Design as Art es un libro de
Bruno Munari en el que se habla de diseño, de arte, de niños, de bambú, de la vida, del tiempo, del espacio y de un montón de cosas más. De manera concisa y certera, como si cada capítulo estuviera escrito con tiralíneas, y con mucho humor. Anotaría todo el libro, pero como no puedo apunto solo algunas ideas y fragmentos que me gustaron.
"What is a designer? He's a planner with an aesthetic sense" (p 29)
"A thing is not beautiful because it's beautiful, as the he-frog said to the she-frog, it is beautiful because one likes it" (p 36)
"It is certainly quite wrong to read a poem in a hurry, as if it were a telegram. Though some contemporary poems do in fact have as few words as he average telegram, their content is in many cases different. I say 'in many cases' because one does sometimes get telegrams that might almost be poems, and these one reads through quickly at first and then more slowly realizing that some of the words can have more than one meaning, as in a poem. they are poems struck off at random. And I will go further and say that each text, however short, has its own reading time. A poem only communicates if read sowly: only then does it have time to create a state of mind in which the images can form and be transformed" (p 68)
Y aquí compone un cuento para explicar a los niños qué es el tiempo:
"Your heart goes tick tock. Listen to it. Put your hand on it and feel it. Count the beats : one, two, three, four.... When you have counted sixty beats a minute will have passed. After sixty minutes an hour will have passed. In one hour a plant grows a hundredth of an inch. In twelve hours the sun rises and sets. Twenty-four hours makes one whole day and one whole night. After this the clock is no good to us any more. We must look at a calendar : Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday make one week. Four weeks make one month : January. After January come February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December. Now twelve months have passed, and your heart is still going tick tock. A whole year of seconds and minutes has passed. In a year we have spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Time never stops: the clocks show us the hours, calendars show us the days, and time goes on and on and eats up everything. It makes even iron fall to dust and it draws the lines on old people's faces. After a hundred years, in a second, one man dies and another is born." (p 96)
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