I have discovered a simple way to improve some of the gadgets around my house. It costs a few dollars, requires no technical knowledge, and takes about ten seconds. All I need is a white permanent paint marker.
The problem is black plastic. It seems that nearly every manufacturer of everyday electronic devices has decided that black is the only acceptable color. Garage door remotes are black. Television remotes are black. Hair clippers are black. Digital cameras are black. And, to make matters worse, the buttons on these devices are usually black as well, often with tiny black symbols or lettering that are practically invisible unless the lighting is perfect.
Apparently, the designers assume that everyone has excellent eyesight, perfect lighting, and unlimited patience.
My garage door remote is a good example. It has several buttons, but I generally need only one. Unfortunately, that button looks much like all the others. The same problem exists with my hair clippers, where finding the right switch should not require a careful examination of the instrument. Television remotes are particularly annoying, with dozens of nearly identical buttons arranged in a manner that seems designed to discourage their use. Digital cameras, despite their sophisticated engineering, frequently suffer from the same problem.
My solution is to draw a small white line or dot on the buttons I use most often. Suddenly, the controls become visible. I can identify the correct button at a glance instead of fumbling around, turning on additional lights, or reaching for my reading glasses. A tiny application of white paint accomplishes what a team of industrial designers apparently could not.
There is a certain satisfaction in improving an expensive electronic device with a three-dollar marker.
Why has black become the universal color of consumer electronics? Manufacturers would probably argue that it looks elegant, professional, and modern. Black also conceals some surface imperfections, works with almost any interior decoration, and gives products a uniform appearance. In the case of cameras, dark finishes can reduce unwanted reflections. And there are legitimate manufacturing advantages to using standardized materials and colors.
But I suspect economics plays a considerable role. Black plastic is widely available, familiar to manufacturers, and easy to incorporate into standardized production. Whether it is always cheaper than other colors is another question, but limiting color choices certainly simplifies manufacturing, inventory, and distribution.
Somewhere along the way, however, the industry appears to have confused visual simplicity with practical usability. A device can look beautifully minimalist on a designer’s desk and become an aggravating little puzzle in somebody’s living room.
This preference for subdued colors extends well beyond electronic gadgets. Consider automobiles.
In the 1960s, American roads were filled with cars in colors that actually deserved to be called colors. There were bright reds, deep greens, cheerful yellows, turquoise blues, and combinations that would probably cause today’s automotive marketing departments to seek psychiatric counseling. Two-tone paint jobs were common, and manufacturers offered color names that sounded like cocktails or tropical vacation destinations.
A parking lot was once an exhibition of individual taste. Today, it often resembles a convention of household appliances.
Modern cars seem overwhelmingly available in black, white, silver, and every conceivable shade of gray. Metallic gray has become particularly fashionable, perhaps because it communicates seriousness, sophistication, and the comforting assurance that the owner has no intention of attracting attention.
There are practical explanations. Neutral colors appeal to more buyers, are generally easier for dealers to stock, and can be safer choices for resale. Manufacturers prefer predictable demand, and customers often choose colors they believe will remain fashionable. The result is a self-reinforcing cycle: dealers stock neutral colors because customers buy them, and customers buy neutral colors because that is what dealers stock.
To be fair, colorful cars have not disappeared, and the 1960s were hardly devoid of white, black, or beige automobiles. But the contrast is striking. Automotive styling once celebrated exuberance. Today, restraint appears to be the default setting.
The common thread between the black television remote and the metallic-gray automobile is the gradual triumph of uniformity over individuality and, occasionally, over practicality.
There is nothing wrong with black plastic or gray cars. The problem arises when aesthetic preferences become so dominant that manufacturers stop considering how people actually use their products. A black button on a black surface may photograph beautifully for an advertisement, but that is little consolation when someone is trying to operate a device in a dimly lit room.
Good design should make everyday life easier, not require its users to adapt to unnecessary inconveniences. Controls should be recognizable by sight or touch. Important buttons should stand out. Products should accommodate people with different eyesight, dexterity, and habits rather than assume that everyone is a twenty-five-year-old industrial designer working under studio lighting.
Perhaps the industry could rediscover the virtues of contrast. A white mark on a black button is not an engineering breakthrough. It is a basic principle of usability that seems to have been overlooked in the pursuit of fashionable uniformity.
Until then, I shall continue my quiet campaign of improvement, one white dot at a time.
And if I ever buy another car, I might just look for a bright yellow one. At least I would be able to find it in the parking lot.
