Alexis Madrigal has a fascinating piece for The Atlantic on the history of ASCII art—images created from typewriter characters. The traditional history starts with BBSs days of the early web but Madrigal takes us all the way back to 1890 (!!!), taking us on a tour of typewriter art, concrete poetry, and even early pixels:
At least one scholar connected up typewriter art and pointilism as pointing the way to the idea of pixels on a screen being used to represent everything.
"Seen from a distance, the hundreds of dots, in virtue of the visual phenomenon known as persistence of vision, coalesced into larger figures," applied mathematician Philip Davis wrote of Georges Seurat’s pointilism. "When in the 1880s typewriters became commonplace, this kind of image was done on the typewriter with letters or blank spaces, was known as typewriter art. In the first generation of computers, typewriter art was automated, and pictures of Washington, Lincoln, Harry Truman etc., were produced in this way. When computer output moved from the typed page to the television or video screen, the whole screen was subdivided into a certain large number, say 1,024 x 1,024 = 1,048,576 areas or so-called ‘pixels’, each of which could be addressed, shaded, coloured or otherwise transformed or manipulated."
In other words, the decomposition of images into lots and lots of little marks was a conceptual step towards the pixel. In this telling, typewriter art is not merely an ancestor of ASCII art, but of everything that goes on a screen. The television, the CRT monitor, the iPhone.
"People like converting text into pictures and vice versa," he writes, "There’s an inherent pleasure to making one type of symbol into another." Madrigal notes that all of us do this every time we sit down in front of a keyboard and transform a parenthesis and colon into a human emotion. :)
“Every generation needs a new revolution.” —Thomas Jefferson
In the early nineties, desktop publishing dramatically changed how designers approached their work. Typesetting and pasting together comps became a thing of the past. The work began to take shape on screens. But bringing desktop publishing to the masses also induced a fear that the careers of working designers would become irrelevant. The tools of the trade were now available to all, prompting designers to rethink their own approaches.
Around the same time, a surfer-turned-designer in southern California named David Carson started designing the alternative arts and music magazine Ray Gun. Never formally trained in design, Carson used desktop publishing programs to experiment with typography and layouts that matched the irreverance of the magazine’s content, including the now-famous article he set entirely in Dingbat. Looking at Carson and others’ emerging style built around this freedom the computer provided, Steven Heller wrote a scathing piece for Eye Magazine titled The Cult of Ugly where he wrote this new work had a “self-indulgence that informs some of the worst experimental fine art.”
I was so enraptured by the latest episode of 99% Invisible this morning that I’ve already listened to it twice. The episode looked at Wallace Neff’s “bubble houses” and it is completely fascinating.
Wallace Neff—an architect I had never heard of until today—was known for designing homes for celebrities in the 1930s. At the end of World War II, anticipating a housing shortage, Neff developed an idea for low-cost housing using air. With a new building method called airform, Neff designed these bubble houses that were twice as strong as concrete. Though Neff tried to create bubble house communities, the idea never took off and all have been demolished except for the one Neff lived in himself, located in Pasedena, CA. Looking at them now, they still have a strange, futuristic feel to them. It’s a shame many are no longer standing.
Our study found correlated blood-flow patterns in the first 10 seconds of undertaking both tasks. This suggests that both tasks depend on common brain areas and is consistent with theories that tool-use and language co-evolved and share common processing networks in the brain.
Tool making and language are really just the same thing—creativity affirming our humanity.
I have an unusually vivid memory of sitting in my high school library during a photography class my senior year. We were researching photographers and I somehow stumbled down a rabbit hole leading me to discover the work of Tibor Kalman (I also remember reading about Paul Rand and Saul Bass that day).
I remember looking at the work and realizing there was a rich graphic design history. Up to that point, my design knowledge and inspiration came from contemporary, working designers and there I sat discovering for the first time the designers who came before me; the ones who helped get us to where we are today. In a weird way, that moment set me on a path towards a deep understanding and love of design history.
This week, I won a first edition copy of Tibor’s monograph on eBay. I’ve spent the morning looking through it and I was immediately taken back to my high school library, and to that unfiltered love of the craft I now get to work on every single day.
What We Talk About When We Talk About Graphic Design
“I am a designer—linguist Roman Jakobson famously quipped that asking a writer about literature was like asking an elephant about zoology—so I am inherently unqualified to talk about design.” —Michael Rock1
I’m starting to think I don’t really even know what graphic design is anymore. Over the past few weeks I’ve found myself reflecting on the graphic design profession—what we do and how we do it, our individual and collective output, and our contribution to the culture at large. I tend to turn thoughts like these over in my head every couple months—usually through the lens of my own work—but this time the thoughts were more severe, the thinking more expansive. The graphic design profession keeps getting wider and wider, our role constantly in flux, taking on new ever-changing responsibilities not to mention the occasional identity crisis (Graphic artist? Visual Communicator? Information Architect?) We can now spend just as much time designing systems and interfaces as we do typefaces and illustrations. Graphic designers can now work with moving images, interactions and sound just as much as line, color, and texture. I’m starting to think none us really know what graphic design is anymore. We’re just making it up as we go.
The Roman Empire started this idea that you can have design elements, which could be propagated anywhere, and that you could reproduce the ideology of Rome all through the provinces. The Roman Empire literally made branding manuals for cities, for instance — how they should be organized, how they should be designed, how the insignia should look on them — and perpetuated that throughout the empire. And so that idea of creating ideology of design, which had specific elements that could be reproduced anywhere, was an idea that the church took up as it became the dominant ideology in Rome.
I really enjoyed this interview with Vampire Weekend from NPR’s All Songs Considered. There are a lot of interesting bits on their creative process, their approach to their new album, Modern Vampires of the City that releases this month and some stories behind the songs.
My favorite story is the genesis to a song called “Step” that turns out to be a response to one of their favorite songs, Souls of Mischief’s “Step to my Girl”:
Souls Of Mischief I’ve always loved. I kind of associate them with the first time that I really started become a music fan as a young teenager. This song apparently was recorded around the time of their first album, which was called 93 ‘til Infinity, but it never made the record and it floated around as a bootleg for awhile. I only discovered it five or six years ago but it always really stuck with me, especially the chorus. I didn’t know where it came from but they’re kind of like scratching somebody saying, “Every time I see you in the world, you always step to my girl.” Slowly as I listened to this song, I found myself kind of writing this alternate song based on that phrase. Later we found out that that in of itself is a sample from a rapper called YZ. We didn’t know that at the time. This was kind of the inspiration to write this other song that became “Step.”
Not only did it serve as inspiration, the band decided to research where Souls of Mischief gathered the samples for their song and layered those same samples into their own song, making for a kind of musical history hidden in the music:
You can also hear how the vocal melody of our chorus kind of riffs on that saxophone sample that you hear on the Souls of Mischief song. We had to go clear the samples, and we had to find out where Souls of Mischief gathered all their pieces from. Like I said, that line, “every time I see you in the world, you always step to my girl,” comes from this rapper YZ. But that saxophone melody is actually a cover by Grover Washington Jr. of a song by Bread called “Aubrey,” which I had never heard before. So in the end, if you compare “Step” to “Aubrey,” you can see the connection. They’re pretty different, but you can see how the melody kind of changed and morphed through these different versions.
“Civilisation is built on paper. Paper money has made our economies. Paper maps divided our land. Paper laws propped up our governments, and paper books helped shape our minds. Despite the obvious encroachments of the digital, we all still use so much paper to note, to register, to measure, to account for, to classify, authorise, endorse and generally to tot up, gee up and make good our lives that it would be a Joycean undertaking to provide a full history of all the paper in just one life on one day, never mind in one city on one day, or in the life of one nation.”
“World history, after all, is not a chronological list of every damn thing that ever happened; it’s a chain of only the most consequential events, selected and arranged to reveal the arc of the story—it’s the arc that counts.”
"Every new book I read comes to be a part of that overall and unitary book that is the sum of my readings. This does not come about without some effort: to compose that general book, each individual book must be transformed, enter into a relationship with the other books I have read previously, become their corollary or development or confutation or gloss or reference text."
I’m moving to Brooklyn next week so my current apartment is in various states of disarray—the living room is empty save for a few boxes; the kitchen is cleaned and organized, each utensil and gadget categorized and placed in its respective box to make the move easier; the bedroom looks sparse, every surfaced washed of its life. Every surface except for the bookshelf.
I’ve been saving the bookshelf for last. If it wasn’t for my collection of books, I wouldn’t have much to pack at all. Aside of general living expenses, most of my money goes towards books. When I moved to New York a year ago, I had to decide what I could bring with me to my new, smaller apartment. My books automatically made the cut. I wanted to be near them, surrounded by them.
And now it’s time to pack them again to move across the river.
Angela Riechers, writing for Imprint, questions the use of nostalgia and skeuomorphic elements in design:
Maybe we pine for outdated mechanical items because featherweight digital objects and applications lack soul. Quickly obsolete (the average lifespan for digital products is 18 months before a new version becomes available), they acquire no patina, remaining devoid of the gentle signs of wear and tear that prove they were used and even loved. The Singer Company’s 160th-anniversary limited-edition sewing machine—made mostly of plastic, with digital components—borrows its look from the company’s iconic cast-iron machines from decades past. There’s no significant downside, looks-wise; the anniversary edition is a lovely homage to the Singer heritage. But consider how many Singers from the early part of last century are still in use today, working flawlessly—then try to imagine this latest version still operational in 2112. Its nostalgic design is tinged with even more sadness than usual; it becomes an unintentional memorial to a vanished age of durable products.
This is an interesting thought. One look at a few of Apple’s iOS apps and you’ll see old desk calendars, spiral bound address books, old school microphones, and leather notebooks. As we transition more and more of our interactions to screens, we design those screens to echo the analog way of doing things. This provides an interesting challenge for designers. We’ve been given the opportunity to develop new modes of interaction, new standards and iconography, new reference points, yet we are largely relying on the past to dictate where we go.
We all know that baseball fans love their nostalgic ballparks, and I certainly like the human scale and sense of place that the best of these venues provide. But do those values always have to arrive smothered in old fashioned wrappings? Sooner or later someone has to take a risk on something new.
Perhaps the problem is that we stopped believing both in a better future and in design’s ability to further it. The thread is broken; terrorists have shoe bombs and bioweapons, and we’ve lost hope in the promises of flying cars and glittering cities hovering in the sky. The world’s climate and environment seem headed on a crash course to ruin. And so we cling to design that relentlessly references days gone by because we know what to expect—the scary challenge of the new has been removed from the equation. We seem to want design to give us the reassurance found in the recognizable.
Design is about movement. It’s about building a new future and a better tomorrow. I long for the past — the easier times, the vintage photos, the classy suits, the sound of a cassette rewinding — just as much as the next person but is this longing preventing us from moving forward, from developing new systems in which to interact?