Interview with Eric Heiman by Jeremy Mende

Full disclosure: Eric Heiman is one of my best friends. It wasn’t always that way however.

I met Eric in 1997 when I began freelancing at Zimmerman Crowe Design (ZCD), Neil Zimmerman and Dennis Crowe’s San Francisco design firm. I was a recently minted MFA from Cranbrook, and Eric was a staff designer with a degree from California College of the Arts. At ZCD Eric was one of the stars. He was confident. He was loud. He had dyed-blonde hair. Eric would brashly proclaim his opinions on anything and everything from international politics, to which bands were acceptable listening and which bands were decidedly not (i.e., the kind of music I listened to). Now, I was not without my sins. I was an effete, intellectual snob who took pride in looking down on anything and everything that was not a pure expression of creativity–whatever that was. It’s fair to say, we deserved each other.

Sometime in ‘98 I moved on from ZCD, and it would be a few years before Eric and I crossed paths again—this time as junior faculty at CCAC. It was intimidating to join the faculty back then, as it was a veritable who's-who of the SF design scene. As the two new guys, we were looking for allies and so we found ourselves hanging out. I don’t recall the occasion, but we were driving somewhere and I was musing, out loud, about who our work was actually for – as in, who, beyond the client did we actually design for. I said that I designed for other designers – and that it was other designer’s opinions that mattered. Eric was silent, and then he looked at me quizzically and said something like, “I want regular people to like my work. The biggest compliment I can get is when someone who's not a designer finds some meaning in what I do.” We sat there in silence for a while longer, and I remember feeling sheepish and embarrassed for my navel-gazing remark. Nineteen years later, I feel even more so.

Eric and I later taught together. In crits he would sometimes ask the students, “Why should I care?” It sounds blunt when you read it here, but what he meant was why should a reader, (or viewer, or user…) give the gift of their attention to a particular piece of design? What about this particular design is so insightful, offered so generously, expressive of something so universally human that one is rewarded – made more whole even – for one’s participation? The point was that knowing the answer to this question is the beginning of the contract we sign with the people who will look at our work. Knowing the answer for each thing we put into the world—that is what justifies its taking up space in the world.

All of this is to say that aside from being a great friend, I’ve learned a lot from Eric: the importance of developing a reliable process (something he has and I don’t); the fundamental responsibility of the designer to be a citizen of the world; the importance of being generous with your time, your contacts, the creative opportunities that come your way. And finally, to recognize that one’s own work, no matter how finely wrought, has no meaning if it doesn’t leave generous space for the person on the receiving end. So thanks Eric – for the fights, the collaborations, and for keeping me honest with myself.

In early 2017, some 20 years after fact, Eric and I sat down to talk about design, life, and who it is we're really working for.

JM:

First question: do you call yourself a graphic designer, or do you use a different term to tell people what you do?

EH:

Lately, I’ve been saying that I work in the uncomfortable space between art and commerce [Laugh]. Sometimes I’ll use “communication” or “experience" designer. I’m uncomfortable with the term “graphic design” because it feels too limiting. It implies only the visual, only the surface. And there’s no acknowledgment of function, of the use, or of the experiential. The term has also slowly been debased (at least in the U.S.) since the desktop publishing and internet revolutions. It’s getting pushed aside by people calling themselves experience, or interaction, or digital, or even just visual designers. To better encompass what they do, surely, but I’d argue also as a way to get away from the “graphic designer” title that is starting to feel outdated and marginal. But am I still a graphic designer at the end of the day? Sure, in part anyway.

JM:

So you grew up in semi-rural Pennsylvania. Were you an average kid, or did you stand out in some way?

EH:

I was a sensitive and nerdy kid – so I struggled a bit to find my way as most creative kids do. I moved school districts about every four years during my K-12 education, so that made it harder to cultivate long-term friendships. But these experiences instilled a lot of grit and made me comfortable with independence early on. I definitely grew up in a fairly conservative part of the country, but other than some mild anti-Semitism-tinged teasing in high school, I never really felt too out of place. But I wasn’t really thriving, either. It’s when I got to college that my world really opened up. Over time, however, I’ve grown to appreciate what a supportive, rich, and pretty bucolic childhood I had. My family exposed me to so much—music, film, theater, art, literature, social issues, and travel. I also still marvel that the rich Jewish community of my father’s side of the family even existed in western Pennsylvania as it did when I was a child there. The area has changed a lot economically and demographically since I left—I grew up 15 minutes from Youngstown, Ohio, which is ground zero of Rust Belt Trump country—but my liberal-leaning father is still there and it’s always been a very welcoming community, despite its struggles.

JM:

Do you identify with being a Midwesterner, or Californian?

EH:

After almost 25 years here, I certainly feel like a native Californian now. But I bristle a bit when I hear bashing of flyover country from people who’ve never set foot anywhere near it. These communities are much more complex than they’re made out to be, and it’s a huge reason why I, even in my liberalism, try to be very empathetic in approaching any issue, political or otherwise. I always liked that Nietzsche quote, “A thinking man can never be a [political] party man.” My mother was a teacher and my father is a practicing attorney, so I’m sure I inherited their proclivity towards critical thinking, shaping arguments, empathy, and vigorous debate. I’d also argue that these traits are in the genes for anyone with Jewish blood, lawyer or otherwise [Laugh].

JM:

When I was a kid I used to be fascinated with the abstract diagrams in my dad’s scientific journals. What about you? What were you looking at growing up?

EH:

I was (and still am) a big reader, so books were always important. I have vivid memories of being mesmerized by the drawings in Where the Wild Things Are. My mother and father are both very musical—she plays piano and sings, he plays clarinet and saxophone—and I always remember being enamored by their classical and jazz record covers. Leonard Bernstein conducting Richard Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra (the iconic music from 2001: A Space Odyssey I loved as a kid) and Jackie McLean’s Right Now! on Blue Note (designed by Reid Miles) are both early visual design memories. My uncle had a sports memorabilia store across the country in Mountain View, and so as a pre-teen I got into trading cards. I still have big love for the decorative designs of the ‘72 Topps baseball cards. And then, of course, comic books. I would draw a lot, and so I loved copying the style of Marvel Comics golden era Jack Kirby (with the lettering of Artie Simek!); John Romita-era Spider-Man; and John Byrne-era X-Men. Yes, I was a nerd. [Laugh].

JM:

Any early memories dealing more directly with design – concept, communication, that sort of thing?

EH:

When I was 7 or 8 I remember having to create a fire-prevention poster for a school contest. I drew this elevation of our fireplace, added (with captions) all these flammable items like matches and rubber cement in the foreground, and then hand drew in all caps at the bottom, “DON’T PUT FLAMMABLE THINGS BY THE FIREPLACE”. Very subtle. I remember a classmate sitting next to me, drawing this really good Smokey the Bear, and I thought “I can’t draw that well, I’ll never win.” And then, surprisingly, I did win. It never occurred to me that this was a job people got paid for. I just liked to draw. But I do remember being energized by the recognition.

JM:

Music has always been a focus for you. Any albums you bought just for the packaging?

EH:

Music has always been huge. I was drawn to the object quality of LPs and their sleeve art, but it always started with the actual music. I didn’t have money to buy records just for the cover art! The Police’s Ghost in the Machine and Synchronicity; the high concepts of the Rush, Peter Gabriel/Genesis, Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin sleeves; and then the often cryptic new wave / alternative artwork of U2, The Smiths, Elvis Costello, Talking Heads and R.E.M. records. But, again, I didn’t know people actually did this for a living until I was well into college.

JM:

Your early design education came through an architecture degree at Carnegie-Mellon. What drew you to architecture, and how do you think it influences the way you make design now?

EH:

Majoring in architecture felt like the only option for me at the time. My family was very supportive of my creativity, but I also felt this pressure, after getting into an esteemed university, to do something that had a practical side. It was partially the ethnic / Jewish family thing, I think. I probably could have majored in fine art and that would have been okay, but I don’t remember even entertaining the option. And the only thing I really knew about architecture going in was some basic drafting and Frank Lloyd Wright.

The architecture program was extremely rigorous. My class started with 100+ students and graduated 35 or so. We worked around the clock. At the end of every semester you put your work up, the faculty would review it, and then just cut people from the program. I can’t believe I made it through, especially the first three semesters when I was completely lost and eventually ended up on academic probation. Only my drawing skills kept me alive. My more talented and learned friends helped me stay afloat for sure. This was a low point, and, ironically, I was contemplating switching to Graphic Design. But my friends encouraged me to stick with Architecture for one more semester. And of course that was the semester that I finally found a foothold. Oh well. It was worth it, I think. [Laugh]

JM:

What was that foothold?

EH:

My studio teacher that spring, Art Lubetz, was a real blunt-spoken, ass-kicker. He changed everything for me: he made us go to galleries and museums, he really pushed us to be personal and conceptual. He just broadened our worldview in general. Suddenly, I really got it. Architecture was about ideas—my ideas—and not just fulfilling an assignment. And these ideas should be poetic and have a story to them. A project isn’t just about creating an apartment complex, it’s about a built experience that is “a conduit between the steep Pittsburgh hills to the Ohio River below them.” I saw Douglas Burnham from Envelope A+D on a panel recently and he remarked that, “Architecture without ideas is just building.” That’s exactly what Art taught us.

JM:

Any other seminal experiences that shaped your early design sensibilities?

EH:

So many. A year later, I studied in Italy and toured Europe, which really expanded my worldview of architecture, the design of urban space, and life in general. You only fully realize the rich tradition and history of architecture by visiting Europe and the buildings there—whether it was the Pantheon from ancient times or the more contemporary Brion Cemetery by Carlo Scarpa and Notre Dame du Haut by Le Corbusier. You really feel the visceral, physical experience engendered by these buildings. Those visits still stick with me.

JM:

You and I both have quite a few architects as clients. I think about what they spend their days doing, and the process of realizing architecture seems very different to the process of realizing graphic design. With that in mind, what do you miss about architecture?

EH:

Architecture school instilled a real rigor and intensity. That degree made me tough. I’ve definitely had to temper that since shifting to graphic design—whether as a collaborator, boss, or teacher. Designing a 40-story building, or even just a single family home, requires a lot more effort and responsibility than most graphic design projects. One needs to be single-minded to shoulder that responsibility. Graphic design is much more ephemeral and lower risk by comparison. It also tends to be only concerned with the visual, whereas in architecture school we were always pushed to incorporate all the senses in our work. And then to really think about function and context. How people really used and experienced the work. But architects are also taken seriously because they aren’t afraid to think big, and they usually have the intellectual reasoning to back it up, however misguided it may be at times. The “quick turnaround” qualities of graphic design allow you to do more work, but that often lowers the stakes on the thinking, too. Intuitive making is fine, but it should be informed by an idea. I’ve been in school critiques where students don’t have a cursory knowledge of their subject matter, and that drives me crazy. You’d never get away with that in an architecture crit.

JM:

You graduated in 1992 with an architecture degree. The fact that we’re sitting here means you chose a different path. What’s the journey story between school and becoming a designer?

EH:

My interests have always been broad and architecture was about architecture, period. As I got closer to graduation, I had a creeping feeling that the single-minded focus—and the large ego to realize it—wasn’t really me. My step-father asked me to size a steel flange for a house renovation he was doing. I was so scared of screwing it up that I did the calculations fifteen times and still specified a beam three sizes up. I just didn’t want that stress. In my last semester, I took a class about creating a journal of architecture (the school didn’t have one at the time). Another classmate and I were tasked with figuring out how to design and produce it. I hit up some graphic design friends and ended up spending a lot of time in their studios to realize the project. I just loved it – the whole process. So there I was, 9.75 semesters into a 10-semester degree and now I fully realize that maybe architecture wasn’t the right call. Oops.

JM:

I sympathize with the Oops moment. I was about as far along with a psychology degree when I discovered graphic design. But psych was a far cry from design and architecture. At least both architecture and graphic design involve conceptual, functional, and aesthetic decisions. What do you think it was, specifically, about graphic design that spoke to you?

EH:

The formal expression of architecture is very abstract, and I’m much more of a (ahem) direct kind of communicator. I liked the immediacy of mixing type and image in graphic design. You can tell when a particular arrangement is resonating. An architecture model is still very far from actual experience. Narrative and storytelling are more immediately available, not subsumed by program or space making. The formal language of graphic design appealed to me because it was more directly connected to what I was most interested in at the time—film, books, music, visual art, etc.

JM:

So you’re about to graduate with an architecture degree and you know you don’t want to pursue that profession. Now what?

EH:

I got this interview with a relative’s firm in Minneapolis, and they offered me a job. The country was in a deep recession and I felt like I had to take it. But I also had this giant pit in my stomach, thinking to myself, “If I take this job, my life is over.” I had no idea what another life might look like, but the Minneapolis job felt completely wrong. I swallowed hard, turned the job down, and got a freelance gig with a single-person architecture office in Pittsburgh. It was then that I hatched a plan with another graduating classmate to do a cross-county trip and just see what happens. We were so slacker Gen-X! [Laugh]. In hindsight, it’s proof that you have to follow your gut, whatever the risks, however scary it feels. The gut is always right! [Laugh]

JM:

Why did you stop in California?

EH:

When you’re from the east, California is the promised land! Manifest Destiny, baby! Throughout my childhood, we visited relatives on my mother’s side of the family who were living in the South Bay—pretty much where you grew up—and the place always seemed surreal: the nicely paved streets to skateboard on, the weather; and the people seemed more open-minded and interesting. Even the food was better. And I felt like if I’m going to make a break, it better be a big one or else I’ll never do it. We took about two months to make the trip and went to almost all the lower 48 states – which seems crazily irresponsible now, but I’m so grateful to have seen so much of this beautiful country. About halfway through the trip, another classmate got in touch with me and asked if I wanted to rent a place with him in Oakland. I had no plan, so I thought “Hey, why not?” I always tell students to say yes to everything when they’re in their twenties, because those risks really allow you to know yourself.

JM:

When you arrived did you try to work in architecture, or did you know that chapter was over?

EH:

When I finally got settled in Oakland, I tried to get architecture gigs, but there was nothing. I had no ins anywhere, and the two informational interviews I did get, I was told each time I should get out of architecture before it’s too late. It was bleak. But it also gave me an excuse to shift my focus. I had to do something for work and so after some short-lived gigs bicycle messengering and working in a café, I got my slacker dream job working in a record store—Rasputin’s on Telegraph in Berkeley. At the time, there must have been five or six Ivy League school grads working there, too, and it pretty much erased any stigma I had about trying to start over or reinvent myself while I checked bags at the front of the store. The Bay Area was also much more affordable then and you could have a 35-40 hour work week record store job and still pay your rent. I’m not sure that’s even possible here now.

JM:

What about CCA(c)? How did you decide you were ready for more design school?

EH:

Soon after moving here, I considered applying to SCI-Arc for architecture graduate school. Really! [Laugh] But I think I was more enamored of April Greiman’s cool fluorescent orange viewbook design than actually going to school there. Then I went to SFMOMA when it was still on Van Ness. One of the exhibitions was In the Public Eye: Four Graphic Designers, which featured the work of Michaels Cronan, Manwaring, Vanderbyl and Gerry Reis. The work blew me away. It was so exuberant, expressive, and multidisciplinary. They all taught at CCAC and, coincidentally, I was living down the street from the Oakland campus. So I just walked into the admissions office and told them I was interested in graphic design. The admissions officer explained that most GD majors were transfer or second-degree and that I would actually be one of the younger students. (CCAC had no grad program at the time.) I went to the final Thesis critique to really get a sense of what the program was about and the ambition of the work made a real impression. I thought, “I really want to do this,” and I enrolled the following fall.

JM:

I took one class at CCAC in the mid-90’s, and my sense of the program was that it was very fluid and somewhat unstructured. How did you fare with the more improvisational curriculum?

EH:

The range of teaching philosophies, the diversity of the student body, the two campuses—it was a nice counter to the more traditional university experience. I loved it. The freedom was really energizing. Again, there was no stigma around reinvention. Most of my classmates were in their twenties, too. This would have been unheard of at Carnegie Mellon. It also felt like everyone who was someone in Bay Area graphic design taught there. And it was a good time to be in graphic design in general, since there was a lot happening in the profession then—the computer really taking hold as a tool, the heady Émigré / Eye debates around legibility and authorship, and a slowly cresting local economy. At its core, CCA isn’t very different from when I was a student. The ethos of “theory and practice” that’s on the seal is still in effect. And even if we dropped the “c”, there’s still a real emphasis on making. It’s just that the definition of those terms has evolved in this new technology-enhanced age.

JM:

We all have a project in our student portfolios that, looking back, indicated what would become a focus later on. What about you? Is there a project you still think about?

EH:

There were a lot of heady moments for me at CCA: the poetic mindset Michael Manwaring taught us in GD2, my experimental type class with Linda Lawler, and the expansive explorations in Thesis with Michael Vanderbyl. But the work I did in my Graphic Design 3 class with Dennis Crowe and Neal Zimmermann, my future employers, was a turning point. We created a suite of materials around promoting a documentary film, and my subject was the epic-length, Holocaust-focused Shoah. Yeah [laughs], I go for the heavy content.

The signature element was a direct mail component to promote the film-premiere event. I designed a series of elegant wood boxes that would be mailed one at a time. Got to love impracticality of school projects! [Laugh] The concept was all about packaging these everyday objects—a spoon, a cigarette, a family photo—in a way that expressed how invaluable they were to prisoners in the concentration camps. I struggled with that piece because it was so much about clarity of intent and storytelling. Before the final critique, I showed the piece to my non-CCAC roommate, and after going through the whole set of boxes, she started to cry.

Deep down, I think I was always trying to pitch my work to an audience outside the insular designer dialogue, and that project really showed the potential of doing so. That GD3 work opened up a new “middle” path of work I could both love from a personal artistic standpoint and that could speak to people outside the design world. I don’t know if I’ve made anyone cry with my work since then, but really touching someone emotionally with something I made? Yeah, that’s still the goal for me.

JM:

It’s 1996 and you’re graduating into a very eclectic design scene. Postmodernism and the California New Wave are over but there is no obvious ideology to fill the void. Looking back at that time, who were your design heroes?

EH:

When I started at CCAC, I was definitely drawn to the Postmodernism movement in all its forms. It was personal, exuberant, colorful and open-ended. But I admired most the practitioners who left a little formal “breathing room” in their work: Lucille Tenazas, Tom Bonauro, Vaughan Oliver. They struck this balance between the visceral and the refined. David Carson, Tomato and the other work in that vein went too far for me. As a big reader, I’ve always had a reverence for the content— the words themselves— and these designers who often all but obliterated legibility never interested me much. I was also very into Reid Miles, who designed all the Blue Note record sleeves in the 1950s and 60s that struck a similar balance. But high Modernism? I was never a fan. It always felt too cold. And then, of course, Tibor Kalman. I saw him lecture while I was a student, and the Colors magazine stuff really spoke to me. Not so much formally, but more how he shaped the content. It was inventive, socially-driven, and funny in a smart way. It felt really fresh and urgent, plus he was the only designer talking about social issues, ethics, and conscience at the time.

JM:

When we were entering the workforce, young designers wanted to work for small creative studios: Tolleson Design, AlterPop, Elixir, Cabra Diseño, Cahan, Bielenberg… There was even a sense that working for an ad agency or in-house department was a moral failing. Obviously that’s changed, but why do you think?

EH:

I think that shift is probably as much about economics as anything else. Small, creative shops can’t pay designers as much as these larger entities, many young designers are saddled with college loan debt, and it’s super expensive to live here. Add the promise of a potential IPO stock payout plus perpetual free meals and snacks? I see the allure. And what’s considered cutting-edge design in the Bay Area now is usually in the digital, tech, and service design space. These projects are often very large-scale in terms of size and reach, and they often have diverse interdisciplinary teams. I’m thinking Code & Theory, Google or IDEO. You need a lot of infrastructure to take on the work these firms do. And I’d guess that, for many designers, “cutting-edge” doesn’t mean the formal inventiveness we valued so highly, but rather real interactivity and reach. Something like “Yeah, I’m just working on extending the Facebook Like button, but that button will be used by billions of people.” Personally, I’m not so attracted to the design exercise itself, but the idea of it reaching that many people is pretty compelling. Everybody wants to feel like their work has some meaning and relevance, and these companies have their higher-purpose mantra pitches well-scripted. Whether they deliver on them or not, that’s a different issue.

JM:

You and I are tennis fans. I like Nadal, you like Federer. What is it about Federer you admire? And if it’s not stretching the analogy too far, how does it relate to your approach to design?

EH:

Ha! Great question! 20 years ago, I probably would have been in the Nadal camp, too. He’s intense, gritty, relentless, and maybe the most physically fit tennis player ever. It’s all about impact and brute force. When I was younger, and even well into my Volume career, impact was first and foremost my definition of successful work. In your face, lots of clarity, even brash. Lately though, I’ve become more interested in a more nuanced impact; design that can create pauses, moments of reflection. My recent trip to Japan with Doug Akagi was the real apotheosis of this shift in my thinking. Kenya Hara’s Designing Design is my new bible! Federer seems very much in the spirit of all that understated grace. And maybe I’m team Federer because Megan (my wife) has a crush on Nadal [Laugh].

JM:

So Nadal is the index for explosive force, and Federer for centered grace?

EH:

More or less. As much as I admire Federer’s effortless grace, I’m not someone who comes by it naturally. So I think I tend to unconsciously seek out these types of people, designer or otherwise. After Zimmermann Crowe (ZCD), I worked for Jennifer Jerde at Elixir Design. We are very different—as designers and people—and the office had a very different vibe than ZCD. It took a little time for me to adjust and admittedly I never felt completely at home there. But I learned so much from her. She would just sit down with me and the other designers and effortlessly pull these poetic insights and solutions out of even the most mundane subject matter. It was so pure, so untainted by any design trends or client limitations. Jennifer’s obviously some kind of design ninja. She has this wide-eyed optimism that allows her to look at everything in a fresh way that feels effortless. Adam [Brodsley, the other Volume co-founder] is very low-key, at least compared to me. And of course Megan brings calm and grace to everything—from the way she interacts with people on the street to the way she frames a picture in a camera. It’s surely one of the reasons I’m with her.

JM:

What about beyond design? How does this sense of balance extend into your life?

EH:

I’ve certainly had periods when I let work overwhelm everything else, but it’s funny how the universe usually self-corrects such imbalances if you’re willing to notice the signs. In the 2000s I had two very close friends die far too young, and about five years ago I also dealt with some fairly serious health issues. All of these events made me recalibrate my relationship to my work, whether it was spending less time on it or just not getting caught up in all the inevitable ego crap that sometimes comes with a creative profession. My design work, my teaching, my writing all enrich me, but I’m seeing them increasingly less as ways to enrich me alone and instead as vehicles to really engage with other people and the larger context we live in. I still want the work to be thoughtful and engaging, of course, but I’m not as hung up on it as I was when I was younger.

JM:

As I indicated at the top of this interview, you and I met as young, perhaps too intensely-focused designers. Among other things, our peer group was trying to reconcile the relationship between personal expression and the commercial reality of design. What are your thoughts on this 20 years later?

EH:

That’s always been the struggle, right? But I think it’s that hand wringing we both do that makes our more commercial work better. Your CMT / Miss America campaign comes to mind as an example of a pretty commercial gig that you brought a lot of extra nuance and layers to.

I loved working at ZCD so much, but I eventually got frustrated with the more strictly formal leanings of the work we were doing. I wanted more content and I just couldn’t skin another Levi’s 517 Boot Cut POS poster. Dennis Crowe recently sent me an annual performance review letter I wrote to them back in ’97 or ‘98. God, it was so pompous. [Laugh] I’m surprised they didn’t fire me. But the seeds of what we’re doing at Volume were in there. Though now that I have my own studio, I fully understand the pressure they were under and have infinite sympathy and respect for what they had to do to keep that office open.

And, frankly, design is commerce most of the time. Admitting that, I still struggle ethically with my role in the marketplace, even if I’ve gotten less black and white about it. Adam and I are still pretty discerning in the clients we choose to work with and we try to keep a balance between commercial, cultural, and non-profit work in the office. Then again, I like the challenge of trying to bring our philosophy and ideas to commercial, more mainstream clients that may not be receptive at first. It goes back to that populist streak I discovered with film-premiere invitation in GD3. The Boy Scouts and Bloomberg work has been super rewarding not just because of its scale, but because it reaches audiences that rarely get so-called “good design”. If anything, the creative challenge of designing for those audiences made the work better. I could design a cool art catalog in my sleep at this point, but an exhibition program that fulfills our creative goals and also engages Boy Scouts? That’s hard.

JM:

I think it’s fair to say that we were both somewhat arrogant as young designers. Now you’re running the creative team. How do you see the process of making design differently then when you were the one moving the mouse around every day?

EH:

I really marvel at how good Neal and Dennis were at it. They were “long leash” creative directors and after some general strategy, they would usually leave it to us to do most of the form generation. They also had a knack for cultivating a fun environment to work in, and I was able to really do my own thing there. But eventually I wanted something else. I missed the heady school stuff, I wanted to design books, projects with more content, and I was starting to get a little disillusioned. That classic post-school malaise that sometimes happens. I just needed a change.

So I freelanced for three years at various studios like Elixir, Man Bites Dog—where you and I briefly intersected again after ZCD—and Eurythmy Studios. During that period I also did little jobs on the side for friends, CCA, and non-profits. I started to teach at CCA. I started DJ-ing again. I even managed to do some art by leaving Fridays for studio time. In hindsight, I was probably a little adrift and thought just to try everything until something stuck. Megan and I had also gotten serious as a couple and our relationship was a top priority for me, too.

JM:

There’s a Michael Beirut quote “The biggest challenge that faces a designer isn’t the quest for novelty, but coming to grips with the fact that much of what we do has little content, very little that would actually engage normal people on a human level.” There are two ideas here, content and human connection. What do these mean to you today?

EH:

It’s funny, I’d forgotten about the last phrase of that quote. That’s very interesting in the context of our discussion. I read that interview while I was working at ZCD. I remember xeroxing that quote (minus the last phrase) and putting it up at home, as almost a challenge to prove it wrong. There’s three ways I’ve seen countering the “content” part of the quote: one is to really seek out work that is content-rich (however you define it); and, second, to try and infuse your own content where you see a content-vacuum. The former example is pretty obvious and you see it in our work—the books the exhibition catalogs, the exhibitions, the websites for 826, etc. The latter takes a bit more initiative, but I like trying to add an authorial skew to work. Sometimes it’s just going a bit further on, say, those freebee AIGA fundraiser blank slate projects—Can we make it political? More layered? Can it be used in some way? Or it’s contributing editorially, as we often did when working with ReadyMade. Both you and I were lucky that we were in design school when crossing that “designer as author” line wasn’t a bad thing. That conceit has stuck with me. Lastly, I always tell students that there are no boring jobs, only boring designers, meaning there’s interesting and rich content in anything if you look hard enough. It’s often just a matter of perspective.

JM:

2000-01 was the internet bust and at the same time you and Adam Brodsley began Volume. Those were lean years. What was the beginning like and what did it take to ride out the storm?

EH:

We were just naïve more than anything else—“If we can make it now, we can make it anytime!” [Laugh] And there didn’t seem like any other options. Freelance work had dried up. Go work as a staff designer again? No. Work for a big company in-house? No. We just thought what’s the worst that could happen? It was all very random, even the genesis of our partnership. We just started talking at a happy hour a mutual friend was hosting—Adam and I knew each other through the local design scene—and decided, hey, maybe we shoulder the burden of being on our own together and see where it goes? We had a few meetings to talk further, found that we were pretty aligned, and that was it. We both had a few projects lined up, we worked out of each other’s homes for a year and then signed the lease on 2130 Harrison, splitting it with a photographer friend of mine who I had shared art studios with before.

The first years were lean, for sure. We were stressed, and still learning how to work with each other. We were both supplementing income by teaching. I applied for and got an RNT job at CCA, partially as a hedge just in case everything went south. I wasn’t sure if teaching or practice was my thing at the time. (It ended up being both.) I remember having to sell a bunch of my rare art books to pay the rent at home for a few months. But we just kept pinging our extended network, and doing the best work we could, and slowly we found our way—and business liquidity. I can’t speak for Adam, but I felt like this was it for me as a designer. There was no way I was going to work for someone else again. The freedom was intoxicating and a big motivator.

JM:

You guest art directed an issue of ReadyMade magazine. That is typically a one issue engagement. How did the book project come about, and what was unique about the process?

EH:

During that first ReadyMade issue, [founders] Shana [Berger] and Grace [Hawthorne] finalized their book deal. We all had such a blast making that issue together I think it just seemed natural that we would do the book. They had a general idea of the content, but once the design got going, I was contributing editorial ideas, too. We soon realized the book really had no precedent. It was this weird magazine / handbook hybrid. We were flying pretty blind in terms of orthodox book design tropes, and there was a lot of willful ignorance in trying to make the design unique. The book really pushes its type and grid and just overall design system about as far as they could possibly go, while still being coherent. I think we used almost 20 different typefaces in that book, and I still relish the thought of traditionalists cracking it open and gasping, “Logger? They used Logger?!” But the project ended up being a Herculean task to finish. I was working 18-hour days, 7 days a week, for about 4 months. It almost killed me.

JM:

Why do you think it was such a success?

EH:

Part of its success was timing: ReadyMade was really ahead of the curve on the DIY / Maker thing, and the book hit right as the movement was starting to crest. But I’m sure the object nature of the book felt very fresh at the time, too, and a lot of people just picked it up because of that. I met someone at a wedding that bought it for her whole office as a holiday gift because of the design. And I can’t tell you how many exposed chipboard, yellow tape spine books I’ve seen since it came out.

But, also, the design was very accessible. The authors were adamant they didn’t want it to be too rarefied. It had to appeal to a fairly mass audience. Shana Berger was especially good at pushing me to hold that line, to locate that balance between accessible and refined. That might be its biggest success—and why it’s still in print 10+ years on.

JM:

The Academy of Sciences was another watershed project for Volume—and very different in scale and materials from your previous work. Looking back on it, what did you learn that still informs your current approach?

EH:

Having a project manager? Awesome. Wrangling 10+ people? Not so much. Full size mockups? A must. The project was also a lot about synthesis and scale. Synthesis in that there was so much content—photos, text, specimens, interactives, screens—that had to be incorporated, and scale in thinking about how we stratify that content. In some ways, the project was the ReadyMade book in exhibit form. But unlike a book, you can’t just add more pages and the design can’t operate on a single general scale. Even with the full-size mockups, we weren’t sure it was going to work. But when we attended the soft opening and saw it all finished for the first time, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, seeing that we had found the right balance. Much credit goes to Adam on that job, too. He shouldered a lot of the execution and production burden once the design was locked in.

JM:

What about teaching? You’ve been at CCA for 16+ years now. Beyond skill building and preparing people for the profession, what are the essential ideas you try to instill in the students?

EH:

I want them to find their voice and their preferred way of working. But also not to feel pressured that “voice” necessarily equals a formal style. For students – for anyone – making something that’s new is really hard. I often tell them to stop trying to make it new, and instead make it yours. Then it might end up being new, or at least true to you.

When I was in architecture school, I really didn’t find my creative voice through designing buildings, but by taking a couple of back-to-back Humanities courses in the history department. The professor, Richard Schoenwald, was a very compelling guy. It was the first time a teacher really asked me “why?” beyond the parochial issues of program and form. I sometimes regret not having a full Humanities education because learning about the world beyond the self, making observations about what you read or see, and then supporting those opinions through well-considered speaking or writing— it’s as important to being a designer, maybe more important, than making good form. I usually teach studios, but I also make sure there’s a “Bachelors” component to the “Fine Arts” of their BFA in my courses. It’s important to me that the students can hold their own intellectually. I think this drives them nuts sometimes—I always spend at least 30-45 minutes a week just on topical discussions, design or otherwise, with them as a group—but as teachers we’re as responsible for making our students good people, as we are making them good designers. I want them to be engaged citizens of the world in addition to making thoughtful, well-crafted work.

JM:

You’ve been a voice in the SF design community for a more then a decade. You’ve been active with AIGA, spoken at national conferences, and through writing, you regularly introduce critical perspectives on how and where design meets culture. Is there a larger project here?

EH:

You would think. At the end of the day I’m always trying to push design out of its insular bubble of inquiry—or at least push it to look at itself in a more critical way—and any larger, self-driven project would need to do that, too. Certainly the AIGA Pub Project thing we did back in 2004 was in that vein. I also just finished Jessica Helfand’s new book Design: The Invention of Desire, and thought, “Man, I wish I had written this.” It’s great because it has the guts to consider design outside of these bubbles and really call us to the mat about what we do.

JM:

It seems clear to me that you have a bigger, design-critical project in you. If I really hold you to the fire, what is it?

EH:

I often go back to Tibor’s comment that design is just a language, it’s what you do with it that counts. Design is really just a conduit that connects me to the things I love like music, film, literature, art, urbanism, travel, and learning in general. I like the idea of using design as the lens to tackle bigger subjects. For instance what do the LP sleeve designs of the 80s say about the culture in general at the time? Not just how they fit into the overall history of design, but what they reveal about the interests and concerns that made up that time, that culture. I don’t know if I’m even intellectually equipped to tackle something like that, but I like the idea. Does it even have to be writing? Could it be combination of my own design and writing? And, oy, I’m really good at starting self-driven projects, not so good at finishing them…Maybe it’s finally time to apply for the Rome Prize. Will you sponsor me?

JM:

Our conversation started by looking at the term “graphic designer”. Is part of our discomfort with the name due to the fact that current perceptions locate it more in the world of decoration, and significantly less in the realm of ideas? How do you think the profession needs to evolve in order to stay relevant?

EH:

“Is it better if it looks good or means more?” [Laugh] That was one of the questions from the Pub Project, remember? I guess it’s how you define relevant. We will always have a need for visual communication and culture. There will always be letterpress and print books and gigposters that people will make by hand, that are “decorative,” and that we will buy and give as gifts or keep in our homes. We’ll still need directional signage and wayfinding. Our screens will still need to look good as well as have good UX. But is that a relevant role? Maybe not in the hyperbolic sense that design is being defined these days and maybe that’s okay? Maybe graphic design settles into being a more anonymous and quaint practice again? Be a UX or product designer if you want relevance! I’ve always tried to push myself, my students, and even my peers to think more expansively about their work. But maybe graphic design benefits from not having such arguably unrealistic pressure foisted upon it. For all my bluster about design’s importance, it’s certainly a question I’m asking myself a lot these days.

If we take this technological progress to its endgame, it’s not so crazy to assume that the visual form and craft of what we do will eventually be executed primarily by algorithms. They crunch the data and spit out a beautiful infographic. They even create the items I mention above, however analog the final product. That’s much more efficient and economical, right? It’s already happening. I’m thinking of your 3D printed gun project at YBCA. So then graphic designers will continue to evolve into less traditional craftspeople and more curators, tastemakers, editors, system builders, coders, thinkers. Hell, this shift has been going on since the Mac and Postscript came along. If we’re being relieved of the formmaking and especially craft generation, then we better be pros around systems thinking, ideas, imagination, and content, right? That algorithm may generate 1000 poster designs, but we still need someone to pick the one that consumers want to buy. And maybe it’s not even a poster we should be making! Humans still need to make those kinds of decisions. We still need someone to adjust the algorithm to get what we want. We become less makers, more adjusters and sifters. But how many of these creative types will we really need? I start to have bad dreams when I go down this path…Yet, I’d argue that humanity is what makes it design in the first place—well, good design, anyway. And that can’t be programmed, whatever the tech titans are saying these days. We’re not going away, however much the particulars of our jobs might change. If anything, designers are the ones holding the line for the messy, fun, and exuberant parts of being human, too. The emotion and joy in our work is just as important as its function and efficiency.

JM:

A good way to end this is to refer back to that class you and I taught: Thinking & Making. The class was really about critical analysis, and unpacking the ideas behind key cultural movements. If you remember, we asked the students to draft design manifestos. What’s yours?

EH:

Maybe this interview is my very lengthy manifesto? [Laugh] I tend to be very suspect of dogma, and my rules are always evolving and changing. But here are some of my more pithy bon mots I’ve used over the years that I still agree with:

-Have a point of view, and be able to support it… -…But also keep an open mind. -Always look at your work from the standpoint of your audience and ask “Why should I care about this?” -It’s not what the design is, but what it does that matters. -Don’t worry about making it new, worry about making it yours. -Human first, designer second. -Know the difference between what’s meaningful and what’s just “cool”. -Every piece of design needs to work in two seconds, two minutes, and two hours. (The “Three Twos” rule I stole from Jean Orlebeke.) -And your all-time favorite: Good design is not “Wow! Huh?”, it’s “Huh? Wow!” You laugh, but it’s true, right?

Jeremy Mende is an American designer who lives and works in San Francisco. Mende holds a BA in psychology from UCLA and an MFA from Cranbrook Academy of Art. In 2000 he founded MendeDesign, a creative practice that balances commercial projects with visual research and public art. Mende is an associate professor in design at the California College of the Arts, and in 2010–11 he was the Rome Prize Fellow in Design at the American Academy in Rome. Before his career as a designer, he skippered a mail packet off the west coast of Nova Scotia.