As we strived to make sense of our foundation course, it was explained that we followed the principles of the Bauhaus – in line with design education in most colleges at the time.
Many people when they think of design, would be surprised by the depth and history underpinning this creative discipline. I was no different. It wasn’t until I was pointed at a history of the Bauhaus that I began to understand how deeply it had influenced everything around me. What struck me were the personal stories. The Bauhaus had set out not just to teach design, but to completely rewire how students thought about the world and their place in it.
The Bauhaus wasn’t just a school; it was a revolution in how design was taught and understood. Founded in 1919 by architect Walter Gropius in Weimar, Germany, it sought to reunite creativity and industry, art and craftsmanship. Remember, this was at a time when the world was still reeling from the horrors of World War I, and everything, it seemed, was up for reconsideration. The Bauhaus responded to this with an educational approach that was as radical as it was rigorous.
I assume those original students, over half a century before, must have felt the same excitement and trepidation of entering a world that promised so much possibility and yet demanded so much in return. Like me, they would have arrived with only a vague idea of what design entailed and left with their minds completely reshaped.
The foundation of the Bauhaus curriculum was the Vorkurs, or preliminary course. This was not unlike our foundation-year, though it was infinitely more intense. The idea was to strip away all preconceived notions of what art and design should be and rebuild the student’s understanding from the ground up.
Like us, they were encouraged to work with their hands, to engage with the physical reality of their materials. Wood, metal, glass—these were not just things to be shaped into products; they were elements with their own intrinsic qualities, their own stories to tell (and led to Pete getting sawdust in his hair.)
As the Bauhaus evolved, so too did its approach to education. When it moved to Dessau in 1925, the focus shifted more towards industrial design and architecture. Gropius saw the potential for mass production to bring good design to the masses. This was a radical idea at the time and one that still resonates today. The Bauhaus wasn’t just about teaching students to be good designers; it was about teaching them to be good citizens and to use their skills to improve the world around them.
The Bauhaus was not without challenges. By 1933, the school was forced to close under pressure from the Nazis. Yet, even in its relatively short lifespan, the Bauhaus left an indelible mark on the world of design. Its alumni spread its ideas across the globe, influencing everything from the architecture of skyscrapers to the design of everyday objects.
You could say, the Bauhaus never really died. Its ideas live on in every designer who understands that their work is about more than just aesthetics. It’s about engaging with the world and seeing things not just as they are, but as they could be. That’s the legacy of the Bauhaus that continues to challenge and provoke designers to this day.
For me, and most of the other students on the course, this first year had a greater impact than we realised. Not only were we learning the mechanics of design, but also the history and theory. Exercises that we first thought of as pointless, revealed themselves to be opportunities to experiment – to create personal approaches. We might not have been surprised by the drawing and painting elements – except when we found ourselves on all-fours, with rolls of wallpaper and 6” brushes, painting the negative space we observed in a stack of chairs! However, few, if any, of us had any experience of 3D work, beyond playing with Lego or building sandcastles, so the sculpture workshops were a revelation for some but a source of confusion for many.
Pencils, paints and erasers were considered as designers’ tools – not spot-welders, band-saws, fly presses and mallets & chisels. We were all moving outside of our comfort zones. It was challenging for some, but mind-expanding… and fun. Perhaps what those old founders of the Bauhaus had in mind. I remember one student, screaming the first time she switched on the bandsaw, and it howled into life. By the end of our first session, she was giggling at the intricate shapes she had produced.
Transition
There was a point in our foundation-year, when most people began to make the transition from raw student to potential designer. For some there was a ‘Road to Damascus’ moment, for others, a slow awareness of what the foundation-year had given us, and what was behind the door.
Our caretaker at the annexe, Mr Kyle, had created a nice little side hustle in selling tea, coffee and biscuits from a tiny room in one of the stairwells. It was a popular haunt since there was a theoretical restriction to smoking in the building, due to the wooden floors, but it was allowed in the stone-floored stairwells. One afternoon, Mick, Pete and I were sharing a smoke with a few other students and Mr Kyle (or ‘Three inches of ash and a filter tip’, as he was known), on the landing outside his coffee shop. Kyle suddenly grabbed his broom and looked busy, as Mike Cooper appeared behind us.
“What are you lot doing here?”
“Free period,” Julian, the group toff, drawled. “We can already speak English.”
Those of us who had English O-Level or above (the minimum requirement of the course) had finally negotiated a release from the lesson calculated to bring our other colleagues up to standard.
“Okay, I need somebody to go up to the main building with these.” He waved a bunch of files at us.
“I’ll go,” I said, ignoring the dictum to never volunteer for anything. It was always good to go to the main college. Rubbing shoulders with the more advanced students and their lecturers made me feel on the threshold of real design. The coursework on show ignited impatience to start the next year.
“I’ll come with you,” Mick cut in.
“Right, take these up to Mr Jessel.”
We looked blank.
“He’ll be on the top floor – short chap, dark hair, glasses and a beard.” Cooper thrust the files into my hand and disappeared down the stairs.
Thirty minutes later, we were wandering around the top floor of the main building – the home of the final-year students. Nobody seemed to know a ‘Mr Jessel’. The description ‘short chap, dark hair, glasses and a beard,’ was even less helpful. It could have fitted four out of five of the males we encountered. We’d assumed he was a member of the academic staff: perhaps we were wrong? We retraced our steps down to the staff room and tapped tentatively on the door. The head of the graphic design course must have been standing right behind it and he forcefully swung it wide open. We recognised him instantly – not a short chap with glasses and a beard, but well over six foot in a dark business suit, white shirt and Brigade of Guards tie (not our Mr Jessel then). Behind him, the rest of the staffroom spun to face us – somewhat guiltily, I thought.
“I’ve got some files for Mr Jessel?” I said, holding them protectively in front of me.
“Jessel? Anybody know Jessel?” he asked the room.
“He’s a visiting lecturer, I think.” A voice from a far corner.
Finally it was agreed that we should leave the files, and they were accepted as reluctantly as a court summons. The door closed, and we turned away, heading back, free to explore the upper floor.
There was one long corridor with anonymous rooms on both sides. Students wandered by, many carrying the ubiquitous, large, burgundy portfolios. Others hurried past with sheets of card or paper with incomplete projects. Mick was ahead of me and had stopped waiting for me to catch up. He was twitching excitedly. On the walls were large exhibition panels. We’d never seen anything like it – examples of graphic design displayed like works of art. Even though our critical design appreciation was in its embryonic stage, we knew we were looking at something special. Mick and I looked at each other, perhaps realising that this may be the bar that was being set for us.
“This isn’t our college work.” Mick said, stating the obvious as most of the text was not in English. I peered at the small text on the corner of each board: ‘Fakultät für Design und Kunst – Uni Wuppertal’.
We would have probably stayed absorbing this unexpected exhibition if a door behind us had not crashed open.
“Want to buy some Letraset?” Reg was one of the final year students who was now on his knees, scooping up art materials he’d spilled in the doorway. We helped him collect his wares, and followed him back into what was one of the final year studios. He’d be finishing his studies this year, in fact, he’d already secured a job, and he was disposing of some of his college materials to more junior students. He squared up a stack of blue sheets on a nearby table. Letraset was pressure sensitive lettering that could be rubbed down to create presentation quality dummies of printed work. Each sheet had multiple alphabets, and you could purchase a huge range of fonts and sizes.

Reg stacked up, maybe 30, part-used sheets. “Ten bob, the lot. What do you say?”
It was a good deal, but a bit early for us as we were not yet working on projects that demanded such quality. We slowly shook our heads, but Reg was not about to let prospective customers go so easily.
“I’ve got some mags.” He lifted a carrier bag, and spread the contents on the table. There were about 20 publications that I had never seen before, English, European, American – Graphis, Art Direction, Design. Our eyes, already sensitised by the Wuppertal exhibition, were hungry for more graphic design. Money changed hands.
We hurried back to the annex hugging our spoils. Most of our group were sitting around smoking and chatting. We began to recount our adventure at the main building. We raved about the Wuppertal exhibition and spread out the design magazines, enthusing over the work displayed. A realisation began to dawn on me – in our little group those who could be bitten by the design bug and those who were just passing the time. Some were discussing the magazines – arguing, flicking through pages (and even trying to purloin a magazine or two). Others were just not interested, and moved away to continue with their gossip. As the foundation-year ground on, the groups became increasingly polarised.
A handful of subjects occupied most of our time. Some were quite new to us, and foremost in that category was History of Art. We had two lecturers for this year. The first was a native of Sheffield who had a passion for architecture. His favourite subject was the Park Hill estate in his home town. He rated this brutalist concrete estate as an example of cutting edge architectural design, and an agent for social change. It certainly opened our eyes to the power that design embodied, set in a human context. We were not 100% convinced, yet a few decades later, it was recognised as one of Europe’s largest Grade II listed structures.
His tenure was succeeded by that of a more classic art historian who had the ability to pique the interest of our group. For a half-term he would paint the story of art from egyptian wall paintings to the post-impressionists. It was a broad-brush approach for which I am grateful to this day.
Survival
As the end of our year approached, we’d become a tight and supportive group. There was one other student Mick and I knew from our old school. George, tall and stooped, he fitted the archetype for an art student, though his progress had been a little erratic. His work at the end of the year was indistinguishable from his early efforts. Very few other students could be described as from the local catchment. We had known Denise and Christine previously, but the others began the year as strangers. The locals were generally working-class kids. By contrast, there was a substantial intake of middle-class kids from rather far-flung suburbs. This group included a handful who, despite their parents having put them through expensive crammers, still did not make the grade for university. Art college seemed like a good option where they considered the academic qualifications for entry less rigorous.
There was also an easily identifiable cohort who saw art and design as ‘trendy’ – (which it was in the late swinging 60’s), and a large proportion of these found their home in the fashion department. The BBC must also have considered that some art and design students represented the zeitgeist because they flooded us with Top of the Pops tickets to swell their on-screen audiences with weird-looking youngsters. We obliged with fashionable mods and long-haired hippies.
We had a few rising stars too. Pete was near the top of this group. He was already one of the most original thinkers, and his work was easily distinguishable. He was fun and humorous, but there was an anxious current pulsing just below his surface.
The central group of students made few waves, but paddled along with a steady output of sound work.
Finally, a significant number seemed to have given up and were just treading water. A mixed bunch – some were simply in an inappropriate place, a few just had the wrong personality or mindset, and a handful could best be described as idle.
The pace of the foundation-year had been quite relaxed. Marks had been handed out for coursework and projects, but without fuss. So few considered the prospect of failure – or the consequences. There was a convention that colleges gave preference to their own students when allocating places on their Dip courses. (Art and design courses generally led to diploma awards such as DA, NDD – and most commonly DipAD, Diploma in Art and Design – until 1972 when the first degrees were awarded). So most of our intake expected to move painlessly onto the three-year course.
There were several factors that made things more uncertain. Firstly, we were the ‘bulge year’. A bigger intake would put more future strain on resources for the department. Secondly, there was the political pressure to measure outcomes.
Thank you all for coming
A month or so from the end of the academic year, we found ourselves assembled in the large 19th century lecture theatre. This was a traditional auditorium with tiered seating facing a central dais. There was already a heavy fug of cigarette smoke clouding the room. Approaching the end of term, grants were running out so most students were down to skinny roll-ups, often composed of as much paper as tobacco.
There was a high level of chatter, as this was an unusual occasion, and speculation was rife. The door eventually opened and the Head of Department strode in, accompanied by one or two of the senior non-teaching staff, conspicuous by their business suits and ties. We had only once been addressed by the department head for a lecture on design method, in this same auditorium. He paused at the lectern and launched straight into his address.
This year, marking was going to be strict – (surprised glances shot around – ‘marking?’) and for the new term, the courses would be structured differently. Fashion and Industrial design would remain the same, but graphic design (the biggest section) would be split into the current three-year graphics course and a new two-year commercial art course. That would mean foundation course students who did not attain high enough marks for the Dip course would be offered the two-year option. The unspoken alternative being – ‘bye-bye’.
A loud buzz of discussion filled the hall. The Head of Department held up his hand and continued. “We also have exciting changes including introducing more 3-D design into the Graphics course, to extend developing into areas such as packaging and exhibition design. This is intended to increase students’ employment options…” He continued in the same vein, with a delivery that suggested his next statement was unnecessary… “Any questions?”
There were many, but most were being noisily discussed between students. He deftly fielded the few that quick thinkers called out, and the platform party left the room where the debate continued. I slid along the bench to have a word with George, aware that he might be sitting on the two-year/three-year split.
“What did you make of that, George?”
“No big deal. Suits me fine.” He lit another cigarette and reflected. “I’d rather have the two-year option. I’ve got plans… kangaroo country.”
“Australia?” I spoke before I thought… Where else?
George did in fact make the move just over a year later. He completed the first year of the commercial art course. Ever the hustler, he designed a stationery range for a shipping company in exchange for transporting all his belongings to the antipodes – a good deal all round.
For the rest of us the question remained: where would we be next year?