heart CD jewel case cover; type printed on red paper, removable double-stick-taped to album jewel case / 2004

Because it’s always on, and only on, February 14th, no matter what, Valentines Day can be particularly stressful for young relationships. Bleary-eyed cherubs come out of their 364-day slumber, all jacked up on chocolate truffles and sweethearts, and just shotgun cloud-loads of heart darts into the crowd, their mercenary instincts leaving accuracy second to volume when considering targets. If you are as neurotic about these sorts of things as am I, it’s crucial to position yourself properly so you don’t fall prey to misfires.

The problem is, there are only a few kinds of arrows in the cherub’s standard arsenal, and they’re pretty blunt: “I think you’re hot,” “I love you,” or, “(Believe it or not) I still love you.” If you don’t happen to be feeling—and comfortable expressing—one of those three sentiments, you better be ready to scramble come 2/14. Valentines Day can be rugged terrain for “We’ve only been out twice and I don’t know your last name,” “You’re kind of crazy but maybe I’ll get used to it,” or “We’re doing OK, right?”

Come 2/14/2004, I was actually about three months into a relationship that was going much more than just OK. Indeed, it was going better than I had imagined it could and better than any relationship before had gone by that point. But I tend to err on the side of caution when it comes to communicating feelings and the fact that I did feel deeply for her made me even more nervous about getting too vocal about it…

We were past “I think you’re hot” and not quite to “I love you.” Beyond my irrational insecurities around personal feelings, it just seems so trite to make those sorts of declarations because of wold’s most contrived holiday. But I couldn’t deny that it was that day and I knew I had to do something. I wanted to do something. I just didn’t want one of those stupid arrows to to smack her in the face. I was hoping to just sort of graze her.

When it came to how I would express my feelings, I wanted it to be stirring, sensual, eloquent and cool. So, I did the mature thing and had someone else do it for me. Someone who knew just what to say and exactly how to say it: John Coltrane. One of my favorite albums of any genre, A Love Supreme makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up on end every time I listen to it, and I figured I couldn’t go wrong if I could wrap my sentiments in that.

A Love Supreme CD: remastered from original John Coltrane recordings; cover designed by George Gray/Viceroy / 1964

My card was just a piece of warm red paper mounted it to the cover with removable tape, typeset with the word heart, so she would know where it came from.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center building (back/garden) / photo taken 2003

Sometime in the 1940s or ’50s (I’m not sure of the exact year), the term “corporate identity” was coined by Lippincott & Margulies—one of the first major design firms in the world—to describe both the idea that even large businesses have inherent, relatable characteristics, not unlike human beings, and the practice that could express their character through a fitting, comprehensive and consistent design program. An organization’s identity is expressed in every way they communicate, from their name and logo to their brochures and web site, to the way they answer the phone—whether those “touchpoints” are designed by professionals or not—so this was an important “call-to-action” (to use another industry term) for organizations to pay attention to everything they were communicating, and, ideally, to pay top-notch professionals like L&M to help them make sure they were doing so effectively.

Sometime in the 1990s, the term “brand” began to take over as more formal business strategy was becoming more prominently integrated into large-scale identity design programs, and it quickly went from buzz word to industry category, on which uncounted firms jumped. I have always found this nomenclature shift ironic. “Branding,” literally translated, is the superficial process of stamping a logo on your property (livestock, originally); this superficial logo stamping is exactly the perception that the “new” practice of “branding” was supposed to be rising above. Meanwhile, the word “identity” could already encompass every aspect what an entity is, from what they do to how they express it. But like many P/C nomenclature shifts of late, whether rational or not, “branding” has taken hold, and “identity” (preceded by “corporate” or not), has been deprecated.

Whatever it’s called, my formal introduction to the process of figuring out what an organization stands for and expressing it in a fitting design program was in a class called Identity Systems in the Visual Communication Design program at the University of Washington, sometime in 2003. Like a few other courses in the program, this one was broken into collaborative group and individual phases. Three-person groups were assigned one of four or five major local entities and tasked with research and analysis of the entity, en-route to the creation of a strategic brand platform. Based on this platform, we were then set about designing a fitting logo and building a supporting visual identity system, individually…

Working as a team, Jesse Graupmann, Tim Turner and I made many important discoveries in the course of our research of our assigned entity: The Washington State Convention and Trade Center (WSCTC). Through web exploration, personal interviews with convention center officials, several reconnaissance missions and the study of official documentation, we assessed strengths and weaknesses of its services, location, architecture, transportation integration, primary and secondary local and regional competition, primary and tertiary channels of communication, and its integration with the community, and we determined the primary, secondary and tertiary audiences to whom these mattered. We found that the Washington State Convention and Trade Center offers profound and unique benefits to its constituents that other entities could not match. We also came to the conclusion that their actual visual identity, emanating from the wheat stalk mark in their logo, did little to convey anything about the Center.

The actual Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo is a mash-up of heavy, stylized wheat stalks and stringy typography that does little if anything to express either what the WSCTC is, what it does, or how it does it; rumor had it that, as a state-funded but Seattle-located entity, this was an attempt to appeal to / appease agriculturally-focused Eastern Washingtonians / photo taken 2003

Primary among the WSCTC’s unique and defining aspects is the actual facility. By scale alone, the Center is unmissable, and has some beautiful features, even if it suffers from a somewhat disparate kit of parts. Half of the main façade is laid with flat, earth-tone blocks of stone while the other half has angular full-height windows jutting out into the street. This front meets with blocky glass walls which stair-step their way out the back of the building.

detail of theWashington State Convention and Trade Center’s contrasting stone and glass structure / photo taken 2003

As part of its 2000 expansion, A huge glass and steel arched bridge with a built-in meeting room overhangs Pike Street—a major downtown thoroughfare—bridging the two buildings of the WSCTC complex. This feature won little favor with locals who often express disdain for the sheer imposition, but serves as a nice metaphor for the connections made at the Center (and, it has a pretty great view).

view of theWashington State Convention and Trade Center’s enormous bridge and glass arcade, which actually encloses a block of Pike Street; photographer unknown

The structure is within walking proximity of myriad hotels, shops, restaurants, businesses, and residential complexes, and is connected to Freeway Park, a rich maze of concrete pathways and lush foliage that and ambles upward from Downtown up to culturally-rich Capitol Hill and First Hill neighborhoods.

detail of Freeway Park, an extension of the Washington State Convention and Trade Center; photo taken 2003

Access to the Center could hardly be easier. It has its own freeway exit, it’s own parking garage, it’s own shuttle and taxi dropoff, and its own station integrated into the Metro Bus Tunnel. There is also a car rental agency just across the street.

The Washington State Convention and Trade Center caters to three separate but related audiences. Those having primary business interaction with WSCTC representatives are professional event planners in charge of scheduling and coordinating events large and small for businesses, political entities and other organizations. Secondary audience members are the actual exhibitors and attendees of these events. There is also a tertiary audience served by the facility in the general community, who come to attend public exhibitions, meet friends or business contacts, enjoy the many pieces of artwork on display throughout the building, and/or patronize one or more of the many small businesses and shops within the Center.

view looking up from the interior of theWashington State Convention and Trade Center’s main hall / photo taken 2003

Like all major convention centers, the WSCTC provides accommodations for various sizes and types of events. Unlike most other such venues, however, the Washington State Convention and Trade Center has an extremely broad range of capability and the highest levels of service. Different room capacities and modular exhibition space can accommodate anywhere between two and twenty thousand attendees comfortably. In addition, the Center offers state-of-the-art technological services. Great pride is also taken in their award-winning catering service that’s second to none in the industry.

Being a tax supported state entity, the WSCTC is deeply involved in the interests of the general public. This was expressed most prominently in its expansion, which not only provided a convenient walking path between downtown and Capitol Hill and First Hill, but also afforded a significant increase in the abundance of publicly-funded low-income housing in the area. The building itself also showcases the work of numerous local, national and international artists and provides informal seating and gathering space, all free to the public every day of the week. In addition, the revenue earned by the Center contributes significantly to the state’s budget, leading to greater support of public programs.

Considering these factors and a wealth of information we had accumulated to support them, Jesse, Tim and I went to work synthesizing our findings and teasing out a simple strategic foundation.

We created a basic brand positioning framework, based on what the WSCTC offers its audiences, in terms of three “B”s…
The Business
Providing dependable facilities and services for event planners
The Benefit
Peace of mind that important experiences will be hosted adeptly
What’s Better
Premier location
Internationally-renowned service
Flexibility of space
Ability to host large-scale or complex events
Community integration and accessibility

And we decided upon five characteristics that best captured the personality of the organization…
Personality Attributes
Professional dependable; focused; orderly
Accommodating intimate; pleasurable; flexible; inviting
Metropolitan urban mystique; downtown; major city
Connected access to resources, people and technology/connectivity
Progressive fresh; up to date; constantly evolving

As we wove these facets together, we began to recognize a powerful thread that ran seamlessly through: Indeed, this idea in and of itself, was basically it! Something special happens when things come together. This is what the Washington State Convention and Trade Center is all about. When event planners work with hosts, or attendees and visitors experience an event, or each other, or the city, valuable experiences are created. The WSCTC is the venue, the forum, the intersection and the enabler of these powerful moments.

And so was born our interpretation of the heart of the WSCTC, meant to elegantly encapsulate the motivating factor behind everything the Washington State Convention and Trade Center did, and, in two words, captured both the importance of the physical venue and the service…
Brand Essence
Facilitating connections

From here, we developed a positioning/style matrix as a tool to visually aid us as designers, as well as the client (theoretically in this case) to ensure our intentions for the direction of the ensuing identity design was aligned, as well as solidifying previously synthesized brand elements. We chose the two most powerful, yet disparate personality traits of the brand, namely “professional” and “accommodating” as the top and bottom points on the vertical axis, while stylistic differences were opposed laterally between “representational” on the left, which would likely lead to a system based on physical features and “abstract” on the right, which would likely be more focused on qualitative interpretations of benefits. Scattered on the plot were logos of other organizations, both in and out of category, for reference.



Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo positioning/style matrix; vertical axis: “professional” (top) and “accommodating” (bottom), horizontal axis: “representational” (left) and “abstract” (right); initial area of focus for the WSCTC logo exploration circled; 17 x 11in. / 2003

It was soon after this point that each group member would take the research as they saw it and begin creating identity design individually. It is this matrix, then, that would provide the jumping-off point for each member’s design direction and process. Based on such, I made the rough determination that my direction would fall somewhere toward the “professional” end of the personality spectrum, and would likely be executed in a relatively abstract manner (as designated by the circle in the matrix above). As it happened, the logo and ensuing visual identity system was rather abstract, but referenced the actual building enough that it would probably be plotted a bit to the left of this initial focus.

Armed with the results of all of the preceding research (and then some), the sketch book was cracked open and ideas were turned into marks on paper. The scope of exploration was kept as broad as possible without straying from the brand platform. Of paramount importance was in expressing the brand promise, as a product of the personality traits of the organization. Several concepts were explored in a variety of ways, but the idea of “facilitating connections” drove the creative process from beginning to end.


Conception

Initial sketches utilized the arch as a reference to the building’s prominent architecture as well as a strong metaphor for bridging gaps and making connections. The letter W was integrated into some of these sketches as a connection to “Washington,” which could aid name recognition, but the center’s “Washington-ness” wasn’t a primary communication objective, so pursuing this was not of high importance (the WSCTC doesn’t compete much nationally, and Seattle is really the draw, anyway). Purely typographic solutions were also explored, utilizing custom ligatures within the logotype to convey the idea of connections. Also referencing the building’s architecture were sketches based on stair-stepped block devices:



Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo exploration; pencil on paper; 11 x 8.5in. / 2003


Continuation

At this point, several more abstract marks were considered in addition to refinement of previous ideas. Ideally, the mark would encompass all of the traits of the brand. Differing sizes of squares were used as primary elements as they offered reference to building architecture, event space, metropolitan grid system and so on. Various combinations and compositions were explored in an effort to convey not only connections being made but also a sense of flexibility of space and service:





Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo exploration; pencil on paper; full sheet and detail of mark studies; 11 x 8.5in. / 2003


Confirmation

Once the potential of these elements was recognized, the process of digital translation and refinement of various aspects of both the typography and the mark began to ensure they could translate properly to the final state:



Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo exploration; digital sketches / 2003


Coloration

Moving along further in the design process, color was introduced as an element while the final mark and typography were still being honed. Initially, just blues and yellows were considered as a professional yet lively palette.

The typography, too, was making progress. While myriad ligature-based options were explored to various degrees, they competed with the mark and cut down on legibility, so I eventually just cleaned up the type in favor of conceptual simplicity and compositional elegance.



Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo exploration / 2003


Convergence

While refining the overall composition of the mark and logotype, the possibility of the color blocks creating a third color at their intersection presented a very intriguing option. That the third color just so happened to be green, the perfect descriptor for Washington (it is “The Evergreen State,” after all) was too enticing to resist, and the mark decision had been made. Soon thereafter, the logotype was finalized and all that was left was to choose the exact color values, which only a comprehensive study could decide:



Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo color study / 2003


Completion

Everything has come together in the final logo. The simple, lowercase typography is inviting, but also has serious presence. The mark references the facility architecture and services, being created of connections between different elements; that it also dots the “i” in “convention” is a nod to the attention to detail of their acclaimed service. The composition is dynamic but balanced, crisp and clean.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo / 2003

Color Concessions

The mark and logotype have been designed to work well within the confines of any color space. Ideally, the three or four-color version is to be used whenever possible, but grayscale, spot-color and black-only versions have also been created so that the new identity may be used in any application.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center logo color variations: (from left to right) 3 or 4-color version, grayscale version, one color version, black only version / 2003

Contextualization

As the logo was being finalized, the visual system, or “kit-of-parts” of standard design elements and usage began. This ended up being incredibly close-in to the logo, which I now find unnecessarily constricted, as well as a bit stifling of the logo, itself. However, as a starting point for a completely new identity, it certainly would have reinforced recognition much more quickly and could have been built upon later.

The color palette is just swatch for swatch with the logo, with the cool, marine blue and vibrant yellow, which combine to create a crisp Washington apple green. The sizes of the swatches represent the relative intended usage, with the blue and the green most pervasive, for their strength of value, with the yellow being used for occasional highlights. Throwing in an even gray for a neutral was a bit default, but its recessive elegance does work. If I were to update this system, one of the first things I would look at would be to add a secondary palette of color triads, potentially related to some organizational structure (i.e., color-coding).

Washington State Convention and Trade Center color palette / 2003

Typefacial Expression

Any written communication must not only convey what needs to be said, but also express the tone in which it should be understood. For an organization with such a broad range of potential recipients of written communication, a font family with extensive versatility and clarity is crucial, but the brand must also be considered in this decision. With these factors in mind, three weights of Helvetica Neue were chosen for their tonal neutrality, maximum legibility and professional demeanor. Normal weights of standard format body copy is efficient and easily read, while bold, often colored lowercase titles and headings serve to keep the message friendly and contemporary.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center type system specimen; 17 x 11in. / 2003

As rational as all that may sound, this type spec is probably my least favorite aspect of this program, looking back on it. My primary dislike is not that it’s based on Helvetica, which I feel absolutely no shame in using under the right circumstances. The unfortunate thing is that it’s based on the exact same typeface as the logotype, which dilutes the logo’s impact and (especially since it’s Helvetica), makes the design system seem overly minimalist. I think a more traditional serif family actually could have easily given the applications a more sophisticated voice and added richness to the overall visual texture.


Multiplying the Message

Nothing makes an identity campaign more powerful than broad and cohesive usage thereof throughout an organization’s vast array of communications. Whether it’s the color of the dinner napkins or the tone of the copy writing on the web site, staying true to the brand is essential. A strong identity system makes it clear just who the organization are to everyone who encounters it.

Stationery has been the cornerstone of identity systems since I-don’t-know-when, though this era seems to be coming to an end. However, as archaic as it may seem these days, press-printed stationery is still used by organizations, especially by executives for formal correspondence, so it remains an important touchpoint to execute adroitly.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center stationery; standard U.S. dimensions / 2003

More specifically relevant for the Convention and Trade Center were name badges for visitors and staff.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center name badges for attendees (left) and staff (right); 4 x 3.25in. and 4 x 1.125in., respectively / 2003

In the above applications, you can start to see the how intersecting blocks are used as a tertiary design system element. Here, again, the idea seems solid, but way too close to the logo; this is where some of those secondary color triads could come into play to separate and add visual texture to the visual identity. I’m also not sure that every shape would have to be a rectangle. Perhaps arcs could come in, referencing the arches of the architecture and the idea of bridging, in general.

Like press-printed stationery, press-printed annual reports (and the design firms that focused on them so heavily) are becoming more and more rare, but this, too, is an incredibly important communication vehicle, and one of the few pieces of graphic design to which executives tend to pay any mind (since the primary audience is shareholders). In my exhibit below, I again reference the logo heavily, though I actually don’t mind it here, because of how it is used and the context: assuming this was the year the new brand identity was introduced, this could reinforce recognition and meaning by using the mark to highlight the actual facility and connections alluded to by the bridge. The only thing I really dislike about this exhibit is that it seems to imply that the annual report covers two years, which just doesn’t make sense.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center 2003 | 2004 Annual Report cover; 8.5 x 11in. / 2003

Sometime in the early- to mid-2000s, the web site took over as the most important touchpoint of almost every brand in the world. Toward the beginning of that range, many of these began with some sort of Flash animated “intro,” which were almost invariably the most frivolous wastes of the medium. Being 2003, I created a basic web site “look and feel,” duly preceded it by a frivolous (though mercifully short) Flash intro. I don’t actually mind the basic idea of the animation—of the three logo blocks coming together to create the logo (though, again, it could use modulation of different colors or other means of activating it). I just think it should have been thought of as an sequence for digital event screen backdrops for conference rooms or something equally meaningful for the WSCTC instead of a throwaway on the web site.

Aside from some system monotony and the difficult small type, I think the web site page design is pretty good; it certainly has a lot more potential than the actual WSCTC site design.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center web site; logo animation, home page; 800 x 600px.+ / 2003

There are few more satisfying feelings than seeing your logo built into a sign. When your design is measured in feet, is made out of metal, weighs hundreds of pounds and requires a small crane to put it in place, you know the client is proud. You can also be pretty sure they aren’t going to change the logo anytime soon, since the time, logistic and monetary costs of sign implementation are formidable, and not something any organization wants to do very often. For the WSCTC, seeing my logo actually put up on the main façade would have been pretty satiating, indeed—especially since the facility more or less is the brand. Of course, this didn’t happen since this was just a school project, but I did do a sketch of how it might have looked if it had.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center façade sign; approx. 35 x 20ft. / 2003

While seeing my logo as shown would have been cool, I must admit that I’m not completely satisfied with this exhibit, either. I like the simplicity of it, but I think some subtle plane shifts in the mark and more consideration of materials, dimensionality and possibly even lighting could have really brought the sign to the next level, so to speak.

On a more functional level, I also designed some examples of interior signage. Even though these are based straight off the logo mark—certainly another example of the very close-in approach to the visual identity system—the addition of different levels of informational iconography set on the different levels of the marks helps support the meaning of the identity, rather than clash therewith.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center interior signs; approx. 12 x 12in. (each); vinyl on acrylic / 2003
top row: room signs (two sections of the same room) | men’s room | ladies room
middle row: bus transportation | taxi transportation | food/restaurant | coffee shop
bottom row: elevators | public telephones | information desk

Below, you can see how some of this and other signage could be implemented on the interior. If given another chance at this, I would strongly consider another color for the walls, or at least an accent here and there. The digital sign could use some TLC, as well. And, in a perfect world, I would commission custom carpeting that could incorporate a unique, WSCTC identity system pattern.

Washington State Convention and Trade Centerinterior signage / 2003

Back outside, then, are a couple tertiary sign locations, where just the mark would be sufficient, as well as temporary event banners (the signs outside the WSCTC were already this angled shape). Here, like the interior signs, the overlapping color system helps differentiate levels of information hierarchy. Though in this case, when used as visual texture, I again would likely assign these an appropriate secondary color triad that would allow the logo to stand out more prominently.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center tertiary signs and event banner signs; approx. 12 x 12ft., 6 x 6ft. and 3 x 9ft., ccw from upper left / 2003

Perhaps the most interesting extension of the identity system I designed was a sculpture intended for the back garden/park. In this piece, translucent blue and yellow lucite blocks would stack into each other, with the apple green naturally being created at the intersections between them. As a three-dimensional expression of the mark and its references to different spaces, places, and unique connections, it could also become known as landmark meeting point, in and of itself.

Washington State Convention and Trade Center park sculpture; approx. 6 x 6 x 6ft.; translucent lucite / 2003

I’m not sure whether this class project opened me up to it, but, I have since gone on to spend the majority of my (still rather young) career helping shape the identities of corporations and other organizations (rather than, say, designing annual reports). I’ve even gotten used to referring to clients’ identities as “brands,” though I still bristle at the superficial connotations of the term “branding” to describe the work, as the strategic depth and spectrum of expression of the design work brings real value to clients.

Sometime in 2007, I actually started working at Lippincott (the name has been shortened from the original Lippincott & Margulies, but it’s still the same company). Though the nomenclature may be different, the core idea the firm brought to light 50 or 60-some years ago still holds true. Organizations, corporate or otherwise, are like people, and in each is an opportunity to awaken their senses from the inside out, to help them discover who they are, what makes them unlike any other, and to help them express their unique character in every way they are met. I don’t think that will ever change.

Prosophobia promotional poster; 24 x 36in. / 2002

The most celebrated role of the designer has always been that of creator of positive change through innovation, but battling the public’s inclination to treasure the old and suspect the new has historically been tough going. The current of ominous world events (especially at the time of this project’s conception, painfully close to 9/11) only serves to shore up such public reservation. For many people, the comfort of the familiar is too valuable to risk on new ideas. This promotes a homogeneous, retro-centric design market in which the new is often merely another iteration of the old.

Prosophobia (“fear of progress”) was a concept for an international design conference that would explore why many of these constructs exist and how we as designers can continue to champion progress in this environment. Featured presentations were to be given by historians, behaviorists and economists, as well as a diverse range of design leaders successfully implementing progressive work, despite this prosophobic culture.

Being a design event (and a design school project, no less), a promotional / informational poster was a critical application, and set the visual theme for the balance of the comprehensive identification and communication suite. After several dramatic, antagonistic early concepts, including a God-like hand pushing down the sunrise, a Volkswagen “New Beetle” reversing into the viewer and even a revolver loaded with antiquities and ready to fire, an approach more considerate of both sides of the matter prevailed. The front presents the issue in a re-contextualized image reminiscent of the silent film era, showing a figure literally hanging onto the past for dear life, while the flip-side speaks to the present (signified by digital visual language) offering information on the voices on offer in the conference, and an invitation to participate in the future…

Prosophobia promotional poster (back); 24 x 36in. / 2002

When discussing professional issues of the times, designers love trading between roles of preacher and choir, probably more than any other group of people in the world. Such is the nature of a profession that practitioners find unequivocally noble but cannot hope to defend quantitatively, and thus can only be explained to those who “get it,” thus, ensuring that those who don’t get it never will. While there is no denying that Prosophobia would primarily be an event by and for designers, the issue at hand is societal, so a widespread awareness campaign was designed to stimulate dialogue in the greater human community about the conference, its premise and what it means to them.

Prosophobia subway poster; 22 x 22in. / 2002

Prosophobia magazine sidebar ad; 3.25 x 9.5in. / 2002

Of course, the best way to reach someone is to talk to them directly, which this contact card was designed to help facilitate.

Prosophobia contact card (front and back); 2 x 3.5in. (each) / 2002

In order to reach specific audiences, it’s crucial to influence the influencers in prominent media of such respects. That’s where the letterhead and media release come in, as vehicles for formal correspondence and PR. With proper information and prodding, people would have been compelled to bring their influence and the rest of their bodies to the actual event, which is made simple with a sharp registration form.

Prosophobia letterhead, media release and registration form; 8.5 x 11in., 8.5 x 14in. and 8.5 x 11in., respectively / 2002

Envelopes make such correspondence much easier to mail.

Prosophobia No.10 commercial envelope (back / flap and front) and No.10 catalog envelope (back / flap and front with die-cut, crack-and-peel address label) / 2002

Once the audiences’ attention has been captured for a minute, they are directed to a promotional / informational web site, where the minute quickly disappears (and then so does more and more time). This flash of loss animates into the the primary content, where visitors could gain knowledge of the event, such as speaker bios, accommodations, and features, as well as register for the conference.

Prosophobia web site; 1024 x 768px.+; interactive Flash interface (shown here in an animated storyboard) / 2002

As a symbolic celebration of Modernity’s rare but powerful triumphs, the conference was to be held in conjunction with the grand re-opening of the MoMA in New York after Yoshio Taniguchi’s architectural expansion / remodel in 2005. (Taniguchi was also to give the keynote address.) Seen here is a detail of way-finding signage in-situ.

Prosophobia directional signage; vinyl on Plexiglas; 10 x 10 x .25in. (each) / 2002

Once at the conference, attendees would be provided a number of things to help them kick the Prosophobia: A time table of all of the events they could plug into…

Prosophobia program schedule tri-fold brochure (outside spread / inside spread); 3 x 6in. (finished), 9 x 6in. (flat) / 2002

A DVD documenting the feature presentations, breakout sessions and round-table discussions…

Prosophobia documentary DVD; standard dimensions / 2002

And, of course, a commemorative watch, so attendees could always have the public interest at hand (it runs backwards).

Prosophobia commemorative wrist watch; reverse movement / 2002

Don’t be late!

phone card set; series of four fronts (top); one back (bottom); 3.4in. x 2.125in. each / 2002

It seems that there are (or were) two major markets for long distance phone cards.

One is (or was, I’m guessing) Europe, where long distance on a phone plan, in comparison to U.S. phone plans, would span relatively little actual distance, and wanderlust runs rampant. In the days before near-ubiquitous mobile phone proliferation, I imagine there was much use for a card that would get you in touch with another country, or back in touch with home when you got there, without costly service charges from one’s domestic carrier. Even with a mobile, a roamer could easily outbound their domestic plan with a quick clip on the TGV.

The other market I’ve seen for such cards is quite different, and still as vibrant as ever. Having lived in New York for several years now, I’ve been confronted by gangs of international phone cards, shouting at me from behind so many raised bodega counters, each garish explosion of bling and atrocious typography shouting louder than the next, like a traffic jam in the South Bronx. This city, it seems, has the requisite population of aliens without the means for a long distance plan (or even a phone, in many cases), needing to reach out and touch their homelands, such that the cacophony of prepaid, foil-stamped minutes is warranted.

But, having lived in Seattle almost my entire life as of 2002, with its relatively scant collection of migrant workers (or Europeans), I’m not sure I’d ever even seen a phone card until I designed my own. This project, another in the Advanced Typography class of the Visual Communication Design (VCD) program at the University of Washington, was the novel creation of our professor (fresh from an extended European vacation). Here, we were to design a series (or multiple series) of ten-Euro calling cards…

Of course, being in a proper design program, my cards didn’t have any of that garish metallic noise, but I did try to convey, in abstract terms, traveling voices.

I thought of listening in on what a phone call from a traveler might be like. Would it be colorful and loud, as from a pétit jaune fille talking about the cute jungen in Bonn? Every day, a new color, but the same airy bubble babble? Vieleicht. But even one short trip can have many flavors. For every bubble and squeak, there’s can be a piercingly sharp Swiss, or even a boring square of milk toast. They all leave a taste in the wanderer’s mouth to share.

phone card set; series of four fronts (top); one back (bottom); 3.4in. x 2.125in. each / 2002

Sharing. Now that’s the essential je ne sais quoi of the phone card, non?. The traveler escapes the dia-a-dia from whence they came and their call recipients stay. The phone card allows them to connect provare even as their bodies derivare.

phone card set; series of four fronts (top); one back (bottom); 3.4in. x 2.125in. each / 2002

Travel is fantastisk because you can always go back home, and home might sound more and more magnifico with every soothing word from the ones left there. But the traveler must keep an eye on the watch, because the trains don’t run often this time of night, and, ten Euros can susurrus into the airwaves in no time at all.

phone card set; series of four fronts (top); one back (bottom); 3.4in. x 2.125in. each / 2002

one of two entrances to room 247—the Visual Communication Design major studio in the University of Washington School of Art—both are locked at all times / photo taken 2008

A terrible economy. Personal pride. Do or die time. A real studio environment. Some brilliant competition. Real work experience. Real failure experience. Real life experience. An utterly unforgiving professor. A strong sense of potential. Total commitment.

I’m not sure exactly what the most motivating factor was for me as I went through “206,” the second of two screening classes the University of Washington Visual Communication Design program, used to select who could complete the next two-and-a-half years of the VCD program in 2001/2002. Whatever it was, that class marked a tectonic shift in my approach to design work. It was the second time I had made it into 206, and, likely, my last chance to make the final cut into the VCD major. In contrast to the first attempt, I felt no self-satisfaction in the step—just an unflinching focus on the next…

The first project was quite familiar: Design a postage stamp to celebrate something about one of the United States. I was assigned Florida. I’ve never been to Florida. Of course, I know a thing or two about it, but I wasn’t satisfied with just my anecdotal perceptions; I read books on the state and tangential topics to ensure total confidence in whatever direction I chose to pursue.

While I think that NASCAR has grown into a fat, ugly, dumb, deceitful and thoroughly boring scourge on the culture of motor sports, I watched the Daytona 500 quite faithfully as a youngster and used this as inspiration for one concept:

Florida postage stamp sketch: Daytona 500 / 2002

Can’t you just hear the big block V-8 revs roaring through the state?

Another concept, which I ended up moving forward with, was that of the splendidly-restored and preserved historic Art Deco hotel district in Miami. For this concept, I studied a plethora of tourism and architecture books for reference, but my approach wasn’t just to recreate the X hotel on Y street; I painstakingly created my own architectural amalgams that would capture the essence of the area:

Florida postage stamp sketches: Art Deco Historic Distric / 2002

These studies allowed me to delve into some of the different iconic elements of the period: streamlined façades, bright pastels, rounded corners, chrome runners, large clocks, glass block, heavy eyebrows, neon back-lighting, stepped levels.

From this foundation, I built my final solution: A heroic destination with hand-drawn Deco type stacked on a railed sign tower:

Florida Art Deco District postage stamp; 1 x 1.125in. / 2002

The second project was to create a package for a first aid kit. There are thousands of different kinds of first aid kits in the world. I did not want to just make one more. I knew a lot about bike riding by this point, having worked at a shop for four years and having ridden endless miles with hundreds of different people for fun and/or training, and I knew well the two worst things that could happen on a ride: a “mechanical” (something bad happens to your bike), or a crash (something bad happens to you). So, I designed a first aid kit for bike rides, comprising a roadside repair kit for your bike and an injury kit for you, taking the shape of a bifurcated water bottle that would fit in any standard water bottle cage on almost any kind of bike.

I explored approximately one million different ways to synthesize and separate the two components visually with the exterior graphic design (here are a few):

First Aid kit package graphics sketches / 2002

But before I could apply any kind of graphics to the package, I had to actually make the package. I ordered about a dozen bottles that I figured would serve as the best platform for my mockup. I cut them apart and glued different pieces together to make two halves that would screw into each other. I chopped the cap to get rid of the nozzle and made a flat top from sheet vinyl. I filled beveled insets with putty and sanded off any external textural elements for a good base. I then glued ultra-thin sheet vinyl around the forms for a perfectly smooth exterior.

After final sanding and priming, I painted the two halves and applied the exterior type and graphic elements. I had eventually decided on a simple solution that cleverly speaks to both purposes of the tool, dynamically formated for the cylindrical surface: a red cross is created optically by the composition of the title, the brand name (Cannondale, fictitiously), the components and two yellow road stripes that angle up and around the kit, all of which I had had custom made as dry-transfer rub-downs:

First Aid injury kit / roadside repair kit / 2002

I was terrified that this thing would come flying apart before I could even submit it for class, but I must have done something right because I still have this eight years on and it’s still perfectly intact.

The final project was a poster-mailer for Seattle’s Museum of Flight. After some initial research, I packed the family heirloom WWII-era Leica and journeyed down to the museum with two concepts already in mind for this informative self-mailer/poster.

The first idea was based on the vast range of exhibits in the the Museum’s collection, from an centuries-old Asian hang glider to a NASA lunar module, and quite a bit in-between. The concept was The Evolution of Aviation:

The Evolution of Aviation Seattle Museum of Flight poster-mailer sketch; 30 x 20in. / 2002

I think the idea is valid and compelling (if the initial design concept rather clunky), but it didn’t capture the essential attraction of the Seattle Museum of Flight.

Perhaps the most striking aspect of this Seattle mainstay is that the majority of the aircraft are set not out on some abandoned airfield, but in a constellation of smartly appropriate structures, from the Red Barn, housing vintage prop planes from the early twentieth century, to the control tower, where kids young and old can practice pushing tin, to the pinnacle of the Museum: The Great Gallery, a giant hangar of glass and steel in which some of the most remarkable feats of modern aviation are showcased. These spaces are powerful attractions, in themselves. I worked on a concept that would speak to both the fascinating details one could learn at the museum and the structures in which they were showcased. I titled these pieces Aviation from the Inside. I developed two executions within this theme:

Aviation from the Inside Seattle Museum of Flight poster-mailer sketch; 30 x 20in. / 2002

The first idea offered a view from inside the American Airlines 737 section one can enter from the second floor, which serves as a theater for films, and a window seat to the Gallery where real jets hang like rubber-band-prop toys from the ceiling.

But the way to get the real inside story at the Museum is by just walking the ramps, pathways and landings that meander (very) closely around, over, under (and, in some cases, into) some of the world’s most exotic marvels of aeronautical design. Like the M-21 (a variant of the SR-71) Blackbird spy plane, which has a huge, breathtakingly sculptural fuselage, a cramped, angular cockpit, and gaping titanium ramjet exhaust cowlings that could swallow you whole:

Aviation from the Inside poster-mailer (front); 20 x 30in. / 2002 (original photograph also from 2002)

I was quite pleased with this photograph, and was so satisfied to let it be the hero of composition, bled full and even stealing part of the title. Caution stripes that complement the Museum type complete the tantalization.

The flip-side spoke to the different experiences one could get inside: the gallery, the machinery, the cockpit and the control tower, and, of course, it also offered inside information for visiting the Museum. The front and back complement each other through the cautionary visual language, the typographic system, conceptual messaging and a shared sense of visual play between foreground and background:

Aviation from the Inside poster-mailer (back); 20 x 30in. (open), 10 x 6in. (folded for mailing) / 2002 (original photography also from 2002)

This remains one of my all-time favorite design projects.

As the quarter’s end drew near, I had a distinctly new feeling. After three years of absence, I was again engaged. I was interested to see what I could do next. Though I would never admit it to myself, I was certain that I would not only make it into the VCD major, but that I could more than make up for lost time. So did the faculty. I was finally in.

Coffee Table anticipatory web announcement; 500px. x 250px. + / 2001 (Click to see the announcement as it appeared on my web site.)

In my entire life, I have had the equivalent of about one cup of coffee, all before I was in high school. Lured by the sheer “adultness” of it, I wrapped paws around a few of those thick ceramic handles but my young palette was far too immature to appreciate the bittersweet complexity of the fabled bean and never did I finish a pour. I also have an annoyingly low tolerance for burning my mouth on hot things, which basically sealed that deal. When I was older and more likely to enjoy it (“coffee” had easily become my favorite flavor for anything that named it), I refrained from the temptation, prophesizing that it could become an unwieldy daily expense, and boy, would I have been right.

Nevertheless, there is something so damn cool about coffee that I could never deny. Luckily for me, it has very little to do with the drink, itself. Coffee’s transcendence from mere beverage to cultural phenomenon is perhaps superseded only by that of alcohol, but coffee’s affect (and effect) bears a decidedly more conscious flavor: an enduring symbol of learned European Modernity, a catalyst for artists and philosophers exchanging roles in Bohemian cultural movements, an enabler of late-night epiphanies and an antidote for the mornings after. A solitary indulgence or a shared experience for the aware.

The objective devotions to the ritual of coffee are as deliberate and rich as the blends. Enormous, industrial machines used to whistle down the most potent formulae at a preciously drizzling pace, sculptural carafes of glass, aluminum and plastic, and of course the myriad cups. But the piece most concretely symbolic of the dedication to all that coffee represents is its forum: the coffee table…

In my young twenties, I moved into my own apartment for the first time, and beginners’ luck showed brightly on me. Situated at the nexus of Belltown, the urban class epicenter of Seattle, the tall, slender unit alit the southwest corner of a vintage brick building that itself crowned a steep hill down to the bay a few blocks below. The arched keystone windows let in beaming views of the water, the mountains, the city skyline, the historic Pike Place Market, the sunset and the multifarious reverberations of the dot-com-boom bustle below. If ever there was a time and a place that beckoned a coffee table, this was it.

Aside from quality craftsmanship, the most elusive and expensive feature of any piece of furniture is a right-angle. The everlasting obsession with antiquity has allowed for the permeation of meaningless scrolls, patterns, cherubs, anthropomorphic legs and other superfluous decoration that, in most cases, does little more than make cheap furniture seem like it’s not. Thus, I’ve always loved those heavy Italian rectangles from B&B Italia, Cassina, Porro, and so on. But even if I could have afforded such extravagance, I’m not sure I would have bit. Alas, I had something a bit different in mind.

Coffee Table plans: (clockwise from top-left: wide side view [at 90º], top view, front view, narrow side view) / 2001

My apartment was small. Almost all of my furniture had to serve more than one purpose. My coffee table would have to serve me dinner as well any beverages and large-format books customarily associated with such a piece. The distinguishing extra angle piece, then, is primarily for my plate and silverware. But it also works well for magazines, laptops, new albums, or whatever else may need close attention at the moment. When dinner is through, one can easily slide over a few inches and walk out freely from the table without ever having to move it. Two people can sit close in the opening or each can use the table differently. The extra angle also works well to keep a glass close at hand when relaxing crosswise on the neighboring sofa.

Of course, I have a million kooky ideas like this. The only reason this particular plan ever came to fruition is because IGT Heavy Industries (my dad) graciously took on the task to actually build the thing. It’s constructed primarily of plywood, with a perfect Formica top surface to keep it clean. The wood is all painted white, except for the black feet, meant to ground the piece and visually lower its profile.

Coffee Table; plywood, Formica, fastening hardware; 48in. x 24in. x 16in. / 2001 (photo taken 2008)

Coffee Table (detail) / 2001 (photo taken 2008)

There were tentative plans to build a complete system, including a desk and even a loft bed (that had to serve more than its named purpose, too). For the desk, the extra angle would serve as a mouse range, while my Mac G4 would sit within the base. On the bed, the angle would have served as a night stand platform, from which climbing rungs would have hung.

Desk (A) plans (clockwise from top-left: narrow side view [at 90º], top view, wide side view [at 90º], back view, front view); In this version, my computer would sit completely within the desk structure, which would have small ports for cooling and access to peripherals. / 2001

Desk (B) plans (clockwise from top-left: narrow side view [at 90º], top view, wide side view [at 90º], back view, front view); In this version, a hidden platform would have sunken the computer partially into the rear portion of the desk. / 2001

The other pieces in the system might have been interesting, but they wouldn’t have had the life of the coffee table. With each move from my Belltown flat, my spaces have shifted significantly, and the tailored set wouldn’t have made as much sense in subsequent apartments.

Coffee Table (detail) / 2001 (photo taken 2008)

But, since I took delivery of the coffee table from the showroom (my parents’ house), I’ve moved three times and across the country, and I have acquired a few choice, museum-quality pieces from Vitra and the like. But my coffee table is still my favorite piece of furniture. It’s (multi-) functional, it’s unique, it’s well-built, and it makes for a great point of discussion, which seems pretty cool to me, even if it never sees an actual cup of coffee.

Art 206 was set up very similarly to Art 205, in that there were three consecutive projects, each having their own deadlines and a final submission requirement, and that the exact same three projects had been assigned for many, many years prior. The only ostensible difference between this class and its predecessor was that we were allowed to use computers for our projects if we so chose (which, as any designer or educator knows – even today – is more often a curse than a blessing).

The projects for 206 were also more complex than those of 205. The first, in the tradition of great European civic programs, was a postage stamp that was to showcase some aspect of an assigned state of the U.S. The second project delved into the third dimension, as we were to create a unique packaging solution for 24 Berol colored pencils. The third was to be a poster / informational mailer for the Burke Museum, conveniently located right on the UW campus…

I was assigned the state of Hawaii for the stamp project, and what I wanted to highlight of the island-chain came quickly to me. As I have noted on this site previously, I was well-into bicycle racing at this point in my life. I had also swam competitively for a number of years. And – little known fact – I was also a member of my high school track team for a year (the worst member of my high school track team, if not the entire metro-area – hence, only one year, but still). The triathlon it was, then; as Hawaii boasts the grandaddy of them all, the original Ironman: A 2.4-mile swim in the ocean, 100 miles of time-trial cycling, and a marathon 26.2 mile run to top it off, all in the sweltering heat and humidity of Kona.

Hawaii Triathlon postage stamp; 1 x 1.25in.; digital output / 1999

This seemed like a pretty good solution to me. The swimmer gives way to the rider who is then overshadowed by the runner. The form language, while not perfect, is roughly equivalent for the three bodies. There’s some nice movement and progression, and the tiny canvas has not been totally obliterated by too much detail. Right out of the gate, though, I had committed a cardinal sin of VCD and I didn’t even know it! Despite some gentle prodding along the way, I decided to keep “HAWAII” and “33″ (the price of the stamp) set in a typeface called “Hobo” (although, in my defense, I actually had a knock-off that was named something completely different). I thought that it seemed Hawaiian in its kitchy Tiki-ness. I would later come to find out that around 40% of the VCD faculty jokes were punch-lined by the word “Hobo.”

After the stamp, we moved on to the Berol pencil-box (ironic side-note: I would later go on to work for the company that had created the original Berol identity and colored-pencil packaging in the early 1970s – this project was not in my portfolio when I got hired).

Berol 24 Colored Pencils package; approx. 1.5 x 2 x 10in.; railroad-board, Bristol board, Color-Aid paper side-panels (colored with pencils), plastic model hinge, rubber cement, electrical tape, and press type. / 1999

My package cut a tall figure, whose parallelogram cover opened in a grand arc over the top and behind the box, where it would rest and complete the angled forms of the interior. The pencils (whose blending prowess is displayed on the side-panels of the box) stood on a stadium-style interior base that allowed them to follow the angle of their sheath. The white pencil was placed strategically to line up with the white type on the black package front. This may not be the most pragmatic solution, as its slim height would require a fair amount of ballast at the base to prevent tipping, but I still enjoy its sharp elegance. Much to my delight, I was not alone in this sentiment.

But what mattered more than anything in 206, similar to 205, was the final project.

(Enter: Chernobyl-Like Graphic Design Student Meltdown)

The subject of this double-sided poster, the Burke Museum, is a small, folksy kind of place that specializes in skimming the surface of Native Northwest art and history. In the broad landscape of museums, the Burke is moderately educational and mildly entertaining. It has a naïve quality that I imagine does well with the young kids who are often required to visit by schools and parents. This is a characteristic that might have been interesting to play up in a concept for this project, now that I think of it. But, I didn’t think of it when the project was on my desk. In fact, I couldn’t really think of anything.

Burke Museum Informational Poster-Mailer (front); 36 x 24in. (I have completely blocked the front my poster from my memory and any kind of archive system.)

Burke Museum Informational Poster-Mailer (back); 36 x 24in. (I have completely blocked the back of my poster from my memory and any kind of archive system, too.)

I don’t remember exactly what I did come up with for this project (on purpose), but I do have the sinking sensation that it was probably the worst piece of design I have ever executed. I never found a conceptual hook, or created engaging graphic language, or even just made something pretty to look at, despite many attempts. About halfway through this project, I realized that I was skating on ever-thinning ice and the room was only getting hotter. My future was in trouble.

As I slid nearer to the final “interview,” where I was to learn whether or not I would make the final cut of the 20-strong VCD class of 2001, I had a rather nihilistic notion that I had a 0/0 chance: I could imagine neither getting in nor not getting in; neither seemed possible. Of course, the decision had to be made, and, as the one to sign up for the first interview’s time-slot, I was the first to know that I would not be in that class.

(Exit: Graphic Design Student, Stage Right)

The ultimate inspiration: Greg LeMond (here on his way to winning the 1989 Tour de France). photo by Cor Vos

I’ve always been interested in cycling to some extent. I always rode bikes, and even before my teens, I watched big races like the Tour de France when they were on TV, and I spent my fair share of time staring at the top shelves of local bike shops and fogging up their display cases. This—unlike most—was an interest that grew steadily stronger with age. But it was an ironic turn of events that launched me into a full-blown obsession with cycling: I got hit by a car while riding my bike.

I was commuting to high school sophomore year on my Specialized CrossRoads Cruz hybrid bike (about $250 new, then) and, as I rode across a busy intersection, I was struck by a Volkswagen Scirocco (one of my favorite cars at the time), whose driver had run a red light in the rush of the hour. The impact instantly broke both of the bones in my lower left leg (although I didn’t realize this until I tried—and failed—to walk away from the scene). It’s said that people can’t recall the actual sensation of pain, but I can say with absolute certainty that having to move my broken leg into several different positions on the X-Ray table later that day was the most excruciatingly painful experience of my life. The breaks also ran perilously close to the bones’ growth plates and, if they had been damaged, this situation would have been even worse, as I still had a good six or seven inches to grow. This was not the last time that I would get hit by a car, and it’s not an experience that I would recommend to anyone, but there is usually one considerable upside: the insurance settlement. On top of paying for all of my medical bills, the sum allowed for the purchase of my first bona-fide road-racing bike: a Cannondale R900 (about $1,800 new, then).

Since they are so expensive and complex (especially compared to, say, a basketball), just getting a good bike can be a hurdle high enough to trip up a considerable percentage of potential racers and enthusiasts. Clearing this hurdle allowed me to start racing, and it was also a huge factor in the procurement of my job at a prominent local bike shop. By the time I hit senior year, I was in cycling up to my eyeballs. I rode everywhere, all the time; I was on a team; I raced as often as possible (about 50 – 60 races per year); I worked on bikes with other racers and cycling aficionados at the shop; I read every magazine and brochure cover-to-cover; I watched video tapes of every European road race fit to be filmed; I went to bike shows and bike parties… Cycling had basically permeated every aspect of my life. It didn’t take me long, then, to figure out what I was going to do for my high school Senior Project.

The parameters of this assignment were relatively broad and simple: write something, do some community service, or create some kind of artwork. The project was to take at least 40 hours (all outside of school), and it would count for approximately half of that year’s grade for my two most important classes. The goal was equally simple and daunting, as laid out by my professor—a quite scholarly Scott who had been a quadruple-major university graduate, among many other improbable accomplishments: “Impress me.” I figured that there was no way I was going to impress anyone without at least impressing myself, and the most impressive thing I could think of was to build a bike…

I had some ideas about what I wanted to create, based on a mix of my own pragmatic and fantastical parameters. I wanted the frame to build into a time-trial (TT) bike—for two reasons: For one, these bikes seem cool, or at least somewhat intriguing, to just about anyone, whether they are generally into bikes or not (TT bikes were commonly known at the time as “funny bikes” because they looked so out-of-this-world). I also didn’t have a TT bike already, and I figured that I may as well try to impress my racer friends, too, by actually competing on the finished product. I wanted to build the frame out of steel tubing, the most time-honored frame material, and also the easiest material to work with. And, as ever, I wanted it to be over the top.

I came up with many potential designs for the frame and how it would be built up, considering various themes and available components. In order to go over the top with any project, it’s often best to set a baseline, so I started with this relatively restrained option, with more common, practical Shimano components and Specialized tri-spoke wheels (now known as HED3 wheels) and a very traditional paint scheme:

TT bike design sketch / 1995

Then, I went to the other end of the spectrum, and designed a few completely unfeasible concepts, including these:

TT bike design sketch / 1995: fillet-brazed steel frame, Campagnolo Record components, FIR wheels. (To my surprise, Evgeni Berzin would ride a Bianchi built just like this in the following Tour de France)

TT bike design sketch / 1995: This is really more of a pursuit bike for the track, inspired by Chris Boardman’s Lotus Superbike; carbon fiber monocoque construction; custom components and wheels

Somewhere in the middle of this spectrum was the all-Italian version, dressed in red, white, and green, and fitted with 100% Campagnolo madness, including the absurd Scirocco front-only disc wheel that had four giant, limb-threatening holes:

TT bike design sketch / 1995

In the end, I decided on this American and French affair:

TT bike design sketch / 1995

The frame was to be built with U.S.-sourced True Temper Aero Velo tubing, which featured several airfoil-section pieces, including the down tube, seat stays and seat tube, which also hugged the curve around the rear wheel—all for cool looks (Oh, and it may have made the bike about 2% more aerodynamic, too). The tubes would be fillet-brazed together, partially chromed, and otherwise painted red, white, and blue, with my own custom graphics, marks, and logos. The finished frame would be built up with SSC components from the esoteric French manufacturer, Mavic. The wheels, too, would come from Mavic: the 3G trispoke front and the physicist-baffling Comete +/- rear disc, in which you could actually add or subtract custom weights depending on the course, supposedly maximizing potential gyroscopic momentum. And yes, the two wheels actually are different sizes (on purpose). Coincidentally, most of of these elements were in common with the bike that the American LeMond piloted in his incredible comeback-victory ride into Paris in the 1989 Tour de France (referenced at the top of this post).

Being in the bike scene, I already knew several local frame-builders, so I began my research with regard to actually fabricating my design by talking to them. One suggested I read a book called “Designing and Building Your Own Frameset” by Richard P. Talbot, so I did.

an incredible story

This book is quite inspirational, as the author, an engineer with no prior frame-building experience, researches, designs, builds, hand-letters, and paints his own frameset, and assembles it into a very handsome final product. And, he does it all in his garage or his back yard with little more than common hand tools and home-made wooden jigs. (Even the most modest professional frame-builder has a formidable workshop with at least $10,000 worth of specialized jigs and tools.) He then documents the entire process with remarkably-detailed and well-written explanations and excellent photographs (that he took, himself). I have never heard of anyone actually following Talbot’s book to duplicate his feat, but, theoretically, one could. I decided that I probably couldn’t. My next option was to go back to the frame-builders and have one of them teach me, directly, in their shop. Luckily, Dave Levy (a fellow racer and proprietor of TiCycles) offered such a class.

A professional frame-builder is supposed to be able to construct a standard, steel frame in 20 hours, and a good mechanic (which I was at the time) can assemble a complete bike from frame and parts in less than an hour. That would leave about 19 hours left on the project clock, which I was genuinely worried about. This particular point of worry was, of course, completely unwarranted. Ironically, I hadn’t even considered the research and design phases, which had probably covered the other 19 and then some before I laid a hand on any metal. More to the point, I was not a professional frame-builder, and this was not a standard frame. The combination of irregular geometry at every junction, oddly-shaped tubes, fussy details like internal cable routing, and the choice to fillet-braze everything together – the most elegant and sculptural but painstaking method of frame-construction – all added up to so many hours that my real worry became whether I was going to be able to finish it on time. (I had started the project at least eight months before it was to be presented.)

Here is a shot of the seat cluster area as the frame is being built. Notice the fillets around the joints, which have to be filed and sanded by hand into perfectly smooth radii between the different tube shapes. You can also see the outlet for the internal rear brake cable routing.

Dave’s class ended up being a great experience, even if he did advise me to make a couple minor design changes that I would later regret allowing. Overall, he spent a lot of time showing and teaching me every aspect of the process, and the frame turned out well.

Once it was constructed and the fork and the rear stays were chromed, it was passed to a local painter. I had designed custom decals of my monogram mark to be used as head tube and seat-tube badges, as well as horrendous custom type for my down tube logos in which two glaring eyes took the place of the “O”s in “Johnston,” all of which I had rendered in a less-than-optimal outline execution (as if the eyes weren’t crazy-looking enough). These decals were to rest on “splash”-style white backgrounds that I had hand-cut from adhesive vinyl (this treatment, in combination with they eyes, gave either the impression of crying or immense perspiration; either way, it was expressive). I gave all of this, with detailed sketches for reference, to the painter and two weeks later—Voila! It was almost, but not quite right. He actually called me in to apply the big down tube decal because he was skeptical of his own chances with it, so that came out okay, and the paint didn’t start chipping for at least a month, but, for some reason, he put both of my monogram decals on at a 45º angle. That didn’t please me, but at least it was consistent, and I got over it.

the frame with red and blue paint and splash graphics applied, ready for monogram badges and logos and clearcoat

the head tube splash graphic

the matching seat tube graphic

Back from the painter, it was now time to take it to the shop where I worked so I could build it up with all of my specially-imported Mavic components (almost all of them had been discontinued, so getting new old stock was neither easy nor inexpensive).

the finished frame, ready to build up into a bike / 1996

a sight for sore eyes

Needless to say, it took me well over an hour to build this thing; I think it was more like a week or two. Aside from the usual prep-work – like chasing the bottom bracket threads, facing the head tube, brushing the seat tube barrel, and and sealing the frame against internal water damage – there was a lot of custom machining that I had to take care of, like drilling out the handlebars for aerodynamic brake cable routing, filing down the rear shifter mount to curve around the aero-section down tube, and sawing down the seatpost so it could sink low enough into the frame before hitting the curve in the seat tube. The most difficult, time-intensive, and, frankly, terrifying stage of the whole building process, though, was having to wrestle and glue claw-tight sew-up tires onto the world’s most ridiculously expensive, delicate, and practically-irreplaceable wheelset.

Somehow, I did finish the bike on time, and the end result was pretty gratifying. I even had time to ride it and do a few races on it before the deadline. I even won a race on it. But I knew that I would have to clinch the unveiling to really impress my colleagues and professors. And, yes, I do mean unveiling. In all the years of the class and the project, there had never been anyone else who had held their cards so close. I had filled the room with such baffling vagueness at every obligatory status check-in throughout the school-year that nobody had much of a clue as to what my project actually was. I even pulled a white sheet from the bike at my presentation. I also had a time trial video playing, and I was wearing a skinsuit for the entire show (If you don’t know what a skinsuit is, the name is a dead giveaway). Now that’s showmanship! The presentation worked, people were impressed, babies were kissed, and so on…

the final Johnston Time Trial bike / 1996

a closer look

This is how I was hoping my competition would remember it.

Now, if you’ve gotten this far, you’re probably dying to know the real results: how I fared in relation to my classmates, and what grade I got. Well, to be honest, the only other project I even remember was Noah’s, who had committed himself to saving women, children, and furry animals from burning buildings as a volunteer fire-fighter for the better part of a year, but I’m pretty sure that dude was actually Jesus Christ reincarnated (nobody could humanly be as pure and good at everything as Noah). Taking Him out of the running, I’ll just go ahead and say mine was the best.

And, for all the number-crunchers out there, I ended up getting a 3.9. Why not a perfect 4.0? My project didn’t actually fit into any of the three designated categories for the assignment.

one of my later car drawings: a four-door sports car; half-top and side views; pencil on notebook paper / drawn age 12 or 13

I always knew that I was destined to be a designer, but not necessarily a graphic designer. In fact, I didn’t even know that graphic design was a “thing,” let alone a profession, until I was well into high school. My first love was with cars, and my dream job from as far back in life as I can remember – and for a very long time – was be the man behind their beautiful bodies.

There was no shortage of car-related excitement around my household growing up to keep me interested: There were all kinds of magazines about cars in the family room, meticulously-crafted plastic model cars on the mantle piece, the most important car races and movies about car races on the TV, posters of cars all over my room, radio-controlled cars that I drove out in the street or in the backyard, and spirited conversation about the latest car trends at the dining room table…

Ironically, the only place you couldn’t find a car around my house was in the garage. That was because – as of about my age of six – nobody in my family drove. My mom grew up in New York, where cars are basically useless, so she never learned, and she never had any real desire to learn after moving to more car-centric cities like Seattle later in life. My dad, who had actually been part of a competitive rally driving team in his younger days, had given up driving altogether after an unfortunate accident in our iconic orange 1974 Honda Civic.

Nevertheless, my love for all things four-wheeled and engine-driven was powerful. I loved the sensuous, muscular curves (and that incredible fin) of the Jaguar D-type, the extraterrestrial aggressiveness of the Bertone Stratos Zero, the personal expression of a well-executed hot-rod, the ironic synthesis of opulent luxury and brutish utility of the Lamborghini LM002, and the still-unmatched innovation of the Citröen DS (way before the term “innovation” got raped and murdered by the MBA set, but that’s another topic). I even loved the simple purity of the original Volkswagen (despite its decidedly impure origin). I would pore over all of the reference material at my disposal, and I couldn’t ever wait to translate these visceral qualities into my own creations.

I drew cars incessantly growing up – one, two or maybe five different ones every single day. I would draw them at school, on the bus to and from school, at home after school, and at friends’ homes on the weekends. My medium of choice was pencil on paper – a No.2 pencil with a good eraser on top, and three-holed, college-ruled notebook paper, so I could get the proportion of the wheels correct and file them in my Trapper Keeper.

a 4-door, high-sided pickup truck / drawn age 10 or 11

another 4-door sports car / drawn age 11 or 12

a rare isometric drawing / drawn age 12 or 13

I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of fast station wagons for some reason / drawn age 12 or 13

I wasn’t completely alone in this endeavor; there were a few other chaps who would religiously recite Ferrari Testarossas or maybe Dodge Chargers or something for their own notebooks. However, as much as I loved Italian V-12s and ’60s muscle cars, I never had much desire to draw them over again (after all, Pininfarina and Chrysler, respectively, had drawn them pretty well, already). Occasionally, my drawings would garner some interest from classmates, acquaintances, and even teachers, but there was always a challenging sticking point that followed a dizzyingly déjà-vu-like script:

ONLOOKER: (excited, curious) Hey, that’s a nice drawing!
ME: (reserved, already knowing how this will turn out) Thanks.
ONLOOKER: (skeptical) What kind of car is that, anyway?
ME: (awkwardly) It’s my own kind of car… I just made it up.
ONLOOKER: (annoyed, cheated, dejected) So, it’s not real?
ME: (exasperated) Um…

At some point, I lost interest in drawing cars, and the vision of shaping their skin faded, but it wasn’t because of these repeated, futile exchanges. I always knew in my mind that creation was more meaningful than reproduction, and this philosophy was certainly the seed for pursuing graphic design later in life. I never lost interest in beautifully designed automobiles. My priorities simply changed, as priorities often do, and my love of drawing cars shifted to the lust for actually driving them (among other things).

As soon as I could afford it, I bought my dream car, the only true sports car model ever made by Volvo (I even flew from Seattle to Las Vegas to get it). I’ve been lucky enough to have driven a number of other cars, too, and there are few things I enjoy more than throttling a howling engine from gear to gear and corner to corner. I imagine the thrill of street-bound freedom of velocity afforded by a real sports car can only be topped by a decent motorcycle. (Bicycling – especially competitively – can be quite thrilling, too, but the input to output ratio is radically different).

my 1973 Volvo P1800 ES / photo taken around 1999

But now I’m the one living in New York, and the dream is stalled. I am still moved by smart, powerful, or otherwise well-designed cars, but the possibility of me actually owning one any time soon seems far off at best, which is somewhat depressing.

For anyone reading this, horrified at the ecological malfeasance of my desire for driving—just for the pleasure of it—in this time of environmental crisis, I can all-but-guarantee that my life has been infinitely less earth-damaging than yours. So, the next time I measure my “carbon footprint,” it will be on the floor of the fastest car I can get my hands on. I just hope they haven’t outlawed manual transmissions by then.