Graphic Design and the Next Big Thing By Rudy VanderLans
A few months back Louise Sandhaus contacted me to see if I was interested in creating an issue of Emigre that would document 101: The Future of Design in the Context of ComputerBased Media, a symposium she had organized at the Jan van Eyck Academy in Holland. The symposium explored questions about what future graphic designers are being educated for and what the role of the designer will be. To encourage me to publish this information, Louise assured me that people were probably "chomping at the bit for Emigre to introduce this material in some intelligent and interesting way." While ambivalent about the value of such crystal ball events, what intrigued me about this request was how Emigre continues to be regarded as the place where the Next Big Thing, for lack of a better term, is not only regularly covered but also expected to be covered. The many disgruntled letters about our recent shift in editorial policy away from such popular phenomena underline this fact. This "feeding the trout" as one letter writer put it, the act of somehow keeping our readers abreast of trends, is an impossible task. Having been privy to the making of one trend in no way prepares one to recognize the harbingers of the next. I'm unsure whether this is because the Next Big Thing is simply a product of hindsight, or because it is human nature to regard ground-breaking work as the ﬁnal solution, nullifying the possibility of the next Next Big Thing. The latter is particularly tempting to believe when you've had your moment in the sun while riding the Next Big Thing wave, but piques the younger generations who are eager to have their own experiences of experimentation and discovery. Still, if you think about it, after hundreds of years of formal, typographic experimentation on the page, you would assume that we must at some point have exhausted the possibilities. Someone will come around, though, and disprove this, I'm sure. Tibor Kalman thinks otherwise when he
states in Eye that "People haven't started fucking with the printed page in a serious way yet..." Picturing what has passed before us, however, I cannot for the life of me think of what it could be that hasn't already been done. Actually, one could argue we reached that saturation point quite some time ago. Anything in print that appears new today can be considered a variation on age old themes. Purely from a formal point of view, that Layered Thing was fairly well explored by Piet Swart and Wolfgang Weingart. That AntiMastery Thing was pretty well exhausted by Fluxus and Punk, that Deconstructivist Thing was long ago mastered by just about everybody from Apollinaire to Edward Fella and that Illegible Thing was diﬃcult to top after Victor Moscoso and Wes Wilson were done battling over who could make the reader more cross-eyed. The only signiﬁcant contribution introduced to graphic design in the last 10 years or so, as Laurie Haycock Makela once pointed out, might have less to do with anything visual than with how design is produced and who it is produced by. While the idea of the Next Big Thing is ludicrous to some, it's obvious that many hunger for it. Having documented, for a while at least, one such Next Big Thing, our magazine continues to receive inquiries from journalists and critics alike curious what the next Next Big Thing might be and where to ﬁnd all the young energetic designers doing "crazy new things." You can smell the
desperation - with the absence of the Next Big Thing, what do they write about? But let's imagine for a second that there will be no Next Big Thing in design. At least not for a while. Nothing to catch the attention of the design press, to sweep all the design awards, to receive all the lecture invitations, to function as a source of inspiration and discussion for all. Here's an idea to ﬁll that void; we can try our hand at judging design by its content, by the ideas and messages that it attempts to communicate. Imagine design competitions picking winners based solely on the value of what they communicate, instead of how they communicate. The moral, ethical and political biases of the judges would come to the fore, for sure, but no more or less than the formal biases of judges who rule competitions now. Design would be discussed only as it aﬀects the message. For instance, a submission could be considered of great public value but would not win an award simply because the design, although formally stunning, obscured the message. What would the AIGA annual look like then?
asset of how they market themselves. With the absence of the stylistic choices usually available in print, many designers will refrain from getting involved, while others, by hook or by crook, will try and bend the medium to ﬁt their personal preferences for typographic expression and style. That's why so many Web sites look like what designers do in print but applied to the screen. If there were ever an opportunity for graphic design to be more involved with content, the World Wide Web is it. With the computer functioning as the great visual equalizer, content instead of form is what ultimately may come to diﬀerentiate and qualify Web sites. However, according to my own assessment regarding the value placed on content within graphic design, judging a Web site on the strength of its content will not soon gain popularity, at least not within the narrow world of graphic design. Unless, of course, you expand the notion of what graphic design is. Which brings me back to Louise Sandhaus's 101 symposium and the future of graphic design.
Of course it will never happen, because designers are visual types who have a tendency to either obsessively reduce or overly complicate the ideas of their clients, often without much concern for what is actually commun\icated. It is not that designers are insensitive or disinterested in the social and cultural functions of the messages they give form to; it's just that they don't always see the necessity (or have the opportunity) to integrate their personal ideologies into their professional work. They enjoy giving form to ideas. If designers were made of ideas, they'd be their own clients.
Whether or not designers will be able to make the transition from print to screen and whether or not the technology will ever deliver on the promise of seamless multimedia for everybody remains to be seen. But as we ponder the question of how graphic designers will cope with the seemingly inevitable changes ahead, we should not lose sight of what we're trying to accomplish. The purpose of what we do as designers will remain fairly basic: to communicate as eﬀectively as we can those messages and ideas that we most care about. Having the option to do this diﬀerently and with more pomp and circumstance than before raises interesting questions not just regarding how but also why.
The World Wide Web is often hailed as the Next Big Thing in graphic design, but it's a problematic environment for graphic designers. One problem is that it has limited graphic possibilities. The coarse resolution of the computer screen, the inability to ﬁx layouts and typefaces, and the overpowering presence of the browser's interface all restrict the designer's ability to impart a speciﬁc visual character to a Web site. These also restrict the designers' ability to leave their signature imprint, which is even more problematic, since for many designers this is the single most important
Writer Paul Roberts's observation that "The irony of the information revolution is that consumers neither like nor expect long texts on their computer screens" suggests a radical shift in people's reading habits. This shift has long been contemplated by designers and critics alike concerned with how to best address the reading habits of future generations raised on MTV and video games in an era of increasing information overload. This is problematic, however, since I can't help but wonder why, as graphic designers, we should concern ourselves with pleasing readers
suﬀering from attention deﬁciency disorder. How are we certain that by catering to their diminishing interest in linear reading and by relying on the power of images and sound bites as an alternative, that we actually increase such notions as comprehension and cognition? As a result of my own interest and experiments regarding how to best aid the reader, I've become increasingly unconvinced about the power of images to tell stories and the value of open-ended narratives. Where to apply such methods is crucial. When viewing Elliott Earls's entertaining enhanced CD, Throwing Apples at the Sun, I enjoy the fact that I, the reader, can construct my own meaning from the seemingly disparate elements of image, sound and text. It is obviously the very purpose of this project. When reading an essay, on the other hand, I crave for knowing what the author means so that I can learn and respond and ask speciﬁc questions if necessary. When Louise Sandhaus, in Emigre 36, practices what she preaches and designs her essay "Click" in a manner that aspires to the non-linear, multilevel environment of the World Wide Web or CD ROMs, the result is a dynamic orchestration of text and images that subverts the conventional make-up of the page. Whether it functions as intended depends on who you ask. As a designer I'm drawn in by the curious visual presentation, but as a reader I'm unsure about sequence and often lose the thread of the writing due to the many distractions and options vying for my attention - not unlike when I'm surﬁng the World Wide Web or scanning a CD ROM. In Emigre 37 both designer Stephen Farrell and writer Steve Tomasula make eloquent arguments to support the notion of using animated texts and images to subserve reading and enrich meaning. Theoretically it holds water and I want to believe they are right because their work is so shockingly beautiful. But when I try to actually read their short story TOC, the experience is not as smooth as I had hoped. The story is layed out with distinct visual gestures, but I'm unclear how to read them or what the authors mean. I'm uncertain how to ﬁll in the gaps or make the connections. Is it my fault, as a reader, that I don't
understand? Or is it the authors'? Or does it matter at all? In Emigre we have published many such theories and experiments, but their applicability in the real world, besides functioning as the Next Big Thing, has proved to be limited. This is exempliﬁed by designers such as Katherine McCoy, Jeffery Keedy, Ellen Lupton and J. Abbott Miller, who are often presented as the key protagonists and apologists for the new theories that have inspired recent design trends, but who in reality create designs that apply only to a minimal degree the theories that so outrage its critics. Shooting holes in the new theories, of course, is easy, since they are usually general in scope and allow for diﬀerent levels of interpretation, depending on the job at hand. McCoy et al demonstrate time and again that they are extremely skillful at implementing their theories. There are few books out on the market that more brilliantly combine text and image and in the process truly aid reading and extend meaning, than the books created by these designers. And the books look far more traditional than the theories that inspired them. Instead of nipping the theories in the bud, the critics should try their hand at how these ideas trickle down to the mainstream and are applied indiscriminately and irresponsibly. The opening essay in David Carson's book The End of Print would be a good place to start. To justify his typographic aerobics on the page, Carson often refers to the changing reading habits of the audience and borrows from the theory that if you engage the readers and make them work at decoding the text, they will better remember what they read. Granted, it did take me quite a bit of work to ﬁgure out that the sentences in the essay needed to be read from bottom to top. But what I end up remembering about the essay is not so much what I read, but how diﬃcult it was to read it at all. This type of work, as Andrew Blauvelt suggests, has less to do with redeﬁning the notion of readability or literacy than with creating product diﬀerentiation and establishing the expressive personal style of the designer. But if designers have a tendency to apply their signature styles willy nilly to whatever commis-
sions come down the pike, design critics often tend to paint with a rather broad brush to establish their holier-than-thou agendas regarding the social responsibility of the designer, the public good, fellow readers and other such stuﬀ. The new theories, as some critics claim, have no interest in such noble causes. However, when voicing their objections regarding the new theories and the work it has spawned, the critics conveniently steer clear of addressing speciﬁc designs, and instead use bodies of work such as Rick Poynor's anthology Typography Now: The Next Wave. These anthologies present anything but a uniﬁed collection of work or theory. They consist, for the most part, of posters, covers and other commercial, experimental and student projects especially short on text, big on image, and particularly suited for reproduction in small format. Here too, besides functioning as the Next Big Thing (as the book's title claims), the work can hardly be considered as serious research addressing the needs of future communication modes. But for the critics, who rarely judge designs within their speciﬁc context, they serve perfectly in pointing out all that is wrong with today's empty, self-centered designerism. This is usually followed by bizarre acts of overextension leading to conclusions that the new theories are not concerned with society's more mundane yet invaluable means of communication such as novels, educational texts, timetables, instructional manuals, application forms, etc. If the new theories are not much concerned with these, it is because they acknowledge that the old theory provides most of the answers for these applications. What the new theories are concerned with is that the old theory does not properly address the new media and the multiplicitous environments and audiences that graphic design now both serves and is comprised of. Which brings me back to the Next Big Thing. If the new theories have generated disappointing results concerning conventional print design, than the old theory has shown little ability to adapt to the new environments of electronic publishing. For instance, if issues of legibility are a social concern, why then have our most respected typographers largely ignored issues of typographic excellence on the computer screen? As we're entering the information age, which will
most likely play itself out on low resolution monitors, you can either ignore what is going on around you and then later complain about the irresponsible behavior of today's designer and the general downfall of literacy and all that, or you can help provide a solution. For the graphic adventurers among us, this probably means having to abandon certain personal expressive preferences, and for our most learned typographers, it might mean adapting sophisticated typographic traditions to ﬁt the still primitive world of electronic publishing. Somehow this combined knowledge must be able to generate a visual language capable of being both legible and engaging. At Emigre, for the short term at least, as we're trying to deal with the new technologies that surround us, we see more use for the teachings of the young Jan Tschichold than the writings of, let's say, Frances Butler. While we're being primed for sensory overload, the reality of electronic publishing still consists of system crashes, tedious downloading problems, links gone "dead," incompatibility and the many stylistic restrictions described earlier. The simplicity and social concerns of Tschichold's ideals, that "communication must appear in the briefest, simplest, most urgent form," as outlined in the text Elementare Typographie, are far more practical than the multi-level, interactive, hypertextual and audiovisual forms of communication that, according to Butler, will better match the "ﬂuid, additive, nonsyntactic, and above all, extremely sophisticated thought process that are the natural birthright of all humans." Visions of bold-italic-outline-shadow Helvetica "Mac" tricks have sent many graphic designers running back to their T-squares and rubber cement. Knowing how and when to use computers is diﬃcult, since we have only begun to witness their capabilities. Some designers have found computers a creative salvation from the boredom of familiar methodologies, while others have utilized this new technology to expedite traditional production processes. For this eleventh issue of Emigre we interviewed ﬁfteen graphic designers from around the world, and talked about how they work their way through the sometimes frustrating task of integrating this new technology into their daily practices.
Computer technology provides opportunities for more specialization as well as integration. Today, less peripheral knowledge and skills are required to master a particular niche. For instance, a type designer is no longer required to be a creative mind as well as a skilled punch cutter. There is also the possibility of better communication, allowing for increased crossover between disciplines. Designers can control all aspects of production and design, no longer requiring an outside typesetter or color separator. Text, image and layout all exist as manifestations of the same medium and the capability of simultaneously editing text and composing the layout will inﬂuence both design and writing styles. It is now possible for one individual to take on all functions required in publishing, including writer, editor, designer, and illustrator, thus bringing together a variety of disciplines and consequently streamlining production. The integration of previously isolated disciplines makes computer-aided design a seamless continuum of activity similar to that experienced by children. In fact, computer technology has advanced the state of graphic art by such a quantum leap into the future that it has brought the designer back to the most primitive of graphic ideas and methods. It's no wonder that our ﬁrst computer-generated art usually resembles that of naive cave paintings! This return to our primeval ideas allows us to reconsider the basic assumptions made in the creative design process, bringing excitement and creativity to aspects of design that have been forgotten since the days of letterpress. We are once again faced with evaluating the basic rules of design that we formerly took for granted. With computers many options of type combinations, sizes and spacings can be quickly and economically reviewed. However, the time saved in the production stage is often spent viewing more design solutions. Thus today's designers must learn to discriminate intelligently among all of the choices, a task requiring a solid understanding of fundamentals. Computer use also brings about a new breed of designers who possess the ability to integrate various media. Those individuals previously
hinged between disciplines will ﬁnd that digital technology allows them that crossover necessary for their personal expression. One such new area is that of digital type design. Custom typefaces can now be produced letter, by letter, as called for in day-by-day applications. This increases the potential for more personalized typefaces as it becomes economically feasible to create letter forms for speciﬁc uses. By making publishing and dissemination of information faster and less expensive, computer technology has made it feasible to reach a smaller audience more eﬀectively. It is no longer necessary to market for the lowest common denominator. There is already a growth in the birthrate of small circulation magazines and journals. Although this increases diversity and subsequently the chances of tailoring the product to the consumer, we can only hope that such abundance will not obliterate our choices by overwhelming us with options. Computers are phenomenally adept at storing information, but the current rate of its amassment is making a frightening task out of distilling knowledge from these huge data banks. Raw information becomes meaningful only when we can access it in a comprehensive manner. The storage and transmission of text and images is also becoming progressively less physical as data is sent over phone lines and accessed through computer terminals. Digital data is easily modiﬁable and it is diﬃcult to draw the lines of ownership and copyrights. Problems of piracy are already evident in areas of program development, type design, and illustration. For example, some illustrators using digital media now opt to submit hard copy artwork to clients rather than disk versions fearing that their illustrations could be copied and manipulated into a misrepresentation of their work, without deserved royalties. This brings up numerous previously unaddressed questions over ownership of data and our rights to use or even alter it. But what separates digital art from its analog counterparts aesthetically? Mostly it is our perception. There is nothing intrinsically "computerlike" about digitally generated images. Low-end devices such as the Macintosh do not yield a stronger inherent style than do the high-end Sci-
tex systems, which are often perceived as functioning invisibly and seamlessly. This merely shows what computer virgins we are. High-end computers have been painstakingly programmed to mimic traditional techniques such as airbrushing or calligraphy, whereas the low-end machines force us to deal with more original, sometimes alien, manifestations. Coarse bitmaps are no more visibly obtrusive than the texture of oil paint on a canvas, but our unfamiliarity with bitmaps causes us to confuse the medium with the message. Creating a graphic language with today's tools will mean forgetting the styles of archaic technologies and remembering the very basic of design principles. This is perhaps the most exciting of times for designers. Digital technology is a great big unknown, and after all, a mystery is the most stimulating force in unleashing the imagination. How do you write about a magazine that has had a tremendous impact on graphic design, but very few graphic designers have actually read it? When designers ask if you have seen the latest issue of Emigre, that's exactly what they mean, have you seen it. When asked if they have read Emigre, the response is usually "I haven't had time to get to it yet," (how long does it take?), or "It's too hard to read" - a curious excuse coming from someone who is presumably "visually literate." The illiterate graphic designer has become an unfortunate stereotype (like wearing all black and being overworked and under-valued [stop whining]). I don't think it's true that designers don't read, it's just that they don't read about design. Most design essays stink (I hope this is an exception). Design essays are usually written by some hack who wrote about lawn care products last week, or designers who haven't worked in so many years that they can't remember where they put their waxers, press-type, and T-squares. Emigre is written for, by, and about graphic designers, like a mirror that presents designers in their own words, "warts and all." Unlike most design magazines with slick production values that frame designers in glamorous and uncritical fashion, Emigre has never had the luxury of beautifully printed, full-color reproductions and
professional journalists and editors. What the magazine lacks in reﬁnement, it makes up for in being relevant. This is due to Rudy VanderLans's genuine passion for new and interesting developments in design. Rudy's point of view is not the only factor in the editorial and curatorial bias of the magazine. There are whole issues and many sections of the magazine that are determined by a guest editor/designer. This guarantees that the design and content fully embrace the subject. Rudy often functions as an editor/art director, carefully orchestrating the talents of many diﬀerent designers (why don't other design magazines try this?). Speaking as one of the many contributors to Emigre, I think it's Rudy's contagious enthusiasm for others that compels one to go beyond pure egoism and try to do something of relevance for your fellow Emigre readers, I mean lookers. Past contributors have been from America, Great Britain, Holland, Switzerland, and Germany and have included design schools and educators (something American design magazines have little interest in). Most of the contributors are not "rebellious kids" right out of design school but are more typically mid-career professionals struggling to sustain an interesting practice. Critics and proponents of Emigre often cite the "wildness" or lack of restraint in the magazine, but Emigre only appears "wild" in the context of the mostly vapid design magazines that preceded it. The exaggerated claims of "wildness" marginalize its important role as an outlet for exciting new ideas. Ideas that are routinely ignored or completely misunderstood by the mainstream design press. The fact is, the most original ideas and intelligent work in graphic design today ﬁrst appear in Emigre. One thing that most clearly established Emigre as an "original" was its typefaces. New computer software like Fontographer made it possible for anyone (with a lot of time and patience) to create a typeface. Zuzana Licko, Rudy's wife and partner, designed typefaces like Oakland, Modula and Matrix that put Emigre at the forefront of the new "independent" font companies. At a time when most type designers were put oﬀ by the limitations of the computer and its inability to exactly replicate existing technology, Zuzana was
intrigued and inspired by the digital environment, working within limitations as if they were assets. Because her early bitmapped fonts were of low resolution, and Zuzana likes to design within very strict parameters, her work could be misread as simplistic or crude. Zuzana's typefaces are, on close inspection, anything but crude. Wether she is working within strict conﬁnes of technically inspired forms, like Modula, Citizen or Matrix, or within an equally restrictive conceptual framework like Totally Gothic or Journal, Zuzana's mastery of a limited pallet is quite elegant. To consider Zuzana Licko's type design as crude or illegible (non-functional), weird or radical, would be incredible shortsighted and historically ignorant. Her preference for reductivist strategies in form and her expressions of form that follows the functioning of the computer, put her in the category of "classic modernist," not radical reactionary. There have been so many diﬀerent and conﬂicting opinions expressed in Emigre, that if you think the work is homogeneous you are not looking very closely or reading at all. There are some common concerns, characteristics and even weaknesses that some of the Emigre contributors share, but to lump them all into one "style" is overly simplistic and superﬁcial. Graphic designers are the "scouts" of visual culture, looking ahead of the rest of the pack. Eventually "scouting" can wear you out. That's why some designers collapse into a "timeless" stasis or retreat back into nostalgia. In this state of exhaustion, we often oversimplify or overlook the obvious. In my varied career as a designer I have been labeled as working in the "New Wave, Cranbrook, Deconstructivist, Computer, Emigre, and CalArts," styles. I don't object to the labeling and categorizing; a vocabulary has to be established to have a meaningful dialogue. What I don't like is the lack of a critical criteria or context for these "styles" to be discussed with any validity. What you get instead is an uninformed opinion - "I don't know much about that kind of design (because I don't bother to read or ﬁnd out), but I know what I like, and I don't like that. It is signiﬁcant that Emigre magazine is not lo-
cated in New York city, which has always had a stranglehold on the design press in America. Much of the redundancy and provincialism in design magazines in America is due to the fact that they are all geographically and ideologically located in New York's modernist dogma. Since the migr 's from Europe ﬁrst came to New York and started dictating their modernist ideology to America, New York has proclaimed itself the center of American design. The very idea of a "design capitol" is even more antiquated than an "art capitol" in these post industrial, post modern times. There have been several eﬀorts on the part of "the powers that be," or perhaps it would be more accurate to say "the powers that were," to belittle the little magazine with big ideas. Time marches on; their time is past. Emigre's time is now. Located on the "other coast" Emigre looks outward and forward, a magazine that ignores boundaries, while other's vainly try to claim territory. Founded in Berkeley, and later moved to Sacramento, Emigre is more an attitude than the product of a place and could have been located anywhere (except New York). Although Rudy is by nature an "outsider" or migr himself (emigrating to the U.S. in 1981 from Holland), he has never been actively involved in any of the many design organizations (he even declined an opportunity to join Alliance Graphique International). However, through his magazine, he has established a sizable network of dedicated individuals with diverse ideologies. Emigre is the only truly progressive and pluralistic graphic design magazine that is a locus for a decentralized discourse on design. It is an international meeting place for people interested in exploring and expanding the borders of design practice and theory. The only prerequisite is an interest in new design and an open mind. Intolerance for diﬀerent ideas is the biggest obstacle in these proscribed and dogmatic times. With the mind-numbingly dull 1970s and 80s behind us, designers are waking up and starting the next millennium. Emigre is documenting where graphic design is going. And it's going to be interesting.