I started watching Abstract: The Art of Design on Netflix. It’s a documentary series where each episode focuses on one designer and a different kind of design.
One episode is about Neri Oxman, a professor at MIT Media Lab. She leads a research team in exploring materials informed by nature. (Think: a strong plastic-like material made from proteins found in milk.)
In the episode, she talks about the relationship between art, science, engineering, and design. Usually, we think of them as four separate areas. You work in one domain but not the others. But Neri says, what if, instead, we thought of them as a circle? As a clock, where we shift from one discipline to another over time. Input from one domain becomes the output of another.
Neri uses architecture, design, engineering, and biology in her work, so it makes sense that she talks about interdisciplinary work.
A diagram displays on the screen at this point of the episode, and I paused it to draw it myself. When I see a diagram that clicks for me, I love recreating it as my way of learning.
Here’s the circle, with the disciplines each having their own domain, but now connected.
I’m paraphrasing the explanation from the documentary:
Art is for expression. It looks at cultural behavior, which leads to questioning presumptions about the world. These questions lead into science.
Science is for exploration. We gain information (input from art) and turn it into knowledge (output to engineering).
Engineering is for invention. It takes knowledge and turns it into utility for design.
Design is for communication. We take utility, give it context, and turn it into cultural behavior (which is then expressed as art).
Full circle.
Continuing with the clock analogy, Neri says that at the midnight position, that’s where art meets science, where Picasso meets Einstein.
I love this model because it shows the value of these disciplines working together. Rather than limit work to one domain, you can shift through domains (with a team…no one is an expert in all four areas) to create a full understanding, exploration, use, and expression.
I was organizing some old files and found a short story I wrote in 2009 while studying abroad in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I thought I had posted it here at some point, but no, I hadn’t. Now seems like a good a time as any. So, here it is.
Every Wednesday between classes, I have two hours to kill. Two hours to be productive by reading a long article in Spanish about magical realism and the writers who best exemplify the movement. Two hours to drink tea (I don’t like coffee and it’s terrible here anyway) or watch the news on TV (la presidente is visiting Chile this week, the highlights of yesterday’s fútbol game). Two hours to pretend to be a local while I sit in this café.
This is routine for me now. After Art History, I take the B-line two stops east to the “microcentro,” the business and theater district of Buenos Aires. It’s not actually in the center of the city. It’s more northeast, but that’s how it is in Buenos Aires—people say things they don’t mean.
I come to this café every Wednesday morning at 10:30, give or take a few minutes. The menu here is huge, physically and in terms of options for breakfast and lunch. I’m not much of a breakfast person, so I order té con leche (tea with milk) and medialunas. The tea is a British brand, nothing special, but medialunas are the best food I’ve eaten in Argentina. They’re palm-sized croissants with flaky dough and come in two varieties: plain or sweetened with a thin coat of syrup on top. Most places have only the sweetened kind, and I won’t complain about that.
The waiter comes back with a full tray. I ordered two things, right? But not even the menus here are clear on what they mean. Té con leche means I get a large mug with a saucer, a tiny pitcher of warm milk on a saucer, a small teapot of hot water on a plate, and a tiny glass of orange juice.
The first time I ordered tea in Buenos Aires, I thought it was a strange custom of mixing orange juice into your tea. But no, the locals drink the orange juice separately. A little bit of vitamin C never hurt anyone.
Medialunas come in a basket. If they’re larger ones, you get three. Smaller ones, four.
My square table that is supposed to seat two is covered with excessive glassware. I rearrange everything into an arc around me to make space for that magical realism article. The page I’m on is talking about Julio Cortázar’s use of time. He likes to jump around a lot.
I unwrap the tea bag and drop it into the teapot. I look up at the TV and see that the public bus employees are striking this afternoon. Fine, I take the subway home on Wednesdays anyway. After the tea steeps, I fill my mug halfway. The rest I fill with milk.
Some of my friends back home joke about how much sugar I put in my tea. As in, I have some tea with my sugar. That didn’t change when I switched hemispheres. Most people in Buenos Aires have too much sugar and caffeine anyway. It’s because they stay up late and wake up early. Every kiosk on every street corner has a variety of sweets and candy bars to give you a sugar boost any time of the day. The waiter probably doesn’t think anything of the three sugars I put in my tea. Either that or he’s used to it by now. I always have the same waiter.
When you walk into most shops in Buenos Aires, employees will immediately walk up to you and ask what you’re looking for. This makes sense for two reasons. One, they want to make a sale, and two, direct contact with customers reduces shoplifting.
Restaurants and cafés don’t work that way. Usually you walk in and find a table yourself. When the waiter notices you, he gives you a menu. You have to wave him over when you’re ready to order. You may take your time eating and sit for as long as you like, and then you have to get the waiter’s attention again for the bill.
Americans are used to attentive waiters so the first few times I ate out were frustrating, but I don’t mind as much anymore. The locals are better at it than I am, but I’m getting there.
