Friday, November 27, 2009

8 Simple Ways to Improve Typography In Your Designs

1. Measure
The measure is the length of a line of type. To a reader’s eye, long or short lines can be tiring and distracting. A long measure disrupts the rhythm because the reader has a hard time locating the next line of type. The only time a narrow measure is acceptable is with a small amount of text. For optimum readability you want the measure to be between 40 – 80 characters, including spaces. For a single-column design 65 characters is considered ideal.A simple way to calculate the measure is to use Robert Bringhurst’s method which multiples the type size by 30. So if the type size is 10px, multiplying it by 30 gives you a measure of 300px or around 65 characters per line.

2. Leading
Leading is the space between the lines of type in a body of copy that plays a big role in readability. Correctly spaced lines make it easier for a reader to follow the type and improves the overall appearance of the text. Leading also alters typographic color, which is the density or tone of a composition.

3. Hanging Quotes
Hang quotes in the margin of the body of text. By not doing so a quotation mark that is flush with the text will interrupt the left margin and disrupt the rhythm of the reader. Hanging quotes keeps the left alignment intact and balanced therefore increasing readability.

4. Vertical Rhythm
A baseline grid is the foundation for consistent typographic rhythm on a page. It allows the reader to easily follow the flow of the text, which in turn increases readability. A continuous rhythm in the vertical space keeps all the text on a consistent grid so that proportion and balance are retained throughout the page, no matter the type size, leading or measure.

5. Widows & Orphans
A widow is a short line or single word at the end of a paragraph. An orphan is a word or short line at the beginning or end of a column that is separated from the rest of the paragraph. Widows and Orphans create awkward rags, interrupt the reader’s eye and affect readability. They can be avoided by adjusting the type size, leading, measure, wordspacing, letterspacing or by entering manual line breaks.

6. Emphasis
Giving emphasis to a word without interrupting the reader is important. Italic is widely considered to be the ideal form of emphasis. Some other common forms of emphasis are: bold, caps, small caps, type size, color, underline or a different typeface. No matter which you choose, try to limit yourself to using only one. Combinations such as caps-bold-italic are disruptive and look clumsy.

7. Scale
Always compose with a scale, whether it’s the traditional scale developed in the sixteenth century that we’re all familiar with, or one you create on your own. A scale is important because it establishes a typographic hierarchy that improves readability and creates harmony and cohesiveness within the text.

8. Clean Rags
When setting a block of text unjustified with a left or right alignment, be sure to keep the rag (the uneven side) balanced without any sudden “holes” or awkward shapes. A bad rag can be unsettling to the eye and distract the reader. A good rag has a “soft” unevenness, without any lines that are too long or too short.

Compiled from:

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Monday, September 14, 2009

Color-changing fabricated material may pave way for rewritable color display units

WASHINGTON - Scientists have created a new fabricated material that changes color instantly in response to external magnetic field, which could pave the way for manufacturing rewritable color display units and environmentally friendly color paints.

A research team, led by a chemist at the University of California, Riverside, created the material.

To fabricate the microspheres, the researchers first mixed magnetic iron oxide particles into a resin, which is initially in liquid phase but later turns solid on exposure to ultraviolet curable resin.

They then dispersed the resin solution in oil, whereupon the resin transformed into spherical droplets in the oil.

Next, the researchers applied an external magnetic field to organize the iron oxide particles into periodically ordered structures.

These structures display a reflective color if viewed along the direction of the magnetic field.

Finally, the research team exposed the liquid system to ultraviolet radiation to polymerize the resin droplets and make them solid microspheres.

The beads, or “magnetochromatic microspheres”, have excellent structural stability. They also are highly compatible with various types of dispersion media such as water, alcohol, hexane and even polymer solutions, allowing them to retain magnetically tunable colors in a variety of chemical environments.

“Unlike many conventional approaches, the instantaneous color change occurs with no change in the structure or intrinsic properties of the microspheres themselves,” said Yadong Yin, an assistant professor of chemistry who led the study.

“What changes instead are the magnetic fields acting externally on the orientation of these microspheres, these photonic crystals. Our work provides a new mechanism for inducing color change in materials. Now, for the first time, stable photonic materials with tunable colors can be fabricated on a large scale,” he added.

Applications of the new material include display type units such as rewritable or reusable signage, posters, papers and labels, and other magnetically activated security features.

The new material also can be used to make environmentally friendly pigments for paints and cosmetics, as well as ink materials for color printing.

“Within a certain range, it is possible also to tune the color of the material by simply rotating the microspheres,” Yin said.

“The new technology has a great potential for a wide range of photonic applications because the on/off switching of the diffraction color by the rotating photonic sphere is fast, greatly simplifying the pixel structures,” said Seoul National University’s Sunghoon Kwon, a leading expert in biophotonics and nanoengineering, whose lab collaborated with Yin’s lab on the research.

“Therefore, the new technology is suitable for very large-scale displays, such as active signage,” Kwon added. (ANI)

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

"Yellow" by H. Masud Taj

Digital Art: Nanki Nath, September 2009

Yellow Light would not be as yellow
If shadows were not as black.
Cat walks betweenThe sun and his shadow.
At night yellow recedes into Fireplaces and cats' eyes.
Yellow can cut through blackWith blinding sight.
At night, shadows uniteTo mask the sun.
Black always dreams yellow;Yellow never sleeps until
The sun implodes into a blackhole;Homecoming of all shadows.

--H. Masud Taj

Further more, H. Masud Taj beautifully draws the connection between 'Architecture' and 'Poetry'. According to him, "Poetry will lead you back to poesis which means making (cognate with Sanskrit: cinoti, cayati i.e. to gather, arranges in layers); construction will lead you to the act of constructing. They are "mirrors": each drawing its own widespread streaming beauty back into its face". That was Rilke speaking of beginnings. In other words: different epistemologies but similar ontologies.

Do read the full interview:                                      

Monday, August 24, 2009

Deconstruction and Graphic Design: History Meets Theory by Ellen Lupton

Since the surfacing of the term ‘deconstruction’ in design journalism in the mid-1980s, the word has served to label architecture, graphic design, products, and fashion featuring chopped up, layered, and fragmented forms imbued with ambiguous futuristic overtones. This essay looks at the reception and use of deconstruction in the recent history of graphic design, where it has become the tag for yet another period style.
We then consider the place of graphics within the theory of deconstruction, initiated in the work of philosopher Jacques Derrida. We argue that deconstruction is not a style or ‘attitude’ but rather a mode of questioning through and about the technologies, formal devices, social institutions, and founding metaphors of representation. Deconstruction belongs to both history and theory. It is embedded in recent visual and academic culture, but it describes a strategy of critical form-making which is performed across a range of artifacts and practices, both historical and contemporary.
Jacques Derrida introduced the concept of ‘deconstruction’ in his book Of Grammatology, published in France in 1967 and translated into English in 1976. ‘Deconstruction’ became a banner for the advance guard in American literary studies in the 1970s and 80s, scandalizing departments of English, French, and comparative literature. Deconstruction rejected the project of modern criticism: to uncover the meaning of a literary work by studying the way its form and content communicate essential humanistic messages. Deconstruction, like critical strategies based on Marxism, feminism, semiotics, and anthropology, focuses not on the themes and imagery of its objects but rather on the linguistic and institutional systems that frame the production of texts.
In Derrida’s theory, deconstruction asks how representation inhabits reality. How does the external image of things get inside their internal essence? How does the surface get under the skin? Western culture since Plato, Derrida argues, has been governed by such oppositions as reality/representation, inside/outside, original/copy, and mind/body. The intellectual achievements of the West – its science, art, philosophy, literature – have valued one side of these pairs over the other, allying one side with truth and the other with falsehood. For example, the Judeo-Christian tradition has conceived the body as an external shell for the inner soul, elevating the mind as the sacred source of thought and spirit, while denigrating the body as mere mechanics. In the realm of aesthetics, the original work of art traditionally has carried an aura of authenticity that its copy lacks, and the telling of a story or the taking of a photograph is viewed as a passive record of events.
‘Deconstruction’ takes apart such oppositions by showing how the devalued, empty concept lives inside the valued, positive one. The outside inhabits the inside. Consider, for example, the opposition between nature and culture. The idea of ‘nature’ depends on the idea of ‘culture’, and yet culture is part of nature. It’s a fantasy to conceive of the non-human environment as a pristine, innocent setting fenced off and protected from the products of human endeavor—cities, roads, farms, landfills. The fact that we have produced a concept of ‘nature’ in opposition to ‘culture’ is a symptom of our alienation from the ecological systems that civilization depletes and transforms.
A crucial opposition for deconstruction is speech/writing. The Western philosophical tradition has denigrated writing as an inferior copy of the spoken word. Speech draws on interior consciousness, but writing is dead and abstract. The written word loses its connection to the inner self. Language is set adrift, untethered from the speaking subject. In the process of embodying language, writing steals its soul. Deconstruction views writing as an active rather than passive form of representation. Writing is not merely a bad copy, a faulty transcription, of the spoken word; writing, in fact, invades thought and speech, transforming the sacred realms of memory, knowledge, and spirit. Any memory system, in fact, is a form of writing, since it records thought for the purpose of future transmissions.
The speech/writing opposition can be mapped onto a series of ideologically loaded pairs that are constitutive of modern Western culture:
Speech/WritingNatural/artificialSpontaneous/constructedOriginal/copyinterior to the mind/exterior to the mindrequires no equipment/requires equipmentintuitive/learnedpresent subject/absent subject
Derrida’s critique of the speech/writing opposition locates the concerns of deconstruction in the field of graphic design. We will return to the speech/writing problem in more detail later, but first, we will look at the life of deconstruction in recent design culture.

The Design History of Deconstruction
Deconstruction belongs to the broader critical field known as ‘post-structuralism’, whose key figures include Roland Barthes, Michel Foucault, Jean Baudrillard, and others. Each of these writers has looked at modes of representation-from literature and photography to the design of schools and prisons-as powerful technologies which build and remake the social world. Deconstruction’s attack on the neutrality of signs is also at work in the consumer mythologies of Barthes, the institutional archaeologies of Foucault, and the simulationist aesthetics of Baudrillard.
The idea that cultural forms help to fabricate such seemingly ‘natural’ categories as race, sexuality, poetic genius, and aesthetic value had profound relevance to visual artists in the 1980s. Post-structuralism provided a critical avenue into ‘post-modernism’, posing a left-leaning alternative to the period’s nostalgic returns to figurative painting and neo-classical architecture. While Barbara Kruger, Cindy Sherman, and Victor Burgin attacked media myths through their visual work, books such as Hal Foster’s The Anti-Aesthetic and Terry Eagleton’s Literary Theory delivered post-structuralist theory to students in an accessible form.
Graphic designers in many U. S. art programs were exposed to critical theory through the fields of photography, performance and installation art during the early 1980s. The most widely publicized intersection of post-structuralism and graphic design occurred at the Cranbrook Academy of Art, under the leadership of co-chair Katherine McCoy. Designers at Cranbrook had first confronted literary criticism when they designed a special issue of Visible Language on contemporary French literary aesthetics, published in the summer of 1978. Daniel Libeskind, head of Cranbrook’s architecture program, provided the graphic designers with a seminar in literary theory, which prepared them to develop their strategy: to systematically disintegrate the the series of essays by expanding the spaces between lines and words and pushing the footnotes into the space normally reserved for the main text. French Currents of the Letter, which outraged designers committed to the established ideologies of problem-solving and direct communication, remains a controversial landmark in experimental graphic design.
According to Katherine McCoy, post-structuralist texts entered more general discussions at Cranbrook around 1983. She has credited Jeffery Keedy, a student at the school from 1983-85, with introducing fellow course members to books by Barthes and others. The classes of 1985/87 and 1986/88 also took an active interest in critical theory; students at this time included Andrew Blauvelt, Brad Collins, Edward Fella, David Frej, and Allen Hori. Close interaction with the photography department, under the leadership of Carl Toth, further promoted dialogue about post-structuralism and visual practice.
Post-structuralism did not serve as a unified methodology at the school, however, even in the period of its strongest currency, but was part of an eclectic gathering of ideas. According to Keedy, students at Cranbrook when he was there were looking at everything from alchemical mysticism to the ‘proportion voodoo’ of the golden section. McCoy recalled in a 1991 interview: ‘Theory had become part of the intellectual culture in art and photography. We were never trying to apply specific texts—it was more of a general filtration process. The term ‘deconstructivist’ drives me crazy. Post-structuralism is an attitude, not a style’. But what is the difference between ‘style’ and ‘attitude’? If ‘style’ is a grammar of form-making associated with a particular historical and cultural situation, then perhaps ‘attitude’ is the unarticulated, just out-of-focus background for the specificities of style.
The response to post-structuralism at Cranbrook was largely optimistic, side-stepping the profound pessimism and political critique that permeates these writers’ major works. McCoy used the architectural theory of Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown as a ‘stepping stone’ to post-structuralism, enabling her to merge the Pop aestheticization of the American commercial vernacular with post-structuralism’s critique of ‘fixed meaning’. McCoy’s preference for celebration over criticism is echoed in Keedy’s comment, ‘It was the poetic aspect of Barthes which attracted me, not the Marxist analysis. After all, we’re designers working in a consumer society, and while Marxism is interesting as an idea, I wouldn’t want to put it into practice’.
Post-structuralism’s emphasis on the openness of meaning has been incorporated by many designers into a romantic theory of self-expression: as the argument goes, because signification is not fixed in material forms, designers and readers share in the spontaneous creation of meaning. This approach represents a rather cheerful response to the post-structuralist theme of the ‘death of the author’ and the assertion that the interior self is constructed by external technologies of representation. According to the writings of Barthes and Foucault, for example, the citizen/artist/producer is not the imperious master of systems of language, media, education, custom, and so forth; instead, the individual operates within the limited grid of possibilities these codes make available. Rather than view meaning as a matter of private interpretation, post-structuralist theory tends to see the realm of the ‘personal’ as structured by external signs. Invention and revolution come from tactical aggressions against this grid of possibilities.
‘Deconstructivism’ catapulted into the mainstream design press with MoMA’s 1988 exhibition Deconstructivist Architecture, curated by Philip Johnson and Mark Wigley. The curators used the term ‘deconstructivism’ to link certain contemporary architectural practices to Russian Constructivism, whose early years were marked by an imperfect vision of form and technology. The MoMA exhibition located a similarly skewed interpretation of modernism in the work of Frank Gehry, Daniel Libeskind, Peter Eisenman, and others. Wigley wrote in his catalogue essay: ‘A deconstructive architect is…not one who dismantles buildings, but one who locates the inherent dilemmas within buildings. The deconstructive architect puts the pure forms of the architectural tradition on the couch and identifies the symptoms of a repressed impurity. The impurity is drawn to the surface by a combination of gentle coaxing and violent torture: the form is interrogated’ (11). In Wigley’s view, deconstruction in architecture asks questions about modernism by re-examining its own language, materials, and processes.
By framing their exhibition around a new ‘ism’, Wigley and Johnson helped to canonize the elements of a period style, marked by twisted geometries, centerless plans, and shards of glass and metal. This cluster of stylistic features quickly emigrated from architecture to graphic design, just as the icons and colors of neo-classical post-modernism had traveled there shortly before. While a more critical approach to deconstruction had been routed to graphic designers through the fields of photography and the fine arts, architecture provided a ready-to-use formal vocabulary that could be broadly adopted. ‘Deconstruction’, ‘deconstructivism’, and just plain ‘decon’ became design-world clichés, where they named existing tendencies and catalyzed new ones in the fields of furniture and fashion as well as graphic design.
In 1990 Philip Meggs published a how-to guide for would-be deconstructivists in the magazine Step-by-Step Graphics. His essay, which includes a journalistic account of how the term ‘deconstruction’ entered the field of graphic design, focuses on style and works back to theory. Following the logic of the MoMA project, his story begins with Constructivism and ends with its ‘deconstruction’ in contemporary design; unlike Wigley, however, Meggs’s story depicts early modernism as a purely rational enterprise.
Chuck Byrne and Martha Witte¹s more analytical piece for Print (1990) describes deconstruction as a ‘zeitgeist’, a philosophical germ circulating in contemporary culture that influences graphic designers even though they might not know it. Their view corresponds roughly to McCoy’s sense of post-structuralism as a general ‘attitude’ or ‘filtration process’ responding to the ‘intellectual culture’ of the time. Byrne and Witte’s article identifies examples of deconstruction across the ideological map of contemporary design, ranging from the work of Paula Scher and Stephen Doyle to Lucille Tenazas and Lorraine Wild.
Today, in the mid-90s, the term ‘deconstruction’ is used casually to label any work that favors complexity over simplicity and dramatizes the formal possibilities of digital production-the term is commonly used to invoke a generic allegiance with ‘Cranbrook’ or ‘CalArts’, a gesture which reduces both schools to flat symbols by blanketing a variety of distinct practices. Our view of deconstruction in graphic design is at once narrower and broader in its scope than the view evolving from the current discourse. Rather than look at deconstruction as a historical style or period, we see deconstruction as a critical activity-an act of questioning. The visual resources of typography help demarcate Derrida’s ideological map of the biases governing Western art and philosophy. Having looked at deconstruction’s life in recent design culture, we will now locate design within the theory of deconstruction.

Design in Deconstruction
Derrida’s critique of the speech/writing opposition developed out of his reading of Ferdinand de Saussure’s Course in General Linguistics, a foundational text for modern linguistics, semiotics, and anthropology. Saussure asserted that the meaning of signs does not reside in the signs themselves: there is no natural bond between the signifier (the sign’s material aspect) and the signified (its referent). Instead, the meaning of a sign comes only from its relationship to other signs in a system. This principle is the basis of structuralism, an approach to language which focuses on the patterns or structures that generate meaning rather than on the ‘content’ of a given code or custom.
Saussure revealed that because the sign has no inherent meaning, it is, taken by itself, empty, void, absent. The sign has no life apart from the system or ‘structure’ of language. Saussure revealed that language is not a transparent window onto pre-existing concepts, but that language actively forms the realm of ideas. The base, material body of the signifier is not a secondary copy of the elevated, lofty realm of concepts: both are formless masses before the articulating work of language has sliced it into distinct pieces. Instead of thinking of language as a code for passively representing ‘thoughts’, Saussure showed that ‘thoughts’ take shape out of the material body of language.
Derrida’s Of Grammatology points out that although Saussure was willing to reveal the emptiness at the heart of language, he became infuriated when he saw the same principle at work in writing, the system of signs created to represent speech. Saussure’s text views writing as a copy of speech, an artificial technology for reproducing language. While the alphabet claims to be a phonetic transcription of spoken sounds, codes such as written English are full of irrational spellings: for example, words that sound the same but are spelled differently (meet/meat), and letter combinations with unexpected pronunciations (th-, sh-, -ght). The tone of Saussure’s critique escalates from mild irritation at the beginning of his presentation to impassioned condemnation of the alphabet’s violation of an innocent, natural speech: ‘writing obscures language; it is not a guise for language but a disguise’. The ‘tyranny of writing’ distorts its pristine referent through ‘orthographic monstrosities’ and ‘phonic deformations’ (30-2).
Saussure specifically concerned himself with phonetic writing, the paradigmatic medium of Western culture, which translates the diverse sounds of a language into a set of repeatable graphic marks. He explicitly excluded pictographic and ideographic scripts from his attack on writing; Chinese ideograms have fewer ‘annoying consequences’ than the alphabet, because their users clearly understand their role as secondary signs for spoken words (26). The power (and seductiveness) of phonetic writing lies in its economy: a small number of characters can represent an ever-expanding quantity of words. Unlike pictographic or ideographic scripts, phonetic writing represents the signifier of language (its material sound) rather than the signified (its conceptual meaning or ‘idea’). Whereas an ideogram represents the concept of a word, phonetic characters merely represent its sounds. The alphabet thus embraces the arbitrariness of the sign by considering the signifier independently of its meaning.
As an intellectual technology, alphabetic writing can be compared to photography: it is an automatic record of the surface of language. The alphabet cleaved language into an inside and an outside: the destiny of phonetic writing is to occupy the outside, to be a mechanical copy of the signifier, leaving intact a sacred interior. The belief in the interiority, the fullness, of speech depends on the existence of an exterior, empty representation—the alphabet. Similarly, the notion of ‘nature’, as an ideal realm separate from human production, emerged as ‘civilization’ was despoiling the broader ecological systems in which culture participates. To ‘deconstruct’ the relationship between speech and writing is to reverse the status of the two terms, but not just to replace one with the other, but rather to show that speech was always already characterized by the same failure to transparently reflect reality. There is no innocent speech.
In Of Grammatology, Derrida asserted that an intellectual culture (or episteme) built on the opposition between reality and representation has, in fact, depended on representations to construct itself: ‘External/internal, image/reality, representation/presence, such is the old grid to which is given the task of outlining the domain of a science. And of what science? Of a science that can no longer answer to the classical concept of the episteme because the originality of its field-an originality that it inauguratesis that the opening of the ‘image’ within it appears as the condition of ‘reality,’ a relationship that can no longer be thought within the simple difference and the uncompromising exteriority of ‘image’ and ‘reality,’ of ‘outside’ and ‘inside,’ of ‘appearance’ and ‘essence’ (33)’. The fact that our culture developed a phonetic writing systemone which represents the material signifier in isolation from the sacred signified-is indicative of our primary alienation from the spoken language. Phonetic writing, because it makes use of the gap between signifier and signified, is not simply a secondary reflection of language, but is a symptom of language’s lack of presence, its lack of interior self-completeness.
Derrida’s final attack on the notion of writing as a secondary copy of speech is to make the claim that ‘phonetic writing does not exist’ (39). Not only does writing inhabit speech, transforming its grammar and sound, and not only does phonetic writing exist as language’s ‘own other’, an ‘outside’ manufactured to affirm its own complete ‘insidedness’, but this model of the ‘outside’ continually fails to behave in the manner expected of it. Thus where Saussure had claimed that there are only two kinds of writing-phonetic and ideographic-Derrida found the frontiers between them to fluctuate.
Phonetic writing is full of non-phonetic elements and functions. Some signs used in conjunction with the alphabet are ideographic, including numbers and mathematical symbols. Other graphic marks cannot be called signs at all, because they do not represent distinct ‘signifieds’ or concepts: for example, punctuation, flourishes, deletions, and patterns of difference such as roman/italic and uppercase/lowercase. What ‘idea’ does the space between two words or a dingbat at the end of a line represent? Key among these marks, which Derrida has called ‘graphemes’, are various forms of spacing—negative gaps between the positive symbols of the alphabet. Spacing cannot be dismissed as a ‘simple accessory’ of writing: ‘That a speech supposedly alive can lend itself to spacing in its own writing is what relates to its own death’ (39). The alphabet has come to rely on silent graphic servants such as spacing and punctuation, which, like the frame of a picture, seem safely ‘outside’ the proper content and internal structure of a work and yet are necessary conditions for making and reading.
Derrida’s book The Truth in Painting unfolds the logic of framing as a crucial component of works of art. In the Enlightenment aesthetics of Kant, which form the basis for modern art theory and criticism, the frame of a picture belongs to a class of elements called parerga, meaning ‘about the work’, or outside/around the work. Kant’s parerga include the columns on buildings, the draperies on statues, and the frames on pictures. A frame is an ornamental appendix to a work of art, whose ‘quasi-detachment’ serves not only to hide but also to reveal the emptiness at the core of the seemingly self-complete object of aesthetic pleasure. In Derrida’s words, ‘The parergon is a form that has, as its traditonal determination, not that it stands out but that it disappears, buries itself, effaces itself, melts away at the moment it deploys its greatest energy. The frame is in no way a background….but neither is its thickness as margin a figure. Or at least it is a figure which comes away of its own accord’ (61). Like the non-phonetic supplements to the alphabet, the borders around pictures or texts occupy an ambiguous place between figure and ground, positive element and negative gap.
Spacing and punctuation, borders and frames: these are the territory of graphic design and typography, those marginal arts which articulate the conditions that make texts and images readable. The substance of typography lies not in the alphabet per se-the generic forms of characters and their conventionalized uses-but rather in the visual framework and specific graphic forms which materialize the system of writing. Design and typography work at the edges of writing, determining the shape and style of letters, the spaces between them, and their positions on the page. Typography, from its position in the margins of communication, has moved writing away from speech.

Design as Deconstruction
The history of typography and writing could be written as the development of formal structures which have articulated and explored the border between the inside and the outside of the text. To compile a catalogue of the micro-mechanics of publishing-indexes and title pages, captions and colophons, folios and footnotes, leading and line lengths, margins and marginalia, spacing and punctuation-would contribute to the field which Derrida has called grammatology, or the study of writing as a distinctive mode of representation. This word, grammatology, serves to title the book whose more infamous legacy is deconstruction.
Such a history could position various typographic techniques in relation to the split between form and content, inside and outside. Some typographic conventions have served to rationalize the delivery of information by erecting transparent ‘crystal goblets’ around a seemingly independent, neutral body of ‘content’. Some structures or approaches invade the sacred interior so deeply as to turn the text inside out, while others deliberately ignore or contradict the internal organization of a text in response to external pressures imposed by technology, aesthetics, corporate interests, social propriety, production conveniences, etc.
Robin Kinross’s Modern Typography (1992) charts the progressive rationalization of the forms and uses of letters across several centuries of European history. Kinross’s book characterizes printing as a prototypically ‘modern’ process, that from its inception mobilized techniques of mass production and precipitated the mature arts and sciences. The seeds of modernization were present in Gutenberg’s first proofs; their fruits are born in the self-conscious methodologies, professionalized practices, and standardized visual forms of printers and typographers, which, beginning in the late seventeenth century, replaced an older notion of printing as a hermetic art of ‘black magic’, its methods jealously guarded by a caste of craftsmen.
If Kinross’s history of modern typography spans five centuries, so too might another history of deconstruction, running alongside and beneath the erection of transparent formal structures and coherent bodies of professional knowledge. Derrida’s own writing has drawn on forms of page layout from outside the accepted conventions of university publishing. His book Glas, designed with Richard Eckersley at the University of Nebraska Press, consists of parallel texts set in different typefaces and written in heterogeneous voices. Glas makes the scholarly annotations of medieval manuscripts and the accidental juxtapositions of modern newspapers part of a deliberate authorial strategy.
A study of typography and writing informed by deconstruction would reveal a range of structures that dramatize the intrusion of visual form into verbal content, the invasion of ‘ideas’ by graphic marks, gaps, and differences. Figures 6 and 7, pages of late fifteenth-century book typography, represent two different attitudes towards framing the text. In the first, the margins are a transparent border for the solid block dominating the page. The lines of classical roman characters are minimally interrupted—paragraph breaks are indicated only by a wider gap within the line, preserving the text as a continuously flowing field of letters. The second example draws on the tradition of scribal marginalia and biblical commentary. Here, typography is an interpretive medium; the text is open rather than closed. The first example suggests that the frontiers between interior and exterior, figure and ground, reader and writer, are securely defined, while the second example dramatizes such divides by engulfing the center with the edge.
Another comparison comes from the history of the newspaper, which emerged as an elite literary medium in the seventeenth century. Early English newspapers based their structure on the classical book, whose consistently formatted text block was designed to be read from beginning to end. As the newspaper became a popular medium in nineteenth-century Europe and America, it expanded from a book-scaled signature to a broadsheet incorporating diverse elements, from reports of war and crime to announcements of ship departures and ads for goods and services. The modern illustrated newspaper of the twentieth century is a patchwork of competing elements, whose juxtaposition responds not to rational hierarchies of content but to the struggle between editorial, advertising, and production interests. While the structure of the classical news journal aspired to the status of a coherent, complete object, the appearance of the popular paper results from frantic compromises and arbitrary conditions; typographic design serves to distract and seduce as well as to clarify and explain.
Dictionaries of page design featuring schematic diagrams of typical layouts have been a common theme in twentieth-century design. Such visual enactments of theory include Jan Tschichold’s 1934 manifesto ‘The Placing of Type in a Given Space’, which charts a range of subtle variations in the placement of headings and body copy, and Don May’s 1942 manual 101 Roughs, which catalogues various types of commercial page design. While Tschichold charted minor differences between clearly ordered elements, May accommodated the diverse media and competing messages found in advertising. Both theorists presented a series of formal containers for abstract, unspecified bodies of ‘content, ’ but with a difference: Tschichold¹s structures are neutral frames for dominant textual figures, while May¹s patterns are active grounds which ignore conventional hierarchies in favor of such arbitrary rules as ‘Four point: The layout touches all four sides of the space once and only once’ [Figure 8], or ‘Center axis: The heading copy, illustration, and logotype flush on alternate sides of axis’.
If one pursued the study of ‘grammatology’ proposed by Derrida, the resulting catalogue of forms might include the graphic conditions outlined above. In each case, we have juxtaposed a coherent, seemingly self-complete literary artifact with a situation where external forces aggressively interfere with the sacred interior of content. A history of typography informed by deconstruction would show how graphic design has revealed, challenged, or transformed the accepted rules of communication. Such interventions can represent either deliberate confrontations or haphazard encounters with the social, technological, and aesthetic pressures that shape the making of texts.
In a 1994 interview in The New York Times Magazine, Derrida was asked about the purported ‘death’ of deconstruction on North American campuses; he answered, ‘I think there is some element in deconstruction that belongs to the structure of history or events. It started before the academic phenomenon of deconstruction, and it will continue with other names’. In the spirit of this statement, we are interested in de-periodizing the relevance of deconstruction: instead of viewing it as an ‘ism’ of the late-80s and early-90s, we see it as part of the ongoing development of design and typography as distinctive modes of representation. But deconstruction also belongs to culture: it is an operation that has taken a name and has spun a web of influence in particular social contexts. Deconstruction has lived in a variety of institutional worlds, from university literature departments to schools of art and design to the discourse of popular journalism, where it has functioned both as a critical activity and as a banner for a range of styles and attitudes. We will close our essay with two examples of graphic design that actively engage the language of contemporary media: the first confronts the politics of representation, while the second remakes design’s internal language.
Vincent Gagliostro’s cover for NYQ [Figure 10], a gay and lesbian news magazine, was designed in November, 1991, in response to Magic Johnson’s announcement that he is HIV+. Gagliostro imposed NYQ’s own logo and headline over a Newsweek cover featuring Magic Johnson proclaiming ‘Even me’, his upheld arms invoking saintly sacrifice and athletic vigor. ‘He is not our hero’, wrote NYQ over the existing cover. While Gagliostro’s layering and splicing of type and image are shared with more aestheticized, individualized gestures found elsewhere in contemporary design, this cover does not aim to trigger an infinite variety of ‘personal’ interpretations but instead explicitly manipulates an ideologically loaded artifact. Gagliostro’s act of cultural rewriting is a powerful response to the ubiquity of normative sign systems, showing that the structures of mass media can be reshuffled and reinhabited. The NYQ cover reveals and exploits the function of framing as a transformative process that refuses to remain outside the editorial content it encloses.
The manipulation of existing media imagery is one activity in contemporary design that can be described as deconstruction; another is the exploration of the visual grammar of communication, from print to the electronic interface. Designers working in hypermedia are developing new ways to generate, distribute, and use information—they are reinventing the language of graphic design today, just as typographers reacted to the changing technologies and social functions of printed media in the past. A leading pioneer of this research was Muriel Cooper, who founded the Visible Language Workshop at MIT in 197X. In the wake of her death in the spring of 1994, her students are continuing to build a concrete grammar of three-dimensional, dynamic typography. Cooper called the basic elements of this language ‘geometric primitives’, defined by relationships of size, brightness, color, transparency, and location in 3-D space, variables which can shift in response to the user¹s position in a document. Cooper and her students have worked to restructure the internal language of typography in four dimensions.
Spacing, framing, punctuation, type style, layout, and other nonphonetic marks of difference constitute the material interface of writing. Traditional literary and linguistic research overlook such graphic structures, focusing instead on the Word as the center of communication. According to Derrida, the functions of repetition, quotation, and fragmentation that characterize writing are conditions endemic to all human expression—even the seemingly spontaneous, self-present utterances of speech or the smooth, naturalistic surfaces of painting and photography. Design can critically engage the mechanics of representation, exposing and revising its ideological biases; design also can remake the grammar of communication by discovering structures and patterns within the material media of visual and verbal writing.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Design for the Real World_Victor Papanek

Designer & Educator Papanek believed that creative professionals have the responsibility to cause positive change in the world through responsible design. From the careful selection of project materials to designing for people’s needs rather than wants, Papanek taught designers should be accountable for the choices they make in the design process

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

The New Devnagari Font: Fedra Hindi

Fedra Hindi
Typotheque pays as much attention to ‘non-Latin’ fonts as to our Latin fonts, and by now our fonts support over 190 languages spoken by over 1.5 billion native speakers. Latest expansion of Fedra family is Devanagari version.

The Devanagari script is a Brahmi-derived writing system used originally to write Sanskrit. It is used in India and Nepal to write many languages, including the official language of the Indian government. Fedra Hindi is Typotheque’s most ambitious ‘non-Latin’ project. After 2 years in development, Fedra Hindi comes in 5 weights with full support for conjuncts.

Designed by Peter Biľak and SN Rajpurohit (NID)
Fedra Hindi was awarded Bronze medal at the European Design Awards 2009 competition.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Play with letters (Typeface: Bodoni )

The letter selection has been random here, arrangement breaks most typography helps you twist things. The freedom makes you work more and more with everincreasing joy.
Typeface: Bodoni (Popular MODERN FACE designed about 1785 by Giambattista Bodoni (1740-1813), an innovative printer and type designer of Parma, Italy. Like the BELL typeface, Bodoni was haevily influenced by Firmin DIDOT'S modern face, designed in 1784. Many 20th-c. versions, while varying in detail from the original retain the essential characteristics of Bodoni's innovation. The STRESS is vertical. Each SERIF is flat and unbracketed, with the sharp contrast in stroke weight emphasized by the thin hairline strokes.
Major inspiration: Initials designed for Tennis legend, Roger Federer (RF).
The simple club of R merging into F is outstanding. The composition clearly translates "The Persona Roger Federer" establishing a visual marquee of his consistent, elegant and unflinched victory. The designed play of forms are a small tribute to celebrate the idea behind the design.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

"The Long Road to Revolution" by David Graeber

The term “revolution” has been so relentlessly cheapened in common usage that it can mean almost anything. We have revolutions practically every week: banking revolutions, cybernetic revolutions, medical revolutions and an Internet revolution every time someone invents a clever new piece of software.
The commonplace definition of revolution has always implied something in the nature of a paradigm shift, a clear break, a fundamental rupture in the nature of social reality, after which everything works differently and prior categorizations no longer apply. It is this understanding of the concept that makes it possible for people to claim that the modern world is essentially derived from two revolutions: the French and the Industrial. The fact that the two have almost nothing in common, other than seeming to mark a break with what came before, rarely deters people from the theory. Political philosopher Ellen Meiksins Woods notes that we have fallen into the odd habit of discussing “modernity” as if it involved a combination of English laissez-faire economics and French republican-style government. We do this despite the fact that the two have really nothing to do with either revolution. The Industrial Revolution happened under an antiquated, largely medieval constitution and 19th century France was anything but laissez-faire.
The fact that the Russian Revolution appeals to the “developing world” is because it’s the one example in which both sorts of revolution did actually seem to coincide: a seizure of national power that then led to rapid industrialization. As a result, almost every 20th century government in the South that was determined to play economic catch-up with the industrial powers felt compelled to claim that it was a “revolutionary regime.”
If there is one logical error that underlies this system of thought, it rests on imagining that social or even technological change can take the same form as what Thomas Kuhn has called “the structure of scientific revolutions.” Kuhn is referring to events like the shift from a Newtonian to an Einsteinian universe, which was an instance when an intellectual breakthrough suddenly changed reality. But applying this structure to anything other than true scientific revolutions is to imply that the world really is equivalent to our knowledge of it and the moment we change the principles upon which our knowledge is based, reality changes too. This is the sort of erroneous logic that developmental psychologists say we’re supposed to overcome in early childhood. It seems few of us ever really do.
In fact, the world is not obligated to conform to our expectations and insofar as “reality” refers to anything, it refers to precisely that which can never be entirely encompassed by our imaginative constructions. Totalities, in particular, are always creatures of the imagination. Nations, societies, ideologies, closed systems – none of these really exist. Our belief in such things may be an undeniable social force, but reality is infinitely messier than that. For one thing, the habit of thought that defines the world as a totalizing system (in which every element takes on significance only in relation to the other elements) tends almost invariably to lead to a view of revolutions as cataclysmic ruptures. How, after all, could one totalizing system be replaced by an entirely new one other than by some cataclysmic event? Thus, we interpret human history as a series of revolutions: the Neolithic Revolution, the Industrial Revolution, the Information Revolution, et cetera, and the political dream becomes to somehow take control of the process. We strive to get to the point at which we can cause a rupture of revolutionary magnitude – a momentous breakthrough that will occur as the direct result of collective will. “The Revolution,” properly speaking.
It’s not surprising that when radical thinkers find themselves incapable of causing a rupture in their own political reality, they quickly try to identify examples of revolutions happening elsewhere. This phenomenon has grown to such a point that French philosopher Paul Virilio theorizes that rupture is our permanent state of being.
I’m not making an appeal for the flat rejection of imaginary totalities (assuming that such a rejection is even possible, which it probably isn’t); imaginary totalities are likely a necessary tool of human thought. Rather I ask that we bear in mind that these totalities are just that: tools of thought. For instance, there’s great value in being able to ask ourselves, “After the revolution, how will we organize mass transportation?” or, “Who will fund scientific research?” or even, “Do you think there will be fashion magazines once the revolution comes?” Our present understanding of the concept is a useful mental hinge, but we must also recognize that unless we are willing to massacre hundreds of thousands of people, the “revolution” will almost certainly not be the clean break with the past that our current definition implies.
So what will it be?
Revolution on a worldwide scale will unfold at a very slow pace. It is beginning to happen. What we need to do in order to recognize this fact is to stop thinking of revolution as a singular thing, as one great cataclysmic break. Instead, we should be asking ourselves what revolutionary action is. Revolutionary action is any collective action that rejects, and therefore confronts, some form of power or domination and, in doing so, reconstitutes social relations. Revolutionary action does not necessarily have to be so grandiose that it aims only to topple governments. Something so small as attempting to create autonomous communities in the face of opposing power would, for instance, be revolutionary acts. If we accept this definition, then we accept the fact that quiet revolutions have been occurring all over the world. Rural communities in Madagascar reacted to the depredations of French colonialism by gradually adopting the ethos that it is wrong for adults to give one another orders. The Malagasy then practiced sustained passive resistance to the point where the postcolonial state largely abandoned trying to govern them altogether. This slow-won, albeit imperfect, victory could easily be regarded as successful mass revolutionary action.
An example like the Malagasy exposes what lies beneath the grandiosity of totalities. All of them ultimately reflect the logic of the state, the ghostly presence of what Tronti called the “state form.” From the very beginning, states have been peculiar syntheses of utopian projects and forms of institutionalized raiding or extortion. As a result, there has always been a slightly embarrassing affinity between the forms of radical simplification of human experience that are promulgated by state bureaucracies and those forms that are imagined under “social theory.” (I don’t claim that there’s anything wrong with such imaginary forms – all theory must simplify reality. It’s only when these forms of simplification are backed by force that they become forms of radical stupidity.) It is important that we begin seriously thinking about how to reconsider the relation of social theory and revolutionary projects now that so many 21st-century revolutionaries are increasingly rejecting the idea of seizing state power. Instead they are drawing on the ethical and organizational legacy of the anarchist tradition (even if only a minority are presently willing to call themselves anarchists). If intellectuals do not constitute a vanguard then what, exactly, is their role?
Eventually it may become possible to imagine an entirely new grammar of revolutionary forms. Perhaps we could begin by defining a continuum. At one extreme we place all forms of revolutionary action that confront the state on its own terms (violence) so as to challenge the forms of inequality that the state guarantees. Call this the insurrectionary option.
At the other end we place all forms of revolutionary exodus – “engaged withdrawal” – and the creation of new communities. Call this the refusal of confrontation. Somewhere in the middle lies the logic of direct action – the work of creating a new society in the shell of the old. Or, more boldly, there lies the insistence, even in the face of state power, to act as though one is already free. Whatever the terms we finally decide on, whether they are these or something else, none can have exclusive purchase on truth or efficacy. Radical social change will only emerge through the endless interplay of confrontations, withdrawals, foundations and subversions.
David Graeber is the author of Possibilities: Essays on Hierarchy, Rebellion and Desire and Direct Action: An Ethnography.

Monday, June 1, 2009

inspiring stories.....

It is one of the biggest consumer electronics and Software Company, best known for products like Macintosh, iPod and iphone. Steve Jobs, Steve Wozniak, and Ronald Wayne had together setup Apple in 1976, to sell their hand-built computer Apple I. They had offered their product to HP first but were declined by them. I think HP would still be regretting this today.
The road to success wasn’t easy for Apple, and Wayne liquidated his share in the company for a mere $ 800. After the launch of Apple II in 1977, things started to look up for Apple and we all know what heights the company has reached since then.
Apple II was successful mainly because it had colored graphics. Great and simple design, has always been the USP (Unique Selling Proposition) for Apple, and their logo is no exception. When Apple was started, the logo was a complicated picture of Isaac Newton sitting under a tree. This had been designed by Jobs and Wayne, with the inscription: “Newton … A Mind Forever Voyaging Through Strange Seas of Thought … Alone.” Frankly, I don’t think it was just a coincidence that Apple had slow sales during this period. However, Steve Jobs hired Rob Janoff to simplify the logo, which turned out to be a great idea. Rob created the ‘Rainbow Apple’ which was the logo for company till 1998. There are many rumors as to why Rob had chosen to create such a logo. One of them says that the Apple was a tribute to Newton (discovery of gravity from an Apple), and since the USP for Apple at that time was colored graphics, it had the rainbow colors. Another explanation exists that the bitten apple pays homage to the Mathematician Alan Turing, who committed suicide by eating an apple he had laced with cyanide. Turing is regarded as the father of computers. The rainbow colors of the logo are rumored to be a reference to the rainbow flag, as homage to Turing’s homosexuality. Janoff, however, said in an interview that though he was mindful of the “byte/bite” pun (Apple’s slogan back then: “Byte into an Apple”), he designed the logo as such to “prevent the apple from looking like a cherry tomato.”
When Apple launched the new iMac in 1998, they changed their logo to a monochromatic apple logo, almost identical to the rainbow logo. Now, the Apple logo comes with nice gradient chrome silver design. It is one of the most recognized brand symbols in the world today, and the shape is what identifies the company more than the color.

The company had always wanted a global perspective, and the logos reflected the same as early as 1934. A specialized advertising designer had created the logo which included typeface never seen before in Europe or North America. The first camera launched by the company in 1934, was named as Kwanon, after the Buddhist goddess of mercy. The logo included the wordings and a picture of the goddess with 1000 arms and flames. As the years went by, like all other logos we have seen above, the company strived to make the logo as simple and memorable as possible. The logo had only been trademarked in 1935, and after that a lot of designing work went into making the logo more balanced. After 1956, the logo hasn’t been changed, but the designing effort is clearly visible in their simple but classic logo.

As you would observe from the logos above that IBM was earlier known as The International Time Recording Company (ITR), whose major products were mechanical time recorders, invented and patented by Willard L. Bundy in 1888. So in the earlier periods the logo of the company had ITR inscribed on it. Later in 1911, ITR was merged with the Computing-Tabulating-Recording Company, which is why you will see that both ITR and CTR are there in the 1911 logo.
In 1924, the Computing-Tabulating-Recording Company adapted the name International Business Machines Corporation. The ornate, rococo letters that formed the “CTR” logo were replaced by the words “Business Machines” in more contemporary sans-sarif type, and in a form intended to suggest a globe, girdled by the word “International.”In 1947, IBM decided to drop the globe from its logo, which was by then quite familiar amongst the people. The logo was not the only change in 1947; it was accompanied by a change in business from the punched-card tabulating business to computers. The typeface of this logo was called Beton Bold.
In 1956, before Thomas J. Watson, Sr died he appointed Tom Watson, Jr. as the CEO. Tom Watson, Jr. decided to project the beginning of a new era in the company, for that he changed the company’s logo as well as the actions. Paul Rand designed the new logo which represented that the changes in the company would be subtle and will not disrupt the continuity. Also, the new logo looked more solid, grounded and balanced.
Another change in the logo was designed by Paul Rand which had stripes instead of the solid font. It depicted ‘speed and dynamism’. Since, then the logo has more or less remained the same, and the design has been recognized and replicated all over the world.

Volkswagen means ‘People’s car’ in German. The history of the company is tied with Adolf Hitler.Before the rise of Hitler, the German economy was in a very bad shape; as a result people couldn’t afford to buy cars. In 1933, Hitler raised the idea of an inexpensive car in the Auto show.
In 1934, Ferdinand Porsche met with Hitler to design the car. Hitler gave him all the specifications of the car and Porsche promised to deliver the design. In 1937, the Gesellschaft zur Vorbereitung des Deutschen Volkswagens mbH was created (it became simply Volkswagenwerk GmbH a year later). In 1938, Hitler opened a state funded Volkswagen factory in Walburg. It was suppose to produce commercial cars, but it was used to churn out military cars. It was only later found that Hitler had intended to use the Porsche car as a military vehicle only, which could carry 3 men and a machine gun.
After the WWII, Britishers took over the company. They renamed the car as Beetle. Surprisingly all the car makers like Fiat and Ford declined to take ‘free control’ of the Volkswagen factory. So, it was returned to the German government, and went on to become one of the world’s bestselling cars ever.
The first logo was designed by Franz Xavier Reimspiess, a Porsche employee during an office logo design competition. The main part of the logo hasn’t changed much, but understandably after the WWII, they got rid of the design around the circle which seems to be inspired from the Nazi flag. I love the colors that were added in 2000, to the logo which was built after WWII, it depicts a positive change in the company and the ability to adapt to the new millennium.

BMW or Bayerische Motoren Werke AG (Bavarian Motor Works) was originally founded as an aircraft company. The aircrafts manufactured were painted with the colors of the Bavarian flag, which is the color of BMW logo. Another explanation is that when the pilot used to sit in the plane he would see alternating segments of white and blue due to rotation the plane propeller (blue being the sky). The major business of BMW was to supply planes to the German army during World War I. But after the war they were forced to change their business. It made railway brakes, before making motorized bicycle, motorcycles and cars.
The logo itself hasn’t changed a lot during the years, but now has a more stylish look due to the different gradients. The unchanged logo has made it easier for people to remember and has given the company more recognition.

shadows at work

Sometimes some impulsive photography gives ideas for design explorations. A day ago, I was blank about how to explore the shape...these compositions are quite ordinary but has led me to ideas.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

i have been St. Kabir

Photography: Nanki Nath > NID photography studio, 2006

I have been thinking ... I have been thinking of the difference between water and the waves on it. Rising, water's still water, falling back, it is water, will you give me a hint how to tell them apart? Because someone has made up the word"wave," do I have to distinguish it from water? There is a Secret One inside us; the planets in all the galaxies pass through his hands like beads. That is a string of beads one should look at with luminous eyes.
-- Kabir

words abt lines

For me, the sketchbooks are more like a secret and wholly spontaneous 'jeu d'espirit,' and some of them I like as much as anything I have ever done.
Robert Motherwell

Drawing is the artist's most direct and spontaneous expression, a species of writing: it reveals, better than does painting, his true personality.
Edgar Degas

I have learned that what I have not drawn, I have never really seen.
Frederick Franck

Let whoever may have attained to so much as to have the power of drawing know he holds a great treasure.

Do not fail, as you go on, to draw something every day, for no matter how little it is, it will be well worth while, and it will do you a world of good.
Cennino Cennini

Sketching can be a vital part of your life. It is a motivation for traveling, a means of documenting ideas of every sort, a tool for developing paintings and illustrations, and a very personal way to share with others.
Thomas Kinkade

Pictures that have had months of labor expended on them may be more incomplete than a sketch.
Robert Henri

Drawing is the discipline by which I constantly discover the world.
Frederick Franck

I sometimes think there is nothing so delightful as a drawing.
Vincent Van Gogh

Draw, Antonio, draw - draw and don't waste time!

I say and insist that drawing in company is much better than alone.
Leonardo Da Vinci

Drawing is the basis of art. A bad painter cannot draw. But one who draws well can
always paint.
Arshile Gorky

We should talk less and draw more.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

From around the age of six, I have had a passion for drawing the shapes of objects. From about the age of fifty I produced a number of designs, but nothing I did before the age of seventy was worthy of attention. At seventy-three, I finally apprehended something of the true quality of birds, animals, insects, fish and of the vital nature of grasses and trees. So, by the time I am 80, I will have made much progress, so that by ninety I will have penetrated to their essential nature. By one hundred, I will decidedly have attained a higher state, indefinable, and at one hundred and ten, each dot, each line shall surely possess a life of its own. May Heaven, that grants long life, give me the chance to prove that this is no lie. Hokusai (who lived to be 90).

Not all of the world's greatest art is hanging on museum walls; much of it is tucked away in sketchbooks all around the world.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Trip to Pavagadh in Aug. 2008


पावागढ  I  अहमदबाद, भारत
Photography by: Nanki Nath (August 2008)

Friday, May 15, 2009

Fantastic shots by Clark Little

These incredible images of waves were taken by the number 1 photographer of surf: Clark Little. He has dedicated his life to photographing the waves and has published a selection of the the best images of his career. He captures magical moments inside the "tube", as surfers say.

Sun ... glints off wave Clark Little/SWNS

Sand ... in surf Clark Little/SWNS
Beach ... surf crashes down Clark Little/SWNS

Tubular ... shining Clark Little/SWNS