Towards a vernacular design
Returning to place as a source of taste.
I’m old enough to remember when you could pick up any regional graphic design annual, open it, and know exactly which area you were looking at just from the work itself. Tennessee or Texas. Southern California or the Pacific Northwest. New York or Chicago. Each had clear stylistic tells. And as an aspiring designer myself, I loved the way concert posters, packaging, and logos all possessed the spirit of their place—and reflected the particular tastes of the people who lived there.
Recently, there’s been a wave of this sort of everything-looks-the-same lament on Medium and elsewhere. When I published an essay about limitations back in 2018, I was surprised at how much interest I received around this idea of vernacular design. Like our forebears in the 1970s and ’80s, it seems we may be reacting to the homogeneity that flows from an international style.
Along with the designers at Journey Group, I’ve been exploring the practices that may lead—even in small ways—back toward a design aesthetic with local roots. We’ve been inspired by companies like True Hand in Philadelphia, who work to express the inspiration and influences of a unique subculture bound by place. The maestra of Manhattan Paula Scher was born in D.C. and studied in Philly, but spent the past thirty years developing a visual style that’s virtually synonymous with New York City at Pentagram’s downtown office.
But what about the small places? In our case, what would a design sensibility of and for Charlottesville, Virginia (with fewer than 50k residents) even look like? How can photographers, typographers, illustrators, architects and designers come to care less about what’s happening in Tokyo or London and more about what’s happening just a few blocks away. I’ve got a few ideas.
Geofence who you follow.
Maybe not forever, but consider limiting your influences on platforms like Instagram and Pinterest to individuals and firms within your region. By primarily consuming visual work from your neighbors, you can begin to understand their point-of-view and respond.
Stay off Dribbble.
Similarly, avoid design critique from “the global design community.” Instead, set up a standing happy hour within your firm or with designers from nearby offices to review works in progress. Agree to cultivate a school of criticism that prioritizes local culture and fashion. Don’t ask, “How would they solve this?” Rather, “How would we?”
Avoid commercial type.
The explosion of cheap and ready fonts has certainly contributed to the samification of everything. Whenever feasible, collaborate with a local type designer or hire a custom letterer. When it isn’t feasible, draw your own! Source inspiration from old signs, bookstores, print shops, and found items in your neighborhood.
Stay put.
Speaking of neighborhoods—pick one! Don’t move! And when you do move, ditch your ego and reinvent your portfolio to better reflect your place. I love looking at an established designer’s portfolio and detecting where they lived at the time the work was produced. Far from seeming inconsistent, it reflects a posture of service by prioritizing shared life over individual acclaim.
Study history.
Designers should all aspire to be amateur local historians. Archival photos, blueprints, maps, type specimens, and other ephemera should be our bread and butter. I think immediately of our friend, collaborator, and constant source of inspiration, Aaron Draplin, who obsessively collects the little pieces of human civilization scattered across the midwest. And here’s the thing: his work is so wonderfully situated within a place.
Walk around. (A lot.)
And don’t always take the same routes. Bring a camera or a sketchbook or both. Find the moments and sections and flora that are only in your place. Use them. Platform them.
Skip the awards.
Or better yet: launch a local competition with a stated bias toward your own place’s unique design vernacular. It would be amazing to see a statewide design exhibition in which D.C. Metro, The Beach, Richmond, Piedmont & Valley, Southwest, and Southside all vied for their own place within Virginia-grown design.
What comes to mind for you? Now that we’re all working alone together, how can we use the opportunity to push back towards a vernacular design?
