What first brought the iPad to my attention were the huge billboards advertising it. They reveal a problematic relationship of this new device to the body. No doubt, the iPad perched on the lap of a person reclining is meant to reveal scale, portability, and to suggest a relaxed comfort of operating it. Ironically, however, it also demonstrates basic flaws in the design and reveals an awkwardness about using it. The left hand which you can barely see in the ad is relegated to the sole function of holding the iPad steady so that it does not slide to the waist and become extremely difficult and uncomfortable to use.

To “see” images on a flat screen and read text without distortion it is necessary to view the surface at the correct angle. This requires a parallel relationship between our eyes and that surface. Notice that while the iPad in the ad seems to be resting comfortably on the persons lap, it is actually being tilted upwards to achieve the corrcect angle to see it it properly. Laptops do not have this problem because the screen is separate from the keyboard and the angle of the screen to the eyes is adjustable. My feeling is that the design of the ipad is not resolved and that it is actually too large and cumbersome to handle easily. Unlike a cell phone that is small enough to operate with one hand, the iPad requires support so both hands are free to use the keyboard. Another option, of course, is to lay it flat on a table but this requires either bending your body over the iPad, propping it at an angle on another surface, or looking at the screen with a distortion caused by perspective. To true lovers of technology compelled to own the latest gadget, the things I have brought forth may be of little or no consequence, but they raise important basic design fundamentals crucial to the act of “seeing”; form and function.

I received “One Year of White Pages” as a gift for Christmas. Each month is identified by corresponding dots aligned in a vertical row. I appreciated the simple and elegant design solution until the month of June arrived.  It was in this fifth month of the year that the system of counting failed to work. From this point on, each dot had to be counted to determine which month it was. The problem compounded in October when the quantity of dots for the remaining three months of the year looked exactly the same.

The problem is that after the first dot, our eyes begin to see in groups but only to the number three. When the number of dots surpasses this we are forced to count each dot individually. Any attempt to group the larger rows into sets of three becomes sabotaged by the optical illusion created from the even spacing between the dots.

The equal spacing between the dots, however, is not the main problem. I have proposed two alternative design systems that would facilitate counting the correct month.

In 1959,  Annie Albers wrote in her book Annie Albers: On Designing, “Though only a few penetrate the screen that habits of thought and conduct form in their time, it is good for all of us to pause sometimes, to think, wonder, and maybe worry; to ask where are we now?”

In my opinion, Albers poses a question dealing with location. We need to know where we are before we can move forward. While she is referring to reflecting over a period of years, the same “pause”can be applied to every work we do. Every assignment has a center and it is the designer’s job to find it. The most important information on a map is “You are here”. Directions require two coordinates. It is not possible to get driving directions from mapquest without entering a starting location.

In my experience with teaching, helping a student find “where they are” is the most important thing a teacher can do. In general, students do everything they can to avoid the center of an issue. They feel that if they start moving in a direction, they will eventually arrive at their destination. Also, staying busy helps time pass and gives the comforting illusion of accomplishment. In reality, however, activity alone is a form of procrastination.

Location is objective and renders no judgment in terms of good or bad, right or wrong. It is simply identifying a point of departure.

The flat files were designed to store my collection of Posters from Basel, Switzerland. Carles designed them so that the drawers aligned so that, when opened, the drawers could rest on the wood projections on the facing side. This created a large viewing surface and provided stability so the drawers would not need to be held in place to prevent them from falling.

Carles Vallhonrat designed my studio when I lived in Philadelphia. This ladder was constructed with over six hundred pieces of wood and used no glue joints. The smaller unit  shown in the bottom image pulls out exposing the steps and slides back into the main structure when the ladder is not in use.

Designed by architect Carles Vallhonrat, these unique book shelves were created as a wall, specifically for this space. The concept of the angles allows books to remain tightly stacked without the aid of bookends. The center space has a dimmer light above and a flat surface that enables a book to be read without leaving the space.

Most graphic design departments review their programs on a regular basis, yet limited time and resources often impose maintenance as a priority over change. The pressure to prepare students for a seamless entry into the workplace makes it virtually impossible to invest time in experimental courses not directly geared to professional expectations. This problem is compounded by the time required to keep students and faculty fluent with current software. As boundaries defining the role of graphic design continue to expand and dissolve, it becomes increasingly difficult to identify a single point of departure. The only certainty is that current conditions will increase in complexity. It is the responsibility of design education to take a leadership role and develop a narrative that remains relevant regardless of evolving fashion and technological advances.

Schools have used the positive attributes of the latest technology, but more needs to be done to compensate for those aspects that do not facilitate the creative development of the individual. One of the most dramatic changes is that the physical relationship between students and their work has all but been eliminated. This has less to do with the final result than the experience of designing. A healthy design process has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Most unique discoveries are made in the time between the first sketches of an idea and the final result. The computer has reduced this rich territory to a single point; the beginning and the end now occupy the same space. What were awkward and often provocative first sketches are now concealed behind a surface perfection that continues to produce instant results with the click of a mouse or a keystroke. The wonder, discovery, invention, and struggle that comes from the direct experience of physically working with tools and materials is being replaced by choosing from a preconceived list of default menu items developed to mimic visual language formerly produced by hand. This turns the students into spectators in a game of multiple choice. One of the many questions raised by this new way of working remains unanswered: In today’s high-tech environment, “What is a studio?” Prospective students touring educational facilities today may find the graphic design studios little more than empty rooms with long flat tables; the students can be discovered in one of the many labs where computers are arranged in rows, like slot machines in a casino. Unlike studios in architecture or fashion departments, which are alive with materials and activity, these spaces feel anonymous and temporary. In such a passive environment, important design issues become encumbered with technical trivia: corrupt files, missing type fonts, laser printers lacking toner, and time-consuming searches for ineptly marked files that require tedious opening of each one simply to identify the content.

The urge to create is a powerful instinct that unites us as human beings. As educators, we need to establish fertile conditions and develop assignments that encourage students to fulfill their potential. Creativity, however, requires resistance and constraints—the antithesis of the mission of software engineers. Many students enter design programs today after spending a considerable amount of time using computers, but their experience has not made any contribution to their learning “how to see.” They may easily produce words and images, but the results are undigested and often lack meaning. “Seeing,” a discipline essential to the graphic designer, can be learned and enhanced in depth—and the best means for achieving visual literacy is through the direct experience of making. “See” has a second meaning that, although frequently used in conversation, is less familiar: to understand. In learning to see, one must transcend the passive role of recognition and engage in the active experience of perception. Recognition is instantaneous; it stops, though, after labeling something familiar by name, like a sunset or a bird. Through conscious observation, perception extends this initial moment of acknowledgment to an experience that is translated into a visual language expressed with such words as light, color, texture, shape, line, and pattern. As awareness increases, more subtle similarities and differences become clearer, and unforeseen connections become possible. The relationship between seeing and understanding is essential to creating visual connections and finding new sources of reference. Design serves as a means to better understand the physical world and to better read the nature of the realities around us.

No single answer exists to the many complex questions confronting design education today, but we do need to explore new paradigms for restoring human creativity to the design process. School must function as a laboratory for experimentation, not mimic existing hackneyed solutions that abound in the practice of design. This experimentation is only possible when an environment stimulates students to explore without being afraid of producing results that have no immediate practical application in the “real world.” Our students should be encouraged to expand their frames of reference and be able to identify where art, architecture, dance, science, biology, linguistics, and philosophy intersect.

In an age that thrives on complexity it might be novel to celebrate simplicity. The core belief is that “not knowing” is a healthy prerequisite for discovery and that making is a physical process that involves thinking, drawing, and working directly with materials.

Published in Steve Heller “The Education of a Graphic Designer”

Creating letterforms by hand provides the perfect means for achieving this goal and, in the process, learning important basic design principles—principles that are available only through the direct experience of making. Unlike most design courses that strive for diversity, the focus in this context is exclusively on learning basic formal properties consistent with existing traditional alphabets. This being the case, why not save time and use the computer to produce the letterforms?

The computer’s capability to produce perfect letterforms of any font and size is an important resource for designers. This perfection, however, assumes a certain authority that is antithetical to seeing and to visual thinking. Every letter in the alphabet has formal idiosyncrasies that require visual adjustments to compensate for mathematical certainty. The computer’s capacity to make a square with four perfectly equal sides, for instance, accurately reflects the definition of a square that appears in the dictionary. Mathematical perfection, however, ignores the fact that the visual world relies on imagination and illusion. The graphic designer needs a foot in both worlds and must reconcile these polar opposites. The fact is that the vertical sides of a square must be longer in length than the horizontal sides to create a “visual square.” Unless the appropriate compensation is made, the computer can only produce squares that appear too short. One may ask, how long must the vertical edges be in order to appear correct? The answer is, “Until the sides look equal.”

There is no formula that I know of. Finding the correct length is accomplished through trial and error, accompanied by careful observation, evaluation, and judgment. To reach this conclusion, however, one must be curious and confident enough to question the precision that comes so easily with the machine. Unless students are made aware of this visual phenomenon and encouraged to exercise their capacity to observe, doubting the authority of technology is virtually impossible.

Letterforms have a direct relation to geometry; designing a square presents the same issues as designing a letter. The computer can produce letters with strokes guaranteed to be exactly the same width, but unless visual adjustments are made, the strokes will not possess the same visual weight. Painting a letter as simple as a sans serif capital H offers challenges for determining important visual phenomena, such as the relationship between horizontal and vertical strokes. For instance, how thick must the horizontal stroke be to appear the same weight as the two vertical strokes? Where must it be positioned to appear in the center of the verticals (the visual center)? If both vertical strokes are mathematically the same width, are they visually equal? New questions and more complexvisual adjustments are required for designing letterforms that contain diagonals and curves. When students transcend recognition of a letter by name and begin to see it abstractly—the H, for example, as two vertical strokes connected by a single horizontal stroke—they immediately extend their understanding to the E, F, L, and T. At first glance, the results appear like replicas of Univers or Helvetica but they are never an exact match. Students begin to realize they are creating unique forms of their own that occupy the fertile creative space that lies in between presets offered by type fonts. This new awareness gives them the confidence and permission to search beyond default givens for a more individual voice. Through this process, students learn to trust their eyes and their judgment. They experience the weight of responsibility and the reward of accomplishment.

Taking things for granted confirms preconceived assumptions and eliminates the proclivity for further examination. During an interview in the late seventies, the philosopher Mortimer Adler was discussing his book How to Read a Book. Mistakenly, I assumed he must have been speaking about a book for children. Baffled by why a brilliant thinker would write a book for adults about such a pedestrian subject, I read the book.

As it turns out, there are numerous ways to read a book, and reading this one sparked important insights. One of the many benefits achieved through painting letterforms by hand is that it teaches students how to work. This begins with an introduction to tools and materials. Being accustomed to the immediate gratification from instantaneous results using the computer, students begin in a tentative manner. The quality of their first pencil sketches varies widely and reveals important information that teachers can use to help them improve. They confront new problems when they begin using paint, their eyes often only inches away from the work, painstakingly trying to paint a perfect edge. The quality of work changes immediately when they realize that spending time making a razor edge is an irrelevant diversion that prohibits them from seeing the form as a whole. Aware that a sketch is not a result in itself but a path to discovery, students stop viewing the sketch as precious; the concern for surface perfection is replaced with a desire to find the correct form. The studio comes alive with sketches pinned to the walls made with a variety of materials. Realizing that a certain distance from the sketch is required  to see it properly, students no longer remain seated at their desks but stand in front of their work at arm’s length, holding separate brushes for black and white paint. This activity creates a rhythm in the room: Students approach their work to add paint, then retreat to observe and evaluate the result.

Through the process of painting numerous variations, students become conscious that counter forms are not leftover transparent holes but crucial elements in designing letterforms. Awareness of the essential role that negative space plays in design changes how students think as well as how they see and experience their surroundings. The alphabet is a complex design system of inherent formal relationships with rules that provide a means to evaluate work objectively. By understanding these relationships, students can experiment with new and unique letterform combinations that are not possible using existing type fonts. Most importantly, they experience the benefits of having physical interaction with their work and the rich potential they posses as individuals to create unique and unpredictable results.

In a world where information about virtually everything is available instantantly, it is rewarding to discover things that exist but remain hidden, invisible, unless perceived through observation. As we move forward, it is important to preserve the valuable human component to the process of making and visual thinking.

While technology expands its influence on traditional means of thought and design, the role of the graphic designer will continue to evolve in new and unpredictable directions. The rapid pace of these changes makes determining the most effective curriculum and identifying qualified teachers a moving target. Department chairs will become more tempted to eliminate courses deemed unnecessary in a digital environment. Before eliminating classes that may seem obsolete, design educators will have to carefully weigh what is gained and what is lost in the process.

Previously published in “Voice”, an online publication of The American Institute of Graphic Arts