Proxart is getting ready to go through quite a massive transition—our way of conducting business is changing, our mission and vision are changing, and, to make sure everybody knows it, we’re completely re-branding.

Read all about it, and get a look at the re-design here.

As an adult, anything could be right. You have unlimited options.

And that is what’s disorienting; having unlimited options for detergent, for chicken, for wine, for your spouse, for your career. Thing is, maybe only a few of those inexhaustible options are good for you and/or worth your time.

But you have to sift through many of the options available to you before you make an informed decision. So you’re forced to trudge along through endless scents of soap, and many undrinkable-to-you pinot noirs before you realize that, maybe, you should just pick a career in something you enjoy. You should drink wine that you like regardless of its rating, and wash your clothes in detergent that you are keen on smelling (who cares if anybody else likes that you always smell like lavender?). You should stay close to good friends, and not worry about the others.

It’s true: You can be anything you want to be. But you can’t be everything you want to be. And not everything you want, or want to be, is right.

The digital age does remove us from the tactile work, the more hands on. And I think there is a longing in our soul to get back to that. Even if we can’t, there’s something about these places that people want to occupy.

Have you ever thought about the weight of a few words? If this mini-documentary is any indication—Mr. Paul Collier (of Plymouth University) has. Every day. From the time he wakes up and polishes his moveable type, to the time he cleans them (again) before closing up shop.

There is so much to be learned. And so much that, though it has been learned, won’t be valuable in 50 years. That’s because creating value takes time—both in creation, and appreciation. And if something isn’t being valued as it’s being created—if you’re not willing to do the work, respect and love the process—then chances are it won’t be valued as an individual piece years from now either.

Which is why things like (1) this blog, (2) anything that falls under the category of “social media,” and (3) much of the design work I’ve done over the last few years are semi-alarming. They’re not sustainable. I’m fairly certain that few people in “The Future” are going to check out my blog, and wade through all the shitty content to find the good stuff.

Which means the benefit to having a full, printed, carefully thought out portfolio (of any kind of work) is that it becomes an artifact. It’s something that becomes valuable based on how many (or how few) copies are available, how much time was put into the process of creating (and narrowing down, and selecting) its contents.

At this point, even though I own an iPad, an iPhone, and a MacBook Pro, other than the device itself, I can’t say that any of the content on it is something I’m going to—or even going to be able to—”pass down” to the next generation.

I guess we’ll just have to hope my SEO is well thought out? Or something.

As a business tool, design is coming into its own. Organizations are realizing the power of design as a tool for connecting, visually and emotionally, with audiences and customers. The effect of design can take many forms: the awareness of a new product or service, recognition of a trusted brand, or a new understanding of an old brand. The designer’s role is critical to the success of these activities, and appropriate preparation and management of the design process is essential for success.

As corporate identity guru Wally Olins says, “Design is a business tool that makes a strategy visible.”

Or, as Steve Jobs said, “Design is not just what it looks like and feels like. Design is how it works.”

Concise (120 pages, in print), informative, exhaustive, and potent, this book needs no commentary. So, instead of giving you my thoughts on the book, I’m just going to give you my three favorite quotes¹:

When you act out of fear, your fears come true. Fears about art making fall into two families: fears about yourself, and fears about others. In a general way, fears about yourself prevent you from doing your best work, while fears about your reception by others prevent you from doing your own work. [p. 23]

At any point along that path, your job as an artist is to push craft to its limits—without being trapped by it. The trap is perfection: unless your work continually generates new and unresolved issue, there’s no reason for your next work to be any different from the last. The difference between art and craft list not in the tools you hold in your hands, but in the mental set that guides them. For the artisan, craft is an end in itself. For you, the artist, craft is the vehicle for expressing your vision. Craft is the visible edge of art. [p. 99]

Many people first respond deeply to art—indeed, respond deeply to the world—upon finding works of art that seem to speak directly to them. Small surprise, then, if upon setting out to make art themselves, they begin by emulating the art or artist that brought this revelation. Beethoven’s early compositions, for instance, show the unmistakable influence of his teacher, Franz Joseph Haydn. Most early work, in fact, only hints at the themes and gestures that will—if the potential isn’t squandered—emerge as the artist’s characteristic signature in later, mature work. At the outset, however, chances are that whatever theme and technique attract you, someone has already experimented in the same direction. This is unavoidable: making any art piece inevitably engages the larger themes and basic techniques that artists have used for centuries. Finding your own work is a process of distilling from each of those traces that ring true to your own spirit. [p. 103]

I would assume that, for the authors, this book was a work of both art and fear, itself; it’s obvious. But what strikes me about this book—and what has always struck me about art—is that it is such an accurate metaphor for life.

To reinforce what I’m saying, I’ll run back over the major themes from those three quotes, and add “life” to each summary:

1. Fear is paralyzing, in life and in art-making.
2. There is simultaneously a huge difference, and a fine line, between “perfection” (craft) and never being satisfied (art), in life and in art-making.
3. What you produce reflects how you react to your surroundings, in life and in art-making.

Now, excuse me while I order some Field Notes.

You can read the full article for yourself here, but I’ll walk you through a couple paragraphs to show you where I’m coming from:

The idea of design seems clinical these days. Pixel perfect design, perfectly executed corners, color-schemes that are pleasing to a majority of users. Should we be confining our lives and ideas into rigid modules, rules, guides and columns?

Is design clinical these days? Yes. I think it is. And I think it is for a reason. We live in a pretty messy world, and the design industry’s job is to help it make sense. Dieter Rams said, “Good design is as little design as possible,” and, I would guess, he said that because fewer options help make a potentially complex situation easier to understand. And helping people understand complex situations is the job of the designer.

When I think about the idea of design versus the idea of art, I have two completely different emotional reactions. When I think of art I think of expression. When I think of design, I think about perfection. Perhaps we need to stop worrying about perfection and worry about expressing ourselves fully through our work?

So now we’re not talking about “design” anymore. We’re talking about “art.” Art pushes boundaries, yes. And design is an “art,” yes. But, again, design’s goal is to help common people identify boundaries in the simplest way possible. Which is why, when Bobby says he thinks of expression when he thinks of art, and when he thinks of design he thinks of perfection, it makes sense. Because art is about expression, and design is about perfection.

Maybe we need to start making art again?

Bingo. It’s possible that I’m misunderstanding his article entirely, but I don’t think the answer is to stop looking for perfection in your design, if you’re a designer. I think the answer is to simply make more design/art for yourself. But he goes on:

Maybe we stop worrying about creating the one, perfect product that everyone in the world can love and do something that creates a truly emotional response in people?

So the MacBook Air, the new Nest Thermostat, or some other staple of the “perfect product” design world didn’t create an emotional response in people? Maybe I’m missing something?

Here’s what I think we need, my self very much being included in this idea. I think we need to fuck shit up. We need to make things that are uncomfortable to look at. We need to piss people off. We need to do things that seem fucked up and weird, that make no sense, that will be never be perfect and were never meant to be so. We need not explain ourselves or ask for forgiveness. We need to change this fucked up status quo of borrowing from the past and start thinking about our future. You and I both do it, we know we do.

The future has been a big topic of conversation lately. Whether it’s coming from The Founder’s Fund and Peter Thiel, or President Obama himself, the world is trying to fix its eyes, collectively, on whatever happens to be next. And making the future requires art, because art pushes boundaries and shifts paradigms. But that doesn’t mean that once those artists have created “fucked up shit” that we won’t need somebody like Dieter Rams to design it and package it so that the rest of the world can understand it. Because if art, no matter how revolutionary, is being ignored because of it’s complexity, then it’s not really “chang[ing] this fucked up status quo,” is it?

So, yes, I agree with Bobby when he says that we need to create more “art.” We do need people creating complex, hard-to-understand works that require viewers to go well below surface level thinking. But I disagree when he asserts that creating “art” means you have to do less “design.” The artistry of design is that, when it’s good, it helps make things easy to understand.

Pushing — and sometimes outright ignoring — boundaries is part of what makes you an artist. Trying to make sense of the world and achieve “perfection” in your designs makes you a designer.

We need more senseless art and more sensitive design at the same time, if we actually want to help push the world into the future.

In practice, [advocacy on behalf of a community] means identifying what your community needs to prosper, and either providing that directly or advocating for its provisioning. There are many ways to do this. You can lobby for changes the community needs (e.g., by publishing content illustrating those needs and defining how change should happen); you can facilitate discussions (e.g., by hosting and supporting safe, productive forums); you can challenge the status quo (e.g., by bringing in ideas from outside the community and fostering discussion); and so on. It means acknowledging that your content is a means to an end, and making sure the ends are good ones.

It also means making hard choices, because advocacy isn’t always in the interest of your business. Especially in today’s SEO and ad-laden world, publishing only that which serves your community is unlikely to be the fastest way to a dollar. Content that is superficially sensational or contrary (but actively harmful) can bring more pageviews; while content that smartly challenges the ideas or values of a community (i.e., encourages rigor) can draw ire. You have to be able to look past the short-term risks to see what years of trust and support are worth.

— “Represent,” by Mandy Brown, on A Working Library.

Publishing is no longer just a two-way street with a few highly-regarded publishers leaving everyone else categorized as a reader. Nowadays (and this is technically old news, I know), everybody is a “publisher,” in the same way that ubiquitous, easy-to-use, point and shoot cameras made everybody a “photographer” in the early 2000s.

Going forward though, what separates a real (capital-P) Publisher from an I-Just-Got-This-Wordpress-Blog-And-I’m-Going-To-Write-About-My-Feelings “publisher,” is (1) relevance, quality, and originality of thought, and (2) communal advocacy. And, as Mandy points out in her blog, writing superficial content just to bring yourself more pageviews isn’t always the best way to do that. Unless, of course, you’re only interested in pageviews.

For him, breakfast was served sometime around 3pm, dinner around 12am, and the street our condo was on promptly turned into a night club (population: 1) right around 1:30am. He was a 30 year old, once-hip-hop suburban kid that moved out, got a job in the movie industry, and then moved back in with his parents. Most of the noize was related to the fact that he was 30, required a certain amount of freedom that he couldn’t afford so, instead of taking out his aggression in clubs downtown, he took it out on his parents and neighbors.

Amanda and I’s peaceful beginning as a newlywed couple had begun. Only. Not so much.

02
I had been living in the condo with a roommate for at least three months before we got married. I knew Beez-y fairly well and he meant no harm. In fact, he seemed quite loyal, always asking if he could help me with This or That, or if I wanted to come over and watch The Game. I had to explain to him on more than a few occasions that I’m not really one to watch The Sports. But he knew I was young, probably bored, and potentially broke, so I appreciated his invitations.

I don’t think I once took him up on an offer, though, preferring instead to sit inside and work on Proxart, or write.

Regardless, I was included in on his night-time garage raves; whether I wanted to be or not. And we were generally cordial.

03
A few weeks after Amanda and I got home from our honeymoon, I found a note on our door upon returning from a morning run. The note said that the condo we were renting had been put up for auction, and bought. The new owner wanted us out within sixty days, and he had a laundry list of other demands that we had to meet as well in order to stay for even that long.

One day soon after while I was outside, Beez came up to me and told me that he saw the note on the door, and that he was sorry. He also said that he would gladly put glue in the keyhole of the door after we moved out. I thanked him for his creativity, and told him that I was sure we wouldn’t meet anyone else like him, no matter where we moved.

We haven’t.

04
Now we live across town, in a much smaller apartment, a one bedroom.

Gone is my home office, replaced by a couple couches and a lack of productivity. I have to get out of the house for that. Gone are the unruly neighbors. In fact, the neighbors one floor below us seem to think that we’re the unruly ones. Apparently Bob Dylan and laughing are a bit too much.

When I walk past the neighbors at our new place, instead of getting a look of awkward knowing like we did at the condo, I get a look of awkward unknowing. None of us have ever met, shaken hands, or traded Christmas cookies. The complex doesn’t seem to really lend itself to that.

05
One day this year, while grocery shopping, I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned around to see Beez-y looking Beezier than ever, wearing his signature running shorts, knee-high white socks, sandals, a tank top and missing his two front teeth again². Being that we, mostly, saw one another at night and he was, usually, already slightly drunk, I was surprised he remembered me at all.

Still, he felt the need to let me know that things were still off the hiz-ook up on Plum Canyon, and that they missed seeing Amanda and I around, even if we didn’t talk much. I told him we missed them too. That, at our new place, we hadn’t even met our neighbors, and it probably had to do with the fact that they weren’t the type to throw midnight parties. We both laughed, and I told him that, hopefully, I’d see him around.

Before I left, though, I just had to ask… And, yes, he had glued the door’s keyhole shut. Apparently they had to remove the door and replace it entirely.

Good neighbors are hard to find.

¹Slang for “female dog.” It was a word he used often.
²The missing teeth was an on-again, off-again thing. Sometimes he’d have all of his teeth on Monday, and they’d be gone again on Wednesday. Strangest thing.

…For me at least, Facebook has never been much more than a place to see (1) what the stupidest video my friends can find is¹, (2) who can say the most ignorant and/or inflammatory thing possible, and (3) what I can get away with saying without offending my mom. Not much real storytelling going on there.

In contrast, Twitter has proved to be a much better communal outlet for me but, still, 140 characters isn’t enough to tell a full story. And nobody likes the guy that tweets every 30-seconds².

Enter Jonathan Harris.

An acclaimed digital artist — most well known for his interactive work, like this recent collaboration with the Sputnik Observatory in New York — Harris will be the first to tell you about his appreciation for technology. But only insofar as technology continues to effectively interact with humanity. In fact the header copy on his personal website explicitly says, “I believe in technology, but I think we need to make it more human.”

Noticing an obvious disconnect between the many “social” options presented to us in the 21st century, and our still unquenched desire to be a part of something bigger than “liking” a LOLCAT, Harris was determined to highlight a new form of storytelling through the technology that is, now, available to us all.

His platform for doing so is, strangely, called Cowbird.

“Cowbird: A Mosaic of Perspective,” on Proxart.