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February 2002  
  
|  |  "...Copernicus' aesthetic objections to [equants] provided one essential motive for his rejection of the Ptolemaic system...."  
  
\- Thomas Kuhn, _The Copernican Revolution_  
  
"All of us had been trained by Kelly Johnson and believed fanatically in his
insistence that an airplane that looked beautiful would fly the same way."  
  
\- Ben Rich, _Skunk Works_  
  
"Beauty is the first test: there is no permanent place in this world for ugly
mathematics."  
  
\- G. H. Hardy, _A Mathematician's Apology_  
---  
  
  
I was talking recently to a friend who teaches at MIT. His field is hot now
and every year he is inundated by applications from would-be graduate
students. "A lot of them seem smart," he said. "What I can't tell is whether
they have any kind of taste."  
  
Taste. You don't hear that word much now. And yet we still need the underlying
concept, whatever we call it. What my friend meant was that he wanted students
who were not just good technicians, but who could use their technical
knowledge to design beautiful things.  
  
Mathematicians call good work "beautiful," and so, either now or in the past,
have scientists, engineers, musicians, architects, designers, writers, and
painters. Is it just a coincidence that they used the same word, or is there
some overlap in what they meant? If there is an overlap, can we use one
field's discoveries about beauty to help us in another?  
  
For those of us who design things, these are not just theoretical questions.
If there is such a thing as beauty, we need to be able to recognize it. We
need good taste to make good things. Instead of treating beauty as an airy
abstraction, to be either blathered about or avoided depending on how one
feels about airy abstractions, let's try considering it as a practical
question: _how do you make good stuff?_  
  
  
  
If you mention taste nowadays, a lot of people will tell you that "taste is
subjective." They believe this because it really feels that way to them. When
they like something, they have no idea why. It could be because it's
beautiful, or because their mother had one, or because they saw a movie star
with one in a magazine, or because they know it's expensive. Their thoughts
are a tangle of unexamined impulses.  
  
Most of us are encouraged, as children, to leave this tangle unexamined. If
you make fun of your little brother for coloring people green in his coloring
book, your mother is likely to tell you something like "you like to do it your
way and he likes to do it his way."  
  
Your mother at this point is not trying to teach you important truths about
aesthetics. She's trying to get the two of you to stop bickering.  
  
Like many of the half-truths adults tell us, this one contradicts other things
they tell us. After dinning into you that taste is merely a matter of personal
preference, they take you to the museum and tell you that you should pay
attention because Leonardo is a great artist.  
  
What goes through the kid's head at this point? What does he think "great
artist" means? After having been told for years that everyone just likes to do
things their own way, he is unlikely to head straight for the conclusion that
a great artist is someone whose work is _better_ than the others'. A far more
likely theory, in his Ptolemaic model of the universe, is that a great artist
is something that's good for you, like broccoli, because someone said so in a
book.  
  
  
  
Saying that taste is just personal preference is a good way to prevent
disputes. The trouble is, it's not true. You feel this when you start to
design things.  
  
Whatever job people do, they naturally want to do better. Football players
like to win games. CEOs like to increase earnings. It's a matter of pride, and
a real pleasure, to get better at your job. But if your job is to design
things, and there is no such thing as beauty, then there is _no way to get
better at your job._ If taste is just personal preference, then everyone's is
already perfect: you like whatever you like, and that's it.  
  
As in any job, as you continue to design things, you'll get better at it. Your
tastes will change. And, like anyone who gets better at their job, you'll know
you're getting better. If so, your old tastes were not merely different, but
worse. Poof goes the axiom that taste can't be wrong.  
  
Relativism is fashionable at the moment, and that may hamper you from thinking
about taste, even as yours grows. But if you come out of the closet and admit,
at least to yourself, that there is such a thing as good and bad design, then
you can start to study good design in detail. How has your taste changed? When
you made mistakes, what caused you to make them? What have other people
learned about design?  
  
Once you start to examine the question, it's surprising how much different
fields' ideas of beauty have in common. The same principles of good design
crop up again and again.  
  
  
  
**Good design is simple.** You hear this from math to painting. In math it
means that a shorter proof tends to be a better one. Where axioms are
concerned, especially, less is more. It means much the same thing in
programming. For architects and designers it means that beauty should depend
on a few carefully chosen structural elements rather than a profusion of
superficial ornament. (Ornament is not in itself bad, only when it's
camouflage on insipid form.) Similarly, in painting, a still life of a few
carefully observed and solidly modelled objects will tend to be more
interesting than a stretch of flashy but mindlessly repetitive painting of,
say, a lace collar. In writing it means: say what you mean and say it briefly.  
  
It seems strange to have to emphasize simplicity. You'd think simple would be
the default. Ornate is more work. But something seems to come over people when
they try to be creative. Beginning writers adopt a pompous tone that doesn't
sound anything like the way they speak. Designers trying to be artistic resort
to swooshes and curlicues. Painters discover that they're expressionists. It's
all evasion. Underneath the long words or the "expressive" brush strokes,
there is not much going on, and that's frightening.  
  
When you're forced to be simple, you're forced to face the real problem. When
you can't deliver ornament, you have to deliver substance.  
  
  
  
**Good design is timeless.** In math, every proof is timeless unless it
contains a mistake. So what does Hardy mean when he says there is no permanent
place for ugly mathematics? He means the same thing Kelly Johnson did: if
something is ugly, it can't be the best solution. There must be a better one,
and eventually someone will discover it.  
  
Aiming at timelessness is a way to make yourself find the best answer: if you
can imagine someone surpassing you, you should do it yourself. Some of the
greatest masters did this so well that they left little room for those who
came after. Every engraver since Durer has had to live in his shadow.  
  
Aiming at timelessness is also a way to evade the grip of fashion. Fashions
almost by definition change with time, so if you can make something that will
still look good far into the future, then its appeal must derive more from
merit and less from fashion.  
  
Strangely enough, if you want to make something that will appeal to future
generations, one way to do it is to try to appeal to past generations. It's
hard to guess what the future will be like, but we can be sure it will be like
the past in caring nothing for present fashions. So if you can make something
that appeals to people today and would also have appealed to people in 1500,
there is a good chance it will appeal to people in 2500.  
  
  
  
**Good design solves the right problem.** The typical stove has four burners
arranged in a square, and a dial to control each. How do you arrange the
dials? The simplest answer is to put them in a row. But this is a simple
answer to the wrong question. The dials are for humans to use, and if you put
them in a row, the unlucky human will have to stop and think each time about
which dial matches which burner. Better to arrange the dials in a square like
the burners.  
  
A lot of bad design is industrious, but misguided. In the mid twentieth
century there was a vogue for setting text in sans-serif fonts. These fonts
_are_ closer to the pure, underlying letterforms. But in text that's not the
problem you're trying to solve. For legibility it's more important that
letters be easy to tell apart. It may look Victorian, but a Times Roman
lowercase g is easy to tell from a lowercase y.  
  
Problems can be improved as well as solutions. In software, an intractable
problem can usually be replaced by an equivalent one that's easy to solve.
Physics progressed faster as the problem became predicting observable
behavior, instead of reconciling it with scripture.  
  
  
  
**Good design is suggestive.** Jane Austen's novels contain almost no
description; instead of telling you how everything looks, she tells her story
so well that you envision the scene for yourself. Likewise, a painting that
suggests is usually more engaging than one that tells. Everyone makes up their
own story about the Mona Lisa.  
  
In architecture and design, this principle means that a building or object
should let you use it how you want: a good building, for example, will serve
as a backdrop for whatever life people want to lead in it, instead of making
them live as if they were executing a program written by the architect.  
  
In software, it means you should give users a few basic elements that they can
combine as they wish, like Lego. In math it means a proof that becomes the
basis for a lot of new work is preferable to a proof that was difficult, but
doesn't lead to future discoveries; in the sciences generally, citation is
considered a rough indicator of merit.  
  
  
  
**Good design is often slightly funny.** This one may not always be true. But
Durer's engravings and Saarinen's womb chair and the Pantheon and the original
Porsche 911 all seem to me slightly funny. Godel's incompleteness theorem
seems like a practical joke.  
  
I think it's because humor is related to strength. To have a sense of humor is
to be strong: to keep one's sense of humor is to shrug off misfortunes, and to
lose one's sense of humor is to be wounded by them. And so the mark-- or at
least the prerogative-- of strength is not to take oneself too seriously. The
confident will often, like swallows, seem to be making fun of the whole
process slightly, as Hitchcock does in his films or Bruegel in his paintings--
or Shakespeare, for that matter.  
  
Good design may not have to be funny, but it's hard to imagine something that
could be called humorless also being good design.  
  
  
  
**Good design is hard.** If you look at the people who've done great work, one
thing they all seem to have in common is that they worked very hard. If you're
not working hard, you're probably wasting your time.  
  
Hard problems call for great efforts. In math, difficult proofs require
ingenious solutions, and those tend to be interesting. Ditto in engineering.  
  
When you have to climb a mountain you toss everything unnecessary out of your
pack. And so an architect who has to build on a difficult site, or a small
budget, will find that he is forced to produce an elegant design. Fashions and
flourishes get knocked aside by the difficult business of solving the problem
at all.  
  
Not every kind of hard is good. There is good pain and bad pain. You want the
kind of pain you get from going running, not the kind you get from stepping on
a nail. A difficult problem could be good for a designer, but a fickle client
or unreliable materials would not be.  
  
In art, the highest place has traditionally been given to paintings of people.
There is something to this tradition, and not just because pictures of faces
get to press buttons in our brains that other pictures don't. We are so good
at looking at faces that we force anyone who draws them to work hard to
satisfy us. If you draw a tree and you change the angle of a branch five
degrees, no one will know. When you change the angle of someone's eye five
degrees, people notice.  
  
When Bauhaus designers adopted Sullivan's "form follows function," what they
meant was, form _should_ follow function. And if function is hard enough, form
is forced to follow it, because there is no effort to spare for error. Wild
animals are beautiful because they have hard lives.  
  
  
  
**Good design looks easy.** Like great athletes, great designers make it look
easy. Mostly this is an illusion. The easy, conversational tone of good
writing comes only on the eighth rewrite.  
  
In science and engineering, some of the greatest discoveries seem so simple
that you say to yourself, I could have thought of that. The discoverer is
entitled to reply, why didn't you?  
  
Some Leonardo heads are just a few lines. You look at them and you think, all
you have to do is get eight or ten lines in the right place and you've made
this beautiful portrait. Well, yes, but you have to get them in _exactly_ the
right place. The slightest error will make the whole thing collapse.  
  
Line drawings are in fact the most difficult visual medium, because they
demand near perfection. In math terms, they are a closed-form solution; lesser
artists literally solve the same problems by successive approximation. One of
the reasons kids give up drawing at ten or so is that they decide to start
drawing like grownups, and one of the first things they try is a line drawing
of a face. Smack!  
  
In most fields the appearance of ease seems to come with practice. Perhaps
what practice does is train your unconscious mind to handle tasks that used to
require conscious thought. In some cases you literally train your body. An
expert pianist can play notes faster than the brain can send signals to his
hand. Likewise an artist, after a while, can make visual perception flow in
through his eye and out through his hand as automatically as someone tapping
his foot to a beat.  
  
When people talk about being in "the zone," I think what they mean is that the
spinal cord has the situation under control. Your spinal cord is less
hesitant, and it frees conscious thought for the hard problems.  
  
  
  
**Good design uses symmetry.** I think symmetry may just be one way to achieve
simplicity, but it's important enough to be mentioned on its own. Nature uses
it a lot, which is a good sign.  
  
There are two kinds of symmetry, repetition and recursion. Recursion means
repetition in subelements, like the pattern of veins in a leaf.  
  
Symmetry is unfashionable in some fields now, in reaction to excesses in the
past. Architects started consciously making buildings asymmetric in Victorian
times and by the 1920s asymmetry was an explicit premise of modernist
architecture. Even these buildings only tended to be asymmetric about major
axes, though; there were hundreds of minor symmetries.  
  
In writing you find symmetry at every level, from the phrases in a sentence to
the plot of a novel. You find the same in music and art. Mosaics (and some
Cezannes) get extra visual punch by making the whole picture out of the same
atoms. Compositional symmetry yields some of the most memorable paintings,
especially when two halves react to one another, as in the _Creation of Adam_
or _American Gothic._  
  
In math and engineering, recursion, especially, is a big win. Inductive proofs
are wonderfully short. In software, a problem that can be solved by recursion
is nearly always best solved that way. The Eiffel Tower looks striking partly
because it is a recursive solution, a tower on a tower.  
  
The danger of symmetry, and repetition especially, is that it can be used as a
substitute for thought.  
  
  
  
**Good design resembles nature.** It's not so much that resembling nature is
intrinsically good as that nature has had a long time to work on the problem.
It's a good sign when your answer resembles nature's.  
  
It's not cheating to copy. Few would deny that a story should be like life.
Working from life is a valuable tool in painting too, though its role has
often been misunderstood. The aim is not simply to make a record. The point of
painting from life is that it gives your mind something to chew on: when your
eyes are looking at something, your hand will do more interesting work.  
  
Imitating nature also works in engineering. Boats have long had spines and
ribs like an animal's ribcage. In some cases we may have to wait for better
technology: early aircraft designers were mistaken to design aircraft that
looked like birds, because they didn't have materials or power sources light
enough (the Wrights' engine weighed 152 lbs. and generated only 12 hp.) or
control systems sophisticated enough for machines that flew like birds, but I
could imagine little unmanned reconnaissance planes flying like birds in fifty
years.  
  
Now that we have enough computer power, we can imitate nature's method as well
as its results. Genetic algorithms may let us create things too complex to
design in the ordinary sense.  
  
  
  
**Good design is redesign.** It's rare to get things right the first time.
Experts expect to throw away some early work. They plan for plans to change.  
  
It takes confidence to throw work away. You have to be able to think, _there's
more where that came from._ When people first start drawing, for example,
they're often reluctant to redo parts that aren't right; they feel they've
been lucky to get that far, and if they try to redo something, it will turn
out worse. Instead they convince themselves that the drawing is not that bad,
really-- in fact, maybe they meant it to look that way.  
  
Dangerous territory, that; if anything you should cultivate dissatisfaction.
In Leonardo's drawings there are often five or six attempts to get a line
right. The distinctive back of the Porsche 911 only appeared in the redesign
of an awkward prototype. In Wright's early plans for the Guggenheim, the right
half was a ziggurat; he inverted it to get the present shape.  
  
Mistakes are natural. Instead of treating them as disasters, make them easy to
acknowledge and easy to fix. Leonardo more or less invented the sketch, as a
way to make drawing bear a greater weight of exploration. Open-source software
has fewer bugs because it admits the possibility of bugs.  
  
It helps to have a medium that makes change easy. When oil paint replaced
tempera in the fifteenth century, it helped painters to deal with difficult
subjects like the human figure because, unlike tempera, oil can be blended and
overpainted.  
  
  
  
**Good design can copy.** Attitudes to copying often make a round trip. A
novice imitates without knowing it; next he tries consciously to be original;
finally, he decides it's more important to be right than original.  
  
Unknowing imitation is almost a recipe for bad design. If you don't know where
your ideas are coming from, you're probably imitating an imitator. Raphael so
pervaded mid-nineteenth century taste that almost anyone who tried to draw was
imitating him, often at several removes. It was this, more than Raphael's own
work, that bothered the Pre-Raphaelites.  
  
The ambitious are not content to imitate. The second phase in the growth of
taste is a conscious attempt at originality.  
  
I think the greatest masters go on to achieve a kind of selflessness. They
just want to get the right answer, and if part of the right answer has already
been discovered by someone else, that's no reason not to use it. They're
confident enough to take from anyone without feeling that their own vision
will be lost in the process.  
  
  
  
**Good design is often strange.** Some of the very best work has an uncanny
quality: Euler's Formula, Bruegel's _Hunters in the Snow,_ the SR-71, Lisp.
They're not just beautiful, but strangely beautiful.  
  
I'm not sure why. It may just be my own stupidity. A can-opener must seem
miraculous to a dog. Maybe if I were smart enough it would seem the most
natural thing in the world that ei*pi = -1. It is after all necessarily true.  
  
Most of the qualities I've mentioned are things that can be cultivated, but I
don't think it works to cultivate strangeness. The best you can do is not
squash it if it starts to appear. Einstein didn't try to make relativity
strange. He tried to make it true, and the truth turned out to be strange.  
  
At an art school where I once studied, the students wanted most of all to
develop a personal style. But if you just try to make good things, you'll
inevitably do it in a distinctive way, just as each person walks in a
distinctive way. Michelangelo was not trying to paint like Michelangelo. He
was just trying to paint well; he couldn't help painting like Michelangelo.  
  
The only style worth having is the one you can't help. And this is especially
true for strangeness. There is no shortcut to it. The Northwest Passage that
the Mannerists, the Romantics, and two generations of American high school
students have searched for does not seem to exist. The only way to get there
is to go through good and come out the other side.  
  
  
  
**Good design happens in chunks.** The inhabitants of fifteenth century
Florence included Brunelleschi, Ghiberti, Donatello, Masaccio, Filippo Lippi,
Fra Angelico, Verrocchio, Botticelli, Leonardo, and Michelangelo. Milan at the
time was as big as Florence. How many fifteenth century Milanese artists can
you name?  
  
Something was happening in Florence in the fifteenth century. And it can't
have been heredity, because it isn't happening now. You have to assume that
whatever inborn ability Leonardo and Michelangelo had, there were people born
in Milan with just as much. What happened to the Milanese Leonardo?  
  
There are roughly a thousand times as many people alive in the US right now as
lived in Florence during the fifteenth century. A thousand Leonardos and a
thousand Michelangelos walk among us. If DNA ruled, we should be greeted daily
by artistic marvels. We aren't, and the reason is that to make Leonardo you
need more than his innate ability. You also need Florence in 1450.  
  
Nothing is more powerful than a community of talented people working on
related problems. Genes count for little by comparison: being a genetic
Leonardo was not enough to compensate for having been born near Milan instead
of Florence. Today we move around more, but great work still comes
disproportionately from a few hotspots: the Bauhaus, the Manhattan Project,
the _New Yorker,_ Lockheed's Skunk Works, Xerox Parc.  
  
At any given time there are a few hot topics and a few groups doing great work
on them, and it's nearly impossible to do good work yourself if you're too far
removed from one of these centers. You can push or pull these trends to some
extent, but you can't break away from them. (Maybe _you_ can, but the Milanese
Leonardo couldn't.)  
  
  
  
**Good design is often daring.** At every period of history, people have
believed things that were just ridiculous, and believed them so strongly that
you risked ostracism or even violence by saying otherwise.  
  
If our own time were any different, that would be remarkable. As far as I can
tell it isn't.  
  
This problem afflicts not just every era, but in some degree every field. Much
Renaissance art was in its time considered shockingly secular: according to
Vasari, Botticelli repented and gave up painting, and Fra Bartolommeo and
Lorenzo di Credi actually burned some of their work. Einstein's theory of
relativity offended many contemporary physicists, and was not fully accepted
for decades-- in France, not until the 1950s.  
  
Today's experimental error is tomorrow's new theory. If you want to discover
great new things, then instead of turning a blind eye to the places where
conventional wisdom and truth don't quite meet, you should pay particular
attention to them.  
  
  
  
As a practical matter, I think it's easier to see ugliness than to imagine
beauty. Most of the people who've made beautiful things seem to have done it
by fixing something that they thought ugly. Great work usually seems to happen
because someone sees something and thinks, _I could do better than that._
Giotto saw traditional Byzantine madonnas painted according to a formula that
had satisfied everyone for centuries, and to him they looked wooden and
unnatural. Copernicus was so troubled by a hack that all his contemporaries
could tolerate that he felt there must be a better solution.  
  
Intolerance for ugliness is not in itself enough. You have to understand a
field well before you develop a good nose for what needs fixing. You have to
do your homework. But as you become expert in a field, you'll start to hear
little voices saying, _What a hack! There must be a better way._ Don't ignore
those voices. Cultivate them. The recipe for great work is: very exacting
taste, plus the ability to gratify it.  
  
  
  
  
  
**