Making good things demand good craft

Joseph Thompson (above), a traditional woodworker, posted these photos and remarks, regarding a chair-restoration project for a client, to his Instagram community:


“Here’s a textbook example of how not to repair a chair. The slats don’t allow for seasonal movement, and screws jammed into tenons don’t quite cut it. I just can’t leave it like this in good conscience.”


“I’m beginning to think the person who first repaired this chair ran out of glue and used bubble gum to glue these slats in.”

Joseph’s comments are spot-on. He showed bad restoration—not just half-assed work, but a total hack job. When you closely examine something like a chair, it is easy to make this determination. With other products, not so much. Joseph’s findings reinforce the opacity of products. They also magnify the methods and parts used to make them.

Sadly, the electric can opener I’ve used, possibly made during the 1970s, recently broke. Though abrupt, it was a product that satisfied a great many openings of everything, from soups to tuna. It was a well-made product that accomplished consistently its purpose, like a chair built for sitting. I give credit to the methods and parts that made the electric can opener last for as long as it did.

Today’s products, particularly software, share moving parts, both apparent and hidden, similar to a wooden chair: the seasonal movements, the adhesive. Such factors are not only beholden to a chair, which is easy to grasp than software. Genuine craftspeople (opposed to genuine hacks) recognize them and embrace their character as welcomed constraints.

To help ensure the endurance of a product, honest craftspeople duly try to practice good methods and select good parts. They recognize, acknowledge, and know the distinct movements of the raw medium and the distinct adhesive—intellectually, emotionally, culturally—to bind it all.

The badly restored chair that Thompson is working to rectify provokes long-fundamental questions in making something:

Am I working in a manner that respects
the nature of the materials?

Am I working in a manner that serves
the quality of the product?

Am I working in a manner that benefits
the client?

Am I working in a manner that helps satisfy
the client’s customers?

In the badly fixed chair’s case, Thompson was assigned to restore—properly, this time—an 80-year old object, whose owner desires to keep using it, and likely pass it on to the next generation. At the start—generations ago, the chair was made with good methods and good parts. Thompson respects the object’s legacy by returning to its integrity and restoring it, through allowing seasonal movement of the wood, and through never practicing a blind eye to randomly choosing methods for inappropriate contexts, such as the (insulting) shortcut of applying screws to a tenon.

Thompson’s work on a wooden chair extends a challenge spanning, even haunting, human creativity: Make good things by being good, in methods, in parts, in craft—in conscience.

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All photographs courtesy of Joseph Thompson Woodworks.

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Related: Recklessness of Taking Shortcuts in Making Things / Human and Machine: Joseph Thompson Woodworks’ Marvel of a Jointer

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The Recklessness of Taking Shortcuts in Making Things

Break icon designed by Robert Bjurshagen from The Noun Project collection

When making things, there is the temptation to take shortcuts. If you can get there faster, whether traveling, cooking, or designing—why not? Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should—the methods and processes play a crucial role in creation and overall quality of the result.

There is risk in not conforming to what rigorously works and elegantly lasts. In some cases, the shortcut is successful in contributing to a product’s usability and stature. But at other times, the shortcut can subtract from a product’s existence and play out in diminishing returns, with the unintended defects revealing themselves.

During a recent visit, Katie Thompson, partner of woodworking studio Joseph Thompson Woodworks near Charleston, South Carolina, told a story about a table they encountered as part of an opening for a local artist. It was a piece commissioned by a client, who owned a very distinctive space with rich local heritage. The maker was a respected designer, and also rising in professional and social status. The maker was given the privilege to conceive and produce a table as part of the client’s permanent collection.

One of my observations of Katie and her husband, Joseph, is their mutual instinct to examine wooden objects. Concerning tables, they physically stoop low to see what is not upfront and in direct sight. They want to see how the table was constructed beneath its surface, which gleams readily with a customer-friendly face and sheen. The inapparent view is telling. It shows how the object was planned, assembled, and, more so, how it would settle over time.

Their assessment of the custom-made table (specifically requested and situated in a high-profile space for the long-term) led to this conclusion: “This table is going to fall apart.” They detected shortcuts in how the table’s joints were built and how the table’s legs were connected. Despite the maker’s pedigree, both of these areas, in Katie’s and Joseph’s professional opinions, do not bode well for the table and, thereby, its owner.

The ill effect of shortcuts was evident even before Katie and Joseph followed their curiosity to the table’s construction underneath. The table’s top showed the wood splitting in a manner of bending inwards onto itself.(1) Noticing this raised the cautionary red flag waving in Katie’s and Joseph’s minds. They were concerned about the table’s integrity—its longevity. The table will deteriorate and cohere less with its prized surroundings.

The table’s execution—including its shortcuts—cut deeper. Katie and Joseph’s reverence for wood escalates here, because the opposite is easy to achieve: a reverence for wood that turns out to be benign in the end. Raw materials command respect. To overlook how natural ingredients behave naturally in a product is dismissive.

I believe that since Katie and Joseph have kept themselves surrounded by trees (their backyard is a forest), that they’ve harvested their own wood for their products, and that they’ve organically nurtured their toolkit and studio, they excel in an environment that readily grounds their craft of woodworking. Owning such a setting that bonds directly with one’s craft isn’t a strict requirement, but frequent contact with one’s chosen materials upholds an informed way of recognizing and working with the attributes of those materials. Katie and Joseph practice working with wood to know the nature of it. Knowing the characteristics of wood sharpens their sensibilities when it comes to approaching and using it. Familiarity with wood is constant and iterative—because, I assume, they don’t want to lose their way with materials they cherish.

When a craftsperson loses proper connection with their chosen material, it materializes into a profound loss of mindfulness. The outcome is a disconnect: between maker and materials, between the product and its space, between the product and its use, most of all, between the product and its standing over time. Joseph told me that he always wants to make something that lasts. He was referring to “heirloom quality.” Familiarity with materials helps achieve this supreme durability of human-made objects.

A client who desires something handmade. A community’s historic location to serve as the object’s home. An assignment to make something special. These facts characterize a dream in the form of a project. A responsible one. Shortcuts are allowed, only if they achieve gains, not defects. The table that my friend, Katie, spoke of was supposed to be a teachable moment, when she and her husband, Joseph, would learn a new aspect, or relearn a timeless technique of woodworking. Instead, unexpectedly, that table and its maker were remarkable in their representation of things scuttled in their making.

Our material world deserves better.

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(1) To further elaborate on the table’s deterioration, Katie offered this deduction: “There was no allowance for seasonal movement in the design. The most obvious factor—and only physical evidence available—showed problems with the technique in construction. The table’s visible decline could have also resulted from poorly seasoned lumber, but we have no way of knowing this. The failure occurred during the design process, probably at multiple stages, all rooted in the table’s maker not knowing how to properly work with the given materials.”

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Related: Read my interview “Katie and Joseph Thompson, Designers and Makers in All Things Wood” and their answers to my Designer’s Quest(ionnaire)

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Human and Machine: Joseph Thompson Woodworks’ Marvel of a Jointer

Joseph Thompson Woodworks is a Charleston, South Carolina-based studio and workshop that specializes in creating bespoke, heirloom-quality furniture and decor for the home. The founders, husband-and-wife team of Joseph and Katie Thompson, recently made a substantial investment, weighing approximately 3,000 pounds and is around 70-years old—a jointer. This metal giant is used to produce a flat surface along a board’s length. The acquisition of this tool has greatly emboldened their personal approach to woodworking.



The jointer’s main parts include two tables that can be adjusted in height. Located in between them (above) is a cylindrical cutting head encompassing high-speed steel blades. An uneven piece of wood is placed on the in-feed table, set at a certain height, and moved forward toward the cutting head, spinning in clockwise motion, scraping material from the board. After the cutting head removes the board’s exposed material, the board proceeds onto the out-feed table, set at a different height than the in-feed table. The result is a board, formerly uneven, now finely flat.

For years, Joseph looked to having a larger version of  a jointer. He managed without it, but having one would accommodate bigger projects. It would further allow him to no longer be kept confined to using the smaller version of a jointer in his possession. Its rarity finally became a reality last April 17th, when it was placed (below) on a trailer from a Naval yard to its new home at Joseph Thompson Woodworks. An auspicious day, since April 17th is also Joseph’s birthday.





The jointer was built by Newman Machine Company in Greensboro, North Carolina. This company contributed to America’s effort in World War II (1939–1945) by manufacturing woodworking machinery for primarily the armed services.(1) Joseph estimates that the Newman jointer he bought was manufactured between 1938 and 1944.

Machines are signs of their times. They are also time machines, surviving, ideally not still, as their surroundings change. War probably compelled the jointer’s origin during the middle of the twentieth century. It became part of a collective effort. Now it’s been nestled into an individual workspace. The machine recovered, its original purpose of woodworking preserved. Situated into a different environment with a different tone and climate—a different time.


Placing Newman jointer in workshop of Joseph Thompson Woodworks

The jointer is a spectacle of mechanics, a formidable machine. Lots of bulk. Lots of moving parts. Lots of acoustics when turned on.

It also equips lots of potential. Joseph emphasized the contrast of the Newman jointer, which could take up to a 24-inch wooden board, compared to his other jointer, a smaller version, that could only take up to an 8-inch wooden board. With the larger jointer, Joseph saves time in working with larger pieces of wood. This results in more wooden pieces that can be flattened and assembled together to form seamless surfaces. More so, it results in an extended scope and scale of wooden furniture to envision and craft into shape. When a coveted tool is finally possessed, imagination is fed. In the case of Joseph and Katie Thompson, a flat wooden surface achieved in seconds, than hours, is much preferred. This new capability advances the reception and execution of more ambitious furniture designs for sitting, storing, working, and dining.

Machines require feeding. Oil is essential to a jointer’s maintenance—similar to watering a plant. At a glance, it has the weathered appearance and seasoned burnish of something commanding backbone and brains. As a few of its admirers on Joseph’s Instagram feed noted, “Badass!” Joseph Thompson Woodworks’ Newman jointer shares the realm of attention with chisels, sanders, mallets, clamps, and other board members of their woodworking toolkit. A maker’s self-confidence is served by tools. Together, the motives, to make beautiful things, strengthen.


Bella napping in front of the Newman jointer

If defense originally drove the making of the Newman jointer, the defense is reinforced by Joseph and Katie Thompson, who are defending the relevance of their artisanal discipline that enriches their generation, adjacent ones, and those arriving into the world of woodworking.

When Joseph turns on his Newman jointer, it roars. I suspect that its energy flows down inside him with a roar. Then Joseph roars back.

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(1) More of the Newman Machine Company’s amazing history at their website.

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Photographs courtesy of Joseph Thompson Woodworks.

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Related: Read both my Designer’s Quest(ionnaire), answered by Katie and Joseph of Joseph Thompson Woodworks, and my Interview about their perspective on being craftspeople.

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Teaching is hard—really hard

Neutral icon designed by Julien Deveaux from The Noun Project collection

I had the opportunity to teach a Spring 2014 course at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Not a studio-practice course, a discussion-driven one. The focus was on issues affecting designers. Each week, participants were given material to review—varying from a reading to a recorded talk. The class would then gather to discuss the assigned piece and identify themes, trends—issues—that are relevant to the current state of a designer.

This was my first time teaching such a course. At its twelfth gathering, one of the class participants, in response to one of the assigned reading/viewing materials, said, “Share the struggle.” In retrospect, I’m aligned to doing this practice, having shared my struggles with writing and speaking.

Here are things I discovered during my experience as an instructor:

Small class sizes aren’t necessarily advantageous
In his interview at the 92Y about his book “David and Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits and the Art of Battling Giants”, journalist Malcolm Gladwell identified the negative potential for a small class size: lack of diverse viewpoints (particularly for discussion), domination by vocal participants, and increased (even alienating) self-consciousness by students. He pointed out that a teacher, from his research, didn’t want to teach a class whose size was eighteen or smaller. My class consisted of seven people. From a Gladwellian angle, perhaps this class was doomed by its size.

Gladwell’s list of disadvantages, attributed to a small class size, proved true for me. I always assumed that an intimate class size was better in its ratios: between instructor and student, between student and student, between student and topics. This was the wrong assumption with this course. What can go wrong gets easily amplified: discussion became lopsided, side chatter and outbursts became distracting, and a low collective energy level became dominant.

Discussion only works with a variety of participants 
Facilitating a discussion is swiftly handicapped by people who remain essentially silent (made more apparent by a small class size). There are factors that can be perceived to play roles here.

Doing a roundtable motion for each person to initially insert their thoughts toward a possible class-wide discussion, and pairing like-natured (or not) people in teams, were the only techniques I used. I wished I knew other ways to effectively stimulate reserved dispositions, because no participation equals no discussion.

There was, to me, a very interesting range of design-related topics (see photos) that was introduced. The coverage was broad, but the depth lacked diversity. Discussion typically gravitated to the same vocal participants, the class’ minority. As a result, no involvement equals lost opportunities to communicate and share thinking (which has strong implications for the quality of work outside of the classroom and away from campus).

Evening class promotes a weak reception
The typical response to my greeting of “How are you doing” was: “Tired.” A student’s work-life is visibly hectic and packed with due dates. Each entry into this nighttime class was welcomed with a collective climate of spent.

I’m sure there are studies about what time of day is ideal for the human mind and body to learn. I wonder whether a class, held after a long stretch of previous classes and at night, is beneficial.

Show-and-tells are fun
These were instituted on impulse, in case there was a deficit of discussion. Participants were encouraged to bring items that fascinated them. From publications to illustrations to films, cultural points of interest, with eruptions of levity, were shared.

Digital devices reign in the classroom
Though I stated at the outset that looking at phone and laptops were restricted in order to focus attention on discussion, my ban on digital devices was violated a lot—especially by those who didn’t participate in discussion. I don’t know what was browsed on screen. But the act of diverting attention with keyboarding, swiping, staring at a source of attraction, was annoying. I repressed my fuss. I did not want to call out people (“Would you like to share what you’re looking at?”), considering the tiny class size, which, I felt, would reverberate the act of divorcing people from their digital habits, then amplified in the classroom.

Eraseable boards are highly useful
Unfortunately, the large mounted monitor in the room wasn’t used, for I only found out much later how to use it (and the solution was simple). So the writeable boards were utilized at each class. They proved to be an excellent tool. It provided a method to write and visualize thoughts, with the occasional class participant getting out of the chair, standing, and moving around to make a contribution on the whiteboard.

If I had the chance to reset the course, I would have executed these approaches from the semester’s start:

• Rather than focus on one piece of material to digest and talk about for the duration, I’d assign more material to read/view/listen to help invoke more discussion and utilize the three-hour class
• Rather than leave show-and-tells up for grabs, assign show-and-tells to each class participant as another incentive for verbal participation
• Include more guest speakers to help expand class interaction and diversify the course material

Satisfying all class participants, not guaranteed

There is an inclination to please everyone when teaching, no matter how few or many. But there is potential that a few (or just one person) will not be satisfied. This happened to me, and it made me sad, because a need was unmet. To hear feedback from a participant that class discussions failed to satisfy dampened my outlook.

A seasoned educator bluntly told me, “There are always complainers who excel at complaining.” Though complainers’ hardened outlook and piss-on tendency are unavoidable, complainers shake confidence, and mine was dented. Self-doubt ensued.

To add to the list of changes I’d make the next time, I would:

• At the first gathering, have a frank and thorough talk about what each participant expects
• Ask how experiencing the course is going, insist on receiving feedback, then determine adjustments

Teaching is a honed skill

I tweeted: Whenever I hear someone claim that “Teaching is easy”, I get highly suspicious. Envisioning a course flat on paper, a la the syllabus, is easy. The hard part is realizing how the class will flow, like a smoothly choreographed scene-by-scene play. Tough going, especially when a rhythm has yet to be established for a first course that is first taught. I envy instructors who confidently (and resiliently) develop a course that she or he has incrementally improved over time.

Beyond my desire to shape a course and influence people, teaching emphasized its stature as a noble, albeit totally consuming, job. My view of teachers, in whatever capacity, has further increased in admiration.

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Trust and Tobias Frere-Jones

Trust-Fall icon designed by Juan Pablo Bravo from The Noun Project collection

I admire the typeface-design work of (formerly) Hoefler & Frere-Jones. Their work helped inform the ascent of typography on the Web. In their appearance in the documentary “Helvetica” (2007), they looked like a solid creative duo. Like many, I assumed that the ampersand in their business name was more than symbolic—that it meant that theirs was a joint partnership more than in name only. It shocked me that they broke up in January 2014.

I didn’t read Tobias Frere-Jones’ complaint (because legalese is complicated language). But I don’t have to, in order to feel like his relationship to Jonathan Hoefler reinforces harsh realities caused by human behavior.

Trust begins with a meeting. From Joshua Brustein’s Businessweek article “Font War: Inside the Design World’s $20 Million Divorce”, Hoefler and Frere-Jones met for dinner, in 1999, at the Gotham Bar and Grill (aptly named considering one of their most popular fonts Gotham) where they officially entered into a “partnership” to make fonts together. I envision that a pleasant conversation took place, with smiles and anticipation to the future, perhaps a handshake, sealing a commitment.

First meetings like this are pivotal. They create confidence. There is the feeling of reliance—to primarily rely on one’s word. Though naivety is a liability when it comes to verbal agreements, the inclination to be trustworthy remains natural to act. I recall all of the first meetings I had where the word proved strong as oak. I will also never forget all of the first meetings I had where the word proved shallow.

In the context of a partnership, words—expressing shared interest, exchanged from one person to another—matter a lot. They form the foundation upon which to build a relationship. Trust starts with words, but is felt without them.

From 1999 onward, the verbal sheen of trust between Tobias Frere-Jones and Jonathan Hoefler persisted until the fall of 2013, when Frere-Jones expected Hoefler to make their partnership official—on paper. Hoefler didn’t budge. Frere-Jones left.

There is a camp of people who (seemingly have the foresight to know better and) fault Frere-Jones for waiting too long, for failing “to put it in writing” from the start. The ease of such armchair criticism is not surprising.

Sadly, human history is loaded with stories, where the Frere-Joneses of the world are subject to the Hoeflers of the world. The former have faith in people. The latter steer the faith. The essential question is: Why didn’t Hoefler ultimately give Frere-Jones full partnership (thereby equal rights and equal share)? The fact that Frere-Jones didn’t get what he expected—stated at the start, with someone he relied on—is most telling.

Trust excels when we trust. But when vulnerability is learned to be an asset, trust excels in layers of willful omission instituted by those who have the knowledge to benefit from it.

When the entity of Hoefler & Frere-Jones existed, I happened to never buy a font from them. I now look forward to buying type designed and owned by Frere-Jones.

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Erase, Reconcile, Make

Eraser icon designed by Tommy Lau from The Noun Project collection

A fact I’ve only gradually come to realize (and desperately revisit) is that although the act of making is inherently labored, it’s the act of making that also gives the nudge to continue.

Erasure through making

Whether you’re blogging, drawing, painting, filmmaking, photographing, or engaging another creative outlet, the process demands a lot of work. Hard work is a given—and it’s this experience that makers willingly submit themselves to. It’s the experience of initiating a creative project, working it toward completion, and achieving a sense of satisfaction.

Though I feel satisfied when I complete an interview, a Designer’s Quest(oinnaire), or blog post, the satisfaction of getting my work into the world (visible proof of something accomplished) quickly fades. My need to do the next thing—the next interview, the next Designer’s Quest(ionnaire), the next blog post—instantly reappears.

I try to keep making what I like to make. I want to keep reaching that satisfaction from completing something. This kind of satisfaction is a thin and finite feeling, but I desire to reach it again.

What interferes with the act of making are the thoughts that fiercely crawl into my head: Why do I keep working on Design Feast (including this blog), Do people appreciate my work, How can I be better and faster in publishing? The latter is a litany of wishes that increase whenever I discover a newly made thing—book, song, article, object—and especially when I compare myself to people whom I respect (and affectionately envy) for their tremendous capacity to make a lot of things—wonderful things (see my Patronage series).

Matching my pattern of perceiving (inflated with nagging feelings) that I am not making enough, not working fast enough, and not succeeding enough, is the instinct to keep making. When things get done, the instinct to keep making—and acting on it—erases all of those times when I felt insufficient, and facilitates it in a couple of ways:

Making reveals ideas. When making is done over time, a personal timeline of creation assembles in visibility, though what’s exclusively seen is reduced to the foreground. If the collapsed view of this timeline was turned into an accordion fold, you’ll be able to see all of the things you made—when one thing was made after another in succession. This is personal proof of the demonstrated need to create.

Making serves initiative. When something is made, it extends the pavement supporting another envisioned project to start (and finish). One painted composition paves the way for another. One written article paves the way for another. One photograph paves the way for another. A body of work gradually starts to build (with the potential for evolution).

Reconciliation through making

Where reconciliation plays a role in the act of making is in making’s quenching of creativity and the evidence of output, after all is said and done. Making reconciles those previous occasions when ideas and emotions were left flat.

Making something is an achievement. When repeated, making supports the wonder of what more to pursue.

Making through making

So keep writing, keep photographing, keep filming, keep drawing—keep making. I feel better when I’ve made something, like this blog post. I’ve reconciled myself for all of those times I lacked initiative. Here’s to the next creative pursuit.

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Read related post: Never stop making

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Creating and Contributing: Using CentUp

Charity icon designed by Vladimir from The Noun Project collection

In my latest book, BROKEN: Navigating the Ups and Downs of the Circus called Work, I discuss how people are making Web-based tools that address needs, which may then be shared with like-minded others. A heartening trend here is the creation of Web-based tools that bring together different interests.

Consider Chicago-based CentUp, a tool that combines Web-based content with charitable contributions. This tool was specifically made for Web-based content creators. Whether you’re a blogger, filmmaker, musician, photographer, or podcaster—anyone driven to realize wholehearted work and publishing it online—you can use CentUp to help champion your creative efforts and raise money to do good. CentUp’s founders Len Kendall, Tyler Travitz, and John Geletka participated in my series of Interviews with people who love making things. They said:

“We are very focused on making the Internet a better place. There is often a lot of negativity online. We see CentUp as a force for good, helping publishers find new audiences and earn money directly, and helping charities find new donors.”

A detail that the folks at CentUp magnify is expanding the online “share” reflex by steering the popular online action of “liking” into a contribution to charity. When joining CentUp, a Web-based content creator displays a button within their published works online. Clicking on the button allows the reader/viewer to make a contribution in two simultaneous ways: one part supports the creator and her/his creative work, the other part is supporting a good cause. Len, Tyler, John, of CentUp, illustrated (from their online description) their tool’s process in this simple manner:



For me, CentUp represents the opportunity to experiment with something new. I joined the CentUp community as a Publisher—you’ll see a CentUp button displayed at the bottom of this post. Each click will help support my passion project of Design Feast, which includes this blog, and at the same time, support one of the great charities that CentUp works with. When I contribute to Web-based projects of other people, who also use CentUp, I’ll be supporting the Arts of Life—since I have loved ones who are mentally challenged, I want to be able to benefit an organization that “is committed to providing high quality, innovative services for adults with developmental disabilities.

Aligning my writing, interviewing, and publishing—making things—with the possibility of making a difference is a good feeling. Hope you feel the same way.

Public-speaking notes: Talked about BROKEN at the Institute of Design, IIT

Presentation icon designed by Daniel Flp from The Noun Project collection

I had my first opportunity to discuss BROKEN: Navigating the Ups and Downs of the Circus called Work with a small group at the Institute of Design, Illinois Institute of Technology, in Chicago. This was my first time publicly presenting my new book.

I’ve been reflecting here and there on my public-speaking experiences, because public speaking is a good skill to have. It’s one that I try to excel at, if only on a basic level. Here are some things that stuck with me concerning presentation skills, and that you may corroborate with, in making your presentations.

Courtesy

Most attendees at my talk were busy graduate students, with packed schedules. So it was great when one of them told me prior to my talk not to be offended when she and her work group slipped out early during my presentation. Proactive courtesy feels good.

Presenter tip: Be courteous throughout your appearance.

Nerves

My nervousness gradually faded around the time I started speaking. When my nervousness abated, my comfort level rose. What particularly helped to manage the nervousness was physically not keeping still. I wandered away from the podium and treated the floor like a mini-stage.

Presenter tip: Acknowledge the fact that once you dive into your presentation, you’ll float and swim (in my case, a steady doggy paddle). Stay afloat by finding a technique to calm your nerves.

Script

I had a script, written per slide, but rarely used it. This isn’t to say that the script wasn’t handy, it’s a great safeguard, especially for a scatterbrain like me.

Presenter tip: Write out everything you want to say, but give yourself permission to go off script. Off script is risky, but you’ll act less robotic.

Feedback

Specific and constructive feedback is useful. One such piece of feedback, I received, addressed a gap in my presentation, while another praised my plainspoken tone as “refreshing.” Still another comment highlighted how an aspect of my presentation gave a necessary nudge that proved, as the attendee put it, “inspiring.”

With its hardwired reflexes, my brain quickly attached to the criticism about the gap—what my presentation primarily lacked. It was one of those darn-I-wished-I-had-fully-satisfied-this-need reactions I kept echoing, to myself. What helped minimize this echo was acting on this feedback. It motivated me to adjust the content of my presentation. On the following morning, I took the collective feedback and responded to it with a revised version of my presentation (for presentations are highly subject to iteration as they should be).

Presenter tip: When it comes to feedback, you can either dwell on it or put it to productive use.

Phrasing

After I left the talk, I realized a number of things—certain phrases, different expressions—that I wished I said to add emphasis and color to what I was telling. Ultimately, something always gets left out.

Presenter tip: It’s ideal if you can say everything you wanted to say in the way you set yourself to say it. If not, accept how you presented and try to learn from it. It’s annoying to not connect what you originally had in mind to elegantly say. This feels sharply unforgiving, but it paves the way for turning that could-have-done-better-then to doing-it-better-now.

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Big thanks to Rachel Dean and Raina Russ at the Institute of Design, Illinois Institute of Chicago, for giving my first opportunity to talk about my latest book BROKEN!

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This is the sixth post, after the launch of BROKEN, that reflects on how this book was made. More to come in this series about aspects related to writing and self-publishing. Read the previous write-up: Choosing the right fonts for BROKEN.

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Learn more about the eBook → BROKEN: Navigating the ups and downs of the circus called work.

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I like CreativeMornings—a lot

CreativeMornings inventor Tina Roth Eisenberg at debut gathering in Chicago (Summer, 2011). View more.

CreativeMornings is a monthly breakfast lecture series, for the creative community, started by Tina Roth Eisenberg of Swissmiss. What originated in Brooklyn, New York, has evolved into a platform with kindred chapters established throughout the world.

It’s no secret that I’m an avid CreativeMornings enthusiast through my write-ups. Based on my experience of going to past events and what I’ve taken away from them, I feel that CreativeMornings is one of a rare few of high-quality meet-ups worth returning to.

While reading “The Rise of the Creative Class and how it’s transforming work, leisure, community and everyday life” (2002) by urban studies theorist Richard Florida, CreativeMornings came to mind. I paired the following quotes from the book with observations from CreativeMornings to bring the two together, and to further demonstrate how this is an activity that matters.

“Creativity comes from people.” (1)

CreativeMornings is run entirely by volunteers who organize monthly events with speakers, find and persuade hosts and sponsors, manage the recording of each event, and keep the communication flowing about their respective chapter’s news. You can easily sign up online to attend, the Chicago chapter in my case. Registration for upcoming talks transpires quickly, most times, rapidly.

The urbanist Jane Jacobs said, “Design is people.” CreativeMornings is composed of people, by design. This is obvious, but it’s a fact that can be easily taken for granted.

“Members of the Creative Class endeavor to create individualistic identities that reflect their creative identity. This can entail a mixing of multiple creative identities.” (1)

Though the major part of each CreativeMornings is the featured talk, there is designated time to interact with other attendees (coinciding with breakfast-treat indulgence) beforehand. I’ve met jewelry designers, knitters, copywriters, project managers, software developers and a physical therapist. You may find the last role as an outlier, but this is what makes CreativeMornings work, where eclectic diversity prevails. The range of “creative identities” is complemented by out-of-towners. I’ve been introduced to attendees at the Chicago chapter of CreativeMornings from outside the city as well.

Whatever the creative discipline—wherever home is—the collective identity, of those signing up and attending CreativeMornings, is that makers are curious about other makers. This collective sense of curiosity is energized by both CreativeMornings’ global themes, that address aspects of humanity, and its regular rotation of venues that take advantage of a city’s cultural portfolio.

“The Creative Class favors hard work, challenge and stimulation.” (2)

I’ve been attending and reporting on CreativeMornings/Chicago since their debut in 2011. Listening to speakers sharing their challenges and efforts in making what she or he considers fulfilling work is a comfort, and one that many of us seek, in order to be nudged.

Stimulation quickly gets scarce. I’m thankful that CreativeMornings reliably provides it, in person and via video, on a monthly basis.

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(1) Page 5 of hardcover edition, 2002
(2) Page 78 of hardcover edition, 2002

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See related posts: Infographics inspired by Richard Florida’s Book “The Rise of the Creative Class” / Speaking tips gleaned from CreativeMornings / The people who make the Chicago chapter of CreativeMornings possible / Wisdom at CreativeMornings: Maira Kalman, George Lois, Milton Glaser

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For more conferences/summits/camps/meet-ups related to art, business, design, storytelling, technology, and more, see this list.

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Reinvention seized: Filmmaker, Designer, Author Hillman Curtis at New York CreativeMornings #20

Source: CreativeMornings/New York Talk [18:27] on September 18, 2009

The first and last time I saw Hillman Curtis speak was at a conference, circa 2000, hosted by the (defunct) American Center for Design. At the time, Curtis was doing a lot of work in Flash, as he was one of the first fierce adopters of this digital medium. Eight years later, Curtis branched off onto a different creative path. Flash-based design for large corporate clients, such as Yahoo! and Adobe, faded from his professional focus, and Curtis became keen on creating photography and film.

In 2008, I rediscovered Curtis through his Artist Series. I started by watching his feature short on artist Lawrence Weiner. Curtis’ film about this mixed-media artist is a staple in my information-consumption loop. Especially when I’m feeling restless, or need a motivational nudge, or to be rewarded with a figurative window to peer through and feel positively massaged, I go to this and other film shorts by Curtis, because he excelled at storytelling that is immediately meaningful and aesthetically soothing

This Artist Series of films inspired me to look for more from Curtis. While browsing CreativeMorning/New York’s video library(1), I discovered that Curtis gave a Talk in 2009, where he provides useful ways of working.

Highlights



A refreshing pattern in Curtis’ presentation was his insertion of insights. One was from poet C. K. Williams, who advised the following to help overcome creative blocks: “Fall in love with a master.”

The master whom Curtis pursued was photographer Richard Avedon, whose work in portraiture captivated Curtis and stimulated him to pursue portrait photography himself. What Curtis established and called “moving portraits” used a steadfast lens on a steady individual. They move, because each portrait is filmed for 24 frames per second. Curtis’ portraits are pauses. They simmer in stillness. They exude charm, which Avedon defined as “the ability to be truly interested in other people.”

Curtis advanced his interest in people who create, whom he deemed masters of their creative discipline, like his short films on graphic designer Paula Scher, and music-collaborators Brian Eno with David Byrne. His Artist Series celebrates other masters who take on the role of mentors.



To inform his practice of taking portraits, Curtis collected portrait photographs to study for lessons in composition, and also to layer contemplation. By using history’s collective experience, collecting is a method of mentorship.(2) It channels the past into the present. Curtis repurposed his photographic and filmic lens to also focus on creative precedence. In his CreativeMornings/New York Talk, Curtis shared his work, but gave awareness to the work of others. Collecting is also a method of patronage.



Curtis shared his fascination with the cinematic effect of slow motion with his audience. The world now is increasingly focused on what is fast and instantly gratified—even more reason that Curtis insisted upon using a slow tempo in his work. To him, slow motion is not dull, never dumb—not a waste of time. Slow motion can be visceral. It speaks to a path, taken one step at a time, toward a gradual body of work. Evident in his storytelling, Curtis’ use of the slow-motion effect requires viewers to be patient. Being open to slow motion is welcoming the revelation of patience. Slow motion counters the ease to be oblivious.

Curtis and his films encourage the habit to treat each other and each other’s work as, to borrow a phrase by the philosopher Aristotle, “slow-ripening fruit.”

To-Dos

Through his work and talks, Curtis encourage us to: Find mentors, past and present, to glean lessons and draw inspiration from. Collect for preservation and reverie. Not overlook the benefit of slowing down.

In one of his last short films, Curtis offered the ultimate to-do:

“Be prepared to reinvent yourself. Be prepared to go out on a limb, occasionally, and be prepared to do the things that you feel strongly about, that other people don’t, that maybe don’t have an immediate source of income or revenue. For me, what started out as a vacation, created a vacation from these bigger corporate jobs, and has become my life’s calling.”

Hillman Curtis passed away in 2012, leaving behind a legacy of creative drive and timeless body of work. Thank you, Hillman Curtis, for your craft, knowledge, and encouragement to invent and reinvent!

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(1) To echo my tweet, the growing video library of  CreativeMornings Talks, from all chapters, is a gift that keeps giving.

(2) Mentors and mentorship are vital. Read my first reflection.

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Typeface of quotes is Franklin Gothic, originally designed by Morris Fuller Benton in 1902.

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Read more from Design Feast Series of Interviews
with people who love making things.

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Open Eyes: Reminders from Photographer Vivian Maier’s Work

Vivian Maier’s Rolleiflex Camera photographed by ChiILLeica under a Creative Commons License

Before digital cameras, before Web-based picture hubs like Flickr and Instagram, photographer Vivian Maier (1926–2009) roamed her surroundings with her manual camera, searching for compositions to photograph. For nearly 50 years, she produced thousands of photographs related to streetscapes and the urban environment. New York City was her birthplace. Chicago was her photographic playground.

I saw the exhibition Vivian Maier’s Chicago (on view through summer 2014) at the Chicago History Museum. It shows a tremendous amount of Maier’s photographic work, over decades. Though tiny in scope, in comparison to the total amount of work she amassed over a lifetime, the show was a satisfying slice of Maier’s photographic portfolio. It compelled me to reflect on these aspects:

A tool can be a lasting imprint
Maier was given a camera in her early years. It became her companion, similar to a musician’s relationship with a chosen instrument. A tool can inspire a new outlet and a potentially consistent path for creativity, where one’s expression flows through it. The camera was Maier’s means to express her curiosity.

Maier was pulled by the magnetic field of her tools, for she used more than one type of camera. According to the Maloof Collection of John Maloof, who acquired a vast archive of Maier’s film negatives in 2007 and was the earliest to discover her significant contribution to photography:

“Vivian Maier’s first camera was a modest Kodak Brownie box camera with one shutter speed, no aperture and focus control. In 1952 she purchased her first Rolleiflex camera. Over the course of her career she used Rolleiflex 3.5T, Rolleiflex 3.5F, Rolleiflex 2.8C, Rolleiflex Automat and others. She later also used a Leica IIIc, an Ihagee Exakta, a Zeiss Contarex and various other SLR cameras.”

If Maier wasn’t given a camera, she may have never discovered her talent for photograph, and her manifesting a half century of American urban life on film would not exist.

Walking is generous in perspective
Maier is often described as a street photographer. She is a neighborhood photographer. Vivian Maier’s Chicago shows the neighborly pace, block by block, time to time, that was evident in what was developed from Maier’s film rolls. Many of these photographs were done as she walked the streets. It contributes to images that feel grounded. Getting out on foot was Maier’s blessing for her day and for her camera. Naturalist Henry David Thoreau said, “We must walk consciously only partway toward our goal and then leap in the dark to our success.” Maier’s life can be distilled to this cycle: From walk to darkroom.

A body of work takes work
It’s estimated that Maier took more than 100,000 photographs during her lifetime. I can’t help but wonder how this number would have been affected if Maier adopted a digital camera or smartphone as a part of her toolkit, though I appreciate the loyalty she invested in her conventional camera.

The phrase “body of work” infers a sense of scale, but more poetically, a sense of time. Maier spent her attention with her tool of choice toward her craft of choice. It wouldn’t be surprising if her definition of photography was the act of photographing.

A city is an opportunity for open eyes
Maier’s work made me recall a recorded talk I heard at the CreativeMornings/Berlin chapter by Jessica Jungbauer, who founded online journal Best wishes from Berlin. She expressed her fondness for the city and the life it can positively empower:

“Inspiration lies on the street right in front of you. …By paying attention and wandering in the streets with open eyes, one gets ideas and gets inspired by the city.”

With each city she visited, Maier entered its intricacy. Exploring a city was her aesthetic insistence. She was an astronaut within the artificial world of a city. Maier’s photography reinforces the discipline of not taking a place, whether or not it has the stature of a city, for granted—to seize and preserve a sense of place from who and what is presented in view and in context.

Diligence is silent
As aspects of her life continue to be mined and assembled, Maier is portrayed as a quiet photographer. Keeping silent in studying herself and her surroundings through her lens.

Hello, Camera. Welcome, World!

Maier’s work stands in high contrast to the current practices of photography. In his New Yorker article Goodbye, Cameras (1), traveler and author Craig Mod declared the reality of “networked lenses” that go beyond the singular function of a traditional-film camera. Since the inventions like the Web and camera-equipped mobile phones were absent during Maier’s generation, her photographic tools and workflow also reflect the sign of the times she proactively documented.

In his article, Mod celebrated the data-collecting and interactive benefits of current digital photography, mutually supported by an ever-advancing network platform. Today’s photograph escapes the flatland of its composition and is “auto-magically” attached to metrics and a community of reception and critique. Mod bids farewell to the antiquated language and nature of the “camera” and welcomes its evolution as “networked lenses.” In closing, Mod concludes that “whatever can’t be networked…becomes less important.”

In contrast, Maier’s photographs are solitary moments about the means and infrastructure of the time. They reached the ceiling of being manually developed, displayed and viewed. This is the ceiling that Mod is eager to see shattered. Maier’s photographic tools and work were not pre-equipped to be instantly “captured, edited, collated, shared and responded to” (to echo a string of actions from Mod’s New Yorker piece).

Maier’s photographs were not “networked.” They were not “tethered.” But these current capabilities don’t negate the importance of Maier’s sensibilities and resulting output. The art of photography that Maier practiced in order to see the art of her surroundings was important to her. In her time, it was just Maier and her camera. A sufficient relationship. Independent. Patient. Untethered. These are enduring qualities that make her images enriching and vitally important. Maier greeted her camera, grasped her surroundings, and vigorously took pictures—with a non-networked lens.

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(1) Craig Mod’s article Goodbye, Cameras was discovered via Shawn Blanc.

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Documentary film Finding Vivian Maier, produced and directed by John Maloof and Charlie Siskel, is scheduled for theatrical release during March 2014.

A Toast: To You

The dawn of a new year inevitably revives old dogma. A new year is variably portrayed as a “clean slate,” a “fresh start.” It’s also presented as an opportunity to “get it right.”

A new year isn’t “clean,” because it inherits the input of the previous year. A new year is “fresh,” but instantly ages after its debut is exclaimed.

In terms of “getting it right” (whatever “it” is), there’s the pressure of precision. I feel like replacing “getting it right” with: iterating it right.

Whether judged as clean, fresh or as a recurring opportunity to get it right, a year is a variation of continuance. And as our long-adopted calendar system closes and opens a year, each year disappears, quickly.

A year can feel like a day. Or a decade. However time is perceived, each prevailing unit of time is a timely chance to contribute to something—something wonderful.

In the new year, may you spend your time in a manner that feels poetic, with means that feel productive.

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Typeface used for the quote is called Massive designed by Shawn Hazen. Read his answers to my Designer’s Quest(ionnaire).

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Mentorship keeps me awake and aware

Photographs courtesy of Tina Roth Eisenberg, Duane King, Dave Cuzner, Megan Coleman, Stephanie Di Biase, Shawn Hazen, Lisa Hazen, Sylvia Fernandez

The Web is an amazing window to the world. It can also be used as a means to mentorship. There are individuals, whose Web-based creations exceed first impressions and become a natural part of your daily Web-browsing activities. These people and their digital offerings inspire a regular ritual to approach, like a go-to snack. They reach a fidelity of self-driven mentoring.

Mentorship is guidance. It’s motivated inspiration. Mentoring needn’t be practiced in person. As methods advance to display information and its retrieval, mentoring can be done virtually.

More than a bookmark


Photograph courtesy of Tina Roth Eisenberg, with Tattly

Ever since I discovered Tina Roth Eisenberg’s visual journal SwissMiss in 2007, I’ve been motivated by the makers and products she features on and off the screen. Her visual journal is a stream that keeps flowing. I visit SwissMiss to quench my thirst for delight(1). This is complemented by my monthly attendance and coverage of CreativeMornings, one of Tina’s beautiful inventions, and my kind of design conference. SwissMiss and CreativeMornings comprise a scenic bridge I take pleasure in traveling.


Photograph courtesy of Duane King

I discovered Duane King through his passion project Thinking for a Living in 2008, adjacent to his collective discussion and workshop called The Practice Sessions. I had the opportunity to interview him for my series about people who love making things. When we spoke, he advised, “Be mindful and thoughtful of your audience. If they are spending their valuable time with you, make it worth it.” This particular consideration to attract the well-crafted, and likewise, let the inverse pop into existence, is one of the major reasons I revisit Duane’s Thinking for a Living showcase.


Photograph courtesy of Dave Cuzner

Also in 2008, I was drawn to Dave Cuzner and his passion project of Grain Edit. His collection of vintage/midcentury—classic—graphic design work is of the quality (and quantity) I envy, since I am also a collector of rare books. Dave’s blog(2) is my immersive dip into the lasting reverie of print. A period of graphic design history reclaimed and preserved.

What draws me to Tina, Duane, and Dave, is the dedication to their respective point of view—their taste—especially the generous identification, selection, and sharing of it through their home-grown destinations. Their creations are not just Websites and are more than reference points on the digital frontier. What they self-publish tickles my fascination. They are a part of my creative process in my struggles to be curious and creative, because a window to the world requires high maintenance. They help me graze.(3)

Mentorship by direct association


Photographs courtesy of (clockwise) Shawn, Lisa, Silvia, Stephanie, Megan

Whether as relatives or colleagues or friends or clients, the people you meet facilitate opportunities to become mentors, potentially for the long-term. They can become mentors without even knowing it. This is informal mentoring, which captivates me as the most potent form of mentorship.

My Web builder Megan Coleman, whom I met in 2008 by way of CollabFinder, mentors me about Web design and development, with her work on my Web-based efforts. Shawn Hazen, the force behind Book Worship and Robotcha among other passion projects, mentors me about typographic matter and composition, with his work on my Creative Role series.

Stephanie Di Biase mentors me about collaboration, with our completed book project. My editors Silvia Fernandez and Lisa Hazen mentor me about communication, with their reviews of my writings.

My continual work with Megan, Shawn, Stephanie, Silvia, and Lisa—their respective craft and creative discipline—contributes to my mentoring platform in straightforward or subtle ways, even in ways that I don’t yet readily recognize. The pattern of mentoring here is the collective narrative over time—the array of conversations I’ve had with each, the range of formal output each has materialized—that I’ve gleaned bits of instruction and insight.



Diverse mentorship

The sources of mentorship can vary. Some in regard to proximity, whether remote or closeby. Others with manner, whether formal or informal. The nature of mentorship can also vary, as personified in what my mentors create. To insert what author Louis Menand believed, “You care about things that you make, and that makes it easier to care about things that other people make.”

Mentorship may have typically been viewed as exclusively a one-to-one relationship: mentor (one) + mentee (one). This convention remains valid. But it can also be reworked as many-to-one: mentor accompanied by self-initiated core/side projects (many) x mentor accompanied by... + mentee (one). The many-to-one version transcends boundaries that current society visibly affords.

Humane mentorship

The creative practitioners I thankfully have the privilege to learn and relearn from, talk to, work with—whom I involve in my mentorship platform—practice a tone that is kind. Mentoring that’s easily memorable is due to kindness. Mentoring done in kindness is a reminder that being kind to oneself and others eases the long journey of self-improvement.

Invigorating mentorship

When mentoring is sparked by honest, hard, joyful work, fortified by kindness, the mentoring connection feels seamless. It realizes pleasures, in my case, like going to find out the latest creative goodness at Tina’s journal SwissMiss, perusing the Shelf at Duane’s Thinking for a Living, seeing more well-done visual design and illustration hand-picked by Dave at Grain Edit, working with Megan on enhancing my passion project of Design Feast, working on the next Creative Role illustration with Shawn, working on a book with Stephanie, learning about clarity in writing from Silvia and Lisa. These are refreshing pleasures, and I try to learn from them. It’s sincerely allowing myself opportunities to be mentored—to be awake and aware.

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(1) Speaking of delight, SwissMiss gave the Keynote address at the 2013 SXSW Interactive festival. Here’s my summary.

(2) Concerning Dave’s blog Grain Edit, his thoughts on blogging became the debut for my series Blogger’s Quest(ionnaire).

(3) Graze is a positive verb. To find out why, view designer Chris Glass’ CreativeMornings/Cincinnati talk.

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Typeface of quote is called Massive designed by Shawn Hazen, who also makes wonderful typographic illustrations for Design Feast series Creative Roles.

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Big thanks to user-experience designer Amy Marquez for republishing this blog post at UX Brainstorm, which she co-founded.

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Related: Thoughts on Mentorship by Designer Jason Early, Past mentor at The Starter League and Creative Go-Round

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Old Practices Renewed: Neoteric Design’s Colophons and Apprenticeships

Photograph by Giuseppe Quattrone at Flickr under a Creative Commons license

This is a shout-out to Neoteric Design, an interactive firm(1) in Chicago, for persisting two traditional practices:

On their website, I noticed a term usually associated with books: colophon. The first use of the word dates to 1501, within decades after the invention of printing in 1450. A colophon gives details about an object’s production, typically for printed matter. A book’s colophon reveals aspects such as the date of publication, typefaces and technical details. These same aspects were shared by Neoteric Design online. In a romantic sense, a colophon is a link (pun surely intended) to the past. In a practical sense, a colophon provides insight into techniques.

Another invention from the Middle Ages that Neoteric Design has placed into the spotlight is apprenticeship. This is a spin on internship, but not a superficial one. That the apprentice documents the experience is a concrete sign that training is done in a thoughtful and organized manner, like the relationship of a master craftsperson to a pupil. Rigorously conducted, an apprenticeship informs and shapes aspiration.

It’s refreshing to see certain practices—with old roots—become revived with relevance. Colophons and apprenticeships insert a welcomed wonder of the romantic into our modern world.

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(1) To be more exact, Neoteric Design describes their approach to web design and development as “craft-driven,” another contemporary ode to the romantic.

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This blog post was lovingly written using Basecamp’s (formerly 37signals) Writeboards.

Never stop making

Photograph by mstephens7 at Flickr under a Creative Commons license

Pablo Picasso, 25.10.1881–8.4.1973

For the second time, I saw “Picasso and Chicago” at The Art Institute of Chicago(1). I returned to take in the second half of the exhibition. More than 250 objects—drawings, paintings, prints, sculpture—were displayed. This is but a portion of Picasso’s immense portfolio of artistic works. The show was organized in historical phases: Picasso’s Blue Period, Red Period, War (Spanish Civil War, World War I, World War II), through to his latter years. In each phase, including the spaces in between, Picasso kept exploring his creativity, regardless which context was placed upon him.

The insistence to keep making is absolutely necessary. Because there’s movement in making. It offers comfort and represents empowerment. Restlessness is a rash.

I sense that Picasso found refuge in the movements of painting, sculpture, printmaking and ceramics, even drawing with light.

Roger Ebert, 6/18/1942–4/4/2013


Photograph by Chicago Man at Flickr under a Creative Commons license

The day before I returned to the “Picasso and Chicago” exhibit, film critic Roger Ebert passed away. At a high level, his own personal phases were Newspaper, TV, Internet, Cancer. His official website, which was redesigned, features:

• 5,500+ movie reviews
• 700+ essays, interviews, and film festival articles
• 2,300+ Answer Man questions and answers
• 600+ Ebert’s Little Movie Glossary entries
• 400+ Critical Debates

These impressive stats are only through 2004(2). Until the end of his enduring fight with cancer, Ebert kept publishing film reviews, his last one done for “To the Wonder”, in addition to essays, collections, interviews, profiles, and more. In the introduction to a commemorative article called “Roger Ebert: More Than A Thumbs-Up, Thumbs-Down Guy” by Kenneth Turan, one fact stood out the most: “he never stopped writing.” In each phase, he kept making, no matter what context was set upon him.

With Ebert, I feel that he found refuge in the movements of cinema, journalism, blogging and tweeting.



More than their respective disciplines, Ebert and Picasso strived to pursue their art. Times changed. Though they moved from place to place, from situation to situation, they remained stubbornly dedicated to their art. Self-fulfillment demands practice. They persisted to serve themselves as a basis to keep drawing, to keep painting, to keep writing—to never stop making.

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(1) February 20, 2013–Sunday, May 12, 2013
(2) Stats from former version of RogerEbert.com

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Typeface of quote is Akzidenz Grotesk, originally released by the Berthold Type Foundry in 1896.

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This blog post was lovingly made with Editorially.

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