Similarly to how bisexuality (as defined by multiple organizations) is inclusive of all and every gender, pansexuality also denies any binarist implications in its name. In fact, the creation of pansexuality as a title was to intentionally prioritize the recognition of its identifier’s romantic and/or sexual attractions to genderqueer, agender, and other non-binary people and politics.

While leaders and organizers within both identities work to actively include non-binary people, the bisexual community has been unfairly and inaccurately accused of binarism and other gender essentializing behavior. This, rooted in biphobia and the erasure of bi -sexuality, -identity, and -activism, has lead many to perceive pansexuality as the only anti-binary option.

While the pansexual community has done incredible movement building and intellectual/social activism work, anti-bisexual prejudice has also played a role in people believing pansexuality to be the only comfortable identity for those who are particularly passionate about advocating genderqueer diversity and acceptance. This is unfair and untrue.

—  Pansexuality 101: It’s More Than ‘Just Another Letter’ | Kaylee Jakubowski for Everyday Feminism 

5 Crazy Interesting Facts About Bisexuality

So Mother says she might as well tell people she has 4 sons since I’m so apt to dress like a boy.
  •  I didn’t realize short haircuts made me a boy. It suits me and I feel happier.
  •  I’m an adult, I pay with my own money to buy the clothes that make me feel comfortable and confident. IF I WEAR A DRESS OR A SNAPBACK WITH A HOODIE, I WILL DO SO IF I DAMN WELL PLEASE.
  •  How dare you ignore my fucking my sexuality? SAY IT WITH ME NOW “LESBIAN”. Not “I don’t think she’s a lesbian because she had boyfriends in the past”. (ps. last boyfriend I had was my freshman year for 2 months)
  • I’ve been dating my girlfriend for 4 years and known her for 8. Nothing you say or do is going to get in my head to leave her.
  • My tattoos are an expression of myself. If I choose to get a tattoo and regret it in the future, that’s on me and no one else. I am not ruining my body simply because I don’t perceive myself as ruined. Your closed minded standards are the only thing judging me. 
  • AND, if I want to get a tattoo for my friend who passed away I will because it connects me to others who have felt this loss and represents his life. If I decide to remember him permanently on my body instead of my heart, I can and already have.

End Rant. Peace.

What does it mean to be a type consumer?

Swedish studio Snask’s handmade letterforms for The Washington Post

Typography is ubiquitous. Like all visual language, it is ingrained in everyday life, whether we notice it or not! A couple of weeks ago we were invited to Animal Studio in Bedford to take in the opening of their latest exhibition ‘The Art Of Type’. As we enjoyed the company and talents of the local creatives, we considered whether anyone is ever really out of office - designer or not - when it comes to type.

The Art Of Type - Type, font and lettering: a mixed show is open Tuesday to Saturday 10am - 5pm, until the 1st of August 2015, at 24 Castle Lane, Bedford, MK40.

The exhibition features typographic pieces submitted by illustrators, graphic designers and fine artists from across Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire and further. We tweeted one our favourite pieces by illustrator Charlotte Perry to the Design Museum on #fontsunday during the Wimbledon men’s final. You’ll soon see why! Graphic Designer and author, Sarah Hyndman, best known as the Type Tasting studio, was also present at the opening night party, talking about her type workshops and introducing the busy gallery to her book The Type Taster, how fonts influence you. We think your point of view is great, Sarah!

Sarah Hyndman believes that we are all type consumers and that “fonts are like multi-sensory imagination grenades.” In The Type Taster she asks the reader to consider their own emotional response to type.

This is something that she helps people put into focus with her ’Type Safaris’, group tours that she leads around Dalston, London, asking people to consider: What does signage along a high street reveal about an area? And How do fonts influence your choices and what are they really telling you?

When we read about Sarah’s 'Type Safaris’ in her book, we couldn’t help but think of Allan Peter’s similar venture, 'Badge Hunting.’ Peters finds beautiful logos around the world and encourages readers of his blog to do the same. His website has now developed an intricate database with an exciting array of different logos from various eras. Inspired by the results of both these wild hunts type hunts we felt inspired to set off to do a mini safari of our own.

Our mini type safari around Southwark and Spitalfields, London.

Our trip to London revealed many typefaces associated with the Big Smoke. We were fascinated to learn that Johnston is the typeface of the Underground. The bold, sans-serif letterforms are so familiar and comforting, they feel like a home from home. You’ll also spot the classic and more formal Albertus gracing road signs across the city, another sight clearly ingrained in city life. We find it fascinating that we can have such a strong emotional responses to font families. We’ve all grown up with them, seen them evolve and can track their descendants in history.

We fully support and encourage these safaris and hunts as they open our eyes to what’s around us! We are, as Sarah says, all type consumers and are influenced by typography on a daily basis. As designers, we are familiar with many of the points that the book raises but found it interesting to read about the different ways in which we all react to typography, whether consciously or not.

Typography evokes feeling, it affects emotions, enhances genres and alters how you absorb information. As a creative tool, it’s a designer’s best friend and as a creative weapon it can cause all manner of chaos.


(Our blogpost’s featured image 'With a Smile’ by Mimmo Rotella 1962)

Who are you?
Truly, who are you?
When push comes to shove. When you are alone. When you are shrouded by darkness and there is nothing and nobody around you. When your phone is away. When nobody is watching you and nobody will ever know. What do you do, what do you think and what do you feel? If you take away all possessions and communication with anyone then what do you become? Would you be the same person now?
Who are you?
What it means to be Mexican-American to me.

What it means to me is desert lands filled with cactus and barro. It means warm tortillas and my mother’s carefree laughter. Holding my grandma’s hand as we go to the mercado, slowly watching the people pass us by as they bid us good morning because everyone knows my grandmother. Regateando con el señor de la carnicería. It’s the sunset that slowly goes down over the mountains. The church bells and rebozos in masses. Summer nights spent praying and drinking warm milk. Horses and cows as they ran away from someone like me, la gringa. Porque nunca era de México ni de Estados Unidos, y ni los animales no entendían. The man who always screamed ‘Elote!’ at 6pm everyday because maybe he liked the routine in his life. Los corridos that always played in my cousins trucks because they had to work in the ranch all day. Or the little old woman who would sell tamales and gorditas outside my grandmother’s house each morning. She would go on for hours with the neighborhood chisme if you let her even though you told her many times that you weren’t from there. My grandfather’s heavy hand on my shoulders as he told me that I reminded him de los Carrillos, my grandmother’s family. The day I grabbed tunas without any gloves and their thorns embedded themselves deep into my skin as if shaming me for being of two worlds. Catching luciérnagas and trying to find tea leaves. The smell of cow shit as we explored the desert before us, the moment I realized that even deserts are green. Walking for miles until finally reaching the only store in town. Eating the bolillo warm as we walked back because that was too much exercise for someone like me.  It’s my baptism, my communion… my faith.

It’s my broken Spanish. It’s my broken English. Broken pieces of me left in the border. You’re not proud to be Mexican they tell me because I don’t show it like most. You’re not American because I don’t prioritize patriotism as most. 

Maybe… just maybe I’m a wandering being finding salvation in the hyphen that so marks her blank cultural expression.