Over or Under?
A re-post of "When is something overbuilt? Or under?"
In recent weeks, I have been working on a rather epic build. I’ll share details soon, once it’s further along - and when I know if I’ll be able to pull it off. The design is almost completely original, and I don’t have the time or resources to experiment. It has to be right the first time. But how to know? Overbuilt or under? Or just right? Only time will tell. ~JRC
When is something overbuilt? Or under?
First published July 8th, 2022
A tough call - knowing how strong, heavy, or robust to make any given object. Not enough material, such as too little clay or not enough wood, and a build might collapse on itself. And too much makes it unwieldy, overly heavy, and oftentimes unsightly. It's not always easy to predict the difference.
Even for the experienced creator, making something just right can be a guessing game.
Overbuilding is when we use too much of anything to create something that, in most respects, could have taken less. It can be wasteful and costly. And the resulting form may look clunky or even amateurish. Examples abound online where newby woodworkers use thick plywood when much thinner sheets would be fine (I've certainly done it; see below). Such projects end up being heavy. And working with those big sheets is more challenging and sometimes even dangerous.
Underbuilding is when we don't use enough material to make our projects last - or even work. They may look nice with less, but if a project can't stand up to its own weight or handle the expected use it will endure, then all that minimalism is for not. A classic example here is Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater in Pennsylvania. The home's "daring" cantilever design, suspending the structure over a stream, could not support the weight despite Wright's insistence. Thankfully the contractor secretly doubled the steel and concrete, making the house stable.
No matter our skill or means, makers want to make things that do what they are supposed to do - yet look great doing it. But it's a fine line between nuanced minimalism and robust complexity. Gut instinct can play a part in nailing a design, but even gifted artists like Wright struggle with this dilemma their entire careers.
As a maker, I often err on the underbuilding end of the spectrum. I'm not claiming any of Wright's genius, as I admit to sharing his flaw. But I do obsess with detail and strive to make objects that look good minimally.
Yes, functionality is way up there too, but I rarely make something completely utilitarian. But I often make them look good only because. This obsession with the aesthetic is misleading; even now, I make mistakes. So to counter my own bias, I tend to do a cost-benefit analysis for most of my builds.
And then I cross my fingers and make.
The primary consideration is often safety. Will I or someone else be using this thing I create? Is there a potential for accidents, and how bad could it all go? The higher the risk, the more time I put into designing something well enough, but ideally, not overly.
Recently, I considered safety heavily while designing a low-voltage AC power supply for wildlife conservation. This device controls probes (that I also design and build) for collecting cells used in assisted reproduction (I'll let you guess what "cells" are collected). Anyway, the boxes have variable 110 or 220 V AC in, chosen by the user via a selection switch. The chance of user error is real whenever one has to decide on something manually, so fuse protecting the inbound current was a no-brainer (I would have done so even without the variable voltage input).
But I also chose to include fuse protection on the low-voltage output side of the power box. The output is completely isolated from the main power in, so there is no chance of a spillover. But the tool is used on living animals, controlled by living people, and involves live current. So I included a small 250 mA fuse on the low voltage output for good measure. If the probe somehow shorts out or overloads even minimally, this fuse will easily blow, stopping all current. It's peace of mind and good practice, so it's not overbuilding in this instance.
Durability is another reason to build up rather than down, but this is always tricky.
Years ago, I made what is now a staple in my workspace - my main workbench - and it is, I have to admit, overbuilt. Wanting a robust do-all surface, I used two layers of 3/4" MDF board for the top. "MDF" stands for medium-density fiberboard; this yellow-beige engineered wood is hard and smooth on the surface - and weighs a ton.
I regretted my decision as soon as I wheeled the sheets into the parking lot.
Simply getting the 4' x 8' planks home, then sawing them to size, was a chore. Adding insult to overbuilding injury, the benchtop ended up sagging a little in the middle despite all that material (or perhaps because of it). It is solid, however. And does what it is supposed to do. Frankly, it’s where I’ll go in the event of an earthquake.
In this instance, my inclination led me astray, and I overbuilt. But live and learn, as they say. And I did learn from it.
When building a subsequent benchtop in my shop, I used a nice sheet of 1/2" baltic birch plywood with a lightweight frame underneath to reinforce it all. It's a much better design. And I expect will last longer than the MDF.
Occasionally, form leads to function; our eye on aesthetics keeps us from overbuilding. My drill press stand is one of the rare personal examples I have of this. I've mentioned this build several times, mainly because it was one of those instances where form and function meshed well beyond my expectations.
The drawers I made from 1/4" plywood rather than the commonly used 1/2". It was a tight box, and the thicker wood would have taken up too much space. I opted for the thinner, which proved space-saving, and the drawer boxes were much stronger than I expected despite the light design. I wish I could brag about knowing all this would be so. But alas, I lucked out. Here I had the option to experiment, and it paid off - this once.
Sometimes when it comes to over or under-building, one has to go all-in on over.
Last year, we bought a few chickens for my animal-loving son. We fell in love with the little fluffballs instantly. Knowing a kid's heart was involved, not to mention those helpless little lives in our care, I committed to building the safest and best coop I could.
The chief concern with coops is predators. Here in SoCal, like much of the country, we have coyotes. And those dreaded outside domestic cats are always lurking about. Either of these or a rogue raccoon can destroy a backyard chicken flock in nothing flat.
There was only one option for this build: I had to make the heck out of my coop.
The coop build is solid, constructed using two-by-three framing studs. And I chose heavy-duty wire mesh for the run instead of flimsy chicken wire. I even put double latches on the welded steel door. Yes, that's correct - a welded steel door.
Perhaps the most essential safety feature is the double layer of wire mesh that extends underground from the base of the coop's run. The sub-surface wire prevents any industrious killer from tunneling underneath to get at our feathered friends. Anything deciding to burrow here will catch its claws in a nasty tangle of galvanized steel.
So how does the coop perform?
Well. Very well.
A neighborhood cat recently tested my coop's design. I was home at the time and heard the chickens squawking in fear. I ran out to address the commotion only to catch the beast pacing and leaping at the chickens from outside the coop.
Thankfully, it hadn't any chance of getting in.
Cats are capable killers, but my coop is the anti-cat end-all of chicken coops. The beast did frighten our beloved pets terribly, causing the birds to injure their beaks as they ran back and forth inside the coop. It cost them some stress and us a four hundred buck vet bill, but at least they weren't dinner (or more likely, a senseless kill) for that cat.
Every bit of extra was worth it here, but it's not genuinely overbuilding. After all, if I wasn't home, the cat could have tried even harder for much longer. So knowing that my coop is impervious to such beasts is peace of mind.
Well-built, not overbuilt.
If there’s a takeaway in any of this, it’s that we have to build as best we can. Make to our abilities and use the finest judgment we can muster. Sometimes we’ll get it right by thinking things through. Other times we lead ourselves astray by focusing on form over function. Or get it right because form leads to function. Endlessly, we strive for perfection despite our own shortcomings.
To not overbuild nor underbuild, but to get it just right.
Until next time.
JRC
Thanks for that John. I’m always up for a good urban chicken tale.
Were the Greek and Roman temples that have lasted 2,000 years overbuilt? I could argue that they were, and far outlasted both their builders and even their societies. Yet…
And a few years ago a group I’m with built a community center on a Lakota Reservation with an 800 year design life. Foam and poured concrete. Only 14 working days total to build the entire 30’ x 40’ structure with a 10’ x 12’ anteroom, including finish work. I think we set some sort of record (of course no permits were required, but we exceeded all known standards by a lot), and with many donated materials and all volunteer labor the out of pocket cost was something like $10,000. Overbuilt? Most certainly. Most structures on the Reservation barely last 50 years. Yet…
And then so many products produced today wind up in landfill within a few years. Underbuilt? No doubt…at least for long term thinking.
My own thinking has been moving towards full life cycle design, where from the very beginning of the concept, the end is contemplated and planned for, with no waste. It would be as though matter is organized for a specific use, is used till finished, then dissolved back into the great matter pool for reuse over and over again.
Kind of like organic life.