Spending the past six weeks in Paris, some random things occurred to me. This is a small inventory from the Paris night to surrealism and the architecture of Jean Renaudie.

Tour Eiffel by Armi.
The capital of boredom?
Le Monde recently wrote about Paris as the European Capital of Boredom (Paris, capitale européenne de l’ennui), comparing it to Berlin, London or Barcelona – cities “more cosmopolitan, more insane, and more free”. It referred to the imminent death of the Parisian nightlife due to the anti-smoking law resulting in noise on the streets and, ultimately, administrative closure of club nights as well as the low-cost aviation taking clubbers to the neighbouring cities (see e.g. Tobias Rapp: Lost and Sound – Berlin, Techno and the Easyjet Set).
However, I managed to come across some more institutionalised fun. For instance, one of the central figures of the Parisian night, the French composer and DJ Laurent Garnier could be found playing records at the Louvre. The evening, Inventaire avant disparition (Inventory before disappearance), was part of a series of events in the honour of Umberto Eco. It presented Garnier interpreting scenes from the silent film footage of the early 20th century life shot for philanthropist Albert Kahn’s The Archives of the Planet project.
Also, some weeks ago at Palais de Tokyo, a Boston band Prince Rama of Ayodhya played an evening of psychedelic folk surrounded by Paul Laffoley’s art brut, combining words and imagery to depict a spiritual architecture of utopia. The singer of the band, Taraka Larson, an assistant to Laffoley for four years, described how “the songs strive to reach infinite time”.
“To change ways of being, one has to first change ways of seeing.” – André Breton
One of the central figures of art brut was the French surrealist theorist André Breton, who believed that one way to discover who you are was to have your photograph taken. At Centre Pompidou’s La Subversion des Images exhibition, I saw Breton and his friends’ photos taken in the first photo booth, Photomaton, in the Paris of 1928. All the surrealists subjected themselves to the camera with their eyes closed, recognising “the omnipotence of the dream”, like Breton wrote in the first Surrealist Manifesto. These were photographs of dreamers.
Like the surrealists, also Jean Renaudie, the architect behind the social housing blocks of Ivry sur Seine in the suburbs of Paris, dreamt about changing life. Rejecting the structures of functionalism, Renaudie focused on creating housing that stimulated social exchange. The complex of eight buildings in the centre of Ivry from 1971 to 1980 must be one of the most interesting places I’ve visited. It proposes an alternative to classical and modernist urban spaces, offering different apartments for different people – all equipped with a garden terrace, and all mixing public and private space (see e.g. Irénée Scalbert: A Right to Difference – The Architecture of Jean Renaudie). Renaudie’s random room heights, shapes and sizes require the inhabitants to agree with a way of life, the apartments being stronger than them.
Renaudie believed in changing the social environment, and even social hierarchies, through spatial practice. However, the question is, does his architecture actually create behaviour or rather attract it, like my architect friend Pierre pointed out. Does the social housing at Ivry sur Seine actually change its inhabitants or rather bring similar souls closer to each other – more cosmopolitan, more insane, and more free than in Berlin, London or Barcelona?


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Working somewhere in between art and science, you aim to generate discussion about the relationship between technology and people. How would you define the role and purpose of design? And how do you define critical design?
AD: The question of art and design is problematic. A lot of people want to see us as artists, but we definitely see ourselves as designers trying to push the discipline forward, asking questions about design and through it. In fact, we launched the term critical design ten years ago in order to describe our work. Sometimes people think it simply means criticism; that we are negative about everything, anti-consumerist and against design. Some people relate it to critical theory; to Frankfurt school and anti-capitalist thinking. We are definitely aware of it, but then again not in that category either. Critical design is about critical thinking – about not taking things at face value. It's about questioning things, and trying to understand what's behind them. In essence, our objective is to use design as a means for applying skepticism to society at large.
[caption id="attachment_1403" align="alignnone" width="549" caption="a/b – "a sort of a manifesto that positions what we do in relation to how most people understand design" – by Dunne&Raby. Typography: OK DO."]
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You have compared design to art, using film and literature as examples of genres that are critical yet create pleasure. What do you think design and art can learn from each other?
AD: I think that art shouldn't need to exist. In an ideal, utopian world, everyday life would be so rich, meaningful and challenging that we wouldn't need this separate category called art. I kind of feel that art exists because design has failed. Learning from artists, designers should become bolder, more imaginative and critical. I'm not sure if art needs to learn from design, though.
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In Design Noir (2001), you wrote that "beneath the glossy surface of official design lurks a dark and strange world driven by real human needs". Do you feel that contemporary products do not match people's needs – and has this improved since you wrote Design Noir? Do you think that people are reacting to that themselves and how should they be involved in design processes?
AD: I think the internet has expanded the range of possibilities for pleasure and for fulfilling one's personal desires and fantasies, no matter how strange you are. But this still doesn't apply to products, which remain essentially functional. However, the background or the infrastructure of products has definitely transformed. Before, if you were obsessed about something unusual – like I was about strange radio cultures – it was hard to find any information about it.
AD & FR: Involving people in design processes relates to the do-it-yourself culture which we are not so interested in. Everyone can start making and modifying things themselves, but we believe it's important to have experts who can do special and beautiful things that are beyond the abilities of non-professionals.
AD: I get annoyed when people think that the DIY culture has made professionals useless. However, there are a lot of independent – yet professional – designers out there who offer radical products they create on their own.
FR: They are like activists; bottom-up designers. We like the story of activism, that there is room for free inventors. A good example is designer
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Thinking that Finland hasn't really been the design country worth its reputation after the golden era of the 1950s and '60s, we started by discussing what made Finnish design interesting back then. Having to make the most out of the little that Finland had after the Second World War, design was blended into production, and a forward-looking spirit of collaboration between different disciplines generated intrepid, even utopian, ideas.
Marikylä ('Mari' village in Finnish) was a village designed together by the founder of Marimekko
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Another classic Finnish brand springing from a lifestyle,
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An interesting contemporary design brand that respects Finnish traditions and skills yet renews them open-mindedly is
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Another new brand that we feel has potential to turn design products into classics is fashion label 
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The book also contains many musical and sonic references – sentences like “They were busy looking at each other with clicking metal eyes.” or stories about a band called Sonic Flower Groove after an album by the Scottish group Primal Scream. Would you say that you experience places through their sonic environment?
Being a musician I obviously have to pay a lot of attention to that. One reason behind the Sonic Flower Groove episode is that the first time I discovered Berlin was when I came here on tour with Primal Scream in 1987. So I was thinking what if it was reversed, that I was actually coming from Berlin and experiencing Scotland in the same way. And I guess that happened with many places, I discovered them as a musician. Music was a way to get my travel expenses paid.
How would you describe Berlin, your current home city by these attributes?
Berlin is a very quiet town. It has made me lose interest in pop music. The main sound on the streets is the birds singing. Germans like to see their cities as extensions of the forest and there are trees everywhere. And that’s very different from e.g. London where there is a lot of pollution and most of the sounds come from traffic or small speakers in every corner in every sandwich bar… And time is money. In that sense, Berlin is much less capitalist, much less toxic. And you can hear it. It’s a very avant-garde, experimental city. Even when you go to concerts you often end up listening to field recordings or the sound of a contact microphone being scraped up and down, sounds of ping pong balls or balloons. All this could be seen as utterly pretentious in many other cities but here you don’t have to have an aim or a commercial purpose in what you do. One can escape all sorts of obligations and necessities. That’s probably one reason why I have stayed here for so long.
Scotland number one hundred and three reads: “A computer makes a Scotland seem almost unnecessary.” Could this thought be applied to all distant places with internet access – like Finland, my home country, which you even refer to in the book (Scotland 136) – or is it rather a comment on a lack of identity?
Well, I think we’re seeing a crisis in national identity. I was quoted in a magazine saying that my true motherland is the internet. I feel like wherever I travel I’m always in this country called the internet. Or maybe it’s the operating system that counts – and I do almost feel a certain patriotism towards Apple computers. However, there’s another part of my identity that’s very Scottish. Whatever that is.
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You have lived in major cities around the world. What makes you move, and what made you leave Scotland in the first place?
It’s just a pattern I established very early because of moving with my father’s work when I was a child. After studying in Scotland I left for London to make it in music – a thing that all the Scottish musicians do. London felt like a bigger version of Scotland where more things were possible. Since then, my whole life has been motivated by appetite for certain things in certain cities. I’ve been lucky not having to work and being free to go wherever, even if it has made me very poor sometimes. Tokyo is my favourite city in the whole world. If my books are successful, that’s exactly where I’m going to go next.
How does the change of living environment affect your work?
When I was in Japan I felt quite isolated because I was a foreigner and I couldn’t speak too much Japanese. I found that my Scottish identity was becoming more important there. The album I made in Tokyo even has these rather strange Scottish songs on it. Berlin has brought up the need to experiment with sound because that’s just what people do here. I can spend my mornings at home writing something and the rest of the day is free for discovering something new. Then again London was a very commercial city so I tried to be successful and make lots of money. Living and working abroad makes you realize how only half of your personality is your own to control and the rest is really open to influence. I mean, we’re all chameleons in some way and the environment does change you. There’s a dialectical process going on between the environment and your personality.



