Erik Nitsche

Erik Nitsche’s life spanned the twentieth century. He was born in Switzerland in 1908, moved to the United States at the age of 26 and died in 1998. In the meantime, he created a body of work that is pivotal to any conversation about the modern movement in graphic design. Swiss without being Müller-Brockmann. Playful without being Saul Bass. Clean without being Paul Rand. His style is decidedly Nitsche.

Below is a sampling of Mr. Nitsche’s work for General Dynamics, for whom he created an exhaustive corporate identity between 1955 and 1965. For more on his life and design prowess, check out Steven Heller’s article on Typotheque entitled Erik Nitsche: The Reluctant Modernist.

Carroll Shelby, 1923-2012

“I never thought about dying…

The day you were born, it was already written down the day you’re gonna check out. Now, I’m not gonna throw myself under a truck, but I’m not gonna worry about when I die. I’m ready to move on when that day comes.” 

 

Long before the prefix ‘i’ on a computer or digital gadget had come to conote a certain prestige — a whole different plane of excellence — having the word ‘Shelby’ before the name of an automobile meant you were dealing with the absolute best. The Texan tinkerer is a striking figure in industrial design and automotive engineering.

Carroll Shelby was born with a bum ticker. A leaky valve in his heart kept him in bed through the age of fourteen. He was determined to catch up — and then some. He joined the Army Air Corps in World War II and developed a lifelong love of going fast. He drove Formula One cars throughout the fifties, competing in eight World Championship races. Driving in his trademark bib overalls, he set multiple land speed records and was named Sports Illustrated’s Driver of the Year in both ’56 and ’57. When his heart condition forced him to give up driving, he began constructing his own supercars to compete with the likes of Ferrari and Porsche. In a sport dominated by Italian cars, Shelby gave American steel the pole position. Beginning with a British classic — the AC Cobra — the eponymous builder produced a string of hits including Ford Daytonas and GTs. His rendition of the GT40 won the grueling 24-hour endurance race at Le Mans. Later in his career, he found mass-appeal when he helped create the Dodge Viper.

A cowboy-hat-wearing, no-nonsense visionary, Carroll Shelby is an American legend whose legacy speaks for itself. In a deep, throaty, flame-spewing snarl. RIP.

Dear Designers

It is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare.
MARK TWAIN


This year marks a decade that I’ve been learning from you. Finding my heroes among you. Aspiring to impress you. Ten years ago, I decided I’d try to make a living solving problems using design methodology and I’ve never regretted it.

Last week, I found myself sitting in an immaculate theater in Manhattan listening to a few of those heroes wax poetic about making ideas happen at the 99% Conference. I’ve come home conflicted. My head is full of professional tips and inspiring quotes, but I think we need to have a talk.

Fabulous is fun and all, but our reciprocal flattery is getting us nowhere.

We go on and on about the necessity of diversity, but I gotta tell you: we are not a very diverse bunch. We’ve diluted ourselves into believing that diversity actualizes as nothing more than neutral hiring practices related to things like gender, age, skin color and proclivities in the bedroom. Très shallow! We read the same things. We eat the same things. We buy the same things. We speak the same way. We dress the same way. We vote the same way. And I know all of this because we also talk about ourselves incessantly.

That’s the opposite of diversity.

The majority of designers I know live enviable lives. They’ve designed it that way. The only trouble is that many of them have done too good a job of surrounding themselves with nodding heads. Find a handful of people who hold convictions opposite yours, and instead of responding with mockery or disdain — or worse, apathy — try moving toward them. You may convert them. They may convert you. But either way, you’ll be a better designer.

Admittedly a challenge in her oversized Disney hoodie, but can you fall in love with Jennifer?

The average American is a 37 year-old white woman who lives in New Jersey. Her name is Jennifer. She’s married and has two kids. She works full time and makes about $25,000 a year. She’s a little chubby. She loves her dog and watches a lot of television. She considers herself religious and prays regularly. She does most of her shopping at Walmart and recently purchased the new Nickelback CD for her husband.

These are people you unfriend on Facebook, if you’re even on Facebook. And that’s just the start. Admit it: you sort of hate these people. I’ll need your help with this part, but I’d like us to hold each other accountable to truly understanding and empathizing with the people that we work for. That’s the client. It’s the end user. It’s the target market, and it thinks you’re judging it. And it’s right.

We love to celebrate the wrong things.

Design claims to be about lofty goals like openness, clarity and progress. Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places, but lately we seem more interested in things like exclusivity, celebrity, excess and vulgarity. In our relentless drive to remain relevant, we’ve become very crass.

We’ve taken the charge to be critical as an excuse to be cynical. We eschew wisdom in favor of irony. And, perhaps most damning, we choose fashion over formation. That is to say, we want to take credit for building culture even as we (merrily) chip away at it’s very foundation.

We seem content to build beautiful cogs for hideous machines.

For a group that spends so much time thinking about ourselves, there are some glaring contradictions behind our chic exteriors. We spend our lives making things. Wonderful things. So they will be consumed. Most of us are in pretty deep denial about that last part. The stuff you’re making — whatever that stuff is — is for human consumption. And most of them won’t realize how well kerned the headline is. They’ll have no sense of your obscure cultural reference. Color palette lifted from a little-known Van Gogh? Haven’t the foggiest. But still, because you’re good at your job, they will consume. And while they consume what you’ve made it will shape them. They’ll spend their money and — more valuably — their time. They’ll spend their lives trying to become what you tell them they should be. That’s a pretty huge responsibility. Is what you’re making helping humans flourish?

Never before has there existed such a huge class of well-educated people with such endless resources and a persistent state of global connection. You have access, capital and vision. Just don’t let it go to your head.  It’s not about you.

The world is not yet finished and we have such tremendous opportunities. Opportunities to right wrongs and communicate things that are capital-T-True. Seems to me, this usually happens in ways that are not all that flashy. This kind of design doesn’t win a lot of awards. It is not self seeking. It looks like quiet disciplines and a deference to the people we serve. Seek correction through criticism. Find insight in input from people who are nothing like you. If you’re feeling depressed or cynical, humble yourself to the client. To the team. To the work.

If you’re not interested in doing that, I respectfully ask that you find a different profession and stop besmirching a title that I love: Designer.

Gerd Arntz

Gerd Arntz was a German modernist who created over 500 icons, or isotypes, with the ambitious goal of clear communication to the illiterate masses, newly liberated by socialism. In collaboration with Otto Neurath, they strove ‘to overcome barriers of language and culture, and to be universally understood’ to facilitate the communist revolution. Not exactly my politics, but the man was a master semiotician.

They have a wonderfully curated collection over at the Gerd Arntz Web Archive.

W. A. Dwiggins

Type design on the cover of MSS by WAD

I’ve just finished a collection of stories by Roald Dahl (Someone Like You, if you care — utterly brilliant) and throughout the experience I’ve caught myself delayed numerous times by the object itself — enthralled by the meticulous typography and intricate ornamentation that adorns each chapter break. Not to mention the altogether unique cover design and spine treatment. As I rounded the last turn, I was confronted with a paragraph under the heading: PRINTER’S NOTE. What followed was a colophon of sorts that ended with the perfunctory, “The typography and binding design are by W. A. Dwiggins.”

So, who is this mysterious master of modern type and page design?

Turns out, William Addison Dwiggins, or WAD as he apparently preferred, was quite a fellow. He might be most famous for coining the term graphic designer back in 1922 in reference to himself and his work. He designed the (still popular) typefaces Electra and Caledonia and a total of 329 books for A. Knopf, Inc. The hardcover I’ve just finished bears the BORZOI imprint and will go straight on the top shelf where it belongs. Thank you, WAD.

Icon

Trade marks and symbols by Stefan Kanchev

STEFAN KANCHEV is, to my mind, the preeminent figure in mark making in the modern age. No offense to all you Paul Rand disciples. Born in 1915, Kanchev was the son of an iconographer and a student of Bulgarian folklore and traditions — which served as inspiration for much of his design work. In total, he is credited with authoring some 1,600 brandmarks in his lifetime and was named “National Artist” of Bulgaria. For more context and biographical info, not to mention a look at his impressive postage stamp and book cover collections, visit his official website.

UPDATE: The good-hearted folks over at Logoblink have put together an extremely comprehensive PDF about the life and work of Mr. Kanchev. Download it here (~30MB).