This is Mark Farrow…
..., the much lorded and now ‘Royal Designer’. Over the past two decades he has
produced some of the most innovative and sublime music packaging and many have
said that he has even eclipsed Peter Saville with his sheer inventiveness in this field. Judge
for yourself…
Nice aren't they?
I recently recorded a remarkably candid interview with Mark about his life,
work and view on design. You can listen to it here , and see more of Mark's work here.
This is Michael Wolff…
The descriptive line on
his business card says
‘ Leap before you look’.
And this is the image...
Animal Instinct
He has been accused of being wacky, off-the-wall, eccentric and even
impossible. But what is it that has made Michael Wolff shun conventional ways
of working?
We met at his home on the edge of London's Bloomsbury. I sat at his
generous kitchen table, admiring the impressive arrangement of flowers placed
at its centre, while Wolff busied himself chopping vegetables and preparing
rice for the meal we are about to share.
Homes are incredibly revealing and Wolff's has a relaxed feeling of
comfortable clutter. Nothing is overly self-conscious or mannered. It reflects
an unpretentiousness that is evident in Wolff's character. It also mirrors his
love of eccentricity. Sitting alongside the flowers is a large irregular shaped
rock; in its centre is a small hollow to cradle a night-light. Huddled around
this are three tiny carved monkeys warming themselves.
Across the kitchen I notice his cat Lucy, soaking up the warmth of the
Aga. She has been his companion for 15 years, and a silent witness to much of
Wolff's more recent roller-coaster life.
He was born in 1933, of Russian parents who had emigrated from St
Petersburg. His mother was a vivacious, free-spirited woman and was, Wolff
admits, a big influence on him. With her and his father, a salesman, he lived
in London's Belsize Park.
When the war started Wolff, along with a great many children in London,
was evacuated to the countryside. Images of young bewildered faces, address
labels attached to their lapels, grouped together like sheep at the main
railway stations must have been a heartbreaking sight for any parent. But Wolff
wasn't sent off like this. He was seated in the back of his father's Wolsey
car, for the long journey to Torcross in Devon.
Here he was left, aged five, to attend boarding school far from the
sound of the London blitz, and conversely with London far from the sound of the
many beatings he would receive from the teachers who inhabited this frightening
new home. He remained there for three years, only seeing his parents during the
holidays. He recalls never returning to the same home twice as his parents were
constantly on the move. This, coupled with their divorce and the introduction
of a stepfather, must have made a very unsettling foundation at such an
impressionable age.
Wolff was a sensitive child with a natural affinity with animals, which
many years later would become an inspiration in his professional life. He
remembers while on holiday in the 1940s being so concerned about a group of
seaside donkeys, which seemed to have such a depressing life, that he contacted
the RSPCA for help.
Academically he was, as he puts it, 'a dunce'. At a common entrance exam
he was so frustrated at not being able to understand any of the questions, that
he stood on his desk and tore the paper up in front of everyone. He was put
through a crammer and somehow managed to scrape into Gresham Public School.
Once again he was immersed in a claustrophobic, monotonous regime. He would
exercise his imagination by altering the look of his school uniform to create a
sense of current fashion or would simply gaze out of the window to watch leaves
falling to the ground.
At 17 years old he left and spent a year in France. While there, he
became passionate about church architecture. This interest led him to apply to
the Architectural Association School in London. He'd also read The Fountainhead
by Ayn Rand and thought that the life of an architect sounded romantic and
might be the perfect way to attract girls. He quickly discovered this was not
the case. The work was extremely hard and because of Wolff's extraordinarily
youthful look - he was 18 but would pass for 14 - no girls were forthcoming.
Eventually and inevitably he got thrown out of the AA. He drifted for a
while, spending a great deal of time at the London Film Theatre, soaking up
French films and smoking Gauloises while trying to emulate Jean Gabin. At the
suggestion of an AA tutor, he applied to Hammersmith School of Art. Here he
dabbled a bit in fashion design and interiors. He arrived home one day to find
a brown envelope waiting on the doormat. It was his call up papers for
compulsory National Service.
The experience was to be a nightmare for Wolff. He had endured
oppressive regimes at boarding school, but nothing had prepared him for this.
He put all of his efforts into the aesthetics of the army where he would make a
special point of having the most immaculate e uniform, but he loathed the
outrageous discipline. He resisted and rebelled, which got him into constant
trouble, and he was confined to barracks on many occasions. He was eventually
discharged for being an unsuitable character for the army.
Approaching 22 with no qualifications other than a little design
knowledge, he found a job at Olympia working on exhibition stands. This was the
beginning of a string of short-lived jobs, designing anything from nightclubs
to light fittings. This latter pursuit got him involved in overseeing the
manufacturing process and for the first time exposed him to the process of
taking an idea and converting it into reality.
His first long-term job was with the design department of Crawfords
Advertising. Wolff was employed as a general designer, under the watchful eye
of Jack Foxell who was to become a mentor to him. He stayed at Crawfords for
three enjoyable years. From there he moved to the BBC working as a set
designer, but became quickly disillusioned, being more excited at seeing the
work of the television graphics department. In 1962 he freelanced for a while
and from the proceeds bought a magnificent Citroen DS21. He had fallen in love
with the way the French had a more eccentric take on things and his car seemed
to epitomise this.
In 1964 he joined forces with James Main, a designer looking to expand
his consultancy, who had noticed Wolff's work. It was here that Wolff was able
to develop his philosophy of an inclusive form of design, thinking carefully
about the journey through various parts of a company and being sensitive to the
varying quality of that experience. This became the cornerstone of Wolff's
approach. A little later Wally Olins joined the company. On meeting him Wolff
recalls thinking that here was a proper grown up, brimming with qualities and
experience. Wolff Olins was born. The rest as they say is history.
Or is it? Yes, Wolff Olins was hugely successful and influential and
grew rapidly. But he admits now that much of what he believed about embracing
the totality of a client's business was rarely achieved there, and much of the
work, although award-winning, did not go deep enough for him. There were
exceptions - Hadfields' paints, which used a characterful fox to represent the
company, was one of the great identities of the 1960s and trail-blazed a
departure from the abstract Swiss graphic symbolism popular at that time. This
was the beginning of Wolff's introduction of all creatures great and small into
his work.
Due much to Wolff's vision and Olins' business acumen the company
prospered, but Wolff became dissatisfied with the work and with his own
persona. At the suggestion of a friend he attended a four-day course with the
controversial Erhard Seminar Training movement, an intensive programme of
self-discovery. The effect was to be dramatic and lasting. He recalls, 'It
changed my life and gave me permission to be myself.' It was followed by a more
advanced course in the US.
But this newfound liberation was to play havoc with the well-oiled wheels of Wolff Olins. He began to alienate his fellow directors who did not share Wolff's revised philosophy and desire to change things. In a well-documented boardroom coup Wolff was unceremoniously dispatched. The hurt of this incident is still betrayed in his eyes.
Post Wolff Olins he formed The Consortium - a loosely based collective of, as Wolff puts it, 'the very best people' with Wolff acting as conductor. Its symbol, a goldfish, endorsed the sprit of an open and transparent company. Three years on, he disbanded the company to join Allied International, and then moved to its parent company, Addison, as 'creative supremo'. There he found so much travelling and arms-length creativity that he became frustrated and left.
In 1992 he took over from Dick Gyatt as external design manager for WH
Smith - a post he loved for its penetrating insight into a retail giant. Not
long after, he slipped into a simultaneous roll as non-executive director of
Newell and Sorrell. Although there primarily to give advice on the growth of
the company, his creative influence was very evident in the Niceday identity,
which introduced a quirky little spotted dog to give a sense of fun to the
anonymous world of stationery.
All good things come to an end. Boardroom changes and an economic
downturn at WH Smith meant the end of Wolff's services there.
In 1998 he formed The Fourth Room, which Wolff describes as 'the first
real radical company'. As its 'director of imagination' he has surrounded
himself with like-minded people and at its heart is a determination to do
things differently. No physical design takes place at The Fourth Room; all
graphic work is done by a loose partnership of selected consultancies. The
Fourth Room's prime function is to help companies define their vision, often
looking many years ahead.
When I met with him, he had just returned from the US where he is
helping MFI to undergo a major cultural change to the company. Our talk was
interrupted by Lucy demanding to be let out. She stood up, stretched and slowly
walked towards the door. What was odd is that Lucy only has three legs. But in
Wolff's eccentric world it somehow seemed right.
Approaching his 70th birthday he can reflect on a full and rewarding
professional life; the first designer to be president of British Design &
Art Direction, president of the Chartered Society of Designers, a string of
prestigious awards, a pioneer of a holistic approach to identity design, and an
uncanny ability to always get the best out of people.
Where others might opt for a diet of daytime television and perfecting a cynical bitterness towards youth, Wolff retains a child-like sense of wonder at the world. He smiles a lot, positively relishes the daily challenges set by The Fourth Room and still finds himself gazing out of the window to watch leaves falling to the ground.
Mike Dempsey copyright Centaur Publications Limited 2002
POST SCRIPT. Michael is now seven years older and that dream company, The Forth Room, didn’t work out and ended rather sadly. Ever since he has worked as an independent consultant and is far happier and far more effective. Mavericks are always best alone.
Michael is giving a D&AD Presidents Lecture on 4 November 2009. Click here for more information.
Don't you just love it when you see things that others simply pass by?
Last
year I posted this mini rant…
But since seeing this, I have changed my mind.
Men are such push overs.
I have always been a fan of Ivan Chermayeff - a true graphic designer in every sense of the word and a delightful, charming man. I had the pleasure of interviewing him in 2007 for my RDInsights recorded series; a link appears at the end of this regurgitated article that I wrote at the time.
Ivan Chermayeff
For most getting well bedded into their seventh decade usually means endless hours on the golf course or maybe embracing that elusive creative hobby. Perhaps cat-napping during the long winter’s afternoons or simply gazing out of the window, watching passers by while a blanket of melancholic memories descend.
Unless, that is, you happen to be a graphic designer. There’s no time for all that reflective stuff. You’re in the best playground there is and you’re not ready to leave it unless the hand of fate points it’s ugly little finger.
When I think of all the graphic designers that I have truly admired, all worked, or are still working, well into their seventies - David Gentleman, Michael Wolff, Derek Birdsall, Massimo Vignelli, Milton Glaser, Seymour Chwast, as did the late great Alan Fletcher, Paul Rand and Saul Bass.
Ivan Chermyeff is another seventy something who shows no sign of slowing down, and in town next week to give a D&AD President’s Lecture.
As a young graphic designer in the 1960’s I had my little collection of flagged books, taresheets and stolen book covers all featuring the designers I wanted to emulate. Chermayeff’s stunningly simple book covers, always invested with a solid idea, were a prime target on my scouting trips. I still love them.
The Churchill Years. Poster for PBS Television
Perhaps a surprise to many is that fact that this very New York based icon of the graphic world was in fact born here in London of an English mother and Russian father – the distinguished architect Serge Chermayeff who, together with the German architect Eric Mendelsohn, formed their own architectural practice which creating some key works in the British Modernist movement, most notably the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill on Sea, East Sussex.
De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill on Sea, East Sussex.
So with such an enriching creative backdrop it was inevitable that the right hemisphere of young Chermyaff’s brain would be highly developed. With the aid of four Moholy-Nagy scholarships, he attended Harvard University in the US, the Institute of Design Yale, after which Chermayeff was ready to be unleashed on the creative world. He first worked as an assistant at to Alvin Lustig at Columbia Records, before setting up as a freelance designer and starting a spell of teaching.
3 dimensional signage for the New York subway
In 1957, along with Robert Brownjohn (who defied the rules of this article by departing prematurely), and Thomas Geismar, he founded one of the earliest multidisciplinary design groups in New York, and they have since worked under various versions of the Chermayeff and Geismar. They quickly rose to fame following the creation of their identities for Chase Manhattan Bank and NBC (below).
Over the years a constant diet of corporate, social, entertainment and three- dimensional projects have kept them to the fore.
Totem sculpture for Mobil
But, the wonderful thing about signature designers is the need to express themselves beyond the confines of large corporate projects. Chermayeff has constantly managed to reveal his individuality through a body of clearly identifiable work, when others have sometimes disappeared within the structure of a large design group. His characteristic hand writing and brightly colour collages still convey a fantastic sense of freedom and joy – witness the tranche of illustration work he created for Motehercare last year.
His giant free-standing number ‘9’ (above) for the Solow Building on West 57th Street, created in 1980, is still one of New York's most recognized landmarks. In conjunction with long-standing and enlightened client Mobil, Chermayeff produced a stunning body of work for the company’s various sponsorships, most notably PBS Television, which spawned a treasure trove of beautiful posters. And his personal work can be found in the many illustrated children’s books he has given birth to.
The late graphic designer Henry Wolf, A contemporary of Chermayeff, said of him, in affectionate admiration, “If I didn’t like him so much, the temptation to burn his studio down might become irresistible”
Chermayeff has reach that point in his life where he has won everything and received every accolade, including being made an Honorary Royal Designer for Industry from the Royal Society of Arts. He’s in all of the ‘halls of fame’ and his mantelpiece must groan under the strain of all the glittering hardware.
But I suspect that he likes nothing better than to roll up his sleeves, pick up a pencil, surround himself with colour, and enter into that magical world that is graphic design, ever faithful, absorbing and always rewarding. (below collage work)
Keep doing it Ivan, it gives us much pleasure.
Mike Dempsey Copyright Centaur Publications 2007
To hear my interview with Ivan Chermayeff click here.
You can see more of Ian Chermayeff's work here
Many years ago I used the term ‘graphic calming’ when presenting back to a client a range of their own print material. It was so cluttered, disparate and devoid of any personality. I said it all needed to be redesigned and have a sense of graphic calming. A favourite practitioner of mine is Pierre Medell, the great German graphic designer who is 80 this year. His work has absolute clarity of thought and calmness of execution. It is simply beautiful. And beautifully simple. I think one can also add timeless.
Here are ten of his posters. Look at them. Enjoy them. I do...
Post Script. Sadly Pierre Mendell died in December 2008. But he has left behind a body of work that will live on to inspire others and give us all great pleasure.
This is Derek Birdsall...
If you don't know of him then you are not a graphic designer.
I interviewed him in July 2002 for my ‘Heroes’ series, originally commissioned by Design Week. Here it is...
Most of
my visits to the designers featured in this series have been at their homes and
this was no exception. The only difference is that Derek Birdsall lives in not
one but two houses that sit side by side, set back from the bustle and fashionable
eateries of Islington’s Upper Street.
Derek Birdsall
is a larger than life, white bearded, grizzly bear-like figure, with a gruff,
tobacco–laden voice still retaining its Yorkshire accent. Until a few years ago
he also owned a converted factory, located at the end of his garden. This is
where his long established company, Omnific Design, had been based. But he
decided to ‘downsize’ as they say, and now combines home and studio. Here he
works in a myriad of offices that span the basement area of his two houses. It
was in his ‘thinking area’ that we started our conversation about his long and
eventful career, a conversation often punctuated by the sight of Birdsall’s dexterous
fingers rolling up a neat cigarette.
For more years than he cares to remember, Birdsall has remained faithful to no more than a dozen typefaces: Bell, Bodoni and Eric Gill's Sans, Joanna and Modern among them. He has experimented with more contemporary faces, he says, but finds them usually flawed, so sticks with the old workhorses, all of which have strong personalities. Indeed, Birdsall selected Gill Sans, with its 'wonderful italic', for his much-revered redesign of the Church of England's Common Worship prayer book in 2000...
Church of England's Common Worship prayer book 2000
He felt so strongly about the typeface that he has said he would not have done the job if the client hadn't accepted it. It is perfect for small books with relatively little text per page, like a prayer book, he says. Birdsall is currently writing a book, with the working title of The Intelligent Book, which features a utilitarian typewriter face for the text, Schreibmaschinensch. In it, he describes how he selects a typeface. 'It need not be an arbitrary decision,' he says. 'The suitability of a typeface to the subject of the book is less important than to the nature of its text. Text that contains dates, dimensions, formulae or footnotes needs a face with good numerals, fractions and mathematical sorts. Here, a type with numerals smaller than the capitals, such as Bell and Joanna, works well.' Quotations, he continues, especially of poetry and titles of publications, suit a face with a distinguished italic. And sans serif faces, he says, can often be more legible than readable -- not tautology, if you think about it. Despite this astonishing attention to detail, Birdsall's work is disarmingly simple. Like great screen actors, it is what is left out that makes the performance compelling. He is not a showy designer interested in trends. His passion lies in the details: the typeface, naturally and, with books, the feel of the paper; the quality of the binding; the cut of the font; the evenness of line endings; the perfect balance of image to space. These are the things that elevate his work to the ranks of typography. These and an incredibly inventive mind responsible for producing a consistently high standard of work for over 40 years: he designed the first Pirelli calendar in 1964...
Town magazine 1964 The first Pirelli calendar 1968
as well as book jackets for Penguin and Monty Python, and art-directed magazines including Town, Nova and The Independent's colour magazine. Birdsall's own view of his work is very pragmatic. 'As designers we are here to please the client,' he says. He doesn't believe in forcing things down their throats. What he does do is weigh up all the possible questions and objections that a client might voice and have his answers ready.
Birdsall was born in Nottingly near Pontefract in Yorkshire in 1934, one of three sons. Bright and with a keen interest in chess and drawing, he passed the eleven-plus and settled into grammar school life. It was here his appetite for art and calligraphy developed and he soon became impatient to get the experience of an art school. But his headmaster was keen for him to stay put and complete his exams.
Eventually he secured a place at Selby Art School. This led on to Wakefield College of Art and later, in 1952, to the Central School of Arts and Crafts (which merged with Central St Martin's School of Art and Design in 1989). It was here he began to develop his skills as a typographer and book designer and was hugely influenced by the typographer Anthony Froshaug. But life at Central did not go particularly well and Birdsall failed his diploma. His time there had only delayed the inevitable fate that befell every young man in the 1950s - National Service. In 1955 he packed his wife and his young son back off to Yorkshire while he was posted to Cyprus for his two-year stint in the army. He was assigned to the army printing unit. To his dismay, on arrival he discovered the unit was now bereft of equipment due to the Suez crisis. He was concerned that he might be drafted off to something more physically taxing, but his commanding officer asked him if he was capable of drawing up plans. Despite having never done this, Birdsall said yes, he could. He spent the best part of his service armed with nothing more than mapping pens, Indian ink and tracing paper, producing detailed drawings for three army depots and, in the process, learning an awful lot. In 1957, back in civvy street and reunited with his wife and son, he set about finding work. He turned down a job as a typographer at Crawfords Advertising and opted instead for a more flexible arrangement at printer Balding and Mansall. John Commander was the managing director there, and on seeing Birdsall's portfolio, immediately offered him a part-time job. This appealed because it would give him an opportunity to build up further freelance work on his days off. This proved successful and he quickly had a fairly regular flow of work from various sources.
Around this time he started teaching one evening a week at the London School of Printing. At first Birdsall was supposed to be supported by an experienced tutor, but on his first evening, Tom Eckersley, LSP's head of design informed Birdsall that he was on his own, due to the illness of the regular lecturer. Panicked by this, Birdsall stood nervously in front of a very expectant class, racking his brains. Then he had a time-stalling idea. Clearing his throat he asked, 'Does everyone have type scales and layout pads?' There was a deathly silence. 'No? Well you'll find the school shop just along the corridor.' The room emptied, giving him time to reflect. Birdsall supplemented his freelance work with more part-time lecturing, this time at Maidstone College of Art, where he introduced a young John McConnell to the mysteries of graphic design. A little later, Eckersley suggested Birdsall apply for a three days a week lectureship at LSP. The guarantee of regular money was enough to persuade him. He recalls the LSP interview was like the Spanish inquisition, but the thing that impressed Birdsall most was being offered a cigarette from an elegant gold case by the very dapper creative legend Ashley Havinden. Birdsall had prepared himself well for the interview and at just the right moment produced his coup de grace, a specially designed book of his work incorporating an intricate Japanese binding. The interview panel was impressed. He got the job. Birdsall was now able to support his growing family. He was also networking with other designers. It was with three of these, George Daulby, George Mayhew and Peter Wildbur that he formed BDMW Associates in 1960. Commander offered them accommodation in the attic of Balding and Mansall's offices. BDMW was a loose partnership with everyone having their own clients and sharing the expenses. The collective name gave it a presence and its work quickly became noticed. After two years Birdsall's freelance work had built up to such a level that he gave up teaching at LSP. In 1962 he took over the ground floor of Balding and Mansall, leaving his former colleagues in the attic. But out of this creative community came the influential book, 17 Graphic Designers London, published by Balding and Mansall in 1963 and designed by Birdsall. It showcased a new direction in British graphic design. Commander wrote the introduction to the book and both he and the book became the catalyst for the formation of D&AD. In 1964 Commander became the first President, and BDMW's George Daulby designed the debut annual. Birdsall's output was growing and he was working for a range of prestigious clients. He was commissioned by Pirelli's advertising manager Derek Forsyth to design its 1964 calendar. Fletcher, Forbes and Gill had produced it the previous year, with photography by Terence Donovan, in Hyde Park. Birdsall felt it should be shot somewhere more glamorous and with photographer Robert Freeman he set off to Majorca, setting the pattern for the increasingly lavish productions that were to follow.
In 1964 Birdsall moved to Covent Garden and in 1967 joined forces with Forsyth, who had left Pirelli to start a hybrid design consultancy that also handled advertising, called Omnific. Dennis Hackett, former editor of Nova magazine, often joined them to write copy. Unfortunately for Birdsall the experience became a weight around his neck. He felt himself being turned into a manager and missed the hands-on involvement of the creative process. After two years he and Forsyth parted company. Fletcher and Forbes approached Birdsall with a view to him joining them (Bob Gill had recently left the consultancy). Although flattered, and a little tempted, Birdsall was determined to plough his own furrow. He continued working in Covent Garden under the Omnific banner, and Alan Kitching joined the company, strengthening its typographical base.
Penguin Books Education series of covers 1971
In 1984 Birdsall bought an old factory in lslington and converted it. This has been his creative base until a few years ago. There are too many of Birdsall's projects to list here. But certain work stands out: the 1963 Pirelli windscreen de-icer packaging...
Pirelli packaging 1964
the 1971 photographic series of covers for W Somerset Maugham...
Penguin Books 1970 four of 19 continuos sequenced covers photography by Harri Peccinotti
the 1970 promotional poster for photographer Hans Feurer with Birdsall's wittily applied typographical moustache to a portrait of an astonished-looking girl because she resembled Salvador Dali...
Mailer for photographer Hans Feurer 1969
And his 2000 typographical tour de force - the Church of England's prayer book, Common Worship...
which demonstrates Birdsall's ability to produce an eminently functional piece with great beauty.
Although Birdsall has scaled down his operation he shows no sign of stopping, for it is clear that design is his life, fuelled by a passion for detail and a desire to make things better. He still loves receiving a bulky manuscript and a pile of photographs in their raw state, he says. For him the moment of creation starts right there, looking at those disparate piles. My evening ended in Birdsall’s large kitchen, Shirley had made onion quiche and, as Birdsall points out, the best chips I would ever taste. And they were.
I emerged from the house into the hubbub of Islington’s nightlife, saying my goodbyes as Birdsall took a last drag on his roll up, and gave me a wave. Tomorrow he’ll be back at his desk, putting a lot of energy and thought into another creation that will end up with the effortless assurance that has become his trademark. And no doubt he will watch a little cricket in between.
By Mike Dempsey © Centaur Publications 2002
P.S. Well, we all now know that he did finish that book. He ended up calling it, Notes on book design ...
Derek's beautiful book available in any good bookstores
and it is now a
standard work. Just last week, while strolling down Exmouth Market, heading
back to my studio, I noticed the rear view of a familiar figure sitting quietly at a restaurant table. A glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It
was Derek. ‘Sit down and join me for a glass of something’, he said. I did and we caught up on the half dozen
years or so that have passed since we had the interview. Too much to talk about
here. But he is still as passionate as ever about producing good work – mostly books of
course, which is where we came in. Good old Derek.
This is John Gorham 1937 - 2001
When I originally discussed the Heroes series with (Design Week editor) Lynda Relph-Knight, the first designer I intended to feature was John Gorham. Unfortunately, on telephoning him, I learned from his wife Pauline that he had been ill for some time and was not in the right frame of mind to talk to anyone at present. We left it that she would call me when he was feeling stronger. The call never came. John died.
I first met him in 1968 when I had just joined the publishing house William Heinemann as its art director. One of the first tasks was to seek a group of freelance designers whom I admired and who would be willing to accept the embarrassingly low fees on offer. Luckily, designers love to tackle book covers and always have. The tradition goes back a long way and somehow money never seems to figure in the equation. This was heartening for me because one of the designers I wanted to net was John.
At the time he shared a large, airy studio in London's Regent Street with fellow designer Richard Weaver. It was an exciting time for John; his work was beginning to appear everywhere, particularly in advertising. His vibrant, hand-lettered logotype for the Watney's Roll out the Red Barrel campaign had made a great impact and everyone was clamouring for his unique ability as a creative lettering artist. Not knowing what to expect at our first meeting, I was immediately struck by his almost childlike enthusiasm for design. I found it refreshing to discover that I was not the only one with this all-consuming passion. Neither of us had received formal training in design, so we found common ground immediately and struck up a friendship, employing the verbal shorthand used by people familiar with their subject. He became a regular visitor to my cramped attic studio at William Heinemann's Mayfair offices. I always looked forward to these visits just to see how long he would keep me waiting before unveiling the design he had been working on. John would never be rushed and our meetings could effortlessly burn up an hour. After the second cup of tea, he would finally unzip his faithful black leather portfolio to reveal an impeccably hand-rendered rough. I was in awe of his ability. He would then set about telling me just how much better the real thing would be, and with John, the real thing would undergo constant changes right up to the wire. He was a consummate craftsman whose typography, illustration and hand-lettering were immaculately finished. He also had an exceptional talent for ideas. Just a glance at Beryl McAlhone and David Stuart's book, A Smile in the Mind is testament to this. When I moved on to another publishing house, John was on hand to give me support. Over the next ten-year period, our paths often crossed. In the 1970s, we both became involved with a new generation of film-makers from the world of advertising. David Puttnam was central to this, and Gorham relished the prospect of working for the cinema, beginning with his graphics and titles for Alan Parker's Bugsy Malone. Many more followed, including Chariots of Fire, The Mission, Fame, Greystoke, Local Hero and Cal. Puttnam, who supplied John with a constant stream of enviable work, produced most of these films. He became the bespoke designer of personal stationery for the ad industry elite. Each design was lovingly crafted and agonised over, then printed on just he right choice of paper, often beautifully die-stamped. Parker used his for sending wittily penned cartoons. In between all this glamorous work, John found time to design a continuous stream of book covers. Just thumbing through a stack of these gives you a good insight into the man. Here are a few of the titles: The Village Cricket Match; Written for Children; The Naturalist in Britain; Barns Wallis; The English Difference; The Two Hour Gardener; and Follow On. That last book was the autobiography of the great cricket writer EW Swanton, a hero of Gorham's. When I told him that Swanton was so taken by the cover that he wanted to buy it, John was thrilled to bits. Cricket was a great passion of his and as always, he allied himself to the things he loved and in doing so gave his all.
For a time John was based in Covent Garden, but after a while he decided to abandon London to work from his home in Surrey. He settled into a routine. I can remember him telling me not to ring him on a Friday because that was the day that Pauline drove him into Guildford to do the weekly shop at Sainsbury's (John never learned to drive). I think he missed the chance encounters that occur when working in a bustling city. This lack of daily contact made his visits to London even more important. He would try to fill his entire day with appointments, often topped off with a visit to David Drummond's Victorian Pastimes and Pleasures, off St Martin's Lane. Here he would positively get a high, leafing through old children's annuals, posters, programmes, magazines and Victorian scraps. John had a formidable collection of printed ephemera. which he always referred to as his "treasures". These would be carefully stored in boxes destined for the attic, only to be opened when he needed a little fix. He told me he was becoming worried about the weight of all this stuff on the ceiling and that he was seriously considering having it reinforced. He would often collaborate with other creatives on projects, but these individuals had to demonstrate the same commitment to their craft as he did to his own. They included photographer the late Tony Evans, designer Howard Brown and illustrators Andrew Davidson, Allan Manham and Arthur Robbins. John's range was quite staggering, including posters, packaging, book covers, film titles, calendars, wine labels, postage stamps, magazine spreads, books, logotypes, illustrations and typefaces. I think I was one of the first people to see his rough concepts for the British Design & Art Direction silver award-winning Winsor & Newton ink packaging. It was clear at first glance that this piece of work was going to have a major impact on the field of packaging design. What followed in that area clearly shows the influence of his work. The great work he produced for Face Photosetting was, in my view, heightened because of the tacit competition between Gorham and John McConnell, who designed for and was very involved with Face at the time. Being pitched against McConnell's formidable talent is a daunting prospect, but John would always manage to pull it off, producing some of his most witty and intelligent pieces.
The film poster he produced with Brown for Red Monarch featured a portrait of Josef Stalin on which there is the most perfectly placed squashed tomato, photographed by Evans. Imagine three perfectionists on one job -- it must have been a nightmare. During the late 1970s and early 1980s, John experienced a new challenge, teaching at the Royal College of Art. He was proud of this, but it was mixed with amusement, because of his own lack of any formal design training. As the 1990s progressed, John found it harder to come to terms with the impact that new technology had made on the design industry. Doggedly refusing to embrace the Apple Mac, he sent out a defiant mailer to all his clients and friends. On it was a photograph of the back of a crumpled envelope and below that a pencil, it simply said, "My only gizmo and its mouse".
It summed John up perfectly. The thought of losing direct physical contact with his work was something he could not envisage. But the world moved on and the traditional methods of working were cast aside. No more painstakingly separated artwork with Kodatrace overlays. Or the tracing covers, lovingly "spec'd" up for the printer. No more type mark-ups for the compositor, using the symbols that, to many designers today, look like a foreign language. John felt out of tune with the world he once knew so well. He believed sometimes that he was left holding a torch that represented an attention to detail that no one seemed to care about any more. He settled for a quieter life, turning his attention to his other passion of gardening, His garden was lovingly tended with a vegetable patch that would have made even Beatrix Potter's Mr McGregor green with envy. He would continue to work on the occasional project, but it would have to be on his terms. Stamps to celebrate the Queen Mother's birthday and two Christmas issues all bore the hallmarks of John's approach to graphic design. Puttnam told me, just after he had been made a Peer of the Realm, that he had commissioned John to design his heraldic crest. It was a job that demanded the range of craft-based skills that only John possessed and he salivated at the prospect. Davidson was planning to collaborate with John on two books about the countryside. They had long and enthusiastic conversations about the projects, before John became unwell and was unable to work. The last piece of work that I received from John was his annual Christmas card, something he hadn't missed for over 30 years. The card was to celebrate the coming of the new Millennium. It featured two partygoers holding their champagne glasses aloft. The juxtaposition of their festive hats created the shape of a double "M". There's always an idea with John. He was one of the few people who was equally loved and admired by both the design and advertising communities. In 1993 he received the D&AD President's Award. The array of influential industry figures that paid homage to him on that night was astonishing. John never had children, but when I think of it, perhaps his work was his children. He would lovingly nurture each piece of work into life with all the care and attention afforded to a newborn baby.
For me he is an equivalent of John Botjeman, a great favourite of John's. The countryside, the changing seasons, the ordinary everyday quirkmess of the English and the wealth of craft left behind from another era were all things that John cared about passionately. John was an unassuming superstar who kept his ego firmly in a cardboard box in the attic along with his treasures. He leaves behind a body of work that reaches back nearly 40 years. It will quietly live on in libraries, bookshops and ephemera fairs, in fact in all the places he loved to rummage through. It may be out of favour at present, but one day a fresh young designer will stumble upon John's work, and will stop and take in its beauty. And it will be born again. A Smile in the Mind by Beryl McAlhone and David Stuart, is designed by The Partners and published by Phaidon.
By Mike Dempsey © Centaur Publications 2001
POST SCRIPT: It was hoped to have a book published on John's work. But despite some sterling work by Beryl McAlhone and James Beveridge it never happened. But last year they did manage to produce a small edition entitled This is not a book on John Gorham - a collection of affectionate anecdotes from his many friends in the design and advertising industry. Perhaps one day that planned book will finally happen.
Back in 1963 seventeen
graphic designers got together to produce a book. In the introduction it sets
out three main points: ‘To demonstrate the effective use of graphic design in
commercial and social contexts: to encourage the wider employment of the graphic
designers’ particular skills and aptitudes: and to define, if only by
implication, attitudes and approaches to graphic design current in England at
this time.’ Clearly pithy copywriting was low on the agenda at that point. But
the work featured from these young, thrusting twenty and thirty somethings was
pretty revolutionary when most graphic designers were still know as, ‘commercial artists’. The book was designed by Derek Birdsall and could
only stretch to two colours. But for all that we can see the geneses of British
graphics on the pages of this slim volume. All the key names are there: Denis
Bailey, Derek Birdsall, George Daulby, George Mayhew, Peter Wildbur, Ian
Bradbery, David Collins, Bob Gill, Alan Fletcher, Colin Forbes, Sidney King,
Roy Kinneir, Margaret Calvert, Romek Marber, Barry Trengrove and Tom Wolsey. The industry was far smaller and more intimate then. Now we're bursting at the seams. Here
are a series of spreads from the book...
In 2001 I interviewed the maverick editorial designer David King for my then regular ‘Heroes’ series for Design Week. Here it is again slightly edited down.
Just a few days before this interview took place I was slumped in front of my TV set, idly switching channels, when I hit what appeared to be a scene from a medieval battle film. My vision sharpened with the aid of my glasses and it became clear that this was no re-enactment, but the present day streets of Bradford.
Under a torrent of bricks and petrol bombs, an army of riot police was in retreat.
Amidst this onslaught, flashes of yellow, red and black could be seen. They made up the familiar logo of the Anti-Nazi League.
Against this dramatic backdrop I’d like to introduce my next hero, whose life, politics and profession are inextricably linked. He is David King.
If you mention Islington these days, Tony Blair comes to mind, along with wine bars, the Almeida Theatre and the buzz of trendy north London. So I was surprised to learn that King lives in this pocket of affluence. In fact, he has lived here for 35 years, long before the Volvo set moved in. But King stayed, and here I was standing outside his Victorian terraced house, amused by its red painted door, which as you will discover, is highly appropriate.
King was born in Isleworth in 1943 into a middle class family. His father worked in banking and they lived a pleasant, quiet and uneventful life. As a young boy, King spent a lot of his time with a maiden aunt, who had a more creative outlook to the life that he was used to. An avid collector of china and porcelain, she would often take her nephew on outings to museums and art galleries. There was also an uncle would tell of Russia and the iron curtain, which sounded ominous but exciting.
At 17 his Soviet and creative interests had matured. He was torn between pursuing Russian Studies or opting for a more artistic pursuit. He chose the latter and took a place at the London College of Printing. King remembers the first two years as a hopeless mess. He couldn’t find a direction and was faltering. Three very sympathetic tutors came to the rescue, Robin Fior, Richard Hollis and Keith Cunningham. They helped him find a voice in his final year. In particular, he remembers Cunningham suggesting that he look at the films of the great Russian director Sergei Eisenstein. King followed up on this and was overwhelmed by what he saw. Eisenstein’s unique use of montage and dramatic framing was to stay with King and have a direct influence on his work.
He left LCP and joined Queen magazine as an assistant to the great editorial designer Tom Wolsey – responsible for the now legendary Town magazine. Wolsey left Queen to start his own advertising agency and invited King to join him. This was a short-lived excursion as King found the work dull in comparison to the glamour and buzz of the magazine world. He briefly took up a design post with The Observer, working alongside Raymond Hawkey and Roger Law – the man who later went on to create Spitting Image.
Then in 1965, he was approached by Michael Rand to join The Sunday Times Magazine. This was to be the making of King. He enjoyed the collaboration with highly talented photographers and writers, becoming great friends with Bruce Chatwin and the photojournalist Don McCullin. He quickly graduated to art editor ...
and as well as commissioning illustration and photography, he began to generate ideas for features. He recalls wanting to be self-sufficient when going on assignments. He asked Mc Cullin to give him some pointers on using a camera and McCullin went one better. He not only told him what camera, lenses and film stock to use, but also took him out and gave him a three-hour crash –course in taking pictures. At the end of this, McCullin said, ‘That’s all you’ll ever need to know, David’.
King still uses the same camera – a manual Nikon F3. During his ten-year period at the magazine he, along with Rand, clocked up a staggering rate of D&AD Gold and Silver awards. It was a rich period in the 20th century history with the Vietnam war, manned space flight, the first heart transplant, the Six day war, Watergate and many high-profile assassinations, providing dramatic stories and images for King’s design talent.
At that time the magazine was highly influential in the creative field and employed the best writers, illustrators, photographers and designers. King recalls the adrenaline rush he got from the environment, with its tobacco-laden air and the manic noise generated by journalists hammering away at their typewriters. This is in stark contrast to a visit King made to the magazine’s offices recently, where staff were peering at PC screens, typing in an eerie silence and breathing in a smoke- free zone.
It was at The Sunday Times Magazine that King was given his first opportunity to visit Russia for a pictorial feature on the October Revolution. He found out that the authorities had manipulated history by eradicating major political figures from official photographs. The absence of Trotsky particularly fascinated King, prompting him to go in search of original, uncensored material. This was to be the beginning of a lifelong passion.
During his time at The Sunday Times Magazine King would take on occasional outside job. One notorious project came about in 1968 when Chris Stamp – brother of Terence – asked him to design some album covers for his label, Track Records. King was given some 36 hours to come up with a concept and finished artwork for the new Jimmy Hendrix album ‘Electric Ladyland’...
For reasons that he cannot now quite recall, he decided to have David Montgomery photograph 20 completely naked women for its double cover. What King does recall is that he wanted to create an image that was an antidote to the glamorised Playboy fantasy of women. He wanted these women to look real. They did, and many a spotty teenage boy spent an unhealthy amount of time ogling over the anatomical differences. The American market found the image too startling and promptly banned it.
Back at the magazine, King achieved a major coup in 1974. He was given six weeks’ access to Muhammad Ali during his preparation for the Joe Frazier fight. Using the trusty Nikon F3 he photographed him during his intense training regime. King contrasted this with Ali’s more intimate family moments. The result was a unique photo feature and approach by Penguin Books. This led to the publication of ‘I am King’, a large format pictorial biography on Ali, which went on to sell 150,000 copies. Many more opportunities and awards would come Kings way.
By 1975 The Sunday Times Magazine had undergone several changes of Editor. King had reduced his working week to three days, allowing him time to pursue other interests. When Hunter Davies arrived to take up the editorship, King decided it was time to quite and moved on. He was keen to devote more of his time to political causes. But there was to be a more dramatic fate waiting to befall him.
While he was out driving, just a short distance from his home, he was hit broadside by a car. The force of the blow fractured his skull and he was hospitalised and out of circulation for almost a year. The effect of his injury disoriented him so much that he was unable to deal with more than one person at a time. Eventually he recovered, started picking up the pieces and began looking for work. Interest came from David Pelham at Penguin Books, art director during the 1970s. Pelham tapped into King’s historical and political interests and gave him a constant flow of book covers to design. This was the ideal opportunity for King to draw from his now substantial photographic archive...
Settling into a freelance rhythm, he rented a studio in London’s Clerkenwell, again long before the Location was on the estate agent’s hit list. He fulfilled his wish to become a political designer by donating his creative energies to the ANL, the Anti-Apartheid movement, a leftist Trotskyite fraction and many other political activists that he found sympathy with. King was very much out on a limb in donating so much of his time to these causes. He told me that he couldn’t bear to see so much amateurishly designed print material being pushed out by these small political groups. He wanted to demonstrate that through well thought out and effectively designed material, their messages would stand a far better chance of getting through. He was amused when he heard that the police had questioned some members of the ANL, asking which advertising agency had been responsible for its print material.
His work is uncompromisingly direct, often employing wood block type, primary colours and a dynamic juxtaposition of type to image. It hits you like a ‘Wanted’ poster...
He makes no secret of his love of the Russian Revolutionary designer Gustav Klutsis and the German Dadaist and political collagist John Heatfield. He met Hartfield before his death in 1968 and subsequently became great friends with his window, who often stayed with King when she was visiting London. Eisenstein also had a profound effect on him thanks to Cunningham; King uses cinematic terms (close up, wide shot), to describe his own work.
A re-entry into magazines came in 1983. Around this time, there was a lot of unrest in the journalistic world. There had been problems at the London listing magazine ‘Time Out’, culminating in a breakaway group, which set up in direct competition with its former employer. ‘City Limits’ was the result of this new collective. King was called in to design the covers, which he did for over a year. The title eventually failed, along with another similar listings magazine, ‘Event’, funded by Richard Branson, leaving ‘Time Out’ the victor.
King took over the art directorship of ‘Crafts’ in 1985. His strong graphic presence often overwhelmed the more delicate items featured in the magazine. King remembers the excursion as simply a vehicle to fund other activities.
The most significant turning point for King and his unique collection came in 1985, with the arrival of Gorbachev on the Russian political stage. With him came a new mantra of Glasnost (openness) and Perestroika (restructuring). This newfound freedom unleashed an immediate world interest in all things Russian. The country’s chequered political history became a central theme for magazine features, books and television documentaries. They all needed authentic, uncensored visual material.
All those years King spent unearthing Stalinist suppressed material, plus posters books and graphics collected from all over the Soviet Union and many other parts of the world, had finally paid off. This renewed interest enabled him to produce the books, such as ‘Trotsky’, and ‘The Great Purges’. His latest is ‘The Commissar Vanishes’ – a book of photographic falsifications which features censored photographs adjacent to their untampered originals.
As a graphic designer, King has always been an outsider, shunning the security of a design consultancy or the world of advertising, opting instead to follow his heart and mind. He learned from the many friends he made at The Sunday Times Magazine that it was possible to keep beavering away to uncover a truth. Through his painstakingly pieced together, self-funded collection he can now share this truth with the world. Professionally he has been exceptionally generous in donating his time to enable many small political organizations to have a powerful visual voice.
Towards the end of our meeting Kind showed me some of his favorite pieces from his archive. He spoke of these with an infectious enthusiasm, pointing out particular areas of typography and image that he admired. As I watched him, I imagined that elderly aunt back in the 1950s, pointing into a dusty museum cabinet, with the young King in tow, saying, ‘ Look at that David, it’s history’.
By Mike Dempsey © Centaur Publications 2001
POST SCRIPT: I spoke with David this week. His collection is ever growing. He has a room devoted to his Soviet poster collection at Tate Modern, which he regularly re-hangs. And there is a new book, ‘Red Star Over Russia’ published by Tate. You can find out more about David Kings books and collection here.
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