By Maria Konnikova
The New Yorker - January 7, 2014
In 1973, my high school, Acton-Boxborough Regional,
in Acton, Massachusetts, moved to a sprawling brick building at the foot
of a hill. Inspired by architectural trends of the preceding decade,
the classrooms in one of its wings didn’t have doors. The rooms opened
up directly onto the hallway, and tidbits about the French Revolution,
say, or Benjamin Franklin’s breakfast, would drift from one classroom to
another. Distracting at best and frustrating at worst, wide-open
classrooms went, for the most part, the way of other ill-considered
architectural fads of the time, like concrete domes. (Following an
eighty-million-dollar renovation and expansion, in 2005, none of the new
wings at A.B.R.H.S. have open classrooms.) Yet the workplace
counterpart of the open classroom, the open office, flourishes: some seventy per cent of all offices now have an open floor plan.
The open office was originally conceived
by a team from Hamburg, Germany, in the nineteen-fifties, to facilitate
communication and idea flow. But a growing body of evidence suggests
that the open office undermines the very things that it was designed to
achieve. In June, 1997,
a large oil and gas company in western Canada asked a group of
psychologists at the University of Calgary to monitor workers as they
transitioned from a traditional office arrangement to an open one. The
psychologists assessed the employees’ satisfaction with their
surroundings, as well as their stress level, job performance, and
interpersonal relationships before the transition, four weeks after the
transition, and, finally, six months afterward. The employees suffered
according to every measure: the new space was disruptive, stressful, and
cumbersome, and, instead of feeling closer, coworkers felt distant,
dissatisfied, and resentful. Productivity fell.
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