As a boy, Richard Wolfströme wanted to be a marine biologist, but worried that he wouldn’t cut it academically. Because he was good at drawing, he ventured into graphic design. His work involves helping others be fully present in the physical place or space they find themselves in, rather than living their lives through screens. He encourages people to take a moment to look, see, understand, and learn something about their surroundings. It’s a crucial aspect of what he strives to achieve, a way to help us break free from our often screen-dominated lives. Yves Peters had a candid conversation with the artist.

How did you get into design?

I used to love band logos. I grew up going to a lot of rock concerts and was inspired by the album artwork of Roger Dean and Hipgnosis. I specifically liked Roger Dean’s lettering and this idea of making letters and words look more interesting. I had this pair of jeans where I drew band logos all over, and I painted leather jackets. That’s when I discovered this thing called “graphic design.” I didn’t really know what it was, but it appealed to me. I enrolled in Ravensbourne (back when it was still in Chislehurst), where I did a foundation course in graphic design. The moment someone showed me typography, I went: “Oh! Right, this is for me.”

I used to love hand-rendering letters. We had no computers when I started college in 1983—I graduated in 1987. The Apple Macintosh was just beginning to show signs, but even then, it took me years before I got one. It was all drawing board, working out my grids, blue lining [laughs] and getting typesetting done and galleys and stuff. But typography got me hooked: I gave up drawing and everything else and just wanted to practice typography.

I noticed you have a strong sense of typography, which shines through in your work. How did you discover Retype’s type library, and why did their typefaces appeal to you?

It must have been through Kade, designed by David Quay. I think Freda Sack, Quay’s partner at The Foundry, introduced me to the typeface. I loved it so much that there was a danger I wouldn’t use any other typeface for a while. It does appear in a few of my projects [laughs]. Initially, when you look at Kade, it seems like a relatively straight-down-the-middle typeface. But then you begin to see the idiosyncrasies and the beauty of the curves.

When Ramiro Espinoza first got in touch with me, he came across as very friendly and passionate. In our correspondence, he asked if I wanted to play with one or two typefaces he was developing. I’ve always loved everything he’s done: his work has an aesthetic quality; there’s a beauty and sensitivity to the forms.

I find it interesting that, on one hand, Kade is more of an “architectural” typeface—it was inspired by lettering on ships in the harbors of Amsterdam and Rotterdam. On the other hand, you lifted Guyot—a literary typeface—from the printed page and applied it to the urban environment. What was your rationale?

These days, my graphic design work is mainly in the urban environment, ranging from wayfinding and interpretation projects to public art. I chose Guyot for a number of jobs because I wanted a typeface with a sense of heritage and a serif-y feel, but one that was more modern. For outside spaces, I want typefaces with good x-heights to maintain a higher level of readability. Part of me just goes: “I really like this typeface and I want to use it,” but there’s also a strong sense of: “Will it work for this specific purpose?” As long as it meets these criteria, I don’t feel constrained by any limitations like: “Was this design meant to be used in print?” Guyot works fantastically on interpretation projects and so on. It’s a very legible design with that sense of heritage without having to go with, let’s be honest, an old typeface that people may be more familiar with.

My only consideration is readability. When putting typography in the public realm, I don’t have a core demographic to work with. I can only make the text as readable as possible to as many people as possible. They are present in that same time and place, so whether they’re young or old, I try to make it accessible. That’s the core criterion. However, I also want a sense of style: I want that aesthetic, that elegant sensitivity, that beauty. So, often, I rationalize my choice of typeface by showing the client specific glyphs, waxing poetic over the beauty of the G, the elegance of the ampersand, or how good the numerals look. Most of the time, I choose a particular typeface because it has gorgeous forms and curves, the ideal x-height and descenders. I like using many modern fonts that are coming out these days because they tend to have a little bit of a frisson, a certain vibe, something exciting.

I have some pet hate fonts. I can’t stand it when I see people using Gill Sans constantly. Gill Sans only works in all caps; the lowercase is just horrendous (except the lowercase g, of course)!

That’s something I often bring up with my students: Why use the old classics and give your hard-earned money to an anonymous corporation when you could support living type designers’ work and livelihood by choosing new typefaces? Is that a consideration for you?

I can’t hand-on-my-heart say I’m the most innovative designer now that I’ve reached a moment where I may be slightly more relaxed. I don’t feel the hunger I might have felt when I was a lot younger, but I still want my work to push boundaries. It certainly has a sense of contemporaneity; it doesn’t lean back on the safety of what’s gone before. My work pushes things a little more, but still maintains the core reason for why it’s there. The whole point of wayfinding, for instance, is to direct people. That’s its primary purpose. But then there are other things we can do that excite the designer: through colour, through texture, through public art, whatever that might be. I try to add layers while still honoring the integrity of the project.

I like this about Ramiro’s revivals: They are rooted in heritage but completely contemporary in their appearance and use. As designers, we recognize this subconsciously. We can’t exactly put our finger on why it works, but something behind it makes us go: “That’s amazing.” There are many times when a design doesn’t quite flow, and then other times you see something truly manifesting its spirit.

Aside from your core set, can you think of any other typefaces you would like to try out?

I haven’t been looking for new typefaces for a while, but I like the idea of trying to find something new. Sometimes I see a typeface and I’ve got no project for it. I just keep it in my “back pocket.” Then a project comes along that makes me remember that typeface. When the client loves it too, it’s happy days. That’s some of the fun.

I know. Certain vendors don’t understand that it can take months before you find an application for a typeface you once saw. Fonts are not impulse buys like candy bars at a checkout counter in the supermarket.

Indeed, you have to find the right project, and it will reveal itself in time. The marriage between the project and the typeface becomes obvious when you see it.

Is there anything specific you’ve learned from designing for the public space? Does it affect your design? Does it change your approach to typography?

Yeah: Go big! [laughs] I used to be that designer who wanted to set everything in seven-point type, really small with lots of white space. That was how it used to be in my printing days. Now, I want to get things as big as I can. When I’m designing wayfinding, I’ll set the text as large as possible. I’ll start with the longest line and get that really big—just pushing it. Going big with the type also makes sense because the letters are part of the art itself. The typeface isn’t just there to communicate—it can be part of the fabric of the art. Yes, it is part of the design and we are striving for legibility and readability, but there’s also an artisan quality to it. My role is ensuring that everything has integrity, everything has authenticity, everything has value, everything has meaning. It’s all about finding harmony in design.

You are very inventive with how you set text in your environmental projects, like waterfall setting and Tetris-like setting. How does that influence readability, and how far can you go?

I think there’s a continuum. If something is direct information and needs to be read—it’s direction, it’s wayfinding—we make it as legible as possible. Then, there’s interpretation projects where we can be a little more creative with layouts and how we use typography. And then there’s the other end of the spectrum, where the project is more creative and artistic. Sometimes I want people to move with the type, like the “Park of Words” fence with integrated poems that run along the fence. But then there are other ones, like Kings Hill’s “A Place of Landings,” where you have to get involved as a reader. You must immerse yourself in it and move with it and flow with it, and sometimes work it out. I’m entirely okay with that. We shouldn’t always spoon-feed things to people. It’s pretty nice to be playful.

You create a dialogue with the reader, which makes it a richer experience?

Exactly. I first learned that lesson with “41 Places,” which used The Foundry’s types. It was my first project in the public realm, apart from some wayfinding, looking at all the opportunities for putting stuff in the public realm. Looking back at it now, it’s quite print-like. I may not have sufficiently pushed the boundaries of the design, but this project was the catalyst for getting me where I am now. There was something about the idea of working with constraints, and then getting people embedded and immersed in the environment as they read the story. The stories all happened in the place where people were reading them. This idea that we were engaging people with the physicality of space and place, with the narrative, triggered everything in me; that was my light-bulb moment in 2007.

You do a lot of work in public spaces. How do these jobs find you?

The “41 Places” project was when I realized there’s something in this idea of doing a narrative along with wayfinding, maybe some interpretation. I started talking to people wherever they were—public-art people or architects—and no one really understood what I was talking about. It was quite funny. For about two years, I was going around trying to talk to people about putting these stories into odd places. I didn’t know the term “placemaking” at the time; that became a new concept for me. Eventually, some people began to get the idea, and I got commissioned to do a couple of projects. That gave me the basis to start demonstrating. I got the “The Foundry” project, the building for which I used Kade, and it went from there. I seem to be in this fortunate position where there’s a number of architects and landscape architects who know about me. They often call me into their teams to cover the wayfinding aspects of their project, the interpretation, the public art, and sometimes all three together. This is where the movement in public spaces is beginning to go. I like to think that maybe I had a hand in promoting the idea of not separating these things, but bringing them together. That seems to be the direction local government and commissions are going in. They want to try to create something more integrated in the living spaces. I consider myself very lucky to be invited to participate in projects or be part of an architectural team. Through my experience, people have started to ask me to write public-art strategies for development projects, and I’m ending up in a curator’s position. I never planned to do it, but it’s quite a nice place to be because I get to work with many great artists. And then there’s the typographic aspect, of course. I always put my hand up and go: “You know, I can help.”

Interview: Yves Peters
Edition: Caren Litherland