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One student floated a computer-printed image of the château inside a traditional French jelly jar--an updated "snow dome." (photo: S. Korotovskaya) |
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| Last summer, designer Constantin Boym traveled to France to teach
a week-long workshop sponsored by the Vitra Design Museum with
his wife and collaborator, Laurene Leon. What follows are his
notes and reflections of their memorable trip. by Constanin Boym August 4 When we arrive at the airport in Basel, the home city of the Vitra Design Museum, we are confronted by three distinct exits: one doorway leads to France; the other, to Germany; the third, to Switzerland. Later that evening in our hotel room, as I channel surf from Italian to French to German and then to the omnipresent CNN, I contemplate the New Europe. This vision of a unified continent, which seemed so remote only a few years ago, is actually turning into reality. There are already standardized passports, and designs for the common currency, ECU, have been unveiled (disappointing!). A common language has emerged, too. Not surprisingly, it is English--thanks to computers, global advertising, and American movies. Today, they even speak English in Paris! For many Europeans, the prospect of a homogeneous culture is, of course, a horrifying proposition. As economics and politics peacefully merge, culture remains the last bastion of national identity. Like an endangered species, culture requires protection and preservation. In France, for example, new laws safeguarding the nation's language and cinema have been issued. August 5 From Paris, we take the TGV to an old farm in the southwest of France, the site of the workshops. This high-speed train--another symbol of the New Europe--has already tied Europe and the British Isles into one conveniently connected territory. As we glide through the French countryside, I think about an appropriate project for the workshop: It may be time to acknowledge the new importance of culture in design curricula. Cultural information, when made part of any design, adds value to our objects as well as communicating our differences. In this sense, such design can function as a tool of mutual understanding and peace. To get to the farm, called Boisbuchet, we must ride in a small van for an hour, alongside bright yellow patches of Van Gogh's sunflower fields. Finally, we catch a glimpse of our destination. The place is large and impressive: a proud château surrounded by fields; here and there we notice stone farm buildings, beautiful in their rustic simplicity. The workshop program is the brainchild of Alexander von Vegesack, the director of the Vitra Design Museum and the owner of this striking property. Under his guidance, the farm is being transformed into a most original design school. In effect, Boisbuchet is an embodiment of the spirit of the New Europe. Like the Continent, it is both old and young: old infrastructure, young ideas and aspirations. The idea behind the program is to disregard every boundary: students and teachers come from all over the globe, and the workshops are as cross-disciplinary as possible. For example, this particular summer, workshops are offered in design, architecture, performance art, landscaping, and the making of musical instruments. The most unusual aspect of Boisbuchet, though, is its relaxed and hedonistic atmosphere: a thoroughly European combination of intense study and good food, ample wine, sunbathing, swimming in the lake, and nighttime partying. At last, we meet our students, a group of 11 young people. They come from Germany, Italy, England, France. Like us, an interior designer flew in from New York; the woman who came from Prague endured an 18-hour bus ride. To my surprise, I run into young people from Russia and Ukraine. It's exciting and still strange to see them traveling around so freely and casually, as the memory of the Iron Curtain fades away. Despite the casual setting, everything at the school is very well organized; there are as many staff members as there are students, and at day's end we gather around the long table for our first communal dinner. Welcome to camp! August 6 For the class, we ask the students to design souvenirs. They are intrigued. Indeed, such a project is rarely offered in a design course. While souvenirs are ubiquitous, they are also marginal objects. They can be found in everyone's home, including a designer's own, yet they're effectively excluded from the professional design discourse. There is a great deal to learn from souvenirs, I explain. We can explore how they encode and communicate messages, we can study what gives them their populist appeal. Most important, souvenirs can be seen as prime examples of culture-related products. For this international group of students, I see our days together as an opportunity to reflect on the highly charged issue of cultural identity. To get started, Laurene and I invite students to go wandering about Boisbuchet, to look, to sketch, to feel the spirit of the place. Designing a keepsake is not easy, they soon learn. As a souvenir's "function" is primarily an emotional one, the design process applied to it should rely on feelings, and these are hard to sum up with functional "bubble diagrams." Surprisingly for August, it rains all day, and by evening a gloomy mood settles in. August 7 To continue our research, we take a trip to nearby Confolens. This small medieval town is far off the beaten path, yet as home to an annual world music and dance festival it has several souvenir shops. It is hard to escape the town's charm and atmosphere, but what's in the stores doesn't reflect this. There appears to be an insurmountable schism between questionable local "production" and the design objects we're encouraging the students to create. I am reminded of the "aesthetic shiver" that architect Denise Scott Brown mentions in Learning from Las Vegas. So it is with souvenirs; in order to start learning from them, one has to be able to see a possible creative transformation--which can occur only through personal emotional attachment. To this end, I ask everybody to find one object in Confolens, something that touches them. When we reconvene in our study room after a luxurious two-and-a-half-hour lunch at a local restaurant, we look at the students' finds. There is a jar of honey, an intricate piece of bark from a tree, a cute thimble from a souvenir shop, an unusual sugar packet from a café. Independent of each other, three students bring the same thing: small flags picked from the countless strings of flags that flutter over the streets of the town to celebrate the festival. It is curious how well these small pieces of paper and wood combine the unmistakable quality of a souvenir with the clean look of a designed object. This could be the beginning of a project! Everyone is getting restless, ready to work. August 8 The day begins and ends in the shop, where each student attempts to make a model. This is hard. The shop essentially is an open-air shed, equipped with an assortment of ancient tools and machines. A small furnace for aluminum sand-casting attracts some students' attention. Most of our modelmaking materials are found objects, remainders of some past projects, odd pieces and shapes. The one thing that's in abundance is our enthusiasm. I make my students' lives more difficult by asking them to produce their designs in triplicate--to clarify the issues and limitations of mass production. I explain the distinction between mementos and souvenirs. A memento is an individually saved object, often unique, and has a deeply personal meaning: a pretty rock or shell from a favorite spot, a ticket stub from a memorable concert. True souvenirs, on the other hand, are supposed to be popularly recognized and accessible, and they are commercially produced, often in great quantities. We concentrate on this category. The late afternoon sun hits the shed directly. We alleviate the intense heat with periodic runs to the nearby lake, but once we're back in the shed we're as hot as before. Next time, Laurene says, we'd be better off designing beach equipment. We work long after dinner, under a few spotlights that cast giant, grotesque shadows. August 9 Inspired by some already discernible results of the project, we decide to improvise an exhibition. A large barn near the sleeping quarters is promptly transformed into a gallery-souvenir shop. Laurene points out that the hay bales would make perfect display pedestals. Indeed, hay bales are remarkable souvenirs in and of themselves: their shape and structure traditionally differ from one region of Europe to another, but just like everything else, this difference is being gradually homogenized with a more efficient and uniform technology. The rows of rectangular hay bales look strangely abstract in the high-ceilinged, darkened space. By late afternoon, the exhibition is open, and students are ready for a review. I think of the introductory passage in the Vitra booklet promoting the program: "The aim is not to create a perfect 'product' to take home with you afterwards, but to gain an insight into different design processes." Well, the booklet was right. Not every object is presentable, and a few did not come out at all. Yet everyone agrees that the process we went through was the most interesting and challenging aspect of their entire experience here. It was not easy for some to put aside considerations of function. But in the world of souvenirs--in the new paradigm of culture-informed design--a successful object is equal parts communication, emotion, and fun. One student made oversize coins of sand-cast aluminum that are heavy and pleasant to handle. This mock currency of Boisbuchet is decorated with cryptic symbols, well understood by our group. Almost everyone inadvertently collects coins, so we can easily relate to these objects--and they instantly disappear when the designer offers them as true souvenirs to the group. Another student has updated the "snow dome": a computer-printed glimpse of the château, floating inside a traditional French jar intended for preserves--a souvenir within a souvenir. The flags from Confolens have been transformed into a notepad, die-cut in a flag shape and made of paper of different colors and textures--an eminently practical if understated souvenir of the town's festival. As we talk about each project, awareness blossoms of the unlimited potential of this little-explored product category. Our week-long exercise only scratches the surface. Which is exactly what we had hoped for. By happy coincidence, the last night of our workshop is the first night of the Confolens festival. Our whole group heads there together, and we celebrate late into the evening. August 10 As we pack our bags, Boisbuchet prepares for the week ahead. Some of the new students have arrived, and the teacher is expected any minute. He is the celebrated Italian designer Michele de Lucchi, who is bringing his wife and their four children. His project? To search for a new sense of beauty in the outdoor setting of the school, and to express it in some symbolic objects. During the coming winters, when there are no students around, the school plans to do some major construction with funds secured from the European Community. The big barn will become an auditorium, fit for theatrical performances. (There is talk of Robert Wilson and his troupe developing plays and performing them here.) The château will reopen as the school's museum, and the antiquated shop will be relocated and refurbished (hooray!). Most important, the farm itself will be modernized, so it will be able to sustain the school and provide for its unique country environment. But the summer workshops will never grow into a full-fledged design institution. Rather, the school aims to secure its reputation as a happening place, both a playground and catalyst for experimental and spontaneous design activity. In previous decades, similar experimental workshops often played the role of the hothouse for budding design movements. The Vitra program is only two years old. Here's to many more long, hot summers! Constantin Boym is an industrial designer who lives in New York City. |
Keywords:
Vitra