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Turquoise, me, and the new NPR.org.

The Poynter Institute's review of the new NPR.org was one of the few to specifically note our use of turquoise to designate audio elements across the site. This color and usage choice was my doing and as I've thought about it since launch, I wonder why I chose turquoise. My semiotics professor, Natalia Ilyin, would say that designers don't make choices like this by chance, so for the sake of navel-gazing intellectualism, I thought I'd dig a little deeper.

The initial color scheme Schematic provided us didn't include a turquoise. There was a lighter, more vibrant blue (as seen on the program pages); not green enough to be considered turquoise. I could have used this color to denote audio, since our programs, in effect, are all audio, killing two birds with one stone. But, I felt that audio needed to have its own unique color.

So why turquoise? What were my subliminal motives?

According to various color resources, turquoise (a tertiary color resulting from mixing a primary color with a secondary color) is classified with blues. Blues are generally seen as low-arousal colors, resulting in a cool, calming effect. Which is probably why blue is most often cited as a favorite color by both men and women.

So maybe I chose it because I want our listeners to feel calm when they listen to audio clips about suicide bombings in Afghanistan, the latest plane crash, or why health reform is failing. Or maybe because shades of blue are safe and neutral and most people like them.

Honestly, though, here's the truth. I just like it.

Looking around my personal affects, I've noted several other points in my life where turquoise was my choice of color. We're re-modeling our kitchen and for the one-wall accent color, I chose turquoise. I recently built a fixed-gear bike and while my initial intentions were to paint the frame a matte ballet pink, upon seeing the powder coat swatches, I chose a high-gloss turquoise instead. My favorite leather jacket is turquoise, and in the past year, I've also acquired at least three shirts in varying shades of turquoise, one pair of turquoise leather slingbacks, a MAC turquoise eye stick and NARS turquoise eye shadow.

So maybe what it all boils down to is that I'm a cheap fashion whore, prone to – as Miranda Priestly might say – fishing last season's finds out of clearance bins. Here's the related dialogue from The Devil Wears Prada, where Meryl Streep coldly admonishes Anne Hathaway for her ignorant referral to important fashion details, i.e., color, as "stuff":

Andy Sachs: No, no, nothing. Y'know, it's just that both those belts look exactly the same to me. Y'know, I'm still learning about all this stuff.

Miranda Priestly: This... 'stuff'? Oh... ok. I see, you think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don't know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise, it's not lapis, it's actually cerulean. You're also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar De La Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves St Laurent, wasn't it, who showed cerulean military jackets? I think we need a jacket here. And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of 8 different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it's sort of comical how you think that you've made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you're wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room. From a pile of stuff.

So, actually, I take that back. This isn't just turquoise you see on the new NPR.org. It's bright cerulean. And I was probably brainwashed into liking it by Christian Dior.

The white box.

"The box is under the seat," I thought as I situated myself between my sisters in the back seat of the Volkswagen. I could not see the box, but I knew it was there. Unseen, like an abandoned thought, but still, its presence was tangible. Its presence was the purpose of our journey. 

The snow-covered highway swirled before us, like a white muslin ribbon. The mountains, tall and muscular, soared paternally above us. I felt small and vulnerable gazing up through the car windows, but at the same time, comforted by their force and beauty. Weaving the ribbon on which we traveled, the snowy peaks held their breath in solemn expectancy of the legacy we were about to leave with them. The legacy was in the box. 

Each turn in the road was familiar to me. I'd been this way many times before. The pine trees seemed to recognize me and wave as our car sped past. Frozen meadows lay smothered beneath the undulating slab of thick snow, on top of which mocked icy crystals; flirting with the sun, laughing at the trees, and winking at me.

Restlessly, I shifted in my seat. Were we there yet? The engine struggled as gears shifted in anticipation of the hill we started to climb. My oldest sister, Megan, gazed pensively out the window. Was she hurting inside? I couldn't tell by looking at her. Since my mother had become ill, Megan had been the pillar of strength we all so desperately needed. I glanced at Carrie and then Lissa. Lightly conversing, at times laughing, their tones were hushed, honoring the atmosphere of reverence. 

I sat back, curling myself into a ball, leaning my head against Lissa's shoulder. I wanted to sleep the rest of the way, but my mind was filled with unanswered questions: Why me? Why did she have to die? Who was going to take care of me? I was too young to comprehend death, too young to realize the changes it would have on my six-year old life. With confusion and loss gnawing at my heart, I tried to sleep, but sleep would not come.

As I rested, the car slowed down. I sat forward expectantly, hoping we'd reached our destination. We were there. Taking turns, we climbed out of the car while Megan reached under her seat, revealing the box. White as the snow surrounding us, it was glossy and unblemished. Roughly the size of a box of Kleenex, it had metal clasps on top, fastened to secure its contents.

With dignity, she carried the box, leading us up the powdered embankment among the trees. Silently, we followed her, the wind comforting through the pines, offering solace.

After walking half a mile, we stopped. Sunlight filtered through the branches, playing in my sister's hair as she opened the box. Inside the box was a plastic bag. Inside the bag were my mother's ashes. Quietly we scattered them, stunned by the finality engulfing us.

With the aspens as her pallbearers and the wind proffering her epitaph, my mother was laid to rest. 

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Lovely photo by snjezana, one of my Flickr contacts.

I want new letters.

The fact that graduate design programs bestow upon their students the MFA (Master of Fine Arts) degree is antiquated and irrelevant. Instead, the design discipline should have its own standardized classification of academic distinction, as programs at IIT, Cincinnati, and Carnegie Mellon do: a Master's of Design. And as architectural programs do. When have you ever heard of someone with an MFA in architecture? Never. Because nobody has one. Because architecture, while encompassing elements of art, is not art. It's Architecture. Design is not art, either. It's Design. Here's an example description of such a program: 

The Master of Design (MDes) program is a two-year, 54-credit-hour degree program intended for those seeking professional mastery at the highest level in the planning and design of new communications, products, services, environments and systems. The degree terminates with a project demonstrating the application of new theories and processes to contemporary and developing design problems in a variety of areas.

I'm writing this because I'm really, really tired of people not understanding what I do. Of people equating design with art (IT'S NOT THE SAME), and of people assuming that I draw pictures and make web banners for a living. This is not what I do. But part of the reason people think it is, I'm theorizing, is because my alma mater, the University of Washington, mislabeled me. I have a Master of Fine Arts in design, which in itself is a paradox because design does not equal fine art:

fine art

1 a: art (as painting, sculpture, or music) concerned primarily with the creation of beautiful objects —usually used in plural b: objects of fine art

vs.

design

transitive verb

1: to create, fashion, execute, or construct according to plan : devise, contrive

2 a: to conceive and plan out in the mind b: to have as a purpose : intend  c: to devise for a specific function or end 

The primary difference is that art is about making beautiful things. Design is concerned with beauty, too, but not as much as it is about function. Therein lies the difference. The act of designing involves greater dimensionality than does art. A designer has many more externalities to consider when creating an object, which requires more sacrifice and compromise toward the end product. It's difficult to make beautiful things, lest you think that I'm dissing fine art. It takes talent and hard work. It's also difficult to make functional things; ask any engineer or computer programmer. Enter design, which is concerned with both. Creating something that is both functional and beautiful requires a broader skill set and the ability to collaborate with others and work within a narrow set of parameters. Dare I say that design is twice as hard?

Perhaps at the advent of design programs in the early 20th century, the MFA made more sense. In terms of two-dimensional design – posters, album covers, etc. – a designer often did create art as part of the overall design. Graphic designers worked with illustrators, painters, and photographers as a general rule. 

Today, however, with so many more disciplines of design in practice, this automatic association of design and the fine arts displays ignorance about the multi-facets of contemporary design.  At least in terms of newer fields of practice, such as interface and interaction design. It fails to take into account the other fields one must be well-versed in to succeed in designing interfaces.

As an interface and interaction designer, I am far more likely to interact with business analysts, system admins, computer programmers, library scientists, and cognitive psychologists than I am to work with painters, illustrators, or sculptures. 

So, please don't insult me by calling me a "web designer" or a "graphic designer". While graphic design falls under the umbrella of what I do, it's simply a tool in my interface design set. Neither of these terms aptly describe what I do for a living. And god forbid you should ever call me an "artist". 

In the glow of the launch of the new NPR.org – a yearlong endeavor involving an incredibly detailed overhaul of a very complex content management and publishing system – I've decided that I want new letters. I'm definitely a master of something, just not the fine arts.

Fauxlaroid.

he looks., originally uploaded by Neylano.

Just found this incredible iPhone app: Shake It Photo. I love it!!!

Longer post coming soon. I've been busy launching this.

L'assemblage.

Elle presque respire. She almost breathes. Will picked up my powder-coated frame on Wednesday from a warehouse in Greektown. As you can see, it's a super shiny turquoise. Initially, I wanted it robin's egg blue or ballet pink, matte-finish, but these colors did not exist where I had the bike done. So, I just kind of rolled with the punches. I've been on a turquoise kick lately (I painted one wall in our kitchen turquoise) and decided to go with the color for my bike, mainly because I think it goes really well with the Brooks leather saddle. The chain is white and now I am thinking about getting white tires, too. They'll get dirty, I know, I know. But that's not the point....

Another punch I had to roll with was the fact that I forgot to tell them to sand off the extra little details on the bike that are used to run brake and derailleur cables through. But, this is my first fixie, so if that's the only thing I miss up on, c'est pas grave....

Will is helping me assemble her. We started putting in the bracket tonight, ran into a little glitch, asked the Internets for help and watched a video. We got it figured out, but to get the bracket threaded all the way, we're going to have to go to the bike shop tomorrow for a tool. No biggie, of course, because it's so close to our house. We will, however, have to wade through Artscape to get there.

I want to name this bike. If you have any suggestions, please post. I had Blushing Geisha picked out for the pink one, but this bike is not blushing....

Dean + Deluca.

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I don't really have much to say except that I took this shot in New York a couple of weeks ago and I really like it. I wish I had known about this, though. I would have submitted this one for sure.

Mon blog de fille.

In case you want to learn how to apply eye makeup and speak French at the same time, here's a blog for you. I found it while surfing some fashion sites this weekend. She uses my favorite makeup brand ever, too: MAC. Ça, c'est super-cool!

Soft as a baby's bottom.

That's what I think every time I think about something that's "powder-coated".

Anyhoo, this is where my fixie frame has been sleeping the past few nights. I dropped it off last Friday (after driving around Greektown, trying to find out how the hell to get to the back streets that lead up to this industrial park). I was going to post a photo of the color swatch I chose, but then thought better of it. The color will be a surprise. It's definitely not anything I was originally thinking of, but once confronted with the available colors, they didn't have exactly what I wanted and I don't feel like paying extra to have a custom color mixed. So, I chose a ready-made swatch. It's gonna be HOT, though. Just wait and see....

Two weeks 'til I pick it up. Oh, yeah!

On another note, we are also getting ready to have our cabinets and concrete countertops designed for our kitchen. Nothing fancy, but it's still better than IKEA for not a whole lot more. The quality will be much nicer. And, the guy we're hoping to work with studied furniture design at RISD. 

Espresso. Ristretto. Con panna, per favore.

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This weekend I was in New York and was there long enough to try out a couple of new espresso bars. I'm obsessed, I know. Above is Ninth Street Espresso's Tompkins Square location. Very, very good. Except that they looked at me funny when I asked for "con panna".

Yes. CON PANNA, she said. Drop the arrogance, okay? You skinny, snobby barista. Adding a little whip cream to my doppio does not make the espresso unpure. It does not put me in the class of someone who drinks Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts. It's not going to ruin your magnificently pulled shots. It's just another form of adding a little milk and sugar.

And it case you don't know, they serve it this way in Italy, bitches. YES, THEY DO. At every espresso bar I ever went to while I was there. At the epitome of all espresso bars in the world, even: i.e., Sant'Eustachio, right next to the Pantheon in Rome. If it's good enough for them, it's damn well good enough for you, coffee boy. Remember, your little shop wouldn't even be in existence if it weren't for the Italians perfecting the art of espresso and making all those beautifully-designed machines. 

So go start stocking whip cream in your hipster fridges and stop looking at me funny when I order mine con panna.

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The other place I tried, Third Rail Coffee, is in Greenwich Village, right near Washington Square Park and NYU. This place was sooooo good and the guys were really nice; I talked to them for a while about Seattle, good coffee, New York, and starting your own business (they had just opened two days prior). Anyway, they didn't have whip cream, either. Maybe they'll read this post and add some to their fridge, too.