design

The Dock

25 years ago today, Steve Jobs revealed the new face of macOS: Aqua.

I didn’t see that demo, but I remember the moment I first saw Aqua. My dad showed me some screenshots in the New York Times one evening. I couldn’t stop looking at it—I’d never seen anything like it. I’d been fascinated with user interface #design for years at that point, and it hadn’t occurred to me that a computer could look like that. (I was still in high school.)

Former #Apple engineer James Thomson remembers that moment for a different reason: he was responsible for a pretty visible piece of Mac OS X. The Dock was one of the most notable new pieces of UI furniture in Mac OS X, replacing the top-right Finder menu that let you switch between active programs and making it a lot easier to get to your most frequently used apps. If anything melted down when Steve was showing off the Dock, Thomson’s name was on it.

The Aqua screenshots I saw were not from that demo, since I remember the Dock looking like the Dock we know: icons sitting on top of the white pinstriped background, rather than each icon having its own background. (I distinctly remember the magnification effect.) Nevertheless, the pre-Public Beta dock was interesting in its own right. Anyone who’s familiar with NeXTSTEP will recognize the influence.

I always enjoy these little flickers of how things happened behind the curtain, but I’m especially fascinated by the stories behind mundane things—the unglamorous Apple designs you barely think about, the so-fundamental-as-to-be-nearly-invisible elements like the Dock. I hadn’t known who designed the Dock (Bas Ording, who’s made a few other significant contributions to Apple UI design, such as text selection and the now-ubiquitous rubber-band effect), or that the Dock was codenamed Überbar, or that it was prototyped in Macromedia Director. I wish there was something like folklore.org for contemporary Apple products.

minidisc.pics

A grid of six minidisc cover designs. They are colorful, and have interesting graphics: a white and black geometric pattern, a red pixel-art version of the Mona Lisa, yellow and green polka dots, etc.

Matt Sephton shared something pretty cool: someone named asivery built a site devoted to the MiniDisc, showcasing all the different #MiniDisc packaging designs (and players) from the early ’90s through 2013 or so. Photos taken by Dan Marker-Moore.

When I think of ’90s–00s packaging and industrial design, the first thing that comes to mind is the bright, translucent colors that everyone started using after the #iMac came out in 1998. Reviewing the collection here, it’s interesting to note the presence of a lot of translucent Bondi blue several years before Apple made that color ubiquitous.

I rarely use physical media anymore (does anyone?) so it’s hard to compare, say, a CD case design from 2002 with a contemporary one. Nevertheless, I’ve had a sense that industrial #design has been getting more austere—i.e. less interesting—for a while now: curves, color, and translucency giving way to boxes, grayscale, and shiny surfaces.

minidisc.pics is a cool reminder that there was a time when tech products didn’t just look sleek and powerful, they looked fun.

Into Eternity

Michael Madsen’s #documentary Into Eternity takes a look at the Onkalo long-term nuclear waste facility, located on the west coast of Finland. Onkalo—“hiding place”—is designed to last for at least 100,000 years; an ambitious proposition, considering that the oldest man-made structures on Earth are less than 10,000 old.

Ensuring structural integrity for tens of thousands of years—or, as one official points out, just the next hundred—is no small requirement, but the designers also have to consider one of the most challenging #design problems in the world: how to communicate with unknown civilizations with whom we may have very little in common. What if, thousands of years from now, someone stumbles on Onkalo and doesn’t realize the danger? Imagine a 19th-century archaeological expedition encountering nuclear waste buried by ancient Egyptians.

A bit on the artsy side, but still, a fascinating—and often beautiful—look at where some of the worst stuff on earth is kept away.