Yes. Yes I have and I thought I was the only one! But I don’t think I’d work out ‘cause they would both always try to talk all the time but then it could turn blackrom and OH MY GOD I SHIP CHATTERBOXES AGAIN!
There is snow outside and all the world seems hushed by it. The interior of the old barn is warm, though, and even the howling of the wind can’t compete with the brilliance of the child’s laughter as she toddles through the old hay, stopping occasionally to pick it up and throw it in the air.
“She’s not frightened at all…”
He can tell that Kanea is just as smitten as he is; it’s in the airy tone of her voice, the gentle way her translucent hand clutches at his arm where they’re cuddled together.
“No. She came right to me.”
“She must be a changling. Or fae-blooded.”
He only shrugs, shaking his head. “She was alone. That’s all I know. I took her.”
He can feel Kanea smile without even looking at her, and when she kisses him he feels like he might burn right through the floor.
“Can we keep her?” he asks, almost teasing, and his heart swells when Kanea laughs, nodding as she snuggles up against him, her tiny body hungry for the heat he offered.
It had never been the whirlwind romance Crow had expected, the one he would idealize it into when he thinks back on it years in the future. The sentiment is there between them, the heady rush of affection and need to be close, but there is little tender brushing of fingers or eyes that Crow could fall into and drown forever. He suspects that if he tried, his wrist would be broken.
“Walle, Regen, walle nieder, Wecke mir die Träume wieder…”
This is the song that Kanae sings in Tokyo Ghoul: re chapter 35.
It’s called Regenlied (rain song) words are by Klaus Groth, music by Johannes Brahms. It is commonly not known by German children, at least not that I knew of.
This is yet another thing about Ishida-sensei that I admire. The German he throws in actually makes sense, unlike other Mangaka that use it occasionally… Also he uses it thoughtfully, like Kanae knowing this rather sophisticated German “Folk Song”.
Running a busy London agency
resulted in designer Jamie Clarke
becoming removed from the
creative process — something he
set straight by selling the agency,
taking classes in screen printing,
and getting his hands inky again.
Words: Jamie Clarke Photos: Jamie Clarke and Lucy Kane
A couple of years ago, I was neck-deep in running my design agency in London. After almost ten years we’d grown to twenty-three staff, producing websites and mobile apps for well-known clients.
Although I talked a lot about design and spent time art directing, the amount of design work I was producing myself had dwindled away. Without realising it, I’d sacrificed the vocation that I’d spent so many years pursuing to become a master of logistics and client liaison.
Today, I’m back to designing every day. I’ve reignited my passion for typography and lettering and I feel more connected to the wider design community than I ever did as director of a ‘trendy Shoreditch agency’.
This return to the design world can be pinpointed to a single incident. After a very busy and successful year at the agency we rewarded the team with a cultural excursion to Barcelona. After a hot day tracking down Gaudí’s finest works, our visual senses were on high alert. We stopped for dinner at a family-run restaurant, tucked away in the old town. The cosy interior was a homely mishmash of family memorabilia, old photos, ornate ceramics, and warm yellow lighting. Still buzzing from our day of sightseeing we ordered some drinks and some menus were passed around. I opened mine, and BAM!
There, sharp black on crisp white paper, naively set and completely out of place in its rustic surroundings; Futura.
Such a small thing, you may think. But it gave me a jolt. I’ve always had a soft spot for this uncompromising geometric font, with its sharp points and hard angles. More at home in futuristic sci-fi films, the shock of seeing Futura in such a conflicting environment made me realise that I hadn’t completely lost my sensitivity to graphics and context. An enormous sense of excitement for type resurfaced, suppressed in recent years by the restriction of web safe fonts.
From that point I spent more time looking at type and lettering, rekindling the love I felt for certain fonts and their historical connections. I started drawing my own letters and working on ideas about how to highlight the structure and expressiveness of individual letterforms. I set up a Tumblr blog to collect my thoughts, and to act as a scrapbook of great examples of typographic work I’d found.
Over the following year, the deepening recession meant steering my company through a difficult period. Typography became an antidote to the tough days. Eventually, after we’d stabilised the business, it was time to rebuild and plan the next three years. However, my heart wasn’t in it. Instead, I decided to seize control of my path and sell the company to focus on my own work. The agency was acquired within six months.
I started designing again with renewed energy. Rebelling against the ephemeral nature of my past web work, I had the urge to produce physical things. I started filling up notebooks with sketches that spilled out into huge drawings of decorative letters. I started experimenting by printing them digitally and then, to really get my hands dirty, I painted a few large letters on canvas.
My blogging became an integral part of this exploration. I started contacting other type and lettering designers to interview them about their work and published their insights online. Tumblr offered me a slot on their ‘spotlight’ list of blogs and my traffic exploded.
Although my understanding of the type world was increasing, I realised that my productions skills were still lacking. I took courses in letterpress, screen-printing, graffiti and a two-week intensive course in type design.
What should have been obvious to me about a move to a craft based enterprise is this it is a craft. Even after several screen-print sessions my early attempts were disastrous. I’m still barely a novice. I found myself getting frustrated at my lack of progress, all the while conscious that proceeds from my agency sale wouldn’t last forever.
It took a long time to find a process and medium that worked for me. After a number of false starts I focussed on illustrating type and less on the print production. I didn’t want to draw whole words but decorate individual letters; however, there was little point in just making them look nice; each needed context and a reason to exist.
I began weaving them in with broader writing and typographic work and discovered that the letters could illustrate the narrative just as a picture does. My Exmouth Market letterpress print, with its illuminations, was the first incarnation of this idea. It feels like a significant first step on a long road to developing my craft and eventually steering it towards being economically sustainable.
There hasn’t been time to miss my previous agency life.
This story was originally published in Lagom #1. Look out for issue 3, which will be published next month!