Chip Kidd, in a Fast Company interview with Nicole Gull McElroy, says he is “the last of that breed.” He means the 40-year career at one publisher, which he is about to complete at Knopf in October. He says it plainly:

In October, if I live that long, I will have passed my 40th year at Alfred A. Knopf. I feel very fortunate. Frankly, I’m the last of that breed. I have peers who are also the last, but that’s going to be it. It’s not for me to say, but the age of a 40-year career at the same place used to be not that unusual, but going forward it will be. That’s just the way things have evolved.

Read the interview and the easy story is the celebrity arc: Pennsylvania kid joins Knopf in 1986, does Jurassic Park, ends up on the canon shelf with Cormac McCarthy, Donna Tartt, and John Updike. But Kidd points at the mechanism instead of the outcome. He points to two anonymous designs—the Tide box, the Coca-Cola wordmark—and then explains why his name is on his work and theirs is not.

A lot of graphic designers do not get credit for what they do. Who designed the Tide detergent box? We don’t know but it certainly is iconic. Even going back to Coca-Cola: Who designed that? […] Growing up in the ’70s, the only other area of graphic design where the designers got credit were record album covers. If you looked closely, you could see this one was done by Peter Saville. He was a huge influence on me. […] To this day, if I design a book cover and it gets put out into the world, it has my name on it. That is why we are even having this discussion right now. Not only did I get credit for what I was doing, but I piggybacked on these books that became iconic bestselling books.

Two structural facts are doing the work here, and neither is talent. The first is the medium: book jackets have a back flap, and the back flap has room for a designer credit. Record sleeves had the same affordance, which is how Peter Saville got known for Joy Division and New Order. Packaging does not: there’s no flap on a Tide box where the designer’s name goes. The second is duration: the credit on any single jacket is small, but Kidd got to put it on hundreds of jackets over forty years, several of which became permanent fixtures on the canon shelf. Stack enough of those and you become legible as a designer. None of the anonymous designers behind Coca-Cola or Tide got either accident — neither the flap nor the four decades to fill it.

This is what makes the Kidd interview useful, and why the celebrity reading misses it. He is the exception that demonstrates the rule. The credit crisis in design is structural: it turns on whether the artifact you make has a place for a name and whether your employment lets you stay long enough to accumulate names. Most design work fails one or both of those tests. The artifacts that fill a designer’s career now—apps, dashboards, marketing pages, packaging—don’t carry credits at all, and few roles last long enough to compound into a body of work the way Kidd’s did. The 40-year jacket-flap career was never the model. It was the unusual case where the structure happened to cooperate.

George Anders, in the Wall Street Journal, makes the case that the 1920s offer a usable template for the AI decade. His strongest evidence is the spillover-jobs data:

By 1930, more than 80,000 people were working as electricians, a profession that hardly existed a decade before. Census data also showed that 168,000 people were working in rubber factories, most of them making tires to accommodate Detroit’s booming production of cars, trucks and buses. Another 450,000 people were building roads, bridges and other structures needed by the ever expanding auto industry.

The ATM parable had the same problem: the version that ends in 2010, with bank-teller employment intact, is the one we love to retell. The version that ends in 2022, with teller jobs cut in half by the iPhone, is the one we leave out. Anders’s 80,000 electricians are real. So is the question of which of them got displaced when the next technology arrived.

Anders does, to his credit, take the costs seriously. He spends a section on the radio fight:

In 1927, H.G. Wells, the British author and intellectual, called radio “inferior” entertainment that should be listened to “only by the sick, the lonely and the suffering.” David Sarnoff, general manager of Radio Corp. of America, shot back that he was trying to improve “the happiness of the nation” by delivering popular music to millions of people. Nearly a century later, that same argument still flares, though now it is more likely to involve TikTok, Reddit or YouTube, instead of dear old radio. The doubters always have a point; with the passage of time, the innovators usually win out.

The early evidence on AI’s job-creation side is thinner than the 1920s comparison flatters: Anthropic’s own researchers find a 14% drop in the job-finding rate for 22-to-25-year-olds in exposed occupations since ChatGPT launched, even as overall unemployment holds. The new electricians of our decade may exist. They just may not be the people getting hired right now.

The safety side of Anders’s case is the one I want to see more of. Cars in 1920 killed at twenty times today’s per-mile rate, and the country chose not to live with that:

Auto safety got better, too, with both industry and government taking action. Better mirrors, better brakes and shatterproof windshields became standard. Cities such as Los Angeles and Detroit installed red-yellow-green traffic lights that governed drivers’ actions on busy streets. New Jersey became the first state to insist on driver’s licenses, with the state’s motor-vehicle commissioner in 1924 declaring: “It is an absolute necessity to do this in order to conserve human life.”

Whether the next century treats our decade as kindly depends on whether we put rearview mirrors and traffic lights on AI before the death rates make us, and whether we do it under the same kind of duress the 1920s did.

In design circles, the AI debate splits into two responses: principled resistance and principled engagement. Dan Cohen offers a third: historical context.

Writing for Humane Ingenuity, Cohen uses Tracy Kidder’s The Soul of a New Machine—the 1981 Pulitzer-winning account of Data General’s minicomputer team—as a mirror for the current moment. He opens with a scene that reads like a 2026 AI company profile before revealing it’s from 1979:

A crack team of hardware and software engineers, inspired by breakthroughs in computer science and electrical engineering, are driven to work 18-hour days, seven days a week, on a revolutionary new system. The system’s capabilities and speed will usher in a new era, one that will bring transformative computing to every workplace. The long hours are necessary: the team knows that every major computer company sees what they see on the horizon, and they too are working around the clock to take advantage of powerful new chips and innovative information architectures.

The team is almost entirely men, men whose affect and social skills cluster in a rather narrow band, although they are led by a charismatic figure who knows how to persuade both computer engineers and capitalists. This is a helpful skill. Money, big money, is flowing into the sector; soon it will overflow. Engineers are constantly poached by rival companies. Hundreds of new competitors arise to build variations on the same system, or to write software or build hardware that can take advantage of this next wave of computing power. Some just want to repackage what the computer vendors produce, or act as consultants to the companies that adopt these new machines.

Sounds a bit like today’s Silicon Valley 996 culture, but that’s Data General in 1979. The team also worried about the Pentagon weaponizing their machine, job displacement, and whether their work might eventually produce true AI and destroy humanity. Those concerns date to 1979.

Cohen’s argument is about scale: the minicomputer moved millions of companies from paper to digital for the very first time; that was a genuine revolution. AI, he argues, is improving workflows that are already digital. His question: is that the same order of disruption?

Carl Alsing, one of the engineers who built the Eagle, told Kidder when asked about artificial intelligence:

“Artificial intelligence takes you away from your own trip. What you want to do is look at the wheels of the machine and if you like them, have fun.”

Cohen closes with the historical outcome:

In the 1980s, most of the minicomputer companies, launched with such excitement in the late 1970s, failed. Data General was acquired for a fraction of the billions it was once worth. The minicomputer, however, was broadly adopted, was transformative, became routine, and then was surpassed by a new new machine, the personal computer.

Later, Data General’s domain name, DG.com, was sold to a chain of discount stores, Dollar General.

I’ve written before about the shokunin mentality: design is a lifelong practice, and the identity you build around craft is a source of resilience, not a liability.

Dora Czerna, writing for UX Collective, identifies why AI disruption hits designers harder than most:

Design, like writing or art, tends to get tangled up with identity. It’s not just a job; it’s a way of seeing the world, a source of status, a thing that makes you you. When a tool arrives that can approximate your output, it doesn’t just threaten your income. It can threaten your sense of self.

Czerna is describing a vulnerability. I’d call it the advantage. The designers who survived the DTP revolution, the ones who made the leap from paste-up boards to Quark and PageMaker, weren’t the ones who shrugged and said “it’s just a job.” They were the ones who cared enough about the craft to learn the new tools and drag their high standards into the new medium.

Czerna gets at why that caring matters:

The pattern isn’t that expertise becomes worthless. It’s that expertise gets unbundled from the tasks that used to contain it. When a tool automates the mechanical parts of a job, what remains is the sensibility that guided those mechanics in the first place. The typesetter’s eye for spacing didn’t disappear when PageMaker arrived; it became the designer’s eye for spacing, operating at a higher level of abstraction.

That sensibility is what identity protects. When you see design as who you are, you follow the craft wherever the tools take it. When you see it as what you do, you’re more likely to stop when the tasks change. Czerna’s article is a thorough historical walk through disruption’s recurring shape, and it’s worth your time.

In high school and through college, I worked at a desktop publishing service bureau in San Francisco. We had Macintosh computers and Linotronic imagesetters (super hi-res laser printers), not Linotype machines. Down the street, those traditional type shops still existed, but their business was already thinning out. Occasionally a graphic designer would send us type to set, and we’d do it in QuarkXPress. The fact that the job landed on our desk at all told you everything about where the industry was headed. The shop’s real business was pre-press and color separations, and eventually direct-to-plate eliminated even that.

Erika Flowers has been building out her Zero-Vector Design framework, and two of her pieces read as a pair. “Zero Stage to Orbit” on UX Magazine uses the rocket equation as a structural lens for the design-to-development pipeline. “The Last Typesetter” on her Substack uses the death of the typesetting profession to make the same argument from a different direction. Together they make the case that the design role, not the skill, is dissolving.

In “The Last Typesetter,” Flowers draws on Sennett:

When suddenly everyone could set type, the difference between good typography and bad typography went from an industry concern to a public epidemic. Bad kerning everywhere. Rivers running through justified text. Orphaned words dangling at the tops of columns like socks left on a clothesline. The people who understood typography were needed more than ever.

But not as typesetters.

Richard Sennett wrote about this in The Craftsman: the difference between a skill and the institutional container built around that skill. Containers look permanent until they are not. The skill outlives every container it has ever occupied.

That’s what happened at the service bureau. The skill—color, typography, print production—survived. The container—the shop, the role, the apprenticeship—did not.

In “Zero Stage to Orbit,” Flowers maps the pipeline onto rocket science:

Each stage in the traditional pipeline is designed to compensate for the limitations of the previous one. Research to inform design. Design to spec for developers. Specs to survive handoff. QA to catch what handoff broke. Retros to discuss why QA caught so much. Process to manage process.

Fuel to carry fuel. The modern development pipeline is not a solution. It is a multi-stage rocket. And most of the energy is going to overhead.

The overhead diagnosis is sharp, and the launch pad economy—consultancies, workflow tools, Agile coaching certifications—has a financial interest in keeping the rocket grounded.

Flowers addresses why the “unicorn” solution failed:

The design technologist did not fail because no one person can possess all the skills. The design technologist failed because no one can hold all the skills while still fighting gravity. They were still launching from the ground, still hauling the translation overhead, just with one person doing all the hauling instead of a team.

The problem was never the number of stages. It was the gravity well.

A product manager I work with recently told me he could think of a solution to a user need, but not a creative solution the way the designer on his team could. Specialization produces real expertise. The design technologist wasn’t wrong about the vision. They were wrong about the physics. AI changes the gravity, not the skills.

What separates both pieces from the standard “AI changes everything” take:

I am also uncertain here, also mid-journey, also discovering orbit’s real constraints in real time. My career, work, and livelihood are just as much at risk as everyone else’s. But that doesn’t discount the facts about the transition to new capabilities.

She’s out on a limb, reflecting a shift the entire industry can feel, without pretending she has the map. In “The Last Typesetter,” she puts it more bluntly: “Defend the role, or follow the skill.”

The skill will survive. It always has. But the transition is real, and not everyone can afford to be mid-journey. Truthfully, I am uncertain either. The thing I’ve loved to do since the 7th grade, the thing that has been my identity for most of my life is changing, possibly dissolving into something else.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art has published high-definition 3D scans of nearly 140 objects from its collection. Kate Mothes, writing for Colossal:

Even in person, much of the work remains hidden. We can’t see the backs of oil paintings, for example, and edges are often hidden within frames.

These scans reveal what the gallery can’t. Zoom into van Gogh’s brushstrokes closer than any museum guard would allow, flip an 18th-century Turkish tile to see its back, and rotate a Babylonian cuneiform tablet in your browser. Go lose an afternoon.

Michael Walden manually transcribed every on-screen character from the 1983 movie WarGames, filled in the 14 missing glyphs, and turned them into a complete 95-character font pack. The project started in 2007. It took 18 years to finish. That’s dedication to a bit.

Available in OpenType, TrueType, and web font formats, with Normal, Double, and Raster variants. Free under Creative Commons.

The pitch for generative UI is simple: stop making users navigate menus and let them say what they want. Every AI product demo shows the same thing: type a prompt, get a result, skip the 47-click workflow. It looks like progress.

Jakob Nielsen names what gets lost in the trade:

However, eliminating the Navigation Tax imposes a new Articulation Tax. In a menu-driven GUI, features are visible and therefore discoverable; a user can find a tool they didn’t know existed simply by browsing. In an intent-based AI interface, the user can only access what they can clearly describe.

“Articulation Tax” is the right frame. Menus are clunky, but they show you what’s possible. A blank prompt field assumes you already know what to ask for. That’s fine for power users. It’s a problem for everyone else. Nielsen:

The shift from WIMP to World Models represents a transition from Deterministic to Probabilistic interaction. In a WIMP interface, clicking an icon is deterministic: it produces the exact same result 100% of the time. In a generative world model, the system is probabilistic: the same prompt may yield different results on different attempts.

Deterministic to probabilistic is a trust problem. Users learned to trust GUIs because the same action always produced the same result. That contract is gone. Users will adjust eventually, but most aren’t there yet.

I write everything in Markdown now. These link posts start in Obsidian, which stores them as .md files. When I rebuilt my blog with Astro, I moved from a database to plain Markdown files. It felt like going backwards—and also exactly right.

Anil Dash has written a lovely history of how John Gruber’s simple text format quietly became the infrastructure of the modern internet:

The trillion-dollar AI industry’s system for controlling their most advanced platforms is a plain text format one guy made up for his blog and then bounced off of a 17-year-old kid [Aaron Swartz] before sharing it with the world for free.

The format was released in 2004, the same year blogs went mainstream. Twenty years later, it’s everywhere—Google Docs, GitHub, Slack, Apple Notes, and every AI prompt you’ve ever written.

Dash’s larger point is about how the internet actually gets built:

Smart people think of good things that are crazy enough that they just might work, and then they give them away, over and over, until they slowly take over the world and make things better for everyone.

Worth a full read.

Daniel Kennett dug out his old Mac Pro to revisit Aperture, the photo app Apple discontinued in 2015:

It’s hard to overstate quite how revolutionary and smooth this flow is until you had it for multiple years before having it taken away. Nothing on the market—even over a decade later—is this good at meeting you where you are and not interrupting your flow.

Kennett’s observation: Aperture came to you. Most software makes you go to it. You could edit a photo right on the map view, or while laying out a book page. No separate editing mode. Press H for the adjustments HUD, make your changes, done.

The cruel twist was Apple suggesting Photos as a replacement. Ten years later, photographers are still grumbling about it in comment sections.

Every designer has noticed that specific seafoam green in photos of mid-century control rooms. It shows up in nuclear plants, NASA mission control, old hospitals. Wasn’t the hospital in 1975’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest that color? It’s too consistent to be coincidence.

Beth Mathews traced the origin back to color theorist Faber Birren, who consulted for DuPont and created the industrial color safety codes still in use today. His reasoning:

“The importance of color in factories is first to control brightness in the general field of view for an efficient seeing condition. Interiors can then be conditioned for emotional pleasure and interest, using warm, cool, or luminous hues as working conditions suggest. Color should be functional and not merely decorative.”

Color should be functional and not merely decorative. These weren’t aesthetic choices—they were human factors engineering decisions, made in environments where one mistake could be catastrophic. The seafoam green was specifically chosen to reduce visual fatigue. Kinda cool.

“I want my MTV!” That is the line that many music artists spoke to camera in a famous campaign by George Lois to get fans to call their cable companies to ask for MTV. It worked.

While MTV’s international music-only channels went off the air at the end of 2025, its US channels still exist. They’re just not all-music all the time like it was in the 1980s.

That’s where MTV Rewind comes in. It’s a virtual TV where you can relive MTV programming as it was. Built by an artist going by FlexasaurusRex, it’s an archive of Day 1 programming, and then different channels (YouTube playlists) to shuffle through the different shows, including 120 Minutes.

Graphic designer Emily Sneddon performed some impressive typographic anthropology to digitize the font used on San Francisco’s MUNI light rail cars. She tracked down the original engineer who worked on the destination display signs for a company called Trans-Lite.

Sneddon, on her blog:

Learning that the alphabet came from an engineer really explains its temperament and why I was drawn to it in the first place. The signs were designed for sufficiency: fixed segments, fixed grid, and no extras. Characters were created only as destinations required them, while other characters, like the Q, X, and much of the punctuation, were never programmed into the signs. In reducing everything to its bare essentials, somehow character emerged, and it’s what inspired me to design Fran Sans.

One more post down memory lane. Phil Gyford chronicled his first few months online, thirty years ago in 1995. He talks of modems, floppies, email, Usenet, IRC, and friendly strangers on the internet.

I had forgotten how onerous it was to get online back then. Gyford writes:

It’s hard to convey how difficult it was to set things up. So new and alien to me. When reading computer magazines I’d always skipped articles about networking and while the computers at university had been connected together, that was only for the purposes of printing, scanning and transferring files.

First there was the issue of getting online at all. The Internet Starter Kit spent 59 pages explaining how to set up MacTCP, and PPP or SLIP, two different methods of connecting to the internet, the differences of which happily escape me now. I spent a lot of late nights fiddling with control panels and extensions, learning about IP addresses, domain name servers, etc.

And Gyford reminds us just how marvelous the invention of the internet was:

Before the web – and all the rest of it – how could you have shared your words with anyone? Write a letter to a newspaper or magazine and hope they published it a few days or months later? Create your own fanzine and distribute copies one-by-one to strangers, and posted in individually addressed and stamped envelopes? That was it, unless you were going to become a successful journalist or writer. Your reach, your world, was tiny.

But now, then, you could put anything you wanted on your own website and instantly it was visible by anyone in the world. OK, anyone in the world who was also online, which wasn’t many then, and they were all quite similar, but, still… they could be anywhere! And their number was growing.

And you could chat to people in real time and it didn’t matter where they were, they were here in front of you. Send emails back-and-forth to friends without writing letters, and buying stamps, and waiting days or weeks for a response. Instant! Weightless!

The post is worth a read. It’s complete with pictures of some artifacts from that time, including newspaper clippings, invoices, and journal entries.

If you were into computers like I was between 1975 and 1998, you read Byte magazine. It wasn’t just product reviews and spec sheets—Byte offered serious technical depth, covering everything from assembly language programming to hardware architecture to the philosophy of human-computer interaction. The magazine documented the PC revolution as it happened, becoming required reading for anyone building or thinking deeply about the future of computing. It was also thick as hell.

Someone made a visual archive of Byte magazine, showing each page of the printed pages in a zoomable interface:

Before Hackernews, before Twitter, before blogs, before the web had been spun, when the internet was just four universities in a trenchcoat, there was BYTE. A monthly mainline of the entire personal computing universe, delivered on dead trees for a generation of hackers. Running from September 1975 to July 1998, its 277 issues chronicled the Cambrian explosion of the microcomputer, from bare-metal kits to the dawn of the commercial internet. Forget repackaged corporate press releases—BYTE was for the builders.

It’s a fun glimpse into the past before thin laptops, smartphones, and disco-colored gaming PCs.

The Whole Earth Catalog, published by Stewart Brand several times a year between 1968 and 1972 (and occasionally until 1998), was the internet before the internet existed. It curated tools, books, and resources for self-education and DIY living, embodying an ethos of access to information that would later define the early web. Steve Jobs famously called it “one of the bibles of my generation,” and for good reason—its approach to democratizing knowledge and celebrating user agency directly influenced the philosophy of personal computing and the participatory culture we associate with the web’s early days.

Curated by Barry Threw and collaborators, the Whole Earth Index is a near-complete archive of the issues of the Whole Earth Catalog.

Here lies a nearly-complete archive of Whole Earth publications, a series of journals and magazines descended from the Whole Earth Catalog, published by Stewart Brand and the POINT Foundation between 1968 and 2002. They are made available here for scholarship, education, and research purposes.

The info page also includes a quote from Stewart Brand:

“Dateline Oct 2023, Exactly 55 years ago, in 1968, the Whole Earth Catalog first came to life. Thanks to the work of an ongoing community of people, it prospered in various forms for 32 years—sundry editions of the Whole Earth Catalog, CoEvolution Quarterly, The WELL, the Whole Earth Software Catalog, Whole Earth Review, etc. Their impact in the world was considerable and sustained. Hundreds of people made that happen—staff, editors, major contributors, board members, funders, WELL conference hosts, etc. Meet them here.” —Stewart Brand

Brand’s mention of The WELL is particularly relevant here—he founded that pioneering online community in 1985 as a digital extension of the Whole Earth ethos, creating one of the internet’s first thriving social networks.

A new documentary called The Age of Audio traces the history and impact of podcasting, exploring the resurgence of audio storytelling in the 21st century. In a clip from the doc in the form of a short, Ben Hammersley tells the story of how he coined the term “podcast.”

I’m Ben Hammersley, and I do many things, but mostly I’m the person who invented the word podcast. And I am very sorry.

I can tell you the story. This was in 2004, and I was a writer for the Guardian newspaper in the UK. And at the time, the newspaper was paper-centric, which meant that all of the deadlines were for the print presses to run. And I’d written this article about this sort of emerging idea of downloadable audio content that was automatically downloaded because of an RSS feed.

I submitted the article on time, but then I got a phone call from my editor about 15 minutes before the presses were due to roll saying, “Hey, that piece is about a sentence short for the shape of the page. We don’t have time to move the page around. Can you just write us another sentence?”

And so I just made up a sentence which says something like, “But what do we call this phenomenon?” And then I made up some silly words. It went out, it went into the article, didn’t think any more of it.

And then about six months later or so, I got an email from the Oxford American Dictionary saying, “Hey, where did you get that word from that was in the article you wrote? It seems to be the first citation of the word ‘podcast.’ Now here we are almost 20 years later, and it became part of the discourse.” I’m totally fine with it now.

(h/t Jason Kottke / Kottke.org)

If you are old enough to have watched Toy Story in theaters back in 1995, you may have noticed that the version streaming on Disney+ today doesn’t quite feel the same.

You see, Toy Story was an entirely digital artifact but it had to be distributed to movie theaters using the technology theaters had at the time—35mm film projectors. Therefore, every frame of the movie was recorded onto film.

Animation Obsessive explains:

Their system was fairly straightforward. Every frame of Toy Story’s negative was exposed, three times, in front of a CRT screen that displayed the movie. “Since all film and video images are composed of combinations of red, green and blue light, the frame is separated into its discrete red, green and blue elements,” noted the studio. Exposures, filtered through each color, were layered to create each frame.

It reportedly took nine hours to print 30 seconds of Toy Story. But it had to be done: it was the only way to screen the film.

The home video version of the movie was mastered from a 35mm print.

And then in 1999, A Bug’s Life became the very first digital-to-digital home video transfer. Pixar devised a method to go from their computers straight to DVD.

In the early 2000s, Disney/Pixar would redo the home video transfer for Toy Story using the same digital mastering technique. “And it wasn’t quite the same movie that viewers had seen in the ‘90s.”

“The colors are vivid and lifelike, [and] not a hint of grain or artifacts can be found,” raved one reviewer. It was a crisp, blazingly bright, digital image now — totally different from the softness, texture and deep, muted warmth of physical film, on which Toy Story was created to be seen.

And then digital transfers became the standard.

Hard to believe that the very first fully computer animated feature film came out 30 years ago. To say that Toy Story was groundbreaking would be an understatement. If you look at the animated feature landscape today, 100% is computer-generated.

In this re-found interview with Steve Jobs exactly a year after the movie premiered in theaters, Jobs talks about a few things, notably how different Silicon Valley and Hollywood were—and still are.

From the Steve Jobs Archive:

In this footage, Steve reveals the long game behind Pixar’s seeming overnight success. With striking clarity, he explains how its business model gives artists and engineers a stake in their creations, and he reflects on what Disney’s hard-won wisdom taught him about focus and discipline. He also talks about the challenge of leading a team so talented that it inverts the usual hierarchy, the incentives that inspire people to stay with the company, and the deeper purpose that unites them all: to tell stories that last and put something of enduring value into the culture.  

And Jobs in his own words:

Well, in this blending of a Hollywood  culture and a Silicon Valley culture, one of the things that we encountered was  that the Hollywood culture and the Silicon Valley culture each used different models of  employee retention. Hollywood uses the stick, which is the contract, and Silicon Valley  uses the carrot, which is the stock option. And we examined both of those in really pretty  great detail, both economically, but also psychologically and culture wise, what kind of  culture do you end up with. And while there’s a lot of reasons to want to lock down your  employees for the duration of a film because, if somebody leaves, you’re at risk, those  same dangers exist in Silicon Valley. During an engineering project, you don’t want to lose people, and yet, they managed to evolve another system than contracts. And we preferred the Silicon Valley model in this case, which basically gives people stock in the company so that we all have the same goal, which is to create shareholder value. But also, it makes us constantly worry about making Pixar the greatest company we can  so that nobody would ever want to leave. 

Make no mistake: Democracy in America has been under threat. The Executive branch continues to accrue and abuse power, much of it willingly given up by Congress, and the Supreme Court has largely given deference to this president.

In a beautiful, yet somehow haunting visualization, Alvin Chang for the Pudding went back and analyzed speeches in Congress from 1880 onward to show the growth of mentions about democracy being under threat.

Scroll through the interactive data viz and see the numbers tick up over the years, along with select quotes from speeches.

Chang ends with this reflection:

I grew up in an immigrant family, and I was constantly reminded of how powerful these values are. Sure, my family had some allegiance to their home country. Sure, we were constantly reminded of ways in which the country failed to live up to these ideals. However, I was told that we live in a country that is united not by the color of our skin or the origins of our families, but rather a belief in how humans should live together.

Americans have always argued about what it means to strive toward these democratic ideals. This pursuit of democracy is who we are; it’s who we want to be.

If we stop now, who are we as a people?

(h/t Nathan Yau / FlowingData)

When I went to design school %#*! years ago, Philip Meggs’ History of Graphic Design was required reading, well, for our graphic design history classes. I remember that nearly all the examples in the book were European men. So I’m glad there’s a new edition coming out that broadens the history to include more.

Cheryl D. Holmes-Miller writing in PRINT Magazine about the forthcoming 7th Edition of Meggs’ History of Graphic Design:

The 7th Edition is a reformation — dismantling the core barriers that have kept many of us from realizing our full potential in this field. It will make a transformative difference for years to come. The next generation of designers will find themselves in the history of graphic design and propel the industry forward.

Holmes-Miller asked the book’s co-editor, Sandra Maxa about the “restructuring of the historical timeline and how this shift might affect educators whose weekly lectures have long relied on the linear storytelling approach.” To which Maxa said:

“To create a new edition that is relevant to students today, we used a more direct writing style and stronger representation of designers from different backgrounds,” she said. “We also advocated for restructuring the new edition around themes instead of chronology to avoid implying a hierarchy that comes with presenting something as ‘the first.’” Maxa continued, “Including diverse voices and practices of graphic design is integral to situating the work of graphic designers today with cultural and social contexts of the past and inviting broader participation and interpretation from readers to construct a shared history of graphic design.”

I suppose there are two types of souvenirs that we can pick up while traveling: mass-manufactured tchotchkes like fridge magnets or snow globes, or local artisan-made trinkets and wares. The latter has come to represent cultures outside of their locales, an opportunity for tourists to take a little bit of their experiences with them home.

Louisa Eunice writing in Design Observer:

The souvenir industry, though vital for many local economies, has long been accused of flattening cultural complexity into digestible clichés, transforming sacred objects into décor, and replacing sustainable materials with cheaper alternatives to meet demand. Yet for countless artisans, participation in that market remains a practical act of endurance: a way to keep culture visible in a world that might otherwise forget it.

So on the flip side, though these souvenirs reduce the cultures of those places to a carved giraffe, sculpted clay bird, or ceremonial mask, I would argue that at least the artifacts can spark conversation.

The fact that a mask can be both a ritual object for the local artisan who made it and a decorative item for the tourist who bought it says more about resilience than dilution. It reveals how objects can inhabit multiple meanings without losing their essence. What we often call “appropriation” may, in these moments, also be adaptation, a negotiation that allows heritage to stay visible, if altered, in the modern world. 

To understand souvenirs this way is to see them not as hollow tokens but as collaborations: between maker and buyer, local and global, art and economy. When tourists view these pieces as design legacies — works that carry labor, history, and symbolism — the exchange becomes more than commercial. It becomes cultural continuity in motion.

Did you know that Apple made Office before Microsoft made Office? It was called AppleWorks and launched in 1984 for the Apple II. They’d make it for the Mac in 1991 and called it ClarisWorks because Apple spun off a software subsidiary for who knows what reason.

Howard Oakley recently wrote a brief history of AppleWorks and shared some nice visuals. Though I wished he included an image from that original Apple II text-based AppleWorks as well.

’Tis the season for online archives. From GQ comes this archive of the work of Virgil Abloh, the multi-hyphenate creative powerhouse who started as an intern at Fendi and rose to found his own streetwear label Off-White, before becoming artistic director of Louis Vuitton’s menswear collection. He had collabs with Nike, IKEA, and artist Jenny Holzer.

I do think my favorite from this archive is his collection of LV bags. I’m used to seeing them in monochromatic colors, not these bright ones.