Photographer Lydia Garnett on Life as a Condiment Waitress

“The Worst Job I Ever” had is a new monthly column about the terrible early jobs some of our favorite creative people once held. These are their stories, as told to Liv Siddall, former editor of Rough Trade magazine, who produces Redundancy Radio, a podcast about getting fired.

Lydia Garnett is a London-based photographer and the co-founder of Accent Magazine (along with Lucy Nurnberg), which celebrates people who live lives outside the ordinary. After launching online, Accent broke into print in 2015 as a super-glossy independent publication. You’d never have guessed it, but before Garnett found her niche photographing subcultures and gathering some of the weirdest and most wonderful people together in printed form, her fledgling career began in an icy shipping container in the middle of the UK. Packing bags of pet food. Alone.

“I was 14 years old when I began working for my parents’ neighbors’ pet food-packing enterprise. At that time, my life (on the weekends) was mostly spent hanging out around the Clocktower in Leicester (if you know, you know) with other grunge/emo/punkyish kids. I quickly learnt that getting a Saturday job in the Midlands was a matter of who you know, not what you know, so I started working for parents’ friends who needed their shifts covered.

“As far as I know I was the only pet food-packer—other than an elderly woman who ran the business with her husband. Every Saturday morning my job was to fill little plastic bags with dried treats for dogs, birds, and squirrels. At the end of their garden, there were lots of of shipping containers full of old tractors, lorries, and rusty mechanical farm things, and I would bag up pet food in one of those. It was usually very, very cold. I’d wear five coats, gloves, and tie a hot water bottle around my waist. I had a thermos of tea and a tiny, crackly radio.

“Since no one else was around, I’d usually spend my shifts getting lost in my teen thoughts, humming mindlessly, texting occasionally, and before I knew it I’d packed 300 bags of pet food! There didn’t seem to be a huge demand for small bags of pet food, so most of the time I’d be finished after two hours of work, three if I could stretch it out. I was paid £3 an hour ($4.25 U.S.), so I would leave with a cool total of £6, sometimes £9 ($8.50 and $12.75 U.S., respectively). Sometimes I’d immediately spend my earnings on some fresh hen’s eggs for my mum, and as soon as I got home we’d have a fry-up together.

“After that job I became a condiment hostess, walking around with a variety of mayonnaises at a pub known locally as the Badger’s Bum.”

“I remember being very nervous at my first proper interview for the role of condiment hostess. Following that, my teenage employment included stint as a PE kit printer (pressing initials on to the back of football shirts in a garden shed) and a retail assistant in an orthopedic shoe shop where I’d touch, by hand, the slightly sweaty sock tights after customers were done trying on their shoes. 

“I’m still navigating the world of work, freelancing, and trying to balance getting paid and feeling good about what I do. My advice for readers would be that when you’re trying on a shoe in a shop and you’re utilizing one of the small, tight socks, be kind to the retail assistant because you never know when you might see them next. Oh, and always take your sweaty sock with you when you go, rather than leaving it in the shop for someone else to dispose of.”

Photos by Lydia Garnett

Photo by Lydia Garnett

Photo by Lydia Garnett

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Jon Burgerman on Every Designer’s Nightmare: The Client Wants Everything Redone at the Last Minute

The delight and whimsy of Jon Burgerman’s illustrations can be spotted everywhere from an Instagram-sponsored show at the Tate Modern, to the walls of Apple stores, to a children’s book called Rhyme Crime. Burgerman will be hosting a breakout session at the 10th Annual 99U Conference taking place May 9-11 in New York City. Since our 2018 conference is all about overcoming creative challenges, we asked Burgerman to reflect on a pressure cooker moment and share how he navigated it.

“My brain was sipping a beer, lying on the sofa, cooling down with a self-congratulatory glow. The publishers had signed off on final version of my book How to Eat Pizza. That little switch in my head that said ‘picture book for April’ had turned off.

Then, I received news that one of publishers wasn’t happy. The book needed to be completely revised. And done in time for an important book fair in two weeks.

Wait, hadn’t they read any of the previous drafts?

It’s not my fault!

It was a real shock. It would be awful to turn up at the book fair with a story with no ending! I had to rewrite half a picture book in two weeks.

There was no time to be annoyed. Normally, everything is slow and delayed in publishing; no one expects you to deliver the pages when you say you will. But, here was a solid, no excuses, if-you-miss-it-you-might-as-well-not-go-to-the-book-fair deadline.

I was of two minds as I tackled the challenge. One was: This is stupid. I should just put my foot down. Everyone had access to the drafts, they should have voiced their concerns earlier. But then, I thought: What the hell do I actually know? I should listen to people who actually work in publishing. I’m lucky they’re even allowing me to make a book.

How to Eat Pizza won’t be released in the U.S. until next year, but Burgerman’s latest book Rhyme Crime is on the shelves now.

Rather than fight the issue—which would have been futile—I tried to understand where the publishers were coming from. They wanted the book to be more ‘Burgerman-y’. I didn’t really know what that meant, but I was probably the best person to resolve it.

There’s no magic spell. I just worked really hard. I swallowed my pride, opened up my sketchbook, my computer and my brain and went about it.

I learned that even when a book is “finished,” that doesn’t mean it’s finished. Always keep good documentation of your drafts. Organize everything clearly, so if you need to look up old notes or artwork you can find them quickly.

Trying to understand the root of the problem is key to tackling it. Often, we only acknowledge the changes themselves and not the thoughts that prompted them. Once you can frame the issue for yourself, then it’s much easier to solve it.

And lastly, keep an open mind. In the end, everyone wants to make the best thing possible. Sure, publishers want that ‘thing’ to sell—and you know what— so do I.”

 

See Jon Burgerman along with more creative leaders, entrepreneurs, and artists, at the 10th Annual 99U Conference.

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Make it Cuter—and More Branding Lessons From the Weird and Wonderful World of Japanese Mascot Design

While there’s no official category for “Most Beloved Mascot” at the 2020 Tokyo Olympic Games, that doesn’t mean the entire country of Japan won’t be rooting for its favorite characters as whole-heartedly as they’ll be cheering on the competing athletes. That’s how significant yuru-chara, a distinct kind of mascot design, is in Japanese culture. Furry, funny, and extremely cute, yuru-chara may be designed to make you laugh, but creating them is serious business; the design, production, and licensing of mascots generates the country billions of yen in revenue each year.

In Japan, there are mascots for almost everything. There are mascots for cities, villages, rivers, and businesses, including a real estate agency fronted by Madori Taro (“Floor Plan Boy”), which has a blueprint of an apartment as a face. The fire department has a mascot that teaches children about fire safety on YouTube. There are mascots warning against obscure diseases, even prisons use them to help boost morale. One particularly unlikely mascot is Kan-chan, a mascot for an enema manufacturer. It’s a combination of an enema and a penguin.

Kan-chan mascot. Photo by Chris Carlier for his blog Mondo Mascots.

Before the upcoming Olympic mascots are revealed at the end of this month, we’re taking this moment to understand the creative process behind yuru-chara, and what the Japanese business of character design might teach us about building better brand experiences—even when no furry suits are involved.

A mascot can be as important for a business as its logo, if not more. And the design and selection of a character is an intense process. Often, yuru-chara are designed by amateurs who answer open calls for entries, and usually respond with very literal representations of what they stand for, be it local produce, wildlife, a myth, architecture, or geography. A pre-existing mascot for one company might also become the official mascot for an institution. Take Hello Kitty, designed by Yuko Shimizu in 1974 to advertise Sanrio plastic sandals, the beloved cat became the official mascot of Japan’s Ministry of Tourism in 2007 and can now be found everywhere from humble keychains and notebooks to wedding chapels to airlines.

The most prominent and popular yuru-chara are the regional mascots, called gotōchi-kyara (loyal characters). Part of what makes all yuru-chara so loveable is that they’re intentionally clumsy, a little silly, and slightly awkward. They can make you feel protective, as if by supporting them you’re rooting for the underdog. And before you know it, you’re involved in their oddly complex lives.

Now Tokyo 2020 is organizing a vote by local school children to select the upcoming Olympic mascot from a shortlist of adorable candidates that all fulfill the Japanese aesthetic of Kawaii (cuteness). One is modelled after the infamous Lucky Cat and enjoys napping in the sun; its eyes energetically sparkle with the colors of the Olympic rings. Watch the promotional video and you’ll see just how fleshed out the characters are, each with intricate back stories, personality traits, and symbols decorating their furry hides.

Whichever character is chosen will likely become the beating heart of the Tokyo Olympic brand—unlike the London 2012 mascot fiasco, where a pair of clumsy surveillance camera robots quickly became a global laughing stock.

Whether it’s for an enema company or the world’s biggest sporting event, “The costumes are a useful strategy for a brand’s image,” says Kazuya Kitora, a designer at a successful mascot costume company called SunMoldCo in Minoo, Osaka Prefecture, which was founded in 1999. Once a mascot has been selected by a company or a town, an illustrated version will be brought to a factory like SunMold for production.

SunMold makes mascots for both corporations and local governments, and has created hundreds of suits of every size, color, and character type (from robot, to food, to “flower tree”). First, Kitora transforms the 2D illustrations provided to him by clients into large fabric suits by re-sketching a design using 3D modelling tools, and then forming bodies from EPS, urethane, and bore fabric. Most recently, he’s created Chihaya Him, an “intellectual princess” representing Uji City of the Kyoto Prefecture; a giant blue cat for the an indoor tennis center (with a bright yellow tennis ball for a tail); and Yoshida’s Puddingly Chan, a character with a bowl of noodles for a head representing the popular Yoshida Udon shop. You can browse the fantastical list of characters on the company’s blog, each post complete with a video of the costume in action to emphasize the practical flexibility of the suits.

“The biggest challenge is turning the initial illustration into something that allows for the actors to be mobile,” says Kitora, indicating the heavy, large heads and small, stubby feet that gives most of the costumes their extreme cuteness, but also make them so difficult to actually walk around and dance in.

In addition to a drawing, when a client asks SunMold to create a costume, they also provide the designer with a list of specific character traits. A mascot is the friendly, public face for a company, embodying the personality of what it represents. If it’s well designed and original, explains Kitora, it creates more than just brand awareness—it inspires real, lasting loyalty.

The Kumamoto bear, photo courtesy Japan Times

Kumamoto, the internationally recognized symbol of Kumamoto Prefecture is a perfect example of this; the concept here comes directly from the name (kuma means “bear”). Between 2012-13, the iconic mascot generated 123.2 billion yen, far more than the average yuru-chara. After a series of devastating earthquakes struck Kumamoto in 2016, the local government relaxed the licensing rules around the image and likeness so that any business could use it freely in order to raise money for the Kumamoto Relief Fund. Unlike other disaster relief campaigns without a mascot as a rallying point, the beloved Kumamoto bear evokes positive and sympathetic public feeling: a character creates an emotional response, and in this case, one that resulted in donations.

“After all,” says Kitora, “a mascot is the character of a company, place, or institution.”

While sports lovers may be looking forward to 2020, mascot fanatics have a very different date marked on their calendars. There are two important annual events for the designers, producers, and lovers of yuru-chara: the Yuruchara Grand Prix, where Mascot of the Year is selected by an ardent public (in 2015, there were 50.57 million total internet votes), and the World Character Summit, which has more than 300 mascots in attendance. Here, they wander around, pose for pictures, clamber on stage, stand silently and a little mysteriously next to judges. And dance, their main form of expression.

The World Character Summit in Hanyu. Photo by Chris Carlier, for his blog Mondo Mascots.

Chris Carlier is a British comic artist and educator living in Tokyo who has been fascinated with the world of yuru-chara ever since he moved there. To document his discoveries, he set up Mondo Mascots, a popular blog and Twitter account recounting trips to events like the World Character Summit, with additional bits of mascot news and trivia. During Carlier’s adventures in the brightly colored universe of yuru-chara, he also documents his own attempts to design mascots. Despite several entries into competitions, he’s yet to break through. It’s a lot trickier than it looks. The characters must have a fundamental wobbly cuteness, but also somehow a soul, an elusive inner being.

Recently, Carlier has become fascinated with one of the more sinister looking yuru-chara, Tsukihashi Wataru, the mascot of Kyoto’s Arashiyama district which “looks like Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’ if the man and the bridge switched places.” He’s also extremely fond of the “unofficial mascots for towns and cities, where a local eccentric takes it upon him or herself to design a mascot for their town, and walks around town in the costume.”

The process of documenting the annual champions and tracking down some of the stranger yuru-chara has made Carlier appreciate what works best when it comes to mascot-making. “Simple, colorful, symmetrical designs tend to work best,” he says. “And don’t shy away from silly, absurd ideas—those grab the most attention. I haven’t yet mastered the simple design myself, but I’ve been adopting the silly concepts in my comics. I’ve just made one called Spaboon, about the exploits of a pharmaceutical mascot who is a cross between a spoon and a baboon.”

Various mascots photographed by Chris Carlier for his blog Mondo Mascots.

Carlier isn’t the only Brit to have been inspired by the hoards of cuddly, quirky mascots emerging from the collective imagination of companies, governments, and institutions all across Japan. Graphic designers and animators Edward and John Harrison, two twins behind the London digital design studio What What, have a deep-felt appreciation for Japanese mascots, so-much-so that they’ve published two books about them, Idle Idol: The Japanese Mascot and Fuzz and Fur: Japan’s Costumed Characters.

“I believe that mascots have a halo effect, so if someone loves the mascot, then they will also have some affection for the brand that created it,” says John. “Take Domo-kun, the furry, brown, saw-toothed character is the mascot of broadcaster NHK in Japan. Outside of Japan, people may know of him but not understand the connection he has with NHK. The character can exist as a stand-alone, but can also act as a bridge or gateway to the brand it represents.”

Researching and spending time immersed in Japan’s culture of character design—from yuru-chara to 3D models and anime—has greatly informed the Harrison brother’s own practice, especially when it comes to both branding and character animation. “Japan has a long tradition of skilled illustrators, and they appreciate the mastery it takes to create an illustration that’s simple, instantly recognizable, and appealing,” says John.

“Personally, I’m more likely to design a logo than a mascot, but they serve a very similar purpose and the knowledge or skills in both are transferable.”

His brother Ed agrees. “I think having the exposure to Japanese mascots has helped me to appreciate great character design. In the West I often see poorly designed mascots who have little connection to the brand and lack a compelling story.”

For the twins, the back stories and abstract psychological depth of yuru-chara, as well as the simplicity of the designs, is a large part of what makes them so compelling. Design a winning mascot, one that captures the combination of sweetness and inexplicable super power, and you give people a gateway to the heart of whatever it represents. While a yuru-chara might be a little helpless and bumbling, that only makes it—and whatever it stands for—all the more loveable.

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The High-design, Highly Unregulated Vitamin Market is Booming—How Responsible are Designers for Pushing Fake Pills?

“These are basically candy; they’re almost entirely sugar.” My sister is rummaging through my kitchen looking for snacks and comes across the bright, attractive packaging of a newly-launched vitamin brand with an impossibly whimsical name. It doesn’t take a leading authority to see behind the Instagram-ready fonts and minimalist containers, and recognize that these “health” supplements are just just half a step above Sour Patch Kids.

The supplement industry is a booming $30 billion-a-year market, and by 2045 it’s expected to balloon to a whopping $247 billion. It’s only natural that entrepreneurs would want a piece of the pie, even if they lack the necessary dietary or medical training to weigh in on the value of their product. Sure, they may consult nutritional experts, sometimes even doctors, but they don’t actually have to; vitamins and supplements do not require FDA approval to go to market. Sour Patch Kids could be repackaged and sold as a vitality-boosting supernutrient (they could even use that word I just made up) and no one is going to get fined or lose their medical license over it. 

So what about the people behind the packaging, the designers tasked with making a flawed product look polished and enticing or, in the worst case, legitimate? What moral obligation do they have to vet a product before giving it their full professional treatment, and just how much vetting is reasonable to ask, both of the designer, and of us, the consumer? 

Franny Howard* is a packaging designer with a decade of experience on similar projects. “It would definitely give me pause,” she said, in reference to being asked to promote a vitamin or supplement she felt was flawed. “It’s accepted in the industry that a designer is free to decline work on tobacco, and sometimes even alcohol and spirits.” But, she admits, she once took on an assignment, despite her misgivings, out of necessity.

“I needed the job so I had to say yes at the time. But I’m not really proud of it.” It’s no secret that freelance designers often need work and can’t be picky. The ethical line can get just as hazy for those who work in-house or at an agency, and are unable to cherry pick assignments. A product like tobacco is, in Howard’s words, a “known hazard,” but a vitamin supplement is often seen as less black-and-white. “It’s probably not doing any harm, but it might not do any good, either. I’d say it’s up to the designer to make that personal call and think it through.”

Abacus caption

Designer Ryder Ripps is known for provocative, and more than occasionally controversial work that blurs the lines between art, new media, and subtle critique of hyper-consumerist culture. In 2016, he took his trademark digi-apocalyptic aesthetic to the health business, creating the branding around Soylent, a line of nutritional products ranging from supplement shakes to snack bars. He was so energized by the project he later moved to Alabama and launched his own supplement, Abacus Energy Pills, which offer “nearly double the active ingredients of Red Bull and 5 Hour Energy at about 1/5th the price.” Given Ripps’ past experience with tongue-in-cheek social statements, this might look like trolling. The pills, however, are now available on Amazon, making them, in essence, an accepted supplement.

“I think the ethics of design comes down to: is it ethical to make a product that adds nothing to the visual landscape of the world?”

Ripps continued, “Every new thing brought into the world should excite people. I find generic labels pretty unethical as they impose a depressing worldview.” He asserts that there’s little difference between branding vitamin supplements and revamping the public image of a clothing company. Consider all the branding that goes into socially acceptable pharmaceuticals, from Zoloft to Propecia. “Drugs have always been the height of branding, perhaps its deepest and most sensei state.”

Olly caption

One of the vitamin brands that initially drew my attention is OLLY. Launched a few years ago, OLLY is the brainchild of entrepreneur Eric Ryan (who also launched Method) and his partner Brad Harrington (formerly of Shaklee, a nutrition supplement distributor). Together, they set out to “reinvent the look, taste, and feel of boring supplements and brighten up the drab vitamin aisle,” according to their PR rep. By using words like Calm, Sleep, Energy, and Bones, rather than “confusing letters and numbers,” OLLY set out to make vitamins “easier than ever.” While I was unaware that vitamins were ever hard, I did notice these were significantly sweeter—another case of candy masquerading as a cure-all?

Ryan said his “Product Team always evaluates coated vs. uncoated gummy options during the product development process with the goal being to deliver the best product experience. The most common reason to use the sugar coating is to help mask the taste of bitter vitamins or active ingredients like caffeine. Since the sugar is the first thing to hit your tongue’s taste buds, it turns on your sweet receptors before the bitter ones are activated, so that the overall perception is a sweet flavor.” He indicated that the total amount of sugar in each serving of OLLY gummies is 2-3 grams on average, even in the sugar-coated gummies, so its total contribution to the recommended daily sugar limit is fairly small, even when compared to a glass of store-bought juice (which may add up to at least 10-20 grams).

Unfortunately, the pill beneath that sugar coating may be even more bitter than its cheery packaging design would indicate. When asked about the scientific research and development that went into the nutritional makeup of OLLY’s line of supplements, Ryan said, “We firmly believe that the role of creatives is to lead consumers rather than to follow, so we were careful to use research in a way that validated our beliefs but didn’t take away from the ability to be visionary.” What kind of crack team of advocates for cherry-picking studies that validate a favorable hypothesis, you ask?

“OLLY’s products are formulated by an in-house team of credentialed health and nutrition experts, including a naturopathic physician, nutritionist, and pharmacist who, together, have decades of experience researching and developing dietary supplements,” said Ryan. “They use published science to select the ingredients and dose levels of those ingredients required to deliver the intended health benefit.” And while OLLY’s pills may promise “Endless Energy” or claim to be the “Perfect Women’s Multi Vitamin,” and its design may reinforce that optimism and establish a sense of trust, there are no laws to protect consumers from companies selling pretty little sugar pills, just a warning statement to consumers that any claims of health and wellness “have not been regulated by the FDA.” Buyer beware.

Elysium caption

Another sleekly packaged supplement making the rounds on social media is Basis by Elysium Health, which promises to significantly increase the body’s natural production of NAD+, the so-called “youth enzyme.” Founded in 2014 by biologist Leonard Guarente, Head of the Paul F. Glenn Center for Biology of Aging Research at MIT, who has thoroughly studied aging and chronic disease and how natural products can improve health and quality of life, it’s one of the few brands that seems thoroughly, medically vetted. Some have called it the Aesop of the supplement world, not only because of its appeal to the same health-conscious, affluent demographic, but because of its highly recognizable, science-chic  packaging, which often turns up on Instagram and Facebook.

“Design helps communicate our message and mission in a way that highlights that it’s different from anything else in the market, and we continue to refine how we do that every day,” said Elysium Health CEO Eric Marcotulli . “A pillar of our brand is making important and often complex scientific topics and research accessible to consumers.”

“Visually, our reliance on white and clean, straightforward type helps distill and simplify technical science concepts into useful and more easily understood content,” Elysium Health’s COO Andrew Lin told us, pointing to the brand’s standalone editorial publication, Endpoints, which “covers advancements in science and health with the goal of making science accessible to the public.” It’s obvious that Elysium’s creators obsess about their branding as much as they do about the product itself, which has been a huge part of their success. 

The boom in highly-packaged vitamins isn’t going anywhere, and neither is the controversy. In fact, the “hipster cosmetics boom” backlash is already underway, suggesting that we’re going to see more and more of these debates.

“We’re definitely seeing a rise in supplements. Consumers are becoming aware that everything has a ‘fix,’ and are more knowledgeable of the impact of each ingredient that they ingest,” says Yarden Horwitz of Google’s Trends Team, citing the extraordinary rise in heavily branded skincare and wellness items. Interestingly, in studying food trends, she’s noticed a move towards products containing “supplement-esque products” ranging from the mundane (turmeric) to the exotic (ashwagandha, a rejuvenative herb beloved by yogis). “Interestingly, brands that promote these types of powders aren’t necessarily focusing on the packaging of the product, but mainly showing the recipes or beautiful scenery that tells the right story of health and adventure and ‘living your best life.’” Is it too soon to predict that this trend may soon bleed into the vitamin world, creating a backlash against hyper-branded products and a return to more earnest design?

“My hypothesis is that consumers are still in the early educational phase, and the searches are a bit more generic at this stage” she said, suggesting that we’re only just waking up to the wide world of wellness and that, in the future, great packaging might have to keep pace with more significant health concerns. But, for now, when you see a smartly packaged supplement pop up in your Instagram feed, it’s still worth doing your homework. Even if the ingredients are set in Helvetica, sometimes a supplement is really just nothing more than a well-conceptualized dose of snake oil, even if it looks great in a #shelfie.

*Name has been changed for anonymity

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Love the Design Work, Hate the Designer. How Much Do a Designer’s Morals Matter?

Each month we present three diverging opinions one on divisive issue. Here, Erik Carter, Debbie Millman,and Paula Scher take sides on whether we can (or should) separate great design work from a morally objectionable designer. Ready, set, debate.

“We must set a precedent so that the design industry becomes more inclusive and diverse.” —Erik Carter, independent graphic designer and art director

The industry needs to show people that bad behavior won’t be tolerated. We shouldn’t celebrate the work of a morally reprehensible designer; it sets a terrible example. It says that even if someone has done something awful to someone else, they’ll still be championed. When we discover that a designer has acted terribly, first they should be called out. Then, they should be historicized for what they are. And then, their work shouldn’t be promoted by the community. If someone you look up to or work with is outed for bad behavior, it’s your responsibility to stand by their victims and against their malignant viewpoints. If someone is outed today, we cannot invite them to design conferences, or write profiles about their work online. They need to have no opportunities for financial gain whatsoever, and no professional gain.

Someone like Eric Gill should be discussed as he was: a type designer and a child molester. If it’s a choice between using Gill Sans or Johnston Sans, I’m more than happy to use the latter. There are more than enough good typefaces by decent humans to go around.

Western graphic design has had a persistent diversity problem and if someone is rightfully called out for abusive behavior, then that’s an opportunity for a designer with an underrepresented voice in the community to be heard instead.

The sexism and lack of diversity that is in design is not a problem that’s unique to our profession. It’s rooted in many things outside of design, but it is our job as designers to try and fix it. For the next generation it’s even more important to try and create a community that is more diverse and inclusive. And it is the responsibility of those currently working to stand up for victims and call out bad behavior.

 

“It’s very difficult to reconcile the fact that we’ve been duped.” —Debbie Millman, writer, educator, artist, brand consultant, and host of the podcast Design Matters

I’m conflicted by people whose work I adore when I’m also disgusted by their behavior. I’m crushed by Woody Allen, for example. Growing up, Woody Allen’s movies helped me become the person I am now. If you look back at interviews that were conducted with me at the start of my career, when people asked what my favorite movie was, I would always say Manhattan. Always.

But I fell out of love with Woody Allen after he started a relationship with his stepdaughter while in a relationship with Mia Farrow. Now, the allegations that he sexually assaulted his daughter has made it impossible for me to see any new Woody Allen film. I don’t want to participate in s contributing to his prosperity, knowing the things that he’s done and been accused of.

It’s also really hard for me to reconcile the fact that Elizabeth Moss is a Scientologist, and Scientologists have very specific points of view about women that I don’t agree with. But I loved her performance in The Handmaid’s Tale. The fact that she’s a Scientologist doesn’t take away from the excellence of Moss’ performance, but what it takes away from is my willingness to participate in her artwork.

Discovering that someone is morally reprehensible really changes how I view the person, but whether or not their work is good work becomes hard for me to assess. I don’t know if that’s necessarily a fair thing to do. And as someone who has been perpetrated against in some really difficult and abusive ways, I’m saying this fully cognizant of the bad behaviour people are capable of.

I wouldn’t commission or collaborate with a designer that I discovered had behaved badly. Why would anyone? I wouldn’t buy a typeface from them, or hire them to do work with me, or collaborate with them on Design Matters. If they wanted to come clean on Design Matters and talk about their regret and apologize, I might consider it. But I would not give them a forum to promote their work if I felt that their behavior was abusive.  

 

“Don’t confuse protest with value judgement.” —Paula Scher, graphic designer, partner at Pentagram

Ezra Pound is a great poet, even though he was a fascist.

Louis CK was a brilliant comedian, and I will miss him.

Al Franken was a terrific senator who committed a misdemeanor, and I will miss him.

We all know about Thomas Jefferson’s treatment of Sally Hemings; do we throw out all of his achievements?

Sometimes terrible people make great art, and sometimes wonderful people make mediocre crap.

Repugnant human behavior has nothing to do with the judgement of art. The two are not aligned. If you want to boycott something in protest, that’s okay. But you can’t make a value judgement about the work that way. Art is art.

I had an experience with Planned Parenthood recently. I was doing a mural for them that was theoretically about their history, but I couldn’t put up a picture of the founder, Margaret Sanger, because it turned out she was into eugenics. So the founder of Planned Parenthood, who essentially changed the power structure and shape of women’s lives forever, is written out of their own history. I mean, that’s sort of sick. To put her on the mural doesn’t mean you’re for her position—which is disgusting—but by leaving people out from history, you become part of this crazy dialogue that doesn’t accept the fact that human beings aren’t perfect. By this standard, we’d never be hanging up Pablo Picasso’s work. Wouldn’t that be a loss?

I’ve only ever had problems with people—never their work. I knew a few designer-predators firsthand; they were terrific designers and their best work is still great. It’s always a bit confusing because you can admire them for their work while you also resent and hate them. But you can’t make a visual judgement about a typeface because the person who designed it is a predator. That’s insane. It’s pointless, actually. You could say that they shouldn’t get a royalty for it, but that’s another story.

Peter Martins of the New York City Ballet was my client. On the one hand the notion of him is as completely offensive; and on the other hand, there are movies made about people like him. He was an artistic director who had a Machiavellian relationship with his ballerinas that’s like something out of literature. You can’t say you’re shocked when you discover he’s a predator, because that’s his expected role.

This stuff is very confusing. I don’t think any woman should put up with bad behavior, but also you can’t change your judgment of artistic or literary or political contributions based on it. We have to look at the culture that something occurs in. It’s the culture that should change.

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Firing Your Most Lucrative Client, and Eight Other Crazy Career Changes That Were Ultimately Great Moves

When you launched your creative career, you may have pictured a series of razor-sharp lines leading from one position to the next—a sequence of steps moving irreversibly onward and upward. For most of us, that career path is less like a staircase and more like a hiking trail, twisting and turning organically, and even branching out unexpectedly.

No doubt, change can be terrifying, but sometimes it’s a little less terrifying than the prospect of staying on the same path you’ve been on for years. The next time you’re considering a new direction, keep stories from these nine creative leaders in mind.

Carve out time for yourself.
Kim Knoll and Kyle Eertmoed, partners, Knoed, Chicago, IL

Last year was Knoed’s fifth year in business and one of our most humbling. As a husband-and-wife agency of two, we’ve always prided ourselves on our ability to juggle a lot. And we appeared to have it all—a steady stream of work, good clients, prestigious awards, and active involvement in the creative community.

But behind the scenes, we were slowly suffocating ourselves, working weekends, eating dinners at 10 p.m., and waking up in the middle of the night worried about deadlines. We didn’t realize how much it was affecting us until Kyle (a fit 36-year-old) returned from the doctor with a prescription for blood-pressure medication and a stern warning to make some lifestyle changes.

Leading into 2017, we shifted our perspective away from what we thought we were supposed to do to what we needed to do. After four years of leading the Chicago chapter of CreativeMornings (a monthly lecture series), we handed the reins to a new organizer. We said goodbye to a lucrative catalog client and the thousands of dollars that came with it. We even suggested that one of our favorite clients hire another illustrator to take over our work.

Flash forward six months: Freeing up that space has allowed us to do more of what we love, with some downtime built in. We brought in two new clients with branding needs, and one of our favorite long-time clients agreed to a monthly retainer—a move that would have been impossible with our previous workload. And the new arrangement with the illustrator is working out great. For the first time in years, we were able to take a three-week vacation, renting a campervan from Denver to San Diego and hiking in national parks all along the way. It was heaven.

In the end, we’ve learned that adding “health” and “happiness” to our client roster is important, and sometimes making a big shift is worth it—even if it’s a little scary in the beginning.

Listen to your own voice.
Glen Hilzinger, SVP, integrated group creative director, Leo Burnett, Detroit

Four years of design school taught me one thing: I wasn’t a good designer. Or at least, not as good as I wanted to be. Though my design work was generally well received by others, I was never happy with it. I was my toughest critic.

After a few years at a small design shop, I found myself doing much of my own copywriting. And I found myself enjoying it more than design. Scraping together some writing samples, I landed a junior copywriter job at J. Walter Thompson. My first assignment? A radio spot. Yes, the quintessential copywriter’s assignment. Never mind that I’d never written one before. It was, I felt, the perfect opportunity to prove to myself why I gave up my life as a designer.

Sooner than I would have liked, it was time to present to the executive creative director, a middle-aged man whose three-piece suits underscored his austere, prickly manner. As I stepped into his stark corner office with several other writers, he gestured to a small table that sat beneath a signed portrait of Pat Buchanan hanging on otherwise blank walls. When my turn came, I gave it everything I had, character voices and all. I finished presenting my script, anxious for a reaction. Quietly, the ECD reached across the table, grabbed the script from my hands and slowly wiped his butt with it. Without so much as a smirk, he handed it back to me saying to the group, “Next.”

Surprisingly, even though my first radio script had just been summarily reduced to toilet paper, I wasn’t crushed. Instead, I was eager to get started on a new one.

And that’s when I knew I was meant to be a copywriter. I enjoyed the craft of writing enough that it didn’t matter how tough the critic was.

Honor the work—even if it means butting heads with the client.
Jonden Jackson, co-owner, senior designer, Forefathers Group, Tulsa

For nearly two years, our small agency had tried every method possible when handling clients’ requests for design revisions. From an open-door policy that allowed any revision they wanted (worst idea ever) to additional hourly billing (never fun), all the way down to a limited number of revisions allowed for the project. And guess what? It rarely, if ever, improved project results.

Finally, in the Summer of 2016, we wrote The Declaration—an eBook that we share with all of our clients before we begin working together, which explains our design process and our decision to refuse any revisions that don’t serve the greater good of the project.

It was a risky move, to be certain, but it was one we fully believed in. Forefathers was built on the idea of taking big risks to get to where we want to be, and it was important for us to keep taking big risks to continue growing and learning. And that means pushing our own boundaries to get the best results for our clients.

The Declaration has completely transformed how we work, and has helped bring order to the results-driven design that we pride ourselves on.

We firmly believe that guiding clients to think in terms of results and urging them to ask themselves, “Will this revision improve a user’s experience with my business?” gets them more deeply involved in the design process and helps them start thinking more like their customers.

Be willing to walk away from something good, for the chance to launch something even better.
Claudia de Almeida, principal and creative director, o Banquinho (The Tiny Bank) San Francisco

In 2013, I finally landed my dream job: WIRED Magazine. I honestly thought I would be there for 10 years; after all, the content was amazing, and the opportunity to do great design felt limitless. It was immensely gratifying to bring stories to life with the help of editors, writers, photographers, illustrators, type designers, and letterers—being an art director felt like coaching an all-star team.

But things don’t always goes as you plan. I stayed at WIRED for close to two years and made wonderful friends and work that I am proud of. But when you work for a company, there are things that you cannot control. Change is often good, but sometimes it can be disruptive; ultimately you need to decide if you’re still having fun and doing your best work. I decided to move on.

The demanding deadlines at WIRED made it nearly impossible to plan my next step, so I just left, and figured I would find my way. My good friend Carl de Torres told me to establish myself as a brain + hands: “Let people know you’re a contractor, consultant and a maker.” When you work for yourself, people often assume that you’re just a pair of hands. So I teamed up with my WIRED colleague and pal, Margaret Swart, and we launched a studio as a way to protect ourselves.

I now do all kinds of projects. From consulting to magazine redesigns, logos, type audits, teaching, and sometimes in house work with agencies and companies. I definitely have a long-term plan for my career, but I’ve learned to be flexible.

You don’t need to rush to get to your ultimate goal (and truth is, that goal might change, because life is unpredictable).

For now, I’m most interested in making great stuff. Using the skills I learned from all the amazing people I had the opportunity to work with; eventually, I’ll get where I am going. I think of my career very much like a design project: It’s a process, and you need to learn to love the process.

Pour your passion into self-initiated projects.
Claire Dawson, co-founder, creative director, Underline Studio, Toronto

Back in 2014, our studio was doing well—we had great clients, challenging projects, and a solid team—but we felt a lack of energy and enthusiasm. Creatively, we needed more experimentation and more collaboration.

We realized the solution wasn’t about changing anything, but simply adding to our work through more self-initiated projects.

For our first project, we designed team posters for the 2014 FIFA World Cup, debuting one as each country played its first game. Everyone in the studio participated, designing 16 different posters that were sold online and at an event in a Toronto bar where we celebrated the end of the campaign. Sales of the posters covered some of our costs, but, more importantly, the project energized the studio in a big way. We had no intention of influencing future work or connecting with new clients, but somehow we did.

Months after the campaign launched, Google’s head of marketing in Canada reached out to us, told us he loved the posters, and asked us to design a lookbook celebrating the creators of Youtube—the first of several projects we’ve completed for the brand.

We continued the initiative with two more poster series, and then we decided to make an impact in a more meaningful way: We designed a newspaper series to commemorate the victims of massacres that took place during the civil war in El Salvador, the original home of my co-founder. A corresponding Kickstarter campaign successfully raised $16,000 for Pro-Búsqueda, a Salvadoran human rights group that searches for children who disappeared during the conflicts, from 1979 to 1992. It’s been a wonderful way to collaborate with poets, writers, artists and photographers to support a cause we believe in—and we’re just getting started.

Showcase the type of work that you really want to do—and get rid of everything else.
Justin Mezzell, UI/UX designer, Pluralsight, Salt Lake City

A few years out of school at the University of Central Florida, and fresh off a failed startup in New York, I returned to Orlando and found myself feeling directionless. Although I’d dabbled in illustration while putting myself through college—doing work for friends, family and the occasional church or nonprofit—I had no real experience within the larger design community. I was fortunate enough to land a gig at a small agency focused on branding and more traditional marketing initiatives, but the job wasn’t terribly inspiring. I found myself returning to the blank Illustrator canvas in the crevices between work and the demands of daily life, but I wasn’t sure how to pivot to another career path.

Things started to fall into place when I realized that being unknown meant I could become whoever I wanted to be. If no one was going to ask me to produce the work I wanted to do, I’d do it myself and hope the clients followed.

I created a new portfolio with a focus on illustration, and removed the work that I didn’t want to do anymore (mostly print, branding, and marketing collateral). Every morning, I woke up and produced new work before heading to my day job; that pattern helped me establish a new rhythm.

Over time, the requests began rolling in. A trickle of inquiries eventually became a steady flow, allowing me to leave my day job and dive into the world of freelance illustration with both feet. As time went on, I had the opportunity to apply my illustration skills to UI design, and I fell in love with the interdisciplinary approach that combines illustration, layout, brand, and traditional design principles. That eventually led to a full-time gig at Code School (now Pluralsight) and a healthy dose of freelance illustration on the side.

If the people around you aren’t on the same page, turn the page.
Matt Wegerer, owner, creative director, Whiskey Design, Kansas City, MO

I love the creative industry. We get to cook with art, commerce, data, bravery, and showmanship, and watch it congeal into a crazy pile of weirdness and (hopefully) success.

But after a few years as a senior art director at a small agency, my excitement was waning. The reason? I’d been busting my ass to produce work that was unique, attention-getting and smart, but too often I would hear, “What if this scares the client?” or, “How could we ever pull this off?” or the dreaded, “I don’t feel that this represents our agency’s core values.”

I saw dozens of great ideas smothered by a mound of fear, laziness, and a peculiar need to worship a list of words on a wall—none of which said, “Do great work.”

Moments like this made me go on my own in 2009. Yes, that 2009—the one with the Great Recession making everything shitty. I knew I had enough freelance work to keep me busy for a year—a year where I could work on exciting projects with smart and ballsy clients. Don’t get me wrong; it was scary. I was giving up a solid paycheck in the middle of the worst financial crises in 50 years. But at the end of the day, I was more sickened by the idea of another year of unsatisfying work than the possibility of failure.

That one year has now stretched into eight. Whiskey Design’s roster of clients is diverse, and every day our clients challenge us to make amazing stuff. And, maybe most important, we’ve become a shop where other crazy-ass designers want to be. Now I work side by side with a small collection of creatives whom I would take into battle against anyone. And at the end of the day, I hope they all know that mediocre excuses for mediocre work will never have a home at Whiskey, as long as blood and bourbon are pumping through my veins.

Team up with a partner who complements your strengths.
Eli Horn, partner, Fivethousand Fingers, Montreal

I’d always wanted to work for myself. I started freelancing in school and tried to keep it up following graduation. My design studies included a business class, but for a young designer more inclined towards painting than entrepreneurship, I had no clear path to starting out on my own.

It took me a year to realize how arduous and lonely freelancing can be; while I managed to get gigs, learning how to maintain client relationships and ensuring that I got paid was a full-time job, in addition to doing design work I was proud of.

Lexane Rousseau, a friend I’d met while studying at Vancouver’s Capilano University, had similar sentiments as she went in and out of agency positions and pursued her own freelance work. Eventually, we started bringing one another into our projects, and learned how to collaborate; when there is no hierarchy or defined positions, it’s up to each person to check their ego, discover how to give and take criticism, and make sure the work is fun and inspiring.

After a few false starts, quickly abandoned names (and business cards), and misguided positioning (limiting ourselves to progressive clients didn’t quite pay the bills), we picked a direction, stuck with it, and began to work together in earnest. The benefits were immediate: Representing ourselves as a larger entity instilled more trust in potential clients, and our individual strengths and weaknesses were balanced—Lexane now focuses on strategy, communications and client relationships while I excel in web development and more technical work. Most significantly, stresses and successes were shared, and we gained a moral support not possible when working alone.

We’re constantly adjusting our direction to pursue new goals, but that evolution from two freelancers to one design studio is well behind us. It was a gradual change, but the most consequential of my career.

Recognize when it’s time to move on to the next big thing.
Emily Sander, advertising department chair, SCAD, Savannah, GA

After more than a decade of hustling through the halls of advertising agencies, working my way up from a junior copywriter to a creative director, there was one question I couldn’t shake: Now what? Armed with a desire to do something more meaningful with my life, I left the world of Brooklyn brownstones for the world of academia in Savannah, Georgia. My new clients were college students, and my new challenge was to help them realize their future.

My focus shifted from creating brand stories to instructing others on how to do the same—a task that proved to be surprisingly difficult.

For so many years, I was caught up in the sheer act of doing, and I never stopped to consider how one actually does.

When I recognized that my ability (or inability) to break through to my young audience could reverberate through our industry for years, I gained a deeper appreciation for every teacher I’d ever had. So I started with the 30,000-foot perspective of a creative director, and tried to see the work from 30,000 feet higher. I spent hours reading materials about the processes I had unwittingly employed for years. I formulated my own charts and graphs and templates to breakdown the lessons I’d learned while sweating every detail of million-dollar ad campaigns. But compared to the seasoned professors who had crafted lectures and moved about the world of academia with precise choreography, I was deeply behind in a new role that left little room for failure.

I scrambled to keep up. I lectured, graded, learned, advised, wrote, and analyzed. On the last day of class, a student approached me, and, reaffirmed my decision, with the smallest gesture: He simply thanked me for leaving NYC to become a teacher. Looking at him, I saw what I had been missing from the most successful campaigns and client meetings. I experienced my direct impact on one person’s life—not his buying habits, hashtag sharing, or general viewing pleasure, but something much more meaningful.

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How Photographer and Founder of Women of New York Went From Waitressing to Working with Chris Rock

French-Senegalese photographer Delphine Diallo lives for life’s surprises. Little did she know, a chance meeting in Paris with famed photographer Peter Beard, who is known for his African wildlife shots, would come full circle, and he would become her mentor. In February 2008, Diallo received a call from Beard, and he asked, “What are you doing in April? Please come to Botswana with me to be my assistant on the Pirelli calendar.”

Diallo said yes, and the transformational trip solidified that photography was her calling. She later moved to New York, quit her full-time agency job, started waitressing, and moonlighted as a photographer. Randomly bumping into a lost Chris Rock in her Brooklyn neighbor led to photographing Rock for a recent comedy tour and resulted in a huge career breakthrough. Clients have been coming ever since, including The New York Times, Nike, and Swizz Beats.

Her striking portraiture and mixed media collages combine artistry with activism to champion women and challenge societal norms through the exploration of anthropology, mythology, sexuality, identity, and race. “To make it in this male-dominated industry, you must be strong,” says Diallo. “I build my physical and mental strength by studying martial arts and reading constantly.”

Delphine Diallo was photographed in and around her apartment in Brooklyn.

You grew up in France—what was your earliest exposure to the arts?

My mother has always been an artist at heart, but was never able to make a career of it. Every weekend, she’d take me to the Louvre Museum, and an artistic aesthetic was always around me. Therefore, my photography today is very close to a painting or portraiture.

You worked as a graphic designer in Paris. What did you enjoy about it, and what led to your realization that it wasn’t for you?

Society tells you that to be an artist is not something you can do for a living. When I graduated, I applied my art skills as a graphic designer and video editor working for companies and branding musicians and artists. I did it for seven years, I did it well, and got the respect. But, as new technologies emerged, I spent more time keeping up with technological changes that I felt limited creatively. These frustrations led me back to photography, which I had studied in school. I wanted to be great at one thing, so thought, “Okay, if this is the beginning, why not give myself 10 years to do this?” When it comes to your vision, you don’t have to stop for technology.

How did you make the move to New York City?

In 2008, I received an O-1 Visa [artist visa] from a creative agency to work on graphic design and video editing projects. It was good, but I felt stifled by the office environment. And, I barely had time to create for myself because I was constantly producing for them.

How did you go from getting back into photography to being mentored by photo icon Peter Beard?

Crazy, right? Sometimes you need one good dinner in the right place at the right time to lead you to a world of opportunities. My friend and actress Aissa Maiga was in Paris for the holidays in 2007, and we had difficulty coordinating our schedules. So, Aissa invited me to tagalong to a dinner event on the Avenue des Champs- Élysées, and I struck up a random conversation with Beard. It felt like a meeting of creative minds, we talked for hours, and I showed him a photo I shot of my family in Senegal that made me proud. I remember he said, “You capture something that I’ve rarely seen—what you capture is full of life and energy.” When he called me a year later to work on the Pirelli calendar shoot in Botswana, it felt like a magical call.

What made this trip transformational?

It was an eye-opening experience to be in Botswana—ten days felt like six months of training. One day, we’re in the middle of a village with elephants coming out of the water and the next night, we’re in the desert surrounded by two bush men and a boar. Botswana is very close to the equator, so when you look at the sky, it feels like the stars are touching your face. I can’t explain it, but when I laid down and looked up at the sky, I began to cry, and boom, I knew what my mission was. After the trip, Peter said, “Please use your gift and photography tools to wake people up.”

When you returned to New York, you quit your agency position and started waitressing?

Yes. This was the beginning of my journey to pursue photography full-time. I knew there would be struggle, but I asked myself what I needed to produce and make money. The answer was I needed three days a week to only take pictures, and waitressing afforded me this.

How did you juggle your schedule, and what skills from waitressing are applicable to photography?

I worked at a very popular restaurant, and had great hours working four shifts from 4 p.m.-1 a.m. This meant I could create during the day, and still have three days to devote entirely to photography. It’s difficult to deal with rude people, but you learn to understand them more. I spent a year and a half studying human behavior, and served people from all over the world. It was an adventure and this experience informs my photography today. Waitressing teaches you empathy, not to take anything personal, and teaches you to be social, in a good way. It was tough, but it was necessary for my photography work to be created. If I had to go back, I would do it again.

After a while, your photography gigs began to compete with your waitressing schedule. How did you make the transition to full-time photographer?

Before Instagram, I had a WordPress blog in 2009, and it was very popular. I took lots of pictures of New York City, and posted constantly. I always have someone who is watching my work, and an art director from Nike, Stanley Lumax, was a fan. He hired me because my street photography pictures were cool, and they wanted me to recreate this aesthetic with Nike’s athletes. I was hired regularly for Nike shoots, which allowed me to make consistent money, and led to work with Converse. I never want to be typecast as one type of photographer, so my portraiture photography led to editorial work with The New York Times, Inc., Esquire, and The New Yorker. The key was finding consistent clients.

You created the cover art for Chris Rock’s Total Blackout Tour. Walk us through landing this project and your creative process.

It’s a funny story. Chris Rock discovered my work two years ago. I saw someone from the back walking in my neighborhood, and could tell they were lost. So, I shouted, “Hey, are you lost?” And, it was Chris Rock, but I didn’t recognize him at first because you don’t recognize someone famous, especially if they’re in your neighborhood. Before recognition sunk in, I jokingly said, “I know you’re looking for something. And, you don’t know it, but you’re looking for me.”

We kept walking and talking, and he was incredibly kind and humble. We continued talking about life, and I invited him up to my Bushwick photography studio. Before he left, I gave him a copy of my photo book, The Gift, and he said, “I’ll work with you next time I have a project.” A year later, he called and said, “Hey. Can we work together? My tour is starting, and it’s a big deal.” I was like, “See! I knew you were looking for me.” Then, I asked him to send me portraits of pictures he liked, and we’d work from there. It takes a while to get portraits right, and I wanted to push to envelope beyond a shot of him holding a microphone.

During our shoot, I asked him to give me a screaming attitude, and used smoke to make it edgier. You have choices to be more like portraiture, still photography, looking at the camera or sitting, but the screaming shot was perfect. Therefore, the title, The Total Blackout Tour, came after the image—so it was a total creative collaboration.

How do you make your finances work as a full time photographer?

Most people believe that a photographer is making good money no matter what, but it’s not true. When it comes to editorial projects, magazines don’t pay much unless you’re on staff. The New York Times, The New Yorker, and Esquire cover your expenses and day rate, which is around $500, but by the time you’re done editing and retouching images, and deduct your taxes, you’re not left with much.

There’s a level of prestige shooting for these publications, so when I was starting out, it was great. However, when I’m commissioned for campaigns from creative agencies, organizations, and celebrity projects like Chris Rock’s tour, these provide for me well beyond any editorial job. I own the copyrights for my image for multiple years, and it can be renewed. I receive royalties for any marketing and promotional use of the image whether it’s used online, on a poster, T-shirt or mug. And, when images I’ve shot are part of a global campaign or worldwide tour—this helps my work reach a wider, international audience. This meaningful work also helps fund my personal projects.

Finally, you’ve launched your personal project, Women of New York. What’s the inspiration behind this?

For the past eight years, I’ve been shooting women and girls, so the idea is to create visibility through classic portraiture. One day, I woke up after the We the People campaign, and felt like, “Damn, I’m lazy—I didn’t shoot enough women.” To develop structure, I realized I need to create a book, so I’ll shoot 200 women in New York, and cut it down to 111, because I love that number, and it symbolizes oneness.

For the first time, I’m blind casting for this project. I feel like if I select women, then I’m discriminating against other women who want to participate. I’m not going to do that. So, my assistant handles the model calls I post on Instagram, and 30 women might reply, and because they’ve expressed interest, they are part of this project.

I want to give each woman who has felt defeated, unprotected, ignored or degraded, a new light to shine on her brilliance and beauty. And, for the women who have always felt empowered, despite society dismissing her in the workplace, educational institutions, media outlets, and even in her home, I want Women of New York to illuminate her strength in ways she may never have imagined.

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