Tyler Sticka

On Minimalism and Gracelessness

I’ve been troubled by minimalism for a while now, beginning near the end of my study of Interactive Media Design a number of years ago. I remember sitting in a class which sought to strengthen our portfolio development. The subject was raised as to what a student more versed in development rather than design should do in order to compete with more polished, aesthetically-pleasing, designerly portfolios.

“Keep it simple and call your style ‘minimalist.’”

I have the utmost respect for the instructor (and this “tip” was delivered with the sort of dry wit we had come to expect of him), but it struck me then the problem with minimalism. Unlike nearly all other stylistic descriptors, it’s defining characteristic is the absence of elements.

This statement is surely an oversimplification, but it is authentic. Wikipedia describes minimalism in art and design as work which is “stripped down to its most fundamental features”. Dictionary.com describes minimalism in music as “reductive” and possessing “minimal embellishment or orchestrational complexity”.

Stripped down. Reductive. Minimal. Minimalism.

Minimalism, when executed correctly, is powerful and moving. To make the greatest impact in the most economic way should be the goal of any designer (and certainly a fair share more artists). But any term encompassing the art of reduction is a natural target for the lazy and careless.

As a designer and instructor, I’ve seen peers and students alike justify ham-fisted work under the guise of minimalism. Their work is not minimalist, but graceless. The absence of extranious elements is not the result of careful deduction, but of careless convenience. The former deliberate, the latter unsophisticated.

When I design, I will determine if my compositions are born of purpose or convenience. I will strive to promote minimalism over gracelessness in my work.

An excerpt from the letters of Piet Mondrian (Wikipedia):

I construct lines and color combinations on a flat surface, in order to express general beauty with the utmost awareness. Nature (or, that which I see) inspires me, puts me, as with any painter, in an emotional state so that an urge comes about to make something, but I want to come as close as possible to the truth and abstract everything from that, until I reach the foundation (still just an external foundation!) of things…

I believe it is possible that, through horizontal and vertical lines constructed with awareness, but not with calculation, led by high intuition, and brought to harmony and rhythm, these basic forms of beauty, supplemented if necessary by other direct lines or curves, can become a work of art, as strong as it is true.

Art as conversation and the power of cartooning

I was grinning ear-to-ear as I walked up to Sergio Aragonés at this year’s San Diego Comic-Con, opened the souvenir book to a page of the Groo 25th Anniversary section and proudly proclaimed “I drew this.”

Sergio was one of the first cartoonists I had been exposed to outside the traditional newspaper page, initially by my father who helped me a acquire a second-hand copy of the paperback In MAD We Trust! While many of my tastes have changed since, I’ve never lost my love for Sergio’s deceptively economic line work and an impeccable ability to distill basic human nature and emotion to its most effective (and humorous) form.

Cartooning is powerful and possesses a uniquely universal resonance because it focuses on the important aspects of an object and omits what isn’t relatable. As Scott McCloud said in his fantastic book Understanding Comics, “By stripping down an image to its essential ‘meaning,’ an artist can amplify that meaning in a way that realistic art can’t.”

Though my opinions are constantly evolving, I’ve recently noticed that this philosophy carries through all aspects of the aesthetic works I enjoy. While I can admire the craft evident in representational artworks (especially that of David and da Vinci), I gravitate much more powerfully toward modern art movements such as impressionism, cubism, expressionism, futurism and modernism itself. While I attempt to maintain a fairly eclectic collection of music, I am hopelessly enthralled with rock and roll.

What do cartooning and animation in visual entertainment, modernism in art and design and rock and roll in music all have in common? All three respect a conversational view of art and communication. Purely representational works are mind-blowing for the events they describe and their impeccable level of detail, but they allow little room for personal interpretation. On the opposite side of the spectrum, more arbitrary works operating on pure expressiveness provide little foothold for comprehension. Conversational artworks are those possessing enough elements to interest, inform and/or enlighten the viewer, but with enough mystique that the audience might impart their own experiences and insight.

Like any good conversation, the best art is give and take. Of course, I maintain the prerogative to change my mind.

Yellowstone, nature and perspective

Two weeks ago, I stood at a vantage point aptly labeled “Artist’s Peak” in Yellowstone National Park. I looked out over the winding water, following it backwards with my eyes to the magnificent, billowing waterfall rich with strokes of white and green. I saw the shape of it’s path, cut over millions of years into the gold canyon rock, supporting any tree stubborn enough to endure the steeps lope. I shifted my viewpoint multiple times in an attempt to throw off the balance of the landscape, the color, the composition, and failed to do so. I couldn’t help but feel completely humbled by the splendor of the scene laid before me without the touch of human hand.

Today, I sat at a desk above a sketchbook rapidly brainstorming concepts for a logo I’ve been commissioned to redesign, and the sights continue to fuel me.

All creative professionals grapple with the challenge of conjuring divergent thinking on cue. It is potentially the most mysterious aspect of aesthetic professions, but that enigmatic quality is typically what keeps us insatiable creatives from turning the other direction and pursuing a more reasonable occupation. However, to avoid stagnation we must continue to hone our ability to observe and subsequently transform and synthesize sensory stimuli.

A still from the PlayStation 2 game “Shadow of the Colossus”, baring resemblance to a the real-life male bison.

Pablo Picasso famously said “Bad artists copy. Great artists steal.” While this idea is often and easily abused, it is entirely sound; creative people are always taking ideas and making them their own. The concept is a celebration of the observation and transformation skills in our mind’s toolbox, and it gains effectiveness the wider we cast our observational net.

I visited a gallery in Cody, Wyoming called Traces of Light, showcasing the nature photography of husband-and-wife Jim Wilson and Leslie Slater-Wilson. All of the photographs were stunning in their beauty and attention to the dichotomy between subtlety and magnificence, but what struck me the most was a collection taken of crimson, cavernous formations.

Jim Wilson’s photograph “Rushing Water’s Design” looks as though it could have inspired the sweeping pathways of Apple’s default Mac wallpapers.

The intricate, fluid designs of the canyon walls possess a thrilling combination of spontaneity and calculated balance, with extraordinary color that gives the imagery an ethereal quality.

The world needs artists like Jim and Leslie, not solely for their amazing work, but to remind us that inspiration is everywhere, so long as we maintain our curiosity for it.