Every material has got a set of specific characteristics and qualities resulting from its nature, that defines its limits and potential as well as its range of possible transformations, reversible or not. It is what I call a kind of “natural grammar”, meaning some inner rules that can be empirically investigated. How? Observing and transforming the material with a friendly approach, remaining attuned to its nature, with the curiosity and discretion of a guest. If we do not want to impose a shape but are in a respectful interaction, the material itself will suggest us what to do. Take for example a sheet of paper.
Just taking it in your hands, you immediately understand it can can be rolled or folded. But how many ways? The exploration of this simple action opens up a world of variations: different dimensions, inclinations, proportions, forms of the starting sheet, and so on. Could we have imagined all these possibilities without a thorough investigation? Likewise, many other actions can develop (rubbing, piercing, cutting, rolling, wetting …) and be combined. The richer this inventory will become, the more possibilities you will have available to creatively transform the material.
Paper is a material we can find in several shapes, weights and textures: each kind has got its own grammar, with some characteristics in common and other unique, specific ones. Let’s think, for example, of a toilet paper roll: the actions of folding and cutting are still possible but influenced by the cylindrical shape and the weight of the cardboard, thus effecting different results.
The same goes for whatever material, artistic, waste or everyday, from the simplest to the most complex and structured, to some objects (like newspapers, magazines, old books and catalogs in the case of paper). But why should we study this “grammar”? Won’t it be boring using a material just for the sake of knowing it, without the goal of creating a specific product?
In fact, dividing the search process from the product, as if they were two completely distinct phases, may seem unrealistic, since they usually go hand in hand. However, this sort of “forcing” can improve our awareness. A previous, intensive exploration is a very useful exercise, both manual and cognitive, to discover all the potential of a material, as well as its limits. Thus we will be able to make the most of its technical and expressive possibilities, as we can see in some artistic works.
In the case of some classical artistic materials, such as clay, the “grammar” can mostly coincide with the “technique”: the set of rules and coded informations handed down over time, that we should know in order to avoid wasting material or for some complex works. For example, as far as clay: before cooking a piece, we need to know how to prevent air bubbles from forming, or if we want to attach pieces to each other, we need to know how to create the “slip”, and so on. But, in addition to this academic knowledge, it is still important to directly explore the material by our hands, to understand how it can be transformed: through what actions? With how many variations can each action be modulated? How does the material react? With what results?
Following a gradual increase in complexity, our exploration could go on with the encounter between two materials: what possible dialogues between two languages? The encounter with “diversity” and the search for possible interactions highlight the two (or more) specific identities of the materials – as well as the creator’s one – and suggest unexpected solutions. Maybe here there is an interesting connection: can the materials represent significant metaphors of our relational patterns? There are not simplistic and linear interpretations but subtle correspondences between external and internal world, between materials and interiorities, which constitute the core of art therapy. You can find more about this in the post “Dialogue with a sheet of paper”.
At all levels, from the educational field to the industrial design of an object, using a material with a respectful approach towards its nature generates a more authentic, ecological relationship with it, as well as a more pleasant and coherent aesthetic result. As Bruno Munari explained in his book “Da cosa nasce cosa”, a good way to learn this approach is by observing nature. Simple shapes like a drop of water, or more complicated ones like that of the praying mantis, are all built according to laws of constructive economy. In a bamboo cane the thickness of the material, the decreasing diameter, its elasticity, the arrangement of the nodes, all of these respond to precise economic laws: if it was stiffer it would break, more elastic it would not bear the weight of the snow. There is a limit we cannot go beyond, in the sense of constructive simplicity.
For example, the traditional blown glass bottle has a logical form in relation to the material: in fact its shape is nothing but the shape of the drop of molten glass, dilated by the blower. This means that it is a logical form, where the thickness is uniform over the entire surface, such as in soap bubbles. You can’t make a square bottle with blown glass, because the square shape is unnatural compared to the expansion process of this incandescent magma which is glass.
Thus, it seems that an “exact” thing is also beautiful. This is why the observation of natural forms is very useful to designers, who learn to use materials for their technical characteristics, according to their nature, and not to use iron where wood would be better, and so on. I would like to add that it will be very useful to anyone interested in discovering the grammar of matter: the natural laws that allow us to use materials respecting their limits and enhancing their potential.
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