The first question of any product design interview tends to be a self-intro. “Tell me about yourself.” Thus far, the anatomy of my answer would be: First, tell the interviewer my name, my major, my year. Then, briefly outline my creative journey: that I started out in the creative field as an illustrator, later transitioning into the nebulous field of UI/UX or digital product design.
To this, my interviewer would then ask: “Why did you choose product design, and not art?”
To that, I would respond: “My practice of art is a form of self-expression. I create pieces in order to express the feelings, ideas, and thoughts that *I* have in a visual format that *I* find pleasing.
It is a self-centered craft.
Product design, on the other hand, is generally centered around another. You design and build things to solve problems for others-- hence, the term user-centered design. If you, the creator, happen to be among the “others” that you are designing for, then that’s a happy coincidence (and an unfair advantage). But it is more common that you are not among your users, and that your work is solely driven by an inherent goal to provide value for others.”
I meant what I said then. I approached my design work with this philosophy, convinced that in order to be a good designer, I should pursue ideas that would provide substantial value to others-- those that solved real problems, that created real impact, and generated real revenue.
Armed with motivation, artificial passion, and this seemingly complete design ethos, I set out to design things...and came to a screeching halt. For the life of me, I could not come up with any product idea that met my self-defined criteria. A redesign of an existing app? Too insignificant. Side project with a friend? Roadblocked by the pessimistic assumption that our fleeting efforts would only result in an incomplete prototype destined to rot away in our closets. And a personal design exploration of the playful and imaginative variety? Fun, but surely a waste of time.
Frankly, even if I did manifest an idea I thought was properly serious, the thought of creating "yet another case study," or building “yet another B2B SaaS product" left a sour taste in my mouth. My gut would laugh at me, asking, "Really? That's what you get excited about?", and I never took the first step to build a thing.
I seemed to be standing at the edge, staring into a gaping chasm between my motivation to create and a holy startup land where only the most desirable, viable, and feasible products with PMF and 10x YOY growth lived. I had hammer and wooden planks in hand, and no desire to cross.
I meant what I said during my interviews, but the longer I spent designing things that I believed other people would need and love, the less joy I found in my work.
The worst feeling in the world is to feel as if you have reached stagnation. As I stood at the edge I was rotting on my feet, frozen by my own inability to be honest with myself about what I really cared about. At some point, the inevitable thought crossed my brain: if I don’t care, why am I doing this?
I thought back to the times when I felt the most joy creating, reminisced about early 2019 days spent discovering the world of digital art, wasting sunlight away doing whatever the hell I wanted, whether that be sketching random faces or painting the characters of my favorite artists. Then, I was not merely passionate about art and did not merely think it was fulfilling. I adored it. Not unlike an addict, I could not stay away from drawing. I did not give a single damn about what I drew, where I was, when I drew it, what it meant, whether or not it was my best work, whether it would relate to other people, or any other layer of meaning that I have since required myself to have before creating something.
We all chase the simplicity of a child's creative process despite knowing it is irreplaceable now, but I had strayed a little too far.
So, a couple months ago, I decided I would try something new, and design like an artist.
To hell with thoughts of user research, go to market strategy, revenue model-- I would come up with spontaneous, whimsical, random, speculative ideas that I wanted to create and emotional, personal, irrelevant stories I wanted to tell, small or big. And I would just make them. Selfishly, adoringly.
After that, I had so much more fun. I woke up excited to design, create, write, scribble; I dreamed about newideas during car rides, waiting lines, and showers. My work began to take on a unique voice-- mine, woven from genres, tones, colors, fonts, and textures that I preferred. My work began to represent the absolute best of what I could do and the most authentic version of myself.
Do I feel the same amount of joy when I create that I did when I was 12 years old? No, of course not. I care about many more aspects of my work--thoughtfulness, fidelity, impact, creativity, authenticity, originality, relevance-- that don't necessarily play well with "fun," and "joy." But that does not mean that fun and joy don't matter, and evidently, they matter(ed) a lot to me.
I still believe in designing for practicality, usability, need, and usefulness-- I still believe, strongly, in designing for others. But I also believe in designing for yourself, for inspiration, for play, and for joy.
Maybe the real magic is made when a creator finds a cause that fulfills both. When their motivation is both self-centered and user-centered, when their process is both personally biased as well as thoroughly informed, when the output is both something they adore and something that fills a burning gap in the world. When they think, “I need to make this” as well as, “The world needs this.”
But an idea like that simply does not come along every day.
One day, perhaps it will introduce itself to me, but in the meantime, as I continue to generate, ideate, and live, I will choose to practice my craft occasionally selfishly and mostly joyously, and adore it wholeheartedly.
