A zine called 'Clinic' that I did for my poet friends at Goldsmiths. The name was one that Sam, Parkes and Rachael came up with because they had nothing in common except that they all went to the clinic on the day they decided to make a poetry collective.
Obviously, the word clinic instantly flashes up images of white walls, machines and sanitation, so i felt this should be mimicked in the layout and presentation of the zine. Black text on stark white background is, obviously, ubiquitous but we agreed it suited the message of the zine best. I created a couple of small collages to balance out the double spreads and went about printing of a couple of copies at home.
Hugh and I signed up to the Letterpress course a couple of weeks before Christmas. We finally got our chance to get all typosexual last week, and it was amazing. A time-consuming process, but one that instigates a high level of precision and and eye for composition.
Not the most exciting project you have ever had to look at, but a landmark in learning for both of us. We had to, in groups of three, come up with a phrase that included a number and then create a copy (a hand-drawn layout) which we then proofed and pasted. We chose purple to represent gluttony, whilst the italicised text inside the diamond provided a dynamic contrast to the bulbous numbers.
On the left is the proof, on which we printed our first runs and debated any compositional alterations. I feel this provides a dynamic contrast to the finished print, right.
In the event I choose the Typographics pathway, I would but complain if I could do this everyday.
ATM Etiquette Manifesto.
The project is now over. After labouring over an idea that I never truly believed in, I summoned a final poster declaring my evangelist take on queue interaction. Visually, I'm not convinced that it does the trick, but my aim was to keep things rather simple and informative.
Here are some photos from around London. I put them up in several different locations over the weekend.
My most recent project involves creating a manifesto; humorous or seirous, local or global, idealistic, evangelistic, succinct or detailed.
I decided that I was going to focus on the queueing system and my loathing for it, but after further consideration I came across the realisation that abolishing order in establishments such as banks and supermarkets would be ridiculous and quite obviously detrimental to the whole consumer society.
So instead I hooked onto the idea of promoting queueing and embracing the conversational opportunities on offer when standing with strangers.
WeHateYouYouHateUs.
An article I wrote for my friend's zine about my holiday in Suffolk.
If there is one qualm I had, and still have, about Suffolk, it would have to be that it is full of inbreds. It's a shame really, because it's a beautiful place full of enthralling Georgian architecture and cute topsy-turvy cottages that belong to celebrities' mums who have spent their mature years sponging off their Z-list offspring in an attempt to fill their monotonous lives with other people's, and pretend they are the most proud person on earth, when actually they couldn't give a flying fart if they got run down by a bus then raped by a flock of geese and had their remains exhibited in the Horniman Museum.
But the fact of the matter is that a large proportion of the population of the county often find it tricky to distinguish between family members. Everyone's eyes are too close together and a large majority of men appear to wear those retarded orthopedic shoes where it looks like they've gaffataped a slab of cheese to the bottom of one of them. And I swear they must brush their teeth with garlic paste because any time I approached a townsperson to ask for directions or a lighter, I suddenly felt on the cusp of vomiting all over their wanky, lopsided shoes. I guess this, my friends, is the perfect reason for the charity shops being so fucking good. Hugh and i almost ejaculated; farmer shirts and waxed jackets galore, a plethora of animal jumpers, and even a good crowd of boat shoes and loafers.
The funny thing is that Suffolkers/ Suffuckers all dress as if they are taking the piss out of themselves. For instance, among the middle-aged fashion-conscious souls there is a running theme of 'Scout Camp'. The look comprises outdated England football shirts with make-your-fucking-mind-up three quarter lengths and studiously stretched tennis socks. Like, it wouldn't surprise you if they all started playing 'crab football' or tying reefknots in eachothers trouser cords. The trend is usually rounded off by brand spanking Hi-Techs, which, by the way, are categorically not acceptable in any context, unless you're a 40 year old sports teacher making minors running around the school hall in their skimpies, which is still pretty disturbing.
As the saying goes, hate is a strong word. But what do I care, they shouldn't be so fucking backwards.
If there is one qualm I had, and still have, about Suffolk, it would have to be that it is full of inbreds. It's a shame really, because it's a beautiful place full of enthralling Georgian architecture and cute topsy-turvy cottages that belong to celebrities' mums who have spent their mature years sponging off their Z-list offspring in an attempt to fill their monotonous lives with other people's, and pretend they are the most proud person on earth, when actually they couldn't give a flying fart if they got run down by a bus then raped by a flock of geese and had their remains exhibited in the Horniman Museum.
But the fact of the matter is that a large proportion of the population of the county often find it tricky to distinguish between family members. Everyone's eyes are too close together and a large majority of men appear to wear those retarded orthopedic shoes where it looks like they've gaffataped a slab of cheese to the bottom of one of them. And I swear they must brush their teeth with garlic paste because any time I approached a townsperson to ask for directions or a lighter, I suddenly felt on the cusp of vomiting all over their wanky, lopsided shoes. I guess this, my friends, is the perfect reason for the charity shops being so fucking good. Hugh and i almost ejaculated; farmer shirts and waxed jackets galore, a plethora of animal jumpers, and even a good crowd of boat shoes and loafers.
The funny thing is that Suffolkers/ Suffuckers all dress as if they are taking the piss out of themselves. For instance, among the middle-aged fashion-conscious souls there is a running theme of 'Scout Camp'. The look comprises outdated England football shirts with make-your-fucking-mind-up three quarter lengths and studiously stretched tennis socks. Like, it wouldn't surprise you if they all started playing 'crab football' or tying reefknots in eachothers trouser cords. The trend is usually rounded off by brand spanking Hi-Techs, which, by the way, are categorically not acceptable in any context, unless you're a 40 year old sports teacher making minors running around the school hall in their skimpies, which is still pretty disturbing.
As the saying goes, hate is a strong word. But what do I care, they shouldn't be so fucking backwards.
Hugh and I made this font over the summer, based around an idea we had for a website, stemming from origami. I found a game called mosaic in a charity shop, which consists of little coloured wooden triangles and parallelograms.
We just made the letters on some paper then photographed them. It needs a few finishing touches, and we need to put it on Illustrator, so we can look at giving it away on font sites. I really like the contrast in naive primary colours and the harsh, robotic shapes.
We just made the letters on some paper then photographed them. It needs a few finishing touches, and we need to put it on Illustrator, so we can look at giving it away on font sites. I really like the contrast in naive primary colours and the harsh, robotic shapes.
