Hi Alan, thanks for speaking with me.
No problem, Liam. Where’s the best place to start?
Let’s start at the beginning. Where did it all begin for you?
It all started when I was an apprentice compositor, also known as a typesetter to most people, in the printing industry in 1956.
This is a time when all printing was done by letterpress. That was the way — everything was metal type and mechanical printing presses. At the age of 15, I served a six-year apprenticeship at J.W. Brown & Son printers in Darlington. I had a very good boss, Will Brown, who was an excellent printer and an excellent typesetter. He was unique at that time because he understood the value of design, and he encouraged me to try little things before we started a commercial job. I was given a lot of freedom to experiment and try new things — I had a fantastic grounding from my apprenticeship. I suppose that instilled something in me that became my design process.
What made you gravitate towards print? Was it circumstance?
When I left school at 14, I had a meeting with myself, my mother, the headmaster and the youth employment officer. They asked, ‘Well, what do you want to do?’ I replied, ‘I want to be a poster artist. ‘ They all looked at me, confused. There was silence. ‘What’s that?’ Darlington was a town with a heavy industrial railway presence. The nearest thing they could think of was the printing business. And I was already doing small bits and pieces on the school press. So they arranged for me to try for a job with J.W. Brown & Son as an apprentice. And I loved it. I went down and saw Will Brown, and he showed me around. It was an old Dickensian building. It was on the top floor. And it was a complete mess… It was just in the time of Dickens. It was just stuff piled up. It was dirty, dusty, with cobwebs, type everywhere, and presses. It was wonderful. You know, I fell in love with the place. It was just fantastic. And he took me all straight away.
Brilliant, a rare occasion of school career advice going well!
Yes, absolutely!
How much room were you given to experiment as an apprentice? Given the industrial nature, was there much time to explore your own style?
Firstly, I had an excellent boss who knew the value of design. I used to get a magazine called Printing World, and another one called Print in Britain. The printing industry had its own magazines at the time. They were a big deal, full of all sorts of new equipment, techniques, type, and so on. Occasionally, they used to have articles about design, and that’s where I first met Jan Tschichold. I’d be about 16. And I saw his work in the Printing World. They’d have a double spread on Swiss design or something like that. And I thought, this is the way it should be. This is how we should look, you know. So I would copy what he did. He’d put a rule down there, you know, I’d copy it, you know. But for real jobs, things I was doing in the firm. And my boss liked that. He said, ‘Well, that looks quite interesting’ — so he let me do more of it, and the early signs of my own style started to emerge.
You couldn’t apply that to everything, but when I could, I tried to do that. A lot of the work I used to do was things like farmers’ catalogues — you know, boring lists of items. But now and again, you’d get a job where you could do something more creative. We had the whole range of type. We had Plantin, Gill Sans, Modern, and a few interesting display faces. I always enjoyed doing all that, you know.
By ’61, I moved on and started my second apprenticeship with Anthony Froshaug in Watford, one of Britain’s main printing centres. This came about by chance, as I attended Watford College of Technology in 1962. All the prominent newspapers and colour supplements were printed there — The Observer, The Sunday Times, and similar publications. There were printers and typesetters everywhere.
Consequently, the College of Technology had an extensive printing department. It was virtually brand new; it would have been working for about a year when I got there. They had all the latest gear, and I wanted to get my hands on it. I knew the Linotype machine, and that’s what I wanted. So I worked there for about a year. While I was there, a separate art school was located within the College. The guy who came to run the Graphic Design department was Anthony Froshaug, who was a huge name at the time and still is — he had a considerable reputation. The art school wanted to establish its own printing workshop, separate from the main college printing department, which was quite a controversial move.
The art school was relatively modest. One press, with a limited choice of type — a minimal, limited setup, and they wanted someone to run it.
I’d already been working with Anthony, and I wanted to keep working with him. He was a brilliant teacher. So I went back to the main College and told them I wanted to transfer across to the art school, to which I was told, ‘No, you can’t do that. You have to apply for the ad in the newspaper.’
So after a long search, I eventually found this ad and submitted my application. I didn’t hear anything for a while, and then one day I received a postcard to say they’d received my letter.
A postcard?!
I know. It sounds wild now. I thought ‘this is it!’ — and then I had nothing again. Then, weeks later, I received another letter inviting me to an interview. Then I was offered the job. I was so pleased with myself. I was absolutely beside myself, you know.
What was Anthony Froshaug like to work with?
In honesty, he was a difficult man. He was a brilliant designer — very bright and with a considerable reputation, but very strict in his approach. He was a drinker. He had worked with some of the biggest names in graphic design — Max Bill, among others — and taught at the Hochschule für Gestaltung in Ulm, Germany, and the Royal College of Art in London, so people held him in high esteem; I was in awe of him. My job was to get this little printing unit up and running, and it was fantastic. Everything was brand new. But the press was slightly rusty as it had been sitting there waiting to be used. It took me weeks, but I got everything cleaned up, all the type filed in the cases — everything was fantastically organised. I’d always call him Mr Froshaug.
Eventually, we became very good friends. And then I called him Anthony. We’d sit in pubs for many, many hours, talking, getting drunk together. He also had a whole coterie of people around him, with people coming and going. He was a very charming… He was a complete scoundrel, really.
That was my second apprenticeship. I had three years with Anthony before he left in 1967. I continued teaching at Watford before meeting Derek Birdsall in ’68. He was one of the prominent graphic designers on the scene at the time, alongside Alan Fletcher. Pentagram hadn’t started then — it was still Fletcher/Forbes/Gill.
They were all great guys. In those days, graphic design was a tiny business. It was a small group of people in London. Only half a dozen people were doing it, you know. Derek Birdsall published a book called 17 Graphic Designers… so I suppose there were 17 of them!
Anthony taught all these people at the Central School of Art & Design, which later became Central Saint Martins, in the 50s. He was highly influential in British graphic design. He taught Alan Fletcher, he taught Derek Birdsall, and he taught Colin Forbes. And they all followed his typography. His influence was so significant that you could tell they’d come from his school, so to speak. And I followed on. I loved his work. I did the kind of thing he did, and it still lingers now.
There are certain things which you never forget. You can’t get rid of it — it stays with you. Anthony had his brand of British typography. The British design scene was separate from the continent. It was very different.
I met Derek when he was in Covent Garden, which was very different back then. It was basically a backwater — the market was there, but not much else. Derek was also a character — he enjoyed holding court and was a great raconteur, joke teller, and conversationalist. He had a magnetic personality. We had a great time together. Derek and I eventually formed a partnership with Martin Lee to form Omnific.
And it was a very good title, because it was Latin for ‘all creating’. It was a gathering place for all kinds of people. Illustrators, photographers, writers. Many people were coming and going, and numerous interesting projects were also underway. Everyone would get involved — personal projects, commercial projects, you name it. It was a great atmosphere.
An opportunity then arose for us to acquire some equipment from Stephenson Blake & Co. in Sheffield — a large printing manufacturer that was closing down after 250 years. We installed the equipment we bought in Islington: all the type, cases, presses we would ever need.
What was the design scene like in the 80s?
In those days, the graphic design scene was unique, built entirely on ideas. It revolved around ideas. We’d ask, ‘What is it about? What’s the subject matter? What’s the essence of the idea? What’s it going to be about?’
I saw this in your interview with Peter Grundy, where he referenced Lou Klein. They all have the same philosophy. You look at a project and say, ‘Well, what’s the point?’
I struggle with design when I can’t understand its point. I’m not interested if it’s all pretty and jazzy and based on Russian constructivism for the sake of it. The best work is cleverly done with intellectual rigour or features a creative twist.
Those were great times. Then, after about 10 years, I decided to leave Omnific and set up on my own.
They were all shocked when I said I wanted to leave the company. We were doing well and had built an excellent name for ourselves, but it was time to establish my workshop. They kindly let me buy the press and equipment from them, and off I went. I set up in Clerkenwell in 1989, which again was a desert at the time. Nothing there. Now, it’s the best place to be, but back then it was not… the pubs were lousy!
For the workshop, it was a great place to set up. I rented a space in a large Victorian warehouse and stayed for the next 16 years, working independently with a few assistants helping out at various points. Fast forward a few years, and my late wife, Celia Stothard, and I bought this space where we’re sitting. So I moved most of the equipment next door to the new Kennington workshop while also running the workshop in Clerkenwell.
How did you manage running two workshops simultaneously?
It was good, but a juggling act at times. We got wind of this type collection down in Somerset. So we went down to look at it. If we didn’t have this second space, we would never have been able to take it. There just wasn’t the space in Clerkenwell. These type cases, as you’ve seen, are big, heavy, physical catalogues. Space was a necessity back then. Everything just came together at that point — I’ve been here ever since.
I commuted between here and Clerkenwell for a few years, then in 2004 I decided to wind down the Clerkenwell workshop. They were going to refurbish the building, and the prices for everything started to shoot up. I was also teaching at the Royal College at the time, so I suppose I had three workshops.
After Clerkenwell, we found another space, The Typography Workshop, near Elephant and Castle, which I recently sold to one of my former students, Theo Hersey.
I’ve now only got this one. I had too much to handle. I couldn’t work at all these places. So I gave up The Typography Workshop. That went to Theo. I’m just working here now.
Did you enjoy your time as an educator?
Yes, I did, very much. I didn’t attend art school, but I spent most of my life in art studios. One way I got that experience was through teaching or working as a technician. I had a wonderful time. I met some of the best people in the business. Designers, artists, printmakers. It was this wonderful mix of people doing their own thing. They let people get on with what they were good at, as long as they were producing good results. It wasn’t like it is now, where there’s a curriculum to stick to. It was very loose and very open, and people were just left to their own devices.
What principles underpin your process?
Anthony taught me to use constraints. This was his big word. He’d only use three typefaces. It was very restrictive. Black, white, red, that’s it. Three sizes of the type, one font. On the surface, that sounds very restrictive for a creative, but it made you think about the whole approach. It brought a kind of freedom to my work and the work of those around me. It was a puzzle — you would have to find ways to make it work.
If you look at my work now, you can see that strict adherence to those principles. It results in honest work with a true respect for the materials.
You respect the book, the paper, whatever it is; you have to generate a level of respect for it.
What brings you joy?
If I’ve created something I’m pleased about, and somebody else likes it too, that’s always joyful.
With graphic design, you’re always trying to elicit a response from someone. It’s not like fine art where you please yourself. You need a human response of some kind for a design to be successful. If you can bring joy to an audience, it’s also joy for you. I believe it reciprocates — it’s a two-way conversation.
How do you stay inspired?
I get inspired by two things. One is my own archive. I look at my work from over the years. Secondly, I’m inspired by Georges Braque. I always liked his work. I don’t go actively searching for inspiration. I did a piece of work the other day that I felt was quite successful, and the work of Georges Braque inspired it. It’s all about taking things apart and putting them together again.
So that’s actually another question. What’s your view on…
What advice would you give to someone entering a creative profession?
Go out there and find your own voice. I can only speak from my own experience, but I believe you’ve just got to find your own voice. It’s more difficult than you think, because it takes a long time to do that. It took me a very long time to find my voice. What I started doing in Clerkenwell in 1989, I didn’t resolve it until about two or three years later. And I’m still doing it now. I’m still, to a degree, trying to resolve it now. So, my advice is to find your own voice and create your own image. You have to try to distinguish your work from everyone else.
You also need to stick with it. It’s not always an easy journey, so you must persevere. Take Alan Fletcher, for example. He could take something relatively simple and put a little spin on it, making it his own. That was his voice and his way of doing things. It had an honesty to it.
What advice do you wish you’d been given?
That’s interesting. I haven’t thought about that before. I’m not sure there is anything I wish I’d been told, as I believe you have to go through it. It’s sometimes good not to know too much. If you’re unsure about something, you can always find a way to get the answer, and any mistakes I’ve made along the way have been a good opportunity to learn.
Did you ever have a mentor?
This is one I’ve given quite a bit of thought to. Alan Fletcher was a mentor to me in many ways. We’d meet up now and again and sometimes pop out for a drink. I’d sometimes ask his thoughts on things, but I didn’t consult anybody about what I was doing — I just did it. I did it my way. I did what I felt was right.
One of the big breaks I got was working for The Guardian. When I moved the workshop to Clerkenwell, I realised that The Guardian offices were just around the corner. I dropped my portfolio in there, and two guys there were fantastic with me. A designer named Mark Porter was the art director, and Alan Rusbridger was the editor. They were both very open guys and very supportive of what I was doing. About a week after meeting them, I got a phone call asking me to do a cover for them. This wasn’t just any cover, as it was an article by Martin Amis on pornography. They couldn’t to show any pictures, which I thought was a fantastic brief. That was a big breakthrough.
That’s brilliant, Alan. Thanks very much for having me — I’ve enjoyed speaking with you.
That’s okay, Liam. It was my pleasure.
