This is a longstanding joke / criticism among nerds:

Namely, it is the fact that the charging port for Apple's Magic Mouse is on its bottom, meaning, when it's being charged, you can't use it. This would be annoying if you ignored the low battery warnings and let it die in the middle of working on something critically important. And so lots of people think it's a ridiculous design. But is it? Here's an excerpt from a recent post by John Gruber of Daring Fireball:

Yes, with the charging port on the mouse’s belly, you cannot use it while it charges. There are obvious downsides to that. But those positing the Magic Mouse as absurd act as though Apple doesn’t know this. Of course Apple knows this. Apple obviously just sees this as a trade-off worth making. Apple wants the mouse to be visually symmetric, and they want the top surface to slope all the way down to the desk or table top it rests upon. You can’t achieve that with an exposed port.

This is an argument that feels right. Apple is not the kind of company that makes arbitrary design decisions. And the deliberate decision they have made is that a more perfect design is more important than solving for the few instances where a user was negligent and forgot to charge their mouse. Gruber goes on to say, the "charging port placement is an opinionated design, not an absurd design."

But this then raises another question: Is opinionated design the right approach?

For well over a century, one of the maxims of good design has been that form should follow function. In other words, the shape and design of an object should relate to its intended use. And so, in this instance, if "function" involves using the mouse while it's being charged then maybe, by this criteria, it isn't a good design. Then again, it is a wireless mouse. Maybe Apple doesn't want you to use it while it's charging.

Let's consider another design object that you touch with your hand: Walter Gropius' famous door handle.

Originally designed in 1922, the simple design consisted of a square bar and a cylinder. And its job was to communicate to you that, in order to use it, you should grab the cylindrical part, and not anywhere else. So on this level, the design was responding to its intended use, to our hands. Grab here. But is this truly an example of form following function? It's debatable.

Architect and professor Witold Rybczynski, who I would say generally isn't a fan of modernism, has argued that it's not. His critique of the overall Bauhaus movement -- of which Gropius was the founder -- was that it was actually a design school dedicated to "form follows predetermined aesthetics rather than form follows function."

In some ways, he's right. You can tell when something came out of the Bauhaus, just as you can tell when something is from Apple. There's a particular aesthetic and stubbornness to maintaining it. That's why the Magic Mouse can't be charged while in use and why Apple, equally famously, clung to the simplicity of a single-button mouse. Two just didn't look as nice.

But I see this as an honorable quality. Having an opinion is better than not having one. And there are lots of objects out there without one.

Late 19th century and early 20th century architecture and industrial design is known for the axiom, "form follows function." I think of the German Bauhaus School when I hear this, but supposedly it can be attributed to American architect Louis Sullivan. Either way, it was meant to represent a functionalist approach to architecture and design, which was, as is often the case, a reaction to what had come before it.

It was Modernist architects eschewing decorative elements or what was referred to at the time as "ornament." If it didn't serve a functional purpose, it was to be removed. Nothing was to be superfluous. And similarly, if the function of something didn't change, there was no need to change its form.

Of course, if it was truly all about function, one could argue that there should have been a great deal of variation in the resulting forms. But instead, the designs that emerged out of schools, such as the Bauhaus, are some of the most recognizable in the world. That is true even to this day.

Which is why I think this is a great line from Witold Rybczynski (taken from a recent post about the book iBauhaus): "It is also a quintessentially Bauhaus example of form follows predetermined aesthetics rather than form follows function." Ouch. The difference here is that Witold obviously isn't a fan of the Bauhaus or of Modernism, whereas this period of time is what inspired me the most as a student of architecture.

Photo by Marina Reich on Unsplash

Back in 2014, Witold Rybczynski (who taught at Penn while I was there) wrote an article in The New York Times Style Magazine called The Franchising of Architecture. In it, he argued against the trend of “starchitecture.” 

Here’s an excerpt:

“Architecture, however, is a social art, rather than a personal one, a reflection of a society and its values rather than a medium of individual expression. So it’s a problem when the prevailing trend is one of franchises, particularly those of the globe-trotters: Renzo, Rem, Zaha and Frank. It’s exciting to bring high-powered architects in from outside. It flatters a city’s sense of self-importance, and fosters the perception of a place as a creative hotbed. But in the long run it’s wiser to nurture local talent; instead of starchitects, locatects.”

Following this, James Russell (a longtime architecture critic) wrote a searing rebuttal called The Stupid Starchitect Debate. He called Witold’s story a piece of utter laziness and urged us to stop whining about celebrity architecture.

Here’s an excerpt:

“Celebrity architecture is not a franchise (McDonalds is a franchise), but branding. Branding is repellently ubiquitous, and it is pure romanticism to think architecture can escape a trend that so powerfully guides spending. A friend became a museum director in part because building a new building was part of the job. I thought he would bring up an energetic young local talent, but he ended up with an international big name because, he said, only the stars would bring in the donors. That’s sad, but emblematic of an era when private wealth builds the cultural facilities the public won’t pay for. That’s why celebrity architects are brands—a title none of them sought, though all are adept at exploiting. Even wealthy, sophisticated trustees like to bask in the glow of a name that’s got cachet, rather than look hard for someone with obvious talent but who is not well known.”

This is a fascinating debate. And I would be curious to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.

My own view is that, yes, it is wonderfully romantic to think that we can go back to a period of time when London architecture was designed only by English architects, Paris architecture designed only by French architects, and so on. But the world has changed. The genie is out of the bottle on that one.

I also don’t think that brand needs to be a dirty word in the context of architecture. There’s value in brand equity. And everything can be construed as a brand. This blog is part of my personal brand. That’s our world.

The problem I have with this line of thinking is when architecture gets reduced to style, to form, to a veneer. Architecture is an opportunity to solve problems and respond to real (including local) constraints. That also creates value – arguably much more value. And I don’t believe that only “locatects” have the ability to respond to that challenge.

There’s so much more that can be said about this topic.