The Typographer

On Friday, I visited Melbourne typographer Stephen Banham. Stephen became of interest to me when I agreed last week to research and write an article about signs and "signage" for Design Quarterly, a regular client of mine. His studio, Letterbox, is conveniently close, just a few blocks east of me on Sydney Road, on the first floor of the Hardwick Building, and gave me the chance for a face-to-face interview without having to spend an hour on the tram.

Banham's new book.

Stephen has written several books about typography and, having grown up here, possesses deep institutional knowledge of the signs of Melbourne. A few days earlier, I'd requested a review copy of his new book, Characters: Cultural Stories Revealed Through Typography, and I managed to thumb through just a few pages of it prior to our meeting. It reveals some of the hidden narrative facets of the signs-- the most public medium for typography-- found throughout Melbourne. It's a neat premise, and one that I suspect will keep me from passing this book on to someone else, as I've done with so many other review copies.
For my article, I wanted to get Stephen's take on some of the trends in sign design-- the transition from static to interactive electronic signage, for example, and what's driving it. I had already spoken a couple of days earlier with a representative of Diadem, a large "brand delivery" company that designs and produces signs of various types for some big clients like BMW, ANZ and Tullamarine Airport. My goal with Stephen was to get a more detached perspective, and perhaps some better-informed and less self-conscious quotations.

The Chinese take-away building on Victoria Street.

I suppose I got all of that-- I haven't listened to the recording I made of our conversation. But I was a little distracted by the fact that Stephen and I both live in Brunswick, a neighbourhood rife with typography and signs of all kinds, much of which is left over from the 60s and 70s, and many examples of which I've grown fond of. Here, at last, was an opportunity for me to exchange some favourites with someone who could appreciate what I was talking about.
Immediately, though, I felt like I'd become the character Chris Farley played on Saturday Night Live's recurring sketch "The Chris Farley Show" during which, in his struggle to come up with an insightful question for actor Jeff Daniels, for example, he recalled a moment in one of Daniels' movies and asked, "Do you remember that?" Daniels smiled politely and answered, "Yes." With nowhere to go, Farley's reply was merely, "Um, that was awesome." There was nothing in the way of typography I could help Stephen discover about Brunswick-- not even the Chinese take-away building on Victoria Street...two blocks from his studio. He knew it all, and smiled politely.

The Inscription

When I returned from my workout this afternoon, the mailbox was overflowing. One parcel in particular caught my attention-- a large white envelope sent from the United States. My heart skipped a beat.

Wow.

I tore open the package to reveal what I'd requested only four weeks ago: a glossy, black-and-white photograph of the castaways from Gilligan's Island, inscribed to me by my favourite of the bunch, professor Roy Hinkley (Russell Johnson).

Mr. Johnson lives on Bainbridge Island, near Seattle. Having done some research on the Internet, I'd learned that he would sign photographs, provided his fans provided them, along with a return envelope with the required postage. I found an image on eBay I liked, bought it, and carefully assembled the package, including a brief, heartfelt letter to Mr. Johnson explaining how much I'd enjoyed his work on "Gilligan's Island". Not wanting to sound mawkish, I had three family members read the note to make sure it passed the "puke test"-- all safe there.

By all accounts I've read, Mr. Johnson is a swell guy-- even a war hero and a volunteer for AIDS research fundraising. To me, of course, he's a smart comic actor and a living reminder of some very pleasant childhood memories.

The inscription to me was a bonus; I didn't assume he'd personalise the photo. I'm delighted.

The Note

Last night, when we arrived home after attending a book launch party for a friend of ours, I found this note tucked inside our mailbox.  Let's see what I can make of this...

To the writer: 

First: Gee, pretty poisonous stuff. I suspect you're the creepy drunk who lives upstairs at the bar on the corner-- the blotchy-faced inebriate who once staggered to our front door at 10pm to complain that Harry was barking, even though he was next to us, asleep on the couch. But of course I can't be sure, because you were shrewd enough not to sign your name. Instead, you cleverly attributed it's authoring to the entire neighbourhood. ZING! Point scored! I'm staggering in fuming disbelief. [At whom, confound it, should I direct my outrage at receipt of this impertinent memorandum?!!? ]

Second, let me congratulate you on not misspelling anything. These kinds of alcohol-induced primal screams are usually penned by folks who couldn't parse the letters of their own names if their lives depended on it. You're one up on them. (Of course, you didn't spell your name, either.)

Third, Harry was in the back yard for about three hours unsupervised-- a rare occasion. Occasionally, he'll emit the velvety, languid sort of bark that just lets you know a dog is present; no teeth, no foam, no threat, no urgency at all. Far from it. The only thing that Harry views as urgent is his dinner, and he's smart enough to know that you don't have it. But boy, I hear you; incessant barking can be really annoying-- like the constant, frantic yapping of the terrier from the house across the street. That dog just doesn't quit, does he? In fact, he's barking right now. Day and night, he's yelling his head off. I know the world looks and sounds fuzzy to you, but perhaps you should pop a couple of aspirins, turn your attention to the house 90 degrees to your left and leave your notes in that mailbox. You might get more bang for your buck, and the hangovers will hurt less.

Sincerely,

Get Bent

The Mailbox

In yesterday's post I mentioned my leaky mailbox (see "The Postcard Files: Dessau"), a tinny piece of crap that had allowed rain to saturate the nifty homemade postcard I'd received from friends in Germany. The ink on the card had softened and run a bit, creating an acidic watercolour effect. With most parcels, however, the results are a lot less aesthetically pleasing.

The mailbox from hell.

This mailbox ruins mail.  Actually, it's more like a small compost bin.  Mail goes in, garbage comes out. It does virtually nothing to provide shelter for its contents, with the exception of cockroaches and snails, who think it's a cozy pied-à-terre; open the lid at the wrong time, and it's a horn of plenty.

Most of what's deposited in it each day is stuff we don't care about-- weekly sale notices for the grocery store, a promotional flyer for a new Indian restaurant, or the utterly recyclable Moreland Leader community newspaper (which appears whether you want it, or not). The New Yorker, which I do care about, arrives in a plastic bag, which usually sheds water, unless there's a downpour. Half the time, though, the good but unprotected mail gets soaked, and has a zig-zag snail trail or roach poop stuck to it.

Forensic examination would reveal a base layer of paper in there-- a worthless, soggy, moulding stratum of pizza take-away menus-- from as far back as two years ago. No one has scooped it out for fear of what might be living beneath it. When I reach in to pull out a letter, half the time I expect something to pull back.

The Postcard Files: Dessau

I nearly broke my ankle performing this. (Photos by Kolja Harms)

This one has been on the refrigerator for months because I like it so much. I was in Hamburg, Germany in April of 2010, visiting my friends Kolja Harms, Alexandra Merten and Gerald Kappelmann. All three are architects. When I'm in town, it's our habit to make a field trip together to some place of architectural significance. In 2007, it had been Prora, the Nazi holiday resort on the island of Rügen. This time, it was the Bauhaus in Dessau, a Mecca for devotees of Walter Gropius and modern design.

Alexandra had made arrangements for all of us to spend two nights in the dormitory tower, giving us ample time (or so we thought) to explore the campus and surrounding town. On our first morning, after breakfast, Kolja and I circled the main building. A handsome but sinister railing bounds the grass here; it runs low to the ground, nearly invisible, like a series of staples holding the turf in place. It's perfectly engineered to trip and wrench the ankles of careless visitors. So Kolja took pictures while I demonstrated how not to approach the Bauhaus. He sent the series of photos to me months later on this homemade postcard, which got wet in my leaky mailbox before I could retrieve it.

The New Arrival

GI Joe's photo op with Barbie gets silly.

It was a red-letter day for Joe, Greg and Skip. Disappointed about not being able to keep the model I'd borrowed for my story (see "The Desk"), they'd been occupying themselves by being wise guys and making a general mess of my desk; dismantling my stapler, playing "52 pick-up" with my Rolodex, and cutting up my pencils for lumber to build a hutch for the dust bunnies lying around. Well, they cheered up considerably when she appeared.

At first, they were content to watch eagerly from the sidelines as I took a few shots of Barbie in her display box. Then Joe (a little star-struck, I guess) insisted I take a few pictures of him standing next to her. I agreed, but before I could get things set up Joe had pulled off the box lid and crawled inside, wedging himself beside her. And once Joe had his turn, Skip and Greg had to have theirs, too. At that point, it pretty much became a competition to see how many of them could cram themselves into the frame at once. Barbie was the consummate professional, not letting on at all that this was physically uncomfortable, and more than a bit ridiculous. Actually, it was almost eerie how she never once lost her poise. I just assumed she was accustomed to that kind of attention.

Then she explained. She's a reproduction of Barbie in 1964 (as advertised in the upper right-hand corner of the package), which was the very same year GI Joe made his debut. The guys just wanted to reminisce, and she didn't want to spoil it for them. Welcome aboard, Barbie.

The Desk

Damien Wright's model of "Harry's Desk".

Greg places the objet d'art just so.

For the last couple of weeks, I've been working on a story exploring the role of sketching in the process of design. The editor was eager for me to include a discussion of the work of at least a couple of Australians, and I decided to collect some remarks from my friend Damien Wright, a craftsman who makes furniture from native Australian wood. Damien draws a lot of working sketches, but he gets more mileage from the scale models he builds. The other night, he dropped off one of those models with a couple of his sketchbooks for me to look over, to see what might be useful in illustrating the article. I took a few shots of the tiny desk using my tabletop cyc. He calls this one "Harry's Desk."

Inspecting the joinery.

I refused to caption this one.

I took a short break for lunch, and by the time I came back, Joe and Greg had discovered the desk and decided they wanted to keep it for their office. It's a little small, but they complained they don't have anything to write on at the moment, and they thought their Hovitos idol (a trophy from a mission to Peru) looked good on it. I explained they could borrow it for a few days, but that Damien is getting it back. Thus ensued some further inspection and horsing around, until I'd had enough and put the model away.