The following column examines and critiques commercial design, as well as provides commentary on current issues and trends in the design industry.
In his beautifully designed and authoritatively written book, The Elements of Typographic Style, Canadian poet, typographer and historian Robert Bringhurst confirms the timeless value of good typography with the words,
‘The well-made page is now what it was then: a window into history, language and the mind; a map of what is being said and a portrait of the voice that is silently speaking.’
If only one book were to survive the plethora of texts written about typography, let it be this one. It deals lovingly and respectfully with the conventions of typography and page layout that have been laid down through the centuries and refined by generation after generation of sensitive practitioners. Now, sadly, these conventions have been all but forgotten by technologically enhanced designers and are no longer practised by typographers, whose ranks have been decimated by the swift onset of the Mac. It took a mere five years to tear down what it took 500 years to build up; between 1985 and 1990, the typesetting industry and all of the expertise that supported it simply evaporated.
You can see the effects of this tragedy on the pages of magazines, newspapers and books. The incidence of typographic error is far more frequent than it used to be. I don’t think I’ve read a newly published book in the last three or four years (except Bringhurst’s) without at least two or three typos in it. Newspapers and magazines are even worse. As a longtime reader of The Globe and Mail, I am often disappointed to see that the quality of the proofreading is not up to the same level as the writing and the design. Typos are occurring with increasing regularity throughout its pages. I can only assume that the other papers have the same problem.
So it was with utter delight that I recently examined a copy of one of the most exquisitely and simply made books I have ever had the pleasure to hold in my hands. It was a small keepsake designed for an international merchant bank to commemorate its sesquicentennial anniversary. With a page size of no more than seven by four-and-a-half inches, it could almost fit in your back pocket, but you would never put such a treasure there. It would be like driving around with a Bronzino in the trunk of your car. (‘Where’s the tire iron, Harry?’ ‘It’s right in front of you, bonehead, on top of the renaissance painting!’)
What is most striking is that the pages are classically proportioned. That is, the page layout adheres to formulas that were worked out by Italian book designers and typographers in the late 15th and early 16th centuries.
You never see this anymore except in such mementos; only lavish budgets can accommodate the excess of paper needed to set pages with such generous margins. Most books these days keep margins to a minimum to manage costs. The result is that the type doesn’t have as much room to ‘breathe’; it begins to compete for your attention with whatever’s beyond the edge of the page.
The second thing that hits you is the quality of the paper. The book is printed on Arches, a sheet that is normally used for drawing, so it has a thickness and texture that is extravagant and sensuous. It has a laid finish, which modulates the surface of the page with a pattern of fine, horizontal ridges from top to bottom. The cream-coloured stock relaxes the eye and reduces the contrast between the page and the type.
The third thing is the slipcase, a thick board covered by fabric with a silk moiré pattern in it, which finishes off an already luxurious production with a drawing-room flourish.
But the joy of handling such a pretty little livre begins to fade as you read the text itself, which recounts the adventures of lending money to some of the most successful capitalists of the last 150 years. Not that the stories aren’t interesting, or that you begrudge the rich, but you begin to realize that the cost of producing a gem like this would put it out of the reach of 95% of the population (I was told that the price per unit was $125). Which means that it’s too expensive to make beautiful books anymore.
The irony is that exactly 500 years ago, the Venetian scholar/printer Aldus Manutius designed and printed the first portable books so that impecunious scholars could afford to buy them. A side effect was that he facilitated the spread of literacy among the less-than-rich. In those early books, which are judged by many historians to be the most beautiful ever made, Manutius and his typographers worked out the same formulas that appear in the merchant banker’s keepsake of today.
What a pity that, half a millennium later, only a merchant banker can afford to use them. Or cares to.
Will Novosedlik and Bob Russell are principals of Russell Inc. in Toronto. Russell Inc. builds brands with differentiation and emotional appeal for top-tier companies in both Canada and the u.s. Please direct correspondence by e-mail to will.novosedlik@russell.com or by phone at (416) 591-6677.
