Written by:
Sophia de Sousa
When we study design, we are taught the importance of the balance between form, function and feeling. Successful design achieves a kind of harmony between aesthetics and functionality, activating our emotions and/or senses with a feeling of delight. In the context of the built environment, this balance, or lack thereof, can have a huge impact on how we live, work and play, and how we interact with each other. It can also have an enormous impact on how we feel within our own homes.
Accessible design has come a long way. We are increasingly aware of our physical and neurological, as well as cultural differences and of the design moves we can make to improve people’s interaction with and within buildings, spaces and streets. There are some wonderful examples of thoughtful, accessible design in the built environment that drops seamlessly into the design aesthetic of a building or public space. One of my favourite examples of this is a beautiful handrail on the main staircase at the Foundation for Art and Creative Technology (FACT), in Liverpool (designed by the architecture practice Austin-Smith:Lord), which subtly integrates sensory markers to help partially or non-sighted visitors navigate their descent or ascent. The markers on the wooden handrail can be mistaken for a decorative feature, but is in fact a highly practical, and also beautiful, accessibility aid.
What’s particularly strange to me is that it’s a completely different story when we talk about adapting homes, and integrating new elements of necessary infrastructure to address differences in or changes to our mobility or neurological circumstances. Here, the balance weighs heavily in the favour of functionality rather than aesthetics, and there seems to be a general acceptance that if the element being introduced helps someone, that is good enough.
William Morris famously said, “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” I think these are words to live by, and that there is no reason for us to think that something that is functional, however ugly, should be accepted as good design. In the case of accessible design, and in particular the kit that is inserted into people’s homes to address mobility or medical needs, this is more than just a whimsical notion of aesthetics. It is about helping people create or maintain a home that fills them with delight, that they feel comfortable in AND proud to show off.
It is a question of designing for dignity.
Take the simple example of the grab bar, or the shower seat. There is something about the combination of colour and materiality in their design and production, and of many other such mobility aids required by so many in their homes, that begs the simple question, “Do they have to be so ugly?” Yes, it is important for these to be robust and practical, but do they need to be made of that cream, grey or beige plastic, and be so very institutional?
This is particularly true of those aids distributed through the NHS and social housing providers. There seems to be the acceptance that people should just be grateful and take what they get. But for people who have spent time creating a home they are proud of, whether they own that home or not, and for however long they have lived in that home, the introduction of these highly practical but hideous mobility aids adds insult to injury. They cannot be easily integrated into any interior design, and instead are a highly visible, jarring declaration of accessibility needs. They institutionalise a home environment and become visible markers of people’s situation or needs (which they may prefer to keep private) to anyone entering that home.
This is just a small example, and the tip of the iceberg of a much bigger conversation, but an important point to make. If we have a wonderful spectrum of design of furniture, kitchen-ware, cars and phones, why can’t we also have a wide range of beautifully designed, both practical and aesthetically pleasing mobility aids to integrate into our homes?
Surely, we can do better.
For example, we have a huge range of bath tubs and shower styles on the market, so why are we not working harder to integrate a range of beautiful, accessible accessories into those product lines? Accessibility aids need not only benefit those with complex or advanced mobility restrictions. Who wouldn’t like something to hang onto when they get out of the bath, but how many people would be willing to introduce a standard grab bar into their bathrooms?
Simply adding colour can change the look and feel of a basic grab bar. Image courtesy of Dementia Care Products.
To be fair, some progress is being made, and there are more attractive models emerging. However, these tend to be expensive and are not making it into the procurement contracts servicing the NHS, housing providers and those most in need. They can remain reserved for those willing and able to invest in beauty for their home.
We should be doing more to design our our accessibility products, systems and services that achieve a greater balance of form, function and feeling. Part of that design brief should be integrating equitable access to delight and dignity in our homes, whatever our circumstances.