Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

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Succession To The Throne, Part One

September 15, 2008

This time around it was going to be different. I’ve had enough dealings with flaky and unreliable people on craigslist in the past, especially when it came to finding people to live with. And, given that I had more than a month to locate the next best roommate, I had every reason to craft the most amazing want ad for a new roommate as possible. After all, I could afford to be picky this time around. With two fabulous roommates like Erin and Megan in my history, I couldn’t not strive to find someone to round out the trio perfectly. I even had three friends proofread the bugger to acheive maximum bang for my verbal buck.

On Wednesday of last week, I posted the following in the rooms/shares section of Portland’s craigslist:

Designer Seeks Successor In Dynasty Of Awesome Roommates

I’ve had two absolutely splendid roommates in the last three years, but their next adventures are leading them around the world and I can’t go with them. Come October I find myself a sole occupant again, and you might just be the one to fill the void. 

Let’s start with the digs, shall we? It’s a two-bedroom townhouse-style apartment nestled in a quiet neighborhood in between Hawthorne and Belmont Avenues. There is equidistant access to two major bus lines and if you have a car then you have a reserved parking space. The downstairs and kitchen are most entirely furnished (I’ve lived here for over two and a half years now) though a new sofa wouldn’t go amiss. 

Rent is $375 a piece on a month-to-month lease (though I’m not opposed to signing on for six months) with a $250 refundable deposit and a $25 background check. Cable internet and electricity average out to about $50 a month. Coin-op laundry resides on-site and there is a small storage unit in the basement. The complex is pretty small—only eight units in two buildings—and the neighbors are relatively respectful. No smoking in the apartment, and no pets allowed. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some cats, but the landlord won’t have any of it. 

If you are chosen to live here, you would have the pleasure of living with one of the most fabulous people of all time. You may think I’m tooting my own horn, and I admit it—you’re absolutely right. But hey, I’ve got to sell myself somehow, right? Who says we can’t afford to be discerning individuals and seek out the best that life has to offer us? Is that cocky? Yeah, sure. Am I okay with that? Absolutely. 

My day job is with a big ugly corporation, but in the evenings and on my days off I enjoy being a designer and artist, dabbling in photography, blogging, jewelry-making, and any number of other creative things. You would no doubt be subjected to elaborate gourmet meals on occasions, and you could expect to hear rants from time to time about hideous design and the scourge of hipsters that has invaded the city. 

Truth is, I’m a big nerd. From discussing the latest episode of Battlestar Galactica to scouring the latest design journals to shredding on Guitar Hero, there is passion in what I do. My favorite mottos in life are “Pay Attention” and “Give A Shit”. If you can’t type a full sentence without any spelling or grammatical errors, then we might have a problem. 

I prefer wine over beer, enjoy sipping whiskey while watching a movie, but don’t smoke or dabble in other forms of drugs. Drugs are bad. I get a kick out of being a host to my relatively close-knit social circle, giggle while playing Apples To Apples, and I will never turn down the opportunity to plan a themed party. 

My ridiculously handsome boyfriend makes regular appearances at the apartment, but he’s not around every night and has his own place that I frequent just as often. I hardly ever watch broadcast television, but Netflix and the internet are my friends. 

I want to be your friend, not just a co-habitant, but I’ll respect your space, your privacy, and your property. Ultimately, I want us to mesh and create a happy, healthy living environment conducive to creativity. Naturally I expect you to pay your bills on time and keep any drama to a minimum. 

But don’t take my word for it, check out this wicked awesome celebrity endorsement and see what one roommate has to say about me! 

“Had it not been time for me to live alone, I would still be roommates with Isaac. He is kind and funny. He is clean; he has good hair and may share his stylist with you if you need it. He is a great snarker and friend.  Isaac’s morph into dad humor is well on its way. His preferred jokes include bad puns and wordplay. He has good taste in media and design. If Isaac weren’t gay, we’d be married, and he would make me waffles on Sunday mornings (oh wait, he used to do that and I didn’t even have a ring on my finger). One of the only things I regret about leaving Portland is not being roommates with Isaac anymore. You should be so lucky to live with this magnanimous, gracious and sexy man.” 

– Erin K., int’l development wonk, East-Coastiest West-Coaster, excellent judge of character 

If you think we might hit it off then shoot me an email and in 500 words or less, tell me why I should choose you to be my next roommate. Proper capitalization and punctuation are a must, but MLA style is not necessary. Bonus points if you can differentiate between a hyphen and an em-dash or make me spew coffee all over my computer screen (though I will send you a bill for the cleaning). 

My current roommate suggested we hold an elimination-style game show for all candidates, and I’ll be honest, I loved the idea, so prepare yourself for the worst. At a minimum, if I like your response then we’ll meet up for coffee and go from there. Users of Comic Sans and Papyrus need not apply.

Within two hours I had six responses, each composed with more care than I’ve ever seen from anyone on craigslist, and I knew that it had worked. Put a lot of yourself into something and you get a lot back in reciprocation.

Within six hours I had fifteen responses, only one of which was monosyllabic and boring.

And by the next day I had at least ten more in my inbox.

But despite the flood of emails, I pared it down rather quickly to half that were worth considering.

This email is confirmation that your application for consideration as successor to the throne of Isaac’s roommate has been received and is being taken under consideration.

Contestants will be notified of qualification within 3 days, at which point an initial round of interviews will take place to weed out the weak of character.

Thank you for your patience and good luck!

And from there I picked the brain of our Norwegian houseguest and had her weigh the pros and cons behind each candidate to decide if they were worth meeting in real life. Ultimately, four were chosen—two girls, two guys.

Congratulations! You have been selected to move onto the next round of exciting and friendly competition to be my next roommate! Here’s how this will work. We shall set up a time over the next few days to meet up and chat about what makes us tick. You’ll be given a tour of the apartment and be given the opportunity for a general question and answer session.

And then I’ll make my decision. I just might throw a round of Apples To Apples in for the whole group, since you never know—only one will be chosen, but who’s against maybe getting a new friend or two out of the deal?

So polish up those verbal CVs and practice your verb-noun correlations. This is going to be fun!

Our contestants?

Jesse, a theater tech from Boston, Massachussetts.

Malia, a Graphic Designer from Bellingham, Washington.

Rei, a History Wonk most recently from Quebec.

Soren, a Ridiculously Traveled Philosophy Major from San Francisco.

The suspense is terrible. I hope it will last…

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Reclaiming the Bus

July 21, 2008

My iPod took over one day about three months ago. I can’t recall the hows or whys behind the siege, but I suddenly found myself isolated by my Bose headphones, squinting at that little 2.5-inch display, watching movies and television shows. My bus rides to and from work and school were all-consumed by this tiny device, and it was two months before I realized how ridiculous it all was. I had nothing to show for this time of transit. Instead, I was slowly ticking off my list of unwatched shows and ignoring that world around me.

Then, one day, I found a great deal on a book that I had been meaning to purchase since its release; No One Belongs Here More Than You by Miranda July. It’s a collection of short stories—the first book from the mastermind behind Me and You and Everyone We Know. As I patiently awaited its arrival in the mail, it occured to me that this was the perfect opportunity to retaliate against my iPod and reclaim my bus rides for myself.

Armed with a sunny yellow dust cover set in Helvetica Light, I boarded the bus, proud to carry the tome under my arm. I carefully chose a window seat, set my messenger bag next to me, and cracked the cover.

What followed can only be described as glorious. A new world opened up before me, and with each turned page my imagination filled with images of her characters. During one trip to work, I looked up halfway through a chapter and looked around me. My memory tells me it was a bright, sunny day, but perhaps it lies. Regardless, I saw her characters in the seats next to, behind of, and in front of me. Each face on each person in each seat was riddled with life.

That girl over there, did she just come back from Newberg after selling her body to an old fat woman? Is that the old man that did ecstasy with his elderly friend in hopes of winning a date with his teenage sister? That lady talking to the bus driver looks like she might give swim lessons on her kitchen floor.

Miranda July’s stories are bizarre, twisted forays into the lives of others. Each short story is written in the nameless first-person narrative, and each character is an exaggeration in depth and complexity. Yet the more I read, the more I can relate to what they are experiencing and dreaming. And the more I read, the more I realized that they probably weren’t that exaggerated after all. Each character has excruciating interactions with others that resonate within my soul. Their vibrant lives parallel ours by speaking what we dare never speak, thinking what we shudder to think, and exposing what we strive to keep hidden.

I think it helped that I averaged one short story per bus trip, opening and closing the book like a window into the real world of those around me. And occasionally I would pause in my reading and gaze out the window at the world, arbitrarily choosing a face for a character’s name, and imagining what stories could be told about everyone else. A smile would creep its way across my face, and suddenly the world just made a little more sense.

Then, as I closed the cover for the last time, I realized how much I missed reading on the bus. And how much I didn’t miss listening to my iPod. The battle had been waged and my iPod sulked off to the corner to lick his wounds. In fact, I have hardly listened to it since then, choosing instead to crack open another book, and then another. The joy of reading has returned, and I have turned something passive into something productive again.

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[S]Hit List

July 17, 2008

Re-posted from the old and defunct A Pixel, A Vector, A Blog.

by Isaac Watson

Ask me which fonts I hate, and I would start with Comic Sans. Then Papyrus, Zapfino, Chalkboard, and a few others that I see every day. Sit me down in front of my font utility and give me a few minutes, and the list would easily grow. The first ones I named make my typographic shit list because they are overused, whereas the latter faces would rank due to poor design or typographic rigidity (lack of kerning pairs, ligatures, or alternate characters). A lot of them are far too easy to loathe. Take Comic Sans, for example; there is a whole sub-culture devoted to its demise, and even a subconscious counter-culture hell-bent on propagating its use. [Incidentally, there is a future article in the works exploring our love-hate relationship with Comic Sans.]

Ask me which fonts I love, however, and I would be hard-pressed to respond. Oh, I have my favorites that come in and out like fashions, and I will certainly ooh and aah over a particularly gorgeous typeface when I see it. But I’m a firm believer that each font has its place, and I don’t believe there is such a thing as a “cure-all” font that will work everywhere. Warnock is generally good for body copy, and my blog header speaks to my new appreciation for Voluta Script.

Then ask me about Helvetica, and that’s where we start to have some fun. Some time ago, my roommate returned home from work with a slightly rumpled piece of paper that she had found on the bus. “The second I saw this I thought of you and knew that you should have it,” she said. “It was just sitting on one of the seats, calling to me.” Touched by her sincere enthusiasm, I took the page from her outstretched hand and started reading. And then I cackled with delight. It was divine. There, flush left in 12-point bold it read, “Helvetica says: Do not read me because I will bore the shit out of you.” I was stunned.

“You found this on the bus? Just sitting there?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “like it wanted to be found.”

I stared at the paper, reading the text over and over again, baffled by its simplicity, its irony, and its intent. And its design. Because at its heart, the piece had been intentionally designed. Six lines of text, the first in 30% black, the rest broken into poetry. The more I studied it, the more I loved it. The stark white space on the rest of the full sheet of paper, the ragged edge left by the typesetting, the choice to eliminate any punctuation but a colon and a period.

It was nearly too good to be true. I determined that it was either a brilliant design student intent on expressing his or her personal opinion of the typeface, or a brilliant plagiarism of someone else’s idea. Was it really left on the bus seat intentionally? Did this person really expect the one who discovered it later to appreciate it for what it was worth? Or was it all just an accident? The more I gazed at its perfection, the more questions I had regarding its origin. The line was strangely familiar, but was it really something I had heard before or just a shared sentiment resonating within?

What better way to dig deeper than crack my knuckles and open a new browser tab? A little Googling gave me enough of a lead to re-watch part of Helvetica and learn more. It turns out the phrase was not original. Stefan Sagmeister used it during his interview to describe his thoughts on a corporate brochure designed in the same way. It would seem that he was referencing a particular brochure by a firm called LCMG, though my google-fu has yet to turn up any image results of the alleged culprit. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, but losing the mystery took away part of the fun. The fantasy surrounding the find was too entertaining.

Helvetica falls on neither my hit nor shit lists. It has its place in the typographic world, and has become ubiquitous for a lot of things. But sometimes it just doesn’t work. Last night I attended the Eddie Izzard show here in Portland and peered over the shoulder of a fan who was browsing the official program. There sat a spread, one side with a glamorous photo of the fabulous comedian, the other set in 14-point Helvetica Regular with 20-point leading, it’s lines spanning the width of the page. Quite honestly, it hurt my eyes; it just didn’t fit.

I love Stefan Sagmeister and his work, and I love that the posters framed behind him in the interview are all set in Helvetica (black, all caps). When it comes down to it, Helvetica does not bore the shit out of me. Not all the time, at least. Sure, I might read a paragraph or twenty of copy set in Helvetica and not think much of it, but usually my recognition of the font leads me to question the designer’s choice. What is the message conveyed? Why did they choose Helvetica? Would this have looked better in Jenson? Meta? Univers?

If anything, watching the documentary earlier this year heightened not only my awareness of Helvetica, but also of my awareness (and use) of other typefaces. I can no doubt spot those on my shit list from a mile away, and I can certainly spot Helvetica from the same distance, but what of others? I must drive my friends nuts when on the bus or walking around, because I’ll just call out any typeface I can identify. As if they were begging to be identified and validated. Yes, I see you.

Helvetica. Helvetica. Papyrus. Comic Sans. Helvetica. Lucida Handwriting. Helvetica. Bank Gothic. Futura. Helvetica. Helvetica. Zapfino. Helvetica. Helvetica. Helvetica.

So thank you, Helvetica, for not boring the shit out of me enough to ignore you. Thank you for your prevalence. Thank you for your ubiquity. Thank you for your complacency, your simplicity, and your stability. Thank you for reminding me that there are other typefaces in the world, and thank you for helping me appreciate typography even more.

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La Fourche

June 16, 2008

 

Elle est bizarre, la vie, pourtant je l’aime bien. Elle peut être gentille, tranquille, inutile, et chiante, et desfois tout à la fois. Elle est agréable d’un moment, et de l’autre une vraie salope. C’est ceci qui me fait me demander pourquoi est-elle comme ça? Me voici, petit qu je suis, quand on se compare au grand monde mystérieux. Une petite fourmie au vrai dire.

Je me trouve dans le monde au moment où il semble que tout s’achève, où tout s’accomplit. Il y a de la guerre, il y a de la haine, il y a de la violence, de l’immoralité, et de tout ce qui est mauvais. Mais qui a dit que ces chose sont mauvaises? Dès la fondation du monde, et bien avant cela, il fussent des lois, des lois qui distinguent le bien du mal, le saint du méchant, et ces lois nous gouvernent tous.

Me voici, petit que je suis, et ma vie me semble grande, importante, plus importante même que celles des autres. Et c’est qui qui décide cela? Ce n’est pas moi, c’est certain. Donc pourquoi est-ce que je pense de telles choses? Pourquoi me semble-t-il que ma vie miniscule se sépare des autres? Ne sommes-nous pas tous égale?

Au vrai dire, et au point, je suis confronté de deux vies. Je me vois sur la route mystérieuse de ma vie—mais je m’arrête à une fourche. D’un côté se trouve la route qui se ressemble à celle que je mène maintenant. C’est une vie ou les décisions sont similaires aux celles que j’ai déjà fait. Cette vie consiste d’une vie “normale”…

 

A rough translation:

Life is bizarre, but I love it still. It can be kind, tranquil, useless, and a real pain in the ass, and sometimes everything at once. It can be hunky-dory one minute, and a real bitch the next. This leads me to wonder, “why is it like that?” Enter me, small as I am when compared to the great mysterious world, truly like a tiny ant.

I find myself in the world at a time when everything seemingly is coming to an end, where everything is coming to pass. There is war, there is hate, there is violence, immorality and everything else wicked. But who determined that these things are bad? Since the beginning of the world, and well before, there have been laws, laws that distinguish good from bad, holy from hellish, and these laws govern us all.

Enter me, small as I am, and my life seems to me to be grand, important, even more important than that of others. And who decides this? It is not I, that much is certain. So why then am I thinking of such things? Why do I seem to think that my own tiny life could be different or better than others? Are we not all equal?

In truth, and more to the point, I am confronted with two lives. I see myself on the mysterious road of my life—but I am stopped at a fork. On one side is a path that resembles that which I have led up to this point. It is a life whose decisions are similar to those that I’ve already made. This life consists of a “normal” life…

 

I can pinpoint this little tidbit to around October 2004, a time in my life that was full of transition and self-discovery. I had recently returned from serving as a Latter-Day Saint missionary in Belgium and France, I had just begun a new job managing a warehouse full of vacuum cleaners, and I was making my first educational foray into what I would soon after discover as my love and passion: graphic design.

And if that wasn’t enough, I was also trying to reconcile my religious upbringing with the internalization and personal acceptance of my homosexuality. I was still living at home with my parents, I had told no one of my Great Secret, and my internal struggle was temporarily assuaged with the penning of this cryptic, stream-of-consciousness musing about the world in which I found myself. I chose French because, at the time, I knew that I could use it to feel comfortable about divulging my innermost conflicts. It was both for security—no one in my family or close circle of friends could read it fluently—and because two years of speaking it every day rendered my English tongue a twisted, garbled train wreck. French was a beautiful, emotional, idiomatic dream in comparison.

Had I finished the piece that I had scribbled down during a train-ride home from class one autumn evening, I no doubt would have detailed the other side of the fork, a path which would eventually lead me to be true to myself, following my heart and embracing my inner self. This path would be far from straight and narrow—contradictory to all that I had been taught about God, The Commandments, and The Righteous Path To Salvation. Yet with more than three years of hindsight under my belt, I can’t say that I would have foreseen The Other Path with as much clarity as I do now. Would I recognize that a path this windy and obstacle-ridden was exactly what I needed?

Yesterday I attended the third Gay Pride parade of my out-of-the-closet existence, and despite my general distaste for the obnoxious display of gay cultural stereotypes, I enjoyed being able to be myself amongst other people being themselves. And festivities aside, I took a moment to reflect upon how far I’ve come since that naïve twenty-year-old Mormon boy stepped onto a plane bound for Europe and a two-year tour of proselytizing and service to God.

In the past four years I have left the Church altogether, affirmed my apathy toward organized religion, and spent a good deal of time actively purging the doctrines that were inculcated throughout my youth. Only now do I feel comfortable approaching the precepts of religion again, though it still remains a low priority on my list of things to do. I have led what I consider to be an honest, contributing life. I try to keep an open mind, and do right by other people.

I look back upon my upbringing, and I am grateful for my parents and their parenting. I could have been a lot worse off. I do not regret serving as a missionary, because I recognize the work ethic, values, and personality that it helped me to develop. I do not see myself as strong a person as I am today without that history. And I am grateful for the experiences I had while there, which have led me to dispense with bigotry, hatred, and a closed mind.

I am happier now than I can ever recall, and it is the life that I have led and the choices that I have made along that path that are directly responsible for bringing me to where I am today. There was a fork in the road that Autumn day in 2004, and I made my path. I cannot foresee what lies ahead, nor how many more forks I will encounter along the way. All I can hope for is the wisdom to make the right choices, and the humility to learn from any mistakes. And I cannot ask for more.

We all bear the scars.
Yes, we all feign a laugh.
We all sigh in the dark;
Get cut off before we start.

And as the first act begins,
You realize they’re all waiting
For a fall, for a flaw,
For the end.

There’s a path stained with tears.
Could you talk to quiet my fears?
Could you pull me aside,
Just to acknowledge that I tried?

And as your last breath begins,
contently take it in,
‘Cause we all get it in
The end.

And as your last breath begins,
You find your demon’s your best friend.
And we all get it in
The end.

– Justin Bond

 

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A Fount of Fonts

June 5, 2008

Reposted from A Pixel, A Vector, A Blog.

by Isaac Watson

Being the typography nerd that I am, I am always in search of new fonts to add to my resource library. And being the typography purist that I am, I try as best I can to avoid downloading poorly executed TrueType display fonts from any of those free sites. Very few of them are designed with decent kerning pairs, let alone allow you to copy the files into an InDesign package for portability. Sadly, being a design student doesn’t afford me the luxury of purchasing font sets at will from The Real Type Foundries.

Last week I was fortunate enough to be gifted the Adobe Font Folio OpenType Edition, and you must be able to imagine my sheer glee at adding so many type families to my font library. The thought of having so many choices for my projects just thrilled me to no end, but the prospect of filtering through over 400 families as I decided which to install and which to leave out was rather daunting, so I let the enticing collection be for a few days while I hammered out how best to approach the task.

It was Monday morning before I finally decided to just dump them all onto my computer and sort them out later. Eager to multitask, I selected all the files and dragged them over to Font Book, then proceeded with getting ready for work. A few minutes later I checked back on the process, only to be met with that lovely spinning beach ball and no visible progress on the install. I crossed my fingers and ran to catch my bus to work.

A long, busy shift wiped any memory of the Great Font Install from my mind, so by the time I returned home late that night, I didn’t even think to check on my computer right away. Once I finally meandered up to my bedroom to check my email, I was greeted with a shocking screen (click for full size):

Fonts!

Yes, I had forgotten that when you drag a font file into Font Book, it opens a preview window and lets you view the font before installing it. I had no less than 420 font preview windows cascading across my monitor! I could do nothing but sit there and laugh hysterically at my lapse in memory.

Sadly, I then proceeded to go through them one by one and decide if I actually wanted to install them (it took over an hour). Now that I’ve completed the initially daunting task, my type resources will never be lacking.

Some of the things I love best/have learned about the Font Folio:

  • Over 50 faces of Helvetica Neue LT (and six other families of Helvetica)
  • A new favorite handwriting font—Voluta Script Pro
  • More dingbats and wingdings than I know what to do with
  • Myriad has both a Sketch (drawn outline) and Tilt (drawn solid) face
  • 64 faces of Minion Pro
Frankly, I’m overwhelmed. But being the typography nerd that I am, I giggle with joy at the thought of having all these fonts at my fingertips. And being the typography purist that I am, I rest easy knowing that each of these fonts are in OpenType format, and that they were good enough for Adobe, so they must be good enough for me. I also take comfort in the fact that none of those 420 fonts were Comic Sans. In this line of work, one can never have too many fonts. I fully acknowledge and accept that there are now fonts in my library that I will never use. And I’m okay with that, because as a typography nerd and a purist, I will take the freedom associated with an abundance of choice over feeling restricted in my creativity by what few choices I have any day.
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Inventory

May 22, 2008

I am materialistic. I like things—no—I like pretty things. Instead of borrowing books I buy them. I have a hard time throwing away old magazines. I like the way a collection of things looks when arranged on a shelf, a sense of completion washing into feelings of ownership. I like texture, form, and color. Pure minimalism isn’t for me. Wood grain, velvet, variegated leaves, and dripping wax. The intricacies of these organic and synthetic things please my tactile brain to no end. When it comes to décor, I enjoy mixing old with new, East with West, and juxtaposing fabric-bound books with the smooth fabricated veneer of a modern bookshelf.

A few years ago, when first taking out renter’s insurance against my belongings, my insurance agent suggested that I make an inventory list of my belongings, marking the replacement value of each and totaling them up in order to fully determine the amount for which I would be insured. The prospect of undertaking such a task was absolutely daunting, so I quickly settled on a generous estimate, and have since adjusted the total to reflect a new computer or furniture.

In these last few months of metered reflection, however, I found comfort in taking mental inventory of not just belongings, but of friends, family, knowledge and experience. Doing so has greatly influenced my overarching appreciation for life and helped to solidify my three-year educational and career plan. I’ve re-committed myself to fortifying friendships and focusing on what makes me most happy. But no matter how much I focus on the emotional and interpersonal, I consistently find worth in my personal belongings.

Not one to miss out on a chance to photoblog, I jumped at the opportunity to leave you with a small sampling of some material possessions that represent different parts of my personality and my life. I doubt I’ll ever achieve the all-encompassing inventory of assets that my insurance agent suggested—for it stills nags my mind as a goal to be achieved—so for now I must content myself with what I have.

Observation.   Periodic Perusal

Education.   Knowledge Base

Hedonism.   Pleasure.

Assurance.   Peace of mind

Connectivity.   Creative Outlet

Vanity.   Vanity

Stability.   Responsibility

Curiosity.   Voyeurism

 

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Copy That.

October 11, 2007

Re-posted from the old and defunct A Pixel, A Vector, A Blog.

by Isaac Watson

In a recent issue of Communication Arts magazine, I found this article by Brian Howlett about the demise of appreciation for copywriting. It was, in two words, terribly depressing. Those who know me even peripherally know that I am a firm lover of words, language and all subtleties therein contained. While I do not pretend to be a master of words, I most definitely have an appreciation for them, and copywriters (and writers in general) invoke a certain degree of envy in me because I wish I could consistently produce the caliber of work that they do.

To acknowledge that copy’s role in advertising has suffered from increased emphasis on stunning visuals and a culture disinterested in language is a disservice to the advertising industry as a whole. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a small number of them can be instrumental in the direction of the audience toward that which is implied, be it through a four-word tag line or a paragraph of painstakingly-exacted prose. The two should work hand in hand to produce a remarkable ad that truly makes its message known.

There is no doubt in my mind that our culture (specifically that of the Western world) is diverging from the art of language with great speed. One need only look to the nearest teenage texter “2 C what im talkin about.” But do our latest advances in technology really demand the truncation of our words into base symbols? Must our increasing laziness be made so evident in our daily communication? I’ve heard it argued that this trend toward “txt spk” might actually be a good thing for the English language. The French youth have started to bastardize their language as well, spelling things out phonetically and dropping all of the nuances that make it such a beautiful language in the first place.

This article in the following issue of the same magazine addresses some of the same points, much to my agreement. It’s comforting to know that the degradation of language in our day and age is receiving so much attention in the world of design and advertising. I just hope that the message will get through to those who can make a difference in the fate of the written word.

As a graphic design student, avid blogger, and recreational writer, I will never underestimate the power of the written word to augment the meaning and emotion conveyed by an image. Some images may not warrant any muddying of their message, but I feel that words—and their careful crafting—will always have a place in our culture. And I know that I am not alone. Copywriting is not dead, but a beautiful struggle it is, indeed.

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You Now Have Five Years Of Flak To Fend Off

June 5, 2007

Re-posted from the old and defunct A Pixel, A Vector, A Blog.

by Isaac Watson

The 2012 Olympics organizing committee unveiled their £400,000 logo design for London’s hosting of the games yesterday, and I don’t think it’s possible for me to be more appalled and disgusted with the result. Committee Chairman Lord Sebastian Coe stated, “It will define the venues we build and the Games we hold and act as a reminder of our promise to use the Olympic spirit to inspire everyone and reach out to young people around the world.” Does that mean that they will next be unveiling the olympic stadium plans, which will have an identical aerial view to this hideous logo?

Let’s discuss this, shall we? First, all of the citations in the article emphasize the focus upon the youth of the world and providing them with a brand and identity to which they can relate, a logo that will inspire them to change the world. It’s a lofty goal, for certain, but one that in my opinion is worthy of attempt, especially considering the scope of the Olympic Games. There was, no doubt, a certain degree of market research done in their £400,000 design process, but did that research prove that this was the best execution for the ideals that the Olympic Games hope to embody?

The public’s reaction alone is sign enough in my book that their design process was faulted. On the BBC’s article, a poll had been launched, allowing the readers to award the 2012 logo design with gold, silver, bronze, or a wooden spoon. When I cast my vote yesterday afternoon, 84% of the voters gave it a wooden spoon (including myself). Today that number has dropped to 70%, but is still a staggering majority.
Clearly they have recognized that it’s an ugly piece of horse dung. Lord Coe himself stated: “It won’t be to be eveybody’s taste immediately but it’s a brand that we genuinely believe can be a hard working brand which builds on pretty much everything we said in Singapore about reaching out and engaging young people, which is where our challenge is over the next five years.” I’ve personally tried to like this design, attempted to see in it some sort of representation of the tenets of belief of the Games, but I just can’t do it. No matter how hard I try, it remains a jagged, blobby, crowded eyesore, and I’m hard-pressed to believe that in a year, or two, or five, the public will come around and wear the logo on t-shirts and souvenirs with pride.

The design is ultimately just a poor execution of a brand aimed at that elusive 12–34 market demographic. Magenta and Yellow are terrible representations when the five-color ring symbol has been around for so long. In the interactive medium, one that is difficult to design effectively, the logo is animated, shuddering before each change of color—blue, orange, green, and pink—almost as if it’s trying to shake itself out of the confines of its jagged perimeter.

The typeface they use for the word “london” (because nobodoy can capitalize anything these days and still be cool) looks like it came from a free site like dafont.com, home to a lot of free decorative and cheaply-designed fonts. The Os are perfect circles and clash with the other oblique letters and the d looks like a bitmapped screen font. As for the 2012 itself, the forms are hardly recognizable and inconsistent. Choose a jagged typeface and you might have something going for you. Create jagged shapes that resemble geometric shapes more than numbers and you have a problem. When I first saw the design, I thought the first 2 was an outline of the United Kingdom, then I thought the last 2 was the outline (including Ireland with the little rhombus), and then I was just confused, because the 0 and the 1 didn’t match any geographic locations in my head.

Speaking of the shapes, many people have posited via the BBC Sport Editor’s blog that the blobby 2012 actually depicts a runner on the start line, a broken swastika, Vicky Pollard (of Little Britain) getting down with the Elephant Man, to name a few, or in my twisted mind, something even more vulgar. At any rate, it’s not achieving its intent.

What I fail to understand is why they are standing by their design as if everyone will eventually come around and accept it. Also, why such a grave departure from the initial London olympic bid logo, which is tastefully done and beautifully executed? The new design represents an attempt by adult designers to understand a youth market when they don’t really understand it, and everyone but them can see it without looking very hard.

The initial BBC article was riddled with quotes from various people, including PM Tony Blair, who were all standing by the same statements of motivating the youth to get involved and initiate change and creating a whole brand, not just a logo, that can evolve and invoke action for the next five years. Just with any point, hammering on it too much sends a message that everyone’s on board because they have to and they’re just regurgitating the press release that they’ve been given. Even the Head of New Media stated on the London 2012 blog that “It’s not about the shape. It’s not about the colour. It’s about what we can do with it.” Ha! Yeah, I’d like to tell you what you can do with it, mister!

I’m disappointed in the result of this branding endeavor, but mostly embarrassed for the United Kingdom and all the flak that this logo has been generating. I have not heard a single positive comment on the logo that hasn’t come from a source tied directly to the organizing committee or the government. Let’s just hope that this new brand doesn’t rain down five years of shame on the dear city of London.

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