After getting over my fear of showering (ablutophobia), I now consider urination and how to do it right. The run-of-the-mill toilet is a simple device, easy to handle, and - for the most part - undemanding of electricity (excepting the ones that know when you're done and do the flushing for you). When I was little, water tanks were placed high, and the operative action was to pull on a chain to lift the stopper at the bottom of the tank, which in turn would release a cascade of water. Flushing is water plus gravity.
In time, the tank was placed just above the toilet. Apparently, there is still enough gravity for the job. Then, in some places, the tank disappeared in the wall and sensors tell when it's flushing time. With all this simplicity, what's left for the engineers to mess up? Enter the ecologists. The ecologists want you to use as much water as is sufficient to do the job, but not more than necessary. If there were no variation in the volume of urination or defecation, a standard amount of water would do. But humans vary in size and so do the jobs they have to do. It is beyond us to accurately map the amount of water needed onto the need itself. So what we have is a crude dichotomy of "a little water" and "a lot of water."
In the Groningen, NL, boutique hotel, I found no levers to operate the toilet, but two plates on the wall behind. One plate was about 3 by 5 inches and the other was even larger, perhaps 4 by 6 inches. I assumed that pressing the large plate would release more water and would be more wasteful than pressing the small plate. I tested and corroborated this theory, wasting water in the process. So this is how the designers responded to the mapping problem: they mapped the size of the fixture onto the size of the effect (amount of water). This solution is reasonable, but it is not perfect. The large plate was easier to hit than the small plate because it was (a) larger, and (b) the first to come into view (and reach) as I rotated to the right. Like most people I am right-handed and thus more facile with right-bound motion; also, the toilet paper was mounted on the wall to the right. In other words, the designers wanted to nudge me to press the small plate, but the environment they created-in conjunction with my habits of motion-steered me toward the large plate. Good design avoids such conflict.
As an alternative, designers may want to consider making the control that executes the wasteful option smaller, harder to reach, and requiring greater effort. For example, the high-volume flush could be operated by pushing-with effort-a small button located under the low-flow default option.
Men like to pee standing up. That's why the urinal was invented. The urinal also increases the efficiency of (the response to) nature's call for half of humanity, and thereby creates a gender imbalance (note the long lines in front of the ladies' room; but that is not the topic of this post). An unintended side effect of urinals is the mess from imprecise aim. It is facile and pointless to blame the urinators for their carelessness. What would be the consequence of such attribution of responsibility? Classes, tutorials, penalties, prizes? It is better to ask if the design can be improved to reduce human error.
Year ago, according to Kim Vicente ("
The Human Factor, 2004), a Dutch designer had the idea of drawing a small fly in the urinal just above the drain. Brilliance! The urinator instinctively aims to hit and drown the fly, thereby unwittingly reducing spray and mess. A win-win solution.
Once the cat (fly) was out of the bag, finding entertaining variations was trivial. In one restroom I saw a small bomb with a lit fuse. Urination became an act of saving the world. As soccer fans, Europeans can enjoy scoring goals while urinating; another win-win situation. One variant features a small ball, which, if hit, turns color. I can only wonder how many playful variations on the theme I did not see. There is hope for the American market. Football's H frame suggests itself, the hockey goal, or perhaps the hoop.
Jong again. I previously acknowledged my intellectual (and emotional) debt to Erica Jong, who noticed the connections between bathrooms and psychology. Let it be noted, though, that her perspective was psychoanalytical, whereas mine is cognitive. No matter: I pulled my old paperback copy of "Fear of Flying" off the shelf and found her meditation on European (and Japanese) toilets. Her verdict on the German design is most harsh. Her analysis of the Italian design is more favorable, and she credits the prolific peninsular production of art to the fact that the Italians do not see their shit before flushing. Not so the Germans. Here is an excerpt (pp. 22-23 in my 1973 Signet copy):
"The German toilet is unique for its little stage (all the world's a) on which shit falls. This enables you to take a good look, choose among political candidates, and think of things to tell your analyst. [In Italy:] the toilets run swift here and the shit disappears long before you can leap up and turn around to admire it. Hence Italian art. Germans have their own shit to admire. Lacking this, Italians make sculptures and paintings."
All right. Enough with the Europeans. Where do the Americans stand on these issues? Any thoughts?
Vicente, K. (2004). The human factor. New York: Routledge.
