Institutionalized: Saying Goodbye to Post Offices

Above: Art Deco letterboxes in the Chicago Stock Exchange

just came from the post office, a place I visit at least once, if not a couple of times per week. Despite the occasional insanely mean postal employee behind the counter, I've almost always found a certain peace in the ritual of visiting the post office. When I was a kid it was something grown-ups did, so it felt important that I could run my own errand. Back then stamps were 29 cents, which was well within my means (candy at the corner store was 45 cents.) I loved choosing stationery and selecting a pen and setting to work. Then there was the mystery of dropping the letter into the blue box, followed by the gratification of getting a phone call from my grandmother thanking me for the letter a mere couple of days later. She once told me that the sign of a good woman was good penmanship, and I took that to heart.

On top of being infatuated with stationery and in love with critiquing my own cursive, I write a lot of letters as a self-righteous form of procrastination that few can argue with. So I buy a lot of stamps, and I've been doing that for more than 20 years. The United States Postal Service just raised the price of a first class stamp to a measly 44 cents. I could not believe my ears when I actually heard people complaining. I can't even think of anything else that cheap, let alone something that provides so much bang for its half-a-buck.

This afternoon I sent three small packages to Australia. I waited in line approximately 13 minutes, and paid a total of $9.76 for first-class service. No wonder the post office is going broke!

Standing in one particularly long line one afternoon at my local 125th street post-office, I got chatting with the woman in front of me about what it means now that the postal service is closing branches.

"We grew up with post offices around!" she exclaimed, "it's just not something I ever thought would go away."

"Same with newspapers," I interjected, and told her how my grandmother was shocked—almost hurt—that her evening paper no longer gets delivered every day.

"And you know, these younger generations," she nodded toward her daughter in front of her, "they don't know how to talk to the people around them. They can email. They can text. But they don't just strike up conversations. That's considered weird, or unsafe," she observed.

She was right. The post office line is a part of every community, and its elimination is just one more thing that forces a community indoors, apart from each other, unable to tolerate those around them. It's true that we stood in line for at least 45 minutes that afternoon. But I hadn't spoken to anyone else all day, because I'd been sitting in front of my computer, working at home. The more we talked, the more parallels we seemed to draw. The virtues of older generations—patience, manners, kindness, gratitude, thoughtfulness—were all represented by a trip to the post office, and were systematically being stripped away. And for what?

I still have a few pen pals, and getting a postcard from them in my mailbox after a long day is such a welcome token. Taking the time to sit down and write a short letter provides catharsis, serving as a reminder to slow down for a moment, to phrase your sentiments carefully, and to practice your penmanship.

Crikey! The Truth About Type Obsession

ecently I was asked by a journalist for some advice: she was writing an article on "the excesses of type nerdery," and wanted to hear my take in light of the (completely over-dramatic) fray over Ikea's abandonment of Futura in its catalogues in favor of Matthew Carter's ubiquitous Verdana.

First of all, I don't really care about Ikea; I mean, I think it was a poor choice to choose Verdana—a font designed for the screen, not print and signage—and I understand that some designers think it was a bit of a "fuck you" to type designers when Ikea is supposed to be about presenting good design to the masses. I'll concede that there were some people whose reactions were bizarre (evidently someone started a petition against it.) But I'll parrot Steven Heller on the matter when he said that "some people just have no lives," referring to the uproar on the web. Another good point he made is that while Verdana was not a good design move, Futura is a pretty poor face for setting text, especially in a thing like a catalogue. So it's not like Ikea's design choices were ever the pinnacle of graphic design.

The thing that seems to be playing out here though, is not so much that designers threw some huge temper tantrum over Ikea's decision—it's journalists who noticed online type forums light up in discussion, who then exploited designers' technical reactions to twist the whole thing into a story about how fascist typographers are.

It may seem to people who aren't involved in design and typography that our online discussions about bad kerning or whatever—which, by the way, usually aren't directed at people outside our own community of nerds—are trivial and frought with "irrational hatreds." I'll concur that designers' love for the study of type can be extensive. Some are even excessive. But "irrational"? Not at all.

For those of us who revel in the discovery of found lettering, or who can spend hours and weeks adjusting the curves and strokes of a single letter during the tedious process of designing of a font, naturally our observations will be keener than the layman. But there are analogies aplenty to prove that most passionate people have a critical eye: a chef would surely balk at a chain restaurant's decision to swap out aged cheddar for Velveeta. A record collector wouldn't appreciate you comparing your downloaded mp3s to his lifetime's accumulation of vinyl. A textile designer would advise wool over linen for a winter coat. What's wrong with that?

When the aforementioned journalist approached me for comment, I pointed her in the direction of some interesting, beautiful and painstakingly gathered collections of type ephemera by some of the world's most respected and talented type designers. I remarked that while the common way to rib a designer is to mention Comic Sans (I jokingly started a facebook group last year about how organic food companies should embrace a new font), it's not really about a What's Hot/What's Not list of the season's top fonts—although that one-dimensional kind of 'reporting' does seem to be all these bloggers can come up with.

The articles that cry 'crazy' upon reading forums on Typophile support some notion that designers' passion, specificity and wealth of knowledge is something to be ridiculed. They're just the jocks picking on the nerds. Considering most of them are poorly written and haphazardly researched, they might do well to take a page from the nerds and study before claiming they're ready for the test.

Letters from Lake Tahoe

In no particular order...

Elizabeth on Elizabeth Street shopfronts

This article originally appeared in Design Reporter, a publication for the State of Design Festival in Melbourne.


he Melbourne Museum has an excellent permanent exhibition called The Melbourne Story, in which a wall-sized photograph from the turn of the century depicts bustling Christmas shoppers at the foot of the Bourke Street Mall at Elizabeth Street. The GPO, that Gold Rush-era pillar, stands in one corner, while what are now heritage-listed façades sprinkle the immediate surrounds. The lesser-known City of Melbourne building—a fascinating hodge-podge of Queen Anne and Baroque features—is just down the block at Little Collins Street. The image is so striking because that is what Elizabeth Street once was.

Today, it is difficult to think of Elizabeth Street as the regal thoroughfare history suggests, because while almost all of its original, impressive architecture still stands, it is lorded over by a visual tyranny of tackiness. From its Flinders Street base to the Queen Victoria Market, Elizabeth Street bleeds cheap signage, creating a seedy atmosphere with little-to-no visual cohesion and a completely uninviting and divided front. How did a street that still boasts monoliths like Mitchell House and the Argus Building come to look like a neglected suburban strip mall?

At its inception, shopfront signage was “a spontaneous response to the communication needs of the industrial revolution ... graphic design was invented to sell the fruits of mass production to growing consumer societies,” says American designer and educator Katherine McCoy. And unlike its cousin, environmental design, shopfront signage is not primarily a directional tool. Its first job is to identify—so while standard design principles like colour, contrast, scale and legibility still apply, shopfront signage has its own constraints, specifically the readibility from distances for both car and foot traffic.

Further, Elizabeth Street has its own particularities. The Australian sun is probably the reason for the ubiquitous awnings that intercept our view of the aforementioned historical buildings. But like many things that were badly designed to start with, accessories evolved to patch up the weak spots. Once the awnings stretched nearly to the street, what real estate could be given up to advertise a shop without sacrificing precious window space? And once that was answered, (stick the sign high above the door) how were people going to see it from a tram or car? Because shopfront signage is often viewed as an after-thought to a business owner preoccupied with actually starting a business, it’s not seen as the kind of design that warrants the investment of time and money it really deserves.

Branding advocates will claim that businesses’ exteriors need to serve two purposes: to maintain the visual rules established for other areas of the business, and to stand out. This is where the thinking becomes short-sighted. For one thing, while franchised businesses tend to look the same regardless of their location, Elizabeth Street is largely devoid of franchises. Secondly, a juice bar does not need to compete with a backpack store. One would assume we could think beyond the surface of marketing and branding assumptions to infer that no shop is an island, especially in a busy city, and argue for a basic set of visual standards that would elevate the whole of the street.

This is not just about form; (although Pen City’s use of Comic Sans vinyl lettering and Tropicana Juice Bar’s flourescent, designed-in-Microsoft-Word signage are particularly offensive) it is first about function. In 1957 Nicolette Gray wrote,

Without doubt the first consideration in the designing of street lettering should be to ensure that it fulfils its purpose; that it should be immediately legible. But, since it is a necessary adjunct to every town street—and indeed most streets are insufficiently labelled—it is also of importance that it should be an ornament to its locality, a pleasure to the inhabitant as well as a convenience to strangers.

Bad signage is not an ornament, a pleasure or a convenience. Both the city as well as the small business owners on Elizabeth Street have a vested interest in creating an area that feels safe, inviting and exciting, that references its cosmopolitan heritage. Paris, the largest tourist city in the world, has managed to do this beautifully by maintaining a comfortable distance from both cheesy, ‘ye olde’ signage and without advocating fascist rules that only value one aesthetic.

Shopfront signage defines our landscape more than other areas of graphic design because it is publicly experienced yet not disposable. We don’t choose to engage with it as we would a book or website. It is why the internet is rife with images of signs that are not just eyesores, but are grammatically incorrect, ironically misleading, or the device that diminishes an area’s reputation.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the design of shopfront signage has been largely left to inexpensive sign making companies, thanks to the advent of cheap, vinyl lettering and lightbox “graphics.” Like so many other crafts that have been made obsolete by these “technologies,” we have abandoned the quality materials and craftsmanship that once made a streetscape noble. Stone carvers, gold gilt letterers, sign painters and makers of fabric awnings are mostly gone now, although the latter is still in use on well-regarded roads like North Melbourne’s Errol Street.

The truth is, loud and cheap signs are no longer the way to stand out, at least not in a positive way. Cheap and plentiful does not an interesting sign make. These days, business owners who value modest aesthetics are taking into consideration their surroundings when designing exteriors, and companies like Aesop are finding success with that approach. Conversely, Hotel Formule 1 is an inexpensive hotel chain that could benefit from the fact that its Elizabeth Street franchise is housed in a building whose exterior is posh and sophisticated, but that logic is abandoned in favor of brand consistency; the bright yellow and race car aesthetic prevails.

It’s not that retroactively punishing small businesses is the favored course of action, either. These observations are a call to the city as well as food-for-thought for the owners and inhabitants of buildings on Elizabeth Street. An initial investment in the creative minds of Melbourne designers could go a long way as we think to future goals. As a society disposability is itself being disposed of; longevity and sustainability are the order of the day.

1. McCoy, Katherine, ‘American Graphic Design Expression: The Evolution of American Typography’, Design Quarterly 149, The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1990, pp. 3-22.
2. Gray, Nicolette, ‘Street Lettering’, Architectural Review, 1957 April / vol.121 / number 725.
3. Additional research: picturevictoria.vic.gov.au; auspost.com.au; wikipedia.org; typophile.com; walkingmelbourne.com

What I Haven't Done on My Summer Vacation

ear Readers,

I stopped officially working three weeks into May, and my brain activity has slowed nearly to a halt. It took me eight hours today to write 1,000 words for the State of Design Festival in Melbourne. Oy.

That said, I'm not super sad about it. I'm in Detroit at the moment, spending most of the day in the pool. My skin is pink, which is as close as I get to a tan. I haven't worn shoes today. So there's that.

I also had a really great interview in NYC last week for a position teaching design at NYU, which is pretty cool. If I get it I will likely be teaching Typography I and II; there are a few other courses they seemed keen on getting me to teach as well, like 2D Principles and Design Theory. Exciting stuff as I've always suspected I might like teaching, mostly because I really like critiques.

The next day I swung by Barbara Glauber's studio, Heavy Meta. I'm a huge fan of hers, so I was very excited when she invited me to lunch. We chatted and I showed her my work, and we shared tales of being sturdy people from "the rust belt". It's really refreshing to see a strong woman who's so successful in design. I still see the field as being dominated by white men, although perhaps just white people in particular. The world of type seems a bit more global to me, but perhaps that is because it's a smaller world, with a smaller pool of uber-creatives.

In other news we got iPhones this week, which was been really exciting and has made me slowly check Twitter more often. I'm feeling like I've been missing out!

Going to Chicago in the morning for a few days, then off to NYC for the long haul on Saturday. Stay tuned.

Imaginary Alphabets

This article originally appeared in the magazine, Patterns of Creative Aggression


he suburbs of Detroit lack stimulation. They are gray and sprawling, with stretches of beige strip malls and occasional blips of town squares that hold the only ‘old’ buildings to speak of. The earliest of these were small hubs for early 19th-century farming communities on the outskirts of ‘the big city’. I grew up in Birmingham: an affluent suburb whose city centre is indulgently called ‘Downtown’ based on its ‘eccentric’ 1920s buildings.

An Australian passing through wouldn’t see the grandeur of Gold Rush architecture; a European might be surprised if they knew this place was, for a time, the home of Eero Saarinen, Charles and Ray Eames, and Florence Knoll. But to a bookish child resident, ‘Downtown’ was a source of excitement and importance. I had never been to Europe or New York City, but I imagined this, only bigger, and not surrounded by any ranch-style houses. My favorite thing about these buildings wasn’t even the buildings themselves, but the large and dismissive companies within; the ones with their names carved above their revolving Deco doors. Or the small and exclusive restaurants, with gilded lettering on glass or wood panels. This was a city to me: the letters that told you where you were, or where you were supposed to go.

* * *

Of course, my idea of Europe and New York weren’t quite on the mark. No one can really prepare you for that. In France I fell in love with the red tin ‘Sortie’ and deep blue ‘Rue Saint Jacques’. In New York it was the faded yellow paint on bricks, whose black oblique brush strokes read ‘No Stick Ball Here’; it was the twin entrances of a Catholic school, with ‘Girls’ and ‘Boys’ carved dauntingly into stone. I noticed and craved to notice more and more, and not just the quaint colloquialisms but the signs and letters that showed neglect, decay and loneliness. My lifelong obsession with letters was getting an education beyond old typography classes. Their imperfection established personality, and it was about this time I realized that letters had become, in my mind, like people.

* * *



Walking by Punch Lane in Melbourne one day this winter, I spotted a sign for a restaurant I’d never seen before. It was hand painted, with confident but elegant strokes; boldly upright, white on black. As a script it looked so perfectly united—as if you’d never question the shapes of the letters or how they came to be standing next to one another. And I suppose this is what you want from a piece of lettering: for your word to look like one piece, as opposed to letters that just happen to be standing next to each other, like strangers in the bank queue.

When the word is a name, it’s even more important to maintain solidarity. After all, you wouldn’t want someone to look at your name and think, “jeez, wouldn’t his name be so lovely if not for that unfortunate ‘s’ hanging out at the end.”

I do realize of course that most people don’t have this kind of internal dialogue. But since I do, it was natural that once I passed this sign, I continued to think about it for the next several days.

So I went back and I took photographs of it, perching precariously atop a very narrow cement bollard. I wanted to know what the rest of the characters would look like if a whole alphabet had been made from this lovely script. This is what I came up with.

Above: introduction to the first in the series, Imaginary Alphabets.







Imaginary Alphabets is a lot of things for me: a way of procrastinating when I’m in between jobs, a way to promote and exploit myself and my skills, and perhaps most importantly, an exercise in my continuing self-education of typography. For others, I hope that the alphabets cause people to look up more, to notice their surroundings and how they are always and constantly changing.

I focus on found lettering rather than mechanized type because it calls attention to a craft that’s (mostly) functionally obsolete, but that is also essential for our understanding of type today. Hand-lettering has more identifiable flaws, and that is what gives it character. No two letters are alike in a piece of lettering, and what’s more is that each letter is shaped by the letters on either side of it: a letter’s past and its future are determined by its surroundings, which I suppose is a poetic way to explain why they are so humbly important.

* * *

Soon after completing the first Imaginary Alphabet, I spotted this fantastically faded, neglected script on a building on Smith Street in Collingwood. I’d been wanting to find some lettering in that area to explore because it was the first place I saw in Australia, and it was so far from what I thought Australia looked like that it still seems surreal to me.



I noticed the lettering on this building last September on Smith Street near Johnston in Collingwood. Its appeal was immediate—not only because of the letters’ deftly painted scrolls and faux-gilded depth, but also because it has that sense of old school, no-nonsense graphic design about it.

Sure enough, when I began researching it, I discovered a remarkable similarity between the lettering all along the shop fronts of turn-of-the-century Smith Street. It was a sign of the times, so to speak; a testament to the birth of the Industrial Revolution in Australia.

It was interesting to me, looking through the old images of Collingwood and Fitzroy and what the beginning of capitalism really looked like; and it was ironic that I was investigating this while Wall Street was crashing in New York—it was as if I was seeing it all come full-circle.

Encouraged by the striking resemblances in sign lettering from the old photos, I started scrambling to find out who the sign writer was. My research at the moment has come to a dead end, however, and in the meantime, I learned that these alphabets are quite ubiquitous, and not nearly as infrequent and special here in Victoria as I had initially hoped.

So I decided instead to create an alphabetic response to my research, and to suspend my energy for a new and complete alphabet til something else presented itself.



* * *

The Process.
I finished the third alphabet yesterday. I had found the sheet music in a collectibles shop in the Yarra Valley and liked the variety of old Victorian penwork. Sheet music has such a distinct form; it’s regimented but has such energy and movement because of the musical notation. I also like that lyrics sort of get dragged through along the bottom of the fits and starts of notes and rhythm. The lyrics to this music are that kind of lame, innocuous old-timey music that fits so well with the sharp but bouncy letters in ‘Marguerite’.



I started by scanning the sheet music; then I quickly traced the letters in Illustrator. A lot of people ask me if these alphabets are ‘working’ fonts; the answer is no. They don’t need to be used in other contexts; the point is to make the letters exist basically as they were found, only with their other family members. I hate to think what people would do with these alphabets if they could load them up in Microsoft Word. Even the act of digitizing them would destroy a lot of their spirit.

After the existing letters have been made, the basic shapes needed to create the rest of the alphabet begin to surface. The ‘d’ and ‘b’ help create the ‘p’ and ‘q’. These shapes then define the ascenders for other letters like the ‘h’, which defines the ‘n’ and then the ‘m’. This process helps me identify letters for their similarities and differences. I can establish their height, thickness of strokes, and by experimenting with a pen and nib, figure out the various ways a letter can start and finish.

The overall goal is to capture the spirit of the found lettering. Like the buildings around me growing up, it is the personality and knowingness of the letters that — for me — give us our sense of direction, time and place. They remind us of what came before us, and hint at what could be ahead.

Direct to Public

y first show is coming up a week from today. Whoa.

I had a crit last night with the mighty Stuart and got some good feedback and perspective of where I'm at and where I need to take this. [One of the things I really don't like about freelancing is I don't have that environment where I'm constantly bouncing things off my colleagues, so it's really great when I do get that opportunity.] I talked about my concerns of how people will perceive what I'm doing if they're not given an articulate context; I'm not glorifying these particular signs, or elevating sign writing to high art. Primarily, the show's purpose is to illustrate the landscape of Brunswick and show its temporality.

So it was interesting that later on in the evening I got a great email from a guy who just wanted to tell me that he's really looking forward to the show, adding that he's been documenting Brunswick's streetscape for the past few years through a similar lens. It brought up another concern about misperception, so I wrote this in reply:

"Being not from Brunswick (or even Australia) I do have my skepticism about my ability to portray a landscape I'm not actually a part of. I'm from Detroit and often get really protective about the way that outsiders see its Gotham qualities with little-to-no context. Recently I read an article about some Dutch urban planner types who were developing a project for an empty lot in Detroit and, while their idea was a good one, I got really annoyed that they saw the space as a blank canvas rather than a canvas whose pictures have faded because of neglect and corruption."

Anyway. Direct to Public is no dissertation; it's a small comment. It should be good. Stay tuned.