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.

You may not have ever used this exact term before, but I'm sure that most of you know what it is. On his blog over the weekend, Witold Rybczynski wrote about a new architectural term he just learned called: "multiple expression." What it refers to is the use of different architectural styles on a long facade in order for the building to appear as if it's multiple smaller ones.

And today, I would say that this is largely viewed as a positive thing. Typically it is done to "break up a massing" or create a "fine-grained retail experience." In fact, you'll find things like this in some design guidelines. Here's one from Toronto's mid-rise performance standards:

This doesn't explicitly stipulate that architects should use "multiple expressions", but it does suggest that long repetitive facades are suboptimal, and that they should be broken up. But Witold's view is the opposite. He argues that this "bespeaks a lack of confidence, a poverty of the imagination." And he gives the example of Park Crescent in London, designed by architect John Nash.

It's long (well over 60m) and it's repetitive:

Perhaps a good counter example to this would be Mirvish Village in Toronto, which was designed by Henriquez Partners and which has been largely celebrated as a way of creating the feeling of fine-grained urbanism in a larger master-planned development. Here it is on Google, still under construction:

So what is it that makes Mirvish Village a generally desirable outcome in today's planning environment, even though I suspect that most people would still appreciate what John Nash did on Park Crescent back in the early 1800s? Are we saying -- with our guidelines -- that we like Park Crescent, but that we shouldn't do that ever again today?

And to what extent do age and architectural style play into these opinions? Are long repetitive facades over 60m acceptable as long as the architectural style is "Regency" and the buildings aren't too tall? Is modernism the problem? Because here's another example from London: The Alexandra and Ainsworth Estate.

Built in the 1970s, it is a Brutalist housing estate with a largely repetitive design, and even a slight curve reminiscent of Park Crescent:

Does this have confidence and imagination? Witold would probably say no.

In the end, I guess the answer is that it all depends. Guidelines are just that -- guides. They are not set in stone rules that must never be broken under any circumstances. That would be to reduce architecture to a strict science, and there's clearly also an art component to building great cities.

"Multiple expression" is usually done to create the feeling of finer-grained urbanism. But sometimes -- if you're old and regal-looking enough -- the opposite can be okay too.

Is this a true or false statement?

"It is through media, of course, that we primarily consume architecture.”

Witold Rybczynski recently spoke about this on his blog. Initially he thought it was a preposterous statement. But then he begrudgingly accepts that it is actually the case today. This in turn leads to an interesting distinction between what it means to experience architecture versus consume architecture.

The former takes more time. You have to do laborious things like actually be in the space, walk around it, and generally just experience what it's like to be there. Consuming, on the other hand, is much easier. Maybe it's as simple as an image in your social feed that you forward to a friend so that they can in turn respond with a single fire emoji. Cool. Consumption done.

Naturally this distinction translates into different ways of thinking about architecture. In the words of Witold, when you're a consumer of architecture, you want to be "amused, titillated, and entertained." You don't have time for subtleties -- things like tactile materials, historical references, light, and shadow. This is about consuming architecture.

Now, I'm not sure if Witold has given any thought to what web3 and a mixed-reality future will mean for architecture, but it's an obvious and interesting question. Intuitively, one would think that the more time we spend with digitally mediated experiences, the less time we will have to experience architecture the way nature intended it. Though maybe that's not the way to think about this.

I tend to be a bit more rosy about the current state of affairs and the future than Witold, but here are two points. One, consumption allows more people to interact with a piece of architecture. In fact, before writing this post I consumed Studio Gang's recently completed project in Hawaii. It was nice, and maybe one day I will also experience it. That, I agree, would be even nicer.

Two, architecture is always a product of the zeitgeist at the time. Part of its job is to reflect culture and, for better or for worse, speak to who we are as a society. And so if architecture has become effective at reflecting our current milieu, isn't it doing exactly what it is supposed to be doing?