The HMS Victory.

Drawn by John McKay in 1987, and published in the book Anatomy of the Ship: The 100-Gun Ship Victory. Even in poor quality reproductions, the drafting skill is amazing.  Click the pictures for better detail.

via the photostream of subnutty.

A couple of fine pieces made by Anni Albers. It’s hard to tell if these were made before or after the textiles they represent — as design tests or as post documentation of the fabric itself.

Either way, so timeless… I don’t know what exactly it is about them.

What exactly makes something timeless? Is it the geometry? The restrained color of something? The fact that it is completely non-referential? Or maybe the reference is so obscure… better yet, more ordinary?

Awesome set of antique radio tuning dials, found at Indiana Radios.

Considering they all did pretty much the same thing, there seems to be a ton of variety in these things. I guess from country to country, or with different radio companies, you had a completely different dial.

From a graphic / typographic standpoint, they just blew me away. Such unconventional type, line, and color choices, but also really ubiquitous at the same time… like you’ve seen them all before somewhere, but also never really seen anything like it.

I also found it interesting because they represent an era of technological transition. As radio took off and people started to navigate the airwaves, the graphic identity of the radio seemed to neglect the state-of-the-art electrical nature of the instrument, and was more akin to the nautical navigation devices of the past. People understood the compass as the main way-finding interface, so I guess it was only natural to relate the radial knobs and dials to that graphic system.

An intriguing idea… that all those ham radio guys were actually mapping sonic space, dialing each other up, triangulating positions through concentric circles, writing down important headings or frequencies. Sounds more and more like the surveys of 15th century cartographers. Even the name Zenith (as in the amateur radio company from Chicago) is a direct reference to a projected line from the earth to the heavens, and has it’s origin in the field of Practical Geodesy - the science of earth measurement in three-dimensional space.

Today it’s just as commonplace for us to have a digital radio dial, since we navigate the world through the same kind of digital space, with electronic coordinates on our GPS.

But yeah, aren’t they cool? And as long as we are making connections about the graphic implications of such symbols, I’ll say that I’m not surprised at all to realize that the circular dials are also very reminiscent of other directional systems: the medicine wheel of the American Indian, or even the Mayan calendar. Alright, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch, but you have to admit, the colors and lines on some of these things seem to fit the description.

I think contemporary designers can learn a lot from the intuitive usability of analog displays like this. Then again, there’s so much beauty in the computer as well, so…

came across this incredible set of victorian-era microscope specimens over at the nonist.

immediately i was blown away by the state of the slides, given their age. then what i really started liking about them is the range of cataloging technique - the labels, numbering systems, and overall aesthetic of the objects themselves.

also i found it slightly ironic that these samples, collected and stored in what was once thought to be a standard and unobtrusive way, are now becoming objects of curiosity in and of themselves. at the time, the biological samples were a novelty of scientific breakthrough, and viewing such a small scale of life was a romantic escape for collectors. today, as microscopic imaging becomes commonplace, we look at these objects and are instantly more intrigued by the archaic way in which they were assembled… their aesthetic variety as compared to the sterility our modern slides.

as a basic record of man’s curiosity, i don’t think you can get any more iconic and elemental than these small glass strips. it’s a beautiful, human way of keeping things, little fragments of life and minerals… but the passage of time allows for another kind of specimen to emerge. as the scientists were recording their own observations of the earth, they were simultaneously documenting themselves, and their process.

it’s a clear moment in time, preserved by the same method used to save the natural samples. and it’s strange, because in an weird reversal, the timeless natural forms in the center of the slides can be read as the “control” - the thing which remains the same between that era and today. that leaves the words, the filigree, and the classification styles (the man-made elements) as a new specimen of ourselves.

when did they stop being current? was it as soon as they were designated historically valuable that the microscope zoomed out to look at the whole slide?

i love these covers from old jazz LPs.

you can definitely see a lot of the improvisation in the music carrying through to the album art. lots of graphic experimentation going on… and a lot of great inspiration.

the whole jazz movement has always inspired me. not just the music, but the entire visual and spiritual essence of it all. the cool dark rooms where they played, warmly lit by light reflected off of brass instruments through smoky air… the way the musicians spoke to each other, so automatically in tune with each other and their individual roles in the music… and then these covers, the artistic (and tangible) compositions that provided a visual outlet to match the creativity of the music.

thanks to jordan for finding these. they’re just some of what can be found at Birka Jazz, a record shop with an extensive gallery of rare and vintage jazz covers categorized by category, label and country. definitely check it out for examples of great (and mostly forgotten) graphic design.

thought-provoking sculpture from Swedish artist Michael Johansson.

in our consumerist culture, we eventually face the accumulation of our possessions, and usually with our more valuable items, we’re forced to store these objects somewhere - in our home, in a facility, or any number of other indoor and outdoor spaces.

why Michaeal Johansson’s work appeals to me is that it speaks to the fact that, though strewn around and used in various parts of our homes and workplaces, the everyday objects of our lives are acutally taking up a significant amount of inhabitable space. collecting and meticulously (and beautifully) packing these things as discernable spatial volumes, Johansson allows an appraisal of the physical mass of those things that we supposedly “need”.

as an object made of objects, each piece is a microcosm of a life lived through a collection of utility. the kitchen table packed with kitchen supplies represents a condensation of every kitchen memory in a single orthogonal box, simultaneously expressing a reductive modernist efficiency (elevating the envelope rather than the aggregate) as well as a hyper-referential, almost ornate concentration of memorable uses.

his other series of sculptures are deconstructed appliances, recast as a kit of parts in reverse, and taking an aesthetic cue from the iconic twist-off component arrays of DIY model kits.

as the artist describes them:

everyday objects from mid-20th century housewives are taken apart, sorted, and repacked in an equally outdated boydream aesthetics.  these two worlds are merged together and the objects are frozen in their new shape - while the function is displayed, the functionality is taken away.

sounds like someone had a lot of fun at the thrift store…

but seriously i think this has some architectural value. it’s a strange kind of rearrangement of solids, where the volume of space that is freed by the consolidation of these disparate elements is simultaneously annihilated by the recognizable and somewhat more intimidating mass. it’s as if Johansson deliberately uses the the flush, clean forms to deny the accessibility of the things we have come to rely on. the contradiction of that uselessness is exaggerated since we clearly see that this pristine object degrades and breaks down into constituent pieces of very useful things.

so the question is, would you rather live with your current distributed mess, or have the illusion of more space around your Wes Anderson-ized Tetris block of belongings?

haunted houses are really just buildings that have gained the character of the lives of those who used and lived in them.

these buildings have seen the same people manifest their presence over and over through the course of their life. now, other than the person not actually being there anymore, why should the structure itself change to some anonymous place? in fact, they even acknowledge the loss of the inhabitant, aging and weathering without the preventative maintenance of their owners…

this for me makes it even more apparent that there was once someone who cared about the place - the juxtaposition of the well intended and sometimes grand structure with the state of dilapidation that now consumes it. maybe that sense of continued ownership is the “ghost” everyone talks about.

these photos were taken by Alex Jowett, and are part of his “Abandoned” series.

i’m amazed by the amount of thread types i’ve never heard of on these peter pan yarn sample cards, circa 1955.

ombre, cordet, guimpe, organdy?
velvanna, nubby, sport fingering, wool-o-nyl?

was someone just making these up?

in any case, i love the names, and just the overall “cataloged specimen” character of the cards. the sheer multitude of weights, colors, and fiber types reminds me of some weird taxonomic record of a old fabric store, documenting the extinct threads that have long been out of fashion or only ever existed as samples.

from the collection of Jim Linderman, at dull tool dim bulb.

if you are at all interested in the reason behind your fascination with that old run-down building near your house,

the one that looks overgrown and reclaimed by the land,

where you’ve always wanted to explore and imagined your house or studio inserted cleverly inside,

but never did because it’s been locked for as long as you can remember,

and it hurt your feelings somehow when they put up that picture of a new high rise mixed-use building on the edge of the property,

even though you know the old thing has seen better days,

and you want to just keep looking at it for as long as you can before they tear it down,

because there’s just something about it’s construction and proportion that they don’t make anymore these days…

if that’s you, then you should read this article, The Romance Of Abandoment: Industrial Parks by Hugh Hardy.

it’s a really strange feeling to have studied and imagined and wondered about something for years in photos, books, and slides, and then to actually go and witness the actual place — full of all the intangible moments that never carried over through publication. it’s great to know what you are experiencing inside and out by seeing the drawings first, and then to make your way around a space in your mental plan — only to discover things that had changed in the final construction, the last minute corrections or the more realistic building methods.

but when i consider the drawings of the late italian architect Carlo Scarpa, that sequence is reversed. though i did pour over his works and examine his drawings late into the night, i could never really wrap my head around what the final work would actually be like. even the photographs of his projects seemed to be disconnected from the sheets of sketches and hard lines. in his case, it was only after actually visiting the built work that the drawings seemed to tell me what was really happening.

the colorful, layered plates that represent his design process are really works of art, and i found nothing at all wrong with the confusion i felt when searching for the meaning in them. but it made it all the more rewarding when i could visit his buildings and think “oh! here is that stair, and the ruined castle wall that runs along it, and i can see now that the strange pattern was actually a game for an ornamental tile wall…”

a valid argument could be that his drawing abilities are lacking, since they don’t communicate clearly enough what happens in the structure. but i would disagree. as i look back at them now after being there and touching the details with my hands, i can clearly trace their origins in his lines, and finally read the reveals and recesses that had eluded me before i could experience it for myself. so i would actually insist that while the drawings can be understood as a guide for the construction of the object, they also exist as another type of architecture themselves, one that remains on the page. if architecture is only the thought and idea about a designed building, then it’s true that the drawings themselves are valid as a separate and complete work.

i guess what i’m saying is that while i usually can understand drawings in order to better experience and realize the scope of an actual building when i see it, it’s just the opposite with Scarpa; his buildings are actually what help me to understand his drawings. the actual, tangible object of his design is there to help ground the hundreds of thoughts and ideas that were so quickly sketched onto the paper.

as a way of retracing his steps, i really enjoyed this backward analysis of his renovation of the Castelvecchio Museum in Verona, Italy. his designs for the place always captivated me with the unique colors and poche styles and little details that he was thinking about strewn around the page like a map of his mind. but after being there, seeing the stuff for real, it was just so great to come back to these same drawings and see an entirely different layer of information, one that had been hidden in the specific meaning of that place in Verona.

to me it just proves that while architects can enjoy drawing as a real architectural act, with every bit of legitimacy as a built structure, it’s that jump from 2 to 3 dimensions that allows a greater exploration of both works as complements to each other.

once i had an assignment to examine a covered bridge, and construct a drawing from it. while it’s very probable that the bridge was drawn out by whoever built it, that didn’t help me figure it out for myself. it was interesting because i was letting an existing structure inform a new work of architecture: a drawing. the reversal of the sequence helped me to understand the power of the concrete object as a tool for imaginative extrapolation into the 2-dimensional realm, which is just what i experienced again at Castelvecchio.

so, here are some of Scarpa’s drawings for the museum’s restoration, which spanned 14 years from 1959 to 1973, when he died. there are so many more where these came from. if you haven’t seen it, it’s a stunningly comprehensive collection of the drawings from the project made available by the museum that you should definitely check out.

and obviously, try to make it out to Verona sometime to see it for yourself.