recognizes by their regular patterns and activities, but with whom one does not necessarily interact directly (­M ilgram, 1977). Considering small encounters as a fundamental step in catalyzing further interaction between people living near each o ­ ther – thus ​­ weaving social c­ ohesion – a​­ participatory, d­ esign-​ ­d riven process was set up by Pantopicon and Studio Dott with as its main challenge: To come up with a design intervention to trigger and to stimulate small encounters between people living in each other’s immediate surroundings. An additional aim of this project was to exhibit how a d­ esign-​­driven participatory process could serve as a valid approach for social innovation and showing its potential in addressing local social challenges. This endeavor, which we called Streetstarters (­Straatstarters in Dutch), eventually led to Museum In Our Street (­MIOS), a ­self-​­explanatory toolkit designed to invite and stimulate fellow inhabitants of a street (­segment) to share something about themselves in a visual way, thereby providing an intuitive and l­ow-​­threshold intervention for further n ­ eighbor-​ ­interaction. The toolkit includes various design touchpoints which together form a platform for communication, allowing people to participate in the manner they l­ike – ​­(­pro)­actively or reflectively. In this way, MIOS catalyzes neighborhood encounters, thereby enhancing the social cohesion in a b­ ottom-​­up fashion, organically driven by the people themselves.

Designing for social purposes At the start of the project, there was a clear focus in terms of the topic area, but there were few ideas of what the ‘­solution’ to the problem could or should be like. Hence, a constructive approach was taken, positioning key stakeholders (­i.e., street inhabitants) as the primary source of insight. Their insights would provide a source of inspiration for idea generation and concept design. The full ­process – ​­from field research through concept design and ­testing –​ ­took about eight months. A participatory process was designed, putting emphasis on various moments of interaction between the design agencies and neighborhood inhabitants, hence actively involving them as key stakeholders in the creation of concepts. More specifically, the process consisted of six steps: 1 Field research 2 Cultural probing 3 Concept development 494

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4 Concept testing and Stakeholder involvement 5 Concept refinement and Prototyping 6 Implementation and Validation Building on u ­ ser-​­centered design methods (­Sanders and Stappers, 2008) we created a process that was clearly d­ esign-​­led. We started with an expert mindset performing observational research and developing cultural probes. Once a round of internal (­­expert-​­led) concept generation was finished, we made an effort to involve as many stakeholders as possible to reflect and react upon our proposals, to r­e-​­shape and to share their comments and reservations regarding them. The result was taken up and refined internally, among experts, leading to prototypes tested in several urban areas. Each of the steps of this social design trajectory will be described briefly in the following paragraphs.

Field research In order to grasp the physical context of the streets as well as to get a better grip on the notion of ‘­small encounters’, field research was conducted. Initially this consisted of simple observations. The researchers positioned themselves as ‘­fl ies on the wall’, trying to be as unobtrusively present as possible, while taking in the environment and observing the events taking place on the streets. These simple observations were followed by encounters with people on the streets, some casual, others directed (­i.e., by knocking on doors). Respondents were asked about their experiences regarding encounters and social contacts in their streets. This phase was announced by means of information leaflets distributed door to door, explaining the initiative and the presence of the team in the street, inviting people to join the conversation. People willing to participate were asked to place the leaflet behind their window (­­Figure 37.1). Each team member operating in the streets would also wear a badge featuring the project logo present on the flyer in order to be easily recognizable and approachable.

Cultural probing After the exploratory field research, three people in every street were invited to complete a probe or ­interview-​­kit. These kits, inspired by cultural probes (­Gaver et al., 1999, 2004), are attractively ‘­packaged’ and include ­self-​­explanatory working materials, which encourage respondents to perform certain tasks independently, thereby allowing researchers and designers to look and experience life ‘­through the eyes’ of their subjects. The 15 probe kits that were distributed contained: • • • •

A disposable camera to take pictures of specific situations and capture neighborhood encounters, memories, threats and annoyances. A diary to keep track of daily encounters, including a local street map in order to pinpoint encounters spatially. A cardboard figure of a person on which to write one’s personal definition of a good and a bad neighbor. A medal which participants are supposed to hand over to the one person in their street, whom they would consider the ‘­m ayor of their street’ (­i.e., the person who, through their presence or initiatives, makes the street a ‘­community’). 495

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­Figure 37.1 By placing the flyer behind their windows, participants expressed their willingness to share their experiences, which helped the project team to identify motivated participants

•

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A series of postcards to note: “­The best memory I have living in this street ... “; “­W hat neighbors can always come to ask me”; “­W hat I always wanted to know (­but never dared to ask)”; “­W hat I’d rather share/­not share with my neighbors”; “­W hat I would like other neighbors to do”. A detailed ­photo-​­montage of all the facades of houses in the street, on which one could place stickers near the houses of people one knows. The color of the sticker would correspond to how well one knows the other person (­e.g., We are friends (­g reen); We know each other by name (­blue); I have only a general impression of the person(­s) living there (­yellow); I don’t have a clue who is/­are living there (­red).

­ robe-​­kits are not an instrument to collect quantitative data, but a generative research tool P which allows design researchers to gain a better understanding of the context, the experiences, the tacit knowledge and the latent needs of subjects (­Gaver et al., 2004: 53; Sleeswijk Visser et al., 2005: 122). The probes were designed in a way that required repeated attention over a longer time span, nudging participants to reflect a little longer on them, and on their thoughts, feelings and experiences regarding their neighborhood. This approach gave the design team a more thorough understanding of the lives and environments of their subjects, enabling the former to experience life through the senses and sensations of the latter without being present all the time (­­Figure 37.3). 496

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­Figure 37.2 ­Probe-​­k it and its contents

­Figure 37.3 Returned probes

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­Figure 37.4 Interviews/­conversations were conducted during the collection of the p­ robe-​­kits

Instead of having participants send the kits back by mail, they were interviewed using the collected material as a basis for conversation (­­Figure 37.4). Within the comfortable setting of their home, people would spontaneously share experiences and insights, often enriching the material further with anecdotes. The medals and the maps with the pictures of the facades in particular led to extremely useful insights. Through the medals, it became clear that in every street at least one person took the lead in social activities (­when asked, or of their own initiative). In one of the streets that we probed, one lady appeared to have received a medal from each of the participants. The ­streetview-​­like facades ­m ap – ​­which was tailored to match each participant’s s­ treet – ​­provided a particularly strong affordance for people to recount stories, most likely due to the immediate way in which people could recognize ‘­their’ streets and ‘­their’ homes, making them feel addressed in a personal manner. Strikingly, many used the map to recount the history and the evolution of (­their life in) their street over time (­­Figure 37.4). Hence, the maps did provide the designers/­researchers with a more profound understanding of local social networks, barriers (­spatial, cultural, ­personality-​­and ­behavior-​ ­w ise, etc.) and the differences between generations.

Intermediary conclusions From the field research and the probes, we learned that mutual encounters and social contacts are often invisible in streets. At the same time, we learned that decorations on facades, accessibility of gardens and posters behind windows could be interpreted as forms of communication between inhabitants and their neighbors and ­passers-​­by. Both the topology of the street and the age group to which one belongs (­a nd the extent to which it is represented in the street) seem to have a major impact on how the feeling of social togetherness is experienced. 498

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Furthermore, it became clear that, in order to establish first contact, people usually need a reason to actually go and speak to each other (­e.g., an event, a child, a dog or a new car, a problem or a need). It was felt that once this threshold has been passed, further communication becomes a lot easier and also prejudice makes room for what one has in common with the other. Clear commonalities were that in every street, quite a bit of personal matters was shared among inhabitants, while at the same time most people did not appear to have a clue of each other’s professions or birthdays. Moreover, motivated by Flemish culture, the threshold or reluctance to meet inside each other’s homes appeared relatively high. Shared stories and gossip (‘­public secrets’) serve as a binder, as a vehicle to underscore relationships and to express unwritten rules (­Elias and Scotson, 1994). Most streets involved did feature clearly identifiable individuals who take initiative and ‘­lead’ others. Often, inhabitants made clear that it is almost always the same individual(­s) who take the initiative of organizing street events, thereby playing a key role in neighborhood contacts. These intermediate conclusions set the scene for further concept development. Based on the interviews and probe results, the designers/­researchers received confirmation of their assumption that the end result ought to be inviting to people to participate, yet not constricting them to do so. We decided that it should be a l­ow-​­threshold, communal conversation starter of some form, allowing participants to define the actual contents of conversation by themselves, not pushing them in a specific thematic direction or presenting them with fixed rules.

Concept development Based on the insights derived from the field research and the probes, the project team organized an internal brainstorm about possible interventions by which encounters and social contacts at street level could be stimulated. In order to kickstart the brainstorm session, the most important insights and learnings gathered from the observations, probe kits and interviews were presented concisely. Building upon those insights, dozens of seeds for ideas were envisioned. These were then clustered according to common characteristics, such as the inclusion or exclusion of digital technology, ­location-​­specific ideas, reward systems, gaming ideas, social media inspired ideas, social signs and symbols, etc. (­­Figure 37.5). Given the limited scope and t­ime-​­span of this project, a pragmatic approach on c­o-​ ­creation was taken: creating a level playing field among participants (­e.g., avoiding having them to start to envision their own solutions from a blank sheet) and to narrow down the

­Figure 37.5 Internal brainstorm session

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solution space to the most promising ideas, the team opted for an intermediate form of c­ o-​ ­creation by using the concepts developed ­in-​­house, translated into storyboards or customer journeys1 as a starting point for discussion with the involved streets’ inhabitants. These storyboards would lay the basis for reflection and serve as a springboard for further discussion among inhabitants on the distinct approaches toward the establishment or enhancement of the local social cohesion that they embodied. As such, these representations functioned as a breeding ground for further tweaking by the target audience. The creation of the concepts as storyboards and customer journeys was a balancing effort in terms of being defined enough to convey the storyline, while at the same time staying on an abstract level, in order to allow sufficient room for discussion, change and addition by respondents. The created storyboards were first and foremost conceived as tools for dialog, rather than tools for visualization in view of implementation. An example of such a storyboard can be found in F ­ igure 37.6 (­steps 1 through 4). In total, six storyboards were created, each integrating different results from the brainstorm session. Step 1: Street inhabitants receive mail, containing a kit to help to k­ ick-​­start conversations. Step 2: Each kit contains a set of instructions, several stickers with icons and an announcement on which date(­s) the event will take place. Step 3: Neighbors place, according to their own interests, one or more stickers behind their window. By doing this, they express themselves on a very general level, thereby lowering the barrier to start a conversation.

­Figure 37.6 One of the six concepts: using a wide range of window stickers, any occupant or family member could create a profile of themselves on the facade of their house (­for example here, ‘­we love to play cards and to watch football matches’), which could trigger encounters, conversations or joint initiatives between inhabitants (­i.e., to play cards together or to discuss football matters)

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Step 4: People can express common interest in posting cards that are included in the kits in each other’s mailboxes when the step to ‘­face to face’ contact is still too big.

Concept testing and stakeholder involvement The six storyboards were presented to a stakeholder group within the setting of an interactive workshop. The goal of this workshop was not to select one concept, but to figure out which concepts or conceptual elements were interesting to the target audience and worthwhile to further elaborate upon. Since the project’s focus was on social encounters in an urban context, it was decided beforehand to assemble a very diverse group of inhabitants of the streets selected to partake in the project. Besides the collection of the reflections of a diverse group of inhabitants, it was equally important to hear the opinions and to learn from the experiences of representatives of existing neighborhood initiatives. Furthermore, local civil servants and policymakers were involved to get feedback on organizational and political levels. Eighteen people in total took part in the workshop, which started with an introduction of the topic and a brief overview of the conclusions which led us to creating the first concepts. Afterwards, the group was split into three smaller groups of four to six people. These were invited to join three different workshop facilitators, each of which introduced the groups to two storyboards and invited the participants to reflect upon and to enhance the presented concepts (­­Figure 37.7). The facilitators of the workshop paid close attention to engaging people in a constructive dialog, instead of merely asking them for their opinions or comments. People were asked how they would improve the concept, thereby triggering them to think both critically and creatively (­­Figure 37.8). Once all groups had had the opportunity to discuss each of the concepts, each participant was given two stickers to vote on the proposals by means of answering two questions:

­Figure 37.7 A total of eighteen participants were divided into three smaller groups. Each group reflected on two storyboards in a constructive dialog

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­Figure 37.8 Each storyboard was presented on a large sheet of paper. Workshop participants could express what they liked about the concept and how the concept could be improved

“­W hich is your favorite concept?” and “­In which initiative would you personally take part?”. The total number of stickers added to each concept description sheet gave an indication of the overall popularity and potential of the respective concept or part of its features. The workshop concluded with a wrap up of each of the concepts and the improvements proposed during the course of the evening.

Concept refinement and prototyping After the workshop session with stakeholders, the concepts scoring highest in the stakeholder voting appeared to be those that offered an open platform function, allowing people to be creative in the use of the concept. For example, the window sticker concept mentioned earlier was received rather positively. It is an example of leaving the end result open, but providing some sort of guidance for creation. This adds to our previous observations and conclusions, resulting in the final concept, a set of tools (­a kit) that allows people to publicly share something about themselves with others living in their street. By doing so, a local ‘­street museum’ is created which provides involved citizens with conversation starters. The final concept is illustrated in the storyboard in ­Figure 37.9: 1 Street inhabitants receive a kit, which includes cards to motivate others and create a buzz in the street 2 Those who decide to participate are invited to use the provided material (­stickers) to create a (­­picture-​­)­frame on their window, place an object inside it, and stick a description next to it. 502

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­Figure 37.9 The final MIOS storyboard

3 People can respond to their neighbor’s showcase by using appreciation stickers (­included in the kit) on their windows. 4 Additional cards are provided to enable participants to further engage in dialog with those neighbors with whom they share a common interest or by whose contribution they are triggered to start a conversation. As the storyboard shows, the Museum In Our Street (­MIOS) concept allows a variety of ways to participate. For instance, as experience showed, some people actually craft artifacts specifically for the occasion; others show holiday pictures or drawings of their children; and there are people who decide not to display anything, but who participate by using the provided materials to express their interest in the work of others, potentially at another time. Using the provided cards, people can choose to communicate via indirect contact at first. This lowers the threshold for them to engage with each other socially, but it does not exclude traditional ways of communication (­ringing at someone’s door, for example) to still take place alongside the provided tools.

Implementation and validation The final step in the design process was to develop a prototype of the final concept (­MIOS) and to validate it in a ­real-​­world context (­­Figures 37.10 and 37.11). Ideally, a pilot test would have been set up first, in which the concept could be tested with a small group of people 503

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­Figure 37.10 Finalized ‘­Museum In Our Street’ kits including picture frame tape, appreciation stickers, an object description, a suction cup to attach objects to a window and communication cards

using a low fidelity ­mock-​­up of the kit. Due to time and budget constraints, however, there was no opportunity for iterative testing. Therefore, the choice was made to immediately roll out a few dozen kits, to be tested on a larger scale. During the design of the final MIOS materials we had to take into account that quite a few of the provided materials would need to stick to people’s windows, withstand weather conditions, yet be easily removable and leave as little marks as possible once removed. Therefore, a careful analysis of adhesive, printable foils was undertaken in order to make sure no damage would be done to people’s property during testing. Two trials were completed in the city of Antwerp. The pictures shown in ­Figure 30.11 illustrate typical results, which attempt to do justice to the wide variety of creative expressions we encountered. The first trials were organized by assigning key individuals in a street the task of distributing the kits and motivating fellow street inhabitants to participate. From 504

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­Figure 37.11 Two examples of MIOS in use during testing. The family in the bottom picture ­re-​­used the box provided with the kit to create a ‘­cabinet’ to make a display case of drawings and small objects

interviews with these people, we learned that as soon as the first ‘­museums’ started to appear in the streets, more people became interested and started to look for ways in which they could join in. The evaluation of the first trials was done at a social event that took place in the street. During this event, a wide variety of participants were interviewed using ­semi-​­structured interviews. The insights that emerged from the interviews brought forward several conclusions regarding the approach and the e­ nd-​­result. Some highlights of these were: 505

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It is crucial to identify people already fulfilling key roles in the streets or who have the skills and willingness to serve as entry points to the local community. In the most practical terms, such as distributing the various kits as well as the explanation that went along with them, they are of great value. They often set the example: when they participate, others generally follow. We learned that a ­step-­​­­by-​­step approach in which first the most active people are involved, followed by those showing natural enthusiasm, including local ‘­role models’, works well. There is no such thing as having too many ‘­like’-​­stickers in the M ­ IOS-​­kits. People like to pay compliments to one another. Children, followed by adults, love to make a tour in the street and place stickers on the windows as signs of appreciation. The cards to stimulate further communication proved superfluous in the first tests, as people felt they did not need them. They provide an extra possibility, an extra tool to nudge others to participate, yet can be considered ­just-­​­­in-​­case ­add-​­ons. Possibly, leaving space on the ‘­like’ stickers to add a short message, could serve a similar purpose.

Conclusion and discussion The intervention In the streets in which MIOS has been deployed, it has clearly had an impact on the amount and nature of small encounters between people living in each other’s immediate surroundings. We witnessed everything from simple conversations to more profound connections being made through MIOS, e.g., one p­ asser-​­by got into a conversation about musical instruments on display and, consequently, ended up as a musician in the band/­orchestra of the exhibitor. The street exhibitions did not only serve as a catalyst for conversation between exhibitors and spectators. Also, among mutual spectators there has been quite some interaction: sometimes ephemeral, between accidental ­passers-​­by, sometimes more ­debate-​­like, among family members or groups of neighbors making their rounds as curators along everything on display. In the days prior to the street exhibitions, one could notice an increased degree of interaction between neighbors as well. As expected, it is crucial to identify people already fulfilling key roles on a street level or with the skills and willingness to act as entry points to the local community. Specifically in relation to taking on practical tasks, such as distributing the various kits, as well as the explanation accompanying the kits, these people are of indispensable value.

The process The intensive observation and conversation techniques that we have used in our analysis have helped us to distil insights that have proven to be much richer than those derived from the literature available to us. Not only have these tools allowed us to get a stronger grasp of the phenomenon of ‘­social encounters’ in the specific context of the neighborhoods in Antwerp; our visibility and intensive presence in the selected streets have provided us with privileged access to the experiences and the context of the inhabitants. Besides that, we can assert that the project and its theme as ­such – ​­social ­encounters – ​­became a subject of conversations between inhabitants as well. By making use of the ­self-​­explanatory ­probe-​­kits and by organizing reflection sessions, we have been able to gain additional insights into social

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dynamics at the neighborhood level. Not only did we gain a better understanding of the experiences and specific (­latent) concerns, wishes, needs and ideas of our target audience as ­we – ​­using these specific m ­ ethods – engaged ​­ them simultaneously as c­ o-​­creators as well as ­test-​­audience of our shared ideas. During the process, we were well aware that the level of involvement of the target audience could have been a lot higher. As in any ­user-​­driven design project, it was essential to build upon a strong network of partners, allowing us to gain feedback at key moments throughout the project. Since this project needed to deliver a tangible result within a certain timeframe and within defined budget limits, we needed to evaluate carefully at which moments stakeholders could be involved. A very important factor that made this project possible within the given constraints was the involvement of civil servants of the city of Antwerp, who provided us with access to their stakeholder network. As such, the latter proved a significant factor in the success of M ­ IOS-​­projects. Although MIOS has been released under a creative commons license, which makes it freely available to any street imaginable, it has only had traction in cities willing to actively invest in enhancing their social tissue. The MIOS project can be considered a success, both in terms of process and result. First and foremost, it has demonstrated the value of design methods in researching and addressing societal challenges: the participatory ­design-​­driven research and development process provided the researchers/­designers, as well as the municipality, with a valuable analysis of the problem space; it productively informed the development of an effective intervention; and it provided inhabitants with an actual voice in its production.

MIOS: ten years later The MIOS project was completed in 2012, and first published as a case study in this book’s first edition in 2015. Even now, ten years after the project was completed, it remains a case study our research and design practices keep coming back to every so often. MIOS has been a project that has functioned as a stepping stone toward other projects in the urban participation context, for example Studio Dott went on to create an audio based urban participation pavilion and Pantopicon and Emiel Rijshouwer worked on a wide variety of design and futures-driven research projects and interventions to stimulate and support urban participation and democratization. What makes the MIOS project stand out is its simplicity and ­accessibility – ​­most participants seem to immediately understand the format and appear to be more than happy to share something about themselves or their passion. This results in a strong sense of ownership in those who participate in MIOS, as the MIOS tools (­cards, frame, stickers) provide just enough structure and triggers for people to get going. Even after ten years, we believe the MIOS project is still relevant and is still able to provide value when it is introduced in a neighborhood, particularly when being supported by one or more engaged ambassadors. However successful and interesting the results, it should be noted that a project result like MIOS is hard to keep alive without it being embedded in a larger organization or as part of an organization offering it. The companies that brought MIOS to life were able to do this using a research grant, which unfortunately did not allow them to continue to actively promote the p­ roject – apart ​­ from creating a website and offering it as an open source concept. And while the approach taken and method used is still appealing to people, it really requires active organizational support. Ideally MIOS should be embedded in a larger participation policy or offered as additional service by organizations engaged in community work or neighborhood development.

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Acknowledgments The ‘­streetstarters’ project (­of which MIOS was an outcome) was originally funded via an open call by Design Flanders and the Flemish Association of Cities and Municipalities (­V VSG). In general, the project needed to address ‘­a social design project in collaboration with a Flemish municipality’. Studio Dott and Pantopicon, whose offices are both located in Antwerp, chose to collaborate with the city of Antwerp (­Belgium) and tackle the issue of social interaction at street level.

Note 1 Visual representations of a concept, that illustrate the envisioned product or service in a ­story-​­like way, showing how people interact with it in a certain context.

References Bauman, Zygmunt. 2000. Liquid Modernity. Cambridge: Polity Press. ­Blokland-​­Potters, T. V. 2006. Het Sociaal Weefsel Van De Stad: Cohesie, Netwerken En Korte Contacten. Utrecht: Dr. Gradus Hendriks Stichting. Boer, N. G. J., and Jos van der Lans. 2011. Burgerkracht: De Toekomst Van Het Sociaal Werk in Nederland. The Hague: Raad voor Maatschappelijke Ontwikkeling. Elias, Norbert, and John L. Scotson. 1994. The Established and the Outsiders. London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi: SAGE. Gaver, Bill, Tony Dunne, and Elena Pacenti. 1999. “­Design: Cultural Probes.” Interactions 6 (­1): ­21–​­29. Gaver, William W., Andrew Boucher, Sarah Pennington, and Brendan Walker. 2004. “­Cultural Probes and the Value of Uncertainty.” Interactions 11 (­5): ­53–​­56. Johnson, Steven. 2001. Emergence: The Connected Lives of Ants, Brains, Cities, and Software. London: Penguin Books. Manca, Anna Rita. 2014. “­Social Cohesion.” In Michalos, A.C. (­eds), Encyclopedia of Quality of Life and ­Well-​­B eing Research, ­6026–​­6028. Dordrecht: Springer. https://­doi.org/­10.1007/­­978-­​­­94-­​­­0 07-­​­­ 0753-​­5 _2739 Milgram, Stanley. 1977. “­The Familiar Stranger: An Aspect of Urban Anonymity.” The Individual in a Social World: Essays and Experiments. Reading, MA: ­Addison-​­Wesley, ­51–​­53. Peters, Arno & Debosscher, Tine. 2006. Praktijkgids sociale cohesie. Vlaams Minderhedencentrum. Sanders, Elizabeth B ­ -​­N., and Pieter Jan Stappers. 2008. “­­Co-​­Creation and the New Landscapes of Design.” ­Co-​­design 4 (­1): ­5 –​­18. Soenen, Ruth. 2006. Het Kleine Ontmoeten: Over Het Sociale Karakter Van De Stad. Antwerpen: Garant. Soenen, Ruth. 2009. De Connecties Van Korte Contacten. Een Etnografie En Antropologische Reflectie Betreffende Transacties, Horizontale Bewegingen, Stedelijke Relaties En Kritische Indicatoren. Dissertation, KU Leuven. Visser, Froukje Sleeswijk, Pieter Jan Stappers, Remko Van der Lugt, and Elizabeth B. N. Sanders. 2005. “­Contextmapping: Experiences From Practice.” CoDesign 1 (­2): ­119–​­149.

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38 GEOMERCE Speculative relationships between nature, technology and capitalism Giovanni Innella and Gionata Gatto

Introduction Before starting with the description of the project GeoMerce, it might be helpful to start with a brief preamble to help the reader understand what the project reacts to and what conceptual framework generated its narratives. The 1970s and 1980s were characterised by a growing exploration of artificiality and the development and use of materials that have increasingly mediated the relationship between humans and nature. Artificiality has inspired the work of architects and designers, who have tried to picture a world with less and less nature, or with an artificialised relationship with it. In 1984, the exhibition Neomerce: The design of the invention and artificial ecstasy was presented at the Centre Pompidou in Paris (­Santachiara and Montedison, 1985). The exhibition was curated by Denis Santachiara and explored the technological possibilities of those years while speculating on possible new ways of living. Projects in that exhibition included a raincoat equipped with lights and speakers to simulate the thunder and lightning of a storm, a mechanical prosthetic that simulates the stimuli of a pregnancy, and a set of furniture that expresses emotions like ­house-​­pets, among others. The trajectory traced by Neomerce projected the visitor as far as possible from Nature, into a world where artificiality offers a surrogate of it. ​­ the GeoMerce, on the other hand, attempts to trace a return path of the same ­journey – with certainty of getting lost somewhere. Our journey starts from that very point of technological progress where Denis S­ antachiara – and ​­ the next 3­ 0–​­40 years of d­ evelopment – ​­brought us, but with the clear intention of abandoning the dichotomy of Nature/­Technology, and attempts to focus on Nature as a network of biological and technological agents. The premise is to imagine an evolution in terms of economic, cultural and political views that deviates from the path traced by the current line of progress. The next sections of this chapter describe the project, and the network of knowledge, skills and expertise it harnessed throughout its process. Finally, the project GeoMerce is analysed critically in order to unveil its signifying meanings.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-43

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GeoMerce Phytoextraction and phytomining GeoMerce is an installation presented for the first time in Milan, during the week of the Salone del Mobile 2015, at the ErreCi ­photo-​­studios. The key scientific principle that this project is based upon is one of phytoextraction. Phytoextraction is the ability of plants to absorb metals from the soil through their roots. Some plants are exceptionally efficient at absorbing specific heavy metals such as zinc, copper and nickel from the soil where they grow, and accumulating these metals in their leaves. Those plants are known as ­hyper-​­accumulators. The accumulated metals can be extracted by harvesting the plants’ leaves and burning the biomass. This process is called phytomining.

The London metal exchange Starting from this notion, GeoMerce reconsiders the way we commonly think of agriculture and our relationship with the natural environment around us, in favour of finance. In order to understand such a shift from agriculture to finance, one needs to understand the way metals are valued and traded in our economies. It is common knowledge to think of precious metals as financial assets whose value fluctuates constantly. That is not only true for Silver or Gold. The London Metal Exchange is an international marketplace where the quotations of all metals are updated every two minutes, following information about supply and demand and the strategies that characterise financial speculations (­Moore and Cullen, 1995). That is not much different from the stock market, and metals are in fact not very dissimilar from stock options. Taking this concept about the trade of metals, and keeping in mind what has been described in the previous paragraph about phytoextraction, it becomes easy to understand how fields and crops cultivated with ­hyper-​­accumulators can be looked at as fluctuating financial assets, or sources and reservoirs of capitals.

The installation As an installation, GeoMerce renders visible the phytomining process, by tracking it and visualising it in r­ eal-​­time. The information about the amount of metals in the plants is combined with the ­real-​­time value of the accumulated metals. As a result, the value of the plants varies constantly according to the metals’ market value and the plants’ accumulation performances. GeoMerce draws a scenario in which agriculture blurs with finance and farming decisions are made according to both financial changes and scientific progress. In seeking to craft a technological and aesthetic apparatus for our installation, we came across a number of concerns. First, how to synthetise in one design the interconnections between biological and financial processes? Second, how to represent the performative dimension of such relationships, through what design elements and what information should those elements produce? And last, what aesthetic did we have to employ? Those questions led to further questions, which inspired the final design of our project. GeoMerce came about as the result of several prototypes and experiments, and included different design elements, functioning in synergy with each other. The installation is composed of five parts, each of them playing a crucial role in conveying the functioning and meaning of the project to the audience (­­Figure 38.1). The following paragraphs describe each component of the installation both technically and conceptually. 510

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­Figure 38.1 GeoMerce as exhibited in the ErreCi studios, Milan, Italy, in 2015

The extraction units The first part consists of three hydroponic systems with aluminium legs, a glass bowl for a hydroponic medium, two sensors and an LED light to keep the plants alive. Those units are designed to metaphorically work as a piece of mining apparatus. As such, they feature an ore to mine and a technology that does the extraction (­Wood and Samson, 1998). The ore consists of a solution that contains the metal, whose amount (­198 mg. of nickel sulphate, 195 mg. of zinc sulphate or 142,5 mg of copper sulphate) was determined on the basis of previous laboratory works (­Visioli et al., 2012). Seven plants, arranged in a circular array on the top of a Corian plate, work as a living extraction technology. That number corresponds to the average distribution of ­hyper-​­accumulators on 1/­4 square metres of land and are used as a parameter to programme the processor to which the hydroponic systems are connected. Last, each bowl embeds a series of technical elements: a water oxygenator, a second glass ­vessel – ​­which compensates for the evaporation of hydroponic medium, and a couple of Ion Selective Electrodes (­ISE). The latter, in particular, are fundamental to operate GeoMerce and centralise the role of ­hyper-​­accumulating plants in its design (­­Figure 38.2). In order to read the signals from the electrodes, they are connected to a potentiometer and a central processor (­a raspberry PI), both positioned outside the hydroponic systems. With the electrodes plugged in and the potentiometer powered on, the hydroponic system can communicate with the processing unit. The potentiometer was programmed to receive a signal from the sensors every two minutes. Once the cell performs a mission, it returns an analogic signal to the potentiometer, which converts it into a digital output, readable from the PI (­­Figure 38.3). The results of each potentiometric session are available via the processor as a .txt document, in which each mission is represented via one text string. 511

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­Figure 38.2 One of the three extraction units, featuring the Ion selective electrodes immersed in the liquid ore

­Figure 38.3 Data from a potentiometric session. The column of numbers with the yellow background indicates the time interval between missions. The column of channel 0, on the right, shows measurements from a Zinc ISE; the column of channel 6 shows measurements from the reference electrode. The column on the right indicates the temperature

Each string contains the different parameters analysed on one single mission. Programmed to work at specific time intervals, the technological assembly “­­sensors-­​­­potentiometer-​­PI” is used as a method to obtain ­real-​­time feedbacks about the activity of the ­hyper-​­accumulator plants. This allowed us to use the sensors as an enabling technology, capable of including plants into the setup of GeoMerce. 512

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The brain The data related to the quantity of metals in the plants provided by the Extraction Units is transmitted to the second part of the installation, which is referred to as The Brain. The Brain is a device that on one hand receives the information about the extracting performances of each plant, and on the other hand is connected to the London Exchange Market so to receive updates about the fluctuating value of the collected metals. The Brain features a screen displaying the fluctuations of the collected metals on The London Metal Exchange (­­Figures 38.4 and 38.5). It also serves another, more important function: it combines the data provided by the Extraction Units and the London Metal Exchange in order to provide what arguably can be considered the ­real-​­t ime value of the ­hyper-​­accumulating flora. Digital theorist Roy Ascott (­2000) provided a rationale for conceptualising the brain’s functions, in particular his notion of “­Moistmedia” (­A scott, 2000), upon which we built to craft a crossover between biological and digital data. We conceptualised the brain as a b­ io-​­digital processing unit, which could simultaneously collect the “­wet” b­ io-​­feedbacks of ­hyper-​­accumulators and the “­d ry” algorithms of digital finance, and merged them together to generate what Ascott defines a “­moist” domain. To write The Brain’s programme, we worked on the convergence of the three types of data. First, those extracted from the changes in the hydroponic medium, as a result of the plants’ extraction tasks. Second, those gathered from the financial market of metal commodities. Third, a combination of the two sources. Programming such convergence involved several steps. As first, we defined the operation modes of the processing unit, by grouping single events into operational phases: a “­r untime” phase, one of “­g raphs’ composition”, one of “­d rawing”. We then programmed the daily performances, each of which had to last nine hours. Every 60 minutes, the processor collects thirty figures (­one every two minutes) concerning the extraction performance of the group of plants, plus thirty other figures

­Figure 38.4 Representation of the financial value of three metals using segmented lines. The numbers correspond to actual metal values, expressed in US dollars per metric tonne

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­Figure 38.5 The Brain unit assembled and cabled

concerning the financial value of the metal in the market. Biological and financial data are then crossed through the following algorithm: [av_ metal_value * (­metal_ amount_ * 4 * 1000)]; The amount of metal absorbed by each hydroponic unit in the last hour is multiplied by four. The resulting figure represents t­he – speculative – ­​­­ ​­amount of metal collected from a group of plants in one square metre of soil. That value is then multiplied by 1.000 (­one hectare of land) and the result is multiplied again by the metal’s average value. The series of numbers and figures that results from those operations are the “­moist” figures of GeoMerce.

The circular plotters The result of the data regarding the quantity of metals extracted by the ­hyper-​­accumulators combined with the r­ eal-​­time value of the extracted metals is then transmitted to three circular plotting units (­­Figure 38.6). The installation features three of these Circular Plotters drafting graphs on special round sheets of paper. Each of the three Circular Plotters is programmed 514

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­Figure 38.6 One of the three circular plotters tracing graphs about the copper extraction

­Figure 38.7 Example of a print produced from one plotter, in one day

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to produce one printed artefact per day (­­Figure 38.7), which refers to nine hours of daily operation (­09:­0 0 – ​­18:00). The vertical lines drawn on the external area of the print refer to data concerning individual plant performances at time intervals of two minutes. The segmented line refers to the financial trend of the extracted metal; every change in that segment refers to value variations in the market, at time intervals of two minutes. The numbers printed between the two green circles express the speculative yearly value (­in US dollars per metric tonne) of a hectare of contaminated soil, assuming this was cultivated using ­hyper-​­accumulators.

The lenses Not all the components of GeoMerce are active or moving. While conceptualising the installation, we felt the need to mediate actual scientific content, to strengthen the perception of GeoMerce’s process as believable evidence. This applied particularly to the perception of the scale at which those processes take place. How small is a metal molecule? How much metal can a plant accumulate and where does it physically end up? These questions led us to design some objects inspired by the laboratory work of scientists and comprising a series of hanging elements inside which we exhibited the foliar organs of ­hyper-​­accumulators. Through

­Figure 38.8 The Lens hanging in the exhibition

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­Figure 38.9 Chemical clearing of a Ficus Benjamina’s leaves

a specially designed protocol involving a progressive chemical “­clearing”, these leaves were made transparent, retaining at the same time the entirety of their vascular system. The leaves are then cast into clear resin, together with fragments and powder of the metals that they are able to extract. The final design recalls the visual archetype of a magnifying lens, as an invitation for the viewer to come closer and look through the objects (­­Figures 38.8 and 39.9). Plants represented in the lenses include both ­hyper-​­accumulators and m ­ etal-​­tolerant species such as Arabidopsis Halleri, Noccaea Caerulescens, Niccotiana Rustica and Silene Vulgaris. The presence of transparent leaves embedded in resin provided visual representations of the otherwise invisible effects of these plants’ physiological mechanisms. Such processes could not be enabled by the animation, in that it necessitated q­ uasi-​­scientific artefacts that could be empirically experienceable. Moreover, these elements did not just account for the process of metal uptake but also connected temporally distant events. The metal outside the leaves recalls the b­ y-​­product of previous industrial activities that altered the environment. The presence of transparent leaves saturated of minerals, on the one hand, recalls the process of physiological adaptation of these plants after decades of environmental pollution; on the other, it brings us into a speculative future dimension, accounting for hypothetical processes that are ­not-­​­­yet-​­here. This part of the exhibition helps visitors understand where the metal is accumulated and makes a direct relation between the plants and the metals.

The GeoStory The last part of the installation is an ­audio-​­visual animation projected on a circular horizontal surface of Corian carved as a landscape. This surface represents a plot of land and 517

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the video projected onto it is a narrated animation that describes the fictional story. The storyboard was designed using graphics inspired by Google Maps, which we used to animate the past, present and possible futures of a fictional industrial area (­­Figures 38.10 and 38.11). Beginning from a factory that polluted air and soil, we represented a hypothetical scenario where local people started growing plants to reclaim polluted land, while extracting valuable metals. Because plants accumulate metals in the form of molecules, our video aims to represent the size of the micro and the ionic, which is normally invisible to the naked eye. Starting from a smoking chimney, the animation draws the path of some metal molecules, until they

­Figure 38.10 Frames from the video representing GeoMerce’s scenario

­Figure 38.11 The GeoStory video projected on the milled Corian surface representing a landscape in the installation

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penetrate the ground, slowly reaching a plant’s roots and then its foliar organs. The video moves on to represent fields as financial assets, whose productiveness is half dependent on plants and half from financial trends. The animation approaches the theme of environmental contamination, but without the urge of necessarily proposing solutions to that problem. Instead, it projects an ­open-​­ended future of collaboration between people and plants. The idea of designing an ­open-​­ended scenario, rather than a predictive or a prescriptive one, appeared to us as an opportunity to keep the project open to individual interpretations of what the future under question might look like. This was done by inviting the viewers to independently reflect about the possible implications of the project. This animation, which we call GeoStory, helps also to inform visitors in a linear and accessible way about phytoextraction, phytomining, the London Metal Exchange and how such information is assembled through the project.

GeoMerce as a network Design of GeoMerce GeoMerce’s design process was made possible thanks to the convergence of conceptual, scientific and technological knowledge. This synthesis was achieved through several interactions between designers, scientists and technology producers, within places that extended beyond the traditional design studio, including, for instance, plant sciences labs and greenhouses located within several universities. The activities included workshops and conversations with biologists and agronomists, laboratory experiments, walks and sampling done on a contaminated site in Italy. During those activities, it was essential to comprehend the different expectations of the actors involved. That is, the objectives that motivated their engagement and participation in the process and find a way to align these through GeoMerce. One issue we encountered, was of a technological kind and concerned the difficulty of finding sensors to be used for monitoring the activity of ­hyper-​­accumulators in real time. One lab workshop evidenced the diversity in expectations between us, the scientific institution we collaborated with, and a technology producer, concerning the development of a s­ensor-​ ­based monitoring device in the area of phytomining research. Plant scientists, for instance, are used to working with plant cuts and tissues, but rarely with living samples. The development of such a technology was seen from the collaborating scientists as an opportunity to explore new research protocols to work with those plants. The technology producer, a Swiss company called ­C-​­CIT, looked at the production of the sensors as a way to promote the company reputation in the field of bespoken devices. In an interview, the CEO claimed that “­the project is not, and will never become a project where the huge money lies […] but it is a very ‘­pressish’ project” (­Gatto, 2020). In the words of the interviewee, pressish means that the project is appealing to the press, whether for its accessibility for the general public, or because it is an aesthetically intriguing installation when exhibited or portrayed in photographs. This statement of the CEO reveals that, in his view, investing in GeoMerce would probably guarantee them returns in terms of visibility and reputation. The development of GeoMerce showed that design can engage with challenges that are ­multi-​­faceted and ­multi-​­scalar, thus requiring expertise from different domains and actors (­Irwin, 2015). Here, as argued by O’Brien et al. (­2013 page numbers?), “­linear models of research and knowledge transfer have been challenged, with suggestions [ for approaches] that recognizes the need to engage stakeholders [and] frame problems […] widely and more collaboratively”. The interdisciplinary research upon which GeoMerce is based demonstrates that transfer of knowledge 519

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between disciplines and practices is possible and desirable, and that the network that becomes formed is regulated by expectations and objectives that needs to be accounted for, in view of granting and maintaining the participation of stakeholders.

Circulation of GeoMerce Taken on its own, GeoMerce is a project that ­re-​­imagines agriculture as a speculative network of biological, technological, and economic agents. Being designed to be publicly exhibited, however, GeoMerce also enables conversations and it contextualises its contents. A number of different design events and venues provided occasions to connect GeoMerce to different geographical contexts. Circulating the work also helped us to better understand it: not just what it is that we had actually designed, but also the scope and implications of the project in relation to different social and cultural settings. Between 2015 and 2020 GeoMerce was installed at several venues across Europe, mostly at public design events. Each time, the project remained for three to four days, during which it performed, gathered data and printed information. The rationale that followed for all the events focussed on the value of GeoMerce in those specific geographical c­ ontexts – and ​­ the value of the contexts for GeoMerce. In synthesis, GeoMerce acted as an activator of new local networks of knowledge. In particular, we were interested in understanding how the actors who populate each context carry different types of expertise, how such expertise can be shared within the network, and through what kind of ­meaning-​­making mechanisms. Theorist Donna Haraway refers to the result of these processes as “­situated knowledges” (­Haraway, 1988). Those can be complex and sometimes contradictory but have the advantage of opening up to ­in-​­depth analysis, shedding light on how knowledge flows across different subjects and disciplines. The strategy we used was based on an inventive method, that is, “­following the plant” (­Gatto and McCardle, 2019). In doing that, we understood what actors we could collaborate with and how they could i­nform – and ​­ be informed b­ y – GeoMerce. ​­ Collaborators included plant scholars, members from local communities, environmental activists, designers, sociologists, and technology producers. We also familiarised ourselves with the sites in which those actors live or work, and explored modes of interaction between designers and practitioners in other fields. While following the plant, our research revealed three major sites of knowledge production: The Field, The Scientific Lab, and The Showroom (­Koskinen et al., 2011). The Field is the growing place of ­hyper-​­accumulators and reflects a multitude of different, at times complex and contradictory expectations for the network’s participants. The Field – ​­in this case a series of contaminated ­territories – ​­is a working site for scientists, it is a matter of concern for local communities, it represents an opportunity for the construction industry, and it is a resource for ­hyper-​­accumulating flora. Walking across those places guided by scientists and through the support of Geographic Information System (­GIS) methodologies, it is possible to experience a new Nature, where artificial and biological life are deeply entangled (­Steinberg and Steinberg, 2015). The Field is a fundamental knot in GeoMerce’s knowledge network, as its identity is continuously stabilised and destabilised from the political, social and scientific forces who operate on the territory and the actors who exert those forces. The Lab is the locus of plant research and c­ ontext-​­specific botanical knowledge. Prior to the opening of each GeoMerce exhibition, we used workshops and brainstorming sessions as interactive catalysts, through which scientists and designers could collaborate and share expectations, bridging facts with speculation about the future. For instance, in the case of GeoMerce, a lab technology and its associated protocols were taken as points of departure to 520

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explore in real time the extraction abilities of endemic species, and their possible implications for the future of local contaminated sites. The Showroom is the site where situated knowledges become shared and their implications get discussed, opening the network to broader audiences. GeoMerce indicated that The Showroom can work as a site of synthesis, aggregation and transdisciplinary relationships. In this project, for instance, The Showroom opened spaces of articulation and negotiation about the environment, by means of instruments such as public presentations and debates. Here participants interacted with each other and the project; in doing so, they transferred individual expertise to others, in both horizontal and vertical ways (­Gatto and McCardle, 2019).

Critical discussion GeoMerce is a complex project offering multiple angles for a critical discussion. The following paragraphs briefly describe some of the insights that working and disseminating GeoMerce has generated.

Accessibility The first layer of analysis indicates that GeoMerce can be read as a d­ esign-­​­­cum-​­science experiment and comes about as an informative project. While phytoextraction and phytomining are scientific principles that might seem obvious to the scientific community, the general public is mostly unaware of them and their applications. Design, with its engaging aesthetics, narratives and storytelling is a powerful medium to transmit complex information in more accessible ways than the ones commonly employed by scientists. The numerous events where GeoMerce was exhibited confirmed that the visiting audiences easily understand the science and technology upon which the project is based and actively engages with the narrative that this contributes. They also demonstrate that a GeoStory is always a situated story, and that its plot aggregates different publics in relation to the settings of the context in which it is displayed.

Speculative design as catalyst The project saw the participation of many different experts and professionals. From the biologists offering their expertise on plants and phytomining, to financial advisors suggesting tools and ways to quantify economic value, to scientists developing sensors to track the absorbing performance of plants. Additionally, v­ ideo-​­makers, tinkerers and programmers were involved in the realisation of this large and complex project. From this project we have learnt how a speculative project like GeoMerce serves as a catalyst for people from very diverse backgrounds to come together and develop networks and strategies to exchange information. Considering that this was a project with a relatively low budget, it is safe to state that all parties involved took part in the process for other reasons than monetary ones. Speculative design offers seemingly impossible challenges that trigger the motivation of many professionals. Furthermore, working on an installation that will be publicly exhibited offers another layer of motivation and excitement that the project can benefit from.

On ­eco-​­capitalism GeoMerce’s quality of being accessible, as discussed in the first paragraph, allows it to function as a catalyst for discussion and to expand the debate beyond the scientific notions that are 521

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contained within the project. It is clear that GeoMerce also serves as a commentary on our current and future economies and politics. While GeoMerce seems to hint at the possibility of a bright and positive future, it also casts the shadows of a dystopian scenario in which financial profit and actual or speculative monetary value determine every aspect of our world, including Nature and our relationship with it. By reducing Nature to a service provider for human economics, GeoMerce serves as a trojan horse that first seduces the viewer with the promise of a rising Green or ­Eco-​­Capitalism; while on the other hand it reveals the horror of a world where Nature is just another form of financial asset (­Sullivan, 2009). In his book Green Capitalism: The God that Failed (­Smith, 2016), Richard Smith criticises the capitalistic approach in tackling environmental issues. Even if initially the capitalistic enterprises may admittedly bring some advantages, Smith argues that the intrinsic nature of capitalism would lead to an exploitation of the environmental resources beyond the limits of sustainability. GeoMerce can be looked at as a materialisation of the criticisms that are shared by Smith. This is even more clear in the final part of the GeoStory when the video suggests that the future of GeoMerce might lay in genetic modifications to improve the phytoextraction performances of ­hyper-​­accumulator plants. The doubt that should rise in the thoughts of the visitor is whether the improved ­hyper-​­accumulators would be owned, patented or traded and by whom. Moreover, the concerns could focus on the soil and the effects that a p­ rofit-​­led intensive phytomining activity could have on the land. Quickly, the debate would spin in a capitalistic vortex that is hard to break, unless capitalistic logics are taken out of the equation.

Conclusions and future work At each stage of the GeoMerce project, we have noticed how the processes it generated represented opportunities for an exchange that otherwise would not have happened. During its conception and making phase, the powerful narrative of GeoMerce served as a catalyst to attract experts from various fields. Experts including biologists, technologists and financial agents felt compelled to take part in the narrative that GeoMerce built. In many ways, GeoMerce proved itself successful in serving as an opportunity and a context to allow conversations among diverse sets of expertise, knowledge, and ways of looking at Nature. After the project was completed and made public, GeoMerce continued its role as a conversation activator. The narrative itself of GeoMerce invites the audience to think of a future for its story and reflect on the suggested scenarios. Acknowledging a shift in the relationship between humans and Nature, GeoMerce adds technology and economics to its speculative narrative. The result is an implicit criticism to Green Capitalism instilling doubts to the direction our economies seem to be heading towards. As mentioned in the Introduction, the project GeoMerce started as a late response to the exhibition curated by Denis Santachiara titled Neomerce (­1984). As suggested by the curator of that exhibition, Neomerce highlighted the “­ecstasy of the artificial”, suggesting with a somewhat positivist attitude that Nature can be surrogated or replaced by modern technologies, and that humanity can find a sense of elation in this. GeoMerce extends and diverts from that direction, unveiling the “­ecstasy of the capital” and suggesting a less optimistic view on a relation with Nature deeply corrupted by Capital. As for the future, GeoMerce sets the foundation for a possible body of work that continues to question the current and future relationships between Design, Nature, Technology, Economics, and Politics. This represents a fertile ground for both collaborations with experts of different fields and for instigating debates on urgent issues such as Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Biopolitics and Geopolitics. 522

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Insights Each project teaches us something, especially when complex and prolonged in their process. GeoMerce allowed us to engage with an expanded network, not only for what concerns its technical and scientific contents, as described in this chapter. The initial and most substantial resources for the project were gathered by applying to an open call published by Creative Industries Fund NL, a public fund in the Netherlands for Design, Architecture and Digital Culture. Once the fund was awarded and the concept of the project was defined, in order to build GeoMerce’s network it has been crucial to secure an exhibition venue during a popular event, such as the Fuorisalone in Milan. Fuorisalone indicates the numerous collateral events that happen in the city along with the official Salone del Mobile di Milano. In our case, ErreCi studios has served as the exhibition venue, which offered us a space at no costs as the owner was looking for content to drive traffic towards their recently opened restaurant. This allowed us to reach out and negotiate with technical and scientific partners more easily, since we could offer them visibility during the event. However, this is not the sole reason why partners joined in the project. GeoMerce represented for many of the people involved a challenge, a vision to strive for even if clearly speculative and imaginative. This was the case of the several plant scientists involved, who provided a space in their labs for testing the sensors, in exchange for promising new tech to be possibly used for future research. It is difficult to know exactly what made GeoMerce worthy of the efforts of so many actors, besides the visibility and technological promises it offered. It probably represented the right balance between scientific feasibility and the excitement that utopian/­dystopian scenarios generate. Summarising the process of GeoMerce into a sequence of actions that can be replicated to achieve similar results is not a straightforward task. However, should one try to do that, the sequence could be: identify a relevant field and build an engaging and visionary story within it, apply for funds, understand what partners could collaborate and their motivation, offer them a role in the narration of the project, some visibility and technical challenges, consolidate the assembled network, design and exhibit the installation in a way that is accessible, organise public events where opinions and information can circulate, invite media representatives and send out press releases. And finally, hope that everything will work just fine throughout the whole process.

References Ascott, R. 2000. ­Edge-​­Life: Technoetic Structures and Moist Media, in Ascott, R. (­Ed.), Art, Technology, Consciousness: Mind@Large. Bristol: Intellect, ­pp. ­2 –​­6. Gatto, G., 2020. Design as Multispecies Encounter: Plant Participation and Agency In and Through Speculative Design. PhD Dissertation, Loughborough University. Gatto, G., and McCardle, J.R. 2019. Multispecies Design and Ethnographic Practice : Following ­Other-­​­­Than-​­Humans as a Mode of Exploring Environmental Issues. Sustainability 11(­18), 5032; https://­doi.org/­10.3390/­su11185032 Haraway, D. 1988. Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective. Feminist Studies 14, 575. https://­doi.org/­10.2307/­3178066 Irwin, T. 2015. Transition Design: A Proposal for a New Area of Design Practice, Study, and Research. Null 7, ­229–​­246. https://­doi.org/­10.1080/­17547075.2015.1051829 Koskinen, I., Zimmerman, J., Binder, T., Redstrom, J., and Wensveen, S. 2011. Design Research Through Practice: From the Lab, Field, and Showroom. Burlington, MA: Morgan Kaufmann. Moore, M.J., and Cullen, U. 1995. Speculative Efficiency on the London Metal Exchange. The Manchester School of Economic & Social Studies 63, ­235–​­256. O’Brien, L., Marzano, M., and White, R.M. 2013. “­Participatory Interdisciplinarity”: Towards the Integration of Disciplinary Diversity with Stakeholder Engagement for New Models of Knowledge Production. Science and Public Policy 40, ­51–​­61. https://­doi.org/­10.1093/­scipol/­scs120

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CELEBRATING THE PLURALITY OF DESIGN RESEARCH Paul A. Rodgers and Joyce Yee

This 2nd edition of The Routledge Companion to Design Research has attempted to bring together a collection of high-​­​­​­ ­­ quality examples of design research that demonstrates the strength and depth of the field. It represents a ­­state-­​­­­​­­​­­­of-­​­­­​­­​­­­the-​­​­​­a rt snapshot of current thinking, practices and debates. We have tried to be as inclusive and representative as possible, surfacing new concerns while also offering readers pragmatic guides on how to plan, practise and promote their design research. Design research has come a long way since its inception 60 years ago. Beginning with a more scientific approach to the study of design methods, the 1st generation design research in the 1960s was focussed on studying and codifying design activities dominated by the fields of architecture, engineering and industrial design (­­Bayazit 2004). The 2nd wave of design research was a reaction against the failed attempts at rationalising design methods and an over-​­​­​ ­­ s­ implification of complex ­­real-​­​­​­world problems. The term ‘­­w icked problems’ coined by Horst Rittel and Webber (­­1973) was introduced and designers were urged to consider how might they understand and use design in situations of uncertainty with ill-​­​­​­ ­­ defined and incoherent problems (­­Schon 1987). Rather than looking elsewhere, design researchers were motivated to define their own ontological and epistemological foundations and to critically examine their own disciplinary practices that better reflected the turn to more social ways of understanding design. Cross’s ­term – ​­​­​­‘­­designerly ways of knowing’ (­­2001, 2006) was an acknowledgement that design has its own culture and practices distinct from the arts or sciences. The late 1990s and early 2000s were focussed on efforts to do so and saw the expansion of conceptual, methodological, technological and theoretical approaches in design research. When we first brought together the 1st edition of this volume in 2015, we were struck by the plurality of design research that embraces the generous, inclusive, explorative, serious, creative, critical, participative and inquisitive attitudes that were driving contemporary design research. We argued then that design research is not only ‘­­alive and kicking’, but it has also continually evolved in order to maintain relevance to ongoing social, economic and increasingly ecological concerns (­­Rodgers and Yee 2016). In so doing, design research has had to be disruptive, useful, messy, political, impactful, enduring, confident, thoughtful and clear (­­ibid., p­ p. ­­18–​­​­​­19). Now nearly eight years on, this 2nd edition illustrates the various ways design research has expanded, not just in volume, and geographic range, but in disciplinary scope, complexity DOI: 10.4324/9781003182443-44

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and impact. We see an increasing focus on using design research to challenge the status quo and acknowledge different ways of knowing and doing that allows for a world of many worlds to exist. New voices from new places have also emerged to contribute to the debate. These shifts are represented by new movements in design research to pluralise (­­Escobar 2018), decolonise (­­M ignolo 2011; Quijano 2000) and consider ­­more-­​­­­​­­​­­­than-​­​­​­human practices (­­Forlano 2017). The role of ethics and politics are also much more explicit and evident in how design research is talked about and applied. Unsurprisingly, key texts such as Papanek’s Design for the Real World (­­Papanek 1971) and Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed (­­Freire 1968) have resurfaced as important references reflecting our concerns with climate change, social justice, equality and inclusion. Design in its bid to redesign itself has also become more critical in questioning its methods and onto-​­​­​­ ­­ epistemic foundations. Its close links to industrial practices borne out of Western modernist ideals is considered increasingly problematic and at odds with attempts to pluralised design research. Often this means asking difficult questions about the complicity of design in furthering existing structures of power. Fundamentally, the act of designing still involves the intentional shaping of materials (­­physical or otherwise). Creative making and exploration remains core to design practice and research. We witness new ways in which making is understood and conceptualised, for example, by bringing in indigenous knowledge into weaving or considering AI and software algorithms as design materials. Visual, embodied and sensorial approaches remain key to design research. Finally, design research continues to involve rich, complex and layered practices that use creative practices to explore fundamental questions. Ultimately what questions are worth exploring lies with the design research community. Considering the expansive, critical and reflective examples in this volume, we believe we are in good hands.

References Bayazit, Nigan. (­­2004). “­­Investigating Design: A Review of Forty Years of Design Research.” Design Issues, 20:1, ­pp. ­­16–​­​­​­29. Cross, Nigel. (­­2001). “­­Designerly Ways of Knowing: Design Discipline versus Design Science.” Design Issues, 17: 3 (­­Summer), ­pp. ­­49–​­​­​­55. Cross, Nigel. (­­2006). Designerly Ways of Knowing. London: Springer. Escobar, Arturo. (­­2018). Designs for the Pluriverse: Radical Interdependence, Autonomy, and the Making of Worlds. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Forlano, Laura. (­­2017). “­­Posthumanism and Design.” She Ji: The Journal of Design, Economics, and Innovation, 3:1, p­ p. ­­16–​­​­​­29. https://­­doi.org/­­10.1016/­­j.sheji.2017.08.001 Freire, Paulo. (­­1968). Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York: Continuum Mignolo, Walter. (­­2011). The Darker Side of Western Modernity: Global Futures, Decolonial Options. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Papanek, Victor. (­­1971). Design for the Real World: Human Ecology and Social Change. New York: Pantheon Books. Quijano, Anibal. (­­2000). “­­Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America.” Nepantla: Views from South, 1:3, ­pp. ­­533–​­​­​­580. Rittel, Horst and Webber, Melvin. (­­1973). “­­Dilemmas in a General Theory of Planning.” Policy Sciences, 4:2 ( ­­June, 1973), ­pp. ­­155–​­​­​­169. Rodgers, Paul A. and Yee, Joyce. (­­2016). Design Research is Alive and Kicking.... Paper presented at ­­DRS2016 -​­​­​­ Design Research Society 50th Anniversary Conference. http://­­w ww.drs2016.org/­­023/ Schon, D. (­­1987). Educating the Reflective Practitioner. San Francisco, CA: J­­ ossey-​­​­​­Bass.

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INDEX

3D printing 444, 446, 448, 455 3D scanning 446, 448 A Filosofia do Jeito 217 Aalto University 109, 111, 302 abduction 27–28, 36–37, 134 abstraction(s) 110, 239, 242, 245, 248, 253, 256, 261–265, 267, 268, 313–314, 321 abstractionism 45 Abya Yala 68, 291, 295, 298 academia 63, 92, 97, 99, 142, 162, 181, 287, 459, 461, 465–466, 470 action research 3, 15, 20, 32, 129, 178, 188–189, 191, 200, 239–240, 269–277, 279–284, 321, 324, 328, 330, 332, 338, 340, 348–349, 431 actor network theory 301, 371 adversarial design 117, 343, 348 advertising 133, 328, 350, 416, 420, 423, 477 aesthetic 8, 23, 30, 33, 49, 65, 72, 75, 82, 100, 106, 108, 117, 125, 146, 177, 189, 215, 223, 230, 234, 238, 262, 313, 329, 348, 380, 386, 408, 418, 421, 447, 468, 473, 510, 521 affordance 21, 234, 473, 498 Africa 164, 178, 357 African-centred HCI 170 Africans 64 Against Method 13, 22, 325 agency 54, 114, 118, 128–129, 154, 178–179, 182–184, 186, 205, 210, 229, 236, 241, 304, 339–342, 344, 346, 350–351, 355, 360, 364, 370–371, 374, 395, 429, 432–433, 437, 467, 472, 482, 485, 492–494, 523 Albarrán González, Diana 170, 175, 285–298 Albert, Hans 37–38 Alessi 109 Alexander, Christopher 102, 110 ākonga 430

algorithmic design 443–444, 446, 450–451 alien phenomenology 113, 124 Allied Media Projects 193 altruism 423–424 ambiguity 10, 38, 99, 108, 153, 391 Anaissie, Tania 194, 196–197, 200 analogy 9, 91, 100, 149, 180 Anastassakis, Zoy 3, 240, 299–309 Animism 119, 121, 125, 221 Ansari, Ahmed 61, 72, 298 Antarctic, Antarctica 91, 357 Anthropocene 26–27, 63, 125, 308–309, 522 anthropology 55, 58, 61, 73, 89, 104–105, 108, 110–111, 130, 133, 135, 153–154, 164–165, 167, 175–176, 221, 240, 256–259, 267–268, 292, 297–298, 301–302, 305–309, 327, 329, 335–336, 338, 350, 392, 394–395, 400, 402, 410, 412–413, 418, 475, 524 anthropophagy 71, 73 anti-design 53 antimicrobial resistance (AMR) 153 Antwerp 492–493, 504, 506–508 Aotearoa New Zealand 240, 287, 430, 434, 440 Apabhramsha 79 Appadurai, Arjun 9, 75, 89, 154, 164 apprenticeship 12 Aquinas, Thomas 7, 48–49 Archer, Bruce 11–12, 14, 18, 22, 25, 32, 34–35, 38, 141, 143, 149, 202–203, 212, 269–270, 282, 310, 324, 442, 457, 474, 481 archetype 517 Arendt, Hannah 2, 5, 340, 348 Argentina 216 Arias, Juan 217 Ariely, Dan 136, 140 Aristotle 13, 15–20, 48, 340 aroha 240, 287, 294

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Index artefact 15, 20–21, 24, 29, 38, 167, 172, 223, 280, 282, 350, 377, 392, 417–418, 464, 468–469, 481, 516–517 artificial intelligence (AI) 67, 135, 241, 350–351, 472 artisans 66, 217–220, 289 Asia 76, 105, 152, 178, 357, 481 Assam 156 assemblage 9, 112–113, 155, 341, 348, 377, 418 attention deficit hyperactive disorder (ADHD) 137 augmentative and alternative communication (AAC) 8, 91, 97–99, 101 Australia 1, 17, 147, 152, 356, 360, 412 autonomous Marxism 53 autopoiesis 20, 23, 38 Avadhi 79 Avina Fellowship 220 axiology 48–49, 145–146, 217 backtalk 204, 208 Baerten, Nik 3, 381, 492–508 Bangalore 156 Bangla 79 Barthes, Roland 233–234, 237, 418, 427 Baudrillard, Jean 231, 233, 237 Bauhaus 14, 56, 455 Bayazit, Nigan 29, 38, 525–526 Beckett, Samuel 21–22, 37–38 Bedford Way School of Philosophy of Education 45 Bengali 79, 81 Berlin 39–40, 50, 215 Betenue 172–173 Beytna Design 194, 200 Bill, Max 14, 53, 215, 237, 348–349, 361, 426, 453, 508 biomedicines 52 biopolitics 522 Blackler, Alethea 37–38 Blaser, Mario 58–61, 116, 124 Bo Bardi, Lina 223 Boal, Augusto 65, 68, 71–72, 299, 309 Bohm, David 171, 175 Bonsiepe, Gui 183, 459, 465, 468–470 Bopp, Raul 71 borderlands 166–167, 169–175, 297 Borges, Adelia 218 Borges, Fernanda Carlos 217 Borneo 166 boundary objects 171–172, 176, 470 Bourdieu, Pierre 238, 397, 412, 415, 417, 427 brainstorming 520 Branzi, Andrea 343, 348 Brazil 65, 70, 216, 240, 299–301, 303–304, 327–328 Bremner, Craig 3, 7, 239, 256–268

BRIC nations 55 bricolage 171 Broadbent, Nigel 16, 22 Bronowski, Jacob 14, 22 Buchanan, Richard 142, 149, 153, 164, 189, 200 Buen Vivir-Centric Design 294, 296 busquilla 216–217 Butler, Judith 374, 376 Cambariere, Lujan 129, 215–223 Campbell, Joseph 221 Campbell, Lisa 479 Campbell, Nick 98 Canclini, Néstor García 65–66, 69–70, 72 capitalocene 308–309, 522 Caribbean 73, 178, 332, 337 Carroll, Antionette 195, 197 Carroll, William 339–340, 348 Cartesian 28, 33, 175, 203 cartography 254, 308 cartoneros 219 Centre for Speech Technology Research, University of Edinburgh 98 Chicago 5, 23, 40, 62, 105, 188, 238, 348, 361, 412, 428, 470 Chile 23, 216 China 1, 11, 62, 324 Chon, Harah 3, 129, 224–238 Chua, Jude Soo Meng 2, 7, 41–51 Civil Rights movement 180 climate policy 52 co-creation 330 co-design, co-designing 5, 26, 53–54, 84, 152–153, 166, 175, 240, 257, 273–274, 277, 279, 287, 290–291, 295, 297, 322, 325, 363, 368, 374, 376–377, 399–400, 411, 442, 456 co-production 363, 376 cognition 59, 129, 134, 201–205, 207–208, 210–213, 418 collaboration 3–4, 9, 80, 94, 103, 155, 170–171, 173–174, 194–196, 234, 270, 274, 277, 291, 307–308, 325, 333–334, 342, 346–348, 379–381, 387, 389, 391–393, 440, 446, 448, 455, 459–461, 466, 468, 472–473, 475–476, 482, 485, 487–489, 491, 508, 519, 522 collective dreaming 380, 442–443, 445, 447, 449, 451–453, 455–458 collective fiction writing 380, 443–444, 451–452 Colombia 216, 289, 295, 298–300, 330–333, 337 Colombres, Adolfo 221, 223 colonial 8, 55–56, 64–71, 76, 81, 83, 87, 128, 153, 167, 170, 240, 286–287, 308 colonialism 8, 16, 61, 64, 69, 72, 90, 167, 170, 193, 331 colonisation 167, 430, 440 Columbus 181

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Index communication design 242, 254–255 community 2, 12, 24–25, 30, 36, 43, 55, 75, 89, 97, 99, 102–103, 122, 128–129, 134, 152–156, 159–175, 178–180, 182–183, 186–187, 189–190, 192–200, 212, 220, 222, 231, 240, 270, 273–274, 276–277, 280–284, 287, 289, 295–297, 300, 302, 304, 306, 314, 324, 327, 329–336, 341, 344, 348, 350, 355, 359, 380, 382, 415, 422, 424, 426, 428–431, 433–434, 436–437, 439–440, 442, 451, 469, 471–472, 478–480, 492–493, 495, 506–507, 520–521, 526 complexity 4, 15, 25–26, 28–29, 35, 37–40, 53, 81, 113, 134, 151, 160, 168, 196, 225, 228, 231, 236, 275, 280–281, 306, 313, 330, 335, 371, 380, 389, 395, 429–430, 432–433, 435, 437, 440, 464, 468, 481, 525 computer aided design (CAD) 209 conceptual design 117, 201, 212, 469 constellations 114–115, 352–356, 359–361 constructive design research 143–144, 146, 149, 341, 456–457 consumption 37, 115, 223–224, 231, 233, 237, 274, 277, 327, 351, 363, 415–416, 420, 422–425, 428, 476–477 content analysis 149, 245–246, 255 context 2–3, 7, 14, 24, 29, 33, 35, 49, 61, 65, 72, 75–76, 80–83, 88–89, 99, 105, 123, 129, 132, 134–135, 148, 153, 156–157, 159–163, 167, 175, 177, 181–182, 184, 191, 193, 195, 207, 211, 217–218, 220, 222, 225, 228, 230–231, 233–236, 239–242, 244–246, 253–254, 257, 260–261, 270, 272–274, 276–277, 280–281, 284–285, 288–289, 292–295, 301–302, 312, 327, 344, 351, 353, 355, 358, 363, 365, 367–368, 374, 377, 379, 382–383, 391, 394, 396, 398–406, 408, 410–411, 415, 418–419, 427–428, 430, 432, 434–435, 439–440, 442, 444, 459, 461, 465, 469, 475–476, 483, 485–489, 492–496, 501, 503, 506–508, 520–522 context mapping 284 convergence 7, 24, 26–28, 34–35, 306, 331, 513, 519 Cooper Hewitt, Smithson Design Museum 82 corazonar 240, 287, 291, 294 correspondence 82, 89, 164, 240, 299, 303, 305–307, 309, 327, 329–330, 332, 336, 338, 384, 400, 403–404, 408–409, 412, 479 Coulton, Paul 2, 9, 112–125 Council for National Academic Awards (CNAA) 143 Covid-19, 73, 284, 304, 478 craft 21, 66, 80, 103, 143, 147, 215, 218, 220– 223, 240, 288, 325, 339, 344, 382, 392–393, 420, 503, 510, 513 Creative Reaction Lab 194–200

critical design 28, 65, 93, 99, 110, 117, 124, 259, 268, 289, 348, 380, 442, 456–457 critical theory 179, 475 Crocco, Heloísa 221 Cross, Nigel 7, 15, 20, 22, 29–30, 38, 40–44, 46–47, 50, 68, 76, 102, 110, 124, 133, 143, 149, 164, 201–204, 211–213, 225–226, 237, 269, 271, 282, 322, 324, 380, 382, 390, 392, 460–461, 466, 470, 490, 525–526 Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly 230, 234, 237 cultural 3–4, 16, 24, 26–27, 53–55, 61–62, 65, 68–69, 71–73, 80, 82, 88–89, 102, 108, 113, 117, 125, 134, 151–156, 158–159, 164, 181, 184, 191, 194, 216, 220, 222–225, 227, 230–231, 233–237, 273–274, 276–278, 280, 285, 287, 291, 297, 299, 309, 329, 331–332, 343, 348–350, 352, 355, 357, 359, 361, 376, 412, 415–423, 426–428, 430–431, 433, 440, 464–469, 474, 476, 478, 480, 483, 485–486, 492, 494–495, 498, 508–509, 520, 524 Cultural Points program 71 culture 1–2, 4, 9, 12, 18, 25, 29–30, 34, 36–37, 39, 43–44, 61–62, 65, 67, 70–72, 76, 81, 83, 89–90, 101–103, 105–111, 117, 127–128, 133, 151, 154–156, 159, 162–164, 166–169, 171–175, 188, 190–191, 198, 213, 218–220, 222, 224–225, 227–228, 230–231, 233, 235–238, 276–277, 289–290, 292, 294–296, 298, 300, 302, 323, 331, 336, 342–343, 347, 350, 354, 377, 385, 392, 402, 412, 415–417, 419, 421, 423, 427–428, 433–435, 440, 442, 445–446, 448–449, 451, 456, 461–462, 464–469, 472, 481, 491–493, 499, 523, 525 cybernetic(s) 1, 22–25, 27, 29, 31–33, 35–37, 39, 57, 66 Cyberpunk 117 cycle of exclusion 129, 191–192, 196, 199 Danish Academy of Fine Arts 53, 302 data mining 249, 253 Davis, Meredith 127, 131–140 De Andrade, Oswald 71, 73 De La Cadena, Marisol 59–61, 116, 124 De Roeck, Dries 3, 381, 492 De Sousa Santos, Boaventura 76, 89 decolonial 55–56, 58, 62, 73, 75–76, 79–80, 88–89, 167, 169–171, 236–237, 240, 286–287, 289–290, 292, 295–297, 300, 327–328, 334, 338, 526 decolonizing design 55, 64–65, 67, 69–73, 165, 289, 292, 298 deductively 141 defuturing 163, 455 dehumanization 67 Derrida, Jacques 61 design 1–5, 7–76, 79–84, 86–119, 121–125, 127–149, 151–159, 161–178, 180–242,

529

Index 244–245, 248, 253–261, 263–277, 279–316, 318–329, 331–341, 343–351, 353–361, 363–366, 368–377, 379–386, 389, 391–395, 398–405, 410–420, 426–428, 430–436, 439–444, 446–448, 450–453, 455–461, 463–476, 478–496, 503–504, 507–511, 516–517, 519–526 design action 15, 83, 132, 134, 240, 273, 312–314, 319, 322, 324 design anthropology 61, 110–111, 164–165, 175–176, 240, 297–298, 306–309, 329, 335, 338, 394–395, 400, 402, 410, 412, 475 design at the periphery 217–218 design documentaries 381, 482–484, 487–488, 490–491 design education 11–12, 15, 22, 26, 39–40, 43, 53, 73, 140, 143, 286, 298, 310, 481 design epistemology 226, 269 design ethnography 105, 257, 260, 267–268, 273, 402, 412, 475 design expertise 207 design exploration 8–9, 35, 38, 92–94, 97, 100, 143, 161–162, 164 design fiction 28, 38, 117, 121–122, 124–125, 450, 457 design fixation 144, 212 Design for the Real World 152, 165, 223, 393, 526 design history 81–82, 89, 106, 143, 146, 237 design hospitality 60 Design Issues 9, 22, 38, 62, 89, 93, 100, 149, 164, 176, 187–188, 200, 214, 236–237, 282–284, 377, 428, 440, 470, 481, 526 Design Justice Network Principles (DJNP) 192 design knowledge 32–33, 129, 193, 225–228, 230–231, 233, 235–237, 281, 325, 328, 335, 471, 475 design management 95–96, 101–102, 104, 107, 146, 376 design method 14, 27, 29, 39–40, 53, 82, 86, 110, 151, 154, 202, 213, 259, 268, 311, 324, 375–376, 413, 495, 507, 525 design methods movement 29, 202 design noir 38, 100, 108, 111 Design & Oppression Network 73 design phenomenology 29, 226, 269 design philosophy 29, 63, 175, 283, 296 design photo 3, 239, 256–257, 261, 263, 265–267 design practice 2–3, 9, 23, 30, 35–36, 38, 43, 54, 56, 81–83, 92–94, 97–98, 100, 108, 114–115, 135, 143, 148–149, 151, 153–154, 157, 161–162, 164, 177–178, 183, 185, 195, 199, 205, 207–210, 213, 225, 239–242, 260, 268–269, 283, 301, 303, 305, 310, 312, 314, 326–329, 332, 335, 337, 345, 363, 371, 375, 382, 385, 398, 412, 455, 459, 461, 463, 465, 467–469, 475, 481, 507, 523, 526

design praxeology 269 design probes 171, 173, 274, 400–401, 403–404, 483–484, 487, 491 design process 19, 29, 31, 33–34, 37, 41, 83–84, 88–89, 91, 109, 112–113, 116, 129, 131, 134, 170, 172, 174–175, 177–178, 183, 187, 189–191, 193–195, 197–198, 204, 213, 228, 231, 240, 242, 258–259, 270, 272–273, 276, 280–281, 283, 300, 314, 328–329, 335, 337, 354–355, 361, 364–365, 368, 370, 375, 379, 398, 402, 410, 418–419, 428, 433–434, 436, 443, 446, 448, 450, 455–456, 459–460, 463, 469, 478, 485, 492, 503, 519 design research 1–5, 7–12, 14–18, 20–25, 27, 29–39, 41–47, 49–51, 60, 64–65, 67–73, 75–76, 79, 81, 91–97, 99–105, 107, 109–112, 118, 123–125, 127–135, 138, 140–144, 146, 148–149, 151–157, 159, 161–166, 175, 178, 184, 189–195, 198–202, 204–207, 210–213, 238–241, 245, 253–254, 256–257, 259–261, 267–271, 273, 275, 277, 279–285, 287–297, 299–300, 304–305, 308, 310, 312, 322–326, 328, 334–336, 339, 341, 343–345, 347, 349–350, 353–357, 359–361, 363, 365–366, 371, 375–376, 379–382, 384, 391–393, 399, 411, 413, 415–416, 418–419, 427–428, 442, 455–459, 468–469, 472–474, 476, 481–491, 523, 525–526 Design Research Society (DRS) 30 Design School X 194 design studies 9, 28, 35, 38–40, 50, 92–94, 97, 100, 103, 141, 143–144, 147, 149, 161–162, 164, 204, 212–213, 268–269, 282–283, 321, 324, 361, 457, 469, 481 design theory 37, 40, 43, 46–50, 58–59, 132, 145, 200, 325, 327, 461 design thinking 22, 28, 33, 37–38, 42, 46–47, 54, 62, 133, 153, 157, 164–165, 183, 187, 189–195, 198–200, 206, 212, 280, 382, 392, 419, 473, 491 designerly ways of knowing 22, 29, 38, 41–44, 50, 110, 203, 211–212, 237, 324, 525–526 Designing in the Wild 207, 212 Designs for the Real World 53, 62 Devanagari 79 Dewey, John 16, 27–28, 38 dialectic 212, 228–230, 235, 332 digital economy 351–354 Dilnot, Clive 47–50, 141, 149, 228, 237 disability studies 179–180, 183, 368, 377 disciplinary perspective 281 discourse analysis 255, 428 disrupt 194, 198, 228, 235, 345, 358, 403, 415, 421 divergent thinking 98 DNA 129, 215–216, 220 Do Amaral, Tarsila 71

530

Index Dorst, Kees 43, 50, 273, 283, 391–392, 470 double diamond model 398, 400, 407 drawing 3, 10, 19, 44, 49–50, 57–58, 64, 76, 88, 94, 128, 144, 147–148, 151, 162–163, 174, 182, 185–186, 208–209, 240, 242–243, 245, 247, 249, 251, 253–255, 301, 307, 312, 314, 400, 402, 430, 432, 434, 451, 455, 466–467, 469, 503, 505, 513 Dreyfuss, Henry 102, 110, 259, 267, 394, 412 Droog Design 53 Dunne, Anthony 38, 62, 93–94, 99–100, 108, 111, 348, 361, 403, 412, 442, 456–457, 508 Dunne and Raby 28, 38, 62, 94, 108, 456, 467 Dussel, Enrique 58 Eames, Charles & Ray 91, 97, 101, 108 eBario Knowledge Fair 172 eco-capitalism 521–522 economics 37–38, 41, 104, 124, 301, 376, 522, 524, 526 education 9, 11–12, 14–16, 22–23, 26, 38–43, 45, 50–51, 53, 55, 61, 72–74, 76, 79, 89, 95, 113, 133, 139–140, 142–143, 149, 151–152, 158, 178–179, 182, 188, 203, 213, 268, 286, 296–299, 306, 309–310, 340, 344, 383, 392, 469–471, 475, 481 Ehn, Pelle 74, 187, 280, 282–283, 328, 337, 348 El País 217 Elwin, Verrier 80 emancipatory 3, 8, 35, 75, 128, 177–188, 200, 240, 270–271, 280–282, 297, 331–332, 340, 342–343, 347 empirical research 107, 144, 147–149, 270 environmentalism 416, 422–423, 425–426 epistemology 24, 30, 42, 45–48, 50, 55–56, 62, 65, 70, 73, 89, 129, 155, 165, 167, 170, 181, 202, 205, 208, 211, 226, 267–269, 287, 298–300, 336, 427, 472 equitable 3, 189, 191–195, 197, 199, 380 equitable design research 189, 193, 199 Equity-Centered Community Design (ECCD) 192, 194–195 Equity Meets Design 194, 200 EquityxDesign 129, 192, 194, 196–200 Escobar, Arturo 58–60, 62, 67–68, 70, 73, 116, 124, 130, 154–156, 163–164, 167, 171, 175, 178, 188, 272, 283, 287, 289, 296, 299–300, 309, 328, 337, 455, 526 ET (the extra-terrestrial) 114 ethics 1, 13, 27, 30, 33, 46, 49–50, 52, 58, 62, 125, 127, 158, 163, 215, 237–238, 287, 417, 526 ethnographic 45, 67, 73, 105–107, 111, 129, 184, 190, 207, 209–211, 239, 256–261, 267–268, 274, 305–306, 355, 377, 381, 482–483, 486, 523 ethnography 105, 110, 125, 135, 153–154, 163–164, 207–208, 212–214, 240, 256–258,

260, 267–268, 273–274, 279–280, 287, 291, 297–298, 329, 361, 402, 412–414, 475, 484, 491 ethnomethodology 145 Europe 17, 60, 65, 105, 109, 135, 166, 169, 282, 303, 331, 520 European 11, 23, 37, 39, 64–65, 68, 71, 73, 80–81, 101, 103, 152, 166, 178, 212, 215–216, 238, 283, 286, 362, 428, 430, 455, 475 evaluation 14, 83, 100, 113, 186, 188, 271, 279, 314, 321, 324, 407, 411, 413, 431, 434, 440, 447, 458, 470, 481, 505 Evans, Delina 3, 127, 151–165 exclusion 13, 129, 146, 187, 189–193, 196, 199–200, 229, 336, 415, 417, 499 exegetic research 144 experience-based co-design (EBCD) 363, 377 experimental psychology 144 Facebook 136, 308, 352, 359 Fair Trade movement 219–220 Fallman, Daniel 9, 34–35, 38, 91–97, 99–101, 161, 164 Fals Borda, Orlando 240, 296, 327–328, 330–338 Fanon, Frantz 64–65, 68–69, 71, 73, 289, 296 fashion 1, 63, 72, 103, 108, 129–130, 141, 152, 224–231, 233–238, 285, 346, 349–350, 360, 394–395, 412–413, 426, 428, 444, 448, 451, 473, 494 fashion design 1, 108, 234, 349, 444 fashion knowledge 227, 231, 233–235 fashion object 129, 224–225, 229–231, 233–236 fashion research 224–226, 230, 235–236 Favelization 223 feminist 117, 128, 179, 187–188, 200, 286, 306–307, 376, 461, 465–466, 470, 523 Feyerabend, Paul 13, 16, 22, 323, 325 fieldwork 50, 107, 128, 151, 154–156, 159, 161, 163, 306, 319, 327–329, 333, 345, 481, 485–486, 488, 491 film 103, 116, 119, 121, 285–286, 288, 295, 298, 307, 335, 412, 443, 452–454, 483–485, 487–490 Findeli, Alan 28–30, 32–33, 38–39 Finnis, John 7, 44, 46, 48–51 First World 216 Flickr 109 focus groups 182, 184, 186, 277, 400–401, 403, 407–408, 410–411 form and function 8, 75 Foucault, Michel 62, 190 Frayling, Christopher 18, 22, 31, 39, 92, 99, 101, 143–144, 149, 269, 283, 324–325, 442, 457, 481 Freire, Paolo 65–69, 73, 185, 188, 299, 309, 328, 340, 348, 526

531

Index Friedman, Ken 25–26, 32, 39, 41, 50, 142, 149, 225, 237, 269, 283, 474, 481 Fry, Tony 57–58, 61–62, 81, 89, 170, 175, 287, 296–297, 455 Fulton Suri, Jane 106, 111, 344, 348, 410, 412 Futures Cone 116–117, 123 fuzzy 7, 25, 35, 264, 322 Gadamer, Hans-Georg 107, 111 Galeano, Eduardo 216, 223, 337–338 Gaston, Elizabeth 3, 379, 382–393 Gatt, Caroline 155, 164, 306, 309, 329, 335, 338, 412 Gatto, Gionato 3, 381, 509–524 Gaver, William (Bill) 94, 101, 348, 355, 361, 403, 412, 442, 457, 496, 508 Gedenryd, Henrik 15, 22 Geertz, Clifford 108, 111, 258, 267 geopolitical/geopolitics 8, 53, 55, 60, 66, 68, 342, 522 geosciences 52 German 11–12, 35, 37, 80, 82, 111, 215, 459 Germany 1, 14, 82, 105, 296 Gestaltung 11 Gibson, Michael 3, 380, 471–481 Glanville, Ranulph 1–2, 7, 10, 12, 14–20, 22–23, 25, 28, 36, 39, 260, 384, 392 Global North 3, 54, 75–76, 80–81, 135, 154, 167, 240, 286, 289, 294–295, 299–300 Global South 71, 76, 127–128, 151–154, 156, 158, 161–163, 170, 175, 240, 285–287, 289–290, 292, 294, 296, 298–300, 338 Global Tools 53, 61 Goa 76 Goethe 107 Goldschmidt, Gabriela 201, 204–206, 212 Goldsmiths Interaction Research Studio 94 Gond 80 Google 109, 121, 187–188, 352, 428, 451–452, 481, 487, 518 Google Home 121 Governor of Dutch Malabar 76 graphic design 1, 8, 71–73, 75, 80, 88–90, 98, 107, 319 green capitalism 522, 524 Greru, Chamitri 3, 127, 151–165 Grisez, Germain 48, 51 grounded theory 20, 28, 32, 39, 137, 141, 145, 321, 325, 400, 412–414 Gugelot, Hans 107 Gujarat 76 Gurmukhi 79, 87 Gutiérrez, Bernardo 216 Gutiérrez Borrero, Alfredo 69, 71, 73, 286–287, 289, 296–297 Habermas, Jurgen 340, 348 hacking 70, 341–343, 345–346, 348–349

hacker 341–343, 347–349 hacktivism 241, 339–345, 347, 349 hacktivist 339, 341–347 Hagen, Penny 3, 155–156, 163–164, 175, 291, 295, 380, 429–441 Halpin, David 45–46, 51 haptic 206, 208, 213, 258, 382–384, 389–391 hapū 288, 295, 429 Haraway, Donna 304–305, 308–309, 520, 523 Hardy 79 Harvard University 39, 79, 87, 111, 349, 374, 376–377 Harvard University Press 39, 79, 111, 377 Hawthorne effect 14 Hazlitt, Henry 45, 428 healthcare 4, 54, 101, 241, 363–365, 368, 371, 374–377, 394–396, 407, 410, 471, 491 Heidegger, Martin 49–50, 57, 62, 125, 409, 413 Helsinki 39, 106, 111, 283, 392–393, 412, 481, 491 hermeneutic(s) 35, 57, 107, 170 heterogeneity 8, 53, 59–60, 307 heterogenous 59 Heylighen, Ann 3, 129, 201–214 hind swaraj 71 Hindi 79, 81 hinterland 206, 210–211 Holmes, Kat 190–191, 200 homelessness 8, 52, 466 homophony 83 Hortus Malabaricus 76 Hudson, John (Tiro Typeworks) 79 human-centered design (HCD) 112, 190, 194 human-computer interaction (HCI) 34, 95, 103, 442 humanitarian design 153 humanities 4, 16, 25, 29, 41–42, 50, 59, 63, 65, 106–107, 110, 125, 143, 164, 203, 236, 259, 282, 286, 297, 304, 308, 322, 325, 374, 464, 474–475 humanize 64, 67 humans 21, 34, 57, 62, 64, 67, 105, 118, 121, 144, 151, 153, 155–157, 159–160, 168, 170, 243, 255, 280, 295, 302, 305, 308, 331–332, 355, 358, 364, 371, 509, 522 hybrid design 459, 461, 463, 465, 467–469 hyperlocal 70 hypertextuality 84 Ibarra, Maria Christina 240, 306, 309, 327–338 Ibirapuera Park 218, 222 ideation 35, 172, 185, 210, 322, 330, 377 IDEO 106, 381, 521 immutable mobiles 371 In the Land of Punctuation 76, 78–82, 84, 86 inclusive design 7, 41, 43, 45, 47, 49–51, 128, 199, 395, 398, 412, 461, 491 inclusivism 44, 47

532

Index India 76–77, 79–83, 86–87, 89–90, 127–128, 151–153, 156, 161, 163–164 Indigenous 3, 58, 60–61, 65, 68, 70–71, 74, 117, 128, 154–155, 157, 161, 164–170, 172, 174–176, 193, 220–221, 240, 285–290, 292, 294–298, 300, 331, 430, 432, 434, 439, 453, 467, 526 Indigenous communities 128, 155, 166–169, 172, 174, 220, 240, 287, 295 Indigenous knowledge 3, 60, 128, 157, 161, 165, 167–170, 174–176, 240, 286–287, 289, 292, 295, 297–298, 432, 434, 439, 526 inductive (induction, inductively) 1, 27, 28, 34, 106, 141, 474–475 industrial design 11, 14, 39, 298, 312, 525 industrial revolution 11, 66, 117, 166 information communication technologies (ICT) 152 Information Processing Theory 203 Ingold, Tim 59, 62, 155, 164, 203–204, 213, 301–302, 306, 309, 327, 329–330, 332, 335, 338, 384, 392, 394, 400, 412–413 Innella, Giovanni 3, 381, 509–524 innovation 4–5, 21, 27–28, 33, 37–38, 54, 62–63, 69, 74, 97, 101, 111, 124, 128, 133–134, 136, 140, 151–154, 163–165, 167–168, 175, 222–223, 234, 272–273, 280–281, 283–284, 286, 289, 296–298, 300, 306, 326, 335, 342, 349, 353, 355, 365, 376, 380, 394–398, 410–412, 415, 420–424, 426–437, 439–441, 457, 461, 466–468, 475, 482–483, 487, 491, 494, 526 Inns, Tom 95–96, 100–101 Instagram 109, 261 installation 109, 324, 384, 387–388, 510, 513–514, 516–519, 521, 523 interaction design 9, 38, 54, 71, 74, 91–96, 98, 100–101, 103, 106, 161, 164, 200, 314, 325–326, 345, 458, 487 Interaction Design Research Triangle 9, 38, 91–92, 96, 100, 161, 164 intercultural 8, 75–76, 79–81, 83, 88–89, 171, 287, 297, 325 Interpretative Phenomenological Analysis 407, 413 interpretive research 107 interview 79, 89, 105, 111, 136–137, 182, 184, 186, 200, 245, 255, 257, 274, 277, 279, 304, 334, 353, 355, 357, 368, 371, 377, 381, 401, 413, 451, 470, 482–484, 486–487, 495, 498–499, 505, 519 intuitive knowing 235 IOT (internet of things) 118, 360 Italian Radical Design 53 iwi 295, 429 Jakarta 152 Jeitinho ( jeito) 216–217

jolobil 285, 287–295, 297 Jonas, Wolfgang 7, 24–40 Jones, John Chris 202, 213, 259, 268 Jordan, Brigitte 106, 111 Julier, Guy 54, 61–62, 164, 296, 415, 418, 428, 481 Kannada 79, 81 Karnataka 76 kaumātua 430, 435 Kawasaki, Kazuya 3, 380, 442–468 Keller, Ianus 3, 240, 310–326 Kerala 76, 156 Kertzer, Adriana 217, 223 Kimbell, Lucy 54, 61–62, 152, 164, 296 Kipling, Rudyard 79–80 knit thinking 379, 382–383, 391 knowing 7, 13, 16, 22, 24–25, 27, 29, 34–39, 41–44, 50, 56, 110, 132, 154, 157, 161, 163, 170, 199, 203, 211–214, 225, 235, 237–238, 249, 256, 259–260, 324, 363, 410, 438, 440, 475, 494, 525–526 knowledge exchange 225, 231, 270, 275 knowledge production 25–27, 29, 33, 35, 37, 76, 80, 128, 142, 145, 177, 179, 191, 301, 330, 340, 364, 520, 523 Kolb, David 27, 39, 271, 283 Konkani 76 Korea 105, 325 Kress, Gunther 254–255, 418, 428 Krippendorff, Klaus 26, 39, 254–255, 474, 481 Kukkapuro 108 Lakat Tesen 172, 174 Langrish, John 143, 148–149 Latin 10–12, 58, 60–62, 65, 71, 73, 76, 81, 86–87, 89, 129–130, 164, 178, 215–223, 240, 253, 285, 296–297, 299–300, 308, 327–328, 331, 334, 336, 338, 355, 526 Latin America 58, 61–62, 71, 73, 130, 164, 178, 215–217, 219–220, 223, 240, 294, 296–297, 299–300, 327, 331, 526 Latour, Bruno 28, 39, 210, 213, 301, 303, 309, 341, 349, 371, 377 Lawson, Bryan 102, 111, 147, 149, 391–392 Le Corbusier 144, 245 Lefebvre, Henri 65, 68, 73 Lego® 208 Leonardo 11, 393 Lesage, Pieter 3, 381, 492–508 Levinas, Emmanuel 58–59, 61–62 Lewin, Kurt 271, 340 LGBTQIA+, 190 Liberatory Design 129, 192, 194, 196–197, 200 Lindley, Joseph 2, 9, 112–125 linguistic 81, 97–99, 107, 171, 400 Lombardi, Mark 91 Long Lamai 166, 168, 171, 173 Luck, Rachael 3, 127, 141–165

533

Index Macaulay, T.B. 76, 89 Maharashtra 76 Mahi-toi 287, 289, 292, 295, 298 Malayalam 76, 81 Malaysia 166 Maldonado, Tomás 14, 102, 111 Maldonado-Torres, Nelson 56, 58, 61–62, 64, 66, 73 manaakitanga 294–295, 430, 433, 437 Manzini, Ezio 28, 40, 54, 62, 218–219, 223, 272, 280, 283, 289, 297, 457 Māori 285–289, 294–295, 297–298, 429–430, 432–435 mapping 9, 23, 39, 91, 93–101, 138, 149–150, 246, 254, 275, 284, 355, 381, 410, 418–419, 421, 423, 425–427, 465, 469, 476, 480–481, 489 Mapuche 220 marginalization 189, 289 marginalized publics 75 Margolin, Victor 53, 62, 142–143, 149, 183, 188, 268 Martín-Barbero, Jesus 65 Marxism 53, 65 Masutani, Kazunari 3, 380, 442–458 mātauranga 295, 429, 432, 435 material 3, 9, 14, 33, 37, 53, 55, 67–68, 81–83, 97, 101, 107–109, 113, 118, 124, 129, 169, 171–172, 174–175, 177, 204, 213, 215–222, 224, 226–227, 230–231, 235, 237, 255, 258–259, 273, 276, 282, 291, 301, 303, 307–308, 313–314, 322, 325, 328, 330, 334–336, 341, 343–345, 347, 349, 353, 359, 364, 371, 374–375, 377, 379, 382–391, 393–404, 407–413, 416, 418, 420, 423–424, 427, 442–449, 453, 455–457, 461, 463–468, 470, 472, 474, 476, 478, 481, 483, 485–487, 489–490, 495, 498, 502–504, 509, 526 material culture 171–172, 174–175, 224, 231, 235, 237, 343, 347, 448, 466, 472 mathematics 13, 213, 346 Mattelmäki, Tuuli 111, 483, 491 Mayan 170, 175, 287, 289–293, 295–296 Mayo, Elton 14, 22 Mazé, Ramia 93, 99, 101 McCulloch, Gary 45, 51 McGinley, Chris 379, 394–414 Medidisciplinary 91, 99–100 Medidisciplinary Sea 91, 99 Mediterranean 9, 91, 99–100 Mendini, Alessandro 111 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 258, 266 mesoamerican 287, 289, 292 Metaphysics 49, 56–57, 59, 62, 73, 169 methodological exclusivism 41, 46–47 methodology 13, 23, 39–40, 43, 74, 129, 137, 144, 156, 175–177, 181–182, 187–189,

194, 205, 207, 211, 213, 237, 240, 255, 260, 268–269, 280, 289, 293, 298–299, 301, 306–307, 330, 340, 354, 391–392, 396, 412, 420, 427, 429–430, 432, 434, 439, 446, 452, 457, 469, 471, 480, 482, 490, 520 metropolis 68–70, 133, 140, 412 Metropolis Magazine 133, 140 metropolitan 66–70, 72, 210, 214, 307 Mexico 167, 170, 175, 240, 285–289, 294, 296–297, 300 Mignolo, Victor 55–56, 61–62, 169–170, 175, 287, 289, 297, 526 Miro 451, 487 Mizuno, Dajiro 3, 380, 442–458 modernism 71, 166 modernist 21, 167, 300, 303, 461, 526 modernity 40, 55–57, 60–62, 65–67, 70, 72–73, 116, 154, 166–167, 169–170, 221, 224, 230, 237, 290, 297, 300, 331–332, 336, 348, 508, 526 Modulor 67, 73 Mollison, Bill 53 monophony 83 Moore’s Law 112 moral philosophy 7, 41, 48–50 more-than-human 9, 113, 115, 117, 119, 121, 123, 125 Morgenstern, Christian 82 Morris, William 12, 53, 152, 164–165, 397, 413 Morrow, Ruth 3, 380, 459–470 Mourão Pereira, Carlos 129, 201–214 muddling through 7, 24, 30, 37, 39 multiple realities 128, 135, 181 multiple sclerosis 241, 363, 368, 377 Murgatroyd, Helen 91–92, 97 Murty Classical Library of India 76–77, 79, 89 music 20, 83, 149, 152, 345 Namakkal 156 National Equity Project 194, 200 natural language processing 351 Neimeyer, Oscar 218 Nemer, José Alberto 222 Netherlands 1, 65, 166, 219, 324–325, 523 New York City 5, 190 Newton, Isaac 13, 105, 323 Nijs, Greg 3, 129, 201–214 Nocek, Adam 8, 52–63 Noel, Lesley-Ann 70, 72–73, 128, 155, 164, 175, 177–188, 190–191, 200 Norman, Don 26, 40, 101, 113, 125, 138, 140, 176, 427 North Brahmic 81 Nussbaum, Bruce 347, 349 Object Oriented Ontology (OOO) 113, 125 Object-Oriented Philosophies 113

534

Index Office for Metropolitan Architecture (OMA) 210 Olivetti 104, 111 ontography 114–115, 118–119, 121–123 ontology 8, 52, 55–60, 67, 113–114, 116, 125, 130, 142, 154–155, 164, 168–169, 181, 203, 296, 300 ontological 8, 36, 52–53, 55–61, 64, 114, 142, 144, 168, 181–182, 204, 269, 296, 300, 306–307, 331, 364, 366, 368, 525 ontologizing design 57 oppression 65, 67–70, 72–73, 82, 180, 182, 187, 189, 192, 194, 197, 199, 288, 306, 331, 336 otherness 59–60, 71–72 Owens, Keith M. 3, 380, 471–481 Oxfam Australia 356, 360 Pagang 172, 174 Página 12 newspaper 222 Pākeha 430 Pali 79, 81, 88 Palo Alto Research Center 106 pandemic 60, 65, 299, 304, 359, 453 Panjabi 79 Papanek, Victor 152, 165, 218, 223, 393, 526 paradox 24, 29–30, 154, 156, 163, 283 Parey, Stephanie 3, 128–129, 189–200 participatory 3–4, 53–54, 65, 81, 94, 105, 128– 129, 154, 174, 178–179, 187–189, 191–192, 200, 240, 257, 259, 270, 274, 280, 282–283, 289, 299–300, 302–303, 305–306, 327–333, 335, 337–343, 345, 347, 349, 363–364, 368, 376–377, 399–401, 411, 431, 450, 455, 457, 471, 475, 481, 492–494, 507 participatory action research (PAR) 129, 178, 189, 191, 328, 330, 332, 340, 431 participatory approach 240, 282, 368 participatory design 4, 65, 105, 128, 154, 187, 240, 259, 280, 282–283, 299–300, 302, 305, 328, 337–338, 345, 363–364, 368, 376–377, 399, 401, 431, 450, 457, 475, 481, 507 Participatory Design Fiction 450, 457 participatory process 455, 494 participatory research 192, 471, 493 Patton, Michael, C. 178–179, 188, 434, 437, 440 pedagogy 28, 34, 50–51, 71, 73–74, 136, 140, 188, 299, 340, 347–348, 526 Pedagogy of the Oppressed 73, 188, 299, 340, 348, 526 Penan 166, 168, 171–174 perception 22, 35–36, 117, 132, 139, 155–156, 204–205, 213, 225–228, 230–231, 233–234, 236, 258–259, 264, 268, 294, 351, 364, 368, 383–384, 391–393, 404, 416, 418, 423, 425, 427, 476, 516 Perso-Arabic 81 persona 67–68, 233, 476

Peru 216 phenomena 33, 49, 144, 146, 191, 230, 261, 319, 322, 333, 377, 476 phenomenology 29, 61–62, 113, 124, 226, 237–238, 269, 364–365, 371, 376 Philips 104, 111 philosophy 1, 7, 12–13, 16, 28–29, 31, 38, 41, 45, 48–50, 52, 54, 58–59, 61–63, 102, 107, 111, 113, 118, 124–125, 141, 146, 167, 170, 175, 179–180, 184, 187, 213, 221–223, 238, 267–268, 283, 286, 290, 296, 330–331, 363, 365, 376, 392, 413 Phoenicia 100 Phoenicians 9, 91, 93, 95, 97, 99–101 Phoneticians 9, 91, 93, 95, 97, 99, 101 phonetics 97–99 photography 87, 182, 257–260, 262, 265–268, 424, 464 physics 41, 124, 312, 322, 386 phytomining 510, 519, 521–522 Pindorama 65, 68, 71 Piracema 221 Platform for Experimental, Collaborative Ethnography (PECE) 153, 164 pluralization 52, 55, 59–60 pluriversal design 57–59, 70–71, 73, 167, 455 pluriversality 59–60, 157–158, 161–162, 167, 175 pluriverse 59, 70–71, 73, 116, 124, 128, 130, 163–164, 167, 170, 175, 283, 286, 296, 299, 331, 337, 526 pluriversing design 58 poetic 218, 237, 249, 252, 266, 299 Poggenpohl, Sharon 145, 147–149 Polanyi, Michael 13, 17, 23, 466, 470 politics 8, 39, 51, 62, 75, 77, 79, 81–83, 85, 87, 89, 149, 237, 268, 287, 291, 297, 348, 428, 461, 522, 526 Politics of Publishing 75, 77, 79, 81–83, 85, 87, 89 Pollock, Sheldon 86, 88–89, 109 polyphony 83 Ponti 108 positionality 175, 190, 196, 285, 417 positivism 48, 333–334, 337 postmodernism 102 practice-based 9, 431, 433, 435, 437, 439, 441 practice-based research 9 pragmatism 27 Prakrit 79, 81 praxis 337, 340, 348, 469 Prendiville, Alison 3, 127, 151–165 President Jair Bolsonaro 65 Printing Should Be Invisible 81 probes 171, 173–174, 274, 277–278, 341, 344, 348, 350, 353, 355–356, 361, 400–401, 403–405, 412, 478, 481, 483–485, 487, 491, 495–499, 508

535

Index problem space 225, 228, 235–236, 507 Promethean 55 prototypes 38, 110, 137, 186, 240, 273, 303, 310–311, 313–316, 319, 321–326, 348, 364, 375, 385, 401–403, 410, 436–437, 439, 443, 447, 458, 478–479, 483, 490, 495, 510 provotype 344–345 psychology 1, 14, 40, 42, 102–103, 135–136, 139, 144, 187–188, 200, 202, 213, 268, 282–283, 296, 301, 312–313, 377, 392, 413, 428 publics 8, 75, 349, 521 publishing 8, 23, 62, 70, 75–77, 79–83, 85, 87, 89, 99, 165, 176, 188, 283, 323, 348–349, 428, 441, 481 Pullin, Graham 2, 8–9, 91–101, 363, 377 Pye, David 11, 23 qualitative research 5, 39, 105, 144, 146–147, 188, 213, 269, 325, 377, 381, 412–414, 486 Quijano, Aníbal 55, 61–62, 64, 66, 73, 289, 297, 526 Raijmakers, Bas 3, 380, 482–491 Ramanathan, Rathna 3, 8, 75–90 rapid ethnography 154, 163 rationality 29, 35, 47, 119, 308, 333 Read, Herbert 18 Real Academica Española 219 realism 258, 262 rebusque 216 Redström, Johan 37, 40, 112, 125, 144, 149, 283, 325 reflection 16, 23, 25–27, 32, 35, 37, 39, 55, 60–61, 73, 91, 110, 129, 135, 158, 162–163, 172, 185–186, 194, 196, 198–199, 225, 235, 245, 256, 258, 268–269, 276, 279, 281, 288, 291, 296, 298, 301–302, 304–307, 312, 315–316, 322, 335, 353, 369, 412, 430, 436, 439, 465–466, 468–469, 474–475, 484, 486, 500–501, 506 reflection-on-action 436 reflective practice 17, 25–26, 30, 128, 151, 156, 163 Reflex Design Collective 194 Reitsma, Lizette 3, 128, 166–176 relational 1, 57, 59–60, 128, 151, 153, 155–156, 160, 163–164, 175, 281, 287, 294–295, 299–300, 410–411, 430–431, 434, 469 relativism 132, 149 Renaissance 25, 216 research design 43, 68, 102, 104, 141, 144–146, 149, 203, 205–206, 212, 241, 273, 443 research for design 18, 32–33, 92, 99, 143, 260, 324 research into design 16, 20, 92, 143, 469 research through design 7, 24–25, 27–28, 31–33, 35, 37–39, 83, 99, 124, 143, 148, 310,

312–315, 318, 321–322, 324–326, 350, 442, 457–458 respectful 3, 128, 156, 163–164, 168, 172, 174–176, 198, 289, 379, 431, 434 respectful dialogue 128, 163 Rijshouwer, Emiel 3, 381, 492–508 Rittel, Horst 14, 30, 40, 135, 140, 165, 202, 213, 472, 481, 525–526 Roberts, Ed 22, 180, 188, 283 Rodgers, Paul A. 1–2, 4–5, 175, 200, 284, 326, 392, 413, 525–526 Roja Muthiah Library 82 Roxburgh, Mark 3, 239, 256–268 Ruskin, John 53 Russian 56, 61, 81, 483 Sadokierski, Zoe 3, 239, 242–255 Salisbury, Laura 3, 379, 394–414 Salone del Mobile di Milano 523 Sanders, Elizabeth B. 280, 284, 291, 298, 325, 354, 361–363, 377, 495, 508 Sanders, Liz 442, 458, 475, 481 Sanskrit 79 Santamaria, Laura 3, 379–380, 415–428 scaffolding 128, 163, 287, 380, 442, 447, 455 scenarios 28, 115, 157, 273, 276–277, 282, 324, 344–345, 410, 422, 443–444, 447, 451, 453, 455–456, 522–523 Schön, Donald 16–17, 19, 23, 25, 30, 40, 50, 92, 101, 204–206, 210, 213, 441 School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) Library 82 Schumacher, Ernst Friedrich 53 Science Technology Studies (STS) 370 Sciences of the Artificial 26, 28–29, 34, 40, 42, 50–51, 238, 283, 349, 481 Scott, Jane 3, 379, 382–393 Scrivener, Stephen 382, 393 semiotics 102, 417–418, 428 Sen, Amartya 347, 349 sensory 203–204, 208, 210, 233, 297, 383, 395, 405, 413 service design 1, 5, 74, 151, 156, 158, 162, 164, 369, 433, 451, 478, 491 Seymour, Jerszy 109, 111 Shakespeare 107, 247, 254 Sheehan, Norm 167–168, 174, 176 Shelley 79, 89, 237, 458 Shyam, Bhajju 80, 90 Silicon Valley 105 Simon, Herbert 7, 28–29, 35, 40–51, 203, 205, 212–213, 238, 269, 283, 340, 349, 376, 469, 474 Situationist International 53 sketching 201–202, 205–206, 210–213, 244–245, 404 Slack 282, 487

536

Index Sleeswijk Visser, Froukje 3, 240, 310–326, 362, 484, 491, 496, 508 Smith, Linda Tuhiwai 64, 74, 167, 176 Sobers, Nneka 3, 128–129, 189–200 social 3–5, 7, 14, 18, 22, 24, 26–29, 33–37, 39–41, 53–56, 60–64, 67–69, 72–73, 75, 80–83, 89, 101, 103, 105, 110–111, 117, 124–125, 127–129, 133–136, 138, 140–141, 144, 146, 151–159, 161–165, 168, 175–185, 187–190, 192–193, 195, 204, 207–208, 213–215, 219, 222–231, 233–238, 241, 245, 250, 252, 255, 258–259, 267, 270, 272–277, 279–280, 282–284, 289, 296–304, 306, 309, 321–322, 328, 330, 332–344, 346–349, 351–353, 359, 361, 363, 368, 374, 377, 379–381, 393, 395, 403–405, 412–418, 420–423, 425–429, 431–435, 437–441, 451, 457, 460–461, 469–470, 472–473, 476, 478–481, 487, 492–495, 497–501, 503, 505–508, 520, 523, 525–526 social design 28–29, 36, 53–56, 60–63, 72, 127–128, 141, 151–153, 155, 157, 159, 161–163, 165, 177–178, 289, 296, 495, 508 social innovation 5, 54, 62, 69, 128, 152–153, 165, 175, 272–273, 280, 283–284, 289, 296–297, 300, 306, 380, 420–421, 426, 429, 431, 433–435, 437, 439, 441, 494 social phenomenon 224–225, 233 social robots 67 socializing design 53 sociology 1, 38, 45, 73, 102, 105, 188, 213, 237–238, 256–259, 268, 292, 296–297, 301, 328, 330–334, 336, 339, 348–349, 377, 412, 427, 481 software 19, 102–103, 132, 137, 241, 343, 349–361, 446, 466, 508, 526 Solarpunk 117–118, 122–125 Sottsass, Ettore 107 South America 16, 109, 218 South Asia 76 South Brahmic 81 South East Asia 152 Southern Paradigm 215, 220 Spain 39, 73–74, 217, 380, 482, 485 Speed, Chris 3, 241, 350–362, 424 Spime 121–122, 125 Sri Lanka 152 St. Bride’s Library 82 stakeholders 3, 128, 134, 164, 177–179, 181, 183–185, 187, 240, 257, 273–274, 276–277, 280, 305, 369, 379, 395, 398–402, 408, 427, 436, 455, 471–472, 476, 478–481, 484–486, 489–490, 492, 494–495, 502, 507, 519–520 Stanford d.school 194 Stappers, Pieter Jan 111, 240, 280, 284, 291, 298, 310–326, 354, 361–363, 377, 442, 458, 495, 508

Steampunk 117 Sterling, Bruce 121, 125 Stolterman, Erik 34–35, 39, 101, 313, 326 storytelling 103, 274–275, 473, 521 Suchman, Lucy 153–154, 165, 213, 370, 377 sumak kawsay 71 sustainability 40, 117, 122, 130, 133–134, 155, 164–165, 185, 219, 230, 303, 305, 415, 417, 419–423, 425–426, 428, 443–444, 450, 452, 455, 457–458, 522–523 sustainable development 3, 65, 70, 219, 222, 237 Sweetapple, Kate 3, 239, 242–255 systems thinking 22–23, 35–36, 134 Szaniecki, Barbara 3, 240, 299–309 tacit knowledge 235, 385, 466, 469, 496 tactile 210, 233, 238, 382–383, 388, 391, 408, 459, 461–462, 467–468 Tagore 83 tamariki 430, 437 Tamil 76, 81, 89 Tamil Nadu 76 Tangaere, Angie 3, 380, 429–441 Tara Books 76, 79–80, 89–90 Tarot 118–119, 124–125 technophilia 423 Telugu 79, 81 textile 3, 98, 103, 170, 240, 287, 289–291, 297–298, 379–380, 382–385, 387, 389, 391, 394–396, 404–406, 408–409, 412–413, 446, 457, 459–465, 467–469 The Crystal Goblet 80 The Jungle Book 80 The London Jungle Book 80, 90 The Soul of Objects: An Anthropological view of Design 215 things 5, 8, 13, 18–19, 24, 29, 42, 44, 46, 48–49, 56, 59, 64–69, 74–75, 89, 95, 105–106, 108, 110–112, 114, 117–119, 124–125, 129, 132, 134–137, 139–140, 144, 148, 156, 162, 167, 174, 181, 187, 203, 214, 220–222, 228, 231, 234–235, 237, 241, 245, 259–261, 280, 282, 302, 329–330, 339–340, 342–343, 345–348, 355–356, 358, 360, 369, 371, 374–376, 391–392, 415, 428–429, 433–437, 440, 453, 459–460, 463, 465, 468, 478 Thomson, Alison 3, 241, 363–377 tikanga 431–432, 434–435, 441 tiny ontologies 114 Tonkinwise, Cameron 54, 63, 283 transmutation 218–219 Tsuda, Kazutoshi 3, 380, 442–458 Tunstall, Elizabeth (Dori) 154, 156, 163, 165, 167, 176, 286, 298 Turtle Island 68 Type 2 diabetes 137, 140 typography 8, 75, 80–84, 86–89, 242, 246

537

Index Ubuntu 71, 170 Umeå Institute of Design 93, 326 underserved communities 189–190, 194–199 United Kingdom 74, 166, 171, 178, 475 universal design 68 universality 70 universities 1, 12, 15–16, 26, 40, 50, 65, 70, 88, 143, 145, 215, 218, 307, 324, 475, 519 Urdu 76, 81 usability 102, 200, 283 utopian 26, 45, 69, 117, 152, 219, 341, 426, 460, 468–469, 523 UX (user experience) 54, 188, 200, 309 van Amstel, Frederik 3, 8, 64–74, 116, 125, 178, 188 Van Dijk, Geke 3, 380, 482–491 van Rheede, Henrik 76 vernacular 288, 327, 329, 338 Vieira Pinto, Álvaro 65–67, 69–70, 73–74 Vikings 181 Villari, Beatrice 3, 239, 269–284 visual 3, 22, 75–76, 80–83, 89, 109, 118, 132, 137, 140, 151, 159–160, 182, 186, 201, 203, 205–206, 208, 210–212, 222–223, 233, 238–239, 242–251, 253–255, 258–259, 263–264, 267–268, 314, 349, 384, 393, 408, 412, 416, 418, 434–435, 464, 468, 484, 488–490, 494, 508, 517, 526 visual abstraction 239, 242, 248, 253, 263–264 visual arts 89, 268 visual communication 254–255 visual culture 412 visual thinking 132, 201, 203, 206, 211, 223

Vitruvius 11, 20 vocational 12–13, 15–17 Von Busch, Otto 3, 241, 339–349 Wainwright, Alfred 91 Warde, Beatrice 80–81, 89 waterfall methods 354 weaving 11, 74, 285–292, 294–298, 383, 391, 434, 494, 526 Western Ghats 76 whakawhanaungatanga 430 whānau 298, 380, 429–434, 436–440 Wichi 220 wicked problems 38, 65, 128, 135, 153–154, 164–165, 525 Wilson, Jani K.T. 3, 240, 285–298 Winch, Peter 105, 111 Wolf, Gita 79, 89–90, 348, 365, 377 Wordsworth 79 World Design Organization 109 World War II 202 worldbuilding 181 worldviews 103, 128, 167, 183, 287, 380, 418, 435, 439, 442 Wright, Frank Lloyd 107 Yanomami 71, 73 Yee, Joyce 1–2, 4–5, 92–93, 101, 159, 165, 167, 175, 284, 287, 296, 326, 392, 441, 525–526 Yin, Robert K. 104, 111 Zapatista 59, 70, 116, 167, 296–297, 300 Zoom 44, 358, 360, 487

538