Why Design?

In class a few days ago, I was assigned to explain in 800 words why I was interested in graphic design as a career. As I've mentioned before, graphic design wasn't my first choice, and I'm hoping that this essay will explain the process that lead me to where I am today.

I’ve tried very hard to not be a graphic designer. It’s been a career I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember. Some of my earliest memories of trying to choose a career include the vivid repulsion I had to being any sort of artist. I’ve been sketching and doodling and arranging and designing since childhood, and I’ve always had a deep appreciation for aesthetic beauty. But for some reason that I’ve never been able to fully comprehend I have always had the peculiar belief that a real job is one that couldn’t be done sitting down.

I had lofty goals as a child, as any child does. Science was a constant source of new information and ideas to my younger self, and so I vowed my life and its infinite potential to scientific pursuits. I had grand images in my head of to adventures of field researchers and the construction of fantastic devices. I learned the value of societal contribution in experimentation and the exploration of new ideas. The convictions I formed in my young head were made all the stronger by my childlike wonder for the world around me.

Then I got older. I discovered that other contributions could be made to society outside those of concrete knowledge. The realization of that fact is what would lead to the slow degradation into creativity. I was producing creations at a rate unfit for a realm of evidence. But my peculiar beliefs were as strong as ever. I would not resign myself to design. It was at that time I discovered, quite by accident, cooking. Here was everything I loved about science without the burden of experimentation. I could run about a lab all day performing exact tasks and procedures and not be worried about discovering anything new. All the results I would ever hope to achieve were written in recipes, established little instructions that would guide me to my desired result if only I could provide the skill to achieve them. It was a noble field, and eventually I came to that stage of mid-adolescence when children are told to pick a career path that will guide them the rest of their lives. I began my enrollment at a culinary college.

It was a hell I thrived in, for a time. The instructors were brash and unforgiving. The schedules were as strict as could be allowed. Should a student miss one class period, hours and hours of effort would be cast aside and the student’s grade would drop by one letter mark. A second absence would warrant another dropped letter mark, and a third would signify a failure of the class. There was no allowance made for sick days. It was considered unusual for a class period to pass where the chef instructor would not yell at the students. Speaking during class was restricted to the phrase “yes chef.” If a concern, question, or idea could not be expressed with this phrase, it had no place in the classroom. Students were graded on individual performance and grades were made public to foster competition. The administration allowed for all of this, noting that all of their practices were meant to simulate the working conditions of a true professional kitchen environment.

During my time at that college, I continued to create. Not in the kitchen, for to deviate from the syllabus on any way would have been dealt with harshly. In a way that stifling environment worked to my advantage, because when I went to apply for a graphic design position on the volunteer school newspaper I was the only applicant and was hired on the spot. I assembled graphics, designed layout, helped revise the final editions and – on occasion – wrote articles. Despite my creative outlets, the everyday torment from my teachers and mentors eventually became too much for me. It took me almost two years of constant confusion and anger and helplessness before I decided not to pursue cooking as a career.

I was purposeless for a while after that. My identity had been taken from me; I was no longer a cook. It took three months for me to begin my formal education in my only remaining skill, graphic design. It had always been a hobby for me, never a pursuable career. I’ve never had a job in the graphic design field. Every cent I’ve made from my drawings was made from personal projects that I’d try to sell in pieces. In some ways I still have a difficult time accepting that I will one day be able to perform my life-long hobby in a professional setting. It seems like an arrangement beyond the possibilities allowed by my peculiar beliefs. It seems, in a sense, too perfect.