I, along with every other American, saw James Cameron’s Titanic when it first debuted in theaters in 1997. My motivation for doing so wasn’t due to any sort of preoccupation with tragedies, Leonardo DiCaprio, or seminal Hollywood blockbusters. Rather, I went to see Titanic — at the time, the most expensive film ever made — simply to understand what a $200 million film budget looked like. 

There’s a part of me — the finish my plate / save my plastic bags / turn that old skirt into a pillowcase part of me — that was incredibly unnerved by the excessive amount of waste in that film. Wikipedia’s notes on pre-production describe the film’s massive and meticulous approach to achieve historical accuracy: For the ship’s interiors, production designer Peter Lamont’s team looked for artifacts from the era. However, the newness of the ship meant every prop had to be made from scratch. […]The sets representing the interior rooms of the Titanic were reproduced exactly as originally built, using photographs and plans from the Titanic’s builders. “The liner’s first class staircase, which figures prominently in the script was constructed out of real wood and actually destroyed in the filming of the sinking.” Entire cabinets of exquisite china, reproduced to exacting detail with the original White Star Line insignia, were constructed and styled simply to come crashing down at the perfect cinematic moment — heralding the catastrophic end of the RMS Titanic and so many of her passengers.

And while I may be the type of person who hears an exorbitant figure as such and can’t help but wonder which countries have a GDP smaller than Cameron’s budget, or perhaps, what I might do with $200 million were I given the opportunity to administer it, I left the theater haunted by this adjacent notion of Creating to Destroy.  

Since then, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to revisit this and examine my own relationship with Impermanence (the slightly less nihilistic cousin of Creating to Destroy) in my creative practice. I’ve never attempted performance or installation art; rather I’ve always gravitated toward working in fixed media with long shelf-lives — be they physical or digital. A number of years ago, I was contacted by a small gallery to inquire as to whether I would be willing to install one of my pieces at large scale on a wall in their space, as part of a group show that would be up for approximately two weeks. I agreed, having never created anything that would take nearly as long to produce as it would exist in this world. Ultimately, the show was cancelled, but I was left trying to reconcile the disconnect between makers and viewers. For makers, the value lies in the act of creation; for viewers: the outcome. Like others who have chosen similar vocations, I make things because I’m in love with making, because I can’t imagine a life without it, and because I secretly enjoy all of the angst, self-flagellation, and learning that comes with the territory. Given the option of: Would I prefer to A) spend every waking minute making terrible work that never saw the light of day or B) wake up every morning to discover that I had made amazing work in my sleep, I would choose A every time, and I’m willing to venture that I’m not alone here.  

My latest work in progress, the Dead Artist Baked Goods series, has been an exercise in Impermanence, while at the same time, an attempt to bridge that gap between maker and viewer. It all began innocently enough and certainly without any overwrought intentions. Before the holidays, my friend and I discovered that we were both harboring a shared desire to bake. She actually had an excuse — an upcoming cookie party in which attendees would exchange baked confections — whereas I had no rational explanation for this urge whatsoever. I was merely obsessed with the idea of replicating modern artworks in royal icing; there was a sweet irony in democratizing and de-contextualizing some of the most revered and unattainable works of minimalism, color field painting, and abstract expressionism. And thus, I began. 

The first series I completed was in honor of Ellsworth Kelly (who, BTW, is 88 and very much alive by all reports), then Mark Rothko’s Multiforms, and most recently, Kazimir Malevich’s Suprematism. When I recently posted the Malevich cookies on Instagram, a conversation between myself and fellow designer, David, ensued:

DH: “Seriously you have too much time on your hands!”

MC: “I take my personal work seriously, regardless of medium ;-)”

DH: “But do you eat your personal work?”

To which I respond — truthfully, I’m not much of a cookie person. I’ve been known to eat a reject here or there. I do it for the love of doing it, and have taken to forcing the outcomes on my underfed colleagues at GA. Throughout it all, we’ve explored both media and technique (corn syrup- vs meringue-powder-based icing; almond extract vs. lemon zest and lemon extract; application via paintbrush vs. decorating tips, squeeze bottles, and toothpicks). Laugh as you might, but the process of baking has involved the experimentation and failure required of more serious creative pursuits, and in many ways, has been equally gratifying. I’m finally Creating to Destroy. Happily.

Ellwood, Stephen. This Is What It Is Like to Be Like This. Toronto: Art Metropole, 2005.

—

Anyone who knows me well can testify to the fact that I have a bit of a book fetish. Throughout my life, in all the times I’ve had to move, it’s been paper that has made up the large majority of what I own—in both weight and volume. I’ve been willing to part with practically any other material possession but books. I suppose that if we are what we consume and the medium is the message, I have no choice but to accept the fact that I’m a glutton clinging perilously to the past.

I despair at the closing of neighborhood bookstores. I steal furtive glances at the shelves of friends and strangers alike when entering their homes for the first time. And I moved at a snail’s pace through this year’s Art Book Fair despite overheated rooms and an eager throng of strangers pressed up against me. 

Curling up with a Kindle can never replace the tactile sensation of feeling the toothy finish of a paper stock between one’s fingertips. E-ink can’t replicate the show-through of a cheap newsprint or the fine craftsmanship attained by printers and binderies in Western Europe—both equally gratifying in their own right.

Earlier tonight, I spent some time with one of my most recent purchases, Stephen Ellwood’s This Is What It Is Like to Be Like This. Ellwood is that rare visual/verbal artist—his imagery is narrative; his language: evocative. This particular piece is small in size, roughly 5in x 7in, each page a vast expanse of white but for a single phrase, simply typeset and positioned at the same horizon line on each page. The book concludes with a few full-page plates of black and white photography of ambling streams and dense foliage at its close.

And while I had perused the pages of this piece a few weeks ago, only tonight did I discover that the signatures had been bound with a bright red thread. It was a deliberate act: a choice unto itself and a bold move in an otherwise rigorous and economical construct. A detail perhaps, but a small reminder nonetheless that we aren’t just sentient, but sensorial as well.

Bois, Ive-Alan; Bois, Yve-Alain; Macel, Christine; and Rolin, Olivier. Sophie Calle, m’as-tu vue. Munich: Prestel Verlag, 2003. 

Fischer, Mirjam. Beauty and the Book: 60 Years of the Most Beautiful Swiss Books. Zurich: Arthur Niggli, 2004.

Alternately: The Trade-offs of Iteration

As a child, my writing utensil of choice was a mechanical pencil. Unlike your standard-issue Dixon Ticonderoga No. 2, these instruments never needed sharpening. Always precise, but beyond that: easily erased. The sloppy errors I made in my math homework, the absent-minded doodles I made on my homeroom desk, the words I wrote in notes to friends but regretted only seconds later. The eraser was the original Command + Z—offering us not only an escape hatch, but a way to rid the crime scene of any evidence whatsoever.

As an adolescent, I discovered the beauty of pens. Of commitment. Of what it meant to think several moves ahead. To accept the consequences of my errors. The transition wasn’t an easy one. Initially, when I first switched to ink, I burned through reams of loose-leaf; my perfectionist tendencies wouldn’t allow me to submit papers or send letters with any visible errors. And for a short while, I was that girl—the neurotic one with a secret stash of Wite-Out® in her purse. Eventually, I grew to see strikethroughs as beautiful, a reminder of my own fallibility and a way to ensure that the iterative, revision-prone meanderings of my mind were captured alongside the final draft. There was a deeper narrative there, one just as much about the who, where, when, why and how as much as the what.

For the past week or so, I’ve been making miniature papercrafts in preparation for a short stop-motion piece to be directed, shot, and produced by Erica Gorochow. For better or worse, the drying time of Elmer’s Glue can’t be rushed, which has meant that I’ve had a lot of time to think, specifically about The Act of Making. I’ve been here before—when we first launched our site in January, I crafted the original set of paper miniatures. But this time around, I don’t have the luxury of Photoshopping the errant glue drip, which has required raising the bar on my level of craft. Precision tweezers and OCD-tendencies aside, the work has proven incredibly satisfying, and it was only after I suddenly found myself up to my knees in basswood and magazine scraps that it dawned on me why.

There’s a finality in the work. One that I’ve missed.

We’re all familiar with the benefits of an iterative design approach—in fact, it’s actually difficult to remember life prior to the one we know today. The technology and tools currently at our disposal allow us to think-and-make reflexively in flexible and agile ways, incorporating feedback throughout. But as I found myself thinking through the steps to construct the chipboard laptop, I realized that what was so gratifying was not just the newness of the challenge, but acknowledging was at stake (nothing life-changing, mind you; we are talking about miniatures). Not in terms of the cost of materials, but in terms of weighing the risks to achieve a desired outcome against the time invested. There were trade-offs to acknowledge—could I get away with abstracting the keys into a basic grid, or did I want to faithfully replicate the varying widths of keys? If I chose one material over another, what impact would this have on my ability to achieve interior rounded edges? I enjoyed the level to which I made bets and relied on instinct. And so I began to wonder whether iterative practice could actually begin to erode one of the most valuable (but seldom acknowledged) tools in a designer’s repertoire: his or her judgment.

It’s true that various media require differing degrees of commitment—releasing files to a printer is a nail-biter of a moment for many of us; the same with anything relatively permanent such as signage. There’s a retail store on Broadway that makes me cringe every time I walk by: Damn, I should’ve made that logo a little smaller; definitely should have tightened up the letterspacing between that I and A. And perhaps it’s because most of my projects of late have been web-based products that I find myself missing the idea of designing in a way that involves some degree of finality—of synthesizing all inputs to arrive not at a solution, but the solution—one that inspires conviction. And holding myself accountable when I ultimately fail, but learning in a way that affects me at my core. 

It used to be that designers shared the company of photographers and filmmakers, hired for a particular expertise or point of view and responsible for a discrete product that, once unleashed in the world, could never be changed. Increasingly though, especially among practitioners who work in more fluid media such as web or mobile, a designer’s perspective is overshadowed by a prevailing ethos of an iterative approach: If it doesn’t work, we can always change it. Many designers embrace this; who hasn’t wished for a Command + Z to apply to real life? We could save ourselves the occasional professional misstep, a lot of heartache, and healthy amounts of humiliation. But when the stakes are high, being confronted with evidence of your mistakes makes it that much easier to learn from them.

In the start-up world, there’s a widely held belief that if you’re not embarrassed by the first version of your product, you’ve waited too long to release it. Similarly, I’ve heard colleagues remind me time and time again that Perfect is the Enemy of Good. But to aspire to anything less won’t do us any favors either. 

Keep a drawer of your mistakes. But design like there’s no tomorrow.

It was inevitable, this love affair with you.

I was hanging with my bestie from grad school. We were lounging on her couch, sipping tea and catching up on Life as we are known to do. We had run through the laundry list of updates. Work: check. Friends: check. Family: check. Reading: check. Movies: check. And then, she casually dropped your name, inquiring as to whether I had, by chance, fallen prey to your charms. At the time, I had only a vague understanding of who and what you were, but she gently suggested that I get to know you. She had an inkling that we might get along, and furthermore, that I might fall helplessly in love with you.

A couple of weeks later, my friend and colleague mentioned your name at work. He confessed to an addiction, of foregoing sleep simply to spend late nights with you. Hearing your name exalted by another trusted source certainly piqued my interest, but I remained skeptical about how deep a connection we might actually forge.

Because at first blush, I didn’t suspect we had much in common. Our interests were different. You worshipped at the altar of team sports; I enjoyed solo runs. You were from Texas; I was a native East Coaster. You were stuck in high school; I had spent the majority of my adult life all too eager to leave those years behind.

And then suddenly, you were everywhere. You clearly had a way about you, seducing men and women alike. You tamed the resistant. You captured the hearts and minds of an otherwise diverse and disparate group of followers. Maud Newton blogged about you. So did The Paris Review. And after a late night session with Google, I discovered that The New Yorker had written an article about you several years ago.

So on March 2nd, I logged into Netflix and dove into Friday Night Lights. Head first. 

I feverishly devoured what you had to offer, all the while dreading the imminent denouement of our time together. And by March 9th—some 4 seasons / 63 episodes / 44 hours / 2623 minutes later, it was over. Since then, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking and discussing you at length, trying to dissect your subtlety, your depth, and your ability to galvanize an unlikely group of allegiant viewers. What follows is an attempt to characterize what it is about you that caused me to fall, and fall so hard.

1) Characters as mirrors. Foggy ones.

For the uninitiated, Friday Night Lights (FNL) is a story that centers around the high school football team of Dillon, Texas—a proxy for Anytown, USA. Dillon’s residents face a myriad of issues common to many small American towns—broken families, racism, and economic hardship. As viewers, we are allowed unbridled views of the motivations and behaviors of a cast of characters whose actions are guided by very real and relatable desires to improve their lives in ways both big and small. It is through these characters that we are able to catch glimpses of ourselves. They are at once familiar and fallible, while simultaneously embodying our collective hope that Better Lies Ahead.

In the pilot episode, Jason Street, beloved quarterback of the Dillon Panthers, sustains a spinal injury that not only puts a swift end to his football career, but renders him a paraplegic for life. And so the series begins; we are but silent witnesses to the aftermath. Bereft, emasculated, and uncertain about his future, we watch as Jason struggles to make sense of his life—one in which prior conclusions have all but vanished. For those of us who have experienced a sudden loss on any scale—from a job to a relationship to a loved one, we are reminded of the human condition—how fleeting good fortune can be, but also, of the reserves of strength that lie within. 

The characters of FNL are frequently forced to navigate the murky greys of right and wrong, of ends and means, of being and believing. Having lost his father in a car accident as a child, running back Smash Williams feels immense pressure to leverage his athletic talent to provide a more stable financial future for his family. His tactics are misguided at best: he wages an enormous bet by electing to engage in performance-enhancing drugs, ultimately compromising his health, career, and the very relationships he reveres. Upon learning of Smash’s indiscretions, Coach Taylor is confronted with the dilemma of abiding by protocol and outing him (thereby ending Smash’s chances at obtaining a college scholarship) or choosing to be complicit in his wrongdoing. We silently cheer when Coach opts for the latter, because this, too, is familiar territory. We understand the trade-offs, of what it means to bear the burden of sacrifice to protect those we love.

2) Strong women. Vulnerable men.

Friday Night Lights was adapted as a television series by Peter Berg, Brian Grazer, and David Nevins from a book and film of the same title. I had long been a fan of Peter Berg, whose work as an actor first appeared on my radar with The Last Seduction, a noir-ish film in which Berg plays a romantic but hapless victim opposite Linda Fiorentino’s femme fatale. Not dissimilarly, the characters of FNL are presented to us as robust and complex beings whose stories frequently dispel myths around traditional gender attributes and roles. 

Tami, wife of Coach Taylor and mother to Julie, is an ambitious and impassioned guidance counselor who later becomes Principal at Dillon High. Her choices around governance—both at home and on the job—are often unpopular but are ultimately motivated by a strong sense of justice and moral code. When Coach is offered the opportunity to coach college ball at a university hundreds of miles away, it is Tami who (despite an unplanned pregnancy) encourages him to accept the position while she and Julie remain in Dillon, confident that their family bond is strong enough to withstand the separation. 

One of the most complex characters of FNL is fullback Tim Riggins, who we are initially introduced to as a callous and womanizing alcoholic. But his character, like all of us, contains multitudes. Our hearts break as he repeatedly watches game footage of the fateful day Jason Street’s life was forever altered, understanding that he has somehow found a way to blame himself for his best friend’s paralysis. We empathize when he confesses the depths of his love for Jason’s girlfriend, Lila. And we’re simultaneously enraged and filled with admiration when he takes the fall for his feckless brother, Billy, by serving time in jail so that Billy can begin his life anew with wife and child. Tim represents the good in all of us, his soft underbelly exposed to reveal tremendous strength. 

3) Making lonely beautiful.

I was fascinated when a friend of mine recently revealed that he was most captivated by the The Town as a character. Coach Taylor is unequivocally alone in his struggles—at times the venerated leader, at others, the whipping boy for The Town’s collective hope. And while the characters of Friday Night Lights are inextricably tied to one another—be it through blood, love, or sport—each is waging an individual battle, often against oneself. The loneliness of Dillon is undeniably palpable; we see it in the grainy footage of the skies at dusk, we hear it in the exquisite soundtrack by Explosions in the Sky, we sense it in the moments of silence that pass between characters. 

4) Allowing the narrative to unfurl. 

And lastly—but perhaps, most importantly—it is worth noting that choices around production had a profound effect on the outcome of FNL. The Wikipedia entry describes performances as such:

Though scripted like any hour-long television drama, the show’s producers decided at the outset to allow the cast leeway in what they said and did on the show, including the delivery of their lines and the blocking of each scene. If the actors felt that something was not true to their character or a mode of delivery didn’t work, they were free to change it provided they still hit the vital plot points.

The freedom given to the cast was complemented by the fact that the show was filmed without rehearsal and without extensive blocking. Camera operators were trained to follow the actors, rather than the actors standing in one place and having cameras fixed around them. This allowed the actors to not only feel free to make changes but to feel safe in making those changes because the infrastructure would work around them. Executive producer Jeffrey Reiner described this method as “no rehearsal, no blocking, just three cameras and we shoot.”

As a designer with self-admitted control issues, it was incredibly enlightening to read about the restraint the show’s producers exercised in the filming of FNL. It’s an elegant—and in many ways, meta—approach that acknowledges that sometimes the most beautiful and heart-wrenching moments of our lives are the ones we could have never predicted.

Friday Night Lights, you may be over, but my love lives on. Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.

As embarrassing as it is to admit, it was an episode of The Partridge Family that I watched as a child (by then long in syndication) that first introduced me to the perils of The Echo Chamber. In This is My Song, the 10-year-old Danny explores his own stirrings as an aspiring songwriter, eager to prove his abilities and save his family from a dry spell of new material. As he drifts off to sleep one night, he overhears older brother Keith (the de facto family songwriter played by teen heart-throb David Cassidy) in the adjacent bedroom rehearsing a song that has come to him in a sudden flash of inspiration. The next morning, Danny previews his new song to the family, having inadvertently appropriated Keith’s melody as his own. Accusations fly, sibling rivalry ignites, chaos ensues. 

It’s a no-duh that we’re largely influenced by the context in which we live. But as someone whose formative years occurred in the late ’80s/early ’90s, my context wasn’t all that much bigger than the Partridge family home on the Warner Brothers lot. For the most part, my life occurred within narrow geographical boundaries of the physical world, whether that meant meeting friends for late-night rendezvous at Denny’s, making unsanctioned trips to clubs, or simply hanging out on my friend Josh’s waterbed. It wasn’t that we weren’t influenced by media—we spent hours trying to unravel the cryptic plot lines of Twin Peaks, making mixed tapes of our favorite bands, and worrying that Operation Desert Storm would kindle the third World War. It’s just that our enculturation was informed largely by the social contexts in which these events and experiences were discussed. 

Today, as our leisure time migrates online, our contexts have become increasingly defined by our internet activity, be they web trawls, peer-to-peer networking, or media consumption. A MacArthur study conducted in 2008 determined that teen interaction with digital media is motivated primarily by one of two distinct factors: friendship or interest. While friendship-driven engagement is described as socializing online with friends in one’s local peer group, interest-driven behavior involves consuming information and connecting with communities not otherwise present in one’s offline context. What would have previously required a plane ticket, a passport, and an introduction is now enabled by a mere internet connection. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the Twitterverse, where the need for an introduction (and attendant social anxiety) is eliminated entirely. A recent study cited that only 22.1% of all Twitter relationships are reciprocal, reinforcing the idea that most relationships aren’t inherently personal in nature, but rather interest-based. Celebrities, brands, and media entities aside, the users with the largest followings are seen to have a particular perspective or domain expertise. Take @shitmydadsays, for instance, who pretty much corners the market for curmudgeony 74-year-old man-speak.

Over the past 6 months, Twitter has introduced several new features, Who to Follow, Similar to You, and Connections. Based on algorithms similar to those used by Facebook and LinkedIn, all three features either recommend or highlight Twitter users commonly followed by those within your network—the logic being that if three users you’re following are all following a particular user, you should be too. I’ll be the first person to admit I’ve been susceptible to this, but lately, I’ve begun to wonder about this logic. Facebook and LinkedIn are both social networking sites that allow us to maintain contact with our personal connections, either for social fulfillment, or, ostensibly, professional gain. In this regard, a suggestion-based algorithm works to our advantage—making it easier for us to find and reestablish communication with lost contacts. In contrast, the mechanics of Twitter (broadcasting short-form texts that are publicly visible by default) make it inherently less useful as a means of meaningful one-on-one exchange with those within our social networks, but advantageous as a tool for both consuming and sharing content with broader appeal. The value of that content is often measured by its relevancy, timing, or rarity, so by electing to also follow the users those within our network are following, we’re, in effect, creating our own echo chamber of influence. 

Generally speaking, Twitter users are discriminating about the content we deem worthy of sharing. We act as editors, filtering our own feeds and vouching for content via the re-tweeting function; an RT is as much a personal stamp of approval and a signaling function as it is a means of sharing. And in today’s complex world in which we are relentlessly inundated with information, we find ourselves ever more reliant upon others to help tee up our inputs. It seems that content curation is becoming just as—if not more—important than content creation. And regardless of the criteria, the loudest voices in the room aren’t randomly assigned; we hand them the microphone.  

A study published in 2009 compared the media consumption habits and cultural and political attitudes of viewers across six countries. Researchers concluded that we watch the news more for affirmation than for information, most frequently choosing media outlets that substantiate our pre-existing world views over others that present perspectives incongruent to our own. This type of intellectual complacency has far-reaching implications for how our understanding of the world is shaped, and platforms like Twitter only add fuel to the fire by propagating the rapid spread of ideas. Ultimately, in absence of diversity among our inputs, we run the risk of resurrecting our own Partridge family home of paper-thin walls—one that doesn’t reside on a studio lot in Burbank, but rather, is built upon a placeless foundation of overlapping interests and redundant points of view. 

Note: I’m not sure whether it’s considered cheating to syndicate your own content, but this was originally published here. I’ve been meaning to revive Long-winded: A Blog for People Who Read for a while now (see Keep Me Honest), so this is my way of alleviating some of the guilt for having broken all three resolutions within the first month. And yes, No. 3 really is easy enough; I have no excuse.

So for those of you who don’t already know this, I joined General Assembly full-time in November after working with the founders on an ongoing basis since April of last year. We launched yesterday. This post was intended to offer a personal perspective on the inspiration behind GA—and while it’s somewhat atypical of the type of content I’ve written for Long-winded in the past, I thought it was worth sharing nonetheless. I’m sure I’ll return to more random and aimless musings in the future.

—

THREE REASONS TO LOVE THIS CITY
(AND HOW THEY INSPIRE US AT GENERAL ASSEMBLY)

“Despite the crush and the noise, I never tire of plunging into the crowd. I love the crowd as I love the sea. Not to be engulfed or lost in it, but to sail on it like a solitary pirate, content to be carried by the current, yet strike out on my own the moment it breaks or dissipates. Like the sea, a crowd is invigorating to my wandering mind. Almost all my ideas come to me in the street, even those related to my work.” —Frédéric, central character of Eric Rohmer’s Love in the Afternoon  

Reason No. 1: Serendipitous Encounters

I was standing in line the other morning waiting to order my latte, when loud squeals exploded behind me, interrupting my pre-caffeine haze. I couldn’t help but smile when I turned around to discover two young women in a heartfelt embrace. It was clear from their interaction that this encounter was an unplanned one, and long overdue.

It was a classic New York moment—one we, as inhabitants of this city, have the great fortune of observing on a daily basis far more frequently than those who elect to live elsewhere. It’s a constant reminder of the extent to which this city is defined by serendipity, by happenstance, by the certainty of crossing paths with those from our past, present, and future. Much of this can be attributed simply to the city’s density, diversity, and scale (as deftly articulated by Steven Johnson); much of this is likely the by-product of its pedestrian nature; and much of this is undoubtedly due to the fact that New York functions as the Main Street of the world, attracting natives and transients alike. We live in a city perpetually in flux—where the only constant is the lack of constants, where the cast of characters changes every day, and possibility lies dormant around every corner.

In early days, when General Assembly was a nascent idea, we talked about this notion of alchemy—of the inevitable magic that happens when you take a group of bright, impassioned people from a diverse set of backgrounds and put them in a room together. Having spent the prior three and a half years at IDEO, I was electrified by the rich dialogue and exchange of ideas that occurred on a daily basis among our interdisciplinary project teams, and was eager to see these types of interactions play out organically among a community of people with individualized agendas but with overlapping interests in technology, design, and entrepreneurship. 

Our name, General Assembly, was inspired by the models set forth by schools (a community of learners), factories (a community of makers), and legislative bodies (a community of self-governing people). We worked with Andrea Steele, an architect well-versed in campus design, to design a spatial program that centers around a communal gathering area that we hope will become our campus green, our town square, our Main Street—encouraging the types of fortuitous introductions and cross-pollinating behaviors that enrich our lives and forge new paths ahead. 

Reason No. 2: Courtships in Motion

Like those rare and fleeting moments when the local and express trains move in slow synchronicity through the city’s subterranean depths, New York perpetually offers us glimpses of lives beyond our own, but ones seemingly within grasp. It’s inevitable that at some point during our time here we will find ourselves musing: this could be my future apartment, one day I could have a solo show, he/she could be my future husband/wife, oh please please please let me get this cab. 

Within the first few months of moving to New York as a fresh faced 21 year old, I realized why this city aroused such impassioned allegiance among its inhabitants. At the time, I was sharing a claustrophobic apartment in the area now known as NoMad, two doors down from a particularly rowdy (but friendly) brothel of transvestite prostitutes. Every month, I would eagerly fork over half of my meager monthly earnings to pay my rent—all while feeling incredibly grateful for the opportunity to be here at all. Imagined or real, I felt an instant camaraderie with those around me—they, too, were willing to forgo the pleasures of backyard gardens and flush savings accounts for the chance to pursue a greater goal. It occurred to me that sacrifice seemed to inspire both passion and will—the more we invested, the greater our resolve, the more staunchly we defended our decisions. How else might we rationalize denying ourselves the comforts of a more civilized existence for a shot at a dream with unfavorable odds? Similarly, how else might we explain the conviction of the sleepless entrepreneur?

The dehumanizing mechanics of this city do much to attract a self-selecting population. By nature, New York transplants are voyeuristic, opting for connection and broader exposure over a more controlled, hermetic existence. We are buoyed and enlivened by the success of others—especially those with whom we feel a certain kinship or whose lot in life most closely resembles our own. At General Assembly, we’ve invited some of the city’s most inspiring startups to join our inaugural class of dedicated members. Our hope is that they might benefit from a empathic relationship with like-minded individuals on a parallel track—fellow travelers on another train, hoping to arrive at the same destination. 

Reason No. 3: Laundry Room Reciprocity

A few weeks after moving into my current apartment, I braved a visit to the laundry room. It was your typical tenement building laundry room—underground, overheated, and smelling strongly of Tide®. But by far, the best feature was that the table opposite the washers clearly functioned as much more than a folding surface. It had been designated as the building’s barter site—the unofficial marketplace for the free exchange of goods between tenants. On this particular night, I discovered a stack of three books: a textbook on financial risk management, another on econometrics, and The Giant Book of Tofu Cooking. In the end I claimed the cookbook, but left the others to find a more deserving home.

The mechanisms for how knowledge sharing occurs within any community, organization, or institution are as varied as our individual preferences and aptitudes for learning. For some, a wall of books is as tempting as an aromatic bowl of Tofu Stroganoff waiting to be consumed. For others, the best resources are easily sorted, searched, and transported. For others yet, their best learning occurs within the context of a classroom where they’re freed from life’s daily distractions. And lastly, some prefer tacit learning experiences—through observation and discussion, hands-on application, internalization and reflection.

At General Assembly, our aim is to design programming that establishes a reciprocal relationship between the wealth of talent, experience, and expertise that exists within these walls and the community at large. We ask our members to submit blog posts or teach classes on a regular basis and are also establishing partnerships with leading academics and thought leaders to offer a comprehensive curriculum within the domain of technology, design, and entrepreneurship. Lastly, we’re hoping to assemble both an online resource and a physical library that helps to aggregate the vast range of content shared. Our hope is that from this emerges a collective brain larger than the sum of its parts—one that inspires a new type of discourse and creation reflective of the changing world in which we live. 

This past weekend we were out for an afternoon stroll when we stopped into an Au Bon Pain to rehydrate and use the loo. As I sipped my cloyingly sweet lemonade, my eye caught sight of a truly remarkable sign at the register:

My immediate thought was: Wow—someone in Product Merchandising is probably getting fired for this. But once my initial disbelief had subsided, I began to wonder whether ABP is actually smarter than we think. In an era when behavioral economics run rampant in marketing, it’s actually refreshing to consider that a brand might use such overt gestures to signal that They Know We Know—that they realize all the marketing tricks in the world won’t fool us, that we’re fully in control of the choices we make in our daily consumption. And while I will probably never know the rationale behind Au Bon Pain’s POP signage, I found it inspiring nonetheless.

The following three images envision a world in which a new type of marketing (and fine print!) emerges. One that’s radically transparent, just a little bit cheeky—and like the best friend who’s always pointing out the spinach stuck between your teeth—painfully honest.

As my work colleagues all know, prior to my introduction to social media, I used my 23-inch monitor as my primary desktop and my laptop monitor for television. Bad television. For close to three years, I subsisted on a steady diet of reality shows and serial dramas—anything I could watch for free on network sites, Hulu, or Netflix Instant. At one point I realized my consumption was actually outpacing the content available online, or at least the content I was willing to engage with while at work. I had standards, after all. Quality was a serious anathema—anything actually warranting my full attention was deliberately avoided. I never developed a taste for sitcoms (unfunny relative to reality TV, in my opinion). And because watching really meant listening with the occasional sideways glance, I preferred programming that was serial in nature with a finite cast of characters, as I had to learn to identify each through his or her voice.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve required audio inputs in order to concentrate. In a soundless vacuum, left to my own devices, my mind wanders in unproductive ways. In high school, I preferred to complete my homework while watching television and talking on the phone. But when my social media experiment began, I discovered that there were limits to my multitasking abilities—I couldn’t watch television, keep an eye on my Twitter feed, answer emails, interact with my co-workers, and design simultaneously. So in my commitment to see the Nana Project through, I launched Twitterrific and switched out television for music. But on June 11th, when the World Cup began, I was, once again, faced with a decision: blogging, Tweeting, and Facebooking or unleashing my latent hooligan.

As if it were ever really a choice.

I’ve come a long way since distractedly watching my oversized sweatpants flap in the wind during intramural soccer in the 3rd grade. I can still hear Coach Monatesti yelling at me to wake up, mid-game, as my opponents rushed past me toward the goal. And while I may have failed as a eight-year-old fullback, as an adult, I look forward to a long career ahead as a spectator and enthusiast. So when I discovered Soccernomics during a recent trip to the bookstore, I realized that I had found the perfect tonic to keep me sated between games, long after the South African sun had dipped below the horizon.

Authors Stefan Szymanksi and Simon Kuper apply their respective backgrounds in sports economics and journalism to analyze various dimensions of the sport—from the mismanagement of soccer clubs to the statistical significance of penalty kicks to how a country’s population, income per capita, and cultural factors can determine the strength of its team. But the most fascinating chapter—and one that seemed especially relevant to my investigation of social networks—was the one that explored the connection between fandom and suicide.

We’ve all heard the stories. A fan jumps from a building after a devastating match, or in rarer instances, in rapture when his or her team wins.

“By now the notion that soccer prompts suicide has become a truism. It is often cited to show the grip of the game over its devotees, and as one reason (along with heart attacks on sofas during televised matches) the average World Cup causes more deaths than goals.

[But] if sports give meaning to fans’ lives, if sports make them feel part of a larger family of fans of their team, if fans really do eat and sleep soccer […], then perhaps sports might stop some of these fans from killing themselves. We wanted to find out if there were […] people who didn’t commit suicide because sports kept them going.”

And indeed, what the authors and a team of epidemiologists discovered is that the correlation between suicide and soccer is actually the inverse of what is commonly believed to be true. Barring a few exceptions, soccer actually prevents suicide.

But first, two critical facts:
- Every year, a million people commit suicide worldwide
- Suicide rates peak when daylight hours are longest (May and June in the Northern Hemisphere)

In 1897, French sociologist Émile Durkeim published an extensive study on suicide, demonstrating that people were more likely to kill themselves when a sudden change—such as the loss of a partner or financial ruin—disrupted their connection to society. Across Europe today, the World Cup (with the exception of war or catastrophe) is perhaps the most significant unifying event of any kind. Almost every person in the country, man and woman alike, is guaranteed to be watching the game at the same time. Isolated individuals who are most at risk for suicide are embraced and invited to participate in a conversation on a national scale.

Upon an investigation of data measuring suicides per month over several years among European countries, the authors discovered that the suicide rate declined in the month of June among countries that qualified for the World Cup. Furthermore, they discovered that even after a team was knocked out, there was no pendulum swing, no subsequent rise in suicide. “To the contrary: it seems that the uniting effect of the tournament lasted for a while afterward, continuing to depress the suicide rate.” The authors concluded that it’s not winning that prevents fan suicide. Rather, it’s the social cohesion, the mass coalescing that these events engender—be it at a viewing party or around the water cooler—that is ultimately responsible for saving lives.

So for the remainder of the World Cup, should you find yourself in a crowded bar suddenly receiving a lapful of overturned beer, offer your neighbor a smile and a pass. You may be throwing him a lifeline.

I was having dinner with a couple of friends about a month ago, when they stopped to inquire as to how my Life Experiment was going (more on this soon). Somehow our discussion turned to the discrepancy that frequently occurs between a person’s online and offline personas. Not in the sensationalist, News At Eleven phenomenon of dirty old men masquerading as minors in chat rooms, but more surprisingly, People Who Are Smarter Online Than They Are Offline. I have to admit I was initially skeptical of this claim (How could that be?), but my friend insisted that not only does this happen, it actually occurs with more frequency than one would expect. He cited a number of instances in which he’s been disappointed to discover that some people are simply better in HTML than they are in the flesh. As I was trying to wrap my head around this phenomenon, I suddenly remembered.

Actors.

How many times have we fallen in love with a character from a film or television, only to discover that the actor is actually ________ (insert loathsome superlative here)? How can Robert Downey Jr. play such a nuanced and poetic Charlie Chaplin and be a Republican? How could Isaiah Washington embody the impassioned cardiothoracic surgeon Preston Burke and be homophobic in reality? How can complete idiots convincingly transform themselves into brilliant savants?

To some extent, we’re all accustomed to the flip side: smart friends who don’t necessarily come across as such online. And since our online personas are most typically expressed through writing, be it long-form blogs, status updates, or Tweets, our choices around language seem to warrant deeper investigation.

I have to admit I’m somewhat of a fascist where it concerns English—proper punctuation and grammar count for a lot with me. I avoid text message/net lingo like the plague, preferring complete words to abbreviations or acronyms—you won’t find me ROFLMAO, FCOL. And while I’m not above a bit of self-flagellation when I discover a misplaced comma or a misspelling in my own work, I’m fine with friends who choose to engage with language in a shorthand-ish way—be it motivated by efficiency, a lack of fingertip dexterity, or a genuine desire to sound like a 14 year old. It’s their prerogative—they could write a proper thesis that would make The Chicago Manual of Style proud—they just choose not to in their everyday exchanges.

So lately, I’ve started to wonder whether my purview is too narrow, whether my staunch refusal to engage in a more plastic use of language has imposed limits on my range. Am I the greying soap opera actor who’s destined to play the same role for the next 30 years to others’ versatile entertainer, able to conquer film, television, theater, with a clothing line and an album in the works? While I was initially relieved to hear that my online and offline voice are one and the same, maybe it isn’t such a good thing after all. There may be comfort in authenticity, but it sure as hell doesn’t sell tickets.

Thank God the Internet’s free.