Step Away From the Computer
Last night I had the privilege of listening to the illustrious Neville Brody speak in conversation with Michael Johnson through D&AD’s legends series.
In all honestly, I hadn’t thought about him since my first week at University. We were introduced to Brody alongside Aries Moross and David Carson as three titans of the industry – and were challenged to create a poster that emulated the design style of our chosen favourite. As an 18 year old who had no formal training or understanding of graphic design, I picked Moross for the one and only thing I could master: hand-drawn lettering.
The juicy, joyous typography was a comfort for me in that first week. It was a direction I could see myself in and a style that felt familiar. The work of Brody (and Carson), on the other hand, was utterly terrifying. I did not like nor understand his graphic, looming letters and chaotic collaged landscapes – and for nearly 8 years I’ve managed to avoid them.
Last night I was at last confronted with a journey through Brody’s life’s work. I quickly realised that the view I held in 2018 was - of course - informed by a minuscule fraction of his creative output. Collaged letters did define his style… 40 years ago. With each job and era, Brody’s work evolved and mutated into something entirely different and entirely new. The sheer depth and breadth was shocking. I’m now less fascinated by the work itself, and more by the changing world that could produce such changing design.
During Brody’s rise to prominence in the 80s, graphic design felt like a playground. Magazine covers and album artworks were singular, isolated canvases in which to experiment and play free from inhibition. It was less about communication and more about feeling. Less about graphic design and more about graphic art – intuitively working with type, colour and image to capture a sound, emotion or essence.
The opportunities for such play are dwindling as commercial agency work becomes the only viable career path for creatives. And for brands, design exists as a tool. It is an exercise in creative engineering: placing users on a curated journey to achieve a desired outcome. You are not emulating your own feelings, but instead the thoughts and behaviours of a hypothetical customer. Brands are systems and designers are responsible for building components. The industry has become industrialised, regulated and boxed in: the focus is less on innovation and more on infrastructure. It makes sense. Such global, wealthy and far-reaching organisations have never before existed and the briefs they pose are dull yet - admittedly - promising. Design is now considered integral and therefore respected as a practice beyond artistic expression. But have we gone too far?
Flexibility and longevity are the two words I now hear most often. They also happen to feel antithetical to the founding ethos of designers like Neville Brody who functioned off unapologetic, repeated newness. His work has stood the test of time because he was not designing for the future, but the present. Face Magazine is a historical artefact – visually signalling the time and context in which it was made. Design built to last can never be radical. It must be neutral, quiet and not signal anything at all.
Technology is also a likely culprit here. Analogue forms of creation are intrinsically iterative – you can’t undo, you must start again. Its physical limitations were what encouraged innovation. It’s no surprise that the richest period of graphic design history came before the millennium. Computers have now afforded us infinite creative capability and - as a result - laziness. It’s easier than ever for anyone, anywhere to design for any client. Chuck a big headline on a bright background with an oversaturated image and you’ve got yourself a brand identity.
By 2060, will my career and life’s work match even a fraction of the breadth of Brody’s? If I continue to work in brand design, the answer is no. This is a reminder to myself to not get lost in the maze of brand guidelines and strategy documents. To design for myself, for my passions (hint: Chatterbox). To not get lazy, and to step away from the damn computer.
The Creativity Conundrum
Is anything we make unique? It’s a question we’ve thrown around for years, and a question we’ll continue to ask ourselves forever. It’s as exciting as it is puzzling to mull over the future of design and its landscape. That very concept of the unknown and the pursuit for an answer is what makes us tick. It’s why we do what we do: we’re problem solvers, puzzle doers, question answerers. Our practice is an effort to make sense of the world, and in turn make it make sense to the people we’re designing for. Asking these questions is the first step on the path towards ‘good’ design.
The pursuit of innovation and uniqueness is of course not possible without creativity: finding new ways to do things and establishing new ways of thinking. And today, we’ve become too comfortable, and too complacent. Being in the year 2025 has become an excuse. In an over-saturated, over-globalised and over-connected world, innovation sometimes feels like a sort of hazy ideal. We’re unmotivated to aim high or reach for the stars as someone somewhere has probably already designed that concept or written that headline. It feels like we should retrace our steps. Projects now follow a rather linear path:
1. Receive brief
2. Realise how tight the timeline is
3. Scour the internet for design we like
4. Create moodboards
5. Create design based off said moodboards
6. Client picks the worst option
7. Hate the design
8. Rush delivery
We know projects and clients aren’t always going to be easy. Timelines are cut short, feedback is often ill-informed, and things often don’t go the way we’d (selfishly) like. What we do have control over, however, is how we go about our work, how we define our process: and that’s why the problem starts at step 3.
During my time at university we were directed away from Pinterest and the internet, and towards the real world to immerse ourselves in art and culture. To take inspiration from real things, physical things and a variety of things. Moodboards were frowned upon. The question my lecturers posed makes sense now. If we begin our process by curating a selection of images we’d like to reference, how will the outcome ever become more than a reflection, a copy? How differently would we design if we started with an entirely blank slate?
Is Chronology Dead?
Still riding out the high of Neville Brody’s talk, and stuck on one small thing he said: “all of graphic design history is now available to us”. When discussing (and dissing) Pinterest as a platform to seek out inspiration, Brody noted that the work on there is neither dated nor authored. Their search and filter capabilities are limited too – collections of images are instead presented to you algorithmically. If you go down the right rabbit hole of vibe-based clicks you’ve hit the jackpot. Otherwise you’re left stumbling through a haze.
Besides the platform’s awful functionality, I’d never reflected on the absence of dates and authors. I’d never thought to compare Pinterest, arguably the world’s largest visual archive, to traditional print media. Previously you had to seek out inspiration with a concise intention in mind – a specific location, artist or time period. Seeing material amongst a visual, historical and political backdrop requires and allows you to be a more educated, aware human being. It’s helped me to understand how our practice has evolved and what factors have driven that evolution, in turn grounding my own work. Selecting a reference not purely because you like how it looks – but because there is a story behind the author or context that resonates.
So, have websites like Pinterest and Behance made us lazy? Or dare I say uneducated? Will the notion of chronology of modern visual culture eventually die out?
Follow Your Heart (and the money)
I’m equal parts inspired and overwhelmed by design talks. At Nicer Tuesdays, we’re consistently introduced to formidable lineups of directors, illustrators and writers sharing the heartfelt stories behind their creative practice. One common theme always seems to emerge: regardless of brief, discipline or client, the best work is driven by passion.
Back in March, I heard from Will Norman. His latest music video for JME features the Grime artist in miniature, rapping through London underground scenes depicted as model train sets. The concept was plucked from his notes-app-bucket-list-of-ideas, and came to Will because he loved model trains as a child. Next up was Stella Murphy’s wickedly clever technicolour illustrations. Her promotional poster for Rye Lane spotlights Peckham’s beloved landmarks with a low-fi attitude and hazy colour palette that captures the spirit of the film and the community it was inspired by. The project came to Stella as a long-time Southeast Londoner entrusted to bring personal flair. Gabrielle de la Puente and Zarina Muhammad, the 'collaborative identity’ of of the White Pube, write about art, life and everything in between. The website was born in their final year of art school, a response to to the boring, lifeless and polite nature of the industry.
Each time I listen to these talks I feel deeply envious. Not because the speakers are incredibly talented (that too), but because they have found the opportunity to bring themselves into their practice.
For many, however, self-fulfilment at work feels like a fantasy – as prolific studios close shop and redundancies rise again, employment in any form is a privilege. Working for billionaires and designing in powerpoint is soul-destroying but hey, at least it pays the bills. Am I being a cynic? Is there really a world where we can all create work we’re truly passionate about, and get paid for it?
Are We the Problem?
The creative industry is in a weird place. Much like the rest of the world, there’s a growing obsession with comparison, competition and trend. Creatives have always been regarded as outsiders who operate in a self-inflated and pretentious bubble. Now, more than ever, I unfortunately believe that to be true.
As designers, we’re so quick to cringe at weathered tropes, from that blue to anthropomorphised objects, that we forget the average consumer isn’t scrutinising brands under the same microscopic lens. We’ve grown tired of these clichés because we see them every day, it’s quite literally our job to take notice. Any normal person, however, probably isn’t paying attention to which brands are illustrating humans with abnormally large limbs, nor are they inherently aware of design trends at all. It’s easy to forget that we’re often not designing for ourselves, or other designers. This culture is creating a rather suffocating environment to design in. The weight of foreboding criticism from peers is undermining the ultimate goal of any branding project: answering a brief and delivering the right solution, for the right audience.
Feedback and debate are of course vital in evolving design and the industry. There will always be space for platforms that encourage these sorts of conversations. The question I find myself asking is why work can't be judged by those it was intended for: the buyers, the users, the viewers. What if award panels were formed by the public? Normal people, outside the creative ecosystem. I'm lucky to be surrounded by many of them. A mixed bag of lawyer, recruiter and teacher friends who encourage my incessant stream of visual commentary as mere entertainment, bearing no influence on what they do or what they buy; my comments on the lastest rebrand met with laughter and even disdain. What are their parameters of an effective visual identity? Do they exist?
This brings us back to the ultimate existential question for creatives: how does what we do what we do actually impact people? I realise that sounds naive, but without asking these questions I find myself feeling guilty – and culpable. For those lucky enough to work with incredible people doing incredible things, their impact need not be explained. For most of us, however, the problems that exist outside of our work are overwhelming; what we do in the office can feel entirely worthless.
Breaking in, and Staying in
As a designer who’s recently made the jump to freelance, I spend more time than I’d like on LinkedIn. The platform once felt like a gamified social media. A place to stalk old friends, spend hours scrolling, connect with community and… find a job. I found comfort in the 500 word anecdotes and selfies.
Something now feels different. My feed consists almost exclusively of hard truths, tales of failure and negativity. Everyday, I’m reminded that the market is the worst it’s ever been – less jobs, less money and less opportunity. This conversation is rightfully centred around young people and racial minorities as barriers to entry remain impossibly high. With internships barely scraping minimum wage and junior designer roles demanding 4 years of experience, it’s a tough time to be new to the field.
We’ve seen an outpouring of resources to help those most in need, both on and offline. London’s best and brightest studios are making an effort to demystify the impenetrable industry that is brand and strategy. Koto’s Seasoned series is a digital resource “designed to help make agency life more accessible for the next generation of creatives”. Simon Baxi of DixonBaxi shares his words of wisdom for creatives on LinkedIn daily, each message underpinned by the same message: to be yourself. Creative Lives in Progress offers guides, magazines & events for emerging talent to “promote transparency and representation in the creative industry”.
Unfortunately, agency life does not become more accessible the further you get in your career. I don’t believe the need for these resources disappear once you become a Senior. Unless you are one of the lucky few who snagged an internship at Mother or RaggedEdge, the inner circle feels impenetrable no matter how long you’ve worked in the industry. The question is where that time has been spent.
All too often, I spot freelance jobs posts demanding experience at specific top studios. For a role relating to real estate, you must come from DNCO or Madethought. For a tech project, you must have worked at Koto or DixonBaxi. For a vague branding gig, you must have experience at a craft-led studio like Studio Blackburn or Porto Rocha (what the f*ck does that mean?).
A stint at a top studio undoubtedly solidifies your ability as a designer. Equally, relevant industry experience is clearly valuable on a technical and stylistic level. There are indeed processes, deliverables and taste that can only be learned on the job. The absence of this experience, however, should not be used as a metric for an absence of talent. It’s an absence of opportunity. How many incredible creatives are missing out because they don’t fit the mould? This poses the question: how do we hire on potential?
We talk about the ‘big break’ in show business, and the branding industry is no different. It’s about luck and timing, and the right person taking the right chance on you – whether that’s at 18, 25 or 43.
Second Things Second
Today, we live and breathe design. Little is free of its magical touch, bringing the demand for the multifaceted designer not simply as art-worker but as the vehicle for meaningful widespread influence — the architect of contemporary reality. When Ken Garland published his First Things First Manifesto fifty-seven years ago, he posed a challenge that refuses to go away. A challenge more urgent now than ever. Has design education failed it?
Corporate needs, and the commercial realm in which they exist, continue to dominate course structures and module criteria. We’re presented with little beyond the monetary value of design. Selling remains central to most projects and briefs. This, of course, is the reality we are all confronted with as the training wheels come off and you enter the professional world. Branding and advertising are where the money is: they’re what make the money, leaving graduates and young designers with little choice but to pursue careers defined by income. Writer Rick Poyner delineates the shift as design for persuasion versus design for communication.
Don’t get me wrong. It feels good to create something you know people will acknowledge, to create something that will sell. That’s an innate human desire. My question is why our moral compass seems to get pocketed as we step foot in the office. Discourse surrounding the social, environmental, and political landscape is central to everything else we do, everything else we see: except work. Does that start with education?
Democratic Creation
For the last few years we’ve talked a lot about naïve image-making. Hand drawn type, silly illustration and sloppy paint strokes are revered by designers, illustrators, animators and artists alike. Beyond the pure joy these mediums bring to both maker and viewer, we don’t talk enough about the very notion of accessibility that make them special. Creation that anyone, anywhere, can look at and think: I could do that. Though the conversation around art education is not new, it remains urgent and relevant. We all understand the ways exposure to art in our early years can guide us, but more importantly, exposure to art that doesn’t exclude. Like many, I believed I wasn’t good enough to pursue a career in the creative industry because I could not sketch an apple well in art class. The curriculum was biased towards tradition.
The following artists argue that sentiment. Not because their art fits into the category of ‘kid-core’ but because they work to transform found or household materials, from string to pharmacuetical packaging, into art.
Gisoo Kim brings image and yarn together to produce surrealist collages, exploring the relationship of place through physical material connection.
Kunel Gaur’s forensic typographic packaging compositions are enticing. The way he masterfully combines parts to create a new whole is both inspiring and fascinating.
Lastly, @tomek_tomasz_kozyra’s Instagram acts as a daily journal: the scraps of card-board, oil pastel strokes and layers of tape delightfully epitomise iterative making and a sort of creative journalling.
It seems these artists and their practices signal back to greater societal feeling. Democratic art and expressive relief through creating. Not prioritising medium, but thoughtful execution. Things that I, like many, have lost as my time as a brand designer, but things that are vital to the integrity of an authentic creative world.