Undertaken as a speculative experiment, engaging creative writers in the design research practice has proved to be a breakthrough in eliciting feedback on evocative objects. This exercise, part creative collaboration and part user testing, has fostered creative directions in designing interactions and behavior that would not have surfaced from more objective research practices.
Although in the greater design community, design research has been carried out in the hopes of ambiguous and inspiring results, sometimes, in their manifestation as artifacts of ethnography and candid self-reporting, these results are too easily interpreted factually and emotionally. When working with creative writing as design research, there can be no mistaking it for anything other than ambiguous and inspirational, a positive thing for designers who work best in the muse’s messy territory. It was a process that kept the designer on her toes and prevented the creative process from becoming overly programmed. Ultimately, these writings inspired the details of the interaction design and the imagined worlds portrayed in the films.
Six writers crafted responses to the Switch Critter prototypes. The proposal was left open-ended as to elicit any and all possible interpretations of what was going on with the Critters. Annotated texts with the designer’s notes can be downloaded as PDFs from each page.
The instructions given to the writers were as follows:
switch objects | object #2 introduction
when held very still in the position where its light is on,
the object will do something. when it is moved, it does
something else.
| writing project |
choose a light that you use daily and plug it into the
socket on the black box. plug the black box into a wall
socket. for a week, use the attached object as the
switch for your light.
please write a piece, 1 - 10 pages, that is inspired by
your experience with this object. it can be fiction,
non-fiction, poetry, journal, or any style you create in.
i am especially interested in having you articulate the
intentions, life, connections, and questions that stem
from the objects.
The methods of interpretation and reintegration into the design were varied. “Turn the Lights Off,” by Taffeta Wood, offered themes of darkness, nocturnal activity, and information overload. Designing interactions to support these imagined themes resulted in a Switch Critter that seems to come alive at night as the load on the power grid diminishes. Another instantiation of the same writing is a Switch Critter who acts as a repository and filter for the data streams, to whom one could choose to “listen” to what it’s telling, or to ignore.
The poem “little cold day – little day / big cold, a little day,” by Allison Carter, seems to move along in a heartbeat-like rhythm spewing the needs of a child in shifting tenses and perspectives. The film and interactions influenced by this piece focus on caring, daydreams and flashbacks. The Switch Critter plays the double role of a mesmerizing, needy object and local memory. When it opens up to release the signal that turns on the light, it also records the immediate sounds in the space. These sounds are remixed and replayed when there is abrupt change in the situation on the energy grid or global carbon index. Positive change is reflected by distant memories, while negative change replays more recent ambience.
“Nature’s Prostitute,” a fairly literal illustration of parts of Alex Foreman’s “oject b,” is a tease, withholding the light at the expense of caresses — more so at certain times. It responds to the load on the grid to be stingy when demand is high and generous when demand is low.
All in all, the creative writing provided inspiration, in various ways, for how behavior can be designed to create situations that support myths, specific stories, and playful engagements. →Revisit the films and interaction descriptions on the first page…
Turn the Lights Off by Taffeta Wood
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I’ve just moved into an apartment in Brooklyn. Even though it is small, it has a very long hallway. My neighbor’s hallway is also very long. How do I know this? The answer is simple: Thumpalina.
Thumpalina is what I call the small three-year-old that lives next door. At any given hour of the day, I can hear Thumpalina running up and down her hallway with booming abandon.
Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump. I’m literally transcribing it for you right now. Thump, Thump, Thump, BANG, I’m kind of worried that she just hit a wall. WAAAAAA! Yep. She hit a wall.
I know I should have bigger things to think about. But, I just moved to New York. My days are spent looking for work in any field that does not involve teaching, but more on that later. The rest of my day is spent observing the tiny robot that turns the lights on and off.
The robot is a small round object that when moved slightly, turns off the lights for a moment. Then the light turns on again.
Let me repeat myself, when moved slightly as in when the neighbor’s three year old is on one of her regular thumpathons. So, between the spare time and her ability to cause black outs while I’m reading want ads, her running up and down schedule seems to sort of be at the center of what life is right now.
It’s too bad she doesn’t know that she’s turning the lights on and off. Kids love messing with the lights.
That is why when I was working as a teacher in Los Angeles, I refused to use the preferred behavioral strategy of the administration: turn the lights off.
“Turn the lights off?” I asked my administrator, who when I inquired how to deal with kids screaming in my classroom said, “turn the lights off.”
You know what kids do when you turn the lights off? They scream.
I was sure when I came to her the next day, after someone “tagged” my wall with the words “fat but”, yes, spelled that way, b-u-t, she would have some sage words for me. How could I address the low literacy skills and the behavior? I asked
“Honey, turn the lights off.” she says. What in the gosh darn heck was she thinking? When you turn off the lights in a middle school classroom, even for a few seconds, it’s like a tiny game of clue: what weapon, who did it, and in which room.
You turn on the lights to find a maxi pad stuck to the chalkboard of your classroom. So, you know the weapon. Maxi-pad. But who did it? And in which room can you send them to think, oh think about what they have done.
My principal, stopping by on a day when a maxi pad was affixed to the board after a three second lights out, looked me straight in the eye and said, “I told you to turn the lights out. Sheesh.”
Thump Thump Thump. There goes my toddling neighbor again. She was squalling a second ago. Now she is squealing with delight about well, moving from one place to another. That’s so great.
Still, it’s dark in here because every time she moves, it moves the robot that makes it dark. It really interferes with my job searching over the want ads.
I cap my red pen while the lights are out.
You have to use a red pen when you’re looking for a job in New York. I saw it in a movie. You have to make big circles and look determined. You have to put your chin on your fist and look wistfully out the window at the skyline. And then, you’re supposed to blur out and think about home and why brought you to the big old apple in the first place.
I cross my eyes to make the world seem blurry and do just that.
It started the day Guadalupe showed up to school wearing two rosaries. Guadalupe is the one who asks me if I believe in God with such earnestness that in my dream that night, she is made dove soap.
So, while she always wears one cross, I have to hear why she needs two. What she tells me under her breath is between her and I. But I will say that I spent that afternoon talking to police officers and the night staring at the ceiling crying and discovering my own here-to-fore undiscovered desire to really, really kill a man.
I know this story maybe doesn’t belong here. You go along reading this, things are ridiculous a la maxi pad on the chalkboard, you realize it’s nuts but you’re laughing, you’re hanging in there and then all of the sudden bang, things get serious. But that’s how it was.
Still, in the midst of the lives of my students becoming revealed to me for what they were, far more than anyone could be expected to handle at any age, they didn’t have the language that Guadalupe had. Most teenagers don’t have the grace to speak in hushed tones and put on two rosaries.
Most teenagers, like Michel will shove somebody’s training bra up into the ceiling. Don’t ask me how. I had turned the stupid lights out. He did it though. And I think he did it because he was in the 8th grade and couldn’t even spell the words in the letter that he wrote to me explaining well, again I can’t tell you. Let’s just say that behind each strange choice or outlandish hijink, there seemed to be one more thing I can’t tell you.
Things get worse but you stay. There’s a gun hole through the window at the level of your head but it was there when you arrived. They weren’t out for you. No biggie. But the thing is, you see more and more. And eventually, you’re in the ER crying about your sleepless nights and the only explanation you can come up with is this: I’m a teacher. So they recommend, okay, they pretty much demand that you not do that anymore.
So, I wound up in New York after I couldn’t control a classroom. Or maybe, yeah, I wound up here because I couldn’t control the feelings it brought up in me to stand in front of a room of teenagers and wonder what pockets of violence and neglect they may be living in. I picture that room, and them in it, a lot still. Who knows? Maybe the lights are out and the kids are sitting in rows silently, but I doubt it.
Chances are they’re making a lot of noise because they want to be heard. And if the lights go out they’ll get louder, so that they can be seen.
And three thousand miles away, the little girl next door is flipping my lights on and off. In the intermittent dark I sit.
And I think of them.
Wilily by Daiana Feuer
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1.
I close the door. Heat sets in without delay, reminding me it never left. Mid afternoon, the room lit up in pure day, nothing mysterious. Except the task at hand.
I plug in the box and pull the fan's white cord. I plug the fan into the box.
I didn't bother to turn the fan's dial to off. Maybe I'll be electrocuted. I don't know. It's a chance I'll take on a quiet afternoon.
The rubber skin around the ball reminds me of childhood. Pacifiers. Sneaking into my parents room when they slept, into the bathroom to find them.
The ball is dirty already.
One second on this carpet.
What goes on in a place like this? I don't even know.
I find my way to all the buttons. I press them, one by one, ignore the phone, the messages, the cars crashing outside...
How many are there?
A light inside the ball says one.
Air sounds ensue.
The dirty ball has a retainer or a hairclip for a rib.
I have called it Wilily.
As of now turning it off is highly satisfying. I like the click. Reminds me of a door for something tiny.
2.
What part of my body is a still center around which another part spins?
Do you wonder if the fan will drop on my head?
It would need to be my torso. My arm can spin while the rest of me doesn't but it's not exactly a true comparison. If anything it points out the difference between me and the fan. The fan is not me, not like me. The fan gives me light and moves the air so I don't rot from heat laziness. Or I wear less clothes. Or I shower more. But the fan doesn't turn as the world turns. The fan has to be switched on. I don't know where the plug is. I know the switch. But Wilily, it's not about the ceiling fan.
Wilily is attached to the box fan. Wilily, it's not that fan either—Wilily, I don't mean to talk about you as if you're not here.
You're the hamster I always wanted...without the poop.
3.
When I think of you
Andy Gibb is singing behind us
I'm holding you close
Your rubber tickles my chin
Then I look down,
at your crumb and dust covered face
and I notice
you have no face
4.
I named it Wilily because it's a word I just discovered yesterday and it sounds like Willy, but stuttered.
Don't touch it!
Just don't even touch it.
5.
I wish I could take my head off and.........put it down.
Just now when I ran my hands up the back of my head, I wanted to take my head off and put it right here.
Would you still be able to talk?
I wouldn't need to.
But would your head be able to talk?
It wouldn't. It's off. Get it? Off.
6.
She was a spark plug, killing it.
You're much shorter than I thought.
7.
I feel like a horse what been broke to double harness suddenly traveling alone.
The law, she means something.
Better you keep your pistolas loose in the holster.
And now mis amigos we must ride.
Where you hanging your sombrero now you've lost your rancho?
Beneath the stars in the purple shadows of a canyon where only a coyote could find them.
And if I was a coyote mi amigo?
You would follow the path through el diablo pass until you will come to the rocks underneath la baraca don't leave any tracks.
We'll soon see how your old friend lucky has made out.
8.
You're tangled in my air wire. You're picking up crumbs to take with you. Whenever I see those spinning blades, I'll wish I had to press buttons. I know they say the wires are all around us. Blocking out nature. A barrier between us and the energy of the world. But with you here, I see your wires and they're like veins. And I'm inside this concrete body with you...and without you, I will be hot and probably sweaty.
little cold day – little day / big cold, a little day
by Allison Carter
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A big cold, a little day a big hole, bigger than the thing the hole is in
little cold day, little sweater littler than the cold
a heart faces the wrong way by sonogram
a warm box with a soft interior, the hole bigger
girl littler than the hole
a deep hole, deeper than the hole
all day knitting for autumn wake up and knit go to bed and knit for her knit
Little cold day – little day
big cold little day
gathering for hours the little break from rain
sweater with an extra sweater no coming out the eyes
about the little girl inside, little
sweater up ahead little girl decides that no coming out the eyes
little girl playing with a hole in the hole
what he knows about my little girl is not coming out the mouth
wants me to know that he knows chews on knowing
okay, he said it, left the house in an apron on accident
knows my little girl by her mouth hole
Each individual dig left an empty room a big hole, bigger than
the body the hole is in
Just so to go back
Handing her over hole, if only asleep, he knows what time and waits in the cold
left an empty room with what in it?
holding in both hands before placing a big hole, bigger than the thing the hole was in
little girl blanket little girl
then the hole, then a sweater
in a cavity bigger than the thing the cavity is in
an empty room with an empty bowl
an empty room with an empty empty
What do you do for her? the sourer than the milk apply some pressure
notice: when you unzip it take a walk back from the store
What do you think about living in the world a deep hole, deeper than the ground the hole is in,
I left her room upon an accident my little girl goes in it
can’t do it can’t hold them together – the weather, the premise, on accident
There was a little break during which
each individual break, and so it goes
a wild look, a bag of groceries, the yarn spun,
and so it goes
an okay spin bigger than the hole
no coming out the mouth
no coming out the eyes no coming out into the big cold, bigger than the sweater the little girl, littler than the cold is in, bigger in, bigger than the little in that the girl is big in, the hole hole
no handing her over complete unto, he knows a big hole bigger than the
also no coming out the cavity – he knows the cavity bigger than the thing the cavity
– the yarn – then later that day my little girl playing the yarn
an empty room with a little girl in it eyes snagging
snagging on the big cold
littler than little
littler than the little little
all the way accumulating to the very little little
oject b by Alex Forman
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There are, among the statues,
several
of Venus,
in different habits. —Addison.*
Habit is a disposition leading us to do naturally, and with growing certainty, what we do often—wave of the hand over slowly moving tentacles. Custom is external, the frequent repetition of the same act. Living with a sea anemone, a “wave of the hand over slowly moving tentacles” becomes the given mode of procedure. Unselfish caress to satisfy her but when she passively begs for more attention: turning off, turning away, withholding. I curse this religion.
Green fingers coiling out from white felt sleeves—sea anemone in nun's collar. These fingers touch themselves when the flower glows, lighting off, aching, self-absorbed, self-igniting. Like a streetwalker she attaches herself to my lamp so I can no longer read. I cannot write. She is electric standing beside the recliner, holding court to Hannah, two feet off the ground, tiny in the chair, who’s laughing as she explains, with a scientist's enthusiasm, her invention.
*[1913 Webster]
The Thing that Should Not Be
a Short Video Game Design by Roane Beard
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Setting:
A single room, with a closed door on one side, and the Thing on the other. Lights play softly across the open doorway. The Thing, a black box with a steel, snake-like extension swaying above it, hums softly, like a cobra sensing the call of the snake-charmer.
Gameplay:
The player begins in the room with the avatar of their choice. There are only two choices:
walk through the door, or interact with the Thing.
Option 1: Walk Through the Door:
If the player attempts to walk through the door, the lights across the doorway will flash brightly, and intensify. At the same time, the Thing’s swaying and humming will intensify. Bright lights flash around it. Clearly, it’s trying to attract the player’s attention.
From here, the player has two choices:
Option 1a: The player continues through the door:
→Go to Winning.
Option 1b: The player interacts with the Thing.
→Go to Option 2.
Option 2: Interact With the Thing:
If the player interacts with the Thing, the lights across the doorway will switch to a deep red color. Stepping away from the Thing causes the lights to return to their flashing state.
Interacting with the Thing starts the following dialogue:
Table 1: Dialogue
Thing Dialogue |
Player Dialogue |
Result |
The thing sways in the air, like a snake writhing to the tune of its charmer. |
|
|
|
Caress the snake’s head. |
Random result
from table 2 |
|
Shake the snake’s head. |
Random result
from table 2 |
|
Hold the snake’s head
upside down. |
Random result
from table 2 |
|
Grab the snake’s body. |
Random result
from table 2 |
|
Touch the black box. |
Random result
from table 2 |
|
Step away from the thing |
The lights playing
across the doorway
return to their
flashing state. |
Table 2: Snake Results
Seed |
Result |
Go To: |
1 |
The lights on the door flash red, while the lights on the Thing flash green. |
Thing Dialogue, row 1. |
2 |
The lights on the door flash yellow, while the lights on the Thing flash red. |
Thing Dialogue, row 1. |
3 |
The lights on the door flash green, while the lights on the Thing flash yellow. |
Thing Dialogue, row 1. |
Winning
The only way to win the game is to walk through the door. The flashing lights are a distraction; they do nothing. The only purpose of the Thing is to distract and frustrate the player. It does nothing useful. The door itself is available to be walked through at all times. All the player has to do is ignore the Thing, and leave.
Subject: touch
From: Leo Estevez
Date: Thu, 15 Nov 2007 21:08:27 -0800
To: Hannah Regier
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Set To Touch
Sensation has become the preferred sense to act on. Subtle differences set to the reaction of how my muscles memorize.
The mind is activated when arbitrary sensitivity is set off.
e.g. That floor mate that laid at the entrance to the garage that was throw out. That sensation of missing those few millimeters of rubber triggers a new memory. If I am only using 10% of my minds ability. Then my body is using the rest.
In the rarest of occasions time seems to slow down and a mesh is formed between the stimulation of a thing and its situation. In that experience the sensation felt is registered as deep. This activity has always fascinated me. If I have directional orientation within internal logic, then to what extent?
To what level of sensitivity can my muscle tissue recognize and memorize. That cross over into the sensation of touch is what creates that seemingly arbitrary synesthesia of layered experiences.
Three Feet Deep
All reaction comes pre-programed. Activate my memorization. I want design based on my personal movements.
I wanna reach out to feel my world. Switches that pause/shift/change and reprogram my mental expectations.
Standard lines of code, "smart-material-tissue-finger-tip-intelligence". Instant software that pours-out updates.
Spacial recognition that stays stored in my motions. A Post Bean-Bag intelligences.
Leo
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