There is an old Japanese tale about a poor student who was away from home and living at an inn. One evening, as his stomach grumbled, he smelled the briny scent of fish coming from the inn’s kitchen as the innkeeper made his dinner. He wandered his way outdoors to the kitchen’s window, and sat below the sill with his meager meal of rice, hoping that the scent of the fish might improve his paltry dish. The student did this for many weeks, until one night the innkeeper spotted him and became furious. He grabbed the youngster by the arm and dragged him to stand before the local magistrate, demanding payment from the student for the scent of the fish that he had stolen.
“This is most curious,” said the magistrate, who thought for a moment and then came to a conclusion. “How much money do you have with you?” he asked the student, who then produced three gold coins from his pocket.
The student feared that he would be forced to pay the innkeeper the last of his money, but the magistrate continued. “Please,” he said, “put all the coins in one of your hands.” The student did as he was asked. “Now, pour those coins into your other hand.” The student dumped the coins. With that, the magistrate dismissed the innkeeper and student’s case.
The innkeeper yelped in confusion, “How can this be settled? I’ve not been paid!”
“Yes, you have,” replied the magistrate. “The smell of your fish has been repaid by the sound of his money.”
The Japanese have many tales about this eighteenth century magistrate’s rulings, but the story of the stolen smell is the most often told. The student, despite not paying for the fish, was able to benefit from its scent, enjoying what amounted to an accidental gift from the innkeeper that added flavor to his bowl of rice. I feel similar to the student when enjoying the creative work that most inspires me. I’m working on my own projects, eating my humble bowl of rice, while reading, watching, and using the best that humankind has to offer. I’m awkwardly stringing together words into sentences, and then I get to have the wind knocked out of me by the first paragraph of Moby Dick. I get to be in that work’s presence, to sit under the window and steal the scent of the things I love, in order to improve what I make.
Stop and look around you. How much of your environment is created? How many things that surround you are designed by someone? From the wheat-pasted posters on the street, to the octagonal stop signs on the road; the overstuffed arms of the sofa where you sit, to the milky consistency of the page on which these words are printed, or maybe even the bezel of the device on which you’re reading this. All of these choices are designed, and they all coalesce into the experience of this moment. Most designers realize that much of our lives are designed, but we don’t often stop to think that the work’s widespread presence turns our design choices into significant contributions to the ambiance of life. The lesson of the innkeeper’s story is that the things we make transcend commerce and ownership – they are an experience to have rather than an object to own or a service to access. There is an aspect to the work’s value that can not be described in dollars and cents.
Typically, the success of a design is defined by the economics of the work. Good design is profitable, because finances help see that design endures. But as stated earlier, design is equal parts art and commerce. The dual nature implies that there are opportunities and values in the practice that transcend commerce to enter into a space of collaboration and value creation that can’t be captured on a ledger. Design seeks to create experiences in addition to being profitable, so the price and profit of the work represent only part of its value. I think the most fitting way to think about the best works of design are as gifts.