And yet, when I finally show it to somebody, they find things I didn’t cover, and not things I didn’t think of either, things that floated, half-formed in the back of my mind that were never fully expressed. It’s not just a matter of going through a checklist, it’s also about listening and feeling your way through a kind of fog. You see shapes in the distance; it’s up to you to decide if they are important. You can feel your way around their edges, trying to get a sense of them. This is a skill.

The desire to do better is the first step. What comes after is an understanding of what better is. What would “better” look like?

Once the work is launched, it’s another story – even if they were to agree with incoming criticism, the prospect of going back to a client to say “we did this wrong” is an uninviting one.

I agree that criticism is rarely going to be about salvaging something.

[...] if an agency is making shoddy work, then the likelihood is that they’ll either realise and get their act together, or lose all their clients / talent and eventually go out of business.

This I’m not so sure about. It’s a sad fact maybe, but great work does not always equal success. Mediocre work sells if it’s marketed well.

My anxiety about this stems from the fact that what constitutes “great work” is not obvious. It’s very easy to be distracted by flashy graphic design, and it’s harder to communicate things like usability, accessibility, optimisations for speed and file size, and security. It’s our responsibility to educate clients about these things, but also sometimes to educate each other.

I remember some time ago a high profile web designer saying that criticism of web projects shouldn’t be done publicly, but should be given privately over a pint in the pub. But that doesn’t seem right to me. What if you’re not friends? Wouldn’t this criticism be taken almost as harshly?

I worry that average or even poor work will get praised out of politeness and set a bad example to the next wave of web designers and even affect client perceptions of good work, and I feel there needs to be some firm yet polite method of offering feedback.

What in the hell am I supposed to do with that?

There’s an implicit assumption that non-techies don’t understand RSS (or Atom or whatever) because it’s a strange concept or hard to explain, but maybe it hasn’t taken off in the way it should because even in an environment where each part of the equation is controlled by one company the process seems designed to prevent me from subscribing.

Some designers may like the idea of being an artist, of creating art, because the idea of art is somehow grander than the idea of being a craftsman. But when I need a chair, I need something that keeps my arse off the floor, I don’t want your re-interpretation of what it means to be elevated by four legs. Granted some people may make a better chair, a better-looking chair even, but you can easily distinguish those people by looking at the chairs they’ve made before. I don’t want an exploration of the idea of a chair, I want a solution to the problem of sitting at my desk.

A designer solves problems. And the problem is not “what’s the cutest shade of pink?” or “how big should I make my logo?”. For the average designer, these problems are practical and straightforward. How do I sell more widgets? How do I get more blog subscribers? But for the really great designers, the problems are deeper and more emotional. How do I make someone laugh? How do I create trust? How do I make a screen full of words and colours and shapes feel intimate?

Spec work doesn’t answer problems. It can’t. It doesn’t know you or your customers. It’s an explosion of colours and funky typefaces and drop shadows and gradients. It says: look at how many Photoshop tutorials I’ve read!

The convenience of spec work to the client is twofold. First of all, they know that the designer can produce work of a certain standard. But that’s what portfolios are for. Secondly, it gives them the illusion that they are choosing the best designer. They are deathly afraid of making a mistake, of being lumbered with work that doesn’t fit their needs and that makes them look out of touch, or dated, or boring.

And yet, that is exactly what they will avoid if they engage a designer in an ongoing process of collaboration. The design becomes an iterative, evolving masterwork and not a one-off afternoon’s doodling.

The benefit to the designer is that there is a chance that they will get paid. After all, someone has to get the job don’t they? This is the same thinking that gets people to play the lottery twice a week. Even if the odds of winning are higher than spontaneously bursting into flames, there is always a winner so why not me? And the more often I take part, the greater my chances right? Except none of these assumptions is true. And the only definite outcome is that the idea of design will be cheapened and misconstrued, not only to clients but to up and coming designers.

I overheard someone describe their website as being like a brochure for their company. Personally, I think that’s a big mistake. Brochures are something you deliver to someone, websites are something that you visit. I don’t know many people who go out of their way to hunt down a brochure.

But it’s not a good idea to throw out the brochure idea without knowing what the website was made for. Maybe being a brochure is exactly what it needs to be.

The difficulty comes in when you start thinking that your website is always something. Because then you stop yourself from ever imagining that it could be anything else. Different sites fill different needs. And a metaphor is only useful if it makes things clear. If it doesn’t serve its purpose, be ready to throw it away.

Steve makes the point that companies have to spend 10 years and a hundred million dollars to associate a logo with a company in the customer’s mind. And this is the key thing that is overlooked in most discussions about logos. It’s there to create an association.

Paul Rand’s approach was not to provide different choices that could be judged on their aesthetics but “to solve a problem”. The logo serves a purpose, it is not there for its own sake. It is not there because it looks good or is visually witty or at least not only for these reasons.

Changing a company’s identity is a way to refresh its image, but it also leaves behind the associations that customers have with the company. Every time you change, you reset customer expectations. This was useful for Windscale which became associated with the word “disaster” but can be harmful if you want to preserve your image.

Redesigning your logo is rarely the answer to any problem. The logo is only the sign you hang on your reputation. If the sign is ugly it doesn’t make a terrible company. Conversely, a terrible company can’t change by hanging a new sign.

The most striking thing about this bench is that the seat is angled towards the ground. To sit here, you have to brace yourself with your feet, which causes strain and discomfort. The seat is also very narrow and has a back that offers very little support.

If I was designing a bench, my main consideration would be providing comfort. From that perspective, this design fails. In fact, it is perverse.

Was the bench designed to prevent loitering? Then why have a bench at all? Was it designed to prevent the homeless from sleeping there? Why?

In trying to solve some particular problem, the design has been mangled so much that it no longer functions well as anything.

from flickr: caribb

Chicago looks great from the air. Miles of tiny suburbs and then suddenly a short burst of skyscrapers and then Lake Michigan to the horizon.

The building height here is kind of like a Black Swan. The average height is probably just above normal house height, which tells you nothing. It doesn’t describe the suburbs and it leaves you completely unprepared for downtown.

What does this mean? Beware of averages.