Typeface enthusiasts are a special breed. You’ll know them by the pain on their faces in restaurants, staring down at a menu that sports, not two different typefaces, but THREE, for goodness’ sake, and none of them right with the others. You’ll recognise their emails before you’ve even seen their name, because they’ll have altered their settings so that somehow, you can never, ever receive messages from them in Helvetica. You’ll regret trying to join in with their passion, as they explain patiently to you that a ‘font’ is not the same as a ‘typeface’ (a ‘typeface’ is a particular design of type. A ‘font’ is the individual instance of the design, i.e. the version in 8-point, or italic. Since you asked…). You can even play a card game (What’s Your Type? The Type Dating Game. Yes, really) to test your knowledge.
I’m not quite a typeface enthusiast. Not yet. But, as the amateur art connoisseur would say, I know what I like. I’m intrigued by why I like some typefaces and hate others, why some make me feel at home (Times New Roman) and others give me the sense that someone is trying a bit too hard to be edgy (sorry, Eurostile). Even harder to get to grips with, for me at least, is why some typefaces work online and others don’t. I like the good, plain, legible ones (Arial, Courier, Verdana even) but some of the ones I’m told I’m supposed to adore make me feel as though I’m having an eye test (‘Is that better the first way, or the second?’ ‘Er, I’m not quite sure’). I’m sorry to be a stick in the mud, but if you’re having the same problem, I would advise avoiding any typeface described as ‘really fun’ or ‘cute’ (in any degree). That means you, Chalkduster.
I find that I want something firm, and plain, with a little hint of vintage. I like a typeface that’s been used for an old-fashioned Penguin book, or one that just looks intelligent, open and interesting, like the typeface for Faber’s volumes of poetry. Or lettering that’s simple and clear, like the signs you see in Waitrose. I love the typeface on London Underground signs. It took me a while to realise that the typefaces I instinctively like have something in common. It was Edward Johnston who designed the typeface for the London Underground. And it was Johnston who taught the sculptor and engraver Eric Gill everything he knew about designing typefaces.
Gill favoured simplicity, and old-fashioned, non-manufactured techniques for printing and making. At the Ditchling Museum of Art + Craft in Sussex, you can see some of the work done by Gill and his associates when they formed a community of artists and craftsmen in the village. And yes, I do realise that Gill is controversial figure. Liking his work plunges you straight into the ‘Can we separate the art from the artist?’ debate. A self-confessed child abuser who also sported some very unsavoury views about women (and, for that matter, about trousers and custard powder. Honestly), Gill’s actions and his ideas were sometimes ugly. But much of his work is beautiful. And although his typefaces bear the mark of his theories about aesthetics, I’m not sure that they raise the same questions as his more ‘personal’ works of art (the statue of Ariel and Prospero, for example, that can be seen on the outside of Broadcasting House). For the avoidance of doubt, as they say, I come down on the side of ‘the art first, and we’ll worry about the artist later’, but it’s easy for me to say that, and I know that others will find it harder. If you want an intelligent account of it all, the place to go is Fiona MacCarthy’s 1989 biography. For an equally intelligent approach to Johnston’s and Gill’s typefaces, try Mark Ovenden’s Very British Types.
Gill Sans (‘Sans’ for ‘sans serif’, which is to say, ‘with no twiddly bits’) may be my favourite typeface, designed, of course, by Eric Gill. I like it so much, I even bought a bread bin that sports it (you can get one like it from Labour & Wait, whose website uses Gill Sans. Oh, and all their other stuff is lovely too). It turns out that Gill also designed Perpetua (Faber’s poetry typeface), and Johanna too (which was used for one incarnation of the Penguin Modern Classics series). And the typeface used by Waitrose is a variation on Gill Sans. So what I like is what you might call a family of typefaces.
Gill Sans
Perpetua
To stop and think about just what sort of effort designing a typeface involves is pretty sobering. The letters need to match while being distinctive. The measurements and weights have to balance properly, so that when you put any one of the letters next to any one of the others, the spacing is right and the words don’t look odd. You have to decide what sort of ‘a’ you want, and where the tails of each letter will finish. And in Johnston and Gill’s time, you had to do all this with just a pencil, a ruler and some ink. Then, you had to create each letter (in reverse) as a metal plate that could be loaded into printing sticks. Every typeface, even the one you hate, is a miniature work of art and engineering. Something to remember when you’re scrolling through the list at the edge of your latest Word document.
But I think what I like most about the right typeface is that you don’t have to think about it. Like all really good design, it doesn’t shout. Instead, it unobtrusively becomes part of the quality of what you’re looking at. Recently, I reread (for the millionth time) one of my favourite books, Nigel Slater’s Kitchen Diaries II (I have nothing against I, but I own II in hardback, making it far easier to enjoy over breakfast). I love the way he writes, the seasonality, the recipes (of course), and it’s a wonderful book to hold and to look at. And at the very back is a short note:
So that’s why it looks so good. Typeface joy!