Transformation Design: Perspectives on a New Design Attitude 9783035606539, 9783035606362

Table of contents :
CONTENTS
Foreword BIRD
Introduction
Transformation Design Starts with People Dreaming: Designers and Theatre Makers Design Utopias for Major Transformation. An Essay
Transformation Design: A Piecemeal Situational Change
Deep Involvement: On Transformation Processes Related to the RhyCycling Project
Transformation Design: Creating Security and Well-Being
Owls to Athens, or: The Discrete Charm of Transformation Design. An Essay
Could Design Help to Promote and Build Empathic Processes in Prison? Understanding the Role of Empathy and Design in Catalysing Social Change and Transformation
Approaching Our Dog: Transformation Design – An Attempt
Social Transformation Design as a Form of Research Through Design (RTD): Some Historical, Theoretical, and Methodological Remarks
Design and Social Change: The Changing Environment of a Discipline in Flux
Human Systems Design: A New Direction for Practice
Designing for Sustainable Development: Industrial Ecology, Sustainable Development, and Social Innovation
Mobility Peak: Scenes from a Deceleration
Transformation Design: A Social-Ecological Perspective
Designing ‘Matters of Concern’ (Latour): A Future Design Challenge?
Rapid Prototyping Politics: Design and the De-Material Turn
Collective Metamorphosis: A Combinatorial Approach to Transformation Design
Transformation Design as ‘Hero’s Journey’
Authors

Citation preview

Transformation Design

Board of International Research in Design, BIRD

Members: Michael Erlhoff Wolfgang Jonas Gesche Joost Claudia Mareis Ralf Michel

Advisory Board: Gui Bonsiepe Nigel Cross Alain Findeli Kun-Pyo Lee John Maeda Shutaro Mukai Pieter Jan Stappers Susann Vihma

Wolfgang Jonas Sarah Zerwas Kristof von Anshelm (Eds.)

Trans­formation ­Design Perspectives on a New Design Attitude

Birkhäuser Basel

CONTENTS Foreword BIRD

007

Introduction 009 Wolfgang Jonas / Sarah Zerwas / Kristof von Anshelm

Transformation Design Starts with ­P eople Dreaming: Designers and ­T heatre Makers Design Utopias for Major ­T ransformation. An Essay

023

Kristof von Anshelm

Transformation Design: A Piecemeal ­S ituational Change

033

Nicolas Beucker

Deep Involvement: On Transformation Processes Related to the RhyCycling Project

043

Flavia Caviezel

Transformation Design: Creating Security and Well-Being

061

Caroline L. Davey and Andrew B. Wootton

Owls to Athens, or: The Discrete Charm of Transformation Design. An Essay

075

Michael Erlhoff

Could Design Help to Promote and Build ­ Empathic Processes in Prison? Understanding the Role of Empathy and Design in Catalysing Social Change and Transformation

083

Lorraine Gamman and Adam Thorpe

Approaching Our Dog: Transformation Design – An Attempt

101

Franziska Holzner

Social Transformation Design as a Form of ­R esearch Through Design (RTD): Some Historical, Theoretical, and ­M ethodological ­R emarks Wolfgang Jonas

114

Design and Social Change: The Changing Environment of a Discipline in Flux

134

Gesche Joost and Andreas Unteidig

Human Systems Design: A New Direction for Practice

149

Victor Margolin

Designing for Sustainable Development: Industrial Ecology, Sustainable Development, and Social Innovation

166

Gavin Melles

Mobility Peak: Scenes from a ­D eceleration



177

Stephan Rammler

Transformation Design: A Social-­E cological Perspective

188

Bernd Sommer and Harald Welzer

Designing ‘Matters of Concern’ (Latour): A Future Design Challenge?

202

Peter Friedrich Stephan

Rapid Prototyping Politics: Design and the De-Material Turn

227

Matthew Ward

Collective Metamorphosis:  A Combinatorial Approach to ­ Transformation Design

246

John Wood

Transformation Design as ‘Hero’s ­J ourney’

263

Sarah Zerwas

Authors 277

Foreword BIRD By Morpheus In both everyday life and the sciences, traditional categories have been blown to pieces and vanished into thin air. For quite some time now, these categories have proved to be increasingly useless when trying to understand our world. On the downside, this has led to a situation of inventing constantly new categories in the most original ways possible and offering them like brands. This is doubtless not very helpful; rather it is akin to banal marketing. The same thing is happening, quite emphatically, in the very dynamic field of design where the strategy is obviously aimed at promoting the competitive abilities of both agencies and universities. Luckily however, ‘transformation design’ – itself a very recent label – takes a totally different route in the above-described process: instead of employing ossified and merely ideological categories, transformation design strives to explain a radical openness, offering possibilities of coming to grips with the actual blur that increasingly defines our perception and that, in very productive ways, unsettles everything that happens around us and that we do – and indeed not only in design, but also in all forms of thinking and doing. As ‘transformation design’, design is absolutely justified in understanding itself as being relevant to all areas of daily life and to the world of ideas: as an option to analyse and, if necessary, tackle societal, economic, technological, cultural and other problems. At the same time, transformation design describes itself, by definition, as a very potent agent of action. The term ‘form’ already describes a permanent dynamic, an agent of change whose force is nearly inconceivable and takes with it all content. When this force is turned into ‘transformation’, it leads to an opening up of all possible perspectives and to a radical critique of believing in stability and security. Transformation inevitably insists both on the necessity of not allowing oneself to be intimidated by alleged realities and on the possibility of engaging with empiricism and, in so doing, constantly sets new signals and breaks new ground. In this sense, transformation is inextricably linked with design, if we understand design as a substantial invitation and competence to explore possible actions and ways of thinking. If this tentative approach to transformation design sounds rather lofty, then it should suffice to say, at this point, that all options are open. The paradox of ‘necessary possibilities’ already implies precisely the kind of blur that might be the wonderful prerequisite for a discussion of transformation design. Reflecting the potential, this book offers an almost indescribable wealth of insight and of options for action, without providing simple answers. Reading this book forces us to think and act for ourselves. BIRD Advisory Board

Introduction Wolfgang Jonas / Sarah Zerwas / Kristof von Anshelm

Transformation Design? Why transformation design? It is the tenor of the public debate about major global problem areas – such as climate change, resource scarcity, pollution, poverty, ­population growth, and many more – that in the foreseeable future fundamental changes in ‘Western’ lifestyles will be required if catastrophic crises are to be avoided. For example, changes in mobility behaviour, eating habits, living arrangements, construction methods, and energy use, and corresponding adjustments of infrastructures, economies, and so on, are deemed necessary. Ultimately, a radical realignment of our growth-oriented economies and ways of life towards a postgrowth society seems inevitable. We have countless ideas, initiatives, and examples of change projects all over the world. However, reliable and generalisable strategies are not yet clear. This raises the question: what is required to create these? Can ­design contribute? Does transformation design make sense? How to design transformation? There seems to be a consensus that the focus of transformation design is not the artefact, the emotionally charged beautiful shape, the functional optimisation of commodities, or the market orientation in general. Transformation design means turning away from the user-centred design approach focusing on the individual consumer of products or services. It aims at an extension of the human-centred approach towards a society-centred attitude instead, explicitly focusing on the social dimensions and conditions of designing. The main subject of transformation design is open communication processes, which serve for a creative enquiry into new potentialities and can be designed and realised in the form of new organisational structures and cultures, systemic innovations, or collaborative educational forms. The final goal is behaviour change – individually, locally and globally. The term first appeared in the design community about ten years ago. In its RED paper 02, which was published in 2004, the British Design Council’s RED Unit first presented a new design discipline called transformation design (Design Council 2004). RED identified an appropriate means for making social change happen, and for generating new forms of innovation, not in the process of form-giving, but rather by means of the systemic core competencies of design and the design process. It must be mentioned that the initiative had a strong link to the then British government and the social programmes of ‘New Labour’. The term ‘transformation design’ is no longer in use in the UK. The origins of the idea go back much further still. And we have to dig deeper; our approach is more ‘German’ in some respects.

Karl Polanyi’s ‘Great Transformation’ What is the ethical background when we are talking about transformation design? Is it the Western mainstream notion of happiness through consumption, where consumption is predicated on having a reasonably paid job? Is it about expanding the Western model over the rest of the world? Probably not. Anthropologist and ­sociologist Karl Paul Polanyi (1886–1964) described the emergence of this almost unquestioned and meanwhile universal economic logic in his book The Great Transformation (1944). ‘Great Transformation’ means the transformation of land, work, and money and various other previously common goods into commodities. Or the transformation of societies with markets into market societies. Polanyi calls this the ‘dis-embedding of the markets’, which was completed in the West by the turn of the  twentieth century. The early-industrialised countries for the most part still ­define the standards and rules of global development. Yet their wealth relies on global­­inequalities going back to colonial times. And it relies on overexploitation of ­resources. Conceived in 1990 by Mathis Wackernagel and William Rees, the ‘Ecological Footprint’ is now in widespread use for monitoring ecological resource use and ­advancing sustainable development (Wackernagel and Rees 1996). By measuring the footprint of a population – an individual, city, business, nation, or all of humanity – we can assess our pressure on the planet, which helps us to manage our ecological assets more wisely and take personal and collective action in support of a world where humanity lives within the earth’s bounds. The average Ecological Footprint per person worldwide is 2.6 global hectares, while the average bio-capacity available per person is 1.8 global hectares. Some countries’ levels of ecological demand per person are much higher than the world average, while others are much lower. Obviously, we have to talk about reduction and alternative paths, Victor Papanek’s (1985) ‘real needs’. But which are the ‘real’ needs? Does this patronising notion make sense, or is it an ideological arrogance, a relic from the 1970s? Are people really fooled by the glittering world of consumerism? Maybe they truly want it, because they believe it makes them happy. At the very least, there are many question marks behind the question of what people really want. ‘Design for the other 90 %’ (Smith 2007) sounds great but is also somehow misleading, because it might suggest that the ‘first 10 %’ are unproblematic, which they are not. So we should talk about differentiated measures for the quality of life, about equilibrium economies, about reductionist modernity, small-scale transitional approaches. Not only, but primarily in the West. And we should talk about the role of design and design theories.

Broader Notions of Design Despite more than forty years of critical approaches, we must state that mainstream design practice today is still acting in the highly problematic role of catalyser/accelerator for socially dis-embedded economic purposes. consumption

production dynamics of the ­economic and financial system

DESIGN the ‘willing executor’?

‘unchained capitalism’

sociology and ­ sychology of ­ p consuming ‘insatiable consumers’

1 The vicious cycle of production and consumption, driven by design (Jonas)

On the other hand, design, as a profession and an academic discipline, has never fully accepted the reality of the first ‘Great Transformation’. In reflective moments, designers question their professional function as ‘willing executors’ in sustaining the dynamics of the market society. The Kyoto Design Declaration 2008 is a pretty but almost embarrassing example: A statement of commitment by the members of Cumulus to sharing the global responsibility for building sustainable, human-centered, creative societies. […] Human-centered design thinking, when rooted in universal and sustainable principles, has the power to fundamentally improve our world. It can deliver economic, ecological, social and cultural benefits to all people, improve our quality of life and create optimism about the future and individual and shared happiness.

Scepticism is appropriate towards this naive universalist humanitarian attitude. Critical voices have already interpreted it as a new Western imperialism (Nussbaum 2009): colonisation by Design Thinking. We agree, but why ‘new’? Regardless of, or despite, these flowery humanitarian appeals, there are thousands of practical initiatives within and mainly outside design that should be appreciated and evaluated. There is the need to become less moralistic and ideological. And maybe more theoretical, keeping ethics implicit in the theories and methodologies that we are using. Theory may provide a certain distance from the immediacy of the current chaotic dynamics of production, consumption, and design, and also a sense of con­so­ lation in the face of the often perceived powerlessness. We have to challenge the ­usefulness of seemingly universal standards and unquestioned assumptions in economy and science. Our hypothesis is that design thinking, meaning more than

the current business hype, might support more sustainable ways of conceiving human futures, even integrating Western and non-Western thinking and value systems. Prominent contributions are Buchanan’s (1992) ‘four orders of design’, Krippendorff’s (2006) ‘trajectories of artificiality’, which suggests an expansion of design’s subjects from Products ≥ Goods, Services, and Identities ≥ Interfaces ≥ Multi-user Systems and Networks ≥ Projects ≥ Discourses; and NextDesign’s (2009) notion of Design 1.0: Traditional Design ≥ Design 2.0: Product/Service Design ≥ Design 3.0: Organisational Transformation Design ≥ Design 4.0: Social Transformation Design. Herbert Simon introduces the notion of the ‘Sciences of the Artificial’. He is often attacked by moralising designers for his seeming positivism and lack of empathy. Nonetheless, I think that his chapter about social design (chapter 6 [1996]: ‘Designing the Evolving Artefact’) is one of the most important basic texts for the issue we are talking about. Simon advocates design without ultimate objectives, keeping options open and avoiding the ossification of trajectories. Design is described as a form of ‘intellectual window shopping’: Closely related to the notion that new goals may emerge from creating designs is the idea that one goal of planning may be the design activity itself. The act of envisioning possibilities and elaborating them is itself a pleasurable and valuable experience. Just as realized plans may be a source of new experience, so new prospects are opened up at each step in the process of design. Designing is a kind of mental window shopping. Purchases do not have to be made to get pleasure from it. […] One can envisage a future, however, in which our main interest in both science and design will lie in what they teach us about the world and not in what they allow us to do to the world. Design like science is a tool for understanding as well as for acting. (­Simon 1996: 164)

How to Proceed? The crucial question is how to advance the new Great Transformation. The scientific advisory council on global change of the German federal government (WBGU 2011) explicitly refers to Karl Polanyi’s (1944) notion of the Great Transformation in the nineteenth century and demands a new social contract that promotes the ‘re-embedding’ of the markets into a broader notion of society. This new transformation will not at all be an automatism. It is dependent on the ‘design of the unplannable’ if it is to succeed in the remaining time window. This challenge is historically unprecedented: the great transitions of the world so far have been results of gradual evolutionary change, whereas our time today is limited. Therefore it is a matter of design. WBGU argues for an approach that builds on niche actors as the main initi-

ators of change. Bottom-up approaches, which are gradually spreading and connecting to other approaches, are the ‘glocal’ process patterns of the new Great Transformation. The WBGU report ends with Albert Einstein: ‘Imagination is everything. It is the preview of the future attractions of life.’ Which corresponds very much with Herbert Simon’s ‘mental window shopping’. And of course: it is not just a design exercise but a matter of probably fierce power conflicts between states and cultures and ideologies and within the different interest groups in societies. A promising way for breaking seemingly fixed social, economic, and technological trajectories seems to be to start local, to create local projects, learning and living labs for transformation. We should be open to referring to various old and new experiences, such as Gandhian economics, Jugaad innovation in India, the growing Transition Town movement, and many others. There are no final solutions, but rather small, reversible, and scalable designerly projects, real-life laboratories, small steps in order to increase the variety of choices. Design’s very practical and prosaic task is to create and provide a multiplicity of attractive ­alternatives, images, narratives, and new aesthetics that have the potential to become the new mainstream. Indeed, our ability to reconstruct design in the future may depend for its creativity on an understanding of the fertile matrix of contrasting ideas and experiences that constitute the ecology of culture in the moving present. (Buchanan 2001: 74)

Transformation Design: A Placement, Not a Category The book consists of a collection of original contributions on the subject of transformation design. Questions and answers, theories and methods, ideas and projects are put forward in order to encourage the international debate in favour of a responsible design attitude. The central question is: what are design’s potentials, instruments, and contributions in shaping social change for the better, in ‘transferring existing situations into preferred ones’ (Simon 1969)? The call for contributions has suggested a number of heterogeneous issues to be addressed, such as: • The history of transformation design avant la lettre, i.e., before the emergence of the concept and the current renaissance in the first decade of the twenty-first century. • The normative and the descriptive notions of the social. Does it make sense to separate these two notions? Probably not; both stances are interconnected and have to be reflected.

• Top-down and bottom-up approaches to transformation design. There seems to be an astonishing consensus that top-down approaches will not be appropriate today. Why not? • Transformation design attitudes in the centre and in the periphery. How to combine sustainable growth in the periphery and intelligent reduction in the centre? • The culture of experimental designerly research practices. Trial and error, evolutionary patterns, cultural and artistic formats of co-creation and design-driven innovation. • The importance of projection and the significance of synthetic practice. Abductive reasoning, micro-utopias, scenarios and visions. Making things tangible and thus vulnerable. • The importance of participatory approaches and education. Speculative design as a pedagogical practice aimed at gaining competence for political participation and empowerment. • Transformation design as avant-garde movement? Is it enough that small agent groups, elites, and dissenters use design as a provocative, discursive medium to throw a spanner in the works? • On the differences and similarities between design and art in change processes. The texts in the following collection refer to many of these questions. Yet we have not attempted a clustering according to these fuzzy issues. This would pretend a system, which does not exist. Instead of categorisation, we refer to the concept of placement. Richard Buchanan explicitly distinguished between a category, which has fixed boundaries, and placements, which denote more open spaces where new forms of practice can be imagined. He used the rhetorical theory of placements to characterise (Buchanan 1992: 9, 10) ‘four broad areas in which design is explored throughout the world by professional designers and by many others who may not regard themselves as designers’. These are symbolic and visual communication; material objects; activities and organised services; and finally complex systems for living, working, playing, and learning, a placement concerned with ‘the role of design in sustaining, developing, and integrating human beings into broader ecological and cultural environments […]’ In the latter category Buchanan included systems engineering, architecture, and urban planning, although he recognised that the category could accommodate new design approaches that were not limited to existing practices. In essence, Buchanan offered a rhetorical approach to ‘the invention of possibilities’ rather than a typological ordering of particular design opportunities. Following Buchanan, we call transformation design a placement, a value-based attitude towards designing:

• Transformation design is holistic without misconceiving itself as a saviour of the world. It considers humans in their social, cultural, and material relations and turns the traditional innovation pyramid upside down; that is, it starts thinking of the social system innovation, then derives organisational concepts and use patterns, and then, finally, may consider necessary product innovations. • Transformation design is transdisciplinary without pretending to know things better. It becomes an integral and moderating platform competence, thinking in worlds, systems, processes, and products, a kind of translation competence between basic disciplines and systemic, socially and environmentally friendly applications. • Transformation design is provocative without reducing itself to an experience-provider or animator. Through narrative and discursive scenarios, visions, and utopias, it promotes a new culture of future communication: design for debate. It thus provides new opportunities for emotional identification, makes futures tangible, and acts as a provider of meaning beyond the classical commodity fetishism. • Transformation design is normative without wanting to impose norms from the outside. It is based on the sustainability caveat. Thereby it does not want to act ideologically or from a particular bias, but asks instead: ‘How do we want to live?’ Transformation design is a field for the deconstruction and redesign of social relations, and thus is to be conceived politically.

The Contributions The texts are arranged in alphabetical order. We did not try to force them into a rigid standard format, because this would totally contradict the idea of transformation design as an experimental endeavour to open up and broaden design theory and practice and research, and make it more flexible, with the aim of increasing its ­relevance. Kristof von Anshelm examines the basic requirements for social transformation processes, their inherent difficulties and sometimes paradoxical conditions, and displays the value of utopia as a starting point for change processes. Examination of different approaches to transformation research leads to the realisation that it is not about a great transformation, but about daring to initiate and perform

­experiments in social coexistence. Transformation design can provide an important contribution to the way these experiments are conducted. The project ‘auf probe’ (on trial) and the scenario technique used therein is presented as a way to arrive at common visions of a different future and to discuss them. Furthermore, the project also makes clear one of the many possible interfaces of design – in this case, theatre as a medium for social discourse on the subject of transformation. In the end, it boils down to inspiring society by means of the instruments of design – not creating new, covetable products, but offering new, desirable, and sustainable lifestyles and social models instead. Nicolas Beucker defines ‘transformation design as a context- and situation-sensitive approach with the aim of facilitating piecemeal change that ensures connectivity for social interaction and further development’. In his view, social transformation design is not a new profession but rather an attitude or mindset for looking at problem situations and their potential transformation. It is about processes rather than final solutions. And it requires patience and modesty. Social transformation design initiates small, reversible steps in real-life situations. At best, they will act as contextual triggers for change. Design, with its optimistic attitude, its trust in intuition and its tacit ability to tackle wicked problems, its capacity for imagining possible futures, and its tools for communication and visual sense-making, is well equipped for these new tasks. On the other hand, Beucker also clearly states that public awareness that design has these competencies and might be a trigger for ­social change is still missing. This is a challenge, especially for design education. Flavia Caviezel reflects on the research and exhibition project RhyCycling. The text elaborates on the close relationship between the concept of transdisciplinarity and the change-oriented approach of transformation design. RhyCycling has been initiated mainly by artists, and includes experts from various disciplines and the public in a communicative process. The text explores the peculiarities of transdisciplinary working conditions, such as ‘deep involvement’, and their epistemolo­gical consequences in the swampy boundary region of art, science, and everyday knowledge. The implicit aim of the project is to build awareness, to raise consciousness, and maybe to initiate behavioural change (‘transforming the viewer’) with ­respect to the complex and fragile socio-political-ecological situation of the river Rhine in the Basel area in Switzerland/Germany/France. The project provides a rich picture of the various facets and challenges of transdisciplinary transformative ­action, mainly from an artistic viewpoint. Caroline Davey and Andrew Wootton are leading proponents of the Design Against Crime initiative that began in the UK at the turn of the millennium. They view the rise in interest in transformation design in Germany as warranting a critical review of its origins and potential, and question whether there are substantive advantages compared with ‘the more traditional but less grandiloquently titled socially responsible design’. In their view, the transformation design agenda was in tune with the UK’s political situation at the time, during New Labour’s ‘Third Way’.

Since the change of government, the UK Design Council’s website no longer appears to use the term. The authors characterise ‘transformation design’ as a useful ‘marketing tool, or brand, to help communicate and promote to public sector organisations the benefits of adopting a design approach’. They suggest that the term, in English-speaking design communities at least, has been incorporated within other contemporary phrases such as ‘design thinking’ and ‘human-centred design’. Davey and Wootton present an interesting piece about design politics and the struggle for definition power. To avoid misunderstanding: the German discourse on transformation design appears to be broader and more idealistic compared with the pragmatic UK approach, and goes back, besides other sources, to Karl Polanyi’s notion of the ‘Great Transformation’. The RED paper cannot be ignored, but it is just one of many roots of transformation design thinking in Germany. Michael Erlhoff calls ‘transformation design’ a tautology – because design is transformation, in thinking, in making, in use – and tries to clarify the various relations between transformation and design. Evolutions and revolutions of forms may change lifestyles and vice versa, products become immaterial services, design becomes a research activity, and so on. All this leads to new self-concepts and to new notions of designability of reality – not really new. To come closer to a genuine ­notion of transformation design, Erlhoff introduces the concept of ‘discrete transformation’ and suggests we conceive of design as ‘intervention[s] into everyday practices and life’, ‘for enlightenment and criticism, and for developing our understanding of societal, and hence important, processes, and for changing habits’. Some examples from students’ projects illustrate this radical notion of design as ­irritating and thus transformative activity. Erlhoff’s text avoids the widespread ­severity and seriousness of the debate, with its sometimes arrogant claim of saving the world. He calls for fuzziness and joyful play as transformative strategies, comparable to concepts such as design for debate or critical design. Lorraine Gamman and Adam Thorpe explore the role of empathy and design activity in catalysing social change and personal transformation in prison. First they review why empathy is not promoted in the prison context, because of the emotional suppression that is implicit in prison culture. The second section reviews ­evidence provided by the UK’s National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice that ­explores how and why creative practice already facilitates some experiences of empathy that have had a positive effect on inmate experience and have led to personal revelations and transformations in the form of ‘desistance’ – the process whereby offenders stop reoffending. The final section reflects upon the prison experience itself, and the serious difficulties it creates for many inmates (linked to what has been described as ‘situational precipitators’), and suggests, in this context, that design could make a difference to the sort of transformation that occurs. In particular, ­design tools and processes could improve provision of, and impact upon, inmates’ learning in how to relate to and care for others in prosocial ways.

Franziska Holzner plays with the metaphor of ‘our dog, the guardian of the key to transformation’. Her narrative reasoning, which sometimes nicely echoes old fables, is a sharp polemic against the lazy dog inside us, against passive ‘Western’ consumerism, and for a ‘better life’ for individuals and society and the entire world in a post-growth society. She wonders how to get the dog out of his cosy basket, how to incite his more exploratory and risk-taking traits, and enquires into the material, the system, and the product of transformation design. The material is experiences in a systemic context, conceived as a playing field. Cognition, communication, and cooperation are the design elements, not ‘theoretical dancing’. Transformation design takes place in systems and networks. Holzner calls this ‘the design of ecology’, which is ‘a system structure that makes transformation possible’. Transformation design products are ‘projects that act on a small scale and are in perspective connected with trans-regional, often global themes’. Some of them are briefly sketched. Wolfgang Jonas attempts to relate social transformation design to the emerging research paradigm Research Through Design (RTD). He refers to the work of Horst Rittel and Frederic Vester, and especially to the seemingly incompatible positions of Herbert Simon and C. West Churchman, as essential yet mostly neglected foundations avant la lettre of what we call transformation design today. The challenge is to integrate facts and values in a research and transformation process. Building on John Dewey’s notion of ‘epistemic democracy’ and Gerard De Zeeuw’s concept of ‘Third Phase Science’, Jonas develops a systemic model of RTD, where knowledge and understanding are materialised, i.e., embodied and socially based. In consequence, this allows the definition of RTD as the generic process of social transformation design. The basic methodological problems of control and prediction are faced through methods of interconnected and projective scenario methods. Finally, Jonas dares the far-reaching assertion that social transformation design, methodologically based on RTD, may be the operational model for transdisciplinary science. Gesche Joost and Andreas Unteidig from Design Research Lab at Berlin University of the Arts ask how ‘the social’ affects our understanding of design and reflect on future design transformations. Against the background of changing notions of innovation (broader, more open, interconnected), design is seen more as a means for social and political empowerment than as a tool only to create economic profit. The focus switches from looking at the discipline as a problem solver and the creator of material solutions towards design that values the creation, transformation, and stabilisation of structures in terms of social sustainability. An important topic is the creation of infrastructures that allow for citizens to organise and collaboratively transform their urban living environments. Two community projects and two related tools are presented: (1) Neighbourhood Labs tackles the problem of participation for digital non-natives. The Hybrid Letter Box serves as a bridge between the analogue and digital domains. (2) Community Now? is another neighbourhood exploration project, where the De:Routing app provides a collective online map. It serves

as starting points for experiences, rich discussions, community workshops, or other events. Victor Margolin provides a broad historical overview from the origins of design to systemic approaches in the second half of the twentieth century. He recalls how designers referred to the promising methods of operations research, bringing forth approaches such as Jones’s ‘systematic design methods’. Things were not that easy, and the project of designing social systems is still unfinished. Margolin avoids the ambitious term ‘transformation design’ and uses the more modest concept of ‘human systems design’ instead: ‘a way to ensure that new social and technological interventions are thoughtfully and holistically conceived and effectively introduced in ways that facilitate rational, efficient, and socially just human responses’. He builds on Buchanan’s use of the rhetorical theory of placements and his notion of four broad areas/orders of design, the fourth of which is ‘complex systems for living, working, playing, and learning’. Secondly, he builds on Sir Geoffrey Vickers’ concept of ‘human systems’ and his notion of ‘appreciative systems’, which demand sufficient correspondence with reality to guide action, sufficient sharing with others to mediate communication, and sufficient acceptability to make life bearable. Finally, problems of distinguishing human systems design from other fields and educational requirements are discussed. Gavin Melles focuses on postgraduate design education and distinguishes Mainstream Sustainable Design (MSD) of common-sense market environmentalism and ecological modernisation from systemic approaches to innovation and change for sustainable livelihoods in Bottom of the Pyramid (BoP) contexts. Sustainable development and not sustainability should be the framework of choice for design’s theoretical and practical contribution. It has to be based upon the Triple Bottom Line (TBL) concept, which suggests that a balance of environmental, social, and economic goals must be achieved for sustainable development. Melles argues that innovation that is restricted to promoting the modernist neo-liberal agenda of growth through increased consumption and production is an approach the rich North should re-examine as it is overtaken by the rising South. The question design schools should be asking is why they are so behind in these developments compared with management or engineering schools, especially in developing countries such as India. Melles concludes that design must radically change its agenda if it wishes to be a serious game changer. Stephan Rammler presents a narrative that remembers our mobility future from the perspective of the year 2050. The story is written from a decidedly normative attitude and starts from the assumption that it was around 2011 that the ‘Great Transformation’ began in Germany. Rammler does not frighten us with dystopic, apocalyptic images; he does not argue in a (pseudo)-scientific manner about pos­ sible future states; but he offers positive, desirable futures instead, which may encourage people not to let things just happen but to actively intervene and work for a better future. The fact that the beginning of Rammler’s story, which tells us about

peak oil in 2011 and rising fuel prices, turns out to be wrong at the beginning of 2015 does not render his approach worthless. On the contrary: it urges us to question our sometimes absurd lifestyles, to play with the contingencies of the chaotic development, to take them as building blocks for creating better visions. Only positive visions will be able to empower people. Bernd Sommer and Harald Welzer show how the destruction of future survival conditions takes place on behalf of a hyper-consumption, which does not increase happiness but rather causes suffering. They understand transformation design as the heuristic of reductive modernism. It searches for exits from the corridor of expansive mainstream culture, which reverses the direction of civilisation and puts democracy, law, and freedom increasingly under stress. The obstacles are immense, for not only are our outer lives, infrastructures, institutions, and civilisational standards characterised by the expansive culture model, but also our mental infrastructures. The strategy cannot be to design master plans for a ‘Great Transformation’, which then have to be implemented. The challenge is rather to trace a mode of socialisation that allows for radically reduced consumption and the maintenance and even further development of our civilisation standards. When the state of civilisation, which has been achieved by means of the capitalist growth economy, is to be preserved, then this economy must be overcome – by design or by disaster. In this sense, conventional design is morally and socially homeless; it does not problematise that it is generally associated with an increase in effort. In contrast, transformation design aims for the least effort, which can also be zero effort. Peter Friedrich Stephan relates the transformation design idea to Bruno Latour’s ‘matters of concern’ and his suggestion that visualising these might be design’s big new future task. Firstly, Stephan’s friendly but firm criticism of Latour’s alleged discovery of design and its potential states that designers have always been familiar with these visualisation tasks. Secondly, he reveals the inconsistencies in Latour’s metaphorical attempts at defining matters of concern. In consequence, Stephan aims to embed Latour’s matters of concern in the ongoing discussion on design for social change, and argues for designing, instead of visualising, matters of concern. He proposes conceiving concerns as attractors that integrate and organise values, needs, and issues. According to Stephan, designers ‘can be defined as libido engineers who take assumptions about the driving forces of concerns as starting points and try to lead these into new directions’. With the erosion of undisputed rituals, designers have to invent new social forms that can cope with concerns. Stephan presents a pleasantly self-confident and critical analytical and non-normative approach, which finally finds some useful concepts in Latour’s approaches and methods from ANT. Matthew Ward considers design education in the post-disciplinary design world. ‘Design Thinking’ as one of these approaches is deficient, because it follows what he calls ‘the de-material turn in design’: ‘As long as we throw enough coffee and Post-it notes at the problem, we will be able to harness the power of design to

solve all business or social needs.’ Ward argues for a ‘new materiality’ instead. Fiction, storytelling, material prototypes, and Critical and Speculative Design are his favourite pedagogical tools for sense making. Educators should aim to give students the confidence to assemble their own unique practice. Four fascinating case studies from Goldsmiths illustrate the interplay between material experimentation and speculative reflection, and reveal the paradigm shifts from designer as problem-solver towards citizen sense-maker, activist, or provocateur. Students are enabled to critique dominant discourses and societal frameworks and to understand their role in the world. They develop processes of engagement, providing constant expertise and feedback to identify, test, and deliver durable solutions, where consequences are neither certain nor dogmatic, but negotiated and contingent. Ward’s conclusion reads as quite radical: ‘Training for the revolution […] If we fail to rethink our approach to design education, we risk condemning our practice to the subservience of market-driven consumption.’ John Wood is a proponent of the ‘metadesign’ approach, which has been developed in order to enable societies to become more attuned to the biosphere. Metadesign is qualitatively different from design because it is too complex to be predictive. Wood argues that inviting designers to work in a more systemic, holistic way would require them to see the world as a joined-up but poorly designed system. Transformation processes tend to make their own rules and boundaries, which means that control is possible only on a collective basis. Blurring the traditional boundaries between designers, clients, governments, and stakeholders makes the idea of transformation design democratically rich. Therefore, perhaps, transformation design would inspire a kind of ‘collective metamorphosis’ and a viable form of John Dewey’s ‘creative democracy’. Abductive reasoning seems to be the mutable logic behind self-transformation. Wood finally introduces the concept of ‘keystone synergies’: ‘By finding and highlighting synergies that are of critical benefit, we will encourage others to continue the process by revealing new synergies. Eventually, designers will be able to create keystone synergies that are likely to seed the creation of subsequent synergies.’ Sarah Zerwas explores creative learning and change processes, and reflects on the potential contributions of designerly methods and attitudes in this endeavour. One starting point is Dunne and Raby’s distinction between ‘design for production’ and ‘design for debate’. The other is the hypothesis that generic patterns can be ­detected in mythical narratives, such as the hero’s journey, and that using these ­anthropological structures as design guidelines might offer new perspectives. The triadic pattern of (1) leaving the familiar environment, the call to adventure (separation), (2) the process of change through exposure to new contexts, trials, and ­crises (initiation), and (3) coming back to the old environment in order to improve it (return) reveals striking similarities to the structure of creative processes and ­design processes as well as applications in therapy, coaching, team development, strategy building, and so on. These insights are used to develop a moderation model

­ articipatory design process and processes of informal learning. A special focus lies p on the middle/second/projection phase, where learning and the abductive creation of the new occurs, and where meaning and value are created through ideation and prototyping. In this context, the design profession can be seen as just starting its own transformative journey towards the design of change processes.

References Buchanan, Richard (1992). ‘Wicked Problems in Design Thinking’. In Design Issues 8, no. 2 (Spring 1992), pp. 5–21. Design Council (2004). ‘Red Paper 02. Transformation Design’. Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://www.cihm.leeds.ac.uk/document_downloads/REDPAPER02TransformationDesign.pdf. Krippendorff, Klaus (2006). The Semantic Turn: A New Foundation for Design. Boca Raton, FL, London and New York: Taylor & Francis. Kyoto Design Declaration (2008). Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://www.cumulusassociation.org/index. php?option=com_content&task=view&id=308&Itemid=109. NextDesign (2009). Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://issuu.com/nextd/docs/understandingdesign1_2_3_4. Nussbaum, Bruce (2009). ‘Is Humanitarian Design the New Imperialism?’ In Co Design 07, July 2010. ­Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://www.fastcodesign.com/1661859/is-humanitarian-design-the-new-­ imperialism. Papanek, Victor (1985). Design for the Real World: Human Ecology and Social Change. 2nd ed. London: Thames & Hudson. Polanyi, Karl Paul (1944). The Great Transformation: The Political and Economic Origins of Our Time. Boston: Beacon Press. Simon, Herbert A. (1969, 1981, 1996). The Sciences of the Artificial. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Smith, Cynthia E. (2007). Design for the Other 90%. New York: Cooper Hewitt National Design Museum. Wackernagel, Mathis, and Rees, William (1996). Our Ecological Footprint: Reducing Human Impact on the Earth. Gabriola Island, Canada: New Society Publishers. WBGU [Wissenschaftlicher Beirat der Bundesregierung Globale Umweltveränderungen] (2011). Welt im ­Wandel. Gesellschaftsvertrag für eine Große Transformation. Berlin. Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http:// www.wbgu.de/fileadmin/templates/dateien/veroeffentlichungen/hauptgutachten/jg2011/wbgu_jg2011.pdf.

Transformation Design Starts with ­People Dreaming: Designers and ­Theatre Makers Design Utopias for Major ­Transformation. An Essay Kristof von Anshelm

Societal Transformation Ever since we were shown The Limits to Growth in 1972 (Meadows et al. 1972), we have known that industrialised nations can no longer live and run their economies at the expense of the environment and natural resources. The Club of Rome’s scenarios were the first to deduce and present a possible collapse and to deliver convincing arguments on the non-sustainable systemic issues in Western societies. However, this knowledge did not lead to far-reaching change. On the contrary: the international upheavals at the beginning of the 1990s were followed by explosive globalisation, which has profoundly shaped the last few decades. The Western world’s societal model, which has no viable future, has rapidly spread all over the world, causing the corresponding problems to be more pressing than ever before (Kuhn and Heinrichs 2011). There are many different demands for societal transformation, be it the general demand for a sustainable society or, in more concrete terms, for a post-growth society (Pennekamp 2011), or in the form of clearly specified regional or national transformation projects, for example the so-called ‘energy transition’, the transition to renewable energies in Germany (http://www.bmwi.de/EN/Topics/Energy/­ energy-transition.html). Transformation processes are called for, introduced, and welcomed everywhere, but they are certainly often equally feared or viewed with scepticism (Forschungszentrum für Umweltpolitik 2014): ‘In Germany, numerous players in political discourse emphasize the importance of an extensive transformation of politics, economy and society, in order to do justice to the challenges of a sustainable development.’ The German Advisory Council on Global Change (WBGU) ‘defines this major transformation as the global remodelling of economy and society towards sustainability’ and states: ‘In order to overcome the barriers which currently stand in the way of the transformation, the process depends on societal shaping […]’ (WBGU 2011: 1). But what could this ‘societal shaping’ look like? If transformation is to be shaped, shouldn’t ‘transformation design’ be able to contribute if it wants to live up to its name? And what would such a contribution look like?

The Paradox of Change We all know about the problems related to the current situation, and various ­approaches to solving these problems are also known. However, bold and targeted action, in other words major transformation, is not happening. Why do existing ­societal conditions persevere so stubbornly when there seems to be a clear desire for change? Michael Brie (2010) describes a paradox of societal transformation: everyone who acts outside the existing societal system when looking for, or promoting, alternatives thereby loses importance, sidelines him- or herself, and thus forfeits the power to change things. On the other hand, each act of participating within the existing system strengthens prevailing conditions. It’s a vicious circle of ineffectiveness. But perhaps this perspective provides both an explanation for the current situation and a way out of this dilemma. If I participate in the existing form of society, I support, strengthen, and co-shape it, thus preventing an actual turnaround. If I liberate myself from existing conditions and live, to paraphrase Adorno (1951), a right life alongside the wrong one, I disconnect from the rest of society, thus losing my opportunities to exert influence and effect change. This illustrates the strength of society’s perseverance and thus provides a good reason not to believe in major transformation.

From Transformation to Transformability Another problem with societal transformation is that, in relation to our non-sustainable societal system, there is, apparently, a choice between small, gradual adjustments on the one hand and major, radical transformation on the other. Small adjustments, however, will not turn things around and are offset by so-called ‘rebound effects’, while more radical approaches seem to be futile, the grand plan destined to fail. What are the consequences? Should we stop trying? There is a third option: slowly and consistently, we must work on increasing society’s ‘transformability’ (Brie 2010: 15). Many small experiments must progressively question the status quo. When experimenting becomes normal to the degree that experimenters no longer need to act outside the system, even small steps will take society to sustainable and future-proof models. We must work towards a society with many small centres, in which social, economic, and ecological experiments are undertaken. On a small scale, these experiments can be radical, fresh, totally different, and, in the broadest possible range, ‘future-oriented’. The crucial point is not so much whether individual experiments are particularly successful; the mere fact that people experiment with new forms of social coexistence, of business, production, and human interaction, already engenders the necessary relaxation of the societal system.

Polycentric Society Besides the systemic explanation of the paradox of change, there is another perspective on societies’ transformability: a society with many different models for living not only is able to transform but is also polycentric. Polycentric models as organisational forms for institutions have been extensively researched in the economic sciences. In particular, Nobel laureate Elinor ­Ostrom has intensively researched this subject and summarised her research team’s findings, as well as those of many other colleagues, in the book Understanding Institutional Diversity (Ostrom 2009). The focus was on different ways of organising common goods such as shared fishing grounds or irrigation systems. Prin­ ciples supporting a sustainable and robust organisation of common goods were deduced from a large number of observations and studies. The individual institutions and communities were relatively small, with nested structures, and there was no big control centre. Instead, there were many small centres interacting with and influencing each other on different levels. Hence, using these principles on a macro level results in a polycentric society. The polycentric society is heterogeneous and experimental instead of conforming and inflexible: it is able to transform.

Micro-Utopias According to John Wood (2007), these small, regional, sustainable, and adaptable experiments in social life can be called ‘micro-utopias’, and they can include, for example, communities and neighbourhoods where an important part of social life is lived in a ‘utopian’ way. These spaces for experiments form a network in which customised solutions for regionally specific problems are tried out and where, generally, many different solutions to common problems are tested. Wood is a designer, and via the concept of utopia he arrives at conclusions very similar to the ones ­Ostrom arrived at via polycentricism. Wood did not study existing institutions and projects; instead, he derives his ideas and thoughts on design and societal change from ‘both a holistic and a homespun approach’ (Wood 2007: 5). What we have here are three very different approaches – transformability, polycentricism, and micro-utopias – generating very similar results. We need small utopias – nested societal experiments – and these can be designed in a targeted way.

Utopia Design What could the first concrete steps towards designing micro-utopias look like? For Wood, ‘dreaming’ is of particular importance (2007: 130). He describes the necessity for developing visions, for sharing these visions, and for arriving at shared concepts of a better future, a ‘utopia’. He regards these individual, shared dreams as being essentially micro-utopias. Together, the many different visions of societal experiments are what characterises a polycentric society. Designing these societal experimental spaces is the task and challenge for the first phase of transformation ­design: ‘utopia design’. Utopia design starts with scenarios. Imagining a future that is very different from the present is the first step towards creating this future. Utopia design follows the ‘design innovation process’ model of PROJECTION (P) – ANALYSIS (A) – SYNTHESIS (S) as formulated by Jonas et al. (2010), where the projections (utopias) are the basis for analysing the participants’ needs and desires. It is thus deliberately different from most well-defined design projects, which follow the A-P-S model, where analysis of existing situations is the first step in the process. The projections of alternative lifestyles and systems created in the first step need to be based solely on imagination and must be free from the restraints of practical considerations. In structured scenario workshops, it is possible to suspend disbelief in a different society, for example in a driver other than growth and therefore in a functioning post-growth society. This imaginative process is very successful in creating acceptance for such new realities and realistic possibilities. By envisioning post-growth scenarios and designing fictional daily lives in such a society, people begin to see worthwhile alternatives to today’s unsustainable lifestyles. By focusing on positive aspects first, such future scenarios can become utopias with a strong pull effect.

Project Example: ‘auf probe’ (rehearsal) One way to envision and communicate such scenarios is through a theatrical approach. In 2012–13, the get lab team from Brunswick (Germany) carried out a collaborative project with a local theatre (LOT-Theater, Braunschweig University of Art 2014): The initial idea was that the theatre is an ideal medium for producing and narrating the guiding principles for a different, yet successful, future. As the stage for major changes is always located in people’s real life and environment, the Braunschweiger Land region was chosen as the project’s focus. Like any other region, the Braunschweiger Land is a place where problems arise and are tackled. It is a place that contributes to the ecological, economic and social problems of the present, a place where these problems become manifest and where they are addressed on political, social and cultural levels.

In the project auf probe – Alltagsutopien für das Braunschweiger Land, we1 organised scenario workshops for six theatre companies and envisioned possible and desirable futures for the region around Brunswick. We chose an approach where mixed-­ participant groups from different theatre companies each designed four distinctly different future scenarios. For these scenarios, we did not use the most likely developments, instead opting to explore different imaginable futures. Anthony Dunne and Fiona Raby (2013) have perfectly illustrated this approach by adapting a diagram by Joseph Voros (2001): the widening cone of the future-­ oriented gaze. At the cone’s centre, the focus is on ‘probable futures’, in which designers act, where forecasts are calculated, and where trends are projected linearly. Unpredictable events such as credit crunches, environmental disasters, or wars cannot be taken into account in this area and are not included in the considerations. The second, larger cone shows ‘plausible futures’. Plausible scenarios, which also consider and include ‘wild cards’ (unpredictable events) and explore different futures, are located in this area. Plausible futures are not so much about trying to create forecasts; rather, the point is to theoretically prepare – politically, economically, socially, and ecologically – for different, including unlikely, developments in the world. The aim is to have a plan B, C, and D. The largest cone with the widest horizon of possibilities represents ‘possible futures’. It is located either in the distant future, where things are possible that we can hardly imagine today, or where changes have happened that, based on today’s knowledge, seem to be far-fetched. Generally speaking, everything that does not violate the basic laws of physics is located in the possible futures. What’s of particular interest when working with these distant (in terms of time or concept) scenarios is ‘the path from where we are today to where we are in the scenario. A believable series of events that led to the new situation is necessary, even if entirely fictional’ (Dunne and Raby 2013: 4). Possible Plausible Present

1 Scenario cone (adapted from Dunne & Raby 2013: 5)

Probable

Economic system

2 Scenario framework (author’s illustration)

A

B

C

D

Lifestyle

The scenarios in this project can best be located at the intersection of possible and plausible futures. The participants were told to freely express their desires and ideas in relation to the region’s future without limiting themselves with questions of feasibility. The scenario workshop’s methodological approach was based on a concept by Jay Ogilvy and Peter Schwartz (2004). The explorative process used a four-quadrant matrix whose characteristics are defined by two main uncertain drivers of future. On the basis of these four quadrants, four scenario worlds were developed (A, B, C, D) that describe possible futures in a detailed way. The goal was to develop four decidedly different future perspectives and to present a range of relevant developments. The advantage of this approach is that each scenario can be logically differentiated from the other ones, while the crucial subjects are considered in all scenarios. The matrix, and hence the four scenarios, is defined by two axes. ‘Economic system’ and ‘lifestyle’ were identified as drivers and labels for the scenario logics of the two axes. The ‘economic system’ factor predominantly describes material wealth and quantitative (economic) growth. ‘Lifestyle’ refers to mental attitude towards moral, societal, and political questions. These categories can be used to differentiate the four scenarios without being normative. Statements on ‘better’ or ‘worse’ lifestyles and economic developments are not made; the point is to identify the positive aspects in the different futures. Thus, on the economic system axis, a happy post-growth society may be set against a productive market economy. The drivers ‘economic system’ and ‘lifestyle’ can be compared to the axes used in the Sinus ­Milieu model, where target groups are defined based on milieu and placed in the matrix using factors such as ‘social situation’ and ‘basic orientation’ (http://www.­ sinus-institut.de/loesungen/sinus-milieus.html). This comparison shows that the kind of matrix used in our project is generally suitable to structure (future) visions of society.

The four quadrants are given ‘guide rails’, as it were, to inspire participants to think in four different directions. The guide rails are broad enough so as not to restrict the creative process but also strong enough to steer the scenarios in different directions. After introducing the drivers and the resulting matrix, the first step in the scenario creation was to conduct systems analysis. This was done in the form of brainstorming on key subjects. The collected factors were then clustered in a systems mind map and fleshed out with examples. This was followed by a second step where socially relevant (mega) trends and drivers were presented and discussed. We created a shared understanding of future developments and selected relevant trends. To develop the scenario worlds, participants were asked to go through the categories in the systems mind map in combination with the corresponding relevant trends and drivers for all four scenarios. Thus, in different ways, elements of the present system were envisaged in their future states. The present and relevant elements of societal life in the region were extended into the future along the four logics of the matrix’s quadrants. In order to develop more tangible versions of the scenario worlds, participants were guided in creating personas (Cooper 2008) for each future world, starting with people from the present region, who were put into the scenarios. Thus, archetypical inhabitants of the region underwent a creative ageing process. How would they react to societal changes? Would they be pioneers or would they stand in the way of progress? Which jobs, desires, or personal questions exist in the future scenarios? What’s life like in the different futures? The personas were introduced and discussed, and the theatre ensembles used them as direct input into the further process. As a method quite close to theatre, the creation of the various personas perfectly bridged the different disciplines, providing a successful starting point for elaborating the scenarios. At any rate, the personas were an important step towards bringing the partly abstract scenario worlds closer to individual people, thus shifting the future visions once again from a macro to a micro level. This dense process of scenario development resulted in six theatre production concepts, three of which were selected for implementation by an expert jury: The King Extends an Invitation to Dance (vierhuff theaterproduktionen/DIE ­AZUBIS), I Spy with My Little Eye (Stefanie Bischoff and Christian Weiß), and Conference of the Utopianists (Fräulein Wunder AG) were produced and performed in the autumn of 2013. The audience’s responses were collected directly after the performances. The spectators (or participants in the interactive performances) had developed utopian ideas themselves, and there was a clear motivation to think more critically about existing conditions. People mentioned that they would further pursue the subjects raised, but it was impossible to verify whether this intention translated into action. Hence, this was not an empirical study on the effects of utopian scenarios; rather, it was design-methodological research on utopia design using theatre as a medium. The positive and sometimes intense responses to the plays show that, in the context

3  The King Extends an Invitation to Dance. (Photo: ­Andreas Hartmann)

4  I Spy with My Little Eye. (Photo: Stefanie Bischoff)

5 C  onference of the ­Utopianists. (Photo: Andreas ­Hartmann)

of the cultural sector and of societal discourse, utopia design can make a useful contribution as the first phase of transformation design. In this respect, the project can be seen as a design field study for future, more in-depth design research.

Outlook The theatrical approach is but one example of how ‘utopia design’ can be used to communicate visions of a different future. Lots of different narrative methods could be employed to explore and discuss these visions, and different target groups can be reached by different means. The next stage of utopia design is, of course, to engage in practical micro-utopias. After envisioning a different way of life and an alternative society, one can begin to develop real experiments in small communities. The visualised and narrated scenarios are a tool to communicate people’s visions, a reminder of the goals to work towards, and a foundation to work upon. As everyday utopias, the scenarios allow for the development of concrete steps leading to a different lifestyle. The personas, in particular, can be used to connect to real people. Instead of using fictitious archetypical individuals, participants were asked to project themselves into the future and find out whether they were able to imagine a place for themselves in these small utopias, where that place would be, and where they would see others. Experiments in social coexistence, as called for by Wood and Ostrom, can be prepared intellectually, playfully, and hence ‘softly’ by using this method. The small utopias have the potential to develop their own ‘pull’, to mitigate fear and to ignite passions. In this way, micro-utopias contribute to creating an open society that loves to experiment and is thus able to transform. Whatever the goal of such a transformative project may be, the question is always: how do we change? How do we change ourselves, and how do we change the society around us? How can we, as designers, create and design change and transformative processes? One way is to give people the means and methods to design their own utopias. Transformation design enables people to give their ideas a form, a narrative, and emotional drive, and it provides an approach for discussing complex matters on a personal level. Utopia design is an inspiration for transformation.

1

Kristof von Anshelm and Sarah Zerwas, get lab – Labor für gesellschaftliche Transformation, ­Braunschweig University of Art, in cooperation with LOT Theater, Braunschweig.

References Adorno, T. W. (1951). Minima Moralia: Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Brie, M. (2010). ‘Solidarische Gesellschaftstransformation – Skizze über eine (noch) unmögliche Möglichkeit’. In Müller, H. (ed.). Von der Systemkritik zur gesellschaftlichen Transformation. Norderstedt: Books on ­Demand, pp. 12–56. Cooper, A. (2008). ‘The Origin of Personas’ [blog post]. Retrieved from: http://www.cooper.com/journal/ 2008/5/the_origin_of_personas. Dunne, A., and Raby, F. (2013). Speculative Everything: Design, Fiction, and Social Dreaming. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Forschungszentrum für Umweltpolitik [Environmental Policy Research Centre] (2014). ‘Gesellschaftliche Transformationsprozesse’. Retrieved from: http://www.polsoz.fu-berlin.de/polwiss/forschung/systeme/ffu/ forschung/steuerung/gesellschaftliche_transf/index.html. Jonas, W., Chow, R., Bredies, K., and Vent, K. (2010). ‘Far Beyond Dualism in Methodology: An Integrative ­Design Research Medium “MAPS”’. In Design & Complexity, DRS International Conference. Montreal: ­Université de Montréal. Kuhn, K., and Heinrichs, H. (2011). ‘Partizipation, Kooperation und nachhaltige Entwicklung im Kontext globalen Wandels’. In Heinrichs, H., Kuhn, K., and Newig, J. (eds.). Nachhaltige Gesellschaft. Munich: Springer Fachmedien, pp. 15–24. LOT-Theater e.V., Braunschweig University of Art (eds.) (2014). auf probe – Dokumentation eines Szenarioprozesses. Brunswick: LOT-Theater e.V. Meadows, D.L., et al. (1972). The Limits to Growth. New York: Universe. Ogilvy, J., and Schwartz, P. (2004). ‘Plotting Your Scenarios’. Global Business Network. Retrieved from: http://www.meadowlark.co/plotting_your_scenarios.pdf. Ostrom, E. (2009). Understanding Institutional Diversity. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Pennekamp, J. (2011). ‘Wohlstand ohne Wachstum. Ein Literaturüberblick.’ Cologne: Max-Planck-Institut für Gesellschaftsforschung. Retrieved from: http://www.mpifg.de/pu/workpap/wp11-1.pdf. Voros, J. (2001). ‘A Primer on Futures Studies, Foresight and the Use of Scenarios’. Swinburne University of Technology. Retrieved from: http://thinkingfutures.net/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/A_Primer_on_Futures_ Studies1.pdf. WBGU [German Advisory Council on Global Change] (2011). Factsheet No. 4/2011: ‘The Transformation ­towards Sustainability’. Retrieved from: http://www.wbgu.de/fileadmin/templates/dateien/veroeffent­ lichungen/factsheets/fs2011-fs4/wbgu_fs4_2011_en.pdf. Wood, J. (2007). Design for Micro-Utopias: Making the Unthinkable Possible. Aldershot, UK: Gower.

Transformation Design: A Piecemeal ­Situational Change Nicolas Beucker

Times of Change Why do we talk about transformation design today as a socially conscious design? It seems that the new millennium inspired a critical reflection on the impact of design. Though design has always been a discipline that considered the sociocultural aspects of its outcome, during the last decade of the twentieth century design was mainly perceived as a powerful tool to raise brand values and as a promoter of industrial innovation. With ecological challenges, demographic changes, economic crisis, and ongoing globalisation, design is more and more confronted with complex issues of society rather than the market. Unfortunately, the true impact of design is generally perceived only after the failure of a designed system, not before its conception. But design is ubiquitous. With his challenging project ‘Massive Change’ the Canadian designer and curator Bruce Mau asked the question: ‘Now that we can do anything, what will we do?’ (Mau et al. 2004: 15). Mau illustrates with impressive detail the kind of influence design has on economies, including on urban living, mobility, energy, wealth, and politics. The change that society has to pursue ‘is not about the world of design; it’s about the design of the world’ (Mau et al. 2004: 11). Mau opens our eyes to the complexity of the artificial environment and the role ­design plays in many professions that do not call themselves ‘design professions’. It shows the necessity of multi-professional teams for complex innovations. The ­exhibition ‘Massive Change’ itself demonstrated how visual conciseness helps to forward a new design understanding – also in the design professions. Like Mau’s project, other publications and exhibitions in the early twenty-first century remind designers of their sociocultural influence and responsibility. Among others, John Thackara shaped a design understanding that focused on social challenges. As Thackara describes his claim in the book In the Bubble: Designing in a Complex World, we have to design a world based less on stuff and more on people (Thackara 2005). Thackara, who is not only an influential author but also an opinion leader in the field of sustainable design, underlines the potential design has to influence the conditions we live in and strengthens the argument for a design that is co-creative, collaborative, and bottom-up. He addresses the power of transfor­ mation design when he admires ‘the beauty of the metaphor of the tipping points’, ­because they illustrate ‘how even small actions can have a powerful, transformative effect on the bigger picture’ (Thackara 2005: 96).

With ‘design thinking’ gaining acknowledgement in and outside the design business, a human-centred design perspective based on empathy and iteration is certainly common ground today (Brown 2009). Paola Antonelli recently emphasised what real human centredness means for the mindset of the discipline of design. At the German Design Council, Antonelli proclaimed that, because ‘design is about other human beings, designers almost take a Hippocratic oath when they decide to become designers. They decide to work for the world’ (Antonelli 2013). In other words, designers design to better the conditions of life in this world. This calls for an attitude that is focused on the well-being of society. Design outcomes have to create, first of all, value for society, not value for the market. With such an ethical goal in mind, design deals with much more than products, communication formats, or the built environment, but influences and forms services and processes as well. This broader understanding and more extensive reach of design is also exhibited by the INDEX: Award Design to Improve Life that was first announced in 2002 and has been repeated since. The award honours the diversity of strategies and solutions for commercial potential in social and sustainable design. INDEX: clearly shows that a society-focused design is not only necessary for a sustainable future but can as well be a business perspective for designers. Philanthropy does not imply commercial failure; instead, it can be an opening for a business that provides social value as well as monetary outcome. Arnold Wassermann, well-known innovation consultant and member of the INDEX: advisory board, describes the shift in the design profession. We are promoting design that is no longer driven by technology but instead pursues human-centred innovation. Design aims at a maximisation of human rather than shareholder benefit; it acts co-creatively, appreciating user input; and it claims no exclusiveness of its knowledge and tools (Wassermann, n.d.). Parallel to the shift of thinking that came more or less out of the design scene itself, two Nobel laureates of the first decade of the new millennium set the course for a direction that brings social awareness to the forefront of design issues. ­Muhammad Yunus was honoured in 2006 for his engagement in promoting the idea of social business, inspired business, and product innovation with social impact (Yunus 2010). Yunus and his Grameen Creative Lab initiated an explicit discourse about design for social business, starting with two conferences in 2010 and 2011. The experts gathered in these conferences saw the importance of design, in the context of social business, in the ability of designers to cope with messy situations and their extraordinary competence in framing the wickedness of social problems (Faust and Auricchio 2011). While Yunus’s approach focuses on problems that are often solved by means of new products or business models, political scientist Elinor Ostrom, Nobel laureate of 2009 in Economic Sciences, reminds us to be aware of the commons and to rethink how we deal with property. Ostrom’s contribution to the way we understand and manage the commons has recently had a noticeable influence on urban planners and other professions that design for the public (Ostrom 2011). At a time when

more than half the population lives in urban environments and therefore depends on the commons in an urban context, Ostrom’s theories have an obvious importance. The conference NOSPOLIS, held in Wuppertal in 2014, revealed that an urban design based on the principle of the commons needs a design understanding that is less concentrated on ground property and architecture, and instead focuses on the processes for managing urban resources and design decisions in such a way that they meet various stakeholders’ needs (Overmeyer, Finkenberger, and Schlaich 2014). With the economic crisis and the growing need for bottom-up community development, innovative projects have emerged, which enable citizens to co-create their cities and communities. Many of them deal with the negotiation of the commons. Some good examples can be found in the compilation Make_Shift City (Ferguson et al. 2014) or in the neighbourhood projects initiated by the Montag Stiftung Urbane Räume (http://www.montag-stiftungen.de). All projects share a rather local and small scale but contribute to a constant transformation. Focus on the local ensures that the important actors can be brought together and the design process is fully conducted in tune with the stakeholders. In the best case, the expertise resulting from the creative alliance of designers and stakeholders remains when the design experts leave the context.

Design Tools for Transformation To understand why design is the discipline for transformation, it is necessary to recapitulate some of the discipline’s key competencies. First of all, design is optimistic. Design is always sure that there is a way to optimise a solution, to do better for the world. With their abductive thinking and doing, designers build intuitively on a given context and react creatively to constraints. Intuition and tacit knowledge are considered key competencies in the design process (Cross 2011). Design would not be able to cope so well with ill-defined problems without this fundamental belief in the power of the imagination to conceive a variety of possible futures. Design professionals provide the images about the times to come. With a large set of tools, designers make possible futures discussable and rateable. Design works with external representations in order to initiate a dialogue with the situation (Cross 2011; Lawson 1997). That makes design indispensable for any planning operation, never mind what kind it is. As Herbert Simon said: ‘Everyone designs who devises courses of action aimed at changing existing situations into preferred ones’ (Simon 1999: 111). Simon’s oft-quoted proposition stresses that design is mainly about process design (‘devise courses of action’) and has the responsibility to enable change in a way that matches someone’s needs. ‘Existing situations’ are contexts in which human beings interact with others, with artefacts, and with the built environment. In this way, design always deals with the relationship of human behaviour. Thus, design can

hardly be related to hardware only. Nevertheless, the discipline of design is still seen mainly in relation to final products, goods, campaigns, communication devices, or buildings. Only recently have we perceived more and more design professions that bring relational aspects to the fore, such as interaction design, experience design, service design, or business design. The concept of design thinking as a design process based on empathy and iteration finds its way into a diverse field of actions (Brown 2009). Although the approach of human-centred design can be traced back to Christopher Alexander and others, it was practised by many multidisciplinary design companies before it was ‘branded’ by IDEO. Only with the label ‘design thinking’ did this concept become a fashionable process that found its way into practice and theory even beyond the design professions. With the hype about ‘design thinking’, design is understood as a process that is able to tackle big problems in a new dimension that a ‘mainstream design’, as defined by GK VanPatter and Elizabeth Pastor (Pastor 2013), would not be able to deal with. Some might also see social design as one of the new professions. On the contrary, ‘social’ defines the attitude with which xy-design is practised. We can design products, interactions, experiences, and so on in a social way, but only with hubris can we design the social per se. The contexts in which designers act can be more or less socially important; therefore, social designers prefer to work where a social attitude is really needed, where society matters more than market share. The social can never be planned, but through steps of transformation, social change can be triggered.

Contextualism in Transformation Design The core of transformation design is its contextualism and situation awareness. Transformation design never aims to innovate only one part of a context, for example one product or one communication device. The aim is to introduce such interventions into the context so that the situation itself is given a chance to change. At this point it is important to distinguish between context and situation. A context comprises all the parameters that constitute a situation. Using the image of a theatre stage, we might conclude that a context is defined through the set, the actors, and the props. The situation is embedded into the context, but it refers to the interaction of the actors with each other, with their set, and with the props. The situation is a moment in the play. Transferring the theatre analogy to real life, we must admit that the ‘play’ can hardly be designed. There is no script for the situations that can foresee exactly what will happen. Situations can be triggered, but not planned. Actually, we do not even wish to have a final design for a situation, since we do not want to try to control human interaction. But with knowledge about the

context (the set, the actors, and the props) we are able to design possible scenarios for future interactions through a contextual change. This might be indicated when we have to transform the way a community or institution is dealing with its demographic challenge or when we rethink our educational system. A situational context comprises the modes of interaction, communication, and organisation within which all stakeholders in the context behave. A situation depends on the implicit or tacit rules of interaction between human beings and their behaviour towards the environment. Without an understanding of the aspects that influence a situation, no argument can be made with respect to where change is needed, where an intervention is necessary, where new design can make a point. In Simon’s words: we need to know what defines a preferred situation. In transformation design, every context that will be treated by a designer has to be examined carefully in order to ‘understand the scope of the issue and define the right problem to tackle’ (Burns et al. 2006). Thus, transformation design is genuinely based on a conscientious analysis of the existing reality and builds on the contexts with the aim of changing them for the better. As in the concept of design thinking, every design approach therefore starts with an empathic analysis of a given situation. In this phase it is necessary that designers approximate the design context in a humble way, always bearing in mind that they cannot know as much as the concerned stakeholders within the ­context. Designers are thus facilitators who redefine the design brief in order to enable the stakeholders to articulate what would make their situation into a preferred situation.

Patience for Piecemeal Changes As mentioned earlier, I consider optimism to be one of the core competencies of ­design. You will never meet a good designer who has the character of a devil’s ­ad­vocate. Designers are able to devise actions towards change because they are convinced that there is a solution – not the solution, but the most adequate solution for the moment. Donald Schön observed that designers are able to work in fuzzy situations because they constantly reflect in action (Schön 1991). As reflective practitioners, they do not follow a strict workflow or mechanism, but react to a temporary solution on which they build new ideas. The reflective practitioner facilitates the dialogue with a situation through appropriate external representations of possible answers to the supposed problem. As Nigel Cross states, this is the best way to deal with the murkiness of big design issues: ‘We know that early solution conjectures offer a way to proceed with ill-defined problems’ (Cross 2011: 22).

In this way, transformation design is an optimistic reaction to a given context. It reveals opportunities born out of a designerly desire to imagine possible futures within existing situations. The situational aspect in the process of transformation design remains a key issue. All designed interventions will have an effect on the contextual configurations and will therefore set directions for a change in the situation. The quality of a transformation can be assessed by the options an intervention provides for further optimisation. A transformation approach – in contrast to a renovation approach or radical change – includes the assumption not only that context is crucial for any transformation but that a situation can never be entirely changed in an instant; parts of a context will always remain. Interventions rather than inventions form the basis of transformation design that leads to sustainable solutions. Consequently, transformation design is not looking for the innovation, but for an innovation that is linked to the present and enables connectivity to the future. The first transformation within a context is a prototype leading to the first iteration. This might resemble design thinking, and indeed it is quite similar. But in contrast to prototyping and iterating in a laboratory situation, in a design studio, or other closed research settings, transformation for situational change has to take place in real life. IDEO summarises its innovation approach with the sentence ‘fail often in order to succeed sooner’. This certainly is an effective strategy. Nevertheless, it still needs more case studies to prove that it is equally applicable to real-life situations. An early example reaches back forty years. Real-life prototyping can be compared to the ‘piecemeal growth’ introduced by Christopher Alexander in his Oregon Experiment (Alexander and Center for Environmental Structure 1975). In Alexander’s view, the piecemeal approach begins in its smallest way with a repair rather than a complete rebuilding of the context. The contextual change is implemented within the current situation. It is a piecemeal change that sets the stage for the next enlargement. While Alexander implemented piecemeal but long-lasting changes based on well-established patterns, the architect and urban researcher Jan Gehl uses currently real urban prototyping to test the urban interface. Gehl demonstrates how piecemeal and temporary change can be a tool for transformation in the public realm. With his team, he redesigned several small- and large-scale public spaces all over the world (Gehl and Svarre 2013). In New York City, Gehl Architects provided insight about a better possible use of Times Square through a temporary public design prototype. It closed, painted, reorganised, and furnished parts of the scenery so that the use of this public realm could be experienced in a new way. Gehl checked out the tipping points that led to a situational change. At Times Square the location was augmented with more and more inviting features, to a point where public life could evolve at its best. The temporary concept was finally implemented for long-term duration, but only after it proved to fit transport requirements as well as the needs of inhabitants and the context-relevant stakeholders.

Piecemeal change initiated by a contextual transformation might also be compared to ‘the smallest possible intervention’ (‘Der kleinstmögliche Eingriff’) introduced by sociologist Lucius Burckhardt in 1982 (Burckhardt 2013). The true value of transformation design might not be visible until years after its implementation. The piecemeal approach needs a lot of patience, to allow a transformation to evolve and influence a situation. Transformation design is rather slow but persistent. Fortunately, transformation design has no ambition to establish the next fad. The outcome of traditional design that is bound to the market has to be measured immediately, mainly by individual reaction rather than social interaction. Transformed contexts have to mature and develop over time if the impact is to be more than superficial.

Visibility for the Invisible Design Because the problems that transformation design addresses are usually wicked, the design outcome cannot be predicted, but has to be developed carefully with an open mindset and the participation of all involved stakeholders. Clients, designers, and stakeholders have to be aware that the most suitable solution might be physical hardware as well as an organisational change or a new service. It might include a product development, a strategy for communication, or a new space layout that supports a different experience in the problem frame. What counts is the invisible system, the design that influences the social relationship of people and their relationship to their artefacts and built environment (Burckhardt 1981). A designer alone cannot be responsible for this. What designers have to do is develop a vision for change with all relevant stakeholders and other experts in a participative way. Transformers are not the ones who actually design the future; they ­facilitate a process that enables the affected users in a context to build up the necessary momentum to co-create their own future. That might be difficult for those who are accustomed to claiming creative authorship. Everyone who facilitates others’ creativity has to subscribe to the creative commons of a group of stakeholders. Transformation design has no room for narcissistic self-expression. The new task for designers is to trigger contextual experience and insight from all stakeholders in order to build on that in a participatory way. This does not by any means imply that the designer’s competence to synthesise insights into solutions is not necessary any more. On the contrary, this competence becomes more and more important. With the ability to visualise contextual settings, design is the key profession for revealing contextual interdependencies. During the last fifteen years we have witnessed an increasing acknowledgement of and search for visual sense-making techniques in innovation processes, conference documentation, and business model generation. There is

­certainly a need for visual translation when dealing with amorphous problems. The illustrative approaches extract the essence of information in order to summarise it in a concise image, which gives all participants the possibility to build on it. The designer’s creative competence comes into play when it is time to interpret the stakeholders’ input. With their reflective-intuitive approach and their tacit knowledge in creation, designers are able to detect opportunities that might not be seen by others. Because of their optimistic attitude, they never hesitate to provide new perspectives and scenarios to deal with a given challenge. What counts even more: all visuals illustrating the complexity of a context enable the stakeholders to better understand their problem or the contextual frame of the situation. Visualised interdependencies, future scenarios, or opportunities increase the stakeholders’ ability to argue, detect, and defend their interests. In workshops in urban interface design that I have conducted in recent years, working with low-threshold external representations not only eased the conversation but also empowered the stakeholders to communicate with politicians and ­decision makers. In an intensive participatory placemaking workshop for a town square, a common-sense sketch and a proposal for a piecemeal participatory transformation were developed. All involved stakeholders agreed with this proposal and were enthusiastic about seeing the project proceed in this way. The town planning office decided to renovate the square instead of conducting a piecemeal transformation, but they included the citizens’ common sense in the brief for a landscape architect who would derive a final plan from that. Unfortunately, the planner came up with a design that did not meet any of the needs summarised in the brief. The architect apparently did not care about the insights of the users. It seemed that he did not even take notice of the brief. After he defended his plans at a public meeting in front of more than 150 citizens, he was struck by the fact that the citizens knew exactly what they needed. He even had to acknowledge that the citizens had gained planning insights and assertiveness through the planning workshop. Finally, the landscape architect had to adapt his plans to reflect the common-sense sketches provided by the citizens in the original brief. The design was re-mastered and finally found approval with the citizens. The conducted workshops enabled the citizens to argue with self-confidence. They learned to articulate and precisely name the requirements for a user-centred urban interface. The citizens were sensitised to their contextuality, their neighbourhood, and the influence a built environment can have on it. The participatory approach provided visual competence and enabled the citizens to raise their voices.

Transformation Design and the Transformation of Design As we have seen, transformation design shares many aspects with traditional design professions. Nevertheless, it can be seen as a new and different design approach. Since it is design, transformation design is always optimistic and confident that its outcome will have an influence on the cultivated world. Transformation design, like any other design, claims to be aware of the system in which it operates. It is innovative in its own sense, always context-related and looking for an approach to tackle existing situations. The design practice in transformation design is reflective and iterative, using external representations to articulate and measure its impact throughout the design process. What makes it so different is the fact that it is based on a mindset that regards the well-being of people and society as the core design challenge. Transformation design is humble and patient enough to innovate with piecemeal changes that take effect over the long term. It aims to change the context, and through the context the situation, the interactive relationship between people and between people and their artefacts. Transformation design is iterative and uses all kind of processes and prototypes to find out what best suits the situation and what can lay the groundwork for further dialogue and change. Transformation design starts with the premise that it will never define a final solution, but rather the next step towards a better understanding of the situation and even better answers (Burns et al. 2006). The design world, as well as the world that trusts in design as a motor of (social) change, has to adapt to this new design approach. This does not mean that transformation design has to be a competence of every designer, or that it is in any way better than traditional or ‘mainstream’ design. But those designers who head for the wicked challenges of society will have to pledge themselves to a design that matters to society. Furthermore, they have to be equipped with skills in contextual understanding and participatory co-creation, and the patience for slow but steady change. Within the existing systems of design education, the development of transformation design as a discipline seems hardly possible. We are still not in a situation where the potential and impact of design are fully understood by society at large. Young people who are looking for a career are not likely to choose design programmes if they want to contribute to social change. On the other hand, design students don’t usually appreciate the impact their discipline has on society and everyday life. Most design curricula focus on design for the market rather than design for social business. Especially in the context of applied universities, where research is always a means to an end, reliable proof is needed that transformation design can be commercially successful. Until now, many of the change-making processes in which ­design has the lead are still proactive initiatives by designers (in the broadest sense). The potential for facilitating change is not yet understood as an original designerly competence for which others are willing to pay. With shared knowledge about

­examples of transformation design and more examples from successful social businesses, we might see programmes similar to Stanford’s d.school. We need study programmes that have their origin in one department but are linked to and served by students from many disciplines. The new thing would be to introduce transformation design as a context- and situation-sensitive approach with the aim of facilitating piecemeal change that ensures connectivity for social interaction and further development. Those study programmes likely need their professional designerly oath to bind staff and students to a design that improves life.

References Alexander, C., and Center for Environmental Structure (1975). The Oregon Experiment. New York: Oxford ­University Press. Antonelli, P. (2013). ‘60 Jahre Designkultur – 2. Deutsche Designdebatte’. Retrieved 4 October 2014 from: http://vimeo.com/68477648. Brown, T. (2009). Change by Design: How Design Thinking Transforms Organizations and Inspires Innovation. 1st ed. New York: HarperCollins. Burckhardt, L. (1981). ‘Design ist unsichtbar’. In Österreichisches Institut für visuelle Gestaltung (ed.). Design ist unsichtbar. Vienna: Löcker Verlag, pp. 13–20. Burckhardt, L. (2013). Der kleinstmögliche Eingriff – oder die Rückführung der Planung auf das Planbare (M. Ritter and M. Schmitz eds.). Berlin: Martin Schmitz Verlag. Burns, C., Cottam, H., Vanstone, C., and Winhall, J. (2006). ‘RED Paper 02 – Transformation Design’. Retrieved 31 August 2014 from: http://www.designcouncil.info/mt/RED/transformationdesign/Transfor­ mationDesignFinalDraft.pdf. Cross, N. (2011). Design Thinking: Understanding How Designers Think and Work. Oxford and New York: Berg. Faust, J., and Auricchio, V. (eds.). (2011). Design for Social Business: Setting the Stage. Milan: Lupetti Editori di Communicazione. Ferguson, F., and Urban Drift Projects in cooperation with the Berlin Senate Department of Urban Development (eds.). (2014). Make_Shift City: Renegotiating the Urban Commons. Berlin: jovis Verlag. Gehl, J., and Svarre, B. (2013). How to Study Public Life. Washington, DC: Island Press. Lawson, B. (1997). How Designers Think: The Design Process Demystified. Completely rev. 3rd ed., first ­published 1980. Oxford: Architectural Press. Mau, B., Leonard, J., and Institute without Boundaries (2004). Massive Change. London and New York: Phaidon Press. Ostrom, E. (2011). Was mehr wird, wenn wir teilen: vom gesellschaftlichen Wert der Gemeingüter. Munich: ­Oekom-Verl. Overmeyer, K., Finkenberger, I., and Schlaich, C. (eds.) (2014). NOSPOLIS: Räume gemeinsamer Zukünfte; Dokumentation Symposium 7. Februar 2014, Universität Wuppertal. Wuppertal: Bergische Universität ­Wuppertal. Pastor, E. (2013). ‘The OTHER Design Thinking’. Paper presented at the Design Thinking Conference, Toronto. Schön, D.A. (1991). The Reflective Practitioner: How Professionals Think in Action. Paperback ed. Aldershot, Hants: Ashgate. Simon, H. (1999). The Sciences of the Artificial. 3rd ed. Cambridge, MA, and London: MIT Press. Thackara, J. (2005). In the Bubble: Designing in a Complex World. Cambrige, MA, and London: MIT Press. Wassermann, A. ‘Design 3.0: How design grew from “stuff” to socio technical systems and became too ­important to leave to designers’. Retrieved 31 August 2014 from: http://www.designtoimprovelifeeducation. dk/sites/default/files/design_3.0_wassermann.pdf. Yunus, M. (2010). Social Business: von der Vision zur Tat. Munich: Hanser.

Deep Involvement: On Transformation Processes Related to the RhyCycling Project Flavia Caviezel

The End as Starting Point The best way to observe fish is to become a fish.1

This quote by oceanographer Jacques-Yves Cousteau refers to the diving technology he co-developed in the 1940s, which was the first technology to allow both the observation of fish and their documentation with a film camera. The quote also alludes to the observer putting him- or herself in the position of the observed. This involvement, which is also supported by physically adjusting to the situation by means of technology, changes both the perspective and the form of observation. The divers become ‘fishlike’ in order to be able to approach fish and shoot suitable material. After the recorded material has been edited, the audience views the films and is immersed in a hitherto unknown and inaccessible underwater world. The (cinematically created) proximity, as well as the implementation and reception of the filmed material, can have transformative qualities. Cousteau’s cinematic underwater world must have had an overwhelming effect at the time. Referring to the Oscar-winning film Le Monde du silence, which Cousteau had shot together with Louis Malle, a Filmdienst review stated that the feature-length film whooshed past ‘like a dream adventure’.2 Initially, the intended effect may have been to fascinate the spectator, but thirty years later Cousteau started increasingly to use his films to communicate scientific knowledge in the field of marine ecology and to sensitise the audience to this subject,3 hoping that, ideally, the films’ ‘transformative’ effects would result in a change of behaviour. These and similar transformations are the subject of this text. It is an attempt to unfold and interrelate different processes, using the example of the RhyCycling research and exhibition project,4 which examined the border region between Switzerland, Germany, and France along the river Rhine. The river and its environment are understood as an interdependent network and communication system for human and non-human actors (Latour 2005; Himmelsbach and Volkart 2007). This understanding is also the foundation of Latour’s ‘political ecology’ (Latour 1993, 2009), which calls for a transition from the doctrine of dominating nature to a society that embraces participation by all entities. Besides audiovisual research on recent (water-ecological) conditions above, under, and along the water, with a focus

on fish fauna, energy, and utilisation of the riverbank, the project also examined planned or imagined future changes for the region. The research relied on what are known as ‘aesthetics of sustainability’ (Kurt 2004: 238–41), which are found in (media) art, and it was influenced by current theories of aesthetics that include nature. It differs from scientific and technical positions by the choice of focal points in content, methods, and forms of presentation. An interdisciplinary team conducted the research, which is mainly based on methods from visual anthropology, with partners involved in topics of sustainable development and ecology. The goal of the project was to provide insight into the network and into the interdependencies and (im)balances of the region’s ecological microcosm. The edited research material was brought together in an interactive computer platform that was exhibited, together with several video installations, at the Port of Basel at the end of 2012. The following reflections take as their starting point different aspects of working in a transdisciplinary way. This approach includes using an interdisciplinary team of academic and non-academic experts to collaborate on developing and discussing content. The audiovisual material was shot in the Basel region together with, and at the locations of, the project partners from municipal offices, universities, private companies, NGOs, and other protagonists. A more informal exchange took place with members of the public, in particular in conversations with exhibition visitors about their experience while browsing through the interactive computer platform, the project’s ‘core’. I will relate these different forms of collaboration5 to current discussions in sustainability and scientific6 research, as well as to research in the arts,7 as there are intersections with approaches used in transformation design.8 RhyCycling is a snapshot, a work in progress, which can be continually complemented by new aspects. I consider both the research process and the resulting content as an ‘ongoing process of rethinking’ (Brandstetter 2013: 65) – of rethinking the steps that have been achieved so far and the (forms of) knowledge that have been produced. This is a rather new perspective, especially in the field of the performing arts and with regard to their temporary nature (length of a concert, duration of an exhibition, etc.): a public presentation, for example an exhibition or a performance, does not constitute a final result but rather a ‘starting point’ in an ongoing (interactive) process. Knowledge can be seen as transforming and flowing in an ‘endless’ process spanning different forms and formats. Therefore, the (supposed) end of the project can simultaneously be the starting point for further combinations, confrontations, and reflections. Hence, the italicised parts of this text are an attempt to relate, in a montage-like way, analytic/reflective passages to descriptive ones that provide detail on the approach used in the project. The intent ­behind this form is to allow a ‘gap’ that challenges recipients’ imagination and supports different points of view (Holm Vohnsen 2013: 143).

1 Release of young salmon at the river Wiese (Basel/Switzerland). Video still © Rhy­Cycling team 2011

2 Exhibition view of RhyCycling – Fluid Borderland, interactive computer platform with projection (left) and in monitor mode (right). © Ketty Bertossi 2012

3 Interface of the ­interactive computer platform: icons (A), keywords (B), and ­locations (C) are interrelated and support orientation on the surface of the interface. Screenshot © RhyCycling team 2012

Team, Partners, Protagonists There were different modes of collaboration in RhyCycling, mainly with the core and extended team, with project partners, and with the individuals who were filmed for the project. The interdisciplinary team of specialists from different backgrounds – ranging from the natural sciences to the humanities, to computer sciences, to art theory, sceno­graphy, design, and music – conducted the research. A core team of four people worked together quite closely for the mostly audiovisual research. Depending on the project-­phase and personal expertise of team members, we worked in different constellations, yet always with other collaborators who intervened on the issues under consideration from an ‘external’ point of view. It was a step-by-step approach. A musician, a graphic designer, and a computer scientist complemented the ‘extended’ team with their work. For the video (post)production we collaborated with a ­local company. The core team also collaborated with project partners working in the fields of ecology and sustainable development, all of whom are experts in both practice and theory, in order to gain meta-level input and create impact in other fields related to the project.9 Over the last decade, transdisciplinary work has become a central element in the production of new knowledge,10 and has become popular in different research contexts, for example in sustainability studies, in the social sciences, and also in research conducted at art academies. As a hitherto largely uncanonised research approach with heterogeneous methods, transdisciplinary collaboration is associated with a broad range of aspects, for example with participatory and experimental ­research practices, with possibilities of empowering the involved actors, or with ­different media-based knowledge presentation formats by which, besides text, non-textual forms such as concerts, exhibitions, interventions, and so on are also made publicly accessible. The concept of knowledge is central. The aim is to create holistic knowledge that transcends the boundaries between different disciplines and institutions, not least of all with the (political) intent of making the content available for practice. The range of the different research and application fields, of methods and techniques, is large. Thus, the debates that are important in the context of RhyCycling take place in different communities but also overlap at times, as will be briefly outlined in the following. On an international level, the integration of the arts into research started in the 1990s. This development has led to considerable changes that caused both the arts and the sciences to reflect on their practices in light of the new conditions. Inter- and transdisciplinary teams are increasingly working with an ‘open’ concept of research. Knowledge production, presentation, and reception, as well as the reflection of the processes involved in these activities, have become the central focus. In this context, Gabriele Brandstetter advocates a continuous evaluation of the interim steps achieved and of the forms of knowledge that have been created (Brandstetter

4 The RhyCycling film team accompanied a kerosene tanker from Düsseldorf, Germany, to Basel, Switzerland. Set photography © RhyCycling team 2011

2013: 65). Elke Bippus emphasises the material and formal conditionality of the production of knowledge on the grounds that not only determinable knowledge is important. She also states that artistic research processes reveal the mediality of what is used for reflection and wherein reflection takes place (Bippus 2013: 290). Considering knowledge production by taking into account aspects of the media used in this production represents an extension of and relates to an earlier observation in scientific research stating that knowledge constitutes itself through both experimental systems and the formats in which it is presented.11 Therefore, media-­ based representation of knowledge on the one hand and cognition on the other are interdependent. Transformation design is aimed at creating a sustainable, future-oriented culture, and thus represents a decidedly normative approach. As one of the main protagonists of transformation design, Harald Welzer analyses prevailing social conditions to outline visions for sustainable, future-oriented ways of life (Welzer and Sommer 2014). Frugality, cutting consumption, sustainability, and effective networking are methods of reduction. According to Welzer, these behavioural changes are not possible without a certain transformation of society, and he prefers this transformation to be effected by design rather than by disaster (Welzer 2012: 2).12 Wolfgang Jonas and Stephan Rammler synthesise different approaches of trans­

disciplinary models and use this synthesis to develop a conceptual framework for ­design research (Jonas and Rammler 2013: 323–27). Jonas and Rammler’s programme amalgamates, on the one hand, physical-philosophical reflections by physicist ­Basarab Nicolescu, who advocates combining different aspects of transdisciplinarity, including spiritual ones, with his ‘unity of knowledge’ model (Nicolescu 1996 and 2010: 22) and, on the other hand, the Mode 2 knowledge production formulated by Helga Nowotny and others (Nowotny, Scott, and Gibbons 2004) with ­attributes such as including non-academic knowledge13 – and, finally, with scientific-political ­visions of sustainability research combining system knowledge, target knowledge, and transformation knowledge.14 Due to its often problem-oriented nature, transdisciplinarity has also come under attack.15 Sabine Maasen describes transdisciplinarity as a new form of knowledge production aimed at both social acceptance and (economic) exploitation (Maasen 2010: 247, 262–64). In her analysis of the participatory aspects of such forms of collaboration, she states that for the promotion of both knowledge acceptance and validity, there was increasing tendency to involve, and thus empower, ­actors from non-scientific backgrounds. Although Maasen’s analysis relates to university projects and funding programmes in Germany, we can still draw some comparisons to forms of collaboration used in the RhyCycling project. It needs to be subjected to the same critical analysis of the fundamental problems that participatory approaches and the corresponding results can entail. Maasen differentiates between four categories of participation in transdisciplinary methods: intervening, methodological, explorative, and distributed transdisciplinarity (Maasen 2010: 254–58). Intervening transdisciplinarity (1) is characterised by temporary, close, and interlinked work relationships between the partners, by problem statements from the field of application, and by the empowerment of non-scientific actors who expect useful results for practice. In methodological transdisciplinarity (2), questions of representation and the concept of objectivity are the main focus. Artistic means and media are used for communication. As opposed to intervening transdisciplinarity, the projects characterised by methodological transdisciplinarity do not lead to real products or to products that will be accessible to the partners. This approach is strongly controlled by scientists and has a mainly stimulating/disturbing effect rather than connecting directly to the field of practice. Explorative transdisciplinarity (3) provides improved conditions for discussion and dialogue forums and fundamentally questions the boundaries between scientific and social knowledge. This approach employs various methods to enter into a dialogue with different actors. Distributed transdisciplinarity (4), finally, uses focus groups and scenario workshops as methods of participation. Integration of non-scientific knowledge is exclusively done in a methodological process controlled by scientists/researchers, and the partners’ contributions are not directly integrated into the core product.

5 Unloading the tanker’s kerosene at Basel Port of Switzerland. Set photography © RhyCycling team 2011

In principle, all four categories play a role in the RhyCycling project, albeit in varying degrees. The following characteristics were intended and have shaped the project: • processes predominantly controlled by the research team (2) • use of various methods in collaborating with different partners (3/4) • use of different media and formats, such as video, photography, and exhibitions, to communicate subjects; sensitising actors through use of artefacts and events (2) • critical analysis of the contemporary understanding of science, of questions of representation, and of the organisation of knowledge (2) • stimulating and disturbing results to encourage reflection among all partners (2) • practice partners’ expectations in relation to usefulness and applicability of results (1) The following characteristics did not conform to the above-described four categories: • The problem statement did not predominantly derive from the field of application (1) but from a humanities/(media) art-related perspective on sustainability and ecological development. • Not only reflective products (2) but also practice-linked products (such as the interactive computer platform) were created for the communication of research findings.

6 Release of young salmon at the Rhine (Basel, Switzerland). Video still © RhyCycling team 2011

• The non-academic knowledge collected in audiovisual research and in workshops was not separated from academic knowledge (3) but was constantly ‘negotiated’, in particular by the team. • The non-academic knowledge was nonetheless integrated into the project’s ‘core’ (the computer platform and other exhibition installations) and was not shifted into specific products implemented by the partners (4). In her typology, Maasen differentiates between two principal forms of participation: a science-internal, instrumental form where participation is subjected to scientific goals, and a science-external form that is controlled by actors, processes, and the results of participation, where activities related to academic reputation (such as publishing) are deferred. Both forms integrate participation, problem orientation, and application orientation, but rarely include interdisciplinarity as an added value, and both forms intend to create substantiated knowledge. The difference between the two forms is how they design the ‘robustification of knowledge through the ­actors from the field of practice’ (Maasen 2010: 258). The above-described typology cannot be transferred to RhyCycling in the same categorical way. Our approach oscillated between the two poles. Achieving robust knowledge in the sense of ‘validated’, accepted knowledge was not the main objective due to the unstable and dynamic nature of knowledge.16 As outlined earlier, the main focus was on the characteristics of knowledge, which depend on with whom, how, and where knowledge is developed – especially in relation to the interactive computer platform – and how the form of knowledge representation influences ­reception. The specific issue of publishing when working with participatory methods, which Maasen attributes to the normative type, arises not only in the context of universities but also in relation to art academies, where academic formats are becoming increasingly important. The goal of RhyCycling as an application-oriented project was to address a broad section of the public who are interested in both ecological issues and multisensory inter­ active experiences. This was much appreciated by the project partners as an alternative to their own modes of sensitisation or intervention. With the final non-textual format of

RhyCycling, the transformation lies in developing a textual presentation format for journals, proceedings, and the like, which was impossible to include in the project schedule. The textual outcomes are by-products for a specific, rather specialised community. ­Being able to satisfy the different needs of different communities and to create both textual and non-textual formats is eventually a question of resources. Transdisciplinarity is about transgressing boundaries (Nowotny 2004: 48). It seems to be a challenging project, a ‘complex and complicated work at the boundaries of science and non-science’ (Maasen 2010: 258). Which characteristics define this borderland as a space where knowledge is produced and negotiated? Methods from visual anthropology, which were the predominant methods used in the audiovisual research for RhyCycling, allow such spaces to arise. For example, discussing specific questions in filmed conversations involving both academic and non-academic experts is a method that can form the basis for collaboration. Differentiating between ‘scientific’ and ‘non-scientific’ knowledge becomes moot; instead, the point is to consolidate, interlink, and represent different forms of knowledge that have been gained from observation and discussion, and that are then newly negotiated in reception and are therefore ‘unsecured’. Thus, in RhyCycling, the space where knowledge is produced and negotiated is content-related work with and at the (geographical) border, an inter- and transdisciplinary walk along the borderline. Three workshops were aimed at bringing together experts from different disciplines in order to bridge the gap between theory and practice and to gain insights and knowledge through joint conversations, despite differences and controversies. During our workshops, we discussed the ‘utility’ of sustainability concepts (a rather worn term) and the future development of the region. That the launch of the debate came from art and artistic research was considered innovative and unfamiliar in a positive sense. The discussions about sustainability concepts during the first workshop were sometimes extremely controversial. Eventually, philosophers proposed the term ‘green culture’ as an alternative to ‘sustainability’. This seemed interesting, because it meant that the somewhat abstract term ‘sustainability’ – used particularly in a scientific, technical, and economic context – would be replaced by a broader and more politically established one. On the other hand, and of equal significance, sustainability was explained as a concern of cultural interest, coinciding with a cultural studies approach and the transdisciplinary approach of the project. In the second workshop, after the group discussion about initial visions for the ‘best of all worlds’ in forty or fifty years’ time, it became clear that, despite the controversy, there was a pressing need to develop a ‘grandchild-proof’ way of life. The debates were deepened in a panel discussion with experts from local government, from design, and from visionary urban living projects in Switzerland and Germany, and the public was also involved in the discussion.

7 P. M., author of Neustart Schweiz (left), and Daniel Gafner, product ­designer at postfossil, at the panel ­discussion ‘Grandchild-Proof?’ © Ketty Bertossi 2012

‘Grandchild-Proof?’ was the title of a panel discussion held at the closing of the RhyCycling – Fluid Borderland exhibition. Intending to move the discussion from a local to a global level, experts discussed risks, opportunities, and possible actions ­related to these questions: What does it mean to become climate neutral and leave a liveable world to our grandchildren? Are the efforts of the Canton of Basel-Stadt, which aim at a 2000-Watt-Society17 and include activities such as supporting renewable energy sources and energy efficiency, adequate? What kind of technical and economic framework should a role-model state such as Switzerland offer to implement sustainable energy and climate policies? With these questions, aimed at soliciting ­reflection and forward thinking that would have a ‘transformative’ effect on the audience and engender behavioural change, the discussion followed an approach similar to that used in transformation design. Time and again, the discussion returned in particular to subjects such as reduction and renunciation, which are also central issues in the debate over achieving a ‘good society’18 or an ‘aesthetic of omission’.19

Switching Position The above-described transdisciplinary borderline walk is defined by moments where participants approach each other, at least temporarily. Regarding the collab-

8/9 Filming of underwater construction site at Auhafen Basel, Switzerland. Set photography © RhyCycling team 2011

oration of the participants who were filmed, there was an alternating process of approaching and distancing, similar to how anthropologist Peter Crawford describes the ‘meandering’ in the anthropological process as ‘becoming and othering’ (Crawford 1992: 68–71). It could be used to describe the situations we encountered when we carried out semi-structured filmed conversations or when we observed everyday life and work along the Rhine using a video camera and sound recorder – for example, the work of professional divers at an underwater construction site, the movements of young fish, or the life and work of the crew on board a kerosene tanker travelling from Düsseldorf (Germany) to Basel. I needed to create ‘closeness’ with interviewees, getting involved with them beyond the filmic situation. For instance, before we started to record, we engaged the protagonists in conversation and observed their working day. Afterwards, we discussed our mutual interests in that specific field of work and which aspects could be filmed. During the filming, I tried to create an atmosphere of trust. One example in particular illustrates that situation quite well: the manager of a hydroelectric power station wouldn’t agree to talk about fish ladders, a politically delicate subject, when I emailed him the topics we wanted to discuss with him in the interview. But we were eventually able to get around this because, during our interview, he brought up the subject of fish ladders himself, and this enabled me to easily make the link to an issue that was also of great interest to our project. I didn’t expect the interview to take that direction, but of course I was very pleased and I appreciated his trust. During the interview, researchers act like ‘accomplices’, even if they don’t agree with everything being said. In that moment of deep involvement, they are ­interested in the other’s opinion. They are approaching, trying to understand the ideas behind,

or the motives for, certain actions; they are ‘becoming’. Afterwards, while analysing the material and during the editing process, they ‘return’ to a critical, distant role. In keeping with Crawford’s concept, I would call this ‘othering’. Despite involvement and collaboration, questions of representation and power structures cannot be totally overcome. This tension is a fundamental characteristic of transdisciplinary work, but there are better and worse ways of collaborating with people. For instance, the methodological concept proposed by theorist and filmmaker Trinh T. Minh-ha of ‘speaking nearby’ (Minh-ha 1992) and not ‘speaking about’ provides an alternative approach for involving protagonists in the (filmic) process with their own ideas of, and desires related to, self-representation. This ­approach arises from postmodern, feminist, postcolonial, etc., debates on the so-called ‘crisis of representation’20 in the anthropological field and is aimed at deconstructing limiting paradigms. In recent theoretical and methodological approaches, such as those of Karen Barad, who engages ‘constructively and deconstructively (not destructively) with science’, deconstruction is understood as being ‘about examining the foundations of certain concepts and ideas, seeing how contingency operates to ensure the “foundations” of concepts we cannot live without, and using that contingency to open up other possible meanings/matterings’ (Juelskjaer and Schwennesen 2012: 14). Thus Trinh’s methodological approaches point towards a situation where those involved in the process have to deal with concepts of representation and with power structures, but try to do so in a different, more adequate and empowering way. In RhyCycling, those questions were always present during filming and editing: how can we adequately represent the protagonists and their issues? How are they included in identifying topics and in the process of conversation? How do we determine what is being discussed and which points will be worked on after the discussion? The pattern of the qualitative, semi-structured filmic interviews gives interviewees a lot of freedom to talk about their own main concerns. By being asked a rather open question to begin, interviewees were given the possibility of setting a direction, and I followed them by relating to their answers, but not without having in mind the main questions I wanted to get answers to. We discussed our suggestions regarding locations and processes. However, the protagonists rarely confronted us with preferences concerning a specific ‘staging’. One inter­ viewee wanted to be interviewed in a suspended box, which shortly before had been used as a transport box during a shoot by a Swiss TV channel. And so our interview took place at lofty heights, not exactly in keeping with insurance regulations, and the camera­man had to be quick to react to our movements from his position. The protagonists unreservedly accepted the team’s editing of the filmed material. Institutions such as the Port of Switzerland or the Office for Environment and Energy only asked for a preview of the rough cuts, all of which they accepted. Besides the team, some of the collaborators as well as some ‘external’ people, who were not involved in the

project, tested the compilation of all the material on the interactive computer platform. On the basis of evaluation interviews held after testing, we adjusted some functions that were not yet satisfactory.

Reassembling the Destabilised The subversive potential of montage lies in its capacity for altering the obvious first sense of an object, image, or perspective by combining two or more elements. […] Montage is the splintering of preestablished orders of visuality, but it is also the reassembling; and beyond these assemblages, new order may appear. (Suhr and Willerslev 2013: 12)

Finally, I would like to relate the discussion of the concept of knowledge that forms the basis for transdisciplinary approaches to the concept of montage, which in turn is fundamental for the RhyCycling interactive computer platform. The platform allows the possibility alluded to in the above quote: the constant reordering and juxtaposing of contents. I think the term montage is appropriate, in both its narrow (Pantenburg 2006) and wider sense (McLean 2013). Besides the actual editing of the audiovisual material (as reflective practice), montage symbolises the research team’s reflections and its attitude towards thematic aspects by interrelating materials in unusual, maybe even disturbing, ways on the platform.21 For example, the keyword migrate does not focus on people but on the routes travelled by fish and waste materials, on debates about fish ladders, or on the rhetoric related to so-called ‘invasive species’ that come to Basel by water, which mirrors the right-wing populist debate on migration. Another aspect of montage is represented in the non-linear form of reception that allows users to create their own links between the different media-based contents. In a wider sense, montage does not specifically refer ‘to an audio-visual or (by extension) a textual method, but to a sensibility and mode of engagement with the world’ (McLean 2013: 59). It is not based on an existing order (of society, history, or context) but on montage-generated instability. This instability, which is inherent in both the juxtaposed elements and the gaps arising between them, connects the elements and gaps while simultaneously differentiating them. The gaps challenge the viewer’s imagination during reception and support different forms of viewing. The focus is on ‘destabilization of conclusion in order to enrich it’ (Holm Vohnsen 2013: 143). The unstable conditions described at the beginning of this paper in the context of knowledge production also apply to transdisciplinary work at the intersection of arts and sciences, which is characterised by working across boundaries and by the negotiation spaces arising in this kind of work. In this respect, transdisciplinary work ‘undermines’ the idea of robust and reliable knowledge.

Transforming the Viewer (as Agent) What does the interactive platform look like? As the project’s core, the interactive computer platform collects and organises all media-based products that were created during the research process: videos, sound essays, quotations, graphics, and statistics. Users browse through the material following their own direction and thus create an individual dramatic compo­ sition. The media were organised in a predetermined way, in relation to certain ­keywords (invasive, toxic, etc.) and to locations along the Rhine. However, the way people chose to interact with the material, creating their own dramaturgy, their own ‘storylines’, was self-determined. It’s a more ‘playful’ approach than a ‘classical’ structured one. The viewer experiences different degrees of control over the interactive situation, different degrees of agency. In this sense, users are working with (creating) the material. In a conversation about how they evaluated the exhibition, users mentioned that it would take some time for them to be able to create links between the different materials. This consolidating and mixing was described as ‘environment’, in which one was located and where content elements assembled in rather subconscious ways, with the effect that after reception one felt ‘slightly dizzy, but in a good way’. Hence the content is actively developed further by users, who regroup the knowledge found in the platform and put it into an individual arrangement. In doing so, the user’s intention or questions define the experience. Within this form of interaction as ‘creative interactivity’ (Heibach 2003: 71–74), users create an output that is only partly determined by the technical system and may even change it. This output represents a personal ‘storyline’, a new organisation of knowledge in the user’s head that can lead to reflection on their own lifestyle in relation to the topics presented by the material viewed in the platform. The transformative character of this extended form of reception applies to both the recipient and the content being received. Transformation happens through active involvement, which is more strongly encouraged by non-linear forms than by linear ones.22 The potential inherent in the unstable gap created by montage lies in the fact that users reflect on their own behaviour and, in a sense, ‘negotiate’ with themselves, which has a broadening, opening, involving effect. The involvement triggered by the (shock) effect that arises from the tension inherent in the interrelationship of the mounted fragments makes montage a ‘flirting form’ (Salamon 2013: 148) of interaction and discovery. As an indicator of the experience’s intensity, the reported feeling of being dizzy clearly has the potential to initiate action and change. To place involvement within the broader concept of agency as ‘response-ability’, as an ‘enactment’, agency is ‘about possibilities for wordly re-configurings’ (Dolphijn and van der Tuin 2012: 4). Hence the montage-driven possibilities provided by the interactive format of the platform offer support for reconsidering one’s own lifestyle.

10 Exhibition view of ­RhyCycling – Fluid Borderland: deep ­involvement at the ­interactive computer platform. © Ketty Bertossi 2012

With the increasing urgency in the desire for change,23 the conditions for transdisciplinary research have shifted too. The issues in relation to social acceptance and exploitation of the knowledge gained, as stated above by Maasen, may not so much apply to projects in the context of universities of the arts, but according to our observations, these issues are increasingly integrated into research designs as motivation for action. There is less danger of the knowledge gained in this kind of research being appropriated for neo-liberal purposes in artistic/scientific-oriented research projects24 that employ strategies to resist such appropriation and instead pursue other notions of how to ‘exploit’ research results: the reflection and continuous development of the unstable and unreliable knowledge produced, and the potential of this knowledge to bring about (societal) change. Concerning RhyCycling, two quotes by Bruno Latour (also available at the interactive platform) perfectly capture what transdisciplinary work at the intersections of science, society, and ecology endeavours to achieve with its participatory approaches and its efforts to create awareness for necessary future changes: If we do not change the common dwelling [of politics, science, technology, nature, and society], we shall not absorb in it the other cultures that we can no longer dominate, and we shall be forever incapable of accommodating in it the environment that we can no longer control. […] It is up to us to change our ways of changing. What does it matter [who speaks in whose interest], so long as they are all talking about the same thing, about a quasi-object they have all created, the object-discourse-­ nature-society whose new properties astound us all and whose network extends from my refrigerator to the Antarctic by way of chemistry, law, the State, the economy, and satellites. The imbroglios and networks that had no place now have the whole place to themselves. They are the ones that have to be represented; it is around them that the Parliament of Things gathers henceforth. (Latour 1993: 144, 145)

Cousteau’s fishes would thank him!

  1 Programme brochure ewz.stattkino 2014: 20.  2 http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Die_schweigende_Welt.   3 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacques_Cousteau. The so-called ‘divulgationism’, a simple way of sharing scientific concepts, which was criticised by some academics, was soon employed in other disciplines and became one of the most important characteristics of modern television broadcasting.   4 For further information and for the Web-based demonstrator, see: www.rhycycling.ixdm.ch.   5 See Caviezel and Hagmann 2014 in Media­_N journal; some aspects published in the journal in the form of a dialogue appear in the following in an edited version and are formatted in a different typeface.   6 On transdisciplinarity in particular to Nowotny 2004, Nicolescu 1996 and 2010, and Maasen 2010; on the concept of knowledge also to Knorr Cetina 1980.   7 In particular by Bippus (among others 2013a, 2013b) and Brandstetter 2013.   8 In particular by Welzer (among others 2012) and Jonas and Rammler 2013.   9 Edited excerpt from Caviezel and Hagmann 2014; also all following paragraphs set in the same typeface. 10 On so-called Mode 2 knowledge production, see also Nowotny, Scott, and Gibbons 2004. 11 See also Knorr Cetina 2002 or Rheinberger 2001. For an analysis of the means and media of knowledge production, see Rheinberger, quoted in Dotzler and Schmidgen 2008: 8–9. 12 See also Welzer and Rammler 2012 or talk by Welzer 2013a. 13 ‘Socially robust knowledge’ in the sense of practical knowledge of science-external actors. See also Nowotny 2004: 52. 14 See also Pohl, Wülser, and Hirsch Hadorn in Bogner, Kastenhofer, and Torgersen 2010: 133–35. 15 For sustainability research, see the analysis in Pohl, Wülser, and Hirsch Hadorn 2010: 123–43. 16 On the concept of knowledge, see also Knorr Cetina 1980. 17 A programme for sustainable use of energy, developed at ETH Zurich in the 1990s, which Swiss cities such as Basel and Zurich have subscribed to. The goal is to reduce annual per capita consumption of ­primary energy to 2000 watts and to promote renewable energies and energy efficiency. See http:// www.2000-watt.bs.ch; https://www.stadt-zuerich.ch/2000watt. 18 Jonas and Rammler 2013, in particular pp. 325–27. 19 Conversation by Harald Welzer with Karin Sander (artist, ETH professor) and Moya Hoke (product ­designer and hat designer) at GLOBArt Academy 2013. 20 See also Marcus and Fischer 1986; Clifford and Marcus 1986. 21 See also Coover et al. 2012: 203, where I refer to this reflective practice as ‘a superior form of editing’. 22 As debated at the conference ‘You are leaving the linear sector – Dokumentarfilm, Webdocs, ­Trans­media’, ZDOK, Zurich University of the Arts, 7–8 May 2015. 23 Among others, see also studies by Gottlieb Duttweiler Institute (The Age of Less, Sharity, etc., www.gdi.ch) or the degrowth movement: for example http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wachstums­ rücknahme; ­degrowth Conference Leipzig 2014; Transition Theater www.transitiontheater.net. 24 See also projects sponsored by the Swiss National Science Foundation, among others: Check on A ­ rrival – Grenzland Flughafen (2004–6), Fotografische Langzeitbeobachtung Schlieren 2005–2020 (2005–6), Präparat Bergsturz (2011–13), Handyfilme – künstlerische und ethnographische Zugänge zu Repräsen­tationen jugendlicher Alltagswelten (2012–14), Computersignale. Kunst und Biologie im ­Zeitalter ihres ­digitalen Experimentierens (2012–15), Size Matters – Zur Massstäblichkeit von Modellen (2013–15).

References Bippus, Elke (2013a). ‘Modelle ästhetischer Wissensproduktion in experimentellen Konstellationen der Kunst’. In Caviezel, Flavia, Florenz, Beate, Franke, Melanie, and Wiesel, Jörg (eds.). Forschungsskizzen. ­Einblicke in Forschungspraktiken an der Hochschule für Gestaltung und Kunst FHNW. Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess, pp. 47–57. Bippus, Elke (2013b). ‘(Kunst-)Forschung. Eine neuartige Begegnung von Ethnologie und Kunst’. In Johler, Reinhard, Marchetti, Christian, Tschofen, Bernhard, and Weith, Carmen (eds.). Kultur_Kultur. Denken. ­Forschen. Darstellen. Münster and New York: Waxmann, pp. 284–91.

Bogner, Alexander, Kastenhofer, Karen, and Torgersen, Helge (eds.) (2010). Inter- und Transdisziplinarität im Wandel? Neue Perspektiven auf problemorientierte Forschung und Politikberatung. Nomos, Reihe Wissenschafts- und Technikforschung vol. 4. Brandstetter, Gabriele (2013). ‘On Research. Forschung in Kunst und Wissenschaft – Herausforderungen an Diskurse und Systeme des Wissens.’ In Peters, Sibylle (ed.). Das Forschen aller: Artistic Research als ­Wissensproduktion zwischen Kunst, Wissenschaft und Gesellschaft. Transcript, pp. 63–71. Caviezel, Flavia, and Hagmann, Sabine (2014). ‘Modes of Collaboration.’ In Media_N, Journal of the New ­Media Caucus 10, no. 01 (Spring 2014). Available at: http://median.newmediacaucus.org/art-infrastructures-hardware/4118-2. Clifford, James, and Marcus, George (eds.) (1986). Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Coover, Roderick, with Badani, Pat, Caviezel, Flavia, Marino, Mark, Sawhney, Nitin, and Uricchio, William (2012). ‘Digital Technologies, Visual Research and the Non-Fiction Image’. In Pink, Sarah (ed.). Advances in Visual Methodology. SAGE, pp. 191–208. Crawford, Peter Ian (1992). ‘Film as Discourse: The Invention of Anthropological Realities’. In Crawford, Peter Ian, and Turton, David (eds.). Film as Ethnography. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, pp. 68–71. Dolphijn, Rick, and van der Tuin, Iris (2012). ‘New Materialism: Interviews & Cartographies. Interview with ­Karen Barad’. Open Humanity Press website. Retrieved 29 May 2015 from: http://dx.doi.org/10.3998/ ohp.11515701.0001.001. Dotzler, Bernhard J., and Schmidgen, Henning (eds.) (2008). Parasiten und Sirenen. Zwischenräume als Orte der materiellen Wissensproduktion. Bielefeld: Transcript, pp. 8–9. Heibach, Christiane (2003). Literatur im elektronischen Raum. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Himmelsbach, Sabine, and Volkart, Yvonne (eds.) (2007). Ökomedien. Ökologische Strategien in der Kunst heute. Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz Verlag. Holm Vohnsen, Nina (2013). ‘Labor Days: A Non-Linear Narrative of Development’. In Suhr and Willerslev 2013, pp. 131–44. Jonas, Wolfgang, and Rammler, Stephan (2013). ‘Das Rad neu erfinden. Forschung zu zukunftsfähiger ­Mobilität am Institut für Transportation Design Braunschweig’. In Popp, Reinhold, and Zweck, Axel (eds.). Zukunftsforschung im Praxistest. Wiesbaden: Springer Fachmedien, pp. 321–50. Juelskjaer, Malou, and Schwennesen, Nete (2012). ‘Intra-active Entanglements: An Interview with Karen Barad’. Kvinder, Kon & Forskining 1–2, 2012, pp. 10–24. Knorr Cetina, Karin (1980). ‘Die Fabrikation von Wissen: Versuch zu einem gesellschaftlich relativierten ­Wissensbegriff’. Kölner Zeitschrift für Soziologie und Sozialpsychologie, special issue no. 22, 1980, pp. 226–45. Knorr Cetina, Karin (2002). Die Fabrikation von Erkenntnis. Zur Anthropologie der Naturwissenschaft. ­Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp [1984]. Kurt, Hildegard (2004). ‘Ästhetik der Nachhaltigkeit’. In Strelow, Heike (ed.). Ökologische Ästhetik. Theorie und Praxis künstlerischer Umweltgestaltung. Basel, Berlin, and Boston: Birkhäuser Verlag, pp. 238–41. Latour, Bruno (1993). We Have Never Been Modern. Trans. Catherine Porter. Cambridge, MA: Harvard ­University Press [1991]. Latour, Bruno (2005). Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford ­University Press. Latour, Bruno (2009). Das Parlament der Dinge: Für eine politische Ökologie. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag [2001]. Maasen, Sabine (2010). ‘Transdisziplinarität revisited. Dekonstruktion eines Programms zur Demo­ kratisierung der Wissenschaft’. In Bogner, Kastenhofer, and Torgersen 2010, pp. 247–67. Marcus, George E. and Fischer, Michael M.J. (1986). Anthropology as Cultural Critique: An Experimental ­Moment in the Human Sciences. University of Chicago Press. McLean, Stuart (2013). ‘All the Difference in the World: Liminality, Montage, and the Reinvention of Comparative Anthropology’. In Suhr and Willerslev 2013, pp. 58–75. Minh-ha, Trinh T. (1992). Framer Framed. New York: Routledge, p. 96. [Quotation from her film Reassemblage (Senegal, 1982), 40 min.] Nicolescu, Basarab (2010). ‘Methodology of Transdisciplinarity. Levels of Reality, Logic of the Included ­Middle and Complexity’. Transdisciplinary Journal of Engineering & Science 1, no. 1 (December 2010), pp.19–38. Available at: http://basarab-nicolescu.fr/Docs_Notice/TJESNo_1_12_2010.pdf. Nicolescu, Basarab (1996). La Transdisciplinarité : Manifeste. Monaco: Le Rocher.

Nowotny, Helga, Scott, Peter, and Gibbons, Michael (2004). Wissenschaft neu denken. Wissen und Öffent­ lichkeit in einem Zeitalter der Ungewissheit. Weilerswist. Nowotny, Helga (2004). ‘The Potential of Transdisciplinarity’. In Rethinking Interdisciplinarity. Web seminar, pp. 48–85. Available at: http://www.interdisciplines.org/medias/confs/archives/archive_3.pdf. Pantenburg, Volker (2006). Film als Theorie. Bildforschung bei Harun Farocki und Jean-Luc Godard. ­Transcript. Pohl, Christian, Wülser, Gabriela, and Hirsch Hadorn, Gertrude (2010). ‘Transdisziplinäre Nachhaltigkeitsforschung: Kompromittiert die Orientierung an der gesellschaftlichen Leitidee den Anspruch als Forschungsform?’ In Bogner, Kastenhofer, and Torgersen 2010, pp. 123–43. Programme brochure ewz.stattkino. Best of. Zurich, 13–26 October 2014. Rheinberger, Hans-Jörg (2001). Experimentalsysteme und epistemische Dinge: Eine Geschichte der Proteinsynthese im Reagenzglas. Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag. Salamon, Karen Lisa (2013). ‘Mind the Gap’. In Suhr and Willerslev 2013, pp. 145–57. Suhr, Christian, and Willerslev, Rane (eds.) (2013). Transcultural Montage. New York: Berghahn Books. Welzer, Harald (2012). ‘Reduce, Reuse, Recycle!’ Magazin Süddeutsche Zeitung, no. 39, 2012, p. 2. Welzer, Harald, and Rammler, Stephan (2012). Der FUTURZWEI-Zukunftsalmanach 2013: Geschichten vom guten Umgang mit der Welt. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer-Taschenbuch. Welzer, Harald (2013a). Talk ‘Transformationsdesign’. GLOBArt Academy Krems/A, 19–22 September 2013. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HyWUS-dvfVg. Welzer, Harald (2013b). Conversation with Karin Sander (Artist, ETH-Prof.) and Moya Hoke (Product Designer) on ‘Aesthetics of Omission’. GLOBArt Academy Krems/A, 19–22 September 2013. Available at: https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=hSYjLVQ3GdA. Welzer, Harald, and Sommer, Bernd (2014). Transformationsdesign. Wege in eine zukunftsfähige Moderne. Munich: Oekom.

Further project information: www.rhycycling.ixdm.ch Interactive computer platform: www.rhycycling-online.idk.ch Material demonstrator: http://explore-rhycycling.idk.ch

Transformation Design: Creating Security and Well-Being Caroline L. Davey and Andrew B. Wootton

Summary This chapter provides evidence of the value of design in creating improved security and well-being, with reference to work on Design Against Crime at the University of Salford in the UK. Following several UK- and European-funded projects, we established the Design Against Crime Solution Centre at the University of Salford to support and develop design-led approaches to tackling crime and insecurity. In accord with numerous designers over the last fifty years, we recognise the potential for design as a social good, and so welcome the opportunity to participate in efforts to promote a greater role for design in addressing important societal issues of the twenty-first century. Coined by the UK Design Council in a report published in 2006, ‘transformation design’ is currently being discussed in Germany, while it appears to be no longer promoted in its country of birth. In this chapter, we explore the utility of transformation design in supporting design approaches to addressing social issues, highlighting some limitations with this ‘new’ approach and its relationship to traditional design method. We consider whether the transformation design approach offers any advantages that differentiate it from the more traditional but less grandiloquently titled socially responsible design.

Introduction Launched in 1999, Design Against Crime originated as a research initiative supported by the UK Home Office, Design Council, and Department of Trade and Industry. The programme sought to embed crime prevention within design education and professional design practice, aiming to make products and places less vulnerable to crime and increase users’ feelings of safety and security. The University of Salford in Greater Manchester (UK) participated from the outset in Design Against Crime. Following several successful UK- and European-­ funded projects, the Design Against Crime Solution Centre was formed at the University of Salford – a unique partnership with Greater Manchester Police (UK) and DSP -groep (NL ). The Solution Centre adopts a human-centred and design-led approach to reducing vulnerability to crime, as well as promoting feelings of security and well-being. It draws on a range of theories from criminology, including Situa-

tional Crime Prevention (SCP) (Felson and Clarke 1998; Clarke 1999) and Crime Prevention Through Environmental Design (CPTED) (Jeffery 1971), and its staff have expertise in product design, design thinking, organisational psychology, environmental psychology, service design, and design management. With its human-­ centred focus and emphasis on delivering societal benefit, Design Against Crime conforms with creative practice that has been termed ‘socially responsible design’ (Davey et al. 2002, 2003 and 2005). We acknowledge that design has a long history of commitment to addressing social and environmental issues, inspired by political developments worldwide (Papanek 1985; Whiteley 1993). Through collaboration with like-minded individuals in the domains of design innovation, psychology, social science research, urban planning, architecture, policing, and security, the Design Against Crime Solution Centre strives to assemble and maintain a critical mass of expert researchers and practitioners committed to addressing societal ‘grand challenges’ through critical design thinking. We have established a strong international network of contacts specialising in crime prevention through urban design and planning, in part through participation in the EUfunded COST Action TU1203 (www.cost.eu). We also have a strong research base in Germany, and note with interest the development of research groups, professorships, and publications focusing on transformation design in 2014. In this chapter, we examine the transformation design approach – the context within which it originated, its actual and potential application to complex social issues such as security and well-being (Davey and Wootton 2014), and its theoretical foundations. Promoted by the UK Design Council in 2004, transformation design advocates the use of design skills to understand and solve complex social and economic issues relevant to the twenty-first century, including health, climate change, the ageing population, and crime and justice (Burns et al. 2006). We seek to understand the approach taken by transformation design and to critically reflect upon its utilisation for promoting social good across Europe. Our chapter contributes to a small body of academic literature on transformation design (Burns et al. 2006; Sangiorgi 2011). Since the terms security, safety, and design are often misunderstood, this chapter begins with an overview of a design-led research approach to safety and security. It then describes Design Against Crime research supported by the UK Design Council and research institutions, such as the University of Salford.

Background to Design-Led Approaches to Security In the UK, the term security is commonly associated with security staff, for example, those employed by clubs, pubs, and retail outlets. However, in design terms, security is an emotional state experienced by users of designed products, environments,

and services. It is an aspect of user satisfaction and well-being with which designers need to be concerned. Security can be achieved without inconveniencing the users or creating unattractive environments. Good security solutions tend to go unnoticed, in that they are most apparent when absent. When the authors of this chapter use the term security in relation to Design Against Crime, we are referring to the subjective sense of ‘safety and feeling at ease’. In English, the term safety is used in relation to the security of residents (e.g., community safety), but is also used in the context of accidents (e.g., health and safety). Since both terms are potentially open to misinterpretation, authors have to pay particular attention to context when using either safety or security. In Germany, the same word is used for both security and safety: Sicherheit. It is often assumed that a security solution will take the form of a physical barrier (such as a high fence or strong lock) or some sort of technology. This belief is reinforced by the UK’s widespread use of CCTV. However, a solution to a security problem may take many forms: a designed product, building, environment, service, communication, or even process. Design-led solutions to security problems are derived from understanding the user, the design’s vulnerability to crime, and the context of use – not from the desire to promote a particular security device. Better security may be achieved by changing the behaviour of potential criminals and users/victims, or reducing the vulnerability of the criminals’ target. Recent evidence from international surveys of the victims of crime demonstrates the positive impact of better security design on crime and feelings of insecurity (van Dijk, Tseloni, and Farrell 2012; Farrell 2013). However, a design solution does not ‘determine’ behaviour, and while it can reduce risk, it cannot ‘guarantee’ safety and security. Some potential offenders – usually a more determined minority – will persist, and new offending behaviours may emerge over time. Designing against crime is therefore an iterative, ongoing process (Wootton and Davey 2012).

UK Design Council Security Research Focusing on the role of designers in reducing vulnerability to crime, Design Against Crime literature argues that everyday designs have a ‘double life’ – in the sense that, in addition to its legitimate use, a design may also be used by offenders to commit crimes. For example, the Design Council (2003) publication Think Thief: A Designer’s Guide to Designing Out Crime points out that wheelie bins are used by burglars as a means to scale fences and to transport stolen goods, while beer glasses are broken and used as offensive weapons in pub fights. As the creators of everyday products, designers have a responsibility to consider vulnerability to crime in relation to their designs (Pease 2001). They may also be called upon to support clients in progressing policies related to Corporate Social

Responsibility (CSR). Using practical examples, the Design Against Crime literature demonstrates the value to users and to wider society of adopting a design-led approach to improving security. Good design can improve security without increasing fear of crime – too often an unfortunate side effect of traditional security measures (Design Council 2003, 2011a). The Design Council has delivered a number of ‘design challenges’, where design teams are supported in addressing specific crime and security issues. In collaboration with partners, design teams developed a concept for a safe beer glass for use in bars, pubs, and clubs and ways to make mobile phones less attractive to criminals (Design Council 2011a). Over the last decade, the UK Design Council has been promoting the role of design in improving public services, including in relation to security and safety. The Design Council supported a project to tackle violence in hospital accident and emergency (A&E) departments. Research (including ethnographic research) identified causal factors leading to A&E visitors becoming frustrated and aggressive with hospital staff (Design Council 2011b). In collaboration with the UK Department of Health, a design challenge was used to select a multidisciplinary design team to develop solutions, led by PearsonLloyd. The subsequent impact evaluation of the three design solutions demonstrated that they provided a cost-effective method of improving patient experience and reducing non-physical hostility and aggression towards A&E staff (https://www.designcouncil.org.uk/projects/reducing-­violenceand-aggression-ae).

University Design Research into Crime and Insecurity The University of Salford supported the delivery of several UK Design Council projects and publications (Design Council 2003, 2011a), as well as EU-funded projects focusing on the urban environment (Town, Davey, and Wootton 2003). The Design Against Crime Solution Centre was established to further support the university’s design research in collaboration with key partners. Like the UK Design Council, the Design Against Crime Solution Centre has conducted a number of service design projects, which in turn have led to UK policy-focused research. In addition, the Solution Centre has conducted projects aimed at diverting young people away from offending behaviour. In 2006, the Solution Centre undertook design research that enabled the redesign of Greater Manchester Police’s (GMP) Architectural Liaison Unit. Following in-depth requirements capture research into the needs of service users and current service delivery, the Unit was rebranded as Design for Security and the service was redesigned and altered to better fit with the working practice and culture of architects and planners. Further to this work, in 2008 the Solution Centre was commissioned

by the Association of Chief Police Officers to research the architectural liaison service delivered across all forty-two police forces in England and Wales. In collaboration with GMP, the Solution Centre published a review of police force crime prevention capability and developed proposals for a coordinated National Police Crime Prevention Service (www.NPCPS.org). The Design Against Crime Solution Centre has supported the development of innovative design solutions to crime and security problems through research projects, such as City Centre Crime: Cooling Crime Hotspots by Design. Following publicity about the implementation of one of its solutions, the Solution Centre was contacted by Norman Lloyd from the UK charity Catch22. In 2009, the University of Salford and Catch22 established Youth Design Against Crime (YDAC), a design-led youth action programme engaging young people excluded from mainstream education in a research and design process to solve problems in their local neighbourhoods. The intention is to transform the attitudes, behaviour, and expectations of the young people, as well as challenge other participants’ stereotypes of young­­people. In each YDAC project, participating teams of six to nine young people are supported by a youth worker and a police mentor in researching problems in their neighbourhood. The research process enables YDAC teams to move beyond their individual experiences and preconceptions, to understand the perspectives of others and identify a broader range of causal factors underpinning problems. It also initiates a process of consultation with local people that can challenge stereotypes – repositioning the young people as a potential source of solutions rather than problems. In YDAC, the process is more important than the quality of the solutions developed. Nevertheless, the development of some truly innovative design ideas that might be implemented has helped challenge stereotypes about the capabilities of young people excluded from mainstream education (Wootton, Davey, and Marselle 2011). Focus groups held to evaluate the YDAC programme revealed that participants benefit from being able to voice their opinions, develop solutions that are of interest to authorities, and complete a project successfully (Wootton, Davey, and Marselle 2011; Davey, Wootton, and Marselle 2012). From the outset of Design Against Crime, we positioned our research as just one example of creative practice being used to tackle a wide variety of socially relevant issues, including fair trade, health, and education. We argued for the adoption of socially responsible design as an action-oriented approach for commercial organisations seeking to positively impact society, rather than the more management-­ oriented approach termed ‘corporate social responsibility’. In 2002, Davey et al. presented a new model of socially responsible design, highlighting the role of design innovation in eight areas: supporting more responsive and representative government; delivering sustainable and responsible economic policy; fostering fair trade; promoting ecology and environmental sensitivity; combating discrimination and championing social inclusion; improving healthcare; enhancing education; and ­reducing crime and feelings of insecurity (Davey et al. 2002, 2003, and 2005).

In 2004, the UK Design Council established the ‘RED team’ to tackle social and economic issues through design-led innovation. The RED team included Hilary Cottam, Colin Burns, Charles Leadbeater, Matthew Horne, and Chris Vanstone, and conceived and developed Transformation Design (Burns et al. 2006). The rise in interest in transformation design by design researchers in Germany has prompted the authors to critically review the origins and potential of this approach.

UK Design Council Approach to Transformation Design Described as ‘a new discipline’, transformation design uses design to address the various challenges facing society in the twenty-first century. These include ill health, managing chronic disease, reducing carbon emissions from homes, strengthening citizenship, improving learning at school, and reducing reoffending by prisoners. Inspired by Hilary Cottam’s work with the prison service, crime and security have always been important issues for consideration within transformation design (Burns et al. 2006). The RED team was an interdisciplinary team comprising designers and non-­ designers, who were clearly united in their belief in the value of design. The team promoted the use of design for social good, but included entrepreneurs with a track record of success within the commercial sector – including the former managing director of the design consultancy IDEO. In addition, several RED team members were involved in policy networks and government ‘think tanks’, such as DEMOS (www.demos.co.uk). Think tanks are policy and research institutes that undertake research and advocacy in relation to a range of topics, including social policy, political strategy, economics, and technology. Most are non-profit organisations, and revenue may come from a variety of sources, including government, advocacy groups, businesses, and consultancy work. In terms of its approach, the RED team promoted the benefits of a user-centred, holistic approach, based on the creative design process: ‘We start by looking through the eyes of the end users of public services. We bring frontline workers, service providers and experts together to design, prototype and implement new types of public services’ (Design Council website http://www.designcouncil.info/mt/RED/ about/, accessed 1 September 2014). Using examples of design projects addressing social issues for public sector clients, the RED team identified a series of principles classified as specific to transformation design (Burns et al. 2006). These included: • the designers’ role in defining and redefining the brief • the value placed on collaboration between disciplines • use of participatory design techniques

• designing beyond traditional design solutions: creating not just products but also new services and processes • using design to create ‘fundamental change’ (p. 21). There are considerable similarities between Design Against Crime and transformation design. Both originate from the UK Design Council and adopt a design-led ­approach to address twenty-first-century societal challenges. While Design Against Crime focuses on crime and security, a broader range of issues is addressed by transformation design. The UK Design Council has largely ceased to use the term ‘Design Against Crime’, but does refer to ‘designing out crime’, and it does not talk at all about ‘transformation design’. Indeed, following the widely publicised reports by the RED team (Burns et al. 2006) and Hilary Cottam’s departure to found the social innovation organisation Participle in 2007, little more has been heard from the UK Design Council about transformation design. However, the Design Council continues to support projects focused on societal challenges and/or undertaken with the public sector. Design Against Crime is continuing to be promoted through UK universities, but transformation design has become more popular outside the UK – for example in Germany. Design Against Crime

Transformation Design

Origins

Research programme supported by the UK Design Council, Home Office, and Department for Trade and Industry (DTI).

Approach developed by the Design Council’s RED team.

Issues covered

Design-led approach to addressing crime and security issues.

Design-led approach to addressing a range of societal issues, including ­security, health, and poverty.

Promotion by UK ­Design Council

Launched by the Design Council in 1999. After 2005, Design Against Crime at the Design Council was replaced by ‘designing out crime’. Since 2005, the Design Council’s focus has been on specific crime prevention and security design research projects.

Launched by the Design Council in 2004. Promoted in 2006 in the UK, but ceased to exist after a couple of years. Now no longer included on the Design Council website.

Uptake in Europe

Research continued by UK universities, including the University of Salford and Central Saint ­Martins.

The approach was not widely taken up in the UK, but is currently being revisited in Germany.

Table 1: Comparison of approaches to societal challenges adopted by the UK Design Council

Transformation Design: A Critical Perspective Contrary to the claims of the RED team, we would suggest that transformation design is not a new discipline as such, but more a ‘rebranding’ of the design approach to problem solving. Design would appear to have entered a new phase of its role in society. From creating the aesthetic clothing for industrial products and services, the deindustrialisation of the Western economies is leading to the decoupling of design from the centres of industry and mass production. At the same time, the rise of the creative economy has led to design and innovation skills becoming valued in themselves, rather than solely for their commercial and consumer outputs. Design consultancies are increasingly directing their creative design skills and the design process to address strategic business issues traditionally serviced by management and marketing consultancies. In addition, we see design consultancies marketing their capabilities in humanistic research, understanding, and ideation to clients beyond their traditional commercial base, in the public and non-profit sectors. The value of design as a creative process for interrogating, understanding, and intervening in the world is increasingly recognised (Manzini and Vezzoli 2003; Margolin and Margolin 2002). Design skills and processes developed for commercial ends, be they service design, design management, or brand communication, are being used to address social objectives. In this respect, ‘transformation design’ might be conceived as a marketing tool, or brand, to help communicate and promote to public sector organisations the benefits of adopting a design approach – and of ­employing design as a consultancy.

The Political Imperative For the UK Design Council, we suggest that ‘transformation design’ was perhaps not only about demonstrating the value of design in addressing social issues, but also about winning the approval and support of the UK government – their funders back in 2006, when ‘transformation design’ launched. Originally founded in 1944 as the Council of Industrial Design (COID), the ­Design Council was incorporated as a registered charity by Royal Charter in 1976. Although a charity, it continued to operate as a non-departmental public body (or ‘quango’) of the UK government’s Department for Trade and Industry (DTI) and later the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills. As a government-funded quango, the Design Council was by definition under pressure to demonstrate political and economic value and generate practical applications from its research. As well as a concern for pragmatism, however, we suggest that the transformation design agenda reflected the UK’s political situation at the time of its conception. The premiership of Tony Blair began on 2 May 1997 and ended on 27 June

2007, when he was replaced by Gordon Brown, who governed until his resignation on 11 May 2010. ‘New Labour’ was the campaign brand of the British Labour Party from 1994 to 2010 – an attempt to differentiate it from so-called ‘old Labour’ and present a more modern, centralist, and market-oriented image. New Labour drew on the philosophy of Anthony Giddens (2000), the author of an approach that combined socialist and free market economics called the Third Way. Evidence of the politically expedient nature of the RED team’s agenda can be seen in the way its work was presented. For instance, the RED team claimed to be ‘[…] a “do tank” that develops new thinking and practice on social and economic problems through design-led innovation’. The term ‘do tank’ here invites comparison with the work of think tanks, and it is noteworthy. A number of such policy institutes, or think tanks, support public policy and practice in the UK, with governments consulting think tanks that share their ideology and contribute to political debate. Indeed, it appears the RED team shared much of the language and many of the values promoted by New Labour think tanks. For example, the New Labour think tank the New Economics Foundation (NEF) describes itself as follows: ‘NEF is the UK’s leading think tank promoting social, economic and environmental justice. Our purpose is to bring about a Great Transition – to transform the economy so that it works for people and the planet.’ ( http://www.neweconomics. org, accessed 18 September 2014) This accords with the RED team’s focus on social justice issues, and the transformation of society for the public good in a way that also benefits the economy. This is further emphasised in the RED team’s description of itself: ‘We are an inter­ disciplinary team of designers, policy analysts and social scientists who collaborate with a network of world-leading experts to address complex social and economic problems’. (Design Council website http://www.designcouncil.info/mt/RED/about/, ­accessed 1 September 2014)

Life after RED Since 2006, the Design Council has fought hard to survive significant public spending cuts and has undergone a difficult process of restructuring. May 2010 saw a change of government in the UK to the right-leaning Conservative–Liberal Democrat coalition, and in April 2011 the Design Council ceased to be a non-departmental public body and became an independent charity. However, it continues to receive grants from the government. While it promotes the use of design to address social issues, and especially the improvement of public services, the Design Council website no longer contains mention of the term ‘transformation design’. Whether this is due to its links with the New Labour agenda is unknown. However, its social democratic roots may go some way to explaining the rise in popularity of transformation design in Germany.

Galvanising Support While transformation design is not actively promoted by name in the UK, material on the role of design and creative practice in addressing societal challenges and social change is widely available on the English-language Internet. ‘Transformation design’ may have declined, but there has been a growth in discussion of ‘design thinking’ and ‘human-centred design’ over the past decade. The Design Management Institute (DMI) in the USA addresses the topic of design thinking (http://www. dmi.org/?WhatisDesignThink). The value of such design-led approaches to problem solving is championed by Stanford University Institute of Design’s d.School (http://dschool.stanford.edu) in the United States and by the School of Design Thinking in the Hasso-Plattner Institute at the University of Potsdam, Germany (http://hpi.de/en/school-of-design-thinking). This broader role for design is also promoted by numerous design consultancies, the most notable being the US-based IDEO, whose founder, David Kelley, is closely associated with Stanford’s d.School and which offers courses on human-centred design for social change (http://plusacumen.org/courses/hcd-for-social-innovation). Among young designers, there is a growing recognition of and interest in design’s potential for social good. One of the authors teaches final-year undergraduate Product Design students, and notes that students are eager to research and ­address social problems through their design project work. In addition, the RSA (Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce) runs an annual student design competition, the briefs for which are increasingly focused around social and societal challenges (http://sda.thersa.org). With previous RSA winners including such high-profile designers as Sir Jonathan Ive, Senior Vice President of Design at Apple, the agenda of the RSA Student Design Awards has a significant influence over the perceived role and value of design by young designers. In Germany, it appears that interest in the use of design to address a broader agenda of social good is clearly growing. Unlike in the UK, the term ‘transformation design’ appears to have become attached to this approach. For the authors, this is not a new approach to design, but simply a new territory in which to apply the design process and design skills. As it stands, transformation design has a limited track record of projects, with only a few examples of its application under the banner of ‘transformation design’. Nevertheless, there is an expanding body of design research focused on addressing social issues, improving public sector services, and contributing to public policy. For example, the UK Design Council and Royal Society of Arts have a range of projects to improve the delivery of services to communities, older people, and sufferers from dementia. In addition, a number of projects using design to promote ­creativity, public policy, and public service improvement have been launched in Scotland (http://gettingbetterbydesign.com).

The Design Difference It must be remembered that design has traditionally been hard to sell. Middle managers have always been twitchy about buying design as opposed to buying, for example, marketing. As a result, designers have developed strategies with which to allay the fears of their non-designer employers. From dressing in suits and carrying briefcases to developing a technical language to define their working processes, designers have aped the practices of their fellow professionals in the field of management consultancy. It is only in the last decade or so that the tide has begun to flow the other way. Academic publications have discussed transformation design from a management perspective, and it would appear that transformation design is being positioned in relation to organisational theory and practice. Indeed, we note that design is increasingly being adopted by management consultancies and promoted by non-designers. However, we have two concerns: (i) that design becomes merely another ‘management speak’ term – just the latest buzzword being used to ‘rebrand’ a traditional managerialist approach; and (ii) that a focus on the process of design actually hides an implicit simplification – a reducing of design to merely process, omitting the more complex skills and sensitivities it embraces. Design is a process, in the same way that playing a musical instrument might be conceived of as a process. Anyone can learn to design and anyone can learn to play the piano, but not everyone will play Rachmaninov – let alone compose an original piano concerto. Successful design relies on genuine design sensitivity in the same way that good piano playing relies on a musical ‘ear’. Consequently, design sensitivity, insight, empathy, communication skills, and experience become all the more important. Great design solutions, like great music, are the product of complex ­human interactions rather than simple processes. Design may be portrayed in models and diagrams as a clear-cut ‘problem-solving process’, but it is as much art as science. In fact, we suggest that design sits on the boundary between these two disciplines, even oscillating between them at different stages in the design process. The nature of the relationship between science and design has been debated (Galle and Kroes 2014). However, we suggest that design brings the sensitivity of art to science, and the scepticism and evidence-based rigour of science to art. In short: Design is the art of science, and the science of art. Nevertheless, we recognise that design-led approaches to tackling social problems differ in a number of important ways from more traditional management consultancy and social science approaches: 1. Use of teams to explore, understand, and solve problems

In such teams, not everyone need (or should) be a designer. Involving users and stakeholders in such groups leads to insights and new perspectives.

2. Research conducted with the purpose of gaining ‘insight’, and employing empathy

The focus of design research is not data, but insight. This is the seed from which successful solution ideas grow. The search for insight requires not just the social science skills of the ethnographer, but empathy, introspection, and emotional intelligence.

3. Valuing of the subjective insight offered by the designer/­ researcher

Insight is by its very nature often subjective. Therefore, the culture and value system of the team cannot attach value only to the objective, but must also appreciate the subjective.

4. Focus on responding to insight through the development of concept ‘solutions’

Such solutions may be in the form of physical buildings, products, or environments, non-physical services, systems, or messages, but also policies and processes.

5. Testing of solution concepts with users and stakeholders, to validate and refine insights

Communication is central to design, and the use of drawings, images, models, and prototypes to share insights and validate concepts is critical.

In our experience, the core value of design flows from adopting a human-centred approach, in which the intrinsic experience of the user is understood in rich and meaningful ways. Such an approach moves beyond ergonomics to embrace a broader user experience, built on understanding human perceptions, emotions, and aspirations. Through effective design research, insightful, holistic understandings of problems, scenarios, and contexts can be developed. In addition, genuine design creativity can cast a new – often surprising and stimulating – light on an ­issue. It is important to recognise, of course, that design teams only achieve the innovative results they do through collaboration with many other skills and disciplines besides design. Nevertheless, design can provide the creative provocation – the catalyst – for social innovation projects that significantly improve people’s lives. We are confident that the embedding of design in efforts to tackle societal challenges is set to grow – whether branded as socially responsible design, design for social change, design thinking, transformation design, or something else.

References Burns, C., Cottam, H., Vanstone, C., and Winhall, J. (2006). Transformation Design: RED Paper 02. UK Design Council. Available at: http://www.hilarycottam.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/RED_Paper_02_Trans­ formation_design.pdf. Clarke, R.V. (1999). ‘Hot Products: Understanding, Anticipating and Reducing Demand for Stolen Goods’. In Police Research Series Paper 112. London: Home Office Research, Development and Statistics Directorate. Davey, C.L., Cooper, R., Press, M., Wootton, A.B., and Olson, E. (2002). ‘Design Against Crime: Design Leadership in the Development of Emotional Values’. In Proceedings of 11th International Conference, Design ­Management Institute, Boston, MA, 10–12 June. Davey, C.L., and Wootton, A.B. (2014). ‘Crime and the Urban Environment: The Implications for Wellbeing’. In Cooper, R., Burton, E., and Cooper, C.L. (eds.). Wellbeing. A Complete Reference Guide Volume II. Chichester, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, pp. 501–34. Davey, C.L., Wootton, A.B., Cooper, R., Heeley, J., Press, M., and Kim, S. (2003). ‘Socially Responsible Design: Targeting Crime with Fashion Design’. In International Journal of New Product Development & Innovation Management 5, no. 1 (March–April), pp. 45–56. Davey, C.L., Wootton, A.B., and Marselle, M. (2012). ‘Youth Design Against Crime: Enabling Youth-Led Inno­ vation in Crime Prevention’. In International Perspectives of Crime Prevention 5. Contributions from the 6th Annual International Forum 2012 within the German Congress on Crime Prevention. Mönchengladbach, ­Germany: Forum Verlag Godesberg, pp. 29–52. Available at: http://www.gcocp.org/nano.cms/documentation/book/12. Davey, C.L., Wootton, A.B., Thomas, A., Cooper, R., and Press, M. (2005). ‘Design for the Surreal World?: A New Model of Socially Responsible Design’. Proceedings of the 6th European Academy of Design Conference Design – System – Evolution, 29–31 March, Bremen, Germany. Design Council (2003). Think Thief: A Designer’s Guide to Designing Out Crime. UK Design Council and Design Policy Partnership (based on Design Against Crime: Support Material for Design Professionals written by Cooper, Davey, et al.). London: Design Council. Design Council (2011a). ‘Designing Out Crime. A Designer’s Guide’. London: Design Council. Original research conducted by the Design Against Crime Solution Centre, University of Salford. Available at: http://www. designcouncil.org.uk/Documents/Documents/OurWork/Crime/designersGuide_digital.pdf. Design Council (2011b). ‘Reducing Violence and Aggression in A&E – Through a Better Experience’. London: Design Council. Available at: http://www.designcouncil.org.uk/sites/default/files/asset/document/ReducingViolenceAndAggressionInAandE.pdf. Farrell, G. (2013). ‘Five Tests for a Theory of the Crime Drop’. Paper presented at International Symposium on Environmental Criminology and Crime Analysis (ECCA), Philadelphia, PA. Felson, M., and Clarke, R.V. (1998). ‘Opportunity Makes the Thief: Practical Theory for Crime Prevention’. In Police Research Paper 98. London: Home Office. Galle, P., and Kroes, P. (2014). ‘Science and Design: Identical Twins?’ In Design Studies 35 (2014), pp. 201–31. Giddens, A. (2000). The Third Way and Its Critics. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Jeffery, C. Ray (1971). Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage Publications. Manzini, E., and Vezzoli, C. (2003). ‘A Strategic Design Approach to Develop Sustainable Product Service ­Systems: Examples, Taken from the “Environmentally Friendly Innovation” Italian Prize’. In Journal of Cleaner Production 11, issue 8 (December), pp. 851–57. Margolin, V., and Margolin, S. (2002). ‘A “Social Model” of Design: Issues of Practice and Research’. In Design Issues 18, pp. 24–30. Papanek, V. (1985). Design for the Real World: Human Ecology and Social Change. 2nd ed. London: Thames and Hudson. Pease, K. (2001). ‘Cracking Crime through Design’. London: Design Council, p. 27. Sangiorgi, D. (2011). ‘Transformative Services and Transformation Design’. In IJ Design 5, no. 2, pp.1–5. Town, S., Davey, C.L., and Wootton, A.B. (2003). Design Against Crime: Guidance for the Design of Residential Areas. University of Salford. 2nd ed. ISDN 0 902 896520. van Dijk, J., Tseloni, A., and Farrell, G. (2012). ‘The International Crime Drop: New Directions in Research’. In van Dijk, J., Tseloni, A., and Farrell, G. (eds.). Crime Prevention and Security Management. New York: ­Palgrave Macmillan. Whiteley, N. (1993). Design for Society. London: Reaktion Books.

Wootton, A.B., and Davey, C.L. (2012). ‘Embedding Crime Prevention within Design’. In Ekblom, P. (guest ed.), ‘Design Against Crime. Crime Proofing Everyday Products’. Crime Prevention Series, vol. 27, Ronald V. Clarke (series ed.). Wootton, A.B., Davey, C.L., and Marselle, M. (2011). ‘Design Against Crime: A Catalyst for Change amongst Young People.’ Proceedings of 9th European Academy of Design Conference The Endless End, Porto, Portugal, 4–7 May 2011. Available at: http://endlessend.up.pt/site/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/EAD9-Conference-Proceedings_r.pdf.

Owls to Athens, or: The Discrete Charm of Transformation Design. An Essay Michael Erlhoff

I. As a category, the term ‘transformation design’ represents a tautology because, when describing design in broad terms, one would have to define it as an offer to transform existing things and conditions and, therefore, as a many-faceted activity of transformation. Transformation is essential to understanding both the activity of designing and how we use design. After all, in the act of designing, design is constantly generated from the transformation of observations, memories, and experiences. This process, however, is always subject to specific societal conditions, including economics and culture, and therefore happens within the framework of specific conventions. Each design concept is first of all based on the designer’s individual processing of such societal factors, which influence every intellectual reflection and concrete activity in either a direct or an indirect way. Even the observation and ­specific acceptance of what might be considered coincidences are subject to these transformational structures. Another important and essential aspect regarding the relevance of transformation for design results from the permanent transformation of materials and from their combination into new material composites or even into entirely new materials. Doubtless this happens all the time in design, thus highlighting once more that transformation and design are inevitably linked to each other. Furthermore, contemporary design is characterised by the fact that objects and signs are not only conceptualised and designed as an interlinked entity but also have to be transferred into and conceived as processes: ‘hybrid networks between design and people as potentials for (transformation) processes that have become difficult to control’ (W. Jonas). The task of design today is no longer to create a new bicycle or car but to provide options, in this case for movement; design is no longer about designing telephones, not even mobile ones, but about enabling conversation regardless of distance, as well as options for information, orientation, and so on. The idea of transformation is even more clearly implied when designers today, for very good reasons, think about changing objects into services and develop these concepts within the framework of service design, for example. ‘Using Instead of Owning’ has been the maxim for some twenty years, one that aims at a radical form of transformation. Clearly, this also means, if you will, fundamentally seeing objects or products as service offers and formulating them accordingly.

II. In this context, we must highlight yet another perspective: use. We must do so because design is only ever realised in use. (Unlike art, design is inevitably social; it is dependent on taking into account social realities.) In use, however, objects, signs, and even services are often transformed. Use always means transformation: of chairs into wardrobes and ladders, of drinking glasses into pen holders, of walls into canvases, of cars into living rooms, and so on. But there is something else that happens due to this essential contiguity of ­design and the use of its products, something that each empirical study will clearly ascertain: as much as use, and hence the everyday life of designed products, is doubtlessly linked to transformation, this context equally implies that this kind of transformation, especially with regard to objects, signs, and services, is a very cautious or slow process. Everyday life tends to develop by evolution, not revolution. We are creatures of habit, and it takes quite a long time for new ways to establish themselves on an everyday basis; to get from genesis to validity, with regard to both new design concepts and actual behaviour, an amazing amount of time must pass. Just as an example: how long did it take in Germany for the Internet and mobile phones to become features of everyday life? Or how long did it take until concepts of using instead of owning, of service design, or of ‘corporate culture and tribal culture’ established themselves, although all of these concepts were first addressed more than twenty years ago? For these reasons, the processes that tend to become visible in design are predominantly evolutionary, and only very rarely revolutionary. One tends to design product series (especially in the automotive industry, but also in furniture, logos, packaging, aircraft); in retrospect, even the much-acclaimed German design of the 1980s (acclaimed because it was younger and more exciting than what went before) appears to be only an evolution from the entanglements and banality of the then-prevalent design. The same is true for Memphis, while the 1960s’ Disegno Radicale at least created and implied new forms of living. Thus, when we talk about transformation in and by design, we also have to think about the societal process of continuity and contiguity, and about the question of the role design plays, and can play, in this context.

III. It might be helpful to take another and more precise look at the word transformation. In dictionaries, you will find synonyms such as alteration, transfiguration, conversion, renewal, shift. When you look at the Latin verb transformare, it becomes even clearer, since this term is simply translated as ‘to change in shape’, thus confirming the earlier-described context of design and transformation.

On closer inspection, however, you cannot help but think that the trans of transformation could just as well point to something further from itself, to something above or beyond. Doubtless this does not apply to form in and of itself: it does not dissolve form, because form is both essential and sublime. Less than two centuries ago, Karl Marx quite rightly pointed out that work was always work, but that the form in which it was done was crucial. Thus work would be the content that changes permanently in the form in which it is done. However, simultaneously, at least sometimes, this would, or will, in turn also change the form in which work is done. You cannot escape this dialectic, and you might not escape the dialectic of transformation and design, with ‘dialectic’ clearly pointing to a relationship based on contradiction. And thus we have again arrived at the question of continuity and contiguity, or of evolution and revolution. At least, this is the case if, when considering transformation, in our minds we go through the implications of the radical translation of trans as ‘above and beyond’. If we now try to reconnect this reasoning to design, we could, on the one hand, look for examples in history where design indeed acted, to some extent, in revolutionary ways. What comes to mind, for instance, is the famous ‘Snow White’s Casket’, the radio designed by Dieter Rams in the 1950s, and, four decades earlier, Peter Behrens’ designs for AEG, or the radical professionalisation of design by French-born American Raymond Loewy. Of course, there are also pieces by Ettore Sottsass, Alessandro Mendini, or the UFO group, and also by Richard Sapper and certainly a few others. So what, you might ask, was so transformative or even revolutionary about these designs? There were certainly new dimensions of operation, new materials and material composites, surprising changes in geometry, even the dissolution of monumentality in designed objects, a new (after surrealism) questioning of the object as such, the development of new forms of living, and also the consideration of designed objects and signs as mere moments of inquiry. Sure, all these aspects were first attempts to decouple transformation from the traditional idea of design and conceive transformation as radical change. This also had an empirical effect: it either resulted in discontinuity in design itself, and hence led to new insight, or it even changed the markets (new product and production ideas) or upset everyday habits (Snow White’s Casket actually triggered a great deal of anger, with some people throwing stones in shop windows where it was displayed). Depending on interpretation, one could certainly find even more radical aspects in the development of the design of the last twenty-five years (although most of these aspects have not yet been understood and implemented in traditional design and its universities): for example, as mentioned earlier, the transformation of products into services and all concomitant changes, or even the extension of logos into corporate design, then into branding, and later into the relationship of corporate culture and tribal culture. However, these dimensions of design, which are ­today being discussed on an international stage, go far beyond the current level of understanding in traditional design and among the general public.

In this context, there is another noteworthy development in the transformation of design and in transformation by design, namely the new form of design as relevant research, which has been gaining increasing acceptance. What used to be often implied in design, namely the competence to question and inquire (since this competence formulated new modes of operation, new materials and visuals), has now asserted itself both in design and in the perception of design (at least in some companies, institutions, and sciences). On the one hand, this has partly transformed design itself by giving it a new self-understanding; on the other hand, and indirectly promoted by this new self-understanding, this has led to new possibilities in understanding how we use design. Compared with the traditional understanding of design, this is indeed a revolutionary transformation that offers totally new forms of understanding both reality and the designability of reality. However, this is hardly recognised and acknowledged in design itself and in its everyday use, as generally both design and the perception of design are still predominantly ­focused on making.

IV. So far, so good, perhaps. An argument for transformation design, after all. In practical terms, however, the proposition of transformation design needs more than that. Some crucial input could be derived from a somewhat spectacular formulation in mathematics and physics, where we find the term ‘discrete transformation’ (see Jean-Baptiste Joseph Fourier, 1822, bearing in mind that discret is cognate with secret). Similar to the radical notion of trans as ‘above or beyond’, we could relate discrete transformation to what I have earlier in this essay said about the potential reality and competence of design. But something else is hidden in this extended category of discrete transformation, something that points to an altogether different and perhaps exciting dimension and competence of design. If we try, in practical, everyday terms, to see design as a radical modus of action, additional and totally different perspectives will open up. If we assume, for very good reasons, some of which have been stated earlier, that design always represents a hard-to-avoid intervention into everyday practices and life, then this intervention can be used in many different ways – often for very impertinent and silly matters (all sorts of companies and institutions do this in many ways to sell nonsensical or superfluous stuff or to sell relationships and reason of state). But it can also be used for enlightenment and criticism, and for developing our understanding of societal, and hence important, processes, and for changing habits. Design is, indeed, ideal for intervention, for changing habitual connections and behaviours, for identifying ignorance and so forth.

V. Yes, design can cause confusion and bewilderment, it can shake up the familiar order of things, it can transfigure chaos and thus produce both new experiences and intellectual doubt. Above all, design can explain and discuss problems; in other words, it can offer possibilities of understanding – at least, if it no longer believes that it can only, and must, solve problems. To provide a better idea of what I mean by design as discrete transformation, I will introduce some recent projects by students of the Köln International School of Design as examples below. At a time when fear of terrorist attacks took hold in German cities, some design students positioned an open cardboard box full of colourful, water-filled balloons in one of Cologne’s main shopping streets. It was a hot midsummer day. For several hours, people (many people) made wide circles around the box, some even running off as soon as they saw it, while others dove into backstreets. After a long time had passed, a man mustered up the courage to approach the box; he touched one of the balloons and then joyfully threw it up into the air, so that the balloon exploded on the street and released its water. As soon as other people saw this, they also ran over to the box and joined in the fun of cooling themselves down on this hot summer day. This is an excellent example of how general circumstances and media reports combine to create projections in which things are no longer perceived for what they are, but serve as representations of our fears or desires – until someone comes and puts these things to the test. In this context, we also have to acknowledge that the aforementioned media reports are also based on design. Hence, in this example, design explains design. Another example: in one of Cologne’s metro stations, strong rubber bands were tied close to one of the exits in such a way that it looked as if the exit was closed. It would, however, have been easy to pull the rubber bands to one side and simply walk through the exit. But nobody would do that; even some police officers turned around and took another exit. Obviously, the visual impression always reigns supreme, especially in relation to touch, as touch always implies proximity, always vacillates between eroticism and revulsion, and therefore can be unpleasant. As an aside, this also implies, generally speaking, another peculiar and certainly essential design competence: using visually convincing fakes to upset our confidence in our senses. Who else, apart from designers, creates those fictitious books and films, who develops animation, the fictitious ensoulment (that even believes in a soul), and who is the expert for models that serve to imagine reality? These kinds of fakes are also an expression of the transformative power of design. We cannot escape this power, but we can analyse it and, where appropriate, play with it. Another similar example: special tactile boxes were built for an exhibition in the Art and Exhibition Hall of the Federal Republic of Germany. Visitors could not look inside the boxes, they could only put their hands in them. Apparently, it took

some courage to do this. Most of the time, people laughed when they felt the inside of the boxes. But there was one box that made everybody jump when putting their hands inside, because people thought they had been cut by some sharp object – although this object was in fact just a harmless jet of water. Imagination creates objects and processes and sometimes even prevents us from perceiving things for what they are, which is another interesting aspect of the discourse on how we use design. Students, clad in orange vests that would indicate a certain degree of offi­ cialdom, used the familiar red and white striped tape to close off one of Cologne’s most popular and busiest pedestrian zones next to a metro station. The students ­explained this away with a story about having to rescue frogs from the metro. To reinforce their point, they also had a bucket filled with artificial moss and equipped with a small sound system that played the sound of croaking frogs. All passers-by readily accepted the fact that the street was closed off, police officers even offered to help, and it did not take long before some ‘experts’ contributed their ideas on how to improve the frog rescue mission. This is just another example of the powerful impact of designed signs, where confusion is accepted as normal. The same effect is rendered by traffic signs, traffic lights, direction-finding apps, and uniforms. What this example also highlights is that objects, in this case the designed orange vests, also always serve as communication media. You can easily try this out with the familiar red and white traffic cones. If, for example, you want to throw a street party, borrow two or three of these cones from somewhere and block off the street (it always works with backstreets!) in such a way that cars still have the option to turn into another street. It will work (with cars – cyclists are more reckless). Official signs are always designed and will work perfectly if you adhere to the design standard. A totally different example: many people, including students, still use Facebook. In a project, students created a new Facebook user looking for friends. However, instead of the virtual space, they created a real space and, without prior warning, led all the people who wanted to be friends of the new user into this real space. The result was a lot of angry people who felt they had been taken for a ride. But what they had actually experienced was just an analogue demonstration of the abstract qualities of the virtual space that they obviously regarded as trustworthy. If certain emails, almost all Facebook entries, and tweets were published as a book, this would likely result in similar feelings of shock and anger. In virtual space, people think they can behave totally differently than in real life. A public concert by washing machines created an equal amount of bewilderment. Although we are constantly accompanied by the acoustics of household appliances, we tend to ignore these sounds, thus preventing ourselves from understanding them. However, students learn a lot from such a project: about the technology of washing machines and their sounds, about music as an intricate interplay of sound and time, about PR and how to attract both a large audience and the media,

and about how to get a power supply for the machines even though the city had not given prior permission for this public concert. They also learn that the concert should be limited to half an hour since, otherwise, the police and other officials will notice and put an end to the event. You can also learn a lot about everyday life, habits, and regulations and about the role of design if you put an old sofa out on the street and invite people to take a rest, or if you manipulate the digital display showing public transport arrival and departure times by using stickers saying ‘The no. 15 tram will arrive at some point in time’, ‘The no. 16 tram will not arrive at all’, or ‘The no. 12 tram will be running in reverse gear today.’ Sometimes it is sufficient simply to let unfamiliar sounds drift through official and public spaces, as this totally changes these spaces and the way people perceive them. In all of these projects, however, it is important to precisely observe what is happening and how people react, to thoroughly prepare for observation, and to interpret observations afterwards, because this is the only way to understand the permanent relevance of design and its huge effect on behaviour and on people’s experience, so as to use this understanding in future concepts. In this sense, you could understand transformation design as action research. Admittedly, you could dismiss these examples as nothing more than events for a sensation-hungry society. But such talk would only reveal itself to be an attempt to deny, or deflect attention from, the real influence of design. Given the serious questions we are facing today at a global level, I will also admit that these examples could be criticised as being trivial or insignificant. Sure, but this reasoning runs the great risk of failing to understand the degree to which small, everyday interferences and changes affect our everyday lives, and of missing out on the potential insights we can gain from these small events – insights that will help us to better understand the more relevant and even global problems and relate them to our own experience. This is ‘discrete transformation’ because it reflects and explains the differentiations and fractures in continuity and demonstrates both the cryptic implications of ­design and the possibilities for using them in practice.

VI. Lastly, in the context of discussing transformation design, another dimension is worth noting, one that is very important for this category and its related activities and thinking, and one that, so far, has not been explicitly used in design: the design of ‘fuzziness’. Indeed, design needs a new perspective: it needs to concern itself more intensively with associative logic, with the relevance of coincidence in the design process, and with analysing the nature of coincidence. In short: design needs to engage more

with the idea of fuzziness, because the question of transformation would then be formulated in a radically new way – as the question of transforming discrete forms into fuzziness.

VII. We all know that owls have the wonderful ability to turn their heads almost 360 degrees. Design should take a lesson from owls. Discretely.

Could Design Help to Promote and Build ­Empathic Processes in Prison? Understanding the Role of Empathy and Design in Catalysing Social Change and Transformation Lorraine Gamman and Adam Thorpe

Introduction The art of being able to imagine stepping into the shoes of another person, understanding their feelings and perspectives, and using that understanding to guide thought and action is not a social skill that is evenly distributed in the general population, let alone in the prison population. Many experts and writers assure us that for the majority of people, including the majority of criminals who are not psychopaths, empathy can be developed primarily by engaging with experiences that promote or are designed to build it (Baron-Cohen 2011; Krznaric 2014). Despite evidence from restorative justice practitioners that empathic engagement can lead to transformation,1 as well as improve life for victims of crime, the need to create empathic experiences in prison and outside is not adequately understood or valued by the criminal justice system. This paper is written in three sections that make arguments about why this situation needs to change, and why design might have a role in making that change happen. The first section reviews why empathy is not promoted in the prison context because of emotional suppression that is implicit in prison culture. The second section reviews evidence provided by the UK’s National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice that explores how and why creative practice already facilitates some experiences of empathy that have had a positive effect on inmate experience and have led to personal revelations and transformations in the form of ‘desistance’ – the process where offenders stop reoffending (National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice 2013). The final section reflects upon the prison experience itself, and the serious difficulties it creates for many inmates (linked to what Wortley (2002) describes as ‘situational precipitators’), and suggests, in this context, that design could make a difference to the sort of transformation that occurs. In particular, that design tools and processes could improve provision, and impact upon inmate learning, in how to relate to and care for others in prosocial ways.

Empathy: Obscured through the Prison Mask? The issue of empathy is of heightened significance in the prison context because so many prisoners suppress emotions. The sociologist Berger (1963) pointed out that when people go to prison, it has a significant impact on identity management – and the younger the offender, the greater the impact – because a prison sentence constitutes a ‘massive assault’ on the senses. The fact that deprivation and frustration contribute to the psychological impact of incarceration has been documented by many criminologists, and warrants greater consideration and management. For example, Irwin (1970) identifies the many ways prison negatively contributes to emotional development, including empathic development. Consequently, most firsttime prisoners, in seeking to preserve their previous understanding of being ‘oneself’, appear to engage in the suppression of emotion to try to hang on to who they were. He also points out that, as part of this process, inmates feel the need to develop a prison ‘persona’, a ‘front’ that is often different from the previous outside-world persona or pre-prison identity, aimed at helping the inmate to adapt and avoid trauma and the painful institutional contingencies of prison life. Travis and Waul (2003) write about the impact of incarceration on children, families, and communities and observe that families report that ‘many [inmates] who become institutionalized are unaware that any transformation has occurred. Few consciously decided to allow such a transformation to take place […]’. Ethnographic works from Schmid and Jones (1991), who interviewed first-time maximum-security inmates, found the creation of prison personas also contains implicit survival tactics in terms of psychological adaptation. Schmid and Jones (1991) and McCorkle (1992) discuss the dilemmas that inspire prisoners to ‘turn off’ capacity for some types of empathic identification, by becoming hyper-vigilant, always alert for signs of threat or risks to personal safety, exhibiting suspicion. In harsh prison regimes, distrust and caution almost become reflexive processes. Fear is, of course, experienced differently depending on the age and cultural background of the inmate, and may eventually be superseded by feelings of boredom, which also characterise the reality of prison life. Yet fear has a different emotional impact. Many inmates at the outset of the prison journey, women as well as men, say they feel the need to hide feelings of vulnerability, and discontinuity; and they try to differentiate themselves from other inmates – just as we do in the outside world – in order to cope with difficult situations. Schmid and Jones (1991) argue the main difference is that ‘“impression management” in prison differs, because of the totality with which it governs interactions. Also because the perceived costs of failure are humiliation, assault, and death. Consequently, the entire impression management process in prison becomes a highly conscious endeavour […]’. For most inmates who can manage it, the presentation of a ‘prison mask’ is a continuous performance, but of course not all can manage to hold the mask in place, while others cannot remove it on release.

1 Geese Theatre Company performance

Travis and Waul (2003: 52) point out that ‘at least twenty per cent of the current prison population suffer from some sort of significant mental or psychological disorder or developmental disability’ (with some estimates suggesting this figure is even higher).2 For example, the Prison Reform Trust identifies a range of mental health issues3 that may mean many inmates are likely to have difficulties managing multiple identities implicit in the creation and maintenance of a prison mask. Unlike roles in the outside world, those in prison are not trans-situational. Here, Travis and Waul (2003: 42) identify that inmates ‘constantly hide their feeling from others […] leading to some prisoners forgetting that they have any feelings at all’. Of course, we are not saying that inmates do not understand what other inmates, victims of crime, or officers in the system ‘feel’. Most inmates who do not have severe mental health problems can recognise the perspective of others (cognitive empathy) but may ‘turn off’ an entwined perspective, such as ‘affective empathy’, to get by. There are numerous accounts of the ubiquity of the prison mask (­Cogan and Paulson 1998), and while it is true that some criminologists dispute whether or not this mask metaphor is always appropriate (Cheliotis 2012), we feel

it is worth consideration here given that it often describes a chronic emotional flatness that debilitates inmates’ social interactions and intimate relationships. This inability to connect with others makes rehabilitation even harder than it already is. Many inmates may feel they must remain in character in order to survive in a ­context where there is little room for self-mockery or other forms of role distance. Of course, there may be a strong self-dialogue going on between what the inmate ­understands as his/her ‘suspended identity’ and the newly created prison persona, which is further compounded by other factors that affect prison life, such as boredom, lack of privacy, overcrowding, stressful and dehumanising living conditions, as well as depressing architectural monotony, all of which have negative impacts. Social alienation and distancing, as a defence against exploitation in prison, then leads to disinclination for engagement in open communication. It is not surprising that so many prisoners who learn to hide behind a mask withdraw from authentic social interaction, becoming ‘switched off’ and isolated, and are often unable to ‘switch on’ again. Jose-Kampfner (1990) has compared the plight of long-term women prisoners to that of the terminally ill, who also emotionally ‘withdraw’ and who do not allow themselves to experience much affective empathic identification. Of course, just like in the outside world, each inmate confronts identity questions in his/her own way and each arrives at his/her own understanding of who he/she is, based on the unfinished, unresolved self-dialogue. But the prison experience itself seems to create serious difficulties for inmates, because Wortley’s (2002) ‘situational precipitators’ appear to do further harm: they compromise inmate learning about how to relate to and care for others in prosocial ways, and consequently limit rehabilitation. This may be why so many inmates go on to reoffend. In the UK, as in many other places in the world, prison has a poor record for reducing reoffending: 47 per cent of adults are reconvicted within one year of release. For those serving sentences of less than twelve months, this increases to 58 per cent. Nearly three-quarters (73 per cent) of under-eighteen-year-olds in the UK are reconvicted within a year of release (Ministry of Justice 2013). In most instances, Schmid and Jones (1991) suggest that inmates ultimately take some aspect of this suppression and new prison identity into other areas of life, which impacts on their role repertoire – which is where future problems might lie. This account of identity suppression suggests to us a role for creative practice within prison populations. Firstly, to consider whether engagement in creative (art and design) practice might help a prisoner to (re-) develop empathy for him/herself and reconnect them with their pre-prison identity through a process of ‘introspection’. Secondly, whether engagement in such creative processes might offer opportunities for (re-) development of empathy for others. Krznaric (2014) suggests that too much introspection in consumer society has led to the me generation, and that now a cultural paradigm shift is needed to produce prosocial behaviour linked to a model of ‘outrospection’ – a method in which you get to know yourself by developing relationships and empathic thinking with others.

There is already some experimental work from criminology (Kilgore 2001) that suggests that finding ways to build empathy in prison can deliver positive outcomes, but there is little distinction or understanding as to the nature of the empathy fostered and/or the nature of the creative processes contributing to this transformation. In fact, Krznaric (2014) identifies that the link between engaging with empathy tools or ‘playing an empathy game and taking empathic action in the real world has not yet been the subject of serious research […]’. Much of the evaluated work from prison does not directly focus on empathy but is linked to the theory of ‘desistance’ and reviews mainly situational factors – understanding the institutional and structural pathways (employment, marriage, etc.) that help inmates to keep out of prison (see the 7 NOMS pathways presented below, table 1).

1. Accommodation and support

A third of prisoners do not have settled accommodation prior to custody, and it is estimated that stable accommodation can reduce the likelihood of reoffending by more than a fifth. It also provides the vital building blocks for a range of other support services and gaining employment.

2. Education, training, and employment

Having a job can reduce the risk of reoffending by between a third and a half. There is a strong correlation between offending, poor literacy, language, and numeracy skills, and low achievement. Many offenders have a poor experience of education and no experience of stable employment.

3. Health

Offenders are disproportionately more likely to suffer from mental and physical health problems than the general population, and also have high rates of alcohol misuse. Not surprisingly, 31 per cent of adult prisoners were found to have emotional well-being issues linked to their offending behaviour.

4. Drugs and alcohol

Around two-thirds of prisoners use illegal drugs in the year before imprisonment, and intoxication by alcohol is linked to 30 per cent of sexual offences, 33 per cent of burglaries, 50 per cent of street crime, and about half of all ­violent crimes.

5. Finance, benefits, and debt

Ensuring that ex-offenders have sufficient lawfully obtained money to live on is vital to their rehabilitation. Around 48 per cent of prisoners report a history of debt, which gets worse for about a third of them during custody, and about 81 per cent of offenders claim benefit on release.

6. Children and ­families

Maintaining strong relationships with families and children can play a major role in helping prisoners to make and sustain changes that help them to avoid ­reoffending. This is difficult because custody places added strains on family relationships.

7. Attitudes, thinking, and behaviour

Prisoners are more likely to have negative social attitudes and poor self-­ control. Successfully addressing their attitudes, thinking, and behaviour ­during custody may reduce reoffending by up to 14 per cent.

Source: http://www.emcett.com/Offender_Learning/list/the_seven_pathways_to_reducing_re_offending Table 1: The seven NOMS (National Offender Management Service) pathways to reduce reoffending

Nevertheless, in UK prisons there are some useful findings about how creativity can positively affect prisoner subjectivity; see the evidence library of the National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice. Of course, situational issues are significant, and to some extent Pathways 2 and 7, in recognising the need to build personal agency in transforming reoffending, do acknowledge the subjective as well as structural factors linked to desistance. However, the role of creative education in building empathy and promoting change is not always understood or valued as highly as situational factors, despite its apparent contribution to inmate desistance. Consequently, the likely contribution that creative education could make to individuals, in developing empathy as well as desistance, in our view is significantly undervalued.

Creativity and Transformation: Arts Case Studies The role of creative arts, which is often process driven, in helping inmates to begin to pursue something new – ostensibly an art or design project, but ultimately a non-criminal subjectivity – has a lot to contribute to desistance. The National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice documents over eighty evaluations in its evidence library that show how the creative arts and their co-creation processes initiate the beginning of a change journey, even though inmate engagement may not have foreseen this or started with this purpose in mind.4 These evaluations also explain how this creative engagement leads to desistance, via activities that cause interaction between ‘agents’ and their environments. Vygotsky’s (1978) ‘Activity Theory’ explains why such interaction is valuable, and how mediation plays a central role. First of all, Vygotsky outlines how creative interaction through activities (symbolic systems used to communicate and analyse reality) with tools (signs, symbols, maps, plans, charts, models, pictures, and language) shapes the way human beings interact with reality. According to Vygotsky, the principle of internalisation/externalisation occurs through such activities and ultimately results in shaping the individual’s internal world. Such activities and tools usually reflect the experiences of the history of knowledge, of other people who have tried to solve similar problems at an earlier time and invented/modified the activity or tool to make it more efficient. So, the use of creative activities and tools is a means for the accumulation and transmission of social knowledge. It influences the nature, not only of external behaviour, but also of the mental functioning of individuals. Crane-Williams (2012), in her account of teaching in prison settings, observes that ‘a dialogue between the work and the artist takes place in the act of making […]’, producing ‘[…] transformative learning that helps adults to recognise their specific frames of reference, frames which are composed of collective ideas taken from culture’. Through this recognition and questioning, inmates develop an ability to pose new questions, reimagine solutions, and work collaboratively with others (Mezirow 1997).

Crane-Williams (2012) also observes that such transformation requires a good deal of patience and gentleness, especially under conditions of captivity: ‘When individuals initially enter prison they have a difficult time adjusting to their new surroundings, the culture, the expectation of the institution. […] Exile from society to a place filtered with arbitrary, dehumanising, and oppressive rules is difficult to ensure. For many, ways in which to find meaning in their day-to-day existence are missing (Clemmer 1940; Liebling, Price, and Elliot 1999). To insert purpose in their lives in prison, individuals may turn to work, treatment, education, or writing, or set personal goals such as reading a number of books every week, or knitting a given number of hats. Others find purpose in interpersonal relationships. […] While making art is not a panacea for difficult transition, it can create a space for reflection and helps “makers” understand and see the extraordinary in their day-to-day life. Finding the extra-ordinary is, in turn, a way to discover purpose.’ Finding purpose through activities that utilise the iterative nature of creative learning is extremely significant because it has implications for understanding how desistance might occur. The criminologists Giordano, Cernkovich, and Rudolph (2002) have described a four-stage process to desistance, that is, the process by which people who have offended stop offending and begin to articulate a different subjectivity and consciousness. These stages – where change, not just to psychology, but to cultural values, takes place and can be measured – include: 1. an openness to change 2. exposure and reaction to hooks for change 3. the imagination and belief that the offender could be different, the possibility of what is called a ‘replacement self’ 4. also changed perceptions of offending: the way that offenders who engage with arts start to change the way they perceive their own offending and the deviant behaviour of others, and to talk about this differently in order to change the old criminal self into a new non-criminal self. Creative processes seem to provoke such changes as described above – as is reported in many accounts from those who teach creative courses in prison, including radio, drama, music, writing, art, and design. While better-quality evaluation is always needed by government, which particularly values control studies and evidence,5 an increasing number of projects have delivered some level of evaluated evidence that demonstrates the precise ways in which creative education impacts on desistance, by creating hooks for change, new ideas about identity, as well as greater empathy.6 Desistance, as we have heard from many, is not just about the absence of crime but the maintenance of crime-free behaviour, which is a continuous and active process of transformation.

Restorative justice has made a strong case for empathy too. Seeing the victim’s point of view and understanding what was going on in the perpetrator’s mind seems to do two positive things: it appears to reduce the victim’s ongoing fear of crime and it contributes significantly to reducing reoffending. This is why bringing offenders and victims together in restorative encounters is regarded as important. But, as Sherman and Strang (2007) observe, to get offenders to want to engage is problematic, as some are reluctant and the system tends to be offender focused in terms of why such restorative ‘conferences’ are set up in the first place.7 Both victim and offender reluctance to engage may change over time. An individual’s subjectivity is not fixed but always in the ‘process of becoming’, even if some offenders may mistake the transient subjectivity of self-identity for a fixed state, or a fixed self8 (as we described earlier). Creative education can help the individual to (re-) discover himor herself and to build empathy that may make a real difference to the desire to engage and change. This transformation involves developing many sensibilities, including empathy, and also figuring out how to help negotiate social and cultural values that impact on aspects of well-being (not just emotional and psychological aspects, but the cultural tenets too).9 The fact that creative education is taught very differently from the three Rs (reading, writing, arithmetic), or the teaching and learning approaches offenders may have failed at,10 is strategically important given that many inmates have learning difficulties or are dyslexic, and school didn’t work for them (Barton et al. 2007). Here, the operational characteristics of creative processes, the introduction of ambiguous meanings and diverse mechanisms of self-directed learning (often through doing and making, which is the subject of many iterations), avoid engagement with any model of authority and offer a springboard for self-discovery that can lead to changing offenders’ negative cultural values and/or psychological self-definitions into new positive ones. Given the impact of prison on the empathy of inmates, empathy experiments – such as Kilgore’s (2001) ‘Explorations’ project, which used creative education to ­offer opportunities for different types of group learning that foster empathy – are ­significant. Here the creative or collective education provides a ‘de-risked’ environment that promotes significant group experimentation. Alternative ways of being and doing are enabled so that inmates feel safe enough to see themselves differently, which allows empathy to develop and change to take place. As one inmate (Gina) commented in Kilgore’s (2001: 160) study: ‘You can fall and there is someone there to hold you.’ Andy Watson of Geese Theatre Company, at an expert workshop held at Central Saint Martins in 2014, described research delivered by the Geese Theatre Company. He observed: ‘Perpetrators of domestic abuse watched a piece of theatre created specifically for domestic abuse perpetrator treatment programmes. Audiences of approximately 8–10 men were arranged half on one side of the stage and half on the other (so they could see the performance in the middle, but also see each other):

what came out of the research is that the aesthetic distance of them seeing versions of themselves, being portrayed in terms of seeing themselves as perpetrator, victim and child was an important element. But actually a bigger element was seeing their peers observing the performance. It resonated as much as watching the art itself. Which to my mind is fascinating and tells us quite a lot about where we should be heading.’11 Watson further clarified his point by discussing how inmate audiences understand each other experiencing the same thing: ‘The inmates report: I saw what the “actor” was doing in character and I didn’t like it. I also saw another group member, someone who has been in the group longer than me, and he was really upset – he was looking at the floor and I think he might have been crying. That tells me my feelings about what I am watching are correct – the other guy’s response confirms that it is ok for me to have this response too.’12 Here, de-risked environments provided by creative education offer crucial opportunities in prison to build trust to engage with the gentle questioning described by Crane-Williams (2012) earlier. Also, for inmates to open themselves up to affective as well as cognitive empathic forms of identification, which will be of great significance to those inmates as returning citizens. Yet there are real problems regarding provision of creative education in prison, despite the growing number of evaluated arts projects that testify to the value of it. Many critics, such as Cheliotis (2012), argue that ‘there is no intrinsic worth to the arts’ and point out that in some prison contexts the arts have been ‘subjugated to malign ends’, with prisoners forced to sing or dance or listen to loud rock music for hours on end against their will. Cheliotis’s account suggests that we should be careful in making claims for the overriding transformative nature of the creative arts because, as Cohen (1985) has identified, stories of the arts as the human face of prison often obscure prison control regimes or practices that are unacceptable, for which prisoners, rather than those managing such regimes and practices, are blamed for subsequent failure. While we don’t disagree with much of Cheliotis’s (2012: 11) well-observed narrative about the contradictions of the prison system, ‘where rehabilitation programmes make good stories [… and] partake in the political art of lending the inherently harsh prison system appearances of open heartedness and care’, we think he overstates his case about the lack of real value produced by arts education (Cheliotis 2012: 13): ‘arts and related schemes are said to be tools for liberation of the mind and creative exploration, [but] they form part of the effort to hold prisoners in close check’. While we agree that without prisoner choice as to whether they participate (or not) in arts practice, any potential benefit is lost, we feel he also overstates ‘the limits and possibilities of individual agency’, because resistance takes many forms in prison, and no matter how the arts are politically repositioned, they nevertheless offer radical and alternative ways of learning that cannot be completely contained by the prison authorities. Certainly, given that the annual overall cost of a prison place in England and Wales for the financial year 2011–12 was estimated by the Ministry of Justice in 2013 at £37,648, with high recidivism, we feel design of prison ­services

so far is not working effectively for the spend, and that creative education could be given a greater opportunity than it has so far to prove its value, while being careful in ‘not promising too much’.13 Despite the opportunities for benefit, there are challenges to such proposals from those who regard arts in prison as being soft on prisoners, who in the UK are regularly reported by the Daily Mail and other newspapers as having too many privileges, such as access to gym facilities, or TVs and phones in cells, and so require ­instead punishing, inhuman prisons that will deliver ‘justice’. The fact that such ­regimes appear, based on evidence, to exacerbate problems is ignored in such a debate. In this context, while we are keen to see arts provision in terms of prison education services continue and expand, and to be better regarded – for all the reasons we have outlined, and in particular the role of cultivating self-directed learning and empathy – we believe there are other approaches that need to be acknowledged and explored too. The roles of cognitive behaviour therapy, yoga, and meditation need to be assessed – also the potential contribution of design practice linked to prison industries (which are currently run in outdated ways in providing work experience). We believe prison industries need reinvention to become more ‘fit for purpose’ (at present, they often teach building skills that have little currency for inmates in the outside world, given current unemployment rates in that industry) and additionally could contribute to, or build on, some of the creative work similar to the design-led prison enterprises shown in the table below: Origin/ Date

Overview (product/service)

Details

Retail Price

Additional value

Heavy Eco

Tallinn, Estonia 2010

Bags from discarded billboards, made by prisoners

PVC recycled and made into bags, sustainable t-shirts made from organic cotton (India, fair trade).

T-shirt £33.27, bag £41.70

50 % of profits go to homeless and orphaned children.

Marni Chairs

Colombia/ Milan 2012

Outdoor furniture

Production in ­Colombia as part of a rehabilitation programme. Operates in a studio where former ­inmates work with craftsmen. Products were displayed and sold at Milan ­Design Week 2012 (see photoshoot by Francesco Jodice with Marni staff)

£150–£400

Proceeds from sales go to ICAM, an organisation that enables the children of imprisoned mothers to spend their first years in a family ­environment more fitting for their growth.

Fine Cell UK

HMP ­ olloway, H UK 1960s

Quilts, cushions, rugs

Needlepoint used as a form of therapy as patience and concentration is ­required. Projects provides a means of relaxation and calm, as well as object creation.

£50 each

Prisoners receive money gaining means of support for when they are outside and skills that can lead to employment.

Jailbirds UK

Peter­ borough Prison, UK

Greeting cards, christmas decorations, mugs

Products initially sold i­ nside the prison, cards, mugs etc. They became very popular outside and Jailbirds now distribute over 200 designs.

£1–£8 from churches and outlets who sign up.

Funds gained from the sale of products are split three ways, one third each going to charity, the prisoners’ fund, and reinvestment in materials.

Made in Carcere

Italy 2007

Bags, handbags, scarves, bracelets

Products made by a group of twenty women from the margins of ­society

£5–£20

Philosophy of a second chance for the inmates

Stripes Clothing

Rotterdam, Netherlands

T-shirts and hoodies

Designs presenting prisoners’ thoughts.

£25–£60

Profits from the prison line donated to reintegration and victim support projects.

Prison Blues – Prsn Blu

Oregon, USA 1989

Durable work jeans and denim apparel

Gives inmates the ability to earn a wage while ­paying for their own incarceration costs and other payments

Jeans £25

Inmates earn a prevailing industry wage; they keep around 20 % of what they earn, which equals about $120–$150 a month after taxes, with bonus incentives for quality and ­productivity.

PRIDE Florida

Florida 1981

More than three thousand products and ­services; furniture, digital services, sanitary ­maintenance, graphics, paint, optical, dental and sewn products

Training programmes/ transition services for ­inmates

Polo shirts £10

Lower recidivism rates for ex-offenders who ­participated.

UNICOR, USA

USA 1934

Seven groups of products/services, ranging from clothing and textiles to electronic, fleet and training, industrial products, office furniture, and recycling

A correctional programme and inmate ­release preparation scheme that helps offenders to ­acquire skills.

Has an effect on post-­ release employment for up to twelve years following release.

In 2012, inmates contributed almost $1.2 million of their earnings ­towards their financial obligations; some also contributed to the support of their families.

Made for Change

HMP ­ olloway, H UK June 2014

Set up by the London College of Fashion at UAL, the unit trains women in prison giving them production manufacture sewing skills and provides a commercial service to the fashion industry to manufacture high-­quality fashion products. The USP is the provision of small production runs for local designers as well as support for the made in the UK fashion industry.

The products vary ­according to customer ­requests: T-shirts, simple dresses etc. The ­focus is on woven products initially, with a view to diversify into jersey production.

Production costs vary ­according to the customer order.

The overall aim is to ­support women ­prisoners’ re-entry into employment.

Table 2: Table of design labels that have emerged from enterprise in prison

Design could and should play a strong role in building empathy and the ‘soft’ or ‘life’ skills that contribute to employability and entrepreneurship and may reduce recidivism rates. Teaching design skills and creative thinking via prison industries could certainly build on learning about how ex-offenders reform (Maruna 2001) and involve prisoners in developing their own empathic understandings while reflecting and drawing upon previous experiences.

How Design Methods and Empathy Tools Can Make a Difference to Prison Experience In earlier writing (Gamman and Raein 2010) we have sought to understand the similarities between ‘criminals’ (those who perform criminal acts to ‘make’ a living) and those Florida (2002) describes as the ‘creative class’ (those who perform creative acts to ‘make’ a living)14 in relation to specific skills, competencies, and characteristics. We have discussed the ‘dark side of creativity’ and how criminals – like ­creatives – get up each day and ‘make’ a living in creative, opportunistic, and often entrepreneurial ways (Gamman and Thorpe 2011). Obviously, creatives rarely break the law through their actions, but we feel there are many shared traits15 that suggest some of those who end up in prison may have an aptitude for design. We believe that design could make a contribution in ways that may avoid some of the issues Cheliotis (2012) raises about overstating the intrinsic value of art. That design, as applied creativity, might prove attractive to those who feel that ‘arts’ practice is too far away from vocational values to merit investment. That design might offer an alternative route to learning through reflective practice (Schön 1983) of benefit to those inmates who were failed by teaching focused on ‘key’ or ‘functional’ skills or literacy, numeracy, and ICT. That design might develop ‘soft’, ‘life’, and ‘community’ skills that are of greater value on the pathway to employability or enterprise than vocational training targeted to competitive employment opportunities that raises unwarranted expectations of employment and contributes to disaffection on release (Canton, Hine, and Welford 2011).  While we refute Cheliotis’s dismissal of the learning opportunities creative education provides, we would restate such opportunities in new ways in light of the understanding described earlier, linking arts practice to desistance via empathic reconnection with a former or core self beyond or before the socially toxic identity of ‘criminal’. While engagement with arts practice appears to develop empathy for the ‘self’, connecting or reconnecting an ex-offender with a non-criminal version of him- or herself as part of a pathway towards desistance, via design ‘things’16 and ­design practice as described earlier, it also has the capacity to help the ex-offender to develop or re-find empathy for others.

A staged process of creative engagement by design for those inmates who choose to engage, we believe, would make a positive contribution. Whereas arts ­engagement may contribute to the transformation of the self via (re-) development of empathy for the self, and (re-) definition of self-identity, design engagement may contribute to further prosocial transformation of the self in relation to (re-) development of empathy for others. A comparison of the respective frameworks for development of desistance via arts practices and development of empathy via design methods illustrates the similarities and differences between the two processes that are likely to contribute to the outcomes described above (see table 3 below). Desistance (Giordano, Cernkovich, and Rudolph 2002)

Empathy (Kouprie and Sleeswijk Visser 2009)

1. An openness to change

Discovery: entering the user’s world and achieving willingness. The process starts with the designer approaching the user. He/she makes a first contact with the user, either in person or by studying provocative material from user studies. The designer’s curiosity is raised, resulting in his/her willingness to explore and discover the user, his/her situation and experience.

2. Exposure and reaction to hooks for change

Immersion: wandering around in the user’s world. Taking user’s point of reference. After the first encounter with the user’s experience, the designer takes an active role by leaving the design office and wandering around in the user’s world (data from qualitative user research). The designer expands his/ her knowledge about the user and is surprised by various aspects that influence the user’s experience. The designer is open-minded, interested in the user’s point of reference. He/she is being pulled into the user’s world, and absorbs without judging.

3. The imagination and belief that the offender could be different, the possibility of what is called a ‘replacement self’

Connection: resonate with the user, achieve emotional resonance, and find meaning. In this phase, the designer connects with the user by calling explicitly upon his/her own memories and experiences in order to reflect and be able to create an understanding. He/she makes a connection on an emotional level with the user by recalling his/her own feelings and resonates with the user’s experience. At this phase, both affective and cognitive components are important: the affective to understand feelings, the cognitive to understand meanings.

4. Also changed perceptions of offending. The way that offenders who engage with arts start to perceive differently their offending and the deviant behaviour of others, and to talk about this differently in order to change the old criminal self into a new non-­ criminal self.

Detachment: leaving the user’s world, designing with user perspective. The designer detaches from his/her emotional connection in order to become ‘in the helpful mode’ with increased understanding. The designer steps back into the role of designer and makes sense of the user’s world. By stepping back out to reflect, he/she can deploy the new insights for ­ideation.

Table 3: Comparing development of desistance via arts practice with development of empathy via design methods

Referring to the process frameworks above, it is apparent that both processes share an initial step that involves the actor (ex-offender) demonstrating an ‘openness’ or ‘willingness’ to change or discover alternative possibilities. This suggests that it is essential that inmates’ enrolment in any programme that applies this dual methodology should be based on self-selection in the first instance. Similarly, both processes involve the actor in a second phase that requires him or her to be ‘exposed’ and receptive to alternative possibilities (ways of being). It is this stage that in both instances seeds the development of cognitive and affective empathy, either towards a ‘restored’ or ‘renewed’ self (in the instance of ‘desistance’) or towards another (in the instance of empathic development). It is in the third phase that the distinction described above, between development of empathy for the self or for another, marks a difference. While both frameworks refer to a process of connection through resonation with ‘another’ by means of a reflection on experience, in the case of desistance this resonance is with the ­replacement self while in the case of the empathic design process it is resonance with another individual. Paradoxically, in both instances, it is a connection with another that is actually a connection with the self – in the case of desistance, a connection with the replacement self, and in the case of design for empathy, a connection with the self that is in the shoes of the other. In the final stage of both processes, the identification of and with the other self (in the case of desistance the replacement self and in the case of empathic design the self in the shoes of the other) leads to transformation. The actor (ex-offender) who engages with arts practice ‘starts to perceive differently their offending and the deviant behaviour of others’ and applies this to the action of transformation ‘to talk about this differently in order to change the old criminal self into a new non-criminal self’. The actor (ex-offender) who engages with empathic design ‘leaves the user’s world with the user’s perspective’ and applies this empathic insight for others to the generation of new ideas that might serve them better. While ‘arts’ education is valuable in ways we have already explained, we believe that understanding how to foster and apply creativity should not be confined to self-directed studio practice or ‘art education’ but could also be introduced to group learning, in the context of vocational activities as part of design and prison industries.

Conclusion We are currently developing projects in 201517 where we will collaborate to co-­ design anti-theft bags, like the series of Karrysafe bags the Design Against Crime ­Research Centre has already delivered (fig. 2), with prisoners within prison work-

2 Karrysafe bag by the Design Against Crime Research Centre

shops. Our colleagues at the London College of Fashion are already working with prisoners via their Made for Change label, which aims to teach technical fashion skills. Our approach will differ only inasmuch as our emphasis will be on involving inmates in first exploring how their knowledge of crime may be applied to protect rather than exploit others, before focusing on teaching design understanding and technical skill building. Given the circumstances of incarceration, it will be necessary to develop empathic ‘things’ that can support the empathic design process described. This is because inmates will not have the opportunity to ‘wander around in the user’s world’ in a literal sense, and may need some help in imagining what it is like to walk in the shoes of the victims of bag theft and pickpocketing. Through this process, we hope to transform some of the previously negative uses of inmate creativity into more positive outputs and hopefully begin a new journey with inmates, one where it may be possible to introduce new cultural values that will build inmate entrepreneurial capacity and employability through development of ‘soft’ and ‘life’ skills focused on empathic understanding, as well as what we are calling ‘restorative enterprise’. Despite the arguments outlined above for the contribution of creative practices to transformation in the context of reducing reoffending, we are keen to ­acknowledge the role of situational factors (from table 1) in contributing to desistance. We fully recognise that there will be limitations to what creative processes can contribute as part of prison industries. But we believe design can deliver an integrative approach that might bring together subjective and situational influences relevant to prisoner transformation with a view to developing resilience in returning ­citizens.

 1 Transformation is defined by dictionaries as ‘thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance’. In this context, we are referring to transformation of cultural values, linked to the understanding of ‘culture as a whole way of life’ (Hoggart 1957; Williams 1958; Hall 1968 and 1980) rather than in connection with the sublime, e.g., with art or going to the opera, or even with wearing ‘Sunday best’ (Willis 1983).   2 ‘31 % of adult prisoners are found to have emotional well-being issues linked to their offending behaviour’. See http://www.emcett.com/Offender_Learning/list/the_seven_pathways_to_reducing_re_offending.  3 http://www.prisonreformtrust.org.uk/projectsresearch/mentalhealth.   4 The National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice evidence library is an online library housing the key ­research and evaluation documents on the impact of arts-based projects, programmes, and interventions within the criminal justice system. It can be accessed at http://www.artsevidence.org.uk.   5 There is some criticism of evidence from arts education in prison. For example, RAND Europe, Arcs Ltd, and University of Glamorgan (2012) suggest ‘there is a lack of good quality research evidence that ­explores the impact of arts projects with offenders. Currently, there is insufficient evidence to conclude whether or not arts projects have a measureable impact on re-offending’.  6 http://www.artsevidence.org.uk.   7 There are other criticisms of the restorative process too; see papers written by Gavrielides (2015a and 2015b).   8 See discussion of Shirley Pitts by Lorraine Gamman in afterword to Gone Shopping: The Story of Shirley Pitts, Queen of Thieves (2012).   9 http://www.designagainstcrime.com/files/publications/ExpertWorkshopReport.pdf. 10 A significant number of prisoners are resistant to education that is too much like school, where some have already experienced failure and a lack of engagement (Canton, Hine, and Welford 2011; Barton et al. 2007) quoted in the National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice’s Write to be Heard: Supporting ­Offender Learning through Creative Writing (2014). 11 http://www.designagainstcrime.com/files/publications/ExpertWorkshopReport.pdf. 12 Ibid. 13 We think Cheliotis has a point when he says arts programmes ‘have taken upon themselves a heavy load of undeserved blame (see further McAvinchey 2011, pp. 78, Fraden 2001 and McNeill et al. 2012)’. 14 Florida says that the creative class is a class of workers whose job is to create meaningful new forms. It is composed of scientists and engineers, university professors, poets and architects, and also includes ‘people in design, education, arts, music and entertainment, whose economic function is to create new ideas, new technology and/or creative content’ (Florida 2002, p. 8). 15 What criminals and creatives have in common: · embrace or exploit change · wonky/divergent thinking · flexibility · transferable thinking and skills · risk-inclined/may enjoy rule breaking · inspirational crime in its audacity; creative industries in delivery of the ‘wow’ factor · dyslexia · anarchy/freedom/outsider position 16 ‘Things are […] socio-material assembl[ies] that deal with events and other matters of concern’, as ­described by the A.Telier Project (2011). Pelle Ehn (2014) has also described such ‘things’ as ‘flickering’, where they appear to move from being an object to facilitating an assembly. 17 We have recently obtained (in September 2014) funding for our Design Against Crime Research Centre to work with HMP Wandsworth Prison in the UK and with National Institute of Design and Sabarmati Jail in Ahmedabad, India, to make new products.

References A. Telier Project (2011). Design Things. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Baron-Cohen, S. (2011). Zero Degrees of Empathy: A New Theory of Human Cruelty. London: Allen Lane. Barton, D., Ivanic, R., Appleby, Y., Hodge, R., and Tusting, K. (2007). Literacy, Lives and Learning. London: ­Routledge. Berger, P.L. (1963). Invitation to Sociology: A Humanistic Perspective. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Canton, R., Hine, J., and Welford, J. (2011). Outside Chances: Offender Learning in the Community. London: City and Guilds Centre for Skills Development. Cheliotis, L.K. (2012). The Arts of Imprisonment: Control, Resistance and Empowerment. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate. Clemmer, D. (1940). The Prison Community. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Cogan, K.B., and Paulson, B.L. (1998). ‘Picking Up the Pieces: Brief Report on Inmates’ Experiences of a ­Family Violence Drama Project’. In The Arts in Psychotherapy 25, no. 1, pp. 37–43. Cohen, S. (1985). Visions of Social Control: Crime, Punishment and Classification. Cambridge: Polity. Crane-Williams, R.M. (2012). ‘Teaching and Learning: The Pedagogy of Arts Education in Prison Settings’. In L.K. Cheliotis (ed.). The Arts of Imprisonment: Control, Resistance and Empowerment. Aldershot: Ashgate, pp. 233–42. Ehn, P. (2014). Making Futures. The MIT Press. Florida, R. (2002). The Rise of the Creative Class: And How It’s Transforming Work, Leisure, Community and Everyday Life. New York: Basic Books. Fraden, R. (2001). Imagining Medea: Rhodessa Jones and Theatre for Incarcerated Women. Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press. Gamman, L. (2012). Gone Shopping: The Story of Shirley Pitts, Queen of Thieves. London: Bloomsbury. Gamman, L., and Raein, M. (2010). Reviewing the Art of Crime: What, If Anything, Do Criminals and Artists/ Designers Have in Common? Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gamman, L., and Thorpe, A. (2011). ‘Design with Society: Why Socially Responsive Design Is Good Enough’. In CoDesign International Journal of CoCreation in Design and the Arts 7, no. 3–4, pp. 217–31. Special Issue on Socially Responsive Design. Gavrielides, T. (2015a). Offenders No More: New Offender Rehabilitation Theory and Practice. New York: Nova Science Publishers. Gavrielides, T. (2015b). The Psychology of Restorative Justice. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate. Giordano, P.C., Cernkovich, S.A., and Rudolph, J.L. (2002). ‘Gender, Crime and Desistance: Toward a Theory of Cognitive Transformation’. In American Journal of Sociology 107, pp. 990–1064. Hall, S. (1968). The Hippies: An American ‘Moment’. Birmingham: Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, University of Birmingham. Hall, S. (1980). ‘Cultural Studies: Two Paradigms.’ In Media, Culture and Society 2, pp. 57–72. Hoggart, R. (1957). The Uses of Literacy: Aspects of Working-Class Life with Special Reference to Publications and Entertainments. London: Chatto and Windus. Hurry, J., Lawrence, P. and Plant, J. (2014). Write to be Heard: Supporting Offender Learning Through Creative Writing. Clinks. Retrieved 05 August 2015 from: http://artsevidence.org.uk/media/uploads/writetobeheard-finalreport.pdf. Irwin, J. (1970). The Felon. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Jose-Kampfner, C. (1990). ‘Coming to Terms with Existential Death: An Analysis of Women’s Adaptation to Life in Prison’. In Social Justice 17, pp. 110–25. Kilgore, D.W. (2001). ‘A Group Learning Intervention into How Women Learn Empathy in Prison’. In Adult ­Education Quarterly 51, no. 2, pp. 146–64. Kouprie, M., and Sleeswijk Visser, F. (2009). ‘A Framework for Empathy in Design: Stepping Into and Out of the User’s Life’. In Journal of Engineering Design 20, no. 5, pp. 437–48. Krznaric, R. (2014). Empathy: A Handbook for Revolution. London: Rider Books. Liebling, A., Price, D., and Elliot, C. (1999). ‘Appreciative Inquiry and Relationships in Prison’. In Punishment and Society: The International Journal of Penology 1, no. 1, pp. 71–98. Maruna, S. (2001). Making Good: How Ex-Convicts Reform and Rebuild Their Lives. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association. McAvinchey, C. (2011). Theatre and Prison. Basingstoke, Hants: Palgrave Macmillan. McCorkle, R.C. (1992). ‘Personal Precautions to Violence in Prisons’. In Criminal Justice and Behavior 19, no. 2, p. 160.

McNeill, F., Farrall, S., Lightowler, C., and Maruna, S. (2012). ‘How and Why People Stop Offending: Discovering Desistance’. In IRISS Insight 15, Glasgow. Mezirow, J. (1997). ‘Transformative Learning: Theory to Practice’. In New Directions for Adult and Continuing Education 74, pp. 5–12. Ministry of Justice (2013). Proven Re-offending Statistics Quarterly Bulletin July 2010 to June 2011, England and Wales. Tables 18a, 18b, 19a. National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice (2013). Reimaging Futures: Exploring Arts Interventions and the Process of Desistance. London: National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice. RAND Europe, Arcs Ltd, and University of Glamorgan (2012). ‘NOMS Outcome Measurement Research’. ­Retrieved 05 August 2015 from: https://www.artsincriminaljustice.org.uk/noms-outcome-measurement-­ research. Schmid, T.J., and Jones, R.S. (1991). ‘Suspended Identity: Identity Transformation in a Maximum Security Prison’. In Symbolic Interaction 14, no. 4, pp. 415–32. Schön, D.A. (1983). The Reflective Practitioner: How Professionals Think in Action. New York: Basic Books. Sherman, L., and Strang, H. (2007). Restorative Justice: The Evidence. London: The Smith Institute. Travis, J., and Waul, M. (2003). Prisoners Once Removed: The Impact of Incarceration and Reentry on Children, Families, and Communities. Washington, DC: Urban Institute Press. Vygotsky, L.S. (1978). Mind in Society: The Development of Higher Psychological Processes. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Williams, R. (1958). Culture and Society, 1780–1950. New York: Columbia University Press. Willis, P.E. (1983). Learning to Labour: How Working Class Kids Get Working Class Jobs. Aldershot, Hants: Gower. Wortley, R. (2002). Situational Prison Control: Crime Prevention in Correctional Institutions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Approaching Our Dog: Transformation Design – An Attempt Franziska Holzner

Transformation Design – Why? Motivation Why transformation? Why design? The motivation to use the capabilities of design to establish a post-growth society arises not solely from the pretty-picture vision of a ‘better’ world, but at the same time starts pragmatically in the here and now: a ‘better’ world does not necessarily correspond with the individual’s interpretation of a ‘better’ life. And this is most likely the crux of the issue: it is where we might find our dog,1 the guardian of the key to transformation. We have been promised everywhere that in order to have a better life, we’ll just have to consume more. Design plays a big part in the solidification of these conditions. The logic of the lazy dog is clear: not only will consumed products bring us happiness, but at the same time we are stimulating the economy. Based on this argument, we can rest easy. If we follow this logic, though, we are destroying our socially created, natural, and therefore limited livelihood, the ‘context of life’. This is first and foremost what enables life, including a ‘better’ one. How can we get closer to the dog, who tricks us and who thinks this ‘better’ world is too complex anyway? Who is not prepared even to start a change because it wouldn’t lead anywhere, and especially not to a ‘better’ life? From the perspective of the dog basket, the issue doesn’t look too pressing. Let us be daring in our deliberations about the possibilities and functions of transformation design; as a trial, let’s send our dog outside, to snuffle and search and look around in the world. He isn’t just lazy and idle, he is also a searcher, a hunter, a finder. As designers, we ask ourselves in view of the urgent questions of our time: how can we focus on the context of life instead of just on products that are strewn around and over which our society increasingly stumbles? Now let’s consider what the dog, which we are dis-covering, really loves: comforts. Comforts, often thoughtless consumption and mobility, based on the depletion of the resources that feed him. The dog might not realise this at first, in his basket, with his eyes closed. Before him, others suffer who have gradually been robbed of their livelihood. But even our dog is not free from suffering, and certainly not filled with happiness. The pains of the overfed dog in his basket are manifold, but don’t force him (yet) to take action. Diabetes, rheumatism, gout, depression, various addictive drug dependencies, and other gluttonous aches and pains make it even less attractive for him to leave his little basket. Not least because his puppies suffer from neurodermatitis, he appreciates the design of the health system, includ-

ing its product-oriented structure. At the hairdresser’s, he reads about flood victims and war refugees; this affects him so that he walks home and – settles himself back into his basket. Where does transformation design begin in this case? Transform the health system? Transform war? The basket? The dog? Let’s further investigate where we can find our dog. We imagine him to be surrounded by comforts. They are making our undertaking quite tricky. Transformation design, which puts itself at the service of the notion of a post-growth society, can’t have its eye on the abrupt relinquishment of the comforts of the Western lifestyle, the dog’s life. What are these comforts? And do they make us happier? What is contained in the wish to own a new smartphone? What is concealed in the attraction of using it constantly? What is behind it all? If, on a design level, we can understand what is hidden here, if we could literally dis-cover the dog, we wouldn’t be doomed any longer to design gadgets, which drain our resources, make us tolerate exploitative working conditions, and force us to buy products that destroy capital and time but instead could … yes – what? If we consider social transformation from a design perspective, we’ll find ourselves in two movements. The first reaches far towards a vision of a post-growth society – what it could be like, how it could be designed. That is design work. The second movement is considerably smaller, more delicate, and being modestly carried out: looking towards one’s neighbour, a fellow human being, caught up in his desire for comforts. Social transformation won’t succeed without him and our dog. It is not solely a design vision, but is realised through the cooperation of the many ­individuals with their many individual dogs who have dug themselves deeply into their comforts and doggedly insist on the justification of the status quo. Against the background of the post-growth-society vision, let’s now deal with the individual and his comforts. For him, this is not about saving the world, but rather his private happiness. We believe that this is where we’ll find our dog. We are starting to scratch and can barely recognise him. He is down in the dumps – exhausted from his dog activities that are based on his position in his basket. He wastes plenty of lifetime, energy, and potential through shopping, the use of technical devices, and hanging around in front of the TV. This makes the dog fat and sluggish; his basket becomes his private sanctuary. The individual, whom we must depend on if we want transformation, diminishes in his approach to the consumer and in his actions into an operator of programmes – not to mention his skills or talents. A common picture: reduced to a swiping motion, he stiffens, equipped with blinkers, at best with a completely receptive attitude. Zero action. Zero point zero transformation. A fixed stare towards the neatly packaged gadget box, an obedient response towards every plea to consume, a stubborn conformity of one’s own communications culture to the possibilities of the gadgets and structures of purely commercial logic that follows network offerings, corresponds with holding on to the so-called progress that has nothing in common with humanism that aims for freedom, but rather amounts to slavery. Are they the comforts?

We have been spending some time with the dog. And we believe indeed that, in terms of transformation, without his discovery, nothing is going to happen. Let us dare to pause briefly and not just examine what we do or consume, or how we behave. Let’s ignore those perfectly designed products – including any technical aspects that certainly dominate and direct our daily life. Let’s examine what makes us human beings, the parts that the dog does not want to know about. We are starting on a slippery slope, bravely questioning what we are used to declaring as genuinely human achievements. On our search to discover the dog, we stumbled over the thought of why, despite all this wonderful progress, we are so sick, so unhappy, and so unable to transform. If we assume that happiness can be found somewhere between what we are and what we do, an approximate congruence of the symbolic and meaning, then we can find our dog exactly where things become human. And this, we claim, we are relinquishing more and more. In this we are related to the dog that has traded roaming through the forests for obediently walking on a leash. Both are certainly extremes; neither should be glorified. But polemic should be permitted, just to show what we can find while we dig for the dog: experience, dirty but beautiful – human gold. If we go treasure hunting for this gold, we will realise: we don’t have to get our hands dirty any more to collect a potato. We don’t have to sweat any more while we build our home, nor scream during childbirth, or jointly cry while ­dying. Looking after our smallest, caring for the elderly – and within those actions the potential, as if sealed in amber, of genuine human experience. This is rapidly being institutionalised, and soon may be even automated – existence incomplete. And this state of affairs offers many creative challenges that could keep us designers busy forever and a day. Apart from products, we could design institutions and even their automats, equipped with a promising human face. The more perfect the plastic visage, the more distorted its reality underneath. Do these designed objects really contain the potential for social transformation? Of course, beneath every hole that our dog has dug lie famous human achievements. We are capable of a lot; institutions are efficient. That is good and often very handy. Searching for a dog, we also learn that a ‘better’ life still has to be discovered, and therefore a ‘better’ world. Where is human activity, inspiration, potential? Screaming, sweating, giving birth, bringing up children, caring for the elderly, experiencing death – it can all be, yes, even beautiful, and definitely human. And anyway: decisions and free will? Hogwash, says brain research; condition of a potential for humanness, we respond. Humanism – where did it slip to? No, we don’t want to complain, we have to deal with it. Our motivation is clear – where is the material?

Transformation Design – with What? Material Only that can be which refers tentatively to more than it already is (Bloch 1975: 70)2

We believe: experience is it. So we will find our dog through experience. If, as designers, we have created products as well as the behaviour of the individual towards them – of the individual who perceives these products as consumer or user, receives, buys, and uses them – then we are turning post-materialistically or trans-materialistically from product to system, from behaviour to experience. We try to take this individual into view and, with that, the possibility of authentic experience, the ­capacity to act: creativity. We try to reflect on product independent of comfort and to view experiences as artefacts that can be designed. Transformation design that wants to grab our dog by the collar ceases to work with products, but works instead with possibilities that turn through their implementation into experiences. Where design is concerned, unless we’re talking about visual communication or industrial products or other tangible material, we also use the term ‘system’. Is the system the new product? And is this where we will find our dog? Not just design – this term is rampant everywhere, not least as ‘system critique’, which puts the principal blame on anything that isn’t quite right with this world. In our request for social transformation, we will attempt a systemic positioning – which, as we will see, will be an ambiguous undertaking typical of creative conducts within systems. Even though we are expected to view everything critically, we don’t agree with a system critique that relieves the individual of his or her responsibilities. We don’t want to butcher the interpretation of Adorno’s saying, that there is ‘no real life in the false’ (Adorno 1951: 43) by, in the light of the fatality of our attempts, seeking comforts in our false privacy. Comfort is guaranteed by this false life anyway – but for how much longer, and for whom? Even if much goes wrong inside ‘the system’, from a design perspective we can still imagine proper conduct within it. To think of transformation as an object of design, we use the term ‘system’ not so much as viewed result of a design process but rather as scene, stage, road network, where we can look for our dog and where we think he might be caught up. The system therefore turns into a permeably perceived playing field of designer concepts and planning competence, into an area for treasure hunters. If we want to capture our dog, and therefore the individual, by what it means for him to be comfortable, then we will have to think about what, specifically, can be shaped by design. In this perhaps (still) false system, we might be able to realise partial systems where real – in our case authentic – experiences can emerge. What we can consequently design does not basically differ from classic design objects. We design cognition, communication, resulting in cooperation. Only through this triad will we be able to actually bring about transformation and get our dog to dance.

Transformation, we believe, does not start with a master plan but with the cognitive composure of the individual, inter-subjectively transmitted – discursive through communication, creative through cooperation. How can we cooperatively renounce the paradigm of growth? Only if the individual creates original self-aware experiences that are therefore independent of the production of comforts. The self-awareness of the individual, equipped with the finest senses, is placed on wobbly legs because of a current focus on surface programming. Our dog rolls into a small ball and snores. A distorted perception of the environment and our shared world, and a neither subject- nor object-appropriate action in a global context, expresses itself in a shortening of perspective, communicative scarcity, human impoverishment. Is there another way? Where is design? Dog, do something, reflect – cognition! While we potter around, when we deal with matter, when we communicate, deal with others, we have the chance to become aware of the essentiality of matter and our social immediacy. No theory can impart this, no app can replace it. Where it concerns the design of a post-growth society, it is about the whole issue. What arrives in a pathetic fashion is, rationally speaking, quite plain: with this realisation, it is hardly possible to create an image of a fellow human being and of nature that makes it possible to view them solely as means to an end and not also as ends in themselves. This insight is, of course, not new.3 And – it doesn’t seem to help anything! Our dog continues to sleep. What philosophy, literature, social sciences, the humanities, and natural sciences have recognised and communicated does not lead to the desired paradigm shift. For transformation design, this can mean that it can position itself at a different, design-specific point – not through the realisation of experience, but through experience itself. What do we mean by that? An example: human rights don’t get realised through formulation and demands on the political stage, but through the actual realisation of human dignity – of others. It is actual experiences with your fellow citizens, concrete dealings with them, that challenge the paradigm of speed and growth, not the Kyoto Protocol. Theoretical dancing? Not possible. Let us look further into our design material. To design the potential of experience as a base for social transformation, we are considering objects that we can design: social environments, relationships, and contexts. Important here is the design of relationships, rather than the design of things, gadgets, and institutions that we use to communicate. Relationships themselves. We attempt this by way of enabling experience and generating potential for discourse – with continued focus on the triad of cognition, communication, and cooperation, which rhythmically underlie the dance of our dog. The enabling of experience takes place in virtual space. Virtual space doesn’t mean the World Wide Web, which sucks up our experience, but literally the virtual space of possibilities where the experiences of the individual unfold as existential realisations. The human, with his intrinsically projective disposition, is always

ahead of himself and moves around openly and permanently in this virtual space. He does not have to forcibly lose himself completely within it; he can find his way in his virtual movements, especially regarding cooperation, to which he has been fatally doomed. This is his opportunity – his good fortune. And even here we will find our dog. Searching for good fortune and a ‘better’ life, he withdraws into his world of comfort because the terrain is so unclear. The size of the space of possibilities tends to confuse us on an existential level – biographies have cracks, life stories follow curves, nearly all role patterns appear to be melting – masks cease to function. Design certainly does take part in the establishment of new masks. We build perfectly designed alternative role patterns that are beautiful to look at and whose demands we are failing – even if we consume everything that is deemed necessary for the fulfilment of endlessly new role requirements. This failure is luxurious in comparison with others. Let us dare to take a broader view. Elsewhere, self-proclaimed despots are cutting a path of violence and oppression in the name of lifestyle conformity and cementation of roles, compressing the space of possibilities down to a small box into which existence has to fold itself. Not even failure is a possibility. To what degree does our dog get wind of this? His snout is sunk into the usual daily fare, what ­remains is the wobbly global ground, onto which he rests, undetected – having enough problem zones of his own. The basket that has been woven by children’s hands? A dog always sleeps well in it. Even if the possibility of failure as such comes across as comparatively luxurious, even if we wallow in the seeming luxury of free choice, based on something that we are used to calling prosperity – the individual space of possibilities here does not seem to be developed further, movements within it are not getting freer. As Cassirer clearly worked out, ‘at the front of the world processes’ (Bloch 1959: 230) there seem to be two paths on offer: the hardening path of conditions or the softening path that pays tribute to permanent insecurity – dictatorship or freedom.4 To move around in the net of relationships by letting go of the old masks, to emerge from old roles, it is not the cognition-accompanied question ‘Who am I?’ or the question of status and acknowledgement of ‘What do I have?’ that are brought into view, but the question that initiates cooperation: ‘What am I going to do, and with whom?’ Do you want to dance with us, dog?

Transformation Design – What In? System There is a discipline that deals with things such as the space between trees. It is called ecology, is relatively new, and most of us haven’t yet learnt to think within its categories. Because those who think ecologically don’t understand things but facts, not objects but systems. (Flusser 1998: 208)

New fields of activity for design and new design products certainly arise from this human questioning – design products that don’t cement social relations but soften them. Artefacts/design products that sometimes aren’t tangible any more but get realised, eco-logically, through relationships. New design tasks arise based on these assumptions around cognition and communication as enabling components of transformation-in-cooperation. Regarding cognition, we see our effective range in the enabling of experience; regarding cooperation, the design of systems and networks comes to the fore – we will call it the design of ecology. In this case we understand ecology not just as something that we associate with the colour green but rather as a system structure that makes transformation possible. We see ecology as relationships within a system that is based on cooperation. Designing ecology starts by imagining space, network, cognition, communication, and cooperation as one, and, as a designer, consciously moving around in this systemic entanglement, knowing that one can’t fully see through any of it. Despite the conscious knowledge of the fact that it is nearly impossible to comprehensively design all relationships, transformation design still likes to tamper with doing this. We can forget about a complete control over the design process; this fairy tale of omnipotence might be attractive, but it won’t lead to anything. We are still trying to understand what designers actually do. With that in mind, we are so far moving along a notional meta-level, where we are attempting conceptually to abstract activities and design objects. We tear them from their tangles – and thereby change them. In practice, this involves taking the design object, manipulating it, informing it, fiddling with it, playing with it. Transformation design entangles itself in the system, not so that it can grasp it but in order to design it. Transformation is unlikely to succeed by abstracting single elements of a system. Transformation ­design transcends form. To not be form fixated but to think eco-logically means for design to be ecologically active, meaning that it creates relations and relationships. Projects that, in the broadest possible sense of social transformation, focus on a post-growth society are essentially about designing transformation itself, rather than (just) communicating one’s gaze towards it. To design transformation towards a post-growth society and to create it is a complex process that involves numerous stakeholders. They are not always aware of each other’s existence, nor are they ­capable of keeping each other informed. Design is heading into quite a hazy affair here. Let us be specific and examine a system that appears to be in a lousy mess: the global food system. In dealing with the design of social transformation towards a post-growth society, we find that food-creating systems are important for future global developments. Apart from the urgency of dealing with the question of how we use resources, the production, processing, preparation, and intake of food lies on a constitutional-basis level of transformation. Our dog has to eat, after all, if he

isn’t currently asleep. Systems of food production have a powerful morphological effect, reason alone to be of interest to designers. They leave their mark on and design landscapes, economic cycles, feelings, health. Where it has ceased to be primarily an issue of survival, nutrition itself has become a designer product, including as a form of demonstrative luxury and as a habitual characteristic of a lifestyle. With all these system entanglements that cloud experience, and in which our dog is caught through immobility, we next discover a tricky situation. Global food production does not look like post-growth at all. Looking at figures, there is much that is growing. Looking deeper: it is based on death. Producers suffer existentially from a discount-driven pressure on prices and a lack of appreciation for their work. If we view this on a global level, we can see that a large proportion of the world’s population starve while we are confronted by an issue of justification of those who live in abundance, and who either insist on various special diets as a form of self-optimisation or suffer from a range of industry-food-dependent illnesses. Nothing of what the individual calls a ‘better’ life can prosper here. With regard to this problem, we could develop new drugs, or new programmes for the support of the socalled developing countries, or new brochures for health insurance companies that explain it all. But is this where we will find our dog, we ask ourselves, our overfed dog on his leash, who doesn’t know what it means to dance? He knows enough to appreciate his system entanglement that keeps him blind, and he is grateful. He is satisfied with a society that is capable of providing him with sufficient insulin injections. He doesn’t wonder any more why he might have diabetes in the first place. Condition of possibility: wonder and dance belong together. Three times a day, our dog drags himself to his food bowl. What it contains distinguishes itself only in colour from its nicely designed packaging. He doesn’t know anything else about it. After his feed, he is tired and lies down for a nap. There is not much happening in terms of actual competence. Where does that leave our request for the enabling experiences of the autonomous creation of comforts? He is hardly helped by a promisingly packaged instant soup – nor is social transformation. The instinct for one’s own needs has been robbed by everyday social life, even with the help of professional designs. This has resulted in frayed identities, split by the unrealised demands of parallel identities waiting to be fulfilled. Nothing really grows here any more – apart from a numbers conglomerate, which at best generates intellectual joy. Happiness does not grow alongside profit – neither globally nor individually. That is something we at least attempt to pursue! But competence is lacking, not just when dealing with food products but generally in our dealings, and we blindly follow even the smallest trend. Competence to evaluate the quality and preparation of foodstuffs has mostly gone out of the window. This happened quickly. The ‘What tastes good?’ test does not suffice any more, because our sensors have been clouded by industry food and an exaggerated expectation of what a food product is capable of delivering as a lifestyle product. Cooking skills have ceased to be part of the pedagogic base equipment and jointly experienced family life. In a

short time frame, the competence to distinguish good food from bad has mostly been lost. This equally applies to many other areas where we have handed over competence and lost knowledge based on experience. If you can’t recognise the characteristics of the material, you can’t really deal with it or intuitively perceive its quality. It is only possible to learn about the characteristics of any material, including food, through interpersonal relationships, and only by actively dealing with it, through experience. Experience seems to slip through the fingers of our frantically lived daily lives. Corresponding with the primacy of growth and speed, we appreciate the multitude of roles the individual plays. Everybody is confused. Nobody is happy. A case for design! How can we use the tools of design here? Ourselves caught up in global food systems we declare, stubbornly searching for humanness, experience enablement as a matter close to the heart of social transformation ambitions and with it the autonomy of nutrition. Why is it going so badly? The promise, to satisfy attached masks, of the optimisation of individual diets brings with it the expensive marketing of high-tech foods. This is growth. Our dog eats and sleeps and hopes for glossy fur that will conceal his neurodermatitis. Even design keeps busy through the generation and marketing of roles and their accompanying products. We continue to dig, looking for experience. Transformation design therefore does not create products but instead designs and implements subsystems in which experience is possible. A design task in and for a post-growth society is to develop social scenarios in which it is, in regards to the above example system, again made possible to cook at home and eat in peace – regularly. Oh dear! The ‘stay-at-home bonus’! Great visions translated to a smaller scale don’t sound terribly sexy. Let us dig a little deeper in our treasure hunt to find out how we can escape this box of rigid conditions. Even if it might at first look ugly, let’s try it the other way around. After all, we designers also happily played our part in the degeneration of experience. The design task, with respect to our expectation of enabling experience, would not mean setting a new trend that pretends to fill the hole that was left by the experience-lacking feeling of emptiness, the launching of a lifestyle product that silences the search for meaning, but instead it could, for example, mean imagining the actual compatibility of family, career, and good nutrition, and installing systems in which this becomes possible. This doesn’t mean designing, with a logic that is appropriate for economic growth, more efficient food distribution systems, more ‘intelligent’ refrigerators, more flexible childcare, but rather an advancement of ­social togetherness, appropriate for the logic of ecological post-growth, that values experience and knows that it requires time and space. Let us venture further and address intuition as a genuine human tool of decision making. This is about dancing … Where we don’t want to rely on statistics and algorithms any more, on brain ­research and economic analysis, we can look at what humans have always practised

relatively successfully, and we will simultaneously be approaching the problem of the incoherence of reflection and action, as well as the attempted identity of the symbolic and the actual. Our dog is buried where the potential to experience disappears, and if he asks his intuition, he gets confused. To rely on one’s intuition even while designing certainly opens one to attacks. But even numbers can make mistakes, and we don’t ­always have time to wait for them anyway. Reality moves on while we are still calculating. There lies, we think, design’s strength: Designing over and across the gaps of knowledge. It is often based on intuition. To keep intuition alive, we depend on manifold experiences. It’s all about the sausage. Crunch time.

Transformation Design – Where To? Product There isn’t a proper way to stretch out in the wrong bathtub […] (Mittelmeier 2010)

 … or is there? At the start we claimed: if we can discover our dog, we will no longer be doomed to design devices that drain our resources, to tolerate exploitative working conditions, and to buy products that destroy capital and time but instead could … yes – what? What we attempted to show next: new products aren’t the answers to our questions and won’t help us find our dog. He can be found through new behaviours, new agents, new configurations. If, as designers, we strive for social change, we will no longer be designing products and the behaviour of the consumer towards them but will instead take part in social transformation projects, develop subsystems, and enable the experiences of the individual in them. Concerning the individual, these systems are initially imaginable as locally based projects that act on a small scale and are in perspective connected with trans-regional, often global themes. This corresponds with the dual-direction structure of transformation design: the development of a ‘better’ world and a simultaneous focus on the small, the next, the neighbour. The results of our above deliberations about the motivation and material of transformation design are projects of social transformation including a home birthing centre, an Alpine dairy, and a communal garden.5 Designers were involved in these projects, professional designers and laypeople, knowingly or unknowingly. They shared in the creation of something that initially couldn’t be recognised and classified as a design object, and are producing something that can’t be measured – experience, comfort, autonomy – invisible dance floors for discovered and escaped dogs. Phew – the designer heart is starting to stumble. Birth pools and cheesemaking tubs? One has to pull oneself together if one intends to write about social trans-

formation and finds oneself in a home birthing centre, an Alpine dairy, a communal garden. Are we being serious? Yes. Focusing on the individual – this is a real challenge; the search for experience and autonomy is complex. What can be achieved? How can one even generate relevance, something that at least vain designers are quite attached to? It has to be worth it, what one is doing, and preferably look good. Post-growth, even designers have to make sacrifices in terms of comforts and kudos. We dare to risk focusing on the small wheel in a large system, and immediately this huge contradiction becomes apparent that we have to deal with and change: design with social processes, as in our case the running of a birthing centre and the reac­ tivating of a village dairy, the installation of a communal garden, endangers the self-image of the designer and simultaneously has the potential to enhance it. What do designers in this type of project do differently from the birthing mothers and midwives, the cheesemakers and Alpine farmers, hobby gardeners and social workers? Or, more precisely: how do they do it? What does the aim to creatively take part in areas that so far have not explicitly been the domain of design mean for the ­design profession? Who has design knowledge available? Don’t all humans, from a design theoretical perspective, freely create permanent social transformations anyway – and ­actually faster than professional design would be able to keep up with? As simple as these projects look for the time being, and as redundant as the role of the ­designer initially seems, they are just as multilayered, including in the networks they are able to erect and the design tasks they generate. They are not one-dimensional. The birthing centre is not just about birth, the Alpine dairy not just about cheese, and the communal garden not just about vegetables. It is always about a diversity of culture, about heterogeneity of lifestyles, about pluralism and participation – and about the planning of all these, about design. Of course, we can’t live without products (yet). But if we design products – then let them be those that are attuned to the human way of being, that generate experiences and also make them visible. Where processes, manufacturing techniques, and included resources have to hide behind the marketing screen, the focus on the designed object solidifies, and it either works and is available or is broken and being thrown out. Fully packaged, narratively airtight products aren’t just differently received than incomplete, unfinished, narrating objects; they also work back to the responsiveness of the viewer and the user, who shies away from handling, comprehending, understanding to operating on a predominantly uniform user interface. The experience with such a thing becomes shallow and irrelevant, we think, for social transformation. The result is a ‘product character of reified thought that feels most secure within the finiteness of the past’ (Bloch 1975: 20). The dog is happy about his new dog blanket and continues to snooze. For design in a post-materialistic era, the question arises of how ‘beautiful things’ can be created ‘without being captured by materialism that is usually linked to creative activities’ (Koren 1995: 9). We considered a solution for design in the

­development of experiences focusing on communication and cooperation that needs to be supported, as well as a solution for humans who aren’t entirely or even primarily consumers any more. Design has the capacity to create awareness that many of the experienced defects can’t be solved by consumerism. This can only be experienced. Design can therefore also make its contribution in a post-growth economy (Paech 2009) by raising awareness that something is missing that can’t be bought or calculated, but only experienced.6 To sharpen focus and sensitivity regarding the rampant degeneration of genuinely human experience can likewise be a task for ­design, in the same way that it has so far focused on consumable products and has been able to awaken consumer desire. Experience can’t be serially produced like an industry product – once the accolade for good design. Experience is never completed; it is usually uncontrollable, organic, individual, in constant flux. Post-materialistically, design releases what it used to love: universal models, control, finished products. If usage leads to breakage or wear-out of beautiful designs, the engagement of the participants intensifies the experience. The transient, hazy, ambiguous is in stark contrast to design that in its modern tradition just doesn’t want to be ambiguous and contradictory. If design used to be ‘completed physicality’, in the design of enabling experience it strives for ‘completed immateriality’ (Koren 1995: 26–28), and within that it does not become abstract but rather concrete – concrete in a complete sense: concrete in the permanent lively emergence and mutation of experience in a world in which too much stuff is moving around. Found our dog? Knowledge gained from experience, we feel we have discovered while looking for our dog, will be the deciding factor for the future of transformation design. The emphasis here is not on the big gesture, the universal, the generally accepted, the way modernism implored, but rather on an inconspicuous and sustainable zigzag,7 digging and burrowing. It appears that design needs to be humble, not self-important. It should renounce noisy victories and distinguish itself by giving an unassuming impression.8 Design therefore stops being a fetish, stops being a secret product, loses its cult status, becomes normal. And this is the best that design can be: normal, common property. Our dog lifts his dirty snout into the air and wags his tail – slowly.

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Translator’s note: in the English translation, it is not immediately apparent, as it is in the German original, why the author has chosen the dog as a metaphor and not, say, a hippopotamus. She explained in a discussion that she does this to allude to the crux of the matter. In southern Germany, this can also be called ‘where the dog has been buried’. The term Hundling (‘doggy person’) is used for clever, resourceful, and smart people. Another level of meaning reveals itself in the implicit allusion to Goethe, Faust I, ‘Des Pudels Kern’ (‘the poodle’s core’). The dog is also to some extent, through its double disposition as an originally wild but nowadays predominantly domesticated and loyal animal, a design object itself. The author also had the film Die Höhle des Gelben Hundes (‘The Lair of the Yellow Dog’) by Byambasuren Davaa in mind.

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Translation of this quotation by Rainer E. Zimmermann; all other quotations from literature by Elke ­Prielipp. Ernst Cassirer describes the progressive possibilities of human culture (Cassirer 1944) as well as the disastrous (Cassirer, 1946). ‘In the complete false life every niche, which attempts to lessen or negate this falseness, is doomed for failure, yes, even plays into the hands of falseness because it provides an illusion of the possibility of a real life, which is not possible, because life, the way it is right now, is completely false’ (Mittelmeier 2010). With this design task in mind, in terms of transition design, it’s like saying we have the possibility of distorting the bathtub’s shape through insistent stretching. In the following projects, the author is engaged as a transformation designer: www.geburtshaus-kassel.de, www.mach-was-stiftung.de/projekte/forstfeldgarten/. The Alpine dairy has been brought ‘back to life’ by Martin Bienerth: www.sennerei-andeer.ch. The slogan of ‘sustainability’ needs to be debunked. It often serves as a cover to maintain existing conditions. Growth and the industrial economy themselves aren’t in question; they are only wrapped in green (Paech 2009; Hubenthal 2012). Transformation only happens when we don’t wrap things nicely any more, but when ‘society and existence […] grab themselves by their roots […]’ (Bloch 1959: 1628). Michael Wilkens supports ‘the designs of the donkey, who moves around in the “zigzag” which was so despised by Corbusier’ (Wilkens 2005). Peter Handke clearly verbalised the call for the renunciation of victories: ‘Play the game. Endanger the work even more […] Be clever, get involved and despise victory. Don’t observe, don’t examine, but be watchfully prepared for the signs […] Decide only when excited. Fail calmly’ (Handke 1981).

References and Bibliography Adorno, Theodor W. (1951). Minima Moralia. Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Bloch, Ernst (1959). Das Prinzip Hoffnung. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Bloch, Ernst (1975). Experimentum Mundi. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Cassirer, Ernst (1944). An Essay on Man. New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Cassirer, Ernst (1946). The Myth of the State. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Flusser, Vilém (1998). Vom Subjekt zum Projekt. Menschwerdung. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. Handke, Peter (1981). Über die Dörfer. Dramatisches Gedicht. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Hubenthal, Christine (2012). Einfach mal anfangen …! Resilienz am Beispiel einer zukunftsfähigen Landwirtschaft. Munich: Oekom. Kant, Immanuel (1781). Critik der reinen Vernunft. Riga: Hartknoch. Kant, Immanuel (1788). Critik der practischen Vernunft. Riga: Hartknoch. Kant, Immanuel (1790). Critik der Urteilskraft. Riga: Hartknoch. Koren, Leonard (1995). Wabi-sabi für Künstler, Architekten und Designer. Japans Philosophie der Bescheidenheit. Tübingen: Wasmuth. Mittelmeier, Martin (2010). ‘Es gibt kein richtiges Sich-Ausstrecken in der falschen Badewanne.’ In ­Recherche – Zeitung für Wissenschaft. Retrieved 17 September 2014 from: http://www.recherche-online. net/theodor-adorno.html. Paech, Niko (2009). ‘Die Postwachstumsökonomie – ein Vademecum’. In Zeitschrift für Sozialökonomie (ZfSÖ) 46, no. 160–61, pp. 28–31. Schelling, K.F.A. (ed.). (1856–61). Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schellings Sämmtliche Werke. Stuttgart/ Augsburg: J.G. Cotta. Wilkens, Michael (2005). Am schönsten sind nach alledem die Entwürfe des Esels. Kassel: Kassel University Press.

Social Transformation Design as a Form of Research Through Design (RTD): Some Historical, Theoretical, and ­Methodological Remarks Wolfgang Jonas

Overview Social Transformation Design is typically associated with obviously deplorable phenomena such as poverty in rural Bangladesh or youth crime in European suburbs and the miraculous potential of design to successfully deal with them. In contrast, we think it is the fundamental research paradigm for developing as well as highly developed consumer societies, which are both facing the challenge of the ‘Great Transformation’ (WBGU 2011). This paper reflects on the concept of social transformation design and its relation to design research. The approaches of Herbert Simon and C. West Churchman are considered as exemplary basic contributions, far ahead of the actual origins. Werner Ulrich’s framework of Critical Systems Thinking presents a theoretical and operational attempt at integrating all relevant aspects. Practice-based design research or Research Through Design (RTD), with its often not sufficiently thought-out mix of analytic observation and projective judgement, raises the question of whether this is proper research. On the other hand, ‘proper’ design research with a rigorous scientific attitude, with its clear separation of observation and judgement, often leads to fairly trivial results. An attempt at solving this dilemma is presented, which provides a further clarification of RTD. The approach focuses on communicative systems and interface building and conceives autonomous collectives/social systems as observers and ­legitimate knowledge producers. RTD turns out to be the prototypical form of ­research for social transformation. The question of whether this is proper research in the scientific sense is regarded as secondary.

The Social: An Ambiguous Concept ‘Social’ in relation to design can be considered as a normative attitude, aiming at ­social balance, fairness, support, abstaining from inappropriate private profit, and so on, or as a descriptive stance, observing communication patterns of different

types, consisting of interaction processes that create autopoietic systems, or of ­ ybrid networks of human and non-human actors (Jonas 2011). h The evolution of modern society came about with the formation of specialised functional subsystems, which led to an immense increase in internal complexity and efficiency, but also to rigid structures and autopoietic closure. Subsystems work according to their own incompatible eigen-logic, making a universal logic, let alone value system, impossible. Design never became a fully developed subsystem comparable to law, politics, science, or economy. Following Latour (1998a), one might argue that it has never been modern. This non-disciplinarity is not a flaw but seems to be essential for design’s character as an interface-creating agency between the artefacts and their environments. The interfaces depend on the specific purpose – aesthetic, functional, emotional, economic, ethical, and so on – which is reflected in the various ideologies, notions, and histories of design. This non-disciplinary position misleads designers into regarding their profession as a moral representative of ‘the whole’. They mix what should be carefully separated – namely, the process competence to conceive and organise change processes and the competence to decide what is preferable or good. The former is design and research competence, the latter a negotiation and decision process among stakeholders, including design. The situation is even worsened by the urge to ‘think bigger’ (Brown 2009), for designers to redefine their role and shift activities towards more complex social subjects. The Kyoto Design Declaration (2008) is definitely a loud-mouthed appeal to save the world. What justifies this hubris? Designers are moral human beings, but they should clearly separate their private preference system from the value system of the enquiring system they are working with and for. The naive claim for morality as a constituent of design seems to be a symptom of immaturity and impedes its recognition by other disciplines. Ethics, as the reflection of morals, is essential but should remain implicit in the process and the methods. Only by dropping rigorous moral concepts will design be able to work for real people in their individuality and real communities in their specificity. The humanistic attitude ignores and even destroys complexity. Design teams, companies, and individuals are definitely responsible for what they are doing, but responsibility is possible only if we do not retreat to moral positions. Responsibility means the duty to know the knowable facts of the situation and the willingness to provide perspective in a democratic and designerly process. Normativity should be replaced by purpose orientation. Rosenblueth, Wiener, and Bigelow (1943) reintroduced the concept of teleology into science. Designers should rather conceive of themselves as scouts, sometimes as jesters, hopefully as ­respected partners in a network of disciplines and stakeholders. The creation of ­variations/alternatives is their unique area of expertise. Imagination, provocation, ­intervention, and so on are essential to design’s role in increasing the variety of choices for people. Moral, critical, and humanistic attitudes would be better transformed into an ironical attitude (Rorty 1989).

Transdisciplinarity (Nicolescu 2008; Brown, Harris, and Russell 2010) as epistemological and methodological paradigm can be considered as the operationalisation of this ethical stance. Design as interface-building transdiscipline enables the transgression of disciplinary boundaries. Design does not have the task of guaranteeing a morally correct solution, but design facilitates the formulation of a systemic goal. Ethics remains implicit and therefore more powerful. The methodological and epistemological challenges of this programme have to be faced.

Social Transformation Design: The Origins (Social) Transformation Design has been promoted by the British Design Council (2004): Transformation design is a human-centred, interdisciplinary process that seeks to create desirable and sustainable changes in behaviour and form – of individuals, systems and organizations – often for socially progressive ends. […]

This is just a minor clarification compared with Simon’s (1969) prosaic notion that design means to ‘transfer an existing situation into a preferred one’. A crucial ­aspect in the definition is the – almost incidental – qualification ‘often for socially progressive ends’. Blyth and Kimbell (2011: 7) criticise design thinking (Brown 2009) as too much based on the paradigm of user-centredness, which treats the individual and personal symptoms of social problems rather than their underlying causes. They call for design thinking to take seriously ‘the social’ in social problems and develop its tools accordingly. And rather than claiming to solve social problems, they argue for design’s competence in actively, critically, and reflectively contributing to their construction and representation. For that purpose, designers have to carefully consider their own role and values and perspectives, they have to introduce double-loop learning and reflective conversations into the process, and they should aim at an ­active involvement rather than external consultation. Phills Jr., Deiglmeier, and Miller (2008) define the term ‘social innovation’ as: a novel solution to a social problem that is more effective, efficient, sustainable, or just than existing solutions and for which the value created accrues primarily to society as a whole rather than private individuals. (39)

There is ‘society as a whole’ again. The authors raise the question ‘What is social?’ and arrive at the vague and tautological answer:

1 Contingent moods and attitudes of ­approaching social ­transformation design (Jonas 2014)

Frederic Vester ‘Biocybernetics’ missionary

optimistic empirical analytical

stained prescriptive

C. West Churchman ‘Philosophy of Social System Design’ melancholic

Herbert A. Simon ‘Sciences of the Artificial’ positivistic

composed descriptive

pessimistic philosophical reflective

Horst W. J. Rittel ‘Second Generation Design Methods’ Ironic

 […] we define social value as the creation of benefits or reductions of costs for society – through efforts to address social needs and problems – in ways that go beyond the private gains and general benefits of market activity. (39)

Finally (40) they argue for new integrative cross-sector models, including non-profit, government, and business partners, which will allow the exchange of ideas and values and in consequence fruitful shifts in roles and relationships. This promotes what some call the emergence of the ‘fourth sector’ (http://www.fourthsector.net/). We prefer to call it transdisciplinarity. In reviewing these recent approaches, it is amazing how little regard is given to the rich history of thinking about social transformation in design and planning. The diagram above gives an idea of the range of ethical and epistemological ­positions and provides abundant references to further theoretical roots. It contrasts and relates C. West Churchman (1913–2004), the thoughtful melancholic, Herbert A. Simon (1916–2001), the composed positivist, Frederic Vester (1925–2003), the friendly missionary, and Horst Rittel (1930–90), the Socratic ironist. Two positions, Simon and Churchman and their alleged antagonism, will be addressed in more detail.

The Simon School One of the most lucid examinations of social transformation design, with its characteristics and constraints, can be found in chapter 6 of Herbert Simon’s Sciences of the Artificial (Simon 1981 and 1996): ‘Social Planning: Designing the Evolving ­Artifact’. Crucial problems include the determination of the boundaries of the ­design situation and the designer’s position in the game. What are the goals? Who defines them? Planners must decide who the client is. What should be included, what excluded? How can unwanted side effects be avoided? One might argue that all ambiguities should be resolved by identifying the client with the whole society. Churchman (1968) introduces the notion of the ‘ethics of the whole system’, which would require a world without conflict of interest or uncertainty in professional, let alone personal, judgement. Simon, in his composed view on the nature and limitations of social planning, clearly remains on the institutional and expert level: ‘[…] the institutions of the society must share with the professional the redefinition of the goals of design’ (1996: 153). Regarding the ‘end-users’, he remains sceptical – or realistic – as to their ability and willingness to care for the whole. He considers them as selfish and tricky sources of ­irritation, unable to keep the common good in mind, and sees merely ‘a game ­between the planners and those whose behaviours they seek to influence’. For this reason, he rejects a full participation. Critics regard this placid attitude as inhuman, indifferent, even cynical – which may say more about the critics than about Simon. Simon clearly dismisses the claim to forecast future events and introduces the notions of normative scenarios and back-casting procedures: The heart of the data problem for design is not forecasting but constructing alternative scenarios for the future and analyzing their sensitivity to errors in the theory and data. […] Having chosen a desirable (or acceptable) target state, and having satisfied ourselves that its realizability is not unduly sensitive to unpredictables, we can then turn our ­attention to constructing paths that lead from the present to that desired future. (148)

In his evolutionary theory, he refuses the concept of fixed goals for planning, and argues that social planning is myopic. It looks a short distance ahead and tries to generate a future that is a little better – or fitter – than the present. It creates a new situation, which serves as a starting point for further goal setting and continued design activity: The idea of final goals is inconsistent with our limited ability to foretell or determine the future. The result of our actions is to establish initial conditions for the next succeeding stage of action. What we call ‘final’ goals are in fact criteria for choosing the initial conditions that we will leave to our successors. […] One desideratum would be a world offering as many alternatives as possible to future decision makers, avoiding irreversible commitments that they cannot undo. […] (163)

Simon does not seem to be much interested in whether this is proper scientific r­ esearch or not. Yet he describes parallels between science and design. He conceives designing as a pleasurable and valuable activity in itself: Just as realized plans may be a source of new experience, so new prospects are opened up at each step in the process of design. Designing is a kind of mental window shopping. Purchases do not have to be made to get pleasure from it. […] One can envisage a future, however, in which our main interest in both science and design will lie in what they teach us about the world and not in what they allow us to do to the world. Design like science is a tool for understanding as well as for acting. (164)

Maybe this is his greatest contribution to the further discussion: recognising design thinking as a powerful dialogic tool to be used in processes that negotiate options and generate knowledge about possible and desirable future states. Not for fixing goals, but just to keep things in flux/options open. Ethics remains subliminal, implicit in the process. Armand Hatchuel (2001) calls Simon’s contribution an ‘unfinished program’. His approach to tackling complex problem solving, even creativity, in terms of simple heuristics and satisficing criteria is considered as a fruitful critique of the optimising school of management science. What is still missing is ‘a concept of expandable rationality and a principle of collective action’ (263) and an extended concept of ‘imagination’ (265). Hatchuel does not focus on humans’ cognitive and moral deficits in rational decision making, but on their surprising and infinitely expandable abilities as ‘natural’ designers in creating stories, forms, and concepts. He ­requests three crucial extensions of Simon’s theory: • Improving concept expandability: learning to manipulate concepts that correspond to non countable sets or perceptual structures • Designing new learning-devices: new prototyping, virtual mock-ups, video aided rehearsals, cooperation-aiding software • Looking for new forms of social interaction in design: for example, involving users or stakeholders in the design process. (269–71) While this critique, which is close to the design thinking paradigm, may apply to the main part of Simon’s earlier work, chapter 6 on Social Planning (see above) seems to allow for much of the requested extensions: • The concept of evolution obviously questions the concept of limited solution spaces as well as the notion of predictability

in design and planning. The metaphor of ‘mental window shopping’ allows for much ‘imagination’. Carroll (2006: 5) concedes that with giving up the idea of designing with fixed goals, ‘Simon espoused a pretty strongly non-deterministic view’. • Did Simon ever explicitly exclude any of these suggested ‘learning devices’? • Social interaction is – at least implicitly – included in the concept of the ‘Society as Client’. Carroll (2006: 8) indicates that Simon conceives participation game-theoretically: […] designers make a move in their system design, and members of the end-user organization make a counter-move in the design of their use […] But it is not compatible with collaborative ‘games’ in which the participants work together to design each move.

This last point is probably the most substantial critique. But maybe Simon’s view on the potential of participation is the more realistic one? We will come back to this point.

The Churchman School Churchman and Simon are usually considered as antagonists regarding concepts of social transformation design. Churchman (1970a) presented a harsh and slightly sneering critique of Simon’s Sciences of the Artificial (1969), entitled ‘The Artificiality of Science’: Simon begins his book by trying to distinguish the ‘natural’ from the ‘artificial’. Natural science, he says, is ‘knowledge about natural objects’ (p4). What he does not go on to say, perhaps because it would ruin his distinction, is that natural science is artificial; it is, in fact, one of the greatest and most mysterious artefacts man has ever created. […]

Werner Ulrich (1979: 206) presents a fictional ‘debate’ that aims at clarifying the metaphysical and normative content of both positions: Simon relies on objectivity, insists on the semantic precision of concepts, adheres to the principle of the ­excluded third. Mathematical modelling and simulation, heuristic programming, programmed decision making are his tools. Churchman relies on subjectivity, reflecting the sources of knowledge and delusion, acknowledges the principle of the included third. Ideas, analogies, personal experience, and affectivity are important issues; moral consciousness, permanent self-reflection, and debate are essential for the unfolding of divergent problem views. Churchman’s central question is:

‘How can we design improvement without understanding the whole system?’ (1968: 3). Ulrich even questions the concept of improvement, asking: ‘But what constitutes an improvement?’ (1994: 2). And he continues: It is obvious that the cognitive requirements of such a quest for comprehensiveness are enormous. It is one of the distinguishing characteristics of Churchman’s work that he faces these requirements without taking refuge in any of the conventions of science that so often conveniently shelter theorists from the epistemological implications of the systems idea, for example, the conventions of bounded rationality and satisficing (Simon 1945, 1957, and 1962) […] (3)

The challenge arising from these difficulties is to develop more sustainable theoretical foundations and conceptual tools of critical reflection and debate that can help us systematically to uncover the inevitable incomprehensiveness or selectivity of our problem definitions and designs. The basic paradox of every design situation (the more we know, the less we can rely on rational decisions) has to be unfolded and resolved by multi-perspective, dialogic, time-consuming social procedures. We have a Darwinian learning process rather than a rational Cartesian choice. Churchman’s essential contribution is the concept of the Inquiring System (1971). These knowledge-generating entities are ‘inhabited by people’, acting in different roles as clients, decision makers, and planners/designers. Knowledge production follows different philosophical stances or schools of logic: The Leibnizian Enquirer is a closed Cartesian rationalistic, reductionist system, a fact net of deductive reasoning based on axiomatic foundations. Theorem-proving software (Simon’s General Problem Solver) or expert systems are operationalisations of the Leibnizian Enquirer. The Lockean Enquirer is an open empiricist system of inductive reasoning based on sense data. Consensus and the validation of consensus is achieved in a social process, with all its deficiencies. The Kantian Enquirer can be considered as an integration of the former two. Some transcendental formal structure regarding time, space, and causality is presupposed. Models and representations are applied to the observed data; multiple perspectives of each problem or question are possible. ‘Goodness of fit’ is the measure of validity. The Hegelian Enquirer acknowledges that there are matters of fact that may be observed and verified by others and matters of value that cannot. Objectivity may only be achieved by including the values of those who will be affected by the enquiry. This is achieved by the dialectic method. The infinite circular sequence of thesis–

antithesis–synthesis can be interpreted as a kind of second-order observation ­ rocess. p The Singerian Enquirer, which embraces the four others, is characterised as a pragmatist, goal-seeking, teleological process with an ethical base. It generates common knowledge, suitable for the resolution of social problems. The Singerian problem solver aims at improving the degree of consensus about values; it seeks solutions that are ethical and even beautiful. The Singerian Enquirer represents a processual concept of permanent refinement. There is no authority, no single ­element controlling, but control is pervasive and inherent, in a permanent flux between agreement and inconsistency (Hegelian dialectic). When there is agreement about facts, then values and world views as to goals must enter. Permanent evaluation of improvements with respect to the goals takes place. Gerard De Zeeuw’s ‘Third Phase Science’ (1996) comes to mind. Ulrich (1987) developed Critical Systems Thinking (CST) as an operationalisation of Churchman’s theory, which provides a framework that wants to bring unity to the diversity of different systems approaches. CST aims to combine systems thinking and participatory methods to address the challenges of problems characterised by large scale, complexity, uncertainty, impermanence, and imperfection. CST has particularly problematised the issue of boundaries and their consequences for inclusion, exclusion, and marginalisation. Ulrich argues that determining the boundary of a system under investigation depends on the subjective interests, values, and knowledge of those who judge. He developed a checklist of boundary questions (Ulrich 2000), which includes the four categories of values, power, knowledge, and legitimisation. Flood and Jackson (1991) note the idealistic, emancipatory nature of CST and express some criticism. Is it not utopian? Why, for instance, should those who are designing the system take into account those who are affected but not involved with the system?

Incompatible or Complementary? Simon’s and Churchman’s approaches are two out of a great variety that contribute to an understanding of the problem of social systems design. Simon started from the ‘hard’ side and opened himself towards the ‘soft’ side, without questioning his overall epistemological stance. Churchman, if we neglect his origins in hard OR studies, starts from the ‘critical’ side and, based on philosophical reflection, admits the value and usefulness (if not necessity) of the other methods for systems design, if properly integrated into the ‘critical’ approach.

Hard Systems Thinking (HST)

Soft Systems Thinking (SST)

Critical Systems Thinking (CST)

systematic

systemic

critical to ideas of reason

mechanistic paradigm

evolutionary paradigm

normative paradigm

instrumental

strategic

communicative

efficiency emphasised

effectiveness emphasised

ethics emphasised

management of scarceness

management of complexity

management of conflict

Table 1: Characteristics of systems thinking levels (Hutchinson 1997, after Ulrich 1988)

Table 1 shows that the various ‘levels’ of systems thinking work in different paradigms. Therefore, ‘domains’ or ‘realms’ would be more adequate than ‘levels’. Each of the paradigms has validity in different situations, because the motivations for using any form of systems thinking are different. HST is used to maximise efficiency of a system, whereas SST attempts to develop effective solutions by being inclusive of different viewpoints. CST attempts to establish what the situation ought to be in terms of social justice. It is concerned with the ethical ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs’ and the effects of power in a system design. Each form can be used for the same problem situation, although different results would probably be produced. If we exclude the different philosophical foundations and the different moral attitudes and languages, then the main difference between Simon and Churchman lies in their perspective on ethics and judgement, and on the value of including non-expert knowledge for tackling complex problems. Both realise the limits. Churchman suffers from them; Simon accepts them in a composed and pragmatic way. Both are respectable and legitimate (though contingent) positions: Churchman sees the insoluble ethical problem in the fact that we cannot understand individual morality without understanding the total relevant system that is to serve as a reference for defining improvement. Simon includes ethics and judgement mainly by the negotiation processes between institutional stakeholders. This is satisficing to him. Churchman calls for unhampered communication, even with the ‘enemies’ of the systems approach (1979), rather than just among the experts and perhaps the stakeholders. Simon is sceptical regarding participation at the grassroots level. He wants to exclude non-expert knowledge due to the risks of bias and selfishness and probably inefficiency. The essential implication of the systems idea is not that we must understand the whole system, but rather that we need to deal and live with the fact that we never do.

Facts and Values: Epistemic Democracy and RTD Occasionally, the self-made shears in the head, due to ongoing debates in the academic design community, evoke the question of whether the above concepts of social transformation design (generative, normative, involving the researcher, etc.) are ‘proper’ research. De Zeeuw (2010) argues that formats such as action research, evidence-based research, the soft-systems approach, the Mode 2 form of knowledge, or RTD are contested, because they permit contributions in the form of observations as well as judgements. How can we deal with the problem of separating/integrating ‘objective’ facts and ‘subjective’ values, observations and judgements, means and ends in social transformation design? Lykins (2009) suggests that: […] a better understanding of the relationship between facts and values can lead to a more direct line between social science and social progress. […] Experts and laypersons will deal with each other in one way or another. Matters will be left private or managed publically. And these interactions will produce consequences, some pleasing and others not. The more we can know about these consequences and how to control them, the more we can speak intelligently about them.

Max Weber (1864–1920) is the proponent of value neutrality. He conceives sociology as a science, which is aiming to understand and causally explain social action in its conditions and effects. Although Weber concedes that social enquiry arises from concrete needs and values, he argues that sociology cannot inform us as to what should be. Value claims can be justified only by appeal to some non-rational, arbitrary point, such as tradition or desire. Moral decisions are not reducible to empirical hypotheses.

Max Weber

facts

values

Emile Durkheim

facts

values

John Dewey

facts

values

2 The relation of facts and values in sociological theory building (adapted from Lykins 2009)

Émile Durkheim (1858–1917) conceives social facts and structures as matters of fact, which are to be discovered by the sociologist. They determine human acting. Methods and epistemic standards of natural science must be maintained if there is to be social science. Furthermore, science can provide a way of assessing value claims objectively. The definition of ‘good’ can be discovered through an analysis of actual conditions. Social sickness is indicated by deviations from the average state in a ­society. This position has been criticised as ‘naturalistic fallacy’. John Dewey (1859–1952) argues that facts (means) and values (ends) are interdependent and that they are different only in degree. A factual statement is bare and isolated, offering little direction for future conduct. A value statement is contextual and temporal, and expresses significance. It involves a judgement about the consequences that follow from an action. This is the only difference between facts and values. One involves taking things as they are, the other involves taking things in their relations to antecedents and consequences. The difference between scientific study of natural as opposed to social questions is due to the degree of complexity of the relations under investigation. Dewey does not believe that the standards for judging means can be furnished externally (by experts, designers, laypeople). He argues that the criteria for evaluating ends come from within the situation itself. This means that epistemic heterogeneity has to be taken as the essential condition for relevant enquiry. Anderson (2006) argues for the epistemic benefits of democracy. And she realises the problem of forming a public that can understand and respond to its own problems. Latour (2003 and 2004) suggests that scientific and political debate should be taking place in a common space. He discusses ‘collective socio-scientific experiments’, which are no longer conducted in the laboratory but involve wider communities and in some cases the population of the world as a whole. And he proposes specific ‘protocols’ of conduct for each individual problem. De Zeeuw (2010) suggests a ‘hybrid’ form of research for social intervention that makes use of both observations and judgement without ignoring the distinctions between them. This is apparently a problem of contextualisations, of boundaries or interfaces, of whole systems ethics in Churchman’s sense (Churchman 1979). The new form of research should ‘include the dilemma as part of its knowledge production’ (De Zeeuw 2010: 8). To make judgements part of research would require the ability to create judgement systems that resemble recognition systems – for example, a collective of actors whose members decide which values to assign and which values to include in order to maintain and defend their decisions. Research that excludes judgemental contributions can be referred to as ­Cartesian (or Leibnizian in Churchman’s notion). Cartesian knowledge consists of declarative statements that connect observations and support prediction in terms of their connections. Research that includes such contributions is processual and evolutionary, and has a Darwinian (or Singerian) flavour; it aims at the breeding of more able (competent) collectives. Autopoietic closure creates a collective as observing and acting system. Judgement is an integral part of the knowledge-producing

system, which avoids the explicit external statement of problems, research aims, moral aims, and so on. This means a shift from satisfying observed needs towards enabling collectives to become social actors who define preferred states. Christakis (1996) suggests a ‘People Science’ that performs a ‘[…] “shift” from an individual-­ centred conception of knowledge and understanding to one that is socially-based’. John Chris Jones (1999: 407) introduces the Internet-based notion of ‘creative democracy’: […] a vision of the future in which the controlling roles and functions of Modern life could be shared with everyone […] a virtual planet earth […] an expanded version of the internet through which ‘universal despecialisation’ and ‘creative democracy’ and other such unexpected conditions are already implicit if not active.

The concept of RTD (Jonas 2007) may be the model for social transformation design processes, a specific mode of designerly enquiry and change that allows and supports ‘epistemic democracy’ (fig. 3): the reflection of facts and values within a wider context of relevance (bigger ellipsis) generates a design/enquiring system of the Churchman type (smaller ellipsis), which creates the driving force for the transformation (arrows). The disembodied Cartesian enquirer is replaced by an embodied, social, intentional enquirer. Does it really matter if this is considered ‘proper’ research or not? Is it not anxious clinging to nineteenth-century myths of rational and value-free science? The above deliberations show that the central difference with respect to Cartesian ­research lies in the extended concept of the knowledge-generating collectives and in the inclusion of various knowledge types, including judgement. This results in higher complexity of the research situation and implies an increased demand for reflection and carefulness in meeting the standards of research. If we accept the new condition, then we have a difference in degree, not in kind.

‘epistemic democracy’

facts

Research Through Design

values

3 Epistemic democracy establishes the design/enquiring system as the basis of RTD

The Relation to Design Methodology Design Process Models We consider design and design research as a cybernetic process of experiential learning, which follows evolutionary patterns (Kolb 1984). There are various fourstep models of design and design research processes, such as the one of the Institute of Design Chicago, which directly relates to Kolb, as well as models with five or more steps. Yet three-step models from various fields such as design, management, scenario planning, and HCI reveal the underlying logic most clearly: there are three modes of inference, induction–abduction–deduction, with abduction as the central designerly phase. Table 2 shows a representative overview of these models. Our own theoretical framework of Research Through Design (RTD) with the phases of ANALYSIS – PROJECTION – SYNTHESIS (Jonas 2007) is included. The analogy to the terminology of Transdisciplinarity Studies is obvious. In a methodological view, the above consideration implies a transformation from professional problem-solving expertise to participative projects, directed by designers, and finally towards collaborative/collective/communicative action, possibly facilitated by designers. We face the basic problems of control, due to systemic complexity, and of prediction, due to future uncertainty.

Authors

Phases/components/domains of knowing in design research

Jones (1970)

Divergence

Transformation

Convergence

Archer (1981)

Science

Design

Arts

Simon (1969), Weick (1969)

Intelligence

Design

Choice

Gausemeier, Fink, and Schlake (1996)

Scenario field analysis

Scenario prognosis

Scenario building

Nelson and Stolterman (2003)

the True

the Ideal

the Real

Jonas (2007) RTD

ANALYSIS

PROJECTION

SYNTHESIS

Fallman (2008)

Design studies

Design exploration

Design practice

Brown (2009)

Inspiration

Ideation

Implementation

Nicolescu (2002) Transdisciplinarity studies

System knowledge

Target knowledge

Transformation knowledge

Table 2: Triadic concepts of experiential learning processes in design research, especially providing the framework for RTD and transdisciplinarity studies

The Relevant Systems in RTD: The Problem of Control Referring to Simon’s (1969) general notion that an artifact can be thought of as a meeting point – an ‘interface’ in today’s terms – between an ‘inner’ environment, the substance and organization of the artifact itself, and an ‘outer’ environment, the surroundings in which it operates. If the inner environment is appropriate to the outer environment, or vice versa, the artifact will serve its intended purpose.

This means that we have to determine the ‘outer environment’, the unalterable exter­ nal conditions or the wider context (the bigger ellipsis, figs. 3, 4), as well as the ‘inner environment’, the system to be designed. In the case of social transformation design, the artefact can be considered as both designing (the actors involved) and designed (the resulting form or interface or boundary); following Churchman, we call it the ­design/enquiring system (the smaller ellipsis, figs. 3, 4). Furthermore, this is denoted by the ‘intended purpose’; we have to identify the driving force (the arrows, figs. 3, 4) or the vision that drives the design activity. Implications are as follows. For the wider context: • Clarify the relevant ‘facts’ of the situation (theoretical and empirical). For the design/enquiring system: • Clarify the system as regards its constituents/stakeholders, its ‘nature’ (Churchman’s types), its degree of autonomy, the designer’s position (inside/outside), the designer’s role, explicit and implicit agendas, schools of thought, values and judgements, etc. • Clarify the designer’s professional position: regarding the client, regarding the decision maker, regarding the power constellation of designer–client–decision maker, etc. • Clarify and reflect the designer’s personal position: morals, values, biases, likes and dislikes, hidden agendas, etc. For the driving force: • Clarify the drivers of the design activity (fears, hopes, wishes …). • Clarify the motivations of the design activity (economic, emancipatory, scientific, etc.). • Clarify ‘the preferred situation’ (the design task).

Relating RTD to a Generic Scenario Model: The Problem of Prediction The future aspect is still missing in this endeavour to combine social transformation design and RTD. The projective part of RTD, which deals with the problem of prediction and future uncertainty, requires further methodical support. Scenario approaches, which are often based on systemic descriptions of design situations, seem to be promising. Most of them operate with a limited number of key variables of high impact and high uncertainty. Nonetheless, comprehensive scenario techniques require enormous effort and mathematical support, such as cross-impact analysis, cross-consistency analysis, and cluster analysis (Gausemeier, Fink, and Schlake 1996). ‘Quattro stagioni’/‘otto stagioni’ approaches (Schwartz 1991) provide simplified methods with two or three key variables and two alternative extreme projections for each key variable.

4 The wider context, the design/enquiring system (established by the involved actors), and the resulting driving force (left). The Cube of Future Uncertainty (right) is a scenario framework corresponding to these three systemic dimensions

The ‘Cube of Future Uncertainty’ (CFU) builds on these simplified techniques. It can be considered as a generalised and simplified designerly model for scenario building and uses three key variables, which correspond to the three above-mentioned systemic dimensions of RTD: the first key variable is taken from the wider context, the second from the design/enquiring system, and the third denotes the driving force. Thus, by combining pairs of alternative projections of each variable, the framework establishes the logic for eight different scenarios (‘otto stagioni’).

The Big Perspective: Transdisciplinary Science as Social ­Transformation Design The further development of this proactive position implies that design has the big chance to become a new model for science, as suggested by Glanville (1980). He ­describes science and scientific research as a specific subcategory of design. The concept of Mode-2 science (Nowotny, Scott, and Gibbons 2001), with its emphasis on

socially robust instead of true knowledge, might be a strong theoretical support, as well as the emerging framework of transdisciplinarity. Radical transdisciplinarity explicitly addresses all the indecent issues of designerly enquiry as described above, and takes them as the basis for a new kind of science. Nicolescu (2008), for example, suggests three Axioms of Transdisciplinarity, which explicitly address the knowledge gaps between the different levels of reality and the perceiving subject: The ontological axiom: in nature and society, as well as in our perception of and knowledge about them, there are different levels of reality for the subject, which correspond to different levels of the object. The logical axiom: the transition from one level of reality to another is vouchsafed by the logic of the included third. The epistemological axiom: the structure of the totality of all levels of reality is complex; each level is determined by the simultaneous existence of all other levels. Various perspectives are finally showing up: John Dewey argues in Democracy and Education (1916) that only through the democratisation of the means of social criticism can the tension between expert and lay authority be resolved. In short, the lay–expert question is best posed as an educational and social problem of enabling a citizenry to be able to conduct social enquiry. Democratic education shapes a community of heterogeneous knowledges that integrates facts and values in their enquiry and thus contributes to social progress (Brown, Harris, and Russell 2010). Practical answers to this problem of epistemic democracy are still highly controversial. There is the relation to De Zeeuw’s (1996 and 2010) Third Phase Science. De Zeeuw distinguished first phase science, the Cartesian paradigm, dealing with non-constructed objects, second phase science, dealing with constructed objects, and third phase science, dealing with self-constructing objects (2010: 19): ‘Second phase’ science aims to resolve the ‘overload’ that derives from using the Cartesian form to study the ‘in there’, as if it is the ‘out there’. It is the range of forms of transfer which it studies. […] ‘Third phase’ science aims to consider alternative selections of forms of transfer. It may be interpreted as improving on collective learning through ‘texts’.

The above considerations contribute to the further epistemological underpinning of RTD. At the same time, they designate social transformation design as a form of RTD: the creation of knowledge through the medium of design projects. All this is suggesting the perspective, supported by various evidence, that design and science are approaching each other (Jonas, Chow, and Grand 2013). Latour’s ‘transition from the culture of “science” to the culture of “research”’ (1998b) identifies the place where this convergence and permanent mediation work between nature and society are taking place: the laboratory (which is society). And the activity in the social laboratory is: design.

Some Practical Guidelines for Social Transformation Designers • Question the dominance of scientific approaches (we have never been modern). • Welcome heterogeneous and contradictory knowledges (transdisciplinarity). • Question the designer’s role as external expert problem-­solver (symmetry of ignorance). • Question the designer’s role as moral authority (there is no reason for this claim). • Contribute instead to the construction and representation of societal problems (mapping controversies). • Enable collaboration among stakeholders in general (design as integrator and facilitator). • Enable cross-sector fertilisation (non-profit/government/business, the ‘fourth sector’ of social entrepreneurship). • Create conditions that allow the breaking of social/economic/ technological trajectories (awareness for multiple uncertain futures). Design’s very practical and prosaic task is to create and provide a multiplicity of attractive alternatives, images, narratives, and new aesthetics that have the potential to become the new mainstream.

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Kyoto Design Declaration (2008). Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://www.cumulusassociation.org/index. php?option=com_content&task=view&id=308&Itemid=109. Latour, B. (1998a). Wir sind nie modern gewesen. Versuch einer symmetrischen Anthropologie. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Latour, B. (1998b). ‘From the World of Science to the World of Research?’ In Science 280, no. 5361, pp. 208–9. Latour, B. (2003). ‘Assembly or Assemblage? Politics and Polytechnics’. Lecture presented at Politecnico di Milano, 17 November 2003. Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://www.fondazionebassetti.org/06/argomenti/2004_01.htm#000203. Latour, B. (2004). Politics of Nature: How to Bring the Sciences into Democracy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard ­University Press. Luhmann, N. (1997). Die Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Lykins, C. (2009). ‘Social Science and the Moral Life’. In Society for the Advancement of American Philosophy Annual Conference, March 2009. Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://www.philosophy.uncc.edu/mleldrid/ SAAP/TAMU/P39G.htm. Mikulecky, D.C. (n.d.). ‘Definition of Complexity’. Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://www.people.vcu.edu/~mikuleck/ON%20COMPLEXITY.html. Nelson, H.G., and Stolterman, E. (2003). The Design Way: Intentional Change in an Unpredictable World. ­Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Educational Technology Publications. Nicolescu, B. (2002). Manifesto of Transdisciplinarity. Albany: State University of New York Press. Nicolescu, B. (2008). Transdisciplinarity: Theory and Practice. New York: Hampton Press. Nowotny, H. (2006). ‘The Potential of Transdisciplinarity’. In interdisciplines, May 2006. Nowotny, H., Scott, P., and Gibbons, M. (2001). Re-Thinking Science: Knowledge and the Public in the Age of Uncertainty. Cambridge: Polity Press. Phills Jr., J.A., Deiglmeier, K., and Miller, D.T. (2008). ‘Rediscovering Social Innovation’. In Stanford Social ­Innovation Review, Fall 2008. Rittel, H.W.J. (1992). ‘Zur Planungskrise: Systemanalyse der “ersten und zweiten Generation”’. In Reuter, W.D. (ed.). Horst W. J. Rittel Planen, Entwerfen, Design. Stuttgart, Berlin, and Cologne: Kohlhammer, pp. 37–58. Rittel, H.W.J., and Kunz, W. (1970). ‘Issues as Elements of Information Systems’. Working Paper No. 131, Center for Planning and Development Research, University of California, Berkeley, July 1970. Rittel, H.W.J., and Webber, M.M. (1972). ‘Dilemmas in a General Theory of Planning’. Working Paper No. 194, Institute of Urban and Regional Development, University of California, Berkeley. Rorty, R. (1989). Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. Rosenblueth, A., Wiener, N., and Bigelow, J. (1943). ‘Behavior, Purpose and Teleo­logy’. In Philosophy of ­Science 10, no. 1 (January 1943), pp. 18–24. Schwartz, P. (1991). The Art of the Long View. New York: Currency Doubleday. Simon, H.A. (1969, 1981, 1996). The Sciences of the Artificial. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ulrich, W. (1979). ‘Zur Metaphysik der Planung. Eine Debatte zwischen Herbert A. Simon und C. West ­Churchman’. In Die Unternehmung 33, no. 3, pp. 201–11. Ulrich, W. (1987). ‘Critical Heuristics of Social Systems Design’. Reprinted in Flood, R.L., and Jackson, M.C. (eds.) (1991). Critical Systems Thinking-Directed Readings. Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley. Ulrich, W. (1988). ‘Systems Thinking, Systems Practice, and Practical Philosophy: A Program of Research’. Reprinted in Flood, R.L., and Jackson, M.C. (eds.) (1991). Critical Systems Thinking-Directed Readings. ­Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley. Ulrich, W. (1994). ‘Can We Secure Future-Responsive Management through Systems Thinking and Design?’ In Interfaces 24, no. 4, pp. 26–37. Rev. version, 20 March 2009, in A Tribute to C.W. Churchman. Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http://wulrich.com/downloads.html. Ulrich, W. (2000). ‘Reflective Practice in the Civil Society: The Contribution of Critically Systemic Thinking’. In Reflective Practice 1, no. 2, pp. 247–68. Vester, F. (1999). Die Kunst vernetzt zu denken. Ideen und Werkzeuge für einen neuen Umgang mit ­Kom­plexität. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags Anstalt. von Foerster, H. (1993). KybernEthik. Berlin: Merve Verlag. WBGU [Wissenschaftlicher Beirat der Bundesregierung Globale Umweltveränderungen] (2011). ‘Welt im Wandel. Gesellschaftsvertrag für eine Große Transformation’. Berlin. Retrieved 10 April 2015 from: http:// www.wbgu.de/fileadmin/templates/dateien/veroeffentlichungen/hauptgutachten/jg2011/wbgu_jg2011.pdf. Weick, K. (1969). Social Psychology of Organizing. Reading, MA: Addison Wesley.

Design and Social Change: The Changing Environment of a Discipline in Flux Gesche Joost and Andreas Unteidig

Introduction Design is in a constant state of flux. In recent years, social aspects of design practice and research have come more into focus and therefore some authors announced a social turn in our discipline (for example, Fuad-Luke 2009; Manzini and Jégou 2003; Wood 2007). Numerous terms, such as Design for Social Change or simply Social Design, demarcate a novel perspective on the discipline. A recent study undertaken by the University of Brighton for the Arts and Humanities Research Council in the UK classifies the latter as follows: Although all designing can be understood as social, the term ‘social design’ highlights the concepts and activities enacted within participatory approaches to researching, generating and realizing new ways to make change happen towards collective and social ends, rather than predominantly commercial objectives. (Armstrong et al. 2014: 15)

Addressing societal issues is in principle nothing new, as the entanglement of design and social change has been addressed all through the history of the design discipline – for example, with the Werkbund fighting for high-quality yet affordable design in the 1920s, the functionalist ideology of the Bauhaus era in the 1920s and 1930s aiming at affecting wide parts of individual and social lives through the promotion of rationalism and standardisation (Hörning 2012: 29ff.), or, later, the political stance of the hfg Ulm, aiming at a democratic education through design in the 1950s and 1960s. Similar to those examples, the rise of participatory design in the 1970s (Mareis 2013: 10ff.), promoting the involvement of non-designers to make processes more sustainable, evoked changes that still affect the way we look at ­design today. Nevertheless, there seems to be a novel quality in today’s social and political shift. Multiple factors, such as ‘the increasing visibility of strategic design or design thinking, social innovation and entrepreneurship, austerity politics and policy shifts towards open or networked governance’ (Armstrong et al. 2014: 7), provoke design to experiment with and take on different roles – supported by the idea that design can play a vital role in the making of more sustainable, just, and inclusive ­societies.

This essay will reflect on how ‘the social’ affects our understanding of design today and anticipates tendencies thereof from the perspective of projects being conducted at the Design Research Lab at Berlin University of the Arts. We will argue for an understanding of design as decidedly political, an understanding that centres on a designer equipped with social and political agency. In order to develop this argument, we will describe the changing environment of the discipline through two perspectives: firstly, the changing notion of what innovation actually means, and secondly, a brief description of the rapidly changing socio-economic world that ­design and designers are embedded in.

The Changing Notion of Innovation Despite the manifold definitions of what design is or is not, the term innovation lies at the heart of the discipline, meaning that it is about change, about creating something new. The interpretations of what constitutes this new have themselves been subject to change throughout design’s history, and it was this change that gave way to the broad understandings of design that we are dealing with today. Herbert ­Simon (1996: 111) provided the famous definition of what design does: Turning ­existing situations into preferred ones. Speaking of situations rather than of goods, products, or things, this quote exemplifies a particular take on the discipline by ­describing it as planning and optimising (Mareis 2014: 206), as something very fundamental and inherent to humans. In contrast to this spark of thinking of design holistically, the discipline’s ­subject seems to have been widely understood as products, as material solutions, throughout much of design’s history. Innovation took the form of the artefact that flew higher, lasted longer, rode faster, was produced more cheaply, and so on. Consequently, the innovators were conceived as a select, ingenious circle of scientists, designers, engineers, and the like. Over time, the term innovation became less and less fixated on this problem-­ solving and exclusive focus on products, and grew to be much wider and more inclusive. New perspectives add facets to the way design is understood and performed. The participatory design movement, particularly in the Scandinavia of the 1970s, was one of these perspectives. In a participatory design process, innovation comes into play initiated by different actors, including citizens, public authorities, and companies. Outcomes do not necessarily have to take on the form of products or solutions, but rather become processual, contributing to the qualification and definition of problem spaces instead of dealing exclusively with direct and definite solutions. Design has directed itself towards services, processes, human networks, and the more and more immediate social as a framework for action became increasingly relevant:

Social design highlights design-based practices towards collective and social ends, rather than predominantly commercial or consumer-oriented objectives. (Armstrong et al. 2014: 6)

On top of that, the notion of the innovator became more ‘democratic’, as Pelle Ehn puts it. Design, so he states, has reoriented itself towards designing for the public sphere – designing for, with, and by everyday citizens for everyday life contexts: This reorientation stems from the condition that new media has entered every nook of our lives, that design and innovation activities have become distributed across contexts and competences often blurring the borders between citizens, private companies, the public domain and academia. This reorientation is also due to the condition that user driven innovation has become widespread. (Björgvinsson, Ehn, and Hillgren 2010: 2)

This profound change in the ways we decide what counts as innovative, and what does not, clearly affects the way we think about design or about ourselves as designers. In a landscape where everybody, not just an engineer or a designer, can in fact undertake acts of innovation, it became clear that one of design’s central myths – that of the professional anticipation and fulfilment of people’s needs, wishes, and preferences – is no longer valid and has to be adapted to a massive wave of personalisation. The public, as the audience of designers, was no longer expected to silently appropriate the things we served them; all that was left was to experiment, to study, to adapt, and to learn (Jonas 2006). This has profound consequences for a professional designer, as the variety and width of possible problem spaces for designers to interact with rises exponentially. Rather than acquiring and deepening specialised knowledge, designers have had to adapt to much broader contexts. The scope of what we as designers think we are supposed to do necessarily had to change in order to tackle issues that had formerly been out of the discipline’s action sphere. To do that – that is, to be innovative in a contemporary designerly way – we are leaving the operational framework traditionally assigned to design and starting to generate and use skills that enable us to operate much more broadly than before. As a consequence, design practice and research are becoming more political, engaging in domains commonly occupied by social workers, municipalities, activists, or urban planners. Manzini (Manzini and Jégou 2003) was one of the early protagonists aiming to raise people’s awareness and establish new behavioural patterns through design, and more specifically through participatory design, by allowing and fostering ideas that arose out of a wide range of people, skills, and perspectives: Designers have to be able to collaborate with a variety of interlocutors, putting themselves forward as experts, i.e. as design specialists, but interacting with them in a peerto-peer mode. More in general, they have to consider themselves part of a complex mesh of new designing communities: the emerging, interwoven networks of individual

people, enterprises, non-profit organizations, local and global institutions that are using their creativity and entrepreneurship to take some concrete steps towards sustainability. (Manzini 2006: 12)

Coming back to where these developments began, it is important to underline the fact that the mere definition of what innovation is or is not is in and of itself political and subject to power struggles. The zeitgeist predetermines the understanding of what deserves this attribution, and this clearly affects what kind of innovative endeavours are undertaken or left undone. For example, only what is being valued and recognised as innovative receives the funding needed to emerge. This, of course, suggests that this negotiation of what is perceived as innovative in a society is embedded in a wider scope of processes that take place in the socio-economic sphere and have great effect on society: Defining what innovation is, who innovates, where and under what conditions innovation occurs, is therefore an important battleground within society today. (Björgvinsson, Ehn, and Hillgren 2010: 2)

The Socio-Economic Context Over the last decade, the mechanisms of production and consumption have changed dramatically, and these developments stand in strong interdependence with the mentioned transformations regarding the concept of innovation. With the financial crisis that started in 2007, the global economic system was shaken and gave rise to different forms of sharing and manufacturing. Information and Communication Technologies (ICT) as well as new technologies for production, such as 3D printing and CNC milling, or simply the presence of a high-quality camera in every smartphone paired with a highly potent computer equipped with broadband Internet access in almost every household, turned the game upside down. Whereas we were talking about mass customisation of products only a couple of years ago,1 today crowdsourcing, decentralised marketplaces, and maker spaces seem to be the ‘new normal’, where start-ups find their venture capital through the community,2 people start businesses by renting their private apartment to strangers,3 and ordinary people are making professional prototypes out of their ideas. Some traditional markets are disrupted through digitisation, and the new global networks of information sharing, production, and consumption put traditional ways of looking at design under pressure. Today, virtually anyone can become ‘a designer’, as Gerritzen and Lovink (2001) put it. In principle, everybody can produce something and sell it through digital marketplaces, making use of the vast quantity of open design resources that are created and shared online. The rise of ‘open everything’ is

one of the preconditions: sharing open source, allowing open access, and fostering open innovation are principles of a digital society that speeded up production processes, innovation, and even research. Through adapting, recycling, or remixing, it becomes much easier to create value. A brilliant idea is not the only way to kick off a design process; on the contrary, a good network and a collection of resources might be just as vital and efficient. Alongside the globalised production of mass products, more and more alternative forms of business models and local trading came into play. Consumers are becoming more aware of the products they buy; they seek transparency about the origin, the production, and the environmental impact of a product or service. They question whether it has to be bought or if it might just as well be shared. They ask questions about the philosophy of a company; hence, more and more consumers prefer socially responsible brands.4 Companies have to take these changes of consumer behaviour into account (Birkhölzer and Wendland 2013). On the one hand, this is part and parcel of a critique of mass production and consumption and the role of design as a facilitator for purely commercial purposes. Common aim seems to be a more sustainable approach – socially, economically, and ecologically. On the other hand, it is fuelled by communities and global social networks that put their own vision of sustainable production and living into practice – in FabLabs,5 for example, or community gardens6 – and argue for their understanding of sociopolitical issues on platforms for social participation,7 through which they aim to gain wider agency in the making of our world. At the same time, concepts and applications such as e-democracy, adhocracy, and participatory budgeting, or the rise of digital platforms fostering the organisation of citizens, become part of design’s habitat. Therefore, design is entering the political domain. Still, it is not yet foreseeable whether the networks provide an infrastructure for real participation or an easy access to production – as the current activities only involve a so-called digital elite. Participants have to be highly skilled in ICT technologies and digital communication habits to be part of the game. Many emergent tools for political participation, such as e-participation or liquid democracy, lack the active inclusion of digital strangers of any kind. They are often intended to be dialogic, equalitarian, and socially progressive, but a good number of them turn out to be compromised by their own dynamics of exclusion: Evidence of ICT use shows fairly predictable patterns of inclusion and exclusion, of ‘information haves’ and ‘information have-nots’. Typical have-nots are the old, the poor, the unskilled. […] A system initially designed for and by academics still retains the characteristics of an exclusive ivory tower, despite or because of its appropriation by business. (Kruger 2004: 320)

Nevertheless, sharing and participation are two of today’s big trends – with a major influence on the basic understanding of design. In this perspective, design is seen

much more as a means for social and political empowerment of people than as simply a tool for creating economic profit – which strongly suggests that design needs to define new territories for its properties.

Social Design Today As design has always been subject to negotiation about its definitions, potentialities, and limits, today it seems particularly affected by discourses around openness, participation and access, transparency and democracy, and finally by discourses regarding the opening of our very understanding of what it is that we want to design. The focus switches from looking at the discipline as a problem solver and the creator of material solutions towards an understanding that values the creation, transformation, and stabilisation of social structures as being inherently innovative in terms of social sustainability: There is a stream of consciousness and activity around what could be termed ‘socially ­active design’, where the focus of the design is society and its transition and/or transformation to a more sustainable way of living, working and producing. (Fuad-Luke 2009: 78)

At Design Research Lab in Berlin, we are addressing basic research questions through our projects: what role can design play in empowering people to actively engage with their local neighbourhood and to foster social cohesion? What tools and methods can be provided by designers throughout the process? What would an infrastructure look like that links analogue and digital interfaces for public participation? What are the possible roles for design in an era where more and more ­social and political processes are being digitised? And what can we as designers contribute towards the inclusion of those who are left out of these processes?

Social Design as Infrastructuring: Neighbourhood Labs Current research projects are exploring the discipline in terms of what Pelle Ehn and colleagues called Design as Infrastructuring. They experiment with the creation of living labs as well as design tools for public interventions in order to understand and shape the opportunities for designers to partake in the shaping of our societies. They draw on basic assumptions from participatory design and open design and try to spin them back into the design of social and material infrastructures that seek to support democratic processes and to empower people to take part in them. As suggested by the name, one central element that guides these perspectives is the

very notion of infrastructures itself (Björgvinsson, Ehn, and Hillgren 2010). As opposed to framing design as a problem solver, the metaphor infrastructure designates the creation of possibilities, in and through which stakeholders can create their own solutions. Acknowledging the usually rather short lifespan of any solution, this approach is often seen as more sustainable, since it focuses on the creation of underlying structures that enable others to actualise and use them for multiple constructions. Depending on the situation, these structures can denote virtually anything from tools and physical spaces to shared language, protocols, or boundary objects (Star and Griesemer 1989). The project Neighbourhood Labs took place at Fischerinsel, located in Berlin-­ Mitte and characterised by high-rise apartment buildings. Historically a prestigious residential area for GDR functionaries and the like, it has recently changed into a demographic mix of older and younger citizens forming a highly heterogeneous community. Thirty-five per cent of the population in this neighbourhood is sixty-­ five or older. Preliminary research showed that many residents were concerned about their neighbourhood in terms of both the physical environment and the social fabric. Public space was perceived as underdeveloped and as not adapted to the changes the quarter has gone through in the last decades. However, since Fischerinsel is not an official ‘problem quarter’, it does not qualify for public attention and funding. Among other aspects, this vacuum, created through the lack of any municipal involvement, called for individuals to actively engage in questions regarding their neighbourhood. Together with a group of citizens, our team of design researchers co-designed a range of tools, formats, and processes in order to facilitate the building of Publics (Dewey 2006) around issues, interests, and problems that were of a wider relevance to this neighbourhood (Unteidig et al. 2013). We followed a Design Lab methodology (Binder and Brandt 2008) and engaged with local initiatives in their environments. For example, an active group of senior citizens from a ‘seniors’ computer club’ were among the first to engage with our co-design process. A publicly funded community centre was the starting point for all activities, where we met local neighbours for biweekly workshops and events. The first problem to address along with the initial group of residents was the unorganised nature of the neighbourhood itself: many neighbours had concerns, wishes, questions, and ideas, but there was hardly any structure in place to transform these into productive discourses that could lead to collective action. With a group of about ten residents, we started to build these structures within the existing network of actors and initiatives working on other topics. This first phase of the project was about building a presence in the neighbourhood, staging interventions at local events in order to make the residents aware of the project, and convincing people to join meetings by discussing the group’s intentions and visions. After an extensive period of building networks, gaining trust, and learning about the diverse perspectives, we initiated workshops aimed at iden-

tifying topics of concern that could be commonly discussed, and as a result, interest groups started to form to work on specific issues. One of the groups was concerned with the public furniture, which was either decaying or being arranged in a way that did not make much sense. This was a big problem for senior inhabitants, as the absence of places to rest between their homes and the only supermarket in the neighbourhood made it difficult for them to stay independent. Together, we conducted research into property rights, public responsibilities, and funding opportunities, and developed and conducted walking and mapping workshops that informed the problem and gave us a very concrete vision. We aimed to include as many stakeholders as possible, adapting and transferring a diverse set of methods, tools, and ways of prototyping future scenarios, and developing shared perspectives for action. The residents concerned with public furniture managed to evolve into a very well-organised group that succeeded in convincing a network of local authorities and the housing co-op to take ownership of the problem and renew all the benches. This success was celebrated by the inauguration of the new furniture at a big street fest, and was subsequently recognised with the winning of a national award for neighbourhood initiatives.8 During the process, we paid a lot of attention to transferring author- and ownership of the project to its participants, in order to ensure the continuation of the infrastructures built, especially after the design group leaves the neighbourhood. There are still weekly meetings of a group of neighbours who take on authorship for their environment and initiate events and projects in the neighbourhood. Although at this point we are still somewhat involved in the upkeep of this structure, we are more and more moving to the background, with the intent of becoming obsolete. This process exemplifies what can be understood as infrastructuring: as designers, we did not solve a particular problem in the neighbourhood, but rather designed the framework and a set of tools that allowed the neighbourhood to work on diverse issues themselves. Again, this refers to the sustainability of a project as one central problem to be considered within the discussions about social design: societal, political, or neighbourly problems can by definition never be entirely solved, as they are constantly evolving. Having durable socio-material structures in place that enable neighbours to tackle their own problems equipped with novel tools and methods can have a more long-lasting and profound societal impact on a neighbourhood than the solution to a specific, concrete problem. Moving away from the idea of experts solving a problem and towards the creation of new socio-material structures, this approach presents us with a new range of challenges: how do we constantly push the boundaries of participation? Which parts of the process have to be undertaken or at least overseen by experts of some kind? How can one initiate creative processes that have to be learned in order to exceed the already known? How can expectations be balanced with and within the group of participants? How should conflicts among group members, as well as

­ etween the group and other stakeholders, be resolved? And how can the newly b ­designed structure be integrated into existing networks, so as not to compromise or replace what is already there? Soon after this very intense and hands-on phase of the project, we started to synthesise the lessons learned and develop an online platform that would allow this and other neighbourhoods to go through similar processes by providing tools and frameworks in a decentralised way. Additionally, we aimed at providing channels for exchange, so that neighbourhoods could learn from each other’s processes, successes, and failures. In the process of conducting co-creation sessions in the Fischerinsel neighbourhood, we became increasingly aware that our digital concept (and with it the general emergence of digital tools for sociopolitical actions) runs a great risk of ­excluding those who are not Internet savvy, who don’t possess the necessary equipment, or who live in areas not equipped with broadband infrastructure – in short, digital strangers. In order to think about this problem collectively with those for whom we were designing, we returned to the groups and started discussing things and processes that might bridge the gap between the digital and the analogue and thus enable socalled digital strangers to take part in societal and political processes that are becoming more and more digitised. The result of this was a prototype that we call the Hybrid Letter Box (Unteidig and Joost 2014).

The Hybrid Letter Box The Hybrid Letter Box is an interface that enables low-threshold participation in a range of societal online processes. People can hand-write a message on a simple postcard and throw it into the letter box, where it is digitised and uploaded to an online blog. This digital post is shown on the screen integrated into the letter box. The user gets the impression of throwing an analogue message into the digital space and can scroll through messages that others have posted. As a technological artefact, it bridges the gap between digital and analogue and allows part-taking in a new technology without a computer or access to broadband Internet or technical skills, thus aiming at the inclusion of digital strangers (such as the elderly). By transferring a handwritten message to a digital platform, we are creating a simple analogue-to-digital interface. The digital space is necessary to spread issues effectively, so that citizens can take part in discussions in order to form ‘publics’ by organising around shared issues and transforming them into communal action. One central goal in designing these bridge technologies is to set the threshold as low as possible. For that, we make use of ritualised communication behaviours and translate them into digital actions. By utilising this globally known ritual, the

1 Hybrid Letter Box

principle of the Hybrid Letter Box is also transferable to other cultural contexts. ­ urthermore, neither prior knowledge nor specific digital devices are necessary to F ­participate.

Scaling the Learnings While the concept of the Hybrid Letter Box originates in the context of digitalisation processes and their accessibility, we are also transferring it to different contexts, which provide us with opportunities for learning regarding both these contexts and the prototype itself, as any transfer requires adaptations of the concept and design. Recently, we employed it as an information-sharing tool at conferences and experimented with simply setting it up in a public space, providing a temporary opportunity to broadcast a question, a remark, or a comment and interact with strangers in a public space in a playful and engaging way (Antoniadis et al. 2014). We installed it on a street corner in Neukölln, a highly diverse part of Berlin. We simply asked passers-by for their narratives about this street, about what it means to them. They wrote on a postcard, dropped it in, and saw it reappear as a huge projection on the opposite side of the street. Others could then comment on the contribution via text messages, which showed up just next to it in real time. We are currently further developing this prototype and just recently released it with an open-source licence, in the hope it will be appropriated and changed for many different contexts. It is in this spirit that we approach the development of technology within the Civic Infrastructures research group at DRLab: conducting offline research, deriving concepts and prototypes, recontextualising them, and understanding them as infrastructures themselves, on which others can build and adapt. Another example

2 Hybrid Letter Box, wall projection

of this approach is the research project Community Now? and, as an example, the De:Routing application developed in its framework.

Community Now? The research project Community Now?, a collaboration between Berlin University of the Arts, the German Society for Design Theory and Research, and Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem, investigates community infrastructures in urban spaces. It questions the ways in which design research and its methods and tools can take on a supportive role. It takes place in two urban neighbourhoods, one in Berlin-Kreuzberg in Germany, one in Beit Safafa, Jerusalem, in Israel, and explores different forms of civic engagement. The aim was to create a living lab in each city and to develop, together with people from the neighbourhood, tools and processes to address their common issues. Our focus was on community activities dealing with local issues that turn into political action. Besides the more traditional forms of interaction (face to face, ­local interventions, meetings, workshops), these activities today are heavily initiated, mediated, and facilitated through digital networks, giving way to novel forms of ‘glocalised’ structures: local initiatives network with and learn from other initiatives around the globe, exchanging experiences, knowledge, and momentum. The wide range of social media tools, sharing and e-participation platforms, or

wikis support the local activities and are used to organise people and their matters of concern. The two neighbourhoods, despite their differences, display structural similarities: each is extremely diverse in terms of the social background, ethnicity, financial status, interests, and needs of its inhabitants; each is located in an in-between area within the city; and each is home to an institution that tries to mediate the ­social heteronomy but struggles to integrate itself and gain influence in the local environment – the Jewish Museum in Berlin and the Yad be Yad Bilingual School of Jerusalem. In this ongoing project, we address, among others, the following questions: how can exchanges among a highly diverse citizenry be stimulated? How can local issues and discourses be presented in order to provoke the inhabitants of a heterogeneous neighbourhood into engaging critically with one another? What does social change mean for each context? What kind of transformation processes could be stimulated with what kind of tools? Learning from the fieldwork, we derived a tool that aims to make the diversity of viewpoints, concerns, and visions explicit, and turn them into a base for content-­ rich discussions rather than impassable lines of division among neighbours sharing a common space.

De:Routing The De:Routing application is a tool different people can use to record their observations while walking through a neighbourhood. It serves as a workshop tool that provokes participants to strategically get lost in a known or unknown environment. Triggered by questions (for instance, ‘What are some areas where you meet people?’) or commands (‘Take the next left and make a video of your most interesting observation there’), they create a map of their walking experiences with anno­tations, while their path is dictated by the app in a random manner – much like the Situationists’ concept of getting lost (‘la dérive’). Once set up, participants get ­directed through a specific space (a neighbourhood, for example) and will be asked to answer questions, take photos, record sounds, or take videos according to the task. Using text, photos, and video or sound recording, a mixed media map is created to which all participants add their geo-tagged content on a shared Web platform. A collective map of experiences is thereby created online, where the GPS-tracked information is accessible on a website that consolidates the inputs of different participants, who are thus enabled to reflect on their own perception of space in relation to those of others. These maps serve as starting points for rich discussions, community workshops, or other neighbourhood events. Currently, we are developing an open-source release to share this tool, and to learn through its appropriation by others.

3 De:Routing

Where are We Heading? We have seen that design, of course, has always been social – not just because it forms the material aspects of our everyday lives and thus decidedly shapes the perceptions and frictions that arise from our interactions with the world (Burckhardt 1980; Latour 1992), but also because the things that we design have a profound impact on us designers, on the way we give shape to things, processes, and structures that in turn apply their agency on our reality: ‘things design the designing of the ­design of things that design’ (Fry 2011: 85). For decades we have observed the conscious agenda of our discipline as it took on responsible roles in the shaping of the social. As exemplified by the projects presented in this article, one approach to designing for the social is to create infrastructures that allow citizens to organise and collaboratively transform their living environments. As design strives to widen its scope and influence into the sociopolitical, Simon’s notion of design as changing existing situations into preferred ones gives rise to new questions: what does that mean in regards to social change? What kind of change do we want? Which alternative social reality would we prefer? Social designers have to be aware of their own ideologies and develop a set of political and societal values that they want to inscribe into their designs. We all know that there is not a normative ‘better world’ that we could easily implement through design; we should not be so naive. Social change is very likely quite messy in reality; it may not be measurable and surely is never finished, as any sociopolitical situation of consensus can by definition only be temporary, until a different version of it is negotiated (Mouffe 2013: XI). Thus, the design of these spaces for negotiation, for meaningful interactions and discourse (being temporal or spatial), spaces where people meet and become active, seems like a promising terrain for social design. Different perspectives on

the notion of participation are at the defining core of what social design is or can be, as it strives to motivate people to engage for their concerns. Many new questions arise from this standpoint: what is the scalability of engagement in a social design project? Is the engagement sustainable? What role does the design team play in the process? How can we lower barriers and not address only the social/political/digital elites – those who are already active/included/privileged? The projects conducted at the Design Research Lab often explore a hybrid approach, synthesising the construction of local infrastructures and the development of technological artefacts that serve or support these structures. Engaging online and offline, through analogue and digital interfaces, allows meaningful interventions to develop on several levels and a wider and more diverse range of people to be addressed. Since a social design process depends on the engagement of its participants, accessibility and transferability of the process are of the utmost importance. From our perspective, the term transferability is important in two respects: the process of assigning owner- and authorship for the project to the citizens, users, or participants themselves, and the development of critical technology while understanding it as infrastructural itself, open for appropriation, adaptation, and change. Social design processes often have a normative approach that is linked to the understanding of design as a democratic and inherently political undertaking. Participation and empowerment of diverse people in their living environments are ­basic principles that require reflection and the development of standpoints. When we are thinking about design education and training, we need to draw conclusions from this. Designers must reflect on their preconditions and values when entering into a social design process. They have to be aware of their potentialities, their limits, and their responsibilities when interacting with neighbourhoods, when making their issues and concerns the subject of a design project. Therefore, students need a specific pedagogic training; they need to be trained in flexibility towards the ­diverse range of roles they might take on in such a process, and learn about the limitations. A critical approach to situations that pose questions about how things are and how they could be is a starting point. At the same time, students need to learn about appropriate methods for analysis, projection, and synthesis (Jonas 2007).

1 e.g., Nike Free ID sneakers. 2 e.g., http://www.kickstarter.com. 3 e.g., https://www.airbnb.com. 4 http://www.edelman.com/insights/intellectual-property/trust-2013/. 5 http://fab.cba.mit.edu/about/charter/. 6 http://www.letsmove.gov/community-garden-checklist. 7 e.g., http://www.changify.org/. 8 Lübecker Nachbarschaftspreis 2013.

References Antoniadis, P., Apostol, I., Unteidig, A., and Joost, G. (2014). ‘CONTACT: Facilitating Information Sharing ­between Strangers Using Hyper-local Community Wireless Networks’. In UrbanIxD, Venice. Armstrong, L., Bailey, J., Julier, G., and Kimbell, L. (2014). Social Design Futures: HEI Research and the AHRC. University of Brighton. Binder, T., and Brandt, E. (2008). ‘The Design: Lab as platform in participatory design research’. In Co-Design 4(2), pp. 115–129. Binder, T., De Michelis, G., Ehn, P., Jacucci, G., Linde, P., and Wagner, I. (2011). Design Things. Cambridge, MA and London: MIT Press. Birkhölzer, N., and Wendland, M. (2013). ‘Designing Transformative Services’. In Touchpoint 4, no. 3, pp. 66–70. Björgvinsson, E., Ehn, P., and Hillgren, P.A. (2010). ‘Participatory Design and Democratizing Innovation’. In Proceedings of the 11th Biennial Participatory Design Conference. ACM Press, pp. 41–50. Burckhardt, L. (1980). ‘Design is Invisible’. In Fezer, J., and Schmitz, M. (eds.) (2012). Lucius Burckhardt’s Writings: Rethinking Man-made Environments. Vienna and New York: Springer. Dewey, J. (2006). The Public and Its Problems: An Essay in Political Inquiry. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Ehn, P. (2008). ‘Participation in Design Things’. In Proceedings of the Participatory Design Conference. ACM Press, pp. 92–101. Fry, T. (2011). Design as Politics. Oxford: Berg Publishers. Fuad-Luke, A. (2009). Design Activism: Beautiful Strangeness for a Sustainable World. New York: Earthscan. Gerritzen, M., and Lovink, G. (2001). ‘Everyone is a Designer: Manifest for the Design Economy’. In Emigre 58. Hörning, K.H. (2012). ‘Praxis und Ästhetik. Das Ding im Fadenkreuz sozialer und kultureller Praktiken’. In Moebius, S., and Prinz, S. (eds.). Das Design der Gesellschaft. Zur Kultursoziologie des Designs. Bielefeld: transcript, pp. 29–48. Kruger, D. (2004). ‘Access Denied’. In Graham, S. Cybercities Reader. London and New York: Routledge, p. 320. Jonas, W. (2006). ‘Research through DESIGN through Research: A Problem Statement and a Conceptual Sketch’. In Proceedings of the Design Research Society conference Wonderground, Lisbon. Jonas, W. (2007). ‘Design Research and Its Meaning to the Methodological Development of the Discipline’. In Michel, R. (ed.). Design Research Now. Basel: Birkhäuser Verlag, pp. 187–206. Latour, B. (1992). ‘Where are the Missing Masses? The Sociology of a Few Mundane Artifacts’. In Bijker, W., and Law, J. (eds.). Shaping Technology/Building Society: Studies in Sociotechnical Change. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 225–58. Manzini, E. (2006). ‘Design, Ethics and Sustainability: Guidelines for a Transition Phase’. In Salmi, E., and Anusionwu, L. Cumulus Working Papers 16/06. Nantes, pp. 9–15. Manzini, E., and Jégou, F. (2003). Sustainable Everyday: Scenarios of Urban Life. Milan: Edizioni Ambiente. Mareis, C. (2013). ‘Wer gestaltet die Gestaltung? Zur ambivalenten Verfassung von partizipatorischem ­Design’. In Mareis, C., Held, M., and Joost, G. (eds.). Wer gestaltet die Gestaltung? Bielefeld: transcript, pp. 9–20. Mareis, C. (2014). Theorien des Designs. Hamburg: Junius. Mouffe, C. (2013). Agonistics: Thinking the World Politically. London and New York: Verso. Simon, H.A. (1996). The Sciences of the Artificial. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Star, S., and Griesemer, J. (1989). ‘Institutional Ecology, “Translations” and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Professionals in Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907–39’. In Social Studies of Science 19, no. 4, pp. 387–420. Unteidig, A., and Joost, G. (2014). ‘Design as Curator for Urban Publics’. In Urban IxD, Venice. Unteidig, A., Schubert, J., Sametinger, F., and Joost, G. (2013). ‘Neighborhood Labs: Building Urban Communities through Civic Engagement’. In Proceedings of Participatory Innovation Conference, Lahti, Finland. Wood, J. (2007). Design for Micro-Utopias: Making the Unthinkable Possible (Design for Social Responsibility). Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate.

Human Systems Design: A New Direction for Practice Victor Margolin

Introduction Design has undergone myriad changes during the course of its long trajectory. At the beginning of human society, it was embedded in toolmaking and craft production as tacit knowledge and not recognised as something separate from the object whose form it guided. This began to change in Renaissance Italy in the sixteenth century. Central to the Renaissance idea of artistic talent or expertise was disegno, or drawing. But disegno meant far more than the ability to draw. It was a power of mind that was based on the observation of harmony and proportion in nature and in human bodies, as well as in plants and animals. The identification of disegno as something that could infuse painting, sculpture, decorative art, or architecture but was nonetheless separate from them was a significant advance in design thought. It made possible the recognition of common elements that were shared by what would otherwise be isolated creative activities, and it brought about a better understanding of how the Renaissance artist could successfully fulfil a wide range of commissions with a single knowledge base. Extracting design thought from making things led to reflection on the thought itself as a distinct entity. At the beginning of the Industrial Revolution in the late eighteenth century, design thought was applied to the new technique of mass production with machines. Though theorists initially considered it to be the aesthetic formulation that determined the form and appearance of products, as was the case with Christopher Dresser, Robert Adam, or John Flaxman, eventually it came to ­include the design of the factory system of production as well. Designers such as Eli Whitney not only conceived innovative objects such as the cotton gin but also ­invented the machines that produced them and the systems to integrate the machines into production processes. For almost two hundred years, design thought was understood to be about conceiving and making tangible things, whether hard goods, such as furniture or machines, or else graphic forms, such as books or posters. Separate from production, although with some exceptions like Eli Whitney, design was expressed primarily as a combination of taste and a set of skills that could produce drawings, models, and prototypes. Method was embedded in this expression and not articulated as something that could be generalised. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, two British designers, John Chris Jones and Bruce Archer, both originally trained as engineers, began to write about systematic

design methods that could be understood in general terms, like engineering knowledge, and then applied to a multitude of projects. The origin of their thinking was in the practice of operations research that had been devised during the Second World War in Britain and then adopted by several branches of the US armed forces during that conflict.1 Jones and Archer were instrumental in broadening the discourse about what designers could do. They were active in the design methods movement, which spawned more expansive ways of thinking about a wider field for design activity. More recently, a new term to denote design’s expansive potential, transformation design, was introduced in Britain by Hilary Cottam and several colleagues working for RED, a unit of the Design Council (Burns et al. 2006). The authors make several statements about transformation design that support the proposal for a new design practice I will introduce in this paper, but my own description of such a practice will not strictly follow theirs. They argue, rightly in my opinion, that transformation design is intended to ‘transform the ways in which the public interacts with systems, services, organizations and policies’ (6). They go on to write broadly about how transformation design could be instrumental in addressing many complex social problems, but they don’t specifically define a new form of practice that could meet those tasks. In the absence of a specific proposal for bringing about social transformation, the term design thinking has arisen, frequently opportunistically, as a means of applying an unspecified design approach to problems where it has not been applied before. This has led to some valuable outcomes, but it has also enabled many people with ­opportunistic inclinations and vague ideas to present themselves as capable of engaging with unprecedented situations that they believe call for design interventions. To elaborate the idea of human systems design, I will introduce a lengthy excursion through a range of diverse system design iterations to show how different strands of thought have separated and prepared the way for theories that were ­appropriate to the particular system typologies they addressed. My excursus does not purport to be a comprehensive history of system design; instead, it highlights a sequence of examples that can serve as precedents for the practice of human systems design that I propose. The authors of the Design Council paper on transformation design suggest that a new discipline is emerging. Clearly, people, whether or not they are trained designers, are undertaking innovative projects in the name of design. Whether the experience generated by these projects will coalesce into the methodology of a new discipline remains to be seen. My own proposal for a practice of human systems ­design is not as expansive as the vision of Hilary Cottam and her colleagues, but I see human systems as an increasing part of the contemporary social fabric and consider the transformative part of my proposal to be a recognition that numerous complex systems are being introduced on a regular basis but many are poorly ­designed or not designed at all, and consequently their implementation creates more problems than benefits for those who are affected by them.

Early Calls for System Design In 1948, Warren Weaver, a civil engineer and mathematician who headed the Applied Mathematics Panel in the US Office of Scientific Research and Development during the Second World War, published a paper entitled ‘Science and Complexity’, in which he noted advances in science that made possible the study of problems with an ­increasing number of variables (Weaver 1948).2 Those with a large number he designated as ‘problems of disorganized complexity’. As an example, he cited a telephone exchange and suggested that statistical methods were a way to predict the average frequency of calls, their possible overlap, and other issues that could be sorted out technically based on existing techniques of analysis. In contrast to ‘disorganized complexity’, Weaver posited ‘problems of organized complexity’, which occupy a middle region between problems with few variables and those with a considerable number. Weaver saw these middle-range problems as manageable with appropriate systems of analysis but noted that, at the time he was writing, science had ‘little explored or conquered’ them. Weaver concluded his paper with the argument that science would need to deal with such problems over the next fifty years. Weaver’s concern was with developing techniques to analyse problems of middle-range complexity rather than devising systems of design. However, the issue of how design might be related to such problems in a way that it had not previously been was raised in the late 1950s by John Chris Jones and Bruce Archer, both trained as engineers but equally interested in design. A 1959 article in the British magazine Design entitled ‘A Systematic Design Method’ was an early statement by Jones of his interest in the design process, which eventually led to the publication of his seminal book Design Methods in 1970 (Jones 1970). Bruce Archer began to teach at the Royal College of Art in the Industrial Design (Engineering) Research Unit in the early 1960s and published a series of articles in Design magazine in 1963 and 1964 that were revised and appeared as a small book, Systematic Method for Designers, in 1965 (Archer 1965). Meanwhile, a conference on design methods was held in Britain in 1962, and the proceedings were published the following year (Jones and Thornley 1963). Other conferences occurred in ensuing years, and over the course of the decade a sizeable design methods movement developed. The question of design methodology led Jones to think in a new way about the kinds of problems designers could address. In an article entitled ‘Trying to Design the Future’, published in Design in 1967, he began to look holistically at design problems, formulating a vision of the designed world as a product of what engineers, architects, planners, and industrial designers did ‘to influence the recent course of human evolution’ (Jones 1967: 35). His litany of the social consequences engendered by poor design may have been stimulated in part by the critical attitudes towards many social institutions that were prevalent in the 1960s.3 Among the problems Jones mentioned were the congestion and delays caused by too many cars, the need to build car parks to accommodate a plethora of cars, and housing estates

that inhibited social contact and created loneliness (35). The issue, as Jones saw it, was that ‘existing design methods in engineering design, industrial design, marketing, architecture, urban planning and related areas are conservative, persuasive and rigid’ (36). Jones also foresaw difficulties with the introduction of new technologies that would be incompatible with current infrastructures. He anticipated what he called a new kind of ‘system product’ that could bring about ill effects on society if there was no way to integrate it into the current social order. Jones posed the question ‘Who is going to foresee problems of compatibility between […] these new design problems and our present assumptions and attitudes?’ (36) His question raised the spectre of issues that would need to be addressed in the absence of a new kind of design professional who was prepared for the job. In fact, Jones saw a discrepancy between students in different design fields who wanted to think about problems on a global scale and confront them through a new method of ‘systems designing’ and the organisations that operated the big systems in education, transport, health, and other sectors, which resisted such a method. He posited that managers could lose their positions of authority if they brought integrated systems of ‘man/machine collaborations’ into their organisations. Jones was prescient enough to understand that ‘integrated large scale services’ had to be tested before massive investments would be made in their implementation. He was particularly concerned about the behavioural reactions of the users of these new systems. Besides his pragmatic emphasis on testing, however, there was also a utopian aspect to his vision. It was exemplified by his call for the construction of ‘new cities as test beds for simulations of new systems that are at the stage of pre-design evaluation’ (38). Such cities, he argued, ‘would be devoted to the adaptive exploration of all sorts of new ways of life made possible by various new kinds of industrial product’ (38).4 To function in such an expanded field, Jones argued, ­designers would have to learn the principles of statistics, computation, and scientific testing. They would need a new language, which Jones called ‘systematic ­design methods’ (38). By the early 1970s, however, some of the key participants in the design methods movement that had subsequently developed, notably Jones himself and Christopher Alexander, found the movement too rigid and withdrew from it. Others, ­including Nigel Cross, began to write about related subjects such as design knowledge, and when Cross joined the Open University, some of the design methods concerns became part of the OU pedagogy. Buckminster Fuller made an even broader call for thinking about design in holistic terms than did John Chris Jones. He articulated his expansive vision of design in books he published at the end of the 1960s: Utopia or Oblivion: The Prospects for Humanity and Operating Manual for Spaceship Earth. Fuller, an engineer, had been designing radical housing and geodesic domes since the 1920s. The domes were at varied scales, from shelters for a family to large industrial structures. He was a dynamic speaker and excited thousands of students during the 1960s and 1970s

with his lengthy, energetic speeches on college and university campuses around the world. In Operating Manual for Spaceship Earth, Fuller declared that: we begin by eschewing the role of specialists who deal only in parts. Becoming deliberatively expansive instead of contractive, we ask, ‘How do we think in terms of wholes?’ If it is true that the bigger the thinking becomes the more lastingly effective it is, we must ask, ‘How big can we think?’ (1972: 53)

Fuller asked that question in a chapter entitled ‘General Systems Theory’.5 He noted that planners were able to look at an entire city ‘and not just peek through a hole at one house or at one room in that house’ (53). In typical Fuller fashion, he proposed starting with the universe as the biggest possible system and then working downwards through a series of subsystems to find the one that was appropriate for the particular problem at hand. His concern was to recognise that their separate parts did not predict the behaviour of whole systems, regardless of their scale. He then evoked the image of Spaceship Earth to characterise life on earth as a system whose parts are connected by what he called synergy. Fuller’s ideas found some practical application at Southern Illinois University when he was a professor there from 1959 to around 1970. During that time, he introduced numerous innovations, including the World Game, the World Resources Inventory, and the World Design Science Decade, which took place between 1965 and 1975.6

Systems Engineering and Systems Design Early thinking about systems theory did not make a distinction between engineering and design. Writing in the 1950s, the biologist Ludwig von Bertalanffy envisioned human society as a system that might be controlled like physical and biological systems. ‘What is lacking, however, is a knowledge of the laws of human society,’ he wrote, ‘and consequently a sociological technology’ (1968: 51).7 As a scientist, von Bertalanffy was frustrated by the irregularities in human systems that resulted in famines, wars, and other disasters. Echoing Warren Weaver, he stated that ‘they [the irregularities] are the outcome of the fact that we know and control physical forces only too well, biological forces tolerably well, and social forces not at all’ (52). Pursuing the issue, von Bertalanffy confronted the dilemma that a scientifically controlled world might easily end up looking like Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World or George Orwell’s 1984. Shunning such an outcome, he ended the chapter of his book General System Theory: Foundations, Development, Applications where he discussed social systems with a paean to the individual who should not be swallowed up by the ‘­Leviathan of organization’. Human society is doomed, von Bertalanffy concluded, ‘if the individual is made a cog in the social machine’ (53). Towards the

end of the book, he formulated an idea of how systems thinking could have a positive effect in society. He made reference to ‘problems arising in business, government, international politics’ where ‘systems analysis and engineering’ could make a contribution. As an example, he cited a business enterprise that encompassed ‘men, machines, buildings, inflow of raw material, outflow of products, monetary values, good will and other imponderables […]’ (196). That approach to social situations and organisations preceded some extremely successful applications of systems analysis to technical projects by engineers beginning in the 1950s, particularly when Simon Ramo and Dean Wooldridge formed the Ramo–Wooldridge Corporation and introduced systems engineering to the United States Air Force. Their aim was to assist the service with the management of guided missile production. Systems engineering as they introduced it was a means of organising the production of the most complex weapons that the American military had ever manufactured. The system that Ramo–Wooldridge created enabled the air force to meet its objectives in the overall management of weapons design and also to revise programme milestones and schedules and monitor contractor progress. What Ramo–Wooldridge devised was a management system rather than a technological one, although it was conceived and manned by engineers. They established protocols for human actors that enabled the system to function efficiently, since it was delivering specified outcomes rather than more open-ended user services.8 The most elaborate engineering system to manage a large-scale project was put in place by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to support the successive launches of spacecraft that resulted in landing a man on the moon on July 20, 1969. To cope with the complexity of Project Apollo, NASA drew on management techniques that the air force had developed for its missile programmes. George Muller, a former consultant at Ramo–Wooldridge, was hired by NASA to change the agency’s culture. He brought with him a group of high-ranking air force officers who were familiar with the service’s management techniques, and they assisted with the task of running the Apollo programme efficiently.9 Project Apollo was an impressive demonstration of how systems engineering could support the management of a complex technological process. It was used for all phases of the space programme, from specifying and tracking the thousands of required components to ensuring their availability at the right moments in the production process, as well as evaluating models and inspecting the spacecraft itself. In short, systems engineering was essential for the efficient and successful management of the entire production process and Apollo launch, not to mention the complexities of communication while the astronauts were travelling towards the moon and when they landed there. In the years since Project Apollo, the term systems engineering has been expanded to include other kinds of systems besides the purely technical ones that Bell Labs was designing in the 1940s or the management systems applied to the manufacture of aeroplanes, ships, and spacecraft. Within one method of classification,

the latter systems fall under the category of Product Systems. Other categories in that classification include Enterprise Systems, which pertains to the idea of organisations as systems, and Service Systems, which have been defined as systems that serve other systems.10 Peter Checkland makes a distinction between hard systems, which are based on engineering precepts, and soft systems, to which he assigns a methodology whose acronym is SSM. ‘Hard systems thinking’, Checkland writes, ‘makes use of the kind of thinking which is natural to design engineers, whose role is to provide an efficient means of meeting a defined need’ (1999: 139). He goes on to note that many attempts were made to apply the ‘“hard” concepts of systems engineering’ to problems that he characterises as ‘a good deal “softer” than those of engineering and defense economics […]’ (141). Soft systems, for Checkland, are beset with problems that are not easy to define and are sometimes known as ‘wicked problems’. Good examples that he cites are related to social policy in various forms. During the 1960s, there were high expectations that systems analysis might be applied to solving problems of transport, pollution, education, crime control, and neighbourhood development. One unsuccessful attempt was made by the administration of United States president Lyndon Johnson, which tried to adapt management techniques devised for defence purposes to the social programmes of Johnson’s Great Society (Jardini 2000). Another was the attempt of TRW, the aerospace firm formed in 1958 through a merger of Thompson Products and Ramo–Wooldridge, to seek contracts in order to apply a systems approach to what Simon Ramo called ‘civil systems’. Ramo referred to that approach as ‘a somewhat automated common sense’ (quoted in Dyer 2000: 364). However, the application of systems thinking to a range of civil system projects was unsuccessful. After a number of ventures, according to David Dyer, ‘TRW personnel quickly abandoned the systems ­approach and embraced ways of management appropriate to the industry’ (378). Although the attempts by the Johnson administration and TRW to apply systems approaches that worked in the aerospace industry to problems in civil society resulted in failures, these and other failures of the 1960s did not prevent the continued exploration of how the efficacy of systems analysis might be adapted or modified to address problems within social systems, even though such problems were far more difficult to define and resolve. One way forward was to define a system more broadly than the engineers had done, emphasising its wholeness without linking that quality too closely to technological factors or a controlled outcome. In his book Designing Social Systems in a Changing World, Bela H. Banathy made reference to ‘a system of interconnected, interdependent, interacting, and internally consistent solution ideas’ (1996: 19). For Banathy, the important element was the interconnection rather than the subjugation of the components to a defined operational strategy. He then offered a typology of systems that ranged from physical systems that did not involve any human participation, such as buildings, machines, and tools; to man–machine systems that involved human and machine interaction,

such as computers, aircraft, or cars; to human activity systems (a term borrowed from Peter Checkland), that is to say, organisations and social systems. ­Banathy’s typology counters the belief of some systems engineers that even organisations, which are composed of human actors, can be subjected to rigid analysis and solution formulation. This was initially the thought of von Bertalanffy, who eventually realised that human systems were different from natural ones, and attempts to apply the same principles of control could easily lead to unwanted authoritarian systems of governance. Banathy was not alone during the 1970s and 1980s in attempting to develop a methodology for fashioning interventions in social systems. As did others, he substituted the term ‘design’ for ‘engineering’, although he did not elaborate precisely how the two were different. He did, however, adopt outcome goals for social systems that were more open-ended than engineers were accustomed to. In fact, the idea of rethinking or redesigning an existing social system that had failed was central to those who adopted ‘system design’ to characterise the activity they espoused. As Banathy put it: There is a growing awareness that most of our systems are out of sync with the new realities of the current era [… O]nce we understand the significance of these new realities and their implications for us individually and collectively, we will reaffirm that systems design is the only viable approach to working with and re-creating our systems in a changing world of new realities. (1996: 42)

For Banathy, social systems design emerged as ‘a manifestation of open systems thinking and corresponding soft systems approaches’ (46). He cites an extensive number of thinkers, including Peter Checkland, C. West Churchman, Herbert Simon, John Chris Jones, and Gerald Nadler, all of whom had begun writing about the design of social systems.11 The literature started to grow in the 1970s and, according to Banathy, reached a watershed in 1981, although significant writing also developed after that date. Much of Banathy’s 1996 book Designing Social Systems in a Changing World is theoretical, emphasising methodologies for designing and evaluating social systems. Though he cites John Chris Jones’s Design Methods as an important source, he draws on little else in the design literature to develop an approach to social systems design that would be accessible to practising designers. In a recent book chapter, ‘Systems Design Principles for Complex Social Systems’, Peter H. Jones has summed up work on social systems analysis, particularly since the 1970s, as a prelude to discussing a proposed relation between systems ­theory and design thinking (Jones 2014).12 Jones refers to ‘systemic design’, which he says:

[…] brings human-centered design to complex, multi-stakeholder service systems as those found in industrial networks, transportation, medicine and healthcare. It adapts from known design competencies – form and process reasoning, social and generative research methods, and sketching and visualisation practices – to describe, map, propose, and configure complex services and systems (Sevaldson and Jones 2014: 93).

This approach, Jones says, differs from that of Banathy and several other theorists, for whom ‘social systems design is more a guideline for systems thinking in complex social applications. It is a mul­tidimensional inquiry, not a “studio” practice ­engaged in by design firms’ (99).

Social Systems Thought in the Design Literature Though Peter Jones makes reference to the design literature, he writes from outside the field. Therefore, his design references are selective, and are especially directed to those who have shown some interest in systems thought. Within the systems orbit, the references tend to be related to the design methods movement and its aftermath. Jones includes thinkers such as Herbert Simon, Buckminster Fuller, Hugh Dubberly, and Liz Sanders within a design methods framework, although none of them had any relation to the movement. He lists Buckminster Fuller as a first-generation design methods thinker of the 1960s who emphasised planning and design science, and was influenced by systems engineering. Moving through the next several generations and decades, Jones sees a tendency towards soft systems and finally complexity as the main characteristic of fourth-generation design methods. Within the category of complexity, Sanders in particular has been a proponent of user-centred design and participatory practices, although she has not explicitly identified herself as a systems designer. Independent of the design methods movement, which has been characterised by the development of articulated generalisable methodologies, a group of authors beginning in the 1990s approached the expansive role for design in a different way. The theme of design interventions in complex systems was addressed in the academic journal Design Issues, beginning with Richard Buchanan’s seminal article ‘Wicked Problems in Design Thinking’ in 1992 and continuing with articles by Tony Golsby-Smith, Elizabeth Coleman, and Derek Miller and Lisa Rudnick.13 Buchanan’s background is in rhetoric and philosophy; hence he did not approach the question from a systems point of view. Instead, he adopted rhetorical language to broaden the discussion of design’s scope. He argued that the ‘emergence of design thinking’ lay in ‘a concern to connect and integrate useful knowledge from the arts and sciences alike, but in ways that are suited to the problems and purposes of the present’ (1992: 6). Buchanan used the rhetorical theory of place-

ments to characterise ‘four broad areas in which design is explored throughout the world by professional designers and by many others who may not regard themselves as designers’ (9). These are symbolic and visual communication; material objects; activities and organised services, which Buchanan equated with ‘achieving an organic flow of experience in concrete situations’; and finally complex systems for living, working, playing, and learning, a placement concerned with ‘the role of design in sustaining, developing, and integrating human beings into broader ecological and cultural environments […]’ (10). In the latter category, Buchanan included systems engineering, architecture, and urban planning, although he recognised that the category could accommodate new design approaches that were not limited to existing practices. Buchanan’s four placements, or orders as he called them, do not map easily onto the characteristics of social systems design that have arisen from systems theory, nor do they provide methodologies that would reflect Peter Jones’s attempt to find a unity between systems theory and design thinking. In fact, ­Buchanan explicitly distinguished between a category, which has fixed boundaries, and placements, which denote more open spaces where new forms of practice can be imagined. In essence, Buchanan offered a rhetorical approach to ‘the invention of possibilities’ rather than a typological ordering of particular design opportunities. In the years since Buchanan’s article was written, it has inspired a number of people, including some who were not trained as designers, to apply design thought to situations where it had not previously been considered. Among them was Elizabeth Coleman, formerly president of Bennington College, a small American liberal arts college in Bennington, Vermont. While making no reference to Buchanan’s orders of design, Dr Coleman gave a speech to the American Institute of Graphic Arts in which she spoke about restructuring her institution as a design process. Conversation happened to play a significant role in the process of change at Bennington. As Coleman wrote: Much as I thought I appreciated the omnipresence and importance of design, new dimensions of its value emerged for me when I engaged the challenge of trying to reanimate liberal arts education and reconnect education with its obligations to the well-being of a democracy. (2010: 4)

She subsequently described the curricular design, which addressed some of the issues higher education was facing in 2009, when she gave the presentation on which a subsequent Design Issues article was based. The outcome of the design process for her was nothing less than reorganising the curriculum and extracurricular service activities within a new set of social challenges that structured the students’ experience. As a result of what she called a design process, Bennington offered its students an entirely new approach to learning. Adopting what appears to have been Buchanan’s rhetorical definition of design placements, Coleman characterised both rhetoric and design as arts of discovery. ‘In

addition to their deep understanding of the continuum of thought and action,’ she stated, ‘and their orientation in an intrinsically open-ended, ambiguous, and changing world where subject matters are discovered not handed down, and where the importance of evidence assumes the dimensions of an ethos; rhetoric and design are deeply attuned to the inevitability and the desirability of multiple options’ (7). Coleman was presenting a case study where design thought made a difference in the outcome of a situation that was not previously seen as an object of design. Even though the Bennington process was an example of specific institutional change rather than large system change, it nonetheless represents an open-ended and enquiring design approach to a system that, as Sir Geoffrey Vickers postulated, consists of human actions and experiences.

Vickers’ Human Systems In his book Human Systems are Different, published in 1983, Sir Geoffrey Vickers, a pioneer theorist in the fields of social organisation and social systems analysis, took pains to distinguish between different types of systems in order to arrive at a workable definition of what he called a human system, which he distinguished from ecological systems and technological systems. The relation of human beings to eco­ logical systems is complicated, as Vickers recognised. Clearly, humans did not originally create these systems, although Vickers referred to ‘ecological systems so dominated by man that the whole system becomes, or aspires to become, human design’ (1983: 29). Technological systems consist of devices that can function independently of human intervention with the exception of evaluation and maintenance; while a human system in the broad sense refers to ‘human societies, their forms of governance and the ways in which each acts as a whole in relation to its surround’ (28–29). More precisely, Vickers stated that ‘the essence of a human system is that it is composed of human beings who bring it into being by their actions and their experiences’ (175). Of the various theorists who have thought or written about social systems, Vickers seems the most precise in putting an emphasis on the importance of human action within the system. The implication of this emphasis is that human systems are inherently open; that is, the results of their design cannot be fully controlled by their designers, whose role is consigned to anticipating a positive outcome by virtue of the design’s effectiveness rather than by ensuring a specific outcome that, as Vickers argued, depends on human actions and experiences. Human systems as Vickers defines them arise from concerns by humans about how they would like the world to be. These concerns then lead to ‘inner representations of the situation which is relevant to that concern’ (54). Vickers sees these inner representations as continuing, since they are frequently derived from long-standing reflection. The result of such patterns of reflection and their imagined

relevant situations is what Vickers calls ‘an appreciative system’. Such systems are characterised by three needs: sufficient correspondence with reality to guide action; sufficient sharing with others to mediate communication; and sufficient acceptability to make life bearable (55). Thus, an ‘appreciative system’ is based on subjective judgement but is constantly challenged or confirmed by experience. It is through the formulation of appreciative systems that ideas for design projects at multiple scales arise.

Human Systems Design Although the term ‘design’ has been used in connection with ‘social systems’ for around forty years (see the reference to Checkland in note 11), there has been little attention paid, as Peter Jones notes, to the designer’s point of view, the objective of which is to devise an intervention to change an existing system or create a new one. My interest in a new form of design practice that I will call ‘human systems design’ is to characterise it as a viable form of intervention and suggest the kinds of situations where it is now severely lacking and where it might be effectively introduced. Though I have borrowed the term ‘human systems’ from Vickers, I will not use it in this paper as expansively as he did. I am concerned here with systems that can be characterised at the level of a project where design intervention can make a difference. To consider whole societies as systems, the way Vickers does, is possible, but in doing so one has to recognise that changing such systems through design interventions is a far more challenging process and is in fact unprecedented.14 Human systems include human action and interaction that are part of the ­design situation. As human systems become larger and more complex, intervention methods must be designed to be as effective for them as the methods systems ­engineers devised to get the Apollo spacecraft to the moon and back. Although the design of a technological system is often central to a design project and may appear to stand alone, every technical system exists within the framework of a human system. Even automated systems require maintenance and repair, as well as service representatives to consult when the system does not work for the user.15 One example of a technical system embedded in a human system is the method of paying for public transport on subway trains and buses that the City of Chicago introduced in 2013. Known as the Ventra system, it replaced one kind of fare card with another. The new cards initially included an option to use them for other purchases, based on the belief that the contracting company could foist additional credit functions on customers whose principal concern was using the city’s public transit. The credit card system also brought with it a series of extremely high fees that worked to the detriment of the user. Opting out of the credit portion was not a simple process; it required a considerable expenditure of time and energy. Addi-

tionally, the customer service system that was supposed to address questions from the public became a mass of confusion as customers could not get the correct phone numbers or, if they did, found long, time-consuming waits to speak with customer service representatives. People received cards in the mail that did not work and consequently had to start all over again to get a functioning card. A system outage that occurred on 13 November 2013, required the transit authority to waive fares for an estimated fifteen thousand rides, which resulted in a sizeable loss of revenue. Now, after about three years, the system has improved a great deal, but only after an inordinate amount of customer confusion and frustration (Chicago Tribune 2013). ­Although political decisions frequently contribute to the weakness or failure of human systems, the Ventra debacle, which was enmeshed in politics, could have been avoided or significantly alleviated had a human systems designer proposed a better plan for its development and roll-out.16 This raises the question of what expertise a human systems designer can bring to a project and how that expertise can be acquired. It also raises questions about how human systems design differs from other practices such as service design, which seems closest in aim to the new practice I am proposing.17 While there can be overlap between what service designers and human systems designers do, there can also be differences. The brief of a human systems designer is more likely to include the design of larger and more complex systems than the service designer normally encounters. Service design methodology, particularly that which involves ­avatars and storyboards, can be useful for the human systems designer, but the latter may also need to address issues that frame a design situation as well as those within a situation that are required to deliver results. Thus, human systems design could involve extensive social or political analysis and engagement as well as the formulation of design propositions. These skills might be characterised in other ways as analytic and projective competencies.18 Since the possibility of human systems depends on the social and political contexts in which they are proposed, the capacity to analyse those contexts and ­incorporate the analyses into the design of workable interventions is part of the ­human systems designer’s brief. While that in itself does not preclude anything a service designer might do, it does suggest the capacity to deal with the design of systems themselves in addition to the services that a system might deliver. The distinction between the two forms of design that I am making in this article is only a preliminary formulation and is not meant to challenge the potential of service design. As a new practice, the possibilities of human systems design are actually unknown. However, one distinction I will note is the trajectory of influences that have informed service design as an existing practice and human systems design as an emerging one. The trajectory of human systems design originates in the improvement of social systems as John Chris Jones outlined them in his Design essay of 1968, and to which other proponents of social systems design have alluded over the years. The methods required to achieve such ends are yet to be developed.

At one level, human systems design may become a form of political action based on the designer’s ability to envision alternative systems to those that already exist. Although human systems designers would be trained to work in the private sector as well as the public one, they would likely find more clients among organisations that have a public service mission. These would include municipalities, government bodies at all levels, and non-governmental associations. Human systems designers would be trained to work in situations where an understanding of the people involved as service recipients, and an ability to work with them regarding their expectations, would be crucial. As the world has become more globalised, so have the kinds of situations that a human systems designer might be called upon to address. Consider two: refugee resettlement and climate change. In recent years, numerous projects have addressed both of these situations, with little success and considerable failure. Both situations are fraught with political problems that have had to be faced as part of the attempts to resolve them. The situations are highly complex and involve engagement with other human beings as much as with technology or designed objects. In the case of complex problems, the human systems designer must play a strong discursive role as an advocate for adequate resources to ensure a successful intervention. Human systems designers also need their own techniques to model proposed intervention strategies for prospective clients, a skill that Wolfgang Jonas characterises as ‘synthetic competency’. Whereas graphic designers and product designers are trained to produce sketches, computer models, or actual three-dimensional prototypes, so does the human systems designer require representation techniques for presentation purposes. On the one hand, cognitive mapping provides the means to visualise relationships between components or elements of a projected human system, but on the other the need for rhetorical skills is paramount, especially when the designer is proposing to work with human actors who must be motivated to act differently in the system to be designed or redesigned.

Conclusion Systems theorists have learned much from Ludwig von Bertalanffy’s first speculations about engineering-derived techniques to manage social systems. The separation of systems engineering from system design was an important step forward, as has been the extended reflection on suitable methodologies for the design of social systems in particular. However, Peter Jones has usefully noted that social systems theorists have paid little attention to design as a form of intervention, as opposed to considering it from a more theoretical and methodological level. What I have sought to do in this essay is to make the argument for a new specific practice of human systems design that is based on almost sixty years of think-

ing about systems . My argument for a new practice builds on the proposals for systemic design methods that John Chris Jones and Bruce Archer introduced and others developed after them. The concept of human systems design certainly falls within the broad category of transformation design. However, it is not intended as a transformative intervention in and of itself, but rather as a way to ensure that new social and technological interventions are thoughtfully and holistically conceived and effectively introduced in ways that facilitate rational, efficient, and socially just human responses. When considering transformative design interventions, it is important to ­realise that design is not something imposed on a static situation. In fact, we can speak of ‘transformative situations’ into which design has to find a way to intervene. My proposal for a new practice thus relates to ways of applying innovative design methodologies to such situations where such methodologies do not currently exist or are barely present. The transformative nature of the present moment has created a demand for designers who can navigate the complexities of human systems and introduce innovations to make them workable. The world is facing unprecedented problems that demand well-thought-out and well-managed interventions. There have been too many failed attempts to manage large and mid-sized projects. These range from the inadequate response to Hurricane Sandy to the social chaos of de-territorialised refugees. The current state of the world suggests that many more such situations will arise. The call for new forms of design practice to address these situations has come mainly from the ranks of design theorists and designers rather than from the theorists of social systems. At the same time, there has not been sufficient motivation among designers and design organisations to acknowledge the urgency of establishing new practices, particularly those that can draw on the extensive history of systems thinking, to meet the world’s current and future crises. A cadre of human systems designers could address this lack. Training such a cadre is a worthwhile ­objective.

  1 For an account of operations research during the Second World War, see the seminal articles by Joseph Mc­Closkey (1987a, 1987b, and 1987c).   2 I am grateful to Wolfgang Jonas for calling my attention to this article.   3 Such attitudes prompted a spate of books in the 1970s that were critical of poor design, especially ­Papanek 1971 and Blake 1979. It should be noted that William Morris mounted a scathing critique of Britain’s social ills from a designer’s point of view in the 1880s and 1890s.   4 Ironically, there are a few examples today of totally new cities that are being built with all the latest sustainable technology, but they are financed by political regimes that don’t enforce the social equality that an ideal city should exemplify. Masdar City in Abu Dhabi is an example.  5 General systems theory was the name that biologist Ludwig von Bertalanffy gave to the study of systems in the mid-1940s. In the late 1960s, von Bertalanffy (1968) published a collection of essays that included English translations of his early German writings, in which the term that was translated as ‘general systems theory’ appeared. An early account of the theory in English was von Bertalanffy 1950. It is possible that Fuller and/or John Chris Jones may have seen that article.   6 For a discussion of Fuller’s time at Southern Illinois University, see Gowan 2012.   7 The quote is taken from chapter 2, which was based on an article von Bertalanffy published in 1955.   8 Dyer 1998 includes material on Ramo–Wooldridge’s early methods for managing large-scale weapons production.   9 David Mindell (2008) discusses the complexities of the Apollo programme. 10 Wikipedia contributors 2014. 11 See, for example, Checkland 1999; Churchman 1971; Simon 1969; Jones 1970; and Nadler 1981. 12 Jones was previously involved in the topic as the co-editor of papers from the Second Symposium of ­Relating Systems Thinking and Design, which was held at the Oslo School of Architecture, 9–11 October 2013. See Sevaldson and Jones 2014. See also FORMakademisk 2014. 13 See Golsby-Smith 1996; Coleman 2010; and Miller and Rudnick 2011. 14 Vickers states that ‘the most conspicuous type of human system today is the autonomous nation state’ (76). What holds nation states together, he declares, is their citizens’ mutual recognition of them as ‘­appreciative systems’. 15 There is a tendency for some companies (Amazon is an example) to create technological systems within which the user has no recourse to a human response. So long as such systems function seamlessly, which is rarely the case, they are manageable, although they still require their own back systems of ­human oversight, maintenance, and repair. 16 The Ventra system for the metro and buses is part of a larger system that includes the Metra commuter trains. The original plan behind the Ventra roll-out was to integrate the three means of transit into a larger system by 2015. This seems unlikely since a recent OECD report found a significant lack of communication between the four transit agencies that control different parts of the system. Bringing these agencies together is a political problem that nonetheless frames the possibilities for improving coordinated access to the different modes of transport through a new transit access system design (Wronski 2014). 17 A thorough textbook on service design is Meroni and Sangiorgi 2011. The book contains a considerable number of case studies. 18 I have adopted this characterisation of competencies from the work of Wolfgang Jonas.

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Designing for Sustainable Development: Industrial Ecology, Sustainable Development, and Social Innovation Gavin Melles

Abstract: Design has recently taken a decided turn towards social innovation and impact. The agenda of socially responsible design covers both developing and developed countries and builds on human-centred design approaches, sustainability, and social impact. Despite the successes of these innovations in practice and education, innovation, as taught in design schools, is firmly embedded in a Mainstream Sustainable Development (MSD) discourse of market environmentalism and ecological modernisation, contributing in so doing to exacerbating the existing imbalance of human and natural needs. ­Beyond Life Cycle Analysis (LCA) and eco-design for sustainability are development ­demands that question economic, social, and environmental common sense, demanding systemic approaches to innovation and change for sustainable livelihoods in Bottom of the Pyramid (BoP) contexts. From end-of-pipe pollution control to deep green ecology, the continuum of Sustainable Development (SD) ideologies positions technology innovation relative to human and ecological well-being differently. Taking such an agenda ­seriously in industrial design will demand integration of industrial ecology, sustainable design, and social innovation frameworks. Building on a critique of current approaches to human-centred and socially responsible design, this paper proposes that sustainable development and not sustainability should be the framework of choice for design’s theoretical and practical contribution to development in BoP. This paper suggests what these changes might look like at the postgraduate level.

Introduction: Some Conceptual Clarity Since Victor Papanek’s agenda-setting critique of industrial design first appeared forty-five years ago in Design for the Real World (Papanek 1985), design schools and agencies appear to have taken up the challenge and have woven eco-design, sustainability, and life-cycle analysis into the fabric of education and practice. Despite this, critical voices have been raised about the quality and depth of the design agenda. Madge (1997), for example, questions the technical focus of eco-design while seeing change towards deeper engagement with sustainability. Ehrenfeld (2004), a strong advocate for industrial ecology, sees a burden-shifting approach to sustain-

ability focused on symptoms rather than real engagement with the problems in design. Other voices could be added to this chorus of protest of the rhetoric of sustainability in design areas. I believe that Papanek’s human and ecological agenda – and that of socially ­responsible design in general – is not served by adhering to sustainability but rather by addressing the human, environmental, and economic demands of sustainable development. For industrial and product design specifically, in an era of product services and systems, the framework of industrial ecology focuses on the relevant resource constraints, while social innovation and entrepreneurship develop alternative economic models for sustainable development innovation now taking hold in the developing world. Design is a latecomer to the field of social impact and transformation and therefore coins or re-appropriates terminology that is already in use elsewhere. In the design, community development, and (social) business world, the term social innovation has purchase for those organisations, such as IDEO, Frog, Stanford d. school, now investing energy in affordable solutions for the developing world (e.g., Brown and Wyatt 2010). The term social transformation focuses on the social outcome of innovation, in other words the transformation of society, and is associated with normative (sustainability matters), holistic, transdisciplinary, and radical principles employed by service design (Sangiorgi 2011), which emerged as the new landscapes of design practice moved into many non-tangible service and community ­domains (Sanders and Stappers 2008). Co-creating health services with users and other stakeholders for community and socially progressive ends has been called transformation design (Sangiorgi 2011). Service design is not, however, empowering or socially transformative per se, so service design with social impact has justified a new term: social transformation. There is naturally a term in use that captures the need for innovation in the ­development world that is constrained by the Triple Bottom Line (TBL) of environmental, social, and economic goals: sustainable development. Despite the plethora of ­activity and rhetoric in design schools and in practice on social impact and transformation, there is evidence that design’s grasp of the broader constraints on sustainable development is limited (see Melles, de Vere, and Misic 2011). This limited perspective on sustainable development is due also to writers such as Walker (2007) describing sustainable development as a ‘myth’, preferring, it seems, to limit ‘hands-on’ design to material constraints and convention. Such a short-sighted rejection of economics and politics does nothing to promote understanding in design. In fact, social transformation design, which is to say service design with a social impact focus, so defined, bears a striking resemblance to (Participatory) Action Research (PAR); similarities between design and action research were noted over a decade ago elsewhere (Swann 2002). PAR has, of course, played a major role in ­development contexts, and was inspired ultimately by the groundbreaking ‘critical’ agenda in Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire (1970). PAR aimed to help intel-

lectually and materially emancipate the poor in developing countries by challenging conventions and the elite (Melles 1998). Thus, here again the terminology in design is disconnected from wider and older streams of work, especially debates and practice in sustainable development. More broadly, societal transformation in the developing world through social innovation is increasingly linked to social entrepreneurship driven by local – not foreign, ‘Western’ – innovation (Alvord, Brown, and Letts 2002). It seems ever clearer, despite rhetoric to the contrary, that the kinds of holistic principles mentioned above, which now underpin intellectual debates and practical outcomes in sustainable development (SD), have yet to be developed in ways others have more fully outlined (see Fry 2009). Key to this debate is recognition that Mainstream Sustainable Development (MSD) sits at the intersection of weak BusinessAs-Usual (BAU) and strong SD paradigms. Those arguing for real human-centred engagement with poverty reduction, equitable growth, and climate change now question existing models of economic growth, globalisation and trade, and technical BAU approaches to exploiting natural resources. There is now an argument to re-imagine development not only as economic growth. Another, more radical solution is the post-growth society (e.g., Jackson 2009), which challenges the assumption that annual GDP growth of 2 per cent or more – as envisaged at the latest G20 meeting in Brisbane, Australia – is desirable or feasible. While these ideas are politically unpalatable to conventional micro- and macro-economics, they are a real and radical, innovative attempt to deal with environmental degradation and rising global inequity. If design wishes to be a game changer, then it must, I suggest, contribute to this unconventional agenda.

Sustainable Development and Socially Responsible Design Sustainable development received a significant global focus with the publication of the eight goals and eighteen targets and forty-eight measures of the Millennium Development Goals (MDGs) in 2000, regarding targets for 2015. In the current moment of discussion about renegotiating the MDGs for the period 2015 and beyond, there is broad recognition that the needs-based goals and targets of the original formulation in the year 2000 for the Bottom Billion (see Sumner 2010) are no longer adequate to the growth demands of BRIC (Brazil, Russia, India, China) economies of transition (Malik et al. 2013) nor the aspirations of BoP households to escape the multidimensional poverty trap by engaging in emergent markets (Melamed and Scott 2011). It is perhaps no surprise that the goals for 2015 and beyond proposed at Rio+20 in 2012 are called the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) and look beyond immediate needs-based aims to models of equitable global growth in a world challenged by climate change and its effects (Griggs, Stafford-Smith, and Gaffney

2013). In this context of the post-Washington consensus (Birdsall and Fukuyama 2011), new institutional arrangements, including hybrids such as social entrepreneurship, are offering hope for (further) development and innovation in the ‘rising’ South. In such a context, design practice and education should be asking what its current approaches to Socially Responsible Design (SRD) in the developing world contribute to achieving the MDGs and in future the SDGs. Admittedly, the issue of adequate approaches to design for sustainable development, in the broadest sense – for example, environmental design, urban planning, and so on – is not new (e.g., Lyle 1994). However, industrial design and related fields have seemed to prefer the tangible demands of sustainability, such as materials choice (e.g., Ljungberg 2007), rather than the politics, economics, and ecology of development as the theme of choice. Sustainability education in industrial design definitely still has an indifferent record (e.g., Ramirez 2006). More recently, more mainstream development concepts such as Sen’s capabilities (Gasper 1997) have been proposed as a better guide to design engagement, for example capability-design (Oosterlaken 2009); and while this is helpful, it is not clear to me whether a philosophical commitment to capabilities or any other proposal is adequate to invigorate design education and practice. Although terminology varies, design has developed a broad set of human-centred design perspectives and tools for urban and rural contexts, which, following Cooper (2010), I will call Socially Responsible Design (SRD). There is no need and no space here to rehearse the emergence of this movement or perspective; Papanek’s original agenda was crucial. Social innovation and social impact driven by human-­ centred design approaches has become a flagship for key agencies like IDEO (e.g., Brown and Wyatt 2010). Among other things, Morelli (2007) believes the answer for the new context is a view of ‘clients as co-producers’ as a way of ‘reducing the distance between market based and socially oriented initiative’ (19). This is an approach that does not view users in BoP contexts as merely recipients of design innovation. Team environments where multiple disciplines and skills are required also constitute the new reality for innovation, and are being fostered in some programmes (Beckman and Barry 2007). Clearly, co-design and participatory approaches have for some time been part of the new landscape of design practice, especially but not ­exclusively for resolving the ‘fuzzy front end’ of design briefing with users (Sanders and Stappers 2008). In many ways, these developments are a positive response to the call by ­Margolin and Margolin (2002) for a model of social design. Cooper (2010) suggests, however, that despite all the activity, the ability of design to account for trade-offs and context is still limited: ‘Designers often have to take into account a complex range of issues and develop methods of considering trade-offs between, for example, crime and inclusiveness, or the economy and social inclusiveness (as an example, consider neighbourhood gentrification)’ (17). In addition, the innovations in practice and education to date do not yet fully answer the call for approaches to sus-

tainable development where market and social impact considerations can be met, and where alternatives to unimpeded economic growth favouring the rich North form an unexamined backdrop. There are certainly doubts among designers about how sustainable eco-design and similar approaches are addressing these challenges, particularly as they do not question technological approaches to product design (Sherwin 2004). This is a central issue for sustainable development, and one that should form part of design education. Specifically, how do such initiatives and the socially responsive design movement measure up to the criteria of Triple Bottom Line (TBL) sustainable development (see Melles, de Vere, and Misic 2011)? The TBL suggests that a balance of environmental, social, and economic goals must be achieved for sustainable development initiatives. To what extent do such initiatives promote sustainable livelihoods (Ashley and Carney 1999) that focus on the asset and access challenges and strategies of poor households? These questions are perhaps most relevant in a context of education beyond the first degree, where broader frameworks, experiences, and T-shaped graduates are in demand. It is clear that design innovations, such as water pumps and smokeless cookers, can be responsive to developing world needs but may not be sustainable innovations in the relevant sense. The question here is: how can graduates enhance their understanding of the decision space for poor households and mobilise or contribute to their innovation capacity in a sustainable way? They certainly cannot do this alone and on the basis of the current piecemeal approaches to teaching sustainability in design schools (e.g., Ramirez 2006). At least part of the answer lies in understanding the alignment of current approaches with strong and weak sustainable development propositions.

Strong and Weak Sustainable Development Since the Brundtland Commission (1987) formulation of ‘sustainable development’ as a balanced focus on human and conservation needs concentrating on the present and future, a mainstream discourse of sustainable development (MSD) has been ­established. Adams (2009) describes this as a mix of ecological ­modernisation, ­market environmentalism, and populist discourses of man and nature. This mainstream MSD, as the name suggests, is widely employed and presumes that economic growth can be maintained through technology innovation, measured environmental protection, and varying degrees of voluntary and enforced regulation. Despite the discursive consensus on MSD, it is not yet a discourse that has been globally ­accepted or implemented. It straddles a divide between strong and weak SD in its rhetoric. Separating weak sustainability from strong sustainable development is a belief about the substitutability of nature by human capital – the notion that human needs and economic growth demand that we sacrifice nature, to a

Weak model of substitutability

Strong model of substitutability

3 rings – all three components are of ­relative importance – degree of sustainability depends upon interaction among economy , society and environment (intersection of three rings) – assumes reasonable substitutability (decline in one can be compensated for by increases in other two) – consistent with free markets and capitalism – focus on ­capital – anthropocentric (humans ­priviliged) and technocentric – nature provides humans with amenity value (satisfaction gained from ownership) – focus is no growth (quantitative increase in physical scale) – humans are superior to nature

nested circles – although the environment is placed on the ­periphery, it is considered paramount in this model, because it cannot be readily changed as a ­human-created society and economy – environment is the foundation for both economy and society – economics is part of society and society is part of the environment (embedded – nested) – economics and society are constrained by ­environment – assumes limited substitutability – focused on living off the interest from nature (e.g., social interest, economic interest, human interest instead of capital) – ecocentric as well as sustainable community ethic (combination of anthropo and technocentricity) – nature has intrinsic value (can exist without ­humans) – focus on the development (a qualitative improvement and unfolding of potentials) – humans as a superior intelligence working within nature

1 Weak and strong sustainability (McGregor 2013)1

greater or lesser extent, to those needs. In contrast, strong sustainability argues that a critical natural capital exists that cannot be sacrificed. Deep ecology or green movements take this further, to argue that nature has an intrinsic value and no substitution at all is possible (Ekins et al. 2003). It is this dividing line between strong and weak sustainable development that Baker (2006) has characterised as a ‘ladder of sustainable development’ with implications for technology, civil–state relations, economic policy and governance, and normative principles for a continuum stretching from end-of-pipe technocratic to deep ecology approaches. Strong sustainability favours changes in patterns and levels of consumption, has a focus on non-material aspects of growth, aims to maintain critical natural capital and biodiversity and heighten local self-sufficiency in the context of globalised markets, and favours democratic participation and bottom-up community structures. Baker presents a continuum of values and practices from very weak end-of-pipe solutions to deep green ‘ideal’ SD models. MSD constitutes a hybrid compromise that includes some populist discourses about man and nature (Adams 2009). For the purposes of this discussion, the table above separates weak and strong sustainability across a number of dimensions.

Compared with this framework, it is not clear that LCA, recycling, and other mainstream tools and processes in design education necessarily contribute much if anything to the values of strong sustainability (Steen 2005). Industrial and product design needs to first ask which side of this divide it sits on, and where it might wish to be. Design rhetoric and practice sits comfortably within MSD. In essence, commitments to gender equality, participation, and conservation, as expressed in MSD, rarely examine the assumptions about growth and society that need transforming for this to occur – to attain the MDGs, for example. Strong sustainability says this is essential; a good example is Tim Jackson’s (2009) thesis about Prosperity without Growth. MSD is made up of discourses of market environmentalism, ecological modernisation, and populism (Adams 2009). Market environmentalism takes the market as the essential mechanism for regulating human–nature interactions, aiming to continue to reduce the role of the state, promote the deregulation of markets, and extend market relations into the domain of society–environment interactions. It is an approach that believes in unrestrained economic growth, rejecting alternatives such as zero growth or other attempts at a more equitable distribution of resources and opportunities, since ‘consumption can be the engine through which sustainable environments and livelihoods are to be achieved’ (Adams 2009: 124). Businesses are encouraged to take voluntary measures to protect the environment and also to enter into partnerships with environmental groups, as highlighted in the Rio Agenda 2.2 Ecological modernisation, meanwhile, is reformist and regulatory while supporting capitalism and conventional growth, although seeing technological improvements as essential in the environmental performance of companies and individ­ uals. Proponents of ecological modernisation acknowledge that environmental degradation may accompany the operation of free markets, but they argue that the solution lies in the self-corrective potential of capitalist modernisation (Adams 2009). It is an approach that is popular with policy makers, as it integrates a role for the state, appeals to the green vote, and is a strong voice in the Brundtland document. The more radical strong sustainability model demands far more innovative thinking about development in the broadest sense. What implications would this or could this have for education, compared with the existing offer in design schools?

Implications for Design Curriculum I reiterate here that I am considering the design pedagogy implications of taking sustainable development as a necessary framework into consideration at postgraduate levels. I am also focusing on the agenda for industrial design and related fields, not architecture and so on. This is not just a critique of current approaches to sus-

tainability in design, but a consideration of the necessary principles and elements of curriculum and practice that might allow the OECD to participate through innovation in the development of the South. One clear implication is that multidisciplinary involvement in teams with a strong commitment to human-centred design, ­political awareness and engagement, and a willingness to learn is essential. These principles and constraints have become more apparent to me in my teaching and research collaborations with IIT Madras Center for Social Innovation and Entrepreneurship (CSIE) since early 2014. Interestingly, it is not design schools that have really engaged with the considerations above, but rather architecture, engineering, and management – disciplines that Herbert Simon called the Sciences of the Artificial (Soo Meng 2009). Thus, Stanford Graduate (Management) School has offered since 2008 a two-­ quarter class entitled Entrepreneurial Design for Extreme Affordability, which addresses some of the economic issues mentioned here.1 IIT Madras, meanwhile, like certain other schools in the region, has developed a minor programme in social entrepreneurship and innovation, which encourages engineering and MBA students to consider all three ‘legs’ of TBL in proposing technology and service innovations. The implications from both programmes are clear: multidisciplinary input into ­sustainable innovations, which may then be further leveraged in research–industry ­incubation cells, requires fieldwork and engagement and consideration of the economic, ecological, and social constraints facing SD. The question design schools should be asking is why they are so behind these developments. The new environments are challenging for existing approaches to innovation versus the indigenous models developed in India, such as frugal innovation (Bound and Thornton 2012). A recurring feature of the literature and in my recent conversations with faculty at IIT Madras who were involved in innovation for social impact was the fact that too many innovations of this sort were not sustainable in the relevant rural environments, as they lacked understanding of the sociocultural and economic constraints of household decision making. One example discussed was the failure of affordable composting toilets, whose uptake was poor due to cultural preference for open defecation and rejection of the idea of toilets being installed inside houses. Other, more public examples include the failure of the one-laptop-per-child campaign (e.g., Kraemer, Dedrick, and Sharma 2009). What do students in the North need to know to contribute to the sustainable development of the South? First, they need to recognise that the South is innovating without any need for expert assistance and under constraints that produce ‘reverse innovations’ now selling back to OECD nations. Second, fieldwork and practical experience in the relevant countries will continue to play a key role, but not simply as input into a project that will be completed in the North and implemented without consideration for sustainable development – that is, local empowerment, the role of women, economic independence, and so on. Third, education programmes integrating the relevant social, economic, and environmental concerns

need to be developed or modified along the lines of models already in existence in EIT, such as India. Fourth, a recognition that the future is being written in the South, not the North (UNDP 2013). Fifth, one of the key messages is the need not simply for charity but for sustainable interventions that lead to independence and growth in the South (see, e.g., Dorward 2009).

Discussion In the context of this discussion, we are focusing on the significance of sustainable development particularly as it relates to product design and related fields. The agenda for architecture, urban design, and beyond is already well advanced. We think that Industrial Ecology (IE) offers a relevant holistic approach focused on stocks, systems, and flows. In addition, we think that sustainable ­development, despite Walker’s claims, is the relevant broad development agenda, with its focus on TBL, equity, poverty reduction, and the MDGs, to take the IE perspective to another level in which not only resource constraints but economic and social well-being are relevant. The economics of sustainable development and the innovation of affordable products for sustainable development goals demand alternative mechanisms of funding and alternative value systems, which we believe social entrepreneurship is contributing to fill. Ehrenfeld (2004), who was the architect of industrial ecology, has argued for a deeper engagement with sustainability that questions our assumptions about, for example, consumption. The issues raised here respond also to this call for frameworks that question taken-for-granted assumptions and the mainstream sustainability discourse that drives current approaches in design. Waage (2007) suggests the time is ripe for product design to develop a coherent plan to address the plethora of issues associated with sustainability. In a similar vein, Spangenberg, Fuad-Luke, and Blincoe (2010) suggest that Design for Sustainability (DfS) is far more than eco-­ design and conventional approaches. To their considerations I add concerns about what to teach and why. My suggestion ultimately is that human-centred design for sustainable development be added to the landscape of design approaches (Sanders 2008), a move that admittedly will redefine the curriculum. I have suggested that some of the answers are already being provided in the rising South. Are we preparing design students for engagement with a changing world, which the ‘rising South’ is increasingly defining? Innovation that is restricted to promoting the modernist, modified neo-liberal agenda of growth through increased consumption and production is an approach the rich North should re-examine as it is overtaken by the rising South – not to mention the moral and ethical contradictions of this agenda with design’s recent activist stance. T-shaped gradu-

ates will study sustainable development, development economics, social entrepreneurship, and related topics to prepare them for the future (or present).

1 2 3

Available at http://www.mdpi.com/2071-1050/5/8/3562/htm. See http://www.gsb.stanford.edu/news/bmavg/sbsm0909/feature-design.html. See http://www.hazwastehelp.org/BHW/industrial-ecology.aspx.

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Mobility Peak: Scenes from a ­Deceleration 1

Stephan Rammler

A look back: 2011 represented the zenith of the petroleum culture, with the greatest-ever consumption of energy. Ninety-five per cent of all industrially manufactured products were reliant on oil. We faced the task of having to plan for the descent from the peak. It involved defining quality of life in terms other than material prosperity, reducing the standards of the fossil age down to a human scale, and ultimately creating a culture of stability, solidarity, and mindfulness in a world that to all intents and purposes was fixated on growth, motion, and acceleration. Today, forty years later, on the occasion of the anniversary of the founding of Mobilitätsservice GmbH (Mobility Service Ltd.), known as Mobility for short, I have been asked to take a look back at the history of the company during the time of the ‘Great Transformation’ in the years since 2011. Ironically, it was exactly forty years ago that I was requested to look into the future to the present day and draft a concrete utopia for the future of our mobility around 2050. I turned down the offer. I thought it would be careless to make predictions so far into the future. In the process, however, I had always tried to produce images of a radical alternative society and a new concept of collective prosperity. Of course, what was missing in those days were positive visions of a new functioning culture. We lacked the inner guiding principle of a new continent that we could turn to, like the one the emigrants, those ‘make-believe travellers to America’, had conceived long before they set off to find a better life in the New World. However, something changed around the year 2011. An upheaval was in the making, and there was much speculation and debate about the future.

Apocalypse and Utopia The main bone of contention was the availability of petroleum. The oil industry claimed that there was enough to last for many decades, but in fact by the year 2011 we had already long reached the maximum rate of petroleum extraction. The oil-producing nations lied to the world about the available reserves and, employing perverse logic, the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) determined the allowable crude oil production based on the listed reserves. The more reserves were available, the more crude oil could be extracted, and thus more profit was

earned. Paradoxically, the reserves grew from year to year, although fewer oil fields were being discovered each year despite state-of-the-art technology and the fact that the global consumption had grown enormously due to development in emerging countries. Peak oil was inevitable. But most people simply refused to deal with the question of the effect this would have on our civilisation. There was a psychological barrier that prevented people from facing irrefutable facts. The same was true of climate change, the population explosion, the worsening global food crisis, the agricultural production limits that had already long been reached by that time, water shortages, and the flight of refugees from now-desolate regions of the world. Taken as a whole, these factors had all the ingredients of a catastrophe in the making. Some people asked what would happen and raised the spectre of a perishing world. Others bought weapons and gold, hoarded supplies, and modernised their homes in order to continue existing during the Great Transformation they were expecting. And then it came – vehemently, sweeping up everything in its path. For those wondering what changed, the answer is quite simple: everything. Yet the Great Transformation didn’t come the way we thought and feared it would. There was one thing that the change was not: inhuman. That was the big surprise that contradicted all previous cultural-historical experiences of human behaviour in times of crisis and shortage. There were conflicts, to be sure, but in the end the will to creatively make the best of the existing situation and to completely rebuild the world prevailed. We were trailblazers, and finally arrived at a place where we are now on a sure footing again. The decisive factor is that it was possible and had an enormous effect, particularly on our mobility. I would now like to provide an account of this process and describe in episodes how we overcame the challenge and how successful the change ultimately was, ­despite all the difficulties along the way.

A Social Laboratory of Sustainable Mobility Something unexpected took place in Germany in 2011. A large automotive company founded a subsidiary named Mobilitätsservice GmbH, better known as Mobility. Experts from the fields of mobility research and fleet management, the information technology industry, and the business development department of the company’s own leasing bank were brought together with the purpose of finally realising the long-discussed idea of establishing a service company for mobility. While much money was being earned with cars in Asia, Germany was to become a model region for mobility usage innovations. It later became clear that far-sighted managers had been worried about the future of their company for a long time. They were willing to risk a timely attempt to free themselves from dependency on fossil technology, at least in a national context,

in order to avoid the risk of losing the financial and mental ability to act, which might result in the context of a resource crisis conflict. There were many reasons for taking this step: the company’s profits had never been higher; the climate change debate had led to increased pressure to work towards sustainability; and finally, the finiteness of the available resources was viewed internally with much more concern than was visible in the marketplace. They had gradually realised that not even the electric car would turn into the hoped-for ‘messiah vehicle’ that would rescue the dinosaur. It could not adequately replace the functions of the combustion engine in the mass mobilisation model so that everything could continue as before and the automotive industry would be rescued. Even the electric car would have to struggle with resource bottlenecks where the manufacturing of batteries and chassis was concerned. Smart bioplastics had not yet been invented, so where would all the lightweight construction materials come from at that time, if not from petroleum? The car has a limited operating range that could only be solved in combination with other modes of transport and thus new business models. The trade union representatives on the supervisory board were likewise very concerned, and they found many like-minded colleagues. What would happen to this nation of car owners if fuel prices exploded and never came down again, if not only the production of cars but also their operating costs became prohibitively expensive for most people? The car monoculture of many of Germany’s regions would result in very high unemployment rates and a downward socio-structural spiral. While it would be impossible to carry out radical reforms of the economic structure immediately, it was believed that the company’s dependence on a single successful product could be altered in favour of a greater diversity of products and the development of service competencies in the operation of integrated transport solutions. Perhaps they should invest more in the production and operation of public transport. Anything was possible. However, a manageable real laboratory was first needed, where tests could be carried out and especially where a functioning and tangible example of a different kind of mobility could be created and then marketed as the model approach for a sustainable future. That was really revolutionary, and it did not come a minute too soon.

Innovative Use of Mobility The idea entailed nothing more than the intelligent use and linkage of existing transport infrastructures and products, and the effective use of fewer products with a greater emphasis on clever organisation and network building. This was the ­corporate philosophy, and its capital was its professional linkage competence. IT ­experts began constructing a network on the basis of the mobile Internet. It soon

­ ecame possible for everyone to organise their own mobility with a mobile phone: b cars could be booked, bicycles borrowed, small vehicles rented, car-sharing requests sent, or a train or bus ticket purchased. Mobility stations were set up all across the cities with vehicles parked in front of them. The stations were later upgraded to ­allow free access to vehicles throughout the city. The vehicles were activated via mobile phone and the costs for their use were automatically debited. Mobilitätsservice GmbH was a kind of mobility broker that cooperated with all other transport system operators in urban and rural areas in addition to private car owners. Spaces for private cars were set up at regular intervals in clearly visible places on the roadside. These were for the ‘electronic hitchhikers’ who had sent car-sharing requests via mobile phone to the network organised by Mobility. Soon the fleet operators were deploying more and more electric vehicles, and after 2020 only electric cars were used. The advantage was that these vehicles were deployed where they were most efficient: for a variety of short city trips, where they took up little space and could be driven quietly and emissions free. Technical services and recharging could be carried out directly by the provider at the mobility stations. These mobility services basically helped to launch the new electric technology. The company could profitably operate the fleet composed of electric vehicles it had itself manufactured and which would probably never have been purchased by private customers. Over time, customers became familiar with the technology, and the private demand grew after they were able to assess it for themselves. In addition, fleet operations were enormously resource-efficient because a single vehicle was ideally in use twenty-four hours a day, while a private car remained stationary on average for twenty-three hours a day. Mobilitätsservice GmbH became a successful model, cooperating with other mobility providers such as the Deutsche Bahn AG railway company. In time, it established a very successful service and invoicing network within which individuals were able to offer transport services, pick-ups and deliveries, repairs, and later nursing and catering services. In the process, a completely new form of currency emerged: mobility points. In the beginning, this provided senior citizens, the unemployed, and low-income earners with the opportunity to make some extra money. They could, for example, use their vehicles to drive medical and pharmaceutical shuttle services for the sick and disabled. Their mobility account was credited with mobility points, which they could use for petrol, fixed costs, or other mobility services such as bus and train trips. There were whole villages in the countryside where many elderly persons gave up their own cars and instead used these services offered by a sprightly pensioner or an unemployed neighbour. In the final analysis, everything cost less and some people were even able to live a little better thanks to this system. The subsidiary soon became an integral part of the public limited company’s brand image. When the prices for resources rose dramatically, it was clear that the establishment of Mobility had been the correct future strategy on the part of the parent company’s car managers.

An Apollo Project for Mobility After 2015, politicians began to comprehend that the tectonic faults in the mobility branch as well as in the political economy as a whole could only be brought under control if there were a complete paradigm shift regarding transport and infrastructure policies. The idea was a simple one: in order to get away from fossil fuels, the ultimate goal would have to be the systemic electrification of all means of transport, their complete integration into the energy economy, and finally the conversion of the whole primary energy demand to regenerative sources. A kind of rapidly realisable modernisation offensive was agreed upon concerning rail-bound transport in local public transport, national and regional trains, as well as rail freight transports. If the dynamics of the price increases could continue to be brought under control and the public budgets remained more or less stable, a network of efficient and robust collective modes of transport modelled on the Swiss system – similar to the one developed by Mobilitätsservice GmbH – would serve as the modern basis for innovative usages and business models of mobility. With government investment and private initiatives, the network could be developed just as steadily as the highway system had been during the previous century. A quantum leap project was planned for the years 2015–2030, the likes of which had not been seen since Project Apollo in the United States: road infrastructure investments were discontinued, and funding was reduced to the minimum required for those maintenance measures that were absolutely necessary. The funds were rerouted to a master plan. It focused on the construction of the rail traffic infrastructure, research projects for the relevant information technology, the integration of energy and transport systems, and the pre-competitive development of micro-mobility products, such as various small electronically driven personal transport vehicles (tricycles, bicycles, Segways, and so forth). The private car was no longer taken into consideration in these plans for future vehicles, and the car itself was only considered in the form of an electric car. During the process, the automotive companies finally saw the writing on the wall, and the corporation was pleased that, with the establishment of Mobility, it had set itself up well for the future. The company now provided the services bringing together micro-mobility and public transport to become the cornerstone of urban mobility. During the course of this process, Mobilitätsservice GmbH became a national brand and – owing to the fact that other automotive manufacturers had not taken this courageous step at the right time – eventually became one of Europe’s largest brands. This is as much as I have to say about the company’s history. However, the world of mobility underwent radical change in other areas too, and I wish to offer some comments on other scenarios that I have observed over the past decades.

On Rest Stops and Highways As if seen through a magnifying glass, there are places where the main features of a culture can be observed in detail. To a certain extent they are essential sites, typical places, metaphors for a society as a whole. One such place was the so-called Spinnerbrücke on the AVUS, a part of the public highway system in Berlin, which for me is the mother of all highway rest stops. It was the ultimate embodiment of the ­profound collective dependence structures of our tuned-up ‘meat-sugar-alcohol-­ nicotine-petrol-mobility-speed’ culture. Berlin’s motorcyclists, truckers, and car ­enthusiasts met here in the evenings and at the weekend to celebrate and flaunt themselves as well as their beloved machines in elaborate rituals of demonstrative consumerism. Cyclists and people pushing baby buggies lived dangerously there. The Spinnerbrücke Restaurant now stands at the entrance to Wannsee-Potsdam Nature and Culture Park. It is one of the many large regional mobile and transfer stations where people can switch from public transport to one of the many recreational vehicles in the large nature park. Small electric vehicles; bicycles; digitally equipped hiking sticks with route displays, integrated umbrella, and a refill gadget for water or beer; solar-powered electric boats; Segways; mechanical exoskeletons; paratrooper boots; and even small electric hang-gliders can be rented here for a day trip or for a longer stay in the nature park. There are also horse-drawn carriages and mule carts, which have once again become a common sight in the cities. The Spinnerbrücke Restaurant is now one of Berlin’s best-known organic fast-food locations. They have boar burgers from the local Grunewald forest, vegan hot dogs with chips, whole cane sugar muffins, soya ice cream, and very good espresso, albeit very expensive because of its virtual kilometre baggage. The Spinnerbrücke is therefore still a prototypical site, but now for a colourful and diverse, exhilarating, nature-oriented culture. Like the Spinnerbrücke, the functions of many of the large highway rest stops have gradually been altered in the years since the Great Transformation. Some have become mobile and transfer stations, some are still stopping places along the large highways for hikers and bicyclists, in addition to the few remaining truckers who are still driving on the much-downsized roads. Instead of travelling in steel projectiles, people now experience travel again as a conscious journey through a succession of local, social, and ecological biotopes. The trip naturally takes longer and the streets are often in poor condition. Highways are now regained living spaces. There is still some traffic on them in the vicinity of and within large urban areas, but here as well, large sections of the roads are reserved for small businesses. They have been redesignated as allotment gardens, playgrounds, apartment houses, urban agriculture land, or simply as sites for solar collectors. Highways that were originally planned as trajectories of a dromocratic power structure that threatened our existence were thus transformed into varied and colourful environments that were finally suited to the true purpose of streets as lifelines in the original cultural-historical sense.

A Trip to New York Can you imagine that forty years ago it was common in some circles to fly to New York for a weekend to go shopping? Air travel was incredibly cheap; the aeroplane was a means of mass transport, and airports were gigantic transfer machines. These days, you again need a week to get to New York. You start off by digitally booking the trip. The ticket includes the ride to the train station and from there to Hamburg, the transfer to the harbour, the ship, and finally the last kilometres to your hotel. This smooth chain of travel is now quite common. The ships are the most fascinating part of the journey. They are fast, unsinkable, quiet, and clean because they are motored by hydrogen and wind power. Given the right wind conditions, an electrically controlled system of kites and sails can produce up to 40 per cent of the ship’s propulsion. The routes are calculated in such a way that the prevailing wind conditions can be optimally used. The ship’s propellers are driven by electric motors that draw their power from hydrogen fuel cells. Energy storage technology was not so advanced in the early years of the H2 steamship, so a stopover had to be made on Iceland to take on more hydrogen. It was an obvious choice, because Iceland is the largest exporter of hydrogen. It has more than enough water and volcanic heat and is thus the ultimate electrolysis machine. ­Today, storage capacities are sufficient for trips of many thousands of nautical miles and are as safe as the storage facilities of Iceland’s large fleet of H2 tankers and those in Australia, where hydrogen is produced in gigantic solar thermal plants. The on-board cabins are simple but cosy, bright and functionally equipped. What is more, they are absolutely soundproof, meaning that travellers have a sense of privacy despite the presence of many other passengers. There are spas, a fitness room, a library, day-care centre, and – what is particularly nice – there is a lot of space to move around on deck. The cabins are fitted in such a way that meals can be eaten there, but there are also restaurants and self-catering mini-kitchens. Every cabin has Internet access as well as all the other standard means of communication. Many passengers use the travel time to work or for a short break in the sea air. Since most people travel by ship today, that branch of the economy is booming. Harbours are now what large airports used to be: enormous transfer points with first-class logistics systems. They have created many jobs, a large proportion of which are held by former employees of the aviation industry, because here too, professional service personnel are required at the ticket windows, for baggage logistics, as well as for the technical and service staff on the ships themselves. Ship construction is naturally booming too; the sites of the old shipyards have experienced a renaissance and employ many of the good construction engineers, technicians, and workers from the aircraft industry. In fact, some of the workers at the Airbus construction site in Hamburg didn’t even have to move or change their trip to work. In terms of technology, it was also possible to transfer a lot of expertise to modern shipbuilding, because ships today consist largely of modern, recyclable, light-

weight construction materials produced from organic materials. Insights from fluid mechanics are employed in designing the ships’ bodies and superstructures, while control and navigation technologies have made maritime travel even safer. Nowadays, it is the safest means of transport in the world. Thanks to a sophisticated double door system, ships are virtually unsinkable and can brave the heaviest storms. The types of ships are as varied as the demand. There are, for example, very quick, small boats for busy business people that can make the trip to New York in a few days. Such travellers can use their time on board for work: there are videoconference rooms, secretarial services, and access to all conceivable forms of media and communications. Those who can still remember the time of hectic business flights are far happier with travel today. While the trips may take longer, passengers arrive rested and not jet-lagged, and most are able to use their travel time to focus on work.

Kilogram and Kilometre We used to be accustomed to being able to cheaply consume almost anything anywhere and at any time. That was possible because the hidden kilometre expenses in the products did not add up to much, and this led to absurd procedures in terms of division of labour. While processing North Sea crabs in Morocco made them cheaper for the customers of discount supermarkets, it did not contribute to improving their quality. It was furthermore not particularly environmentally friendly to transport produce all across Europe in refrigerated trucks. Meat had never been as cheap and as plentiful as it was then. However, meat was the foodstuff that made the biggest demands in terms of energy and space: feed grain was produced with agricultural machinery and then transported over long distances to the livestock farmer; the animals that were ready for slaughter were driven long distances to the abbatoirs; the meat products themselves were in turn distributed to the regional reloading points and firms, whence they were finally transported home by the customer. Energy was invested in transport, processing, and refrigeration over the extensive course of this logistics chain, so that in the end, the schnitzel or steak was served at the summit of an enormous virtual energy enrichment pyramid. This form of food production, which was essentially detached from geography and history, was ultimately responsible for a large percentage of human greenhouse gas emissions, and it had became obvious that this system could not be maintained in times of high energy prices. In retrospect, given the emotionally charged debate about the consumption of meat carried out at that time, I am surprised how smoothly the changeover took place. Foodstuffs now travel short distances within the region. Grains and legumes are now staple foods. Every season has its own special varieties of fruits and vegetables. Many people have become vegetarians, some solely for ­financial reasons. The range of products is nevertheless substantial, varied, and

good. People occasionally splurge on meat for special celebrations or holidays, and even organise so-called meat parties. They are a kind of modern epicurean banquet where everyone indulges in the things they otherwise do without in everyday life or have to forgo for financial reasons. On the whole, the result has been so beneficial that spending on public healthcare has dramatically decreased in recent years. People are growing older and require less medical care; in many cases, they continue working into a ripe old age.

Ever-runners, Pedestrians, and Public Health Ever-runners, as they eventually came to be called, were a bizarre phenomenon just a few years ago. Today they are a normal sight. Like the generations that had gone before them, people started walking more once it became difficult to drive around in their cars. Since it took too long for them to cover some distances at a normal pace, they got into the habit of running slowly to their sometimes distant destinations. Their models were the tribes of the African steppes that never walk at a normal pace, running instead while going about their daily routines, for example hunting and travelling. So it was with the ever-runners as well. They ran from their homes to the suburban train, from the suburban train to the metro, from their metro stop to work, to kindergarten, or to school. In the end, they managed to do the trip in the same amount of time they needed when they drove their cars door to door. They compensated for the undeniably slower speeds of public transport by simply running the first or last kilometre and the footpaths in between. The phenomenon was one manifestation of a desire to do sport and also to lead a healthier lifestyle. The ever-runners combined the useful with the healthy. No additional fitness units were required, thus lessening their expenditure on physicians and medicine. They were simply healthier. It was basically a movement like the jogging craze, only more far-reaching. Life is in fact again naturally traversed by a golden thread of physical activity, as was once common in rural and early industrial life. We all move more to overcome distances, by foot and by bicycle, as well as to carry out many of the routine activities that used to be performed for us by energy-consuming devices. And it is noticeable how much healthier the average citizen looks today, and how much lower healthcare costs are compared with those forty years ago. We calculated back that at least a hundred simple bicycles could be purchased for the cost of treating a heart attack victim. A few large health insurance companies took up the idea, investing in a public bicycle fleet that created quite a stir. However, that was not much more than a marketing idea, and was soon overtaken by more exciting developments. At some point, a completely new manner of dressing emerged that was particularly well suited to perpetual movement. New breathable fabrics, which were close-­

fitting like wetsuits, were introduced. Cooling and warming at the same time, they basically function like a bird’s plumage: the outer layer swells when wet and becomes so thick that moisture just rolls off. The fibres become increasingly breathable when it is warm, thus enabling it to disperse the body’s heat more quickly. They let less air pass through when it is cold, thus storing the body’s heat. They are comfortable and suitable for running, and most people don’t look too bad in them, either. At the same time, new ways of transporting luggage emerged that were likewise adapted to continuous running. Carrier balls were the most popular: they could be rolled and were simply pushed along like a large ball by the runner. Thanks to an ingeniously simple but effective attachment, it was possible to store a weight of up to forty kilograms in a stable upright position inside the ball while its outer surface rolled and absorbed the ground’s unevenness. One could transport luggage, shopping, and even small children, who were safely concealed in the ball on a transparent swing and thus protected from the wind and weather. The balls were made from an innovative, biologically degradable plastic, a product with which it was eventually possible to replace an ever higher percentage of petroleum-based plastics and which has otherwise increasingly been used in the construction of vehicles.

‘The Faraway Place Next Door’ Tourism used to be one of the largest consumers of energy, partly because holidays as such had a close connection with the car and the aeroplane. Based on the changes made to the types of holidays people go on today, one can see how much our world differs and how successfully previously unimaginable changes could be instituted. What happened? After 2020, the south of Spain, Italy, Greece, and Turkey became so hot in the summer that one could no longer stand spending the months between May and September there. Water shortages made hotel stays very expensive, and the increasing price of jet fuel contributed to a downward spiral in traditional holiday regions. Overseas travel became costly and also unsafe due to the unpredictable weather conditions in Asia and South America, violence in Central and North America as well as the CIS states, and the threat of terrorism in the Near and Middle East. It was a mixture of adapted holiday offers and intelligent transformation policies in the old as well as emerging tourist regions that enabled a sustainable development, preserving tourism as an important economic sector. Seaside tourism boomed on the North and Baltic Seas and along the Scandinavian Riviera because it had become much warmer in these spots during the summer months. The holiday regions were now easily accessible by various modes of public transport and well connected with an excellent network of night trains. There was a potpourri of choice, encompassing high-tech mobility, footpaths, bicycle culture, and a number of diverse mule cart and horse-drawn-carriage services. Most regions

succeeded in highlighting their own distinctive local culture; regional history, architecture, local foods, and landscapes were linked to shape cleverly marketed, unmistakable brands. This was attractive to most people, even those who, before the Great Transformation, no longer really knew whether they were on holiday in Italy, Spain, Turkey, or the Maldives because the worldwide user interface consisting of fast-food restaurants, standardised wellness packages, as well as the transport and leisure infrastructure looked almost the same wherever you went. At some point, Germany switched from being a tourism exporter to an importer. Many people from southern Europe sought the fresh summer air on the coast and in luscious green countryside in order to avoid their own increasingly barren, desertified landscapes. This brought a great deal of money into the country and particularly the tourist regions, creating in the process many new jobs that helped to ease the unemployment problem in a number of industrialised areas.

Shortages and Creativity When I look back, the future emerged sometimes more slowly and sometimes more quickly than we thought it would. But one thing is certain today: we are now in the process of putting the most severe phase of the Great Transformation from the old petroleum culture behind us. The straw fire of the fossil age is under control, and when it is extinguished, we will in time also be able to get a grip on the fire damage. New shortages have come about, but so too has new wealth in unexpected areas: time wealth, quality of life, health, and solidarity. In the end, we were saved by innovative usage, that is to say the creative and pragmatic handling of the shortage of what was at hand. It is an ancient social strategy that only had to be filled with life again in developed societies, because such shortages were already very commonplace in most of the poorer parts of the world. Creative use of resources has always emerged when shortages make it necessary. By contrast, the fossil economy of wastefulness was a phenomenon of abundance that made us lazy and excessive. The ‘long emergency’ of the Great Transformation was also a period of shortages. Ironically, we were only able to overcome this period by acting as if it had started long ago: treating it as a challenge that bundled our creative potential, so that by making intelligent use of what was available to us, we could start immediately on the sustainable redesign of our society.

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This text is a revised and considerably shortened version of the article ‘Die Geschichte der Zukunft der Mobilität’, published in an anthology of the Stiftung Forum Verantwortung: Harald Welzer and Klaus ­Wiegand (eds.) (2011). Perspektiven einer nachhaltigen Entwicklung: Wie die Welt 2050 aussieht. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer Verlag, pp. 14–39. See also: Kunstmuseum Wolfsburg (2012). The Art of Deceleration: Motion and Rest in Art from Caspar David Friedrich to Ai Weiwei. Wolfsburg.

Transformation Design: A Social-­Ecological Perspective

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Bernd Sommer and Harald Welzer

Introduction In his book Collapse (2005), Jared Diamond investigated the failure of societies. All the cases studied reveal one common feature: the survival strategies that had been successfully deployed for centuries to safeguard life and survival before the collapse suddenly turned into dangerous traps under changing environmental conditions. When, for example, on the Easter Island the crop yields deteriorated as a result of soil erosion, the islanders intensified the land use – and thereby accelerated their self-abolition. This is just one of many examples, which demonstrate that cultures are very bad at changing their strategies for success under stress conditions; usually they intensify the old strategies and run into disaster ever more quickly. The impression is probably not wrong when strong parallels to the current growth economy come to mind. For the concept of growth is becoming even more prominent at the same time as the consequences of exceeding the ‘limits to growth’ are showing up ever more clearly, as Dennis Meadows and colleagues determined quite accurately more than forty years ago (Meadows et al. 1972). Yet nothing substantial has changed in the capitalist metabolism with nature since that time. On the contrary, in the meantime, the capitalist growth economy has spread all over the planet, so any limits to growth – in material and energy consumption, as in emissions and waste quantities – are permanently exceeded globally (Rockström et al. 2009). Nevertheless, science and politics, business and administrations are sticking to the strategies they know – and all the more persistently, the more clearly they prove to be hopeless. In short: they all stick to Plan A. They don’t seem to know a Plan B. This is not surprising, because it is known how we came, on the basis of a fossil-fuelled growth economy, to this enormous material and civilisational progress that made the people in the so-called global North the privileged class of the world. But there is, for the time being, at best fragmentary knowledge about how such a civilisation can be maintained under conditions in which material and energy consumption and emissions and waste quantities are reduced by a factor of five to ten. Against this background, transformation design can, first of all, be conceived as the heuristic of a reductive, sustainable modernity.

The Expansive Modernity The current development of modern societies is basically characterised by an expansive dynamics – internally as well as externally. Against the background of colonisation and ongoing globalisation of economic and cultural models that started their propagation in Europe and North America about 250 years ago, the expansion movement ‘outward’ needs hardly any further explanation. But also ‘inside’, these societies are characterised by tremendous growth in commodity production and consumption, and consequently in their resource and energy consumption as well (see fig. 1).

1 Growth rates in selected social areas between 1750 and 2000 (Steffen et al. 2011)

An unholy alliance of established purchasing power, cheap transport capacity, externalised environmental costs, ever-shortened product cycles, and hyper-consumerist everyday culture has so far resulted in the doubling of the consumption of textiles per decade – and the same goes for furniture, food, and so on (Schor 2010). While fifty years ago people in Germany had to work an average of forty-two days in order to purchase a TV set, it takes just four days today; for the purchase of pork chops, you had to work two and a half hours, while today it’s only half an hour. The working time expended for the purchase of bread has been cut in half, as well as for a litre of petrol. Today, one-tenth of the working time of 1960 is sufficient for a chicken or a piece of butter (Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 21/22 December 2013, C1). This radically increased general purchasing power due to huge increases in productivity is the reason why people today have far more resources with which to consume more and more things, and why, at the same time, stuff is worth so little that it will be replaced by the next model as soon as possible. In Germany alone, the surface sealing proceeds at a rate of seventy hectares daily, just as the cars are getting bigger, long-distance travel becomes more frequent, and common and living areas grow larger. In a culture whose value ​​preference is to have more and more of everything permanently available, any increase in efficiency immediately translates into a rebound, which means the consumerist use of the savings on energy, materials, or money for the purchase of another device, an additional trip, a bigger car. An economy based essentially on the generation of added value through increased productivity and market expansion will systematically not allow anything else. It simply has no functional limit and cannot stop until, as Max Weber formulated a century ago, ‘the last quintal of fossil fuel is burned up’ (Weber 1905: 180). Such a system will not pause until it has run out of fuel. Until then, however, its destructive potential is growing steadily. Against this background, a problem emerges, which reveals paradoxical characteristics: the increasing destruction of natural resources and of present and future survival conditions is carried out for the purpose of hyper-consumption, which does not increase happiness but rather causes suffering. Consumption stress, leisure stress, lack of time, burnout, obesity are the pertinent keywords here. Thus, the underlying economy of growth not only ensures a steady increase in the quantities purchased and processed, but this increase turns out more and more to be a burden in practical everyday life. Increasing destruction generates growing unhappiness. Therefore, the reversal of the direction from ‘more’ to ‘less’ seems advisable, to put it cautiously. In the context of modern societies, the development of a heuristic of ‘less’ is especially necessary because all successful steps towards a ‘greening’ of capitalist societies have not changed the fact that for decades almost every year has brought a new record in the consumption of energy and raw materials, as well as in the production of waste and emissions. An economic and social model aiming at expansion seems by itself incapable of correcting the basic direction of development, be

it by changes in consciousness or by efficiency gains. One can prove this empirically by the observation that during the more than four decades since the release of Limits to Growth (Meadows et al. 1972), while it is true that a variety of value postures, lifestyles, laws, and political preferences have changed, neither a single change nor the sum of these changes has caused an interruption of this nature-destructive logic of growth. Only occasionally could a ‘greening’ of individual sectors and regions be achieved; but this was primarily driven by the shift of highly resource- and emissions-intensive industries to other parts of the world, where environmental crises are the more virulent since. Therefore, transformation design, as we understand it, has the task of searching for ways out of this dangerous corridor, which reverses the direction of civili­ sation and successively puts democracy, law, governance, and freedom more and more under stress. However, such ways out are not easily found, because not only are our outer life and survival conditions, infrastructures and institutions, still dominated by the expansive culture model, but also the inner worlds, the ‘mental infrastructures’ (Welzer 2011): perceptions, habits, routines, problem-solving strategies, and self-images. ‘The delusion’, as a dictum of Sigmund Freud puts it, ‘of course, will never be realized by the one who still shares it’ (Freud 2000 [1930]: 213). If you look at how much the ecology movement and its institutions – from research institutes and non-governmental organisations to political parties – have successively affirmed the expansive mainstream culture and talk of resource efficiency and (green) growth almost more enthusiastically than economic liberals, it becomes obvious that the economic suppleness of capitalism perfectly corresponds to a political one: just as this economic system can incorporate any counter-movement from renewable energy generation to share-economy, so it adopts the mental inventory of green strategies to improve the world and transforms them into modernisation infusions. No way out? That depends on another attempt. However, such an attempt should not be borne by the idea that a Great Transformation could be successful right away, or that it is reliant on the design of master plans, which are to be meticulously implemented in the coming decades. For ‘new’ conditions – any profound social change has proven this – are at best amalgamations of new types of order and existing traditions and infrastructures of various kinds. Social development processes, especially in highly complex, modern societies, are fundamentally characterised by non-linearity and momentum, which run constantly against the intentions of the actors or show paradoxical effects. Therefore, it is reasonable to start from segmental transformations of different type and effect, which is also politically advisable. In the demand for a Great Transformation, it is indeed necessary to consider that the object to be transformed is not some fixed, stable state – the finished product of a historical process, so to speak. If one looks at the evolving capitalist growth economy since the mid-eighteenth century, which has since spread across the globe in various dynamic thrusts, one will find that the transformation initiated 250 years

ago, namely the capitalist formation of all areas of life, is still in full swing: globalisation, standardisation of forms of life and consumption, individualisation, progressive resource use, commercialisation of all areas of life, economic monopolies, geopolitical re-figurations. All this is not finished, but indeed is currently being intensified. This finding is also, or especially, true if the term Great Transformation is used in reference to Karl Polanyi. For the so-called ‘dis-embedding’ of market processes from superordinate societal contexts, which he identified and criticised (Polanyi 1973), is being intensively continued in the present.

Transformation by Design or by Disaster This economic and social model, which threatens to become fatal, especially in the course of its globalisation, has led not only to a historically quite incomparable ­general level of prosperity but also to non-material standards of civilisation that modern societies consider as imperative today: freedom, democracy, rule of law, edu­cation, and health and social care. So if one puts the question of necessary transformations in the economy into a social context, it is about nothing less than the question of whether the standard of civilisation that people have achieved in the early-industrialised societies can be preserved or not. This question is not trivial, but concerns very basic living conditions. One only has to compare the life of a ‘typical teenager’ at the beginning of industrial modernity with his/her life today to realise not only the incredible increase in possession of things, but also the astounding growth of personal opportunities. The typical teenager of the late nineteenth century did not attend school, but went to a factory to put in ten to twelve hours of poorly paid work, and his/her average life expectancy was not eighty but forty-five years (Uchatius 2013). This example illustrates like a spotlight that the last hundred years have not only meant an increase in material wealth but also a progression of civilisational standards. Therefore, the challenge for transformation design is to trace a mode of socialisation that allows for the retention and even further development of these same civilisational standards, and at the same time admits radically reduced consumption of natural resources. So it’s not about a ‘back to the trees’ project, as polemically assumed by the critics of environmentalism, but rather about the organisation of reduction in the context of modern societies. Politically, this translates into the question of whether one proactively uses the possibilities for economic and social transformation that are given under the present conditions, or whether one passively consigns to a process in which the possibilities for action are steadily narrowing under increasing stress, in which the primacy of the economy is still further strengthened, and which finally could lead to a de-civilisation, which gives more rights and survival chances to the stronger than to the weaker.

Following Mathis Wackernagel (2014), the president of the Global Footprint Network, the underlying pragmatic attitude can be easily characterised: in the context of their unsustainable metabolism, with its non-human nature, our societies will change in any case; the only question is whether by design or by disaster. In case of a ‘transformation by design’, one cannot avoid looking at social issues.

Is a Reductive Modernity Possible? Despite the sometimes massive overuse of ecosystems and natural resources, large parts of the world population continue to suffer deprivation. In the opinion of the development economist Kate Raworth (2012), the reason for this is not the number of the world’s population, in other words the notion that too many people live on the earth, as neo-Malthusian argumentation patterns imply. The decisive factors are mainly the resource-intensive modes of production and consumption in the early-industrialised developed countries. Thus, Raworth states: • Only 11 per cent of the global population is responsible for about 50 per cent of carbon dioxide emissions, while 50 per cent of people emit only 11 per cent (2012: 20). • About 16 per cent of the population consumes 57 per cent of the world’s electricity (20). • The European Union – about 7 per cent of the world’s population – is responsible for the consumption of about 33 percent of a sustainable nitrogen budget, and this mainly for the production of animal feed (20). ‘The wealthy few stress the planet’, Raworth says (19). Following Ulrich Brand and Markus Wissen, one can speak in this context of an ‘imperial way of life’ (Brand and Wissen 2011). By that, they mean ‘manorial production-, distribution- and consumption patterns that are deeply embedded in the everyday practices of the upper and middle classes in the global North and increasingly in the emerging economies of the South’ (79). This way of life is considered ‘imperial’ because it presupposes an in-principle unlimited access to resources, space, labour capacity, and disposal sites elsewhere, which are secured politically, legally, and in part even violently (83). In other words, this way of life is based on exclusivity: it presupposes that not all people have equal access to the resources and sinks of the earth (84). Ecologically, it can only work this way. From a historical perspective, one may also observe that such a way of life, which is structurally dependent on the use of natural resources from outside, has not been the result of the industrialisation of Europe but has rather been its condi-

tion (Mauch 2014: 35). This economically extremely successful system, which emerged in the early-industrialised countries during the past 250 years, was based from the outset on the fact that the resources and fuel needed for the incessant production of surplus value and growth were imported from outside, mainly from the (former) colonies. However, a globalised world has no outside any more. Now, with the rise of emerging economies such as Brazil, China, and India and the increasing industrialisation of the ‘global South’, these production and consumption patterns, which are simply not generalisable from an ecological perspective, have spread over the entire globe. The result is, as Albrecht Koschorke (2012) has noticed, that the exploitation has increasingly shifted from space to time: the collapse of the system is postponed through overexploitation of the future opportunities of coming generations. Therefore, it is not only in the financial and economic crisis that problems are overcome by debt-making. Also with regard to energy supply, to the oceans and the climate, today’s generation takes on loans that will have to be paid by their children and grandchildren – if they’re able to. The historian Dipesh Chakrabarty has noted that the Great Acceleration (Steffen, Crutzen, and McNeill 2007) in consumption levels and resource consumption, which seems so menacing from the perspective of environmental sustainability, has been and still is a phase of emancipation and expansion of individual action potential for the societies that went and are still going through this process: ‘The mansion of modern freedoms stands on the ever-expanding base of fossil fuel use. Most of our freedoms so far have been energy-intensive’ (Chakrabarty 2009). In other words, historically, the economic and social model that is now reaching its limits was not only materially uniquely successful: it brought the members of early-industrialised societies democracy, the rule of law, and protection from physical violence as well as prosperity, health, education, and social welfare on an unprecedented level. The resulting paradox can be formulated as follows: if the standard of civilisation reached in the course of the capitalist growth economy is to be preserved, then it is precisely this economy that has to be overcome. Politically, this means nothing less than that the civilisation model of expansive modernity is up for debate. The dual nature of the growth economy becomes clearly visible if we look at the example of the improvement in living standards for residents of emerging countries, with the rapid development of middle classes and consumer cultures, increased prosperity, greater mobility, and better education and healthcare. For indeed, both happen at the same time: the increase in the average standard of living and the rate of destruction of natural resources – precisely the conditions for the sustainability of expansive modernity. The lost years in ecological terms are years of economic miracle for the rising populations of Brazil, China, and Vietnam, psychologically and economically, comparable to the western European post-war period. What can currently be seen in the emerging markets corresponds exactly to that ‘elevator effect’, which has ensured social peace in the European post-war period and has marked

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World average biocapacity per person

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Ecological Footprint (global hectares per person)

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‘Livable Zone’ 0.0

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Inequality-Adjusted Human Development Index (IHDI)

Northern America

Latin America

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Asia-Pacific

Africa

2 The Ecological Footprint 2008 in comparison with the Human Development Index for different countries (the colour of the circles indicates the geographical region, their size represents population numbers). (Source: WWF 2012: 60) http://www.whydev.org/sustainable-development-and-poverty-eradication-through-the-prism-of-a-gree n-economy/ihdi/

the era of ‘democratic capitalism’ (Streeck 2013): although the social inequalities remained, and have even deepened again over the past twenty years (Eurostat 2013), as far as the standard of living is concerned, these years meant a lift to the top for all. This is the undoubted merit of the principle of the economy of growth. In historical comparison, no system has improved social conditions so rapidly, and thus, for the first time, provided a sense of opportunity and freedom for so many people. Therefore, in our opinion, transformation design cannot be about ‘regime change’, an intentional makeover of society in toto, but rather must involve the transformation, shrinkage, or elimination of non-sustainable sectors of society with the clear aim of preserving others. So far, we have neither a theoretical model nor an empirical example of a modern society that realises the civilisational characteristics of freedom, democracy, the rule of law, social care, education, and

healthcare under conditions of greatly reduced ecological impact compared with today. Figure 2 maps countries of different geopolitical regions according to their ‘Human Development Index’ (horizontal axis), which covers income, life expectancy, and education, and their ‘Ecological Footprint’ (vertical axis), measured in global hectares per capita. The figure shows that countries with a very high level of human development according to the Human Development Index at the same time have an Ecological Footprint far beyond a sustainable level. Conversely, the human development is currently at a very low level in those countries whose environmental impact per capita does not exceed ecological limits. And not a single country can be found in that sector of the graph that is characterised by a very high human development standard and a sustainable ecological stress level. That is exactly the goal, however, if we wish to envision a sustainable modern society.

Transformation Design Does Not Address Products, but Cultural ­Production and Reproduction How will modern societies – that is, their citizens – solve problems? The answer is: first, collaboratively, by means of division of labour; and second, by using existing solution patterns and infrastructures. Modern infrastructures have always provided ready-made solutions for tasks of conventional type. In this sense, the entire universe of consumption and mobility offers is an always-available archive of answers to questions of various kinds: what to eat, how to dress, how to move, what to watch. In this continuous availability of preset answers, questions that one may still have had will eventually move completely into the background. One is, in other words, chronically caught in a universe of answers without even knowing or remembering what the corresponding question has been. That is the function of conventional design: to permanently provide new answers to questions that do not need to be formulated any more (Jonas 1993). Transformation design, in contrast, assumes that the question is the decisive key: what is the goal I want to achieve? What are the necessary resources? Potential answers include the possibility of the target itself being put into question: do I really have to travel five hundred kilometres for this two-hour event? Does the grass in my garden need to be as short as the turf at Wimbledon or the golf course? Thus, transformation design does not start with the solution, but with defining the question that arises in practice. So the answer to the question of the best design solution for a square could be: leave it as it is. Or the answer to the question regarding the best travel option: stay at home. Transformation design is initially nothing more than the application of moral imagination and moral intelligence (Welzer 2013) and does not necessarily have to

be translated into a form of production and product. Its result may prove to be ­action or inaction. In any case, the result will be preceded by social and individual considerations of possible questions and answers. In conventional design, the ­sequence is reversed: the result is definitely a product, the remaining question is merely how to shape it. In this sense, conventional design is morally and socially homeless, which is why it does not problematise that it is generally associated with an increase in effort. In contrast, transformation design aims for the least possible effort. This can also mean zero effort. Transformation design, as we define it, therefore comprises other things than just the design of artefacts – be they products, mobility infrastructures, houses, cities, or what have you. It concerns the changing cultural practices of use of energy, materials, and products, and thus also social categories including communication, trade, consumption, and supply. Against this background, transformation design also deals with the history of such practices, because their cultural genesis describes at the same time the potentials of their variability. Even the seemingly self-evident works of the artist Karin Sander (http://www.karinsander.de/) are often preceded by an extensive analysis of the characteristics of the situation, which can then be used quite differently. What emerged historically indeed forms the facticity of the current infrastructure and action conditions, but these may in turn be changed – to a far greater extent than the natural conditions. Here it is important to consider the complication that the classic distinction between a cultural and a natural dimension of human survival conditions can hardly be maintained today. While this separation formed the basis for a systematic distinction between natural and cultural sciences until the end of the twentieth century, such distinctions are blurred in the Anthropocene, where human action forces have assumed geological dimensions (Crutzen 2002). The natural conditions have become cultural conditions; the creation of a co-evolutionary development environment for people not only refers to the symbolic forms and cultural practices, but ­increasingly to the once-natural development environments of human survival communities. Nature is not natural any more, when its systemic processes and functions are modified by human action. Anthropogenic climate change, for example, is a cultural transformation of natural existence conditions – not intended, but enormously consequential. Since societies of our type will inevitably change under these conditions, transformation design considers itself as resilience research and resilience generator – as a means of restoring and maintaining resilience. For cultures of external supply tend increasingly to transfer decisions on technical processes. The GPS, collision radar, and rain sensor of today’s car are expressions of such transfer; they relieve the pressure of decision making, but also remove responsibility and thus make societies and individuals vulnerable – namely, from the moment when the caring technology fails. Cultures of external supply depend on functioning infrastructures under all conditions; if parts of the system fail – as a result of technical accidents,

earthquakes, extreme weather events, acts of violence – these cultures will very quickly reach the limit of their coping capacity. Not only are they more vulnerable than cultures with lower external supply and higher self-sufficiency, but their members are also less resilient, that is to say they have lower skills in restoring ruined structures, food sourcing, security, and so on. Hurricane Sandy in winter 2012 showed that even a prolonged power failure in the skyscraper structure of New York’s neighbourhoods led to significant impairments: going up to the thirtieth floor suddenly presented a surprising and laborious challenge; for older people, a day-long failure of cooling or heating equipment and lifts could quickly develop into a life-threatening situation. Contemporary societies have become even more vulnerable due to the enormous expansion of interdependence chains. Such transport and energy infrastructures are considered ‘critical infrastructures’, as many other social functions depend on them. A disturbance at one point of this network of dependence then vibrates through the entire system (Schad, Sommer, and Wessels 2013: 144f.). Cultures of external supply realise the satisfaction of all kinds of needs through consumption offers, and therefore they tend to permanently expand the amount of offered and purchased items by incessantly creating new needs. This not only increases material and energy consumption as well as the mountains of rubbish, but it also reduces resilience; the products gain power over their users. Conversely, sustainable design will not only reduce the required quantities of material and energy, but it will also increase people’s autonomy. Transformation design thus acquires a civilising mission, in the sense of the classical Enlightenment: it serves to allow ­human maturity. One could also say that it is emancipatory design.

Transformation Design as a Practice of Omitting Transformation design is reductive design. As mentioned before, the design of a sustainable, reductive modernity is, for the time being, not a design task aimed at designing or redesigning products, buildings, or cities. The development of transformation design is a social and cultural task and consists initially, in a higher-level perspective, in democratically negotiating what is a good life and what it requires. And it consists in the task of drawing design conclusions from this definition. Just as the expansive culture of consumerist modernity takes the constant proliferation of products and the infinite extension of the comfort zone as its definition of the good life, and thereof assumes the design task to be the continuous creation of new products for new needs, the exact opposite follows from the definition of a good life in a reductive culture: the transformation of the existing, the disappearance of the unnecessary, avoiding costs, reduction of energy and materials.

This requires not only other, but less energy. Not better, but fewer products. No new effort, but reuse, subsequent use, joint use. Often, the currently debated strategies mean by ‘transformation’ merely the substitution of environmentally or energetically problematic artefacts with more efficient or even ‘renewable’ ones. This substitution strategy suggests that the future is based on the same paradigms of growth and progress as today’s world, but that both can be rendered ‘sustainable’ with the help of technology. So it is not the social practice that shall become sustainable but the product by which it is realised. In a cultural model that is in every sense focused on expansion, the change of technical strategy does not mean a change of direction. On the contrary, the final solution of the energy issue by substituting fossil fuels with so-called renewables would result in a boundless ‘extractivism’, because there would be no more limits of affordability or availability of energy. As in the story of the sorcerer’s apprentice, every well-intentioned correction leads to an amplification of unwanted effects, which is why technology is not a solution. Actually, reductive modernity must be practised in strategies of omission. Therefore, design would no longer have the task of constantly conceiving new things, but of getting rid of those that are not needed. That means, for example: no designing a bottle for a new mineral, but rather the signpost to the next tap. At this point, we can give an example of resilience, or rather non-resilience. Until the Second World War,, public water pumps were widespread in German cities. They came from the time when individual apartments were rarely equipped with their own water and sewer lines. In the cities, which in many cases had been completely devastated by Allied bombing raids, these public water pumps offered a supply infrastructure that no longer exists. Under the completely unexamined assumption that emergency situations such as in the immediate post-war period would not occur in the twenty-first century, resilience was reduced; people would not have easy access to drinking water in an emergency situation today. One can see here how the issue of access and use occurs before the ownership issue: public availability of goods not only offers considerable savings of resources, it also increases the possibilities for self-supply.

Transformation Design: More Than Just Less Sustainability at the end of the pipe is like the race between the hare and the tortoise: the increase in effort is always there, while the reduction efforts peter out. But unfortunately, not only these run to death, but the future survival conditions of large parts of the world population. One can observe an increase in horizontal and vertical inequality: horizontal in the sense that the economic opportunities of contemporaries drift ever further apart, vertical in the sense that this finding deepens trans-generationally. For just with the tightening of environmental, climate, and

­resource crises, the relative power advantage of today’s superior groups increases: increased environmental, climate, and resource stress leads to a more radical division of the world population into winning and losing groups. The sociologist Lars Clausen has called this ‘failed globalization’ (Clausen 2010), the systematic reduction in the chance of equal living conditions. In this perspective, which sees the horizontal and vertical axes of inequality of life and survival conditions together, the ecological question appears immediately as a question of justice, and thus as one that systematically cannot be solved by increasing efficiency. Such a perspective has receded far into the background in recent years, however – in favour of the techno focus on climate change and energy issues. When ­social issues are addressed, it is all about the distribution of the loads (or costs) in introducing ‘green technologies’. The narrowing of social issues on this aspect ­suggests that sustainability can be achieved without changing anything in the economic and social practice. Against the background of the above reflections, this is not plausible. A transformation design that aims at a sustainable metabolism of ­society and nature cannot avoid putting issues of social production and reproduction at the centre. This implies, inevitably, addressing existing power and dominance ­relationships, as well as the possibility of changing these.

1

An earlier draft of this article has been published in Transformationsdesign. Wege in eine zukunftsfähige Moderne (Sommer and Welzer 2014).

References Brand, Ulrich, and Wissen, Markus (2011). ‘Sozial-ökologische Transformation und imperiale Lebensweise. Zu Krise und Kontinuität kapitalistischer Naturverhältnisse’. In Demirovic, Alex, Dück, Julia, Becker, Florian, and Bader, Pauline (eds.). Vielfachkrise im finanzdominierten Kapitalismus. Hamburg: VSA Verlag, pp. 78–93. Chakrabarty, Dipesh (2009). ‘The Climate of History: Four Theses’. In Eurozine. Retrieved 12 September 2014 from: http://www.eurozine.com/pdf/2009-10-30-chakrabarty-en.pdf. Clausen, Lars (2010). ‘Wohin mit den Klimakatastrophen?’ In Welzer, Harald, Soeffner, Hanz-Georg, and Giesecke, Dana (eds.). KlimaKulturen. Soziale Wirklichkeiten im Klimawandel. Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, pp. 97–110. Crutzen, Paul (2002). ‘Geology of Mankind’. In Nature 415, p. 23. Diamond, Jared (2005). Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed. New York: Viking Press. Eurostat (2013). ‘Gini Coefficient of Equivalised Disposable Income (source: SILC)’. Retrieved 3 September 2014 from: http://epp.eurostat.ec.europa.eu/tgm/refreshTableAction.do?tab=table&pcode=tessi190&language=en. Freud, Sigmund (2000 [1939]). Das Unbehagen in der Kultur. In Studienausgabe, Bd. IX: Fragen der ­Gesellschaft. Ursprünge der Religion. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. Jonas, Wolfgang (1993). ‘Design as Problem-Solving? Or: Here is the Solution – What was the Problem?’  In Design Studies 14, no. 2 (April 1993). Koschorke, Albrecht (2012). Wahrheit und Erfindung. Grundzüge einer Allgemeinen Erzähltheorie. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer. Mauch, Christof (2014). Mensch und Umwelt. Nachhaltigkeit aus historischer Perspektive. Munich: oekom.

Meadows, Dennis L., et al. (1972). Die Grenzen des Wachstums – Berichte des Club of Rome zur Lage der ­Menschheit. Munich: DVA. Polanyi, Karl (1973). The Great Transformation: Politische und ökonomische Ursprünge von Gesellschaften und Wirtschaftssystemen. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Raworth, Kate (2012). ‘A Safe and Just Space for Humanity’. Oxfam Discussion Paper. Retrieved 19 September 2014 from: http://www.oxfam.org/sites/www.oxfam.org/files/dp-a-safe-and-just-space-for-humanity130212-en.pdf. Rockström, Johan, Steffen, Will, Noone, Kevin, Persson, Åsa, Chapin III, F. Stuart, Lambin, Eric F., Lenton, Timothy M., Scheffer, Marten, Folke, Carl, Schellnhuber, Hans Joachim, Nykvist, Björn, de Wit, Cynthia A., Hughes, Terry, van der Leeuw, Sander, Rodhe, Henning, Sörlin, Sverker, Snyder, Peter K., Costanza, Robert, Svedin, Uno, Falkenmark, Malin, Karlberg, Louise, Corell, Robert W., Fabry, Victoria J., Hansen, James, Walker, Brian, Liverman, Diana, Richardson, Katherine, Crutzen, Paul, and Foley, Jonathan A. (2009). ‘A Safe Operating Space for Humanity’. In Nature 461, pp. 472–75. Schad, Miriam, Sommer, Bernd, and Wessels, Sebastian (2013). ‘Auswirkungen des Klimawandels auf die ­Gesellschaft’. In Gerstengarbe, Friedrich-Wilhelm, and Welzer, Harald (eds.). Zwei Grad mehr in Deutschland. Wie der Klimawandel unseren Alltag verändern wird. Das Szenario 2040. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, pp. 131–88. Schor, Juliet B. (2010). Plentitude: The New Economics for True Wealth. New York: Penguin Books. Sommer, B., and Welzer, H. (2014). Transformationsdesign. Wege in eine zukunftsfähige Moderne. Munich: oekom. Steffen, Will, Crutzen, Paul J., and McNeill, John R. (2007). ‘The Anthropocene: Are Humans Now Overwhelming the Great Forces of Nature?’ In Ambio 38, no. 8, pp. 614–21. Steffen, Will, Persson, Åsa, Deutsch, Lisa, Zalasiewicz, Jan, Williams, Mark, Richardson, Katherine, Crumley, Carole, Crutzen, Paul, Folke, Carl, Gordon, Line, Molina, Mario, Ramanathan, Veerabhadran, Rockström, ­Johan, Scheffer, Marten, Schellnhuber, Hans Joachim, and Svedin, Uno (2011). ‘The Anthropocene: From Global Change to Planetary Stewardship A.’ In Ambio 40, no. 8, pp. 739–61. Streeck, Wolfgang (2013). Gekaufte Zeit: Die vertagte Krise des demokratischen Kapitalismus. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Uchatius, Wolfgang (2013). ‘Jan Müller hat genug’. In Die Zeit 10. Retrieved 14 September 2014 from: http://www.zeit.de/2013/10/DOS-Konsum/komplettansicht. Wackernagel, Mathis (2014). ‘12 Fragen an … 12 Questions to … Mathis Wackernagel’. In GAIA. Ökologische Perspektiven für Wissenschaft und Gesellschaft 23, no. 1, pp. 6–7. Weber, Max (1905). ‘Die protestantische Ethik und der Geist des Kapitalismus’. In Ders. Religion und ­Gesellschaft. Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2006, pp. 11–183. Welzer, Harald (2011). Mentale Infrastrukturen. Wie das Wachstum in die Welt und in die Seelen kam. Berlin: Heinrich Böll Stiftung. Welzer, Harald (2013). Selbst Denken. Eine Anleitung zum Widerstand. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer. WWF [World Wildlife Fund International] (2012). Living Planet Report 2012. Gland, Switzerland.

Designing ‘Matters of Concern’ (Latour): A Future Design Challenge? Peter Friedrich Stephan

Abstract: The French sociologist of science Bruno Latour argues that visualising matters of concern is a pivotal design task for the future. In Part 1 of this chapter, the author subjects Latour’s argument to a critical examination in the context of design research fields. Part 2 relates Latour’s ‘matters of concern’ concept to the challenge not only of visualising but also of designing concerns. The main hypothesis developed here is that concerns can serve as attractors for organising and interpreting values, needs, issues, and frames. The chapter concludes with a discussion of the relationship of design to social change and the potential contribution to future transformation design that building on Latour’s perspective may make possible.

Part 1  Latour and Design Latour’s Design Challenge Matters of Fact vs. Matters of Concern In his 2008 keynote address to the Design History Society entitled ‘A Cautious Prometheus: A Few Steps to a Philosophy of Design’ (Latour 2008a), the French philosopher, anthropologist, and sociologist Bruno Latour notes that the design disciplines have developed methods such as blueprint drawings and CAD technology for visualising objects as matters of fact. He went on to say that the challenge now is to develop tools for visualising matters of concern: Here is the question I wish to raise to designers: where are the visualization tools that allow the contradictory and controversial nature of matters of concern to be represented? (Latour 2008a:13)

These new visualisation tools, according to Latour, should: […] provide for things, that is for matters of concern, a visual, publicly inspectable space that is as remotely as rich, at least as easy to handle, and as codified as what has been done over four centuries for objects conceived of as matters of fact. (13)

Latour derives this design challenge from his work in Science and Technology Studies (STS). He asserts that the new ways of drawing that originated in the Florentine Renaissance (disegno) and the use of ‘immutable mobiles’ (7) contributed to the exceptionally powerful development of science and technology. In calling for new visualisation tools, Latour is projecting a similar effort for the future, obviously with the expectation of similar groundbreaking results: Why can the powerful visual vocabulary that has been devised in the past by generations of artists, engineers, designers, philosophers, artisans and activists for matters of fact, not be devised […] for matters of concern? (13)

The concept of matters of concern is embedded in the framework of Actor-Network Theory (ANT), which is an attempt to elaborate a ‘symmetrical anthropology’ (­Latour 1991) and ‘second empiricism’ (Latour 2008a: 49). The distinction between matters of fact and matters of concern is placed in a historical context that Latour postulates as being ‘defined by a complete disconnect’ (2) between ‘two great narratives’ (2). Modernist – matters of fact • ‘emancipation, detachment, modernization, ­progress and mastery’ (2) • ‘founding, colonizing, establishing, breaking with the past […] hubris, searching for absolute certainty, absolute beginnings, and radical ­departures’(5) • ‘material, real, objective and factual’ (6)

Design – matters of concern • ‘attachment, precaution, entanglement, ­dependence and care’ (2) • ‘antidote’ to everything in the left column (5) • ‘social, symbolic, subjective, and lived’ (6)

Table 1: Latour’s ‘two great narratives’ (Latour 2008a: 2, 5, 6), table by PFS

Here is the setting in which Latour places his ideas on design: For me, the word design is a little tracer whose expansion could prove the depth to which we have stopped believing that we have been modern. In other words, the more we think of ourselves as designers, the less we think of ourselves as modernizers. (2008a: 3)

He goes on to say that design’s task is to: […] ease modernism out of its historical dead end. (13)

To do so, he asserts: New innovation will be absolutely necessary if we are to adequately represent the conflicting natures of all the things that are to be designed. (13)

Moreover, these innovations should reveal: […] the hidden practices of modernist innovations: objects have always been projects; matters of fact have always been matters of concern. (13)

so that ultimately the question arises: How can we draw together matters of concern so as to offer to political disputes an overview, or at least a view, of the difficulties that will entangle us every time we must modify the practical details of our material existence? (12)

ANT and Design

A few design researchers expressed an interest in Latour and ANT early on, but a broader acceptance has emerged only recently.1 Ironically, these authors mostly concentrated on the material aspects of ANT (‘Dingpolitik’, Latour 2008b), for example the Scandinavian designers who link ANT’s perspective to their tradition of participatory design.2 Projects that explicitly tackle Latour’s design challenge are rare.3 One reason might be that, while the ANT analytical perspective offers a method of observing and describing, it cannot be operationalised directly for the synthesising needs of design. To achieve this, Latour’s arguments must be placed in design’s historico-systematic context. There are good reasons why designers relate to ANT and Latour’s work, especially since the publication of his seminal article on ‘Visualization and Cognition: Drawing Things Together’ (Latour 1986). These reasons include: • ambition to bridge the gap between ‘materialist’ and ‘mentalist’ explanations for the ‘specifics of modern scientific culture’ (Latour 1986: 1); • a ‘passion for inscription devices’ (30)4 and ‘immutable mobiles’ (7);5 • the re-evaluation of the functions of objects and their reassessment as ‘things’/‘Dinge’ (6); • epistemological insights with regard to drawing and modelling (Latour and Yaneva 2008); and • the design of the theoretical framework and its ‘originality of what is more a method to deploy the actor’s own world-building activities than an alternative social theory’ (Latour 1999: 15).6

1 Dissemination of Barack Obama’s tweet ‘Four more years’ by mfglabs7

Responses to Latour’s Design Challenge A designer’s first response might be to point out projects that already successfully render matters of concern, even if they do not directly relate to Latour or ANT, such as the following: • Soccer matches (matters of concern for millions) are visualised in excruciating detail (heat maps, 3D simulation, players’ scores, financial transactions, etc.). • Tweets are visualised in real time as an aid to understanding the dynamics of social systems. • An architectural survey of the urban territory of Venice, Italy, that mapped the different perspectives of the inner-city population, tourists, and illegal immigrants in an atlas of comprehensive graphics (migropolis.com and Scheppe 2009). The emergent field of data journalism that is developing new, integrative forms of text and images, dynamic presentation, and mediated interactions can provide the expertise for structuring and visualising matters of concern and the debates they engender. If examples like those cited above would not meet Latour’s expectations, the question becomes how complex the visualisations he calls for can be made before they begin to overtax cognitive capacities and so become counterproductive for practical use. A map at a scale of 1:1 is clearly not feasible. Images may abound, but what is lacking is structure, which calls for an effort to develop visual standards. The

2 Screenshot from the project ‘Mind 17’ that attempts to define visual standards for the rhetoric of controversial debate. (Concept: PFS; illustration: Meier)

effective new visualisations produced during the Florentine Renaissance cited by Latour were based on standards, not idiosyncratic styles. The systematic foundations that visualisation standards will need in the future are potentially found in the medieval trivium of grammar, rhetoric, and logic.8 The epistemological functions of rhetoric and of aesthetic aspects in research processes to date have not been given their due. They were criticised as random and affective, and as such they contradicted the myth of science as a completely rational endeavour. However, recent enquiries into the material, social, and communicative conditions of research processes (like Latour’s) showed that it is exactly the ambiguity of aesthetic artefacts such as pictures and metaphors that helps in generating ideas in the first place and thus is essential for research processes (Gross 1996 and Nate 2009). Building on these insights, design can create new visual standards based on the epistemological functions of rhetoric and aesthetic aspects for use in developing alternative formats for scientific research and communication. As a second response, a designer inspired by Latour’s ‘matters of concern’ approach might interpret his lack of definition as an opportunity for generating new perspectives for future design tasks. In the course of developing these perspectives, a first step would be to give credit where due to achievements by designers who designed matters of concern avant la lettre (Stephan 2001).

Matters of Concern in Design History Notable Contributions Notable projects in the history of design may be said to have already involved the ­design of matters of concern, including: • Buckminster Fuller’s ‘World Game’ (1961), by displaying the global flows of money and resources, showing complex relationships, and asking for alternatives in a tangible, interactive, and playful way; • the film Powers of Ten (1968) by Charles and Ray Eames, by showing the scalability of man’s environment and raising concerns about humanity destined to live in an artificial world; and • design groups from the 1960s and 1970s, among them Super­ studio, Archizoom, and Archigram, by using advanced visualisation and interactive formats (films, comic strips, and performances, etc.) in developing and communicating complex issues affecting design and society. Instead of working on matters of fact, like ‘four walls with a roof’, it was standard practice for these teams of architects to focus on matters of concern, such as social issues like how to organise public and private life when designing built environments.

Otto Neurath: Conception of Science, Political Aspiration, and Artistic Style The only work Latour cites from design history is that of Otto Neurath (1882–1945), who invented the Isotype symbolic language for visualising facts related to economic and social issues (Neurath 1936). When Otto Neurath devised his isotypes he was trying to do something which was the equivalent of what had been attempted during the Renaissance, namely to link together in a powerful synthesis a certain conception of science – logical positivism –, a certain political aspiration – the socialism of Red Vienna – with a certain artistic style – Bauhaus modernism. […] Neurath gives us the exact magnitude of the task to be completed. (Latour 2008c: 49, 50)

Latour thus identifies the threefold basis for Neurath’s endeavour as an amalgam of science, politics, and art. For the historical projects listed in section 2.1 above, a Neurath-type, threefold basis might look like this:

• Conception of science: early cybernetics, systems theory, planning theory. • Political aspiration: left-wing, emancipatory, ecological move­ ment. • Artistic style: avant-garde, multimedia, pop culture. Confronting today’s challenges also calls on us to define such foundations. Accordingly, we propose the following threefold scheme: • Conception of science: a revised understanding of knowledge work that acknowledges cognitive diversity as conceived of in ANT , that postulates a ‘new production of knowledge’ (Gibbons et al. 1994), and that leads to the concept of a ‘Mode 2’ knowledge (Nowotny et al. 2001). • Political aspiration: insights into post-growth society; social activism vs. neo-liberalism. • Artistic style: avant-garde, popular tech culture.

Matters of Concern as Common Ground for ANT, Argument Visualisation, and Online Deliberation While giving Latour credit for articulating the design challenge, we can critique his omission of any contemporary field of professional activity that could potentially contribute to meeting that challenge. In our view, the quest to invent new visualisation tools will need to resort to distributed competencies, such as: • argument visualisation, which grew out of early cybernetics and decision theory (Kirschner, Buckingham-Shum, and Carr 2003). It has potential for formalising and displaying different perspectives on controversial aspects attaching to matters of concern • online deliberation, the research field that grew out of non-academic citizen initiatives and today blends political and communication sciences with design and technical expertise, and focuses on organising debates using online tools (Davies and Gangadharan 2009). These fields are in active development and rely heavily on research and new technology.9 Both have integrated design from the start but missed connecting with Actor-Network Theory. Since argument visualisation and online deliberation are essential for addressing matters of concern in Latour’s sense, it seems appropriate to combine them with ANT for purposes of future research.

3 ‘Matters of concern’ is the common core formed by the over­ lapping competency fields of Actor-Network Theory, design, and ­online deliberation. (Diagram: PFS)

Science and Technology Studies (STS) Assembly

Sociotechnical Graphs Research in Discourse

Online Deliberation Argument Visualisation

Cultural Technology – material turn

Actor-Network Theory Hybrids

Chains of Action

Actants

Matters Immutable Mobiles of Concern Materiality Participatory Design

Cognitive Governance Public Policy Social Innovation Visualisation Interface

Political Sciences

Design Cognitive Design Human Centred Design

Service Design Transformation Design

A Closer Look at ‘Matters of Concern’ Pursuing our dissection of Latour’s design challenge, we now need to ask: what ­exactly are matters of concern? The concept is essential to Latour’s argument and ­figures prominently in several of his publications.10 However, instead of yielding a precise definition, these lengthy, partly redundant descriptions give rise to more questions.11 For designers to willingly accept Latour’s design challenge, they will first need to clarify the underlying terms. We now address this need by taking a look at ‘scenography’, one of Latour’s key metaphors.

Scenography and ‘the whole machinery of a theatre’ Even though the term is central to his argument, Latour does not deliver a clear definition of ‘matter of concern’. Instead, he offers a multitude of descriptions that are not always coherent and sometimes contradictory, such as the following: A matter of concern is what happens to a matter of fact when you add to it its whole scenography, much like you would do by shifting your attention from the stage to the whole machinery of a theatre. (Latour 2008c: 39) Matters of fact were indisputable, obstinate, simply there; matters of concern are disputable, and their obstinacy seems to be of an entirely different sort: they move, they carry you away, and, yes, they, too, matter. (39)

•

4 A matter of fact as a clear-cut entity but without context and therefore ­fictional; only possible virtually, e.g., as in CAD ­systems 5 By adding scenography, the matter of fact becomes a matter of concern with context, interaction, and meaning

6 The audience finds itself addressed by the scenography, which thus becomes subject to debate. The scenography is produced by the machinery of a theatre, which is not transparent for the audience. (Illustrations: PFS)

There is a logical disconnect between these two quotes. Emotional involvement is possible only as long as an audience believes that what it is watching is real, even if it is just cardboard scenery, celluloid, or pixels. That is, the spectator either limits his perception to the stage, believes in the play, and consequently is moved by it or he shifts his attention, deconstructs the entire theatre machinery, and thus remains unmoved. Matters of concern can only move an audience by drawing on emotions, opinions, and attitudes that have been experienced by the audience previously, so that it can react empathically. The terms ‘scenography’ and ‘machinery of a theatre’ are used interchangeably by Latour, but they really denote two different things. The scenography is what the audience can see and hear on stage – props, lights, sounds – whereas the machinery of a theatre is everything – seen and unseen – that goes into producing these effects, including the work of costume designers, stage workers, and administrative personnel. Hence, the matter of fact on the stage (fig. 4) has two frames: the scenography (fig. 5) and – zooming out – the machinery of a theatre (fig. 6). Latour confuses means with ends by employing the theatre metaphor the way he does, and he leaves unclear what the designer must do to visualise matters of concern:

• The scenography (fig. 5) is carefully designed and creates intensified impressions compared with perceptions in normal life. Here, the economic ideal is to strive for aesthetic excess (larger, louder, brighter). The criterion of success is the emotional and cognitive persuasion of the audience when it ‘buys into’ the story without necessarily understanding how the ­effect is created. The objects onstage are matters of concern as they have context, interaction, and meaning and help the play to unfold. Scenography embodies the expertise of designers, movie directors, or theatre directors. • The machinery of a theatre (fig. 6) comprises the assembly of stakeholders who produce the scenography: every person involved in the production, dissemination, and flows of energy, materials, information, and money. The economic ideal here is reductionist (faster, smaller, and cheaper). The criterion of success is the effective production of high-quality plays while staying within budget. The objects present within the machinery of a theatre are mere tools (matters of fact) to support the production of the scenography. Expressed another way, the ‘machinery of a theatre’ is the collective expertise of the general administrator and staff.

The Visualisation Task Reconsidered Scenography delivers the standard perspective of an integral experience for an audience. An attempt at visualisation could only ask for the backstage view (‘the making of’) and cannot happen at the same time as the performances or for the same audiences. The machinery of a theatre normally is not transparent and can be visualised in part by means of diagrams; these, however, can never be complete or neutral.

Zooming In and Out We use two visualisation states to differentiate Latour’s visualisation task:



• Zooming in from the standard scenography The visualisation task is to strip the scenography from the integral experience and to try to isolate the mere matters of fact. This might be a professional designer’s approach to deconstructing scenographies created by others in order to develop alternatives.

7 The audience experiences and debates a scenography that is produced by the assembly of stakeholders hidden below it. The designer is an invisible part of the assembly of stakeholders.

8 Designers present visualisations of the assembly of stakeholders to a public that integrates different audiences. The designer becomes visible as a moderator or author. (Illustrations: PFS)



• Zooming out from the standard scenography The visualisation task is to map all of the stakeholders’ perspectives that together constitute the complex socio-technical machinery of a theatre, including political institutions, financial flows, working conditions, buildings, infrastructure, tourism, ticketing, and so on.

Leaving aside the metaphor and rephrasing Latour’s argument in a more general way lets us identify two distinct tasks for designers: 1. The designer’s traditional task: mise en scène of artefacts as a proposition of values and uses, new forms of interaction, and reasons for debate. 2. The designer’s new task: visualisation of complex and dynamic socio-technical systems and the controversial positions of stakeholders.

In modernist idiom, the first task would be associated with affirmation, manipulation, consumption, and lack of transparency, whereas the second would stand for critique, authenticity, production, and transparency. However, both tasks require the identical set of designer skills (see 7.1: Papanek’s ‘real world’ and the bias of modern design).

Deeper Foundations Latour adds four other ‘specifications’, but they do not help to answer the questions we raised at the beginning: • • • •

Specification one: matters of concern have to matter. Specification two: matters of concern have to be liked. Specification three: matters of concern have to be populated. Specification four: matters of concern have to be durable. (Latour 2008c: 47–48)

In constructing these specifications, Latour refers to a mysterious collective subject: ‘Can we do better […], now we have to choose […]’ (Latour 2008c: 47). But who is ‘we’? Mankind? A nation? A neighbourhood? The stakeholders in concerns? Chances are that there is no ‘we’ unless constituted by common or divergent interests. So the concern has to be there in the first place to assemble a collective around it. The first tribes coalesced around shared concerns dealing with scarce resources – food and shelter. In our age of abundance, however, marketing strives constantly to develop new concerns by building collectives such as audiences, workforces, or voting blocs from disparate individuals. Advertising slogans echo the ancient efforts when they label customers as ‘tribes’ or ‘nations’.12 With digital networks, the construction and deconstruction of concerns can be monitored and manipulated publicly in real time.13 From this it should be obvious that a deeper foundational analysis is needed to get at the sources that drive people individually and collectively. For this, we propose to insert Latour’s matters of concern into the ongoing discussion about design for social change, and especially those approaches that have socio-psychological foundations (Holmes et al. 2011).

Summary: Visualisation or Material Participation? Latour proposes a visualisation task for designers in the expectation that visualisations will bring rationality to public debate and help to settle controversies. But the arguments to be visualised will always depend solely on the bias of stakeholders and take place on their level of knowledge and imagination. The designer here finds himself in a weak position as a moderator of questionable legitimacy. However, Latour’s ‘matters of concern’ concept can be extended to put design in a position where it can actually contribute to setting the agenda for these debates. Designers have always conceptualised new life forms and proposed practical alternatives. These design projects then enter the discourse arena, not in the symbolic form of arguments – visualised or otherwise – but as materialised artefacts.14 In the evolving context of ambient computing, media environments, and intelligent objects, the border between physical and virtual entities is becoming increasingly blurred. This means we do not have to decide on whether to prioritise visualisations or ‘material participation’ (Marres 2012). Instead, we propose to use the concerns concept as an attractor that can integrate different perspectives. In that light, we need to examine it more closely if it is to contribute to the foundations of transformation design.

Part 2  Can We Design Concerns? To answer this question calls for an enquiry into what concerns are, who defines them, and how they are constructed and put on the map of public perception. Furthermore, we need to clarify how concerns, values, needs, issues, and frames work together and why some things matter to people in the first place while others do not.15 These reflections should lead to an understanding of social change, a prerequisite for transformation design. However, designers are far from being the only ones to focus on social or socio-technical change. Science and technology studies, psychology, and the political and economic sciences all make contributions to studying this issue. It is therefore up to designers to define their unique approach among all these other professional contributions.

Concerns as Attractors The typical things people are concerned about – family, love, religion, health, sex, security, education, justice, money, food, violence, sports, the environment, and so on – constitute different frames of mind.16 Individual frames of mind can be de-

fined as idiosyncratic, fluid combinations of concerns that may start or stop mattering. Design contributes in the construction and deconstruction of these frames or mindsets by organising perception and interaction. It introduces new aesthetic distinctions and artefacts that enable and foster new forms of social interaction. Here, ease and enjoyment of use are just two of design’s vectors; others are experimentation, irritation, and provocation. To gain a systematic understanding of concerns in context, we propose a tentative scheme that treats concerns as attractors capable of integrating and organising values, needs, and issues.17 Concerns can be defined as interpretations of values that are embedded in religious, cultural, and social contexts. Whereas values may stay constant over long periods of time, concerns tend to change more rapidly. So, for example, personal health would be a constant value subject to being interpreted as different concerns over time, such as working out, a change of diet, or taking medication. Whereas values can be articulated in words, concerns manifest themselves by people’s actions and decisions on how to live, what choices to make, what politics to support, and what things to buy. Concerns can thus also be defined as biases that produce sufficient energy to power changes in an individual’s mind and actions. Concerns are not to be equated with needs. Some concerns may be linked to needs, but not necessarily in a rigid way. For instance, a health concern may be linked to the need for clean water in one context and the need to avoid eating fast food in another. Other features of concerns include the following: • They act as filters that sort out fast-changing issues according to how relevant they are to a particular concern. • They are self-evident, need no justification, and can differ completely from one person to the next. • Concerns can also serve as attractors around which groups of individuals form. • Concerns mix up categories and scale: a lost soccer match by your local team can be a bigger concern than a war in a distant country. • Concerns are not necessarily logical: the wealthiest nations are not the happiest, the most secure communities may feel insecure.

Starting Points Instead of taking products or services as a starting point for design, we begin by asking questions such as: what concerns make people behave in a certain way? How do individuals interact with one another, with artefacts, and with the environment? Why do people speak and dress the way they do? Why do people buy the things they do?

9 The ‘beauty’ concern in two ­interpretations: 1. The classical Greek way (a garden sculpture) 2. The American pop way (Disney ­princess on an air mattress). (Photos: PFS; collage:­­doppelpunkt, Berlin)

The standard models of homo economicus, or Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, are incapable of answering these questions. This is because they require human economic behaviour to be plainly irrational; the models can accommodate neither rational behaviour that follows psychological patterns nor an economy of libidinous energies (Lyotard 1974). Their approach requires energy flows that govern minds in an archaic, inflexible way only marginally alterable by social form and individual will. Genetic make-up, cultural structures, and social upbringing combine to form frames that preconfigure the concerns individuals are constantly referring to, be it with approval or denial, knowingly or unknowingly. It is clear that design cannot work counter to these concerns; it can only try to work with them. Thus, designers need to think of themselves as ‘libido engineers’ who take assumptions about the driving forces of concerns as starting points and, by introducing new actants (to use Latour’s term), try to channel them in new directions. In a way, it is design voodoo: the steering of actions by manipulating objects, with the difference that transformation design makes a real impact by taking concerns into account.

Example: Legalising Active Euthanasia To show the difference between Latour’s concept of matters of concern and the proposed deeper understanding of concerns, it may be instructive to think about dying and the cultural forms available to cope with it – specifically, the controversy that surrounds legalising active euthanasia. To visualise this concern from Latour’s per-

10 Two concerns meet in this sculpture made from a petrol can: 1. identity (a tribal ritual mask) and 2. mobility (the can as an iconic object of civilisation). Romuald Hazoumé: Bénin, 1991. (­Collection Dr Martin Baumgart, Bonn; photo: PFS)

spective, the objective might be to map the pros and cons with the goal of fostering a rational public debate preparatory to making political decisions. But designers can do more than that by offering new forms, not for the sake of mere argument but as a practical alternative. It will not resolve the question of whether or not active euthanasia should be legalised, but it will, hopefully, help by introducing new options. Simply mapping the debate would fail to touch the profound concerns that drive this issue; its roots tap into a deeper dimension.

Rituals as Evolutionary Concerns Engaging in a ritual means relying on an approved social form generated from the accumulated experience of generations. Rituals limit personal choices and reduce responsibility. From the energy perspective suggested above, rituals also reduce emotional, cognitive, and creative load. The evolutionary basis of culture and the cradle of design can be found in rituals: primordial humans faced with the overwhelming powers of nature at first lacked the tools and knowledge to cope with them. But instead of letting themselves be paralysed by anxiety, they invented rituals to help them to endure and overcome adversity. Dancing to make it rain may not influence the weather, but it helps people to carry on. When everything around them seems to fall apart, humans need form to keep it all together (Sloterdijk 2007). When undisputed rituals erode, as in our own time, designers are called on to invent new social forms that will help people to cope with enduring concerns.

A Methodology for Designing Concerns The ‘matters of concern’ approach can help to integrate the following perspectives with design: • emergent technology (new products and services), • psychological dynamics (minds and cognitive governance), and • social interaction (cultural innovation). A suitable methodology, while it can draw in part on the traditional design repertoire of touch point analysis, cultural probes, and prototyping, will also have to integrate methods from ANT, cognitive psychology (triple loop learning), and innovation theory (presencing/Theory-U, Scharmer 2009). What follows is a preliminary sketch of methods undergoing active development: 1. Observe chains of operations as closely as possible (Latour: ANT’s view). 2. Accept that objects have agency too (ANT). 3. Build an appropriate repertoire to record operations (data visualisation, visual rhetoric). 4. Understand actors’ concerns through empathy and cognitive analysis (Latour: actor scripts). 5. Find translations and breaks between values, concerns, needs, and issues. 6. Follow the deduction and dynamic changes of frames of mind. 7. Invent alternative scripts and translations (social innovation). 8. Design services, products, and environments that demand new scripts and translations. 9. Implement new services, products, and environments (triple loop learning). 10. Observe working of new scripts and translations, evaluate, and start the next iteration.

Designing for the Real ‘Real World’ The sketched approach to designing concerns is not exactly new to design. But introducing new descriptions will help the work to proceed in a more solidly grounded manner, establish relationships with other competency fields, and historically and systematically contextualise the approach. Below is a look at two examples from­

­ esign history that deal with the discussion on needs and the claim to design for d change.

Needs: Papanek’s ‘Real World’ and Modern Design Bias The concern approach can help to overcome the fixation on needs that was central to design discussions for decades. A prime example of this mania is Papanek’s ­famous book Design for the Real World, which opens with this bold statement:

11 Papanek’s diagrammed assumptions about ‘what people really need’ and ‘what people are told they need and want’. But ‘what the people really want’ he left in complete doubt. (Papanek 1971)

There are professions more harmful than industrial design, but only a very few of them. And possibly only one profession is phonier. Advertising design, in persuading people to buy things they don’t need, with money they don’t have, in order to impress others who don’t care, is probably the phoniest field in existence today. (Papanek 1971: ix)

This introduction lets Papanek launch into a radical redefinition of design as an agent of change, working for ‘real needs’ in a ‘real world’. Papanek identifies the ‘real needs’ as ‘peace, housing, food […]’ and the suggested needs as ‘law & order, the latest fashion, a steady job […]’. The category ‘What the people really want’ was left undefined, however, filled only by a scattering of question marks (Papanek 1971: from diagram). In drawing a clear distinction between affirmative design (advertising, manipulation, consumption) on the one hand and critical design (information, critique, participation) on the other, Papanek exhibits the bias of modern design.18 Designers working from the perspective of concerns overcome this bias and open themselves to a multitude of realities. In contrast with Papanek’s normative scheme, from the perspective of concerns designers see no clear boundary between manipulated and authentic needs. There is no way to distinguish ‘real’ concerns from the ‘unreal’. Recognising and satisfying needs may go hand in hand with civilisation, but inventing new needs is what we call culture. The methods of creating ‘value propositions for business models’ (Osterwalder et al. 2014) and the methods aiming for higher values (humanitarian, sustainability) are quite close if not identical, as in ‘selling hamburgers, selling behavior change’ (Crompton 2010: 30). The mechanics are the same, and they both draw on archaic concerns, as famously captured in the marketing insight ‘sell the sizzle, not the steak’. What Latour correctly calls scenography is actually the designer’s expertise in organising perception and interaction so as to create preferences for a brand, a behaviour, a political party, or a fashion statement. Designers always aim to address the true ‘real world’ of concerns that move people and that are the driving forces for the factual world of products and services.

Change: Slowing and Futuring That change was being accepted as a positive value first became evident in the 1960s and 1970s, when activists faced petrified structures in society, government, and corporations. Since the 1980s, however, the demand for permanent innovation and social change has been co-opted by neo-liberalism, accelerating the pace of change to ultimately destabilise the individual. Therefore, transformation design cannot simply foster social change; it may on occasion actually have to roll back deleterious social change, for instance, as represented by gentrification processes. Processes of

futuring – the exploration of the future – as well as counter- and de-futuring thus compete, and the designer’s expertise in creating suggestive rhetorical projections and speculative culture is available for use by all stakeholders. While technological innovations may have a disruptive effect on social life, introducing new cultural forms takes time and patience. This implies that, in contrast to the revolutionising impetus of modern heroes of design, designers of the future may find that by simply slowing down, they can create subversive new strategies: That’s where the slowing down comes in – you can create new habits only by slowing down, because new habits also mean new feelings, new interests, new possibilities […] (Isabelle Stengers in Zournazi 2002: 266)

This insight echoes Latour’s concept of the ‘compositionist’: For a compositionist, nothing is beyond dispute. And yet, closure has to be achieved. But it is achieved only by the slow process of composition and compromise, not by the revelation of the world of beyond. (Latour 2010: 478)

Norms and Participation The wish to distinguish positive from negative change might easily lead to a rigid set of values that are too narrow, static, and culturally biased to support the idea of dynamic transformation.19 If transformation design is to integrate the thinking on matters of concern, it will have to concede that there are only concerns rather than objective, reliable, or absolute values20 to work towards. Instead of adhering to a normative set of values, designers will have to decide individually on what commission to accept, what compromises to make, what risks to take, and what strategy to deploy. New social forms cannot always be created collectively (‘nightmare participation’, Miessen 2012). There may be times when it takes an iconoclast to propose a novel perspective. Participatory design tends to work best when participants share a predefined, common habitat, such as a workplace. But inventing new or even radical forms of social interaction is not something that is best done by committee. This sort of transformation design calls for personal conviction, dedication, and often the making of lonely decisions.

Designers as Superheroes ‘Can designers save the world?’ This question was asked decades ago by the International Design Center Berlin (IDZ 1970).21 The context was the disappointment engendered by the failed revolutionary ambitions of the 1960s, growing awareness of

­ecological concerns, the influence of pop culture, and scientific discourses in cybernetics and systems theory.22 Today’s context may seem quite different, but the optimism or sometimes pretension still motivates today’s designers.23 This puts the modern designer at the other extreme from Papanek’s industrial designer: the ­designer as superhero out to save the world. In our Anthropocene epoch, man’s power to shape the world, himself included, is almost total. Increasingly, decisions can and must be made that before were not feasible, because of either factual constraints or ritualistic behaviour. Profound, permanent change challenges design, which is now understood as capable of questioning and re-conceptualising the human-made habitat. But change does not wait for the designer; social dynamics and technology are the drivers, and the consequences are unforeseeable. Thus, the power of design is not necessarily the power of designers. Instead, it might well be the power of nuclear physicists, molecular ­biologists, nanoengineers, or simply businessmen, who all harbour a ‘different ­understanding of design’ (Konsorski-Lang and Hampe 2010).

Conclusion The world does not wait for designers. Change will happen, designers or no designers. Many crucial concerns – life expectancy, education, and healthcare, to name a few – have developed in much more positive ways than would be suggested by the average public opinion survey.24 Delivering a ‘fact-based world view’ (gapminder. com) in the respectable tradition of Fuller, Eames, and Neurath remains a valid goal. Taking up Latour’s challenge of visualising matters of concern means creating proper scenographies for matters of fact while keeping in mind that they are ­always subject to rhetorical considerations. However, the ultimate goal is to define visual and functional standards on the level of today’s powerful media and the conceptual frameworks of argument visualisation and online deliberation. Foundations for this endeavour can be found in the history of formalisation and aesthetics. In transformation design, designers will have to define a professional contribution that sets them apart from change agents in other competency fields. Designers can apply their existing skill set to new tasks and use them to make socially preferred changes an attractive alternative. However, designers will also have to refresh their repertoire to work with irritation, provocation, narration, and speculation. New strategies will have to be developed in cooperation with the brightest minds in computer science, engineering, biology, psychology, politics, and, yes, advertising. In this context, the ‘concerns approach’ merits closer examination to gauge its potential as an attractor capable of integrating these perspectives for future transformation design.

  1 See Jonas 2000 and later Verbeek 2005; Shove et al. 2007; Matt 2010; Holert 2011; and Fry 2011 and 2012. The editors of Latour’s Prometheus text stated ‘an excitement about actor-network theory (ANT) and a sense that it offered new ways of thinking and approaching not only design but also its histories’ (Hackney, Glynne, and Minton 2008: xi).   2 Ehn 2011; Ehn et al. 2012; Binder et al. 2012; Bjögvinsson et al. 2012; Eriksen 2012; Moll 2012; Lindström and Ståhl 2014.   3 An exception is Latour’s long-time collaborator Albena Yaneva, who takes part in his research projects and produces visualisations for architectural problems (Yaneva 2012).   4 The term ‘inscription devices’ was coined contemporaneously with Friedrich Kittler’s ‘Aufschreibe­ systeme’ (Kittler 1985).   5 Here, Latour refers explicitly to On the Rationalization of Sight (Ivins 1973).   6 The term ‘world-building’ explicitly refers to Ways of Worldmaking (Goodman 1978).  7 http://mfglabs.com/where-does-my-tweet-go.   8 Latour’s project ‘MACOSPOL – Mapping Controversies on Science for Politics’ set out to map controversies in the public square. Unlike Latour’s prominent and widely acclaimed exhibitions, this project is relatively unknown and has not yet been subjected to design discourse. Unfortunately, the project is poorly documented, although it was carried out with prominent international partners and funding by the EU. A deeper analysis would show that it suffers from a deficit in visual and functional standards, but such an analysis is beyond the scope of the present article. (See http://www.medialab.sciences-po.fr/projets/macospol, http://mappingcontroversies.net, and a general introduction to the project by Latour on video from 2010 at http://vimeo.com/10037347.) All URLs in this article were last retrieved on 23 September 2014.   9 New tools for data journalism are in active development at companies such as Narrativescience, ­Alchemy API, and Semantria, all of which use computational linguistics and artificial intelligence. Google and Facebook recently invested heavily in artificial intelligence: http://www.newyorker.com/ tech/elements/what-facebook-wants-with-artificial-intelligence. 10 Latour 2004; 2005: 87–110; 2008b; and 2010. 11 Latour relates his ‘matters of concern’ concept to Heidegger’s notion of ‘Ding’ and the etymological root of the Germanic thing that is interpreted as describing a meeting of tribal chiefs to discuss concerns. Leaving aside the question of whether this is a proper example for today’s idea of a debate, where Latour misses the mark is with Heidegger’s meditation on closeness (‘Nähe’), from which he develops his ­understanding of ‘Ding’ as well as his notion of ‘Zeug’. In design and computation, these aspects were discussed early on (Winograd and Flores 1986; Bonsiepe 1991), but Latour ignores them. 12 Examples include style and fashion tribes: ‘United Colors of Benetton’ and ‘Nation of Why Not’ (Royal Carribean Cruises). 13 The dynamics of leadership and collectives have been described this way: ‘It is the first follower who turns a lone nut into a leader.’ See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fW8amMCVAJQ. 14 This is also an original research topic for cultural studies: ‘And the implementation of design as a fundamental cultural technique leads to phenomena like those of knowledge- or thought-design and raises the question of where we can still draw a line between the work on concepts and the presence of objects’ (Engell and Siegert 2011: 7; translation: PFS). 15 This central question of sociology seems to have some current impact, as it was researched recently: Why Things Matter to People (Sayer 2011). 16 For a discussion of the concept of frames within behavioural change, see Crompton 2010: 40–76. 17 The dynamics of this scheme would need to be worked out. For now, this approach’s only purpose is ­delivering a design supplement to the standard perspectives of technology (with needs as an attractor), psychology (with values as an attractor), or politics (with issues as an attractor). 18 This bias was still evident decades later when Dunne and Raby conceptualised their ‘critical design’ (Dunne and Raby 2001: 58) and is retained even in their new framework of ‘speculative design’ (Dunne and Raby 2013: vii). 19 ‘[…] to create a counter-narrative aimed at generating and balancing positive social, institutional, ­environmental and/or economic change’. (Fuad-Luke 2009: 27) 20 An exception might be the norms defined by organisations such as the UN and WHO, but these are too general to work with towards distinctive designs. 21 Forty years later, this question was repeated as ‘Dasein as Design Or: Must Design Save the World?’ (­Oosterling 2009) and ‘Design Clinic: Can Design Heal the World? Scrutinising Victor Papanek’s Impact on Today’s Design Agenda’ (Fineder and Geisler 2011).

22 See ‘Umwelt und Revolte’ (Maldonado 1972), ‘Unsere Welt – Ein vernetztes System’ [Our World: A Networked System] (Vester 1978), ‘Ecology of Mind’ (Bateson 1979), and ‘Sciences of the Artificial’ (Simon 1969). 23 Some design schools promise to make superheroes of their students: ‘Design Futures: a unique interdisciplinary programme aimed at designers and thinkers who will shape society in the coming decades’ (University of Brighton, UK, http://arts.brighton.ac.uk/study/design-craft/design-futures). On the downside, designers are made responsible for catastrophes as well: ‘[…] Design Futures philosophy which recognises that many of the social and environmental catastrophes of the contemporary world have been caused by design’ (Griffith University, Queensland College of Art, Australia, http://designfutures.com.au/about/design-futures). 24 Test yourself at http://www.gapminder.org/ignorance.

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Rapid Prototyping Politics: Design and the De-material Turn Matthew Ward

Introduction: The De-Material Turn Over the last two decades, design as a discipline has focused less on the production and manufacture of material things and become more concerned with immaterial or ephemeral interactions. The role of the designer has been rigorously debated and questioned, in part due to the rise of specialisms such as Interaction Design, User Experience Design, and Service Design (Press and Cooper 2003; Danish Designers Manifesto 2010; Inns 2010). Coinciding with this de-material turn in design practice, we have seen a ‘material and speculative turn’ throughout the humanities, whereby power and political agency are attributes of non-human entities – conjuring a world, in Jane Bennett’s words, of ‘vibrant matter’ (Bennett 2010). The ‘material turn’ has been expanded through different disciplines, from philosophy (Bryant, Srnicek, and Harman 2011) and cultural studies (Bennett and Joyce 2013) to anthropology (Hicks 2010), and reaffirms an examination of the material domain as essential for our understanding of current political and economic realities. This ‘turn’ moves us beyond a conceptualisation of the world as socially or technologically deterministic, towards a networked distribution of agency. A world of distributive agency, where material entities are recognised actors that ‘make the difference’ and ‘make things happen’ (Bennett 2010: 9), naturally calls into question the role of design. Moving design from a politics of production to a production of politics calls for a radical rethink of the educational modes and frameworks built over the last century. This chapter examines the role of design in shaping, prototyping, and manipulating the political terrain and considers how educators might equip the next generation of designers with the appropriate ethos, mindset, tools, and techniques to survive and flourish in this new complex context. In order to build a clearer picture of what I mean by the de-material turn, I look to design thinking as an exemplar of a sub-discipline that evolved without a material basis. With its history in the design science movement of the 1970s (Cross 2001) and its more recent adoption into innovation and business studies (Kimbell 2011), design thinking has been developed and deployed as a series of tools and methods outside the traditional mediums of design: Design thinking as a discipline that uses the designer’s sensibility and methods to match people’s needs with what is technologically feasible and what a viable business strategy can convert into customer value and market opportunity. (Brown 2008)

Design has always been held to account by, and tied to, market dynamics. Design thinking offers the logical conclusion to the free-marketisation of design practice. Devoid of the messy material complexities of production and free from the risk of creative misdirection, design thinking offers design as thought in and of itself. The de-material turn is the culmination of a gradual move towards the abstraction and professionalisation of design practice, eroding its material base towards a fully commodifiable non-thing. Design thinking could be considered as design in its purest form, where the process and method of creativity can be communicated, taught, and sold through snappy workshops with senior executives. As long as we throw enough coffee and Post-it notes at the problem, we will be able to harness the power of design to solve all business or social needs. So while novel sub-disciplines or specialisms such as Service Design, Policy Design, Strategic Design, or Design Thinking get traction in boardrooms and think tanks across the globe, we run the risk of reducing our practice to a series of empty, market-focused thought experiments. It is not my intention to argue for an educational shift away from material learning, where business strategy or public policy offer new directions for design practice in the twenty-first century (I would say this is already happening). I would like to call for a closer interrogation of a new materiality for the post-disciplinary design generation. I aim to find the tangible ‘matter’, which might be manipulated through the prototyping and production of action, in order to allow design education to move into new and uncharted territories.

The Decline of Material Learning in Design Education Within UK higher education, we have seen a decline in material learning in art and design. Computer-Aided Design (CAD) has become the dominant form of drawing, modelling, and making, and the computing lab has slowly replaced the dirty, ­resource-intensive workshop. In November 2014 the controversy surrounding the increasingly ‘hands-off’ nature of design education hit the design and craft press (Crafts Council 2014; Dezeen 2014). Petitions were signed, manifestos were ­written, and notable designers spoke up. Many were concerned that a reduction in workshop-based teaching would jeopardise the future of the creative industries, eradicating the playful exploration and sensitive understanding of our material domain. A decline in material learning could simply be seen as reflecting the general shift in cultural production. As screen-based activities occupy more of our social and working lives, and as industrial production moves East, it is no surprise that the significance of material learning has diminished. However, in recent years the ­general public have become increasingly interested in materials and the ‘made’. Whether this is in response to progressively de-materialised cultural production, a nostalgia for ‘simpler times’, or a reaction against the devaluation of manual

­activities by dominant ideologies, the resurgence of popular interest in the material domain actively contradicts trends in design education. The history of British art and design education is a complex web of politics, funding policy, industrial evolution, and ego-driven intellectualism. From the postwar desire to educate the masses, to the strict specialisation and professionalisation of design in order to defend its purpose and value (evidenced by the 1970 Coldstream Report), we have arrived in the twenty-first century with a mix of specialisms that often fail to represent either the realities of industry or the intellectual context of knowledge production. Across many UK institutions, academics have set out to convince the world that design is serious, thoughtful, and ripe with intellectual ­opportunity, and consequently design education is largely moving away from the material tools of its history. Yet design educators have somewhat forgotten their unique position within the academy. We make things, to make sense of the world. Designers materialise thought in order to push the boundaries of knowledge. By taking a leap into the material abyss, we may risk ridicule and failure, but the capacity to bridge the object/thing divide (Bennett 2010: 13) is what makes our practice invaluable.

Towards a Post-Disciplinary Design Education Designers, like artists and crafts practitioners, have always understood the importance and ‘power’ of the material realm. Whether through the manual manipulation of raw materials or the planning and implementation of networks of production, the power to mould and transform social reality is a consistent drive within any creative endeavour. As the humanities have opened up new methods for interrogating society, affording insights into the heterogeneous assemblages of our ­socio-technical world, artists and designers have devised ever more sophisticated ways to imagine and produce the future. Traditionally, design education is organised into specialist domains, linked to materials, tools, or industries. These silos emerged through a model of education that has its roots in the medieval guilds of craft artisans in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries (Souleles 2013) and led to the control of tools and machinery for commercial exploitation. However, our tools have evolved, and digital networks increasingly allow for knowledge to be shared in ways that fracture established hierarchies. The model of education must therefore shift, in order to reflect and capitalise upon these new relationships, a model that moves away from the strict specialisms of the twentieth century towards a post-disciplinary future. As the skills and working practices of designers are increasingly deployed across a range of atypical organisations (for example, the National Health Service, governments, venture capital firms), we can imagine design transforming itself

t­ owards an interdisciplinary space of production. This space of production constitutes an emerging territory, one in which we do not yet know the precise role or function of design as it has been traditionally or historically conceived. So in order to explore these possibilities, contemporary designers have speculated further than previous generations – beyond the task of solving problems by materialising products that do not yet exist. Design has begun to imagine and construct an entirely new function for itself, and one approach has been to explore a view of the world ­occupied and assembled through fiction.

Fiction within the Design Curricula The way in which design navigates, mediates, and translates different epistemologies will be key to its success as interdisciplinary interlocutor. ‘The rupture between reality and imagination – the one annexed to fact, the other to theory – has been the source of much havoc in the history of consciousness. It needs to be repaired’ (Ingold 2014). Finding a space where this rupture might be addressed – where ideas can be explored and possibilities tested – is an important challenge for a post-disciplinary practice, and it is my contention that the use of fiction within design curricula can be employed to this effect. ‘We live’, Ballard (1973) writes, in a world ruled by fictions of every kind – mass merchandising, advertising, politics conducted as a branch of advertising, the pre-empting of any original response to experience by the television screen. We live inside an enormous novel. It is now less and less necessary for the writer to invent the fictional content of his novel. The fiction is already there. The writer’s task is to invent the reality.

When adopting a semi-fictional approach to design, the desire to capture a faithful and objective form of reality becomes neither necessary nor desired. Fiction becomes another lens through which to examine and produce the world. Design has employed fiction for decades. Storytelling has always been used to gain traction – to sell an idea to a public or a client. We plot colourful future scenarios that enable a diverse set of ‘publics’ to engage with, and see themselves benefiting from, the products we want them to buy. In recent years we have seen an increase in the role of fiction due to our contemporary obsession with ‘the future’. Critical and Speculative Design (CSD) has developed a practice that uses fiction as a critical tool to unpack some of the ethical questions posed by current scientific developments, and the technocentric CSD scenarios that populate contemporary design discourse (Dunne and Raby 2001) draw attention to both dystopian and utopian trajectories. Yet however fruitful the telling

of speculative narratives may be for designers carving out new modes of professional practice, there has been little work investigating the use of fiction as a pedagogic tool within an educational curriculum. As we move towards more unstable markets and changing roles for the designer, fiction becomes a mode of exploration that not only allows students to think through the technologies and social arrangements they imagine but also to question the role and place of design within a professional context.

Fiction as a Transformational and Pedagogic Tool The BA (Hons) design programme at Goldsmiths has, in recent years, placed a renewed emphasis on materialism. We recognise that our most valuable insights are the result of a complex interplay between material experimentation and speculative reflection, and staff have developed a curriculum that employs fiction as a ‘filter’ for material exploration. Within this educational context, we use fiction to generate a playful space for experimentation without ‘real world’ risks. We encourage students to fabricate worlds that enable them to understand, critique, and engage in the present – unravelling the tangled mess of ideology, narrative, and possibility – while also allowing them to reflect upon their learning, diagnose their design process, and map their impact as designers. In the following section I present four case studies from the programme, and explore how a post-disciplinary design education can enable engagement with the social and political entities of everyday life. Cowboys, Cults and Coney Island (Ward 2011) is the first brief of the second year and sets out to investigate the role of world-building in order to highlight the embedded ideological positions and normative practices of design. Following on from this, The Escape Committee (Loizeau and Ward 2013) asks students to see design as a means of subverting and questioning dominant systems of organisation and control. The third and fourth case studies discuss major projects by final-year students, and demonstrate how fiction can be used to rethink social, economic, and political realities.

Cowboys, Cults and Coney Island Cowboys, Cults and Coney Island takes three points of historical and cultural departure: the Cowboys of Kinshasa, the Pana-Wave Cult and Dreamland, and the William H. Reynolds amusement park on Coney Island.

Cultural Adoption, Transmission, and Re-Territorialisation Kinshasa: Tales of the Invisible City (De Boeck and Plissart 2004) traces the influence of cinema as adopted by the disaffected youth of Kinshasa. In this photographic anthropology, De Boeck and Plissart chart the emergence of ‘Billism’, an adoption of the fashion, language, and social organisation of the Hollywood western within the Republic of Congo’s capital. Here, the introduction of an alien material culture into the heart of Africa through the medium of cinema created a form of ‘cultural re-territorialisation’: ‘Billism mobilised and channeled the social forces from the margin’ (De Boeck and Plissart 2004: 38) as a mode of resistance against colonial forces. The ‘Bills’ of Kinshasa allow us to understand that material practices are never ‘owned’ or stable; akin to Stuart Hall’s notion of the ‘unfinished conversation’ (Akomfrah 2013), material identity is in constant flux. This example highlights the imperative to be sensitive to the production and distribution of cultural entities, seeing them as starting points within material stories – springboards to unfinished cultural practices (Ward and Wilkie 2009).

Embodying Abstract Ideologies The Pana-Wave cult of Japan is an example of how extreme forms of doctrine can be reinforced and reproduced through the material culture they create. The Pana-­Waves are a UFO religion combining elements of Christianity, Buddhism, and New Wave ideas with the belief that electromagnetic radiation (produced by Communist guerrillas) is destroying their souls. Over the years, they have devised ‘quasi-scientific’ techniques for deflecting these waves, notably a Scalar Wave Deflector Coil (Chryssides 2012: 269). For the purpose of the brief, the Pana-Waves illustrate the way in which beliefs (however irrational) can be transformed into a material reality to ‘make real’ the abstract.

Extreme Invention The final point of reference is the ‘stranger than fiction’ phenomenon of Dreamland, the amusement park built on Coney Island in the first decade of the twentieth century. Dreamland included Midget City, ‘a re-creation of fifteenth century Nuremberg built to half scale and inhabited by three hundred little people’, and the Fall of Pompeii, ‘a cyclorama enhanced by mechanical and electrical effects depicting the eruption of Mount Vesuvius and destruction of Pompeii’ (Immerso 2002: 68). Here the re-enactment and fictionalisation of collapsed spaces opened up a possibility for entertainment and imagination:

Reality now supersedes dream, reinforcing the suggestion implicit in Dreamland that the Future is gaining on fantasy, and that Dreamland will be the territory where the ­actual overtaking occurs. (Koolhaas 1994: 59)

The park included incubators to display premature babies as visitor attractions. Due to the economics of the time, the incubators fast became the best chance of survival for premature infants, and through this twisted reality a form of neonatal innovation occurred. Dreamland demonstrates that technological invention can emerge out of a desire for amusement, and does not necessitate the concerted efforts of university research centres or corporate R&D groups.

A Framework for Action These conceptual drivers mark out the contextual territory, asking students to deconstruct belief systems and understand what lies beneath the material practices of everyday life. The role of this brief within the curriculum is to highlight how design embodies and enforces social and cultural ideas and ideals. It questions how designers navigate the ethically difficult deconstruction or affirmation of these beliefs. The brief also explores the use of fiction in the production of the world around us. The brief gives a three-stage framework for action. The first stage, The End is Nigh, asks students to identify a cult or special interest group, and then analyse their group’s values and ideologies. This subsequently acts as a basis for their world, where the niche becomes the norm and the marginal becomes the mainstream. In order to communicate their ideological analysis, students present the cultural codes and rituals in public, at Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park, London (fig. 1). By forcing them to commit to their group, adopt their ideas (as well as possible prejudices), and evangelise the group’s views from a soapbox, the project demands a level of user empathy. The process is akin to method acting, where characters are created, costumes donned, and ideas embraced, effectively putting the students in the position of their users. This could be compared to a form of ‘bodystorming’ (Burns et al. 1994) or drama therapy: it allows the designer to know (seek knowledge of) his or her users without excessive critical distance. In the second stage of the brief, Cultural Terraforming, students generate a fictional material culture for their protagonists. They look to form a landscape of activity and objects before trying to consider what their role in the world would be. This process parallels that of the science fiction writer, who invents a universe as a stage for characters to act upon. Through imagining the banalities of everyday existence, we can begin to build rich and compelling characterisation. We ask students to treat this exercise as a museum might treat a collection of artefacts: as a means to illuminate a strange and foreign country. This process has some similarities with post-processual archaeology, where a subjective narrative of

1  The End is Nigh. Student presentations at Speakers’ Corner, London (2012)

2  Cowboys, Cults and Coney Island. Hefin Jones (2011)

the social is built from ruins and remnants (Hodder 2003). The students engage in a process of complex cultural referencing and narrative construction, highlighting the need to contextualise their work within the cultural landscape relevant to their site by pulling together and making sense of the rich tapestry of materiality that surrounds all human activity. Through furnishing their worlds with user narratives, artefacts, spaces, technologies, and media landscapes, they start to build a sensitivity to their (fictionalised) context of production before they take action. In one example, a student selected the London and Thameside Dowsers as his special interest group. During the Terraforming stage, he created a geology to produce conducive subterranean conditions, a geography generated through a dowsing pendulum technique, and a subculture of bungee base jumpers in search of immanent sinkholes, with attendant fanzine and YouTube channel (fig. 2). In this case, the student used the practices of a group to rethink both the environment and material culture, and expanded niche practices into world-building principles. In the final stage of the brief, Relics from a Near Future, students develop and design a specific part of their new culture, through objects, film, performance, drawing, or visualisation. This is the most conventional element of the brief: designing a ‘thing’ to fit their world. Our intention here is to highlight that design is essentially a contextual, formative activity and that the examination of context allows for a logic of production, which informs and drives the design decisions throughout the project. In order to evolve this logic, students are encouraged to think rationally about somewhat irrational acts, evaluating their choices and decisions. The aim of this is to demonstrate how a process of rational justification can be applied to almost any situation. One student selected ‘Jedi’ or ‘Jediism’ as his cult. The student began to rationalise a faith based on specific scenes from the Star Wars film franchise, and speculated that if mainstream culture embraced Jediism, a principal act would be the defiance of gravity. He set about creating the architecture and training programme necessary for fighting one of the fundamental forces of the universe. For his final model, the student presented a ‘device’ that was a cross between a fairground ride and a high-G centrifuge from a space training centre (fig. 3). Rendered as a 3D model then rapid-prototyped, the object began to legitimise a ridiculous idea. This is something that works across the brief: outcomes can sometimes be dismissed as ridiculous. The idiosyncratic, odd, and marginal are normalised, the students probe society and culture in ways that are not necessarily logical or economically viable, and materialise them as artefacts and architectures. Educationally and creatively, this type of experimentation is important. Described by Robyn Scott (2014) as ‘ridicule risk’, there is a sense that truly innovative ideas can only emerge from an atmosphere of trust. Scott proposes a form of ‘affirmative action for radical innovation’ where crazy ideas are supported both financially and culturally. Applying this to education, we might argue that learning flourishes in a space where the ridiculous is treated with seriousness and sensitivity.

3  May the forces be with you. Cowboys, Cults and Coney Island. ­Simon Jeal (2011)

Cowboys, Cults and Coney Island allows the student to move between the rational and the irrational, and allows for creative experimentation – free from the confines of reality.

The Escape Committee The second brief, The Escape Committee, works in contrast to Cowboys, Cults and ­Coney Island. Instead of embodying ideologies in the material realities of design practice, this brief calls for a resistance to dominant forces, using design as a tool to challenge norms – to subvert and transform the everyday. The brief asks students to identify and describe a system they wish to escape from. The primary role of the brief is to question the institutional and infrastructural power relations that form our sociocultural contexts, and highlights the political nature of design practice – encouraging engagement as though activist or provocateur.

Reconnaissance and Reality: Finding Boundaries of Acceptability The first part of the brief asks students to observe and encounter the structures that shape our social lives. They are challenged to move away from more traditional methods of research, to invent actions that open up creative opportunities or reveal invisible systems. The first task offers several points of departure (Loizeau and Ward 2013): • Go North. • Tie someone up (remember health and safety).

• Get tied up (remember health and safety). • Become someone else: appropriate/impersonate/role­play. • Try to sneak past someone without them knowing (don’t get arrested). • Climb over a wall (don’t get arrested). • Disappear. Reappear. • Forge something (not money). • Leave a conversation before it’s over. • Hide somewhere. • Catalogue locations, postures, and positions or demeanours. • Emancipate yourself. This reads like a hybrid of a Fluxus event score (Friedman, Smith, and Sawchyn 2002) and a Perecian list of everyday engagements (Perec 2008). The task challenges the students to engage with the world in an unusual way: to encounter people, practices, and spaces in a manner distanced from their everyday lives. This form of knowing, playing, and engaging in the world aims to discover the boundaries of acceptability – the borderlands of our social assemblages. To some extent, these methods work like a breaching experiment (Garfinkel 1967) for design practice, uncovering a social convention that restricts action or enforces conformity. In order to find fertile territories for design, we encourage students to relax and play. During the de-material turn, with its rigorous analysis of design’s methods and processes, we have witnessed a move towards a conservatism. Beginning with the Design Methods Group in the 1960s, pioneers such as Horst Rittel and John Chris Jones formalised versions of design that could be easily taught, disseminated, and commercialised. Since then, many educators and curricula have advanced the idea that, as long as you apply the correct method, fruitful innovation will follow. One such method that has been widely adopted by designers is ethnography. In recent years, ethnography has been widely adopted by practitioners and educators as the de rigueur method for shedding light on social realities. However, when applied without appropriate care, attention, and imagination, it can lead to instrumental and predictable results. ‘Towards Fantastic Ethnography and Speculative Design’ (Galloway 2013) highlights the fertile possibilities of mixing fiction and ethnography. Galloway draws on Ursula Le Guin to remind us to ‘probe what exists beyond realism’ (Galloway 2013), and this inventive approach is essential within design education. Our role as educators is to introduce as many methods and processes as possible, giving students the confidence to assemble their own unique practice. This aims to avoid a formulaic approach, and promotes a deeply personal learning experience. During the research phase, it is important for tutors and students to remain open to unexpected project directions. One student chose to observe and analyse London’s roundabouts (traffic islands) as strange and alien non-spaces (fig. 4). In

4 Dead Space. The ­Escape Committee. ­Rhianna Bowen (2014)

order to distance herself from the banality of the space, she created a short documentary presenting urban space as an extraterrestrial archipelago: Elephant Island: I have explored these islands. Elephant Island is a strange and futuristic environment. The central point is a large, square building, made up of mirrored, concave squares. While this appears fantastical, it is marred by acid-­yellow signs proclaiming ‘DANGER OF DEATH’. Huge metal pipes protrude from the roof like the legs of a spider. Elephant Island is a somewhat hostile environment; it is divided into sections, and there is an air of the forbidden: a forgotten future. This narrative is evidenced by the story behind the island; it is said that the Martians who created the structure left Earth quickly; the atmosphere too hostile to ensure their survival. (Excerpt of project description, 2014)

This diversion into a form of fictional urban geography was neither the intention nor the direction of the brief, yet what emerged was fascinating. Rereading the city as fictional text is reminiscent of Calvino (1997), Raban (1998), and Keiller (1994) and opens up an imaginative trajectory for future projects.

Planning and Scheming: A Blueprint of Contingent Action The second part of the brief asks the students to make a plan of action, to design the mode and means of their escape. Here we engage students in the scripting of an event, to understand and manage the contingent possibilities of action, thus challenging them with the awkward tension between the intention of the designer and an unpredictable social realm.

In Architecture Depends, Jeremy Till charts architecture’s failure to adapt to an increasingly contingent formative context: a retreat into idealism, away from the ‘colossal forces’ of the modern world (2009: 45). He argues for an approach that embraces the opportunities found in contingency: ‘Where order and certainty close things down into fixed ways of doing, contingency and uncertainty open up liber­ ating possibilities for action’ (2009: 55). The Escape brief challenges students to ­understand the contingency of the context in which their work will be received, in order to build the skills necessary for responsiveness and agility as designers. In ‘The De-Scription of Technical Objects’, Madeline Akrich conceptualises the scripts designed into objects and their role in directing the social (1997: 208): ‘Thus, like a film script, technical objects define a framework of action together with the actors and the space in which they are supposed to act.’ If we consider that all socio-technical systems in some way script action, the key questions are: 1. To what extent do the scripts written into objects and systems affect the behaviour of their users? 2. What is the role of the designer in writing (and un-writing) these scripts? As we move towards a post-disciplinary practice, we need to develop new approaches to the writing, editing, and performing of these scripts, where these become maps of contingent action – open or partial scripts – that are easily adapted and edited. Sometimes the intentions of designers and commissioners are socially and politically driven. However, as with all political intentions, there are alternative positions. The means by which these scripts can be subverted and rewritten opens up a rich territory for design and learning.

A Dress Rehearsal for Reality Once a plan is formulated, we ask the students to enact a dress rehearsal. By performing their intentions, they start to refine and revise their original plan. This is part prototyping process, part role play: testing their characters, script, and interaction with a model of reality. Designers often suffer from oversimplifying user behaviour. Assumptions are often built on prejudices, generalisations, and cultural assumptions. As Akrich observed: ‘It may be that no actors will come forward to play the roles envisaged by the designer. Or users may define quite different roles of their own. If this happens, the objects remain a chimera, for it is in the confrontation between technical objects and their users that the latter are rendered real or unreal’ (1997: 208). For this reason, students need to prototype a series of viable interactions, opening up opportu-

nities for adaptation and iteration. This is reminiscent of Latour’s ‘slight surprise of action’ (1999: 266) where we only understand possibility through action. The Escape Committee challenges students to understand the world as a complex network of actors, where the designer’s intention is not always achievable and user behaviour remains unpredictable. It challenges them to critique dominant discourses and societal frameworks to understand their role in the world, while developing a process of engagement where consequences are neither certain nor dogmatic, but negotiated and contingent.

Social Empowerment through Participatory Speculation The final case studies are examples of projects completed by third-year students. With the guidance of a tutor, students set up a territory for investigation and produce work to interrogate key questions located within this space. Two finalists – Tearlach Byford (2014) and Hefin Jones (2013) – engaged with vastly different subjects (mining and space travel, respectively), but each used fiction as a device to prototype new forms of social and political engagement.

The Architecture of Legitimacy In 2013, Byford began by investigating mining as a historical and material phenomenon. He was interested in how the social, economic, and representational reality of mining had changed in the UK over the last century. He developed a project that hybridised ecological lobbying, paternal capitalism, and labour organisation. The Social Mining Union (SMU) reconceptualised the trade union for contemporary scrap collectors in the twenty-first century and combined social engagement with political lobbying power through the acquirement of shares in Glencore plc (Byford 2014a). The outcomes of the project included: an organisational structure, a financial system, a set of tools for mining scrap, an identity for the union, and a fictional identity for himself, the union leader (fig. 5). The project culminated with a visit to Glencore’s annual general meeting in Switzerland, to confront the board with questions about their corporate social responsibility. In an interview with Byford six months after he completed the project, I asked him how he used fiction throughout his project. Reflecting on the way in which he built his narrative, Byford observed: ‘Part of my fictionalizing was creating a character for myself. I designed a business card, a personality, a suit: it was the architecture of legitimacy’ (2014b). Through building and writing fiction, he found real-­ world legitimacy. By trying to understand the role he would inhabit during his (eventual) engagement with the organisation, he materialised props that could

5  The Social Mining ­Union. Final-year ­project. Tearlach ­Byford (2014)

shape and validate his character. His alternate identity grew from a network of material statements – an identity in the real world assembled by virtue of a semi-fictional design practice. This method differs from the typical mechanisms of political engagement and the traditional roles of design practice. In this example, the designer constructs a political event through the material entities that constitute the formative context. Engagement evolves through a material support structure, and distributive agency is performed in the spaces in between the human and non-human actors. Tools, stage direction, and behaviours are prototyped through fiction but enacted in a real forum, where they come into being with a slight ‘surprise of action’. Within emergent design discourse centred on the notion of ‘Design Fiction’ (Dunne and Raby 2001 and 2013; Bleecker 2009; Sterling 2009), the interplay between fiction and reality remains relatively simplistic and sometimes dangerously privileged (Prado de O. Martins 2014). The fiction functions as a way either to reflect upon, question, or critique the present or to inspire new ideas in the present through a form of ‘diegetic prototyping’ (Kirby 2009). However, the relationship is far more complex. A porous boundary is created, where fiction starts to mould and influence the real, pulsing at micro- and macro-scales of influence: ‘That’s the thing with design […] when something is materialised, it becomes real. I designed the badge, it wasn’t real until I was sent two hundred of them. The identity of the Union became a real thing, through the act of making’ (Byford 2014b). It is in this confluence of fiction and ‘vital materialism’ (Bennett 2010) that opportunities are unlocked for the post-disciplinary designer, and the dominant paradigm shifts from ‘designer as problem-solver’ towards ‘citizen sense-maker’ (Till 2009: 168).

6 Welsh Space Campaign. Final-year project. ­Hefin Jones (2013). (Photo: Geraint Morgan)

The Ethics of Participatory Speculation The second case study comes from Hefin Jones, whose final project, the Welsh Space Campaign (WSC), was first shown in June 2013 but has subsequently been developed and exhibited farther afield (Crafting Narrative 2014, The Future of Fashion is Now 2014). Jones started his project with a question: could a Welshman travel to outer space? From this simple beginning (a musing scribbled on a Post-it note), he designed a process of participatory engagement to allow local trade and crafts communities to engage in a cosmic imaginary. He set about designing and making a spacesuit using traditional (declining) Welsh crafts, and what began as a flight of the imagination emerged as a celebration of Welsh craft heritage (fig. 6). By engaging people in the possibility of interstellar travel, Jones created a mechanism for participatory speculation. Like Byford, Jones engaged in a different form of fiction-making. He eventually saw his project as an opportunity for community engagement and a way to reinvigorate dying industries, but initially he had a different aim: ‘I wanted to make it believable. This was one of the first ideas for the WSC: how can I trick my town [into believing] that I’ve been to outer space?’ (Jones 2014). The desire to ‘make believe’, to create a vision of a future that allows an audience to suspend their disbelief, is a common trope of CSD. However, we need to question the ethical implications of this tendency towards visual and conceptual trickery. The relationship between designer and audience (user) changes when a level of speculation and participation is introduced – when design no longer offers solutions to the acknowledged problems but instead questions their agency in the material world. The skills and sensitivities

needed to guide people through complex networks of opportunity and possibility are only just beginning to be understood. Jones is now working in a UK not-for-profit design-led social enterprise, where participatory work is key to innovation within the public sector. I asked how his understanding of participation had changed since graduation: ‘There’s a realization that participation is a very isolated event in the process of a project. I’m interested in questioning this; how do we make user engagement meaningful beyond a workshop or singular event?’ (Jones 2014). This highlights a key concern for the post-disciplinary designer: how do we engage and steer stakeholders without seeing them as a ‘resource’ or abandoning them once the funding runs out or the project ends? The WSC exemplifies a new conceptualisation of both speculation and participation, which begins to form a model of practice where the designer has a role akin to stewardship, where they ‘must be involved over the duration of change processes, providing constant expertise and feedback to identify, test, and deliver durable solutions’ (Helsinki Design Lab, n.d.).

Conclusion: Training for the Revolution In summary, I have sketched out an alternative approach to design education to meet the demands of a changing world, where distributive agency or vibrant matter offers an alternative role for design. No longer can we retreat behind the walls of ­disciplinary specialisms or abstract our practice to a series of Post-it notes. We are compelled, by our rapidly changing social, economic, and environmental context, to seize the transformational power of post-disciplinary practice. We need to devise new methods and processes for the manipulation and mastery of our ‘new material’, enabling us to prototype the changing political terrain. Through the case studies, I demonstrated how the function of fiction within the curriculum could build a safe space for exploration and experimentation, free from the risk of ridicule. It is through fiction as a pedagogic tool that we see the interplay between the imagined and the real. In order to parry the attack of ‘the real world’, we need to defend our fictional irrational worlds, building a logic of production that demonstrates value and potency. The attack of the real need not be an excuse for a lack of inventiveness in the methods that we deploy; to remain open to the opportunities of a redirected practice, we need to be light on our feet and not too precious with our methods. It is through the identification of new objects of design (action scripts, policy documents, organisational structures) that we will shift our practice and place within industry. In order to embrace the opportunities found within our contingent contexts, we need to be cognisant of the ethical implications of speculative participation and be attentive to the new responsibilities of the designer in the twenty-first century. If

we fail to rethink our approach to design education, we risk condemning our practice to the subservience of market-driven consumption. In order to capitalise on the position of design, we need to teach our students to be agile, to understand design as a ‘process of continual improvisation’ (Bennett and Joyce 2013: 8).

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Galloway, A. (2013). ‘Towards Fantastic Ethnography and Speculative Design’. Ethnography Matters (blog). Retrieved 15 December 2014 from: http://ethnographymatters.net/blog/2013/09/17/towards-fantastic-­ ethnography-and-speculative-design. Garfinkel, H. (1967). Studies in Ethnomethodology. Englewood Clifs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Goffman, E. (1990). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. London: Penguin. Helsinki Design Lab (n.d.). ‘What is Strategic Design?’ Retrieved 15 December 2014 from: http://www.­helsinkidesignlab.org/pages/what-is-strategic-design. Hicks, D. (2010). ‘The Material-Cultural Turn: Event and Effect’. In Hicks, Dan, and Beaudry, Mary C. (eds.). The Oxford Handbook of Material Culture Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 25–98. Hill, D. (2012). Dark Matter and Trojan Horses: A Strategic Design Vocabulary. Moscow: Strelka Press. Hodder, I. (2003). Archaeology beyond Dialogue. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Immerso, M. (2002). Coney Island: The People’s Playground. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Ingold, T. (2014). ‘That’s Enough about Ethnography!’ In Hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 4, no. 1, pp. 383–95. Inns, T. (2010). Designing for the 21st Century: Interdisciplinary Methods and Findings. Farnham, Surrey: Gower. Jones, H. (2014). Interviewed by Matthew Ward, Goldsmiths, University of London, 17 November 2014. Keiller, P. (director) (1994). London [film]. London: BFI and Channel 4. Kimbell, L. (2009). ‘Beyond Design Thinking: Design-as-Practice and Designs-in-Practice’. Paper presented at CRESC Conference, Manchester, UK, September 2009. Kimbell, L. (2011). ‘Rethinking Design Thinking: Part I’. In Design and Culture 3, no. 3, pp. 285–306. Kirby, D. (2009). ‘The Future is Now: Diegetic Prototypes and the Role of Popular Films in Generating ­Real-World Technological Development’. In Social Studies of Science 40, no. 1 (2010), pp. 41–70. First published 30 September 2009. Koolhaas, R. (1994). Delirious New York: A Retroactive Manifesto for Manhattan. London: Monacelli Press. Latour, B. (1999). Pandora’s Hope: Essays on the Reality of Science Studies. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Uni­ versity Press. Loizeau, J., and Ward, M. (2013). The Escape Committee: The Getaway. Project Brief, BA (Hons) Design, ­Goldsmiths, University of London. Perec, G. (2008). Species of Spaces and Other Pieces. Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin. Pigott, R. (2003). ‘Rise of Japanese Cults’. Retrieved 15 December 2014 from: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/ world/asia-pacific/3029183.stm. Prado de O. Martins, L. (2014). ‘Privilege and Oppression: Towards a Feminist Speculative Design’. In Lim, Y.K., Niedderer, K., Redström, J., Stolterman, E., and Valtonen, A. (eds.). Proceedings of DRS 2014: Design’s Big Debates. Umeå, Sweden: Umeå Institute of Design, Umeå University. Press, M., and Cooper, R. (2003). The Design Experience: The Role of Design and Designers in the Twenty-First Century. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate. Raban, J. (1998). Soft City. London: Harvill Press. Scott, R. (2014). ‘Risk and Reward: Four Thought, Series 4’ [radio programme]. London: British Broadcasting Corporation. Broadcast on Radio 4, 22 October 2014. Snow, C.P. (1959). The Two Cultures. The Rede Lecture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Retrieved 15 December 2014 from: http://s-f-walker.org.uk/pubsebooks/2cultures/Rede-lecture-2-cultures.pdf. Souleles, N. (2013). ‘The Evolution of Art and Design Pedagogies in England: Influences of the Past, ­Challenges for the Future’. In International Journal of Art & Design Education 32, pp. 243–55. Sterling, B. (2009). ‘Design Fiction’. In Interactions 16, no. 3, pp. 20–24. Till, J. (2009). Architecture Depends. Cambridge, MA and London: MIT Press. Ward, M. (2011). ‘Cowboys, Cults and Coney Island: Design for Alternative Possibilities’. Project Brief, BA (Hons) Design, Goldsmiths, University of London. Ward, M., and Wilkie, A. (2009). ‘Made in Criticalland: Designing Matters of Concern’. In Networks of Design. Proceedings of the 2008 Annual International Conference of the Design History Society (UK), University ­College Falmouth, 3–6 September. Available at: UniversalPublishers.com.

Collective Metamorphosis:  A Combinatorial Approach to ­Transformation Design John Wood

Can We Design Transformation? This chapter argues that suitably trained designers could help politicians to address the problems of climate change and biodiversity losses. We live in a stridently humanistic world in which governments find it almost impossible to look beyond the short-term expediencies of politics. Their tools for change (such as legislation, taxation, and the setting of targets) are too abstract or circuitous to be effective (Meadows 1999). However, although design can influence behaviour with a more direct and appealing approach, it may need some redesigning. After many attempts to make design greener, what we have learned is that piecemeal reforms are not enough. We have had a hundred years of eco-design and the world is getting worse. This is not to say that previous approaches were weak or dumb. Rather, they were weakened, or dumbed down, by the strength of prevailing economic forces. For example, we cannot ‘design’ human behaviour in the way we design products or services. By working with politicians and scientists, perhaps we could develop a methodology of transformation design that makes ecological futures more imaginable, meaningful, desirable, and attainable. This is an ambitious idea. Paradigms resist change because they are sustained by many vested interests and other entities that depend on them. Transformation processes tend to make their own rules and boundaries, which probably means that we need to manage them on a collective basis (Kelly 1994). If so, perhaps transformation design would inspire a viable form of ‘creative democracy’ (Dewey 1939; Jones 1998).

The Need for Self-Transformation Surprisingly, after a hundred thousand years of reckless behaviour (Ponting 1991), our species is still here. Perhaps this explains why we tend to see our bad habits as normal. Nonetheless, many scientists are concerned that our lifestyles will trigger irreversible climate change (Lovelock 2007) and exacerbate the current rate of species extinction (Leakey and Lewin 1996; Collen et al. 2013). However, this scenario contrasts sharply with mainstream political rhetoric. Whereas environmentalists

see the world as a sensitive ecosystem that includes Homo sapiens, governments like to present it as a hierarchy of economies in perpetual competition. What we need is a vision of future prosperity that is ecologically viable (Jackson 2009). Instead, politicians offer us 100 per cent employment and an economic system that measures its success by quantifying transactions, irrespective of how destructive they are. Making currency systems bigger makes outward investment quicker, easier, and more profitable. However, this dissipates collective wealth in countless covert deals (Douthwaite 1992). Instead of designing our cities for diversity and access (Jones et al. 2010), we opt for mobility and speed. This forces us to work harder just to maintain our sprawling transport industry. Economists and accountants hide the dysfunctional nature of the whole system in the dubious claim that economic growth is essential (Douthwaite 1992; Jackson 2009). Corporations then answer this call by increasing the net throughput of materials, money, and energy (Meadows, Randers, and Meadows 2004). Only a transformative approach can put things right, and the best way to achieve this is by sharing visions, rather than offering dubious choices (Meadows 1999).

The Big Picture Reforming design to assist in the political or social context requires new thinking. Instead of blaming individual factors, such as economics (Jackson 2009), overpopulation (Ehrlich and Ehrlich 1990 and 2013), or the destructive effects of technology (Giddens 2002), we might want to see how the main parameters interconnect (Hutchins 2014), then reimagine them as subcomponents of a better system. Ideally, we should think outside the existing paradigm and re-envision our primary needs, such as food, energy, shelter, mobility, exchange systems, and security. If we can do this coherently enough, realistic reform will become thinkable. If it is thinkable and sensible, it will become shareable. If it is shared widely enough, it will soon become possible (Wood 2007). This would require a new design agenda that is comprehensive, joined up, enterprising, and imaginative. It would also mean redesigning design (Jones 1994) to generate a rich source of long-term visions, purposes, and opportunities. This would need to work within a discourse that is understandable, useful, and appealing within politics and economics. Although they use different modes of rhetoric, designers and politicians are both pragmatic shapers of change. This complements the approach of more scholastically trained advisers, who are likely to be better at processing abstract truths. The latter characteristic reflects a Western tendency to overvalue critical and analytical logic at the expense of creative synthesis and experience (McGilchrist 2009; Robinson 2011).

Beyond Accountability For example, in recent years, data-led rather than design-led fishing policies in the European Parliament have endangered biodiversity, food security, fishing communities, and profits (Brown 2011). Until 2013, the quota system forced fishermen to discard (that is, to kill) up to half the fish they had caught in the North Sea. Like many dysfunctional systems, this reflects a systematic disconnection between managers and the managed. Although fishermen have first-hand knowledge of the ‘blooms’ of fish shoals, they do not have access to more detailed, real-time scientific data that would help them to reduce discards (Matthias 2014). In order to bargain for the highest fishing quotas, politicians depend on scientific data, which quantifies fish in dimensions, species, and availability. Also, a third of the fish caught in the English Channel now contain plastics (Lusher, McHugh, and Thompson 2013), but it is not clear who could, or should, remedy the situation. Although, as citizens, we did not vote to kill fish or to put plastics into the food chain, as consumers we dutifully participate in the waste-based economy. This all seems normal because our traditional models of accountancy and economics habitually discount futures (Gollier 2013). Transformation design would require a more holistic response that brings all vested interests in line with an ecological vision. While the technology for locating fish is now extremely precise, the design of fishing nets has improved remarkably little over thousands of years. We need to design better technologies for harvesting fish (Kennelly and Broadhurst 2002). Even more importantly, we need joined-up business models that think beyond today’s wholesale fish stocks.

Science plus Design In order to reconcile technology, social norms, business, and other factors with biodiversity (Wood 2013b), we need a new, multi-stranded, ecologically entrepreneurial approach, informed by scientific expertise. Science is important, but it cannot transform lifestyles without the help of technologists, politicians, and designers. In short, science is not enough. In the early twenty-first century, under intense pressure from climate change lobbyists, scientists failed to make a strong case for a precautionary design approach – that is to say, just ‘in case’ the worst happens. Because of their professional identity, they found themselves forced to defend their data and their modes of enquiry. Scientists and designers could work together to manage ­biological diversification. At present, scientists aim to differentiate between more species. However, as only around 9 per cent of all sea species are known or have been classified (Mora et al. 2011), this will take many decades. Designers would take a more immediate, pragmatic standpoint. They might, for example, work on business innovation and marketing. Only by finding new synergies (Wood 2013a) are we

likely to replace harmful practices, such as ‘bottom-trawling’, or bland industrial products, such as fish fingers (‘fish sticks’). This would have the effect of saving some species that we know we do not know. In short, a viable transformation ­design approach would mean intervening imaginatively, wisely, and proactively in every part of a future circular economy. This means integrating political, scientific, and design thinking within an imagination-based, open-source discourse of transformation.

Comprehensive Design Inviting designers to work in a more systemic, holistic way would require them to see the world as a joined-up but poorly designed system. This is a big idea with even bigger political implications. Ultimately, it could lead to a reform of ballot-box politics and consumption-based economics. Until now, however, the growing awareness of the importance of design thinking (Brown 2009) has yet to enhance the designer’s status or to upgrade her role and responsibilities. Rather, it has given some management experts the idea that they can apply ‘design thinking’. Historically, designers have tended to present themselves as freelance specialists rather than as deep-thinking professionals. Unless they have secured senior managerial positions, designers seldom have much influence over business models. This is also because they are usually hired to augment existing production processes rather than to work at a strategic level. The proliferation of many specialist design fields began in the 1880s, when society was becoming more industrial. Since then, a diversity of specialist practices has emerged to support an increasingly narcissistic and profit-­ driven consumer economy (Forty 1986). Corporate and governmental resistance to change is, to a significant extent, enshrined in a discourse that refuses to redesign itself in accordance with the living world. Envisioning a more ecological paradigm is a vital step in making the ‘unthinkable’ possible (Wood 2007). The next process of transformation might be, simply, to design, then apply, appropriate ‘policy switches’ (Greyson 2014).

Collective Metamorphosis If called upon to assist in catalysing a paradigm change, would designers be ready for the challenge? This is unlikely, as the process would include the daunting task of redesigning design itself. Because it resists simple explanation (Lawson 2006), designing tends to be seen as a relatively humble discipline. Traditionally, it is a predictive process (Simon 1969) that anticipates better situations, usually by mapping

them out visually. The higher level of complexity in transformation design would challenge this ‘future-focused’ nature of design and introduce a strong co-design element that would entangle designers (Thackara 2005), just like everyone else. Blurring the traditional boundaries between designers, clients, governments, and stakeholders makes the idea of transformation design democratically rich because it involves everyone in a succession of complex, multi-level changes that are largely unpredictable. In a sense, it would become a kind of ‘collective metamorphosis’. Fortunately, this chimes with recent developments in ‘open source’ collaboration and distributed, non-hierarchical modes of thinking (Wood 2009). For example, there is evidence that ordinary citizens sometimes appear to ‘know’ more than individual experts (Surowiecki 2005). If so, this is good news for future democracies. If co-design processes precipitate new, shared experiences, this should lead to permanent shifts in assumptions and beliefs. For this reason, it makes sense to see transformation ­design as a ‘self-transformative’ process because the designers would be implicated in their own transformations. This would apply whether the term ‘self’ refers to an individual designer or to co-designers and their community of clients.

Metadesigning For all of the above reasons, I prefer to use the term metadesign, by which I mean a self-organising framework for continuously co-designing and redesigning systemic change (Wood 2013a). Metadesign is qualitatively different from design because it is too complex to be predictive. Some authors have applied the metaphor of ‘seeding’ in this context (Ascott 2005), which implies that metadesign can be more opportunistic and adaptive, rather like the cultivation processes in gardening (Maturana 1997; Giaccardi 2005). Not surprisingly, metadesign is permanently incomplete, because it must address unforeseen conditions, perhaps within the scope of a goalless, long-term vision.

Some Practical Steps for Metadesigners  (These serve to illustrate some of the principles behind metadesign.) • Set up small, synergistic teams with complementary capabilities. • Encourage all members to be creatively fearless and radically optimistic.

• Set up feedback pathways that make your team self-reflexively conscious. • Frame opportunity-finding questions, rather than adopting a problem-solving approach. • Try to see the world as a set of paradigms that are self-sustaining. • Re-purpose and re-language the names, stories, and assumptions underpinning harmful paradigms. • Expect there to be ‘blind spots’ within your own belief system (Greyson 2014). • Apply Donella Meadows’s levers-for-change principle (Meadows 1999). • Apply Buckminster Fuller’s trim tab principle (Fuller 1999). • Seek auspicious combinations that will deliver benign synergies. • Where possible, synergise synergies into a synergy-of-synergies. • When designing systems, try to innovate in fours. • If necessary, reflect upon the mathematical basis of working in clusters of four (Cowan 2001). • Use any of the above tools, then develop them and share them using our Creative Commons copyright.

Design and Imagination One reason why government agencies and other corporate bodies become dysfunctional is that, as they grow above a certain size, their bureaucracy renders them less agile. Unless we can optimise the scale of organisations, simply replacing rules and targets with a more quality-focused, design-led approach may not work (Pollock and Price 2011). However, if it is not feasible to scale down or decentralise a given organisation, transformation designers might seek to re-language (Maturana and Varela 1980) misunderstandings and opportunities that exist between top-down and bottom-up initiatives (Forte and Bruckman 2008; Wood 2013a). Perhaps all members of organisations could be invited to develop their potential in accordance with a vision of the underlying purpose of their role. This kind of shared envisioning process is likely to transform habits and behaviours quicker, and more sustainably, than current methods (Meadows 1999). Since 2010, the UK government has sought to change public behaviour with the aid of ‘nudge’ psychology, said to be a non-­ coercive approach that makes the formal or presentational logic of government communications more ‘customer-friendly’ (Thaler and Sunstein 2008). However,

this is a fundamentally behaviourist approach rather than a democratic one. A more ­design-led response might, for example, emphasise forward-based envisioning, rather than quantifying the status quo. We can learn a great deal from successful design-­oriented initiatives, such as ‘hacktivism’ (Von Busch 2008), ‘design activism’ (Fuad-Luke 2009), design-led community approaches (Vezzoli and Manzini 2008), or the evolution of new democratic approaches to business enterprise (McDonnell, Macknight, and Donnelly 2012).

Repeatability If organisations work better when encouraged to operate organically rather than mechanistically, what contribution might science make in developing transformation design? Traditionally, the scientist’s role is to check that a given state of affairs exists, then to explain it. By contrast, designers tend to make things work in a more specific and situated context. Crudely speaking, whereas transformation design will be surprising and idiosyncratic, scientific truth claims are generalities that can apply, predictively, as ‘laws’. Science’s long-established quest for ‘universals’ derives from a succession of influential thinkers, including Aristotle (384–322 BCE), William of Ockham (1285–1349), and Leibniz (1646–1716), who developed ways to make propositions that are unassailable. Unfortunately, this works better in the Platonic realm of abstract form, logic, and number than it does for actual living organisms. Before Galileo, events would unfold in miraculous complexity. Afterwards, they became unravelled as simple domains of absolute time and absolute space (evidenced by Newtonian clocks and Cartesian grids). While the separation of space from time led to major technological achievements in target-based planning, the assumptions behind it are less applicable to living systems. Where, for example, physicists make the expedient claim that all atoms of the same element are identical, irrespective of context or history, this kind of generalisation would be less viable within a social or ecological context. In particular, non-humans inhabit a timeplace in which survival depends on their alertness and attentiveness to the wholeness of the immediate present, rather than to rules made in the past.

Uncertainty Where living systems are concerned, the tendency to investigate parts rather than wholes can be counterproductive. When making their 1970s study of the life sciences, Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela found no pre-existing model or definition of a living system. Their subsequent model of living systems (Maturana and

Varela 1980) reminds us that nature does not manage itself with stopwatches and tape measures. For example, although science can predict precisely how a corpse will decompose in laboratory conditions, it cannot know the future personality or interests of a newborn child. This suggests that transformational science should be situated and ‘inclusional’ (Rayner 2012). In physics, chaos theory emerged from the failure to find Newtonian principles at work within actual systems (Gleick 1997). Even in the simplest pendulum system, no matter how meticulously you prepare your experiment, the tiniest irregularity will grow into larger events. Insignificant factors that were unnoticed at the initial stages can ‘trigger’ a cascade of larger events with unexpected outcomes. Many of these so-called ‘strange attractors’ can only be properly understood within their own local context. David Ruelle, the chaos scientist, once remarked that ‘strange attractors’ are psychoanalytically ‘suggestive’ (Ruelle, in Gleick 1997: 133). This implies that practically any sign, whether or not we can identify it, can act as an unconscious attractor (Hayles 1990. Again, unless it can be studied after the event, any design or management of the chaos principle seems out of reach for orthodox science.

Creativity One reason why deductive reasoning has for so long been vital to axiomatic certainty is that its logic seems simple, predictable, and repeatable. However, syllogistic versions, for example, only work if one is willing to accept that a given X can be identical with a given Y. Even then, complex formulations are less predictable, and some are baffling. Alfred Jarry (1873–1907) founded the Pataphysical Society on the premise that exceptions were more important than ‘norms’, ‘rules’, and ‘laws’. In citing this idea, this author does not intend to imply that rules of repetition can never apply within transformation. Indeed, once an exceptional occurrence has disproved an existing rule for a given length of time, it is more likely to become the template for a new one. This is an evolutionary principle that appears to contradict the more analytical and reductionist methods of science (Feyerabend 1975). In 1877, Charles Peirce discovered a non-deductive type of logic he called ‘abductive reasoning’. Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes mysteries are a good introduction to abductive thinking, although they invariably show it as a rare hallmark of individual genius rather than as a commonplace process. As Gregory Bateson said (1979: 158): ‘all thought would be totally impossible in a universe in which abduction was not expectable […]’. Perhaps abductive reasoning is the mutable logic behind self-transformation. As the caterpillar creeps along the earth, can it imagine itself in the future, fluttering above the plants and trees? If so, does it use the same type of reasoning throughout the whole process of metamorphosis? These are tantalising questions for anyone wishing to develop the design, or art, of transformation.

Feedback When transformation designers need to make practical interventions, they will probably find systems theory helpful. Two of its key concepts are ‘feedforward’ and ‘feedback’. In the act of designing, outcomes are predetermined by the earlier insights that shaped them. Thus, the designer’s drawing ‘feeds forward’ in time to create the final design. However, applying transformation design in a social context would be too complex for ‘feedforward’ to work for very long; therefore a corrective process called ‘feedback’ is necessary. If the outcome of a particular action encourages a system to increase that action, this is called ‘positive feedback’. Just as the possession of great wealth can attract more money, so the conditions of dire poverty may cause someone to lose even more. Although these situations have opposite meanings at a social or economic level, in systemic terms they are both examples of ‘positive feedback’. Crudely speaking, all positive feedback systems exhibit ‘runaway’ tendencies. They share this characteristic with epidemics, avalanches, and explosions, whenever they create a qualitative change of state that runs through the whole system. All of which can be thought of as types of ‘transformation’. feedback (reinforcing the trend)

regulator of actions

ACTIONS

component of Benefit

OUTCOMES

component of Damage

1 Positive feedback 

Figure 1 shows a simplified schematic diagram that describes a system in which the positive feedback is designed to amplify factors expected to be beneficial. A practical problem with this model is that there seems to be no way to control the transformation. In other words, it seems set to reach an extreme state that may be, in practical terms, irreversible.

Negative Feedback When some form of regulation is needed within a system, then ‘negative’ rather than ‘positive’ feedback is called for. A good example is found in steering, whether in cars, boats, or hang gliders, as it is a way to regulate something (in this case, the

route). The same principle also applies for automated systems, such as autopilot steering on boats and planes, water-filling regulators in lavatory cisterns, and thermostatic temperature controllers. We call these feedback processes ‘negative’ because they involve a reversal of values (for example, travelling too far ‘left’ requires a ‘right’ correction, and vice versa). Although advanced cooking may be more complex, in systemic terms, food tasting has the same outcome as ‘steering’, because both achieve preferred outcomes, whether this is in terms of geographical destination or culinary taste. Transformation designers must therefore devise appropriate feedback loops and ‘steering’ processes by which their particular system can be monitored and managed.

regulator of actions

invertor

ACTIONS

component of Benefit

OUTCOMES

component of Damage

feedback (reversing the trend)

2 Negative feedback 

Figure 2 depicts a system in which the feedback loop was designed to regulate only the unwanted processes from a given situation. This could be a sketch of a hospital’s progress in which feedback ignores the successes and reflects the number of patient fatalities. While the diagram suggests that this number would be reduced, it may also remind us that choosing appropriate ‘performance indicators’ is vital for successful outcomes. For example, instead of choosing well-being, or happiness, as an economy’s performance indicator, most governments use GDP. This encourages overconsumption, which causes costly health problems such as obesity, diabetes, and so on. Ultimately, it will be counterproductive, because all economic ­endeavour depends upon (and is intended to provide) a certain level of public well-being.

Paradigms Although some of the above examples are mechanistic, James Lovelock’s notion of ‘Gaia’ suggests that the distinction between animate and inanimate players in an ecosystem is functionally unimportant (Lovelock 2000). A systemic approach is appropriate here, then, because it allows us to compare and integrate many things,

whether or not they are biological. In describing how cultures sustain themselves or perish, the word paradigm is useful, as it refers to their underlying structures rather than to their more superficial properties. This distinction is similar to that of grammar and vocabulary in linguistics. As an employee, the current designer’s role is not to redesign the paradigm, but to restyle a particular brand so that it will ­attract consumers and enable them to differentiate it from rival brands (Barthes 1983). For example, the car paradigm can be defined as a system of mass production, tarmac roads, and fossil fuels that sustains habits of private mobility (cf. Kauffman 1995). Unfortunately, designers cannot work at this level because they are paid to regard the car as a signifier of economic status and identity. In a sense, the systems of consumption and mobility are competing paradigms, each sustained by the many vested interests that play their separate parts in co-sustaining the status quo. However, although the car’s status within the consumer paradigm can survive when fossil fuels are abundant, it is suboptimal when seen in terms of its negative impact on communities, energy usage, and time (Illich 1973).

Steering the Steering It is the scale, complexity, and stubbornness of paradigms that poses the greatest challenge for transformation designers. Usually, the larger and more established they are, the more muscle, ingenuity, or perseverance is needed to regulate or transform them. With very large vehicles, we can put power-assisted servos on their steering systems. However, even though major paradigms may endure for a long time (Kuhn 1962), at some point the opportunity for transformation will present itself. Moreover, their dynamic nature means that different opportunities will ebb and flow. If an intervention is appropriate, and timed precisely enough, the effect will require less input. Walking through a swing door at different intervals in its natural cycle can test this. Buckminster Fuller (1895–1983) was fascinated by the idea of the trim tab. This is a miniature rudder mounted on the main rudder of a large ship that draws its energy from the forward motion of the ship, thus making the act of steering easier for the steerer. Buckminster Fuller saw the larger implications of this principle (Sullivan, Gilmore, and Blum 2010): ‘the little individual can be a trim tab […] if you’re doing dynamic things mentally, the fact is that you can just put your foot out like that and the whole big ship of state is going to go.’ In transformation design terms, this is equivalent to designing the feedback loops and making sure that the form, quality, and type of information selected is as timely and appropriate as possible.

Keystone Innovation This chapter has sought to outline an approach to transformation design that is systemic and compatible with the way designers think. Perhaps the main message is that this approach must learn from whole ecosystems (Yeang 2013) rather than just copying mechanical parts of living creatures. Where the traditional world of the designer is characterised by critical elements such as tools, laws, resources, individuals, services, or teams, ecologists identify critical elements that include keystone species (Power et al. 1996). What defines a keystone species is that its own demise will precipitate the loss of other species that depend upon it. For example, elephants and sea otters are keystone species because they clear away parts of the ecosystem in ways that are favourable to other species (Monbiot 2013). As transformation designers, we might, therefore, ‘reverse-engineer’ the idea by creating ‘keystone tools’ or ‘keystone ideas’ (Wood 2013a) that are likely to encourage other types of innovation in the future. History offers many previous examples, such as the millstone, the ball bearing, money, and limited liability contracts. All are ‘keystone innovations’ because they transformed lifestyles in a way that invites further innovation. Oil and gas were also keystone facilitators that gave us the energy to exploit other virgin ­materials and develop new gadgets.

Paradigm Design Stuart Kauffman’s comparison of the cultures of horse-powered and car-­powered communities (Kauffman 1995) offers an invaluable clue as to how we might design for paradigm change. Table 1 illustrates how this might work in the context of mobility. By comparing past and present paradigms, the designer visualises possible keystone parameters that might be required for seeding a new one. Just as cars would not have become the dominant paradigm without highways, insurance companies, refuelling stations, and the rest, so we can imagine a near-perfect set of conditions that would be required for human-powered vehicles to become the dominant paradigm. For example, in hilly regions, using Norman Foster’s concept of ‘cycle utopias’ (Foster and Partners 2014), road gradients could be reduced using a network of vertical towers that lift cyclists up to the requisite level. Regular cycle stations (Jones 2006) along the routes might enhance safety, comfort, and trading opportunities. Designers and scientists might help politicians to present these ideas to citizens as an investment that delivers greater long-term prosperity, fitness, and fun for city-dwellers. In an urban or community context it is always sensible to share certain investments and costs, provided there are synergies that offer new benefits to the whole system and/or its contributors. For example, a cycle track programme might complement a self-build housing scheme (Wates and Knevitt 2013), a

food-growing cooperative (Seyfang and Haxeltine 2012), and a biodiversity enhancement programme (Monbiot 2013).  The Previous Paradigm 

The Current Paradigm 

Future Possible Paradigm

Energy

Horse

Heat engine

Human muscle

Technologies

Joinery/blacksmithery

High-tech production line

Distributed crafts

Energy source

Fodder

Carbon fuel industry

Local food

Maintenance

Smithy

Petrol station/garage

Local maintenance

Surface

Rough track

Gentle-gradient tarmac road

No-gradient, ultra-flat track

Stop ­facilities

Hostelries

Motels

Cycle stations

Permissions

Few

Licence/insurance

Fiscal incentive

Environ­ mental

Few

Air/water/food chain ­pollution

Few/none

Support ­systems

Traveller hospitality ­culture

Hospitals/insurance, etc.

See ‘keystone synergies’

Key ­concepts

Necessity

Status/freedom/ convenience

Synergy-of-synergies

Table 1: Designing a future paradigm, based on previous and current paradigms

Keystone Synergies The idea that relations between things have a higher value than virgin materials will probably sound far-fetched to many. Humans are so familiar with the logic of exploiting minerals from the ground that we may have a ‘blind spot’ (Greyson 2014) about non-exploitative reasoning. Fossil fuels have been so extraordinarily plentiful and accessible that we have not seen the need for a philosophy that transcends extraction and consumption. Unfortunately, until our society can move beyond its narrow Smithsonian mindset, practices such as fracking for dwindling oil and gas reserves (Baker 2015) will still seem like good business to many. What this mindset implies is that individual assets, materials, or entities have a ‘use value’ on their own (Wood 2013b). This is an illusion, as single resources tend to be useful only when combined with other entities that work with them in a complementary way. However, whereas the economic logic of mining follows Adam Smith’s ‘law of diminishing returns’, the combinatorial logic of synergy exemplifies the ‘law of increasing

returns’ (Romer 1991; Arthur 1996). In effect, synergy is a free gift from nature. Inspired by certain ideas of Leonhard Euler (1707–1783), Walther Bauersfeld (1879– 1959), and others, Buckminster Fuller developed some design principles based on synergy (Fuller 1975). In order to bring the ‘art of recombination’ up to date, transformation designers may need to learn how to de-focus at the level of single products and pay attention to the relations between them. This will mean learning to think beyond the dualistic and reductionist mindset of Western thought.

Synergy-of-Synergies In moving towards a truly relational and ‘inclusional’ approach (Rayner 2012), it is helpful to look at examples from the living world. For example, the biological process of sexual reproduction is a good example of ‘recombination’ in that it rearranges existing things rather than starting from scratch. By recombining several enterprises in adjacency with one another (Wood 2007), it is possible to achieve many unexpected results with opportunities for further recombination. Ultimately, synergy derives from difference, irrespective of whether what is combined is generally regarded as a useful resource or not. Indeed, some of these differences may have been identified separately as ‘problems’ rather than ‘resources’ (Evans 2002). By finding and highlighting synergies that are of critical benefit, we will encourage others to continue the process by revealing new synergies. Eventually, designers will be able to create keystone synergies that are likely to seed the creation of subsequent synergies. If successive synergies can be recombined to create a continuing succession of new synergies, this would unfold as a cascade of steps in the transformation. Remarkably, the simple mathematics involved can also be synergistic. For example, whereas two projects will combine to deliver only one additional synergy, four interdependent projects will deliver six (Wood 2013b), provided each of the four combines effectively with each of the other three. This is an additional ‘bonus’ that contributes to what Fuller described as a ’synergy-of-synergies’ (Fuller 1975).

Acknowledgements The author is grateful to Dr Ken Fairclough, James Greyson, Dr John Matthias, Dr Alan Rayner, and Olaf Zimmermann for their helpful comments.

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Transformation Design as ‘Hero’s ­Journey’ Sarah Zerwas

Transformation Design as ‘Design for Debate’ I am interested in what inspires people. What do we need in order to engage in creative change and learning processes? How does transformation happen? And what can I, as a designer, contribute with my methods and approach? The term transformare means ‘to transfigure, metamorphose, change’. A metamorphosis is an indepth process, different from superficial (cosmetic) change. Simon (1994) generally defines design as a discipline that changes an existing situation into a preferred situation. I think design can initiate two types of change: 1. Design changes a situation by optimising an external condition, for example by designing an optimal product (ergonomic, adequate material, efficient consumption cycle, etc.). This type of change corresponds to what Dunne and Raby (2013) describe as ‘design for production’. 2. Design changes a situation by creating new awareness of an internal state, for example by identifying a problem when involved in a participatory design process that leads to a different or new attitude and increased motivation. This type of change corresponds to what Dunne and Raby (2013) describe as ‘design for debate’. In their manifesto, the RED Unit (Burns et al. 2006) defines transformation design not predominantly as a process of form-giving but rather understands design’s holistic core skills as appropriate means to bring about change and generate new forms of innovation design. The focus of transformation design is not an object but rather a relationship that can be designed in the form of services, organisational structures, or job profiles. Thinking and doing transformation design in terms of ‘design for debate’ seems to be an inspiring way to anchor my approach. The following table shows my conceptual starting point. In a ‘design for production’ process, you design for target groups or users. For good results, you need a proper understanding of the target group, which is why user analysis is particularly important. Design is used for problem solving. In a ‘design for debate’ process, you design around a theme in order to inspire discussion. There is no user. Instead, there are participants, and the design process enables them to better understand, and potentially change, themselves or a situation. Design is used as a communication medium.

Design for Production

Design for Debate

Problem solving

Problem finding

Provides answers

Asks questions

Design as solution

Design as medium

For how the world is

For how the world could be

Ergonomics

Rhetoric

Design for someone else (user-centred)

Design for yourself (team-centred)

Design an object

Design a process

Usability Design, User-Centred Design, Design-Ethnography

Speculative Design, Design Fiction, Social Design, Critical Design

Table 1: Design for Debate/Design for Production (partly adapted from Dunne and Raby 2013: vii)

Based on Brian Eno’s statement that ‘attention is what creates value’, Jonas (1996) formulates the following thought to highlight the rationale behind such an approach: ‘In a soon-to-be world of almost boundless possibilities, it is no longer appropriate to explain design guidelines in terms of material, technology, form etc. Instead, we have to use human values. Values derive from preferences and preferences derive from attention. Hence, design must create attention for possible futures.’ So, the point of the design for debate approach is not to design for the world as it is, but for the world as it could be. In what I consider important, I agree with Simon (1994: 148), who states: ‘The heart of the data problem for design is not forecasting but constructing alternative scenarios for the future […] we can then turn our attention to constructing paths that lead from the present to that desired future.’ I am concerned with the question of how such a future-oriented communication process could be designed. Therefore, I locate my approach in the field of procedural questions according to Steinø and Markussen (2011): which tools and techniques and which procedures are relevant or seem promising when implementing transformation design? I will first point out three typical characteristics that, to my mind, are necessary for a transformation design process: • The process is transdisciplinary, meaning each discipline can participate. • The process is flexible and experimental. It can be adjusted for different participants and themes. • The process is holistic as it considers cognitive-intellectual, affective-emotional, and bodily-sensory approaches (‘holistic learning’ based on Pestalozzi’s elementary education: learning by head, heart, and hand).

The Competence of Creative Projection The ability most needed for such a process is that of projection. According to Chow and Jonas (2010), this means being able to project new systems, objects, and approaches into the future and to transfer today’s knowledge to tomorrow’s world. For the process described here, I think that two things must go hand in hand: firstly, the ability of networked thinking combined with thorough analysis (identifying facts, relationships, and patterns); and secondly, untamed and ‘wild’ projection in combination with the courage to allow experimental concepts (diverse scenarios, wildcards, utopian ideas, visions). The medium we mostly use for projection is narrative. A fictional narrative allows us to project ourselves into both the past and the future or into an imaginary world. When we hear or write a story, we always relate that story to ourselves, at least to a certain degree, by using our own images/imagination or by linking the stories’ patterns to our own behaviour. One could say that we mirror our own behaviour in stories. Our narrative abilities help us to describe the world – not just how it is, but also how it feels to us. Our narrative repertoire allows us to name and describe things that do not physically exist in our reality. However, the potential of narratives goes much further. When relating a story, we express our entire culture. Almost all peoples in the world use narrative traditions not only for remembering but also as a form of knowledge management, by expressing elementary and tacit knowledge in tangible and emotional images in order to pass down this knowledge in a sustainable way.

Narrative Guidelines: Myth-Structures The structures and dramatic compositions of stories could be described as metaphorical navigation aids that help us when searching for meaning in our experiences. These structures are open enough to allow different options but also clear enough to deduct action patterns. Avenarius (1995) states that myths include answers and human coping strategies that, independent of place or time, also speak to modern humans and provide them with values that create meaning. In the ­antique world, Plato and Aristotle already believed that myths were able to create knowledge through storytelling, as opposed to scientific explanations, and that physical truth was not the main point. The writer G.K. Chesterton expresses it thus: ‘Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten.’

The Hero’s Journey Segal (2007) notes that the entirety of myths is too diverse to be able to deduce fundamental action patterns. However, such patterns were identified for specific subgroups, in particular for hero-myths, for example by Campbell (1999), Propp (1986), Vogler (2007), and Raglan (1936). The pattern of the so-called hero’s journey is seen as an archetypical feature of most hero-myths. Its basic themes are constantly re-created in novels, films, or narratives. Campbell (1999, first edition 1949) pointed out that hero-myths followed an underlying pattern. Based on his work, the hero-myth structure has become influential in film and literature studies, as well as in counselling and team development. It is seen as a universal metaphor for development and change processes. Vogler (2007) has developed the principle of the hero’s journey in the context of scriptwriting. He understands the structure of the hero’s journey not only as a development tool for storytelling but also as a design principle for life itself (2007: xiii). For my purposes, the most interesting field for applying the hero’s journey is the field of coaching and strategic business consulting. In this context, we would have to mention, for example, Höcker’s ‘Business Hero’ concept (2010) or Trobisch’s Heldenprinzip® (Trobisch et al. 2012), where the basic pattern of the mythical hero’s journey is seen as a useful structure for adaptation in modern project management processes because it allows the inclusion of faculties such as emotion, creativity, and imagination that have received little attention so far (see, for example, Schildhauer, Trobisch, and Busch 2012).

Basic Phases of the Hero’s Journey Trobisch (Trobisch et al. 2012) describes the stages in the hero’s journey as universal phases of development and change processes, in which the external action is always linked to both interior process logic and emotional development. The hero’s journey experienced by the myths’ protagonists consists of the protagonist leaving his familiar environment and facing the challenges of an unknown world. As a consequence, the protagonist tries out new ways and embarks on an adventure that often takes him to his limits, both externally and internally. The journey begins with a calling (a call, a task, or a mission) causing the protagonist to leave home. The ­future hero enters a new world in which he must learn to master dangerous and ­unexpected situations and to overcome obstacles both large and small. During his journey, he faces many challenges and, by rising to them, develops and matures, eventually becoming a hero. The hero’s journey describes three acts as basic phases: the starting phase, in which the hero leaves his familiar environment (separation); the main phase, in which he changes during his adventurous journey (initiation);

and the final phase, in which he returns to his familiar environment after learning new things and successfully completing the test (return). Between these phases, there are two elementary transitions between the familiar world (first and third phases) and the unknown world (second phase). The following table describes the three phases, which I have complemented with models of classic dramatic structure: Author

1. Phase

Transition

2. Phase

Transition

Campbell (1999)

Departure

Initiation

Return

Vogler (2007)

Separation: decision to act

Descent, ­penetration: the action ­itself

Return: the consequences of the action

Trobisch (2012)

Departure

Threshold

Adventure

Threshold

Return

Höcker (2010)

Departure

Threshold

New territory

Threshold

Return

Freytag (1872) Dramatic structure

Exposition

Rising action

Climax

Falling action

Catastrophe or Lysis (Resolution)

Field (1993) The three-act structure

Set-up

Confrontation

3. Phase

Resolution

Table 2: Basic phases of the Hero’s Journey

Vogler (2007) has developed the elements of the hero’s journey especially for scriptwriting, and has also described very well the hero’s corresponding interior process. To complement his model, I have also included Trobisch’s Heldenprinzip® (Trobisch et al. 2012) and ‘The Hero’s Emotional Journey’ according to Palmer (2011). The Hero’s Journey Vogler (2007)

The Hero’s Inner Journey Vogler (2007)

Heldenprinzip: Compass for Innovation and Change Trobisch et al. (2012)

The Hero’s Emo­ tional Journey Palmer (2011)

1. Phase Ordinary World: the hero is seen in his/her everyday life.

Limited awareness of problem

Call to Adventure: the initiating event of the story

Increased awareness of need for change

Incomplete

Calling: the hero receives a call for change in his familiar world. Something is wrong, or new horizons are opening up.

Unsettled

The Hero’s Journey Vogler (2007)

The Hero’s Inner Journey Vogler (2007)

Heldenprinzip: Compass for Innovation and Change Trobisch et al. (2012)

The Hero’s Emo­ tional Journey Palmer (2011)

Resisting the Call: the hero ­ xperiences some hesitation to e answer the call.

Fear, resistance to change

Resistance: although he has heard the call, the hero is held back from embarking into the unknown by interior or exterior obstacles.

Resistant

Meeting the Mentor: the hero receives the supplies, knowledge, and confidence needed to commence the adventure.

Overcoming fear

Mentor: a mentor supports the hero with advice, action, and useful gifts.

Encouraged

Crossing the First Threshold: the hero commits wholeheartedly to the adventure.

Committing to change

First Transition: before entering the unknown, the hero has to face the keeper of the threshold.

Committed

Tests, Allies, and Enemies: the hero explores the special world, faces trial, and makes friends and enemies.

Experimenting with new conditions

Course of Challenges: in the course of challenges, the hero masters increasingly larger challenges; he learns from success and failure.

Disoriented

Approach to the Innermost Cave: the hero approaches the centre of the story and the special world.

Preparing for major change

Major Challenge: the hero ­ ngages fully in his most e ­profound battle so far.

Inauthentic

The Ordeal: the hero faces the biggest challenge yet and experiences death and rebirth.

Attempting major change

Elixir: the hero is rewarded with an elixir.

Confronted

Reward: the hero experiences the consequences of surviving death.

Accepting the consequences of the attempt

Difficult Return: strengthened by the elixir, the hero embarks on his difficult journey home.

Reborn

The Road Back: the hero returns to the ordinary world or continues to an ultimate destination.

New challenge and ­rededication

Second transition: between two worlds, the hero recognises his task: to connect both worlds.

Desperate

Resurrection: the hero experiences a final moment of death and rebirth so as to be pure when re-entering the ordinary world.

Final attempt (last-minute danger)

Renewal: in his familiar world, the hero seeks to share and prove his new skills.

Decisive

Return with the Elixir: the hero returns with something to improve the ordinary world.

Mastery

Master of Two Worlds: the hero is characterised by the quality of holistic thinking and acting, which unites the two worlds.

Complete

2. Phase

3. Phase

Table 3: Detailed phases of the Hero’s Journey

The hero’s journey seems to provide an appropriate anthropological basis for learning and change processes, in particular on the basis of the work by Höcker (2010) and Trobisch et al. (2012). I think the journey or adventure metaphor is a useful dramatic guideline for the process described here. I will not further elaborate on the theme or image of heroism, as I don’t find it very helpful at this point.

Analysis: The Hero’s Journey Metaphor in Comparison with Triadic Concepts of Creative Processes In the following, I will relate the generic phases of the hero’s journey (Trobisch et al. 2012 and Campbell 1999) to models of the design or creative process. According to Bornemann (2012), creativity is the product of a long evolutionary process and it finds its expression in the ability to create order from chaos, with ‘the goal of creative processes being to master a situation that has never been experienced before’. The jazz musician Benny Golson has this to say on creativity (Goleman, Kaufman, and Ray 1999: 2): ‘The creative person always walks two steps into the darkness. Everybody can see what’s in the light. They can imitate it, they can underscore it, they can modify it, they can reshape it. But the real heroes delve in darkness of the unknown.’ When looking at the above table, one can draw many parallels between the metaphors of the hero’s journey and the descriptions of design processes. The first phase of ‘departure’ or ‘separation’ corresponds to Simon’s ‘existing situation’ that entails complex tasks and heightened problem awareness through analysis and observation. The second phase of developing ideas (ideation) can be compared to the metaphors of ‘adventure’ and ‘initiation’. During the design phase, the designer virtually enters new or unknown territory. This phase includes obstacles and is linked with many different emotions and experiences (frustration, tension, epiphanies, ideas, flow, inspiration, defeat, success). Creativity, inventiveness, and the ability to learn new things are among the fundamental qualities needed in this phase. Design exploration can be viewed as an adventure. Finally, the most compelling idea has to be successfully implemented. The final integration phase of ‘return’ (mastery) can be compared to Simon’s ‘preferred situation’. In addition to the obvious (design) solution, new knowledge has been gained (from experience), which must be integrated into everyday life. So far, the focus has been on understanding the hero’s journey and on identifying similarities with the structures of creative design processes (analysis). My interim conclusion is that the hero’s journey is useful as an anthropological basis for learning and change processes, and that it is similar to the stages of the design process.

Author

Phases

Trobisch et al. (2012)

Departure

Adventure

Return

Campbell (1999)

Separation

Initiation

Return

Archer (1965)

Analytical Phase: observation, meas­ urement, inductive reasoning

Creative Phase: evaluation, judgment, deductive reasoning

Executive Phase: description, trans­ lation, transmission

Fallman (2008)

Design Studies

Design Exploration

Design Practice

Brown (2008)

Inspiration

Ideation

Implementation

Jonas (2007)

Analysis

Projection

Synthesis

Archer (1981)

Science

Design

Arts

Nelson and Stolterman (2003)

the true

the ideal

the real

Jones (1970)

Divergence

Transformation

Convergence

Simon (1969), Weick (1969)

Intelligence

Design

Choice

Gausemeier et al. (1996)

Scenario Field Analysis

Scenario Prognosis

Scenario Building

Wallas (1926)

Preparation

Incubation + Illumination

Verification

Helmholtz (1884)

Saturation

Incubation

Illumination

Johnsen

Preparation

Production

Evaluation

Guilford (1950) Creative process in the arts

Discover

Invent/Design

Order/Plan

Campbell (1960)

Change Permutation

Configuration ­Formation

Communication and Acceptance

Table 4: Triadic models of the design process (based on Jonas 2014: 33, Table 2.3)

Implementation: Innovation and Strategy Processes, Participatory Processes, (Informal) Learning Processes In order to develop a model that can be used as inspiration for facilitating workshops/discussions, it makes sense to include further process models from the field of innovation and strategy management and from (informal) learning into the triadic structure. Author

Phase Model

Stone Yamashita Partners (2006)

Asking: come up with the ideas that will challenge the status quo by asking the right questions.

Prototyping: make the ideas more real – at any stage in the process – so that they can be experienced, evaluated, improved, or reconsidered.

Filtering: challenge assumptions and conclusions to draw out the breakthrough from the banal.

Plattner, Meinel, and Weinberg (2009) Design Thinking

1. Understand the user/design space: need-identification, benchmarking

2. Ideate: bodystorm 3. Build: prototype

4. Learn: test 5. (Re-)define the problem: design never ends

Stevenson (no year) Appreciate Inquiry (AI)

Discovery: what gives life? Appreciating: the best of ‘what is’

Dream: what might be: envisioning results

Destiny: how to empower, learn, adjust, and improvise: sustaining

Design: what should be the ideal? Co-constructing Scharmer (2009) Theory U/Five Movements of the U Process

Co-initiating: listen to others and do what life calls you to do. Co-sensing: go to the place of most potential and listen with your mind and heart wide open.

Co-presensing: retreat and reflect, allow the inner knowing to emerge.

Co-evolving: grow innovation eco­ systems by seeing and ­acting from the emerging whole.

Co-creating: prototype a microcosm of the new to explore the future by doing.

Jungk and Müllert (1989)

Complaints/Criticism: verbalising and writing down problems, cluster results in thematic ­circles.

Imagination/Utopia: developing desires, ideas, dreams, alter­ natives, select by voting.

Implementation/­ Practice: practical implementation

Reich (1996) Interactive ­Constructivism

Reconstruct (discovering worlds)

Construct (inventing worlds)

Deconstruct  (criticise worlds)

Kolb (1984)

Diverging analytic

Converging abstract

Accommodating synthetic

Table 5: Triadic Models in Innovation Management

I think that the different models are very similar and can again be compared to the design process itself. However, what designers usually lack are facilitation skills. In this regard, time-tested approaches such as Jungk’s ‘future workshop’ could provide useful input. (See, for example, Kuhnt and Müllert [2006].)

The ‘Designerly’ Part of the Journey In the above comparison tables, I would like to highlight one phase as being design-­ specific: the central phase of developing ideas and concepts. Analysis and synthesis, or departure and return respectively, do not seem to be absolutely design-specific: their main purpose is to be empathic and to identify problems and, correspondingly, to be pragmatic and implement the developed concepts. The central phase, on the other hand, seems always to be some kind of concept development or design phase, regardless of discipline. This is where essential transfer takes place. If no compelling idea or experience emerges in this phase, the remaining process is likely to prove futile. During this phase in the myths, the hero is in an unknown (fantasy) world that functions according to its own, new rules. The hero’s task is to prove himor herself in adventures and, by so doing, to learn (experience-based learning). In my initial considerations, I state that the point is to design the world as it could be. Now, in the phase of imagination and utopia, the central task is to transfer abstract desires, ideas, and dreams into concrete design ideas or scenarios and to create prototypes to make these ideas tangible. Scharmer (2009) calls this phase ‘Co-creating: prototype a microcosm of the new to explore the future by doing’. Myth

Innovation

Learning

Design

Creativity

Initiation

Profiting from discovery

Converging

Creative phase

Utopia

Exploration

Exploring ­alternatives

Abduction

Projection

Imagination

Confrontation

Design enquiry

Abstract

the ideal

Operative phase

Development

Define, ideate

Construct

Design ­exploration

Intuitive

The Action Itself

Exploring ­opportunities, idea development

Invent

Ideation

Incubation/ ­illumination

Chaos

Concept, Design

Utopia

Innovating

Inventing

Complexity

Dream + Design

Obtaining the contract

Design

Table 6: Concepts of Myth, Innovation, Learning, Design, and Creativity

Example from Practice: Design for Debate as an Event: The Festival of Utopia At this point, I reconnect to my initial concept of ‘transformation design for debate’. Based on my analysis and observation, the most essential things happen in the phase of ideation and prototyping: ideas must be given a form so that they can be communicated and discussed. To this end, different design techniques can be used, from brainstorming and bodystorming to sketch notes and paper prototyping. As an example from practice, I will use the Festival of Utopia, a two-day event, which I developed and organised in collaboration with my colleague Kristof von Anshelm. The first Festival of Utopia was held in 2013 by Haus der Wissenschaft in the region of Braunschweig-Wolfsburg (Germany). The goal was to use creative techniques to inspire young people to think in terms of utopia and develop visionary concepts for the future of mobility. About one hundred participants, aged between eighteen and thirty-five, met for two days in an abandoned department store. We organised ten different workshops, working with techniques that we considered useful for the ‘design for debate’ approach. At the end of the event, the concepts were discussed and reflected upon together with regional representatives from the fields of politics, culture, and business. With a view to creating a pool of possible methods, the following approaches were considered useful:

Method Pool for the ‘Designerly Part of the Journey’ Scenario Building

Scenario technique incl. storytelling elements (Ogilvy and Schwartz 2004)

Design Fiction

Combination of storytelling with material crafting of ­ bjects. Bleecker (2009): ‘Design fiction creates socialized o objects that tell stories.’

Design Prototyping

Paper crafting, sketch notes, rapid prototyping

Performance

Bodystorming, improvisational theatre, lecture ­performance

Theory U, Future Workshop

Dialogue, discussion, prototyping

Creative Writing

Science fiction, short stories, personas

Cultural Hacking

Communication guerrilla, faked campaigns

Serious Gaming

Playful simulations, educational games

Table 7: Method Pool for the ‘Designerly Part of the Journey’

The Hero’s Journey as Anthropological Basis for Learning and Change Processes Using ‘Design for Debate’ as a Tool (Medium) The goal of this type of transformation design is to encourage discussions and debate on possible futures by developing provocative utopian concepts. ‘Design for debate’ is applied as an opinion development tool and used to conceptualise and explore possible futures. Comparable approaches include: critical design, speculative design, and interrogative design. The participants’ concepts are used to initiate discussion: would something like this be acceptable? Could it be argued ethically? If so, would it be doable technically? What impact would it have on people’s relationships? In a second step, the question is how to reach the desired state and which concrete measures could be employed. As a dramatic structure for these processes, we looked at the hero’s journey, which is seen as a basis for learning and change processes. Combining different process models showed that the basic structures of creative processes could be compared, in many respects, to the dramatic pattern of the hero’s journey. I think it makes sense to use these basic structures for planning and facilitating such processes and to combine well-known group facilitation processes, such as the ‘future workshop’, with design approaches, for example design thinking. Such a design approach comes close to Jonas (2009), who states that the task of design is to develop intervention strategies that consider the desired goals. Jonas argues that design in and of itself cannot be critical but that a potential future task of design could be to offer different futures or alternatives so that there is a choice. I would like to stress his statement that designers should understand themselves as scouts and facilitators whose special expertise is to develop alternatives. This again relates to Simon’s (1994) idea of design as ‘valuable activity’: ‘The idea that creating and implementing concepts can result in the emergence of new goals is closely linked to the idea that the act of designing is itself a goal of planning. Conceiving and developing new possibilities is in and of itself a pleasant and valuable experience.’

Writing Storyboards or Process Scripts for Workshops and Events My conclusion is that, for transformation processes, designers should develop their facilitation skills. What could be the next possible steps in this regard? For facilitating a transformation process as I imagine it, a possible next step could be to use the hero’s journey as a basis for creating a process script and to develop this script in collaboration with authors, gamers, facilitators, coaches, and designers: a departure into a new adventure.

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AUTHORS Kristof von Anshelm studied Industrial Design at the Braunschweig University of Art. He started to explore the visionary early in his studies and began to design for far futures. After some time in Hamburg and a year in the advanced design department at Airbus Industries, he returned to Brunswick in 2009 to help found the ‘get lab’ (laboratory for societal transformation) at the Institute for Transportation Design / Braunschweig University of Art. For the next five years he did research into the possibilities of design to support change processes in societies. In 2014, he and Sarah Zerwas founded the agency for inspiration management ‘von A und Z’, where they develop inspiring formats and creative methods in the fields of design, coaching, and consulting. ([email protected]) Nicolas Beucker is Professor of Public and Social Design at the Niederrhein University of Applied Sciences in Krefeld, Germany. Nicolas Beucker holds a degree in Industrial Design from the University of Essen and was a member and co-founder of the Institute for Ergonomics and Design Research within the Faculty of Art and Design at the University of Duisburg-Essen. From 2008 to 2013, Nicolas Beucker was Dean of the Faculty of Design at the Niederrhein University of Applied Sciences. He conducts research and applied design projects in the field of urban interface design and society-related design in general. Nicolas Beucker is continually lecturing about public and social design in Germany and abroad. ([email protected]) Flavia Caviezel is a researcher and vidéaste based in Switzerland with a background in visual anthropology, film studies, and constitutional law. She has worked for more than ten years in research and teaching, at ZHdK Zurich University of the Arts and at the Institute of Experimental Design and Media Cultures at the Academy of Art and Design FHNW, University of Applied Sciences and Arts Northwestern Switzerland (ongoing), among other universities. For details about her latest research projects RhyCycling and Times of Waste, as well as publications and lectures, see www.ixdm.ch. Her audiovisual training was at the School of Art Berne. Since 1991, she has been making independent documentary/essayistic video work for national and international festivals and exhibitions; see www.likeyou.com/flaviacaviezel. She has carried out residencies and research studies in Australia, China, Laos, Mali, the USA, and different central and southern European countries. Her research topics and themes of interest include: border issues, transitory and public spaces, research methodology, and (interactive) presentation formats. ([email protected])

Caroline L. Davey and Andrew B. Wootton are directors of the Design Against Crime Solution Centre at the University of Salford. Caroline is an Organisational Psychologist and Reader in Design, Innovation and Society. Andrew is an Industrial Designer and Senior Research Fellow. Since 1998, they have led major UK- and EU-funded projects on social responsibility. They have published academic articles and guidelines on the role of design within crime prevention, and the use of holistic, human-centred ‘design thinking’ to address quality-of-life problems. They have delivered four EU-funded projects on Design Against Crime (Hippokrates 2001, 2002, Agis 2003, 2006), and initiated a major UK consortium project on sustainability in urban design decision making: VivaCity2020. Recent projects include: City Centre Crime; National Police Crime Prevention Service; Planning Urban Security (PLuS) – an EU-funded project led by the LKA Lower Saxony (DE); and Youth Design Against Crime – a partnership with UK charity Catch22 that engages young people in crime prevention. The Solution Centre is the UK representative on the EU COST Action TU1203 Crime Prevention through Urban Design and Planning. Current research interests include: the evolving concept of security; crime prevention implementation; tackling feelings of insecurity; design and well-being; and socially responsible design. ([email protected]; [email protected]) Michael Erlhoff is a writer, design theoretician, business consultant, curator, and project initiator/manager; former CEO of the German Design Council; member of the documenta 8 advisory board; founding Dean of and Professor of Design Theory and History at Köln International School of Design/KISD in Cologne, Germany; and frequent visiting professor at various international universities, including Hong Kong, Hangzhou, and Tokyo. ([email protected]) Lorraine Gamman is Professor of Design at Central Saint Martins College, University of the Arts London (UAL), where in 1999 she founded the Design Against Crime Research Centre, which she continues to direct. She is also Visiting Professor/Research Associate with the Designing Out Crime Research Centre at the University of Technology, Sydney. Gamman is an active member of the Steering Group of the UK’s National Alliance for Arts in Criminal Justice, and Vice Chair of the UK’s Designing Out Crime Association. In 2007–11 she was a member of the Design Council and Home Office’s Design Technology Alliance that advised Britain’s Home Secretary, and in 2015 she continues to serve on the Home Office’s Crime Prevention Panel as a design specialist. ([email protected]) Franziska Holzner is a designer, writer, and artist. She maintains a studio in the ‘documenta-city’ of Kassel, Germany, where she, after completing her degree in Communication Design, earned her MA in Philosophy and Art Theory. Since 2004, she has been working as a freelance designer and typographer. In 2010 she began to interweave the methods of transformation design into her design work and has accompanied various organisations and companies in their transformation processes. She has published

articles on the nature philosophy of Schelling and the philosophy of Ernst Bloch. Currently she is working on her doctorate in Design Sciences at Braunschweig University of Art. The emphasis of her research is based on a design discipline introduced by herself: ‘Heimatdesign’. Her focus as an artist lies in the establishment of a new culture of the coming-into-this-world and being-in-this-world. The mother of two children is a passionate legume gardener and ‘self-provider’. ([email protected]) Wolfgang Jonas studied Naval Architecture at the Technical University Berlin. In 1984, he finished a PhD on the optimisation of streamlined shapes. In 1994, he earned the teaching qualification (Habilitation) for Design Theory. Since 1994 he has been teaching in Halle, Bremen, and Kassel. Since 2010 he is professor for ‘Designwissenschaft’ and head of the Institute for Transportation Design at Braunschweig University of Art. His working areas are design methodology, systemic and scenario-approaches, and the development of the concept ‘Research Through Design’. At ITD Braunschweig he is responsible for the new field of Maritime Mobility. He is currently involved in the development of a master’s programme in Transformation Design, which will be launched in the winter term 2015–16. ([email protected]) Gesche Joost is Professor for Design Research at Berlin University of the Arts and, since 2005, head of the Design Research Lab. With international partners, she develops research and teaching projects in the areas of human–computer interaction, gender and diversity aspects in technological development, as well as social sustainability and participation. Until 2010, she was junior professor for Interaction Design and Media at the Technical University of Berlin in cooperation with Telekom Innovation Laboratories. As a visiting professor, she taught Gender and Design at HAWK Hildesheim. In 2009, she received the young talent award for science from the mayor of Berlin. She is the chairwoman of DGTF e.V. (German Society for Design Theory and Research) and a board member of Technologiestiftung Berlin. In 2014, she was appointed ‘Digital Ambassador’ of the German federal government to the European Union. ([email protected]) Victor Margolin is Professor Emeritus of Design History at the University of Illinois, Chicago. He is a founding editor and now co-editor of the academic design journal Design Issues. Professor Margolin has published widely on diverse design topics, including design history, social design, design for development, design education, and design theory. He has lectured at conferences, universities, and art schools in many parts of the world. He has also taught studio seminars at the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem and the Politecnico di Milano, where he co-taught a seminar for service design students on the Good Society. Books that he has written, edited, or co-edited include The American Poster Renaissance; Propaganda: The Art of Persuasion, WW II; The Promise and the Product; The Struggle for Utopia: Rodchenko, Lissitzky, Moholy-Nagy, 1917–1936; Design Discourse; Discovering Design; The Idea of Design; The Designed World: Images, Objects, Environments; The Politics of the Artificial: Essays on Design and Design Studies;

Culture is Everywhere: The Museum of Corn-temporary Art; and Design and the Risk of Change (in Portuguese). His books have also been translated into five languages. The first two volumes of his three-volume World History of Design were published in 2015. ([email protected]) Gavin Melles is Senior Lecturer and Associate Dean of international relations for the School of Design, Swinburne University, Melbourne. He supervises PhDs in Australia and Germany in design, engineering, and education topics. He is editor on numerous journals, assessor for the Australian Research Council and the Swiss National Foundation, and recipient of several research fellowships in Germany, Switzerland, and Sweden. His teaching and research interests and funded grants are in the fields of sustainability and social impact. ([email protected]) Stephan Rammler studied political sciences and economics and earned his PhD at the Social Science Research Centre Berlin (WZB). Since 2002, he is a Professor at Braunschweig University of Art; from 2007 to 2014, he was Founding Director of the Institute for Transportation Design (www.transportation-design.org). His work focuses on mobility and future research, transport, energy, and innovation policy, issues of cultural transformation, and sustainable environmental and social policy. ([email protected]) Bernd Sommer is a sociologist and currently responsible for the area ‘Climate, ­Culture and Sustainability’ at the Norbert Elias Centre for Transformation Design and ­Research of the University of Flensburg, Germany. Previously, he was a Research Fellow in the section ‘ClimateCulture’ at the Institute for Advanced Studies in the Humanities ­Essen (KWI) and a consultant for the German Advisory Council on Global Change (WBGU). In September 2014, he published Transformationsdesign. Wege in eine zukunftsfähige Moderne (Munich: oekom), together with Harald Welzer. ([email protected]) Peter Friedrich Stephan researches the futures of design. As a designer, author, and musician, he has been a pioneer of digital design since the 1980s, with experimental and commercial work in multimedia and networks. He is a Full Professor at the Academy of Media Arts, Cologne, and a partner of the Institute of Electronic Business, Berlin. (www.peterstephan.org; [email protected]) Adam Thorpe is Reader in Socially Responsive Design at Central Saint Martins College, University of the Arts London (UAL). He is Co-Director of the Design Against Crime Research Centre and Coordinator of the UAL DESIS Lab (Design for Social Innovation and Sustainability). His research activities are practice-based and explore the role of design in meeting societal goals and challenges. He has written extensively on open and participatory socially responsive design processes. ([email protected])

Andreas Unteidig is a researcher, lecturer, and PhD candidate at the Design Research Lab at Berlin University of the Arts, where he explores the relationship of design, technology, and the political. Prior to that, he studied at Köln International School of Design as well as at Parsons the New School for Design, and worked as designer and consultant in various contexts. Andreas co-founded the research group Civic Infrastructures, a transdisciplinary team that researches the designability of socio-material infrastructures for enabling and fostering political agency for citizens. In the projects Neighbourhood Labs and Community Now?, the latest technological outputs of the group are the Hybrid Letter Box and the De:Routing application. ([email protected]) Matthew Ward is a Senior Lecturer in Design at Goldsmiths, University of London, where he directs undergraduate studies. He has acted as an External Examiner for Design Products (RCA, London), Graphic Media Design (LCC, London), Design; Process, Material, Context (UWE, Bristol), and Product Design (University of Hertfordshire). His research spans a wide range of interests, from speculative design to radical pedagogy. He’s a practising designer, writer, and founding member of DWFE, a post-disciplinary, semi-fictional design syndicate. DWFE’s work searches for meaning in the construction of the extraordinary; they design activities, objects, and incidents to reconfigure people’s perceptions. Matt holds three international patents on the work he did at NCR’s Advanced Research and Development Department on the emerging contexts of the Internet of Things and Urban Computing. Matt has been a research affiliate to MIT Media Lab and Interaction Design at the RCA. He consults for a range of organisations: Nokia, BERG, Dentsu, and the Design Council. He lectures internationally about design, technology, and education, writes a blog (http://sb129.wordpress.com/), and takes a lot of photographs (www.flickr.com/mattward). ([email protected]) Harald Welzer is a sociologist and social psychologist. He is Co-Founder and Director of ‘Futur Zwei. Stiftung Zukunftsfähigkeit’ (Future Perfect. Foundation for Sustainability), Professor of Transformation Design at the University of Flensburg, G ­ ermany, and permanent Guest Professor of Social Psychology at the University of St. Gallen, Switzerland. Selected publications: Täter. Wie aus ganz normalen Menschen Massen­mörder werden (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2005); Climate Wars: What People Will be Killed for in the 21st Century (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2008); Soldaten: On Fighting, Killing and Dying (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2011), with Sönke Neitzel; Selbst denken. Eine Anleitung zum Widerstand (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2013); and Transformationsdesign. Wege in eine zukunftsfähige Moderne (Munich: oekom, 2014), with Bernd Sommer. His books have been translated into twenty-two languages. A recent ranking of Georg Dutt­ weiler Institute counts Harald Welzer among the 100 most important thinkers worldwide. ([email protected])

John Wood is Emeritus Professor of Design at Goldsmiths, University of London. As an artist and performer since the early 1970s, John’s breadth of interests has led him to create solar energy devices, musical toys, several musical albums, and tours with the cult band Deaf School. From 1978 to 1988, he was Deputy Head of the Fine Art Department at Goldsmiths, University of London. He then focused his attention on design education, driven by environmental concerns that inspired him to launch innovative undergraduate and postgraduate degrees that combined an entrepreneurial and ethical approach. His (2005) master’s programme in Design Futures invited graduates to ‘redesign design’ as a more comprehensive, joined-up, and therefore transformative framework for their practices. He has also held a number of visiting professorships in the Far East. His AHRC/EPSRC-funded research into metadesign led him to set up the Metadesigners network and informed his book Designing for Micro-Utopias: Thinking beyond the Possible (Ashgate 2007), which aims to offer a blueprint for paradigm change. John also co-founded the international Writing-PAD Network and is Co-Editor (with Julia Lockheart) of its Journal of Writing in Creative Practice. He has published extensively and is an editorial board member of journals in Australia, the UK, the USA, and Taiwan. ([email protected]) Sarah Zerwas studied Communication Design at the University of Applied Sciences and Arts in Hildesheim, Germany. After graduating, she worked for nearly five years as a design researcher in the ‘get lab’ (laboratory for social transformation) at Braunschweig University of Art. In her research, she focused on narrative structures in comparison with design processes. In 2014, she and Kristof von Anshelm started ‘von A und Z’, an agency for inspiration management. They develop inspiring formats and creative methods in the field of design coaching and consulting. ([email protected])

Editors: Wolfgang Jonas, Sarah Zerwas, Kristof von Anshelm Translation from German into English: Susanne Dickel (texts from M. Erlhoff, F. Caviezel, S. Zerwas, K. v. Anshelm) and Elke Prielipp (text from F. Holzner) Copy editing: John Sweet Project management: Lisa Schulze Production: Katja Jaeger Layout and typography: Sven Schrape Design Concept BIRD: Christian Riis Ruggaber, Formal Typefaces: Akkurat, Arnhem Paper: 100g/m2 Offset Printing: Kösel GmbH & Co. KG Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the German National Library The  German National Library lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, re-use of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in other ways, and storage in databases. For any kind of use, permission of the copyright owner must be obtained. This publication is also available as an e-book (ISBN PDF 978-3-0356-0653-9; ISBN EPUB 978-3-0356-0655-3). © 2016 Birkhäuser Verlag GmbH, Basel P.O. Box 44, 4009 Basel, Switzerland Part of Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Printed on acid-free paper produced from chlorine-free pulp. TCF ∞ Printed in Germany ISBN 978-3-0356-0636-2 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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Design Dictionary Perspectives on Design Terminology This dictionary provides a stimulating and categorical foundation for a serious international discourse on design. It is a handbook for everyone concerned with design in career or education, who is interested in it, enjoys it, and wishes to understand it. 110 authors from Japan, Austria, England, Germany, Australia, Switzerland, the Netherlands, the United States, and elsewhere have written original articles for this design dictionary. Their cultural differences provide perspectives for a shared understanding of central design categories and communicating about design. The volume includes both the terms in use in current discussions, some of which are still relatively new, as well as classics of design discourse. A practical book, both scholarly and ideal for browsing and reading at leisure. Michael Erlhoff, Tim Marshall (Eds.) In collaboration with the Board of International Research in Design 472 pages 16,8 × 22,4 cm Hardcover ISBN: 978-3-7643-7738-0 German ISBN: 978-3-7643-7739-7 English

Mapping Design Research Positions and Perspectives An authoritative and scientifically based collection of 18 international texts since 1960 that mirrors and analyses the principal developmental phases of design research and scientific research. The importance of the focus on pivotal texts for the design research cannot be overstated. However, while certain charismatic names come up in the discussion, the community has thus far lacked a handbook that is straightforward and accessible. Simon Grand and Wolfgang Jonas have now filled this gap. Compiled on the basis of a deep and extensive knowledge of the field, their essays situate and elucidate these exciting texts and aid readers in understanding them. Simon Grand, Wolfgang Jonas (Eds.) In collaboration with the Board of International Research in Design 256 pages 16,8 × 22,4 cm Hardcover ISBN: 978-3-0346-0716-2 English

Prozessästhetik Eine ästhetische Erfahrungstheorie des ökologischen Designs Johannes Lang investigates the aesthetics of product design in the context of the growing awareness of ecological realities – in contradistinction to sustainability, which encompasses not just ecological, but social aspects as well. This book shows how the introduction of ecological concerns into design not only leads to new technologies, but also to a new aesthetic, characterized here as «process aesthetics. » The practical and aesthetic aspects of a product are considered not in isolation but instead in their interrelationship – neither deterministically in the sense of «form follows function, » nor arbitrarily in the sense of a «product language, » but instead reflexively. Through numerous examples, the author discusses processes that are observable in the history of materials, of production, and of practical utilization as they are relevant to ecological relationships. In the process, the term «process aesthetics» becomes tangible: it encompasses those sensuous reflections through which the natural processes of product history become a part product experience. Johannes Lang In collaboration with the Board of International Research in Design 176 pages 16,8 × 22,4 cm Hardcover ISBN: 978-3-0356-0326-2 German

Design by Use The Everyday Metamorphosis of Things This publication explores and analyzes a very special kind of design – the phenomenon, as normal as it is wonderful, in which people with no formal training in design take things that have already been designed and reuse them, convert them to new uses, in short, «misuse» them in the very best sense of the word. Non-intentional design (NID) goes on every day, in every area of life, in every region of the world. Redesign through reuse makes things multifunctional and cleverly combines them to generate new functions. It is often reversible, resource-friendly, improvisational, innovative, and economical. It can become a source of inspiration for design, provided professional designers look up and take notice of what actually happens to all the things they design when they are used. Uta Brandes, Sonja Stich, Miriam Wender In collaboration with the Board of International Research in Design 192 pages 16,8 × 22,4 cm Hardcover ISBN: 978-3-7643-8866-9 German ISBN: 978-3-7643-8867-6 English

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Design Research Now Essays and Selected Projects Design is becoming a recognised academic discipline, and design research is the driving force behind this transformation. Design Research Now – Essays and ­Selected Projects charts the field of design research with introductory essays and selected research projects. The authors of the essays, all leading international design scholars, stake out positions on the most important issues of design research. They locate the significance of design research at the interface with technological development, describe what makes it a necessary ingredient of the continued development of the design disciplines, and assign it a seminal role in the relevant developments of society. The essays are supplemented by the presentation of recently completed research projects from universities in the Netherlands, the UK and Italy. Ralf Michel (Ed.) In collaboration with the Board of International Research in Design 254 pages 22,0 × 28,0 cm Hardcover ISBN: 978-3-7643-8471-5 English

Thinking Design Transdisziplinäre Konzepte für Planer und Entwerfer Beginning in the 1960s, Horst W.  J. Rittel (1930–1990) focused his research on the problems and problem-solving behavior of planners and designers. His discoveries have had a lasting impact on theories and methods in the fields of architecture and design, and form the basis of what is referred to today as «design thinking.» At last, this new edition of his out-of-print collection of essays will make his texts accessible once again to German-speaking readers. Wolf D. Reuter, Wolfgang Jonas (Eds.) In collaboration with the Board of International Research in Design 368 pages 22,0 × 28,0 cm Hardcover ISBN: 978-3-03821-450-2 German