Seeing Without Visualization: Embracing Neurodiversity in Design
Picture a ball sitting on a table. What comes to mind? Can you describe the table's appearance, material, and color? How about the ball's color? Take a moment to observe the environment surrounding the table. Do you notice anything else happening around it?
While watching a TED Talk on aphantasia when I was 16 years old I was astonished to learn that most people can effortlessly answer similar visualization questions. It led me to conduct impromptu tests on everyone I met, only to realize that I'm quite an anomaly, with very few people in my life thinking in a similar manner. Aphantasia affects approximately 1-3% of the population, though many individuals may never discover this aspect of their cognition.
Throughout my life, I have interacted with an assortment of tables, which has provided me with knowledge about different styles, materials, finishes, and colors. If asked this visualization test, I would respond with a comprehensive list of these attributes, rather than conjuring up a singular scene in my mind's eye.
Discovering my aphantasia was a profound experience. It astounded me to learn that some individuals can conjure up vivid mental images, like a serene beach during meditation. Conversely, people with PTSD might visually relive traumatic events as if they were happening in front of their eyes. For me, lacking the ability to visualize may represent a loss but might also serve as a protective mechanism against re-experiencing distressing memories.
Here’s the analogy I often give to help others understand:
Imagine there's a desktop computer setup, there's a monitor, a keyboard, a printer, and a box with all the commuting power. My whole system works. The computer has all the code and power but someone forgot to plug in the monitor so it never turns on despite being told that other people get to watch movies when they slip into distraction at school. Although my monitor doesnt work, the mouse and keyboard still allows me to print documents from the computer in the form of sketching. Since I can't preview the print on my monitor I’m often surprised at what gets printed out, most of the time it's ugly and nonsensical, but other times I'm greeted with something interesting unlike anything I've seen before. My strategy is to hit the print button as many times as possible with no expectations. The previous prints do allow me to build off of and potentially follow a lead. Because of this strategy I'm usually the student with a stack of scribbles and sketch models overflowing on my desk. The more low fidelity artifacts I can produce, the sooner I'll arrive at something worth further exploration.
When I embarked on my journey into design school, I encountered challenges due to my aphantasia, particularly when it came to drawing in perspective. In fact, I even contemplated switching to a less visually demanding major during my freshman year. However, as I delved deeper into the essence of design beyond mere perspective drawing, I began to see my unique way of thinking as an advantage rather than a disadvantage.
The abstract level at which I perceive ideas allows me to feel the gestures of form and experience, as well as non-visual sensory feedback from materials. Nevertheless, I struggle with foreseeing the intricate details of a design's materialization. This way of thinking, aligned with the design process, involves starting with the abstract emotional experience and then seeking material solutions to address the challenge.
Interestingly, some of my closest friends boast the most vivid imaginations but have little inclination towards pursuing art. They often express frustration when their drawings fall short of the mental images they aim to replicate. On the contrary, I do not subject my drawings to any internal vision; instead, I view them as unique expressions of creativity. This lack of self-judgment has been advantageous in my design journey, especially when working with ceramics on a pottery wheel.
Embracing digital design tools like CAD has become fundamental to my aesthetic design process. These tools serve as a substitute for the disconnected monitor in my mind, offering quick and immediate feedback that I can adjust based on my own artistic vision. Learning rendering software like KeyShot has been a source of exhilaration, as it allowed me to produce photo-realistic visualizations of my ideas for the first time.
During my time at design school, I grappled with sketching in perspective due to my aphantasia. Mathematical approaches became my refuge when visualization was not an option. My professor's advice to "just picture it in your head" was both frustrating and challenging, as I couldn't conjure such images. I yearned for an explanation on how to correctly depict a cup on a table using the appropriate proportion of ellipses. Unfortunately, the school's teaching methodology did not cater to the diversity of neuroprocessing among students, unlike the progressive approach of identifying and accommodating different learning styles in elementary school.
Understanding that each person's brain operates differently is essential. The way we perceive color, light, movement, and even generate thoughts varies due to the unique anatomy and wiring of our brains. Some individuals think in complete sentences, while others use fragmented words, and some may not think in words at all. I find it fascinating to explore these distinctions in sensory processing and internal content generation, beyond just beliefs about the world. It helps us appreciate the beautiful diversity in how we experience reality.
