Over the last 40 years, British graphic design has evolved dramatically. From hot-metal and letterpress printing to digital production and rich media. This is a personal perspective from a designer who has been there from the start, and is both a social commentary and a history of the creative industry.

Ink, print and more thesis disaster.

Aug 082012
 

Last minute frenzy

Pete was less lucky when it came to time. Nobody had seen him for weeks, but that was common. He would work at home in a nervous frenzy and then turn up at the last moment with a stunning and totally original solution to each project.

We were both in the upper quartile so far as grades were concerned and there was some vigorous competition. I admitted to myself that Pete probably shaded me in originality. My work was more contrived and derivative. However, on the day when I was reprinting my covers, spelled correctly now, Pete launched himself into the print room like a whirlwind, with bulging folder of materials. He threw his coat on a chair and elbowed a workspace. We rarely saw Pete in the print room, he preferred other media to finalize his designs. The care and precision needed did not sit well with his hyperactive temperament. I looked with interest at his project.  His subject was an aspect of filmmaking and he had created landscape pages to mirror cinema screen format. He would intersperse the pages with leaves of clear acetate overprinted with black designs to emulate film frames with sprocket holes.

Image by Jebb

He laid out his first sheet, hands shaking and ash falling from his cigarette onto the page. Quickly laying his screen on the top he pulled the first black print.

‘Bugger!’ As he lifted the screen we saw paint had run under the stencil and smeared the acetate. Frantically, he threw the ruined sheet to one side, rubbed the screen clean with solvent and took another sheet of the expensive acetate. This one printed perfectly and he ploughed on demonically until one of the metal drying frames was full of acetate sheets, shiny with fresh black ink. He rushed to one of the big Belfast sinks to clean his screens.

‘Pete, I think you’d better come and look at this,’ a girl called from by the drying rack. Pete walked over as we all turned to look at the rack. The smooth, flat acetate sheets were now bending and undulating like sand-dunes. He had been using a cellulose based paint that seemed to be reacting with the clear film, shrinking and buckling it as it dried. Pete just stood, silent, shocked and near to tears. Those of us nearest to him were wracking our brains for possible solutions, and blurting out ill-considered reassurance. Pete just grabbed his coat and left the room as rapidly as he had arrived.

Dissertations and dyslexia the culmination of a college course.

Jul 172012
 

To say students spent little time in college may be rather misleading. We did go in to make use of the facilities. As final year students we had priority to such functions as the photographic studio, type room and the print room. I made good use of the photography facilities for my RSA project, creating a 1930’s based campaign employing large posters, sepia toned in the huge darkroom tanks.

The cover page to Søren Kierkegaards university dissertation.

The cover page to Søren Kierkegaards university thesis.

Dissertation blues

The print room was also in great demand later on the year as we worked on our thesis projects. My chosen project was ‘Graffiti’. I had spent much of the year photographing examples and making prints on thin, matt airmail paper that I could mount in my pages without them becoming thick and unwieldy. A junk shop had provided an old Remington typewriter with a 14” carriage that allowed me to type direct onto the oversize pages.

My intention was to section-sew the finished pages and hand-bind into a hard cover. I wanted a striking cover image and I had decided upon writing the title in a style based upon Roy Lichtenstein’s brush strokes – this was to be one, large, single word sweeping diagonally across the cover. I had acquired some sheets of exceptionally high-gloss, white Astralux board and planned to use my silk-screen skills to print this in two colours, black and green, in matt ink to contrast with gloss board.

Pride before a fall

The stencils were painstakingly hand cut at home and then taken into college to iron onto the stretched silk screens. Being close to the deadline, the print room was busy and I soon had a handful of critical spectators. carefully registering my first colour, I took my squeegee and spread some green ink, pulling the thick viscous liquid through the screen. I made three copies for safety then left the sheets in the drying rack and went for a cigarette and a coffee. I knew my own impatience was the biggest threat and I was likely to ruin the job by pulling the second colour while the first was still wet in my eagerness to see the final result.

Half an hour later I returned to the room, heady with the sweet vapours of cellulose thinners. as I laid out the first sheet with the green ink a satisfying matt against the white, my audience returned. I carefully registered my second screen with the black streaks that were to overprint the green. I pulled the black ink through and gingerly lifted the screen – it was perfect. Printing the remaining two copies, I spread the sheets out to the admiring gaze of my fellow students. Reg, a student I knew slightly from the other group, leaned forward to look and I obligingly moved to one side.

‘You don’t spell it like that.’ he said.

‘What?’

‘ “Graffiti”, you’ve missed an “f” out.’

‘You’re kidding!’ I was not sure. Was this a leg pull? I was not confident now, and if he was right, it meant I had spelled it wrongly throughout my thesis.

‘No, he’s right.’ Martin butted in.

‘Shit.’ There was no time for feeling sorry for myself. I packed up all my materials and headed for home to burn some more midnight oil correcting the error.

Fortunately, on this occasion, I had not gone right up to the wire and had just about enough time to make some new stencils and reprint the cover. Curiously, I had spelled the word correctly throughout my text. Thankfully my blind spot was limited to creating the cover image.

New technology meets 60′s typography.

Jul 032012
 

typographyThe first whiffs of new technology were blowing through the world of typographic design. Display fonts were the typefaces that were available in large sizes to create headlines in designs and advertisements – such faces as Grotesque No.9, Gill Sans Ultra or Clarendon. In general the choice from typesetters was limited, and those available in our small college type room even more restricted. They also presented more issues with kerning: the inter-character spacing between letters. As these were printed from individual pieces of ‘cold-type’, there was a physical limitation on how close these could be set. Spacing between characters was always a compromise, and large gaps between, for example a capital ‘X’ and ‘Y’, while just about acceptable at small sizes, looked awful in large headlines. In addition there was a trend towards really tightly kerned typefaces, almost, and in some cases actually touching. Previously, the only solution had been to obtain a proof of the type, cut up the characters with a scalpel and paste them together to use as artwork for litho printing or to have a block made. This dealt with the kerning problems but not the paucity of available typefaces.

One solution came in the form of Letraset, pressure sensitive lettering. These sheets of characters had a light adhesive on the reverse and could be rubbed down individually to create artwork for headlines. There was a wide and growing range of fonts by the late sixties and at 7/6 a sheet were  just within student budgets. Watching the press however, we began to notice unusual and decorative fonts appearing. Many of these had antique or Art Nouveau flavours that were in contrast to the austere sans-serif faces of the Swiss school and fitted the more eclectic hippy style that young designers were adopting. In Manchester we were puzzled as to where these fonts were coming from. This underlined the gap between what we and London-based designers were exposed to. While on a short work placement I discovered the source of these typefaces. On a desk was an A4 book with page after page of these exotic fonts – it was the T. J. Lyons collection and was available through the phototypesetting house, Conway’s in London’s West End.

Photosetting was a relatively new technology stimulated by the move from letterpress (printing with movable type and blocks which were coated with ink) to litho printing which depended upon a photographic image being transferred onto a flat printing plate. A strip of film with the characters in negative was placed in a giant photographic enlarger and then exposed, letter for letter on sensitised paper to create complete lines or blocks of text. Letter-spacing was infinitely variable. Conway’s were one of the pioneers of the commercial exploitation of the technique with Stan Conway recognising the appetite of the design and advertising industry for these exotic fonts.

For students, ordering photoset headlines was generally out of the question. It was too costly and few of our projects required artwork quality typesetting. Most of our projects were taken to the standard of mock-ups of printed jobs. The usual student techniques were either to use Letraset, or trace the lettering from type books, pages with complete alphabets supplied by typesetting houses. My work placement would not let me have their copy of the Lyons Collection type catalogue, but agreed to my photostatting the pages. For a while I was the envy of the other students as  I created designs populated with decorative headlines employing such fonts as Davida, Bookman Swash, Ringlet, Aldine and Bank Gothic.

First taste of real work and sweating in an ad factory.

Jul 022012
 

Student life cannot go on for ever and work experience seemed a logical stepping stone.

Cut out to work in advertising?

I had played around local folk clubs and found that people from the Manchester advertising scene were very well represented in that particular community. I approached a few people, asking which were the leading companies and who should I speak to. There were three names that kept coming up: Bowden, Dyble and Hayes, Osborne Peacock (where the flamboyant Peter Marsh began his career in 1957) and Cross-Courteney – as I knew a handful of people at the latter, I wrote to the creative director in search of a placement.

It was not quite the glamorous world I expected. The studio was a large ‘L’-shaped room that was practically an ad production line. Visuals or ‘scamps’ were produced to show clients how their ads would appear and these, once approved, together with the typewritten copy, were passed to the studio manager whose desk was at the top of the ‘L’. These progressed to the ‘finished artists’, incredibly neat people who would create the visual elements, borders and illustrations, drawing them in crisp black ink on white board. As I had indicated my interest in typography, I was placed under the watchful eye of the typographer, or ‘typo’. We were near the end of the process, so occupied the foot of the ‘L’. Our job was a mixture of aesthetics, technical knowledge and arithmetic. The text or ‘copy’ for the ads was supplied in typewritten form. We had to specify the font, type size and leading (inter-line spacing) to fit the copy into the space available to it, in as attractive and readable manner as possible. This required ‘casting off’ the copy – first counting the number of characters, then using a cast off table for the specific font to calculate the number of lines of type it would make in various sizes. Once the type had been specified it was sent off to a typesetting house who would set the text in type, ink it up and supply what was known as a repro proof, a high quality print which then came back into the production line. The typos then read and checked the copy for literals.

The repro went back to the paste-up artists. These skilled people assembled the ad by pasting the text into the artwork created by the finished artists, together with any photographs, logos or other elements. Finally, back came the complete artwork to us at the typos’ desk to check. Then we opened a hatch in the wall and passed it through into the production department who sent it off either for blocks to be made or delivered it direct to the publication.

Time after time, ad after ad passed through the ‘L’. I looked at the people seated at the rows of tables and drawing boards. Many were design graduates from my college, now grinding out ads as they had already done for a number years, with the prospect of doing something similar into the foreseeable future. I watched Bob, the studio manager – in his early fifties, he habitually wore a white duster coat making him look like a balding butcher. If this was the career progression, I was fast coming to the conclusion it was not for me.

An end to college days – dip shows and dissertations.

May 042012
 

1960sMost of the course was based around project work. By the final year, the number of formal projects had been reduced; our results would be based upon a combination of course work, our final project, the ‘dip show’ – a mini exhibition of our best work, and a thesis. As design students, not only was the content of the dissertation important, but it was implicit that the visual presentation should be arresting.

Like all students, we had fallen into a rhythm of partying until the delivery of a project for grading was imminent, then working through the night to complete it. By the final year a slightly larger dose of responsibility had crept in, but the principle remained the same. During the latter weeks of the term students were rarely seen in the college as they worked feverishly, not only to complete their assignments but also to mount and re-mount past projects to make a uniform and impressive exhibition. It was not only the late hours that were potentially injurious to health, but the heavily solvent-based substances common at the time. Markers, inks and spray-paints were all packed with volatile esters but worst of all, especially in the quantities used was the ubiquitous Cow Gum. This was a rubber-solution based adhesive used for mounting paper on card, board and other substrates. The rubber was dissolved in a petroleum base, and the principle was to coat both surfaces to be joined, allow a minute or so for the solvent to evaporate and the surface to become tacky, then bring them together. Preparing for the end-of-year show, the average student got through gallons of this. My own flat was heated by a gas fire and I was spending hours in front of it with boards and gum-soaked paper spread upon the floor. The partially burned fumes were particularly noxious as I noticed when I stood up in the early hours of the morning, swaying drunkenly with a thumping behind my eyes.

In praise of Cow Gum

Apr 282012
 

Cow GumCut and paste – there was a time when it meant just that. Artwork for print was assembled by physically cutting out pieces of typeset text, photographs, illustrations and other graphic elements, and carefully sticking them on pieces of art board. The cutting tool was a surgical scalpel with a 10a blade, and the most common adhesive was Cow Gum.

Cow Gum was a rubber solution – that is, rubber dissolved in volatile petroleum spirits. The colourless gum was spread thinly with a spatula on the back of the elements to be assembled and also on the top of the art board. It was left for a few minutes for the solvent to evaporate (filling the studio with what I’m sure were very unhealthy fumes), then the cut items were positioned on the board, the two gummed surfaces adhering instantly. Excess rubber adhesive could then be rubbed off with the finger, or a ‘cow rubber’, a ball of dried Cow Gum.

The gum came in large tins of one or two pounds. Some studios amused themselves by having ‘cow-dropping’ competitions. The idea was that you would take a tin of Cow Gum and hold it upside down. The gum, which had the viscosity of very thick treacle would slowly emerge hanging like a giant dewdrop, perhaps a foot below the tin. The trick was to wait until the last possible moment, and before the whole mess fell onto the floor, swing the tin back upright catching the sticky stalactite back inside without it falling all over your hands – or worse.

Cow-dropping competitions were usually instigated in the afternoon after a long liquid lunch – not the best time for the delicate exercise.

Each artist would have their own cow rubber, lovingly created and grown over years of paste-up. I heard of one studio where a new accountant had decided there were savings to be made by judicious purchasing of graphics supplies. The artists were no longer free to order their own stocks but had to present a requisition to the accounts department. Needles to say, one item high on the list was a box of cow rubbers.

The realities of a working designer’s life.

Apr 202012
 

A first taste of the real world of work can be a a bit of a reality check for the aspiring creative.

One of my hobbies throughout college, and one that had also supplemented my student income, was music. I had played around local folk clubs, both solo and in various bands and found that people from the Manchester advertising community were very well represented in that particular community. I approached a few people, asking which were the leading companies and who should I speak to. There were three names that kept coming up: Bowden, Dyble and Hayes, Osborne Peacock (where the flamboyant Peter Marsh began his career in 1957) and Cross-Courteney – as I knew a handful of people at the latter, it was here that I applied for some work experience.

It was not quite the glamorous world I expected. The studio was a large ‘L’-shaped that was practically an ad production line. Visuals or ‘scamps’ were produced to show clients how their ads would appear and these, once approved, together with the typewritten copy, we passed to the studio manager whose desk was at the top of the ‘L’. These were then passed down to the ‘finished artists’, incredibly neat people who would create the visual elements, borders and illustrations, drawing them in crisp black ink on white board. As I had indicated my interest in typography, I was placed under the watchful eye of the typographer, or ‘typo’. We were near the end of the process so occupied the foot of the ‘L’. Our job was a mixture of aesthetics, technical knowledge and arithmetic. The text or ‘copy’ for the ads was supplied in typewritten form. We had to specify the font, type size and leading (inter-line spacing) to fit the copy into the space available to it in as attractive and readable manner as possible. This required ‘casting off’ the copy – first counting the number of characters, then using a cast off table for the specific font to calculate the number of lines of type it would make in various sizes. Once the type had been specified it was sent off to a typesetting house who would set the text in type, ink it up and supply what was known as a repro proof, a high quality print which then came back into the production line. The typos then read and checked the copy for literals.

The repro went back to the paste-up artists. These skilled people assembled the ad by pasting the text into the artwork created by the finished artists, together with any photographs, logos or other elements. Finally, back came the complete artwork to us at the typo’s desk to check, then we opened a hatch in the wall and passed it through into the production department who sent it off either for blocks to be made or sent direct to the publication.

Time after time, ad after ad passed through the ‘L’. I looked at the people seated at the rows of tables and drawing boards. Many were design graduates from my college, now grinding out ads as they had already done for a number years, with the prospect of doing something similar into the foreseeable future. I watched Bob, the studio manager – in his early fifties, he habitually wore a white duster coat making him look like a balding butcher. If this was the career progression, I was fast coming to the conclusion it was not for me.

Swinging London for swinging designers?

Apr 102012
 

1960′s design and the realisation that swinging London may be the doorway of opportunity.

In the middle of our course a trip was organised by some of the fine art lecturers to visit the Bonnard exhibition at the Royal Academy in London. However, as well as this dose of culture, perhaps the biggest impact was from being immersed in the powerful pop-culture at first hand.

There was abundant poster art, thanks to the Underground and we soaked in ads for Elliot boots and highly decorative graphics for Madame Toussauds and Biba. Carnaby Street impressed with the ubiquitous union jack applications and we took a detour to Baker Street to view the Beatle’s Apple shop. Feeling very much like ‘hicks from the sticks’, it made a great impression which would impact our projects as soon as we returned to college.

For me, there had been another realisation – the cultural gap between London and Manchester. This was a time before instant communications and the internet. The motorway network was still in its infancy, and a rail journey between the two cities could take half a day. The distance had allowed Manchester to develop its own and still vibrant culture. There were classy shops and clubs, a thriving advertising and creative culture – but it was strongly regional and there was a feeling that London was the mainstream. It is hard to imagine today how important sheer physical geography was to the separation of ideas and a view of the world. The mass communications medium of television did not close the gap but emphasised it. For the first time I was considering that was where my future might be.

Silkscreen, stencils and the world cup

Apr 092012
 

In the summer of 1966 I heard that a silkscreen printer who specialised in producing the ‘flags’ that estate agents place outside houses for sale, had suffered a major fire. Racks full of stencils repeatedly washed with white spirit, drums of solvent based inks and cans of cellulose paints were so inflammable they were destroyed in minutes. I contacted them to see if they needed any help recovering as I had a rudimentary knowledge of the craft through college. They responded instantly and soon I was hard at work helping replenish their stocks of screens and stencils and helping print new flags. This was at the hard-nosed end of commercial print, but the learning experience was invaluable as was the opportunity to work with industrial quality materials and equipment. Scrap ends of materials which would normally be consigned to the skip were donated to me by the foreman allow me to develop my printmaking technique through the summer months.

That was also the summer of the World Cup, and Old Trafford, where some of the matches were to be hosted, was only half a mile from our premises. Two of the old hands sidled up to me and suggested that if I stayed behind on the night of the big match, there was an opportunity to make some extra money. Before the building was locked up for the night we borrowed three white coats from the signwriters’ studio and took up our places at the entrance to the extensive yard that made up our car-park.  Two neat signs by the entrance proclaimed: ‘Parking 10/-‘ and as the Old Trafford floodlights illuminated the summer evening sky we began directing cars inside and parking them in neat rows to fit in the maximum possible. By the time the roars from the ground filled night, I had pocketed my £25 share of the takings and headed for the bus. Considering my wages at the time were £11 per week, this was a serious contribution to a poor student’s coffers.

Printmaking, posters and Eckersley

Apr 092012
 

Two facets of the graphics course had captured my imagination: the first was printmaking, and the second was typography.

Printmaking had a hybrid character, both fine art and commercial graphics influences ran through it. In the sixties, Warhol, Lichtenstein and many of the US and British Pop artists had resuscitated the art form. I was also developing an interest in posters, and the ability to create strong images directly with flat, uncompromising colour via silkscreen printing was exciting and when combined with fluorescent inks and papers, perfectly captured the zeitgeist of the era.

Whilst working on a poster project, a lecturer leaned over my shoulder and grunted: ‘Another Eckersley?’ When this was met with my blank and confused look, he explained that the graphics course external assessor was the great Tom Eckersley, renowned for his poster work. This sent me off to the college library to look up some of his work. Not only did I find books of his posters, but work by many others from the fifties, forties and before. Many of the creators of these earlier posters were also fine artists in their own right and created the printing media – litho stones, plates, and stencils – by their own hands. This appealed to me, and while others were creating designs and visuals with gouache and markers, I was cutting stencils for silkscreen printing.

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