Joey Cofone, words on design, etc.

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 14:54:00 +0000

New website and blog at joeycofone.com

Alphabet Project Final Poster

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 23:06:00 +0000

Time has run away with me. Remember the Alphabet Project that I started way back, the one where I posted three new letters every month or so? No? Well, I don't blame you; it's my fault. I dropped the ball with only a few letters left. I finished the project on time, but I didn't finish sharing it, and I apologize—will you forgive me? Yes? Ah, things are looking up already.

In short, the Alphabet Project had only one rule: no going back. Once I decided a letter was "finished" and moved on, I didn't allow myself to fix up old work. This forced me to keep moving, although I did take extra long on a couple of letters, especially "U." It took three weeks and I still don't love it. That's okay, though; we can't love everything.

When I put the finishing touches on the poster and stepped back, I didn't like it at all. It looked terrible. At first I couldn't put my finger on the problem; was it simply shitty design (a total possibility)? Eventually, after a few beers and tears, I tried setting all the letters in 3 colors. Solution discovered. (Not to say shitty design doesn't rear it's head anyway...)

Below is the final result. I started nearly a year and a half ago, so, looking back, there are some things I'm not so proud of. Such is life. Without further babblejabber, the alphabet poster:

The Alphabet Project

And yeah, "K" and "L" swapped positions. Don't tell anyone.

The Little Leaf That Did

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 21:51:00 +0000

I was idling down the street, not paying much attention to my surroundings, probably staring at the ground and preoccupied with thoughts that allowed my body to run on autopilot. Without thinking—or at least without thinking about what I was doing—I reached up and pulled a leaf from a branch. Then I stopped walking, realizing what I had done, a tinge of shame curling itself around my face.

A lesson learned

It’s not that I’m a tree hugging don’t-hurt-the-plants proselytizing extremist, but I try to do my best to respect all forms of life. (No offense to self-proclaimed tree huggers.) Pulling the leaf off the tree was uncalled for; childish, even.

So there I was, standing near the big black spinning cube at Astor Place, staring at this little leaf in my hand, bewildered. What bothered me most of all was my mindless nonchalance, how I acted without a hitch, only afterwards realizing what I’d done. Without my mind to keep it in check, my body had done something I wasn't proud of. That bothered me.

I rubbed the leaf’s glossy finish under my thumb. Instead of letting it fall to the ground I decided to hold onto it until I learned something. And so I continued on my way to dinner with a couple of close friends, still holding the leaf under my thumb. As I went, I thought about design in relation to the leaf.

Beauty came to mind. I began to question: is the leaf even beautiful? is it the best that it can be? Evolution tells us its form is fully derived from its function, to feed the tree. Is that it, then?—beauty derives from a utilitarian perspective? In this case, perhaps, but there are a zillion things that are beautiful and have no inherent use. Or is beauty a use unto itself? It could be that beauty—visual attractiveness—is far more vital to human existence than we give credit. If anything, it would seem to be a tool to soothe the mind.

You can imagine the look on my face, with all these questions popping into my head, when I showed up at the cafe. I had a lot of thoughts and not nearly enough time to explore them. So, still, I held on to the leaf.

When the waitress came over to take our orders she eyed the leaf and reached for it. She must've thought it came from outside by accident. I quickly said, "No! That's a special leaf!" (I wasn't expecting her to go for it, those were the first words that came to mind.) She bounced back, incredulous, probably asking herself what the hell was wrong with me and wishing she had another table instead.

I explained how I ended up with the leaf. I told her I had to learn something from it. She was more interested than I expected, a little amused. My two friends and I started discussing what had just happend, how the waitress probably thought I was crazy. Then another waitress came over and reached for the leaf. Again, I said, "No! It's okay!" She must've heard about it, because she wasn't nearly as startled; she even looked across the restaurant and said something like, "You were right!" to our waitress.

They both came over and the five of us started discussing why the leaf was important. After they left, my friend Adam, on a whim, summed up the lesson I was looking for by saying, "It's amazing that treating something mundane as a precious item has such a huge effect on people."

Whoah.

Interview: Kevin O'Callaghan

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Fri, 27 May 2011 14:59:00 +0000

I'm currently the "writer in residence" for The School of Visual Art's (SVA) graphic design department blog. Luckily, I managed to work with a few excellent people who allow me a lot of freedom, and we came up with the idea of interviewing faculty members.

The GDAD Interview series aims to explore the award-winning graphic design and advertising faculty. Each interview reveals the history of the teacher, the classes they teach, if they're working on any special group projects, and their perspective on creativity, learning, and art.

Photographer: Roza Gazarian

Kevin O'Callaghan is an iconic three-dimensional designer and instructor at SVA. His clients include MTV, Nickelodeon, Warner Brothers Records, and ABC Pictures. Joey Cofone, a student in the graphic design program, spoke with him about why he chose chess, how he inspires his students, and what he expects them to get from his class.

The SVA Chess exhibit has been put together by Kevin O'Callaghan's well renown three-dimensional design class. Students spent a semester conceptualizing, sketching, and building their pieces. The exhibit was shown at the School of Visual Arts main building, 209 E. 23rd St.

--

Joey Cofone: For your third year class project, why did you choose a chess set?

Kevin O'Callaghan: Chess has always intrigued me because of the fact that there's a hierarchy. It's a little war—it's kind of violent. As a kid I was very into conflict. There are these pawns up in the front and they take all the abuse, the king is kind of back there, safe. I wanted to explore the concept of hierarchy in the form of other objects. Basically, if you were making a giant chess set out of automobiles, the pawns would be Yugos (don't know what a Yugo is, you gotta see this), the kings would be Rolls Royces.

JC: Every piece in the show is pretty amazing, and I don't know, maybe you're hiding the bad ones [laughs], but every single piece is excellent. How do you get such high quality work from your students.?

KO: Right, they're all good. If you look real closely you'll see the craft is better on some than others, but in my class we deal with the problem conceptually first. The craft is something that just kind of comes along as the year goes on, some people excel better than others, but I don't look at that. I look at the solutions conceptually.

JC: They're all pretty creative and unique. How do you get your students to push the concepts so well?

KO: They're all pretty different from each other, which always amazes me, because with thirty-something students you'd think there would be some overlap. I think the key to my class is that we work as a group. So when they bring in sketches, we put them up on the wall and critique them as a class. It isn't just me passing judgment. I have a say in it, of course, because I'm the instructor, but it's important that we work together. We all vote on each student's project. It's a good example of what life is about, to be out there in the real world without much of a say about what you have to produce. As a good designer we have to deal with the hand that we're dealt.

JC: Are there any rules to your projects? I see that some of the chess boards aren't functional pieces; does this matter to you?

KO: Not functional in what respect?

JC: As in you can't play chess with some as easily, if at all, as you can with others.

KO: It's nice if the pieces are functional, but it isn't mandatory. These are designers, not engineers, and I always stress that. The concept is the most important aspect of the project, and construction facilitates it. The underlying theme of my class is product design. As far as actually functioning correctly, product designers don't necessarily have to produce something that's been engineered. Concept is first, building is second, and engineering is third.

JC: Okay, that makes sense. They're pieces of art.

KO: All of my projects are geared toward letting students find a solution from many directions, whether they're into illustration, set design, package design, and so on. It's about finding your niche and going in that direction. Then you can make decisions, find out what you what to do in your life. These decisions develop through working on these assignments, if that makes sense.

JC: It does; it's about how we can find solutions that express ourselves and our preferences, and still solve the problem.

KO: Right. Exactly. And that makes for a better designer, in general, if you can go in your own direction within the restrictions of the problem. My mission is to help students find their direction. I find that a lot of students haven't decided a direction by their third year, and I try to solidify that.

JC: It looks like you're doing just that. Thanks, Kevin.

KO: You're welcome. Thank you.

[You can check out the original post here.]

Interview: John Ruggeri

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 14:40:00 +0000

John Ruggeri has been teaching in nearly every undergraduate department at SVA for more than 25 years, and in that time he has been an influential figure for many of the students who have taken his classes. Joey Cofone, a student in the graphic design program, spoke with him about his history with drawing, how he engages graphic design students, and more.

—

Joey Cofone: How did you start drawing? What led you to where you are now, not so much in terms of teaching, but as an artist.

John Ruggeri: I think the fact that I was so quiet and shy, as far as I can go back. I remember spending a lot of time with my mother, so I was around a lot of adults. I was extremely watchful, just interested in how people gesticulated, their tone of voice, what they wore, how they smoked and held a cigarette. All this was fascinating to me. I found myself always with a pencil trying to copy what these people looked like. I didn't have much interest in going out of the four walls; I liked being indoors. I think that wanting to be protected, and feeling that I was good at something, even at four years old, drove me.

JC: Do you remember at what point you said, "This is what I'm going to do for the rest of my life"?

JR: Four years old.

JC: Really? You loved it that much?

JR: This is totally true: Whenever someone mirrors a trait in you, that's what you're good at. My caretakers, my mother, my father, my grandparents—everyone whoever came into my sphere—always praised my drawings. It went without saying that my identity was being formed at four. The outside world did that to me, really, when you think about it. As individual as we think we are, the outside world is constantly impacting us, and it impacted me in a positive way. So I would say, all my life I knew who I was on that front. I'm John, the artist. There was never a question.

JC: You're given the task of taking these graphic designers, which, when I started, I remember someone telling me, "It's a weird thing, but most graphic designers don't like to draw." I know that there are many that do, but it seems to be true that the general feeling I get from graphic designers is that a lot of us don't enjoy drawing. With this in mind, how do you approach it in a way that engages these designers?

JR: Graphic designers, to me, seem very savvy. They come to me already having an understanding of the world, far more involved in the world than illustrators. On that front, they're more receptive. When they come into a drawing class they have nothing to lose, whereas an illustrator, cartooning, or fine art major comes into the classroom being self-protected. They don't want to let go of how they are. The graphic design students that I've had in the last decade, with this whole idea of breaking down everything in the world into a shape, they're much more open to that idea, to look at the world as if you were an alien.

JC: Would you say that graphic designers lean towards the conceptual, then?

JR: Yes, conceptual and I think you're more free because you have nothing to lose. You come into the class understanding the idea of me speaking graphics. You know, "the figure is a graphic." Everything you're looking at is broken down into positive, negative, vertical, horizontal, diagonal—all of that—and it's relating to you.

JC: There was a time a friend of mine came to visit your class, a non-artist. You happened to give a lecture that day on how we need to draw what we see, not what we think we see. I suppose, as visual artists, we've heard that before and understand where it's coming from, but I think we may forget how impactful that is, because my friend was blown away. He couldn't stop talking about it for days. How do you try to break that barrier down when you're teaching?

JR: It's complex, but it's not so complex. You have to split your attention down the middle, and give half of it to your ordinary momentum, which is what you're presently doing. For example, right now, we're talking and I'm aware of what I'm saying, that I'm looking into your eyes. As I'm speaking, I have to make an effort to also look at the your shape as some kind of abstraction, and not lose what I'm seeing. It's difficult to combine thinking and looking. What happens is, language is constantly moving in your head, it's the barrier you're talking about. Like you're nodding your head now, it's automatic, what's going on in that head of yours is chatter. It's making some kind of a critique.

JC: I'm labeling everything.

JR: Me too, as I'm speaking. Now it's not necessarily negative, it just means we have a commentary running all the time. When you become aware that that's going on all of a sudden there's a shift, and your associations calm down a bit. Words have taken a back seat. You can start seeing almost one step removed.

JC: So it goes from what we see to our hands without some sort of mental labeling and translation.

JR: Yes! That's it, very clearly.

JC: One last question. You teach a class where you take students all over New York City and draw. If you could take your class anywhere in the world, where would you go?

JR: I have no interest in travel. Going to another country does not interest me at all, I can find everything I need in this room. I must say, I feel this strongly, in my bedroom there's a crack that, no matter how much I paint the room, eventually it comes up. I prefer it to a sunset. I love the tension, the vertical of the door, I love the hinge in relation to it. [Points to a small pock mark in the desk.] If I didn't bring this to your attention, this poor soul would live in eternity never being seen. This little imperfection, we just validated it.

JC: That's beautiful. And I don't know about you, but when I see something like that I wonder how it got there. What's the story behind it? It makes it even more beautiful.

JR: Yes! I totally understand that.

JC: Thanks, John.

JR: Thank you.

[You can check out the original post here.]

Time Warner Cable's Hypno-logo

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 14:35:00 +0000

Three plump men are sitting at the far end of an unnecessarily long boardroom table. A lone figure sits across from them, unapologetically sporting an unbuttoned collar and no tie. The men squint across the ruby surface waiting for the lone figure to begin. He has three packets in front of him, each containing a different logo concept for their company, Time Warner Cable. The man is Steff Geissbuhler, the designer responsible for the NBC peacock logo.

Steff hands the first packet to a fourth man, an up-and-coming Plumpy whose presence is charged with one task: acting as messenger between the two sides of the table. In his eyes, the first logo concept is the winner; it's elegant, sharp, clever, and perfect for the target audience.

The distant men barely look at it.

"Too difficult to understand," one Plumpy says.

"I agree," says another.

The third nods. "We don't want to confuse anyone."

Steff clicks his pen and sits up straight. His pushes his glasses to the bridge of his nose, even though they're already up as high as they go. Seth hands Plumpy Jr. another packet. The second logo isn't brilliant, but it's solid. He toned down the cleverness, approached the problem literally.

The three men look glance at the packet. "Too obvious."

"It almost seems childish."

"I could come up with this."

Steff presses his feet into the floor. His face flushes slightly, he can feel himself getting warm. He becomes aware of his breathing.

He passes along the third logo, already knowing they won't like it. It's impossible, because the idea behind the logo is borderline 1984 Big Brother material. He had trouble coming up with a solid design after the first two, so he went and made a logo that he though represented the reality of the situation: a hypnotizing spiral emanating from the center of an eye. Television is hypnotic garbage, and Time Warner Cable are counter trash-men, delivering the garbage instead of picking it up.

The tree men stare at the logo for a long time. They whisper back and forth. Finally, one speaks.

"Brilliant."

Okay, this probably isn't how it went down, but I'd like to think that Seth isn't responsible for the overtly obnoxious logo above. I admit—I know not all business men are plump, nor are all designers comrades in the fight for humane design. Still, it's hard for me to accept being associated with the kind of insensitive thinker that would come up with a logo like this.

Harsh, you say? Perhaps. But let's think about it. Let's try to step outside the realm of the familiar and objectively look at it. The logo is comprised of two elements. 1) An eye, and 2) a spiral, which is a commonly used symbol for hypnosis. (Don't take my word for it, just google image search "hypnotic" or "hypnosis.")

Now try disassociating "Time Warner Cable" with the logo; let it sit in front of your eyes independently of any linguistic label. With these two elements, the eye and spiral, the logo seems to represent some kind of evil mind-controlling empire hell bent on hypnotizing the masses. And, well, it pretty much is. Yet no one cares.

Interview: Laina Leckie

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 15:10:00 +0000

The GDAD Interview series aims to explore the award-winning graphic design and advertising faculty. Each interview reveals the history of the teacher, the classes they teach, if they're working on any special group projects, and their perspective on creativity, learning, and art.

Laina Leckie, also a freelancer in the advertising and publishing fields, has taught many classes at SVA for nearly 20 years. Joey Cofone, a student in the graphic design program, spoke with her about teaching, process, and silly wildlife.

—

Joey Cofone: How did you start in graphic design—was there another field that you initially intended to study or did you always know that graphic design was the thing for you?

Laina Leckie: My path was a bit circuitous. I actually started studying in a community college and I got my associates in TV production. Thought it was cool, very technical, I liked the computer aspect and all of that. Then I went on to Montclair State University for my BA and I discovered I wanted to do something a little more individual as opposed to group oriented, because TV production is such a group effort. I decided, “Ooh, let me try graphic design!”

There were no computers at that time and they didn’t bring them in until the year after I finished. So I went to an interview with my big old portfolio of handmade work and got my first job at a printing company. They were starting an art department and hired me to run it. I was in charge! I ended up being vice president of the company. I didn’t enjoy management so much after a while—I wanted to do art!—so I went back to SVA for grad school and got my masters in computer art. While I was getting my masters, SVA asked me to teach, and I said yes.

JC: And for your Computers in the Studio class, which is what you’re currently teaching, what is the purpose of the class? What do you hope students leave with?

LL: That’s tricky, because I think the main purpose from the school’s point of view, and maybe from the students coming in, is to get technical instruction in graphic design programs.

JC: I love that you said “from the school’s point of view.” I’ve noticed that it’s much more than technical application.

LL: For me it is. If I just taught tutorial after tutorial I would get bored after 2 minutes, and so would the students. I hope I bring fun and enthusiasm about discovering new ideas — even new ideas about themselves. What I also want to bring is my production know-how and my business know-how from being a freelancer, and I think that’s valuable to students as well. Teaching the programs but intertwining my real-world experiences—good and bad—to help students know what does and doesn’t work.

JC: In your class today, I liked how you explained the importance of bringing logo options to a client as opposed to just one that we really like. It’s a way to involve the client, to bring them into decision making so that it isn’t just, “Here I’ve cooked you dinner, now eat it.” These things may seem obvious after the fact, but it’s important to discuss them with students who have no experience with that kind of thing.

LL: I think it’s also the responsibility of graphic designers to educate the client, to nurture them in the process. They often don’t know about art that much and so you’re kind of teaching them, but also encouraging them to understand the process.

JC: Sometimes I am afraid to start a project. I truly have fear. There’s confidence somewhere in the back of my mind, but that fear is more prominent. It leads to procrastination for me, and I’m fully aware of it. Recently a friend suggested that when I start a project I should jump in with the goal of initially making the worst product possible. And that’s been working for me. Do you have similar feelings of fear, procrastination—and if so, how do you handle it? Do you have any tricks?

LL: Absolutely! And sometimes I still can’t believe I do after all these years, but it’s human. I think connecting with people who have similar feelings, spending time at creative workshops, and sitting with my inner critic - arm in arm!—it’s almost like art therapy for me. I remind myself that it’s okay to be imperfect. I remember that all I need to do is deal with “right now.” I used to keep trying to guess the future, I’d think about the results before I even put down a line on the piece of paper! I’d be jumping so far ahead or thinking about bad past experiences—I really try to push those away, be right here, right now, and brainstorm away!

JC: I have a hard time knowing whether or not what I’ve made looks good, even conceptually. I’m really trying to be my own critic, asking myself first and foremost, “Do I like it?” Can you relate to that struggle? What passes through your mind when that “Is this good?” question comes up?

LL: It’s a tricky one, I ask myself the same thing all the time. It’s so subjective. We just saw in class that one group came by and looked at two different logos. One group said they loved the first one and the color, the next group said they didn’t like the color and they liked the second one. So there’s this subjectivity that’s really difficult to grapple with. I believe we get training at schools like this with mentors who teach us the techniques and skills we need to visually relay messages effectively to audiences. The time in school working with these techniques gives students this wonderful opportunity to experiment with their creative voice as well, and then they can become stronger in their opinion about “what is good."

JC: Absolutely. One more question, it has nothing to do with graphic design, not directly at least. I think the essence of what we do is, at some point, we have to play. We need to have fun, so my final question for you is—

LL: [laughs] This is the one I’m most nervous about!

JC: You have the choice to be either a panda in pants or a crocodile in sunglasses. Which would you choose, and why?

LL: [pauses] If I think about the accessory, I don’t know if I would do the sunglasses because I hate having glasses. They block my peripheral vision. So if it’s about the accessory, I wouldn’t go with that. If I go to the animal I think about location and the animal’s way of being. [laughs] With crocodiles I think of Florida and that’s where I grew up. I didn’t particularly like it. Crocodiles are so aggressive, tough, stomachs always on the ground—they’re too rough around the edges. Pandas, I tend to think they’re a little lazy, which I don’t like, but I do like their in-the-moment-ness, because they’re just kind of hanging out, eating bamboo. Who know’s what they’re thinking? I love the black-and-white-ness, I used to love cows as a kid, so the panda seems kind of soft and approachable—which I don’t even know if that’s true, but that’s how we tend to imagine them. I’m going to go with the panda in pants.

JC: I love that you went into such depth. That’s the kind of people that we are, or that we need to be. It’s okay to just sit here and be silly, because when we’re silly we come up with things that we didn’t know we could, and that’s what being creative is. We’ve all heard that children are so much more creative and we tend to lose it as we get older. It’s the kids who don’t limit themselves by the level of silliness that create wonderful things. It’s phenomenal that you approached the question from the point of view of the animal, accessory and location.

LL: I told my kids that I was going to be interviewed and I was kind of tickled about that. And I told them you were going to ask me a funky question, and they asked me what I meant. I told them you gave me an example about four giraffes and a toothbrush in a room and what happens. I’m saying to myself, I have no idea what I would answer to that. My 10 year old pipes right up and says, “Mom, this is what you tell him: They got into a big old fight, they knocked each other’s teeth out trying to get to the tooth brush—and then they didn’t even need it.”

JC: That’s a beautiful example! I’m really glad you shared that, and I hope when people read this they don’t overlook this whole animal question, but really ask themselves about the significance of being silly. Thank you very much! I had a lot of fun and enjoyed your insights.

LL: Thank you as well.

[You can check out the original post here.]

Insta(picto)gram

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 00:02:00 +0000

Verizon finally got the iPhone and so did I. Before recently I didn't have a big desire to buy it, but then I heard about Instagram. Basically, it's the Facebook of (amateur) photography. Sort of.

You take pictures, run them through one of several color filters, and upload it to your tumblr-like profile. That's it. Sounds simple (of course the best things always seem to be), but it allows for a lot of freedom. See, while you're having at it, so are the people you follow, and everyone's work appears in the real-time feed, just like on Facebook and Twitter. Some people take pictures of their cats, some of their meals, and so on. Everyone interprets the freedom in their own way.

*Intermission* This is beginning to sound like an advertisement. So enough of that. *End of Intermission*

For me, I like taking pictures of everyday things (including a bunch of light fixtures). There isn't much meaning behind my photos beyond the upfront beauty of the world. Yeah, that sounds sappy and cliche, but it's true. When I'm doing graphic design I try to put meaning behind my work, so that if you sit and spend time looking, you might find something beneath the surface. My photo approach is the opposite.

Discussing this with my friend, it seems that a lot of photography is also based around high concept thinking. I won't go into it too much, but I find it interesting that I try to design one way and shoot the opposite. When I'm taking a pic I look at the environment as if I were going to draw it: what looks interesting? are there any exciting colors? odd shapes? beautiful contrasts? etc. I think I judge the photo possibilities on how much find I'd have drawing instead.

At first I was questioning every photo I took, trying to figure out how it would be interpreted by others (a problem I encounter in design as well), and rejecting many. Now I do my best to answer one question and judge the photo based on that: Do I like it?

Yes? Save.—No? Delete.

Alphabet Project: STU

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 01:58:00 +0000

Snow, lots of it. I had all the time in the world, it seemed, since I couldn't go anywhere or do anything but watch TV and eat. After a few movies and sandwiches I nestled into the couch, laptop in hand, and played with shapes and colors as the snow blew at the sliding doors. The snowdust waves shuffled in and out of sight, intermittently mesmerizing me as I looked up to think.

It's amazing what can be done when there's nothing else to do. As motivated as I try to get myself to hunker down and work, two feet of snow is king compared to my will. A number of times I put the laptop down, stood up, thought about what else I could do, then sat down and kept going. I probably looked pretty silly if someone were looking through the window. That's okay.

So here you go: an S that bloomed from an accident; a T that reminds me of these little water creatures we had in 5th grade science; and a U that makes me say "Yarr."

Alphabet Project: PQR

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Wed, 22 Dec 2010 02:19:00 +0000

More letters! As I go through the process of repeatedly attacking the same problem I begin to realize personal tendencies/preferences, such as slight ambiguity and attempted elegance.

I say slight ambiguity because I'm not really sure how these latest set of letters will be perceived. Is the P obvious? Do you see what I'm going for with the Q? Is the R weighted so that it doesn't look like a swirly-do of line?

I call it attempted elegance because I'm not sure how else to describe it. These last three letters seem like part of a set, perhaps because they're all single color flat black graphics. Stylistically I think they're still unique enough to stand alone on their own; the negative space aspect of the P, the illustrative quality of the Q, the fluidity of the R.

Through the project I end up finding out what I like and don't like as well as what I can and can't do. The latter is important because it reveals my boundaries. Hitting roadblocks in technical skill is frustrating, but phenomenally rewarding. When I can't achieve what I'm trying to do I end up Googling/Experimenting until I figure it out; sometimes I get distracted by a new path that reveals itself and I never look back. I think it's also important to appreciate the unexpected. Some people call them mistakes, others call them surprises.

Thanks for reading.

Alphabet Project: MNO

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 22:09:00 +0000

Greetings, readers. As my grandfather used to often say, "Another day, another way." I think he managed to live up to it, enjoying 9 decades of living and going out for a long walk every day, at least until his body finally stopped him. So here we are, another day, another piece of writing, a few more letters, a story (albeit short); all consumed in the infinite digital membrane we call the internet.

Can you imagine me, sitting at my tiny pockmarked wooden desk, butt snuggling the cold plastic chair? Try to picture it. The internet decomposes intent, what we have left is the residue of human interaction, but no, no interaction. I can't whatsoever picture you, dear reader, as you go through my posts. Perhaps there's no one reading this, thus no "you", or maybe, in that case, the "you" is really me. Where am I going with this? Do I need to go anywhere?

Well, for sanity's sake, I'll go here: Below are the next set of letters in the Alphabet Project. A few nights ago a friend, having read my previous project posts, pointed out that I'm being too hard on myself, too negative, even. I can't say I disagree, but I wonder the merits of such an outlook. In doing so, am I justifying my negativity? Likely. (I just called myself out.)

However, recently I've been digging deeply into the dichotomy of right/wrong, often depicted by the diorama of white/black. We all love hearing clear answers; solutions that say this or that. But why not both and neither, all at the same time? Shades of gray - we've all heard it. Can I beat myself up and prosper? Am I sacrificing myself for myself?

Milton Glaser from Drawing is Thinking

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Sat, 04 Dec 2010 15:46:00 +0000

I recently received Milton Glaser's Drawing is Thinking as a gift and immediately began reading it. Interestingly, there's not much reading to be had, at least not prosaically (instead: visually). The book starts off with a short introduction by Judith Thurman, then continues with a 13 page Glaser interview by Peter Mayer. After that, there's no words until the index.

Glaser designed the book to be a visual experience uninfluenced by text. In the interview he compares the experience to listening to a good piece of music:

"My intention in creating this book was to fashion a kind of musical experience, one in which each image anticipates what is to come and relates to what has appeared before, much as a melodic line does. I am hoping to achieve a non-descriptive experience." (10).

And, sticking to his claim, there is page after page of beautiful, undescribed artwork. Not knowing for who or what the work was produced allows the viewer to better appreciate each as an independent piece, rather than a supplement to a design.

Although the book is about drawing, Glaser touches on design during the interview. As an aspiring graphic designer this snippet rings deep, and I'd like to share.

Peter Mayer: What do you want to achieve, in having created this work? The images in it are not new, but the book itself is a totally new work. If the book is an aggregate of the images and their sequencing, then one might ask the question: Who is this sequence for? We agreed early on that this would be a very personal book. Is this a book that you see as for yourself?

Milton Glaser: You know, every time I speak to students, they always ask, "Do you do any work for yourself?" The presumption beneath that question is that since one works to assignment, the work is not for oneself. My view is that all the work I've done is for myself, and it also involves accommodating either a personality (the client) or problem that has to be solved. Such is the nature of the design profession.

My work is always for an audience because I want people to see it. But, here, what I want them to see is something other than a series of solutions to individual problems. .... I get closer here to my attempt to create attentiveness than in any single work that I've done. I have always been aware of the need to provoke the mind when communicating ideas because that is the only way that you prod someone into understanding anything. That is why ambiguity is such a useful tool. (12-13)

Beautiful.

Alphabet Project: JKL

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 17:49:00 +0000

"No turning back" is a motto I almost wish I hadn't employed for this project. Preparing to post the letters now, after several months, I find myself wanting to make adjustments and play some more. I explicitly made it a rule not to, so here I am with more work that I find underwhelming.

There's a great lesson to be had here, although a tough one to accept: we will never be satisfied. I guess that's not really a lesson, but an observation. We have to make it into a lesson by taking the time to really think about the implications of such an idea. If I'm never satisfied, how do I know when to move on to the next piece, and how should I feel about wanting to go back to previously "finished" pieces and tampering with them further?

If you think this sounds a lot like the last Alphabet Project post, you're right. I've always believed that knowing the Question is half the battle, but that doesn't make searching for Answers any easier. This is starting to sound like a sermon, so I'll stop at that.

A Letter to the Grid

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 18:10:00 +0000

Dear Grid,

I realized something extraordinary as of late. I don't care about you anymore. Please don't take this personally. It's not you, it's me. Maybe we can be friends?

We had a good run, but it's time for me to move on. During our time together I learned a lot from you, I appreciate what you've done for my mind and art, but the days of confinement are over.

I remember the first time we met. There were a few elements askew on a poster I was designing and my friend told me to line them up. "Put them on the grid," she said. And just like that, our relationship began.

Example grids

You and your system of alignments wooed me that day, keeping my information structured and providing organization that supposedly facilitates readability and understanding. What you really did was control me, inviting me to be a part of the "system" just like everyone else.

Example of poster using a grid

My creativity flourished for a while, I'll give you that, but then it waned and puttered out. There's only so much that can be done in the confines of your two dimensional prison cell. I struggled, squirmed, screamed to be released. Then one day I realized the key was in my pocket the whole time:

You are not the rule, merely a tool.

Example of breaking from the grid

You and your lines of confinement may inhibit growth, and I'm through being a layout monogamist.

Sincerely asymmetrical,
Joey Cofone

Batman: 'Nuff Said

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 17:16:00 +0000

(above not made by me)

Here's my procrastination:

Alphabet Project: GHI

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Fri, 22 Oct 2010 23:33:00 +0000

[Read about the Alphabet Project here.]

I started this project several months ago, in May I think, and I play around whenever I feel inspired to create letterforms. The letters I'm posting now are old, not so much chronologically as psychologically and technically (in relation to my personal development as an image maker), and as I go through them now I feel underwhelmed by work that previously excited me. A challenge to the self: how do I treat these feelings?

Rationally, it makes sense older work isn't as "good" as newer work, but when I think about what I thought was "good" then, it makes me question my definition of "good" now. It's likely that my current work will be lackluster to what I'll be making in several months. There's a positive and negative here.

It's great that I'll be better in the future. Good, good, good; it means I'm consciously making an effort to improve, which is hard to gage over a short time, easier in lengthy chunks. The negative side of the experience is that I question the definition of "good," and ask myself how I can be happy with what I have if what I make later will be "better". The conundrum.

"Good" loses all objective meaning, then, when there is no limit to how good (or bad) a product can be. That leaves us with the subjective definition of good, which is, because of it's nature, merely relative to other work. And if the others can be infinitely better or worse we're back where we left off.

What do we do, then? How do we view our old work? What do we expect of our new work? It's a lot more fun to have questions than answers, so I'm not going to imagine or wish that there are solid solutions. Instead of judging ourselves let's simply appreciate our old work, understand that each product is a stone in the pavement to the present, and continue to lay stones to the future.

Alphabet Project: DEF

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 03:28:00 +0000

[Read about the Alphabet Project here.]

A couple of weeks ago I started posting the alphabet project I've been working on. (Every day I try to design another letter.) Sometimes I sit down with loads of time and don't make anything I like; other times I mess around for five minutes before I have to go out and I make something I love.

I think there's something to be said for that. Whimsy and playfulness seem to be prime ingredients for positive results. The less pressure to produce a good design the easier it slips out. This is one reason why initial concepts are usually outshined by latter ones.

The more we make the less we feel pressured to make. Design #1 is rough because of the fear (and excitement) that motivates us to succeed. Design #14 plops out of us almost unnoticed. It's like slowly entering the ocean on a cold day. The first step is always the worst, but as we walk it gets easier and easier. Before we know it we're swimming.

Here's D, E, and F.

Man at the Corner: And His Determination

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 03:30:00 +0000

I was standing on my bed this morning, I forget why, and happened to look out the window. Down on the corner (I'm on the 5th floor) was one of those guys who tries to hand paraphernalia to passersby. The man looked tired.

He was holding a stack of postcards and wearing a sign around his neck. It hung at his stomach, neon text stickers unevenly placed and flashing the latest deal. When there wasn't anyone around he tucked his arms in and shifted his weight from foot to foot, like a penguin waddling in place, biding time, being patient.

For ten minutes, I watched him. The man kept trying and trying and trying to pass out cards. Most people didn't acknowledge his existence, very few looked at him, less said, "No thanks." In ten minutes he only gave away two. Part of the reason I ended up watching him for so long is I was waiting for another person to take a card.

In a way, I felt like I was down there with him. Each rejection upset me (probably more than it did him) and I couldn't look away until we gave just one more out. That sounded cliche and sappy, but I really felt for the guy.

There are a lot of large and important battles that people go through. Fighting cancer comes to mind (a battle my mother lost), physical disabilities such as palsy, and a million other daily struggles. There are also battles of determination and stamina, like the one the guy on the corner faces every day.

I can't imagine standing there for eight hours, thousands of people passing by and still all alone, yet he's down there, straight-faced, handing out cards. Does it sound easy? It may, but I doubt it is. He isn't out there because he loves to do it, he's working for calories and dryness - food and shelter.

Will he ever do something else? Does he want to? Am I being elitist because I can't imagine myself doing this job every day? I don't know. But when I see things like this I'm damn sure appreciative of the amenities and opportunities I have.

Next time you pass someone handing out brochures, take one. I will.

Alphabet Project: ABC

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 21:26:00 +0000

Sometimes things tend to come back around. I'm not saying that stuff "happens for a reason," because I'm not that type of person; fate isn't an idea I find comforting in the least. Neo (from The Matrix) said it best: "I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life." Having said that, "coincidences" are still interesting and sometimes worth talking about because they make good stories.

In the first blog post here on Digital Barf I wrote about the Sketch Adventure outing at Chelsea Markets, where "when all was said and done (and drawn) a couple of us got tasty gelato." What I never mentioned was the spectacular business card I picked up at that little gelato stand.

I've been collecting business cards for a while now. Each one has something that intrigues me. Usually it's a good design, clever layout, sweet color scheme, but every now and then I take business cards that are terrible to remind me what not to do. In this instance, that wasn't the case.

The card I picked up had a beautifully designed logo on the front. It feels old school and modern all at once, something I've been trying to understand and learn. The colors are interesting too; I like how the one bold color and one soft color play off each other so well. My favorite aspect of the card is that it's square (I have a thing for squares).

Jessica Hiche, a popular typographer and graphic designer, visited SVA a few months ago and I was lucky enough to be invited to sit in on her talk. As it turns out, she is the designer of the business card I liked so much! Awesome. She told us all about her obsession with typography and about her ongoing project Daily Drop Cap. It works like this:

Each day (or at least each WORK day), a new hand-crafted decorative initial cap will be posted for your enjoyment and for the beautification of blog posts everywhere.

I thought this was a great idea so I started working through the alphabet, doing a letter whenever I could get a chance or felt the urger. Mine aren't nearly as awesome as Jessica's, but we all have to start somewhere.

----

The rest of the letters:

Discussion by the Lake: A Moment Recreated

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 11:46:00 +0000

I have a bad memory. If you know me personally that's probably an understatement. This week we were challenged to recreate a moment from the summer. I turned to my friends for help since I couldn't remember much. (They're like external hard drives, in a way. Why store memories on my local drive when I can store it on the network? Okay, that's a morbidly modern way to look at the situation, but you get the point.)

After a few beers and a solid reminiscing session I decided that I couldn't decide. Or I defaulted, depending on how you look at it. We had talked about a lot of great moments but none of them were moving me the right way. I needed a memory that I could spend a few hours recreating without wishing I could forget it by the time I was done.

I put off starting the project for a couple of days in hopes that I'd have a eureka moment. That's one of those I-wasn't-thinking-about-it-but-a-great-idea-just-came-to-me things. Luckily, I did. I woke up one morning before my alarm clock went off and had an image of three figures on a bench, each made up of different materials. It was an image of one of the most powerful moments this summer.

The moment was during a camping trip with Jay and Chris. After a hearty day of cooking meal after meal in the woods, stomachs bloated, and with the sun starting to draw long tree shadows across the campsite, we headed over to the lake to sit and talk. We sat on one of those universal wooden park benches right near the edge of the water. It was majestic.

There were two guys were fishing on a boat right in front of us. They moved away after a few minutes, probably out of the awkward way we were forced to stare at them. It was like a weird standoff, the men of the land staring at the men of the sea. It makes me think of Troy and Greece, when the Greek ships were close enough for the soldiers to stare into the eyes of the Trojans but not close enough to get off the ship and attack. A waiting game. Only instead of the fishermen eventually attacking they pulled out their oars and drooped away.

But that has nothing to do with the project. It's all about the bench, three friends, and the differences between who we are and what we do.

From left to right: Jay, me, Chris. During our trip we talked about the different way we each sit. Jay likes to pull one leg up, I usually cross my legs near my ankles, and Chris tends to sit relaxed with one foot out. I didn't put the rest of the bodies because it isn't needed to convey the message.

I made each figure out of materials symbolic to who the person is. Jay is a mechanical engineer, I'm a graphic designer, an Chris is a drummer. Granted the clear tubes don't scream graphic designer (people keep asking me how it relates) so I guess I failed in that sense. I was trying to go for a modern approach; I thought plastic would be a good representation of the modern tool of the computer. I think paper tubes would've been easier to understand and more appropriate. Lesson learned!

The books that make up the bench are by Aldous Huxley (of Brave New World). One is The Island and the other is Point Counter Point. They seem fitting, one about a paradise, one about philosophy and discussion.

So, there you have it. My first venture into symbolic 3D design and photography. See you soon.

Zen: "Legacy of Letters"

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 23:26:00 +0000

What is Zen? I think we all have a good feeling for what it means, but when I was asked last night to define it I lost my tongue. After a slice of pondering I finally said something akin to, "It's like being at complete peace. Being entirely present and connected to the moment, to the world around you."

Then I went home and Googled it. (Of course.) Wikipedia says, "Zen emphasizes experiential prajñā in the attainment of enlightenment. As such, it de-emphasizes theoretical knowledge in favor of direct realization through meditation and dharma practice." So that helps. Sort of.

After some more ponder-ponder, I began to realize how indefinable the concept of Zen is. Like Love, it's a state of mind, body, and soul that has to be felt to be understood. We can't explain to someone what Love is if they've never felt it. In the same way, we can't really convey what Zen is to those that haven't experienced it.

The good thing is, most of us have felt it. If you've ever been "in the Zone" then you've been in a Zen-like state. Those are the moments in which Time is no longer; where the world is completely and utterly fluid with the self.

I think that every artist, in their own way, strives for a state of Zen in which the process of creation passes through from spirit to action without being tainted by consciousness. In other words, we just let it out, as if we are a witness to what we are doing.

This morning I came across a video of a man practicing the art of calligraphy. You can tell he's in the Zone when he makes perfect line after perfect line.

That is Zen.

Figue Drawing with Anton van Dalen: Farewell

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 20:52:00 +0000

Anton, my figure drawing teacher, gave me a sincere hug and I did my best to match his intensity. His freshly cut white hair pressed against my curly brown locks. "Thank you," he said with fierce eye contact. "Thank you," I replied. That was the last class.

(Check out more pictures of Anton on his website.)

Over the last couple of months our class spent twelve hours a week exploring the nude body through drawing. Anton is exceptionally open-minded and his teaching style reflected that. He always asked us what types of poses we wanted, how long they should be, and we often sat down in a group and had mini round table discussions with our models. He urged us to connect with them on a deeper level than as mere subjects - they were people with stories and passions just like us.

Here are some of my favorite drawings from Anton's class.

My Writing Process, by Dennis Santaniello

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 00:41:00 +0000

[Read about Digital Barf's guest bloggers here.]

Preface: I had no intention of writing any of this until I came to the realization that the most important thing you can do in life is share. Life’s so short, so precious, so mysterious that creating things is the only way of validating time spent.

I started thinking of the process of my writing. I write because it’s the easiest thing in the world for me. The biggest design pattern I follow is not to get from here to there. That’s not an issue with me. What I’m striving for, on a daily basis, is how to get to the Zone. Not Auto Zone or the Fun Zone. I’m talking about The Absolute, Infallible Zone of Creativity and Bliss. There is nothing more gratifying than to say to somebody, “Not now, Tinky, I’m in the fucking zone!” You know when you’re in the zone because time stops, things come together in new and exciting ways you couldn’t dream of, and your work is…well...working.

The zone is located on the path of righteousness, but it is blocked by the countless Detour signs of the Resistance. [1]

The following is my way of breaking through the Resistance: My design.

Fighting the Resistance

Getting into the zone comes at a price. You must fight a war: the daily, gnawing, agitating war against the Resistance. The Resistance comes in many forms, and it’s kinda like the New York Yankees. Its smug, its presence is all over the fucking place, and it knows it could beat you. The Resistance, put simply, is everything that prevents you from working. From the distracting phone calls, to crying babies on buses, to the miserable jerks who smell like cabbage, to your love ones who smell like Honey Dew, it seems that everyone is playing for the Resistance. But guess what, when you’re not working, you play for it too. And that’s when you lose.

Life always seems to get in the way, but if you want to work well, you’ve got to win. You’ve got to beat the living shit out of this snot nose, suffocating…. Thing. You’ve gotta have a battle plan. That’s where design comes into play. You’ve got to come up with a brilliant, offensive scheme to beat this bastard.

Defeating the Bastard

Good game planning is very important. Writing wise, it’s essential. For me, I take four hours of the day (usually between 6-10 pm) to write. These are four hours of fierce combat. I generally have an objective, sometimes the objectives change and in mid stream I have to adapt to its course. But when I’m engaged to commit myself to get to the zone, I go all out.

My game plan is simple and it’s the same everyday. I sit down. I have an objective of what I want to write and follow these three rules.

1) Be true to the original idea.
There is no substitute to this. What comes out of your head is so hard to put into the physical world, but when it matches and molds into the initial idea you had, you know you have something special. Being true to the original idea is crucial.

2) Listen to your characters
Before I start something, I sit down and my characters talk to me. When I’m writing, particularly when I’m writing dialogue, I’ve got to hear the characters and their problems. Like playing with action figures, I mouth the characters voice and let it out there in open air. It’s something I’ve done ever since I was a kid. Some people may call it schizophrenic. I call it paying attention. I’ve got to hear the intonation of their voice, their pauses, their rhythm, but most importantly their desires.

My characters are doing most of my work. I’m just a court stenographer.

3) Write to Write. Edit to Edit
When I write, I vomit anything and everything that comes to mind. I don’t care if it’s inane, great or mediocre, I spill out everything because I have to. As Hemmingway pointed out, “The first draft of anything is shit.”

Then when the puking is over, I look back to what’s there and I play the hybrid role of both conquistador and janitor, that is the editor. I find the gold and dump the rest. Sometimes there isn’t any gold. Just loads and loads of crap, but that’s not a problem because I’ll just explore another mine by writing another mine.

It took me a long time for me to figure this out but when I finally found it, I knew my foundation was complete. Before learning this, I was very analytical when I wrote ,and I wrote and edit at the same time. This was frustrating and exhausting because it was detrimental to my psyche and slow as hell.

Separating the actions to specific times frees up so much creativity and the zone gets closer and closer. Refining is important, but you must first have something to refine.

That’s my plan. That’s how I write. That’s my design. During college, I found it difficult to write anything but term papers and I felt terrible, but when I came up with the system I knew I had something special, because it got easier and easier to get in the zone, and consequently, my writing got better, ideas flowed like rivers and I got a lot fucking happier with life

They say 3 is a magic number. Well, if there are 3 great players on your basketball team, odds are you’re going to kick some major ass, and in my case when all 3 elements are working in unison, Resistance doesn’t have a chance. The game is won. The Zone is there in all of its orgasmic glory, and it’s like…it’s like an Opera.

The Real Thing to Learn

You are a golden God; not to the world, but to your work, and because you are a God, you must play by your own rules. Relax. Diffuse bullshit. Be scary.

[1] Read Steven Pressfield’s “The War of Art”. Great book. Highly Recommended.

A Strange Wave: My Reaction

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 23:30:00 +0000

A lot can be said in a simple gesture.

Yesterday I was in my building elevator with another person. He was on the phone when I walked in - I think he was talking Korean or Chinese - and it cut out as we headed down. He cursed the phone under his breath and held it up, looking for reception to no avail. I must have been staring, because he turned to me as if I'd said something. So I did.

"Technology, eh?" I huffed (not the deepest comment). Then it was his turn to stare - he looked at me as if I were speaking another language, and that's when I realized I was. I smiled at him and he smiled back. Then the elevator door opened and I was already thinking about where I was heading, our meeting destined to be forgotten, until he caught up and stood in my path.

"Excuse me," he said in semi-broken English. He introduced himself and asked me if I knew of any places to eat around our building. Turns out he just moved in and was starving and completely alone. I started to tell him about the local eateries I fancy but his expression said he was having a hard time following.

"Come with me," I said, and led him outside. We walked a couple of blocks and I pointed out some places, told him what kind of food they had, and how much a good meal was. In between stops he told me that he was a fine artist looking to do computer art and animation. It was difficult to communicate, but we both spoke slowly and managed well enough. After our mini tour we said our goodbyes.

This is where it gets good. When we waved goodbye I did the common American wave in which the elbow is generally near the hip, hand is held up about shoulder height, and the hand moves from side to side once, like a sort of lazy salute. My new friend waved me away completely different. His elbow was head height and his arm arched over his head. He didn't just swipe his hand once like I did, either, but instead waved back and forth like a young wife bidding her sailor husband adieu. I couldn't help but draw a huge smile. His wave seemed so innocent and honest compared to the usual American fare.

The typical American wave, aka the lazy salute.

The one-eyed rabbit exampling the stranger's wave.

As so much was expressed in such a simple gesture, the same can be applied to design. It only takes a slightly adjusted nuance here and there to radically change the mood of a piece of work. All it took was a little raising of the hand by about ten inches and the gesture transcended apathetic detachment to wholehearted sincerity.

Being aware of what we're doing is power unto itself. It's one thing for us to randomly fiddle with colors, type, or layout and get something great, but another thing entirely if the choices we make are intentional and the final product a beautiful blossoming flower of conscious decisions.

So, to the unknowing fellow in the elevator: thank you for reminding me.

Design on the Streets, by James Mazza

noreply@blogger.com (Joey Cofone) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 01:39:00 +0000

[Read about Digital Barf's guest bloggers here.]

Let me start off by giving everyone a little bit of background about what I do, and then perhaps the rest of what follows will make sense. I am an Emergency Medical Technician in NJ. I work two different jobs as a simple EMT and volunteer my time as a Lieutenant in charge of all EMS and Rescue on Monday nights for a local town. I am also currently studying to be an RN. Now that we know who I am and what I do, let’s get to talking about how my job has absolutely nothing to do with design while having everything to do with design.

Being an EMT is not all “blood and guts” like most people think. In my estimation it is more like 70% psychological, simply being there, 20% real emergencies, heart attacks, allergic reactions, car accidents, etc, 5% absurd situations and 5 % BS. Depending on who you talk to these numbers likely change and for some dramatically; however, this is how I see it.

When we are in training we are taught the very basics, how to talk to people, carry them to the ambulance, provide first aid and oxygen treatments, perform CPR with the hope of saving a life. These skills are given to us with the express understanding that we will need to improvise and adapt to do things. Our template fresh out of school, a “design” if you will, is very basic and will help us to grow but it is only a start. The one thing about emergencies is that there is never two that are alike. There is always something different. There is always a new windy staircase that someone has to be carried down, or a strange way someone fell when they had their heart attack, or the way the steel on the car twisted after an accident makes getting to the people inside harder than it was an accident or two ago. Our “design” needs to be fluid and ever changing because we never know what we will see and as such cannot be set in stone.

Acting as a supervisor, I had an interesting experience recently that had nothing to do with emergency medicine and everything to do with control and design. With the heat wave, something broke in the electrical grid in my area of Jersey during the time I ride as an EMT/Supervisor as a volunteer. With the power out, two six story buildings containing almost all senior citizens, many of whom were handicapped and on oxygen, needed to be evacuated so that the people would be in a cooler environment where they would not be as likely to pass out or succumb to heat exhaustion/stroke. With no working elevators and only very faint emergency lighting, one can imagine how hard this task would be.

Upon arriving on the scene I immediately set to working with the two Police Officers on scene to begin a systematic search of all the floors, first checking on the people on oxygen and then the handicapped and so on. Members of the paid fire department where there, however they were not as helpful as they could have been, leaving it to myself and the two officers to run the whole show. This was the first time I had ever been thrust into such a large situation before and was expected to take charge of it. Sure, I had been here a few years ago when this same event had occurred, however then I was simply muscle to carry people down the stairs. This time I was expected to be calm, cool, in charge, and to get the people to a cooler climate. That’s a lot of responsibility for a 23 year old who isn’t getting paid for his time!

As part of my training I was required to take courses that would prepare me for Incident Command, a term coined after 9/11 as being necessary for all large incidents. This gave me a background of information to build on, although nothing can prepare you for the moment in which you need to draw upon that sort of training for the first time. Further compounding the problems was the fact that the town I volunteer for has the Paid Fire Department in charge of Emergency Management, which this task falls under in a time like this, however the person in charge of FD did not take charge leaving myself and two exemplary Patrolmen to handle the situation. Not until the Volunteer Fire Dept. members arrived did the FD become truly useful to us in this situation.

With guidance from the Police as to which rooms still needed to be searched, I sent the men and women under my command up to the floors to do a search room by room, floor by floor. We designed a search plan and who would take what floor and then we executed the plan. This incident started at about 10:40 at night and wasn’t over until 3 in the morning. While I did not have to physically work like the rest of the people I volunteer with on Monday nights, being in charge caused me a great deal of work to make sure I kept the information right and passed on the right information to the right people. This being the first time I had to operate in a situation like that, and based on the feedback I got from many people who were there telling me I did a fantastic job, I can only say that the design I was given in training must have paid off in a big way because things were handled without incident.

Some may question how being an EMT has anything to do with design, and rightfully so. I hope the above helps to expand the view on what design there can be, particularly when you see an Ambulance flying by you with lights on and siren wailing. More is going on than meets the eye usually and design plays one of the biggest factors.