On friction and texture
This is my entry for January’s IndieWeb Carnival, hosted by V.H. Belvadi. This a first for me. The topic of this month is timely. It was the push I needed for stuck in my draft folder.
Most things I use, especially digital products don’t make me feel anything on an emotional level, mostly by design. Frictionless is the default product design motto. It’s not only apps. It has become distressing to think about the cluster of stuff around me that I’m not emotionally connected to, yet still depend upon. I recently saw an (ironic?) bumper sticker stating “connected to everything, attached to nothing” - a sign of how this feeling permeates culture.
Life's daily logistics is an anthropic process. I'm not trying to argue that life was better in the past, it certainly was less complicated. The complexity of modern life calls for modern tools. A lot of tools. Better ergonomics and production capabilities allowed us to scale (sorry for the gross oversimplification). There are 2 holistic ways to deal with this: let the stuff pile up, or limit your tools/introduce friction. The second is the most demanding, potentially yielding greater autonomy and appreciation.
Appreciation for good products is nothing new. Traditional craftsmanship where form and function create something delightful to use and as a companion is common in many cultures. Today our phones eclipsed most companion-type-objects. It has been said many times since the advent of the iPhone: The lack of tactile dimensions of our phones is an insult to our exceptional sensory capabilities.
The cult of certain rituals like the drip coffee-making or the film photography comeback a lot of millennials enjoys signals a desperate attempt at recapturing some of that loss. Stretching this very far, I’d say that this could explain the insane growth in pet ownership. The loneliness epidemic could be in part explained by the vanishing physical dimension (connection) of human existence.
Man-made, refined, objects lack texture. In nature, nothing is perfectly smooth, there is always a slight grain. We often pay extra for a bit of “natural” texture. Raw-looking metals are appreciated for that reason. Brushed titanium is trendy these days, it looks rough, real, worth something. Some products are praised for their texture creating an experience beyond practical and/or aesthetic. Even on-screen experiences can be seen in such ways. The web has a grain said Franck Chimero back in 2015. Websites have a very paculiar texture materializing through the look of links, the pixelation of type, the blink of a page load. Ultra smooth, instant, feedback-less experiences have been fading this grain, at a loss. That is why I love the IndieWeb, a place where form and function are equally considered. Where the personality of the individuals is expressed through (sometimes) small, yet perceptible details, that reminisce of human quirks. The constant and subtle evolution of personal sites is fascinating. Like a sort of web-anthropologist process I observe changes, visits after visits: layout, headlines, navigation, icons, comments in the code, time stamp format, process posts…
We have an innate taste for “natural” patterns, clearly explained by the theory of evolution. For ages, our biological machinery was built upon the environment that hosts us. An environment rich in texture and requiring effort to survive. Thus we feel nature's infinite complexity through the dense patterns we can (and can’t) see and touch and need some kind of friction. Holding a piece of wood. Warmth of sunlight. Carrying water. Feeling cold and warming up. Staring at lichen, moss, clouds, the night sky… Poetry explores the perfect match between our perception ability and the wiggly density of natural elements. There is something profound to «analog» perception. Consider drawing from real life vs a flat image, or observe one minute passing an analog watch vs analog watch face on a smartwatch. Even a high-fidelity 3D projection can’t fully recreate the infinitely complex and unique attributes our eyes perceive.
We are starving for complex interactions and sensory inputs. There is very little intuition involved in handling ergonomically optimized objects. We handle objects, not materials. The processed food dilemma applies to our sensory organs. The tics and hacks we are using to cope are leaving us on edge. Introducing some friction and connection to “real” stuff is going to be increasingly crucial to preserving some humanity in our (consumer) lives.
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