I love newspapers and mourn their cruel and imminent death every time I see the delivery guy rocket around our cul-de-sac on his scooter. He flicks about three papers onto the drives of the ‘hood’s last subscribers and rockets back out again. In the good old days paperboys and girls used to bike around the street delivering to three quarters of its boxes.
My “career” in design didn't start at design school. It didn't start with computers. It started with pen and ink
This must make me old.
I didn't get into graphic art (as it was called when I left school) because of some slick tertiary marketing campaign. Or because of advice received from a well-meaning school guidance counselor.
I've never really known why I do what I do or why I might be good enough at it that people pay me money for it, until today.
When I got my first job as a newspaper designer, the bromide room was a refuge from the non-stop sausage factory that the art department often was. This blog is a nod to the value of taking some time away from the drawing board to just take a breather. True, the air was full of toxic fumes, but the conversation was usually good.