2D or not 2D…
The design industry, like any other, is subject to trends and advances in technology.
In the years since I finished my theater design training, it goes without saying that our tools and techniques have evolved tremendously through the use of computer-aided drafting software like Vectorworks and image manipulation software like Photoshop. These digital tools are invaluable for allowing us to mock-up, manipulate, and prototype complete environments, spaces, or exhibits in a fraction of the time that we previously spent designing with pencil on paper.
But guess what? I also still like to build physical models. Despite all of the ways I can now create and share detailed and precise design ideas on a computer, there’s no substitute for walking into a team meeting with a three-dimensional scale model of a museum space filled with a newly-envisioned exhibit.
In my college design classes, we learned to build full-color 1/2”-scale scenic models that showed every proposed paint color and texture — And although I typically stick to white models now (sometimes 1/2”-scale and sometimes 1/4”-scale), I still tend to include quite a lot of details like trim & moldings, furniture pieces, and even some textured materials. Yes, this can all be done within a digital rendering, but that’s just not the same as having a physical model that can be brought to a meeting and discussed around the table.
Often, whether I’m working with a museum staff or a theatrical production team, there are people involved who just don’t have much experience looking at a ground plan or being able to translate two-dimensional representations into a three-dimensional concept. A physical model of an exhibit allows me to show and discuss (with less chance of misinterpretation) how each element of the design fits into the given space as a whole, and how each element relates to one another. It gives a clear indication of whether the space feels cozy and intimate, or expansive and grand. When I add teeny little scaled people standing around (or little paper kids running or crawling in a children’s museum exhibit), the designs truly seem to come to life. Then I can also understand (and show others) how many visitors can comfortably enjoy that exhibit space, or how many children can fit on one platform, or whether or not the design of the room meets accessibility guidelines.
As the designer, there’s also something magic for me about the actual process of creating the model. It’s a tangible, touchable object that literally takes shape in front of my eyes. Sometimes I just can’t decide how large certain components should be, or what shapes of walls and platforms might work well together, until I cut and re-cut pieces of mat board and strips of balsa wood — and stick it all together with my trusty hot glue gun. The smell of hot glue permeates my basement studio area at times, but that smell means that CREATIVITY is happening!
Yes, I like the tradition, the utility, and the visualization opportunities that this hands-on method gives me. A model can also be put on display for the team — or the public — to reference throughout the rest of the design and construction period. Digital renderings are a critical component of the whole design package, too, but the model retains a special place in my process.
White models are spilling off the shelves of my studio. Bits of foam core, mat board, and string get tangled in the shag carpet. The cat gets startled every time I burn my fingers on hot glue and curse loudly, but I just can’t yet see myself giving up my modeling career.
