Harry Beck's 1933 Tube map. Image: Transport for London
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Using the science of peripheral vision to test the Tube map

We know how the brain processes things on the edge of its field of vision, and we can use that to analyse the quality of subway maps.

Cartography is a demanding technical skill. The best maps, those that define their subjects, can become icons of design in themselves. London’s Tube map is one of these - so much so, that it’s rare when a major city’s subway network doesn’t look to TfL’s map for inspiration.

The story goes that London Underground was sceptical of Harry Beck’s Tube map, and only produced a small run of pamphlets featuring it in 1932 as an experiment. Its immediate popularity proved that Beck’s insight - which seemed counter-intuitive to many people at London Underground - was correct. When trying to get between stations all you want is the relationship between them, not the geography above ground.

But how to represent that relationship? Beck looked to circuit diagrams, connecting stations with lines that were strictly at 90- and 45-degree angles. No curves. Ticks and diamonds (now ticks and circles) for stations and interchanges. Compared to the horror of, say, New York City’s subway map, it feels clean, and instantly comprehensible at a glance.

That’s an important thing for a subway map - people will be in situations where they need to check where they are in their journey with only a brief look, often out of the corner of their eye, while standing up in a crowded space or reacting to news from the driver of delays on another line. Sure, when entering a station there's more time to pause, gaze, and absorb, but the key to a good subway map is simple: the greatest amount of information in the shortest amount of time.

At MIT, Ruth Rosenholtz and her team from the Department of Brain and Cognitive Sciences have been working on how much humans can comprehend through peripheral vision. MIT’s in Boston, and the city recently held a competition to design a new subway map. Here’s the existing one (click images to expand):

And here’s the contest winner, submitted by Russian designer Mikheil Kvrivishvili:

There’s something about the second one that’s just better, isn’t there? But how to tell exactly what that is?

Research into peripheral vision has shown that the brain's comprehension of things outside of the point of focus is muddled. Our brains do a good job of fooling us that we have a larger field of vision than we actually have, but if you’re looking at a specific station on a subway map, information that’s further away from it gets distorted - it's a vague impression of colour and shape, but nothing more.

Rosenholtz and her team have created visualisations they call “mongrels” that simulate what the brain actually sees when it looks at a map, as a way of verifying the quality of a map’s design. The better the map, the less information gets lost in the mongrelisation. It's as close as you can get to a snapshot of what humans truly see when they glance at a map in the setting of a subway train.

Here’s the mongrel for Boston’s existing map, for someone who's focusing on the Kendall/MIT stop on the red line:

And here’s the mongrel for the map contest winner, focused on the same station:

Now it's possible to see why the new map is better. The silver line fades into the white background in both, which isn’t great, but the parallel layout of the lines and the greater space between station names makes it possible to still work out the structure of the system without everything washing out. Simply put, at a glance, the second map always gives you the full system and your place within it, and the first one doesn't.

I emailed Rosenholtz about these maps, and she and her team very kindly produced a similar mongrelisation of the Tube map for us. Here it is:

Turns out, it’s not too bad! It’s centred on Oxford Circus, and everything around it out to the Circle line and beyond, along the lines that have been around for decades, looks pretty good. It's a much bigger network than Boston's so everything is necessarily a bit smaller, but that's unavoidable.

The problem areas look to be the newer additions to the network - the DLR is a mess, and the Overground doesn’t really stand out. In 2015, as the first phase of Crossrail goes into action and TfL takes over the commuter rail lines running through Hackney, that bit of the map is going to look even more complicated and could become more of a mess (and transport blogger Diamond Geezer’s post on this is quite good on this). The Tube map has had things added to it over the years around the edges without the central section really being tweaked in kind, and it might be time to consider rejigging things in the middle to make more space for the outer lines.

But still, it’s still nice to know that, even though Beck’s map turned 81 this year, its initial assumptions about map design were right on the nose.

Ian Steadman is a staff science and technology writer at the New Statesman. He is on Twitter as @iansteadman.

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism