Month: July 2025

My one big experiment this semester was the event most of you have already heard me talking about a lot, the Silly Little Design Sprint. For this course I wanted to reflect on some of the challenges and the phases of development I went through to create this event, and what I learned from it. But first, some more theoretical insight since my topic has changed so much. 

I came from the background of research I did last semester, about the differences of arts and crafts and design. And the things that stuck out to me the most was how arts and crafts felt social, almost communal while design felt solitary and sometimes lonely. Not necessarily only in the scenarios of creation, but also in its history, its heroes, its attitude to sharing information, resources and creating together. 

While in crafts, skills and knowledge are passed on traditionally and in the process of passing on, practiced together, it often feels like (graphic) design is a field where everyone fights for themselves. While there are still places to find resources like books, blogs, and social media (e.g. sharing design tips and tricks), in student settings and as young designers, it sometimes feels like sharing knowledge is similar to giving up a secret that might have created an advantage in the future. 

To involve myself in this topic, I thought a lot about how our institutions, especially FH do not necessarily promote communal or social creativity. While we work on a lot of group projects, that does not mean the creativity is enhanced or supported by this, because there is usually no groundwork laid for it. The basis for the concept of social creativity is that there is never a singular genius and a solitary idea, since creativity is influenced by everything and everyone around us, and our ideas stem from our experiences and things we have seen. While a lot of us rely on inspiration to create, there is not enough input on how to use these inspirations in a way that prevents us from copying or starting to do the same thing over and over again. 

We get private about our ideas, reluctant to share, afraid of being copied. 

Not even our rooms promote a social way of working, chairs and tables all oriented towards the front, for studies that don’t necessarily rely on frontal lecturing. 
I wanted to look into this idea of inspiration vs copying, of the singular genius or the

Now that this phase of my research is coming to an end, the question becomes: how can all of this lead to something more tangible?

The answer, for now, is: I don’t know yet.

What I do know is that I want to keep working with fragments, randomness, and the unnoticed. I want to turn my growing archive of textures, messages, and spontaneous compositions into something. A publication? A zine? A projection? Maybe even a spatial installation? Something that feels more like a collection of evidence than a portfolio.

One idea I’ve been returning to is the “Randomness Manifesto”, a visual and written experiment that acts as both critique and celebration. Critique of overdesigned culture. Celebration of accidents, layers, and non-linear thinking. It might combine screenshots, photography, found type, short texts, print experiments. A design that reflects how we actually experience the world: not as clean grids, but as overlapping, constantly shifting impressions.

Another direction might explore design as documentation. Not designing something but noticing, framing, and amplifying what’s already there. A form of communication design that starts with observing instead of inventing.

Whatever it becomes, I know I want to stay close to the questions that guided me:
– What are we not noticing?
– What are we designing for?
– Can design help us reconnect not just with each other, but with what’s already in front of us?

Design doesn’t always need to answer. Sometimes it just needs to ask better questions. In a time when artificial intelligence can generate thousands of visuals in seconds, maybe the role of the designer is shifting. It’s no longer just about creating new things, it’s about curating, framing, and giving weight to what already exists. The designer becomes less of a maker, more of a connector. Someone who can read between the lines, trace meaning in chaos, and slow down the endless scroll of content to say: “Look closer, this matters.” In that sense, embracing the unfinished and the overlooked isn’t stepping away from design, it’s returning to its core purpose: helping people make sense of the world.

Sources:

Berger, John. Ways of Seeing. Penguin, 1972.

This semester wasn’t about following a straight path. It was about collecting fragments like ideas, images, words, impressions and trying to understand what they might be pointing toward.

When I started, I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. I knew only that something felt off. Design felt tired. Too polished. Too predictable. Too disconnected from real life. So I started paying closer attention to the things that don’t scream to be noticed: a scribbled message on a wall, a broken tile, a flyer stapled over a hundred others. Somewhere in that visual noise, I found honesty.

Through writing, collecting, and reflecting, a theme kept returning: the value of the in-between. The things we pass by. The messy, random, imperfect traces that make spaces and media feel alive. I began to see randomness not as a lack of structure, but as a kind of truth-telling. The uncurated becomes a mirror and the overlooked becomes material.

I also began to look more critically at visual culture. Not just what we’re making, but why. Do we need more posters or do we need to read the ones that already exist more closely? Do we need to add to the noise or help people make sense of it?

This project became something of an experiment in slowing down. In resisting the pressure to produce finished, polished things and instead sit with the progress. Let randomness exist. Let fragments be fragments. Let the design be about presence, not performance.

Maybe what I’ve been doing all semester isn’t building a project, but developing a perspective. A way of seeing that values what doesn’t demand attention. And that might be the most valuable tool a designer can have.

Sources:

Certeau, Michel de. The Practice of Everyday Life. University of California Press, 1984.

Throughout this process, I’ve been circling the same question: What makes something feel meaningful, even when it’s messy, unfinished, or random? I’ve looked at the world through fragments like found textures, broken signage, screenshots of everyday oddities but now I want to take a step back and ask what this way of seeing actually is.

In her book On Longing, Susan Stewart writes about “the souvenir”, a small object torn from its original context that somehow holds emotional weight. I realize my photo archive functions in a similar way. These images aren’t “designed” but they become markers of time, place, and feeling. They’re emotionally charged, not because of their composition, but because of the act of noticing and collecting them.

This kind of collecting the quiet, emotional, inconsistent has nothing to do with curation in the classical sense. It’s not about matching colors or building a “perfect” grid. It’s about feeling something when you look at a corner of a torn sticker on a pole. Or a forgotten note in a public place. These fragments of everyday life don’t scream for attention, and maybe that’s exactly why they speak to me. They don’t try to be art, they just are.

I think this way of seeing is deeply tied to slowness and presence. Noticing is an act of resistance in a fast world. But it’s also creative, it’s not passive. When I collect and document these fragments, I am quietly shaping my own way of designing. Not starting from zero, but starting from what’s already around me.

It also made me wonder: what if this is the material? What if randomness and leftovers are not a starting point for inspiration, but the work itself? I don’t want to just use these images as references for more polished designs. I want to let them remain raw. To find a format where they can exist as they are, where I can add just enough to let them speak.

This process has changed how I think about authorship too. When I put together fragments I didn’t create, am I still the designer? Maybe I’m not designing in the traditional sense, maybe I’m just assembling or paying attention.

Sources:

• Stewart, Susan. On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection. Duke University Press, 1993.
• Manzini, Ezio. Design, When Everybody Designs: An Introduction to Design for Social Innovation. MIT Press, 2015.

In my last blog entry, I asked: How do we make sense of all this noise without losing the character of the city? This question has followed me into the next phase of my research. Instead of trying to clean up the clutter, I started observing what it actually is, how we experience it, and what it might be trying to tell us.

My goal is not creating a polished design outcome, it is about building a process or a system, maybe even a mindset.

Step 1: Building an Archive

I began with what I already had in my camera roll. Years of random photos: broken signs, wall textures, forgotten objects, public scribbles, strange alignments, and accidental compositions.

I didn’t take these pictures intentionally for a project, they just happened. So I started categorizing them:

• Overlaps & Layers
• Visual Noise
• Political Traces
• Human Accidents
• Unintended Beauty

I created a folder structure on my laptop that now serves as the base for a collection of real-world randomness.

Step 2: Researching the Vibe

At first glance, all these things like paint spills, torn stickers, blurry text seem unrelated. But the more I looked at them, the more I realized: they feel connected. I began to study creators who lean into randomness. From zine-makers layering textures and clashing type to Instagram artists who post found objects without context, it all feels chaotic, but somehow intentional.

I think if you look at it closely, everything can be political. Not just billboards or protest posters, but even the unnoticed details in everyday spaces. A restroom that makes women take the stairs while men walk straight in is a powerful message in itself without even meaning to. Or a wall where “Free Palestine” was painted over, but still faintly shines through. These things are visual proofs of how systems speak through architecture, erasure, and layers of public expression. Sometimes the most powerful statements are the ones no one planned, but no one managed to fully silence either.

Step 3: Understanding “The Dump”

I also revisited photo dumps. Not just as a trend, but as a storytelling form. The randomness isn’t random at all—it’s about rhythm, contrast, atmosphere. A picture of a half-eaten sandwich next to a blurry selfie and a screenshot of a note. It tells you who someone is without saying anything directly. That’s the kind of narrative I’m interested in.

What’s exciting is that this also applies to design. Layouts that feel spontaneous. Posters that aren’t begging for attention but make you stop anyway. Formats that don’t tell you what to think, but make you feel like you’ve stumbled into something.

A Visual Protest in the Making

All of this is slowly leading toward my “Randomness Manifesto”, a zine or digital page that reads and feels like a visual protest against overdesigned perfection. It will be layered, broken, imperfect. It won’t follow a fixed structure. Maybe it will look like a poster that’s been weathered by the street. Or a desktop folder that became a publication.

Whatever it turns into, it taught me that the beauty isn’t in controlling the chaos, it’s in curating it.

This semester felt like a giant work-in-progress. Not just in terms of design outcomes, but also in how I thought about my topic, my process, and what kind of designer I want to be. Nothing about it was linear, but maybe that was the point.

1. Prioritize clarity over decoration
   • Use clear, sans-serif or simplified serif typefaces (e.g., Grundschrift) with large x-height
   • Avoid overly decorative or playful fonts that may look child-friendly but reduce legibility
   • Ensure clear differentiation of commonly confused letters (b/d, p/q, i/l)
2. Use adequate font size
   • Opt for larger font sizes (14–16 pt) for beginner readers
   • Avoid small fonts that strain children’s eyes and slow reading speed
3. Mind your spacing
   • Ensure sufficient letter, word, and line spacing
   • Slightly increased word spacing helps word recognition
   • Maintain consistent line spacing for clear eye guidance.
   • Avoid overly wide letter spacing, as it disrupts word shape recognition (avoid tight tracking; allow letters to “breathe”)
4. Use illustrations purposefully
   • Illustrations should support and clarify the text
   • Avoid overloaded or chaotic visuals
   • Maintain a clear visual hierarchy to guide children’s focus
   • Use illustrations to aid comprehension, showing key actions or emotions in the story
5. Maintain consistency between reading and writing
   • Use typefaces that resemble the forms children will use when writing (e.g., Grundschrift)
   • Avoid abrupt differences between printed and handwritten forms to ease transfer between reading and writing
6. Support multisensory learning
   • Where possible, integrate visual, auditory, and tactile elements (e.g., tracing letters, interactive pointing while reading aloud)
   • Use colors consciously to highlight structures (e.g., syllables) but avoid random color overload
7. Provide Visual Structure
   • Break down text into short, manageable chunks with paragraphs
   • Use headings and visual cues to structure content clearly
   • Avoid large, dense text blocks that overwhelm beginner readers
8. Optimize contrast and background
   • Ensure high contrast between text and background (e.g., black on white)
   • Avoid busy or colorful backgrounds that reduce readability
   • Use calm, child-friendly color palettes
9. Foster Motivation
   • Create visually engaging, but not overwhelming, materials
   • Use illustrations and color to spark curiosity and emotional connection to the content
   • Support the child’s success experience with materials that are neither too easy nor too hard
10. Test, reflect, iterate
    • Even if tests with children aren’t immediately possible
    • Use simulated blurring and letter confusion tests on your materials.
    • Self-test or test with peers for readability and emotional response.
    • Be prepared to refine layouts and type choices based on feedback and observation.

In my research on how design and typography can support children in learning to read, I came across “Die Grundschrift”, a typeface specifically developed for use in German primary schools.

What is “Die Grundschrift”?

“Die Grundschrift” (translated: the basic script) is a simplified, clear typeface developed by the German Grundschulverband to help children learn to read and write with fewer obstacles.

Unlike traditional cursive scripts taught in schools, Grundschrift:

• Is print-like and clear, making it easier for children to recognize and differentiate letters
• Uses consistent, simple letter shapes that resemble printed text, reducing the confusion caused by complex letterforms
• Encourages fluid writing movements without forcing strict connections between letters, allowing children to develop their own handwriting style gradually

Why is “Grundschrift” easier for beginners?

• Clear Letterforms: Letters are designed to be visually distinct, helping children avoid common mix-ups (like b/d or p/q)
• Transition-Friendly: Since Grundschrift looks similar to printed text in books, children can transfer their reading skills more easily to writing
• Less Cognitive Load: Simplified forms reduce distractions, helping children focus on learning to decode and write simultaneously
• Supports Individual Writing Style: By not enforcing strict cursive connections, children develop confidence in writing at their own pace

Why is this relevant?

It’s easy to assume playful or decorative fonts are “child-friendly,” but for learning to read, clarity and structure are more important than decoration.

Using Grundschrift in learning materials:

• Supports readability for first readers.
• Ensures consistency between what children read and write.
• Builds confidence in reading and writing simultaneously.