By Jennifer Burke
Typefaces, colors, menus, buttons . . . Few of us pause to consider the "user interface" that appears on our computer screens when we hit the startup button and launch the software programs on which we rely. And that's just the way it should be.
If the user interface -- the orchestration of visual elements that provides the road map for our interaction with the computer -- is well designed, it should provide a seamless experience that makes us feel right at home without thinking twice.
Amongst user interface elements is the integral component called the icon. This simplified, stylized little picture quickly conveys its meaning without the use of words -- the scissors for cutting, the file folder for organizing, the trash can for tossing. These distilled yet instantly recognizable symbols allow us to bypass alphabetical language and navigate more efficiently in the face of information overload. Icons are so indispensable that they have been employed through time by every communicator from the cavewoman to the airport designer.
Unlike our alphabetical language, which relies on the learned device of reading strings of abstract memorized symbols, icons bridge the communication gap engendered by different languages and education levels. Who among us has not been grateful for icons when confronted by the need to arrive at a decision quickly and accurately? Remember that time when you, equipped with no working knowledge of Italian, were faced with Signore and Signori on restroom doors of that trendy, authentic restaurant?
An icon's success is measured by its ability to easily invoke the appropriate association: Hey, that's a magnifying glass; I've used one of those; this is how I get a closer look. Hence, the challenge in creating a meaningful icon lies not only in making the subject matter recognizable in a very small space, but also in carefully selecting imagery that is easily associated with something in our shared realm of experience.
Unfortunately for icon designers, the latter challenge is the moving target that training, professional experience, and sheer talent cannot sufficiently address. As our world rapidly evolves, we are introduced to new ways of doing things and new equipment for doing them. Thus many currently popular icons harken to increasingly anachronistic objects and concepts that are rooted in collective memory rather than actual experience.
While you watch your computer screen's little wristwatch (or -- hello troglodytes -- hourglass) go through its machinations, keep in mind that many children today don't understand the concept of analog time, having seldom been exposed to a clock with hour and minute hands. To them, time is a parade of numerical readouts. They may learn by rote that the wristwatch's turning hands signify the passage of time, but its effectiveness as an icon is diminished by the fact that it is not a part of their own experience. Similarly, while many software programs make use of an office metaphor with icons of papers, pencils, and files, many more modern offices are now paperless, penciless, and fileless. And, by the way, when was the last time Signora wore a skirt?
So there may come a time when most icons are so remotely tied to the world as we know it that they cease to function as originally intended (that is, as quick and associative universal reads) and begin to function as yet another language, one based in common agreement, memorization, and conditioning -- just like our alphabetical language. This works in the short term while the combination of collective memory and a finite number of icons keeps this language manageable. But we best steel ourselves for gibberish a generation or so hence, as icons proliferate in number and that old rotary phone, for example, is still being trotted out to represent "call." While Gramps takes a memory walk down BUtterfield8 lane and you try to remember whether Mom lives in 415, 510, or 925, our children will no doubt be interacting with something that doesn't require numbers, letters, a dial, or even pushbuttons to make a connection.
At this point the philosopher might suggest that since there are fewer and fewer analogies from the physical world that differentiate our experiences, the choice of imagery for icons is limited. Doesn't just one push of a button or click of a mouse represent most of the actions required to address our disparate daily tasks? What do "cut" and "paste" actually mean where scissors or glue have never been? These rhetorical riddles, like their cousin the Zen koan (What is the sound of one hand clapping?), are best left to armchair philosophers and coffeehouse koanheads. But I will proffer that, as we watch the history of linguistics unfold before our eyes, it is the icon designer's job to constantly test and challenge the viability of a particular icon as a communication device. By remaining, like the Zen Bhuddist, in the awareness of the moment, the designer has a chance to avoid the pitfalls of rote and upkeep the icon's viability as a form of communication.
And next time you face those icon-labeled restroom doors that spare you the indignity of boldly going where no man has gone before, remember to give silent thanks to icon designers.
© Industry San Francisco. All rights reserved. Article content may be quoted only with attribution.