Consumer Objectivity Down the Literal Drain

  by Sam Van Eman 

Transcript of this recording:

Two years ago, we bought a foreclosed home. The loan stipulated that we finish the upstairs bathroom which previous owners must have started but couldn’t afford to finish before being evicted. It was all studs, insulation, and exposed plumbing, and I argued that we didn't need to finish it yet since we had another one downstairs. I promised to take on the project myself, but the bank didn't budge. So we compiled a list of item numbers and paid a contractor to finish the job.

It's been two years, and we've never really used the downstairs bathroom I originally claimed would be sufficient. Turns out that except for a few emergencies, it served better as a tool storage for current projects. My wife was right: It really was a mess.

Last week, with tax return in hand and help from a friend who knows more than I do, I began gutting what had become the tool storage. I checked off his to-do list, even squeezing under the crawlspace for inspection and digging (By the way, a cubic yard of dirt is a lot to move while lying on your back in the dark).

Every trip to both local and box stores, I bought supplies based on what caught my attention from the shelf. Not willy-nilly decisions, but reasonable decisions. Products complement each other so well that if I saw an item on sale, I could pack it into the cart and take it home, knowing I'd find its match later.

Then yesterday evening, after comparing prices of what seemed to be rather different items, a reflection drew me out of the shopping trance. I realized that these items were not rather different at all; in fact, they demonstrated such a lack of creative variety that they suddenly appeared quite the same. I thought about the toilet, and then the shower fixture, and then the sink, and mirror, the light and fan, and all of it together appeared in my mind like every other bathroom of every other person who has a Lowe's within driving distance of their house.

Part of the problem lies with building code, which isn't too different than, say, car design. Just as you can only do so much with a side-mirror or a bumper before you risk driver safety, regulations for plumbing and electricity behind the scene influence aesthetics right in front of you. Certainly color and shape vary, but the stipulations are strict and the freedom, little, especially for the vast majority who can't afford gross distinction. Still, I ask, Why am I limited to few real options? Am I actually limited? And what convinced me to see the array of selections as more different than similar in the first place?

It's like a kind of shopping socialism had taken over and I was suddenly aware of its tight fit.

The project will move forward. It has to. I'm looking forward to problem-solving and installation—activities which make me appreciate being human. But now I feel tied. No matter how I’d like to escape cultural bounds, every member in my family views the world in their own shaped way, which means I can't simply claim the entire vote for what gets installed and what doesn't. I have to consider their aesthetic wishes too.

And even if they agreed to my requests, I'm still left with the effects of social influence. I want what others have. When Lowe's sells a product that I swear I've seen in a wealthy home, I feel drawn to the suggestion of elevated importance. When the cheap items are listed as "Basic" or "Our Most Popular Model," I feel poor and want to be above the tier of consumers who look for those items. (Design doesn't happen in a vacuum, after all.)

But here I am in the aisle, alerted by the trance and asking myself a perplexing question: How would this bathroom look if I could build it outside of the cultural parameters currently guiding my opinions?

I really don't know. Unless I've traveled abroad, or, conversely, grown up in isolation, contrast is hard to find. Innovation is difficult to consider. This fact reminds me of a former Disney employee whose boss said, "We purchased some land, build something." The employee replied, "You mean, like a theme park?" to which his boss replied, "Whatever you'd like." The employee's reaction was limited to what he already knew. He had to be given permission to think beyond it.

I don’t have the money for gross distinction, or even for sliding down the aisle past Basic in most cases. So I want permission. I could go with Our Most Popular Model and let someone else—the entire middle class, in fact—determine how to decorate our home, but I want permission. I feel alive when I create. I feel emboldened, empowered. Human. That's a spirituality I can enjoy—walking in the footsteps of the Creator.  

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Game Over: It's Time to Live It

Photo by Iris Jones, with permission via Flickr.

I knew my mom should have let me own an Atari. She never budged. I had to do my best mastering Asteroids and Ms. Pac-Man at the bars with dad instead. We were poor, but quarters were one thing I could get in abundance from him when there was no money for anything else. Maybe it was his subversive way of investing in me – helping his boy gain real life skills that might, you know, some day save the world.

Or maybe he was just keeping me happy and out of his hair.

Either way, I have fond memories of those early days gaming. Shooting descending centipedes, saving a girl from a computerized ape, hopping across the road to safety before being flattened by cars and trucks, all while moderately sloshed patrons cheered me on from their nearby stools. Quarter by quarter, I got lost in these virtual worlds despite the clunky, pixilated graphics and limited adventure space of arcade games.

Fast forward 30 years to last week, and I’m now wondering if I should have stuck with those playful quests. If it were up to Jane McGonigal, that’s exactly what would have happened.

To see what McGonigal has in mind, click here to read the rest of this post at the The High Calling.

TheHighCalling.org is a site about work, life and God.

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Sayable Design

I've read Lore's blog on and off for a few years. She has a way with words. But just today I found her Sayable Design site via a friend. If you're looking for help with a graphic or web layout, check her out.

If you aren't looking, I still say check her out, and here's why:

When you remain within the confines of screen size and follow the path of website-owning masses, you typically get no more than a visual re-shuffling of CSS and pieces of code moved here and there until they please you. It's like having seven items to hang on the living room wall but only room for six. So you lay them out on the floor, moving and looking, rotating and looking, measuring and looking. In the end, you hang what you like where you like it. Fair enough, but Lore said heck with wall size. Maybe she said, What wall? I'll hang eleven items if I please.

I remember listening to a Disney employee who gave a talk about doing a lot with little. The company had purchased a large sum of acreage and told the design team, "Put something here." The team asked, "You mean like a theme park?" to which Disney replied, "Whatever you want."

I would have thought theme park too - an understandable mental boundary. Yet for creative types, boundaries need to be mobile. Adam and Eve had a garden full of ingredients and God said, "Mix something here." It amazes me that by Genesis 4, there were already "tools of bronze and iron" and early versions of musical instruments. I don't know how much time elapsed in those few chapters, but seriously? We started with a garden and ended up with harps?

Mind-boggling.

Okay, Lore didn't make a harp out of stuff she mined from the earth, but she did something fun and you should go see it. Sayable Design.

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