After six months without any new Dylan material, Columbia Records was in a nervous panic. To fill the gap, Columbia unilaterally decided to issue a greatest hits album pieced together from previous album cuts. Creative director Bob Cato and art director John Berg had a dramatic, backlit photo by Roland Scherman of a closely cropped profile of Dylan playing the harmonica, his wild hair bathed in a corona of light. Dylan had previously rejected it as cover art. But because he was in breach of contract, Dylan could no longer control what his recording studio did.
It was further decided to include a free poster in each new greatest hits album. Columbia decided to use the Scherman photographic profile on the album cover, but needed someone to design the poster. The Scherman profile triggered Berg’s memory of Milton Glaser’s (b. 1929) playful and inventive silhouettes that captured the essence of gesture and content through minimal means.
The hallmark of Glaser’s work was an aggressive mining of visual artifacts and archetypes from diverse and unexpected sources. In addition to silhouettes, Glaser was working with black-ink contour lines, creating flat shapes and enriching them with adhesive color films, echoing the simple iconography and directness of comic books. He was interested in Islamic miniatures and was intrigued by the psychedelia emerging from the West Coast. Long before postmodernism, Glaser understood that design is essentially a vernacular language, and he delighted in discovering obscure typographic forms. On a trip to Mexico City he was so captivated by the letterforms on a small advertisement for a tailor that he photographed the sign and returned home to invent the remainder of the alphabet, which became the typeface Baby Teeth.
When the request came from Berg to design the poster of Dylan along with a package of pictorial reference, including copies of the Scherman photograph, it didn’t strike Glaser as anything extraordinary—and time was short. So he did what he was already doing, rather effortlessly and entirely intuitively.
First, the memory of a powerful icon surfaced, a self-portrait by Marcel Duchamp—a profile torn from a single piece of colored paper and placed on a black background. Dylan’s hair became an inductive mélange of Persian-like forms. Dylan’s name, executed in Glaser’s own Baby Teeth typeface, rested in the bottom right corner of the poster, a warm brown against a black background, unusual in its subtlety. The geometric letterforms contrasted sharply with the mellifluous hair and sinuous profile. Glaser admitted to being consciously intrigued by the notion of opposites: the hard, reductive edge of Dylan’s profile contrasts with the expressive nature of the hair; bright, whimsical color reverberates off the dense, solid black.
Dylan’s hair became an inductive mélange of Persian-like forms. Dylan’s name, executed in Glaser’s own Baby Teeth typeface.
In the original sketch (his only sketch), Glaser positioned a harmonica in front of Dylan’s mouth, as in Scherman’s photograph. When Berg saw the sketch, Glaser recalled, he said “Simplify, simplify.” What he meant was, “Get rid of the harmonica.” Eliminating the harmonica created a white negative space nearly equal to the black silhouetted profile. This increased the visual vibration of the whole piece and focused more attention on the “coastline” of Dylan’s profile. Glaser went directly to finish. Six million Dylan posters were printed and included in the album, making it the single most reproduced image Glaser ever created, aside from his I NY ™ campaign.
NeXT
PAUL RAND
It is difficult enough to invent a meaningful corporate logo, sign, or mark to express conventional business issues without having to depict the future as well. However, that is what was demanded of Paul Rand (1914–1996) when in 1988 he was commissioned to design a logo for NeXT, an educational computer company headed by Steven Jobs, the founder of Apple Computer Company. Although NeXT’s new product was cast in secrecy, the corporate name alluded to its futuristic positioning—not simply a new computer, but the next wave of information processing for the educational market. With only a few clues, Rand was given a month to devise a logo that would embody as much symbolic power as the memory of a silicon chip.
Rand had made identity systems out of whole cloth many times before. He created time-honored marks for IBM, UPS, and ABC. In each he found the most identifiable graphic forms: stripes for IBM, a gift box atop a shield for UPS, the repetition of circles for the lowercase letters abc. Designing such charged—and lasting—logos is not magic, but it does take an acute understanding of the nature of perception and the ability to translate that into a visual form. “Logos are aides de mémoire that give you something to hook on to when you see it, and especially when you don’t see it,” explained Rand. And the problem with the word NeXT was that it was not depictable. “What are you going to show? A barber shop with somebody pointing, ‘You’re next’? It’s simply not describable in typographic terms.”
Graphic devices that represent the future, such as the arrow, were made meaningless by overuse, but the NeXT computer was contained in a black cube, which gave Rand the idea he needed. He decided to frame the word in a cube to evoke the product itself. However, at the time the logo was introduced to the public, the computer’s shape and form were completely secret. “It was understandable only as a cube, nothing else,” he explained. “But without that reference point, I would have had to devise something out of the blue.” In fact, for Rand it was not so much a question of having a reference point as using that reference point. “The client mentioned the cube to me when I was given the problem, and I’m sure the other designers who worked on the logo must also have heard about it,” Rand presumed.
The NeXT logo was successful in part because the cube was symbolically related to the product itself, but Rand insisted that the shape was only important in sparking the idea. “Some reference was made to it being like a child’s block,” he continued. “I really think that is one of its virtues and part of its charm. However, the logo is not designed to be charming, it is designed to identify.”
Before the logo could do the job, however, Rand had to sell the mark to Jobs. For this he had a pronged strategy. The first was to present only one logo. This underscored his own confidence in the solution and deflected indecision on the part of the client. The second was to “speak” only through a presentation booklet that concisely explained the rationale and showed the applications of the logo. Jobs had seen all the timeworn futuristic clichés—arrows, clouds, lightning bolts—in the book. However, he was unprepared for Rand’s twenty-page book, entitled “The Sign of the Next Generation of Computers for Education …”
From the beginning of this limited (fifty copies), Platonic document, Rand announced his premise: “What should a logo for NeXT look like?” he asked in text set in Caslon, which led into a concise narrative that condensed decades of communications history into ten minutes of reading time.
First he introduced the concept of type itself: “Choosing a typeface as the basis for the design of a logo is a convenient starting point. Here are two examples: Caslon and Bifur. Caslon is an alphabet designed as far back as 1725 by William Caslon. It appears to be a good choice because it is both elegant and bookish, qualities well suited for educational purposes… .” He described the nature of his faces, their quirks and virtues, and concluded by admitting, “Attributing certain magical qualities to particular typefaces is, however, largely a subjective matter.”
Rand was given a month to devise a logo that would embody as much symbolic power as the memory of a silicon chip.
Next he defused the client’s need to sample a variety of typefaces: “One reason for looking at a number of possible typefaces is to satisfy one’s curiosity. Another, and perhaps more meaningful one, is to study the relationship of different letter combinations, to look for visual analogies, and to try to elicit ideas that the design of a letter or group of letters might inspire.” He offered some examples that were intended to pique the reader’s interest, and offered this warning: “Personal preferences, prejudices, and stereotypes often dictate what a logo looks like, but it is need
s, not wants, ideas, not type styles which determine what its form should be… .”
Then Rand took a representative typeface and set it in caps to explain why this particular iteration was unsuccessful: “Set in all capitals, the word NEXT is sometimes confused with EXIT, possibly because the EXT grouping is so dominant. A combination of capitals and lowercase letters alleviates this problem.” And after winning the argument, he provided a textbook example of a more successful application: “Here are some possibilities which explore the use of lowercase letters. The e is differentiated so as to provide a focal point and visual contrast among the capital letters which, otherwise, consist only of straight lines. Happily the e also could stand for: education, excellence, expertise, exceptional, excitement, e = mc2, etc.”
This brief lesson in typographic style segued into an explanation of how a mark should function: “Ideally, a logo should explain or suggest the business it symbolizes, but this is rarely possible or even necessary. There is nothing about the IBM symbol, for example, that suggests computers, except what the viewer reads into it. Stripes are now associated with computers because the initials of a great computer company happen to be striped… .” And then he introduced the idea underlying his version of NeXT: “A logo takes on meaning, only if over a period of time it is linked to some product or service of a particular organization. What is essential is finding a meaningful device, some idea—preferably product-related—that reinforces the company name. The cube, in which the computer will be housed, can be such a device because it has visual impact, and is easy to remember. Unlike the word next, it is depictable, possesses the promise of meaning, and the pleasure of recognition.”
Understanding that questions would arise concerning the application of the cube, Rand talked about versatility: “This idea in no way restricts its application to any one product or concept. The three-dimensional effect functions as an underscore to attract the viewer’s attention.” Once established that the cube was the appropriate form, Rand addressed the basic structure of the logo: “Splitting the logo into two lines accomplishes several things: it startles the viewer and gives the word a new look, thus making it easier to separate from common usage. And even more importantly, it increases the letter size two-fold, within the framework of the cube. For small space use, a one line logo would have been too small to fit within this same framework.” Rand showed that readability was not affected because the word was too simple to be misread. “Moreover, people have become accustomed to this format with such familiar four-letter word combinations as love.”
He concluded his primer with a down-to-earth analysis: “The adaptation of this device to miniaturization—tie tacks, charm bracelets, paper weights, stickers, and other promotional items is endless. It lends itself as well to large-scale interpretation—signs, exhibits in the shape of cubes, in which the actual exhibit is housed, as well as exhibit stands. For printed matter, its infinite adaptability and attention-compelling power is self-evident.”
Upon presentation, Rand did not utter a word, he just sat silently watching as Jobs read. “The book itself was a big surprise,” Jobs recalled. “I was convinced that each typographic example on the first few pages was the final logo. I was not quite sure what Paul was doing until I reached the end. And at that moment I knew we had the solution… . Rand gave us a jewel, which in retrospect seems so obvious.” Moreover, as it turned out, Rand’s user-friendly teaching aid underscored Jobs’s own commitment to the process of education.
Dr. Strangelove
PABLO FERRO
As an attack on Cold-war hysteria, there was no more biting comedy than Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 doomsday film, Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, in which an overzealous US general, Jack D. Ripper, launches an A-bomb attack against the USSR. This send-up of nightmare scenarios depicted in the nuclear dramas Fail Safe and On the Beach fiercely lampooned the era’s hawkish fanaticism, suggesting that the world was close to the brink of the unthinkable.
The film’s frightening absurdity is established in the very first frame of the main title sequence designed by Pablo Ferro. As the ballad “Try a Little Tenderness” plays in the background, a montage of B-52 bombers engage in midair coitus with their refueling ships, underscoring the subplot that sexuality is endemic to all human endeavor, especially the arms buildup. Surprinted on these frames, the film’s title and credits are full-screen graffiti-like scrawls comprised of thick and thin hand-drawn letters, unlike any previous movie title. The sequence brilliantly satirizes the naïve pretense that America was protected from nuclear attack by oversexed flying sentries. It also contrasts beautifully with the film’s concluding montage, edited by Ferro, which shows atomic bombs rhythmically detonated to the accompanying lyric, “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when… .”
This was not the first time that a movie title sequence added narrative dimension to a film. During the brief history of modern film titles, which began with Saul Bass’s 1954 Carmen Jones, a handful of designers (among them, Maurice Binder, Steven Frankfurt, and Robert Brownjohn) established film identities by compressing complex details into signs, symbols, and metaphors. By the time that Ferro made his 1964 debut, the stage (or rather the screen) had already been set for ambitious artistry. Although the Dr. Strangelove titles were a distinct departure from Bass’s animated, geometric forms in the German expressionist manner, they were consistent with the experimental film-within-a-film concept that gave title sequences momentary independence while serving the practical needs of a motion picture. Moreover, this film launched the long career of Pablo Ferro as title designer, trailer director, and feature filmmaker.
Ferro introduced the kinetic quick-cut method of editing, whereby stating images were infused with speed, motion, and sound.
Yet, before he started designing film titles, the Cuban-born Ferro (b. 1935), who had emigrated to New York City when he was twelve years old—quickly becoming a huge film fan and aficionado of UPA cartoons—had earned a reputation for directing and editing scores of television commercials.
After graduating from Manhattan’s High School of Industrial Art, Ferro began working at Atlas Comics in 1951 as an inker and artist in the EC-horror tradition. A year later he began learning the ropes as an animator of UPA-styled cartoons and worked for top commercial studios, including Academy Pictures, Elektra Films, and Bill Stern Studios (where, among other things, he animated Paul Rand’s drawings for El Producto cigars). In 1961 he founded the creative production studio Ferro Mogubgub Schwartz (later changed to Ferro Mohammed Schwartz, Mohammed being a mythical partner invented only to retain the cadence of the studio name). As a consummate experimenter, Ferro introduced the kinetic quick-cut method of editing, whereby static images (including engravings, photographs, and pen and ink drawings) were infused with speed, motion, and sound.
In the late 1950s most live-action commercials were shot with one or two stationary cameras. Conversely, Ferro took full advantage of stop-motion technology as well as shooting his own jerky footage with a handheld Bolex. Unlike most TV commercial directors, Ferro maintained a strong appreciation and understanding for typography such that in the late 1950s he pioneered the use of moving type on the TV screen. He had a preference for using vintage woodtypes and Victorian gothics not only because they were popular at the time but because they were vivid on television. In 1961 he created an eclectic typographic film sequence for Jerome Robbins’s stage play Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Mamma’s Hung You in the Closet and I’m Feeling So Sad, an innovative approach that, similar to a film title sequence, preceded the opening curtain and announced the different acts within the performance.
After seeing Ferro’s commercials, Kubrick hired him to direct the advertising trailers and teasers for Dr. Strangelove and convinced him to resettle in London (Kubrick’s base of operations until he died there in March 1999). Ferro was inclined to be peripatetic anyway; ever anxious to bypass already-completed challenges, he agreed to pull up stakes
on the chance that he would get to direct a few British TV commercials, which he did.
The black-and-white spot that Ferro designed for Dr. Strangelove employed his quick-cut technique—using as many as 125 separate images in a minute—to convey both the dark humor and the political immediacy of the film. At something akin to stroboscopic speed, words and images flew across the screen to the accompaniment of loud sound effects and snippets of ironic dialogue. At a time when the bomb loomed large in the fears of the American public (remember, Barry Goldwater ran for president promising to nuke China) and the polarization of left and right—East and West—was at its zenith, Ferro’s commercial was not only the boldest and most hypnotic graphic on TV but also a sly, subversive statement.
Dr. Strangelove was key to Ferro’s eventual shift from TV to film. And working with Kubrick was the best possible introduction to the movie industry, since this relationship allowed Ferro to bypass the stultifying Hollywood bureaucracy. Ferro was free to generate ideas, and Kubrick was sufficiently self-confident to accept (and sometimes refine) them. For example, once the sexual theme of the opening title sequence was decided upon, Kubrick wanted to film it all using small airplane models (doubtless prefiguring his classic spaceship ballet in 2001: A Space Odyssey). Ferro dissuaded him and located the official stock footage that they used instead. Ferro further conceived the idea to fill the entire screen with lettering (which, incidentally, had never been done before), requiring the setting of credits at different sizes and weights, which potentially ran counter to legal contractual obligations. Kubrick supported it regardless. On the other hand, Ferro was prepared to have the titles refined by a lettering artist, but Kubrick correctly felt that the rough-hewn quality of the hand-drawn comp was more effective. So Ferro carefully lettered the entire thing himself with a thin pen. Yet only after the film was released did he notice that one term was misspelled: “base on” instead of “based on.” Oops! Incidentally, Kubrick insisted that Ferro take “front credit” rather than “back credit,” a rare and significant movie industry protocol.
Design Literacy Page 25