Kelvyn Smith: Against the Grain
This article was commissioned by Hans Dieter Reichert for Baseline. I first heard of Kelvyn from Laura Jackson, a teaching colleague at Colchester Institute who having returned from a three-day letterpress workshop at Alan Kitching's studio was raving about Alan's brilliant assistant, kelvyn Smith. We must then have met at some point because when Jeremy Tankard, who had been teaching typography one-day-a-week via our letterpress workshop at Colchester left I asked Kelvyn to take over. It was shortly after this that I set up my own letterpress studio away from the college and Kelvyn remained forever generous with help and advice.
Mr Smith is anxiously moving the small wood type characters that lie on a composing surface in his workshop. The pretense of a normal conversation is making both of us nervous. I’ve known Kelvyn for ten years, but he knows that I will be writing this article and so our conversation feels awkward. He hates pretense. But with the help of strong coffee freshly made by Kelvyn and the rhythmic sound of a printing press in the background, our conversation begins to flow. Kelvyn is a graphic designer who works with letterpress. So much of his work is dominated by the use of sans serif type, so I begin by asking, why?
‘I like all grotesques; they are so odd, really interesting, uncomfortable and quirky. On the other hand I love the bland, mechanical, quiet nature of Univers. Sans serifs are not just one style of typeface; they vary immensely, a very complex typographic category. The choice of typeface is really important, but the context is the key – the weight, size, colour and texture all support this, but, finally, it is what the words are saying that is essential – that is the core. The materials can also reinforce the message: chosen well, the stock and binding lends a crucial quality, a nuance to the meaning. Essentially, I can only use what I’ve got, and in wood type, I mostly choose to have sans serif. My resources are uniquely limited, so I am extremely familiar with the details and characteristics of each and every one of the individual wood-type characters.’
‘With wood type, “character” is a particularly appropriate word because this material often has its edges damaged, surface scratched, or worn by heavy usage and occasional abuse. So each character is quite distinctive; it could, after all, be a hundred years old. In display wood founts, it doesn’t take long before you know which of, say, three of the same characters that are available, would be the best for a particular project. Of course, these characteristics can be manipulated and adjusted by make-ready: placing thin slivers of paper under a character to lift it slightly, or by varying the packing on the press. Both will provide a darker, more even tone, more ‘bite’, more impression into the paper. Again, the amount of ink used gives another range of options. There are many considerations other than the choice of typeface. Fundamentally, it is knowing, understanding what to make it say; it is the infusion – the design – which is the most difficult, but also, the most interesting.’
Kelvyn’s workshop is situated at the far end of a printing works that is on the first floor of an old, multi-purpose, industrial building in central London. The building has broad, uneven wooden floorboards, rough-painted brickwork walls, and metal-framed windows providing good light.
Space is in short supply but it feels comfortable here. ‘An organised environment is crucial to getting the best out of this weighty process. Typography enforces its own order. It requires a considered and systematic approach, and if you are a typographer, your life also becomes systematic. I love typography and so I love order, but letterpress is also full of idiosyncrasies and physical constraints. Sometimes limitations, such as the size of my proofing press, or, perhaps, missing characters, mean that I have to reconsider an initial idea. I analyse the words, read them again and again, rethink my motives and look for other meanings that can be drawn out. There is no doubt that looking at type in a case is helpful. The wood type is stained by the coloured inks of previous jobs. This gives them a sense of not only belonging to me, but also, of being unique to me. When I finish a job, I often leave the ink on the wood type. That way it reminds me of where and when it was used before, it carries with it another context – it remains part of that previous linguistic purpose – and only gets cleaned when it is ready to take on a new meaning within another series of words.’
‘When alternative characters are constructed on the composing surface [the stone], it is much easier, and a more pleasurable experience making decisions. A little like choosing and mixing colours from a palette. Weight, width, size; in the end, any of these characteristics might provide the solution. Obviously, this would not occur using a system with an infinite number of characters. It might appear a little eccentric, especially with digital technology being so accessible, to use a system with such finite resources, but when someone is able to take everything for granted, they have a tendency to work without questioning actions. That is the purpose of desktop publishing systems; they are designed to be super-efficient. They are – but they severely lack character.’
The colours on the type are limited to various tones of grey. Do you ever use black? ‘Not often, I’m fascinated with grey – it’s complicated, but I’m really interested in the transitional space between black and white – not so much ‘either/ or’, more ‘maybe/possibly.’ Kelvyn has always been interested in finding connections between often disparate (grey!) areas of specialisation. Aged eighteen, he was a member of the ground staff at the Kent County Cricket Club and had aspirations to be a professional cricketer. He also had a place booked at Leeds University to study landscape architecture. He decided instead, to take up a place on a one-year art foundation course at Maidstone College of Art, which, in turn, led to a graphic design degree course at Norwich School of Art in 1987. ‘I loved drawing, and it was important that I went to “art school” – not “uni” or “poly” but a pure “Art School.”’
It was while on the foundation course that he first saw a copy of the journal, Octavo, a revelation that propelled him towards taking a graphic design route. At Norwich, the discovery of what was then the defunct college letterpress workshop further defined his direction. To the mortification of some of the lecturers at the college, he immersed himself in it. ‘What I did at Norwich School of Art was not made particularly easy for me, but it was at least possible. I was able to go off and devise my own way of working, and left to prove my point. Going against the grain was never intentional, just necessary, and in the end, very natural.’ Three years later, uncertain of what to do or where to go, he found himself being advised by both Peter Davenport, Davenport Associates, and Derek Birdsall at Omnific. It was Birdsall who suggested he show his work to Alan Kitching. Kitching had only recently left Omnific and was, himself, in a state of transition, setting up what would become ‘Alan Kitching Typography’ which later evolved into ‘The Typography Workshop’ in Clerkenwell.
The first time Kelvyn walked into Kitching’s workshop in 1990, he knew immediately that this was where he should be. But it was not easy, he had to work hard to persuade Kitching to take him on. Kitching was in no position to employ anyone, and he later acknowledged that it was only because Kelvyn was so persistent that he eventually found a way to take him under his wing as his first apprentice. ‘Alan looked me squarely in the eye; grabbed my left arm and firmly stated, “I can’t pay you much, but I can teach you everything I know”. That was enough for me.’
Not only did Kitching provide Kelvyn with what amounted to a typographic and printing apprenticeship, he was also, as a tutor at the RCA, a direct link to Smith’s influences and contemporaries at that time: Phil Baines, the Why Nots, Graphic Thought Facility (GTF), Rupert Bassett, Johnny Barnbrook and Jeremy Tankard and, crucially, an insight into a perceptive tutor’s perspective of the flourishing talent – staff and students – emerging from the RCA. Other influences at that time included Russell Mills, Vaughan Oliver and especially Gert Dunbar (Dunbar Associates) who was, for an all too brief but eventful three years, head of Graphic Design at the RCA, all of them were driving forces. Kelvyn worked with Kitching for just over four years, before setting himself up in an East End industrial building. Several incarnations later, he is now situated just off the City Road.
Kelvyn is animated when he warms to his subject. He constantly flits about, pulling items out of cases and off galleys, demonstrating tools – even when bringing up documents on his computer. I have this impression of you being someone who doesn’t stay in one place for very long... ‘Well I was Area of Study Leader for Typo/graphic Design at the LCP (London College of Printing, now London College of Communication) for four years! I have taught typography and design intermittently for over fifteen years. For me the institution itself does not matter – it is the team you work with, the quality of the students and what you do and the way you do it that are important. But I do like new challenges, I like life to be fluid, flexible, open to new opportunities, a sort of perpetual “work in progress”. I have had countless offers of jobs but I much prefer working like this [looking around his workshop] where everything is tangible – by which I mean everything is within my control. It can be a struggle sometimes, but the autonomy I have allows me to be really constructive, to take chances, to push myself – it also allows me the freedom to develop personal projects. I have any number of these on the go at any one time. But, like this week [sighing] I am more often than not, really snowed under.’
Explain what you mean by ‘personal’ projects… ‘Personal projects are something I do for my own creative satisfaction. I have always done them. They are often just simple ideas really . . . they don’t have any great purpose, but what I discover feeds into my clients’ work. I can do it because I have always worked for myself. If I see or uncover something intriguing I can examine it. That’s what I meant by “flexibility” earlier. I am interested in language and linguistics, history, and anything to do with time and sequence, so these personal projects are often concerned with the analysis and documentation of processes; physical elements left behind and usually discarded.’ [Kelvyn shows me a set of prints, relief printed from the damaged surfaces of cutting and creasing formes used to make cartons or boxes.]
‘This illustrates a worry I have about designing digitally: there is no record of process. You rarely get accidents on the Mac. Sometimes, when you import an image that is far bigger than the picture box and the abstract detail is gorgeous, but that’s pretty much it. It relates back to “control”, but more than that, it is the quality of the experience, the pleasure of making. Making something is so all-engrossing, you become very attached to the materials, the way they feel and behave when they are changed by interaction with other processes – the activity works on an emotional level.’
‘By contrast, a computer ensures you remain detached from what you are making. I enjoy making stuff, here in my studio, from start to finish, rather than generating a digital ‘document’ which will, in turn, be converted by someone else into something else. I do have to work with a computer, but I can’t do it all day. I tend to use it in conjunction with letterpress printing. Over the years, I have found ways of making it work pretty seamlessly.’ [On his computer he shows me spreads from a book he is designing for AVA Publishers.] ‘A lot of my work gets printed lithographically, using scans of letterpress proofs. A huge advantage of being here in this particular space is that I can work closely with Andy, John, and Bill – the printers on the same floor. I’m sure I’m a bit of a pain, but this way the print is never out of my sight.’
Working in this way makes some people suspicious. It is the old cliché: is it art or is it design? The implied criticism is that an artistic sensibility is intrinsically selfish, and so, inevitably, it is supposed that the reader becomes less important than the typographer. ‘I think that reflects the low opinion in which the general public is held by too many in the visual communications industry, by this I mean, primarily, advertising and marketing, but not exclusively. But to suggest that you design for everyone except yourself is ridiculous. We as typographers must keep our standards high, quality is important. It is this “working to the lowest common denominator” that is so damaging to our visual culture. I mean, the amount of typo’s I see in advertising: poor grammar; the ludicrous use of the Microsoft apostrophe and the appalling splattering of full points after single display words. I love cinema, as you know, and the greatest films are those made with the conviction and detailed attention of an individual, highly skilled, articulate voice. I think the best graphic communication work has the same individual conviction. I’m not interested in the notion of typography just being a service.’
All typographers work with words but Kelvyn does things to words that add significantly to their meaning. His work is authorial, born out of a rebellion against bland, shorthand, consumable language that is strewn with lazy clichés. He estranges and reconfigures the narratives within his work. The results are intriguing, and sometimes disorienting, their strength being the very direct correlation between meaning and form. Estranging the familiar rejuvenates the reader’s experience. It is surely relevant that this is generally the result of a ‘selfish’ process, one in which ideas that hold a personal resonance are pursued. It is a playful, intelligent, and idiosyncratic activity. Kelvyn designs his work to speak, in a very distinctive and personal way, rather than blandly ‘communicate’.