Lawson B. How Designers Think: The Design Process Demystified

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This piece of work had an extraordinarily lasting effect on thinking

about design method. It is all the more remarkable since there is

only one reported attempt to use the method and that did not

result in any obvious success (Hanson 1969). The reason for the

failure of Alexander’s method results from his erroneous assump-

tions about the true nature of design problems, and we discuss this

in the next chapter. However, that generation of design methodo-

logy for which Alexander’s work now stands as a symbol was moti-

vated by the common unease shared by designers about the

inadequacy of their models of reality. Unfortunately the new mod-

els, which were frequently borrowed from operations research or

behaviourist psychology, were to prove just as inadequate and

inaccurate as designing by drawing (Daley 1969). Perhaps the real

reason for the influence of Alexander’s work was that it signalled

yet another change in the designer’s role. The issue no longer

seemed to be one of protecting the individuality and identity of

designers but, rather, had become the problem of exercising

what Jones called ‘collective control’ over designers’ activities.

Somehow the whole process had to become more open to inspec-

tion and critical evaluation. The model of scientific method proved

irresistible. Scientists made explicit not just their results but also

their procedures. Their work could be replicated and criticised and

their methods were above suspicion. How nice it would be if

designers followed such a clear, open and public process! This idea

caused many writers to develop models of the design process itself

and we shall examine some of these in the next section. But where

does all this leave the designer’s role in society today?

Future roles of the designer

In our current state of uncertainty it is hardly valid to give a defini-

tive view of the future, or even present, role of the designer. Cross

(1975) asks us to consider whether we are now entering a post-

industrial society and consequently in need of a post-industrial

design process. The difficulty with this question is really how one

views the prospect of life in such a post-industrial society. This issue

is essentially a political debate about the extent to which we wish to

decentralise the centres of power in our society. Some writers hail

the looming energy crisis as providing the critical push towards a

return to self-sufficiency. Others claim that the inertia of our techno-

logical development is too great to be stopped and that we shall

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find other means of providing centralised forms of energy. Thus our

views about the future role of designers are inevitably linked to the

kind of direction in which we wish society to go. Markus (1972) sug-

gests three broad views which designers today may hold about

their role in society.

The first role is essentially conservative, centred around the con-

tinued dominance of the professional institutions. In such a role

designers remain unconnected with either clients or makers. They

passively await the client’s commission, produce a design and with-

draw from the scene. There are already real problems with this

approach. In the case of architecture the client may often be some

branch of government or a large commercial organisation, and in

such cases architects frequently become employees rather than

consultants. We might expect that an architect seeking out this

conservative role would be supported by the RIBA, but profes-

sional bodies tend to respond to threats against their roles by

gradually redefining their role (Elliot 1972). Thus, when the trad-

itional role of building designer is threatened by obsolescence,

changing technology or the changing nature of the client, archi-

tects may either seek to redefine themselves as the leaders of a

multi-professional team or withdraw to the earlier territory of aes-

thetic and functional designer. It seems doubtful that a professional

body such as the RIBA can continue for long to support both the

general private practitioner and salaried government employee. In

many ways this role has come under a considerable double threat

recently. Governments in many countries seem to be following the

lead given by Margaret Thatcher in dismantling public sector ser-

vice professional departments and by portraying the professional

bodies and institutes as protectionist rather than concerned with

the public good.

The opposite to this conservative approach is actively to seek

different structural changes in society but which also would result

in the end of professionalism as we know it. Such a revolutionary

approach would lead the designer to associate directly with user

groups. Since this kind of designer is also likely to believe in a

decentralised society he or she would be happiest when dealing

with the disadvantaged, such as the tenants of slum clearance

areas, or the revolutionary such as self-sufficiency communes. In

this role the designer deliberately forsakes positions of independ-

ence and power. Such designers no longer see themselves as

leaders but as campaigners and spokespeople. A significant diffi-

culty with this role is that since these kinds of client/user groups

are unlikely to control any resources valued outside their limited

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societies, the designer loses all influence over other designers

except by the power of example.

The third, middle, path lies between these two extremes, and

is much more difficult to identify except in vague terms. In this

role, designers remain professionally qualified specialists but try to

involve the users of their designs in the process. These more par-

ticipatory approaches to design may include a whole range of rela-

tively new techniques, ranging from the public inquiry through

gaming and simulation through to the recent computer-aided

design procedures. All these techniques embody an attempt on

the designer’s part to identify the crucial aspects of the problem,

make them explicit, and suggest alternative courses of action for

comment by the non-designer participants. Designers following

this approach are likely to have abandoned the traditional idea that

the individual designer is dominant in the process, but they may

still believe they have some specialised decision-making skills to

offer. We return to the problems created by this approach in two

special chapters on designing with others and designing with com-

puters at the end of the book.

References

Alexander, C. (1964). Notes on the synthesis of form. New York, McGraw Hill.

Clegg, G. L. (1969). The Design of Design. Cambridge, Cambridge University

Press.

Cross, N. (1975). Design and Technology. Milton Keynes, Open University

Press.

Daley, J. (1969). A philosophical critique of behaviourism in architectural

design. Design Method in Architecture. London, Lund Humphries.

Elliot, P. (1972). The Sociology of the Professions. London, Macmillan.

Hanson, K. (1969). Design from linked requirements in a housing problem.

Design Methods in Architecture. London, Lund Humphries.

Jenkins, J. G. (1972). The English Farm Wagon. Newton Abbot, David and

Charles.

Jones, J. C. (1970). Design Methods: seeds of human futures. New York,

John Wiley.

Kaye, B. (1960). The Development of the Architectural Profession in Britain:

a sociological study. London, Allen and Unwin.

Markus, T. A. (1972). A doughnut model of the environment and its design.

Design Participation. London, Academy Editions.

Schön, D. A. (1983). The Reflective Practitioner: How professionals think in

action. London, Temple Smith.

Sturt, G. (1923). The Wheelwright’s Shop. Cambridge, Cambridge University

Press.

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Route maps of

the design process

The six phases of a design project:

1. Enthusiasm

2. Disillusionment

3. Panic

4. Search for the guilty

5. Punishment of the innocent

6. Praise for the non-participants

Notice on the wall of the Greater London Council Architects

Department

(According to Astragal AJ, 22 March 1978)

‘Now for the evidence,’ said the King, ‘and then the sentence.’ ‘No!’

said the Queen, ‘first the sentence, and then the evidence!’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Alice, so loudly that everybody jumped, ‘the idea

of having the sentence first!’

Lewis Carroll, Alice Through the Looking Glass

Definitions of design

So far in this book we have not actually attempted a definition of

what is and is not design. We have explored the variety and

complexity of the designer’s role and seen something of the way

this has developed over time. We have also seen a little of the

enormous variety of types of design and discussed the dimensions

along which they vary. To attempt a definition of design too

soon might easily lead to a narrow and restricted view. To under-

stand fully the nature of design it is necessary not only to seek

out the similarities between different design situations, but also

to recognise the very real differences. Inevitably, each of us will

approach this general understanding of design from our own par-

ticular background.

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This is all too apparent when writers attempt a comprehensive

definition of design. What sort of designer might have offered the

following definition?

The optimum solution to the sum of the true needs of a particular set of

circumstances.

Is it more likely that such a definition is the idea of an engineer or

an interior designer? Is it meaningful to talk of ‘optimum solutions’

or ‘true needs’ in connection with interior design? In fact Matchett

who defined design this way, comes from an engineering back-

ground (Matchett 1968). This definition suggests at least two ways

in which design situations can vary. Matchett’s use of ‘optimum’

indicates that the results of design as he knows it can be measured

against established criteria of success. This may well be the case

for the design of a machine where output can be quantified on

one or more scales of measurement, but it hardly applies to the

design of a stage set or a building interior. Matchett’s definition

also assumes that all the ‘true needs’ of a circumstance can be

listed. More often than not, however, designers are by no means

sure of all the needs of a situation. This is because not all design

problems relate to equally purposeful activities. For example, it is

much easier to define the needs to be satisfied in a lecture theatre

than in a domestic living-room.

Some pronouncements about design would have us believe that

these differences are not really very important. This is taken to an

extreme by Sydney Gregory (1966) in his early book on design

methodology:

The process of design is the same whether it deals with the design of a

new oil refinery, the construction of a cathedral or the writing of Dante’s

Divine Comedy.

Perhaps what Gregory was really telling us, was that when he

designed or wrote he personally used a similar process. Whilst this

might have worked for Sydney Gregory it seems unlikely that it

would have worked for Dante, who showed no interest as far as we

know in chemical engineering! It is more likely that design involves

some skills which are so generic that we could reasonably say they

apply to all forms of design practice, but it also seems likely that

some skills are quite specific to certain types of design. It would

also seem reasonable to suggest that the balance of skills required

by each type of designer is different.

Certainly all designers need to be creative and we will deal

with creative thinking in a later chapter. Some designers, such as

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architects, interior and product designers need a highly developed

visual sense and usually need to be able to draw well. We deal with

designing by drawing in another chapter. Other designers at the

more engineering end of the spectrum are likely to need higher

numeracy skills and so on.

Of course it is possible to arrive at a definition of design which

allows for both the disparate and the common features. Chris

Jones (1970) gives what he regarded as the ‘ultimate definition’ of

design:

To initiate change in man-made things.

All designers could probably agree that this applies to what they

do, but does it really help? Such a definition is probably too

general and abstract to be useful in helping us to understand

design. Do we really need a simple definition of design or should

we accept that design is too complex a matter to be summarised

in less than a book? The answer is probably that we shall never

really find a single satisfactory definition but that the searching

is probably much more important than the finding. Chris Jones

(1966) had already recognised just how difficult this search is in his

earlier description of design: ‘The performing of a very compli-

cated act of faith.’

Some maps of the design process

Many writers have tried to chart a route through the process from

beginning to end. The common idea behind all these ‘maps’ of

the design process is that it consists of a sequence of distinct

and identifiable activities which occur in some predictable and

identifiably logical order. This seems at first sight to be quite a

sensible way of analysing design. Logically it seems that the

designer must do a number of things in order to progress from

the first stages of getting a problem to the final stages of

defining a solution. Unfortunately, as we shall see, these assump-

tions turn out to be rather rash. Indeed Lewis Carroll’s Queen may

well have made rather a good designer with her apparently

ridiculous suggestion that the sentence should precede the

evidence!

However, let us proceed to examine some of these maps in order

to see how useful they are. The first map we might examine is

that laid out for use by architects in the RIBA Architectural Practice

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and Management Handbook (1965). The handbook tells us that the

design process may be divided into four phases:

Phase 1 assimilation

The accumulation and ordering of general information and informa-

tion specifically related to the problem in hand.

Phase 2 general study

The investigation of the nature of the problem.

The investigation of possible solutions or means of solution.

Phase 3 development

The development and refinement of one or more of the tentative

solutions isolated during phase 2.

Phase 4 communication

The communication of one or more solutions to people inside or

outside the design team.

However, a more detailed reading of the RIBA handbook reveals

that these four phases are not necessarily sequential although it

may seem logical that the overall development of a design will

progress from phase 1 to phase 4. To see how this might actually

work, however, we shall examine the transitions between the

phases.

Actually, it is quite difficult for the designer to know what infor-

mation to gather in phase 1 until there has been some investiga-

tion of the problem in phase 2. With the introduction of systematic

design methods into design education it became fashionable to

require students to prepare reports accompanying their designs.

Frequently such reports contain a great deal of information, slav-

ishly gathered at the beginning of the project. As a regular reader

of such reports, I have become used to testing this information

to see how it has had an impact on the design. In fact, students

are often unable to point to any material effect on their solutions

for quite large sections of their gathered data. One of the dangers

here is that since gathering information is rather less mentally

demanding than solving problems there is always a temptation

to put off the transition from phase 1 to phase 2. Professional

designers are unlikely to succumb to this temptation since they

need to earn their living, but students often do, and such a map

often serves only to encourage unproductive procrastination!

The detailed development of solutions (phase 3) rarely goes

smoothly to one inevitable conclusion. In fact such work often

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reveals the weaknesses in the designer’s understanding of the

problem and grasp of all the relevant information. In other words

there is a need to return to phase 2 activities!

Even more sobering is the experience common to all designers,

that when they show possible solutions to their clients (phase 4)

only then will the clients see that they have described the problem

badly (phase 1).

We could go on analysing the map in this way, but the general

lesson would remain the same. Although it may seem logical that

the activities listed here should be performed in the order shown

by the map, the reality is much more confused. What the map does

is to tell us that designers have to gather information about a prob-

lem, study it, devise a solution and draw it, though not necessarily

in that order. The RIBA handbook is very honest here in declaring

that there are likely to be unpredictable jumps between the four

phases. What it does not tell us is how often or in what way these

jumps are made (Fig. 3.1).

If we turn on through the pages of the RIBA handbook there is

yet another, much larger scale map to be found. Because of its

immense detail this ‘Plan of Work’, as it is called, looks much more

promising at first sight. The plan of work consists of twelve stages

described as a logical course of action:

A Inception

B Feasibility

C Outline proposals

D Scheme design

E Detail design

F Production information

G Bills of quantities

H Tender action

J Project planning

K Operations on site

L Completion

M Feed-back

ROUTE MAPS OF THE DESIGN PROCESS

communication

assimilation

general study

development

Figure 3.1

A map of the design process

according to the RIBA plan of

work

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The handbook rather revealingly also shows a simplified version in

what it describes as ‘usual terminology’:

A–B Briefing

C–D Sketch plans

E–H Working drawings

J–M Site operations

From this we can see the plan of work for what it really is; a descrip-

tion not of the process but of the products of that process. It tells

us not how the architect works but, what must be produced in

terms of feasibility reports, sketch plans and production drawings.

Further, it also details the services provided by the architect in terms

of obtaining planning approval and supervising the construction of

the building.

Architects used to be paid their fees according to a standard

level and pattern which formed part of the Conditions of Engage-

ment for Architects. Today fees are a matter of negotiation between

architects and their clients and both the level of their remuneration

and the pattern of payments is very variable. However, it remains

the case that an architectural project may last for a long time, often

many years, and thus architects, if they are to be solvent, need

payments before the end of their work. Historically, then, the RIBA

plan of work was used to determine agreed stages of work which

could attract staged payments. So the plan of work may also be

seen as part of a business transaction; it tells clients what they will

get, and describes what architects must do. It does not necessarily

tell us how it is done.

The plan of work also describes what the other members of the

design team (quantity surveyor, engineers etc.) will do, and how

they will relate to the architect; with the architect clearly portrayed

as the manager and leader of this team. This further reveals the

plan of work to be part of the architectural profession’s propaganda

exercise to stake a claim as leader of the multi-disciplinary building

design team. Again this is now by no means a commonly shared

view of the architect’s role! None of this should be taken as

criticism of the RIBA plan of work, which probably performs its

functions quite adequately, but in the end we probably learn from

it more about the history of the role of the RIBA than about the

nature of architectural design processes.

Two academics, Tom Markus (1969b) and Tom Maver (1970)

produced rather more elaborate maps of the architectural design

process (Fig. 3.2). They argued that a complete picture of design

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method requires both a ‘decision sequence’ and a ‘design process’

or ‘morphology’. They suggest that we need to go through the

decision sequence of analysis, synthesis, appraisal and decision at

increasingly detailed levels of the design process (stages 2, 3, 4 and

5 in the RIBA handbook). Since the concepts of analysis, synthesis,

and evaluation or appraisal occur frequently in the literature on

design methodology it is worth attempting some rough definitions

before examining these maps in more detail.

Analysis involves the exploration of relationships, looking for

patterns in the information available, and the classification of

objectives. Analysis is the ordering and structuring of the problem.

Synthesis on the other hand is characterised by an attempt to move

forward and create a response to the problem – the generation of

solutions. Appraisal involves the critical evaluation of suggested

solutions against the objectives identified in the analysis phase. To

see how these three functions of analysis, synthesis and evaluation

are related in practice we might examine the thoughts of a chess

player deciding on the next move. The procedure suggests that

first our player might analyse the current position on the board by

studying all the relations between the pieces; the pieces that are

being threatened and how, and which of the unoccupied squares

remain unguarded. The next task would be to clarify objectives.

Obviously the ultimate long-term object of the game is to win, but

at this particular stage the priorities between attack or defence and

between immediate or eventual gain have to be decided. The syn-

thesis stage would be to suggest a move, which might emerge

ROUTE MAPS OF THE DESIGN PROCESS

analysis

outline proposals

scheme design

detail design

synthesis appraisal decision

analysis

synthesis appraisal decision

analysis

synthesis appraisal

decision

Figure 3.2

The Markus/Maver map

of the design process

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