Recently I attended the opening of an exhibition by a Dutch photographer. The project was one that had clearly been worked on for years – it was perfectly balanced. I didn’t know the photographer personally, but I knew who she was. As I walked round the exhibition I noticed her in conversation with a visitor, who was asking ‘What’s your next project?’ I walked on without hearing a reply.

Since then I’ve been unable to get that question – ‘What’s your next project?’ – out of my mind. Something about it bothers me. It seems to convey interest in the future, but at the same time lack of interest in the present and the past. Other photographers and artists have told me this is one of the most frequently asked questions at exhibition openings. A strange notion – there you are in a room full of brand-new, tangible work, and you start asking about stuff that doesn’t yet exist. What’s more, I can’t think of a good answer to the question. It’s a trap. If you aren’t working on anything you’re at a loss for words, and that makes you a cultural ‘loser’. But if you are working on something (and can explain it in a couple of sentences), the chances that whoever is asking the question can make a relevant contribution to your project are minimal. And why should you share something that’s still in the process of development with some random passer-by?

     As I was wondering about all this I heard the Dutch writer Joost Zwagerman being interviewed on the radio. He told the interviewer that he never answers when people ask him what he’s working on. Nor does he let people read his unfinished texts. He wants to keep the creative process totally sealed off – for fear that an outside opinion may break the spell. If you’re creating a world, it’s better to keep the process to yourself, for only then can the created world stand on its own two feet and surpass other people’s expectations.

     A reassuring idea that it is still possible to isolate – you can keep yourself to yourself! In these days of blogs and social networking, this is becoming more and more of a ‘statement’. You’re expected to join in with the onward rush of progress. I’m online, therefore I exist!

 

Nine years ago, at the academy, I discovered the power of isolation. The academy was housed in a former monastery outside the city. I was there when the doors opened first thing in the morning, and I didn’t leave till late at night. For four years my whole life was effectively lived within those four walls. At home I didn’t watch TV – something I managed to keep up for five years after I graduated. Those four years were a perfect cocoon. I was alone with my fellow students, teachers and study assignments – there were no distractions. This allowed me to gather momentum and get the most out of my course of study.

     I am now a teacher, and I see how ‘modernisation’ is forcing students to deal with professional practice. They are expected to know which designers are which, what they make and how they do it. As a result, you teach them to gather facts. This changes their focus – whereas it used to be on the individual, it is now on the individual in relation to professional practice. Instead, shouldn’t we take the time to let them develop authentic opinions and views of their own? They can then approach professional practice with a fresh new outlook, and they are more likely to make a real difference.

     Current developments certainly have a part to play in such courses of study; but I would prefer to focus on the societal debate, rather than professional practice. If this can be conducted properly, professional practice will be no problem. Academies will then become knowledge factories once more, rather than places where you learn a trade and are taught how to switch on a computer. Yet this process seems to have become irreversible, for academies are keen to appear modern and multi-medial. Any hint of clay, paper or charcoal now seems anathema – your hands might get dirty! The future apparently lies in the ‘new media’ – an extremely vague term covering just about anything with a plug that has been produced in the last twenty-five years. New is never old – new is always good! Why this blind fixation on technology and progress?

 

Could it be because the slogan ‘standstill is decline’ has become so commonplace? It is an unambiguous phrase, implying that Standstill and Decline are one and the same thing. And it’s persuasive. For a long time I thought that sitting around doing nothing would seriously hamper my development. It was better to be doing something than nothing, and that something had to leave a trace – as proof that you hadn’t been sitting around. Perhaps that’s why I became a book designer. The trace I leave is books. Books last. My trace is preserved. I can prove I’m not sitting around. This may also be the reason why everyone blogs and twitters. Here I am! I’m doing something relevant! Don’t worry, I’ll be all right!

I don’t mean to say that the phrase ‘standstill is decline’ is nonsense. I can imagine it’s a valid creed for some people. Take sportspeople, for instance. Sport can be summed up as a blend of talent and repetition, lots of repetition – endlessly practising strokes, acquiring techniques and watching other people, until you’ve mastered all the details. This is something that has to be kept up daily; if you stand still for six months, so does your development. Muscles grow flabby, and you lose touch with your sport. Then you’ve had it – especially if your sport is one in which you have to ‘peak’ by a certain age. In such cases you simply can’t afford to stand still.

     But how relevant is the slogan ‘standstill is decline’ in my case? The idea of having to ‘keep up’ all the time makes me uneasy. What will I, as a book designer, actually miss out on if I don’t install any updates for a year? The book is a tried-and-tested concept that has been around since the fifteenth century. The basic notion has hardly changed in all that time. Things that really matter are not so susceptible to rapid change.

     But the world of books has changed, and drastically. It has turned into an industry, and more and more businesses want a piece of the action. All those businesses have to be kept running, and so nearly all the changes have been economic – not in order to sell better products, but in order to make more money out of the same ones, preferably as fast as possible. Computer and software suppliers seem to have made a pact to keep consumers whipped up into a frenzy. I now have a computer that is (mathematically speaking) over a hundred times more powerful than my first computer; but since the operating systems and software are now technologically so much more complex, it hardly works any faster. Today’s computers spend most of their time keeping themselves running. I imagine sometimes that it would be fantastic to have the operating systems and software we were using ten years ago (they worked just fine!), but with today’s computer memories and capacity. But unfortunately that’s not possible – the two developments are interlinked, to give users the idea that things can always be done faster, and more efficiently. ‘There is new software available for your computer. Install now.’

     Designers have no option but to follow market developments; but it’s a good idea to stop now and then and ask yourself how much of all this equipment and software you actually need. Everyone must find his own way. I want to keep things simple, so that my tools takes up as little of my time and energy as possible and I can focus instead on more relevant matters, such as the content and readability of a text – two aspects that are complex and time-consuming enough as it is. To design a book, I need to stand still and concentrate. If I can do that, the rest is easy. By standing still I can go further – maybe not faster, but definitely further.