Working with these materials made me realize that a circuit is not just something that works or does not work. Each material has its own behavior, and through making and failing again and again, I started to feel those differences in a very physical way.
Copper tape was the most stable and predictable. Once it was placed down, the connection stayed solid and the LED turned on right away. It was bright and reliable, and it almost felt invisible because it did not demand much attention. It just worked.
Graphite from pencil was much more sensitive. My first attempt was drawing a butterfly outline as the circuit. It looked beautiful, but it did not conduct at all. The lines were too complex and broken. To check whether the problem was my pencil or my idea, I drew a simple round bracket shape. That worked, which showed me that the material itself was fine. After that, I tried again with a light bulb shape because it is smooth and rounded, and this time it worked. Even then, the LED was very dim. The current felt weak and slow, and small changes in the drawing made a big difference. It made resistance feel very real.
The conductive paint behaved in a similar way. The thickness of the paint mattered a lot. Thin areas caused breaks in the circuit, and even when it worked the LED was not very bright. There was often a small delay before the light appeared. It felt unstable and sensitive, but also expressive because I could see where the connection was strong and where it was fragile.
The conductive fabric was soft and flexible, but that also made it unpredictable. When the fabric bent or folded, the connection sometimes changed. The light could flicker or fade depending on how the material was held. It was not easy to control, but it responded clearly to touch and movement.
Aluminum foil conducted very well and made the LED bright, but it was hard to keep in place. Because it was so thin and light, it moved easily even when taped down. The circuit could stop working just from a small shift. It felt powerful but also fragile in a different way than the softer materials.
Working with conductive fabric was one of the most interesting experiences. I used felt, and to make it work I had to stitch conductive thread through it. The fabric kept shifting while I sewed, and the thread twisted and tangled. The final piece did not look neat or beautiful, but the process was strangely satisfying. I could feel the path of the circuit growing under my hands. Every stitch became part of the electrical connection. If one stitch was loose, the whole circuit failed. When everything lined up, the LED turned on. It felt like a small network where every part depended on the others.
While I was stitching, I suddenly thought about the MIT video we watched in class, where sewing and interaction design were brought together. The idea that needle and thread could carry information felt very close to what I was doing. I also remembered how we talked about 0 and 1 in computing, and how something so abstract is built on physical states like on and off. In the first class I was too shy to raise my hand, but I kept thinking about the Jacquard loom. It is often described as one of the earliest programmable machines, and it was deeply connected to the history of textile work, which was mostly done by women. Long before computers, women were already working with patterns, repetition, and systems through weaving and sewing. Those threads were not just making fabric. They were encoding information.
Thinking about that while I stitched my own circuit made the whole process feel bigger. It connected this small LED on my desk to a long history of labor, care, and invisible work. In a way, interaction design today still carries that legacy. We build systems that look clean and digital, but underneath they are made from countless small human actions, just like stitches.
Seeing all these circuits together also made me think about how our world works now. We live inside systems that look simple on the surface, but underneath they are made of many fragile connections. Just like these materials, everything is interconnected, and small changes in one place can affect the whole. These circuits were messy, tangled, and sometimes unreliable, but that felt honest.

























In Activity 2, I started to really realize that affordance is not just “does this thing look usable.” It is more about whether, during use, a person can clearly feel if an action is truly completed. Through this exercise, I noticed that a lot of everyday objects have this in between unclear state. They look “almost done,” but as the user, I am not fully sure.
In the perfume example, the shape and position of the spray head clearly suggest a pressing action. But the real key is not just pressing down. It is whether the spray actually happens in that exact moment. The circuit I designed only lights up briefly while the press happens, so that quick and easy to miss moment becomes something you can confirm. It made me realize affordance is not only about “how to do it,” but also about “when it actually happened.”
The Apple Pencil example made this even clearer. The slot already gives a strong hint of what to do, but because it is shallow, I often do not feel sure if the Pencil is really in properly. The problem is not that affordance is missing. It is that the done state is not clear enough. With a circuit that only triggers when the Pencil is fully pushed in, I can separate “it is in the hole” from “it is fully in place.” That helped me understand the relationship between affordance and feedback a lot better.
The bathroom wooden cabinet is similar. The handle and structure clearly tell you “push to close,” but because the cabinet is old, gently pushing does not mean it is truly shut. I noticed I often push it a few extra times just to feel confident. This example showed me that affordance can become less reliable when materials age or the environment changes. The circuit is not replacing the action. It is confirming the real moment when the action is actually completed.
The red date container lid is a case I really like. The snap on design already hints that you need to press it down fully, but without clear feedback, I still doubt if it is sealed. With an LED that only turns on when the lid is pressed tight, the completion state becomes very obvious. I started to understand that affordance does not always need a change in form. Sometimes it just needs the right feedback to support what the object is already suggesting.
Finally, the electric diffuser example introduced a more continuous kind of affordance. The turning knob already suggests a change from low to high, but smell is hard to notice and compare right away. By making the LED brightness change with the knob, I turned a process that normally depends on scent and experience into a continuous visual feedback you can actually see. It made me realize affordance is not only about on and off. It can also be about levels and gradual change.
This is the final design of my Mood and Energy Badge Shirt. I turned the badge into a large wearable piece and attached it to a black T shirt using two Velcro strips on the back, so it can be removed, repositioned, and reused without damaging the fabric.
The front is designed to read quickly from a distance. The top row shows three mood faces, and the lower section shows a social battery bar that shifts from green to red, so the idea of energy feels familiar and immediate.
I chose soft felt and bright, simple shapes because I wanted the message to feel friendly instead of clinical. The circuit and copper tape stay hidden under the cover layers, which keeps the surface clean and helps the badge feel like a real accessory, not a messy prototype.
This final version is about control and clarity. It lets me communicate how I feel without having to explain it out loud, and it creates a gentle boundary in social situations where my internal state is not visible to other people.
This is the final design of my Perfume Feedback Sleeve. I wrapped the bottle in a soft felt sleeve so the interaction feels warm and everyday, not like exposed electronics.
The citrus fruit shapes are the visual cue. They match the fresh orange scent and make the object feel playful and approachable before anything even turns on. I kept the surface clean and simple so the sleeve reads like a real accessory instead of a prototype.
At the same time, the sleeve protects and hides the circuit work inside, which makes the experience calmer for the user. When the perfume routine is uncertain, a clear light response gives quick confirmation that an action happened.
That small feedback reduces guessing and turns an invisible moment into something I can notice, reflect on, and adjust.
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