Wandering through Rome’s MAXXI museum, a palace of sleek modernity dreamed up by the ineffably chic Zaha Hadid, I felt like a hot dog vendor at a vegan retreat. The museum, with its sophisticated curves and avant-garde flair, seemed like the epitome of contemporary architectural elitism. Yet, amid this monument to modern aesthetics, I stumbled upon an exhibit on Alvar Aalto’s design process for MIT's Baker House, a display so charmingly out of place it felt like running into your high school science teacher at a nightclub.

Aalto's exhibit wasn’t just an array of blueprints; it was a conspiratorial whisper from the man himself, suggesting, “Want to see how I turned practical choices into high art?” His models and schematics were festooned with labels like “excellent,” “good,” “fair,” and “poor.” These quaint tags, reminiscent of the cryptic comments your great aunt might make at Thanksgiving, held multitudes. “Excellent” in sunlight accessibility didn’t just mean you could grow a basil plant on your windowsill; it implied a perfect slant of sunlight that made even your IKEA furniture look like it belonged in Architectural Digest.

The first schematic I encountered showed various dormitory designs, each with different evaluations for sunlight, views, and privacy. It was like a Tinder profile for buildings, with each diagram offering a promise of architectural compatibility. The tags of "excellent" and "fair" felt like dating app superlatives, offering a quick glimpse into the potential happiness within those walls. The top-rated designs weren’t just about aesthetics but about how the space felt—warm, inviting, a place where you could envision yourself living your best life.

The model of Baker House itself stood flaunting its curves like a beauty pageant contestant. These sinuous lines weren’t just architectural vanity but meticulously calculated to enhance living by optimizing sunlight, views, and privacy. It was as if Aalto were saying, “Yes, buildings can have curves and brains.” As I looked at the model, it became clear Aalto wasn’t just arranging shapes; he was orchestrating an experience, fine-tuning a habitat designed for living, not merely existing.

But why did Aalto choose to present design variations with simple labels rather than with numeric data? Perhaps he understood that most people resonate more with stories than with numbers. By translating complex data into relatable terms, Aalto made his architecture accessible. It’s like a tech company describing a smartphone's battery life as "lasting all day" rather than in milliampere-hours. This method didn’t just simplify; it enriched the data, making it more relevant and understandable.

For instance, when Aalto described sunlight as "excellent" instead of giving us a lumen count, he added a layer of human relevance to the data. This language conjured up an experience, a quality that numbers alone couldn’t express. It wasn’t about reducing the importance of data but about elevating it to something we could all grasp. Both numbers and words are human inventions—they only work when they mean something to us.

Yet, translating complex data into broad qualitative strokes isn’t without its challenges. It’s like cooking a sophisticated meal; while the average diner might focus on the overall taste, chefs and culinary enthusiasts crave detailed information about ingredients and techniques. In fields where precision is paramount, this method might simplify too much, potentially glossing over nuances critical for expert decision-making.

As I walked through the rest of the exhibit, a thought struck me: What if Alvar Aalto were to redesign how we present data today? What if we emphasized how designs made us feel rather than overwhelming us with precise technicalities? Could this shift toward a more narrative form of presentation reduce our cognitive load and enhance our understanding and appreciation of the designs around us?

Inspired by Aalto’s work, it’s refreshing to remember that the essence of good design—whether in architecture, UX, or even hot dog vending—lies in its ability to connect with people on a level that goes beyond mere functionality. It’s about blending the richness of language with the precision of numbers, creating a dialogue that engages, informs, and resonates. Perhaps in our data-driven world, bringing a touch of narrative magic back into how we discuss and evaluate our surroundings isn’t just nice; it’s essential for truly understanding the impact of our creations. After all, Aalto was speaking to people who would decide what life would be like for students living in this new building.

Stepping out into the sun, I laughed at myself for being so curious about a bunch of schematics. Maybe I’d start rating my own life choices - Aalto-style. “Excellent breakfast. fair morning commute. poor patience with coworkers.”

As I headed to a café, I thought, “If only life’s challenges could be simplified with a few well-placed labels.” Then, a bird promptly pooped right on my arm. “Poor luck,” I muttered, ... “excellent timing."

The MAXXI in Rome [video]

Copyright © 2024 by Paul Henry Smith

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