aesthetics of joy

As a color-lover, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be colorblind. What would I miss, beyond the boundaries of my own visible spectrum? Would I understand the lack intuitively, or only by comparison with others?

The short film above, “Ishihara” by Yoav Brill, offers an emotional peek into the world of someone with severe color blindness. In the film, Brill cleverly co-opts the visual language of the Ishihara test, a series of dotted color plates used to determine whether someone has problems with their color vision. I’ve always found the Ishihara test to be joyful-looking, like clusters of colored bubbles, though bittersweet that something so beautiful could be the confirmation of bad news for someone. And I imagine it must be frustrating to know that there’s information hidden in the pattern, and yet be completely unable to detect it. (If you are color normal, you will see the numbers 6, 12, 2, and 42 in the charts below.)

On the other hand, when I listened to this episode of Radiolab, I realized that lots of animals have better color vision than we do. Birds have one extra type of cone cell in their eyes, opening up a world of different colors than we have. And if that sounds amazing, think of butterflies, some types of which have seven cones, or the mantis shrimp, the organism with the world’s most complex eye, which has sixteen cone cells! Those guys must have a technicolor life!

All of which is to say that the colors that exist in the world are far more numerous than we can perceive, whether we are color blind or color normal. Maybe one day scientists will figure out a way to let us see what birds see. But more significantly, just recently scientists have figured out a way to help color blind people see more normally.

Neuroscientist Mark Changizi (whose work I first wrote about here) has written extensively on the evolutionary history of vision, and why everything from our depth perception to our written language evolved the way it did. His work on color vision is particularly interesting. He has put forth an alternative (or perhaps complementary) theory to the idea that human red-green color vision evolved to help us find nourishment, instead proposing that we evolved the ability to see color to understand the health and emotions of the people around us. Based on that work, a few years ago Changizi co-founded a company called 2AI Labs and started development of a set of glasses called O2Amps designed to amplify the visibility of blood oxygenation and other factors that help make these physical and emotional states more apparent.

Hospitals are using the glasses to help with diagnoses — they can make bruising under the skin from trauma and other disorders more obvious — and to help nurses find a patient’s vein. Another potential application is for security officers such as the TSA; the glasses may help officers better identify people in an agitated state. Once the glasses were released, though, Changizi and his collaborators began hearing from color blind people who had put them on and experienced the world in an entirely new way.

Here’s a quote from Dan Bor, a red-green color blind neuroscientist who tested the glasses:

I’ve just received a couple of special specs to attempt to reduce my colour blindness, from Mark Changizi and O2Amp. When I first put one of them on [the Oxy-Iso,], I got a shiver of excitement at how vibrant and red lips, clothes and other objects around me seemed. I’ve just done a quick 8 plate Ishihara colour blindness test. I scored 0/8 without the specs (so obviously colour blind), but 8/8 with them on (normal colour vision)! I’m pretty thrilled and can’t wait to explore more of the world with the specs over the next few days.

The glasses aren’t without some issues — while red-green perception improves, other areas of color vision suffer. Bor observes that while red and blue were far more clear and intense while wearing the glasses (and I love that he says that lips looked red like he’d never seen them before), some shades of yellow seemed to disappear, and Changizi cautions that the glasses shouldn’t be worn while driving, as the yellow light in a traffic signal could become invisible. As magical as it seems to give color to the color blind, it’s not a pure gain, as the enhancement in one part of the spectrum comes by “spreading out” the loss across other regions. Still, Bor notes that it’s amazing to be able to have a sense of what someone who is color normal might see, and even better to have the choice. (He says he’d bring the glasses to an art gallery, but probably wouldn’t wear them every day.)

When I see anything, art or science, that can expand the boundaries of our world and give more vibrancy to it, I feel such a sense of awe. It’s like joy is hiding in front of us, sometimes in plain sight. And then one day someone just comes along and reveals it. A pretty wonderful world we live in, don’t you think?

Sources: Changizi blog and Scientific American
Images: Ishihara plates no. 1, 13, 19, and 23 from Wikipedia

You may never have heard the term FOMO (fear of missing out), but you’ve likely felt it. If you live in a big city like New York, it’s almost impossible not to have a pang of it once in awhile. On a Friday night, after a workweek that seemed to move through me more than with me, I’ve often succumbed to its pressure, slipped on a pair of heels, and headed out to a cocktail party or event rather than curling up in an armchair with a book. It’s not rational, which makes it harder to resist. FOMO slides into spaces of longing, the gaps between our desired lives and our real ones, and sticks there, like a fish bone you ate by accident and can’t quite seem to swallow.

Social media makes FOMO worse — for some, it may even be the root cause. No one instagrams the lame party, or posts on Facebook about the fight they’re having with their spouse, or tweets that they are ordering takeout from the same Thai place for the fifth weekend in a row. Feeds are self-edited to be glittering displays of fun, adventure, and romance. At every moment, we are missing out on something, or at least it seems that way at the time.

And it’s not just fun we fear missing. Over the last few years, as Twitter’s river of news and updates has become more rapid, I find I worry about missing an article that is relevant to my work, or some piece of inspiration that could be the vital link that brings a chapter together. It doesn’t matter that I have a folder brimming with more material than I could post in a decade. I still worry that something better might slip by right on the day I decide not to log in.

But as the new year settled in to its first days, and I went down with the epic cold that’s had everyone sneezing and hacking, I noticed something. People I talked to, and posts I read, were all talking about the same kinds of intentions for the new year: to ease up and slow down. One friend wrote about going on an inspiration diet, using the time saved by reading and browsing less to make more from the inspiration he already had. Others wrote about taking time for introspection, limiting technology, and spending more time with family and friends. It was all very in sync with what I was feeling, cuddled up and coughing on my sofa. It was the complete opposite of FOMO, something more aptly called JOMO: the joy of missing out.

I can’t take credit for the term — it was coined by writer Anil Dash after the birth of his son. He writes:

There can be, and should be, a blissful, serene enjoyment in knowing, and celebrating, that there are folks out there having the time of their life at something that you might have loved to, but are simply skipping.

By the laws of physics, you can only be in one place at a time. You’re going to miss things. The question is how you deal with it. To make deliberate choices, and to revel in the ones you’ve made — that’s what JOMO is, and what I’m embracing this year.

Joy is about presence, about being in the moment and soaking in every sensation that moment has to offer you. The fear of missing out intrudes on an experience, causing you to feel torn between different moments, and lessening your pleasure wherever you are. When you adopt an attitude of joy about missing out, you let go of other possibilities, reclaim the moment you’re in, and set yourself up to enjoy it. Often, that means choosing simple pleasures over flashy ones — the ones that feel good over the ones that look good in photos. It’s a home-cooked dinner over an eight-course tasting menu. It’s a bike ride with family over an exclusive event. It’s poems over tweets. Above all, it’s savoring what you’re doing and who you’re with, immersing yourself in the real pleasures of the experience, as opposed to the imagined ones a few miles away. It’s remembering that this moment is imperfect but completely your own, and best of all, it’s happening right now.

More: JOMO! by Anil Dash

Seems it is a week for thinking about time. Perhaps it’s the heat, which slows the afternoons to a thickness, reminding us of the elasticity of hours. Or perhaps the long days of summer leave us more light to read and think. Whatever the reason, in the past few days for me have brought a confluence of aesthetics of time.

This visualization is a fitting place to start. A piece by the designer Nicolas Troncoso, Colordar represents the average temperature of Helsinki over the course of 2010 by color. There is something satisfying and joyful about seeing the year represented this way, the intensity of the summer and winter tempered by the mildness of the transitional seasons. Of course there is a natural relationship between temperature and color, evident in the way we refer to colors as cool and warm, that makes this visualization feel perfectly natural. It is another type of color language, akin to the ones I have written about in the past, distilling the ambience of time. It might be fun to do this with other geographies (equatorial, desert, polar) as well, nested as concentric circles for comparison, to see space, temperature, and time all at once.

If color here is an output of our experience of time, in other ways color serves as an input, a language that communicates time to our body and brain. We know that the color of light changes through the course of the day, the short-wave bluish rays of the early hours giving way to the longer wavelength light that gives the sunset its rosy hue. But what research now suggests (as reported in a recent article in the NYT) is that these color signals are the basis for our body’s regulation of Circadian rhythms. In other words, our eyes tell time by color.

As the color-receiving cone cells in our eyes absorb different wavelengths of light, they regulate the production of melatonin, a light-sensitive hormone that controls our alertness. (Melatonin is often indicated as a natural remedy for jet lag.) We’ve long known that melatonin levels vary based on exposure to light, but recent research shows that the color of the light makes a dramatic difference. In one study at the University of Basel in Switzerland, thirteen men were asked to sit in front of a computer in the evenings before bed. Both groups of participants sat for five hours in front of a computer screen. But one group looked an old-style fluorescent monitor emitting a range of colors of light from the visible spectrum, while the other group looked at an LED-backed monitor that emitted twice as much blue light. For the blue-light group, melatonin levels took longer to rise, and stayed lower throughout the evening. Other studies have found similar results, one indicating that men exposed to bluer light had melatonin levels 40 percent lower than those exposed to incandescent light.

These discoveries force us to question the consequences of our increasingly illuminated world. As we replace our old CRTs and incandescent bulbs with more efficient light sources, we’re also inadvertently increasing our exposure to the bluer light these devices emit. And as we introduce more and more screens to our world, we add still more blue light to our days. (Through this lens, reading by the cozy glow of an iPad or Kindle is very unlike reading a book with a bedside lamp.) If the world communicates time by its color, our devices speak to our bodies in tongues.

This may be alarming news, but there’s also a positive story here. Blue light increases alertness, and has been shown to have effects on cognition and alertness. One study showed that elderly nursing home residents exposed to just 30 minutes of blue light showed improvement in cognitive abilities in just four weeks. This could be useful from a design perspective, for everything from helping shift workers manage their schedules to promoting alertness for those operating vehicles or machinery (a fact called out to me by Dr. Charles Spence, the director of the Crossmodal Research Lab at Oxford University). Even for sleep-deprived office workers, better lighting could mean more energy and a break from the need for caffeine. One of the researchers behind these studies, neurologist George Brainard, hopes that designers will rise to the challenge and get to work on creating screens and lights that adjust their wavelengths to reinforcing our natural rhythms.

In the end, I come back to the mechanism itself, and the latent poetry of it. Light is merely energy, and blue light, with its short waves, is high-energy luminance. Vibrating and alive, these rays excite the molecules of pigment in our retinas, a revelie that calls our cells to the attention of the day. There’s a beauty in this energetic language, one that reminds us that blue has an inherent joy. Though typically perceived to be a calming color, blue is revealed by these studies to have an intensity we don’t often give it credit for. The brilliant sky of a clear day moves us with a force that speaks directly to the chemistry of our blood. We are helpless to resist. And why would we want to? It’s a primal kind of delight, and we are made for it.

{via @brainpicker and @vaughanbell}

I love this new ad from Canon Pixma, which is the result of an unexpected combination of paint, sound, and a macro lens. It almost feels like peering into a magical world: The slow speed and tight focus allow us to see transient sculptures that would just be a mess of splatters to the unaided eye. It’s also an intriguingly experimental approach. I feel like there is a rising trend lately towards experimentation in ads, events, and art pieces; people set up systems of conditions and allow unpredictable variation to determine the results. Mother’s ad for IKEA is a recent example, where cats, with all their mercurial whims, were released into the store to see what interactions might occur. As in this case, the “making of” video is as significant as the final result — the process is as joyful as the outcome. The work of design shifts from creating a beautiful thing to orchestrating a beautiful system, from controlling variability to modulating it.

The ad first caught my eye as a possible example of joywashing. I did an interview the other day during which I was asked to talk a bit about the concept, so it’s been top of mind. I said that joywashing itself isn’t harmful — more aesthetics of joy in the world is hardly a bad thing — but that it bothers me to see advertising that puts a chipper veneer on an ordinary product and claims it will make you happy. I’d rather see the design of the product reflect the emotional claim. If the product fails to deliver on the joyful promise, then it’s joywashing. But seeing this ad makes me want to refine that statement a bit.

I have no idea if the Pixma printer is a good one or not, whether it produces dazzling color or only so-so color, whether a print it makes is any more likely to cause delight than a print from any other printer. So on those grounds this ad would be suspect in my book. But I think this marketing effort transcends joywashing because the ad itself is truly joyful. In contrast to most ads, which say their brand is joyful (usually they shout it at you), this ad instead offers a brief experience of joy. Through an artful experiment full of delightful aesthetics, it creates a minute-long immersion into a surreal, uplifting world. I found myself spellbound by the ethereal forms and celebratory movements — it’s a great illustration of just how emotionally evocative abstraction can be.

I hope the product delivers on the tagline: Bring color to life. But even if it doesn’t, the ad doesn’t feel like joywashing because it can be appreciated and enjoyed all on its own. If the product doesn’t live up to the promise, I’ll buy something else, but at least I can appreciate the fact that the company has invested in creativity, and has chosen to put something inspiring out there, instead of insincerity, hoodwinking, and self-congratulation. I’d love to see the creativity and joyful spirit of the ad spark user’s creativity in similarly delightful ways. Even better would be if Canon had an events program up its sleeve, like Levi’s Workshops, for example, that will teach people ways to “bring color to life.” In this case, the ad, events, and products would all be parts of the Pixma experience, and the brand’s delivery against the promise of delight.

Spotted this installation near the corner of 33rd and Lex a few weeks ago. Despite the bitter cold, people kept stopping to play. Does anyone know whose work this is?

On Sunday night I finally saw Avatar. I think I was one of the last people in New York City to do so. I saw it on the Imax at Lincoln Square. I can’t imagine what it would be like on a regular screen or without the 3D, but I’m sure it pales in comparison — just the sheer scale and immersiveness of the experience were dazzling.

There’s so much to say about the joy of this experience, (and also where it fell short), but the most compelling aspect for me is the world James Cameron has created in Pandora. I’m sure I’m not the only one who felt a little bummed to be back in the real world after the film was over, and found the transition from sacred trees to streets a little jarring. It’s a transition from a joyful world to a mundane one, from a place filled with magic and wonder to a city that feels dull and sublunary by comparison. And the difference is all in the aesthetics.

Cameron takes a seemingly ordinary rainforest (already a lush, joyful environment) and imbues it with light, movement, and magic. Everything native to Pandora glows: the trees, the seeds, the mosses, the waters — even the animals. The peculiar luminosity is celestial; the lichens become like a carpet of stars, the tree of life like a cluster of comets. (It kills me, by the way, that I can’t get still images to illustrate these things — evidently the Avatar PR machine is more interested in gunships and battles than the beauty of the setting. Did I miss something? Or wasn’t that just the whole point of the movie?)

Anyway, bioluminescence has long been a source of wonder here on Earth, whether in fireflies or glowworm caves or tropical bays of phosphorescent plankton. But in our world, it’s a rare pleasure, one that many people never experience firsthand. Cameron has taken this joy and scaled it up, creating a world ablaze with ethereal light. Pandora’s light is magical because of its inexplicable beauty — like the earthly bioluminescence it emulates, it operates through chemical light-making processes that seem mystical in contrast to the logical workings of electricity — like a hidden flow of energy.

“A hidden flow of energy” is Cameron’s actual explanation for the bioluminescence in the film. The scientists in the film state that the organisms function like a neural network, all connected to each other symbiotically. This connectedness is another joyful theme, since joy is very much about unity, coming together, and inclusiveness. The aesthetic illustration of this is the bond formed when the Na’vi encounter certain other organisms — the animals they ride to hunt, their mates, or the tree of life. The fusion of the illuminated tendrils calls to mind a kind of neural embrace, where disparate elements craving contact find each other and communicate wordlessly.

These energy flows are magical, and they manifest in other ways besides communication and light. The mountains of Pandora float in midair, like karst formations reflected in still water, and are described to be constantly moving. Creatures float as well. The seeds of the tree of life drift like glowing white-violet jellyfish, giving the impression that Pandora’s atmosphere is rich with this energy, changing its density at will from the thinness of air to the thickness of water. And of course, in the end, (spoiler alert) it’s a mysterious energy flow from the tree of life that saves our hero and Pandora itself.

It’s not just the behavior of organisms, but also their forms that display joyful aesthetics. Cameron uses the lushness of the rainforest, amplified in scale and density, to create a sense of vitality and renewal. He uses lots of spiral and circular forms, such as the small creature that spins on its fan-like wing (a living whirlygig), or the giant spiral-shaped plant that retreats into itself when exposed to touch (no doubt inspired in behavior by the real-world touch-sensitive mimosa). Swooping curves rule in Pandora, whether it’s chalice-like flowers, dangling curls of vines, or the delicate tendrils of the Eywa seeds. Cameron’s artists also play with scale, making some things giant, like the beautiful broad leaves the break the Na’vi’s fall as the leap from the sky, and other things tiny, like the seeds or the spinning creature. All of these are recurring aesthetic motifs in joyful things, both natural and manmade.

Ultimately, it’s these aesthetics of joy that make the Na’vi’s world so mesmerizing, and make us feel that this place is valuable and desperately worth saving. The aesthetics of magic and renewal give an impression that there is salvation for us in this place, not in the (clumsily-named) mineral unobtainium, but in the mystical goodness that underpins such manifest joy. For me, these aesthetics of delight in Pandora’s design do far more than the clunky dialogue and heavy-handed plot to suggest the moral. All of these wonders were inspired by things in our own world. Cameron has said he was inspired to create a bioluminscent Pandora by his experiences night-diving. The rainforest, though perhaps not as fantastical, is still a lush world rich with undiscovered species. Many of the animals on Pandora are hybrids of familiar organisms, like fearsome land-mammal with the rhino body and the hammerhead shark face, which call out these remarkable features — no less remarkable for the fact they occur separately in our world. And science lately is filled with new discoveries about the ways that flora and fauna communicate with each other chemically, much like Pandora’s hidden energy flow.

The more I think about Pandora, the more I think about the beauty of the world that inspired it, which is really the point here. Yes, the technology is a great leap forward, and yes, the 3D experience is revolutionary. But in 5 years this will be common, in 15 it will be primitive. I think the artistic achievement is much greater than the technical one, and more lasting, in the way it abstracts our world away from us, and filters it through a joyful lens, allowing us to discover its rare pleasures anew. Though at first it seems our world is at a disconnect from the magic of Pandora, actually, our world is filled with Pandoran moments, (or Pandora is just an amplification of earthly moments). What is joyful in Pandora is what makes it worth saving, and a good illustration of what makes our own world worth saving too.

Nice mention of AoJ in this post on Brandchannel about Toyota’s creation of two new flower species that absorb nitrogen oxides and take heat out of the atmosphere. The two flowers, variants of the cherry sage and the gardenia, are planted at Toyota’s headquarters in Japan. Designed to highlight green improvements to Toyota’s manufacturing facilities, the flowers are an interesting marketing move and a great example of a joyful gesture. It may be “joywashing meets greenwashing,” but it’s hard to be skeptical when it just makes you want to smile.

{image: crossmage}

There’s little joy in the design of light switches, thermostats, and other utilitarian control devices for the home. The best designs of the genre attempt to make them as minimal and unobtrusive as possible.

This “living wall” takes a different tack, incorporating sensors and switches into a wallpaper that you merely need to run your hand across to control. As the wall’s creators say:

Run your hand across this wallpaper to turn on a lamp, play music, or control your toaster. This interactive wallpaper can be programmed to monitor its environment and control other electronic devices, serving as a beautiful and unobtrusive way to enrich environments with computation. The wallpaper is flat, constructed entirely from paper and paint and can be paired with our paper computing kit whose pieces serve as sensors, lamps, network interfaces, and interactive decorations.

As technology like this becomes increasingly available, some exciting possibilities could open up for designers. Unlike a thermostat that only senses temperature in one part of the house, leaving rooms unevenly heated, a wallpaper with diffused thermosensing could ensure more even (and efficient) heating and cooling. Light sensors could also help to adjust light, so that artificial lights automatically increase as sunlight wanes. Running your hands across the wall to turn on the light just feels more magical, the resultant actions wondrously inexplicable.

The best part is that the living wall is made using simple and inexpensive technologies like conductive and magnetic paint applied to regular paper. So there’s a chance that even the non-millionaires among us could be seeing these in our homes in several years’ time.

More from the high-low tech project at MIT’s Media Lab.

{via PSFK}

Arthur C. Clarke famously said, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” With all the advances in the technologies becoming readily available to designers these days, it feels to me like I’m constantly surrounded by magic, constantly feeling amazed at what is possible in the world.

The chair above, called the Murakami chair by American designer Rochus Jacob, generates electricity by using a nano-dynamo in the rocker, which it then uses to power its own light. This harnessing of invisible energy feels so impossibly magical that it gives me a little burst of joy.

The fireplace below, designed by Camillo Vanacore, is intended to provide a safe and portable fire for heating purposes. The glass starts out opaque and turns transparent as the flames heat up, which does not seem like a necessary feature, but certainly adds to the magical feeling. But the real magic, for me, is enclosing fire in a glass, capturing its volatility and power in an inert vessel, kind of like the thrill of having a butterfly in a net, without the sad quality of restraining a living thing.

When I look at these designs, I think of Clarke’s words and it strikes me that the meaning of magic is always changing. There was a time when switching on a lightbulb was magic, when firing up a car’s ignition was magic, when seeing an IM ping on your screen was like a flash from the ether — incomprehensibly magic. Now these events are as routine as can be. As technology shifts, and as designers integrate that technology into our lives, the limits of possibility are pushed outward. Magic hovers along that line.

More interesting than the fact that the concept of magic is shifting is how it is shifting. For a long time energy was transferred into work by strictly manual means — every unit of work done had an immediate and understandable impetus. (Similarly, every unit of food consumed or clothing acquired contained for the user a knowable and comprehensible set of inputs and forces that led to its creation.) The magic of technology slowly took away our understanding of these things. It moved sources of energy far away from the work they delivered — from the proximity of the muscles to the distance of the coal-fired electric plant. (Same with food, clothing, and everything else we consume.) There was magic in work that could be done without an immediate proximate cause.

Now, technology is finding magic in immediacy again. It’s the Murakami chair that really drives this point home for me. We’re so used to power coming mysteriously through holes in the wall that we don’t even question it, and yet power that comes from the intuitive rocking motion of our own bodies feels impossibly wonderful. All of these new power sources being explored — the dirt battery or the battery that runs on sugar — have a similarly magical quality, and yet they relate to the things in our world that are the most mundane and elemental: movement, light, earth, fire. Simple pleasures that for all their lack of pretense have a little mystery hiding within.

{via PSFK: chair and fire}

I’m glad someone’s trying to bring some joy to the cord problem, because that consistently ranks as one of the least delightful places in my home. It reminds me of Christoph Niemann’s wonderful “My Life With Cables” illustrated essay on his Abstract City blog.

My desk is even worse than this! So I like where Dotz is going with the concept — these cord identifiers remind me of hard candies! — but I think they’re indulging in a little oversimplification for the purpose of a clean photograph. How many of your cords are white with neat small ends like that? Most of mine are some shade of black or gray and have a giant fatso converter covering three outlets, necessitating daisy-chained power strips that make the whole operation look a little sub-code. Dotz’s setup looks joyful and colorful when you simplify the backdrop, but I’d like to see a similarly sweet-looking problem solver for the way cords really look.

via @vpostrel