In house design: the fine art of tightrope walking

"There are no bad clients, only clients turned into bad clients by bad designers."

A shocking sentence for any designer to read, the above quote is taken from Adrian Shaughnessy's latest book called How to be a graphic designer without losing your soul. I bought this book in early January, and was eagerly reading through the chapters until I came upon the above line. The very idea that I could be responsible for bad clients stopped me dead in my tracks. Have I been a bad designer? Have I helped to foster bad behaviour in the people who come to me for help?

This question has been plaguing over the last couple weeks, evading any simple explanation that would make it easier to digest. I could write off the declaration, arguing that Shaughnessy was talking to designers running their own businesses. But what about in house designers? What about those teams of people that make up a department within an organization or corporation? Does this statement pertain them as well?

The more I think about it, working as an in house designer is quite similar to walking a tightrope. It's a delicate balancing act—get it right, and you're a sensation. Everyone loves you. Get it wrong, and you're plummeting to your death while people gaze on in horror. In house designers face the daily battle of working to make sure the client's needs are met whilst holding true to the standards of the brand. I am constantly faced with strange demands and requests, things that do not fit within the identity of the organization, and I struggle to find a visual solution that suits both parties. More often than not, this balancing act produces mediocre work that appeals to no one in particular and the client is left with a vague sense that I am not doing my job effectively.

From a safe distance, far away from the boardrooms and meetings and my overflowing email inbox, I can calmly view this problem, knowing that the answer lies in getting to the root of what the client needs, and then marrying those needs with the brand. It seems simple, doesn't it? But what if the client really wants a purple spotted cow, whilst the organization's key visual is a green striped sheep? Do you find the common link between the two and present the green striped sheep with an explanation as to why this visual is better? What if the client still wants a purple spotted cow? Do you give in at that point, let it slide and pick up the battle some other time? Or do you hold true to what the organization is trying to say, breeding frustration in the client?

As I said before, it's a death-defying balancing act. Let's hope I make it to the other side unscathed.

Must. Finish. This. Paper.

Dear paper,

You are due tomorrow. The research has been completed, the books referenced, the thoughts laid out in well-structured sentences. And yet, even in the final hours of writing, you taunt me. I feel the need to read you a thousand times, combing for errors, searching for a slip in judgement or formatting. And each time I read you, I become more convinced of you being returned to me with "FAILURE" stamped across your front page. I beg of you, be complete and passable. I have invested weeks of my life into your existence and the thought you being less than satisfactory is driving me to distraction.

Yours sincerely,
The frustrated paper writer

Respect

In this day and age, you don't even have to turn on the TV to find out election results. Just log on to Facebook. The Winnipeg civic election was held yesterday, and people were madly posting their opinions of the results on their Facebook pages. (I'm assuming the same thing was happening on Twitter; I didn't check.)
The thing that really surprised (and disappointed) me was the lack of respect in people's status updates. Although Sam Katz was reelected as mayor, there was very little celebration online from his supporters. Instead, a torrent of "hate-updates" came pouring in from Wasylycia-Leis supporters. One of my friends commented on the fact that he hadn't seen any updates from Katz supporters and I can understand why. Who would want to voice their opinion when there's a good chance angry retorts will soon be spewed all over their walls?
It is one thing to be angry and upset about the election results. It's a completely different thing to take it online and start bashing other people's opinions. I find the status updates especially hard to swallow, since many of these people are normally championing equal rights for citizens of our city, province and country. Everyone is entitled to their opinion—isn't that what makes this a democratic society? I might not agree with people whose political leanings differ greatly from mine, but I also respect that they are coming from a very different perspective, and might have some valid points to offer.
It would be nice to see our latest election results motivating people to be more aware and active in their city council than just at election time. Write a letter to the mayor and make suggestions. Go to a city council meeting and see how the process works. Get behind local initiatives to build community gardens, ESL programs for immigrants, and summer camps for inner-city kids. How about working on a Habitat for Humanity home? Channel the anger into a positive force for our city. We might elect officials to run the city, but we also have a right and responsibility to help Winnipeg grow. Step away from the safety and relative anonymity of your computer and go make a positive impact on your city.

The viewing

The last apartment I looked at was on Tuesday, right in Osborne Village. It wasn't a great looking apartment and by the time I'd reached the caretaker's door, I'd already decided to not put in an application for it. But the appointment had been made and I wasn't going to be rude, so I knocked on the caretaker's door despite my decision. The door opened and a pudgy, grumpy woman glared out at me.
"Hi, my name is Karen and I'm here to see the apartment."
She closed the door in my face. Not bothering to keep her voice down, she yelled out,
"The 6 o'clock is here!"
"Is it 6:00?"replied another voice.
"No! It's 5:30! God, can't these people show up at the right time?"
"Well, tell them they're just going to have to wait a couple minutes."
The woman opened the door and said,
"Wait five minutes," and shut it in my face, leaving no chance for me to respond.
The appointment had been for 5:30. I had written it down with all the other information I had gathered on that specific apartment. But there was no room to argue and so I waited.
Five minutes later, the door opened and the caretaker stepped into the hallway. Well, maybe not so much stepped as shuffled. A tiny old man, his head seemed rather small compared to the rest of his body. He had a squashed up face, as if it was made of plasticine and someone had just been in the midst of molding it into a different shape. His eyes seemed to pop out of his head, pupils pointing in different directions. And to top it all off, he wore a dirty, grey tracksuit top and bottom which seemed to blend in with his dirty grey hair and skin.
It was an odd sight to see and I just barely stifled a laugh of surprise as him came over to shake my hand. We climbed up the stairs, his spare 70-year old frame coping fairly well with the steep steps. Unfortunately, I had decided to walk behind him and as we climbed the three flights, his dirty, grey tracksuit pants had trouble staying at his waist. The sight of geriatric butt crack at the top of the second flight was enough to stop me in my tracks. Again, the laughter was stifled as I allowed the caretaker a 20 second head start on the next flight. All throughout the apartment, I avoided being behind him, stepping into rooms before he had a chance to shuffle through. He seemed blissfully unaware of this problem and took me back downstairs for an application form.

Forever Daisied,
Confused and
Seeing more than she bargained for,
Karen

Scene change

It was a unexpectedly cold, rainy Saturday in August when I stepped into the elevator with the heavyset man. The elevator creaked and croaked, pulling us upward and every time he spoke, I looked up expecting to see a heavy moustache hovering under his nose.  Alas, his face was clean shaven. We got out on the fifth floor, the hallway dimly lit and smelling faintly of curry and cat piss. Stopping in front of a door on the right, he knocked twice, turned his key in the lock and ushered me in.
My first time viewing an apartment was a low-key, yet unforgettable ten minutes. The moustache-free caretaker prowled by the front door, barking out selling features of the apartment in his thick Eastern European accent. The woman who lived there showed me the view, and pointed out the sad looking ceiling in the bathroom. I could imagine myself living there, but I couldn't stomach the idea of walking through the smell of that hallway everyday. Apartment #1 was a no-go.
What is it about searching for an apartment that suddenly turns your world upside down? Maybe it's the idea of spending the next month trying to contact caretakers who never return calls. Or maybe it's the thought of giving up all free hours to view apartments with grimy bathrooms, tiny kitchens and the tenants' belongings piled haphazardly all over the place. In the end, I'm certain it was the fear of finding the one I really wanted and not being able to get the lease. It put fire in my veins and filled me with nervous energy, energy that woke me up at two in the morning so I could check for updates on apartment websites.
Thankfully, after all that anxious searching, I have found an apartment and I move in a month. I now sit amidst boxes of stuff, realizing that I own too many books and too few dinner plates. The place I've found is just right: not too big and not too small. The caretaker was friendly, the hallways were clean, and the light shining in through the kitchen window made the whole room seem bigger.
I can't wait to move.

The perils of "just winging it"

"…and the only person I could find was this phone number."

I said those very words this morning in a voicemail for a receptionist at a large university. I really should've just hung up, written down what I wanted to say and then phoned again. But I believed the curse of voicemail screw-ups was long gone and so I spoke off the cuff. And that's where the above line came in.
Sigh.
The voicemail curse is alive and kicking me in the rear end.

Sleepless night

Late yesterday afternoon, an enthusiastic coworker succeeded in convincing me to show up at the Manitoba Legislature in the early hours of Wednesday morning.
Say what?
Yes. In the next couple hours I'll be standing on the front steps of our government building, cheering like a mad person for the five cyclists and six crew members of Team CMU. They are finishing an amazing bike race, from Vancouver to Winnipeg in about 2.5 days.*
Any attempts to sleep were in vain, as were the attempts to read a book. I now sit here with a cup of tea, waiting for the phone call from my coworker.
Thank goodness my boss will also be there, and a late arrival time for work can be negotiated.

 *For more information about this race, and the other amazing teams they were racing against, see the following websites:
http://hotpursuit.cmu.ca/
http://www.hotpursuit2010.com/Hot_Pursuit/Home.html
http://twitter.com/teamcmu