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The role of British graphic designers and authors in spreading Swiss Style, “Swiss graphic design,” or “Swiss typography” internationally is evident, but less is known about the process and effects of transnational exchange in design. This article follows the trajectories of objects and texts, revealing how they have established and disseminated the labels in Britain and abroad, thus contributing to our current understanding of “Swiss graphic design.” It concludes with an example of alternative historiography of modern visual communication as a constant process of exchange that reveals the complex international interaction of design discourses.

In the postwar period, the Swiss living abroad were considered as the vanguard of Swiss culture and as economic outposts of the country. Swiss graphic designers established in Paris were no exception. Through a close analysis of archival documents and visual material, this article sheds light on the ways the Swiss studio Hollenstein actively contributed to promote Swiss graphic design in the French capital supported by a set of economic and cultural Swiss actors.

Graphics in scientific communication are not just a means to elegantly convey, condense, or systematize “facts.” As any form of communication, they are bound to, or enregistered in, the discursive context of previous uses. Graphics, thus, do not only visualize information (in an iconic or symbolic way), they also contextualize (i.e., index) the practices, communities, and genres of particular fields and thereby serve as effective emblems of scholarly identity. This article elaborates on the indexical or emblematic dimension of academic graphic design. Drawing on sociolinguistic theory of social positioning and identification, it will be argued how graphic design is a disciplinary practice in the double sense of the word.

In this article, I introduce the notion of remix as a form of metadesign—a methodological system—applicable to type design. Although the concept of metadesign has been entertained since at least the mid-1960s, it has gained new relevance as it has resurfaced in academic literature during the twenty-first century. This new relevance has been credited to the development of digital tools that allow for the automation of processes.

Starting in the 1960s, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) became one of the most visible points of entry in America for the so-called “Swiss-style,” a distinctive, modernist approach to graphic design. Three women were largely responsible for its success: Therese Moll, Jacqueline Casey, and Muriel Cooper. While Casey and Cooper have begun to get their due, Moll—a visiting designer from Basel—remains almost unknown. This article examines why MIT provided such fertile ground for this style, before it became the lingua franca of corporate modernism, and how, by the 1980s, it traveled from print to screens.

Due to copyright restrictions, the access to the full text of this article is only available via subscription. This paper examines the formation of the field of typography in the Ottoman Empire from within a field-based perspective. By approaching typography as a strategic action field, it analyzes the typographic environment and its various actors from mid-nineteenth to early twentieth centuries according to the criteria of field formation. Through explicatory historical evidence, it demonstrates that the field of typography was in the process of formation in the late Ottoman period.

This article offers a historical analysis of 21st-century American engagements with 19th-century ornamented typography, demonstrating how this form of historicist practice constructs purposeful continuities between past and present by aligning 19th- and 21st-century modes of production. These alignments, balanced on fraught cultural divisions between handmade/machine-made and authentic/artificial, are resolutely ahistorical yet speak volumes about the dynamics of information capitalism, deindustrialization, and recession in recent US history. The analysis focuses upon two genres of neo-19th-century typographic revivals: heritage letterpress fetishism, which invokes an imagined return to authentic handcraft, and revivalist authentications of digital design practice, in which designers use the old to confer legitimacy upon the new.

Introduction Advertising as a functional communication system, with a clear-cut goal of capturing the consumer’s attention and encouraging the purchase of the advertised product, typically consists of a visual image and a slogan. In analyzing the play of word and image in contemporary advertisements, this study looks to the conceptual changes that occurred in the relations between these two semiotic fields from the modern to the postmodern era, during which the mutuality and interaction between the two systems were modified completely. Within the realm of this extensive subject, this article attends to one particular element: the design of Japanese calligraphy and typography that, as argued by Gennifer Weisenfeld, is a visual mode of communication that functions on an aesthetic metalevel.1 Rather than presenting a survey of Japanese typographic design history, my intent instead is to show how the text itself becomes a visual image in contemporary Japanese advertising and how Japanese contemporary designers use calligraphy and fonts to create a meta-level visual communication mode.

The idea that graphic designers could, and would, create their own histories through their writing, designing, and publishing can be found throughout the twentieth century. Whether documentary, reflective, expressive, critical, self-promotional, comparative, or visionary, designers have harnessed the means of production to state their views in print—a concept and a practice that parallels most of the discipline’s growth and maturity. Jan Tschichold’s influential New Typography, published in 1928, Eric Gill’s polemical book, An Essay on Typography, from 1931, and Willem Sandberg’s Experimenta Typografica books, begun in the 1940s, are just a few early examples that illustrate how graphic designers and typographers have advanced their ideas through self-authorship. On the intellectual heels of deconstruction, semiotics, conceptual art, and postmodernism, and enabled by new technologies for the creation, production, and distribution of designed artifacts, more graphic designers began to produce self-initiated work in the century’s latter decades. However, it was not until the early to mid-1990s that formal theories about design authorship emerged. Among the tenets posited by design authorship’s framers were redefining the design process, opening new avenues for collaboration, building stronger relationships between visual form and literal content, expanding the space for personal expression, creating a greater level of social and political engagement, and finding more opportunities for entrepreneurial ventures. In 1995 and 1996, in particular, Emigre magazine’s issues devoted to “Clamor over Design and Writing,“ the exhibition, Designer as Author: Voices and Visions, held at Northern Kentucky University (Fig. 1), and the Eye magazine article, “The Designer as Author,” fueled the debate.1 When one considers the plethora of commercial graphic design in everyday life, how might a narrowly defined area like design authorship be relevant to the discipline’s study and research? Before trying to answer, some background on the context for a collection of designer-authored histories follows. This essay explores a range of examples of works, held in the Goldstein Museum of Design at the University of Minnesota, that exemplify key moments in the history of graphic design authorship. In addition, selected works will be examined that prompted debates, mainly in the design

Introduction This paper sets out to explore the way in which the renowned Swiss typographer, Emil Ruder, has influenced a practice-led PhD study focusing on the need for creating new design principles for screen-based typography. Specifically, the paper examines Ruder’s seminal book Typographie: A Manual for Design (1967), wherein historical knowledge created for a print-based context has made a sustainable contribution to the future development of typography within the context of the screen. In addition, this study has led to a re-examination of the relevance of Emil Ruder’s teaching at the Basel School of Design, and his work as positioned within a contemporary context. Emil Ruder (1914–1970) is distinguishable in the field of typography for developing a holistic approach to designing and teaching that encompasses philosophy, theory, and a systematic practical methodology. After 25 years of teaching, Ruder published the heavily illustrated book, capturing his ideas, methods, and approach. The book represents a critical reflection on Ruder’s teaching and practice and a lifetime of accumulated knowledge. It has been published in nine languages and is now in its seventh edition. Today, more than 40 years after the book was first published, it is still widely used and referenced by education and industry practitioners alike.1

Invited to speak at the Icograda world design congress in Bejing, in October 2009, I realized that this would be an opportunity to focus on communication design’s blind spots, on the one hand because the organizers of the event considered the unity of typography with new life “as a burning issue in media and communication design,” saying that “we, in the face of a worldwide economic depression, now have a chance to look back at the energy of design, to share experiences, and restore our confidence in overcoming the challenges of this difficult period”1 and on the other hand because their well articulated invitation showed how much we as designers struggle with the manifold and extended notions of communication today, and how difficult it is—when it comes to restoring the social, cultural, and democratic ambitions of the profession—to move from our desire for a “radical criticality” to its attainment in the real.

Admiration for the graphic vigor of the past brought historic fonts back into use in the modern period and renewed scholars' discus sions of stylistic influence in type design. In this context, the British type historian, Stanley Morison, proposed in the 1920s a hypothesis that was to alter the writing of typographic history in the twentieth century. Then at the beginning of his career, and busy scouring ar chives for examples of fine printing, Morison observed that, at origin, the French roman types of the early sixteenth century shared traits with the romans used by the Italian Renaissance publisher, Aldus Manutius. The observation was at variance with the scholarly opin ion of the period. Aldus was known for his Greek type, and for hav ing had Francesco Griff o cut the first italic in 1501. Aldus's roman, by contrast, was overlooked by historians as they assessed the influ ence of Italian fonts on later French ones. Nicolaus Jenson's 1470 ro man was heralded instead as the most likely model for the designs. Praise for Jenson's roman was rampant in the literature. The most recent volley had come in 1922 with the publication of Daniel Berkeley Updike's landmark study, Printing Types, Their History, Forms, and Use.1 Updike identified the strengths of Jenson's font as "its readability, its mellowness of form, and the evenness of colour in mass," and continued: Jenson's roman types have been the accepted models for roman letters ever since he made them, and, repeatedly copied in our own day, have never been equalled.... No other man produced quite so fine a font, or had better taste in the composition of a page and its imposition upon paper.2 Updike went on to characterize the Aldine roman as "distinctly inferior to Jenson's."3 Even so, with little debate, Morison's Aldine hypothesis was quickly considered proven. It was supplemented by others, and is incorporated as fact in the modern literature on the history of typography. Scholars who work in the area, however, constantly encounter both the value of Morison's insight and the limitations of his construct. My work on some of the principal theorists and prac titioners of French Renaissance typography,4 for instance, has raised many questions about the utility of the hypothesis, suggesting that it needs to be rethought and, if necessary, revised. 1 Daniel Berkeley Updike, Printing Types, Their History, Forms, and Use, A Study

As the visual inscription of language and the imprint of thought, typography conceals the stakes that are overlooked by the whole question of design. Roland Barthes’s epigraph well expresses that state of existing in a singular world, warily loaded with meta-meanings. That knowledge of the fundamental nature of the letter and the forces at work in it permit a view of typography in the work of artists from the first decades of the twentieth century as something other than a radical aesthetic phenomenon exciting fascination or repulsion. Doubtless, one must first of all consider the frenzied pursuit to express the Zeitgeist, and appreciate the interactions of an artistic scene that was quite out of the ordinary. With its spatio1 Roland Barthes, “Erte ou A la lettre” in Erte (Parma: F. M. Ricci, 1972), afterwards cited in: Œuvres completes (Paris: Eds. du Seuil, 1993–), vol. 2, Paris 1994, 1222–1240; 1228 and 1231 for the first citation, 1239 for the second. 2 Herbert Bayer, “On Typography” (1967), cited in Arthur Cohen, Herbert Bayer (Cambridge/London: MIT Press, 1984), 350–352, and 350; and for the second citation, Herbert Bayer, “Typography and Design at the Bauhaus” (1971), cited in Cohen (1984), 352–354, and 352. 3 Roger Chatelain, “Si l’Ecole Estienne m’etait contee ...” in Typografische Monatsblatter/Revue Suisse de l’imprimerie 3:2001: 10–11. It should be noted that Roger Chatelain, former Editor-in-Chief of the journal Typografische Monatsblatter/Revue Suisse de l’imprimerie, endeavored to throw light on Franco-German relations in typography, notably launching some broadsides and pointing out disagreements in the journal.

Fellow in Typography at the London College of Communication (formerly the London College of Printing). For a discussion of the graphic designer as reader: Bruce Mau, "G?rard Mermoz: In Conversation," Baseline 43 (Winter 2003): 33-36. 3 Rudy Vander Lans, "Introduction," Em/orr? 64 (Winter 2003): 9. 4 The concept of critical design, central to the City of Signs project, argues for the development of a critical atti tude?in the face of economic and other constraints?as an intrinsic part of the design process. My concern in this project is to emphasize that designers should not just be critical when defining their socio-cultural or political objec tives, but also about the languages ano methodologies we resort to, and consider the epistemol?gica! implications of specific design choices and communica tion strategies. Ultimately, my concerns are about the relations between graphic design and knowledge; treating graphic design not just as a communication tool, but as an instrument for the production and communication of knowledge. This presupposes evolving new forms of collaboration between graphic design and other disciplines: the arts, architec ture, music, literature, and the human sciences.... The preoccupations of the Your gaze scans the street as if they were written pages: the city says every thing you must think, makes you repeat her discourse, and while you believe you are visiting [Istanbul] you are only recording the names with which she defines herself and all her parts. ?Cities and Signs 1

Sweet's Catalogue (figure 1), that almost mythic fixture of promotion in the building industry, arose in 1906 in response to what architects called the "catalogue problem." Besieged by thousands of catalogues of irregular size and format, the architect or builder could scarcely keep up with the proliferation of building materials in the emerging national economy, let alone organize and read the trade catalogues generated by a building industry stoked by the emerging field of advertising. Sweet's systemized the chaotic lines of communication between architects, builders, engineers, and manufacturers, regu larizing the typography and size of trade catalogues, and binding them in one large reference book with an index. By 1912, when the Architectural Record Company, the publisher that founded Sweet's, sold the catalogue to the F. W. Dodge Company, the idea of the compilation catalogue shifted from an attempt to reign in the unruly business of advertising, to a progressive era attempt to rationalize and manage the larger industry for architects and builders. During the Great Depression and World War II, Sweet's Catalogue File, as it came to be called, again changed, this time in response to European typography and layout, the latest ideas about the display of visual

Lively motion and massive solidity are clearly opposites. One animates and the other remains static. They exist in a tension with one horizontal, the other vertical; one connected, the other separate. East and West Arabic calligraphy and Latin typography. These op– positions offer an opportunity not for privilege, but for an encounter without judgment or preconception. The purpose of this article is not to discuss possible practical ways that Arabic and Latin typefaces can be used harmoniously together side by side, top to bottom, back to front, or in any other polar relationship. Designers have found ways to select typefaces, weights and styles so that the two languages appear compatible. They have configured layouts to allow the languages to operate individually while juxtaposed. Strides have been made toward im– proving the technical aspects of non-Latin typefaces and, in particular, the problems created by the calligraphic aspects of Arabic. Instead, the purpose here is to explore the underlying ideas that contribute to the aesthetics and thinking behind these two languages in order to find new approaches to their application and use. Typography is more than legibility, and more than aesthetics. It is the search for greater power in the written word. It is the embodiment of a culture’s identity. It is the celebration of humanity. “...During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries an as– sumption had been made that the Orient and everything in it was, if not patently inferior to, then in need of corrective study by the West.” 2 This vision of reality promoted the differences between the familiar (the West) and the strange (the East) that then resulted in a polarization and the limitation of the human interaction between different cultures including their writing systems. In order to work effectively within these writing systems, it is necessary to understand and accept their differences. Personal predilections and prejudices may interfere with the understanding of the perspectives of their respective practitioners. Only through an understanding of their richness and recognition of the benefits of their differences and variations, can we appreciate these writing systems. The East and West hold different worldviews. The West is deeply committed to the idea that the real world is external to the observer and that knowledge consists of recording and classifying data as accurately as possible. The East has retained the belief that 1 Huda Smitshuijzen AbiFares, Arabic Typography: A Comprehensive Sourcebook (London: Saqi Books, 2001), 202–203. 2 Edward Said, Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient (London: Penguin Books, 1995), 40–41.

An Introduction: Massin in Continuo: A Dictionary Massin is unclassifiable. Over the past fifty years, he has created unprecedented bonds between writing and design, between letter and image. Certainly, it is the work of a designer and art director that we are looking at today. But what makes Massin so unique is his ability to endlessly reflect on the very nature of French culture: the culture of the written word. Massin likes to recall that at age four and before he could recite the alphabet, his father, a stone engraver, taught him how to write his name on a soft stone. Massin, the unclassifiable free thinker. Not a mere dabbler, but rather a passionate amateur who has excelled in graphic design, art direction, book design, typographical experiments, fiction and memoir writing, photography, and musicology, as well as enlightening professional treatises on design. Clearly, a relentless enthusiasm has nourished the projects of this Renaissance man. One touchstone ties all of these endeavors together: the book, which is the ultimate symbol of knowledge. The book: an object, a universe, which Massin has at length redefined by means of the letterform. He wrote about literature before even considering design. He edited and laid out a book club's newsletter and then designed thousands of its covers. He invented the term art director in book publishing before the position existed in France (Gallimard). He edited book series and redesigned major book publisher's logos (NRF, Laffont). He shattered the linear nature of the book by experimenting with typographic interpretation (La Cantatrice Chauve), breaking the basic conventions of book layout. Massin, the erudite designer, has crossed many boundaries, both of disciplines, of specialization-which he despised-and, again, boundaries of the letterform itself. Although not a type designer, Massin has interpreted typography and has even collected vernacular, hand-drawn alphabets. Not an illustrator, he has hired hundreds. Not a teacher nor a theorist, his encyclopedic knowledge and restless curiosity have often embarrassed scholars. Not a specialist, he has been the harbinger of a culture made accessible to all. Although he never had followers, never taught (because he never received his baccalaureate), never ran a large studio, and never created nor participated in any movements, this free-spirited The consultancy of Laetitia Wolf, futuref lair, and the Cultural Services of the French Embassy will coordinate the tour of the exhibition throughout the United States during 2002-2003.

Introduction The study of the history of typography, beginning with its use in publications, is one of the most important research projects that historians and graphic designers can undertake in order to contribute to the body of knowledge and criticism concerning a country’s publishing industry. For book lovers, viewing the printed page is confirmation of its being one of the most effective means of transmitting ideas, but questions as to the real nature of these marks, when they came into use, what publishing houses served as models and how the national industry arose often are insufficiently dealt with. Examining nineteenth-century Mexican typography will provide various elements of immense importance in answering these questions and consolidating a portion of the history of graphic design in Mexico. Due to lack of rigor or the appropriate methodology on the part of graphic designers, it has fallen upon historians and bibliophiles to relate this history—and their perspective has determined some of the observations made and conclusions drawn concerning the impact of these materials on the Mexican visual tradition. Therefore, I now propose to examine the work of Ignacio Cumplido, a printer who was emblematic of the nineteenth century, and pay particular attention to the typographic aspects of his production.

Digital technology radically influenced typographic design beginning in the early 1980s.1 The computer enabled designers to create and manipulate letters in new ways, offering new options for crafting letterforms and "outputting" them-whether in the medium of toner particles on paper, or pixels on a screen. Digital tools, at first, necessitated (due to technical constraints), and later explicitly encouraged (due to technical advances) specific kinds of representations that would challenge their historical antecedents. Now, in the late 1990s, the mutation of letters continues. The spatial and temporal opportunities of cyberspace are resulting in even more radical depictions of letterforms that offer expanded formal and stylistic possibilities, while further challenging the norms of reading and writing. This paper chronicles the technical developments responsible for the digital revolution in typography during the 1980s and 90s. It is an informal history based largely on my own observations as an early practitioner of "graphical user interface design"-one formally trained in graphic design and privileged to work at Apple Computer during the early 1990s. Because Apple was so instrumental in popularizing the technologies that stimulated typographic experimentation within the graphic design community during this period, my paper focuses on the Macintosh platform.

The visual culture of the American press developed from the printerly newspaper of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, through the Victorian newspaper of the late nineteenth century, and to the modern newspaper which had emerged by the 1930s. Both printerly and Victorian newspapers used a design sense that we call “vernacular,” emphasizing apparent balance and symmetry, filling space with an increasingly varied typography. Newspaper design was not given to establishing hierarchy or categorization; the news was largely unsegmented, presenting an impression of an unmapped and perhaps unmappable world. At first, even the boundary between advertising and editorial content was not clearly demarcated. This syncretic presentation of content on paper expressed in visual form the habits of news workers. Newspaper design did not exist apart from the routines and practices of journalism, as it often does today, but as an extrusion of standard modes of news gathering. Thus, form followed practice. The active roles of reporting grew out of the more passive news-gathering tasks of colonial printers, who received correspondence and culled other sources, print or oral, to fill their pages. As the printerly age gave way to the age of Victorian papers, these roles coalesced, in fact if not in name, as the correspondent and the scavenger. The correspondent was a manly observer of events and personages in distant and (usually) powerful places; he (rarely she) was a persona, though usually pseudonymous, who conveyed subjective impressions with an air of authority and confidentiality, much like the colonial letter writer. The scavenger was not a persona, but a completely anonymous news hound, combing first the exchange papers then the police courts, the theaters, and the taverns for bits of information that might be conveyed in a sentence or a paragraph, or which might be turned into a story of a column or so. The correspondent was a gentleman, the scavenger a pieceworker, often paid by the line or the columninch. The content of the news was miscellaneous, matching its presentation. Typography was the dominant voice of news, and images were interlopers, useful as respite and also as information, 1 Kevin G. Barnhurst and John Nerone, “Design Trends in U.S. Front Pages, 1885–1995,” Journalism Quarterly 68 (Winter 1991): 796–804; John Nerone and Kevin G. Barnhurst, “Visual Mapping and Cultural Authority: Design Changes in U.S. Newspapers, 1920–1940,” Journal of Communication 45:2 (Spring 1995): 9–43.

The first time I met Rob Roy Kelly he was riding the crest of his teaching at Kansas City Art Institute. We had invited him to be a speaker and critic for a couple of days at Carnegie Mellon University. In that short time I didn’t get to know him well, but I was left with the impression of a designer who eschewed style and trends in graphic design in favor of a clear personal vision, common sense, and hard work. Our paths crossed again at Carnegie Mellon some years later, but this time he was coming to join the faculty of our Department of Design. At this point he had left behind any ambitions to head a program—been there, done that. But he assumed, almost as second nature, the role of a senior faculty member—a voice for reflection and reason, a supporter of design education based on enduring principles. Whatever Rob got involved in, it was all the way. Many know of his collections; wood type, of course, but also trivets, succulents, and probably others I never saw. As he would travel from his apartment in Squirrel Hill, through parts of Schenley Park to the Carnegie Mellon campus he noticed that many trees in the area were afflicted with burls, areas of bulbous irregular growth along their trunks or branches. His curiosity was piqued and so it began again. To my knowledge, Rob never cut down a tree just to get it’s burl, but somehow he amassed the largest collection of burls—trimmed, polished, mounted—that I had ever seen. It would miss the point to interpret these collections as obsessions or mere infatuations. I believe they were an outward expression of Rob Roy’s way of seeing and understanding the world. He was one of two colleagues I knew (Arnold Bank was the other) who learned, and taught by focusing on a specific object, phenomenon or principle, and then following it to its utter depth and accounting for everything that it touched along the way. And it touched, almost literally, everything. So wood type led to the origins of the decorative vernacular style, to nineteenth century principles of typography, to printer’s records, to the manufacturing and handling of wood type, and on and on.

When you boil things down in business, wrote Beatrice Warde of the British Monotype Corporation nearly fifty years ago, good management is no more or less than "the art and science of getting things done efficiently, to the ultimate profit of all concerned." I For Warde, and for the sculptor and typographer, Eric Gill; along with other industrial designers prominent during the Anglo-American printing renaissance of the thirties; what considerably muddied the waters was making the case for rationalism in language designed for the mass market. Motivated by an idealistic belief about the power of aesthetics in print communication design to shape public culture, professional designers scrutinized every detail of letter shape and the language used to advertise printed products; including typography, news and fiction. Along with Eric Gill, Stanley Morrison and other printers and typographers prominent in the movement for good design in Anglo-American commercial printing during the 1920s and 1930s, Beatrice Warde asserted that they intended to "debunk the commonly held concept" that an artist took on commercial work "because he was really a creative failure."2 When the notion of scientific management was still in its infancy (1910-1930), the creative artist who engaged in commercial work struck many as anachronistic because artists were perceived as taking too long to make too few things which appealed only to the idiosyncratic tastes of those who cared about mass-produced designer goods bearing a signature. Warde predicted in the early thirties that modern management principles would grow to include the idea of "integrated" communication management in production, product design and marketing; and that rational design would become "more important than the self-expression of any single artist, or the wonders of new machinery."3 Two instruments of production defined modernism in the factory: the machine and its operator. Considered diametrically opposed in the decades of the arts and crafts movement, John Ruskin once worried about what he called modern "Michael Angelos" forced to pour their best talents into commercial ephemera. He also asked about how business might identify those with "special genius," and how a company could preserve and disseminate such work "to the best national advantage."4 William Morris; who reacted against the "visual depravity of the Industrial Revolution" by promoting the arts and crafts movement and its 1 Beatrice Warde, "Design and Management" (Lecture given to the London Centre of the Printers' Managers

Fig.2) Kurt Schwitters, Symbol for Pelikan. The designation "new typography" is historically accurate but illogical because it is absolutely nothing new and has nothing in particular to do with the concept of fashion or modernity, but it is effective because in the last decades people have totally neglected typography. Most contemporary advertising lacks strongly creative typography, in spite of the praise of so-called typographic arrangement by the Bund Deutscher Gebrauchsgraphiker in even their least important statements, which is of slight quality next to that of the type. The phrase "typographical arrangement" is very plausible in contrast to the concept of "typographic design." Then one clearly sees the fundamental difference; what is meant by "arrangement" is the accustomed intelligible imposition of order characteristic of the advertising expert, which annihilates the typographical order that he intends to produce. Of course, giving an intelligible pattern to the parts of an advertising project is considered necessary; yet, as a goal it is absurd because it is unimportant in terms of effect on the observer and it falls short of its target because, in the final analysis, all human beings perceive things with their senses and not with their intellect. Typographical design, however, strives for and produces impact on the senses by concentrating individual charms into a composition that can be grasped by the eye and not by the intellect. Advertising experts always assume that other people will think, if at all, exactly as they think, but here the experts are wrong. They are particularly wrong when they assume that others would privilege thought over sight. They construct a whole system on what they assume an observer is likely to think, and odd things result from this. Thus, for instance, one may read in the advertising literature that red is appropriate for clothing the elderly, that it fits the young, or that it is appropriate for all ages. Actually, the fact is that red, like any other color, suits or does not suit any age, condition, person, profession, or intellectual setting. As with all advertising wisdom, it can be good to follow this advice, but you can be just as successful just as quickly not doing so, and one should advise advertising experts to use a regular industrial designer in the formulation of their advertising plans rather than relying on this

"A Typographic Visualization of the Narrative Structure Of On the Road " is a study of the relationship between language and typography. This project is an attempt to visualize textual meanings by forming an analogous relationship between Jack Kerouac's text and a personal/visual interpretation of the first part of the fivepart beat novel. Jack Kerouac, often labeled the spokesman for the beat generation, portrayed a post-World War II America rich in color and texture and high in contrast. On the Road beckons its reader to join the narrator, Sal Paradise and his pal Dean Moriarty in a series of wild escapades across the continent. From cold, rainy New York City, to the brisk Nebraska plains, to perilous Denver, and finally to sunny California, Paradise and Moriarty exhaust themselves trying to live, breathe, and embrace all that the beats drained from American culture. A systematic analysis of the components of the novel's narrative structure resulted in the translation of literary themes to typographic forms. Events, characters, times, and place are represented within the format by arrangement, type face, size, and style. Symbols, adapted from various sources enrich the visualization. Visual contrast and the flow from each scene to the next reflect the influences of bop and jazz improvisation on Kerouac's literary style, which he described in terms of "a jazz saxophonist in search of language as an undisturbed flow from the mind." A scaled-down version of the front side of the original accordion-fold diagram/booklet begins on p.55. Its right-to-left orientation reflects the nature of Sal Paradise's journey from New Jersey to California. The reader embarks on a journey through narrative and visual space and time, to lose oneself in the story and meander along the the typographic trails that follow Sal paradise's trips, beginning in New York City travelling west (left), to California. Kerouac's text is acutely visual, loud, and fast. Reading requires a transformation from real time to story time, from the comfort of one's personal environment to the strange and wonderful places that Sal and Dean discover. Join them and enjoy the ride. Explanatory Note

MICOLON One of the first rules of grammar we learn is the proper use of OLON punctuation marks. Their application abides by traditional ERIOD ASH OR EM DASH standards, indicated in the style guides that dictate punctuation IASH OR EN DASH WING DASH usage in formal texts. In general writing, however, most of us use YPHEON punctuation in a more flexible manner. We omit, substitute, !UESTION MARK UESTION MARKS, SPANISH improvise, and alter many of the given rules. Application is XCLAMATION POINT XCLAMATION POINTS, SPANISH determined by both tradition and the writer's personal style. SPOSTROPHE ARENTHASIS Because of this casual treatment, punctuation is often taken for RACKETS granted. RACKET ANGLE gran RACES MARKS Most punctuation marks are composed to be seen but not ,UOTATION MARKS OUBLE& SINGLE heard. These subtle, often understated, devices are quite imLLIPSIS portant, however, for they are the meter that determines the measure within the silent voice of typography (figure 1). Punctuation directs tempo, pitch, volume, and the separation of words. Periods signify full stops. Commas slow the reader down. Question marks change pitch. Quotation marks indicate refer

Toward a heoretical backbone for graphic design Graphic design has existed long enough for its role in society to be easily understood. However, unlike architecture, literature, or the fine arts, it has developed without much theoretical reflection. It has evolved into a sophisticated practice in a piecemeal fashion, with scattered efforts aimed at the development of subareas, such as posters or books, but without either the critical apparatus in literature or the discussion present in architecture. The aspect of graphic design that has attracted some discussion is visual style. But this discussion of style has several flaws: * It overemphasizes the importance of the visual structure within an esthetic context. * It omits problems of appropriateness. * It leaves out certain areas of graphic design, such as signage, forms, timetables, maps, and educational material (Figs. 1, 2, 3). * It omits the importance of ideas in the communication process, not distinguishing between visual creation and visual manipulation. * It avoids problems of performance related to visual perception. * It omits problems related to the impact that graphic communication has on the public's attitudes and ideas. These flaws have led to several distortions, the most important brought about by the praise of modern avant-garde typography. How long will the praise of El Lissitzky continue? True, he made a strong impact on a few typographic designers whose work in graphic design was closely related to the practice of art and looked very similar to their paintings or the paintings of avant-garde artists of th time. However, was Lissitzky's contribution really positive? His visual language was tremendously abstract (Fig. 4), as inappropriate to mass communication as Schwitters's graphics

H The grid1 has played a central role in the development and consolidation of the modern movement in twentieth-century graphic design. Due to its ostensible use during this period as a compositional design matrix for controlling the placement of typography and imagery, the modernist grid was present in the finished design. Consequently, its symbolic aspect is not generally recognized or even suspected. Though equally obscure in significance, the contrasting decorative role of the grid as a prominent piece of visual iconography in postmodernist graphic design more readily admits of a possible symbolic function. To understand these symbolic functions it will be necessary to first examine some key junctures in the pre-twentieth-century development of both the grid and, in some cases, its individual elements: the point (or coordinate), the axial line, and their mode of interaction. In terms of the impact the changing values of the grid's constructive elements have on the meaning of the grid itself, a structural typology of the grid reveals four basic grid subforms: coordinate-based, intersection-based, module-based, and linebased (figure 1). Although identical in appearance, the specific valuation of each element distinguishes in turn each of these subforms and is directly related to its symbolic content. Historically, these subforms are found to function in pairs and thus jointly to constitute two major forms. The first major form will be referred to as point-based and includes the coordinateand intersection-based subforms. The second major form will be referred to asfield-based and includes the moduleand line-based subforms.