Few things — at least intellectual, cultural, non-life threatening things - make me feel worst than not knowing who a certain designer is and what s/he has done. It really maddens me and makes me question my commitment to, and understanding of, design. Call me a nerd or pathetic, but I am serious. Having not received any sort of design history education at college, everything I know about design history I have taken upon myself to read about and research or by nodding along in conversations with designers knowing that I can google the name once I get home. As a young(ish) designer it is so simple (and dangerous) to ignore the past, that some of the best work done in our field may pass unseen. Names that we should all know and recognize are lost because they do not have a www. before and a .com after them… Brodovitch, Pineles, Danziger. These are all names I would not have recognized three or four years ago. Contemporary designers are no problem. Sagmeister, Carson, Frost, Scher, Valicenti. I am growing up as a designer parallel to their contributions to the field. Bass, Rand, Matter. How could I not?
Brownjohn. Nope. Not until today. Now, one I will never forget.
This coming Saturday, October 15, the Design Musuem in London will open an exhibition on the work of Robert Brownjohn. Robert Brownjohn: Sex and Typography, a 240-page “catalog”, by Emily King accompanies the exhibition.
Before David Carson, Stefan Sagmeister and Rick Valicenti, along with Saul Bass, Paul Rand, Ivan Chermayeff and Tom Geismar, and after L�szl� Moholy-Nagy, Robert Brownjohn was it. A blend of loose humor and wit with a rigorous understanding of space and typography, with a charisma and personality to match, made Brownjohn one of the most celebrated designers and art directors in the 50s in New York and in the 60s in London until his premature death at 45, due to drug abuse. Sex and Typography is the perfect embodiment of this designer.
The first third of the book, simply titled Life, is a vivid reconstruction of the designer’s life through the accounts of his family, friends, partners, employees and clients. Brownjohn’s story — divided as Chicago, New York and London — is told in short, alternating paragraphs from each contributor creating an engaging, chronological telling from different points of view, one leading into the next, all contributing to telling the full story, never once contradicting the reflection of Brownjohn as they all saw him through work and play. While some monographs’ introductions are dry, congratulatory and celebratory, this one, in its colloquial and relaxed cadence, is truthful, real and vulnerable. Because Brownjohn’s drug problems were such a big part of his persona, it is apparent throughout this chapter the constant emotional struggle from friends and family to cope with his addiction while lauding his talent. In her introduction Ms. King hints at the desire to separate this duality, “For Brownjohn life and work were one and the same,” she writes, “but for the purposes of this book we have made an attempt to untangle biography from design.” Shortly thereafter, she says “… it is important not to allow the extremities of Brownjohn’s story to overwhelm the brilliance of his output.” Other than the book’s two chapters being Life and Work, Ms. King’s wish seems hard, and unnecessary, to fulfill. A designer’s work can not be judged without taking into consideration the context within which it took place, i.e., his or her life.
One of Brownjohn’s more celebrated pieces, the cover for the Rolling Stones’ Let it Bleed?, shows a cake with frosting with band member figurines on top of a bicycle wheel on top of a waffle with straw and blueberries on top of a, um, clock on top of a film reel that rests on a cake platter that is then balanced on a record. The back cover shows all of these elements, plus a slice of pizza, all, well, f-ed up. Tony Palladino, a friend of his in London, says about the cover, “You know the Rolling Stones cover, Let it Bleed? With the cake? Put that altogether and destroy it. Fuck it up, you know, fuck it up. I think it shows the anger that he felt at that point in time.” A few pages later, a transcript of an article after his death reads, “He was a giant figure in the industry, and no-one who ever dealt with him on a business or social level — and you can’t really separate the two in our industry — can ever think of him without affection.” Brownjohn lived his life his way. And he designed his way. Design was his way. Briant Tattersfield, a member of the Graphic Workshop in London recalls Brownjohn coming, in a not-so-perfect state, to give a lecture to some students; after Alan Fletcher shook him out of it and delivered a stunning lecture, a student asked him “What is graphic design?” to which Brownjohn replied “I am.” Why would anyone want to divide Brownjohn’s work and life? Clearly, each informed the other and made each other more interesting.
The rest of the book, Work, is as fulfilling as the first part. A large number of projects are shown with short and comprehensive explanations that parade the players of each project and manage to cover the beginnings, middles and ends of most of the work shown. It really is hard to draw any convoluted explanations when the work is presented uninterrupted and with no distractions, the book does a great job in letting the work show the sensibility of the designer. From the playful spreads of Brownjohn’s, along with Chermayeff and Geismar’s, typographic explorations for their booklet Watching Words Move, to the maturity and cleverness in the covers for Pepsi-Cola World, to the grandaddy of all of Brownjohn’s projects: The opening titles for James Bond’s From Russia with Love (1963) and Goldfinger (1964).
In From Russia with Love, Brownjohn projects the titles on a belly dancer, a (regular?) dancer and a model as they do their thing on screen. Audiences loved it and Brownjohn was instantly in charge of the following production, Goldfinger, where trying to outdo himself, Brownjohn decided to project live action sequences on the body of a woman. The model, a curvaceous Margaret Nolan was painted gold, from head to toe and dressed in a gold bikini, while explosions and Sean Connery were projected on her. (It goes without saying, men across the world liked it).
When I first saw this book I guess I liked the cover as well. I mean, there is a naked woman, laying on the floor, the words sex and typography printed brown on a goldish paper. At first, not knowing that Brownjohn was the man behind Goldfinger I shrugged it as a gimmick and as some sort of allure to attract unsuspecting designers to buy the book. Again, these are those moments that I hate, where I miss the nuance of design history. The woman on the cover is Margaret Nolan, possibly — telling from her glow — painted in gold from head to toe — just like the book. Just like Brownjohn. Golden. And now I know.
Robert Brownjohn: Sex And Typography By Emily King
Hardcover: 240 pages
Publisher: Princeton Architectural Press
ISBN: 1568985509
Thanks, Armin. On my wishlist. Like you I am self-taught in design history (among other things), and I am mortified by how much I don't know while at the same time feeling overwhelmed by learning about the past *and* keeping up with the present. How does Steve Heller do it?
Does anyone else besides me ever feel like giving up? Or maybe just concentrating on one small area: only learning about, uh, great designers of 1975, for instance. Or only about designers who were blind in one eye.... Rand, was he blind in one eye? No? Sorry then, not my area of expertise. Emma Who? Is she blind in one eye? Never heard of her; don't need to.
Ah the comfort in that! On the one hand you are revered for your vast knowledge as a specialist; on the other, absolved of knowing anything else beyond the basics.
Mark your territories, people.
On Oct.14.2005 at 12:06 AM