After seven and a half years, I will be leaving Taiwan. I leave behind some true friends, and a beautiful island I have come to call ‘home’.
It has been a wonderful, deeply formative experience; one that will never leave me.
Don’t think of this as a goodbye, more a 再見.
Leaving design school, it can be really tough to pick a career direction; let alone find a job. Believing ‘change brings opportunity’, after graduating in 2003 I decided to head east and cut my teeth in Asia. Now all I needed was a job, and a destination.
Since I had never been to Asia before (it seems ridiculous to write that now), I lacked any connections or experience in the region. What I did have was a resume that I had been building since leaving high-school that packed a solid range of work experience and internships in some well-known companies. Crucially, a design education that included engineering and management training gave me the advantage of providing something a little different. All this provided a good foundation to start the search.
Leaving Europe. The night before, I had a pain in my stomach unlike anything I had ever felt before … but since the cost of changing my ticket to come home was only €25, I tricked myself into leaving anyway; and almost seven years later, here I am.
Working remotely, it was difficult to get a grasp of the ‘landscape’ of the design industry. I naturally applied through the variety of HR web portals that larger companies maintain, but was not surprised when I did not hear anything back. I browsed design company web sites, pestered my lecturers for alumni contact information, targeted conferences and design festivals looking for speakers and sponsors, and even pored through design award books looking for names. Anything that could give me the crucial ‘@’, that allowed me to crack the e-mail code was considered.
After months of freelancing, interviewing in the UK, and more than a little frustration, I finally hit pay-dirt when an innocuous ad for Asus Computers’ design team in Taipei popped up on Coroflot.com. Phone interviews were followed by a face-to-face in Germany, and before I knew it, I had an offer. I finally hit the ground on May 14th 2004; a solid ten months after graduating. Do not underestimate the power of resourcefulness, patience and perseverance (and even a little cunning).
My first few weeks on the ground were at first a little perplexing.
I struck it lucky with that advert, but a cross-section of my international friends in the region reveals a similar picture; get stuck in with research, and don’t give up. Nothing beats getting your feet on the ground out here, so book that plane ticket (ask your school to see if there are travel or research bursaries). No-one is going to begrudge a meeting with you if you have flown half-way round the world, and it’s likely that if you do meet with other designers out here, your spirit of adventure will likely mean they are more open to help you. You’ll be surprised.
18 months on Asus’ design team was followed by almost three years in design studio, DEM. And this bring me today, working for Dell on the notebook design team, deeply ingrained in the Taiwanese ‘industrial organism’, and a full paid-up member of the Asian Industrial Design Community. More about that next time.
Taking trains to visit vendors in China.
These exchanges seem to happen with some regularity in the Dell design team. So it got us thinking, what didn’t they – or couldn’t they – teach us in design school? What do we wish we knew then, that we think we know now?
Somewhat inspired by the list penned by Architect Michael McDonough, this is what the team came up with. What else would you add?
Working away in the school studio, you’ll have more time and ability to focus on a single task than at any time in your professional design career. Savour this luxury. Instead, you’ll be facing a constant barrage of vague briefs, irrational clients, opaque politics, moving goalposts and suppliers that suddenly can’t deliver. It will be the ability to hop, skip and jump between these obstacles that will keep you sane, and help you thrive.
You’ll discover that the world does not revolve around your final sketch. Compared to the amount invested in your beautiful little scribble, actually getting it to market will take technical, marketing and logistical resources many orders of magnitude greater. You’ll discover you have to develop the ability to speak the tongues of business, of engineers and of countless other functions if you want to keep the little germ of your idea alive. And you will, but before that …
Glasgow School of Art in Scotland where I studied Product Design Engineering … photo borrowed from Flickr user 2plus2is5
The pain of seeing something beautiful rejected by a client is beaten only by seeing it mutate into a hideous zombie, out of your control, and yet entirely your responsibility. You’ll physically revolt as you complete the umpteenth round of revisions, at the behest of someone wearing far worse shoes than you. You’ll mutter under your breath, willing it to die, and loaf around like a teenager, high on hormones that have lain dormant since puberty. If it makes it to market (as these zombie projects inevitably do), the shock of seeing it in the flesh will make you wonder whether you are really cut out for design. Take consolation in the fact that complete annihilation of an idea means potential resurrection.
The hit-rate of products making it all the way will be considerably lower than your expectations. Working in a consultancy, you might see 5% of your projects making it past the finish line. If you are lucky or working somewhere with comically low levels of risk, you might be seeing 50% of your work prevail. Just be ready for constant and repeated failure; but it’s from failure that victory takes flight.
Marketoonist Tom Fishburne nails it in his pithy cartoons.
Not in a bad way, it just means you have not yet fulfilled your potential.
As Ira Glass points out in these magnificent videos, the reason you got into design (or any creative profession) is because you have taste. You’ll float through school, get that first job and have this faint, nagging sensation that what you are working on is not all that good. This will continue for years, until that impeccable taste you have been nurturing is finally matched by your blossoming abilities. I began to feel confident after four or five years, and this perhaps matches Malcom Gladwell’s theories that it takes about 10,000 hours of work to really get good at something – but it’s no race, and some days it feels like I have regressed back to the start.
So be aware that you suck a little bit, use it as fuel to improve, but don’t let it get you down. In fact…
Getting your first full-time design job can be a total pain. I graduated, went traveling for a couple of months, came back and started looking for employment. Amid phases of freelancing, job searches, twiddling my thumbs and interviewing, I ate up about ten months until I started on my first day at grown-up work. But once you are in, you are in, and you will be surprised how quickly you develop networks and relationships to take you to the next level.
Waiting to get something you are proud of in your folio may also take an age. See #2. Some of the work you are doing will be helping to set a direction, which will then turn into real projects with lead-times about the same length as your entire professional career; cell phones and other electronic equipment typically take 9 months to a year to flow from ID model to the shopfront. Factor in aforementioned failures, and you could easily be waiting several years before you get your first product on sale.
So, slow down. Be realistic. And be thankful you don’t work in the pharmaceutical industry where development times can be measured in decades. Unless you are working in the pharmaceutical industry, that is.
Never stop pushing. Write, take photos, sketch, make models; pick your poison and hone your skills. At the same time, don’t be afraid to chase people, hunt for e-mail addresses and generally ignore signs to give up. Nothing worth fighting for ever came easily.
Perhaps because you do something that you love, when things go wrong (and they will) you will hate it. Not just ‘I hate Tuesdays’, or ‘my boss is annoying’. No, this is unfocused rage, ignited by feelings of injustice at a project being canceled, or disconsolation when your software skills mean the 3D model breaks down at midnight before the presentation. You’ll probably become more philosophical with age, and pass the baton of frustration onto some other unsuspecting junior, but don’t completely lose the ability to hate things. It means you care, and this energy will be what spurs you on to greater heights of quality and delivery.
But sorry, if you want a nice, stable job without any troughs, get a job in a bank. Just don’t expect as many peaks either.
It’s easy to look at the single-piece rubber base of a Macbook, the striking interface simplicity of a Flip, or the bold silhouette of Dr. Dre’s headphones and think ‘I could do that’. Masked behind this apparent simplicity are technical challenges, organisational ‘feature creep’ inertia and battles over risk and cost. 90% of good quality is design is in the execution, but sadly this will be out of your control unless you start doing more legwork. From the moment your idea hits paper, it will try its damnedest to become as ugly as possible by the time it first greets customers; you’ll discover that some obscure country requires its regulatory logo to be as large as a postage stamp, that in order to meet recycling criteria it will need to be assembled with large screws, and that the white plastic you wanted to use has been bought-up by Nintendo for the Christmas Wii rush. Facing these these problems, all you can do is draw on your creativity, manage the damage, and learn for the next time.
Like it or not, the ultimate quality of your product will be decided by factors potentially out of your control, often in another part of the world. Get good at speaking in the language of Engineers, suppliers and the people paid to execute your product. Even better, relish the opportunities to dive into technical problems.
When I started university, Minidisc was the ‘in’ music format. When I graduated, we spent the last few weeks together frantically filling Zip drives (ask your Dad about them) with MP3s and staring at the rows of CDs we had all splurged our student loans on. The point is, things change quickly, and the world will be a different place when you graduate. Luckily for you, you are a designer and you will adapt, all while scaring yourself silly.
This also means that the things your lecturers are teaching you in first year become irrelevant by the time you leave. So, focus on learning how to learn, and don’t get too wrapped-up in software and the latest widgets – you can learn that from a book or on the job.
Zip disks once held unimaginable amounts of data, and using one at art school seemed awfully professional. Less so now. Photo from Flickr, by Runs with Scissors.
But you’re not in this for the money, right? Whatever, it will still irk you that while you are beavering away at trying to score a non-paying internship, your friends will be recruited by management consultancies, lured by the bright lights and Audi A4s of accounting, and generally earning a hell of a lot more than you. While this is not likely to change, what I hope you discover after a few years (see #4), is that you are developing a true career for something you love (see #5). And that is worth more than money.
It’s all too tempting to huff and puff at the jobs you deem dull and boring. You want to design the TVs, when all I get to design is the stupid power supply. Poor you!
But here’s the thing; do the so-called bum jobs and you will gain respect amongst your peers, carve new relationships for the role of design, and discover that it’s often these parts that turn up in multiple other areas of the company. Suddenly, the power supply that you originally made for a TV also pops up in other products, and you have planted the seed. So, get in the habit of jumping in with both feet, and people are very likely to take notice.
A friend of mine working at a big European electronics company once took on the challenge of redesigning all their remote controls. What started out in music equipment and televisions, eventually ended up with him building relationships in Medical Devices, and throughout the organisation. Enthusiasm is infectious. Photo by Crouching Badger.
Looking at the designers that comprise the Dell design team, you see a surprising span of disciplines and cultures. While there are those where the design job followed a path set by the design school, there are just as many with backgrounds in architecture, engineering and medical products; there is no one route. What we share, regardless of background, is a set of attitudes, aptitudes and experiences that enable us to deliver world-class products and experiences. As a designer emerging from school, it’s your job to build these blocks and learn how to combine them.
Jonathan Biddle is Lead Industrial Designer at Dell, based in Taipei, Taiwan.
London Pride beer with a bowl of Hong Kong noodles (with one of the chopsticks the wrong way round).
🙂
It took me several hours, multiple attempts, over many months to write that simple sentence, but I think it sums me up. I am, by training, an Industrial Designer and Mechanical Engineer. However I seem to gain a similar amount of pleasure from cooking food, taking photos, delivering a speech or writing my blog. I like to make satisfying things, I gain pleasure in understanding why and how to make things better, and I enjoy thinking about how to work with other people in the pursuit of doing these things.
Why even bother taking the time to write down what it is that I do? After quite a few years in the field, and with a bit of experience under my belt, I wanted to pause and reflect on where I have come from, where I am right now, and perhaps most importantly where I want to go. To do that, I need a foundation, and a set of principles.
So, please indulge me, as I dissect these words; “I strive to create great things, resulting in satisfied people”
First of all, I wanted a statement that avoided common jargon and advertising speak, and that summed up the message in a short, natural-sounding soundbite. For a while I had “I strive to create great products, resulting in satisfied customers“, but my aspirations extend beyond work alone, and include more people than solely customers. Yep, I aim to please, and enjoy delivering the goods for the team, the company … and I vainly hope do good in the world.
I also realise I am not Buckminster Fuller; I don’t think I am trying to create a ‘dent in the universe’. I am a ‘craftsman’ at heart, and I enjoy the sheer act (the verb) of designing things, as many designers do. If I can make some things that I am proud of, and that other people admire, I will be happy. Ego, fed. Somewhat.
But for me, design is as much a cerebral activity. I strive, and this brings a desire to understand, to postulate, improve, optimise and to inspire change. The act of writing about or verbalising the process, communicating the idea, or crafting the pitch is even more agonising than doing the design itself. I might even find it easier to talk about others’ achievements, since there is a reduced bragging ‘overhead’.
And ‘Resulting’? Not sure. I’ll leave that for the next version. I did, however, consider why there was no full stop.
Austin architecture … perhaps adding to my contemplative mood right now.
That’s my kimono open with my tackle dangling in the breeze; so what do you do?
I love mountain biking. It’s ‘my sport’.
At 13 years old, I remember looking with fascination at my neighbour’s bike when I went round to feed the cats – a guy called Paul. Mountain biking seemed glamorous and Californian, and the shiny metal and the expensive parts no doubt contributed to my eventual selection of Industrial Design as a career. I don’t quite remember the turn of events, but somehow I was lucky enough to be bought that very bike – an 18 speed Holdsworth Montana, featuring first-generation Shimano Deore XT shifters and a mud-sucking U-Brake. Clearly, it attracted my Dad too, as he picked up a trashed Saracen Tufftrax frame and built up his own bike.
And so the riding started. Dad and I jaunted off along local lanes, up into the French Alps and all the way to the home of mountain biking in Marin, California.
I upgraded that bike as far as I could, but managed to save up enough money at age 16 to buy myself an Orange Clockwork – featuring 21 speeds from Shimano XT II, Zoom components and tasty Dia-Comp cantilever brakes. That bike, finished in matte black with orange decals was my love affair for endless summers, and was the steed of choice for Britain’s amateur cross-country racers. Indeed, I still ride that bike when I return to the UK – it might even be appreciating in value, based on it’s retro parts.
Then University happened, and while I did ride when I was home, I decided other things took priority while studying. It’s a shame, as there is no doubt that more riding in Scotland would have been fantastic, but you can’t have it all.
It was landing in Taiwan that ignited the flame again. Home of global, high-end bike production, it was inevitable that I would buy something for exploring the hills. I ended up with a Giant NRS, finished in matte black again, and furnished with all the components that I could afford. Most of the guys I was riding with had various descriptions of NRS, and serious skill-building commenced. The rocks and roots and slippery, off-camber cornering call for a certain style of riding, and the NRS gave me a good start – and trip to hospital with a broken wrist. 80mm of travel initially did not fit with my philosophical ‘ideal’ of completely rigid bikes, but the terrain called for shock absorption – and starting off on rigid bikes probably helped my skills, vision and ability to pick lines.
But 80mm was not enough. When the opportunity came along to pick up a Giant Trance 0 at cost (direct from the R&D Director of Giant, no less), I jumped at the offer. Decked in XTR and XT, and with a 100mm Fox fork it provided a great platform for more adventurous riding, and I soon upgraded the fork to an adjustable 100-140 Fox Talas unit. Serious fun.
But the market for 4″ trail bikes was being usurped by competitors, finding a ‘sweet spot’ of 5″ bikes; companies like Santa Cruz refining bikes that really can ‘do it all’.
And this is what I just bought myself.
The arc of my story just delivered 140mm front and back. Full XTR. Fox Talas. 26.5 lb. This baby is going to form the basis of the next few years of entertainment for myself. It’s the bike way above my abilities, if the Trance wasn’t already. It’s had several excursions into the hills and mountains, and getting better every ride. What I am really looking forward to, though, is a weekend of mountain biking in HK in August … still some time to tune and fettle before I leave!
Yum!
Two years at Dell tomorrow – Lordy how time flies. And a deserved change of seats to the coveted spot by the window!
After a long 2.0 hiatus, I am back online and ready to start getting stuck back into writing, photographing and generally interacting.
I have put quite a bit of effort into getting the new blog up and running – now on the WordPress system – and this coincides with my series of flights to Austin, via Tokyo and Chicago. I am off to spend some time with my new team, and get up to speed with how things are done in the big city.
And just to prove how much I am looking forward to the new system, here is a photo taken with my iPhone, as I wait to take flight.
Punch it, Chewie!
The door was locked.
The cats, beyond the door sounded like they had just knocked something over. “Silly cats.” Taking out the key and turning it in the lock, I didn’t get the usual three-stage series of weighted clicks; instead just a solitary single rotation, signifying a flatmate was home.
“Hello!”
No answer, I walk into my room, but catch a glance of Abe’s. “He must be doing washing.” Clothes everywhere. Cupboards open. Something is not right. Thoughts of Abe or his girlfriend in a frenzied argument wander through my brain, as I pass into my room and see a symmetrical display of laundry. Something is definitely not right.
The penny drops at about the same speed as my jaw as I glance round my room. Lenses and camera intact. Passport strewn on the bed. Computer accounted for. I run back into Abe’s room; again I see his camera equipment and computer, and am even more confused. The trifecta of laundry-themed rooms ends in Armando’s, as I run past on the way to the living room, and awaiting brand-new Macbook Pro. What is going on?
Abe. No reply. A quick word with Armando, and he cuts short dinner to run home. Obviously avoiding touching anything at all, I do a quick second sweep of the rooms – the only stuff missing seems to be Abe’s computer and our beloved three-legged cat, Tripod, who is likely hiding in a dark corner somewhere. Armando arrives – pennies and jaws dropping all around.
“What’s the number for emergency services in Taiwan? … 012?”
I try Abe again. No response, so I call Natasha and ruin one more evening.
Time to dive into emergency Chinese, and I dial. The guy on the end of the phone is calm and positive, and he dispatches a policeman to arrive in the next few minutes. Just before hanging up, he compliments me on my Chinese; and even under such stress my ego still pauses to be stroked before I shake myself out of it. Meanwhile, Armando is doing his own sweep of the house, shocked that he had only left home an hour previously at 6:50. We play out the scenario – the door, the lights, the stuff left lying around – nothing quite making sense. I grab the camera, take some shots of each room, and run a video around while narrating what I remember.
Laundry
My dirty laundry
Armando’s
Abe one more time. Or maybe two. His phone is clearly off.
The first cop arrives, and I rattle off what happened to him. This shit clearly happens all the time, and he calmly listens to our story while he wanders around and takes photos of the most pertinent details. He sits me down and I sign some forms that seem to allow detectives to come in and do a formal inspection. Switching between his Nokia cell phone and radio, he radios for backup, and Armando and I look up to see the househould Hulk cookie jar, well, ajar; it’s head and shoulders telling the story of a very polite burglar taking a peek inside and returning the lid.
The phone rings. A conversation completely out of context is difficult enough to grasp at the best of times, and it was only after a minute that I realised it was the police call centre asking to see if I was ‘satisfied’ with the timely service so far? Satisfied? What… yeah sure. Thanks. Slightly knocked sideways, it seemed all the more natural to strike up a conversation about our cats, while watching the policeman edging towards Datou. A few photos are collected on his official camera; and in mild disbelief I watch as he takes out his cell phone and adds a couple for himself. Are we looking for a cat burglar here?
Datou has a new friend.
More police begin arriving, and questions begin to be asked of the likely location of the other keys. Abe is out of contact, Natasha is on the way, and I don’t even have the cell phone of the landlord. Raised eyebrows, inspection of ID card etc etc. This is getting a bit frustrating.
The CSI dude turns up, and he begins inspecting the main door lock. No joy. Then, his eye wanders over to the window opening into the living room; a brief flash of the light and it’s clear that’s where they came in. Bars block the windows of most houses in Taiwan, and ours is no exception. The only surprise is how easily they prised the bars – with an adjustable spanner, no less. So, let me ask you – if you can get through the bars with such a crude tool, and the bars themselves work as a ladder, what is the freaking point. Strike one for Taiwan. Not in our favour is the fact that we often leave that window open to allow air in, and it was unlikely that it was locked – lesson learnt.
Clueso
Breaking and entering
Prints are taken on the window, and … Hulk. Gloves. They came and went through the same place, which probably explains the scuffling sound when I arrived. We chat briefly about what to do, and his advice sounds like it is coming from a man that has seen this way, way too often. The adrenaline starts to fade as he leaves, and we assess the damage. Tasha arrives, slightly breathless.
Yes – Hulk. Please take him in for more questioning, by all means…
It’s quite clear straight off the bat that we got away amazingly lightly. A few hundred dollars in American cash, and all the expensive equipment and travel documents are still intact, as far as we can see. But still one cat missing.
Tripod is timid cat at the best of times, but she was not to be found in any of her typical hiding places. I shine a light quickly outside, and nothing. I go and get my camera, and set the flash on, hoping to capture some reflective eyes; nothing. Did they really steal her?
Another shot with the torch, and the other guys hear a loud “meow”. Tripod, except for Gizmo-like sound effects simply does not meow, ever, and I am in disbelief that it is her. Datou, on the other hand, makes a bolt for the window, clearly in distress – what a hero! Some more flash photographs taken down the alleyway, and sure enough it is her, lurking behind an air conditioning unit. I grab a torch, throw on some shoes and run out of the door, with Natasha in hot pursuit.
Safe!
The rear of the apartment building is dark, dim, and not easy to access. I catch sight of her, and she scampers off (with three legs it’s hard to do much else), and I worry that we are about to start a bizarre game of mouse and cat. But I corner her, and manage to pick her shivering body up. Safe. And I pass her up to Armando, manhandling herself up the bars and into the warm light of the apartment.
Covered in the muck of a million scooters, I head back to join Natasha and walk back around to the apartment entrance. Call Abe a dozen or more times. Talk at length about what the hell just happened, and wait for his arrival. And it was about this point that we realised just ho
w hungry we were. The adrenalin surge comes to an abrupt stop.
We didn’t need to wait to long for Abe to come back. Without wanting to get too dramatic, we walked him through the house, and it was clear that he was as shocked as the rest of us. Turns out his phone had run out of power. It’s at times like this that I realise my daily Chinese skills have definite limits – vocabulary that Abe is talented and dedicated enough to learn. Still, we got through, and in the end what more is there to say? We were amazingly lucky.
We’ll be lodging the full report with the police tomorrow, but until then I have rather an important gathering to attend – the departure of Nick Chaney from Taiwan. But I’ll leave that for the next post.