Want to Save the World? Just Ask.

photo: Megan Ann Rucker

A pleasant surprise hit my inbox last week.

In the process of corresponding with a fabricator, with whom I was working on a long-term freelance project, the question of shipping product came up; as had been the case twice before, I was called upon to calculate the dimensions of the shipping crates for various parts of a large, unwieldy sculpture, and dutifully responded with a list of numbers, well-padded (as instructed) to make sure the rather delicate components were surrounded by plenty of packing material. Unlike before, however, the fabricator wrote back with a simple request:

"How could we 'green' this crating strategy?"

I was thrilled, of course, and responding was an easy thing. Numerous suggestions on how to do just that had occurred to me over the months I'd spent on the project, some more feasible than others, so all I had to do was pick the most likely and outline it for the fabricator and client. A pretty simple fix, it involved building the crates in batches, with a few extra small ones at first, so that those actually doing the packing could deviate from the crating list if they felt they could get away with a smaller size. Estimated savings in packing materials, from this and some suggestions that arose from further discussion with the fabricator, exceed 30%.

The solution is in process, it'll work, and it's not complicated, which leads me to this question: why didn't I suggest it in the first place?

Attempts to enact sustainable design principles have long been side projects of creative professionals, of which the Designers Accord is just the latest and perhaps most forceful example. It's difficult to find a conference these days in which at least one experienced designer doesn't lament all the stuff he's sent to landfills, or a design school crit that doesn't feature at least a few projects optimized for low energy consumption and recyclability (this video, blogged at Core77 a few months back, offers a deadly lampoon of this tendency, and its inevitable backlash). So it's reasonable to ask: what happens between the pro-sustainability fervor of design school, the nods of agreement between designers, and the way we actually pursue our projects?

It's pretty clearly not a lack of awareness, desire, or ability, and it hasn't been for a while. Much of the discussion within the creative community is couched as if designers don't know how to make their projects more sustainable and socially relevant, or don't think it's important. But talk to practically any student or recent graduate, and nearly all of them will attest that they want to improve the world, solve problems of waste and poverty through better design, make a positive impact, make a difference. Even kids who want to do nothing more than draw cars and shoes all day will light up when explaining the fuel cell technology that drives their roadster, or the compostable uppers on their high-tops. This was true when I was in school, five years ago, and if you ask someone who studied a creative profession 10 years ago, it was mostly true then.

As far as I can tell, the change occurs in the first year or two out of school. The bravado nurtured by professors and studio-mates rapidly withers in the harsh conditions of the job market, leaving the junior no less able to devise green strategies, but deeply doubting his or her right to voice them. When we talk amongst ourselves of "just generating landfill," the loudest complaints are usually that budget constraints and managerial whims block implementation, or even discussion of sustainability. We're here at the pleasure of the client or the management, goes the argument, so anything not explicitly included in the project definition will be shot down.

This is unfortunate, for companies and society at large, for there are few professionals in the product development process more universally eager to make things humane and earth-friendly than the designers, largely because we're not directly encumbered by things like economics or marketing appeal (we are, of course, indirectly encumbered to a massive degree). Amongst ourselves, the spark of altruism that burned back in school is still there, but we dare not let it shine--we've got enough problems being seen as "real professionals" as it is.

So the problem is one of clout, or perceived clout, and it results in a double-sided silence: management doesn't ask for more conscientious solutions, and design doesn't tell. In the handful of cases where the designer is experienced and cocky enough, or the group they represent has a strong enough reputation, this can change, but it's rare. My friend Chris Dame is an interaction designer who recently moved from Portland to the Bay Area to take a job with IDEO (if you followed last week's Maker Faire coverage on Core, he's the one smiling next to the big, creepy panda). Chris has worked for over a dozen consultancies and in-house design groups over the years, yet has lately been taken aback by the unfamiliar way clients defer to him in discussion. "This is honestly the first time in my life where I've put forth an idea," he remarked, "and the client has said 'Well, I'm not sure, but hey...you guys are IDEO! Let's give it a try.'"

This degree of license enables discussions that would otherwise never occur. Imagine for a moment you went into every client or management meeting knowing your suggestions would be granted that kind of weight. What would you do with it? Judging by conversations I've had with professional colleagues, I'd suspect that issues of sustainability and social benefit would be broached far more frequently, even if they weren't always enacted. Clients and managers still have final say, of course, and in the above scenario, the deference might well be followed by a phone call taking everything back. The conversations that occur in the meantime, though, are where clout really bears fruit, allowing ideas to emerge from both sides, advancing social and environmental goals that would otherwise remain dormant. Remember, Apple and GM both went through marked improvements in their product lines in the early 2000s, using the same design teams responsible for the mediocre design that identified them earlier. Steve Jobs and Bob Lutz have both gone on record saying that the problem was never a lack of good ideas, but a lack of will and implementation.

It would be easy to wrap this up by placing the blame squarely on the shoulders of management: if you want greener design, just ask your designers--chances are excellent that they already know what to do. Leaving it there would be shirking, though. When we're hired, there is an assumption that we will be challenging, to a greater or lesser degree. The desire to be seen as serious professionals may be hobbling us in this regard; rather than put ourselves in a position where we might be shot down, we shoot ourselves instead. We never even try. It's true there are plenty of clients and managers who would be annoyed by the mere mention that sustainability be considered in a given project, but given the current perception of green as a viable commercial trend, that attitude is fading. In the end, it's our job to do the asking, as much as it is theirs.