How to be a Bad Designer
O let me count the ways: here’s three. I could give more but graphic designers, as a group, are notoriously poor readers.
1) Be pretentious. As graphic design software gets cheaper and easier to use, and everyone around you seems to have keys to the shop, and even your babysitter considers tinkering with logos and posters and web pages to be “fun”, and the entire design industry wanes, withers and dies around you, like some kind of priesthood to a god that no longer exists, now is the time to get arrogant. O yes. You are the zen master. You have a process. You make art. Whatever work you do is a gift to the client, and they should be fucking grateful to accept it! Sure, they might have their stupid business to worry about, but only you understand taste and style. Go get your backlit headshot as soon as possible.
2) Concentrate on the software. Make yourself a specialist. Sell yourself as a scientist, as a technocrat, as a wizard of special effects. Show off your skills! You can make type look like wood, stack layers and filters in soul-deadening arrays, make everything spin and glow. All buttons must be clicked. Certainly, this is about as far as you can get from what originally brought you to this field, which was the desire to be creative and engage with inventive ideas. But so what? Back then, you probably even had some actual pen-on-paper drawing skills. Still, fuck it! If the only way to stay ahead of the zombie horde is to be a super zombie, then so be it.
3) Teach at the college level. Ah, safety! Now you can be pretentious and a technocrat and no one will call you on your bullshit. Nineteen year-olds know nothing! A little I-understand-the-industry here, some if-you-want-make-it there and voila! A bunch of kids who look up to you and actually believe that they’ll only have to do graphic design until they make it as illustrators. Psyche! Not only are you safe from having to do any real design work, but any design that you deign to do will be worshipped by a group of semi-desperate children. Now where’s my latte?
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