A Lesson from Spirograph

While recently going through some items in my mom’s basement, I found the “1967 Toy of the Year.” With the exception of a few missing pieces, the Spirograph I shared with my brother was almost perfectly intact: plastic circles and rings, colored pens, pins, storage tray, a piece of cardboard, a pad of white paper, and the “pattern booklet.”

The still-popular, mass-produced toy from the 60s is the embodiment of controlled emotion in the face of the decade’s social unrest and conflict. The Spirograph promoted adherence to procedures and non-controversial design through a methodical process.

Although the Spirograph provided hours of fun, wonder, and amazement for my brother and I as we formed our simple patterns, using it again as an adult has prompted a few thoughts on wonder and its limitations.

Designed by British engineer Denys Fisher in 1962 and acquired by the American manufacturer Kenner Toys in 1966, the first and simplest of many subsequent Spirograph versions hit the stores in 1967, the year we received ours as a Christmas gift. The accompanying manual stated that the toy “stimulates the imagination and develops creativity,” and that there would be “no limit to the different designs you can make!”

The set has 18 sizes of small circles that fit into two large rings. Designs are created by placing a pen in a circle’s holes and moving the circle inside a ring, which is pinned down in the cardboard to make it stationary. The pattern booklet shows a dozen designs and describes the required ring, circle(s), and pen positions. For example, one formula (abbreviated) reads: “Pin RING no. 144/96 to Paper and Baseboard, the No. 1 mark at the top…with pen in Hole 3 draw another pattern. Repeat, using Holes 5 and 7.”

The design procedure is both methodical and repeatable, with the patterns yielding virtually exact copies by all users. The most fun for us came not by following the patterns or the rules but randomly mixing colors, moving the circles and rings at will, and placing lots of pinholes in our designs.

The Spirograph demonstrates, if not promotes, the belief that design can be formulaic and that good design has something to do with simplicity and objectivity. However, qualitative aspects such as emotion, irrationality, and instinct are largely missing. The patterns themselves make no direct reference to a user’s nationality, ethnicity, social class, or gender. Choices are officially confined to color and template combinations.

The focused geometric and rational visual language and limited plastic components restrict the range of outcomes and equalize abilities. It brings to mind a Swedish saying my wife told me: “Everyone wants you to succeed, as long as you’re not doing better than they are.” Our designs were original but not too original.

We received our Spirograph as the space race was underway and the Cold War was yet to thaw, the summer of love was over and the Tet Offensive was soon to begin. Soon my brother would receive his draft lottery number. Perhaps the Spirograph offered a bit of rationality and order to the chaos. It was predictable and socially safe. Any combination of templates and color would result in a Spirograph manual “sanctioned” design. The toy gave the illusion of counter-culture experimentation, yet furthered the establishment adherence to staying the course.

Yet I felt a sense of pride in the detailed patterns I could draw. It was incredible, magical, how quickly overlapping circles would create a dynamic and mesmerizing design. Even more, I was in awe of the more complex and colorful patterns my older brother could create. Perhaps he was working through the stress of receiving his impending call to duty.

What set the Spirograph apart from our other toys in that era was the suggestion that we were actually making something (art). Drawing patterns was more than simply assembling parts in various combinations to create a temporary object to be taken apart (e.g., Legos) or moving a stylus to create a temporary design to be erased (e.g., Etch-A-Sketch).

Allowing repeatable solutions, minimizing differences, and channeling outcomes in part describe the 1967 Toy of the Year. Denys Fisher’s design was an outgrowth of his work on Vietnam-era munitions, research no doubt guided by procedures and constraints.

Thankfully, my brother made it through the Vietnam War without getting drafted, and we recently played a round of Spirograph together. At the bottom of the box were some patterns we had drawn 41 years earlier. Looking back, I clearly saw how limits can provide a sanctuary, foster exploration, and with some imagination generate beauty. But the random pinholes in the official paper pad reinforce the notion that sometimes moving outside of what’s expected has its place, too.