The Revenge of the Intuitive - by Brian Eno

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The Revenge of the Intuitive - by Brian Eno

Postby weatherstation audio » Tue Apr 03, 2007 1:54 pm

Turn off the options, and turn up the intimacy.



I recently spent three days working with what is possibly the most
advanced recording console in the world, and I have to report that it
was a horribly unmusical experience. The console, which has more than
10,000 controls on its surface and a computer inside, was designed in
such a way that music-making tasks once requiring a single physical
switch now require a several-step mental negotiation. My engineer kept
saying "Wait a minute" and then had to duck out of the musical
conversation we were having so he could go into secretarial mode to
execute complex computer-like operations. It's as though a new layer of
bureaucracy has interposed itself between me and the music we want to
make. After days of tooth-gnashing frustration, I had to admit that
something has gone wrong with the design of technology - and I was
paying $2,000 a day in studio fees to discover it.

Years ago I realized that the recording studio was becoming a musical
instrument. I even lectured about it, proclaiming that "by turning sound
into malleable material, studios invite you to construct new worlds of
sounds as painters construct worlds of form and color." I was thrilled
at how people were using studios to make music that otherwise simply
could not exist. Studios opened up possibilities. But now I'm struck by
the insidious, computer-driven tendency to take things out of the domain
of muscular activity and put them into the domain of mental activity.

This transfer is not paying off. Sure, muscles are unreliable, but they
represent several million years of accumulated finesse. Musicians enjoy
drawing on that finesse (and audiences respond to its exercise), so when
muscular activity is rendered useless, the creative process is
frustrated. No wonder artists who can afford the best of anything keep
buying "retro" electronics and instruments, and revert to retro media.

The trouble begins with a design philosophy that equates "more
options" with "greater freedom." Designers struggle endlessly with a
problem that is almost nonexistent for users: "How do we pack the
maximum number of options into the minimum space and price?" In my
experience, the instruments and tools that endure (because they are
loved by their users) have limited options.

Software options proliferate extremely easily, too easily in fact,
because too many options create tools that can't ever be used
intuitively. Intuitive actions confine the detail work to a dedicated
part of the brain, leaving the rest of one's mind free to respond with
attention and sensitivity to the changing texture of the moment. With
tools, we crave intimacy. This appetite for emotional resonance explains
why users - when given a choice - prefer deep rapport over endless
options. You can't have a relationship with a device whose limits are
unknown to you, because without limits it keeps becoming something else.

Indeed, familiarity breeds content. When you use familiar tools, you
draw upon a long cultural conversation - a whole shared history of usage
- as your backdrop, as the canvas to juxtapose your work. The deeper and
more widely shared the conversation, the more subtle its inflections can
be.

This is the revenge of traditional media. Even the "weaknesses" or the
limits of these tools become part of the vocabulary of culture. I'm
thinking of such stuff as Marshall guitar amps and black-and-white film
- what was once thought most undesirable about these tools became their
cherished trademark.

The Marshall guitar amplifier doesn't just get louder when you turn it
up. It distorts the sound to produce a whole range of new harmonics,
effectively turning a plucked string instrument into a bowed one. A
responsible designer might try to overcome this limitation - probably
the engineers at Marshall tried, too. But that sound became the sound
of, among others, Jimi Hendrix. That sound is called "electric guitar."
Or think of grainy black-and-white film, or jittery Super 8, or
scratches on vinyl. These limitations tell you something about the
context of the work, where it sits in time, and by invoking that world
they deepen the resonances of the work itself.

Since so much of our experience is mediated in some way or another, we
have deep sensitivities to the signatures of different media. Artists
play with these sensitivities, digesting the new and shifting the old.
In the end, the characteristic forms of a tool's or medium's distortion,
of its weakness and limitations, become sources of emotional meaning and
intimacy.

Although designers continue to dream of "transparency" - technologies
that just do their job without making their presence felt - both
creators and audiences actually like technologies with "personality." A
personality is something with which you can have a relationship. Which
is why people return to pencils, violins, and the same three guitar
chords.

Brian Eno is a composer, record producer, and visual artist living in
London.
"sweet songs never last too long on a broken radio"
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