Then, too, there's the Speedo Fastskin wet suit, which was worn by a majority of the top swimmers in the Sydney Olympics last year. This second skin enhances swimmers' performance not by making their bodies smooth—the traditional swimmer's strategy. Rather, the fabric of the suit replicates structures found on the skin of a shark, which act like tiny hydrofoils and redirect the flow of water over the animal's body. Although the suit is a high-tech product, its sophistication relies entirely on mimicking biological forms. Swimmers wear the suit because it helps them go faster. The fact that it makes its wearers look as if they just stepped out of a Marvel comic doesn't hurt. With a change of costume a mere human being becomes a shark-skinned superswimmer.
It's almost impossible to separate the engineering features that make the Fastskin work from its "design"—those qualities of form, texture, and color that make a thing memorable and meaningful. The Fastskin comes close to the ideal that form should follow function. However, most of the time function needs a little help. It falls to designers to make people feel comfortable with technology. Throughout the twentieth century they generally did so by dramatizing an object's benefits—speed, power, and efficiency, for instance—while hiding the things that made the object work. They took the early automobile, for example, in which each functional part was visible, and fashioned a steel shell that hid the machinery and gave the car a personality. In so doing they turned a contraption into a convenience.
Sometimes function has little to do with it. There was no practical reason for a 1930s refrigerator to be streamlined, but its new profile turned the erstwhile icebox into an embodiment of modernity and progress. The objects in which form follows not function but fantasy are often the most revealing ones.
During much of the past century designers' principal aim was to encourage people to welcome technology into their homes and their lives. This battle has long since been won. Now, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, we are accustomed to carrying powerful electronic devices in our pockets. Soon many of us will be wearing them, and before long they may be part of us.
Some of the most sought-after pieces of contemporary personal technology, such as the titanium-clad Macintosh PowerBook and the aluminum-clad Palm V, hark back to twentieth-century notions of hard-shelled competence. But as distinctions between technology and biology blur, glossy, sculptural steel-age objects are being supplanted by forms that are supple, ambiguous, subtly sexy, and even a little bit creepy. The age of inanimate objects—at least those that look and act inanimate—may be coming to a close.
Ellen Lupton, a design curator at the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum, in New York City, believes that some new designs stand in for living beings, others celebrate the artificial augmentation of the body, and still others reflect anxieties about what may be a hostile merger of human being and machine. She has a computer hard drive full of images of furniture, buildings, clothing, and other products to show what she means. When I visited her recently, at her home in Baltimore, she called up, for instance, a photograph of a robot face that has been engineered to signal compassion to those in need of an electronic friend. There was also a very funny drawing of a pair of baggy shorts whose seat inflates to become a stool, and an unsettling image of a chair that seems to support itself on crutches. Lupton has gathered these pictures to prepare for an exhibition titled "Skin: Surface and Substance in Contemporary Design," which is scheduled to open at the museum next April.