Textile technology and design : from interior space to outer space 9781474261951, 1474261957, 9781474261975, 1474261973

Table of contents :
FC
Half title
Title
Copyright
Contents
List of Illustrations
Contributors
Acknowledgments
Foreword by Susan Yelavich
Introduction Alexa Griffith Winton and Deborah Schneiderman
PART ONE TEXTILE: PLIABLE PLANES, INTERIOR APPLICATIONS, AND FABRICATIONS
1 Interstitial Threads: The Body, Textiles, and Interiority in Contemporary Interior Design Alexa Griffith Winton
2 Soft Spaces: From the Textile-clad Interior to Modern Interior Design Anca I. Lasc
3 Felt and the Emerging Interior  Helene Renard
4 Tailoring Second and Third Skins  Lois Weinthal
5 Interview with Carol Bove  Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton
PART TWO MECHANICAL AND DIGITAL INNOVATION IN THE INTERIOR REALM
6 Ulterior Motives  Sarah Strauss
7 Topically Embedded: Surface as Graphic Material Igor Siddiqui
8 Materializing the Digital Realm: Textile of the Modern Age  Jonathon Anderson and Laura Schoenthaler
9 Bespoke: Tailoring the Mass-produced Prefabricated Interior  Deborah Schneiderman
10 Sensorial Space: Responsive Interiors through Smart Textiles Margarita Benitez
11 Self-actuated Textiles, Interconnectivity, and the Design of the Home as a More Sustainable Timescape Aurélie Mossé
12 Interview with Charlie Morrow: Sound Environment Design Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton
PART THREE EXTREME ENVIRONMENTS AND OUTER SPACE
13 Design for Extreme Environments Project [DEEP]: A Case Study of Innovations in Mediating Adverse Conditions on the Human Body Brian F. Davies
14 Design for Confinement: The Art and Science of Sensory Deprivation in Space  Evan Twyford
15 Fabrics for Space Travel  Evelyne Orndoff
16 The Role of Soft Materials in the Design of Extreme Interior Environments for Space Exploration Larry Toups, Matthew Simon, Robert Howard, and A. Scott Howe
17 Interview with Charles Camarda  Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton
Index
Plates

Citation preview

TEXTILE TECHNOLOGY AND DESIGN

TEXTILE TECHNOLOGY AND DESIGN From Interior Space to Outer Space

EDITED BY DEBORAH SCHNEIDERMAN AND ALEXA GRIFFITH WINTON

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

50 Bedford Square 1385 Broadway London New York WC1B 3DP NY 10018 UK USA www.bloomsbury.com

BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2016 © Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton, 2016 Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury, the editors or individual authors. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: PB: ePDF: ePub:

978-1-4725-2880-3 978-1-4725-2375-4 978-1-4742-6195-1 978-1-4742-6196-8

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Textile technology and design : from interior space to outer space / edited by Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4725-2880-3 (hardback) -- ISBN 978-1-4725-2375-4 (paperback) 1. Textile fabrics. 2. Industrial equipment--Materials. 3. Textile fabrics in interior decoration. I. Schneiderman, Deborah, 1968- II. Winton, Alexa Griffith. TS1765.T4145 2016 677--dc23 2015019492 Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations  viii Contributors  xii Acknowledgments  xvi Foreword by Susan Yelavich  xvii

Introduction  1



Alexa Griffith Winton and Deborah Schneiderman

PART ONE  TEXTILE: PLIABLE PLANES, INTERIOR APPLICATIONS, AND FABRICATIONS  7 1 Interstitial Threads: The Body, Textiles, and Interiority in Contemporary Interior Design  9

Alexa Griffith Winton

2 Soft Spaces: From the Textile-clad Interior to Modern Interior Design  17

Anca I. Lasc

3 Felt and the Emerging Interior  31

Helene Renard

4 Tailoring Second and Third Skins  45

Lois Weinthal

5 Interview with Carol Bove  57

Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton

vi Contents

PART TWO  MECHANICAL AND DIGITAL INNOVATION IN THE INTERIOR REALM  65 6 Ulterior Motives  67

Sarah Strauss

7 Topically Embedded: Surface as Graphic Material  73

Igor Siddiqui

8 Materializing the Digital Realm: Textile of the Modern Age  85

Jonathon Anderson and Laura Schoenthaler

9 Bespoke: Tailoring the Mass-produced Prefabricated Interior  95

Deborah Schneiderman

10 Sensorial Space: Responsive Interiors through Smart Textiles  109

Margarita Benitez

11 Self-actuated Textiles, Interconnectivity, and the Design of the Home as a More Sustainable Timescape  121

Aurélie Mossé

12 Interview with Charlie Morrow: Sound Environment Design  135

Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton

PART THREE  EXTREME ENVIRONMENTS AND OUTER SPACE  143 13 Design for Extreme Environments Project [DEEP]: A Case Study of Innovations in Mediating Adverse Conditions on the Human Body  145

Brian F. Davies

Contents vii

14 Design for Confinement: The Art and Science of Sensory Deprivation in Space  157

Evan Twyford

15 Fabrics for Space Travel  171

Evelyne Orndoff

16 The Role of Soft Materials in the Design of Extreme Interior Environments for Space Exploration  181

Larry Toups, Matthew Simon, Robert Howard, and A. Scott Howe

17 Interview with Charles Camarda  191

Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton

Index  197

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Plates  1 Numen/For Use, Tape Paris, Palais de Tokyo, Paris, 2014.  2 Loop.pH, Algae Curtain, Lille, France, 2012.  3 ARO, felt-wrapped stair at Knoll Showroom, New York, 2013.  4 Do Ho Suh, The Perfect Home II (detail), 2003.  5 Carol Bove, Caterpillar, 2012.  6 Channel Splitting Simulates Depth, Sarah Strauss.  7 Bloom, Sarah Strauss. Original pattern by LuzElena Wood.  8 Swamped, Sarah Strauss. Original pattern by Rachel Ben-Zadok.  9 Falls, Sarah Strauss. Original pattern by Niketa Shah. 10 ISSSStudio + deSc, Zigzag, view from exterior (2013). 11 Jenny Sabin Studio, Branching Morphogenesis, LabStudio, 2008; Jenny E. Sabin, Andrew Lucia, Peter Lloyd Jones; originally on view at the Design and Computation Gallery, SIGGRAPH 2008 and subsequently at Ars Electronica, Linz, Austria, 2009–10. 12 Sawdust screen designed by Emerging Objects, a subsidiary of Rael San Fratello. 13 Kinematics Dress, 2014. Designed by Nervous System. 14 100 Electronic Years. 15 Aurélie Mossé, Reef, detail (2011). 16 Individual components of CASiTA readied for assembly. One-inch plywood skeleton components with Tyvek roof and skin. 17 Interior view of Skylab. The interior of spacecraft can be disorienting, and requires the use of orientation cues and translation guides for crew to navigate. 18 TransHab. 19 Advanced Inflatable Airlock. 20 Sleeping bag in crew quarters lined with textiles, cargo transfer bag, astronaut clothing, contingency water container. Also, cargo transfer bags in M-bags strapped down with woven fabric straps, astronaut EVA suit.

list of illustrations ix

Figures   1.1 Numen/For Use, interior, Net Blow Up Yokohama, Japan, 2013. 13   1.2 Loop.pH, Atmeture, Letchworth, UK, 2014. 15   2.1 Désiré Guilmard, “Intérieur de Boudoir” [“Boudoir Interior”], Lith. Destouches, in D. Guilmard, Le Garde-Meuble Ancien et Moderne: Collection de Tentures 113, no. 327 (c.1862). 21   2.2 Célestin-François-Louis Gosse, “Boudoir (Style Louis XVI),” Héliogravure J. et A. Lemercier, in César Daly, “Boudoir et cabinet de travail par M. Gosse, architecte-décorateur,” Revue Générale de l’Architecture et des Travaux Publics 4, no. 13 (1886): 186, Plate 55. 23   2.3 Alexandre Sandier, “Salon, côté de la bibliothèque,” in “La Maison moderne VII: Le Salon (fin),” Revue illustrée 2, no. 18 (June–December 1886): 623–27. 25   2.4 Alexandre Sandier, “Salon – Coin du Salon,” Héliotypie E. le Deley, in Alexandre Sandier, Études d’architecture décorative (Paris: Armand Guérinet, c. 1908), Plate 26. 26   2.5 Anonymous, “Salon Oriental,” in Grands Magasins de la Place Clichy, [Catalogue: Exposition de tapis] (Paris: c. 1898). 27   3.1 FilzFelt DNA diagram by Ayse Birsel. 37   3.2 FilzFelt Polka 120 Light Drapery. 39   3.3 Detail of Submaterial wall panel 067. 40   4.1  Back of Hand, in The Moon: Considered as a Planet, a World, and a Satellite by James Nasmyth and James Carpenter, 1874, Plate II. 47   4.2  Shriveled Apple, in The Moon: Considered as a Planet, a World, and a Satellite by James Nasmyth and James Carpenter, 1874, Plate III. 48   4.3 Arktura Ricami Dining Table. 53   4.4 Atelier Manferdini, Cherry Blossom Collection, Spring Summer 2007. 54   5.1 Carol Bove, Flora’s Garden II, in the exhibit RA, or Why is an orange like a bell? Maccarone, New York, 2012. 58   5.2 Carol Bove, Strange Events Permit Themselves the Luxury of Occurring, Camden Arts Centre, 2007–8. Setting for A. Pomodoro, 2006.60   5.3 Studio view, 2013. Including (from L to R): The WhiteTubular Glyph, 2012; Chesed, 2013; Terma, 2013; Ra, 2013.62   7.1 ISSSStudio + deSc, Zigzag (2013), view from interior. 77   7.2 ISSSStudio, Tessellated Floorscape (2010).78   7.3 ISSSStudio, Millefleur (2013).80   7.4 ISSSStudio + PATH, Bayou-luminescence (2011).81   7.5 ISSSStudio, Protoplastic (2014).82   8.1 bitMAPS (2009). 87   8.2  Hylozoic Soil, Musee des Beaux-Arts, Montreal, 2007. 89   8.3 modularArt, Crush, 2009. 92

x list of illustrations

  9.1 Wave Curtain (2012). Designed by Emerging Objects, a subsidiary of Rael San Fratello. 101   9.2 3D Printed House 1.0, Interior by Emerging Objects, a subsidiary of Rael San Fratello. 102   9.3 Cell Cycle Interface. 103   9.4 Kinematics Pieces. 104 10.1  Tangible Textural Interface (TTI), Jo Eunhee, 2012. 113 10.2 HORIZON (2013). 114 10.3 E-Static Shadows. 117 11.1 Aurélie Mossé, Reef, side view (2011). 128 11.2 Aurélie Mossé, Reef, detail of electro-active polymer structure (2011). 129 11.3 Aurélie Mossé, Reef, overall view (2011). 131 12.1 The Bandwidth of Perception. 136 12.2 Spectrum of Sound. 138 13.1 Proposed Antarctic Research Station, forces informing the design. 148 13.2 Proposed Antarctic Research Station illustrating rigid interior core, expanded soy-based insulation, and photovoltaic textile shell. 149 13.3 Brian F. Davies field-testing tensile shelter prototype at 14,500 feet above sea level in the Indian Himalayas. 151 13.4 CASiTA on public display during Disaster Preparedness week at the American Red Cross. 153 14.1 Concept during field testing. An example of a confined spacecraft interior, the rover is designed to support a crew of two living and working with a mission duration of up to two weeks. 159 14.2 The Skylab wardroom table features a unique triangular design that positions all crewmembers facing one another for meals. 160 14.3 A NASA CTB, Cargo Transfer Bag, is the primary unit of storage aboard the International Space Station and the most common example of soft goods used in spaceflight. 164 14.4 Inflatable planetary surface habitat and airlock unit concept being tested at the NASA Langley Research Center. 164 14.5 Interior view of the NASA pressurized rover crew quarters with sound dampening privacy curtain deployed for sleep. 167 15.1 Ortho-fabric. 173 15.2 Space Shuttle tile. 175 15.3 Textile for spacesuits made with Polybutadiene Quartz Aerogel. 178 16.1 Alternative inflatable Torus habitat outpost for the lunar surface. 182 16.2 Monolithic habitat on lunar lander. 183 16.3 Commuter surface strategy from DRA 5.0. 184 16.4 Logistics-2-Living kit-of-parts system using membranes for internal outfitting.186 16.5 Prototype membrane Cargo Transfer Bags (CTBs) unfolded and reconfigured into internal outfitting. 187

list of illustrations xi

16.6 With potentially hundreds of excess membrane Cargo Transfer Bags (CTBs) for any particular mission, some of them can be affixed to the outside of the hull for additional radiation shielding.

187

CONTRIBUTORS

Jonathon Anderson is an Assistant Professor of Interior Design at Ryerson University. His work is characterized by innovative and explorative methods that result in interconnected design, fine art, and technology solutions. From this non-traditional process emerges a provocative, complex design language that visually communicates at varied scales and emphasizes corporeal and phenomenological experiences. Margarita Benitez is the Fashion Technologist and an Assistant Professor at Kent State University’s Fashion School. Her creative research addresses fashion technology, wearables, interactive textiles, material explorations, digital fabrication, interactive installations and interdisciplinary collaboration. She has a collaborative art + design practice with Markus Vogl under the name //benitez_vogl. Carol Bove is known for her simple yet intricate assemblages of found and made objects. She studied at New York University and her work is represented in permanent collections worldwide, including the Fonds Régional d’Art Contemporain (FRAC) Nord-Pas de Calais, Dunkerque, France; The Museum of Modern Art, New York; Princeton University Art Museum, New Jersey; Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, Connecticut; and the Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven, Connecticut. She lives and works in Brooklyn, New York. Charles Camarda, Ph.D. is Senior Advisor for Innovation at NASA, Office of Chief Engineers, at NASA’s Johnson Space Center. He received a B.S in Aerospace Engineering from the Polytechnic Institute of Brooklyn, an M.S. in Engineering Science from George Washington University, and a doctorate in Aerospace Engineering from Virginia Polytechnic Institute. Camarda additionally served as a NASA astronaut with space flight experience. Brian F. Davies founded the Design for Extreme Environments Project at the University of Cincinnati where he coordinates the Interior Design Program. Previously, he led experimental studies at the University of Oregon. Davies received an exceptional education and degrees from Cornell University’s department of Design and Environmental Analysis. Robert Howard, Ph.D. received a B.S. in General Science from Morehouse College, a Bachelor of Aerospace Engineering degree from Georgia Tech in the same year, an

Contributors xiii

M.S. in Industrial Engineering with a focus in Human Factors from North Carolina A&T State University, and a Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee Space Institute. Dr. Howard is the NASA Habitability Design Center Manager and NSBE Aerospace Systems Conference Chair. A. Scott Howe is a licensed architect and robotics engineer at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He earned doctorates in industrial and manufacturing systems engineering from Hong Kong University and in architecture from the University of Michigan. Dr. Howe spent thirteen years of practice in Tokyo, Japan, and taught for six years at Hong Kong University. He specializes in robotic construction and currently is on the NASA development team building long-duration human habitats for deep space and permanent outposts for the moon and Mars. Dr. Howe is also a member of the JPL All-Terrain Hex-Limbed Extra-Terrestrial Explorer (ATHLETE) robotic mobility system development team, Mars Sample Return Orbiter team, and Asteroid Redirect Mission (ARM) capture mechanism team. Anca I. Lasc is Assistant Professor of Art and Design History at Pratt Institute. She has published in the Journal of Design History, the Journal of the History of Collections and Interiors: Design, Architecture, Culture, and is the editor of Visualizing the NineteenthCentury Home: Modern Art and the Decorative Impulse (Ashgate 2016) and co-editor of Designing the French Interior: The Modern Home and Mass Media (Bloomsbury 2015). Charlie Morrow is a composer, sound artist, performer, and innovator whose goal over the past four decades has been to bring experimental sound and music to a wider audience. Morrow studied with Stefan Wolpe and worked with avant-garde Fluxus artists in New York in the 1960s, and has written a wide range of works. Aurélie Mossé is a researcher with a textile design background. In her practice-led Ph.D., she explored how smart textiles can contribute to the design of a home in which technology cultivates a relationship of interconnectivity with nature. She is currently a part-time lecturer and researcher at École Nationale Supérieure des Arts Décoratifs, Paris. Evelyne Orndoff in her twenty-five years at NASA, has mostly researched textiles for lunar and Martian manned missions. She has studied textile science and engineering at North Carolina State University, materials science at Rice University, and mechanical engineering at the Wichita State University. Helene Renard is an Associate Professor of Interior Design at Virginia Tech’s School of Architecture + Design. Felt and its potential for shaping interior spaces are the focus of her research, creative scholarship, and internationally exhibited installation art. She shares her passion for the material with students in the Felt Construction course she teaches.

xiv Contributors

Deborah Schneiderman, RA is a Professor of Interior Design at Pratt Institute. She is also the Principal of deSc: architecture/design/research, a Brooklyn-based research practice. Her work focuses on emerging practice and fabrication in interior environments and has been widely presented and published internationally. Schneiderman received a Bachelor’s degree in Design and Environmental Analysis from Cornell University and a Master of Architecture degree from SCI-Arc. Laura Schoenthaler is a doctoral candidate in Design at North Carolina State University researching urban deindustrialization phenomena and the emergence of landscapes of adaptation and residency. Schoenthaler holds Bachelor and Masters degrees in industrial and sustainable design from Savannah College of Art and Design, as well as a Master’s degree in Law from Wake Forest University. Igor Siddiqui is an Associate Professor at The University of Texas at Austin. He is also the Principal of ISSSStudio, a design practice he founded in New York City in 2006. His work has been exhibited, presented, and published internationally. Siddiqui received a Master of Architecture degree from Yale University. Matthew Simon attained both Bachelor and Masters degrees in Aerospace Engineering from the University of Oklahoma and the Georgia Institute of Technology, respectively. Mr. Simon joined NASA in 2010, assuming the role of Habitation and Crew Systems Lead for the Human Spaceflight Architecture Team, where he designs habitats for future crewed exploration missions. Sarah Strauss is an architect and Visiting Associate Professor at Pratt Institute in the Interior Design Department. Strauss received a B.A. from Duke University and a Master of Architecture from Yale. Sarah lives and works in Brooklyn, New York where she co-founded BigPrototype LLC and is the Principal of XS Architect. Larry Toups attained both a Bachelor of Architecture and a Masters in Space Architecture from the University of Houston. Mr. Toups joined NASA in 1994, assuming the role of Habitability Systems Lead in the International Space Station Vehicle Office. He is currently in the Exploration Mission Planning Office at Johnson Space Center. Evan Twyford is an industrial designer with experience spanning industries such as aerospace, transportation, oil and gas, soft goods, and entertainment. He specializes in design for extreme environments and human centered design for small vehicles and spacecraft. Twyford received a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Industrial Design from the Rhode Island School of Design. He is currently an adjunct professor in the University of Houston’s College of Architecture Industrial Design Department and works as an independent freelance designer offering design services to clients around the world. Lois Weinthal is Chair of the School of Interior Design at Ryerson University. Her research and practice investigates the relationship between architecture, interiors,

Contributors xv

clothing and objects, resulting in works that take on an experimental nature. She is editor of Toward a New Interior: An Anthology of Interior Design Theory, 2011. Alexa Griffith Winton is an independent design historian based in New York, where she is also Visiting Assistant Professor at Pratt Institute and on the Interior Design faculty at Parsons School of Constructed Environments. Her research investigates theories of the modern interior as well as the relationship between textiles and architecture in the mid-twentieth century. Her work has been published internationally. She has received grants from the Graham Foundation, the New York State Council on the Arts, the Center for Craft, Creativity and Research, and the Beverly Willis Foundation. Susan Yelavich is Associate Professor and Director of the MA Design Studies program in the School of Art and Design History and Theory at Parsons School of Design. She is the author of numerous articles and books, including Design as FutureMaking, Contemporary World Interiors, Pentagram/Profile, Inside Design Now, Design for Life, and The Edge of the Millennium. She is a Fellow of the American Academy in Rome.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Geraldine Billingham, Agnes Upshall, and especially Hannah Crump at Bloomsbury Academic for their interest in and support of this project. We are very grateful to the contributors for their time and dedication, and to the designers who inspired the project in the first place. Deborah Schneiderman My sincere thanks go to my colleagues at Pratt Institute for their encouragement, especially Anita Cooney, the Dean of the School of Design, for her continued support of design research. I am most thankful for my husband, Scott, and twins Chloe and Eli Lizama. Alexa Griffith Winton I am indebted to my colleagues at Parsons and at Pratt for their support, especially Jonsara Ruth, Director, Parsons MFA Interior Design, and Brian McGrath, Dean of the Parsons School of Constructed Environments, for their enthusiastic support of faculty research. My deepest thanks go to my husband, Jonathan, and daughter Thisbe.

FOREWORD Susan Yelavich

It is 20 degrees Fahrenheit outside today. I am acutely conscious of the layers of fabric that I’m pulling up, tugging on, tucking in, wrapping around my body’s thermally deficient architecture—all so I can enjoy a twenty-minute walk from Soho to the Village. In fact, I’m setting out to exchange more textiles for others, returning leggings for tights that will cover (and warm) my feet. Threading my way through knots of down-pillowed tourists, I find myself mulling over the strange relationship we have toward textiles. Culturally, that is. Try to find a work of literature, a fairy tale, or folk tale in which thread, cloth, or clothing suggest something other than vanity, excess, or deceit. Salome’s veils are complicit in a dance of lethal seduction; Cicero accuses embroidered language of obscuring truthful and honest speech; Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Emperor’s New Clothes” ridicules over-weaning pride and power. At the advent of the 20th century, the protagonist of Paul Scheerbart’s The Gray Cloth (1914) insists his wife wear only 90% gray and 10% white. The utopian architect worries that aggressively hued textiles will diminish the chromatic affects of his radical colored-glass buildings. The moral of the stories: fabrications lie and thieve. Tainted by these cultural prejudices against the feminine, the malleable, and the extravagant—(in psychology, the irrational)—textiles have been relegated to the interior, which itself has been sequestered and classified as ‘under,’ ‘behind,’ or ‘within’ for much of design history. Just think of the way the legendary modernist Adolf Loos concealed his taste for fur carpeting in the bedroom and velvet upholstery in the salon. The textile and the interior were too soft, too fragile, and too temporary to be exposed to scrutiny. Fortunately, textiles are forgiving. As this collection of essays reveals, the perception of the textile as a kind of material ‘other’ has given way to more nuanced and productive understandings. This shift can be traced to a happy confluence of a number of factors. Perhaps among the most profound has been the rejection of dualities over the past century. There is a new regard for spaces and things that are interstitial, border crossing, and porous. As feminist philosopher Elizabeth Grosz observes:

xviii FOREWORD

This in-between is the very site for the contestation of the many binaries and dualisms that dominate Western knowledge …. The in-between is what fosters and enables the other’s transition from being the other of the one to its own becoming, to reconstituting another relation, in different terms.1 The work of reconstitution is central to the project of Textile Technology and Design: From Interior Space to Outer Space. Anni Albers “pliable plane,”2—the lynch pin for the opening essays—is the textile embodiment of Grosz’s “in-between.” Pliability enables spaces—spaces made with cloth—to overlap, fold, and fuse; it yields spaces defined not by separation but by a dynamic of mutuality. To that point, early on in Textile Technology and Design, we are reminded that felt, the most ancient of fabrics, has no inside or outside. It confuses the notion of boundary but still works as buffer (though not an airtight barrier) against sound and weather. Ensuing essays explore the textile as a more overtly active surface—one that mediates not just between indoor and outdoor conditions but also between spaces and bodies. Here things get especially interesting, because this is not just about the corporal energies of people but also those that flow from the natural and built environment. When conjoined with sensors, robotic- and nano-technologies, then grafted into the structures of walls, floors and ceilings, textile structures can respond to all manner of forces—a human touch, a blast of heat, an animal’s movement—with varying degrees of autonomy. These performative hybrids have the potential to regulate micro- and macro-environmental conditions more attentively and sustainably. In turn, we learn that self-actuated textiles are making new demands on their designers. Composed of reactive elements, they are newly unstable. As such, they need to be thought of differently. In addition working with tangible aspects of textiles, designers now also consider the intangible factors of movement and time and the inherent unpredictability of materials that do not sit still. The prospect of a world in which the metabolisms and behaviors of things are not fully controlled by us has led to the coinage ‘posthuman’—a vaguely dystopian shorthand for the very real condition of our relations to things today. However, I prefer not to think in terms of pre- or post- but in terms of a continuum of interdependence. It is fairly selfevident that we would not have survived this long without textiles. Moreover, textiles have always been responsive to the biochemistry of human and non-human factors in their orbits. This is especially, and critically, true in the extreme conditions of outer space. Fully one-third of this volume is concerned with designing with textiles for off-planet conditions, which, while vivid in popular imagination, still remain distant to most of us. But this is not the stuff of science fiction, no matter how experientially remote it may seem. Within the mother-load of history and technical achievement to be found in these chapters—fascinating in and of itself, there is also a valuable narrative of textile r&d

FOREWORD xix

writ-large. Experiments, such as those with life-saving space suits that react to changes in capsule interior temperatures, make it clear that relations between bodies, clothing, walls, floors, ceilings, and space are entering a new paradigm. Skins and surfaces, anatomies and operating systems, and their neuro-bio-chemical environments are being co-conceived and co-designed. Fortunately for us, who still struggle to insulate ourselves inside and outside more ordinary windows and walls, these textile explorations in outer space are fruitfully cross-pollinating with earthbound practices, at the same time they look to realms beyond. Now, if I can only find where I put my hat and gloves, I can venture out and look up at the sky, where, somewhere, someone else is cocooned by textiles, albeit under very different conditions. Nonetheless I suspect our basic needs and desires coincide in the textiles that offer comfort and survival and that all-important extra layer of wonder that makes it all worthwhile.

Notes 1

Grosz, Elizabeth. Architecture from the Outside: Essays on Virtual and Real Space. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001, 92–3.

2

Albers, Anni, “The Pliable Plane: Textiles in Architecture,” Perspecta, Vol. 4, 1957.

INTRODUCTION Alexa Griffith Winton and Deborah Schneiderman

Fábrick. n.s. (fabrica, Latin) A building; an edifice. Any system or compages of matter; any body formed by the conjunction of dissimilar parts To Fábrick. v.a. [from the noun.] To build; to form; to construct. Samuel Johnson, A Dictionary of the English Language, 1755

Textile and technology, seemingly distinct yet deeply enmeshed methodologies of making, continually inform each other through their persistent overlapping and overlaying of interests and investigations, which—as we argue—subsequently coalesce in the practice of interior design. From its early origins in the work of upholsterers and cabinet makers to the advanced fabrication techniques of contemporary practitioners, the interior remains a key locus of technological provocation and innovation in both textile and tectonic explorations. For the purposes of this volume, we consider the fabrication of the contemporary interior in its broadest terms, adopting Samuel Johnson’s provocative, eighteenth-century definition of the word fabric: “Any body formed by the conjunction of dissimilar parts.” The interior, in theory as in practice, is typically defined as binary and even dialectical. It is always defined against what it is not: the outside world, the public realm, the structural and hard, rational surfaces of the discipline of architecture, and objective technological investigations. These binary categories often serve to diminish the significance of interiors, privileging the façade over the inside, the public building over the private home, the structural over the decorative, and tectonic over the tactile pleasures of surface and— most critically—deny the strong connections between the interior and technologies that create it. Ironically, within the history of the interior, it has been the diminishing of the “soft” interior that gave rise to some of the most radical technology-driven explorations of the domestic interior. Historically, technological exploration is typically considered in the realm of architecture and the design of the domestic interior is subsequently relegated to mere decoration and surface treatments, when in fact many discussions have centered on the notion of the house as an architecturally defined “machine for living,” and the kitchen and bathroom, rooms that epitomize the profession of interior design, stake the greatest claim to such automation.

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TEXTILE TECHNOLOGY AND DESIGN

While conventional distinctions and definitions of the interior persist across design education, practice, and criticism, a close analysis of contemporary interior design suggests a very different understanding of both the interior and the role of technology—notably textile techniques—within the boundaries of interior design. In the contemporary context, expanded practice of interior design has come to incorporate non-traditional interior environments, including those of trains, ships, airplanes, and even space transportation vehicles and habitats. A number of designers today are embracing the use of textile’s spatial, technological, and even structural potentials, and the role of craft is reemerging as an important factor, with particular resonance in the area of the interior. Concomitantly, the interior has become the locus of intense scientific investigation via the materials and design of habitats for extreme environments. Additionally, emerging technologies, including rapid prototyping and parametric design, are provoking radical innovation into the way interior space is fabricated. It is in these exploitations that the boundaries between technology and textile are often most blurred. This volume proposes placing the interior at the center of the investigation of technological innovations at all scales, from soft surfaces to tectonic structures. Textile Technology and Design: From Interior Space to Outer Space offers seventeen newly commissioned essays and interviews from design practitioners, scientists, scholars, and an astronaut addressing the critical role of the interior at the intersection of design and technology, providing a range of diverse and interdisciplinary arguments around this concept. The volume is divided into three distinct yet interconnected parts, with the chapters in each addressing critical aspects of each area of investigation. Part One, “Textile: Pliable Planes, Interior Applications, and Fabrications,” explores the role of textiles within the context of interior design and architecture. Textiles play an intrinsic role in forming interior spaces, though architecture historians and critics, particularly in the context of modernist environments, have often minimized their presence and their importance. Beyond the conventional functions of providing shade and protection, insulation, and decorative and tactile interest, textiles can give form and texture to the interior environment. Contemporary designers are continually expanding the spatial possibilities of textiles, often blurring the distinction between surface and structure, form and decoration. Much of this work emphasizes the collaborative nature of the relationship between textile designer and architect. Part Two, “Mechanical and Digital Innovation in the Interior Realm,” looks at a broad spectrum of technology—mechanical innovations, technological, formal, and practical aspects of where technology and textile intersect, focusing on their applications in interior design. The spatial dimension of the interior surface is explored in digitally generated patterns, including parametric pattern design, tessellations, and three-dimensional wallpaper. In looking at both architecture and textiles as a means of apprehending and appreciating the complex nature of their often symbiotic relationship, this part emphasizes the ways in which new design and manufacturing and fabricating technologies expand and extend conventional notions of architectural space, often blurring the boundaries between structure and fabric. Part Three, “Extreme Environments and Outer Space,” explores the roles of textile and technology in the design and inhabitation of extreme environments both on earth

INTRODUCTION 3

and in outer space. As aspirations for exploration increase so do the risks and strains on humans living in extreme environments. Engineering, to date, has been the dominant discipline in designing for exploration and extreme environments. Yet, supporting and sustaining human well-being is critical to survival and is an ethos central to the discipline of interior design, extreme or otherwise. There exists real value to bringing a human user focus to the complex matrix of criteria in designing for human habitation in extreme environments. The design of extreme environments can also provide the opportunity to test strategies in extreme conditions that can later be applied to more typical scenarios. While the chapters in this volume are organized into thematic sections, they also exist within a larger web of connections that bind them as a whole, cutting across disciplinary and material distinctions. This complex web demonstrates both the profound influence of textile, and its ability to transgress boundaries and transform existing terrains. Jonathon Anderson and Laura Shoenthaler, in their chapter, examine the emerging practice of digital design as a means of updating and transforming contemporary textile functions in terms of making, materiality, and phenomena that result in the “experience of objects and environments in ways not possible in years past.” In her chapter on 3D wallpaper Sarah Strauss proposes a substantive reinsertion of wallpaper as a design tool and proposes that 3D wallpaper produces a new tactile experience that crosses the threshold of interior design, architecture, and image making. She argues that it challenges fundamental assumptions of space making. Providing historical context, Anca Lasc traces the role and popularity of both textiles and the interior decorator across the nineteenth century, exploring both the formal and moral implications of the typically overstuffed nineteenth century domestic space. Lasc argues that the interior in le goût tapissier was not simply a decorating fad, but instead provided essential strategies and techniques for the fusion of architecture and textile that are still relevant to interior design today. In the realm of design for space travel and habitation, Evelyne Orndoff writes specifically on fabrics for space travel. Her chapter presents an historical perspective on these rare fabrics developed for multiple purposes, including the protection of the human body from hazardous environments, for spacecraft applications, or for space habitable structures, and the most remarkable which were originally designed for astronaut apparel. As an architect designing for space, Larry Toups and his co-authors discuss future potential for textiles in outer space habitation, significantly several iterations of interior environments that can be fabricated with transformative and reusable Modified Cargo Transfer Bags (MCTBs). A recent proposal from NASA combines MCTBs with inflatable air beams to construct temporary crew quarters that can be deployed and stowed on a daily basis. Together these chapters demonstrate radical shifts of scale in both space and time, as marked by textile innovations that continue to transform interior conditions. The production capabilities of an era have historically been well represented in the method of textile fabrication of that time, from ancient methods of hand manufacture to present day digital fabrication technologies. Igor Siddiqui ascertains that discipline of interior design has not yet sufficiently claimed the technologically transformed surface as its own area of expertise, authority, and expression. In his chapter, Siddiqui describes a body of work from his own research practice, ISSSStudio, and describes how he has

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sought to alleviate this deficiency. Helene Renard documents the evolution of felt, the most ancient form of textile, from an industrial afterthought to a cutting edge and sustainable interior design material. Felt’s homogenous structure allows it to be cut, stamped, or machined using CNC, water jet, and laser technology into any shape without the need for reinforcement. Brian F. Davies’ case studies for the Design for Extreme Environments Project [DEEP], at the University of Cincinnati, strive to extend the capabilities of students beyond the assimilation of existing knowledge, enabling them to envision innovative future solutions for extreme environments. In their Design for Compact Affordable Shelters intended for Transitional Applications [CASiTA], the team was challenged to creatively employ technology to conceive and fabricate compact shelters. Deborah Schneiderman notes that the potential impact of digitally fabricated interiors, which through evolving technology can have textile-like qualities, extends beyond the ability of a product to better fit an interior or more effectively do its job. The possibility is that these elements of the interior can be more adaptable to individual taste, along with individual and architectural fit and function, and even create memory and emotional attachment. Because of their tactile nature, textiles are a highly effective means of transmitting sensory information. This can happen either with or without the direct influence of technology. Aurélie Mossé assesses a design-led approach concerned with the conceptualization and materialization of self-actuated textiles for the home. She proposes that the appropriation of textiles capable of responding to direct stimulus within the interior can contribute to a more sustainable future. Margarita Benitez proposes that interior design practice can be expanded by technologies learned in the exploration of wearable technologies developed by the fashion industry. Benitez describes the development of cohesive human-centric environments built from the materiality of textiles. In his interview, sound artist Charlie Morrow discusses the intersection of sound and the interior environment, regarding textile and the interior he notes that textile has a huge range of roles in the sonic universe where smart textile technologies and traditional materials play significant sonic roles. Lois Weinthal compares textiles for body and for interior space, looking at parallels in the way that designers apply surface techniques, whether in fashion or in interior design, to achieve specific effects. She argues that through close examination, surfaces provide conceptual, tactile, and aesthetic depth and richness. Alexa Griffith Winton investigates emergent practices that use textiles and technology at a broad range of scales to challenge and transform existing definitions of architecture and interiors, questioning the role of the interior in the post-human context, one in which both humans and textiles respond and react to exterior stimuli. Both textiles and the interior environment inherently inform patterns of everyday life. Artist Carol Bove discusses the role of domestic objects in her work, arguing that design itself is an ideology, and that the material culture of the home allows for infinite interpretations of social practices via these objects. In describing an early work, she notes that she wanted the shelf pieces to be able to “pass” as regular shelves and for them to be sort of invisible. Evan Twyford notes that in addition to the technological requirements for space travel, NASA designers must also address everyday social factors including hierarchical delineation; the dining table in NASA’s Skylab module was designed to be triangular so that when three crew members were eating together no one would be at the head of

INTRODUCTION 5

the table. Charles Camarda provides a candid interview where he discusses his experiences as both a NASA engineer and astronaut. As the Senior Advisor for Innovation he is designing toward a future where space travel is routine. Such an achievement requires the exploration of all possibilities, and hence to fail where we can and succeed where we must. Collectively, the interviews and chapters within this volume depict an ongoing and fundamental redefinition of the interior and its material practice, at every scale and to many different ends; textiles and technology both are drivers of this transformation. If the built environment of the twentieth century can be understood as a constructive regime determined to organize both people and space, the research contained in this volume suggests a very different trajectory, addressing change at many levels: social practices and everyday life, approaches to materiality and material behaviors, shifting climatic conditions, the relationship between the architectural object and the human subject. The interior has always been a mutable yet resilient site of enactment, one that readily transforms as needed. As demonstrated here, technology and textiles profoundly shape the transformation of the modern interior, both historically and in contemporary practice.

PART ONE

TEXTILE: PLIABLE PLANES, INTERIOR APPLICATIONS, AND FABRICATIONS

1 INTERSTITIAL THREADS: THE BODY, TEXTILES, AND INTERIORITY IN CONTEMPORARY INTERIOR DESIGN Alexa Griffith Winton

Textiles function, critically and materially, to connect such chasms as between language and space or words and architecture. They do this with dual reference to an interiority and exteriority in which concept and substance are not so much interwoven as twisted together in in the initial formation and preparation of thread. (MITCHELL 2006)

There are numerous examples of the melding of space, body, and textile in the history of the interior, perhaps most dramatically in Art Nouveau gesamtkunstwerk interiors where garments and interiors were tightly coordinated, rendering the (female) physical body completely defined by its spatial envelope (Ogata 2001; Kinney 1999: 472–81). This ambiguity between dress and structural surface in the interior, and the corresponding description of the interior as fashion—personified by Walter Benjamin as an inconstant, volatile “creature of moods” (Benjamin 2002: 216)—is today transformed, particularly with emergent design technologies and fabrication methods of designers such as Mette Ramsgard Thomsen, the collective Numen/For Use, and Loop.pH, each of whom employ textiles or textile techniques in the realization of their project. While the material and tectonic possibilities of the work of these designers are clear, the larger theoretical questions surrounding such systems have yet to be addressed, particularly in the context of the relationship between body and constructed space in the post-human environment. As textile theorist Victoria Mitchell has argued, “The opening-out-from-within of the materiality of textiles continues to reveal hidden trajectories of knowledge” (Mitchell 2006: 340). This chapter investigates the evolving role of textiles

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as an interstitial interface—mediating space and the body—in the context of the interior, particularly in relation to issues of technology, domesticity, and the relationship of the interior realm to the exterior. This issue has particular resonance in contemporary design practice, in which advanced computational and fabrication technologies combine to create textiles capable of both reacting to their surrounding environs and responding to their inhabitants. New and rapidly developing fabrication and computation technologies are changing the way textiles, objects, and buildings are designed, facilitating new ways of addressing the human body at every scale, from nano-objects to large-scale buildings. Designers and artists are making use of this technology in provocative ways and consequently envisioning new means of connecting humans to our built environment. The issue now is not how are interior space and tectonic structure connected through textile, but what are the implications for the interior when textile can literally fuse the two, or even make conventional structure redundant? It is in these explorations that the boundaries between technology and textile are challenged, questioning traditional definitions of inside and outside, craft and industry, craft and biology, as well as the implications of designing and creating both textiles and buildings in a world of ever-diminishing resources. This chapter investigates recent work that involves both textiles and the constructed environment, and challenges conventional assumptions about both. If architecture can no longer be solely understood as a constructive regime that organizes both space and people, what, then, is it? The interior, a place defined by patterns of behavior as much as containment, offers an ideal testing ground for this decentralized relationship between space and user.

Metaphors, codes, and signs There are strong parallels between the types of patterns and mathematical logic inherent in both computer and textile design, and it is these similarities that designers attempt to exploit through the combination of the two. Within both the design of computer code and the design of textiles exist codes, patterns, repetitions, and the potential for infinite variations. The French weaver Joseph Maria Jacquard’s 1801 unveiling of what is now known as the jacquard loom, capable of producing its patterns via wooden punch cards, inspired the English mathematician and inventor Charles Babbage to create the first mechanical computer in the mid-nineteenth century, leading eventually to the highly complex computational design programs used by architects and designers today, including Rhino and Grasshopper (see, for example, Eisinger 2004). Just as Jacquard’s innovation made it possible to create a seemingly endless array of woven patterns on the loom, designers now can visualize a future designed via the limitless possibilities of parametric design. Beyond the notion of mathematical coding, there are numerous examples of textiles, or the making of textiles, employed to encode symbols and hidden messages, reinforcing the powerful imprint of textiles on the cultural imagination. The three Greek Fates determined the length of each person’s life in a choreographed performance: Clotho spun the metaphorical thread of life, Lachesis measured it, and Atropos severed it with her terrible shears. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Philomela communicates the story of her brutal rape

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by weaving it into a tapestry, despite her attacker Tereus having cut out her tongue to silence her. Charles Dickens’ villainous Madame de Farge, a professional knitter and devoted revolutionary spy, calmly encodes within her knitting the names of the future victims of the Terror. Rozsika Parker’s Subversive Stitch: Embroidery and the Making of the Feminine explores both the history and transgressive possibilities of embroidery, claiming that “to know the history of embroidery is to know the history of women” (Parker 2010: ix). All of this suggests textiles have direct communicative and symbolic powers. If we consider that, far from being trivial, these deeply held and ancient associations with fabric and its making now embody meaning not only metaphorically but spatially, we begin to apprehend the profound implications for the future of interior design. Design theorist and critic Susan Yelavich has argued that a textile-based design can potentially embody a more empathetic approach, that “textiles and textile-based technologies are never separate from the values and bodily experiences that have accrued to textiles themselves” (Susan Yelavich in Yelavich and Adams 2014: 69).

Transformative textiles Thinking of architecture as live, as motile, and as self-sustaining, challenges both the object and the process of architectural making. (Thomsen and Bech 2012b: 85–96) Architect and computer scientist Mette Ramsgard Thomsen combines parametric computations and handwork in the realization of her projects. Thomsen directs the Center for Information Technology and Architecture (CITA) at the Royal Danish School of Architecture in Copenhagen. In her work, Thomsen merges textile handwork such as weaving and knitting with armatures and actuating elements, resulting in work that she has termed “digital crafting.” Through this fusion of architectonic structures and the endlessly repeatable patterns found in weaving drafts or knitting patterns, Thomsen seeks to understand the logic of materials as well as to explore both the physical and digital dimensions of space. She questions the conventional assumptions of architectural practice, proposing instead a “new material practice that includes the active and the changing into material design” (Peters 2009: 200–4). This practice, informed by the material properties of textile and their relationship with interactive sensor technologies, posits a new understanding of spatial experience, one that is deeply engaged with time and motion and embraces the potential of instability. In Thomsen’s design propositions, new technologies are used to challenge the normative role of textiles in the interior to pose questions about the very nature of interiority. She employs digital crafting to design speculative environments, and handcrafting techniques to assemble them, asking “how a tectonic logic affects and changes material culture, and how in turn this forms our spatial imagination” (Thomsen and Bech 2012b: 85–96). Thomsen’s provocations have direct relevance to the interior, as it is understood as a mutable space, constantly shifting and defined by the ways in which it is used. She has said of the relationship between architectural object and human subject that: “The inhabitant therefore enters the installation

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at the same level as the computational system … there is no distinction between system interaction and user interaction” (Thomsen and Bech 2012a: 287). In this way, the interior is much closer to Benjamin’s “creature of moods,” acting and reacting to external stimuli. Thomsen’s practice-led research projects are often collaborative in nature, joining together researchers, students, and textile experts in order to explore the questions that drive her work. The interior often figures prominently in her investigations. “Strange Metabolisms,” a 2007 research collaboration with textile designer Toni Hicks of the University of Brighton, envisions an urban environment that knits itself via computer plots. In this project, distinctions (and ambiguities) between inside and outside, public and private, materialize in the form of layers, slits, folds, and other surface variations. The surfaces of this city, whether interior or exterior, are knit in the round, which implies a seamless construction technique, yet one that can unravel if the fiber from which it is knit is pulled or damaged. “Shadow Play,” a 2012 installation created in collaboration with Karin Bech for the Architecture House in Copenhagen, uses strips of pine veneer looped together to create a structure that behaves like a “fabric” but at an architectural scale. “Textiles are interesting structural models because they are strong, lightweight, adaptable, and enable great formal freedom” (Mette Thomsen in Yelavich and Adams 2014: 60). Of “Shadow Play,” Thomsen has written that its material behavior was learned from textiles, proposing “a non-hierarchical, densely stranded model existing somewhere between structure and the making of a new material” (Mette Thomsen in Yelavich and Adams 2014: 65). Thomsen has argued that these installations are meant to fundamentally change our relationship to architecture, transforming “the original percept of the building as subservient to its user … its occupant changes from ‘user’ to participant” (Thomsen and Bech 2011: 37). While these experiments currently exist only as relatively small-scale and temporary installations, they clearly point to a post-human condition in which the human being must share not only time and space with cybernetic objects (including architecture), but agency as well.

Lines and threads Textile theorist Victoria Mitchell has observed that to truly understand the relationship between textiles and architecture, we must look beyond weaving, to the raw materials, in order to “examine the components and interstices of the weave and the detailed preparatory actions necessary in order for the weaving to begin.” In her article, “Drawing Threads from Sight to Site,” Mitchell posits a much deeper relationship between architectural space and human experience than the common textile metaphors in architecture allow. She looks to the thread, and the act of spinning it, as critical to understanding the relationship between textiles and architecture. As Mitchell notes, thread is both object and tool in this context, a concept embraced by the Vienna-based design collective Numen/ For Use. Numen experiments with textiles and textile techniques to challenge conventional understandings of the interior. They use soft materials such as fabric, thread, and even

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sticky tape to create site-specific installations at the human scale. In a series titled “Tape,” Numen fuses thousands of strands of tape to create a felt-like membrane capable of supporting the human body while resisting the conventions of orthogonal space. In “Tape Paris,” an installation created for the 2014 exhibition “Interior,” which explored the idea of the interior across many disciplines and media, Numen used this felted sticky tape to create a parasitic structure that stretched throughout a large room in the Palais de Tokyo (Plate 1). The installation was anchored to interior columns, with no connection to either floor or ceiling. The resulting experience is an interior environment that hovers over the floor, stretching out in multiple directions, following no conventional tectonic logic. Bodies move through the translucent tubes and eddies removed from the experience of conventional architecture, experiencing instead a kind of hyper-interiority. The collective describes this installation as exploring “both physical and psychological interiority, thermalizing immersion, introspection and probing of the depths of self” (Numen/For Use 2014). “Tape Paris” is the latest in a series of installations in which Numen explored the performative, material, and experiential qualities of a parasitic environment constructed out of sticky tape. Another series of installations by Numen/For Use proposes an interior environment completely disconnected from tectonic form, and relies instead entirely on textile for its structure and air pressure for its form. “Net Blow Up Yokohama” (2013) was a pneumatic object, the outer skin of which is inflated until the interior series of interconnected nets is taut, forming an environment the collective has described alternately as floating landscapes and climbable social sculpture. “Net Blow Up Yokohama” is an interior constructed entirely of textiles, with no external tectonic supports or internal skeleton (Figure 1.1). Its soft and pneumatic structure makes it highly responsive to the movements

Figure 1.1 Numen/For Use, interior, Net Blow Up Yokohama, Japan, 2013. © Numen/For Use.

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of people as they move around within it. Like Thomsen’s actuated textile environments, both “Net” and “Tape” propose an interior architecture that is deliberately unstable and undergoing constant change through its interactions with occupants; human behaviors both inform and are in turn informed by the performance of these interior environments. Loop.pH is a London-based design studio directed by partners Rachel Wingfield and Mathias Gmachl. Their work engages notions of technology, handwork, environmental issues, interior and urban conditions, and science. Their installations often play with the notion of scale, with large-scale realizations of intricate lace-like structures, often made of light-emitting fibers. Fusing their interest in technology and materials with a deep appreciation of traditional textile making techniques, Loop.pH developed Archilace, which they define as “lace-making on an architectural scale with strong composite fibers and is a method to craft space and reflect on the materiality and fabrication processes within the architectural practice. Archilace combines a parametric design process with a hands-on crafting technique” (Winton 2013: 78–97). Loop.pH’s Archilace structures are typically modular and often based on forms and patterns found in the natural world. Their site-specific installation created for the light festival “Lichtströme,” in Koblenz, Germany in 2012, for example, consisted of three-dimensional interlocking and luminous woven forms based on radiolaria, the microscopic protozoa that form highly complex mineral skeletons; these tiny fossils provide essential information to scientists geological dating as well as researching ancient climatic conditions. Loop.pH found inspiration in nineteenth-century biologist Ernst Haeckel’s highly detailed drawings of the creatures, first published in 1862, which they see as embodying the multidisciplinary and scientifically informed methods they employ in their work. Atmeture, Loop.pH’s interactive light installation, is an example of their hybrid computerand-craft-based methods developed specifically as an installation, commissioned by onedotzero for Letchworth Garden City Heritage Foundation for the inaugural Letchworth “Fire & Fright Festival” (Figure 1.2). In this project, Loop.pH uses both parametric design technologies and handcraft to create a delicately woven canopy of luminous latticework, which is filled with transparent membranes that appear to breathe when pumped full of air. This project uses the essential formal methods of lacemaking (repetition, reproduction, patterning, and layering) to create a large-scale installation that appears to live and breathe. Rethinking materials and resources in relation to environmental concerns, Loop.pH deployed textile thinking and techniques to create “Algae Curtain,” part of their “Energy Futures” installation in Lille, France in 2012. Transparent tubing was knotted together to create large bio-active curtains. Live algae were pumped through the network of tubes, absorbing ambient daylight and creating plant-based biofuel (Plate 2). Design historian Margaret Maile Petty has shown how curtains and attitudes toward them embodied the “gendered and disciplinary biases of the era” (Petty 2012: 36). In the post-war domestic interior, the large picture window was considered an essential attribute of the modern house. Curtains and other types of window coverings negotiated critical boundaries between inside and outside within this context. In the case of “Algae Curtain,” soft domestic surfaces are once again performing critical functions, though in this case they are directly

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Figure 1.2 Loop.pH, Atmeture, Letchworth, UK, 2014. © Loop.pH.

responding to environmental crisis, and proposing ways in which the home can serve as an active participant in the battle to conserve natural resources. This simple installation transforms the domestic realm into a site of scientific experimentation and provocation. The humble lace curtain, so closely associated with femininity and decoration, is rendered here as a highly active machine for fighting climate change (Loop.pH 2012). Through Archilace, Loop.pH collapses conventional ideas of scale, time, technique, and technology, inverting associations of lace with delicate and isolated interiority, removed and protected from the outside world. Archilace renders it instead both physically robust and deeply engaged with the larger questions facing the world today: sustainability, the urban condition, science and technology.

Conclusion The interstitial interior, crafted of these new materials and technologies and informed by new approaches to design and social practice, challenges our understanding of architectural space and our role within it. Thomsen’s unstable architecture, Loop.pH’s urban scale lace, and Numen’s soft structures for social engagement demand a redefinition of interior space, taking into account shifting relationships between user and space, material behaviors, and questions of agency. These examples of contemporary design practice propose a new relationship between the human subject and the architectural object in an environment in which the subject is no longer privileged and the object can no longer be

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considered inert. There is great potential embodied within these new design practices to “reveal an underlying formation which combines both subject and object at the inception of materialization and of a sense of space” (Mitchell 201: 344).

References Benjamin, W. (2002), “The Interior, the Trace,” The Arcades Project, trans. H. Eiland and K. McLaughlin, Cambridge, MA and London: Belknap Press. Eisinger, J. (2004), Jacquard’s Web: How a Handloom Led to the Information Age, London and New York: Oxford University Press. Harrison, A. L. (2012), Architectural Theories of the Environment: Posthuman Territory, New York: Routledge. Kinney, L. (1999), “Fashion and Fabrication in Modern Architecture,” Journal of the Society of Architecture Historians, 58 (3): 472–81. Kruger, S. (2009), Textile Architecture, Berlin: Jovis Publishers. Loop.pH (2012), “Algae Curtain.” Available online: http://loop.ph/portfolio/algae-curtain (accessed May 12, 2015). Mitchell, V. (2006), “Drawing Thread from Sight to Site.” Textile, 4 (3): 340–61. Mitchell, V. (2012), “Text, Textile, Techne,” in J. Hemmings (ed.), The Textile Reader, London: Bloomsbury Academic. Numen/For Use (2014), “Tape Paris.” Available online: http://www.numen.eu/installations/tape/ paris/ (accessed May 11, 2015). Ogata, A. (2001), Art Nouveau and the Social Vision of Modern Living: Belgian Artists in a European Context, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Parker, R. (2010), The Subversive Stitch: Embroidery and the Making of the Feminine, London: I.B. Tauris. Peters, T. (2009), “Mette Ramsgard Thomsen Knits, Weaves and Sews the Buildings She Designs,” Mark, October/November: 200–4. Petty, M. M. (2012), “Curtains and the Soft Architecture of the Post-war Domestic Environment,” Home Cultures, 9, no. 1: 35–56. Thomsen, M. R. and K. Bech (2012a), “Suggesting the Unstable: A Textile Architecture,” Textile, 10 (3): 276–89. Thomsen, M. R. and K. Bech (2012b), “The Model and the Spatial Imaginative: How Would it be to Live in a Soft Space?” Transactions on Architectural Education, 59: 85–96. Thomsen, M. R. and K. Bech, “FCJ-130 Embedding response: Self production as a model for an actuated architecture,” in Fiberculture Journal 19 (2011), pp. 31–46. Winton, A. G. (2013), “Coded: Computers, Crafting, and Radical Textiles for an Uncertain Future,” in J. Woodcock and J. O’Connor (eds), Work 6: Parsons AAS Interior Design, 78–97, New York: Parsons The New School for Design. Yelavich, S. and B. Adams, eds (2014), Design as Future Making, London: Bloomsbury Academic.

2 SOFT SPACES: FROM THE TEXTILE-CLAD INTERIOR TO MODERN INTERIOR DESIGN Anca I. Lasc

Writing about the nineteenth-century domestic interior in 1939, the German critic and philosopher Walter Benjamin associated the individual with the interior décor of his or her private abode. This time period, Benjamin explained, witnessed the transformation of the bourgeois living room into “a box in the theater of the world” and a direct reflection of the personality, upbringing, and social status of its dweller. As “the traces of its inhabitant are molded into the interior,” the latter becomes a plush cocoon, a “cockpit” of velour indebted to the skills of the notorious tapissier (Benjamin [1939] 2002: 19–20). Honoré de Balzac and Gustave Flaubert, two unmatched chroniclers of nineteenth-century bourgeois mores, attest to these connections. In their prose, the private interior, with its traces of the material culture of everyday life, becomes a mirror of its occupants. For Monsieur Crevel, Captain of the Second Company in the National Guard and self-made shopkeeper, Baroness Hulot’s card room displayed trappings reflective of her family’s impoverished finances yet suggestive of a desire to maintain upper-class appearances. As he observed “the silk curtains, once red, but now faded to violet by the sun and frayed along the folds by long use, a carpet from which the colours [sic] had disappeared, chairs with their gilding rubbed off and their silk spotted with stains and worn threadbare in patches,” Crevel felt confident that poverty would help him win the attentions of Baroness Hulot, the subject of his infatuation (Balzac [1846] 2004: 14). But the run-down state of the Baroness’ furniture textiles, rather than an incentive to sin, proved for Balzac’s Cousin Bette heroine to be a statement of her moral integrity. While her family’s finances were in a precarious state, she made no effort to conceal it, refusing to be ashamed of the beat-up appearance of her carpet, curtains, and furniture upholstery. In contrast, Gustave Flaubert’s heroine, Emma Bovary, the wife of a simple country doctor, ruined herself and her family for textiles. Enchanted by Parisian fashion and dazzled by the subversive loans of Monsieur Lheureux, a shrewd “draper” who advanced credit to women shoppers, Madame Bovary acquired silk lining to upholster her armchairs, “yellow curtains with wide stripes” to brighten her windows, and a new carpet

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to soften her floor (Flaubert [1856] 2003: 241, 253, 256). When her family’s savings could not provide for such extravagances, haunted by creditors, the wasteful heroine paid with her life. She had tried to mask with drapery the reality of her existence, and her dishonest interiors—a direct reflection of her dishonest soul—had a negative impact on Emma’s subsistence. Her adulterous relationships, as much as her penchant for interior textiles that she could not afford, pushed Flaubert’s heroine to suicide. In yet another instance, therefore, the domestic interior cocoon and its characteristic drapes paralleled the personality, upbringing, and social status of their owner. These are only two of the numerous examples that prove the uncontested importance of textiles to nineteenth-century private interiors. While artists and scholars have recognized the significance of fabric to architecture itself, speaking along the lines of Vitruvius and Gottfried Semper about “an origin of architecture in which textile processes are primary,” the role of textiles in the development of the profession of interior designer remains to be examined (Jefferies and Wood Conroy 2006: 235). Art and design historian Rebecca Houze, for example, has pointed out how Semper’s nineteenth-century theories about the textile in architecture influenced an entire generation of modern architects including Otto Wagner, Josef Hoffmann, and Adolf Loos, as well as more recent architects such as Frei Otto (Houze 2006: 292–311).1 Houze argues for the relevance of the concepts of textile patterning and surface in the appearance of these architects’ buildings, but she focuses on the exterior façades at the expense of interior surfaces and spatial organizations. The Bauhaus and Black Mountain College textile designer Anni Albers, whose notion of architecture as a “third skin” has also deeply affected the appearance of buildings such as Frei Otto’s, came closer to understanding the uncontested influence of textiles within interior spaces: In general then, except for some of our clothes, textiles have taken on an indoor existence. Their protective duties have changed. Instead of keeping off the wind, they now may keep the sun from inside the house, and important today in a crowded world, protect the privacy of the inhabitants. They still give warmth, on floors for instance, and may give insulation from drafts as curtains—functions losing importance with improved building conditions. On the other hand they are taking on new tasks like sound-absorption, a problem growing with a noisier world. In fact, we ask of our fabrics more diversified services than ever before. Today [1957] we may want them to be light-reflecting, even fluorescent, crease-resistant or permanently pleated and have such invisible qualities as being water-repellent, fast-drying, non-shrinking, dustshedding, spot-resistant and mildew-proof, to name only a few. (Albers 1957: 39)2 Albers, perceptive of the practical roles textiles met within interiors, argued against their use as merely decoration and deplored the “relaxation” of their duties as protectors indispensable to one’s physical survival. Venturing that her contemporaries had “no time for frills,” and echoing the writing of Adolf Loos, she stated: “When we decorate we detract and distract” (Albers 1957: 40). She applauded a fabric’s use as “integral architectural element” instead, “a counterpart to solid walls” (ibid.). Albers observed such an approach to interior textiles in the work of Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier, architects who

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did not use textiles merely as “an after-thought in planning” but rather as an essential “contributing thought” to their buildings (ibid.). Following Annie Albers’ recognition of the importance of textiles to interior spaces above and beyond their decorative function, this chapter proposes that the nineteenth-century plush and fabric-clad interiors designed for the likes of Baroness Hulot and Madame Bovary had a significant role in the development of new ideas about interior architecture. Beyond its surface appearance of an over-decorated and over-cluttered amalgamation of objects and textiles in the same space, the nineteenth-century private interior furthered the goals of the newly developing profession of the interior designer in essential ways. That interior textiles structured the home and reflected the social status of the inhabitant was not new to the nineteenth century. Ancient Romans, for example, treated their homes as primary sites for the display of wealth (Clarke 2005). Semi-public spaces where visitors included lower-status clients, dignitaries, or friends, Ancient Roman interiors employed spatial layout, furnishings, and permanent décor to structure movement through the house. Curtains screened off private areas from the rest of the chambers, indicating, like a “map,” “which part of the house a visitor should be in” (Swift 2009: 29). Like floor mosaics, they directed one’s passage, past the personal spaces of the home and into the reception areas. Here, the “conspicuous consumption of luxury” reached its apogee, and decorative items such as wall-paintings, mosaics, stucco work, statuette groups, as well as fabric wall-hangings testified to the social and economic status of their owners (ibid.: 71–2). The association between textiles and status continued through the Middle Ages, when movable textiles such as bed hangings and tapestries not only protected against drafts and humidity in medieval castles but also testified to the wealth and rank of inhabitants especially as they accompanied them on their frequent travels throughout their dominions (Singman 1999: 129). The regard for textiles persisted during the Renaissance. The most expensive items on an inventory drafted after the death of a wealthy person from the period were the so-called spalliere tapestries a verdure or a verdure con paesi (“tapestries woven with vegetal or mille fleurs designs” or “tapestries with pastoral or rustic scenes”), door curtains, and bed ensembles featuring tent-like canopies with matching curtains and satin covers (Fortini Brown 2004: 85–6).3 But it was the eighteenth century that saw the association between interior textiles and status reach its apogee. Rather than show-stopping magnificence, under the supervision of architects and upholsterers, fabrics now showcased comfort, a desirable quality for each home of some means that also attested to the education and the wealth of its owner (DeJean 2009: 3–4).4 The newly invented sofa, for example, was “the first furniture ever to feature upholstery on all surfaces” that was also padded. Fabric had rarely been used for seating furniture before, and “prior to the sofa’s invention,” an upholsterer had above all been “someone who covered the walls of rooms with fabric or tapestry,” from where the French term tapissier derived (ibid.: 10). The new requirements of comfort assured that the upholsterer would play an essential role in the world of interiors not only by padding all possible seating surfaces, including those of toilet seats, but also by decorating any and all openings in the home, especially around windows and doors, with textiles. In fact, as historian Joan DeJean argues, “over the time, all this proliferation—of

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the new kinds of spaces, new types of furniture, and new uses for textiles—led to the creation of a new field: interior decoration” (ibid.: 13).5 Fabrics not only testified to one’s ability to afford an interior decorator (more typically still an architect during this period) but also gave the rooms their habitual, uniform, and matching look. As art historian Mimi Hellman observes, the “boring” uniformity of French Rococo interiors, where “seat furniture and windows typically were covered in the same materials” thus making rooms “not only repetitive but also quite similar to one another” belies a deeper truth (Hellman 2007: 129–30). The “distinctively indistinctive” character of such textile-clad rooms originated in the desire to express status and thriving finances in an age where “serial design” meant “the fabrication of multiple originals undertaken with specialized expertise and at great expense for consumption by a privileged elite” (emphasis added) (ibid.: 131). Uniformity through fabrics thus meant that one had enough money to afford discarding the potential mistakes that might settle into a series where each hand-produced object was intended as a match for twenty other look-alikes. In the nineteenth century, the use of textiles in interiors moved beyond functional or social purposes. The “fabric craze” associated with the rise of the middle classes, who tried to imitate the social élites in the way they decorated their interiors, coupled both with the development of mechanical means of production that created cheaper textiles for the home and with new venues for the distribution of merchandize, permitted the transformation of almost any private interior into the soft and plush cocoon described by Walter Benjamin (Williams 1982: 50). Fabrics now covered every conceivable surface, governing to a large extent the “stifling, claustrophobic clutter” characteristic of Victorian interiors (Wilhide 1991: 37). Floors, walls, windows, doorways, alcoves, mirrors, fireplaces, picture frames, plant pots, pianos, and working desks were all draped in fabric, while ceilings and furniture often made no exception. As art historian Elizabeth Wilhide explains, the “gloom” derived from the over-profusion of draperies was “fashionable” and served as an indicator of status at a time when household chores (for which daylight would have been a precious resource) were largely the responsibility of servants: “A man would have to be fairly successful for his wife to languish all day in semi-darkened rooms, burning expensive candles if she wanted to read or attempt a little embroidery” (ibid.: 40). While they continued to be an expression of the real or desired social and financial status of their owners as the novels of Balzac and Flaubert testify, nineteenth-century interior textiles also moved beyond the expression of middle-class prosperity or the need to increase one’s comfort by keeping the cold and humidity away and private spaces apart. Decorators identified new uses for interior textiles, which ranged from decorative, theatrical, and purely aesthetic to functional. Fabrics now embellished objects and created decorative vista points or areas of directed focus within rooms. But, in doing so, they also determined innovative, perhaps even unconventional, circulation patterns that affected the form and spatial layout of an interior. They became, in short, the building blocks of the nascent practice of interior design that would no longer be within the purview of architects. Given the overabundance of textiles in nineteenth-century interiors, the main supplier of decorative fabrics, the upholsterer or draper (tapissier), became in France the scapegoat for everything that went bad in interior decoration at the time. Despised by

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architects and dismissed as a “fraud,” the tapissier was blamed not only for the profusion of drapery in any one private interior but also for his perpetual preference for historicist interior decorating styles at the expense of new ones. As a consequence, the interior decorating aesthetic of the entire second half of the nineteenth century in France became known as le goût tapissier (the upholsterer’s taste), a derogatory term that criticized the apparent lack of innovation within nineteenth-century interiors (DeJean 2009: 164). Le goût tapissier, however, as this chapter suggests, was paramount to the development of the new profession of the interior designer. The eighteenth-century practice of padding seating furniture as well as floors and walls continued in the nineteenth century, when, as architecture and design historian Stefan Muthesius has argued, “the alluring visual features, strong colors and soft touch of textiles” still embodied “an image of luxury” (Muthesius 2009: 81). Both France and Britain dominated the trade in domestic textiles at the time; however, “French fashions ruled supreme” when it came to “employing textiles decoratively” (ibid.). As soft extensions of

Figure 2.1 Désiré Guilmard, “Intérieur de Boudoir” [“Boudoir Interior”], Lith. Destouches, in D. Guilmard, Le Garde-Meuble Ancien et Moderne: Collection de Tentures 113, no. 327 (c.1862).

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the female body, itself entangled in decorative ruffles, padded walls were often found in rooms dedicated to a female audience such as the boudoir (Gordon 1996).6 The advice literature of the time was quick to capitalize on this trend, offering stunning illustrations of how such padded, fabric-clad interiors could provide a unified decorative scheme. The illustrated trade journal Le Garde-Meuble, for example, published in or around 1862 an interior decorating scheme for a modern boudoir (Figure 2.1). Designed by Désiré Guilmard, the editor of the journal, the model interior featured padded chairs and a matching, padded ceiling that mirrored the fabric-clad wall panels replacing the traditional, eighteenth-century boiseries. The same soft material covered the table, draped the windows, and lined the hearth aperture like a curtain, while a tasseled lambrequin supported a pair of lamps and a monumental clock on the mantelpiece. Complete with a carpet echoing the blue hues of the triumphant fabrics, Guilmard’s interior could take shape in any private home. The publication made clear that the textiles had been chosen from the stock of M. Juigné, heir to the former Maison Constant Bouhours, while the tassels, braids, and fringes could be procured from the Maison A. Deforge, the future recipient of a gold medal in the furniture trimming industry at the Exposition universelle of 1867 (Le Monde illustrée 1858: 15; Ministère du commerce, de l’industrie, des postes et des télégraphes 1902: 374). From image to reality was therefore just one further step that involved a visit to each of these houses and the employment of a skilled upholsterer who could bring Guilmard’s vision to completion. The obsession with furnishing textiles reached an all-time apogee in the second half of the nineteenth century, when the role of fabrics in a room moved from padding and decorating to also delimiting spaces within spaces and dictating new circulation patterns. Textile designer Sylvie Krüger dates the origin of textiles as space constructors even earlier, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, in the work of such architects as the French Charles Percier and Pierre-François-Léonard Fontaine and the German Karl Friedrich Schinkel (Krüger 2009: 142–50). Free-flowing forms and freely hanging draperies can, indeed, be appreciated in the tent-like interiors designed by these architects. Mirroring the ephemeral structures used by Napoléon Bonaparte during his military campaigns, Percier and Fontaine turned both public and private rooms at Malmaison (the emperor’s palace in the suburbs of Paris) into simulations of temporary battlefield shelters. The most impressive of these rooms is perhaps the bedroom redecorated by the architect Louis-Martin Berthault for Empress Joséphine in 1812 based on the interior decorating schemes and furniture designs of Percier and Fontaine. The room assumes the shape of an oval tent through the use of an all-surrounding red drapery interspersed by golden accents that open towards a painted and partly clouded, blue sky. The crimson textiles thus replace heavy masonry. However, their role as decorative coating in an otherwise rectangular room cannot be disguised in an interior that occupies the second floor of the palace, sandwiched between the emperor’s bedroom and a third sleeping room. While the idea of the tent room survived until the end of the century, gracing the repertoire of many French upholsterers, it would be up to other nineteenth-century interior textiles to take the function of space delineators and directors of movement. In 1886, César Daly’s Revue Générale de l’Architecture et des Travaux Publics, the foremost Parisian architectural journal in its time, published two illustrations of interiors

SOFT SPACES: FROM TEXTILE-CLAD INTERIOR TO MODERN INTERIOR DESIGN

Figure 2.2 Célestin-François-Louis Gosse, “Boudoir (Style Louis XVI),” Héliogravure J. et A. Lemercier, in César Daly, “Boudoir et cabinet de travail par M. Gosse, architecte-décorateur,” Revue Générale de l’Architecture et des Travaux Publics 4, no. 13 (1886): 186, Plate 55.

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designed by the architect and decorator (architecte décorateur) Célestin-François-Louis Gosse. Praised by Daly as a talented draftsman and working from his workshop at 182, rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, Gosse was a frequent exhibitor of interior decoration designs, with a portfolio including no fewer than twelve official Salons, two Salons des arts décoratifs of the Union centrale and two Expositions universelles (1878 and 1889) (Daly 1886: 186; Union centrale des arts décoratifs 1882). Model interiors such as his Boudoir in the Louis XVI style were shown in 1883 at the Salon des arts décoratifs and in 1886 at the Salon, the latter also chosen by Daly for inclusion in his architectural magazine (Figure 2.2). Gosse’s designs, including his Boudoir (Style Louis XVI) from the Revue Générale, impress through their use of drapery as an integral component of the interior architecture. A heavily decorated interior typical of the Louis XVI style and referencing the straight-legged furniture, highly patterned upholstery, and rectangular, wooden wall panels (boiseries) covered in arabesques characteristic of the latter half of the eighteenth century meets the viewer’s eye. But the similarities with eighteenthcentury decoration, which also include a group of putti painted on or carved out of the frieze surmounting the alcove visible to the right, imaginative columns, and the shell-like decoration (coquille) of the cupboard-turned-bookcase and rounded niche above, stop here. Gosse moves beyond the eighteenth-century heritage to create a room within the room through his clever use of fabric. A carpet harbors a furniture grouping composed of a sofa, two chairs, and one footstool, while two apparently carelessly thrown draperies augment the visual opulence by adding yet more folds to the textile-busy interior. It is almost too easy, however, to dismiss these drapes as inadvertent additions to the represented space, or even as warm traces of human (perhaps female) inhabitation. Rather, given the meticulous effort displayed in the delineation of every element in the room, these freely hanging textiles on the back of the sofa and around what might be an easel supporting a decorative painting must have had a clear purpose in Gosse’s composition. More specifically, I would like to suggest that they likely served as space delineators and steers of movement through the decorator’s imaginary chamber. A narrow passageway thus opens to the right, between the easel upholstery and the fabric covering the top of a table or cupboard partially hidden from sight. A parallel grouping of textiles occurs on the far left, where the material “carelessly” thrown on the back of the sofa mirrors a patch of drapery hanging from the canopy-like construction above. Between their folds one can see an uncarpeted corridor for passage that leads from one end of the room to the next, and which permits the sitting area in the middle to remain undisturbed by traffic. Further, the tent-like construction to the left encases the central furniture arrangement like a soft wall, protecting the potential inhabitants of this space from drafts or unwanted looks. Through such decorative textiles not only does Gosse isolate what one might call a “sitting room” within his Boudoir but he also partitions the space with an eye towards decorative indoor vistas and areas of visual focus in the interior. This becomes clear once one realizes that the center of the composition (the vanishing point) falls somewhere above the table and between the two textile groupings mentioned earlier to reveal what appears to be a mirrored reflection of an open window behind the tent-like structure confining our view into the space. The decorator thus creates spaces within spaces and guides the visitor/viewer beyond and past the initial stop and towards other

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spaces and enclosures in his interior; for the “sitting room” is only one part of the Boudoir, which extends beyond the textile wall that separates it from the promised opening on the other side. A similar innovative use of indoor fabric partitions can be seen in the work of Alexandre Sandier, a late-nineteenth-century architect and decorator, who had lent his experience as draftsman to such important furniture and interior decorating firms as Herter Brothers in New York and Damon et Colin in Paris before settling down as the art director at the Sèvres Porcelain Manufactory in 1897 (Lasc 2011: 288). Beginning in 1886, Sandier contributed a series of articles on the modern home to the Revue illustrée, a bi-weekly illustrated magazine published by Ludovic Baschet, where he called for new designs for the private interior that would release nineteenth-century decoration from the burden of the past. He suggested that decorators seek their inspiration in the world around them. Thus his designs for a contemporary drawing room (salon) featured a decorative line that replaced the eighteenth-century putti, coquilles, and arabesques with “necklaces, ribbons, medallions, fans and other such elements of a woman’s outfit,” including garlands of beads, lace, laurel leaves, and rose wreaths against a pink plush or sky-blue background (ibid.: 289) (Figure 2.3). But it was through the inclusion of a sheltered “cozy corner” that Sandier’s salon was an innovative addition to the collection of interior decoration designs published in nineteenth-century illustrated journals, decorating manuals, and interior decoration pattern books.7 To the right of one of the room’s longer sides appears a tent-like construction, partly supported by the adjacent, non-illustrated wall and partly by what resembles a spear

Figure 2.3 Alexandre Sandier, “Salon, côté de la bibliothèque,” in “La Maison moderne VII: Le Salon (fin),” Revue illustrée 2, no. 18 (June–December 1886): 623–27.

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Figure 2.4 Alexandre Sandier, “Salon – Coin du Salon,” Héliotypie E. le Deley, in Alexandre Sandier, Études d’architecture décorative (Paris: Armand Guérinet, c. 1908), Plate 26.

akin to the military accoutrements characteristic of Napoleonic decoration. It is here that the lady of the house, the inspiration for Sandier’s decorative patterns, finds comfort, surrounded by the soft architecture formed by her upholstered sofa, cozy pillows (on

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which she rests her elbow), and cushioning carpet—another grouping of fabrics that, together with the free-floating draperies behind her, remind us of Gosse’s Boudoir (Style Louis XVI) of the same year. Like Gosse, Sandier, too, imagined spaces within spaces for the inhabitants of his imaginary interiors; and behind the textile wall one can surmise the existence of another space between the drapery folds and a rectangular door or window. It would take Sandier another twenty-two years to publish a fully developed illustration of his “cozy corner” of 1886 and its adjacent wall, when the publishing house of Armand Guérinet issued a reprint of his earlier interior designs from the Revue illustrée. The images were now collected as plates in a pattern book intended as a guide to the creation of an ideal home (Sandier 1908). To better express his vision, the architect added to his earlier sketches an illustration showing a perspectival view of the same drawing room (Figure 2.4) oriented towards one of the shorter walls, where the tent-like construction of his 1886 “cozy corner” drapery can once again be seen. It is here, then, that Sandier’s deft use of fabrics is fully apparent. The grouping of textiles (carpet on the floor, upholstered sofa, patterned cushions, window curtain, and free-flowing draperies) come together to form a room within the room, a sheltered space suitable for quiet relaxation or intellectual pursuits. The lady of the house is replaced here by a young girl absorbed in her reading, who seems oblivious of the soft spectacle in front of her. Pulled to the side, the window curtain pirouettes into the interior space of the room, creating a fabric wall that mirrors the fabric partitioning the “cozy corner” from the circulation corridor behind it, that latter of which proves to be a dynamic space that leads to another window and to a hidden, drapery-covered access door.

Figure 2.5 Anonymous, “Salon Oriental,” in Grands Magasins de la Place Clichy, [Catalogue: Exposition de tapis] (Paris: c. 1898).

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That designs such as Sandier’s and Gosse’s were popular in private homes is proved not only by their frequent repetition in the interior decoration designs published by other architects and decorators at the time, whose work could not be mentioned here, but also by their appearance in department store catalogs of the latter half of the nineteenth century, which were also keen to offer textile groupings to customers eager to enhance the decoration and arrangement of their private interiors. The Grands Magasins de la Place Clichy, for example, included in its c.1898 catalog a model interior displaying all the accoutrements necessary for the creation of an Oriental drawing room (Salon Oriental) (Figure 2.5). Among the proposed items were a low, padded sofa at 550 francs, cushioned armchairs at 280 francs each, an upholstered chair at 180 francs, a 120-francs “Oriental” fireplace, door curtains valued at 80 francs a piece, and a draped, tent-like décor for 345 francs. When bought together, the fabric-clad sofa, surrounding textile pavilion, and door and window curtains formed an ensemble that could be arranged in a variety of shapes and forms within the private interior. Collectively, they created a “soft space,” a plush, cocooned textile interior, which could be installed as a stand-alone entity within the larger interior spaces of a house. The “fabric craze” associated with the private interiors of the second half of the nineteenth century was thus more than a mere attempt to indicate wealth and social status through a profusion of drapery and decoration. The interior decorating aesthetic criticized as le goût tapissier, remote as it may seem from our present-day aesthetic predispositions, can be credited with the development of new ideas about interior decoration, spatial layouts, and patterns of circulation, which would form the building blocks of the profession of the interior designer and which are still relevant today. As this chapter hopes to have shown, the soft, plush, and fabric-clad interior of the nineteenth century, as represented in pattern books, magazines, and department store catalogs, was the site where decoration and architecture came together, through textiles, to create new spatial dimensions rarely seen before. Anni Albers’ predicaments of more than half a century later had already happened; but the importance of late nineteenth-century interior textiles failed to be recognized by eyes that are still accustomed to a stripped-down, rather bare, modernist aesthetic.

Notes 1

For more information on how Semper has affected Otto’s architectural conceptions, also see Spuybroek 2009.

2

For more information on Anni Albers, see Weinthal 2013.

3

Pietro Gritti, a second cousin of the current Doge of Venice, had fourteen sets of spalliere, nine tapestries, many door curtains, and several bed ensembles.

4

According to DeJean, the eighteenth century saw “probably the first truly socially diverse clientele for architecture,” which included aristocrats, royal mistresses, wealthy financiers, real estate developers, and even famous actresses (DeJean 2009: 5–6).

5

The first use of this term dated to early eighteenth century and referred to French interiors (DeJean 2009: 144).

6

Design historians have observed how the French used to separate their interiors into

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“feminine” and “masculine” rooms. See Kinchin 1996: 12–29. However, the preponderance of textiles in “feminine” rooms such as the boudoir, the music room, the bedroom, and the drawing room did not preclude their use in the rest of the house. See Lasc 2013: 1–24. 7

A “cozy corner” was defined as the “cultivated” yet “informal arrangement of furnishings to achieve a casual, cozy look.” See Crabill McClaugherty 1983: 13.

References Albers, A. (1957), “The Pliable Plane: Textiles in Architecture,” Perspecta: The Yale Architectural Journal, 4: 36–41. Balzac, H. de ([1846] 2004), Cousin Bette, London: Penguin Books. Benjamin, W. ([1939] 2002), “Paris, Capital of the Nineteenth Century (Exposé of 1939),” in The Arcades Project, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Clarke, J. R. (2005), “Augustan Domestic Interiors: Propaganda or Fashion?” in K. Galinsky (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Augustus, 264–78, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Crabill McClaugherty, M. (1983), “Household Art: Creating the Artistic Home, 1868–1893,” Winterthur Portfolio, 18 (1): 1–26. Daly, C. (1886), “Boudoir et cabinet de travail par M. Gosse, architecte-décorateur (Planches 55 et 56),” Revue Générale de l’Architecture et des Travaux Publics, 4 (13): 186. DeJean, J. (2009), The Age of Comfort: When Paris Discovered Casual – and the Modern Home Began, New York: Bloomsbury. Flaubert, G. ([1856] 2003), Madame Bovary, London: Penguin Books. Fortini Brown, P. (2004), Private Lives in Renaissance Venice: Art, Architecture, and the Family, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Gordon, B. (1996), “Woman’s Domestic Body: The Conceptual Conflation of Women and Interiors in the Industrial Age,” Winterthur Portfolio, 31 (4): 281–301. Guilmard, D. [c. 1862], Le Garde-Meuble Ancien et Moderne: Collection de Tentures, 113, no. 327. Hellman, M. (2007), “The Joy of Sets: The Uses of Seriality in the French Interior,” in D. Goodman and K. Norberg (eds), Furnishing the Eighteenth Century: What Furniture Can Tell Us about the European and American Past, 129–53, London: Routledge Taylor & Francis Group. Houze, R. (2006), “The Textile as Structural Framework: Gottfried Semper’s Bekleidungsprinzip and the Case of Vienna 1900,” Textile, 4 (3): 292–311. Jefferies, J. and D. Wood Conroy (2006), “Shaping Space: Textiles and Architecture—An Introduction,” Textile, 4 (3): 233–7. Kinchin, J. (1996), “Interiors: Nineteenth-Century Essays on the ‘Masculine’ and the ‘Feminine’Room,” in P. Kirkham (ed.), The Gendered Object, 12–29, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Krüger, S. (2009), Textile Architecture/Textile Architektur, Berlin: Jovis. Lasc, A. I. (November 2011), “Le Juste Milieu: Alexandre Sandier, Theming, and Eclecticism in French Interiors of the Nineteenth Century,” Interiors: Design, Architecture, Culture, 2 (3): 277–306. Lasc, A. I. (February 2013), “Interior Decorating in the Age of Historicism: Popular Advice Manuals and the Pattern Books of Édouard Bajot,” Journal of Design History, 26 (1): 1–24. Le Monde illustrée (July 3, 1858), 64: 15. Ministère du commerce, de l’industrie, des postes et des télégraphes (1902), Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris: Rapports du jury international. Groupe XII— Décoration et mobilier des édifices publics et des habitations, Paris: Imprimerie Nationale.

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Muthesius, S. (2009), The Poetic Home: Designing the Nineteenth-Century Domestic Interior, London: Thames & Hudson. Sandier, A. (1886), “La Maison moderne VII: Le Salon (fin),” Revue illustrée, 2 (18): 623–7. Sandier, A. (c. 1908), Études d’architecture décorative: Décorations intérieures, Paris: Armand Guérinet. Singman, J. L. (1999), Daily Life in Medieval Europe, Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Spuybroek, L. (2009), The Architecture of Continuity, Rotterdam: V2_Publishing. Swift, E. (2009), Style and Function in Roman Decoration: Living with Objects and Interiors, Farnham: Ashgate. Union centrale des arts décoratifs (1882), Catalogue illustré officiel du Salon des Arts Decoratifs de 1882, Paris: A. Quantin. Weinthal, L. (2013), “Interior Skins, “International Journal of Interior Architecture + Spatial Design, 2: 64–71. Wilhide, E. (1991), William Morris: Decor and Design, New York: Harry N. Abrams. Williams, R. H. (1982), Dream Worlds: Mass Consumption in Late Nineteenth-Century France, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

3 FELT AND THE EMERGING INTERIOR Helene Renard

Introduction Felt is an ancient material that is being discovered and reimagined by designers for a broad range of applications at many scales. Felt-wrapped spaces and felt objects feature regularly in popular design media. Wool felt has many properties that make it desirable in interior environments; it is durable, fire-resistant, insulating, sound dampening, and inherently sustainable (See, for example, Dent 2009: 95; Gordon 1980: 11–12; Peter Walter 2010: 8; Lefteri 2013: 199). Felt can be manufactured at a range of densities and can be manipulated in three dimensions through cutting, stitching, and wet forming. These features make felt a versatile and appealing material from a design and production standpoint and have contributed to felt’s growing presence in interior design. In recent years, several forces have converged in North American design culture, allowing felt to emerge as an accepted interior material. Trends in workplace design and a widely perceived need for natural materials, softness, and acoustic treatments to balance the hard materials dominating sleek, modern interiors have created opportunities for the use of felt as a space-shaping element. The climate has also shifted due to cultural events such as the ground breaking Fashioning Felt exhibit at the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum in New York in 2009, and work being done by designers such as Janice Arnold, Claudy Jongstra, Anne Kyyrö Quinn, and Kathryn Walter, whose creative practices are built on felt, and who have made significant interior-scale contributions to building projects worldwide. As a result, there is greater public awareness about the diverse forms of felt and its applications in architectural interiors. Felt has been made by hand in nomadic cultures across Central Asia, Mongolia, and parts of the Middle East for several thousand years. While archaeological samples from a site at Çatal Hüyük have been carbon-dated to 5900 bc, historical scholar Stephanie Bunn theorizes that the discovery of felt likely paralleled the domestication of sheep, which took place sometime between 9000 and 7000 bc (Bunn 2010: 15–16). More than thirty types of felt artifacts attributed to the Early Nomads of Eurasia and dated to 500 bc were discovered in frozen burial mounds at Pazyryk in the Altai Mountains of

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South Siberia (ibid.: 18–19). Saddle cloths, sculpted felt swans, and a large decorated felt wall hanging measuring 4.5 × 6.5 meters are among the objects found and exhibit a remarkable degree of technical artistry (ibid.: 19–20). Yurts and shepherds’ coats are among the most widely recognized uses of felt in traditional cultures, and highlight felt’s useful qualities as a portable and sheltering material. Felt is the only non-woven fabric made from animal fibers. The action of entanglement that creates felt is latent in the structure of the wool fiber; sheep’s wool is considered the best felting fiber because of its well-developed scale structure and crimp, or the kinks and kinking tendency in the wool fiber (See, for example, White 2007: 8; Hyde 1988: 556; Gordon 1980: 8–10; Pope 1946: 4). While felt exhibits many of the properties of the wool fiber, its intertwined structure manifests its own attributes. Unlike woven fabric, which requires finishing to prevent cut edges from unraveling or fraying, felt’s uniform structure means that every edge is a selvedge. This allows felt to be cut or stamped into any shape without the need for reinforcement (Gordon 1980: 10). Technology has made many new production methods and shaping techniques possible, beginning with the industrial production of felt that is made with the same raw materials and exhibits many of the same material properties as handmade felt, but which has a level of homogeneity made possible by the precision and force of machinery. Felt can be machined using CNC, water jet, and laser technology. At higher densities, felt can be turned on a lathe (Dent 2009: 103). The highly sophisticated product that has emerged as “design felt” reflects refinement in the hands of capable craftsmen and the impetus of manufacturers to meet market expectations of durability, finish, and aesthetic appearance. In 2012, Knoll, the internationally recognized modernist furniture giant, acquired FilzFelt, a pioneering design felt distribution company whose target audience is the US architecture and design community. Possibly a watershed for felt as a design material, this event signals recognition by an industry leader of the relevance and desirability of the material in today’s market, and suggests that the popularity of felt is more than a temporary revival of an ancient material. In a press release, Knoll CEO Andrew Cogan said, “The acquisition of FilzFelt reflects our strategy of building sales in our high design, high margin specialty businesses which appeal to both commercial buyers and consumers worldwide.”1 This chapter investigates interior space as an emerging forum for felt as a spaceshaping material. A series of interviews with designers and industry professionals creates a narrative structure through which three key themes surface: the role of craft in the development of felt as an interior material, trends in interior design which have paved the way for felt, and the material qualities that captivate designers, distributors, and manufacturers. Perspectives on these issues suggest the continued relevance of felt as a spatial medium.

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The technical backstory To understand the specific class of felt under examination, it is useful to consider the history and processes of industrial felt production. Important distinctions exist in the make-up and production of different types of felt. Industrial felt, also known in Europe and Canada as technical felt, has a high wool content and is produced through a wet process, in which the scaled wool fibers become entangled through the application of moisture, heat, motion, and pressure.2 This process most closely resembles traditional hand felting, which typically involves laying up the fibers in perpendicular layers, applying warm water, and agitating the fibers to initiate the interlocking of the fibers (See, for example, Bunn 2010: 35; Gordon 1980: 8). Once the fibers have become entangled into a matted structure, the stage known as fulling begins, where further shrinkage creates a denser, stronger fabric (Gordon 1980: 9). Viscose or rayon is commonly used as filler in lower density grades of industrial felt, which are effective as sound and vibration dampers or as thermal insulation.3 In a composite material, wool traps the other fibers, acting as “the skeleton of a new structure whose properties depend on those of the other ingredients” (Colwell 1943: 104). One hundred percent wool felt is considered the highest quality felt, with the most durable finish, and is most suitable for achieving the high densities required for many technical applications, such as piano hammer felt and polishing wheels (Dent 2009: 111). Dry process felts, by contrast, are commonly made up of synthetic fibers, which are mechanically entangled through needle felting. A handful of companies in the United States sell wet process wool felt, and even fewer produce wool felt. Following the pattern of the North American textile industry in the 1990s, industrial felt production has largely been relocated to regions around the world where labor and production costs are lower, such as China and India (Clifford 2013). A notable exception is felt marketed as “designer felt” or “design felt.” This is typically 100 percent wool wet process felt produced in Germany and may be compared to a higher grade, higher density white industrial wool felt. Industry expert Jack Brand, CEO of Brand Felt in Canada, emphasizes the complexity of achieving the right combination of properties in felt for a specific application, suggesting that felt making, even at an industrial scale, can be practiced as a craft. He explains, “It is like a recipe”; everything from the mixture of wools to the method of manufacture affects the final product.4 With decades of experience in the felt industry, and a corresponding breadth and depth of knowledge, Mr. Brand credits his involvement in reconstructing the piano felt making process used at the historic Filzfabrik Wurzen (originally J. D. Weickert) with giving him a tremendous appreciation for the elasticity or resiliency of felt. While the overwhelming majority of Brand’s business is in industrial or technical felts, the company also sells designer felt produced at their facilities in Germany. Other German corporations that carry designer felt include BWF Group and Vereinigte Filzfabriken AG.5 Design felt produced in Germany is typically Oeko-Tex® certified according to Standard 100, which tests for the presence of harmful chemicals in textiles.6 Before the design market fully embraced wool felt as a design material, designers sourced industrial felt from distributors whose primary business was supplying sheet material or cut parts to companies for industrial or engineering uses, such as wicking and polishing, or for absorbing sound or vibration.7 Classic wet process industrial felt

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is typically available in two colors, white and gray, and in a variety of densities. In the U.S., industrial felt is classified according to a ratings system established by the Society of Automotive Engineers (SAE), which specifies density, minimum wool content, and minimum tensile strength, among other properties, but a particular grade of gray felt may vary widely in tone from one production run to the next, reflecting natural color variation in the wool.8 Articles from the early 1940s highlight the many wartime and industrial uses of felt, including its use in the automobile industry. One article states, “The automobile industry purchases tons of it,” adding, “There are about six pounds of it in the average motor vehicle” (Colwell 1943: 104). An American Felt Company advertisement from 1948 diagramming felt’s uses in cars refers to “SAE Data Sheet No. 5” (Kathryn Walter 2000: 32). SAE Standard J314b for “surface ground vehicles” has an issue date of 1923, suggesting an early adoption of felt SAE standards by the automotive industry, while articles indicate an upsurge in the North American wool felt industry during and immediately following the Second World War.9 In the past decade, the North American design community has begun to embrace felt as an interior material, an estimated fifteen to twenty years behind their European counterparts, and European manufacturers who recognized the rising demand for a high quality felt for interior use have stepped in to meet that demand.10

The shifting role of fabric in interior design Trends in workplace design and the perceived need for more flexibility in public spaces have generated new approaches to defining, partitioning, and containing space. Many designers are turning to fabric as a material solution, perhaps because its weight allows users to easily transform spaces and because of its tactile appeal and acoustic abatement properties. Felt adds self-finishing edges and a tremendous range of densities and forms to this list. Petra Blaisse and the Bouroullec brothers are among contemporary designers who have recognized and explored the inherent potential of textiles to shape interiors. Examples of Blaisse’s work that use fabrics at a monumental scale and exploit the capacity of textiles to create atmosphere and reorganize space include collaborations with OMA at the Hackney Theatre in London and the Casa da Porto in Portugal, and her design for the Dutch Pavilion of the Architecture Biennale in Venice, Re-Set, new wings for architecture (Weinthal 2008: 64–71; Peach with Judah 2013: 195). Erwan and Ronan Bouroullec are interested in creating new space-shaping alternatives to drywall and paint (Ryan 2013: 149). The Bouroullecs developed a modular system of fabric components called North Tiles for Kvadrat’s Stockholm showroom, and followed up with a more user-friendly, less costly product called Clouds. The user can assemble individual tiles into an infinite number of three-dimensional configurations using custom rubber bands to connect the pieces. Clouds comes in two fabrics, one of which is Divina, a woven fabric designed by Finn Sködt, that behaves “more like felt than a woven fabric” (ibid.). This suggests, and product literature confirms, that the woven fabric has been fulled, or

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subjected to heat, moisture, and pressure in order to shrink and strengthen the fabric and give its surface the uniform appearance of felt.11 Felt has begun to play a greater role in the built environment, and many contemporary projects can be linked to a group of designers who are expanding the role of felt as a space-shaping element in interior design. Anne Kyyrö Quinn has been designing and fabricating bespoke felt acoustic panels since 2004. Her portfolio of core patterns can be interpreted as floor-to-ceiling wall cladding, or as wall-mounted art pieces. Kyyrö Quinn has used acoustic testing in developing her designs, some of which have been rated by independent testing laboratories, demonstrating their acoustic benefit.12 Kathryn Walter has been working with industrial felt for many years, and began to develop her signature Striation wall treatment in 2005 for a commission with B Space Architecture in New York.13 The work of these two artists illustrates the slightly different aesthetic created by the use of classic industrial felt, which can have a more organic look, versus the sleeker, more polished, and many times, brightly colored design felt. Manufacturers such as Knoll and the Danish textile company Kvadrat often partner with well-known designers to develop new products. This practice can be traced back to the period following the Second World War, when firms recognized a commercial advantage in attaching designers’ names to specific goods being marketed (Sparke 1983: 38). The narrative that follows frames the collaboration of FilzFelt, Knoll, and selected designers as they develop products and implement projects, providing a glimpse into how felt is impacting the design process and the built environment.

The FilzFelt story FilzFelt and the story of their rapid rise to the top of the US architecture and design felt supply pyramid begins with Traci Roloff and Kelly Smith, the entrepreneurs who teamed up to create FilzFelt in Boston in 2008. Prior to launching FilzFelt, Kelly was designing and fabricating messenger bags made of wool felt sourced from a German mill. The company who owned the mill was interested in expanding its business in North America and approached Kelly to propose that she act as their felt distributor. Kelly and Traci agreed to join forces, placed their first design felt order in 2008, and FilzFelt was born. The partners pioneered the marketing of 100 percent wool design felt to a very specific audience: the US architecture and design community. Initially, FilzFelt offered design felt as yardage in 58 Pantone Matching System colors in addition to the natural grays, off-whites, and browns of un-dyed wool felt. The company also offered hand-stitched floor mats and one standard hanging panel pattern. Enter Knoll, the legendary workplace, residential furnishings, and textile company founded by Hans Knoll in 1938 and run by Florence Knoll after her husband’s death in 1955.14 Since its inception, Knoll has been recognized internationally as a key contributor to the development of modernist furniture design. Knoll Textiles, a division of Knoll, also has a long history of design innovation as showcased in the 2011 exhibition at the Bard Graduate Center. The catalog highlights the many well-known designers and artists

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who have collaborated with Knoll Textiles to create their textile offerings over the years, from Anni Albers to Jhane Barnes to Sheila Hicks (Martin and Tartsinis 2011: 306–401). Knoll CEO Andrew Cogan came across FilzFelt’s wool felt rugs while shopping for floor coverings in New York for his new vacation home on Shelter Island.15 This chance discovery led to the purchase of FilzFelt by Spinneybeck, the leather division of Knoll.16 Joining Knoll has created significant opportunities for FilzFelt. Knoll has a network of more than 400 dealerships and showrooms in North America, Europe, Asia, and Latin America, and four North American manufacturing facilities.17 Access to the relationships and support infrastructure that Knoll commands has impacted the scale of FilzFelt’s operation, as well as allowing them to expand the range of services they are able to offer when working with designers.18 Kelly and Traci are captivated by the beauty and simplicity of the material. As Traci puts it, “We’ve made a point of deferring to the material. We really think the felt is beautiful on its own, that you don’t have to do a lot to it in order to make it appealing.” For the partners, part of the allure of felt is the fact that “it’s such an ancient material, and has been used in so many different ways.” Traci reflects that many people in the United States are not familiar with felt and have misconceptions about wool in general, considering it difficult to maintain, concerns that Traci insists are misplaced. She adds, “If you look at how felt has been used historically, it was the exterior cladding of homes, it was boots, it was rugs, places where you would be walking in from out of doors, so we’re really trying to educate people about it.”19 In Traci’s view, FilzFelt has benefited from changes in workplace design, where technology-driven mobility has created demands for multi-purpose, quickly transformable spaces. She notes that physical barriers between people are disappearing, and that people are working on iPads or laptops and going to a lounge space to work or to a table for a small meeting. FilzFelt’s Hanging Panels and Drapery have been well received in corporate projects where the new open office landscape has generated a need for visual or acoustic privacy. They have recently added an acoustic panel series manufactured by Ruckstuhl to the FilzFelt ready-made products that address those needs. While Kelly and Traci clearly identify FilzFelt as a material and product distributor, they enjoy being part of the design process through their custom fabrication services. Doing custom work gives FilzFelt the opportunity to work with many talented designers; “It opens us up to a whole other level of design, and there are so many people that come up with things to do with the felt that we would never conceive of ourselves. It’s really exciting to see the material taken to this other level, and we want to continue to do that; we want to continue to push the envelope with felt and what you can do with it.” As a complement to their custom services, FilzFelt is developing ready-made product lines to give designers greater access to off-the-shelf design felt products. Traci and Kelly had communicated their interest in using Knoll’s existing relationships to facilitate collaboration, and Andrew Cogan suggested Ayse Birsel as the first product development collaborator. Ayse Birsel describes the collaborative process that generated the collection released in 2013.

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De:Re™ felt Ayse Birsel is an accomplished and well-recognized creative force in the product design field, with her body of work represented in the permanent collections of the Museum of Modern Art and the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum. Referring to Ayse’s trademarked methodology, Deconstruction:Reconstruction™, Andrew Cogan asked Ayse to “deconstruct felt and FilzFelt and reconstruct them as new products.”20 Kelly and Traci asked Ayse to come up with a series of ready-mades for them. In her words, they were interested in offering a “non-custom, standard, more productized collection.” Ayse was intrigued; the challenge of engaging a single material through product design “was a new direction and an interesting one.” She says, “I think of felt as one of the noble materials, because it has so many amazing qualities.” She cites the fact that design felt is 100 percent wool, it is natural, and the raw material grows back. She also loves the self-edging quality, which she says makes visual depth through cut patterns easy to achieve. For Ayse, the “DNA” of the project (Figure 3.1) included FilzFelt’s existing collection, Traci and Kelly as people, whom she sees as “kindred spirits,” Knoll’s “very architectural, very less is more approach,” and felt’s “softness and timelessness.”21 The project parameters were established through conversation with Traci and Kelly. “It could be … anything from large wall hangings and screens all the way down to small accessories and table top applications, looking at all the possibilities of things that can

Figure 3.1 FilzFelt DNA diagram by Ayse Birsel. © FilzFelt. Image courtesy of Ayse Birsel.

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hang, that can be attached to walls, things that can be used as floor coverings …” Ayse notes that she believes in a systematic approach, which means making a few gestures “that can be scaled up and down and combined in different ways.” The FilzFelt team introduced Ayse to the color palette and to different methods of shaping felt, including stitching techniques and CNC cutting technologies. Ayse developed two approaches to the collection, one using circles and subtraction (cutting) and addition (stitching), and the other using strips and subtraction and addition. The initial designs went through two rounds of prototyping, as the team assessed which designs were more easily manufactured and had the most commercial appeal. Ms. Birsel reflects, “One of the things that I wanted to explore was what happened with the leftover scraps, but what we ran into there was the production cost of using scrap material, which really made it more of a craft than mass production.” Through what seemed to Ayse a natural process of elimination, the team arrived at the final collection, consisting of four product types: hanging panels, drapery, floor mats, and tabletop. Ayse recalls the challenge of developing drapery; in solid form, the design felt that FilzFelt carries resists being draped, so Ayse experimented with removing material, creating “lacelike patterns,” which gave the felt the desired fluidity (Figure 3.2). Through the project, Ayse says, she fell in love with felt and came to realize the power of the material. In her view, felt “represents the organic, the feminine, the soft, colorful side of architecture, and is therefore a much-needed counterpart, to the harder, colder, more masculine materials of concrete and metal, and painted walls.” She adds, “With very little, you get so much.”

Felt and Submaterial David Hamlin, owner of Submaterial, has been a steady customer of FilzFelt’s since he first used their product in 2008. Traci and Kelly have referred customers looking for more design guidance, or for “that next level” of custom fabrication to David. They appreciate how David’s work “showcases the thickness of the material.”22 A distinctive feature of David’s work is the use of laminated layers of different color felt displayed on edge. Submaterial’s felt products include wall coverings and wall panels, which feature textured surfaces animated by light and shadow. Different thicknesses of felt create subtle relief in index dimensional wallcovering, while felt pieces on edge create a more overt three-dimensionality in wall panel 067 (Figure 3.3). Visual texture is created through the use of color, repetitive forms, and positive and negative space. David emphasizes the scalability and acoustic benefits of his felt products. The wall coverings are built on a cork backing designed to be applied to surfaces using wall covering adhesive, whereas the wall panels are constructed on an FSC certified plywood substrate with a built-in French cleat and hung on the wall.23 David’s minimalist aesthetic and his focus on handcrafted designs align well with his love of felt. His first use of felt in a project came about as he searched for an alternative to stacked pieces of leather. After manipulating felt samples, he became excited about what

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Figure 3.2 FilzFelt Polka 120 Light Drapery. © FilzFelt. Designer: Ayse Birsel. Image: Bob O’Connor.

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Figure 3.3 Detail of Submaterial wall panel 067. © David Hamlin. Designer: David Hamlin.

he saw as an entirely new mode of working with a material. He says, “I’m particularly attracted to felt because when you cut it you’re done; it leaves a finished edge behind and you don’t have to do anything to it. You don’t have to sand it, you don’t have to trim it; it’s beautiful just the way it is. I love materials that are honest and true all the way through like that.” David believes that felt is here to stay. “It’s a great material that people respond to very well, it’s sustainable, it’s incredibly adaptable to all kinds of environments and purposes.” David didn’t anticipate that his interest in felt would propel his business to its present level of success; that has come as a surprise. He counts large corporate firms such as Gensler and Perkins-Will among his clientele.24 A recent project by Gensler that has received significant publicity is the Los Angeles KCET renovation, which balances wood with Submaterial’s index solid wallcovering to wrap a form that undulates through the center of the space. The growing demand for Submaterial’s striking and meticulously crafted wall coverings demonstrates the appeal of deeply textured felt surfaces in interior environments.

ARO crafts felt The Knoll Flagship Offices, Showroom, and Shop designed by Architecture Research Office (ARO) occupy four floors and 42,000 square feet in midtown Manhattan; the

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finished project represents the potential of effective dialogue between craft and design and showcases felt in a range of interior applications (Bernstein 2013: 350–7). Kim Yao, a principal at ARO, described the design and fabrication process in an interview, highlighting the versatility of felt as an architectural finish. One project objective was to use the space not only to display Knoll products, but also to demonstrate unexpected applications of FilzFelt and Spinneybeck products in the built environment. In the new Knoll location, iconic feltand leather-wrapped stairs link three levels of stacked program (Plate 3). Kim relates that the ARO team recognized the importance of providing a direct, easy connection between levels to facilitate interaction between colleagues and to unify the experience of the spaces as an extension of the showroom. Two simple steel staircases addressed this need while creating an opportunity to experiment with and showcase felt and leather. In addition to the stairs, ARO developed corrugated felt wall panels in the small meeting rooms and elevator vestibules. ARO contacted the manufacturer who works directly with FilzFelt and a dialogue began with skilled craftsmen who brought their knowledge of the material to the process, creating samples and prototypes to test the viability of design ideas. A full-scale mock-up of the stair was built at the manufacturing facility, and a pattern was created for each piece of felt that made up the final configuration, which ends in a braided weave underneath the stair. In developing the padded booths, the interior elevation was divided into panels with a certain number of ribs per panel, determining the panel size. Felt was wrapped over and bonded to a foam extrusion, then lapped in the back and secured to a backing, and Z-clips were used to secure the panels to the wall. As an architect, Ms. Yao enjoys the process of working with materials to understand their limits and capabilities. The idea of working with a natural material is appealing to many clients. The texture, depth, flexibility, and durability of felt are attractive qualities. The price point and range of colors, and the fact that felt can be applied in so many different ways, add to its appeal. Knoll NY is the first built application of felt for ARO; their team is impressed by and pleased with the flexibility of the product. Kim says, “Everything we can think of to do with it, we can do with it so far.”25

Conclusion Felt is gaining public visibility and becoming a presence in interior architecture through projects like the Knoll NY headquarters and the KCET remodel and through the work of designers like Anne Kyyrö Quinn and Kathryn Walter. This built work is demonstrating the positive acoustic, tactile, and visual impact that felt can bring to interiors. Its inherent flame resistant and water repellent properties make it a viable natural alternative to many synthetic textiles. While felt applications in interior design are typically a custom product, FilzFelt is working to offer a range of off-the-shelf products in high quality 100 percent wool felt, adding a new dimension to the felt interiors market. It is interesting to note the resurfacing themes of scalability and versatility of felt mentioned by professionals interviewed in this research; the fact that it can be adapted to any interior surface allows a flexible rethinking of interior volumes.

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Knoll’s acquisition of FilzFelt signals market recognition of felt as a relevant and timely material in interior design, and indicates that Knoll expects interest in felt to grow in the future. Looking at factors that have influenced felt’s expanding role in design, it is easy to imagine possibilities for further development. Cultural and societal shifts often drive changes in how people use interiors. In the case of workplace design, the modern office has evolved in response to our use of technology and the resultant mobile office phenomenon. As nimble designers and industries respond to perceived needs and to new interior design research, further uses for felt may be discovered. Partnerships between craft and technology may continue to contribute to material innovation. One may speculate that the hat making industry, for example, still has much to teach us about working with felt to create form and shape space. As FilzFelt has discovered, the more people work with the material, the more innovative and valuable ideas emerge for the use of felt. One could argue that what is thought to be the world’s oldest fabric has simply continued to be reinvented in the hands of imaginative people. The fact that felt has cycled back to one of its original uses, as an interior cladding, albeit in an aesthetically different form, seems quite appropriate. Industry professionals agree that felt is a stable commodity, largely because of its unique resiliency and its myriad applications. This same reasoning could be applied to felt in interiors. The unique combination of properties that make design felt attractive as an interior textile, and the many forms it can take, as a floor or wall covering, or as an alternative to conventional spatial dividers, promise to make felt an adaptable component in the emerging interior landscape. Felt is clearly here to stay, and as Jack Brand says, “The possibilities are endless!”26

Notes   1 Andrew Cogan quoted in press release, http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/02/07/ idUS136505+07-Feb-2012+HUG20120207 (accessed June 14, 2014).   2 Dent 2009: 133 n1; Jack Brand, in an interview with the author, October 15, December 4, 2013.   3 Dent 2009: 97, 111–12; Brand, in an interview with the author, October 15, December 4, 2013.   4 Brand, in an interview with the author, October 15, December 4, 2013; Peter Walter 2010: 29.   5 http://www.bwf-group.de/en/bwf-feltec.html (accessed June 23, 2014); http://www.vfg.de/ de/sortimente-marken/vfg-designfilz.html (accessed June 23, 2014).   6 https://www.oeko-tex.com/en/manufacturers/concept/oeko_tex_standard_100/oeko_tex_ standard_100.xhtml (accessed June 23, 2014)   7 David Hamlin, in an interview with the author, November 14, 2013.   8 Dent 2009: 100, 107; Brand, interview with the author, October 15, 2013.   9 Thanks to Larry Thompson, Engineering College Librarian at Virginia Tech, for help in tracking down this information; Pope 1946: 6. 10 Traci Roloff, in an interview with the author, October 29, 2013; Brand, interview with the author, December 5, 2013.

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11 http://static.kvadrat.dk/assets/pdf/collection/product-description/a4/h-1200-sstory-text.pdf (accessed June 10, 2015). 12 Anne Kyyrö Quinn, in an interview with the author, September 19, 2013. 13 Walter, Kathryn. “Striation creative process.” Message to the author, June 20, 2014. Email. 14 http://www.knoll.com/discover-knoll/timeline (accessed June 14, 2014). 15 http://www.architecturaldigest.com/decor/2013–06/michael-haverland-shelter-island-newyork-house-article (accessed January 8, 2014). 16 Roloff, interview with the author, October 29, 2013. 17 http://www.penskelogistics.com/pdfs/04_knoll_case_study_1.pdf (accessed June 22, 2014). 18 Roloff and Kelly Smith, in an interview with the author, January 7, 2014. 19 Roloff, interview with the author, October 29, 2013. 20 http://dereconstruction.com/start/ayse-birsel/ (accessed February 2, 2014); Ayse Birsel in an interview with the author, October 29, 2013. 21 Birsel, interview with the author, October 29, 2013. 22 Roloff, in an interview with the author, October 29, 2013. 23 Hamlin, in an interview with the author, November 14, 2013. 24 Ibid. 25 Kim Yao, in an interview with the author, January 10, 2014. 26 Brand, in an interview with the author, December 5, 2013.

References Bernstein, F. A. (2013), “Taking it to the Street: ARO Gives Knoll a Major Presence in Midtown,” Interior Design, 84 (11): 350–7. Bunn, S. (2010), Nomadic Felts, London: The British Museum Press. Clifford, S. (2013), “U. S. Textile Plants Return, with Floors Largely Empty of People,” New York Times, September 19. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/20/business/us-textile-factoriesreturn.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0/ (accessed September 20, 2013). Colwell, W. (1943), “Get Acquainted with Felt: In the Post-war Era It Promises to Become a Highly Important Industrial Material; New Uses Are Many,” Purchasing, (December): 104. Dent, A. (2009), “Felt Technology,” in S. Brown et al. (eds), Fashioning Felt, New York: Smithsonian Institution, Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum. Gordon, B. (1980), Feltmaking: Traditions, Techniques, and Contemporary Explorations, New York: Watson-Guptill Publications. Hyde, N. (1988), “Wool: Fabric of History,” National Geographic, 173 (5): 556. Lefteri, C. (2013), “Woven Materials: From Wool Felt to Smart Textiles,” in S. Leydecker (ed.), Designing Interior Architecture: Concept, Typology, Material, Construction, 199, Basel: Birkhäuser. Martin, E. and A. M. Tartsinis, eds (2011), in E. Martin (ed.), Knoll Textiles, 1945–2010, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press for Bard Graduate Center: Decorative Arts, Design History, Material Culture. Peach, S. with H. Judah (2013), “The Resurrection of Fabric in Architecture,” in H. Judah and R. Violette (eds.), Interwoven, 186–202, Munich: Prestel Verlag. Pope, N. B. (1946), Everybody Uses Felt, New York: The Felt Association.

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Ryan, Z. (2013), “Ronan & Erwan Bouroullec’s Quiet Design Revolution,” in H. Judah and R. Violette (eds.), Interwoven, 149, Munich: Prestel Verlag. Sparke, P. (1983), Consultant Design: The History and Practice of the Designer in Industry, London: Pembridge Press. Walter, K. (2000), FELT: Social History, Technical Processes, Artists’ Projects, Toronto, ON: The Museum for Textiles. Walter, P. (2010), The Felt Industry, Oxford: Shire Publications. Weinthal, L. (2008), “Bridging the Threshold of Interior and Landscape: An Interview with Petra Blaisse,” in J. Preston (ed.), Architectural Design: Interior Atmospheres, 78 (3): 64–71. White, C. (2007), Uniquely Felt, North Adams, MA: Storey Publishing.

4 TAILORING SECOND AND THIRD SKINS Lois Weinthal

Skins that wrap us Tailoring cloth to mimic the body invokes the concept of a second skin. The mimicking process requires looking at the body as a site upon which material, measurement, tools, and construction techniques act as starting points for a garment to reflect the body. While the concept of a second skin implies close similarities to the body, the fit of clothing will never be an exact replica of our first skin, thereby revealing a degree of distance between body and clothing. The physical and conceptual gap between the two highlights the knowledge embedded in one’s discipline about how to shape material into form. As a soft, pliable layer, clothing relies upon seams and the cut of cloth to gain structure, whereas our first skin relies upon our internal structure of bones. The relationship of skin and structure, whether in the body or clothing, has provided the foundation for dialogues and concepts that have influenced clothing, architecture, and interiors in ways specific to each of these disciplines. In November 2006, the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles opened an exhibit that paired architecture and apparel together, and as a result, brought forward a dialogue between architecture and fashion. While the pairings did not necessarily provide an underpinning at a theoretical level, instead, it highlighted an aesthetic dialogue that brought together examples in architecture and clothing that shared resemblances. Nonetheless, it was important in helping to validate a relationship that is often glanced over. An apparent example from this relationship is how “skin and bones” have slipped into the lexicon of construction for both clothing and architecture, with bones primarily acting as structure, and skin, as skin. This example of shared terminology across disciplines highlights the role of shared foundations that lead to techniques of making, and the influences that shape textiles from one discipline to another in order to highlight the shared design processes to prompt alternative design strategies. Textiles are especially situated between these two scales as it responds to the touch of the body and the scale of the built environment. Textiles take shape when they are fitted to the body, furniture, or interiors. We see this through the manipulation of fabric as clothing, upholstery, or curtains. Where clothing is

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described as a second skin, the Bauhaus textile designer Anni Albers differentiated the scale of textiles from body to interior by referring to textiles for the interior as a third skin (Albers 1957: 40). The transition of textiles from second to third skin suggests there are transitional zones of shared construction techniques. The designer Petra Blaisse provides a clear example of this in her curtain design for the Hackney Theater in London, where the smocking technique of clothing is enlarged to the scale of a stage curtain (Blaisse 2007: 420). This chapter focuses on examples such as these with emphasis on second and third skins to convey alternative methods of making by looking at contemporary artists and designers. As methods of fabrication come to the foreground an understanding of underlying conceptual methodologies that initiate techniques is revealed. In order to do this, it is necessary to establish a foundation for this chapter in which the examples of works will be framed. The first framework addresses surface formations and their underlying causes; the second addresses elemental foundations of a discipline that have the potential to be shared from one discipline to another. The first framework is a macro approach to understand how forces shape surfaces. The purpose of this framework is to reveal how these forces apply surface tension and produce similar results across different scales. In this framework, scale is less important, and instead, an understanding of why different surfaces can share similar results comes to the foreground. The second framework looks inward to the elemental foundations used in apparel, furniture, and interiors while referencing the established conventions of each discipline. These include the role of concept, representation, material, and tools. Together, these two frameworks seek to convey the opportunity designers have in understanding why materials take the forms they do, and to understand what activates and changes them.

Elemental foundations If we think of a body as an entity wrapped in a skin, the surface of the skin can wrinkle or stretch depending upon the form and movement of the body beneath. As the entity changes, the surface responds. In the following section, examples will be introduced of natural forces that alter surfaces. Each example reveals a theory embedded in science and engineering to understand how these properties translate across multiple scales and objects. They are not bound to one discipline, much like the role of physics is inherent to many disciplines. An understanding of surface change through these concepts provides designers with alternative ways of understanding natural forces.

James Nasmyth and James Carpenter In the collection of the Guggenheim Museum in New York City, there are two photographs from the late 1800s, titled Back of Hand and Shriveled Apple, that when displayed side by side are in relevant scale to one another on neutral backgrounds as if specimens under study (Figures 4.1 and 4.2). The nineteenth-century engineer James Nasmyth and his co-author,

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James Carpenter, brought these two photographs together in their book of 1874, The Moon: Considered as a Planet, a World, and a Satellite, in order to explain the formation of the moon’s surface due to geological changes underneath. Nasmyth understood that

Figure 4.1 Back of Hand, in The Moon: Considered as a Planet, a World, and a Satellite by James Nasmyth and James Carpenter, 1874, Plate II.

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Figure 4.2 Shriveled Apple, in The Moon: Considered as a Planet, a World, and a Satellite by James Nasmyth and James Carpenter, 1874, Plate III.

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geological reactions such as volcanic activity inherently affected the moon’s crust. Nasmyth and Carpenter convey in their preface that their research started with a search to understand this outer surface and the underlying causes that affected its shape. More specifically, the authors set out to explain how natural formations shaped the surface. They hypothesized that volcanic action changed the surface of the moon causing it to expand and then shrink, described as: “The consequence of too large a solid shell having to accommodate itself to a shrunken body underneath, is that the skin, so to term the outer stratum of solid matter, becomes shriveled up into alternate ridges and depressions, or wrinkles” (Nasmyth and Carpenter 1885: 32). Accompanying this text are diagrams showing sections of the moon’s crust with molten matter channeling upward through cracks. The intent was to convey how the changes below the surface affected the outer surface causing “wrinkles” at a macro-scale. The authors sought to place this concept in layman’s terms by situating it within a familiar scale to the body (ibid.: 33). Alongside the sectional diagrams of the moon’s surface, the authors placed the two photographs of the back of hand and shriveled apple. Both are framed in elevation view similar to the section cut drawings of the moon’s surface. The authors describe the hand and apple in the context of “wrinkle theory” as: A long-kept shriveled apple affords an apt illustration of this wrinkle theory; another example may be observed in the human face and hand, when age has caused the flesh to shrink and so leave the comparatively unshrinking skin relatively too large as a covering for it. … Whenever an outer covering has to accommodate and apply itself to an interior body that has become too small for it, wrinkles are inevitably produced. The same action that shrivels the human skin into creases and wrinkles, has also shriveled certain regions of the igneous crust of the earth … such maps are pictures of wrinkles. (ibid.: 33–4) The moon, hand, and apple are all brought into the same frame of reference under the context of wrinkles. While they are each distinct from one another, the concept of shrinkage under the surface of the skin is what binds them together. Nasmyth and Carpenter could have left the visuals as section cuts through the moon’s surface, but they saw their concept about surface wrinkles as extending beyond the immediate object of study and applicable to multiple scales as a natural force of change. The “wrinkle theory” concept was translatable to surface changes at biological and organic elements as seen at the scale of the hand and apple. The flexibility of skins and the ability for them to take on multiple forms reveal that there are multiple techniques and underlying forces that bring forth variations of surfaces.

J. E. Gordon In a second example, textiles and their ability to stretch depending upon which direction a piece of cloth is pulled are explained by the material scientist J. E. Gordon in his book from 1981, Structures: Or Why Things Don’t Fall Down, in the context of principles

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of shear torsion. Before Gordon enters into a discussion of textiles and their complex nature, he first gives examples of materials that are less complicated because of their homogeneity, such as metal, brick, and glass. He reveals that these materials are much easier to engineer because of the consistency in their properties across the surface. In contrast, the weave of textiles proves to be more challenging when stretched due to the warp and weft of threads and the multi-directions they can be pulled which result in differences across the surface. Gordon takes cloth out of the association with clothing in order to define it in terms of structure and its behavior under loads as proved through Poisson’s ratio on elasticity (Gordon 1986: 251). Gordon provides a material scientist’s perspective, and like Nasmyth and Carpenter, he brings together two unlikely sets of information in his book by pairing a drawing of a woman wearing a dress with cloth cut on the bias, and a cloth sail on a boat, as a means to explaining Poisson’s ratio. Gordon dissolves the barrier between disciplines in order to get to the underlying forces and principles that govern materials, in this case, cloth. Similar to Nasmyth and Carpenter, he provides connection across scales and disciplines as he describes how cloth cut on the bias was a significant understanding for sailmakers and dressmaking: “In many respects the problems of persuading cloth to confirm to a desired three-dimensional shape are not very different in sailmaking and in dressmaking. However, tailors and dressmakers seem to have been more intelligent about the matter than sailmakers” (ibid.: 255). Gordon continued to provide an explanation of how tailors and dressmakers better understood the bias direction of cloth and the different results because of Poisson’s ratio used to measure elasticity in materials (ibid.: 159). In dressmaking, the bias cut allowed for a complimentary fit of textile to the body, and defined in the words of a material scientist, Gordon provides the underlying logic of textile as: “The cloth of a dress is subject to vertical tensile stresses both from its own weight and from the movements of the wearer; and if the cloth is disposed at 45 degrees to this vertical stress one can exploit the resulting large lateral contraction so as to get a clinging effect” (ibid.: 255). Sailmakers would also learn of the advantage of placing the warp and weft in the direction where the greatest stresses from wind would interact with the greatest directionality of the textile (ibid.: 253). Like Nasmyth and Carpenter’s translation of change across the surface of a skin to multiple elements, Gordon also addresses tactile forms, and how shared concepts give shape to materials that can produce the same effect from one scale to another. Their concepts turn into evidence, as making becomes the testing ground. In order to arrive at these conclusions, Nasmyth, Carpenter, and Gordon were deep in the knowledge of their disciplines. In order for each to draw their conclusions, they needed to understand the fundamental elements of their disciplines. For Nasmyth and Carpenter, their knowledge of geological shifts allowed them to draw larger conclusions about natural forces whether at the scale of the moon or a hand. Similarly, Gordon’s knowledge of materials and fundamental theories, such as Poisson’s ratio, allowed him to make a connection between the way textiles act, whether by interacting with stresses from wind or on the body.

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Articulating surfaces The first framework, as seen through natural forces, emphasizes the ability that surface alterations can share similar attributes and transcend scale. The introduction of the second framework builds upon the dissolution of scale by revealing opportunities for shared techniques of making across disciplines. In order to do this, one needs to have knowledge of their discipline in order to manipulate the foundations. Design disciplines typically share foundations that include: concept, representation, tools, and materials. Within each discipline, these foundations vary, but a common thread provides opportunity for translation across them. This can be seen in the way a designer chooses to work with a material, or apply a representational notation from one discipline to another.

Materials Shared construction techniques act as an entry point for more adventurous outcomes when working with textiles at the scale of clothing, furniture, and interiors. Tangent to these disciplines are artists who are not tied to these traditional categories; instead, they provide non-traditional results that originate from alternative conceptual approaches. The following examples by designers and artists are chosen because of their methods of making. Each is immersed in the knowledge of their discipline, and because they know their foundations acutely, it affords them the opportunity to translate ideas into other materials, representations, or scales. The results are outcomes not limited by a specific discipline silo. While most of the following examples are contemporary works, the place to start is with Charles and Ray Eames who married bent plywood to the form of the body through different initiatives. Their interest in design and materials was applied to products that could span furniture to first aid. At the scale of furniture, they are known for their molded plywood chairs, but it was their understanding of how to build flexibility into wood that gave them direction for other pursuits using plywood, such as the design and fabrication of plywood splints for the US Navy in 1941. Dung Ngo and Eric Pfeiffer in their book Bent Ply: The Art of Plywood Furniture explain: “The rigid specifications required by the US Navy, added to the necessity of following the exact curves of the human leg” (Ngo and Pfeiffer 2003: 54). The authors provide a description of steps taken by the Eames’s that were necessary in order to mimic the human leg, which included using a plaster cast of Charles’s leg as the base for a generic mold. The manufacturing of bent plywood would take a new turn in the history of design with the Eames’s, but Ngo and Pfeiffer include an important step that involved the application of knowledge from a costume designer who was a friend of the Eames’s in order to assist with making “precise patterns of each veneer layer … with a slightly different cut-out for each individual layer to allow the compound shapes to be exactly molded” (ibid.: 54). It makes sense that with more precision to the body, there was a need for knowledge of tailoring techniques to articulate the layers of wood, and hence, the role of a costume designer being someone with knowledge of tailoring clothing to the body. This friend would contribute to an interdisciplinary moment

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where participants brought their knowledge to a collaborative process and located a thread between them to produce new results. The role of the costume designer in shaping the Eames’s splint played a significant role by bringing knowledge of tailoring materials to the body, albeit a less conventional material for a costume designer. Fifty-four years later, the clothing designer Hussein Chalayan would undertake a tangent project forming wood veneer to the body. The result was a bent plywood bustier from Chalayan’s Autumn/Winter 1995 collection Along False Equator that married plywood to the form of a woman’s torso. Chalayan looked to fabrication techniques based in engineering industries to bring to his tailoring techniques. Both the Eames and Chalayan chose to work with the same material using the body as the site, yet arrived at their forms with influence from multiple disciplines.

Representation Design disciplines rely upon forms of representation for their work to come into view. Apparel construction utilizes paper patterns that start as two-dimensional full-scale representations of the body, and when altered by notations, become three-dimensional forms that wrap the body. Interior design and architecture utilize orthographic drawings, which similarly provide a two-dimensional view as a map, but often remain at an abstract proportional scale rather than a direct working relationship to full-scale. In this sense, they always remain a representation rather than transitioning into the final product. Caught between these two forms of representation is the work of the contemporary Korean artist, Do-Ho Suh, where interior orthographic drawings leap outside the confines of a proportional scale and are constructed at full-scale with textiles as the medium. The results are full-scale interiors constructed out of textiles (Plate 4). Suh describes this interior skin in the context of wallpaper when he states: Wallpaper integrates itself into the logic of clothing/architectural space: clothing the house, covering the house, the wall. It is highly site specific, because it molds the wall perfectly and is literally stuck to it, but it is also infinitely transportable in that any wall can be covered with the wallpaper. It is transportable space in a roll. Three dimensions into two dimensions into one dimension, this is one of the ways in which space can be translated, folded from three dimensions to one, and be transported. (Suh 1997: SS28) An underlying theme in Suh’s work is the significance of home and the desire to retain the memory of place. While boundaries define real place, memories lack this physical constraint. The materialization of Suh’s work bridges the factual and ephemeral. He embraces boundaries with full-scale domestic constructions, yet the materialization is defined by the tailoring of translucent textiles at full-scale orthographic drawings. Suh goes one step further by allowing details and reliefs of domestic surfaces and objects to be part of the construction integrated into a continuous representation pieced together pattern by pattern. Returning back to Anni Albers’s delineation of second and third skins,

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Suh simultaneously bridges these layers as clothing-like skin waiting to be folded up in contrast to the permanent nature of the architecture they mimic.

Tools Tools play an important role for designers by making it possible to employ fundamental principles such as measurement, geometry, and marks through tools such as a scale, straight edge, graphite, and paper. Architecture and interior design share common tools, which Susan C. Piedmont-Palladino surveys in her book: Tools of the Imagination: Drawing Tools and Technologies from the Eighteenth Century to the Present. Her overview on the history of tools specific to the building arts reveals their role in translating the representation of an idea into a measurable outcome. Disciplines such as apparel, furniture, interior or architectural design each have their own set of tools, but often, they perform the same fundamental role. More recently, digital fabrication has entered into the language of these disciplines because of the ease at which laser cutters, knife cutters, and waterjet cutting can be programmed to alter a range of possible materials. The designer Elena Manferdini, with her practice Atelier Manferdini, employs the use of digital fabrication techniques to a range of scales from body to building. When she perforates materials with these tools, they are designed with material performance in mind. For example, in the design of the Ricami Dining Table from 2008 to 2009, a clover pattern is cut into the legs of a table, and as less material is structurally needed, the opportunity for greater perforation is integrated (Manferdini 2010) (Figure 4.3). A similar pattern is used in the design of her fashion collection Cherry Blossom from Spring/Summer 2007.

Figure 4.3 Arktura Ricami Dining Table. © Atelier Manferdini.

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Figure 4.4 Atelier Manferdini, Cherry Blossom Collection, Spring Summer 2007. © Atelier Manferdini, photograph by Robert Robert.

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Garments are perforated in areas that compliment the body while retaining structural integrity in the overall pattern (Figure 4.4).

Conclusion In the earlier examples by Nasmyth, Carpenter, and Gordon, the knowledge gained within their areas of expertise culminated in a greater vision of understanding natural forces and the properties they exert upon skins. This vision allowed them to see connections across different scales and elements, thereby opening doors for greater understanding of the materials at hand. The more one can gain knowledge about the foundation of their discipline, whether it be materials, construction techniques, representation, or the need to respond to cues in the physical environment, the more opportunity there is to understand greater elemental principles. In turn, these principles find their way into shaping the disciplines we study. The designers highlighted in the above examples are learned in their disciplines, setting the foundation for greater pursuits through interdisciplinary practices. While the works of these contemporary artists and designers reflect shared scales and techniques, the blurring of disciplines and underlying approaches establish reference points to foundations by which textiles are given shape. Support for interdisciplinary practices is not new, but what often gets lost in related discussions is the emphasis on knowing one’s foundation in a discipline in order to see a greater perspective. It is easy for one to jump from the qualities of one discipline to another because two things may look similar, but the knowledge of underlying principles holds the potential to find common entry points into other disciplines or ways of making that may not be as evident on the surface. This is especially important since textiles can be articulated lightheartedly or with hard sciences. Upon conclusion of this chapter, there is a rich body of knowledge found in uncovering the forces that affect the behavior of materials. Uncovering knowledge is the basis of the Renaissance painting The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein. In the painting, there are multiple levels of knowledge revealed around the room in which the two ambassadors stand. The selection of objects shown such as musical instruments, a globe, and tools represent the scholarly nature of the ambassadors. But Holbein plays a trick by painting an anamorphic skull seen as an ambiguous shape across the bottom of the painting, whereby only those that know how to look at the painting see the skull revealed. There is surface knowledge, and then knowledge gained through an understanding of geometry, which produced the anamorphic figure. Like the painting, the articulation of surfaces is richer with the pursuit of knowledge.

References Albers, A. (1957), “The Pliable Plane: Textiles in Architecture,” Perspecta, 4: 36–41. Blaisse, P. (2007), Inside outside Petra Blaisse, ed. K. Ota, Rotterdam: NAi Publishers.

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Evans, C. (2005), “No Man’s Land,” in C. Evans, S. Menkes, T. Polhemus, and B. Quinn (eds), Hussein Chalayan, 8–15, Rotterdam: NAi Publishers. Gordon, J. E. (1986), Structure: or Why Things Don’t Fall Down, London: De Capo Press. Manferdini, E. (2010), Lecture by Elena Manferdini given at The University of Texas at Austin, School of Architecture, March 10. Nasmyth, J. and J. Carpenter (1885), The Moon: Considered as a Planet, a World, and a Satellite, New York: Scribner & Welford. Ngo, D. and E. Pfeiffer (2003), Bent Ply: The Art of Plywood Furniture, New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Piedmont-Palladino, S. C. (2007), Tools of the Imagination: Drawing Tools and Technologies from the Eighteenth Century to the Present, New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Suh, D. H. (1997), “Do-Ho Suh,” Art Journal, 56 (1): SS28.

5 INTERVIEW WITH CAROL BOVE Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton

You are known to research history as part of your work process—how has research into the history of the interior or architecture influenced your work. What aspects of history are most important to your work, materiality, social practices, objects, function? I think design is the expression of ideology, which is historically determined, exists in a framework of space and time, is enabled by specific material conditions and social practices and is conditioned by individual human subjects. Culture can materialize in infinite forms, it is infinite in its potential but the historical record of material culture contains a finite number of its manifestations. But the infinite is still latent in the instances of material culture, objects—buildings, teapots, paintings—you could interpret them endlessly because your interpretive framework can always be adjusted and deepened. I don’t typically do traditional academic research but I spend a lot of time looking at material culture, reading about it, thinking about it. It’s either the main influence or the entire process, I’m not sure. How does modernism inform your work? Roberta Smith has said in your work, the grid (a defining motif of modernism in art and design) is a “living, breathing thing” suggesting a productive tension inherent in your process—do you agree? I am very attracted to the ways in which the past persists in the present. Sometimes I try to revivify an idea that is around but has lost most of its currency, but only if I can really embody it, and transfer the embodiment to the sculptures. The Henry Moore Foundation has organized an exhibition of your work alongside that of Italian modernist architect and designer Carlos Scarpa (1906–1978). In a description of this exhibition, Carol Bove/Carlo Scarpa, the curators cite a parallel concern with the “object and its environment.” We find this approach also parallels a significant approach to the design of the interior (that actually often distinguishes it from architecture), where a primary and generative approach stems from a consideration of inhabitation and people in their environments. Can you speak to this parallel? Carlo Scarpa and I are both interested in the persistence of the past and in making the passage of time legible in the physical environment. Scarpa’s museum designs assume

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Figure 5.1 Carol Bove, Flora’s Garden II, in the exhibit RA, or Why is an orange like a bell? Maccarone, New York. 2012. © Carol Bove. Courtesy of the artist of Maccarone, New York and David Zwirner, New York/London. Photograph by Maris Hutchinson.

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that the environments (display designs, interior architecture, exhibition furniture including frames and easels) are relatively stable* but that they gradually change over time. Change comes from decay, from maintenance, from traumas and disruptions and from changing needs. Scarpa assumed that his interventions in an existing environment would create a new unity out of an existing environment. He also assumed that the newness of his additions would be temporary and that the passage of time would soften the distinction between the sedimentary layers. In terms of a person inhabiting an environment, one of the salient features of Scarpa’s interiors is that they locate us in historical time. This is cultural time. His interiors also locate us in celestial and biological time through his careful use of daylight and fenestration. The environments I make tend to move more quickly because they are almost always conceived of as temporary exhibitions but many of the concerns are the same. The acts of collecting and display are evident in both your work and in that of Scarpa, albeit at different scales and for different purposes. In your work, the displays suggest a kind of domestic significance reminiscent of Walter Benjamin’s “household gods,” whereas in Scarpa’s example the collections typically serve a more public purpose. What is the significance of private acts of collecting and display to you and your work? Carlo Scarpa and I have both considered the domestic space and the exhibition space. Scarpa’s museum designs are probably his most famous work, but he also worked on domestic interiors. Similarly, I have been working on a larger scale in public space in the past few years but you may know my small-scale works better. In the past, when I was using more domestic references, I thought the domestic object would signal a kind of subjective involvement on the part of the viewer. They would encounter the shelf as a sculpture with all of its well-worn books, objects and ephemera and think about the private self that they always bring to public situations. In other words, interior motifs signal psychological interiority. In your sculptures you take found artifacts and create environments where the artifacts are displayed on beautiful mountings, what is the significance of the beauty or prettiness in these armatures? I try for elegance; maybe beauty is a product if I get it right. My belief is that something can’t be truly elegant unless it contains something disgusting, like the shit smell in perfume. When you take stock of all the elements in my display strategies and sculptures there are many disgusting parts. But the overall effect is elegant, I think. The tonal coldness is an important component and it is there even when I’m working with organic materials. The sculptures are communicating through conventions of display, i.e. the armatures and pedestals and frames, etc., and if you were to take every part of the armature away from the piece you would be left with very little. Maybe a piece of Styrofoam and a rock. I think the way the emphatic focus on presentation operates in the gallery space is that it causes you to feel your estrangement from the objects, from “the real”. This recognition of your estrangement is

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Figure 5.2 Carol Bove, Strange Events Permit Themselves the Luxury of Occurring, Camden Arts Centre, 2007–8. Setting for A. Pomodoro, 2006. © Carol Bove. Courtesy of the artist of Maccarone, New York and David Zwirner, New York/London.

the unlikely point of entry to an experience of the numinous. Or at least it can cause you to suspend your desire to interpret temporarily. One might say that your hung book case installations and works that incorporate furniture have a relationship to the design of the interior, can you speak to the significance of these works? Some critics have suggested your work straddles art and design—do you agree? The image of straddling in this context doesn’t make sense to me—it’s like asking if an apple is more an expression of redness or more of a type of fruit. Does it answer the question to say that the shelves do include design as part of their formal strategies and their meaning? I wanted the shelf pieces to be able to “pass” as regular shelves and for them to be sort of invisible. I’m pretty sure they don’t contribute that much to the field of design (see Plate 5). What role does the notion of domesticity play in your work? The shelves started as a mechanism for me to think visually—I wanted to hold a variety of disparate ideas in one image. My studio was at my house and I liked that there was

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no difference between art making and other activities. The bookshelves express the experience of being at home and having the domestic environment merge with one’s metal contents. These pieces tend to communicate intimacy, in part because the viewer has probably had experiences with some of the books in their past and they often address a buried memory that no one but the percipient knows about. One might argue that your sculptures are spatial interior environments that even incorporate lighting and fenestration (defined by the curtains). How do you conceptualize these spaces and do you envision them as being inhabitable? How do you develop the narrative for these spaces as part of your artistic process? I think the narrative always comes back to what is directly given: you are looking at art in a gallery or museum. But there is copious use of red herrings. It seems like I’m leading you somewhere, suggesting an interpretive framework or a point of reference, but these clues never lead you to the answer. In much of your work you reconstruct found artifacts into sculpture. Can you speak to how your beaded curtains relate to your sculptures? Where do you source the materials for your curtains, do they incorporate any found objects? I’ve had a set of evolving rules in my work. When I started, I wasn’t allowed to make anything up; I could only re-present pre-existing things. At a certain point, around 2006, it was clear that that restriction wasn’t helpful anymore. So I expanded my idea of appropriation to include inventions that are made in the spirit of non-invention and of a type of self-expression where the self is conceived of as historical and social but is not affected by my personality. The curtains anticipated this shift—the first one was from 2003. The curtains were a meditation on a piece I had seen as a child in an art museum. It was an important experience, one of the formative art experiences from my childhood. The sculpture was a depiction of a couch in which the topography of a chesterfield was described by beads. The beads were suspended by invisible thread attached to an armature. I was amazed by the piece. Later when I studied art history I expected to come across it and that I would finally understand its origins and place in history. Was it coming out of a craft tradition? Was it conceptual art? I didn’t discover the answer until much, much later. I wanted to remake the piece but the means were beyond me. I couldn’t make a volume but I could make a plane. I was developing my first exhibition of sculptures and I felt the necessity to put something in the middle of the room, but I didn’t want to block any of the views. The curtain piece came out of this desire to see the couch again. They also came out of the need to address a specific interior design problem. Where do you derive the patterns for the beading? Are they drawn from historical references? How would you describe their aesthetic? I have done a couple that are just metric grids with the chains at centimeter intervals and beads on the chain at each centimeter intervals. These ones were hung in relation

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Figure 5.3 Studio view, 2013. Including (from L to R): The WhiteTubular Glyph, 2012; Chesed, 2013; Terma, 2013; Ra, 2013. © Carol Bove. Courtesy of the artist of Maccarone, New York and David Zwirner, New York/London. Photograph by Jeffrey Sturges.

to cardinal directions, not the interior architecture of the gallery, so in addition to being monumental jewelry they are also compasses or even domestic earth works. The ones with patterns have either triangles or squares because that’s what works best with this type of grid pattern. The first pattern I borrowed from an Yves St. Lauren hand towel that had somehow made it’s way into my life. The other ones were inventions. The curtain has become an almost totemic image in art and design in the aftermath of modernism, defining the work of figures like artist Doh Ho Suh and designer Petra Blaisse—What is the significance of the curtains in your work? I conceive of new types of sculptures when I notice something is missing from my kit. The curtains hold a particular position within the kit. They are very hard to see initially, and they hover in the air. They don’t really photograph. They require a different type of looking that the human eye is capable of but machines are not. They measure the air in the room and they make you aware of your body because you need to keep track of them and physically avoid them. You read the level of precision and care that’s put into them, in addition to the fine texture. Among the different types of works I make, they are more highly wrought, more detailed, more refined and elegant than other elements. I like to include different levels of production within an exhibited set; the amount of labor and the

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production expense of an object is legible. I like a heterogeneous set—it creates more work for the viewer. All of the elements in the set are contingent and mean something in relation to the others but none more than the curtains. You always see something else through the curtains. One final note, I like that when you walk around them they transform from a plane to a line and back again. In conventional understanding objects are mute and people speak but in the interior, where objects and people are put into intimate dialogue, the roles are reversed. Objects are insensible; they only understand forces, but they are able to testify to their material conditions and to speak to us about their histories.

Note Interview questions written by Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton; interview conducted via email.

PART TWO

MECHANICAL AND DIGITAL INNOVATION IN THE INTERIOR REALM

6 ULTERIOR MOTIVES Sarah Strauss

Touching is an interaction of the senses rather than a simple contact of an object with the skin. (BAUDRILLARD 1983: 124)

Three-dimensional (3D) wallpaper produces a new tactile experience that crosses the threshold of interior design, architecture, and image making. It challenges the most fundamental assumptions of space making by generating an immersive experience that simultaneously addresses flatness and virtual depth. Its effects produce uncertainty in locating the surface of the wall, thereby creating pleasure in artifice rather than clearly defining enclosure. The wall does more than merely confirm the position or materiality of a boundary; instead this surface allows for a new visual thickness that involves the body. As Baudrillard suggests, touch becomes a sensory experience no less tangible to the eyes than to the skin (Baudrillard 1983: 124). 3D wallpaper is an interactive condition that offers an experience of active viewing. Although grounded in the tradition of wallpaper which is as old as the printing press, 3D wallpaper picks up on a radical departure initiated by the Arts and Crafts movement, but unfulfilled. If the wallpapers of William Morris exemplify the historic ground defining this pursuit, it is useful to see how abstraction enters into these papers and shifts the content from being highly representational to one that is primarily geometric. Looking closely at Morris’s early wallpapers there is an insistence on imitation: namely in “Trellis,” 1862, where the surface of a garden wall is rendered showing a grid of wooden slats supporting a hearty rose bush, with insect and avian inhabitants drawn by Phillip Webb. This paper recreates the garden wall at scale, carefully rendering the grain of the wooden slats, the heads of nails, and the feathers of birds to produce a one-to-one likeness of this particular wall condition. This paper signifies a wall that it is not. Much like early papers that produced likenesses of coffering or paneling, the imitative project relies on flattening out an originally dimensional subject. This approach treats wallpaper as a regressive act, producing a product inherently less than its original form. However, considering his later papers like “Willow Bough,” 1887, a very different agenda appears. Here, the leaves and boughs produce an abstraction of the experience of looking into nature. There is no attempt to depict another wall; instead the swirling

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boughs create through abstraction the subjective experience of observing a leaf canopy. Through flatness, through repetition of similar yet varied leaf forms, an experience is simulated which adds rather than reduces dimensions. No inhabitants are included in this environment, and nothing anchors the design in scale or vantage point. The leaves and boughs create a continuous field of engagement, one which produces a sensation of enclosure, surprisingly daring for its time. By designing the sensation of looking rather than a representation of something looked at, Morris opens the door to abstraction in wallpaper.

The 3D wallpaper project 3D wallpaper is an experimental project. Diverse interests in optics, mathematics, and tactile pleasure align in an academic pursuit of contemporary surface. In 2011, I developed a graduate seminar at Pratt Institute in the Interior Design Department focused on pattern, ornament, and tiling. The goal of this course is to research and design new techniques for manipulating the surface at the scale of the body, the wall, and the room. 3D wallpaper is an important project within this course, and all of the images, herein, are student work. Each of the illustrations show, side by side, the individual tile at a larger scale, and the effect of repeating this tile at the scale of the body. Unlike other investigations of wall covering like a mural or billboard, the success of wallpaper is anchored in the organization of the repeat and the production of a seamless spatial field. Most wallpapers are a highly specific form of tiling, using a rectangular repeat and maintaining vertical alignment as it is typically manufactured as a roll. The size of the roll therefore becomes a fundamental problem of the design, and calibrating the roll width to the scale of the body is the basis of its organization. Pattern symmetries appear at the scale of the roll and smaller, and are organized by translation, rotation, and reflection (or mirroring). Understanding the possibilities of these symmetries allows students to push beyond decorative applications to investigate the structure of a continuous field. This project introduces a new problem for wallpaper: the use of stereoscopic viewing to produce pattern that has the illusion of three dimensions. Stereoscopic vision triangulates figures to simulate depth, taking advantage of our natural visual response to image doubling by forcing the interpretation of distance. By offsetting images left and right at different increments, layers of depth are produced that appear distinct. Sharply focused elements with no horizontal offset establish a reference layer against which other elements are measured. Motif is embedded in these spatial layers allowing multiple membranes to interpenetrate, to weave through one another generating visual thickness. Unique to wallpaper, the vertical seam that aligns the left and right edges of the paper not only continues the pattern, but it establishes a repeated spatial matrix. The technique for producing the stereoscopic effect involves channel splitting where a single image is divided into a red channel and a cyan channel and is shifted or translated horizontally across the image. Our mind’s impulse to focus sight merges the two shifted channels to produce the illusion of a picture plane located in optical space perpendicular to the image (Plate 6). Depending on the orientation of the viewer’s glasses, for instance

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red on the right, cyan on the left, the calibration of horizontal translation pushes the image into illusionistic space. Images that are viewed with a red halo to the right and cyan to the left converge beyond the surface of the image. This effect is reversed when the orientation of the glasses is reversed. Those that were behind push forward and those that were in front push behind. When constructing offsets from a single image, portions without a lateral offset appear on the surface of the wall, while the haloed images tend to push forward or back into space. Further, the physical distance of the viewer from the surface of the wallpaper matters. This is how 3D wallpaper becomes interactive. Triangulation is required for depth perception and depends on the proximity of the viewer to the paper. And as the viewer moves in relation to the pattern, the pattern, too, moves. Shifting the position of the body reorients the visual experience. By moving closer and farther away from the print we locate the distance where optimal effect occurs. This technique produces uncertainty: the physical location of the wall is in question depending on the body’s relationship to it. An early work by James Turrell, Afrum 1(white) 1967, yields a similar experience. What appears to be a white rectangle is projected in to the dark corner of a room. The viewer approaches from a nearly 45-degree angle and, suddenly, a positive white cube firmly materializes in space. Moving slowly, laterally, the cube rotates in the direction of the observer. The projection is a hexagon with its center peaks aligning with the corner of the room. Perspectival uncertainty works by simultaneity, satisfying two spatial conditions at once. This isometric drawing flips forward and backward in space revealing both the front corner of a cube and inside the hollow cube at the same time. Turrell’s isometry is an interactive condition: the viewer must remain on or near the 45-degree viewing axis; the illusion depends on it. The pleasure in viewing these papers is a heightened state of confusion in the mind, when appearances contradict cognition. Rather than safely determining the extents of physical space, designs are successful when they create uncertainty. We see our eyes deceiving us but there is a safety and cheeriness in wallpaper’s domesticity that allows the illusion to be playful instead of threatening. The effect is delightful and performative. In the student work from the 3D Wallpaper Project, image, content, and motif selection vary wildly; most are sampled from photographs, interweb downloads, or scans of hand drawings. Images used as motif can be sampled from any source and operate as geometric agents occupying planes of depth. Despite the diverse points of origin, organizational tendencies are apparent which reveal correlations between motif and structure, and this exchange forms the basis of my interest in the project. Motif operates as a vehicle for geometry, yet motif relates to the structure and organization of the design. In other words, image content has the potential to drive the structure of the repeat. If the motif selected is an image of a plant, or an animal, or an abstract non-representational form, each of these will result in a different method of repeat and therefore a distinct spatial order. While the original content of the image and its systems of signification are subsumed into the pursuit of effective pattern making, relationships between motif selection and spatial structure persist. The number and manner in which planes of depth are constructed yield several typologies which provide evidence for the relationship between motif and structure. I will name them as follows: veil, scene, and zigzag.

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Veil One strategy is to select a single figural motif and multiply it by constructing a number of overlapping but equivalent planes which suspend the motif in depth (Plate 7 “Succulents”). Within this typology the motif produces a veil covering the wall surface. There is no background. It is all figure, contour, and the construction of space by layering. The most exciting versions of these distribute the motif into multiple layers, effectively producing a sponge-like viewing surface. Veil directly continues the project initiated by the late abstractions of William Morris. This typology achieves what architecture cannot: an infinitely deep membrane. Leaves, flowers, and abstract geometry tend to participate in this behavior. They propagate by a technique of covering. Veil achieves foreground, background, and everything between with a serial selection of motif. “Succulents” functions by recreating and redistributing the irregular outline of a plant in successive forms. As in nature, these forms are not identical, but closely related. Remarkably, three to four similar shapes with minor changes of scale and rotation produce enough variety to suggest an infinite expanse. Veil negates the surface, dissolving it into a collection of multiplicities. The successive layers of motif obscure vision to opaqueness. “A multiplicity is defined not by its elements, nor by a center of unification or comprehension. It is defined by the number of dimensions it has; it is not divisible, it cannot lose or gain a dimension without changing its nature” (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 249). It is decidedly non-material and non-tectonic: it can only exist in a world without mass and thickness. Veil relies on contoured figures to participate in this state. Serial motif is required, a series of morphologically related figures that remain equivalent to one another: leaves, for instance, or snowflakes, stars, circles, squares, etc.

Scene Another approach for creating wallpaper is to construct a scene (Plate 8 “Swamped”). This design places images together and by proximity forces the elements into a narrative. Animals, as protagonists, push forward into space and the background is literally that, an environment onto which events are staged. These layers express the near and far limits of the constructed depth while the distance between seems very tangible. What is critical to this typology is the construction of objects within an environment; actors take their marks on stage and a camouflage pattern becomes the background. Tufts of grass and animals occupy similar planes and push forward while maintaining layers independent of each other, safely distancing the predator and prey. Multiple advancing layers hold objects and terrain, while a singular flat pattern determines the backdrop in a simulation of theatricality. No doubt, this type of paper is closely aligned with its historic antecedents: “A resemblance of the place, the site upon which nature has placed the two things, and thus a similitude of properties; for in this natural container, the world, adjacency is not an exterior relation between things, but the sign of a relationship” (Foucault [1970] 1994: 18). But this example does more than perform a narrative; this particular example is

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clever in the use of an existing flat pattern, camouflage, as a device to produce ground. It is successful because the formal structure of camouflage is to produce an ambiguity of surface. Here an ambiguity of ground conveys the essence of the marsh that is being depicted. With equal parts water, grass, and mud, the environment is the actual event. The animals that inhabit this swamp seem to exist only to identify solid ground; flamingos and alligators ignore one another but stake out territory. “Swamped” uses the technique of offsetting the lateral match points to generate a more fluid background surface. Match is the condition which allows left and right edges to align sequentially, or to produce an intentional vertical translation. Match can be singular, multiple, or random in relationship to each tile. The organization of the match contributes to the overall effect and the structure of the individual tile. Where a straight match can be problematized by the strong reading of horizontal lines, lowering or raising the match for each successive vertical strip can produce diagonal banding at a large scale. A half drop requires each successive match to be dropped or lowered by half the height of the tile, a quarter drop is lowered by one quarter the height of the tile, etc. This technique generates diagonals and diagrids at the large scale and is a familiar structure in wallpaper design.

Zigzag The last technique weaves dimensions into existence. Instead of establishing hierarchy of depth and using flat planes, this technique uses inversion to create a spatial carving (Plate 9 “Drapery”). The near and far extents of the design seem tangible, but like a hanging textile the undulations read more as a zone of thickness than a distinct layering of planes. Notably, stereoscopic image pairs merged onto a single image dividing information through color are referred to as anaglyph images. The term anaglyph also refers to an ornamental condition of low surface relief (from the Greek ana+glyphein to carve). This optical carving is subversive. In viewing this paper, uncertainty is a deliberate product and power of its abstraction. The sine wave or zigzag line is the motif which allows non-representational dislocation. This project modulates scale across vertical and horizontal repeats and uses inversions to accentuate the repetition of the fold. In “Uroboros,” the same typology is achieved through alternate means (see cover image). A regular geometric field establishes location. The figure of the snake harnesses its power by traversing this plane, making space in front of and behind this surface. The woven surface becomes a loose grid, rather than a backdrop, which works to both reveal and hide the body of the snake. And in this case, the grid functions doubly, first as a scaffold upon which the snake coils into existence, and second as a means of subdividing the wallpaper tile to produce any number of match points. By repositioning the match and potentially trimming the head from successive intervals, the snake can expand to fill any wall. Only the head indicates a point of origin. The body is endless extension, twisting and knotting itself into continuity; it is the beginning and end of all things in this world. Unlike the veil which recedes into infinite depth, the zigzag suspends existence as a thickness of probability where the snake will occur.

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Conclusion The 3D Wallpaper Project furthers the development of an historic medium allowing new interactive effects to be produced. These papers are generative rather than imitative and produce increased spatial dimensions by manipulating geometric repeats. Three typologies, veil, scene, and zigzag, present the distinct vectors of spatial construction via wallpaper. These strategies suggest a dialogue between motif and geometric structure as well as an alignment with surface effects that belong to interior design, conceptual art, and architecture. Pattern, once tentatively restricted to the domain of decoration, returns with new potency, and with it a new set of issues emerges. Structure is redefined by the scale and manner of repeat; it shifts from the tectonic to the geometric as a means to establish visual order. And because structure alone does not satisfy the senses, images, too, return to the surface as motif. 3D wallpaper fulfills the promise of abstraction initiated by William Morris to create new worlds emerging from sensation rather than recreating images of a world that we already know. It produces a relationship of viewing that moves toward individual tactile experience and interactive design. 3D wallpaper expands perception and involves the body in a new interactive medium capable of producing virtual space.

References Baudrillard, J. (1983), Simulations, trans. P. Foss, P. Patton, and P. Beitchman, New York: Semiotext[e]. Deleuze, G. and F. Guattari (1987), A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. B. Massumi, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Foucault, M. ([1970] 1994), The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, New York: Vintage Books, Random House.

Note All wallpaper examples in this chapter were created by students in my graduate seminar “Pattern and Ornament.” I created the class in 2011 and have taught it at Pratt Institute Interior Design Department for the last four years. I could not have developed this project without the students’ enthusiasm and dedication to the class. Special thanks to Jessica Jane, Kyra and Rob Hartnett, and Noah Biklen for continued conversation, criticism, and encouragement of this endeavor.

7 TOPICALLY EMBEDDED: SURFACE AS GRAPHIC MATERIAL Igor Siddiqui

Without ornament and its capacity to generate décor, the world would be impersonal and likely uninhabitable. (ANTOINE PICON 2013)

Introduction Surface articulation has over the past quarter-century emerged as a critical issue for architecture. As a disciplinary development, such an emergence has been convincingly linked to advancements in digital technologies and their impact on building design and fabrication. In interior design—architecture’s ally and a supplementary other—articulation of surface has always already been at the core of the discipline’s concerns and activities, whether it be as a matter of reflecting subjective identities through interior surfaces or exploring novel methods of upholstery, paneling, or paint. Recent technological advancements have not left the contemporary interior untouched; in fact, to many architects the interior surface has served as a productive site for digitally driven design innovation (Siddiqui 2013: 454–67). Yet scholarship of interior design, in particular scholarly work from within the discipline that centers on creative practice, has not yet sufficiently claimed the technologically transformed surface as its own area of expertise, authority, and expression. The work of ISSSStudio, the practice that I direct in relation to academic research and teaching, has over the past several years sought to alleviate this deficiency. ISSStudio’s primary body of work focuses on articulations of interior surfaces under the influence of technological innovations and shifting cultural values. Considered in its entirety, the work may be described as ornamental, decorative, and patterned. Such attributes are a consequence of a number of interrelated factors including scale, typology, materiality, geometry, and techniques of production. ISSSStudio’s projects occupy the scalar gradient between the body and the building, appearing in the form of flooring, lighting, wallpaper,

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curtains, furnishings, and accessories. Ranging from customizable products to site-tailored installations, the projects are conceived as soft layers between building walls and human skin, richly articulated through materials whose thinness and pliability are exposed as virtues. In ISSSStudio’s work materiality is designed—even reinvented—rather than accepted, an approach enabled by digital design and fabrication at full scale. Digitally generated surface geometries order material thickness, texture, porosity, and assembly, with results that appear ornately differentiated and perceptually engaging. Although not woven, such materials are profoundly textile-like: draped, stretched in tension, absorbent, and responsive to the demands of gravity and air circulation. Framed in this way—as soft, patterned, and seemingly supplementary—the work’s function as ornament, as a part of spatial décor, and a participant in the combinatory practice of decoration emerges with conviction. Ultimately, however, the disciplinary value of this work may lie less in how it circulates within established economies of design practice and more when viewed as an exploratory inquiry into advancing the capacity of interior surfaces—and by extension interior design—to transform the built environment in ways that are both technologically innovative and culturally relevant.

Surface as graphic material Current theoretical distinctions between ornament and decoration are as diverse as the range of contemporary designs (buildings, interiors, installations, products) that are commonly characterized as ornamental and decorative. For Kent Bloomer, “decoration is a pleasurable arrangement of elements that articulate societal values, order, and beauty, while ornament is constituted by motifs that are repetitively distributed about structural and decorative elements to evoke natural cycles, efflorescence, and transformation” (Bloomer 2006: 49). In Ornament: The Politics of Architecture and Subjectivity, Antoine Picon defines décor as that which facilitates the interaction between different ornaments, a decorated space that one is able to inhabit (Picon 2013: 123–4). While it has been sufficiently acknowledged that such distinctions are far from stable or consistent (Massey 2013: 498), for ISSSStudio ornament principally refers to the articulation of material surfaces through precise deployment of pattern geometries, the effect of which may be perceived as decorative. In this way ornament shapes experience through the ordering of materiality. Picon observes that today’s ornament, however computational in origin it may be, appears strongly tied to inquiries regarding materiality (Picon 2013: 130), a condition that has also already received significant attention in the broader discourse on digital design in architecture.1 In building design, the promise of contemporary patterns lies in their ability to integrate “sensory, organizational, operational, structural, and environmental domains into a complex entity” (Andersen and Salomon 2010: 14), fulfilling multiple tectonic and performative demands by becoming increasingly thicker, deeper, and stronger.2 The absorption of the interior into such a fully integrated architectural entity lacks no precedent in design, historically and today. The work of ISSSStudio, however, exemplifies the belief that while interior design may at times align with holistic architectural intentions, it also has the agency to diverge on its own—amicably, indifferently, or

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in defiance to the building. The source of interior design’s effectiveness is not always its faithfulness to architecture, but also emerges from its promiscuity. Ornamental patterns that result from such a practice shape surfaces that in turn have the ability to migrate across multiple spaces and whose presence is temporally varied. Materially rich and graphically intensive, the best way to describe such surfaces is as graphic material. Marks applied to a surface, whether as drawing, image, text, or some other two-dimensional entity, are all forms of graphics. One may colloquially refer to an artifact as graphic when it is explicitly geometric (graphic textile print), overly descriptive (a film depicting graphic violence), or narrated visually (graphic novel). In architecture, graphics encompass the discipline’s diverse modes of representation as well as established notational conventions (graphic standards). While in this way central to architectural production, graphics are nonetheless traditionally cast as external to the built artifact, both preceding and succeeding its materialization, but usually not coinciding with it. For example, drawings are a required precondition for the construction of buildings and a building may necessitate the application of graphics as an additional layer (for branding, way-finding), but in both instances it is the building itself that stands out as the primary material construct. Digital technologies in design and fabrication offer the possibility of obliterating this distinction, enabling “a convergence of technique and content, folding representation into the very production of the surface” (Pell 2010: 7). In this paradigm, technique-driven graphic content has the capacity to shape materiality, while materials acquire new graphic properties. Specific to contemporary design production, similarly graphic materials have also appeared, albeit shaped by different considerations, in some of the most canonical modern works of the previous century. The non-load bearing walls of Mies Van Der Rohe’s 1929 Barcelona Pavilion, for example, are veneered in green marble and golden onyx, the effect of which is graphically opulent and materially extravagant. Even Adolf Loos, whose influential ideologies advocated the ban on ornament, similarly applied intricately veined marble panels to his interiors, as is the case with Villa Müller from 1930. What differentiates these and similar historical examples from current manifestations of materials as graphically rich with which the work of ISSStudio is preoccupied is the element of authorship. Historically, materials are selected and sourced for their already existing graphic properties, such as veining, grain, and variegation. Digitally designed graphic materials are, in contrast, not found—but are rather made. However central to the articulation of interior spaces they may be, surfaces have traditionally alluded to a sense of exteriority. Culturally, surfaces are inextricably linked to constructs like depth, substance, mass, and thickness, providing each with a defining boundary or an outer layer. Contemporary explorations across disciplines have sought to challenge such binary relationships, imbuing surfaces with a new culturally significant sense of agency. Mathematically, shifting from Euclidian to topological space provides an updated framework for conceptualizing surfaces from entities that are dependent on three-dimensional form to those that are intrinsic two-dimensional manifolds. Digital technology, in particular modeling software, has allowed designers to explore the articulation of form as a consequence of topological articulation, privileging in this way surface over mass. The realization of digital form through material means, however, inevitably raises the question of thickness. In this context, the work of ISSSStudio explores a range

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of surface conditions associated with thinness, while producing material resolutions that are robust in technique and effect. The resulting surfaces are thin, but not flat. Materially homogenous, they nonetheless seek to express and amplify dimensional, geometric, and textural differentiation. Digital patterns are integrated into the material, but telescope to their surface as graphic. Like a tattoo, branding, or piercing, they are topically embedded. A selection of the studio’s completed projects demonstrates the search for graphic materiality through novel articulations of surface. The organization reflects four distinct techniques of production: ink, tessellation, appliqué, and relief.

Ink Ink is a medium through which architectural space is frequently represented, but rarely does it serve as a material for construction. Zigzag (2013), a temporary site-specific installation produced for an art fair designed in collaboration with Deborah Schneiderman of deSc, is as much an exploration of ink as a material as it is an attempt to merge graphic representation with the space of corporeal experience. The project considers wallpaper’s role in the articulation of interior space and seeks to overcome its conventional limits such as flatness, repetition, and inability to adapt to site conditions. Zigzag consists of a continuous 100-foot long wall whose overall form zigzags in plan and elevation in order to sculpt a spatial sequence, define circulatory movement, and strategically reveal or conceal particular views. A composite graphic surface, ink on vinyl, is custom-tailored to the wall’s geometry and designed to explicitly engage the circumstances of the site, the program, and the users as they move through. The ink is distributed across the surface according to a series of superimposed layers of content, the role of which is both representational and experiential (Figure 7.1). An alternating gradient of blue and green hues reinforces the repetitive assembly of the wall, while accentuating the depth that is created along its vertical folds (Plate 10). The gradient serves as a richly saturated background for the unleashing of a pair of motif-driven patterns whose juxtaposition highlights differences between pre-digital and digital modes of production.3 While both patterns have the capacity to infinitely expand outward, one does so through mass-repetition, while the other is algorithmically scripted so as to produce a differentiated series of non-repeating motifs. The next graphic layer is vector-based, a five-tier arrangement of white meshes that appear stretched to fit the overall geometry of the installation, expanding and contracting to demonstrate its flexibility. Perceptually, this layer distinguishes itself from the rest and alludes to the surface as a multi-material condition. This is not simply a visual trick, but rather a carefully nuanced distinction between ink and vinyl as composite materials. The mesh, in other words, is rendered through the absence of ink, exposing the otherwise concealed white vinyl substrate beneath. However thin the surface may be, it is indeed neither flat nor immaterial, the evidence of which is the mesh carved into the wall’s inked epidermis. The final layer uses principles of anamorphic projection as a means of explicitly linking graphic content with user perception. Wallpaper in this way serves as a drawing that slips in and out of legibility—depending on where one is standing—while also oscillating between representation and materiality.

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Figure 7.1 ISSSStudio + deSc, Zigzag (2013), view from interior. © Igor Siddiqui and Deborah Schneiderman. Photography by Frank Oudeman.

Tessellation A tessellation is an aggregation of tiles that forms a continuous field without holes. Perhaps the most potent method of distributing patterns with tessellations is by articulating seams between constituent parts. Some tessellations are a result of the repetition of a single tile geometry, such as a grid or a hexagonal field, but in more advanced instances their geometries are highly varied. ISSSStudio’s digitally fabricated area rug Tessellated Floorscape (2010) is a mass-customized product constructed from a non-repeating pattern of carpet tiles.4 Commissioned by a flooring company whose inventory included non-recyclable carpet remnants, the project aims to convert material waste into a desirable commodity. To do so, an animated digital pattern was designed, the geometry of which serves as a template for cutting. In order to depart from more regular shapes that typically order modular rugs, the tiling pattern maximizes the geometric intricacy of the seams while minimizing material waste. As a result, the tiles interlock with one another in a fashion that resembles a jigsaw puzzle (Figure 7.2). A cluster of tiles, cropped to the desired footprint size, forms a single rug. Each rug in the series, produced on demand, is differentiated not only by the particular array of materials from which it is fabricated, but also by the specific iteration of the animated pattern. Conceptually time-based—capturing the momentary availability of the material as well

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as the animated sequence—the production of each rug is roulette-like, merging the high degree of geometric control in the fabrication process with the chance-based alignments of digital data and available material resources. The array of remnant materials, varying in texture, color, pattern, thickness, and fiber type, is synthesized by the pattern into a single highly graphic floor surface. The mutual relationship between material and graphic content is in this way demonstrated through an important reversal: material surface takes on graphic nature, while the pattern—conceived as a purely abstract graphic construct— is manifested as a material condition, revealing and negotiating differences among constituent materials along the seams. Tessellated Floorscape functions as a framework for managing waste and by redirecting materials from the landfill to the homes of future users and art collectors. While the project deals with remnants that are inherited from other applications, it effectively introduces a digital process through which materials are transformed—made new.

Appliqué Native to textile design, appliqué techniques require a substrate surface layer to which smaller parts are topically applied. Although crafted to form a single composite surface, the layers are nonetheless perceived as distinct from one another—embellishing ornament applied to a structural surface. Millefleur (2013), a site-specific curtain produced for a gallery exhibition, explores a more reciprocal relationship between the

Figure 7.2 ISSSStudio, Tessellated Floorscape (2010). © Igor Siddiqui.

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substrate surface and the applied ornament and as such between material and graphic content. Constructed from soft Tyvek fabric, the surface in this project is articulated through addition, but also subtraction; for an element to be applied to the surface, in other words, requires that it first be removed from it. Surface articulation is in this way produced through material displacement with zero waste, a substrate that also generates its own ornament. Pattern registers as both perforation and appliqué, rearticulating a thin material through double deployment. The outcome is not only a heightened difference between absence and presence of material across the surface, but also between its front and the back. The installation’s title refers to a traditional method of crafting decorative surfaces from densely distributed floral motifs, common to both medieval Flemish tapestry and Persian rug designs. The project aims to develop a series of non-repeating floral motifs whose distribution across the larger surface is also a non-standard pattern. Taking into account both opportunities and limitations afforded by available design and fabrication tools, the intention was ultimately achieved by linking algorithmically scripted digital processes with participatory modes of making. A digital script devised for the project recursively generates an infinite series of non-repeating floral motifs, 300 of which were captured for inclusion in the installation. Varying in size and geometry, the digital “flowers” were laser-cut into templates used for manually perforating the curtain. A group of twentytwo makers collaborated on this task, not only performing the cuts, but also collectively deciding how the overall pattern would unfold across the surface. The flower-shaped material remnants were stitched back onto the perforated Tyvek, using color thread to index individual authorship. The resulting stitches were accentuated by extending thread from the stitch all the way to the floor, producing a fringed material layer on top of the substrate. Resembling a multi-color drawing this side of the curtain faces the gallery entrance. Visitors are enticed to walk up to the surface to discover its intensely material quality, while also invited to discover its alternate side—a richly textured silver surface produced from an aggregation of hundreds of flower petals (Figure 7.3). Millefleur oscillates between intricate graphics and sensuous materiality, the perception of which depends on where one is standing and how they are looking.

Relief Originating from the Latin verb relevo—to raise—relief refers to a surface in which parts are raised beyond its base plane, plastically elaborating on its depth and thickness. In the work of ISSSStudio, relief functions as a technique for casting surfaces with topically embedded patterns within. Following the tradition of bas-relief sculpture, surfaces are articulated through dimensionally minimal yet significant sectional differences, creating an ambiguous space between two- and three-dimensionality. Through a number of different projects, the studio has explored novel methods of producing soft textile-like surfaces cast from shallow-relief formwork. Bayou-luminescence (2011), a site-specific installation designed in collaboration with Matt Hutchinson of PATH for an urban site in

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Figure 7.3 ISSSStudio, Millefleur (2013). © Igor Siddiqui.

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New Orleans, is constructed from a set of translucent rubber panels custom-tailored to fit a self-supporting steel armature. A highly differentiated mesh pattern organizes the overall surface, distributing material thickness according to structural and atmospheric demands. Inhabited primarily at night, the illuminated skin-like surface glows from within while casting intricate shadows beyond its footprint. Cast from liquid rubber, the surface is monolithic but appears as if it were constructed a composite, an outcome of layered vector geometries that make up the embedded pattern (Figure 7.4). The integrated approach between design and fabrication techniques devised for the project yields a thorough synthesis between graphic and material content. While the material makes the pattern physically tangible, it is the meshed pattern that acts as a binder that keeps the material together. A more recent application of the same technique is evident in the project Protoplastic (2014), installed at Tops Gallery in Memphis. A three-pronged form suspended from the ceiling is fabricated using biodegradable plastic made from scratch by ISSSStudio. Triangulated panels are seamed to one another without suppressing the material’s wilder tendencies, encouraging it to curl, flap, and unfurl. Such behavior is influenced by the embedded pattern which calibrates surface thickness and density (Figure 7.5). Like Bayou-luminescence the project focuses on surface effects that result from the interaction of intricately fabricated formwork and liquid material, but is more advanced than its predecessor in one particular area: Protoplastic exemplifies an approach in which a surface—its form, pattern, and material—is truly made from scratch and thus

Figure 7.4 ISSSStudio + PATH, Bayou-luminescence (2011). © Igor Siddiqui. Photograph by Laura Davis.

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demonstrates the possibility of a fully customizable design workflow from the initial conception to its final material state. Such technical capability transforms the conceptual underpinnings of the contemporary surface—graphic material in this way exemplifies synthesis rather than contradiction.

Conclusion Thus far surface articulation in the work of ISSSStudio has been sufficiently discussed in relation to technique, material, and effect. These criteria reflect the broader discourse within which the work situates itself, linking historically enduring design theories with technological innovation. As this chapter has demonstrated, the widespread emergence of digital technologies has not only had a profound impact on materiality and spatial effects in design, but has also at least significantly transformed how designers generate, develop, and realize their creative work. The emphasis on technology and technique provides a legitimate alibi for graphic expressions impressed upon materials, but what about the designer’s agency? While it is certainly evident that the designer’s intention drives the digital process toward productive outcomes, conceiving contemporary ornamental surfaces based on overtly subjective criteria is nonetheless somewhat of a taboo. Contemporary conceptions of technique-based design in many ways originate from Gottfried Semper’s nineteenth-century writings. Semper, who devoted a significant

Figure 7.5 ISSSStudio, Protoplastic (2014). © Igor Siddiqui. Photograph by Matt Ducklo.

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portion of his theoretical work to questions regarding origins of architecture, sought to explain artistic expression as a consequence of technique, material, and function. In this way, creative work could be evaluated in a scientific manner, focusing on its external factors rather than solely as an outcome of individual creative impulse (see Semper 2004). His widely influential technical-materialist approach was challenged by Alois Riegl, whose historical research claimed that decorative pattern-making predates material technique, privileging in this way human expression over technology (see Riegl 1992). The two competing theories are summed up as two types of topically embedded patterned surface: for Semper it was the woven textile that protects the body, while for Riegl it was the tribal tattoo that adorns it. The tension between performance and aesthetics is as relevant today as it was two centuries ago, and the articulated surface is a potent locus for the debate. The agency of today’s patterned surfaces indeed is in their ability to mediate between the collective and the individual, negotiating, as Antoine Picon has suggested (Picon 2013: 154), between public interest and private subjectivity. Design has an opportunity in this way to engage with broader audiences, not as a matter of popularity, but rather as public engagement at the personal level.

Notes 1

For further scholarship that is indicative of the associated contemporary discourse in this area of architectural design, see Kolarevic and Klinger 2008.

2

For a representative discussion of decorative manifestations of structure in contemporary architecture, see Rappaport 2006: 96–105.

3

Such distinctions are a result of the project’s broader thematic approach to the context and content of the art fair, contrasting traditional and contemporary artifacts, handmade and digital modes of production, decorative and functional objects, and so on.

4

For an extended discussion of the project, see Siddiqui 2010: 45–53.

References Andersen, P. and D. Salomon (2010), The Architecture of Patterns, New York: W. W. Norton and Co. Bloomer, K. (2006), “A Critical Distinction between Decoration and Ornament,” in E. Abruzzo and J. Solomon (eds), Decoration, New York: 306090 Books. Kolarevic, B. and K. Klinger (2008), Manufacturing Material Effects: Rethinking Design and Making in Architecture, New York: Routledge. Massey, J. (2013), “Ornament and Decoration,” in G. Brooker and L. Weinthal (eds), The Handbook of Interior Architecture and Design, London: Bloomsbury Academic. Pell, B. (2010), The Articulate Surface: Ornament and Technology in Contemporary Architecture, Basel: Birkhauser. Picon, A. (2013), Ornament: The Politics of Architecture and Subjectivity, Chichester: Wiley. Rappaport, N. (2006), “Deep Decoration,” in E. Abruzzo and J. Solomon (eds), Decoration, New York: 306090 Books. Riegl, A. (1992), Problems of Style: Foundations for a History of Ornament, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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Semper, G. (2004), Style in the Technical and Tectonic Arts: or, Practical Aesthetics, Los Angeles, CA: Getty Research Institute. Siddiqui, I. (2010), “Tessellated Floorscape (2010–): Interior Acts of Production, Siting and Participation,” IDEA Journal, 10: 45–53. Siddiqui, I. (2013), “Digital Representation and Fabrication,” in G. Brooker and L. Weinthal (eds), The Handbook of Interior Architecture and Design, London: Bloomsbury Academic.

8 MATERIALIZING THE DIGITAL REALM: TEXTILE OF THE MODERN AGE Jonathon Anderson and Laura Schoenthaler

The interaction of emergent digital and physical making technologies in design is evolving beyond the intersection of engineering and fabrication proficiency, and progressing as a system of inquiry. It is a system that ignores boundaries that separate biology, computational engineering, and mathematics from design, and facilitates an interdisciplinary computational process to the design, fabricate surfaces and textiles. As such, generative algorithmic systems are applied with traditional design methods to investigate computational form-generation approaches to design. This chapter will examine the application of computational form-generation spanning the digital realm through to the fabrication of the contemporary textile. In considering the reciprocal nature of the relationship between human factors and digital technologies, phenomena as data and emergent patterns in design form systemically from simple interactions, and can be applied to computational form-generation approaches to visual design. The result can be a virtual artifact, datascape, or augmented reality supported by data-based compositions that are actualized through design and making, as evidenced in the inclusion of selected case studies and analyses. In this process, agent-based visual scripting and computation is used as a medium for experimentation, decision-making, and problem-solving to formulate dynamic surfaces and topographies. The digital design process expresses an algorithm to intervene a system, and segment a complex design query into several simplified sub-problems, and later reconstructed to create a solution (Meadows 2008; Rocker 2006). To further underscore this concept, Wilensky (2001) concludes “by enabling the rendering, simulation and visualization of the evolution of complex systems over time, the computer has proved an indispensable tool for making sense of complex systems and emergent phenomena” (ibid.: 1). Accordingly, emergent computational form-generation approaches to design applied in conjunction with digital and physical making encourage the examination of the complexities that compose natural forms and their corresponding internal geometries. Digital manipulation of object nodes or agents occurs through the programming or scripting of generative graphic algorithms. Computational and visual-spatial scripts

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develop surfaces, and are controlled through a pair of interdependent input parameters— one that is computational, one that is expressive. In this process, March and Stiny (1985) observed “designs and their meanings [are] to be viewed as the results of computations carried out according to rules of composition and correlative rules of description” (ibid.: 31). It is this computational control of bits and atoms that advances non-performing surfaces to a “textile of the modern age,” and expands the boundaries of making and spatial design through additive or subtractive materialization. Emergent layered manufacturing technologies include computer numeric control (CNC) construction, laser cutting, and 3D printing processes that have applications beyond craft as the built output. Such budding modernizations are rapidly transforming and expanding contemporary making and research. Regulated and composed through individual successively layered material ranging within the plastic, metal, or composite collections, a blend of digital design and computer controlled manufacturing technologies have disrupted and transformed the logic of traditional mass production. These contemporary processes are increasing productivity, efficiency, and innovation in design while refracting boundaries that challenge how the users or inhabitants interact and understand the resulting materials. Technology not only allows for added visual complexity to emergent patterns and surfaces, but also adds an element of phenomena to each application. Design and making in the digital realm form a reciprocal relationship that applies the descriptive geometry of complex 3D modeling to a design problem to create functional surfaces and systems (Sass 2005). The result is a generative synthetic reality or a virtual artifact in the digital domain that interrupts the perception of surfaces, objects, environments, and phenomena. It reflects a central structure grounded in systems theory as applied to surfaces to form dynamic canvases for emergent patterns marked by novel and coherent structures (Goldstein 1999). Application of rule-based computational and visual-spatial scripting within the context of computer-aided design and making (CADM) has influenced contemporary architectural practice, design, and theory to dilute complex design problems (Tepavčević and Stojaković 2012). It systemically employs digital technologies and computational processes to produce shape grammar, resulting in new possibilities in the design and production of complex geometries (Tepavčević and Stojaković 2012). Shape grammars are a critical generative tool in the digital realm used to divide initial solid shapes into constructible components for fabrication by additive and subtractive methods (Sass 2005). More specifically, they function as the computation platform for developing recursive shape computations of two-dimensional primitives such as points and lines (Tapia 1999). These systems are a simplifying and organizational asset to digital design and fabrication, “the computer handles the bookkeeping tasks (the representation and computation of shapes, rules and grammars and the presentation of correct design alternatives) while the designer specifies, explores, develops design languages, and selects alternatives” (Tapia 1999: 1). Recognized as a generative design tool for the spatial delineation of objects, environments/topographies, and systems, these computational processes in design use shape grammars to define complex dependencies between various design elements and visual

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topographies. It is through a systemic computation with simple input parameters and expressive articulation conducted in multiplicity that digital and physical making technologies produce complex systems and patterns. Synthetic textiles formed from a series of micro patterns collect and function as emergent phenomena, and, therefore, assemble as macro patterns. Entwined is the interplay of a digital design and manufacturing technology culture revolving around the interrelationship of technological and human interactions, factoring a human-controlled aesthetic, intentionality, consciousness, and first-person perspective of phenomena (Seamon 2000). bitMAPS by PROJECTiONE combines digital design and manufacturing technology to communicate a pattern at multiple aesthetic and physical scales (Figure 8.1). The textile surface demonstrates a carefully orchestrated balance of computational design methods and analog fabrication techniques to ensure accuracy and precision. This mixed design and fabrication approach relied on a visual computational script, to precisely develop and machine a base mold, and analog vacuum forming. The process begins with rule-based computational and visual-spatial scripting where a series of nodes or agents at the micro-level are extracted from a data source (Wilensky 2001). In this study, the programming of each node is visually derived from its placement with a selected bitmap. This will serve as the initial input constructing the “foundation” of the visual script. Informed by this visual scripting, the nodes then organize and connect based on a system of rules. From the multiplicity of unique yet simple input parameters and node interactions, macro-level pattern syntax emerges. As a result, this pattern is applied to various media

Figure 8.1 bitMAPS (2009). © PROJECTiONE.

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to materialize a surface that simultaneously functions as a synthetic reality and expression of craft. Through generative and graphical algorithms, variable agent behaviors must be defined for variable proportioning and parametric surface distortion and noise modifiers. These variable inputs allow for the manipulation of the surface parameter/environment size, and variations in the number of nodes or agents. This, applied to additive or subtractive digital and physical fabrication methods, produces a surface or modern textile that is unique and responsive to the input phenomena.

Human factors and technologies in the digital realm Digital manipulation is a medium for updating and transforming the contemporary textile functions as qualitative inquiry that examines the structure and essence of experience as related to both the material/manifestation experience and the material/ human phenomenon (Patton 1990). This combination of design approach and making technology has developed a non-traditional textile characterized by an inherent and indisputable physical connection to the materials and the technology used to manifest it. The result is an ideal model for synthetic surfaces encouraging a dynamic application that modifies the experience of objects and environments in ways not possible in years past. Responsive surfaces in the digital realm interrupt the perception of objects, environments, and phenomena to inform the ways in which people experience, interact with, and make sense of their world (ibid.). Surfaces that incorporate this “designed interruption” are often found in installations, intended to encourage the interpretation of meaning from contextual elementals and phenomena (ibid.). In these designed installations, the viewers are forced to become inhabitants or participants in the design’s space, and connect with responsive environments: designed and developed purposefully to involve and intrigue the entire body, including all the senses, in order to make the viewer participate on many different sensory levels. In a design context, visual scripts or graphic computations function as systems of inquiry to translate the foundational understanding of patterns as agent-derived emergent phenomena, rather than as the results of strictly mathematical equations and algorithms (Wilensky 2001). Therefore, in this design research, attribute data from an interpretive study of human experience or phenomena is a well-founded component for developing agent-based visual scripting and computation. This is largely due to the nature of phenomenology in that it assumes that the structure of subjective human phenomena informs a conscious reflection of how people interpret their world, thus supporting the philosophical paradigm of experience functioning as the foundation for knowledge (Patton 1990). Phenomena as applied to computational form-generation approaches to design, and the emergence of pattern in design, emerge systemically from interactions. Macro-level patterns form from the interactions of numerous micro-level nodes or agents that function as emergent phenomena. As a result, macro-level emergent patterns develop from

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“interactions of large numbers of smaller pieces that somehow combine in surprising ways to create the large-scale pattern” (Wilensky 2001: 1). Hylozoic Soil by Philip Beesley (2007) is a responsive geotextile installation created from more than 70,000 delicate laser-cut components that converge to form a skeletal, flexible, meshwork canopy (Figure 8.2). Thin sheets of transparent laser-cut acrylic tiles attached in tetrahedral forms are woven into an intricate lattice or skeleton system, integrating micro-controllers, proximity sensors, and shape-memory alloy actuators. Simultaneously, computational and visual-spatial scripts develop unique shape grammars, emergent patterns, and surfaces. A system of two-dimensional shape grammars and dynamic surfaces transforms micro-level and macro-level data patterns into a spatial geometry to fabricate physical topographies. This is in conjunction with emergent digital and physical making technologies that demonstrate the ways in which physical matter and digital nodes form an interactive installed environment. Understanding the structure and essence of experience related to the material–human phenomenon requires embracing hylozoism—the belief that matter is inseparable from life. Hylozoic Soil breathes around its occupant, therefore the relationship is responsive, kinetic, organic in form, and emotional. On the surface, this interaction seems gentle, however, as the piece reacts to its occupants through a series of grasping, snapping, and pulling motions, it shows that this environment is much like its viewers: it has emotions and reacts to its surroundings. Sometimes the reactions are calm, such as breathing; other times a piece is more aggressive and antagonistic toward inhabitants. The piece reveals a dichotomy to the viewer—that the geotextile forest with

Figure 8.2 Hylozoic Soil, Musee des Beaux-Arts, Montreal, 2007. © Philip Beesley Architect Inc.

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a glass-like fragility, while synthetic, is also a living piece, and functions like so. Similar to biophilia, the instinctive and reciprocal bond between living organisms and human beings, this man-made environment utilizes visual-spatial systems and form-generation approaches to transform adaptations found in nature into solutions in design.

The virtual artifact and augmented reality Expanded boundaries of making and spatial design strengthen the ability to design artifacts and realities that appeal to all senses and the ways in which humans define the nature of reality. Digital manipulation automatically assigns texture coordinates to a series of micro patterns to visually and geometrically complex undulating surfaces. The emergent patterns and coherent textile structures of these surfaces, objects, environments, and phenomena create altered states of virtual, mixed, and augmented spatial realities. As experimental architect, designer, and artist Jenny Sabin (2008) describes the result as a materialized digital realm that “is a component-based surface architecture capable of responding dynamically to both environment (context) and to deeper interior programmed systems” (n.p.). These augmented realities may involve “any object, event, situation, or experience that a person can see, hear, touch, smell, taste, feel intuit, know, understand, or live through” (Seamon 2000: 158). Philosopher and methodologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty asserted that human perception systems serve as a mechanism to engage phenomena, and aid in describing and analyzing the experience (Merleau-Ponty 1945). This emphasizes a parallel between an individual’s active perception/sensory systems and human experience as knowledge (Smith 2008). Therefore, objects, environments, events, sensory perceptions, and knowledge all contribute an inherent intentionality to the structure of consciousness to solidify the environment–behavior relationship (ibid.). Branching Morphogenesis by Jenny Sabin Studio is a scaled datascape that intersects applied creative processes with design and science (Plate 11). This biomorphic design derives strength from form, rather than mass, relying on systemic tubular structural engineering. The section elements or shape grammars demonstrate a logic of spatial systems that arises from the multiplicity of micro-delineations (March and Stiny 1985). Similar to natural cell structures, Branching Morphogenesis exhibits formal mechanisms of construction in a hybrid macro-level pattern syntax and forms a material construct. Through the analysis of complex geometries, the emergent patterns are fabricated from 75,000 zip ties. Each of the zip ties is the physical manifestation of a single node, configured to delineate sections of space that characterize a shape and ultimately generate a synthetic reality (March and Stiny 1985). As each node is positioned within the space, and organized by shape grammar and emergent phenomena. Based on the scale of the work, and the nature in which the frail ties are linked and delineate space, a once micro-level cell structure is now multiplied in scale at both micro- and macro-level patterns. The resulting artifact translates nature’s emergent patterns that occur within biosynthesis at a tangible human-scale that is designed for viewers to actively inhabit

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and experience. Effective strength can be increased while overall weight is decreased, resulting in an infinite network of surfaces connected by a matrix of points, lines, and polygons (Pawlyn 2001). Examining form from a molecular point-of-view, repetition of simple emergent phenomena, such as the zip tie, is the cornerstone material and system to develop surfaces and structures in a varying range of complexities. The datascape applies formal elements and principles of design that demonstrate aesthetics of algorithmic design in both structure and rhythm, and the nature in which they are embedded in proportion, geometry, and pattern. Branching Morphogenesis integrates synthetic material properties within the computational design process, and explores what Sabin describes as “fundamental processes in living systems and their potential application in architecture … and investigates part-to-whole relationships revealed during the generation of branched structures” (Sabin 2008: n.p.). The structure seeks to magnify hidden connections within network biomimicry, as it focuses on the individual relations within systemic information. It emphasizes a system visualized in a web-like structure of all systems to ultimately convey a sense of interconnectedness of all parts, and underscores connections and interrelationships for solving complex design problems (Capra 2004). The network of complex geometries also serves as a metaphor for not only the methods used to formulate a system of dynamic surfaces and topographies, but also for the interrelationship of technological and human interactions.

Forms, materials, spatial qualities as phenomena This tension between digital computation with the surface and its material attributes must be balanced with a concept that is both data-driven yet experimental. Incorporation of new technology to generate experimental computer-generated forms supports both organic and complex surface textures and flowing patterns. “modularArt” digital design and manufacturing technology is used to form functional yet dimensional panels, tiles, and block systems that are both seamless and sculpted in form (Figure 8.3). In order to do so, a hierarchical structure must be applied in formulating computational spatial grammars to delineate three-dimensional forms. As such, this system relies on semantic multiplicity and rule-based procedural variations (Müller et al. 2006: 7). This is essential in developing strength and physical textile flexibility to allow the modular tiles to conform to irregular wall surfaces, as the dimensional panels work in multiples to create a continuous, uninterrupted sculptural wall. This pattern language is developed in primitives such as points, lines, and polygons that assign attribute data to configured and delineated sections of space that ultimately characterize a shape (March and Stiny 1985). Multiple systems of shapes are then organized with fixed rules, creating shape grammars that balance aesthetic and functional considerations to define precise interlock joining edges. This permits a modularity and opportunity for infinite extension of a complex yet formfitting surface structure.

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Figure 8.3 modularArt, Crush, 2009. Image courtesy of modularArt.

These shape grammars and spatial systems become essential to further the design, as they are a generative tool for visualizing multiple layers within a complex design query (Karnick et al. 1981). This formal design language of systems, objects, spaces, and environments allows for the input of primitive attribute data to generate complex visualizations (March and Stiny 1985). As such, the designs that are derived from the procedural rule-based shape grammars and spatial systems develop an articulate language with distinct formal properties for the system’s functional performance.

Prospective Emergent digital and physical making technologies and applications emphasize a parallel between an individual’s active perception/sensory systems and human experience as knowledge (Smith 2008). Offering the new perspectives of existing tools and systems of inquiry, the body of technology as applied to design delivers innovative solutions, forms, and understandings. The resulting surfaces, objects, and environments not only allow for added visual complexity to emergent patterns and surfaces, but also add an element of phenomena to each application. This type of design is sensory oriented, and, therefore, prompts physiological and psychological reactions that spread outward, reaching into other aspects of life. These aspects are combined in the exploration of theoretical frameworks of computational design and material integration, frequently through the development of visual computations or graphic algorithms based on the processes and patterns found in nature.

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These iterative processes are an experimental vehicle for active and reflective inquiry through participation aimed at interpreting aspects of meaning within the experience and enhancing perceptiveness. Integrated with self-organization techniques, concepts of shape grammars and spatial systems reveal an emerging system of inquiry that is characteristically embodied, situational, relational, and reactive. Materializing the digital realm to formulate a textile of the modern age reexamines primitive shapes, forms, and structures, and their relationship of the body to technology (Sabin 2008). Advancing forms shaped by pattern generating algorithms reveal the essence and structure of phenomena to initiate the realization of digital design techniques and innovative manufacturing technologies as a vehicle for interdisciplinary application. Utilization of these methodologies, processes, and applications has already disrupted several broad areas of industry such as engineering, science, education, and culinary arts over the past decade, evoking questions surrounding the future application and growth of these materials and technologies.

References Beesley, P. and C. Macy (2007), Hylozoic Soil: Geotextile Installations: 1995/2007, Cambridge, ON: Riverside Architectural. Capra, F. (2004), The Hidden Connections: A Science for Sustainable Living, New York: Anchor Books. Goldstein, J. (1999), “Emergence as a Construct: History and Issues,” Emergence: Complexity and Organization, 1 (1): 49–72. Karnick, P., S. Jeschke, D. Cline, A. Razdan, E. Wentz, and P. Wonka (1981), “A Shape Grammar for Developing Glyph-Based Visualizations,” Computer Graphics Forum, 0 (0): 1–12. March, L. and G. Stiny (1985), “Spatial Systems in Architecture and Design: Some History and Logic,” Environment and Planning B: Planning and Design, 12: 31–53. Meadows, D. (2008), Thinking in Systems: A Primer, 145–85, White River Junction, VT: Chelsea Green Publishing. Merleau-Ponty, M. (1945), Phenomenology of Perception, Paris: Gallimard. Müller, P., P. Wonka, S. Haegler, A. Ulmer, and L. van Gool (2006), “Procedural Modeling of Buildings,” Proceedings of ACM SIGGRAPH 2006, 1–10, Los Angeles, California. Patton, M. Q. (1990), “Variety in Qualitative Inquiry: Theoretical Orientations,” in Qualitative Evaluation and Research Methods, 2nd edn, 64–91, Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Pawlyn, M. (2001), Biomimicry in Architecture, London: RIBA. Rocker, I. M. (2006), “When Code Matters,” Architectural Design, 76 (4): 16–25. Sabin+Jones LabStudio (2008), Branching Morphogenesis, SIGGRAPH 2008 Design and Computation Galleries, Los Angeles, California. Sass, L. (2005), “Physical Design Grammar: A Production System for Layered Manufacturing Machines,” Automation in Construction, 17 (6): 691–704. Seamon, D. (2000), “A Way of Seeing People and Place: Phenomenology in EnvironmentBehavior Research,” in S. Wapner, J. Demick, T. Yamamoto, and H. Minami (eds), Theoretical Perspectives in Environment-Behavior Research: Underlying Assumptions, Research Problems and Methodologies, 157–78, New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishers. Smith, D. W. (2008), “Phenomenology,” Stanford Encyclopedia of Phenomenology. Retrieved from http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/phenomenology/#4 (accessed May 14, 2015).

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Tapia, M. (1999), “A Visual Implementation of a Shape Grammar System,” Environment and Planning B: Planning and Design, 26: 59–73. Tepavčević, B. and V. Stojaković (2012), “Shape Grammar in Contemporary Architectural Theory and Design,” Architecture and Civil Engineering, 10 (2): 169–78. DOI: 10.2298/ FUACE1202169T. Wilensky, U. (2001), “Modeling Nature’s Emergent Patterns with Multi-agent Languages,” Proceedings of EuroLogo 2001, Linz, Austria. Available online: https://ccl.northwestern.edu/ papers/2013/mnep9.pdf

9 BESPOKE: TAILORING THE MASS-PRODUCED PREFABRICATED INTERIOR Deborah Schneiderman

Until recently, prefabricated mass-produced modular kits of parts were the most obtainable means to a customized interior. The outcome of the modular kit however, is largely predetermined, making fit to user taste and existing interior conditions possible to only a limited degree. The current and evolving generation of digitally induced, industrially produced, mass customizable yet bespoke products can at once be one-of-a-kind, aligned with preference and taste, and fabricated to precisely fit the architectonic of the interior. They can even be made-to-measure of the body of the inhabitant. This chapter argues that contemporary technological advances are resulting in a new generation of obtainable interior products that are more adaptable to individual taste, fit, and function, and hence less subject to disposability. That interior space is temporal, seasonal, and can be customized by its inhabitants, significantly distinguishes it from the more permanent structures within which it resides. Additionally, Interior Design can be described as being at the intersection of fashion and architecture—it is at once the reverse of the architectonic exterior and an extension of the body. The interior’s condition, unlike architecture, is typically customizable by inhabitant and can be tailored—much like clothes to the body (Weinthal 2011: 77). The domestic interior not only supports the functions of everyday life but it also serves to express the individuality of its inhabitants. Residents of mass-produced tract houses and repetitive apartment complexes have individualized monotonous and repetitive architectures and personalized the interiors of habitations to suit their individual needs and tastes, transforming space to place. Prior to the Industrial Revolution products for the home were made by hand either by their users or by local craftsmen who often designed their wares to order. With the rise of industrial production, machine driven mass-produced products for the domestic interior—including utilitarian items such as furniture, and lighting as well as more decorative elements—became less expensive but also less personal and unique. It has been through interior design, namely the selection and placement of interior products,

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that inhabitants have still been able to “transform houses into homes, spaces into places, things into belongings” (Norman 2003: 224). Although the Industrial Revolution initiated a shift to less customization, mass-produced prefabricated modular systems have created an opportunity for some individualization of the interior, and current digital fabrication technologies are now enabling a far greater level of personalization. Prefabricated modular kits of parts have until recently been the most accessible method to personalize individual mass-produced interior products. Within a modular system one can provide content, as opposed to a more fixed singular product, allowing for user-driven design applications that make each assemblage particular to that user either in its aesthetic or in its function and sometimes both. The individual as instigator in the design differentiation of the prefabricated element can be seen in all areas of the prefabricated interior including furniture, bathroom, and office. But the mass customiz­ ation of domestic interior elements is most evident in the design of furniture (both upholstered and case goods) and in the prefabricated kitchen. While a prefabricated kitchen system would allow a consumer to select the module types (such as doors, drawers, open shelving, etc.) and finishes (wood, glass, highly polished, etc.) that make each kitchen, in a sense, unique and not only meet needs but also taste. Similarly one could differentiate the configuration and finish of a modular sofa through the specification of textile and selection and arrangement of module types. Although it has been possible to rearrange modular elements in many ways, ultimately the formal outcomes have been limited, and the fit to the specific interior condition not quite precise (Armstrong and Stojmirovic 2011: 49–50). More recently, digital fabrication technologies have made possible a more individualized, serially produced interior with products that can be considered bespoke. Bespoke refers to products that are custom-made for a particular user. Although the term may be used to describe a range of goods, it most frequently calls to mind finely tailored clothing. On Savile Row, bespoke once only specified suits that were made to the precise measure of an individual body and entirely by hand—but more recently the term also defines pieces that are individually adjusted from a machine-cut pattern (Sheil 2012: 7). It is critical to note that the coopting of the principles of bespoke without being entirely specifically tailored has not gone without criticism. Regarding the interior, it is not unusual for furniture to be designed and built to fit to an interior space, but there is no significant history of commercially available furniture that is made to fit the individual. Rather, furniture—even custom design—has been fabricated in standard, sometimes ergonomic dimensions to fit an average sized user, a notable exception being the Aeron chair available in small, medium, or large sizes. Digital fabrication technologies introduce a real ability to readily fabricate and make widely available bespoke furniture that is made-to-measure to a space and an individual. Like the bespoke suit, the value of tailor-made products goes beyond their performance and function, instilling emotional responses linked to various notions of culture, ownership, exclusivity, and taste.

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Mass Customization Mass customization can be defined as a strategy where company–customer interaction at the fabrication/assembly stage of the operations level allows the creation of customized products, (Kaplan, Schoder, and Haenlein 2007: 176–7) but also includes the tailoring of goods through product modularization or kit-of-parts construction. Although the term mass customization was not introduced until 1987 (Davis 1987: 169), the approach is not new. Customers have been able to personalize certain mass-produced products by choosing from predefined modules throughout the twentieth century as evidenced by the mass-produced sectional bookcases from a Sears and Roebuck catalog dating to 1909 (Schneiderman 2011: 3). The purpose of mass customized products for the interior is not only driven by practicality, (an ability to install a system of furniture that properly fits the interior, user, or programmatic requirement), it is also instigated by a desire for individual expression. According to Elliot and Lemert, “the term ‘individualism’ today conjures up an unusual, though sociologically revealing, diversity of associations. Ours is the era of identities individualized, and our current fascination for the making, reinvention and transformation of selves is, in some sense or another, integral to contemporary living” (Elliott and Lemert 2005: 53). We largely define our identities by our possessions. Products or commodities become attributes of individuality; and scarce commodities are often considered desirable by people who strive to be perceived as unique (Snyder 1992: 9–10). The uniqueness of an object might help to create an emotional connection to it, though some argue that to have a true emotional connection to something memories have to be involved. A product with a history will typically have a deeper value, making it irreplaceable by a new product put on the market (Schifferstein et al. 2004). Mass customization more than ever can fulfill both practical and emotional requirements for interior products. With the ability to “design” a one-of-a-kind digitally fabricated product, the user/creator not only has access to a product that can precisely meet their aesthetic and functional requirements, but one with which they have a deeper connection to in its making.

To Date: The mass-produced, mass-customized domestic prefabricated interior To date, the majority of mass-customizable interior design has been produced as a set of modular elements that can be selected by the user to best fit to the existing conditions of the interior, ergonomic standards, and layout efficiency with varying levels of aesthetic adaption. While there is no shortage of examples of mass-produced modular interior elements, the following work well illustrates the inception and condition of the modular prefabricated interior.

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Le Corbusier The notion of module as prefabricated building block has consistently been addressed and investigated in design and architecture. Le Corbusier has been credited as the first architect to conceive of modular furniture (Abercrombie 1995: 93), and thus of prefabricated interior space. The use of modular furniture as a place-maker has its roots with the advent of mass production and is also a consequence of the architectonics of the Maison Domino, Le Corbusier’s 1914 conceptual mass producible prefabricated open floor plan structure. The form of the Maison Domino illustrates how modernist ideals of the Plan Libré (free plan or open plan) released the necessity for interior walls as structural elements. To define the spaces of the now unarticulated domestic interior, Le Corbusier designed a specific modular furniture system, the “Casiers Standard,” modeled on commercially available modular office filing systems. The Casiers Standard, originally designed for the 1925 Pavilion de l’Esprit Nouveau, was anticipated to not only replace all storage needs, but was also conceptualized to create and divide space as necessary or desired in the open plan house. The standardized modular elements were to fulfill multiple storage functions (kitchen, living room, or bedroom storage) in a basic unit and with various exterior finishes that were aligned with the selected function (Benton 1990: 104). Casiers were intended to offer individual mass customization and to fulfill a multiplicity of functions as freestanding furniture and as room-dividing partitions in his villas, making them ideal examples of interior prefabrication by place-making (Samuel 2007: 110).

Charles and Ray Eames Charles and Ray Eames rigorously explored mass production and prefabrication in the design of the Eames House, Case Study House #8 for the Case Study House Program. The Art and Architecture magazine’s Case Study House Program invited prominent architects to design and build examples of post-Second World War housing. The announcement stated that “The house must be capable of duplication and in no sense be an individual performance” (Entenza 1945: 38). The Eames House, first developed in 1945 by Charles Eames and Eero Saarinen and reconfigured by Charles and Ray Eames in 1948, was built from prefabricated parts ordered from catalogs. The Eameses continued their exploration of prefabrication in the interior environment with the 1950 Eames Storage Units (ESUs). In a manner similar to the Eames Case Study house, the design of the ESUs derived from concepts of mass customization and was based on construction with prefabricated industrial elements. The ESUs demarcated a departure from their predecessors’ modular furniture investigations in their level of flexibility as these units were not fixed modules but instead consisted of a kit of parts. ESUs could be combined as shelves or desks with open (or closed) storage in addition to drawers, creating an infinite range of possible configurations. In their first iteration, the elements arrived un-assembled at delivery and constituted an early example of flat packing. However, they proved difficult to assemble, which is thought to be the reason for them being quickly discontinued (Kirkham 1995: 222).

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Cornell University and RISD Prefabrication of the kitchen arose from the ever-present desire to attain efficiency and accommodate individual user needs, requirements, and preferences. The requirements of the kitchen are unique and necessitate a paradigm of efficiency in both construction and user experience. For over a century, studies in the design of the kitchen have included a focus on efficiency and ergonomics. The full-scale Cornell Kitchen prototype was presented in 1952 at the University’s Farm and Home Week where the elements were constructed and further tested by farmwomen whose responses to the design proved to be overwhelmingly positive (Riglin 1952: 93–4). The design of the Cornell Kitchen revisits some critical ideas addressed in earlier research that were still not routinely included in standard kitchens. The prefabricated Cornell Kitchen units provided for a wide range of counters of adjustable height to suit a wide range of use heights, from 32 to 38 inches (1952: 46–7). It also again revisited the constructions of modularity and flexibility. Although much research, particularly into the prefabricated prototype kitchens, has shown the clear necessity for a flexible and adjustable work space, the kitchen has remained ergonomically deficient and inflexible in design. However, the ability to personalize the aesthetic of the kitchen through the specification of finish and overall layout has been incredibly successful as evidenced by the international popularity of IKEA’s modular kitchen system.

The Future: The serially produced mass customized interior A new generation of bespoke products is both one-of-a-kind and industrially produced, the result of digitally induced mass customization. In the production of interior products, this means that goods can be digitally fabricated serially, while having the capacity to be tailored to the individual, within a single repeated edition. Digital fabrication is a process where a product design is created on a computer, and a machine then produces the object. Digital fabrication printers or machines can be subtractive or additive. Subtractive machines use drill bits, blades, or lasers to remove material from a material product, while additive processes deposit material in layers until an object is formed (Zoran and Buechley 2013: 6). The ability to readily manufacture digitally induced, individually customized interior elements makes accessible a far more specifically tailored interior environment than evidenced in the aforementioned interior products. This points to a certain kind of democratization of consumption, but also addresses the bespoke as aspirational and as a fulfillment of the need for distinction, individuality, or uniqueness.

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Neri Oxman In her work at the MIT Media Lab Mediated Matter design research group, Associate Professor Neri Oxman explores the potential for 3D printing multiple materials. Her research investigates how, with emerging fabrication technologies, the design and construction of objects, buildings, and systems can be transformed. Oxman likens the potential of digital fabrication with the invention of movable type. Movable type caused a democratization of information making books available to everyone. Likewise, digital fabrication, with a radical change in production, makes possible more personalized yet readily available fabricated objects (Oxman 2012). Oxman’s explorations with 3D printed multi-material digital fabrication technologies created a textile-like material that addresses the scale of the body with several 3D printed bespoke clothing investigations. Anthozoa: Cape and Skirt, 2012, in collaboration with Professor W. Craig Carter and Keren Oxman, is the most recent example and uses a combination of hard and soft materials, fabricating a materiality crucial to the movement and texture of the piece. In 2014, in collaboration with Professor W. Craig Carter, Oxman designed Gemini, an acoustical chaise that arguably transcends the typical functionality of furniture to create an inhabitable micro interior. Gemini is the first design to implement Stratasys’ Connex3 technology using forty-four materials and integrates a variety of materials that vary in rigidity, opacity, and color to create a contemporary, responsive upholstery. The enclosure created by the outer CNC milled shell of the chaise is intended to create a stimulation-free environment. Construction of the interior environment created by the chaise is made possible by subtractive and additive fabrication to create an anechoic-like chamber that is sonic and sound absorbing with both hard and soft sensations (Oxman, Dikovsky, Belocon, and Carter 2014: 109–13).

Rael San Fratello The eponymous design firm Rael San Fratello has been experimenting with the use of material in nontraditional ways since the founding of their practice. Their approach to design did not begin with making radical form from 3D printed objects; rather the use of 3D printing is an extension of their attention to materiality in design. The first time that they used a 3D printer was in 2006 and they initially questioned why they could not print with other materials, only to find that doing so would void their warranty. In 2009/10 Rael acquired a 3D printer with the ceramics department at the University of California at Berkeley and there they began to experiment with printing clay. Through their MAKE-tank “emerging objects,” Rael and San Fratello continue to investigate and test the printing of alternative materials. They are experimenting with the invention of several new materials for 3D printing including wood, concrete, rubber, glass, and even salt. Their materials are made from using the pulverized version of these materials. For example, their wood is printed from sawdust (a pre-consumer waste product); and their rubber material is produced from recycled tires that are frozen and broken up into clumps and then pulverized (San Fratello 2013b).

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Rael and San Fratello’s research is twofold—they are developing the material formulas and designing the elements to be printed. Through their research they developed two formulas for 3D printed wood. Both use an organic binder and harmless polymers to bind and strengthen the printed wood material. The printed wood material is strong: It has a compressive strength of over 900 psi, which is over twice as strong as a 2 × 4, meaning they can design not only decorative elements but structural ones as well (Plate 12) (San Fratello, 2014). In conjunction with their 3D printed wood research, they have been developing a design for a high performance curtain, the Wave Curtain, 3D printed out of PLA, polylactic acid made from bio-based materials such as corn and soybeans (San Fratello 2014b). The Wave Curtain is an example of site-specific passive solar design made possible by an interior element. The curtain blocks the strong summer sun (when the sun is at a high altitude) and allows the rays from the low, winter sun to enter the interior (Figure 9.1). Unlike traditional window treatments, Rael San Fratello’s curtain maintains exterior views

Figure 9.1 Wave Curtain (2012). Designed by Emerging Objects, a subsidiary of Rael San Fratello.

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from the interior through all seasons. The 3D printed curtain has demonstrated through testing, an ability to increase winter interior temperatures by an average of 12 degrees and decrease the interior temperature in summer by an average of 9 degrees—translating into a reduction in the consumption of energy. According to San Fratello a clear benefit of the research is that through rapid manufacturing, form structures can be printed that would otherwise either not be possible or would necessitate expensive machinery to produce (San Fratello 2014a). The designers note that the research is transformative in the way that they look at textile fabrication. Rael and San Fratello are expanding their exploration of inhabitable 3D printing with their case study 3D Printed House 1.0, where major components will be printed in modules with dimensions determined by the size of the print bed. In this project, the designers materially distinguish the inhabitable interior spaces from the exterior skin. The exterior skin is printed with fiber reinforced concrete and performs similarly to the 3D printed curtain, while the private interior spaces are defined by translucent 3D printed vessels fabricated from 3D printable salt polymer (Figure 9.2). These investigations call into question materiality and the role of the curtain. The designers refer to their design process as disruptive technology in that it is going to change the way that we make things and the way that we buy things. They note that digital fabrication is not only an opportunity to bring manufacturing back to this country, but they also hope that these products will help the consumer to be able to then have products that better represent who they are (San Fratello 2013a).

Figure 9.2 3D Printed House 1.0, Interior by Emerging Objects, a subsidiary of Rael San Fratello.

Nervous System The Nervous System partners Jessica Rosenkrantz and Jesse Louis-Rosenberg met as undergraduate students at MIT and founded Nervous System as a product design

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company in 2007. After completing her degree at MIT, Rosenkrantz studied architecture at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design—it was here that she “designed” her first piece of jewelry quite by chance when she digitally fabricated a scale piece for her architectural design project and then wore it as a piece of jewelry (Rosenkrantz and Louis-Rosenberg 2012). To create their products, the Nervous System team uses computer simulation to generate design and digital fabrication to make products. They are inspired by patterns found in nature in determining the scripting of the computer programs they write to create their designs. It has been the process of scripting programs that has been the driver in the design form created by Nervous System. Mass customization and serial production have been critical factors in the work of Nervous System since its inception. Because each product is individually printed and the parametric printing allows for easy personalization, or co-creation with consumers, there is no real reason to print the same piece twice. Nervous System has truly realized user driven mass customization. On their website, customers can “design” their own piece of jewelry within the pattern and parameters generated by the firm’s and proprietary open access parametric programs (Figure 9.3). Rosenkrantz and Louis-Rosenberg have created several web-based applications, two-dimensional Dendrite and Radilara, and three-dimensional Cell Cycle, enabling customers to specify both form and fit. The product possibilities in Cell Cycle extend past jewelry and begin to address the interior with the capability to produce lampshades and sculptures. The work of Nervous System has now come full circle back to architecture with their new 4D printing technique Kinematics. The scripting of Kinematics is the result of a collaboration between Nervous System and Motorola’s Advanced Technology and Projects group. The original brief asked that Nervous System “create in-person customization experiences for low cost 3D printers.” The result, Kinematics, fulfills that brief but also has wider implications for 3D printing (Chavez 2014). Rosenkrantz and Louis-Rosenberg named Kinematics after a branch of mechanics that is also described as the geometry of

Figure 9.3 Cell Cycle Interface. © Nervous System.

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motion where the movement of objects is described but not its cause (Anon. 2013). They describe Kinematics as “a system for 4D printing that creates complex, foldable forms composed of articulated modules (Figure 9.4). The system provides a way to turn any three-dimensional shape into a flexible structure using 3D printing.” Kinematics allows the printing of large objects that are compressed down to fit the print bed; the possibilities for scaling printed objects is revolutionary. “It also enables the production of intricately patterned wearables that conform flexibly to the body” (Chavez 2014). Kinematics provides a method to print complex, articulated foldable modules from a given form. The surface of the form is tessellated with modifiable triangulations. The Kinematics structure, a hinged version of the triangulation, is then generated; the smaller the triangulation, the more fabric-like the material becomes (Visnjic 2013). The implications for this technology are quite powerful in terms of mass customization particularly in terms of fit and form. A kinematic hinged object can be printed compressed into their smallest dimension and then expanded to full size after printing thus releasing the

Figure 9.4 Kinematics Pieces. © Nervous System.

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limitation of the size of the print bed from the design decision-making. They continue their commitment to personalization with an app based on Kinematics made available on their website. To date, Rosenkrantz and Louis-Rosenberg have produced a proof of concept belt, bodice, and dress that were generated from a body scan—making the garments truly mass customized to each specific user (Plate 13). As noted by the designers, the Kinematics process has significant potential in the making of the interior not only for its capabilities to be tailored to the body in the form of furniture but to also take the form of mass customized curtains or even an articulated pliable wall system.

Conclusion Until recently the modularized prefabricated interior has been customizable to meet function and interior architectural fit—as well as individual taste—only to a limited degree because by nature the outcome of the modular kit is largely predetermined. The current and evolving generation of digitally induced industrially produced mass-customizable yet bespoke products can at once be one-of-a-kind, fabricated to precisely fit the architectonic of the interior, and can even be made-to-measure to the body of the inhabitant. In the production of interior products, this means that products and environments can be manufactured serially, while having the capacity to be tailored individually. Like the more recently defined bespoke suits that are individually adjusted from a machine-cut pattern, digitally fabricated, serially produced elements often have the ability to fit the body as a textile material would, and are individually defined within a set of parameters. The ability to readily manufacture digitally induced, individually tailored interior elements makes accessible a far more specifically tailored interior environment that can readily be one-of-a-kind. Arguably, at present there is a relatively limited set of materials and a common aesthetic to many digitally printed, parametrically derived objects, especially within a specific parametrically driven series such as Cell Cycle. As such, products from a series, while one-of-a-kind, are quite readily recognizable, this is rapidly changing. It is probable that as the technology develops, products will become more aesthetically differentiated, though likely within a series where the vision of the originating designer will and should still be recognizable. The potential impact of digitally fabricated interiors extends beyond the ability of a product to better fit an interior or more effectively do its job. The possibility that these elements of the interior can be more adaptable to individual taste (along with individual and architectural fit and function) and even create memory and emotional attachment, because of the user involvement in their conception, could lead to the creation of a more sustainable product. If the user is more connected to the product and it has a better fit and function, it is less subject to disposability resulting in a reduction in consumption and hence waste. An additional sustainable outcome is the ability to digitally fabricate global designs locally. Digitally fabricating elements of the interior from locally sourced material is not only more sustainable in its production but also in its materiality and ability to maintain a connection to a local culture.

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References “‘4D-printed’ Shape-changing Dress and Jewellery by Nervous System” (2013), Dezeen Magazine, December 3, 2013. Available online: http://www.dezeen.com/2013/12/03/ kinematics-4d-printed-shape-changing-jewellery-by-nervous-system (accessed May 14, 2015). Abercrombie, S. (1995), George Nelson: The Design of Modern Design, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Armstrong, H. and Z. Stojmirovic (2011), Participoate, New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Benton, C. (1990). “Le Corbusier: Furniture and the Interior,” Journal of Design History, 3: 104–16. Chavez, E. (2014), “Nervous System’s 3D Printed Bodice is a Beautiful Proof of Kinematics Concept.” Available online: http://3Dprintingindustry.com/2014/03/31/3D-printed-bodicenervous-system (accessed May 14, 2015). Davis, S. M. (1987), Future Perfect, Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Elliott, A. and C. Lemert (2005), The New Individualism: The Emotional Costs of Globalization, London: Routledge. Entenza, J., ed. (1945), “The Case Study House Program Announcement,” Arts & Architecture, January: 37–9. Kaplan, A. M., D. Schoder, and M. Haenlein (2007), “Factors Influencing the Adoption of Mass Customization: The Impact of Base Category Consumption Frequency and Need Satisfaction,” Journal of Product Innovation Management, (24): 101–16. Kirkham, P. (1995), Charles and Ray Eames: Designers of the Twentieth Century, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Norman, D. (2003), Emotional Design: Why We Love (or Hate) Everyday Things, New York: Basic Books. Oxman, N. (2012), “Revolution in Art & Design using 3D Printing: Objet for Neri Oxman,” Stratsys. Available online: https://www.youtube.com/redirect?q=http%3A%2F%2Fow. ly%2FqFUY8&redir_token=ywoEVkEaDd0jLxdT80cGti5IgOp8MTQzMTY4NTA2NkAxNDMxNT k4NjY2 (accessed May 14, 2015). Oxman, N., D. Dikovsky, B. Belocon, and W. C. Carter (2014), “Gemini: Engaging Experiential and Feature Scales through Multi-material Digital Design and Fabrication,” Journal of 3D Printing and Additive Manufacturing, 1 (3): 108–14. Riglin, R. (1952), “Cornell Kitchen,” Farm Journal, 22 (6): 92–6. Rosenkrantz, J. and J. Louis-Rosenberg (n.d.), “Nervous System—About Us.” Available online: http://n-e-r-v-o-u-s.com/about_us.php (accessed May 14, 2015). Rosenkrantz, J. and J. Louis-Rosenberg (2012), “Nervous System Lecture,” November 8, Pratt Institute Department of Interior Design, New York. Samuel, F. (2007), Le Corbusier in Detail, Burlington, VT: Architectural Press. San Fratello, V. (2013a), Interview with Virginia San Fratello and Philippe Rahm at AIA National Conference, June 2013, Melbourne, Australia. San Fratello, V. (2013b), “Disrupting Architecture: An Interview with Virginia San Fratello,” Australian Design Review, September 18. Available online: http://www.australiandesignreview. com/features/34191-disrupting-architecture-an-interview-with-virginia-san-fratello (accessed May 14, 2015). San Fratello, V. (2014a), 3D Printing Wood and Glass Curtains and Screens, New Orleans, LA: Interior Design Educators Council. San Fratello, V. (2014b), Email correspondance from Virginia San Fratello, September 25. Schifferstein, H., R. Mugge, and P. Hekkert (2004), “Designing Consumer-Product Attachment,” in D. McDonagh, P. Hekkert, J. van Erp and D. Gyi (eds), Design and Emotion, 378–83, London and New York: Taylor & Francis.

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Schneiderman, D. (2011), “Furniture as Prefabricator,” Design Principles and Practices: An International Journal, 14 (6): 248–57. Sheil, B. (2012), Manufacturing the Bespoke: Making and Prototyping in Architecture (AD Reader), Chichester: John Wiley and Sons. Snyder, C. R. (1992), “Product Scarcity by Need for Uniqueness Interaction: A Consumer Catch-22 Carousel?” Basic and Applied Social Psychology, 13 (1): 9–24. Visnjic, F. (2013), “Kinematics: System for 3D Printing Complex, Foldable Forms,” Creative Applications. Available online: http://www.creativeapplications.net/tag/nervous-system (accessed May 14, 2015) Weinthal, L. (2011), Toward a New Interior: An Anthology of interior Design Theory, New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Zoran, A. and L. Buechley. (2013), “Hybrid Reassemblage: An Exploration of Craft, Digital Fabrication and Artifact Uniqueness,” Leonardo, 46 (1): 4–10.

10 SENSORIAL SPACE: RESPONSIVE INTERIORS THROUGH SMART TEXTILES Margarita Benitez

The most profound technologies are those that disappear. They weave themselves into the fabric of everyday life until they are indistinguishable from it. (WEISER 1991: 66–75)

We are used to the modality of textiles in our day-to-day interactions. As computing technology fuses into textiles it will produce a new materiality with the possibility of using seemingly ordinary tactile interfaces to tap into a tradition of sensorial interactions. Our intimate connection to textiles will afford sensory-rich and playful interactions with our technology.

Ubiquitous computing and calm technologies This shift in computing is currently occurring and central to the concept of ubiquitous computing—a term coined by Mark Weiser in 1991. In “The Computer for the 21st Century,” Weiser describes the future of computing as one that has seamlessly been integrated into our daily lives. We are relatively close to Weiser’s ubiquitous computing vision of one-part cheap, low power computers (with displays), one-part ubiquitous software applications and one-part joint network (Weiser 1991). By using computing devices that we are familiar with such as laptops, smartphones, tablets, microcontrollers and combining them with the interconnectedness of the internet and cloud-based applications we have the ability to meet the basic technology hardware needs of ubiquitous computing. According to the computer and internet use statistics in the United States (published by the Census Bureau in May 2013) 75.6 per cent of households reported having a computer and 71.7 per cent of households reported accessing the internet in 2011 (File 2013). In 2013, one-third of American adults (34 per cent) own tablet

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computers (Zickuhr 2013). Additionally, 55 per cent of cellphone users in the United States own smartphones (Smith 2013). Information overload is a possible side effect in our screen-based existence. The design element now missing in this soon to be reality of ubiquitous computing is having the technology seamlessly integrated into our daily life and away from our familiar computing box-form factor. In “Designing Calm Technology,” Mark Weiser and John Seeley Brown describe the concept of calm technology as one in which information is presented and can move between the periphery and the center of our attention (Weiser and Brown 1995). Calm technology does not require our full attention at all times; we can move back and forth focusing when we want the information but also letting it drift into the background when we don’t need the data. Ubiquitous computing must be calm in order for our relationship with information technologies not to become overwhelming.

Web of things The advent of the internet allows for our computing devices to connect and has revolutionized our lives in the way we communicate, research, and purchase products (and entertainment) in both our professional and personal environments. The Web of Things is the idea of leveraging the Web as a communication network for the smart objects in our environment and that they will not only communicate with us but also with each other. By 2020 there will be 50 billion connected devices according to a prognosis by two large networking companies Ericsson (Ericsson White Paper 2011) and CISCO (2013). The Web of Things utilizes the internet as the basic framework to allow us to design and create experiences via interactions and the data from the objects in our environment. All future objects will require some sort of embedded device (computer or microcontroller) that would connect it to the network. Open source hardware, such as the Arduino boards with a few additional components, can be used by anyone wishing to connect their objects to the Web (Arduino 2013). Manufacturers are already working on frameworks and hardware to embed microcontrollers mixed with sensors and network connectivity in any given object.

Sensorial spaces In The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses, Juhani Pallasmaa calls for a multisensory approach in the arts and architecture as a response to the dominance of the visual sense in technology and architecture (Pallasmaa 2005). A sensorial space is a human-centrically designed space that not only appeals to our senses but the space (or items within the space) responds to us via calm technology. Integrating intelligence into our spaces through new materials brings about new paradigms of interaction.

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Sensing and being sensed Our senses are how we experience the input stimuli of the world. We sense through sight, smell, sound, taste, and touch. J. J. Gibson characterized our senses as detection systems constantly receiving environmental inputs and categorized them into “perceptual systems” (Gibson 1983). The five basic senses were categorized by Gibson into: basic orienting system (general orientation), auditory system (listening), haptic system (touching), taste–smell system (tasting and smelling), and the visual system (looking). The main senses explored in the textile works showcased in this chapter are the haptic, visual, and basic orienting systems. I chose to focus on woven textiles with the addition of one knit textile piece. Textiles innately tap into the haptic system through their materiality. The most promising work focuses on the visual system and also addresses the basic orienting system. We can mix Calm Technology and the Web of Things with textiles as a responsive design medium. Adding computing technology to augment how our traditional textiles are used creates intelligent materials capable of sensing and interacting. Application of this technology to everyday space and to the objects within that space through the use of textiles is something being researched by designers, artists, and technologists. Different types of technologies can be integrated into the textile: photosensitive, fiber optic, conductive, chemically or thermally sensitive, shape memory, drug releasing, and micro/nano textiles. Technology can augment textiles to be interfaces, sensors, energy producers, or displays by responding to us via sensors or to data via the Web. The textile itself can be created in a variety of methods, from traditional to more innovative means. It may involve traditional textile production techniques yet with new materials it might require new production techniques to create the actual fibers to be used in the textile. The most important factor to consider is that the fabric should still function as fabric. It should be as soft, tactile, and malleable as traditional textiles. This is key in the comfort of wearable technologies and in implementing textiles into interior environments. Attaching electronics components (which are traditionally made of inflexible and hard materials) to soft textile can be done but it doesn’t take full advantage of the textile’s materiality. Another approach is that each responsive textile does not have to have a computing device on it. It is completely possible and could be an advantage to have the sensing done within the textile but the computing done somewhere else—like on a smartphone. The advantages of using traditional production techniques and technologies to create these textiles would be that cost of producing the actual woven or knit textile would be the same even if the actual sensor or specialized fibers are more expensive. Additionally, it could use an established production cycle and supply chain.

Sensors For our textiles to sense they require sensors to be able to read input data. There are a multitude of different types of sensors that currently exist: mechanical, thermal, chemical, electrical, and magnetic just to name a few. Some of these sensors can detect presence

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or touch, some detect light, and there are also environmental sensors that detect temperature, humidity, and gas. Textile sensors can be created by either weaving the sensors into the cloth, by weaving conductive materials with traditional fibers, or through the innovation of fibers that have properties of traditional sensors. Technology can be embedded at multiple stages of the textile construction: within the fiber, within the actual construction (woven, knit, felted, bonded), or added after the textile has been produced. The more integrated it is within the textile’s construction, the calmer the technology can be. MM

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Woven pressure sensors. By weaving conductive fabric and non-conductive fabric with a piezoresistive material, like velostat, one can create a woven pressure sensor (Perner-Wilson and Satomi 2013). Woven soft capacitive sensors that are capable of detecting touch positions in a textile (Jian Feng Gu, Gorgutsa, and Skorobogatiy 2011). Woven textile piezoelectric force sensors. Piezoelectric sensors can be used to recharge electronics with movement, for powering small wearable electronics devices, or for detecting force and pressure (Magniez et al. 2013). Textile wearable antennas which could potentially be used in interior textile applications (Salvado et al. 2012).

Interfaces An interface is a device that allows the user to connect to another device—like a mouse or trackpad. Interactivity in textiles starts within the construction of the cloth in the actual fibers of the threads. Tangible Textural Interface (TTI), by designer Jo Eunhee, is a sound system prototype that utilizes a unique touch interface (Jo 2012). The surface of the speaker is a stretchy fabric that can morph between 2D and 3D shapes. The touch interface is located in one of two concave 3D spaces that allow the material to change shapes. The user’s touch can trigger one of the three main functions: forward/backward, volume control, and as an equalizer. The touch controller is next to another surface that changes and moves in reaction to the music (Figure 10.1).

Displays Textile displays could potentially be the perfect vehicle for data to be presented in the periphery as stated in the vision of calm technology. The current technology of non-emissive and light displays lends itself to the ambient display of information which one could focus on when we need the information. There are two types of technology presented in this section: emissive and non-emissive. Emissive refers to light emission—emissive displays

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Figure 10.1 Tangible Textural Interface (TTI), Jo Eunhee, 2012. Photograph by TaeKyung Kim.

emit their own light (such as LEDs) and non-emissive displays do not emit light (such as the color-changing thermochromatics or liquid crystal).

Non-emissive color-changing: Thermochromatics International Fashion Machines, Dr. Maggie Orth, strives to make technology more minimal and sustainable human-centered technology. A graduate of the MIT Media Lab and a pioneer in electronic textiles research, Orth is an artist, designer, technologist, and entrepreneur. One of her main lines of inquiry are thermochromatic non-emissive displays. Her weavings use custom electronics and software and combine handwoven conductive/resistive yarns in plain weave printed with thermochromatic ink to create color-changes. The thermochromatic ink changes color when heated and has two states—solid and clear—which are controlled by electronics and software. Thermochromatic ink also has a lifespan which Orth uses to her advantage in her weavings to comment about the concept of failure in electronic art with her piece: 100 Electronic Art Years (Plate 14). “In all color-change textiles, the bright colors will eventually become permanently burned into the surface of the piece, creating a permanent record of software and physical artifact. When asked how long each piece will continue to perform, I can only answer in ‘electronic art years’” (Orth 2009). 100 Electronic Art Years fully reveals itself once the thermochromatic material stops functioning. Designer Judit Esster Kapati’s focus is textile design and specifically interest in creating dynamically changing surfaces, structures, and integrating interactive technologies into

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textiles (Chromosonic 2014). Her hand-woven textile displays are made with nichrome wires and screen-printed thermochromatic ink controlled by an Arduino and custom electronics. Her chromosonic weavings have glitch aesthetics and show dynamically patterns that are generated from sound files. The weavings present ambient content and react to environmental impulses through the slow animation of the patterns.

Emissive: Fiber optic light Astrid Krogh is a Danish designer that has created a series of light tapestries that are woven with optical fiber and paper. Her series, Ikat I II and III, are light tapestries that allude to the traditional ikat weaving technique (Krogh 2011, 2013). The trilogy of weavings change color and blend seamlessly one color pattern into another using light as dye. Her most recent piece, HORIZON, was installed at Design Miami/Basel. HORIZON is a light tapestry that uses optical fiber, paper yarn, and LED light monitors. As the daylight disappears HORIZON begins to imitate the ever changing light patterns formed in the horizon creating a virtual horizon for the viewer to enjoy (Figure 10.2).

Emissive: LEDs (light emitting diodes) Dutch company Royal Philips, a leader in lighting, and carpet manufacturer Desso have recently partnered to create carpets that are woven with LEDs and light-transmissive materials (Philips + Desso 2013). An interactive carpet can have many practical as well as artistic uses. One example that Philips has suggested is to have the “do not disturb” signs in hotels be interactively displayed in front of the doors via an LED carpet. This new form of displaying information is human-centered. We naturally look at the floor and are attracted to pattern and light. Additionally, the technology lends itself to wayfinding in public spaces for directions and/or safety instructions that can be turned on or off depending on the communication needs.

Figure 10.2 HORIZON (2013). © Astrid Krogh.

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Designing a display interface in the carpet via LED is in line with the idea of a calm technological integration. The information is presented in periphery and we can focus and bring it to the center of our attention but also allow it to fade back into the background once we are finished with the information. A carpet that can display information via light creates new lighting potentials but also allows for the possibility for new interactions. Designers are able to establish more interesting spaces and interactions within the interior space. One possible interaction may be created through the addition of pressure sensors and a microcontroller into the carpet. This would allow the detection if one wakes in the middle of the night and could trigger a low-level animating pattern of the LEDs in the carpet to help guide one to another room such as a bathroom or to the kitchen for some water without the need to fumble in the dark to find the light switch or be shocked by the light level if you do turn on the lights. Perhaps there are additional possibilities to exploit our natural interactions with the carpet/flooring as interface.

Batteries and energy harvesting While not one of the senses or perceptual systems, power and energy consumption is a concern in our screen-based electronics hungry culture as well as the ubiquitous computing future. In order for the textiles to function in our future responsive environments as either interface, sensor, or display, they require power. One of the main issues in creating electronic textiles is the battery form factor, power, and duration of charge. Much research is being done on batteries and alternative forms of harvesting power with the advent of wearable technology becoming ubiquitous. The wonderful side effect is that all this research can also directly apply to other textiles, such as those in interior applications. The research on new and innovative fibers for generating or storing power has some really interesting and promising results. Korean battery manufacturer LG Chem is set to produce a new type of battery named the Cable Battery (LG Chem 2013). The Cable Battery is a bendable lithium-ion battery in a cable form factor that can possibly be woven into textiles. It can even be tied in knots and still functions. LG Chem states that they believe production for these batteries will happen in a few years. An international research team led by John Badding at Penn State has been working on creating flexible silicon-based optical fibers that can be used as solar cells (Penn State News 2012). This research would allow for the creation of long photovoltaic fibers that can then be woven into textiles to create woven solar cells. Woven textiles have been turned into energy storing fabrics (Yong-Hee Lee et al. 2013). A sample use for this new woven battery is a watch that has the woven wristband as the flexible battery. Alternatively it could be used in other soft and wearable products or it could be integrated into textiles for powering purposes. This textile battery was additionally integrated with flexible solar cells to allow for solar charging of the battery. Another form of energy harvesting that has potential to power textile-based devices is thermoelectric harvesting. The thermoelectric textile converts the temperature difference

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between its two sides into electricity. Energy could potentially be harvested through clothing by tapping into the difference between body heat and the environmental colder temperature on the outside of the fabric. This would be a very interesting way to power wearable devices but also perhaps it is possible to use this in interior textile applications as well. During the Isle of Wight Festival in the summer of 2013, Vodafone made two products implementing this thermoelectric harvesting textile (titled “power pocket”): a sleeping bag and a pair of women’s shorts (Vodafone 2013). Wearing the shorts for a full day would yield four hours of phone battery life. Piezoelectric energy harvesting transforms mechanical energy into electrical energy. The piezoelectric fibers can be woven with conductive and non-conductive materials to create a textile that generates enough power generation for wearable applications (Vatansever et al. 2011). This type of technology can perhaps be implemented in rugs or carpets to harness power from our footsteps. Static electricity is usually thought of as a negative side effect of textiles but the fact is that it can be harvested to power either wearable devices shown by the research of Rehmi Post and Kit Waal or by the interactive e-textile installation, E-Static Shadows (Post and Waal 2011: 115–21). E-Static Shadows is a research project by designer Dr. Zane Berzina and architect Jackson Tan which explores the harvesting of static electricity found in our daily interactions in our environments (Figure 10.3) (Bernina 2009). By interacting with the e-textile installation the LEDs on the cloth visualize and sonify our interactions. The project investigates how electrostatic energy can be optimally used in the creation of interactive and responsive textile systems. The display system created by the textile responds instantly to the user interaction by either turning on or off depending on the charge created by the user. Dynamic textile patterns mimic the movement of the viewer interactions—a type of sonified “static mirror.” Electrostatic energy is an underutilized phenomenon in interaction and interior design. It potentially could be used as a type of renewable energy source.

Synthesis It is clear that the building blocks to create sensory-rich computational interior environments via smart textiles currently exist. The next step is to take these individual elements and create cohesive human-centric experiences built from the materiality of textiles. The synthesis of fusing these soft systems with traditional systems into a cohesive and functional experience is no small feat. One woman working towards such a visionary future is Sheila Kennedy, a pioneer in designing practical integration of innovative materials into architectural spaces. She is a founding partner of Kennedy and Violich Architecture (KVA) where she established the MATx research unit to help develop a sustainable model of practice in design research that allows for both experimentation and implementation of interactive sensors, LEDs, and solar harvesting materials into architectural design (Kennedy interview in Brandt, Chong, and Martin 2010). Their SOFT HOUSE project, established in 2000, investigated the integration of smart textiles into both the

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Figure 10.3 E-Static Shadows. © Dr. Zane Berzina and Jackson Tan, 2009. Photograph by David Rankalawon.

interior and exterior of buildings to both produce energy and emit light (Brandt, Chong, and Martin 2010). The transformation of a household curtain to an energy harvesting device via organic photovoltaics is an elegant solution—the flexible and semi-transparent curtains can be moved in order to optimize power production (up to 16,000 Watts of electricity). They are designed in a “plug and play” method allowing for easy integration to the existing electrical infrastructure of the building: a low voltage DC power system. The energy harnessed can be then used to power either household electronics or to light the interior space via the curtain’s integrated LEDs. In 2013, the SOFT HOUSE was realized in Hamburg, Germany to further explore and put into practice the concepts behind the project. In this SOFT HOUSE iteration, there were two sets of curtains—the exterior sunlight harvesting textile integrated into the façade of the building which can be tilted to maximize the amount of energy being captured, and the interior textile which integrates LEDs. The interior curtain can be adjusted to partition the room in a variety of ways: it can provide light, or it can provide real time visualization of data in one of its programmable modes. One mode titled Visual Breeze presents light patterns on the interior curtain expressing the external movement of wind and climate conditions (SOFT HOUSE 2013). SOFT HOUSE is a poetic example of what can be achieved when synthesis occurs between textiles, technology, design, and human interaction. It is up to the imagination of designers to forge a future full of smart and soft textiles to enhance our daily sensory experiences in our spaces. And in this future a particular new sensorial materiality dominates—one that uses tactile, soft, and smart textiles to create new paradigms of

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iinteraction. Our spaces are transformed thanks to one of the earliest technologies: the woven textile.

References Arduino website (2013). Available online: http://arduino.cc/ (accessed December 15, 2013). Bernina, Z. (2009), “E-StaticShadows.” Available online: http://www.zaneberzina.com/estaticshadows09/artefact.htm (accessed January 4, 2014). Brandt, R., G. H. Chong, and M. W. Martin (2010), Design Informed: Driving Innovation with Evidence-Based Design, Chichester: John Wiley and Sons. Chromosonic website (2014). Available online: http://chromosonic.tumblr.com/ (accessed January 3, 2014). Judit Eszter Karpati’s Chromosonic portfolio website available online: https://jekka. allyou.net/1862453/work (accessed January 3, 2014). CISCO (2013), “Connections Counter: The Internet of Everything in Motion,” CISCO, July 29, 2013. Available online: http://newsroom.cisco.com/feature-content?type=webcontent&arti cleId=1208342 (accessed December 15, 2013). Ericsson White Paper (2011), “More than 50 Billion Connected Devices,” February 2011. Available online: http://www.ericsson.com/res/docs/whitepapers/wp-50-billions.pdf (accessed December 15, 2013). File, T. (2013), “Computer and Internet Use in the United States: Population Characteristics.” Available online: http://www.census.gov/prod/2013pubs/p20–569.pdf (accessed December 15, 2013). Gibson, J. J. (1983), The Senses Considered as Perceptual Systems, Westport, CN: Praeger. Gu, J. F., S. Gorgutsa, and M. Skorobogatiy (2011), “A Fully Woven Touchpad Sensor Based on Soft Capacitor Fibers,” Cornell University Library, April 2011. Available online: http://arxiv.org/ pdf/1106.3881.pdf (accessed December 15, 2013). Jo, E. (2011), “New Tangible Interfaces, TTI (Tangible Textural Interfaces).” Available online: http:// www.eunheejo.com/New-Tangible-Interfaces-TTI (accessed December 15, 2013). Krogh, A. (2011), “IKAT I II III.” Available online: http://www.astridkrogh.com/html/exh-10.html (accessed January 8, 2014). Krogh, A. (2013), “Horizon.” Available online: http://www.astridkrogh.com/html/exh-11_MIAMI_ BASEL.html (accessed January 8, 2014). LG Chem (2013). Press Release: “LG Chem to Unveil Batteries for the Next Generation,” October 9, 2013. Available online: http://www.lgchem.com/global/lg-chem-company/informationcenter/press-release/news-detail-584 (accessed January 4, 2014). Magniez, K., A. Krajewski, M. Neuenhofer, and R. Helmer (2013), “Effect of Drawing on the Molecular Orientation and Polymorphism of Melt-spun Polyvinylidene Fluoride Fibers: Toward the Development of Piezoelectric Force Sensors,” Journal of Applied Polymer Science, 129 (5): 2699–706. Available online: http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/app.39001/abstract (accessed January 3, 2014). Orth, M. (2009), “100 Electronic Years.” Available online: http://www.maggieorth.com/ art_100EAYears.html (accessed January 3, 2014). Pallasmaa, J. (2005), The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses, 2nd edn, Chichester: John Wiley and Sons. Penn State News (2012), “Flexible Silicon Solar-cell Fabrics May Soon Become Possible,” December 6, 2012. Available online: http://news.psu.edu/story/144109/2012/12/06/flexiblesilicon-solar-cell-fabrics-may-soon-become-possible (accessed December 15, 2013). Perner-Wilson, H. and M. Satomi (2013), “KOBAKANT Woven Pressure Sensor Matrix.” Available online: http://www.kobakant.at/DIY/?p=4296 (accessed December 15, 2013).

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Philips + Desso LED carpet (2013). Press Release: “LED Light Transmissive Carpets to Provide Information, Direction, Inspiration and Safety in Offices, Hotels and Public Buildings,” November 18, 2013. Available online: http://www.newscenter.philips.com/gb_en/standard/ news/press/2013/20131118-Philips-and-Desso-announce-partnership-to-develop-lighttransmissive-carpets.wpd#.UsIwsWRDscy (accessed January 4, 2014). Post, R. E. and K. Waal (2011), “Electrostatic Power Harvesting for Material Computing,” Personal and Ubiquitous Computing, 15 (2): 115–21. Salvado, R., C. Loss, R. Gonçalves, and P. Pinho (2012), “Textile Materials for the Design of Wearable Antennas: A Survey,” Sensors, 12 (11): 15841–57. Available online: http://www. mdpi.com/1424–8220/12/11/15841/pdf (accessed December 15, 2013). Smith, A. (2013), “Smartphone Ownership 2013,” Pew internet & American Life Project, Pew Research Center, June 5, 2013. Available online: http://pewinternet.org/Reports/2013/ Smartphone-Ownership-2013.aspx (accessed December 15, 2013). Soft House (2013). Available online: http://architizer.com/projects/soft-house/ (accessed July 9 2014). Vatansever, D., E. Siores, R. L. Hadimani, and T. Shah (2011), “Smart Woven Fabrics in Renewable Energy Generation,” in Savvas Vassiliadis (ed.), Advances in Modern Woven Fabrics Technology, 23–39, Croatia. Available online: http://www.intechopen.com/books/ advances-in-modern-woven-fabrics-technology (accessed January 4, 2014). Vodafone Social (2013), “Vodafone Unveils the Future of Festival Season Tech: Charge Your Phone while You Sleep,” Vodafone, June 12, 2013. Available online: http://blog.vodafone. co.uk/2013/06/12/vodafone-unveils-the-future-of-festival-season-tech-charge-your-phonewhile-you-sleep/ (accessed December 15, 2013). Weiser, M. (1991), “The Computer for the 21st Century,” Scientific American, 265 (3): 66—75. Weiser, M. and J. S. Brown (1995), “Designing Calm Technology,” Xerox PARC, December 21, 1995. Available online: http://www.ubiq.com/weiser/calmtech/calmtech.htm (accessed December 15, 2013). Yong-Hee L., J.-S. Kim, J. Noh, I. Lee, H. J. Kim, S. Choi, J. Seo, S. Jeon, T.-S. Kim, J.-Y. Lee, and J. W. Choi (2013), “Wearable Textile Battery Rechargeable by Solar Energy,” October 28, 2013. Available online: http://pubs.acs.org/stoken/presspac/presspac/full/10.1021/nl403860k (accessed December 15, 2013). Zickuhr, K. (2013), “Tablet Ownership 2013,” Pew internet & American Life Project, Pew Research Center, June 10, 2013. Available online: http://www.pewinternet.org/Reports/2013/TabletOwnership-2013.aspx (accessed December 15, 2013).

11 SELF-ACTUATED TEXTILES, INTERCONNECTIVITY, AND THE DESIGN OF THE HOME AS A MORE SUSTAINABLE TIMESCAPE Aurélie Mossé

Introduction This chapter discusses a design-led approach concerned with the conceptualization and materialization of self-actuated textiles for the home. A brief introduction evokes the construction of the home as a modern concept1 in order to understand the background onto which the Western contemporary domestic environment is rooted. Secondly, the text points at the challenges of designing with self-actuated textiles, particularly the temporal dimension they introduce within design practices, before questioning how these materials can contribute to the design of a more sustainable home. By developing an understanding of sustainability as fundamentally a temporal issue and of the home as a timescape, the text suggests that the appropriation of self-actuated textiles through principles of interconnectivity can participate in a more sustainable future. Comments on the imagination and fabrication of the self-actuated domestic canopy Reef support this discussion.

Home Home is one of the most complex and fascinating products of culture. It constitutes a multifaceted design shaped by a set of practices that spread from the most tangible— the objects, appliances, and architectures through which it is physically perceived—to the most immaterial—the rituals, myths, values embodied within it, the psychological and

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social relationships that it mediates. The term home is associated with the emergence of a new Western conception of dwelling taking shape from the Renaissance under the impulsion of a new social class, that of the citizens and merchants that will later constitute the bourgeoisie (Buck 1948:  459; Oxford English Dictionary Online 1989; Rybczynski 1986:  22–5). This conception defers from previous dwelling practices in that it is underpinned by values of domesticity, privacy, intimacy, and comfort. This view is reinforced through the nineteenth century by (1) the massive delocalization of work outside the boundaries of the house consolidating the idea of the home as an environment essentially devoted to family life; (2) the creation of private rooms dedicated to the individual and the idealization of the house as a refuge from the exterior world; (3) the construction of the domestic space as an environment primarily conditioned by technology. The contemporary Western home is inscribed within the inheritance of these traditions built upon key modern events that are the mechanization, the electrification, and, more specifically in respect to building practices, the architectural modernism (Mossé 2014: Ch. 3). Technology in this context is not only offering new functionalities and new modes of expressions; it becomes a cultural medium deeply affecting the perception of the world: how it is conceptualized and experienced. As self-actuated textiles emerge today at the forefront of the technological scene at a time of critical ecological challenges, this chapter explores how these materials can contribute to the design of a more sustainable home.

Self-actuated textiles Self-actuated textiles refer to dynamic materials derived from textile processes. The concept relates in large part to what is usually known as smart, intelligent, or interactive textiles without being limited to the technological context in which these materials emerged in the second half of the twentieth century (Mossé 2014: Chs 1 and 5). In essence, they characterize materials concerned with predictable, reversible, and repeatable changes of properties that are induced by physical or chemical reactions occurring at the molecular scale (Addington and Schodek 2005: 1–20). This means that the mechanisms triggering self-actuated textiles’ behavior are invisible. Yet, these mechanisms have often some consequences at the scale of human perception: a change of color or shape, the emission of light, sound, heat, etc. Self-actuated textiles are therefore distinguished from other traditional materials, not by specific substances or shaping-processes, but rather by their ability to change properties according to variations in their surrounding environment. This dynamic behavior is new in that materials are traditionally understood by designers as passive substances. Their transformation is usually conceived as resulting from the application of forces external to their materiality through specific crafting processes. As their alteration is processed internally and repeatedly, self-actuated textiles are perceived as gaining a performative power until then only associated with machines. In most cases, the textile is only the substrate carrying and giving presence to the smart behavior. Due to the scale at which this change

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is operating, self-actuated textiles, like any other smart materials, are therefore merging the concept of material and that of technology. Today, self-actuated textiles are applied from micro- to macro-scale in a variety of fields ranging from medicine to fashion and architecture. Within the home, they predominantly exist as bespoke or high-end products. For instance, Maggie Orth’s soft light dimmers are a pioneering example in the commercialization of electronic textiles for interior applications (Wilson 2005:  185–91). Self-actuated textiles inhabit today the interior primarily as light-emitting, phase-change, shape- or color-changing fabrics such as blinds, hangings, curtains, or bed linens (Mossé 2014: Ch. 5). Photovoltaic materials also surface on roofs and facades, yet smart technologies do not constitute a dominant pattern of the everyday habitat. The home remains in fact an under-exploited territory for these materials, which can be partly explained by technical or economic constraints. This relates to the challenges of developing smart technologies both qualitatively to the design and architectural scale and quantitatively in order to amortize costs of production but also for instance in terms of reliability, endurance, or energy consumption.

Designing with self-actuated materials Beyond the basic physical and chemical knowledge required to understand their behavior, self-actuated materials represent a challenging materiality for designers in respect to both methodological and sustainable issues. First, they introduce time and movement as essential components of the design practice. If this is also true of animation (generative and programming software in fields such as cinema or video games), traditional creative methods favor the expression of ideas in space and matter, notably because they rely on static modes of representation (Addington and Schodek 2005: 4). Moreover, besides notions of trends and product endurance, the temporal qualities of design objects are rarely considered. Yet, self-actuated materials stand out precisely because they are dramatically behaving in time. Designing with such materials therefore implies, beyond classical notions of form, aesthetics, or function, investigating their temporal qualities: how they change through time, for how long, at which pace, through which rhythm and intensity, through which sures of movement. Acknowledging time as a key part of the design space means introducing a new dimension of thinking structured by notions such as time frame, temporality, timing, tempo, duration, sequence (Adam 2008). On this line, a lot can be learned from practices such as dance or music, but developing an aesthetics unfolding in time and the means to achieve it is, however, not the only challenge. Sustainability is another critical issue for the design of self-actuated textiles that regularly puts into question the legitimacy of their use in the material landscape. Sustainability is usually understood as the wish for development “that meets the need of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their needs” (Bruntland 1987: 36–51). The concept is underlain by notions of preservation and endurance: that of maintaining for a long time, if not for all times, the biosphere in all its diversity. Within design practices, sustainability has been predominantly appropriated as methods underpinned by the reduction and

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minimization of human activities’ consequences on the environment illustrated by principles such as “reduce, reuse, recycle,” “eco-efficiency,” “design for disassembly,” or “emotionally durable design” (Chapman and Grant 2007: 4). The contribution of self-actuated textiles to this sustainable perspective is small. Firstly, the textile, chemical, and electronic industries onto which their development primarily relies are well known for being some of the most unsustainable sectors of the industrial societies (Braungart and McDonough 2002). As materials, self-actuated textiles often make use of non-renewable even toxic resources. They are regularly based on energy-demanding processes of fabrication and use. Their recyclability is rare if not inexistent. Sustainable concerns have yet led to the development of a family of smart materials that could be coined as eco-conscious in that their performance takes into account environmental issues. This is the case of smart materials presenting an energy-harvesting, energy-saving, or energy-generating performance such as photovoltaics, piezoelectric, or electro-active materials. As they respectively produce electricity from sunlight and mechanical energy such as vibrations, these examples propose interesting alternatives of energy production based on renewable resources. Despite such efforts, smart materials remain largely apart from the sustainable design scene. I argue self-actuated textile materials can play a more substantial role in the context of sustainability precisely because time is an intrinsic part of their material identity. Often reduced to pragmatic issues of resources’ management focused on questions of space and matter, sustainability is also and perhaps more fundamentally a matter of time. As ecology sociologist Bill Devall recalls, what is at stake with sustainability is to understand what we are sustaining, for how long, and in whose interest we sustaining it for (Devall 2001). Sustainable developments therefore not only lie in questions of eco-efficiency and technology-driven solutions but also put more fundamentally into question the cultural model onto which post-industrial societies are based. Contemporary thinkers have notably highlighted the fundamental role of modern apprehensions of time in the production of ecological problems. In Timescapes of Modernity: The Environment and Invisible Hazards, social scientist Barbara Adam for instance emphasizes that most environmental issues are the result of a conflict between the time of nature and the temporal logic of post-modern culture originating in Western conceptions of nature as the opposite of culture (Adam 1998: 24–59). In this book, she puts forward the use of clock time as a synchronizing medium of actions and its imposition over natural rhythmicities as an essential vector of the current environmental crisis. Sustainability can obviously be tackled at multiple levels. Its processing is never a black or white answer but rather the development of a variety of shades of which the relevance is always dependent on the context in which it takes place (Chapman and Grant 2007: 8–9). Without any doubt, a lot can and must be done in terms of reducing the ecological impact of smart materials. Yet, to contribute to the shaping of a more sustainable future, I believe their design cannot be reduced to the minimization of their carbon footprint or to providing eco-aware functions. Acknowledging sustainability as a holistic and resilient practice of time is of utter importance. In this perspective, self-actuated materials have a lot of potential not only because they adapt to changing circumstances but also because they hold the potential to inform the design of a more sustainable timescape both at the narrative and physical level.

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Domestic timescapes Timescape is a concept designed by Barbara Adam to develop a cultural representation of reality grounded in time but acknowledging space and matter as interdependent dimensions (Adam 1998: 11, 54). In this perspective, time refers to a temporal landscape whose appreciation is changing according to the time frame, the duration, the place, the person, or collective through which it is grasped. It is therefore an embodied reality. Since modernity, the temporal framework through which the social time has been primarily apprehended in the West is that drawn simultaneously by capitalism, modern science, and technologies (Mossé 2014: Ch. 4). These converging practices have ritualized time as a worldwide uniformed measure based on a linear and abstract reality completely independent from the temporal conditions originally framed by nature. The mechanical clock has played a central role in the formation, diffusion, and perpetuation of this collective experience by pioneering and regulating a new model of social organization that has progressively led to the shaping of the industrial societies (Kwinter 2002: 17). The inheritance of this modern culture is today associated with experiences of time-compression, over-stimulation, and deterritorialization (Massey 2009: 13; Serres 2009: 12). These concepts express the intensification of human activities in time (acceleration) and space (globalization) supported by technological applications. They highlight the predominance of practices grounded in a conception of time completely disconnected from the rhythmicities of nature that have deeply affected the Western domestic environment and its inhabitants (Adam 1998; Hoffman 2009). As a temporal object, the home is inscribed in multiple temporalities. The most obvious are the time of the building and of the objects accommodated within it, the time of nature that breaks through the window, the time linked to the individuality of the bodies inhabiting this environment, the time internal to the activities in which these bodies are involved. The home’s timescape also encompasses the social and technological times, which is to say first the objective time of the calendars, clocks, and institutions that are synchronizing activities at the collective scale and subsequently framing the time dedicated to domestic life, and secondly the diverse temporalities internal to the technologies with which the inhabitant is interacting. It is not possible to review here all of these aspects in the context of the contemporary Western home, therefore my focus will only concern the temporal reality informed by self-actuated materials. Together with other smart materials and information technologies, self-actuated textiles contribute to the shaping of a timescape usually apprehended through the framework of interactivity. The concept has been coined in the field of cybernetics to describe the ability of systems to interact with each other by exchanging information on a circular and transactional mode (Fox and Kemp 2009: 13). It refers today to the whole set of interactions favored by the electronic computer and its related applications. This interactivity becomes a component of the domestic timescape when personal computers and environmental monitoring systems controlled by distance are implemented in the house from the 1980s. Today, the building itself is becoming interactive as smart materials and embedding computing allow the fabrication of architectural surfaces transforming

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themselves according to changes in their surroundings (Bullivant 2006; Bonnemaison and Macy 2007; Fox and Kemp 2009). In this perspective, the home is increasingly perceived as a permeable structure shaped by the exterior. In contrast with traditional conceptions build upon the nineteenth-century idea of the home as the construction of a shell protecting the individual from the exterior world, self-actuated textiles participate in the shaping of the home as a dynamic materiality opened to the outside. This openness is nevertheless selective. Shaped by social networks, semiotic transactions, and commercial exchanges, it is not for instance permeable to the rhythms of nature. Digital interactivity within the home predominantly encompasses to date interactions based on user-oriented experiences underpinned by human–machine dependences that are synchronized through constant loops of digital code. Technically, this implementation is far from the original concept of interactivity based on principles of circular information. Most of the interactive exchanges evoked previously are relying on reactions of responsiveness: unidirectional answers framed by an initial command programmed within the computing system. Without real technical foundations, the interactivity has been essentially appropriated within the domestic context as a commercial means to promote closer links between humans and machines (Guéneau 2005: 117–29). If this intimacy might be new, the time internal to the digital interactivity as much as the temporal framework from which most smart materials are conceived are not. Based on modern sciences precepts, they ritualize the temporal assumptions associated with most technological developments since the industrial revolution (Adam 1998). In contrast with its conceptual background, the experience of interactivity is certainly original in that it contributes to a new understanding of time as a multifaceted reality that can unfold through multiple scales and topographies regularly superseding human perception (Hoffman 2009:  12–13). Moving the apprehension of time from the regular oscillation of the mechanical clock to constant loops of digital code without altering its conceptual framework of comprehension is therefore a ritualization of modern scientific conceptions of time as an abstract, decontextualized value of which the tempo, scale of processing, and pervasiveness can be seen as an extremely industrialized form of time. What is problematic is that this form of appropriation is based on a temporal disjuncture that is today threatening the biosphere equilibrium, human health and well-being included (Adam 1998; Hoffman 2009). This disjuncture relies on the gap established between the temporal values associated with the conception of modern technologies and the temporal reality in which they are implemented. By imposing a universal and homogenous temporality as a synchronizing medium of society, industrial time is no more than a cultural illusion of achieving permanence while earthly existence is nothing but the orchestration of more or less durable transiences (Adam 1998: 41). I therefore argue that as long as self-actuated textiles are underpinned by a time conceived as a disembodied and deterritorialized measure, they will continue to participate in the design of ecological problems.

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Materializing a timescape of interconnectivity Based on photovoltaic, electro-active, and light-responsive polymer technologies, the design experiment Reef explores an alternative timescape for the design of self-actuated textiles in the home underpinned by principles of interconnectivity. The concept of interconnectivity is usually associated with interactions established through the worldwide distributed network of the internet. It relies first on the idea that all parts of the system are interrelated—some directly and others indirectly—and secondly that changes in one part affect every other part of the system. The term is used here to evoke a timescape in which time is understood as an embodied reality, interdependent of the place, matter, and technologies through which it is apprehended. In other words, it means the design of a timescape of interconnectedness in which the time of technology is conceived and appropriated as interdependent of and synchronized with the time of nature. The design of the architectural installation Reef is an attempt to imagine and materialize such a timescape. It has played an essential role in the construction of the intellectual framework exposed in this paper (Mossé 2014: Ch. 6). As an experiment, Reef is based on a material tale approach in which the design experiment design mixes fragments of reality and fiction to explore the cultural and poetical potential of new technologies (Dunne 2005). Reef explores more specifically how the time of nature can be appropriated through smart materiality as an integral constituent of the home’s language from conceptualization to materialization. The installation suggests this goes by a renewed sensitivity to earthly rhythms and a reconciliation of the time of culture with the time of nature. As a tale, it develops a poetic of interaction beyond notions of control by developing an aesthetic of breathing inscribed in unpredictable changes. This is expressed through the development of a self-actuated canopy behaving according to the fluctuations of the wind in its surrounding exterior. This narrative is materialized by a cloud of electro-active polymer structures developed over five sizes and hanging from the ceiling. In response to change in the wind’s intensity, these structures—reminiscent of organic creatures such as jellyfish, butterflies, or carnivorous plants—fold and unfold (Figure 11.1). As an interactive system, Reef relies primarily on the behavior of a family of electroactive materials known as dielectric elastomers (Figure 11.2). Shaped by self-organization and energy minimization principles, these plastics basically stretch when exposed to a high voltage and relax when the voltage is turned down (Kofod, Paajanen, and Bauer 2006: 141–3). To link their behavior to wind patterns, an electronic circuit digitally controlled has been devised. It can be briefly described as the connections established between an outdoor anemometer that senses the speed of the wind, a micro-controller unit using this information to regulate two voltage amplifiers, and a network of electro-active structures reacting to the electrical stimulus induced by these amplifiers. This circuit allows control of the behavior of the structures according to the wind’s velocity but from a design perspective; the essential question is how to translate these changes. For instance, is the wind speed transcribed by various degrees of aperture of the structures or by modulating the tempo of their unfolding? Do all the structures behave simultaneously

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Figure 11.1 Aurélie Mossé, Reef, side view (2011). © Aurélie Mossé. Photograph by Anders Ingvartsen.

through the same dynamic pattern or should there be dissonances? The dynamics expressed through this installation are the outcome of an intense design process in which wind velocity came to be translated by changes in the actuation’s tempo: the faster the

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Figure 11.2 Aurélie Mossé, Reef, detail of electro-active polymer structure (2011). © Aurélie Mossé. Photograph by Anders Ingvartsen.

wind, the faster the pace of actuation (Mossé 2014: Ch. 6). To make this translation more dramatic, the structures were divided in three groups. This means that wind conditions were not only translated by different tempos of actuation, gradually increasing as the wind becomes faster, but also interpreted in space through different sets of structures. The two biggest sizes were chosen to translate light wind conditions. The three smallest elements open and close to translate medium winds. In the case of bold wind conditions, the whole set of electro-active structures becomes active (Plate 15). As an immersive environment, Reef is a subtle experience. If it imbues the home with patterns derived from nature, this is not an obvious experience. The dynamics of the installation are largely conditioned by the relatively long duration by which the elastomer structures relax, consequently preventing a direct equivalence between the speed of the wind and that of the pace of the installation. This means first that fast winds can only be translated through a delayed tempo; secondly that light winds are transcribed by movements almost imperceptible to the eyes. In terms of temporal perception, this creates a gap between the real speed of the wind and its translation. Understanding Reef’s behavior asks for heed and patience. It suggests that the relationship between nature, the home, and its inhabitant is an intuitive link, certainly not immediate and obviously not acquired. Grounded in earthbound dynamics, the interactive character of Reef belongs more to a time of transmission than of communication if one understands

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this relationship as a communication optimized by a body, developed in time rather than in space: neither immediate nor impersonal (Debray 2000: 4, 12–13). The time required for the electro-active materiality to translate wind dynamics is interesting because it favors a new perception of smart materials’ temporality that expresses the transition from a timescape of interactivity based on principles of control and immediacy to a timescape of interconnectivity underpinned by unpredictability and transmission necessarily inscribed within duration (Figure 11.3).

Conclusion Designing self-actuated textiles for a more sustainable home certainly goes by a greater attention to the type of resources, tools, and applications through which these materials are shaped and used. In this perspective, emerging smart materials based on renewable, non-toxic, even biodegradable resources as much as the ones bypassing electronics in their actuation mechanisms are promising. Focus is yet given in this essay to less tangible but perhaps more fundamental aspects of sustainability: its understanding as a temporal issue. By reflecting on the conceptualization and materialization of Reef—a wind-actuated canopy based on electro-active polymers—this chapter emphasizes that self-actuated textiles can contribute to the design of a more sustainable domestic culture by challenging the temporal logic and experience through which these materials are traditionally appropriated. This argument lies first in the understanding of sustainability as an issue born out of a conflict of timescapes rooted in the imposition of the abstract reality of clock time as a synchronizing medium of societies: a temporal logic denying the earthly rhythms that first condition human existence. This culture of time has today dramatic consequences deeply affecting the biosphere and its inhabitants. Traditionally self-actuated materials implemented in the interior are associated with the temporal logic of interactivity: an abstract time completely disconnected from the dynamics of nature because it is based on a user-oriented time-space derived from clock time and shaped by human–machine dependences. Reef suggests an alternative framework of appropriation based on the concept of interconnectivity. It can be translated as the design of a timescape in which the time of technology is conceived and appropriated as interdependent of and synchronized with the time of nature. By materializing a domestic membrane that breathes and quivers at the pace of the wind, Reef is not only giving strong presence of the time of nature within the home, thereby preventing a de-territorialization of the interior; it develops a poetic vision of time for smart technologies beyond issues of control in which the dynamics of the environment are embodied at the heart of their material presence. This material tale expresses the need for technology to synchronize with the time of nature as a means to reintroduce a culture in which technology is less human-centered than earth-life interconnected, thereby more sustainable. In this context, technology becomes the means through which nature can affirm its presence in an environment from which it has long been secluded.

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Figure 11.3 Aurélie Mossé, Reef, overall view (2011). © Aurélie Mossé. Photograph by Anders Ingvartsen.

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Credits Reef was designed in collaboration with researchers Guggi Kofod and David Gauthier in the context of the Ph.D. thesis entitled Gossamer Timescapes: Designing Self-Actuated Textiles for the Home (Mossé 2014) undertaken in the Centre for IT and Architecture, Copenhagen and the Textile Futures Research Centre, London. It was developed with the generous support of the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of Architecture, Design and Conservation, Copenhagen and the participation of MetOne (wind sensor) and Ok Design (furniture). Pictures by Anders Ingvartsen.

Note 1

Modern is used here in reference to modernity understood as that movement of time where life is felt as an experience in rupture with the past. The premises of this experience emerge from the Renaissance to become a dominant pattern of Western societies from the nineteenth century.

References Adam, B. (1998), Timescapes of Modernity: The Environment and Invisible Hazards, London: Routledge. Adam, B. (2008), “Of Timescapes, Futurescapes and Timeprints,” Time Conference, Lüneburg University, June 12, Germany. Available online: http://www.cf.ac.uk/socsi/resources/ Lueneburg%20Talk%20web%20070708.pdf (accessed September 9, 2011). Addington, M. and D. Schodek (2005), Smart Materials and Technologies for the Architecture and Design Professions, Oxford: Architectural Press. Bonnemaison, S. and C. Macy (2007), Responsive Textile Environments, Montreal, ON: Tuns Press, Canadian Design Research Network. Braungart, M. and W. McDonough (2002), “Transforming the Textile Industry Victor Innovatex, Eco-intelligent Polyester and the Next Industrial Revolution,” Green@work. Available online: http://www.greenatworkmag.com/gwsubaccess/02mayjun/eco.html (accessed March 3, 2009). Bruntland, G. H., ed. (1987), “Towards Sustainable Development,” in Our Common Future: Report of the World Commission on Environment and Development, 36–51, New York: United Nations. Buck, C. D. (1948), A Dictionary of Selected Synonyms in the Principal Indo-European Languages, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Bullivant, L. (2006), Responsive Environments: Architecture, Art and Design, London: V&A Publications. Chapman, J. (2005), Emotionally Durable Design, Objects, Experiences and Empathy, London: Earthscan. Chapman, J. and N. Grant (2007), Designers, Visionaries + Other Stories: A Collection of Sustainable Design Essays, London: Earthscan. Debray, R. (2000), Introduction à la médiologie, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, Devall, B. (2001), “The Unsustainability of Sustainability,” in Culture Change. Available online: http://www.culturechange.org/issue19/unsustainability.htm (accessed July 17, 2010).

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Dunne, A. (2005), Hertzian Tales: Electronic Products, Aesthetic Experience, and Critical Design, 2nd edn, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Fox, M. and M. Kemp (2009), Interactive Architecture, New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Guéneau, C. (2005), “L’intéractivité: Une définition introuvable,” Communication & Languages, 145: 117–29. Hoffman, E. (2009), Time, London: Profile Books. Kofod, G., M. Paajanen and S. Bauer (2006), “Self-Organized Minimum-Energy Structures for Dielectric Elastomer Actuators,” Applied Physics A: Material Science & Processing, 85 (2): 141–3. Kwinter, S. (2002), Architectures of Time: Towards a Theory of the Event in Modernist Culture, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Massey, D. (1991), “A Global Sense of Place,” Marxism Today, (June): 24–9. Mossé, A. (2014), “Gossamer Timescapes: Designing Self-Actuated Textiles for the Home,” Ph.D. thesis, Royal Danish Academy of Fines Arts, Copenhagen. Oxford English Dictionary Online (1989), 2nd edn, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rybczynski, W. (1986), Home: A Short History of an Idea, New York: Penguin Books. Serres, M. (2009), Temps des crises, Paris: Le Pommier. Wilson, P. (2005), “Textiles from Novel Means of Innovation,” in M. McQuaid (ed.), Extreme Textiles: Design for High-Performance, London: Thames & Hudson.

12 INTERVIEW WITH CHARLIE MORROW: SOUND ENVIRONMENT DESIGN Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton

How does sound integrate with the other senses and the environment? Sound from the human perspective, and from that of many living creatures, is well integrated. All the senses work together, even if we are disabled in one way or another. We are born with an operational system that is integrated. Everything is working together. Nature’s design has the senses coordinated in order to provide protection and efficiency in the environments that we originally inhabited. Humans are very adaptive, more adaptive than many other creatures. We are all over the planet and generation by generation making further adaptions. Sound is integrated with all the senses. Most interestingly, the entire body is an ear. The skin hears, the eye hears. Vibrations are read by every part of the body, internal and external, and all of that is part of the perception of our reality. Listening and hearing are not quite the same things. Sound vibrations are interpreted differently when they come through the ear, through the mouth or other parts of the body. That relates to an evolved need to understand where sound is in 360-degree space. If you are standing in the middle of an entire world of sound coming at you from all directions, your system hears through all parts of the body, but the ear has the job of interpreting it. What is it? Where is it? The ear is connected to processes both in the brain and in the cochlea which reads gravity and supports balance. The brain interprets and integrates vibration felt at other parts of the body. The ear, cochlea, brain system understand the sound in a special way that renders communication by language possible and creates our sense of place. Some of the responses to sound are automatic, as with danger or in hunting. Others are environmental as in functioning underwater. All invoke memory to understand where we are and what is going on. The non-automatic responses to sound are crafted and mediated by our wishes, impulses and thoughts. The base-line is the sonic relationship to the sense of place. The bandwidth of perception shows the smooth overlap of sensations that affect the body. There is a sensitivity and selectivity of perception in each life form. It is analogous to the qualities of the physical universe which emits, reflects and absorbs these sensations.

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The Bandwidth of Human Perception Sound Spectrum (Hz)

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Figure 12.1 The Bandwidth of Perception. © 2014 Other Media, Barton VT.

© 2014 Other Media, Barton VT

Can you explain how sound moves through space? Sound is based on pressure changes. Sound moves through space in our atmosphere pretty much the same way water moves through its space. You can see waves in water, and since water and air are pretty similar, one can understand a lot about sound by

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looking at the way waves move through water. Sound moves through space at the speed of sound, which is dictated by a number of factors: atmosphere, temperature, presence of wind. One particularly interesting area of sound research is called Cymatics, which is the visualization of sound. One of the most famous visualizations is a Chladni diagram which shows how metal filings on a piece of wood form a pattern when a sound of a certain frequency and intensity is vibrating the wood. Sounds have to live with other sounds and vibrations, which is why a scream underwater may be entirely absorbed by the sea. How do you approach the design of sound while considering the background noises of the everyday, of the body and those sounds that are tied to the rituals of domestic life? I consider the full picture in order to reach any design solutions. It is best, if possible, to make an inventory of sounds in any particular location. It is crucial to understand what activities take place and what those activities would have to deal with sonically. We determine the threshold of acceptability, which is by its very nature a subjective experience—how much sound can you live with and not be annoyed? I remember one summer living in a very hot noisy basement, but the rent was so low that I was fine with the discomfort. I just did not spend a lot of time there and I was willing to make that trade-off. Trade-offs are typical for sound specifications. For example when a building is designed, the cost of an air handler is much higher if the building has to be very very quiet. In a radio station or a space for recording live music, one does not want interfering external or internal sounds. The air handler for the quiet location is an expensive one. In most situations when a building is being built the quietness of the air handler becomes an economic factor that owners tend to compromise. In Finland, where I spend part of the year, people generally have double doors not only to the outside but also to apartments and interior space. This is both to spare them from the cold and from unwanted sounds, e.g. from a stairway. Triple pane windows are also standard for the same effect. I have heard a rumor that the Finns are very conscious of sound, that they take off their shoes not just to avoid bringing dirt inside but also to have quiet footsteps. For Finns the acceptable level of quiet is very important. In a place with a high level of noise the “cocktail party effect” exists. In a noisy room a conversation is perfectly audible and understandable when one remains focused. But if a microphone were in the conversation spot, the mike would likely hear a jumble of sound with the conversations quite difficult to understand. That is because speech comprehension in noise is based on more than just the vibrations. This is focused listening and shows how the ear, eye and brain can coordinate. Design for sound requires trade-offs. If one lives in a culture in which hearing someone urinate in a bathroom is considered embarrassing, the bathroom needs to be sonically isolated. Most cultures are ok with the flushing sound not being totally silenced. If one wants to hear a fire in a fireplace that crackle needs to be supported in the design. Multiple media players in our spaces are now common and managed largely through negotiation. The selection of the major sound features of a space is based on

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Figure 12.2 Spectrum of Sound. © 2014 Other Media, Barton VT.

accommodating deep and fundamental needs, followed by making trade-offs based on practicality and available resources. It is helpful to look at the spectrum of sound in spaces. One can compare the sound spectrum in a quiet Helsinki urban flat with that in rural Barton, Vermont. Such measurements can guide problem-solving and design. How do you use sound to create a sense of place? First of all I listen. In order to create a sense of place I have to know what the place is all about sonically and practically. A master builder in any medium starts out by being site specific to understand what is special about this space and then works with what it offers. Automobile design is very strongly sonic, and defines a sense of place. For example, the Mercedes-Benz car doorslam is an integral part of its brand. The quietness of a RollsRoyce interior is an integral part of its brand. Every car has its own sense of what it feels like to be a driver or passenger. What is the experience of driving a high performance Ferrari? A lot of the experience is sonic because there is a loud powerful engine. Super quiet electric cars have raised sound design issues. Both for the safety of the pedestrians

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and the experience of the drivers there is a need to add sound. Generally sound experiences are created for clients. So you have to listen very carefully to your clients and spend time with them to learn what they really feel and think. Often they do not know themselves, because the decisions are expert decisions. Spending time with a person whose space you are designing is essential in order to discover the real needs and preferences. It is absolutely important to understand the noise floor, because generally one cannot do anything about it. Recently we were given a task to help with a flat in which vibrations from the subway come up through the body of the building. So we created some additional noise matched to the noise floor. We sampled the sound of the subway vibration and placed that sound in the space at a low constant level. That strategy made the occasional passing of the subway less aggressive. The solution shifted the foreground background aspect of the subway sound. If a given site is very quiet and suddenly one hears a sound, it catches all the attention because it is a lot louder than the quiet noise floor. Much about hearing concerns the way the mind frames sounds. It is possible to smooth the edges of the occasional and unwanted sound by raising the noise floor. It is a really interesting solution to take the isolated problem sound and make it a constant by extending it at a lower volume. Hence you do not notice the original problem sound when it rings through. Can you define the noise floor? Noise floor is the noise that prevails on a site uninterrupted. If one, for example, lives by the sea, one is immersed in the ceaseless sounds of the seascape and the wind. In a city one may always hear the subway travel underground shaking the entire building. It is all about the sound of place. When one has gotten used to a place, one recognizes the sound of places. Earmarks include its noise floor and its local noises. People say noise is unwanted sound, but I tend to think of noise as the noticeable rather than the unwanted. Creating a sense of place involves understanding the noise floor, which is the blank canvas upon which all other sonic decisions are made. This basic level of noise may include something that is different from place to place. If one lives in a home with thin walls, the sounds of the hallway elevator and the footsteps on the hallway stairs will be part of the noise floor. In a quiet location with thin walls, one may hear and grow oblivious to the neighbor’s toilet. What is the significance of the threshold in designing for sound? How does the threshold act as a mediator of sound? By threshold, I would think you are referring to the doorway between spaces, often the doorway between outdoor and indoor spaces. The threshold in this classical sense has not only physical meaning but often also cultural and spiritual meanings. For example in one culture, one just never kisses or shakes hands across the threshold. Why would that be unless the threshold had significant meaning, and I think it does. In some ways it is metaphorical of being born, coming out of the womb and entering the world. Birth presents the first threshold for a baby. The threshold is important for sound because it relates to the sonic barrier that is created by the doorway. Thus a key question for

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designing a threshold: do you want to hear what is happening on the other side of the threshold door or not? It is a fundamental design decision. I find the threshold to be most powerful when it transitions from everyday space to spiritual space. When entering a cathedral, one enters into vertical time. Cathedrals are usually highly resonant spaces that are designed as sonic realities to distract the mind away from daily life. How are memory and sound interconnected? Daily life can be made more memorable through sound in the same way as daily life can be made more memorable through clothing. If a person has taken the time and effort to speak well or to use sound well, it becomes part of what makes them special. Daily life in itself is a series of events, sonically and otherwise. Looking just at the sonic events, the first sonic event of daily life is going from sleeping to waking, at the end going from waking to sleeping. This is important because the ears unlike the eyes do not close in sleep. Our auditory watchdog is right there waiting to detect something going on around us during our sleep. So the world of sleep has a threshold in the ear between the world of waking and sleep. This open door is largely for protection. Sound in perception and communication crosses the boundary between our separate bodies. Sound unlike touch reaches beyond the present space. This is one of the reasons why both recording of sound and transmitting of sound over long distances have remarkable qualities. Long distance sound sending and receiving are extensions of processes of the human body. They are integrated with and trigger memories, so we can understand what we hear. Daily life is filled with music, speech, the sound of footsteps, the sounds of people you know, the sounds of people you do not know, the sounds of communications and traffic, the sounds of nature and weather—all of that constitutes a part of life. Since the brain is recording all of these sounds they are there for the memory to access and maybe retrieve. Our brains are listening constantly and simultaneously comparing our memories to what we hear and see. Otherwise we would not be able to speak, and we would not recognize faces. The interaction between memory and sound and space is critical both to well-being and to what kind of environment one would like to achieve. It is vital to understand the requirements of well-being and a healthy happy nurturing space. Much education before the invention of writing and reading was sung, the Iliad and the Odyssey are still part of the oral tradition: in Peloponnesian and Greek areas one can find people still singing and remembering these stories because they have sonic hooks on them, memory devices. Religious texts are handled similarly. For instance, in the Hebrew Bible there are marks, known in Hebrew as niggun or neginot and in Yiddish as a trop, above the letter that reflect the way the letter is supposed to be sung. Singing is an integral part of learning these texts. A related phenomenon is the rhythmic and tonal qualities of every human language and music. These relate to the physical and cultural environments through which the users evolved and migrated. There is a strong and well-studied relationship between memory, language and music.

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It is particularly interesting to think about the fact that the ears do not close or blink. We tend to focus so much on the visual but in fact we shut off visual input much of our lives through blinking and sleeping. The fact that the entrances of sound to the body are constantly open speaks to how critical it is to think beyond the visual when designing space. Unfortunately many people forget this. What are your thoughts on acoustical privacy in the contemporary world? The International Acoustic Ecology Society keeps track of how many places there are where there is at least a measurable span of time before you hear human sound intrude. Those measurements can be found on their website. I think that very soon there will be no place on earth where one cannot hear some type of human sound intrude. You will hear human sound within minutes rather than days. When we talk specifically about sonic privacy we have moved into a new era where there is no sonic privacy. People can hear through walls electronically as they once did only with an ear to a wall. You design 3D sound. Can you explain what that means? 3D sound is the way sound is manifested in the real world. Sound in three dimensions or what some people call 360-degree sound means that one is able to tell where any sound is at any given time. One is able to localize a sound because our brains immediately hear its position in the world. 3D sound is sound that has motion up and down and all around. Thus it can be detected and decoded for its location and also for its intent. For example the sound of a mosquito: once one has located it, one will also have identified it. This is where memory chimes in: one does not only locate a sound in 3 dimensions but the sound itself also evokes memories that enable one to deal with it. So 3D sound is in fact the sound of the world we live in as perceived by our brains. When designing in 3D sound, one has to take into account the floor, the ceiling, the walls and the way everything reflects sound. That is because it is through these reflections that people know where they are. Through echolocation a blind person tapping a cane hears enough about a room to be able to see it with their ears … and that is 3D sound. How is textile utilized for sound control in the design of space? Textile has a huge range of roles in the sonic universe: some textiles absorb sound, some textiles reflect sound, some textiles diffuse sound; this is the primary vocabulary for textile and sound. Textile can be used to deaden or muffle sound, to enliven or amplify sound, and to spread sound around. Smart textile technologies are changing the way we transmit sound. A new type of sound transducer is essentially a thin textile material that can be applied like wallpaper to a surface to transmit sound. In the interior environments, all materials play sonic roles. The floor, wall, window and ceiling surfaces reflect, diffuse or absorb sound, depending on their sonic personalities. Curtains not only change

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light but they also change sound, as do carpets, which change sound, soften footsteps. Together, with our clothing and acoustic dividers they bring about changes to the sound of voices and spaces. It is interesting that the materials you note as essential to auditory control of the interior environment are also those that are often considered most decorative and secondary to the architecture. It is true. An auditory interior environment can be controlled not only through textiles but also through landscaping and vegetation. Landscaping is an old and wonderful tool for controlling sound. Textiles can take on the characteristics of landscaping and change the scenery in a room. What is the future of sound dissemination? There are several pieces to the sonic future. As we live in a noisier and noisier world, our hearing is affected. So hopefully people who want to push back on the steady accumulation of sound dissemination, will affect the future of sound dissemination. There is a need to control the intensity of sounds that impact our level of anxiety and our level of stress. And as the whole body hears, you just don’t feel the same when you are immersed in overbearing vibrations. Places of extreme vibration, for example ferryboats and airplanes, are damaging to the human hearing and well-being. Places of quiet have ever greater healing, real estate and tourism value. Recorded sound is more available than ever before. On the internet, one can find virtually anything that has been recorded. That availability is an opportunity to become literate of sonic experience. People are becoming more design literate and the do-ityourself movement is growing, which translates into a growing world of homemade sound production. More people than ever before have interest in making music and sound. Using computers to make music one does not have to be a skilled musician in the traditional sense. One can make music with digital tools. The more that people understand designing with sound, hopefully the more that people will take an active role in sound politics, urban and rural. Hopefully a more sonically enlightened populace will take a role in the constant redesign of the world in which they live.

Note Interview questions written by Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton; interview conducted by Deborah Schneiderman.

PART THREE

EXTREME ENVIRONMENTS AND OUTER SPACE

13 DESIGN FOR EXTREME ENVIRONMENTS PROJECT [DEEP]: A CASE STUDY OF INNOVATIONS IN MEDIATING ADVERSE CONDITIONS ON THE HUMAN BODY Brian F. Davies

Thesis: Anticipating the changing conditions of the natural environment As humankind’s aspirations for exploration increase so do the risks and strains on human support needs. Engineering has been the dominant discipline in designing for exploration and extreme environments in our lifetimes. Yet supporting and sustaining human explorers has been critical to exploring extreme environments—which is central to the efforts of interior design … extreme or otherwise, simply enhancing life (Archinect 2008). This chapter describes a sampling of three academic projects undertaken through the Interior Design Program at the University of Cincinnati that employ textiles while bringing a human user focus to the complex matrix of criteria in designing for human habitation in extreme environments. An extreme environment can be defined as one that imparts severe strain on human life. The Design for Extreme Environments Project [DEEP©] is an agency within the Interior Design Program offering educational experiences that have interior design students learning with faculty from medicine, geology, journalism, sociology, psychology, design, architecture, history and with experts from industry (Bruffee 1999). These projects demonstrate examples of learning that extend the capabilities of students beyond the assimilation of existing knowledge, enabling them to envision innovative, future solutions (Davies 2008). The experience enables students to

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consider future built environments through a global lens while anticipating the changing conditions of the natural environment.

Context Expanded definition of interior design The world population spends 90 per cent of its collective time indoors! As a practitioner and educator of interior architecture I am conflicted. The negative effects of expending high levels of resources to sustain that indoor existence are evidenced in physical and mental health crisis and in our detachment from natural systems. The following projects each deal with mediating some issue of adversity to human well-being by leveraging materials and/or technology through creative visioning. In designing for these environments, a number of disciplines come together that would not be involved in conventional buildings. The process requires participants to be multilingual, or at least a conversant tourist in someone else’s area of expertise. The doctor, the engineer, the designer, and the nutritionist all have to understand one another to be able to support the astronaut. Richard Horden, of Horden Cherry Lee Architects, stands out as a pioneer of elegant habitats for extreme and remote environments (Horden 2010). I am excited to follow the efforts and successes of Architecture+Vision, founded by Arturo Vittori and Andreas Vogler (Vittorri 2009). The works of both Horden and Architecture+Vision have explored materials and technology at advanced levels and often times in extreme contexts. The following projects were conceived from a user-centric approach. Each began by identifying specific user groups whose task performance or even whose lives were under threat from environmental forces.

Introduction to DEEP The Design for Extreme Environments Project [DEEP©], at the University of Cincinnati, strives to enable research and education platforms through the development of human support systems that mediate adverse constraints of extreme environments, such as: atmospheric content and pressure, gravitational force, spatial constraints, and confined personal dynamics. DEEP endeavors to lend the perspective of humanistic design in support of the physiological and psychological well-being of future explorers, field reseachers, and displaced persons to supplement the accomplishments of engineering and science. DEEP was initiated in spring 2008 to extend the capabilities of students beyond the assimilation of existing knowledge, enabling them to envision innovative future solutions. In situ problem solving and cross-disciplinary interactions are structured to equip students to consider future built environments through a global lens while anticipating the changing conditions of the natural environment. With the global population tripling since 1950, extreme environments have experienced increasing stresses as people live closer

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to these realms. Many of these extreme environments are experiencing the greatest negative impact associated with human-induced climate change. Therefore, there is increasing need to be able to live and research in extreme environments to understand the nature and dynamics of environmental change. Current data collection for climate change is predominately gathered in extreme environments, such as Aquarius Reef Habitat, Antarctic Research Station, and glacial environments (Benn and Owen 2002). The conditions of these environments strain research efforts as outdated human support practices are employed in supporting advanced scientific discovery. The researchers’ environmental exposure limits the amount and quality of data gathered. DEEP unites design, geology, and engineering experts in supporting human performance under inhospitable conditions in the service of science to innovate collectively in the effort to prototype contemporary, remote habitat/lab (live/research) structures.

Projects: The role of textile in extreme environments Mediating adversity to human well-being by creatively leveraging materials and technology As DEEP expands the parameters of interior design, it also repositions the contribution of textiles from decorative elements to performative ones. Lisa Zeigler remarked on the third project, CASiTA, “The Flat Pack Shelter demonstrates powerfully the mutable character of the wall, its flexible adaption to various human needs, from decoration to survival” (Zeigler 2014). Under the constraints of extreme environments, textiles afford many advantages following the historical evolution of apparel textiles aiding human performance in outdoor exploration and sport (McQuaid 2005). Similar benefits of textile shelter coverings have evolved in nomadic shelters across the planet. The fundamental system of frame and skin allows habitable volumes to be constructed and covered rapidly, yet packed compactly for transportation. Functions of insulation are separated and fulfilled by additional components. Psychologically, a thin textile barrier is enough to define personal space and offer visual privacy for purposes of modesty and moderating social interaction. Physiologically, the textile skin is offering protection from weather—sun, rain, snow, and wind—to moderate heat retention and dissipation, insects and animals, and other humans. These properties have long positioned textiles as critical to extreme environments from Captain Robert Falcon Scott’s polar expedition to extra-vehicular suits protecting astronauts. In fall 2009, the National Science Foundation issued its Dear Colleague Letter: Climate Change Education, which stated the urgency and desire for collaborative efforts to enhance the data and knowledge on climate change. The purpose of the funding was to improve our understanding of and ability to mitigate and adapt to climate change through expanded observing capabilities, modeling and simulation, and fundamental research.

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Antarctic Climate Change Research Station: Student competition proposal 2009

Student Design Team: Aaron Cooke and Corey DiRutigliano.



Supervising Faculty: Brian F. Davies.

The Antarctic is experiencing climate change at a scale and pace unmatched in the world. In 2009, The Cognizance International Conference solicited innovative, sustainable concepts for an Antarctic Research Station through its international competition Where Ideas Converge. The Climate Change Research Station brief tasked entrants with the mission of creating a facility for documenting these changes and relaying them to scientific centers around the globe so that a collaborative solution can be implemented. In order to survive the antagonistic physical environment, the Research Station was required to be self-reliant in its power (Figure 13.1) and operations and able to provide fresh water and vegetables for its inhabitants while fostering a healthy physical and psychological interior environment in which to carry out this important work. Cooke and DiRutigliano’s solution intended to be shipped “inside-out” to form its own container for its initial delivery, and again for its eventual decommission and return north for recycling, after thirty years of service in Antarctica. The orthogonal containers become the interior of the building. First, they are emptied of the prefabricated equipment inside. They are then dismantled according to seams marked on the exterior, and reconfigured into the interior of the building. Three containers are joined horizontally to form the main core of the station. The fourth container is divided in three, then spread out below the core as a plenum for mechanical systems. The chamfered edges and overhead windows are assembled and the interior is sealed. The exterior streamlined shell covers the orthogonal interior form. The panels are assembled laterally one at a time; after installation of each panel, soy-based foam insulation fills the cavity entirely, forming a monolithic air and moisture barrier that can

Figure 13.1 Proposed Antarctic Research Station, forces informing the design. Diagrams by Aaron Cooke and Corey DiRutigliano.

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Figure 13.2 Proposed Antarctic Research Station illustrating rigid interior core, expanded soy-based insulation, and photovoltaic textile shell. Rendering by Aaron Cooke and Corey DiRutigliano.

form to the space between the interior and exterior geometries. The soy-based foam is specified because it has a smaller ecological footprint than SIPs (Structurally Insulated Panels), can form to the irregular geometry between the interior and exterior layers of the building, and takes up less volume in shipping than a set of SIPs containing equivalent R-value. The geometry of the proposed station emphasizes a low surface-to-volume ratio to reduce heating energy (Figure 13.2). Polar animals do not have better heating systems than temperate ones; they survive as a result of superior heat retention. Successful polar buildings mimic this tactic (United States Antarctic Program 2009).

Top of the World Collaboration: Indian Himalayan glaciers 2013

Student Design Team: Eric Blyth and Scott Betz.



Supervising Faculty: Brian F. Davies in collaboration with the Department of Geology at the University of Cincinnati.

The Top of the World Collaboration aims to enable extended scientific observation and research in remote high-altitude settings such as the Himalayas and Tibet. These settings

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are critical indicators of climate change and sources of long-term climate markers. We are proposing to develop thermally conditioned, portable research habitats that automatically adapt to the changing environment of the body heat production through a system of microprocessor-controlled active insulation features. Thermal management in high altitudes requires adaptation by the human body as well as new technologies to cope with less energy release (i.e. body heat production) (West 1981). The new ideas in this proposal are directed towards enhancing the energy efficiency of capturing body heat by over 50 per cent at high altitudes. The Himalayas are one of the world’s most fragile environments, home of the greatest concentration of glaciers outside of our polar regions, and an integral part of the South Asian Monsoon weather system (Benn and Owen 1998). Himalayan glaciers and snowfields provide an abundant and predictable source of water for close to two-thirds of the world’s population who live along the great rivers that drain from the mountains in countries that include India, Pakistan, and China. Yet glaciers in many parts of the Himalayas have undergone significant retreat over the last century, a trend that is likely to continue in the coming decades in response to global climate change. Glacier recession will alter the hydrology within these glaciated catchments, and will increase the frequency of hazards such as glacial lake outburst floods, and is thus likely to have profound effects on the densely populated areas within and adjacent to these catchments, whose livelihood is dependent on glacier waters (Owen 2009). Additionally, climate change combined with increasing human pressures is degrading these fragile mountain landscapes, potentially increasing the geologic hazards associated with an active mountain range, and threatening the local animals and plants. Despite these issues, the Himalayan range remains one of the most unmapped regions of the world. This is due in part to the technical limitations of remote sensing in extreme environments. Based on the feedback from geologists, terrain + temperature + altitude ranked the highest in areas of focus moving forward with designing a suitable habitat to adequately conduct their research. Targeting these three areas, the aim is to provide the best possible solution to allow the team to recoup, regroup, and resume their data collection. The irregular terrain combined with the thinner air at higher altitude make transportation a critical constraint. Ground vehicles cannot navigate the terrain and limited aircraft and pilots are able to fly in these areas. Despite the increasing need to better understand the Himalayas, researchers have very limited access to much of the range. Because of the high altitude, the air is too thin for helicopter flight. Since the Himalayas’ brutal winters limit most research to just a few months out of the year, researchers must be extremely efficient with their fieldwork. Due to the frequent shifting of boulders and extreme terrain of glacial valleys, most areas are only accessible by foot. The steep, uneven boulder fields in glacial valleys also limit researchers, unable to stay the night. It is common to spend four to six hours hiking to the research site and three to five hours hiking back, which leaves only a few hours of fieldwork each day. The daily trekking’s wear on the researchers is amplified by the altitude. The lack of oxygen at high altitude often causes severe altitude sickness that delays research. Another challenge is the lack of power. Research and remote sensing

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Figure 13.3 Brian F. Davies field-testing tensile shelter prototype at 14,500 feet above sea level in the Indian Himalayas. Photo by Scott Betz.

rely on an increasing amount of electronics. These electronics often have to be recharged daily, which can only be done at base camp. Based on feedback from geologists, the most crucial geologic features to study are glacial valleys, floodplains, and snow fields/glaciers (Lehmkuhl and Owen 2005). These happen to also be the most challenging conditions for which few types of deployable shelters exist. Our focus was to design a shelter accommodating each of these three geologic conditions. It is intended that meeting these challenges will yield a solution translatable to other remote and extreme environments (Figure 13.3).

Disaster recovery: Compact Affordable Shelters intended for Transitional Applications [CASiTA™] 2012–15

Student Design Teams 2012–13:

  Reuben Alt, Kaitlyn Bogenschutz, Diana Chan, Dina Elawad, Adam Fischer, Alec Gardner, Tyler Gentry, Madeline Goryl, Anthony Mangione, August Miller, Mary Jo Minerich, Ryan Schmidt, Nicholas Schoeppner, Molly Smith, Joe Southard, and Alexandra Ziemba.

Student Design Teams 2013–14:

  Evan Baum, Nora Begin, Gabriel Dromer, Rebecca Doughty, Joyce Hanlon, Nick Hansman, Katie Honneywell, Matt Lamm, Andrew Maragos, Phil Riazzi,

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Dave Rieck, Keegan Riley, Michelle Rush, Paul Serizay, Laura Soria, Spencer Van Deusen, Becca Waters, and Lydia Witte.

Supervising Faculty:

   Brian F. Davies and Stephen Slaughter. The most beautiful, the most powerful, and the most desperate places are all equally vulnerable to natural disasters (Slaughter and Davies 2014). Compact Affordable Shelters intended for Transitional Applications [CASiTA™] are designed to accommodate a family within a footprint of 130 square feet. The challenge was established in fall 2012 with my colleague Stephen Slaughter for students to creatively employ technology to conceive and fabricate compact shelters. A number of team proposals were designed to accommodate up to two adults and three children that restored routine tasks of meal preparation, sleeping, and school and professional work completion in contexts where orderly life has been disrupted. Each shelter begins as a 96-inch long by 48-inch wide by 30-inch high unit weighing less than one and a half tons ready for transportation. Four adults have constructed it in less than four hours. Among the projects presented in this chapter, CASiTA™ is the most near-term in the materials selected. The solution is intended to serve as shelter for transitional periods of six months with an explicit knowledge that such periods of transition regularly double and triple in duration. Initial prototypes were tested for twenty-four months outdoors before any material failure was evidenced in the frame. Off the shelf materials—plywood and Tyvek—were consciously selected for the proposal to succeed as a scalable solution to major disasters during the loss of infrastructure (Plate 16). Tyvek is a proprietary building wrap invented more than thirty years ago by DuPont Building Envelope Systems to “resist moisture and air, (be) highly permeable, to reduce the risk of condensation damage, wood rot or mold growth.” It is breathable, water resistant, readily available globally, and low cost (Figure 13.4). Permeability to moisture particles is important to exhausting accumulated internal moisture from any number of sources including human respiration. When there is a temperature differential this becomes condensation on the interior surface and poses problems from inconvenience and discomfort to mold and rot over extended periods. Tyvek also affords visual privacy and modesty in group settings. The proposal for reconsidering the New Orleans Super Dome had a great deal to do with alleviating the density and lack of perceived privacy … Normative zones of personal space may be disrupted or disregarded in emergency events. And while not even hundredths of an inch thick, textiles can effectively re-establish boundaries for personal space affording some mediation of interactions in a constrained environment—a delineation of personal space for retreat.

Broader implications Aspirations for exploration are increasing as nations scan marine and extra-terrestrial environments for new answers (research) and new resources (exploration and

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Figure 13.4 CASiTA on public display during Disaster Preparedness week at the American Red Cross. Photo by Brian F. Davies.

colonization). Simultaneously, human kind is seeking idealistic coexistence with natural orders in more intimate scales. Both heighten the opportunities for human supportive design and increase the role of design education to accommodate the presence of humans in remote and extreme environments in our quest for knowledge and understanding of the yet-to-be-known (Viewpoint 2009). As remote exploration and field study increase, so do the risks and strains on human explorers and scientists. In our lifetimes, engineering has been the dominant discipline in facilitating exploration of inhospitable environments; yet, supporting and sustaining human life and activity has always been a primary tenet of interior design, extreme or otherwise, simply enhancing life. DEEP is an example of the collaboration required between such diverse disciplines as design, engineering, geology, medicine, and psychology in supporting human performance under inhuman conditions. Collaborators come from industry, government, and academia, employing tremendous creativity to transcend politics, advance science, and innovate collectively. When designing interiors for extreme environments, for example the oceans, everything is a challenge: corrosion, temperature, pressure, and topography all present challenges to human well-being. Breathing, moving, sleeping, all basic life functions are challenged. To successfully design for an extreme environment developing empathy is a primary goal, and one that is broadly transferable—to the humanities and the sciences

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for example. Empathy is so important partly because there is not yet a large quantity of either data or precedents for these complex conditions. It requires imagining one’s self as another person in unfamiliar circumstances. Scenario development is very important to anticipating human needs and behaviors in strained conditions. (Davies and Brumlik 2008). And the scenarios have to consider all the background factors of the individual humans or groups of humans. The effects of living in an extreme environment can be extensive and unpredictable; anecdotal evidence even exists regarding the strain of contained, compact environments producing arguments over seemingly insignificant preferences such as food smells!

Conclusion The DEEP project design solutions could be implemented in several scenarios where man-made infrastructure is not present: underwater, at high altitudes, in severe cold, even extra-terrestrial locales. Creative innovation fostered in designing for extreme environments can be adapted to more typical habitats affected by natural events that become human disasters. A number of recent disasters, for example Hurricane Katrina, and earthquakes in Haiti, Japan, and Nepal, have eradicated infrastructure and transformed civilized settlements into environments that are similarly challenging. Recent patterns document an increasing frequency and intensity of natural events. One hundred year events are occurring on a 20-year cycle. Design fields visualize alternatives that are difficult for other disciplines to imagine or to believe. Designers have a unique ability to enter a conversation on critical issues and ask: “What if the outcome were this or wouldn’t it be better if a solution were explored in some other way?” In DEEP, design is defined as applying creativity to problem resolution, beginning with an assessment of a situation to retain the positive and transform the negative to realize a better future state.

References Benn, D. I. and L. A. Owen (1998), “The Role of the India Summer Monsoon and the Mid-latitude Westerlies in Himalayan Glaciation: Review and Speculative Discussion,” Journal of the Geological Society, 155: 353–63. Bruffee, K. A. (1999), Collaborative Learning: Higher Education, Interdependence, and the Authority of Knowledge, 2nd edn, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Davies, B. F. (2008), “Partner and Prosper: The New Academic Paradigm,” DesignIntelligence. Davies, B. F. and L. Brumlick (2008), “Enabling Exploration: Scenario Learning in Collaborative Education,” The International Journal of Learning, 15 (8): 41–6. “The Future of Travel: Dual-Use Sites” (2009), Viewpoint, 24: 87. Horden, R. (2010), Micro Architecture: Lightweight, Mobile, Ecological Buildings for the Future, London: Thames & Hudson. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (2007), “Contribution of Working Group II to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change,” Climate

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Change 2007: Impacts, Adaptations and Vulnerability, 976, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kamler, K. (2004), Surviving the Extremes: What Happens to the Human Body and Mind at the Limits of Human Endurance, New York: St. Martin’s Press. Lehmkuhl, F. and L. A. Owen (2005), “Late Quaternary Glaciation of Tibet and the Bordering Mountains: A Review,” Boreas, 34: 87–100. McQuaid, M., ed., (2005), Extreme Textiles: Designing for High Performance, New York: Princeton Architectural Press in Association with Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum, Smithsonian Institution. Owen, L. A. (2008), “How Tibet Might Keep Its Edge,” Nature, 455: 748–49. Owen, L. A. (2009), “Latest Pleistocene and Holocene Glacier Fluctuations in the Himalaya and Tibet,” Quaternary Science Reviews, 28: 2150–64. Piantadosi, C. A., (2003), The Biology of Human Survival: Life and Death in Extreme Environments, New York: Oxford University Press. Slaughter, S. and B. Davies (2014), “Out of Failure: Disaster Relief and Digital Fabrication,” 102nd ACSA Annual Meeting Proceedings, Globalizing Architecture/ Flows and Disruptions, 87–93 “Underwater Studio, Extreme Environments Design Class” (2008), Archinect, September 8. Available online: http://archinect.com/features/article.php?id=77867_0_23_72_M (accessed May 14, 2015). United States Antarctic Program (2009), Field Manual for the United States Antarctic Program. Available online: http://www.usap.gov/travelanddeployment/contentHandler.cfm?id=540 (accessed May 14, 2015). Vittori, A. (2009), Architecture and Vision: From Pyramids to Spacecraft, Italy, Architecture and Vision. West, J. B. (1981), High Altitude Physiology (Benchmark papers in human physiology), New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold. Zieger, L. (2014), “The Future is Flat: University of Cincinnati Flat Pack Emergency Housing,” Hyland Magazine, 21: 179–83.

Additional resources Aldersey-Williams, H., P. Hall, T. Sargent, and P. Antonelli (2008), Design and the Elastic Mind, New York: Museum of Modern Art. Ashcroft, F. (2000), Life at the Extremes: The Science of Survival, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Bauman, K. (2014), “NY Design Week 2014: One Booth, Two Kinds of Relief: ‘Out Of Failure’,” Core77, May 23, University of Cincinnati DAAP Capstone. Available online: http://www.core77. com/blog/ny_design_week/ny_design_week_2014_one_booth_two_kinds_of_relief_-_out_of_ failure_university_of_cincinnati_daap_capstone_26997.asp (accessed May 14, 2015). Inhabitat (2014), “The Best Green Designs From ICFF 2014!” Available online: http://inhabitat.com/ live-the-best-green-designs-from-icff-2014/disaster-relief-housing-u-o/ (accessed May 14, 2015). Laurel, B. (2003), Design Research: Methods and Perspectives, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Sadker, D. M., M. P. Sadker, and K. R. Zittleman (2006), Teachers, Schools and Society, Columbus, OH: McGraw-Hill. Sekhar, J. and J. Dismukes, eds (2008), Innovation in Materials Science, Zurich: Tech Publications. Simpson, D. J., M. J. B. Jackson, and J. C. Aycock (2005), John Dewey and the Art of Teaching: Toward Reflective and Imaginative Practice, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. United Nations Department of Public Information (2006), 60 Ways the United Nations Makes a Difference, New York: United Nations Publications.

14 DESIGN FOR CONFINEMENT: THE ART AND SCIENCE OF SENSORY DEPRIVATION IN SPACE Evan Twyford

Introduction Design for the ultimate frontier is one of the ultimate challenges. Transforming ideas into vehicles that can transport human beings and our pattern recognition machines through the vastness of space is a complex process and it remains one of the ultimate forms of creation. When developing space vehicles, the designer and engineer must face the challenge of carefully balancing the variables of volume, mass, and power. But insert a human occupant into the equation, and everything changes. Suddenly, man and vehicle merge into an interdependent system of machine supporting life, and life supporting the machine. The machine must accommodate the complex internal volumes and delicate metabolic functions that the human crew requires for happiness, productivity, and survival. And at the same time, the machine will push this crew to the limits of their physiological, mental, and psychological capabilities, in order to pilot the vehicle and complete their mission successfully. The engineering of the machine is very much a science, and the integration of the human is the art. In this chapter we will take a look at human-centered design in spacecraft and how designers account for human factors in the development of space vehicle architecture. We will then look at the physical design of volumes and the features of these volumes that make living and functioning in space more comfortable and productive for human crew. And finally we will briefly overview the technology and general requirements of materials that are used in the design and construction of interior architectures for space travel. This chapter is in no way meant to serve as a list of definitive requirements for human integration into space. For that, NASA has created the NASA-STD-3000 (NASA 1995), a single, comprehensive document defining all generic requirements for space facilities and related equipment which directly interface with crewmembers. Rather, this chapter is meant to serve as a more informal

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reference for designers to begin to think about human-centered design, architecture, and the materials used in the design and development of manned craft for space exploration.

Design for human performance In the development of manned spacecraft interior spaces and habitable volumes designers can size architecture and equipment to a set of human anthropometric, usability, and habitability needs that resides under the subject of “human factors.” These needs are mostly a constant and they can be written into vehicle requirements fairly easily. There is, however, another very generalized set of human psychological and performance needs that also resides under the subject of human factors, which is not always written into vehicle requirements. Human factors, itself considered something of a soft-science in the aerospace community, is not always fully incorporated into the early design cycle of a vehicle and, as a result, these psychological and performance specifications are often neglected or left out completely. This is due in part to the fact that anthropological requirements can often be modeled physically and accounted for in a more quantifiable way, whereas human behavioral requirements are more qualitative and thus harder to write into a list of vehicle constraints.

Human factors and human-centered design Human factors or ergonomics is the design of equipment, architecture, or devices that interact effectively with the actions and anthropometry of the human body. Human factors is a field of study and practice that incorporates psychology, engineering, industrial design, biomechanics, physiology, and anthropometry. As mentioned previously, the engineering and anthropometrical aspects of human-centered design can often be modeled and simulated using a set of anthropometric data and computer aided modeling techniques. However, the psychological aspects of human-centered design (Mounte 1972b: 4) can be more difficult to account for, and often times these requirements are less forgiving in terms of a crew’s ability to adapt and thrive (Wise 1988: 6). NASA studies of crew performance on long duration missions have shown that sensory deprivation and confinement have a negative compounding impact on human performance (Figure 14.1) (Crane 1964: 3). Just as the lack of gravity will degrade muscle mass and bone density, the lack of visual stimulation and perception of motion in small spaces will degrade a pilot’s ability to read displays and quickly react to visual stimuli. For this reason, special effort must be made to mitigate the effects of confinement on human performance and thus reduce neurobehavioral debilitation on long duration space missions (Fraser 1966: 2). Designing around sensory deprivation means creating an environment that is sufficiently stimulating and visually sophisticated enough to keep the crew at its peak neurobehavioral performance, but not so over-stimulating that it will be overwhelming. An overly loud, flashy, or visually distracting environment would, clearly,

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have the opposite effect. So the effective use of light, color, texture, and material creates a delicate formula that will dictate not just how a human inhabitant will feel, but how they will react and perform in stressful mission scenarios. Another psychological and social factor that a vehicle designer must face is the hierarchical delineation and division of spaces into communal versus personal. The mental and emotional well-being of crewmembers relies on their ability to socialize in common spaces and retreat to the privacy of personal spaces for sleep, reflection, and comfort when their schedules allow. Not only should private spaces be kept distinctly separate from common areas, but efforts must be made to keep noisy or undesirable common spaces away from doors and translation paths adjacent to private areas (NASA 1995: 1 § 8.3). For example, the door to the waste and hygiene compartment should ideally be placed far from the door to crew quarters. Similarly, in the design of crew quarters and seating, it is important to try to place features equally and evenly so as not to introduce a false hierarchy that might cause disruptions between crewmembers. For example, crew bunks with a top and a bottom would be less desirable than bunks of the same height, as some crew will prefer one over the other. A classic example of this is the dining table in NASA’s Skylab module (Bond 1973: 6). It was designed to be triangular so that three crew could eat together and see each other, and no one would be at the head of the table (Figure 14.2).

Figure 14.1 Concept during field testing. An example of a confined spacecraft interior, the rover is designed to support a crew of two living and working with a mission duration of up to two weeks. Image: NASA.

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Figure 14.2 The Skylab wardroom table features a unique triangular design that positions all crewmembers facing one another for meals. Image: NASA.

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Physical design of spaces In order for the designer to properly account for human factor needs in the design and layout of a space vehicle interior, one must first differentiate between physical design features, which we will outline in this section, and the materials themselves, next section. But before looking at physical design features, let’s review the general habitable areas required of space vehicle architecture so that we have some context in which to imagine these features (NASA 1995: 1 §8.2). For the purpose of this example, we will assume a medium-to-long-term mission duration, so as to account for advanced habitability requirements such as crew quarters and waste/hygiene. General habitable areas of a medium-to-long-duration space mission vehicle architecture should include but may not be limited to (Mounte 1972b: 5; NASA 1995: 1 §8.3.2.2): MM

MM

MM

MM

MM

MM

MM

MM

MM

MM

MM

MM

Translation Paths—Common areas used to translate between different areas of an interior. The space vehicle equivalent to a hallway. Crew Quarters—Private quarters used for sleeping, changing clothing, storing personal items, etc. Galley/Food Preparation—Common area used for food stowage and preparation. Consists of surfaces for preparing food and devices for rehydrating/heating food and drinks. Wardroom Common Area—Usually located in close proximity to the galley/food prep area, this area is a common area for crew to relax, socialize, prepare, and eat food together. Logistics Stowage/Subsystems—Storage area for locker or bags containing additional logistics and stowage as appropriate for the mission. Waste and Hygiene Compartment—Small lavatory that can accommodate the containment of metabolic waste and/or basic hygiene functionality ranging from hand-washing to full shower functionality. Mission Operations—Common work area for crew to carry out mission operation and communication. Geology Science Laboratory—For a planetary mission, laboratory area for storage and analysis of geological samples. Biology Science Laboratory—Laboratory area for the storage and operation of biological experimentation. Medical Operations—Common area that can accommodate basic medical care and procedure for crew. Also includes storage for medical devices and supplies. Exercise—Common exercise area for daily crew use. General/Suit Maintenance—A common area with stowage for tools and spares as well as surfaces that can accommodate general maintenance procedures and swapping of spares.

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Airlock/Suit Stowage—Pressurizable volume that can accommodate suit donning and doffing procedures as well as vehicle/habitat ingress and egress in space.

With the above-mentioned habitable areas in mind, let us now explore some of the physical design elements of spacecraft interior design. These are listed in no particular order; however, remember that as with all human factor requirements, the inclusion of these features would typically be added to lists of “must-have” and “should-have” statements.

Lighting Lighting is generally broken up into three categories that can serve separate functions: ambient lighting, task lighting, and directional or indication lighting (NASA 1995: § 8.13). Ambient lighting refers to general-purpose lighting that is used to light interior spaces for general use. It’s important for this type of lighting to be properly diffused and adjustable so as not to be too harsh or distract from crew activities. It is also desirable for ambient lighting to light as large a functional area as possible. Ambient lighting should be cool. Task lighting refers to the placement of smaller, more focused light sources that would be found in locations specific to certain tasks. Think overhead reading lights in cockpit or general seating areas. Finally, directional or indication lighting refers to the placement of lighting specific to marking functional interior features or areas such as translation paths. Think of aircraft aisle lighting for example. It is important in the placement of any lighting to consider location in relation to human crewmember eye locations and eye heights, so as not to obscure vision during general vehicle use or critical task operations. Physiologically interior lighting and its use to emulate daylight on earth will affect circadian rhythms of crew and thus have a direct effect on crew well-being and productivity.

Materials There are numerous materials that make up a typical space vehicle interior and its components. Lightweight metals such as aluminum and titanium are most common for vehicle structural members, but other, heavier metals are found as well. Different types of composites are often chosen for their structural strength and lightweight properties. Carbon fiber and Kevlar composites can be found used both for structural members as well as closeout panels, stowage containers, etc. Molded thermoplastics are also common for interior closeout panels and stowage containers as well. Because of the relatively small number of space vehicles that are actually manufactured, the variety and number of vehicle components that are produced are fairly limited. Vehicle components are produced in extremely small runs, and thus are not often designed to accommodate the types of manufacturing processes one would see in the manufacture of goods for mass consumption. Essentially, everything is custom. For this reason, it is not as common to see metal stamping, injection molding, or similar procedures that require expensive

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tooling. Where a part for sale to public might be injection molded out of thermoplastic and sold in the thousands, a similar part for integration into a space vehicle might be precision machined out of plastic in a batch of six.

Soft goods Products and interior design features made up of soft, flexible fabrics or materials are generally referred to as soft goods. Aerospace goods production facilities typically have an entire portion of the shop that is separate from metals and composite production, that specializes exclusively in the prototyping, development, and manufacture of highperformance soft goods for space flight. Like the production of metal and composite parts, the materials and processes associated with aerospace soft goods development are so specialized and exclusive that materials and development are extremely costly. Soft goods are used in aerospace interior applications when there is a need for a feature or structure that is soft and flexible, foldable, inflatable, and easy to deploy/stow. The most common type of soft goods product found in the NASA world is the stowage bag, known as a “Cargo Transfer Bag” or CTB (Figure 14.3). These bags come in different sizes and are usually square or rectangular in shape so that they can package into regularly shaped volumes. They are typically modular in construction, with removable Velcro partitions and a zippered flap that allows access to the full contents of the bag. Other products typically constructed of soft goods materials are cushions, covers, or closeout panels for test mechanisms, or mechanical parts as well as deployable privacy curtains and partitions for crew quarters and other areas of the spacecraft. In addition, research and development is increasingly exploring the use of soft goods in inflatable habitat concepts and deployable furniture concepts for future use in long-duration space habitability missions (Figure 14.4).

Finishes Generally, designers and engineers want to strive to produce clean interior surfaces that are light colored, smooth, and easy to clean (NASA 1995: §8.12.2.1). In microgravity environments, dust and liquids will tend to stick to interior feature surfaces and it is important that small common spaces be closed out as best as possible to prevent dirt from entering them. It is also important for surface textures to be low profile and easy to wipe. Lighter colors make it easier for crewmembers to see when a surface is dirty, and smooth rounded corners also allow ease of cleaning. Most often, metal or composite surfaces are treated so that they will not collect dirt and so that they will resist corrosion. This means that they are often painted, powder coated, or anodized. Aluminum and titanium are often finished with an anodization process so as to harden the surface of the material and prevent corrosion, so it is not uncommon to see many colored aluminum parts in space vehicle interior applications.

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Figure 14.3 A NASA CTB, Cargo Transfer Bag, is the primary unit of storage aboard the International Space Station and the most common example of soft goods used in spaceflight. Image: NASA.

Figure 14.4 Inflatable planetary surface habitat and airlock unit concept being tested at the NASA Langley Research Center. Image: NASA.

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Color indicators Innovative use of color is a good way of demarcating certain functional areas of a space vehicle interior. Most often it is used to differentiate common areas from private areas. Or, for example, on the International Space Station, different modules and different hatches have different colors. Sometimes this is intentional, and other times it is a function of the individual materials selected by the nation that designed and built the module. The Russian modules aboard the ISS as well as the Russian Soyuz feature a distinctive olive, drab greenish grey, interior color that is accentuated with international orange Velcro and fasteners. The US modules and the Space Shuttle interior are often stark white with anodized blue translation aides. Psychologically, it is important for designers to take into account the effects that certain colors will have on the mood and well-being of crewmembers.

Orientation and visual cues It is generally accepted by the aerospace community that in order to reduce the disorienting effects of microgravity in a spacecraft interior, the architecture should feature a common floor, walls, and ceiling. In other words, spaces should be designed to have a common “UP” direction so that crew will know which way they need to orient themselves in order to translate between functional areas and operate flight hardware. Spacecraft floors are not always demarcated in this way using color or lighting as an indicator, but it is recommended (Plate 17). Often times, astronauts are not bothered by working or socializing in different orientations, and most will grow accustomed to this configuration. Also, it is not uncommon for adjoining habitable volumes to have different axes of orientation completely, so when crew are translating from one module to another visual cues can be used to orient a crewmember to the new orientation of the space.

Translation paths and translation aides Translation paths refer to the “doors,” “hatches,” and “hallways” of an architecture that allow crew to move between different functional areas of a vehicle or habitat. These are the common spaces that connect the different parts of a vehicle and they are generally designed to be as small as possible, in order to save on volume and mass. However, these paths must still be large enough to accommodate translation and body motions of crew as well as the transport of the largest logistics unit that would need to pass through the space (NASA 1995: §8.8.2). Translation paths through architectures in a microgravity will usually require some sort of translation aides in the form of handholds, footholds, and tethers that would allow crew a place to grab and use to orient their bodies in space without interfering with important laboratory or communications equipment. Translation aides also will often include foot tethers that can be strategically placed to allow crew to remain relatively stationary while performing a specific task (NASA 1995: §8.9).

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Materials technology and performance Selecting high-performance materials for applications in the design of manned space vehicles presents the designer with an endlessly fascinating world of possibility. At any one time, one need not look further than the aerospace and defense industries to discover the highest of performance specs driving innovation and the development of the world’s most cutting edge materials. These materials range in function from basic “must-have” functional or safety requirements, such as flammability rating and sound suppression, to “nice-to-have” requirements that might address concerns of usability or aesthetic appearance. In the development of manned space vehicles, materials are often approved for use in spaceflight applications through proven reliability in laboratory testing and in-flight testing. This way, designers and engineers can make material selection decisions armed with data and the confidence in knowing that the performance specs of these materials have been thoroughly validated in a laboratory or test setting. In this section I will not explicitly define these materials themselves; rather, we will look at some of the general space flight requirements that drive performance specs, and thus the selection of materials for interior design.

Flammability and offgassing Flammability requirements are extremely important in the development of space flight hardware, as many space vehicle life support systems produce artificial atmospheres that have much higher concentrations of oxygen than what would be found in our atmosphere here on earth. Fire spreads much more quickly and efforts must be made to mitigate the risk of fire wherever possible. Thus most materials must have a flammability rating and great care must be used to select materials that will be either flame retardant or flame resistant. Outgassing, or offgassing, is the release of a gas that was dissolved or absorbed in some material. Keeping offgassing to a minimum in high-vacuum space vehicle environments, through stringent materials rating and selection, is critical to maintaining a clean environment as well as ensuring that critical flight hardware components will be able to operate properly.

Sound suppression Spacecraft interiors are noisy. Unlike the portrayal of spaceflight in popular media and film, where astronauts peacefully and quietly float in front of a window assembly in the dark, with ambient music playing in the background, in reality, the interior lighting is stark, and the vehicle is extremely loud. Imagine the interior of an aircraft. Surrounded by electrical and mechanical systems that regulate every aspect of life support in this tiny environment as well as a very full and regimented schedule, crewmembers don’t often have the luxury of taking a few minutes of peace and quiet. Materials are used to

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reduce some of this cabin noise, but most often, special attention is paid to adding sound suppression materials to areas of the craft where some form of silence is a little more critical, such as sleeping quarters. Crew quarters are often constructed of soft goods assemblies that feature a sandwich type construction with sound suppression materials inside (Figure 14.5).

Water and stain resistance Materials used in the design and construction of spacecraft interiors must also be somewhat resistant to liquids and stains. While great care is taken in food preparation, and other areas where liquids are used, to contain liquids and keep them from migrating in microgravity environments, accidents can happen and it is desirable for materials to be smooth and easy to clean. Most soft good fabrics are constructed of materials that are not very absorbent, thus stains and spills are fairly easy to clean. Human factor designers have also begun experimenting with personal garments for crew that have anti-microbial properties to prevent the growth of bacteria and unwanted smells. Since crew rarely get a real shower in space, and only get allotted sets of clothing, it’s important that they can make their clothing last as long as possible between washes.

Figure 14.5 Interior view of the NASA pressurized rover crew quarters with sound dampening privacy curtain deployed for sleep: Image: NASA.

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Tethering in microgravity Its development often attributed to NASA, Velcro was used first during the Apollo missions to secure astronaut equipment in zero gravity situations. Although it is a Swiss invention from 1948, it has since been associated with the Space Program. Velcro is now used extensively in space systems to secure items in microgravity. Ropes, tethers and bungee netting, and various other methods are also used to stow items or to hold hardware in place while crew are using them.

Conclusion In this chapter we have overviewed spacecraft human factor requirements, the physical design of spaces, habitable areas of a space vehicle, as well as some of the materials and technologies that go into manned space vehicle development. The successful incorporation of the human element into a complex machine that can transport a human crew through the harsh and unforgiving environment of space is an immense challenge and a delicate balancing act. Designers and engineers must account for all aspects of human anthropometry, safety, and performance while continuing to balance the physical variables of power, mass, and volume. If one piece of the puzzle is left out, some other piece will have to move in order to account for it later, so all factors must be inserted into the equation as early in the design cycle as possible. Unfortunately, human psychological concerns are often unaccounted for or left out completely, and as a result, crewmembers experience neurobehavioral debilitation due to the effects of confinement and sensory deprivation. The hope is that armed with this information, designers can account for this aspect of human-centered design early in the development of advanced vehicle concepts for space and that future space exploration crews will be healthy, happy, and productive while furthering the reach of humanity and pushing our universal consciousness into the future.

References Bond, R. L. (1973), “Habitability/Crew Quarters: Experiment M487. Skylab Med. Expt. Altitude Test,” NASA. Available online: http://naca.larc.nasa.gov/search.jsp?R=19740003763&qs=N%3 D4294950110%2B4294962669%26Nn%3D125%257CCollection%257CNIX/ Crane, B. H. (1964), “The Relationship of Work–Rest Schedules, Confinement, and Habitability to Crew Performance as Anticipated for Space Missions: A Selected Review,” NASA-CR126779, NASA. European Space Agency (2003), “SP-1264: HUMEX Study on the Survivability and Adaptation of Humans to Long-Duration Exploration Missions,” European Space Agency. Available online: http://emits.sso.esa.int/emits-doc/RD1-AO-1-5173.pdf Fraser, T. M. (1966), “The Effects of Confinement as a Factor in Human Space Flight,” NASA-CR511, NASA. Freeman, M. (2000), Challenges of Human Space Exploration, Chichester: Springer Praxis.

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Hay, G. M., H. L. Loats, Jr., and E. Morris (1969), “Study of the Astronauts Capabilities to Maintain Life Support Systems and Cabin Habitability in Weightless Conditions,” NASA-CR1405, NASA. McFadden, N. M., R. M. Patton, G. A. Rathert, Jr., T. A. Rogers, G. W. Stinnett, and R. F. Weick (1964), “Minimum Crew Space Habitability for the Lunar Mission,” NASA-TN-D-2065, NASA. Marton, T., F. P. Rudek, R. A. Miller, and D. G. Norman (1971), Handbook of Human Engineering Design Data for Reduced Gravity, NASA-CR-1726, NASA. Mounte, F. E. (1972a), Habitability Data Handbook, Volume 2: Architecture and Environment, NASA-TM-X-68352, MSC-03909-VOL-1&2, NASA. Mounte, F. E. (1972b), “Volume Considerations for Future Space Vehicles,” unpublished internal document, NASA. NASA (1995), “Man-Systems Integration Standards Revision B,” National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Available online: http://www.msis.jsc.nasa.gov (accessed May 15, 2015). Nefedov, Yu. G. and S. N. Zaloguyev (1967), “The Problem of Spacecraft Habitability,” in Foundations of Space Biology and Medicine, 34–42, Washington, DC: NASA. Translation of “Kosmicheskaya blologiya i meditsina,” Izdatel’stvo “Meditsina,” 1 (1), M. Calvin and O. G. Gazenko, eds, Moscow, 1967. Petrov, Y. A. (1975), “Habitability of Spacecraft,” in Foundations of Space Biology and Medicine, vol. 3, M. Calvin and O. G. Gazenko, eds, 157–92. NASA SP-374. Wise, J. A. (1988), “The Quantitative Modeling of Human Spatial Habitability,” NASA-CR-177501, NASA.

15 FABRICS FOR SPACE TRAVEL Evelyne Orndoff*

For over 50 years of its history, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) has led in the development of unique textiles for the specific requirements of different space exploration programs. Some of these fabrics or their derivatives have made their way into successful commercial applications; others have become museum artifacts. The high cost and narrow range of aerospace applications have, however, led to these materials being produced in limited amounts. This chapter presents a historical perspective on these rare fabrics that allow humans to explore the harsh environment of space. Some fabrics were developed to protect humans from hazardous environments, both inside and outside space vehicles. Others were developed for spacecraft applications or for space habitable structures. Many of these fabrics were also used in applications such as packaging, covering, and labeling space hardware. However, the most remarkable fabrics were originally made for astronaut apparel. Beta fiber cloth, expanded polytetrafluoroethylene (PTFE) and Ortho fabrics, polybenzimidazole, and modified aramid Durette® were used in several programs. A few fabrics, like Chromel R or TOR, were used multiple times in one program or only used once to demonstrate new technology. Many have never been used. This is the case of Astro Velcro and Astro Velcro II fasteners. In addition, various blended fabrics were developed for engineering evaluation only. The development of textiles was driven by the specific needs and requirements of different NASA projects. For each manned exploration project NASA had the task of providing the astronauts with clothing appropriate for their missions. This began with Project Mercury in 1958, for which one of the first needs was to dress the astronauts with a suit that would protect them from a sudden depressurization of the cabin. The lightest full pressure suit in existence at that time was the high-altitude Navy Mark IV. NASA chose this suit for its first manned project, and directed the B. F. Goodrich Company to make modifications to their Mark IV suit to meet the Mercury capsule requirements. The result was “a dazzling aluminum-coated nylon-and-rubber creation” to quote the B. F. Goodrich news release. The dark gray nylon outer layer of the Mark IV had been replaced by a futuristic looking nylon to limit the infrared heat interchange with the Mercury capsule walls; if the cabin walls were to overheat during the re-entry phase of the flight, this heat * Source and copyright: This material is declared a work of the US Government and is not subject to copyright protection in the United States.

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would be reflected away from the astronaut’s body during the period of re-entry. This first space suit was appropriate for the short durations of the two Mercury-Redstone flights which lasted fifteen minutes. However, the duration of the following Mercury-Atlas flights, increasing from five hours to more than a day, showed that a human waste management control system inside the suit was needed for all future manned space exploration. From Project Mercury that ran between 1958 and 1963 to Project Gemini that started in 1962 and ended in 1966, the space suit evolved from being a pressurized protective garment to becoming a life support system with ventilation and temperature control, waste management, a port for drinking water, and other features for long-term comfort. The Gemini suit outer layer was made of aluminized nylon, and the pressure retention bladder made of neoprene coated nylon. This suit, designed for space walks, had additional layers for micrometeoroid and thermal protection: one nylon layer for impact protection, and seven layers of aluminized Mylar film with polyester fabric spacers for thermal insulation. With the Apollo program which started in 1961 and ended in 1972, unique requirements of strength, flame resistance, and drape (a characteristic of flexibility and suppleness) were imposed on textiles used in the spacecraft and in the lunar environment. In order to accommodate these extreme conditions, Owens Corning, under NASA contract, developed the extra fine filament fiber, Beta Fiberglass®. This inorganic fiber is nonflammable in a 100 per cent oxygen environment. It has a service temperature between −300°F and 900°F (−184°C and 482°C) and is degraded at 1550°F (843°C). Its unique characteristic is an extremely fine diameter of 3.5 to 3.8 microns resulting in low bending stiffness, a necessary condition for making fabrics with high drape. In today’s textile terminology the “Beta fiber,” as it became known in the aerospace industry, would be called a microfiber. With further enhancement through the addition of Teflon coating, Beta multifilament yarns became easier to weave, and the overall abrasion resistance of the glass fabrics was also improved. The enhanced Beta Fiberglass® fabrics, more than any other fabrics, have been used throughout the various space programs. The woven Beta fabrics were selected for the outer layer of Apollo space suits and flight suits, for the interior liner of the Apollo Command Module, and for several crew equipment items and fire protective covers. The largest use of Beta fabric in the Space Shuttle Program’s Orbiter was the contamination control cover of the cargo bay. Between 1967 and 1990 approximately 10,450 pounds of Beta fabrics were used in the Apollo, Skylab, ApolloSoyuz, Space Shuttle, and Spacelab programs combined. Today, with the International Space Station, the need for glass fiber fabrics is even greater than before, due to the long exposure of materials to space radiation and space particles. Glass and ceramic structures have excellent resistance to the atomic oxygen present in low earth orbit, whereas atomic oxygen will provoke the inevitable degradation of organic materials over time. Today the need for the original Beta fiber is gone since glass fabrics are no longer used in the space suit. By the mid-1990s, neither Owens Corning nor Dodge Fibers in Hoosick Falls, NY (Oak Fluorglas Division) could sustain the production of a material that had one customer. The need for tailoring a garment out of glass fabric ended with the Space Shuttle Program. Shuttle space suits would be used for several missions as opposed to Apollo suits made for each mission.

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The difference in spacesuit material requirements between the Space Shuttle and the Apollo programs led to the development of fabrics made of blended yarns. For example, the 5 psi (Imperial pressure unit: pounds per square inch), 100 per cent oxygen environment of the Apollo cabin was replaced by ambient conditions of 14.7 psi and 20 per cent oxygen in the Space Shuttle cabin. Hence, the Shuttle cabin wardrobe could be composed of the same cotton clothes as worn on Earth for exercise and routine activities. However, each time the astronauts would prepare for extravehicular activity (“space-walk”), and transition from cabin atmosphere to vacuum, the Shuttle airlock atmosphere (and consequently part of the cabin) was changed to 10.2 psi and 30 per cent oxygen in order to reduce the pre-breathing time required before extravehicular activity. Hence, the flame resistance requirement for an oxygen-enriched atmosphere was reduced due to a drop in oxygen concentration from 100 per cent to 30 per cent. This enabled textile engineers to develop Ortho fabric for the outer layer of the spacesuit (Figure 15.1). This double-face fabric was engineered to have excellent abrasion and wear resistance, flame resistance in a 30 per cent oxygen environment, high temperature and chemical resistance, and flexibility in low temperature environments. The Ortho fabric is made of a unique combination of Nomex®, Kevlar®, and Gore-Tex® fibers. In weavers’ terminology, the construction has a front face made of Gore-Tex® fiber, 400 denier, a six-harness split basket weave with fancy draw. The back face is made of 200 denier/two-ply filament Nomex®, 6-harness split basket weave, fancy draw with two-end repeat of 400 denier Kevlar® yarns in warp and filling directions. This fabric incorporated the expanded PTFE fiber (Gore-Tex®) developed by Gore for the

Figure 15.1 Ortho-fabric. Image: NASA.

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US government to make heat and flame resistant fabrics. Ortho remains the material of choice for the outer layer of the spacesuit in the International Space Station program. Besides Ortho, other fabrics were developed for specific applications and later replaced. These fabrics were made of polybenzimidazole (PBI), modified aramid (Durette®), chromium-nickel alloy (Chromel R), and polyarylene ethers (Astro Velcro). They have in common the fact that they were produced in very limited quantities, and the cost to produce them today is prohibitive. PBI fibers were first synthetized in the late 1950s by Hoechst Celanese, and produced in the 1960s in the form of filament and staple fibers for one client, the US government, under a contract with the US Air Force. NASA joined in through a contract with Fabric Research Laboratories in Mansfield, MA to produce fabrics for Skylab, Apollo-Soyuz, and later for the Space Shuttle Orbiter. PBI products used at NASA were cords and webbings, woven and knitted fabrics for apparel as well as spacecraft items. The clothes were jackets and trousers; the other items were diverse, ranging from book tethers to treadmill harnesses and stowage bags. PBI’s large spectrum of applications is due to its unique combination of thermo-oxidative and physical properties. The fiber is intrinsically flame retardant and absorbs moisture like cotton. This ability to absorb moisture, called moisture regain, is one of the factors leading to the similarity of comfort perception between cotton and PBI. During the same period PBI was used for its thermal properties, Durette® was under development. Durette® came from a dual effort between NASA and the Monsanto Company to modify DuPont’s meta-aramid fiber, Nomex®. DuPont’s fiber did not meet the flame resistance requirement laid down for the Skylab Program and the ApolloSoyuz Test Program. Nomex® was initially thought to be promising for inflight suits but lacked sufficient dimensional stability at high temperatures, leading to thermal shrinkage. Monsanto’s chemists overcame the problem of dimensional stability by applying various combinations of thermal and chemical treatments until thermal performance and toxicity were under control. Three series of Durette® fabrics were produced: series 400 and 420 were still produced in 1995, whereas series 430 had been discontinued for releasing cyanide upon combustion. The 400 and 420 series fabrics had minimal heat shrinkage, increased flame resistance, and were non-toxic. These fabrics came in different styles and constructions. Many nonwoven fabrics and raschel knits were manufactured for crew equipment applications. Nonwoven Durette® 400-11 was still commercially available in 2009 but its properties had changed. Raschel knits are lace fabrics that have been used since the Apollo program in “see-through” curtains and bags. Some are still used inside the International Space Station. Modified aramid fabrics were also used in the Space Shuttle thermal protection system. This system included the external Shuttle tiles and three types of felts (Figure 15.2). The Strain Isolator Pad was made of needled nonwoven Nomex. This Nomex felt was bonded to all the Shuttle tiles with a silicone rubber adhesive to attenuate the strains and deflections in the fuselage skin occurring during ascent and re-entry which would otherwise cause the tiles to crack. The Filler Bar was made of treated Nomex felt to increase its thermal stability to 750°F (399°C), thus making it more resistant to thermal exposure than the adjacent Strain Isolator Pad. Filler Bar strips were bonded to the vehicle surface at the lower base of the junction of all the tiles’ edges to serve as thermal barrier.

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The last felt, called the Felt Reusable Surface Insulation, was also heat treated and coated with a white silicone rubber. It was thicker than the other two felts and was engineered for continuous use at temperatures of −300°F (149°C) to 700°F (371°C), and limited exposure to 830°F (443°C). The white coating of this felt was chosen for its thermal optical properties with emissivity and absorptivity of 0.8 and 0.16 when new, 0.8 and 0.32 after launch and re-entry. Emissivity is the measure of a surface ability to emit heat by radiation. For example, a shiny mirror that reflects heat has a value near 0 and a blackbody that emits heat has a value of 1. Absorptivity or spectral absorptance is the ratio of the radiation absorbed by a surface to that incident upon it. The lower the absorptivity, the less radiation is absorbed, and with infrared radiation, this means that the material does not heat up easily. These thermal optical characteristics have been of the utmost importance in the selection of materials that are exposed to solar infrared radiation. All thermal blankets are made to protect hardware from overheating or freezing in space, and are designed to meet an application’s specific values of emissivity and absorptivity. Materials continuously exposed to the space environment are subjected to extreme thermal cycles that can range from −250°F (−157°C) to +250°F (121°C). They can be impacted by micrometeoroids as well as debris from man-made objects orbiting Earth. They also receive various doses of electromagnetic radiation, and atomic oxygen in low earth orbit. While metals, glasses, and ceramics can withstand this environment for a long time, plastics and all organic matter cannot. Hence with the rising cost to launch, materials have to be lighter and more durable to reduce the number of re-supply launches. Much work has been done on developing structures containing multilayered fabrics, thin films, and foams for prolonged exposure. TransHab, the inflatable habitat developed in-house at the Johnson Space Center, and the Advanced Inflatable Airlock developed under NASA contract by Honeywell Inc., FTL Happold, and Clemson University are such examples. TransHab is the inflatable home concept first originated at NASA’s Johnson Space Center. It is a toroid structure 23 feet in diameter, with three levels of living quarters. Its walls are a foot thick and have four components: an outer layer of micrometeoroid and debris protection, a restraint layer, pressure bladders, and an inside wall (Plate 18). TransHab was developed as the concept for living quarters on future Mars-bound

Figure 15.2 Space Shuttle tile. Image: NASA.

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spacecraft. It is a hybrid structure made of a metal-and-composite rigid core and an inflatable shell made of soft goods. The core is designed to be the primary load path to react the loads induced on TransHab during launch. The shell is folded during launch, and does not carry load other than its own weight until inflated. The interior has three floors, six individual crew quarters, a galley and wardroom, an exercise area, and stowage spaces. A cross-section of TransHab shows the following fabrics: MM

MM

ChemFab® glass fabric with several layers of aluminized Mylar for outer protection. Layers of Nextel® with foam rubber spacers between them for micrometeoroid and debris protection.

MM

A hand-woven restraint made of Kevlar® webbing.

MM

Combitherm® film bladders alternating with layers of Kevlar®.

MM

Nomex® cloth for scuff and damage protection against the crew.

The Advanced Inflatable Airlock was designed to allow two astronauts to prepare for space walks. Airlocks in space vehicles are devices used for the passage of astronauts between the vehicle cabin pressure and space vacuum while minimizing the loss of air in the cabin. This compactable airlock was engineered to fit on any platform or vehicle. One can imagine a pop-up camper that only shows a hard shell when closed, and opens up to reveal a tent inside (Plate 19). In this case, the tent is pressurized during the preparation for space walks, and depressurized once the astronauts are ready for their extravehicular activities. From an architectural and structural standpoint, the shape of the device should maximize volume and minimize forces and other stressors on the fabrics. Typically, a spheroidal shape satisfies these requirements. As discussed previously, the fabrics selected must withstand the on-orbit environment as well as micrometeoroid and debris impact. They must also handle the operating pressures and be folded and pressed inside the hard shell when the airlock is compacted. The complete textile architecture that satisfied these conditions was composed of: MM

MM

Ortho fabric for tear and micrometeoroid energy attenuation and dispersement. Multilayer Insulation made of five layers of aluminized Mylar with scrim for thermal protection.

MM

A space gap for further micrometeoroid and debris particle dispersement.

MM

Nextel® fabric for particle stoppage.

MM

Vectran® fabric as a restraint to over-pressurize the bladder.

MM

Polytetrafluoroethylene fabric to decrease friction between bladder and restraint.

MM

Silicon impregnated nylon as gas impermeable layer to contain air.

MM

Turtle Skin inner layer for scuff protection.

Textile engineering for space structures has been applied more to the design of functional lay-ups than to the development of new fabrics. Nonetheless, the TransHab hand-woven

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restraint could be considered as a new fabric. This restraint was hand-woven at the Johnson Space Center by civil servants and contractors with one-inch wide Kevlar webbing. Webbings, which are a type of narrow fabric, were interlaced in the same way yarns are woven in a hand loom. While the afore-mentioned fabrics developed for NASA are still in use, the next are no longer used or have never been used. Chromel R fabric from Litton Industries is one of them. The only samples in existence are displayed in museums as part of the Gemini and Apollo spacesuits or stored away at NASA’s Johnson Space Center. This metallic fabric was originally developed for abrasion and cut resistance and, for the most part, used on gloves and boots in the Apollo spacesuit. Chromel R metallic fibers were made of a chromium-nickel alloy exhibiting high tensile strength up to temperatures of 1000°F (538°C), and high tear strength to 500°F (260°C). Chromel R, used as a cut and flame resistant fabric for lunar landing and lunar excursions, was no longer needed after the Apollo program. Along with Chromel R, Astro Velcro and Astro Velcro II have become historical artifacts. Both fasteners from Velcro Industries were engineered for use in an oxygen-enriched environment. Astro Velcro was used in the oxygen-enriched crew-cabin environments of Apollo and Skylab. This first fastener is made of polyester hooks and polytetrafluoroethylene loops woven into Beta glass ground tapes. Astro Velcro II, developed later, was the result of advances in polymer resin processing. This amazing fastener has a Beta Fiberglass® ground with polyarylene hooks-and-loops. It has both higher peel and shear strengths than Astro Velcro and nylon fasteners. In spite of the fact that it passed all NASA tests needed to qualify for flight, it was too expensive to produce, and thus was never used. The last of these extraordinary fabrics is TOR, developed by Triton Systems Inc. (TSI). The small and newly founded company received funding from NASA in 1992 in response to the findings from the Long Duration Exposure Facility (LDEF). LDEF was a facility designed to provide data on the degradation of materials exposed to the environment. It orbited around the earth for almost six years between 1984 and 1990. After its retrieval from six years in space, NASA scientists found that virtually all polymeric materials exposed to ultraviolet radiation and atomic oxygen were severely damaged. The LDEF findings raised concerns about using new polymer composite materials in the space station. TOR is a space durable polymer that can withstand the damaging effects of ultraviolet radiation and atomic oxygen as well as extreme thermal cycles. In 1996, TOR thin films were flown on the MIR station as part of the Passive Optical Sample Assembly (POSA-I) experiment. Since that time, TOR sewing thread and woven fabrics have been developed and evaluated for future space applications. Many other fabrics were developed over the fifty-three years of human spaceflight. For the most part, these fabrics were made of blended yarns in an attempt to combine properties from their different components. For example, polybenzoxazole (PBO) was blended with Nomex or polyimide (P84) for improving its abrasion resistance. Similarly, Beta Fiberglass® yarns were blended with various polymeric fiber yarns to obtain core/ sheath type fabrics which have a good combination of flame resistance, UV and atomic oxygen resistance, as well as other desired mechanical properties. These blended fabrics are examples of NASA’s continuous research effort at developing fabrics for use in extreme environments. Efforts in the last decade have been pursued in developing

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lightweight fabrics that have low thermal conductivity in reduced atmospheres such as that of Mars. Aspen Aerogels Inc., through a series of contracts with NASA and the Department of Defense, developed fibrous composites with aerogels made of silica or elastomers (Figure 15.3). Additionally, research has been done in the development of thermally conductive fabrics for spacesuits. Traditionally, metabolic heat in the spacesuit is dissipated by using a liquid cooling garment. This garment is made of a nylon/spandex open knit through which a small plastic tube is woven in a serpentine pattern. Cold water flows in the tube, conducting metabolic heat, thus preventing the astronauts from overheating inside the space suit. Scientists at Nanotechnologies of Texas, Inc. developed in the early 2000s a nylon/spandex fabric containing up to 10 per cent single wall carbon nanotubes. The nanotubes were incorporated in the nylon during the fiber formation process. In addition, the ethyl vinyl acetate plastic used in the cooling garment tube was doped with the same carbon nanotubes used in doping the nylon resin. The result was a cooling garment prototype with better thermal conductivity than its original counterpart. To complete this overview of textile research activities led by NASA, one must also mention the many auxiliary products that were developed for improving one or more properties of fabrics already used in the space program. During the Apollo program, special inks were needed to print on the Beta fabrics. Inorganic inks were produced for that purpose. Later, since cotton could be used in the Shuttle orbiter, non-toxic flame retardant finishes were developed for cotton garments. Lint production from cotton cloth also became an issue, and various fabric treatments were proposed for lint control. Today, the need for improvements of textile products still exists. Lint and microbes were not a great concern in the Space Shuttle because the missions were short, and the Shuttle was cleaned once back on Earth. With the continuous use of the International Space Station, cleaning must be done in space. However, this is not something easy to do. For example, the individual crew quarters are lined with acoustic blankets made of nonwoven and woven fabrics. Soiling of these interior fabrics poses the same problems as those with carpeted flooring in commercial and residential areas. The difference is that

Figure 15.3 Textiles for spacesuits made with polybutadiene and opacified quartz aerogels. Image: NASA.

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most of the cleaning products used on carpets cannot be used in a spacecraft. Also, in microgravity, one cannot spray liquids on surfaces for cleaning. Dry and wet wipes are currently used, but their effectiveness is limited. New solutions are needed for the sanitation of vehicles that stay in space. Exploration of deep space, as laid out on the current draft of the NASA Technology Roadmaps (between 2015 and 2035), includes the development of new fabrics and finishes for spacecraft interiors and apparel. Hence, research will continue.

Note The views expressed herein are those of the author and not of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration or any other organization.

References Albany International Research Co. (1981), Felt Materials for Shuttle Orbiter Thermal Protection System, Dedham, MA. Barido, R., A. Macknight, O. Rodriguez, P. Heppel, R. Lerner, C. Jarvis, K. Kennedy, and L. Trevino (2003), Breadboard Development of the Advanced Inflatable Airlock System for EVA, SAE International. Campbell A. et al. (2002), Advanced Inflatable Airlock System for EVA, SAE International. Campbell, A., R. Barido, J. Knudsen, A. MacKnight, R. Lerner, P. Heppel, T. Dalland, C. Jarvis, T. Raines, and L. Trevino (2002), “Advanced Inflatable Airlock System for EVA (SAE 2002–01– 2314),” 32nd International Conference on Environmental Systems (ICES), San Antonio, Texas, July 15–18. de la Fuente, Horacio, Jasen L. Raboin, Gary R. Spexarth and Gerard D. Valle (2000) TransHab: NASA’s Large-Scale Inflatable Spacecraft. Available at http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi. ntrs.nasa.gov/20100042636.pdf McBarron J., Draft Document on Project Mercury, personal folder. NASA Fact Sheet, TransHab, FS-1999–08–006-JSC. NASA Technology Roadmaps draft document 2014. Available at: http://www.nasa.gov/offices/ oct/home/roadmaps/index.html/

16 THE ROLE OF SOFT MATERIALS IN THE DESIGN OF EXTREME INTERIOR ENVIRONMENTSFOR SPACE EXPLORATION Larry Toups, Matthew Simon, Robert Howard, and A. Scott Howe

Introduction With the completed assembly of the International Space Station (ISS) in Low Earth Orbit (LEO), a fairly permanent foothold was established for humans to explore space. As a residence for astronauts, it currently enables stays as long as six months and will enable stays as long as a year starting in 2015. In the design, fabrication, launch, and assembly of International Space Station (ISS) elements, many constraints influenced what materials could be used in the construction process. The element structure and the outfitting inside needed to withstand extreme launch loads, which became the primary constraint driving construction material choices. As a result, most images of the ISS show a very structurally sound exterior and a hard, sometimes cold, interior environment. However, another conflicting constraint is to keep the mass of delivered elements as low as possible. This requires designers to maintain a balance between strength and weight of materials to design safe, mass efficient spacecraft. As we look to future space travel beyond LEO, a materials shift to the use of lighter weight materials such as textiles and other soft goods could be used to reduce vehicle mass by taking advantage of the less extreme loads following launch. The discussion that follows will describe some plans for future exploration missions to destinations such as Mars and will describe how textiles might be an integral part of that planning.

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Background There have been many studies over the past twenty years looking at missions beyond LEO to various destinations such as the moon, asteroids, the moons of Mars, and the Mars surface. Two representative efforts conducted within NASA are referenced here as examples—the Lunar Architecture Team (LAT) chartered in May 2006 to investigate approaches for a return to the moon (Toups et al. 2009), and the Mars Design Reference Architecture 5.0 published in 2009, which provides a vision of one potential approach to human Mars exploration (Drake 2009). Within both these studies, the use of textiles and other soft goods for inflatable structures and interior outfitting started to emerge. One of the interesting aspects of LAT was that the architecture study focused on three primary habitation strategies for an outpost on the moon. The three strategies were (1) habitats that are small, modular, and unloaded from a lander to create an outpost (similar to ISS); (2) a monolithic habitat strategy that remained on the lander; and (3) habitats that remain on the lander and are mobile (Toups et al. 2008b). Two of these strategies made an attempt at looking at alternatives to the ISS-derived buildup of hard, fixed modules used for habitation. Figure 16.1 illustrates the use of inflatable structures as the primary structure on a modular lunar outpost (Toups et al. 2008a). Figure 16.2 is an illustration of the outpost as envisioned in the LAT study using Strategy 2, a monolithic habitat that is

Figure 16.1 Alternative inflatable Torus habitat outpost for the lunar surface. Image: NASA.

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delivered to the lunar surface and remains on the Lander and would house and support four crewmembers for as long as 180 days.

Mars Design Reference Architecture 5.0 (DRA 5.0) While the studies during LAT focused on the moon as a destination, the Mars DRA 5.0 focused on a human mission to the surface of Mars. It involved long surface stays with visits to multiple sites. It also focused on providing scientific diversity to maximize science return. In this mission concept, the Mars systems were pre-deployed to reduce mission mass and conduct system checkout prior to crew departure from Earth. Multiple strategies for assets on the surface of Mars were considered including: the “Mobile Home,” which emphasized large pressurized rovers to maximize mobility range; the “Commuter,” which included both a habitat and small pressurized rovers to balance mobility and science desires; and the “Telecommuter,” which placed an emphasis on robotic exploration by teleoperating robotic assets from a local habitat. The “Commuter” approach, which was used for the cover of DRA 5.0, is illustrated in Figure 16.3 and includes an inflatable habitat on the Mars Lander.

Figure 16.2 Monolithic habitat on lunar lander. Image: NASA.

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Figure 16.3 Commuter surface strategy from DRA 5.0. Image: NASA.

Use of soft goods in interior space environments Within previous space missions and the many mission concepts which have been developed over the past fifty years of spaceflight (including LAT and Mars DRA 5.0), there have been many proposed uses of soft goods and textiles specifically within the interior volume of spacecraft. Several of these examples are shown in Plate 20. One significant application of soft goods has been the construction and outfitting of personal crew quarters aboard the ISS. On Shuttle and ISS missions, soft goods have been used to construct the lightweight sleeping restraints and sleeping bags which crewmembers use to secure their body positions for sleep. Textiles have also been used in ISS crew quarters for acoustic blanketing to ensure privacy, as insulation to prevent heat losses to the cold environment of space, as an aesthetic texture, and as partitions within the spacecraft to provide visual privacy for crew. Another common application of soft goods is the use of textiles as flexible, collapsible containers for transporting and storing goods. On ISS, textiles make up the containers used to hold the goods or logistics required for the mission such as food and medical consumables, hygiene goods, and spare parts. These containers are called Cargo Transfer Bags (CTBs) and are designed of fairly resilient fabrics. Additionally, larger bags called M-bags, which carry multiple CTBs, were designed to facilitate loading of CTBs onto the vehicle. When these CTBs or M-bags are emptied, they can either be compacted down for small volume storage, or can be repurposed for structural outfitting or life support as described in the next section. Contingency Water Containers (CWCs) which transport contingency water to orbit are also made of textiles surrounding a bladder and valve assembly. Soft goods are also commonly used to construct structural materials, particularly when flexible or deformable structures are desired. On ISS and current logistics vehicles, straps made of synthetic, woven fibers were used to secure payloads to the spacecraft

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interior and support them through launch loads. Soft goods can also be used as structural support members through inflatables. In particular, the use of air beam-derived structures is appealing for future spaceflight applications because of their light weight and the ability to compress these structures into extremely small stowage volumes when not in use. Finally, the most frequent use of textiles on space missions is clothing and garments which provide crew modesty and protect crew from potentially harmful environments. Clothing on current missions is similar to terrestrial clothing, but future space missions may require clothing with better flammability properties and which lasts longer without cleaning. Special Launch, Entry, and Abort suits are used to protect crew from emergency decompressions in launch and entry events. Finally, multiple types of space suits are provided to protect crew when outside the spacecraft on Extra-Vehicular Activities (EVAs) or spacewalks. These suits must be designed with hard joints and tough fabrics to protect crew from micrometeoroid impacts and planetary dust. Design of these suits is complicated further by the desire to limit customized parts of the suits for individual crew-members, which would make sharing very difficult. Additionally, they must be designed to allow the astronaut the dexterity to perform the required tasks effectively. This is a challenge because the pressure within the suits can make movement difficult. More information about this phenomenon and EVA suits in general can be found in Larson and Pranke (1999). For future space missions, there are several additional potential applications of soft goods which can be used to reduce the mass of the vehicle and increase the utility of the interior layout: MM

sheets of fabric and structural frames such as air beams can be used to construct structural partitions or deployable personal crew quarters;

MM

deployment of interior radiation protection concepts;

MM

wearable radiation protection;

MM

plastic based clothing for heat melt compaction;

MM

soft goods deployable floors and internal outfitting.

Some of these are discussed in the following section.

Innovative concepts for utilizing soft materials on future missions A significant mass penalty is required for the packaging and handling of logistics required for re-supply of both short- and long-duration space missions due to the launch vibrations and loads. Once the supplies have been exhausted, this packaging material is typically of no further use and is discarded. In the Logistics-2-Living approach (Howe and Howard 2010), a modular packaging system has been devised as a kit-of-parts that can

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be used for handling logistics supplies, and then reconfigured into desks, chairs, partitions, floors, cabinets, and radiation shielding (Figure 16.4). The system is derived from a standard International Space Station (ISS)-type Cargo Transfer Bag (CTB) by introducing stiff metal inserts to create soft, unfoldable box-like containers. The empty CTBs can be used as-is for cabinets, opened up for use as partitions, or draped over the habitat as layers of hydrogen-impregnated radiation shielding (Shull, Polit-Casillas, and Howe 2012). Stiff metal inserts can be reconfigured into desks and other useful outfitting. A prototype Logistics-2-Living kit-of-parts system (Figure 16.5) was used to convert a stack of launch configuration CTBs into a geo-science workstation, complete with functioning glove box, tools, and video imaging. The conversion exercise was performed in a Microhab habitat analog at the NASA Desert Research and Technology Study (D-RATS) field tests in Arizona. The Logistics-2-Living concept has been applied to life support systems as well. Prototype CTBs have been constructed with layered membrane walls, sandwiching a filter at the core. Assuming that hundreds of CTBs could be used on a long-duration mission, some of them could be fitted with forward osmosis systems that pre- or postfilter waste water for recovery (Flynn et al. 2012) and are set up to line the walls for added radiation protection. The most recent Logistics-2-Living studies have developed Modified Cargo Transfer Bags (MCTBs), most readily recognized by their blue color (as opposed to the standard white CTB color scheme), that are designed to use a combination of snaps to hold their shape in bag form and zippers to allow multiple MCTBs to be joined together when unfolded. Different forms of MCTBs have been developed; the most recent is an Acoustics MCTB that incorporates acoustic insulation as the filler material, with the idea that such bags could be deployed as partitions. Acoustics MCTBs can be used to line

Figure 16.4 Logistics-2-Living kit-of-parts system using membranes for internal outfitting. Image: NASA.

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Figure 16.5 Prototype membrane Cargo Transfer Bags (CTBs) unfolded and reconfigured into internal outfitting. Image: NASA.

Figure 16.6 With potentially hundreds of excess membrane Cargo Transfer Bags (CTBs) for any particular mission, some of them can be affixed to the outside of the hull for additional radiation shielding. Image: NASA.

sections of the spacecraft containing particularly noisy equipment, such as life support hardware or exercise equipment, or can be used to line sections of the spacecraft where quiet is required, such as crew quarters. A recent JSC proposal combines Acoustics MCTBs with inflatable air beams to create a temporary crew quarters that can be deployed and stowed on a daily basis. This approach is intended to support spacecraft of moderate mission duration (e.g. 14–60 days), where the spacecraft does not contain

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sufficient interior volume for permanently deployed crew quarters but crew privacy for sleep is still required.

Summary The use of textiles in habitats for future space exploration beyond LEO is a desirable option worth consideration. The advantages they offer in the reduction of launch mass and packaged volume are attractive benefits, so long as they are able to meet the functional requirements necessary to sustain crewmembers in a safe and productive environment. The current state-of-the-art technology provides a sound basis to focus technology maturation efforts that will certify these materials for use in the interior and exterior environments unique to space flight. These include materials that have reduced risk of flammability and reduced off-gassing properties for use in interiors. It also includes the certification of materials that will provide sound, expandable structures and substructures of the habitat itself. In summary, the introduction of textiles and other soft goods materials into future habitat designs offers a solution with a substantial potential to improve spacecraft interiors while also stimulating creative and innovative solutions in the textile industry.

References Drake, B. G., ed. (2009), Human Exploration of Mars Design Reference Architecture 5.0, NASA-SP-2009–566 (July 2009). http://www.nasa.gov/pdf/373665main_NASA-SP-2009-566. pdf Flynn, M. T., S. Gormly, M. Hammoudeh, H. Shaw, K. Howard, A. S. Howe, J. Chambliss, and M. Soler (2012), “Forward Osmosis Cargo Transfer Bag,” AIAA2012–3599, 42nd International Conference on Environmental Systems (ICES2012), San Diego, California, USA, 15–19 July 2012, Reston, VA: American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. Howe, A. S. and R. Howard (2010), “Dual Use of Packaging on the Moon: Logistics-2-Living,” AIAA2010–6049, Proceedings of the 40th International Conference on Environmental Systems, Barcelona, Spain, 11–16 July 2010, Reston, VA: American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. Larson, W. J. and L. K. Pranke (1999), Human Spaceflight: Mission Analysis and Design, New York: McGraw-Hill. Polit-Casillas, R. (2012), “Logistics-2-Shielding Mapper: Automated Space Construction System Using CTBs,” AIAA2012–3600, AIAA Space 2012 Conference & Exhibition, Pasadena, California, 11–13 Sep 2012, Reston, VA: American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. Shull, S. A., R. Polit-Casillas, and A. S. Howe (2012), “NASA Advanced Exploration Systems: Concepts for Logistics to Living,” AIAA2012–5252, AIAA Space 2012 Conference & Exhibition, Pasadena, California, 11–13 Sep 2012, Reston, VA: American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics. Toups, L., K. Kennedy, et al. (2008a), “Constellation Architecture Team-Lunar Habitation Concepts”, AIAA 2008–7633, AIAA SPACE 2008 Conference and Exhibition, September 9–11. Toups, L., K. Kennedy, et al. (2008b), “Lunar Architecture Team: Phase 2 Architecture Option—2 Habitation Concepts,” Earth and Space: Engineering, Science, Construction, and Operations

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in Challenging Environments, American Society of Civil Engineers (ASCE). Available at: http:// ascelibrary.org/doi/abs/10.1061/40988%28323%29105/ Toups, L. and K. Kennedy (2009), “Lunar Habitat Concepts,” in A. Howe and B. Sherwood (eds), Out of This World: The New Field of Space Architecture, AIAA History of Spaceflight series, 205–27, Reston, VA: American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics.

17 INTERVIEW WITH CHARLES CAMARDA Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton

When you entered your first degree was your hope to pursue a career as an engineer with NASA or did you have interest in a career as an astronaut? I was one of those kids who knew exactly what I wanted to do, although I was very much influenced by astronauts I wanted to go into the space program and I guess the first step was to be an engineer. I knew right away that I was most suited to engineering and I selected aerospace engineering. I got lucky things fell into place. When I graduated from The Polytechnic Institute of Brooklyn I got to do an internship at NASA the summer between my junior and senior years at NASA’s Langley Research Center, I realized that I loved research and that NASA was one of the best places for me to work. It was a great opportunity to do research in an agency that put people on the moon. You began your career as an engineer and transitioned to astronaut and back to engineer. How did you make that first transition from engineer to astronaut? What was the impact of that shift? Once again I was very lucky, it happened at a time in my life where I had twenty-two years’ experience as a research engineer. As an engineer I was able to participate in three different aspects of research, the analytical/theoretical side, the experimental side, and also aspects of design. Analytical research involved developing methodologies or analysis and, in my chosen discipline, structural analyses. I was then able to spend time in a hypersonic tunnel, testing these ideas, and I was even able to develop and design some of my own ideas—I was able to play in all three areas of what a research scientist and engineer is able to do. As a researcher working in a research center we were able to design, build, and test hardware, but one thing that we did not get to do was operating real space hardware. In order for us to learn how operable our ideas—which we designed and developed—were, we should experience how they would actually be used/operated in space. I just happened to have the luck in my life that I was old enough to apply to be an astronaut at the right moment and I was accepted—here is where I could put it all together and actually fly, test, and operate real space hardware.

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Did you or your colleagues play a role in the design and/or engineering of any of the crafts that you inhabited as an astronaut? As an astronaut I flew right after the Columbia tragedy—a lot of the technology that we designed and tested as engineers and then implemented on our mission was brand new technology that was developed in order to ensure that we would fly safe and that every successive flight of the Space Shuttle would fly safe. So it was really, from an engineer’s perspective, an ideal flight. I was able to work with many different teams around the country as an engineer to develop technology, and then was able to fly and test that technology in space. With very small teams of key experts, we were able to invent several new methods for inspecting the Orbiter for damage while on orbit and, if needed, actually repair our spacecraft before re-entering the earth’s atmosphere. I was able to find out from an operator’s point of view how the design works in a real space environment. Engineers work to design something to be able to be operated by an astronaut in a spacesuit—in an environment with challenging dexterity—with very precise instruments and technology to be used by an astronaut floating around in space. I was able to test that technology during a real flight. How did your experience as an engineer influence your experience of inhabiting outerspace habitation that you or your colleagues had a hand in designing? Every mission has an anomaly—we had a couple of different anomalies on our mission. It is important that those people who assess these problems analyze them and judge them based on their experience and are able to make the right decision. We had something called a gap-filler, which is a very thin piece of a flexible, woven ceramic fabric. It is a high-temperature, thin material pad that is inserted in between each of the Space Shuttle tiles that are glued to the bottom of the vehicle, and which protect the vehicle during earth entry to prevent us from burning up. What happened during our mission was that two of these gap-fillers had protruded from the outer mold line on the bottom of the vehicle near the nose region. This would ordinarily not be a big deal except this vehicle, the Space Shuttle, is a very sensitive, very unique vehicle that slams back into the atmosphere at twenty-five times the speed of sound at Mach 25. The Space Shuttle generates a lot of unique flow conditions, and it generates extremely high heat. What we found out was that we had to remove those gap-fillers; we had two of these gap-fillers that were protruding from the bottom of the vehicle and we had to create a special spacewalk where two of the crew went out to remove the gap-fillers from the belly of the vehicle. If we didn’t do this spacewalk, it was very likely that our wing leading edges could have possibly burned up when we came back home. Several expert aerothermodynamicists on the ground, some of whom were very good friends of mine like Dr. Peter Gnoffo, Dr. Thomas Horvath and Dr. Scott Berry, had to conduct rigorous analyses, write a detailed technical report outlining the dangers/risks and give several technical presentations to convince the mission management team on the ground that we needed to do this very difficult, very dangerous EVA (extra-vehicular activity) or spacewalk. We had to prove to the mission managers on the ground that this was necessary. Luckily when they sent

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the report to us in space we had a couple of crew members, including myself, that understood the problem. We made it very clear to our commander, Air Force Colonel Eileen Collins, who made it clear to the people on the ground that this was very serious and we needed to pull those gap-fillers, we needed to do this spacewalk. So it was an unplanned unscheduled unrehearsed spacewalk—and an army of people on the ground, mission managers, the training team, the technical experts, the robotics arm team, all created a special spacewalk executed by Steve Robinson and Soichi Noguchi, our two EVA spacewalkers, which the team carried out flawlessly. We found out later that the technical experts on the ground were correct, that if we didn’t pull those gap-fillers we may very well have lost our lives coming back home. Clearly having an engineer on board is an asset in space travel. We also had a couple of people on board who were experts in this area also and we were also very well connected with the experts on the ground who were doing the analysis. We made the wrong decision on Challenger, which led to that tragedy, and we very well could have made the wrong decision on our flight. It was a very close call! We are all very pleased that you came back safely. Not too many people know this story. Thank you for sharing it with us. Do you think that you find yourself more or less critical of these environments due to your engineering background? As an engineer we know what is important, we know what is critical and we respect that— also having worked with the folks that understand extremely complex phenomena that happen when entering the earth’s atmosphere—the aerothermodynamic heating, the structures, the materials, we have to respect what could go wrong. We recognize what the risks are and we accept those risks. Being on board the flight immediately following the Columbia tragedy, I understood the technologies that were developed and what we had in place to ensure that we would be safe. I feel very comfortable that we in engineering had done due diligence, we had alleviated as much risk that we could, so I felt very safe on our flight. When you shifted back to an engineering position how did your experience as an astronaut influence your engineering work and perception of inhabiting spacecraft? It is not the technical problems that NASA has to wrestle with, it is the cultural, the sociological, the cognitive biases, the poor decisions, etc., that caused both of the accidents—that is the struggle we wrestle with, fixing those types of problems. I see us still struggling with both of those. NASA has not fully accepted the importance of the cultural and organizational causes of both the Challenger and Columbia accidents. In fact if you read the Columbia Accident Investigation Board (CAIB) reports you understand that

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these dysfunctional behaviors were just as much the cause of the accident as the piece of foam debris that struck Columbia’s port wing leading edge! Can you explain how gravity influences engineering design for space habitation? People often ask why we fly in space when it is so expensive. I think it could be space or any type of extreme environment that tests us to the limit, whether it is space or whether it is drilling miles beneath the ocean. We make tremendous technical advances when we place ourselves into very extreme environments where it becomes critical to test everything we know, all of our assumptions. For instance gravity—we could take civil engineers that have built bridges on earth, that have built machines to dig and drill on the surface of the earth, and challenge them to build equipment in space that could operate in a reduced gravity, like on the surface of the moon. Now these engineers have to test all of their assumptions. When designing an earth mover it is made very heavy so it doesn’t topple over—in space travel you can’t launch heavy objects, as carrying payload mass to space is very expensive and challenging. The challenge is how to dig, drill, and/or move large quantities of regolith on the surface of the moon with systems that are very light. President Kennedy had it right when he said: “We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills.” How did your perception of micro-gravity environments shift after your experience as an astronaut? Everyone loves the micro-gravity experience but sustaining humans in a zero or microgravity environment is very difficult. When in a micro-gravity environment astronauts lose minerals from their bones. So what is really affected by the micro-gravity environment, especially with the long-duration astronauts, is maintaining bone density. In addition, micro- and reduced gravity environments also affect their cardiovascular and muscular systems. You become very aware of your body when you are in space so you are on a strict regimen of nutrition and exercise to make sure that your body can perform on re-entry and return to earth. Every flight is an experiment and we are gaining information on every flight about the human body and how it functions in the extreme environment of space. You have described some of the physiological and health issues that occur in a micro­ environment. Can you describe the requirements in designing for a micro-gravity interior? It is important to sustain humans in space—it has to have an atmosphere, it has to have an environmental control system, but what is interesting is that it is not only your spaceship that is a “habitat,” but the spacesuit is actually a miniature spacecraft. The environmental control system and all of the technologies that are involved in making these environments habitable are linked to sustainability. Because mass is so critical in space travel, every one of these devices has be as small and light as possible as well

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as sustain human life. Reuse is critical to space travel, when we fly on our space station we process the urine; in previous spacecraft we didn’t process it to the extent that we could purify it sufficiently that we could drink it. The technology that we are developing for space is useful for looking at how we can create sustainable cities here on earth. We need to look at reuse, multi-functionality, repurposing, and reprocessing. We also have to look at the psychological context of that very small environment. A healthy crew is not only a physically healthy crew but also a psychologically healthy crew. Design is essential to the creation of a psychologically healthy environment. The aerospace industry has been responsible for the development of so many materials that have been developed for extreme environments then subsequently enter everyday use (Velcro, Teflon, Mylar, etc.)—how do you make the decision to use an existing material or develop a new one? This is an area of expertise that we place a premium on. Materials for space travel are designed and used for very specific purposes; a new material is developed when an existing one does not support the specific function. We are always trying to make things lighter—materials especially fabrics are very important. When we design spacesuits they have to be multifunctional, they have to block the heat, they have to cool the astronauts, they have to protect against the vacuum of space, they can’t be too bulky, and they have to be flexible. If you are in a pressurized spacesuit it has to be made so that the astronaut can still move, a high-pressure spacesuit has to bend and conform. NASA is very interested in smart structures, how can you make materials that change shape that can change form? It is a very rich area to be creating within. When you are talking about designing materials you are looking at material science but also many different disciplines together, as engineers you have to weigh all of those different concepts as an architect or designer would in another field. We try to push the materials to their limits depending on what the application is. Your area of specialty now is design innovation, what does design innovation mean at NASA?—You have described your role to include the development of disruptive ideas; what does that mean? My idea of engineering design is different from many people at NASA—I am interested in conceptual design. I believe more often than not we rush to pick the solution. We gravitate toward what we think is the best solution before we are able to explore the designed space and many different alternative concepts. What I look to do is train up-and-coming engineers to think about how to ideate, how to think outside the box, how to look at the problem differently, to take a couple of steps back and functionally decompose the problem. We use different techniques for ideation, the theory of inventive problem-solving, TRIZ, biologically inspired design; we use many different tools to get engineers to think outside the box. I believe that we are all creative and that it is critical to develop the right team to be as creative as possible. Innovation is a team sport; we are all creative in different ways. I am very specific in how to develop teams to problem solve—I

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teach the team to be as creative as possible to solve the problem. At NASA and at school we hate to fail. We are creating generations of students that are used to getting the one and only “correct” answer on a test; they become good at not failing and getting good grades, so we are harvesting out that ability for students to try things and fail, which is really what research is all about. At NASA we are trying to explore the unknown, so we have to create an environment that is tolerant of failure. NASA has lost its way in its recognition of this. Because I first worked in a research culture and then I became an astronaut I recognize the importance of failure. When you watch Apollo 13 you will hear Gene Kranz say, “Failure is not an option.” Well, while Gene Kranz never really said that (though it was a great tag line in the movie), he unknowingly helped to create an organization and a culture which was very intolerant to failure. While this may be a very good thing when you have already designed a vehicle to carry people to space, it is the polar opposite of what you need when you are creating an environment where researchers, scientists, and engineers have to explore and discover that which is not known. There are ways to fail: we can teach failure and teach it so that people can fail successfully—you fail in a laboratory but not when people are in the pointy end of a rocket ship ready to launch, and you don’t fail when they are in space. Failure in the laboratory is how we learn. I put together teams to solve epic challenges. I believe we build teams that are composed of people from a multitude of different disciplines to solve problems in a creative way. I agree. If you are afraid to fail, you can never solve an extreme challenge. There is increasing interest from the mainstream design community in design for extreme environments, and at the same time design for space habitation is becoming increasingly privatized, with Virgin Galactic, Spaceport Sweden and other commercial space travel concerns. In your view, what role—if any—do designers and architects play in advancing designs for space? I have worked with several space architects who engage in the design of space habitats. I think space architects and designers are critical to the design of habitable space. What they realized at the Johnson Space Center is that when you are designing habitats for outer space you really need architects. Architects have a holistic view, which is particularly important in space habitation. Positive change has come from bringing in another discipline, architecture, which can show NASA why one environment is more livable than another. Engineers don’t recognize what is needed to design a livable space. Engineers focus on the design of spacecraft that have to survive earth entry—that is first and foremost on our minds; we are not thinking about how comfortable it is. When you look at the Soyuz capsule it is one of the most uncomfortable vehicles to fly in. When designing for long-duration space inhabitation, it is important to rethink how we design and the comfort of humans in those environments: physical, emotional, psychological!

Note Interview questions written by Deborah Schneiderman and Alexa Griffith Winton; interview conducted by Deborah Schneiderman.

INDEX

Adam, Barbara 124–5 advice literature 22 Albers, Anni 18–19, 28, 46, 52 “Algae Curtain” 14; Plate 2 algorithmic systems for textile design 85, 88 Ancient Roman interiors 19 Andersen, P. 74 Anderson, Jonathon xii, 3; co‑author of Chapter 8 Antarctic Research Station, proposed 148–9 Apollo space program 172, 178 appliqué techniques 78–82 Archilace 14–15 Architecture Research Office (ARO) 40–1; Plate 3 Arts and Crafts movement 67 Babbage, Charles 10 Badding, John 115 Balzac, Honoré de 17, 20 bandwidth of human perception 135–6 Baschet, Ludovic 25 batteries 115–16 Baudrillard, J. 67 Bayou-luminescence (installation) 79–81 Bech, Karin 11–12 Beesley, Philip 89 Benitez, Margarita xii, 4; author of Chapter 10 Benjamin, Walter 9, 12, 17, 20 Berry, Scott 192 Berthault, Louis-Martin 22 Berzina, Zane 116–17 bespoke products 96, 99, 105 Betz, Scott 149 Birsel, Ayse 36–8 bitMAPS 87 Blaisse, Petra 34, 46, 62 Bloomer, Kent 74 Blyth, Eric 149 Bouroullec, Erwan and Ronan 34

Bove, Carol xii, 4, 57–63; Plate 5 “Branching Morphogenesis” (datascape) 90–1; Plate 11 Brand, Jack 33 Brown, John Seeley 110 Bruntland, G. H. 123 Bunn, Stephanie 31 “calm technology” 110–11, 115 Camarda, Charles xii, 5, 191–6 cargo transfer bags 184–7; Plate 20 Carpenter, James 46–50, 55 Carter, W. Craig 100 Chalayan, Hussein 52 Chapman, J. 124 Chavez, E. 104 climate change 147–50 Cogan, Andrew 32, 36–7 Collins, Eileen 193 color-change textiles 113 Colwell, W. 33–4 compact affordable shelters intended for transitional applications (CASiTA) 4, 147, 151–3; Plate 16 computer-aided design and making (CADM) 86 computers, access to 109–10 Cooke, Aaron 148–9 Cornell Kitchen units 99 craft, role of 2 Daly, César 22, 24 Davies, Brian F. xii, 4, 149–52; author of Chapter 13 De:ReTM felt 37–8 décor, definition of 74 DeJean, Joan 19–20 Deleuze, G. 70 department store catalogs 28 Design for Extreme Environments Project (DEEP)© 4, 145–7, 153–4

198 Index

Devall, Bill 124 Dickens, Charles 11 “digital crafting” (Thomsen) 11 digital fabrication 53, 96–102, 105 digital technologies 3–4, 82 DiRutigliano, Corey 148–9 displays of textiles 112–15 Eames, Charles and Ray 51–2, 98 Elliot, A. 97 embroidery 11 energy harvesting 115–17, 124 engineering design 195 environmental issues 124 E-Static Shadows research project 116–17 Eunhee, Jo 112 extreme environments: 2–4, 194–5; definition of 145–54; role played by textiles in 147–52 “fabric craze” 20, 28 failure as a means of learning 196 felt xviii, 4, 31–42; production of 33–5; role in interior design 34–5 FilzFelt (company) 32, 35–42 Flaubert, Gustave 17–18, 20 Fontaine, Pierre-François-Léonard 22 form-generation approaches to textile design 85, 88 Foucault, Michel 70 fulling 33 Le Garde-Meuble (journal) 22 Gemini space project 172 Gibson, J.J. 111 Gmachi, Mathias 14 Gnoffo, Peter 192 Gordon, J.E. 49–50, 55 Gosse, Célestin-François-Louis 23–4, 27–8 Grands Magasins de la Place Clichy 28 Grant, N. 124 graphics in architecture 75 gravity and micro-gravity 194 Grosz, Elizabeth xvii–xviii Guattari, F. 70 Guilmard, Désiré 21–2 Haeckel, Ernst 14 Hamlin, David 38–40 Hellman, Mimi 20 Hicks, Toni 12 Himalayan glaciers 149–51

Holbein, Hans 55 home, perceptions of 126; as a product of culture 121–2 Horden, Richard 146 HORIZON light tapestry 114 Horvath, Thomas 192 Houze, Rebecca 18 Howard, Robert xii–xiii; co‑author of Chapter 16 Howe, A. Scott xiii human factors and technologies in the digital realm 88–90 Hutchinson, Matt 79 Hylozoic Soil 89–90 ink as a material 76 installations 12–14, 88–9 interactivity, concept of 130 interface devices 112 interior decoration 20–2, 28; history of 3 interior design 1–4, 11, 95–7 International Space Station 181, 184–6 internet access 109–10 isometry 69 ISSSStudio 73–82 Jacquard, Joseph Maria 10 Johnson, Samuel 1 Kapati, Judit Essler 113–14 Kennedy, Sheila 116 Kinematics process 103–5 kitchen design 99 Knoll (company) 32, 35–6, 41–2 Kranz, Gene 196 Krogh, Astrid 114 Krüger, Sylvie 22 Kyyrö Quinn, Anne 35, 41 Lasc, Anca xiii, 3; author of Chapter 2 layered manufacturing technologies 86 Le Corbusier 18–19, 98 Lemert, C. 97 LG Chem (company) 115 light-emitting diodes (LEDs) 114–15 Loop.pH design studio 9, 14–15; Plate 2 Loos, Adolf xvii, 75 Louis-Rosenberg, Jesse 102–4 Louis XVI style 24 Maison Domino 98 Malmaison Palace 22

Index 199

Manferdini, Elena 53–4 March, L. 86 mass customization 96–9, 103–4 mass production 86 Mercury space project 171–2 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 90 Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig 18–19, 75 Millefleur (installation) 78–80 Mitchell, Victoria 9, 12, 16 modified cargo transfer bags (MCTBs) 3, 186–7 modular kits of parts needed for customizing interiors 95–8, 105 modularArt system 91–2 Morris, William 67, 70, 72 Morrow, Charlie xiii, 4, 135–42 Mossé, Aurélie xiii, 4, 128–31; Plate 15; author of Chapter 11 Motorola 103 Muthesius, Stefan 21 Napoleonic decoration 25–6 Nasmyth, James 46–50, 55 National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) 3–4, 171, 175–9, 182–3, 186, 193–6 National Science Foundation, US 147 Nervous System (company) 102–23; Plate 13 “Net Blow Up Yokohama” 13–14 Ngo, Dung 51 Noguchi, Soichi 193 noise floor 139 Norman, D. 96 Numen/For Use collective 9, 12–15; Plate 1 ornament and ornamental patterns in architecture 74–5 Orndoff, Evelyne xiii, 3; author of Chapter 15 Orth, Maggie 113, 123; Plate 14 Otto, Frei 18 Ovid 10–11 Oxman, Keren 100 Oxman, Neri 100 padding 21–2 Pallasmaa, Juhani 110 Parker, Rozsika 11 Pell, B. 75 Percier, Charles 22 Petty, Margaret Maile 14 Pfeiffer, Eric 51 Philips (company) 114–15 Picon, Antoine 73–4, 83

Piedmont-Palladino, Susan C. 53 piezoelectric fibers 116 plywood, use of 51–2 Poisson’s ratio 50 Post, Rehmi 116 PROJECTiONE 87 Protoplastic (installation) 81–2 Rael San Fratello (company) 100–2; Plate 12 Reef (experimental installation) 127–31; Plate 15 relief in architecture 79–82 Renard, Helene xiii, 4; author of Chapter 3 Revue Générale de l’Architecture et des Travaux Publics 22–3 Revue Illustrée 25, 27 Riegl, Alois 83 Robinson, Steve 193 Roloff, Traci 35–6, 38 Rosenkrantz, Jessica 102–4 Saarinen, Eero 98 Sabin, Jenny 90–1; Plate 11 Salomon, D. 74 Sandier, Alexandre 25–8 Scarpa, Carlos 57–9 Schinkel, Karl Friedrich 22 Schneiderman, Deborah xiv, 4, 76–7; Plate 10; author of Chapter 9, co-author of Chapters 5, 12 and 17 and co‑editor Schoenthaler, Laura xiv, 3; co‑author of Chapter 8 Sears Roebuck catalog 97 “second skin” concept 45–6, 53 self-actuated materials, designing with 123–4 self-actuated textiles 4, 121–6, 130 Semper, Gottfried 18, 82–3 sensorial spaces 110–12 sensors, use of 111–12 shape grammars 86–92 Siddiqui, Igor xiv, 3, 77–82; Plate 10; author of Chapter 7 Simon, Matthew xiv; co-author of Chapter 16 Sködt, Finn 35 Skylab module 4; Plate 17 Slaughter, Stephen 152 smart materials 116–17, 130 smartphones 110 Smith, Kelly 35–6, 38 Smith, Roberta 57 SOFT HOUSE project 116–17 sonic privacy 141

200 Index

sound 135–42; controlled by use of textiles and landscaping 141–2; for design 137–8; integration of 135; interconnection with memory 140–1; three-dimensional 141; used to create a sense of place 138–9; way of moving through space 136–7 sound dissemination, future prospects for 142 sound threshold 139–40 space accidents 192–4 Space Shuttle 172–3, 178, 192 space suits 95, 171–3, 185 space travel 3; fabrics for 171–9; soft materials used in 184–8 status associated with textiles 19–20 stereoscopic effects 68, 71 Stiny, G. 86 Strauss, Sarah xiv, 3; Plates 6 to 9; author of Chapter 6 stretch in textiles 49–50 Submaterial (company) 38–9 Suh, Do-Ho 52–3, 62; Plate 4 surface articulation in architecture 73–5, 79 sustainability 105, 121, 124, 130 Swift, E. 19 tailor-made products 96, 105 Tan, Jackson 116–17 Tangible Textural Interface (TTI) sound system 112–13 tapestries 19 Tapia, M. 86 tapissiers 20–1 tessellation 77–9 textiles, architecture’s relationship with 12–13 thermochromatics 113 Thomsen, Mette Ramsgard 9, 11–12, 15 three-dimensional (3D) printing 100–4 three-dimensional (3D) sound 141

three-dimensional (3D) wallpaper 3, 67–72; different techniques for creation of 70–2 timescape 125–30; of connectivity 127–30; of interactivity 130 Top of the World Collaboration 149–50 Tops Gallery, Memphis 81 Toups, Larry xiv, 3; co-author of Chapter 16 Turrell, James 69 Twyford, Evan xiv, 4; author of Chapter 14 Tyvek 152 ubiquitous computing 109–10 upholstery 19–20 Velcro 171 Vittori, Arturo 146 Vodafone 116 Vogler, Andreas 146 Waal, Kit 116 wallpaper see three-dimensional wallpaper Walter, Kathryn 35, 41 Wave curtain 102 Web of Things 110–11 Webb, Phillip 67 Weinthal, Lois xiv–xv, 4; author of Chapter 4 Weiser, Mark 109–10 Wilensky, U. 89 Wilhide, Elizabeth 20 Wingfield, Rachel 14 Winton, Alexa Griffith xv, 4, 14; author of Chapter 1, co-author of Chapters 5, 12 and 17 and co‑editor “wrinkle theory” 49 Yao, Kim 41 Yelavich, Susan xv, 11 Zeigler, Lisa 147 Zigzag (installation) 76–7

Plate 1 Numen/For Use, Tape Paris, Palais de Tokyo, Paris, 2014. © Numen/For Use.

Plate 2 Loop.pH, Algae Curtain, Lille, France, 2012. © Loop.pH.

Plate 3 ARO, felt-wrapped stair at Knoll Showroom, New York, 2013. © FilzFelt. Photo: Elizabeth Felicella.

Plate 4 Do Ho Suh, The Perfect Home II (detail), 2003. © Do Ho Suh. Courtesy of the Artist and Lehmann Maupin Gallery, New York and Hong Kong.

Plate 5 Carol Bove, Caterpillar, 2012. © Carol Bove. Courtesy of the artist of Maccarone, New York and David Zwirner, New York/London. Photograph by Jeffrey Sturges.

Plate 6 Channel Splitting Simulates Depth, Sarah Strauss.

Plate 7 Bloom, Sarah Strauss. Original pattern by LuzElena Wood.

Plate 8 Swamped, Sarah Strauss. Original pattern by Rachel Ben-Zadok.

Plate 9 Falls, Sarah Strauss. Original pattern by Niketa Shah.

Plate 10 ISSSStudio + deSc, Zigzag, view from exterior (2013). © Igor Siddiqui and Deborah Schneiderman. Photograph by Frank Oudeman.

Plate 11 Jenny Sabin Studio, Branching Morphogenesis, LabStudio, 2008; Jenny E. Sabin, Andrew Lucia, Peter Lloyd Jones; originally on view at the Design and Computation Gallery, SIGGRAPH 2008 and subsequently at Ars Electronica, Linz, Austria, 2009–10. Image: Jenny Sabin Studio.

Plate 12 Sawdust screen designed by Emerging Objects, a subsidiary of Rael San Fratello.

Plate 13 Kinematics Dress, 2014. Designed by Nervous System. Photos: Steve Marsel.

Plate 14 100 Electronic Years. © Maggie Orth, 2009.

Plate 15 Aurélie Mossé, Reef, detail (2011). Photography by Anders Ingvartsen.

Plate 16 Individual components of CASiTA readied for assembly. One-inch plywood skeleton components with Tyvek roof and skin. Photo by Brian Davies.

Plate 17 Interior view of Skylab. The interior of spacecraft can be disorienting, and requires the use of orientation cues and translation guides for crew to navigate: Image: NASA.

Plate 18 TransHab. Image: NASA.

Plate 19 Advanced Inflatable Airlock. Image: NASA.

Plate 20 Top line from left to right: sleeping bag in crew quarters lined with textiles, cargo transfer bag, astronaut clothing, contingency water container. Bottom line from left to right: cargo transfer bags in M-bags strapped down with woven fabric straps, astronaut EVA suit. Images courtesy of NASA.