Everything’s turned cold:
Beer left by the back window
turns solid by dawn.
Everything’s turned cold:
Everything’s turned cold:
Beer left by the back window
turns solid by dawn.
He acquired “a natural understanding that everything here” — highways, bridges, Toyotas — “is made, and is the consequence of multiple decisions.”
This quote from the massive New Yorker profile of Jony Ive and the Apple design team confirms something I already knew about him because it’s something I’ve come to recognize in every designer I admire: acting upon the knowledge that everything touched by people is designed. I’d like to think game recognize game, as it were.
I’ve long held that this mindset is a prerequisite for being a professional designer. After reading this profile, I’m thinking about it as perhaps the primary criterion through which I filter designers.
Were I to interview a junior designer for a job, I’d ask them to talk about how they chose colors, typefaces, and materials.
If I were going to interview a senior designer, I’d ask them to talk about how the colors, typefaces, and materials they chose affected the usability and functionality of the product.
If I were going to interview a design leader, I’d ask them to talk about every decision they’ve made today and their consequences.
Also: my favorite quote about Ive from this profile is from Laurene Powell Jobs: “Really, if you ever need buttons for things designed, for doors or lights, you should just stay in touch with him.”
I have been told I have a great name. A superhero name. Alliterative.
As I get older, I think more and more that my name was one of the best choices my parents made on my behalf.
Some people like to call me by my name, and some people prefer to call me other things. I have some thoughts on a lot of them.
This is my full given name. It’s what I like to be called, so when people ask if I have a preference, I say, “Call me Matthew.” Most people call me Matthew.
It used to be I went by Matt, and then I began introducing myself as Matthew though I had no preference whether people called me Matthew or Matt.
One morning in DC, a neighbor asked which I preferred and so I answered I had no preference. Still, she insisted I come down on one side or the other. I’ve preferred Matthew since.
Old friends still call me Matt because they’ve always called me Matt. New friends sometimes prefer to call me Matt too, and that’s okay.
I mostly don’t feel like someone whose name begins and ends in a hard syllable. Rather I’d think I’ve cultivated a measure of civility to end my name in a long vowel, its echo not an arpeggio of clicks but the multi-tracked hum of a long vowel held.
When I was younger, some people called me this because I was either precocious or pretentious in their view.
Recently, it seems to be in vogue among those who find my bearing professorial.
Service workers also address me as this but I’m quick to let them know they can address me by my first name. Still, they tend to persist in calling me Mr. Marco.
A surprisingly high number of people in my life have called me big guy, even when I wasn’t all that fat or tall. Mostly it seemed like a replacement for “hey you” with a derisive comment about my body thrown in for good measure. I don’t like being called “big guy.”
I was a TA for a photojournalism class when I was a senior in high school and the mostly younger students took to calling me this – the first part presumably for my mentor-like status, the second part for my size.
I’ve been called a lot of fat-shaming names in my life, but this is the only one that became my official (and unwanted) mode of address. I don’t care for this name.
M and M
Really? Really. And no.
Among the three, “dude.” Yes, this is a real preference. Largely for the same reason I have issues with the distinction between “hood” and “nabe” as abbreviations of “neighborhood,” and also for my feelings about sibling relationships.
I think part of the reason I maintain my professorial bearing is so people aren’t tempted to address me with any of these terms.
I’m not very close with my younger relatives in the Philippines so I’m not addressed by either of these titles very often. Even when I am in touch, it’s rare that I’m addressed by younger cousins as kuya, which would probably be my title had I never immigrated. I like them though, even if they are usually paired with “Matt.”
Between dude/bro/bruh and pare, pare wins. If a panhandler in the States asked for money and addressed me as pare, I’d throw some change his way.
I’m generally okay with any direct translation of my first name into another language.
These are a few nicknames still employed by just one person I know. All these assignations seemed to be organic and affectionate. If I called any one of these people they’d enthusiastically greet me with their very own salutation. I’d be surprised if anyone other than their originators addressed me with them, but I’m good with them.
Old Filipino nickname. Still in use by my parents and relatives.
When we first immigrated and I was eager to shed my otherness among my young American peers, I asked my parents to stop using this. Then I got older and I realized how much of my culture I willed out of myself out of this impulse to conform and assimilate. And this Filipino nickname was among the casualties I could still reclaim.
I get a little nostalgic when I receive correspondence addressed to Mawy.
I never played Marco Polo but I know that exists as a game because I am subject to cries from it pretty regularly. I only know the rules of the game from Wikipedia and some people still think it’s funny to affect the intonation of Marco associated with that game when addressing me. I don’t.
Alternately, some people have called me Marco because for some reason they thought I deserved a better name than Matthew. Which I’ve taken to interpret as “we think your inconspicuous given name is unsuitable for you therefore we’re going to address you by your more exotic-sounding last name that is also a given name in many countries.” And ew, no.
Don’t ever call me Marco.
Somewhat related: a pretty good article on the weird science of naming new products. As an occasional insider to the process, I find it deeply frustrating mostly because of the social interactions that take place in arguments of taste. However, if you’re an outsider, it’s worth reading to see how difficult a good name can be to conjure.
Today I learned that
Fritos are made of three things:
corn, corn oil, and salt.
Whenever I hear the words “grass-fed cheeseburger,” I imagine a cheeseburger, cooked, on a bun, topped with lettuce, tomato, and whatnot, being fed grass.
Kind of like this:
Yesterday I learned that an alternate name for a tallboy is a “pounder.” Which as far as I’m concerned is a brilliant (and rare) single-word double entendres.
My first interpretation was that a sixteen-ounce can of beer is an ideal format for “pounding,” or sport drinking. But it is a sixteen-ounce can.
A pounder weighs a pound!
Any Wire fan who looked at extrapolated art should consider themselves fortunate that David Simon became invested in the process of transferring the series to high-definition video. By considering the possibility of a strictly algorithm-based expansion of the frame and contrasting that to Simon’s shot-by-shot observations, it becomes clear that in art, the space beyond the edges of the frame can never really be determined by the contents of the frame.
They discussed Twinkies
and online encryption on
their very first date.
Panels and lectures
at the Democracy Lab
on “Hello Kitty.”
Photo credit: Julie
Totally into the Will Letter for Lunch ethos: “Whatever you want me to write is exactly what you’ll pay.”
It’s a good way to get I’d-never-eat-at-a-restaurant-with-a-menu-set-in-Comic-Sans types like me in the door, for one. For another, I happily support the application of hand-lettering in daily life.
While her work is not stylistically in my zone, I’m especially fond of the layout of “East Coast Oysters” she did for Docklands.
Last night, we attended a talk with Marjane Satrapi at NYPL Live. She said that when she was in San Francisco, she told a dirty joke that shifted into focus the American sense of humor. It went something like this:
A man looks in the mirror and sees he has a button on his forehead. Every day, the button gets longer and longer until finally he sees a doctor. He says to the doctor:
“What’s growing on my forehead?”
“It’s a penis.”
“Is there anything I can do about it?”
“Don’t worry about it. Soon enough, the balls will cover your eyes.”
She also made me feel I should read some Dostoyevsky.
we learn what is important
Christina and I watched this video about how David Fincher shoots his movies:
And so we got to talking and we looked up who edited Seven – Richard Francis-Bruce – and realized that he immediately followed that up with The Rock.
Which means that Richard Francis-Bruce’s editing bay went straight from a Fincher sampler to shots that all look like these:
What cognitive dissonance that must have been.
It boggles my mind that the official title of Seven in IMDB is “Se7en.” If you’re searching IMDB for “Seven,” you will not see a link to the movie Seven in the autosuggest features. Also, it implies the title is pronounced se-seven-en.
Adding lobster claws
to birds does not make me a
Inspired by Nikkitha
Grainy fragrance of
toasted sesame bagels
hits me as I pass.
I’ve been back stateside for ten days after a three-country, six-flight tour of Europe. Christina and I have seen the sun set on rivers in Lisbon and Paris; we’re sated like it’s our birthright.
When I reminisce about the trip, thoughts of Brussels humidity, Roquefort Carles, and ceramic tiles are accompanied as much by a palette of flavors as they are by clear, consistent melodies.
On our way to the gate, quotes from Icelandic writers were printed on circular windows, over views of the runways and hills in the far distance. Next to our gate, Björk. I took a picture of Christina with that window:
We were in Brussels only for Ky Vinh’s wedding, barely enough time to see the Grand Place at night and have a cone of frites from a stand near the tourist quarter (waffles and mussels next time).
At the reception, a table of Ky Vinh’s boorish old friends, matched in red satin ties, punctuated the evening with rowdy chants. Sometimes they cheered the Red Devils. Mostly, they just sang – with pronounced Belgian accents – the end of this song:
Tonight. Is gonna be. Your night! Everything is gonna be. All right!
It stuck in our heads. I kept thinking Heavy D. But he was sampling Kool and the Gang.
The temperature and humidity in Brussels that Saturday both reached the high 80s; the air conditioning in the dining room at Kasteel Gravenhof couldn’t cool the room of 150 guests. The reception capped a day that started at 7:30 am and comprised three ceremonies (Vietnamese, Belgian, and Filipino). I’d had a few drinks.
Christina and I retreated to our air-conditioned room upstairs in the castle after dinner, and we took naps while friends and family of the couple lauded them in French.
The next afternoon at the flat in Brussels – while everyone packed for Lisbon and recovered from the previous night’s revelry – Ky Vinh’s mother put a half-finished magnum of champagne back on ice. When the bottle cooled, she offered it around to us: Christina first. She accepted. I raised an eyebrow.
The wedding was followed by a trip with the newlyweds and two other couples to Lisbon for a “pre-honeymoon.” We shared an architect’s house.
On our first night in Lisbon, we barbecued. The kitchen was bare so we went to Pingo Doce immediately after landing to buy meats, batatas fritas, olive oil, charcoal briquets, red wine, Super Bock, and this unspeakably amazing condiment I’ve taken to calling Portuguese sriracha that apparently should only be used in small doses because it’s really salty but we didn’t heed this advice because we translated this page only after we got back to New York and sought out what the hell it was we bought that night and put several spoonfuls of on all our food.
Anyhow. We bought too much food.
On our last night in Lisbon, we aimed to finish as much of our leftovers as we could. Christina and I wrote our postcards in the living room.
We opened a bottle of red wine and ate large bowls of mango sorbet. I did laundry. Ky Vinh perused the CDs in the living room and found Getz/Gilberto. We played that album three times that night.
We spent 3 days in Paris. Booked an apartment in Montmartre, found a solid fromagerie and boulangerie on Rue des Abbesses a short walk away.
Compared Pierre Hermé and Ladurée macarons on the Champ du Mars. Bought books at Shakespeare & Company and had them stamped. Visited the catacombs.
Jonathan Richman songs played in the store. “I’m a Little Dinosaur” captured our attention immediately, but “That Summer Feeling” lingered for me.
At the shop, Christina bought me a book on radishes.
Afterwards, we tried to catch the Metro at Republique only to find it closed by the gendarmerie.
We wanted to get to Lafayette Gourmet. We walked through the Marais to another Metro station. In the diversion, we passed another half-dozen blocks we wanted to explore further if only we had another day (next time: perhaps a coffee at Slow Galerie, a pastry and caramels at Jacques Genin). With each footfall, we watched near-dusk light reflect on Lutetian limestone façades.
At Lafayette Gourmet, we bought pasalubong and supplies for our last dinner in Paris, a picnic on the Île de la Cité, on the bank of the Seine.
I can say with certainty I’ll remember that slice of four-cheese quiche. It was a slice of a quiche that was maybe a couple feet in diameter. We bought it at a counter at Lafayette Gourmet after exchanges of pidgin French and pidgin English and lots of euros.
When it was time to eat, the quiche was lukewarm. Our only utensil was a plastic fork we picked up with lunch at Monoprix earlier, so we took turns eating the quiche.
What I learned that night is that when the French say “four-cheese quiche,” they mean four fucking cheeses. (Also, they probably actually say “quiche aux quatre fromages.”) It’s possible that there were several smaller wheels of cheese in that massive, eggy disc. What chevres and gruyeres and comtés and whateverelses made that quiche their final resting place can take pride in their demise.
The quiche was too rich to finish there, so we took some of it back to New York. It was even better warm.
I learned how to design at design school. But I learned how to be a designer from Massimo Vignelli.
How to be a designer: what a massive assignation.
As Vignelli tributes (and links to his New York City subway map) clustered in my inbox this week, I’ve thought a lot about how I learned how to be a designer. I sometimes think I know how to be a designer because, like Bierut, I developed a taste for raw meat.
And as I reflect, I’m pretty sure I arrived at my present professional modus operandi through a non-repeatable formula of haphazardly undertaken coursework, a scarce bit of mentorship, and quite a lot of luck in choosing the things I’ve done repeatedly. Among the activities I’d consider directly responsible for my success, I’d include coding, Photoshop, and a lot of time articulating my (often un)solicited opinions about design and typography. Indirectly, I’m pretty sure my hobbies of cooking, looking at urban spaces, and finding dress shirts that fit led me to some of the same conclusions as Bierut about taste and the recognition of my own blind spots.
However much I consciously did not count Vignelli as a design influence (or a personal mentor), I have to acknowledge his stature in the field and credit him for forcing me as a young designer to respond and re-respond to his six-typeface standard. While I still disagree with such an arbitrary limit, my response has evolved over the last 10 years: whereas I was once appalled by its restrictiveness, I am now more appreciative of what it represents as a manifestation of a set of principles.
My hobbies are not unique among professionals in my field. I’d like to think they’ve helped me thrive in my field because of my approach to them, one informed by the six-typeface standard: I’ve learned to prioritize competence over novelty.
As for Vignelli’s principles: I’d recommend The Vignelli Canon to young designers, outsiders, and humans at-large. It’s written and designed with lots of heart (it’s also a quick read, available as a free PDF).
Its conclusion is also a fitting piece of text to quote this week. Printed on the last page of the book and set in Century Expanded, it feels like a poem:
Throughout our creative lives we have sifted
through everything to select what we thought best.
We sifted through materials to find those for which
we have the closest affinity. We sifted through
colors, textures, typefaces, images, and gradually
we built a vocabulary of materials and experiences
that enable us to express our solutions to given
problems – our interpretations of reality.
It is imperative to develop your own vocabulary of
your own language – a language that attempts to
be as objective as possible, knowing very well that
even objectivity is subjective.
I love systems and despise happenstance.
I love ambiguity because, for me, ambiguity means
plurality of meanings. I love contradiction
because it keeps things moving, preventing them
from assuming a frozen meaning, or becoming a
monument to immobility.
As much as I love things in flux, I love them
within a frame of reference – a consistent
reassurance that at least and at last I am the one
responsible for every detail.
And that is why I love Design.
In the wake of Donald Sterling’s lifetime ban from the NBA, I’m half-surprised no one in my social media feeds mentioned the L.A. riots. While today’s news certainly doesn’t carry the same import – and have the same effect on people’s lives – as the acquittal of the cops who beat Rodney King, it still carries enough airtime (and my mindshare, as a long-time L.A.-based basketball fan) to have a symbolic and emotional impact.
Today’s verdict is hardly a salve on a long and bitter history in the sports and entertainment industries, but it’s at least heartening to hear the NBA commissioner speak about the league’s stance on bigotry in a way that a jury could not issue a verdict about police brutality 22 years ago today. As I watched the Q&A that followed the commissioner’s announcement of his verdict, I appreciated his directness and apparent sincerity. It was clear from his tone that this verdict was not merely about maintaining good PR, but that he was personally offended. And that matters for something.
However, while this verdict comes from the NBA, the L.A. Clippers are just one of many of Sterling’s business interests. There are people who pay Sterling for the roofs over their heads, and their present condition is probably that they are possessive of the ability to vote with their feet while bereft of an alternative. I wish that weren’t the case.
Given the serpentine configuration of Sterling’s business, it may take at least a million little cuts to deflate it, and each of those cuts (unfortunately) has to come from a different person who has to live with the consequences of holding a blade. Regardless of how much they agree in principle about not writing checks to a bigot, some people will not choose to cease paying their rent, and it’s more difficult to judge those people for that choice.
While Sterling’s tenants don’t (yet) have a broadsword-wielding champion, Adam Silver – in his position as NBA commissioner – wielded one and decisively cut off one of Sterling’s arms. Today’s verdict may only prevent Sterling from participating in one of his hobbies rather than causing real change in Southern California’s real estate market, but the opportunity to dismember a scourge of institutional racism rarely presents itself, so I find it satisfying when those empowered to deliver such strokes do so without equivocation.
So while it’s a relatively small victory, it’s a noteworthy one. (And it’s actually far from won.) While I long for more opportunities and broadswords and people to wield them, it gives me hope that – at least in the last 22 years – there are now visibly more of the latter.
(Also, apropos nothing: the situation that had to be resolved with this verdict is by far the ugliest storyline in the past two weeks that have otherwise been a great time to be a fan of NBA basketball – the entire Western Conference first round is just unreal this year.)
After visiting the Rizzoli Bookstore on its last day of operation to end a week where I’ve read Dustin Curtis on Facebook’s design and Wild Ones by Jon Mooallem, I’m seeing a thread through these three stories about how people in a laissez-faire market make decisions that prioritize profit over aestheics and thinking about what that means in the context of an urban or technological ecosystem.
Though it is the retail presence of an Italian art book publisher, Rizzoli in Midtown arguably qualifies as a neighborhood gem (I suppose its closest analog would be Taschen’s Beverly Hills outpost), but it is a representative of a business that is dying in New York – bookstores – in favor of something that I perceive to be a blight – weak-modernist condominium towers for the ultra-rich.
Facebook’s new News Feed design is certainly something that can’t count me as an admirer. Between the current view and the screenshot Curtis used to illustrate his essay, I would choose the latter in a heartbeat. In the same thread of people exercising their will and aesthetics, I found myself seeing the play between Curtis’ essay and Julie Zhou’s “user-focused” response analogous to Jon Wiley’s exegesis on the Google redesign of 2011 and Doug Bowman’s 2009 farewell to the same company.
And Wild Ones is a fantastic read: Mooallem (so far) hasn’t presented a particular opinion as far as which kind of conservation strategy is best (or even declared explicitly that conservation of endangered species is right), but he has – with a gracious wit – provided a platform for arguments about conservation and human intervention in ecosystems that I find somewhat salient as I’m thinking about how Facebook and Google design websites and how real estate developers like Vornado and LeFrak choose to exercise their will in urban environments.
Is it right that Rizzoli in midtown is closing – not because it’s an insolvent business but because Vornado and LeFrak wish to destroy the older (and, to my eyes, lovelier) edifice and replace it with crash pads for ultra-rich jetsetters? I personally find glass towers in the ilk of One57 gauche, and while I’m not its target audience by any stretch, I am a stakeholder in its success or failure insofar as I am a resident of the same ecosystem.
A theme that runs through Wild Ones is that conservation of one species is never really just about that species but the balance between where it lives, what it eats and what eats it and how people just get mixed up in all of that. In much the same way, my feelings about Rizzoli aren’t really about the bookstore or even about bookstores in general. They’re about the aesthetics of economic predators and shifting baselines for future generations, who I fear we will raise in a cornice-free future without bookstores and the people who care about them.
And that’s a future that will come into being because I believe that when a person prioritizes profit over aesthetics, they subtly shift the baseline of aesthetics for future generations. What degree of visual noise do we accept now in the things we use everyday, whether they’re websites or city streets? How about the generations that follow? Will our grandchildren aspire to design arched-tile ceilings like Guastavino or endow everyday brick with ornaments of brass and terra cotta like Sullivan if they never knew that these places, these features, these possibilities existed?
(Above: one of my favorite short films/presentations on the subject, Lost Buildings – this time in Chicago, with Ira Glass narrating and Chris Ware illustrating.)
I don’t want to know the answers to those questions, nor do I actually want to define the specific boundaries of my aesthetic pluralism or articulate my thoughts on revenue-driven real estate development and A/B-tested software design. But I do want to expand a bit on what Rizzoli’s closure in Midtown actually means to me.
Rizzoli is not a living organism or an altruistic organization, and it’s not even closing up for good (a cashier told me they’re considering reopening near the Flatiron later this year). But it exists in the urban ecosystem of Midtown, and that ecosystem is one that feels more and more hostile to species of people who value literature and art and being in buildings with nice Beaux-Arts architectural features (in short, people like me). It’s one less neighborhood where these species can thrive, in a city that has been getting more obviously inhospitable toward that industry – and by extension, that kind of person – in the past few years.
And just as disappearing plant species and food resources and the introduction of highways and airports can be cataclysmic events for animals in the wild, I believe that prioritizing one land use over another (ahem, parking) can be detrimental to the overall value of an urban setting. For instance, while I’m not a hardcore library user or bookstore patron, I value those people as my colleagues and weak ties. And seeing Rizzoli close – and more pointedly, for the reason it closed – means that the pain of losing that species is not just edging closer into being but that it’s being willfully accelerated for selfish reasons.
Obviously, software, architecture, real estate, booksellers, and animals are very different beasts. But the ways people treat them and interpret their own relationship to them have a clear parallel to me. They are all such pervasive aspects of a person’s experience of life that when one aspect of it is altered, it arguably alters the whole experience.
And I’d advise: if you can help it, don’t prey on what you can’t resurrect. There are greater consequences to this than you’ve anticipated.