Backrow

So here's a little something that's been lingering in my “must get around to at some point” folder for absolutely ages. Backrow. It's nothing really, a crumb of an idea, but it's one that I keep coming back to: a basic magazine (or given that it'll be nowhere near profitable, probably more appropriate to call it a zine) with just one feature: a big conversation with somebody interesting about the films they love. Kind of like The Happy Reader … but about cinema rather than books. 

Right now, it's just a cover concept, an optimistic issue count and an idea. I have an actual proper BFI qualification in film journalism (yes, it's a thing) that is going to waste, so this definitely represents a professional itch needs to be scratched. 

The End Matters

It’s offensive o’clock in the morning, I’m sweatily clamped into my headphones, my desk a Spirograph of fresh coffee rings. I’ve been here for hours. And right now I’m very aware that I’m not doing two of my favourite things: creating and blinking.

I’ve been designing a big book for the last few weeks; the sort of big book that has lots of big chapters and big pictures and big contributors with big words. After lots of to-ing and fro-ing with editors and proofreaders and publishers, we’re at that very special final stage: the index.

All of the other little details have been shuffled into place and nudged and tweaked. Everything has been checked and double-checked; all of the content has been corralled into pages. It’s all locked down apart from this last section.

Typesetting this soup of text is the antithesis of designing a cover (or postcard or poster or anything that’s basically a single big rectangle). That involves a lot of sitting back, wandering to the other side of the room, narrowing the eyes, staring at compositions of shapes and colours. The cover is an expression of the book’s intent, all on one page.

When it comes to this dense swamp of minuscule text, it’s quite the opposite: the index is about atomising the book, breaking it down to its constituent parts. Whereas the effect of the cover is instant, the end matter (indices, appendices, references) must chug along silently in the background. Any flaws may not present themselves for months, years. But if they’re even a little bit off, they’ll be there, gnawing away at the innards of the book.

So getting these details correct is vital. I lean into the screen, nose pushed up against the design, unblinkingly scrutinising every tiny detail. Checking and checking and checking. Does this entry match up with that page? Is this word correctly italicised? Should those be a subset of those? Does this hierarchy of indents make sense? Have I forgotten how the alphabet works? What are numbers? The eyes and brain tend to dry out a little.

It’s a good working-through-the-night kind of job though, as it involves a lot of stillness and repetitive routine. The jazzier parts of the brain can be switched off for a while. There is very little room for stylistic interpretation or creative expression of the content; it’s simply about finding the exact shape that the words must fit. It’s the difference between making a collage and doing a jigsaw. Which makes it sound boring, but I kind of enjoy it – going through the motions of piecing bits together is oddly satisfying.

And these words are such wonderful pieces to play with: nomenological, architectonic, jurisprudence, baptistry, tabernacle, cosmogenic. Tasty, crunchy words. Countdowny words. I can’t say that I know what half of them mean, but at least I know where they appear.

Although it isn’t expressive in any way, this process feels significant; it gives the book meaning, usefulness, substance. A body of text with a delightful cover is all very nice, but it’s these layers of indexing, cross-referencing, associations – routes in and out and through the text – that make it a functioning object, a machine for thought. A machine that I’ve very almost, almost finished working on. That’s the main reason I enjoy this: it’s the last thing I do before all of this work becomes real. The end matters.

And then tomorrow I’ll be back to flouncing creatively with words and pictures and colours. First though, I need to finish this index and maybe get some sleep, or at least have a really big blink.

Habits of the Caffeinated Designer

13:05 — Right, I’ve got two hours. I just need to get myself coffee and cake, get as much work done as possible, and then collect the boy from nursery. Time for a bit of the old ultra-productivity! 

13:15 — Queuing. I’m ashamed to say that in these situations, I generally decamp to a dependably generic chain coffee shop rather than support a local independent business. I’m sorry, numerous wonderful haunts of York, but when I’m trying to get my head down to some proper serious work, the last thing I need is a place full of damn distracting character. I can’t be doing with your pleasant decor and considerate service and homemade salty tiffin. I’m not here to enjoy myself. I want sterile and beige and nothing. Table service would be nice though. 

13:20 — Still queuing. It’s okay, not time wasted. I’m able to give careful consideration to the precise beverage/pastry combination required for the tasks ahead of me. One must aim for a delicate balance of maximum fuel efficiency and minimum bladderial impact – thank you, inventor of the flat white. As for pastry, that choice is generally governed by the kind of book I’m working on: non-fiction, croissant; fiction, almond croissant; series design, scone. You already know this stuff – it’s basic, day one design logic. 

13:25 — I have my coffee, a boring croissant, and most importantly, a good table. There’s a socket. There’s nobody behind me. And there is sunlight – or at least a view of a part of a window display that probably faces the outside somehow. So that’s my vitamin D sorted. I’m poised and ready to go.

13:30 — I’ve carefully prepared my workstation. Notebook, phone, iPad, stylus, pen, coffee, croissant, emergency back-up notebook – all unpacked and carefully arranged in front of me in a tidy grid that I’m a little too proud of. I’ve identified fellow workers at neighbouring tables; anonymous colleagues unwittingly setting the pace for my typing and tapping. Okay, so now I’m poised and ready to go. I just have to check these few notifications first …

13:50 — Now that was an amazing tweet. Insightful, witty, a little bit dangerous. That one deserves to go in the scrapbook. Now where was I? Ah yes, poise, readiness.

14:00 — The caffeine has kicked in. Suddenly all of the work is happening. Sketches are being sketched on various surfaces, one haphazardly-drawn cover after another. Sooner or later one of these appalling rectangles will give way to a gem. I look around, my co-workers are on fire too. This is good. Maybe we should set up an agency together. This is good.

14:15 — Still going. No distractions. The uniform inauthenticity of this place is emphasised by the corporate art adorning the walls: canvas-printed stock images of beautiful Italian folk, drinking what appears to be far superior coffee in a proper café, somewhere sun-drenched and rustic. There are scooters, cobbles. Fresh fruit tumbles gaily from a punnet. It’s a Mediterranean coffee-drinking ideal so far removed from the one I’m actually experiencing, it’s as if I’m actively being mocked for my custom. When I do occasionally peer up from my screen, the immediate response of “well this is all slightly awful, I bet I should have some strong opinions about their tax arrangements” is enough to push my gaze back down again. 

14:25 — My unnamed buddies have left. I’m suddenly conscious that I look like a complete twerp, making dramatic swooshes on my screen. The stylus really is a smug peripheral, this year’s bluetooth headset. And I’ve been sitting here with empty crockery for quite some time now. I don’t want to pack all of my things up just so I can go back up to the counter. How long is it okay to sit here and not spend more money? Am I technically loitering now? I stay where I am, thirsty, unpaying, socially awkward, gesticulating wildly.

14:45 — My inconsiderate body presents other … urgencies. This just intensifies/destabilises the work. Sketching becomes scribbling becomes pen-drumming. It all goes a bit Buddy Rich for a while. Environmental patterns emerge – the flow of customers coming and going; the grind and hiss of the coffee machines; the loop of the barista’s limited stock of chirpy salutations. I wonder how much of this caffeinated rhythm is seeping into my work. I like it here. It’s awful. 

15:10 — Getting thirsty. So many rectangles. And some oblongs. Still no gem. Maybe another coffee. Am I meant to be somewhere? I’m pretty certain I’m meant to be somewhere. More rectangles rectangles rectangles rectangles rectangles