Sometimes I find that I have to learn lessons over and over before they finally sink in. I relearned an important one late last week when a client requested a small change to a concept I’d presented to them earlier in the week. The change was one that I actually wanted to make, and was enabled by their reworking of content as I had earlier suggested they might do. It was Friday, and they needed the change prior to a meeting with a funding partner on Monday. The change was minor, I could do it in under an hour and could’ve sent the revisions out to them on Friday afternoon. But I didn’t.
To be clear, I wasn’t playing games with them, wasn’t trying to pretend that this was a great big deal. I also wasn’t trying to suggest to them that I would be working on the weekend to squeeze this in, and that they owed me one. I fully intended to do the work on Friday. I was honest about it — I simply told them that I could give them my best work on Monday morning, first thing.
It was the truth. When I opened the file again on Monday morning, I immediately noticed one aspect of the design that I wasn’t happy with. It was something that had looked great on Friday afternoon when I’d done the revisions, but in the cold light of a new day, it had to be changed. With this change, the design now did represent my best work, and I was happy to send it on. It was a valuable re-learning of an important lesson — design is always improved by a little separation between the creator and the created.
I’ve written before about the value of contemplative time in the design process, it’s really important in allowing us to do our best work. While we take time away from our work, our subconscious mind is busy making all kinds of connections that we probably never could come up with consciously. The process that’s at work when we’ve declared a design finished, but set it aside for a while before having another last look is a bit different, I think.
This idea of setting work aside for later review reminds me a lot of what a farmer does when they plow under a field and let it lie fallow for a season. The earth is allowed to rest and recharge, the turning of the soil kills the weeds and turns them into nutrients that will feed next year’s crop. The fallow field isn’t doing nothing, it’s charging its reserves and building itself up so that it can do what will be asked of it in the following year.
When we allow our work to lie fallow, even for a short while, it isn’t anything about the work that changes — it’s our perspective. The fallow period allows us to refresh our mind and our eye, allowing them to perceive things that we couldn’t once we had gotten too close to our work. I often find it doesn’t take all that much time away from a design to make the flaws apparent. My trivial example would probably have revealed itself even overnight. Sometimes that’s all it takes to turn a pretty good design into a great one — just a little time apart.
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