Brendan McGetrick
Recent works and current obsessions

More Is Better

You too can be a designer

As writers often do, I’d like to start my essay with a quote. It comes from a TED talk by Tim Brown, CEO of the San Francisco-based innovation consultancy IDEO. Speaking before a multidisciplinary crowd in 2009, Brown announced that “Design has become too important to be left to designers.”1

It’s an odd statement from the head of a design office. Taken in isolation, it could be read as a humble acknowledgement of a profession’s limits, maybe even a cry for help. Tim Brown is English and the talk took place in Oxford, so it’s also possible that his statement reflects a cultural inclination toward understatement and self-deprecation. But I would argue that, in spite of Brown’s background, his statement is quintessentially Californian. It expresses, in ten words, the defining features of that state’s peculiar contribution to international design culture, particularly as it relates to the topic of making. It provides a context in which seemingly unrelated innovations such as the skateboard, genetic engineering, and Frank Gehry’s computer-assisted architecture make some kind of sense. As such it’s worth spending a bit of time unpacking the assumptions built into Brown’s idea before going in search of their origins.

Assumption 1: Design, as a practice and process, is in a constant state of change.

In Silicon Valley, all technologies, relationships, and business models exist in flux. The notion that anything has been finally figured out, can be ultimately relied on or definitively mastered goes against the founding principles of the place itself. As Kevin Kelly, Silicon Valley theorist and co-founder of Wired, has explained it, “Because of technology everything we make is always in the process of becoming. Every kind of thing is becoming something else, while it churns from ‘might’ to ‘is.’… This never-ending change is the pivotal axis of the modern world.”2

Design is at the center of this churn and, were he speaking to his California colleagues, I suspect that Brown would have applied more active, inspirational phrasing: Design is becoming too important… Before his mixed Oxford audience, though, the action is placed in the past, and the CEO acts as a reporter delivering an important bulletin from the front.

Assumption 2: Design is of infinite scope and unlimited value.

California is perhaps most famous for making things famous. Somewhere in its experimental, showbiz-centric, aggressively entrepreneurial culture is an aptitude for taking established ideas and enlarging them to Olympian scale.

For decades designers have been advocating for greater influence over everything, “from the spoon to the city” in the architect Ernesto Rogers’s famous phrase.3 This sentiment has been embraced, and radically expanded, in California. Not content with defining only the features the physical world, Silicon Valley’s designers now claim everything from income inequality to environmental justice as part of their purview.

An Brown himself explains in a 2008 essay for Harvard Business Review,

No matter where we look, we see problems that can be solved only through innovation: unaffordable or unavailable health care, billions of people trying to live on just a few dollars a day, energy usage that outpaces the planet’s ability to support it, education systems that fail many students, companies whose traditional markets are disrupted by new technologies or demographic shifts.4

These would not traditionally be considered design problems, but Brown is one of many in California working to convince clients that they actually are. He continues:

These problems all have people at their heart. They require a human-centered, creative, iterative, and practical approach to finding the best ideas and ultimate solutions. Design thinking is just such an approach to innovation.5

What is design thinking? “Put simply,” Brown explains elsewhere in the essay, “it is a discipline that uses the designer’s sensibility and methods to match people’s needs with what is technologically feasible and what a viable business strategy can convert into customer value and market opportunity.”6

If that doesn’t sound simple to you, you are not alone, and the elaborate diagram that IDEO provided to illustrate its CEO’s ideas doesn’t help much either. Put slightly more simply, design thinking is a belief system and a business model based on the idea that one does not have to be a designer to think like one. It is not without its critics, but its virtues are clear: without having natural aesthetic talents or professional training, people from all backgrounds can become designers. This inclusiveness is essential to Silicon Valley’s expanded definition of design. It is also the latest, and in some ways most radical, step in California’s ongoing experiment in opening up industries to amateurs. It reveals the third assumption embedded in Brown’s claim.

Assumption 3: Design works best when it makes elite tools accessible to all.

Design thinking comes from California but it was not invented there.7 Many essential components of its methodological toolkit, including user observation and interviewing, mind mapping and rapid prototyping, originated elsewhere. But it was in California that they were organized into a coherent program and exposed to the public. This exposure – to anyone interested – is what makes design thinking quintessentially Californian. It assumes that more is better. More choices, more contributors. More brains working on more problems. It takes tools that were privately held, makes them public, and invites everyone to try. In this sense, design thinking is simply the most abstract expression of the same culture that produced the personal computer, desktop publishing, and the awe-inspiring, user-generated mess we call the Web.

It should come as no surprise that in a place as pragmatic and market-minded as California, design thinking transitioned more or less instantaneously from an insight into an industry. An ever-expanding network of advocates now spans the globe, advising governments, corporations, charities, and educational institutions of all kinds. In 2004, Stanford University launched the Hasso Plattner Institute for Design, it’s so-called, in order to “support ‘students’ of design thinking who range from kindergarteners to senior executives.”8 In the years since, has evolved into a machine for developing design thinkers and a model of the architectural and social environments best suited to the task. Using the school as a laboratory and its students as test subjects, has developed a repertoire of tools and practices for anyone looking to encourage innovation. In 2012, two professors released Make Space, a textbook for anyone interested in developing the kind of environments best suited to design thinking. The general ethos emphasizes adaptability: “there’s not just one ideal design for a collaborative space,” co-founder David Kelley writes in the book’s introduction. “The people using it should be able to transform it themselves, move things around, and create what they need for the work they’re doing at the moment.”9

Perhaps unsurprising for a school in Silicon Valley, the’s designers express architectural ideas in the language of computer software. They encourage their colleagues to “design for designers,” rather than users, and to imagine their innovation space as an API, or application programming interface, the set of protocols that allows outside programmers to build applications onto platforms like Twitter, Google, and Facebook. “The job of a space designer is shifting,” they explain. “Buzzwords notwithstanding—do-it-yourself, maker, participatory media, creator culture, this or that 2.0—right now it is about empowering people to make and take action. Space design is particularly attuned to this goal.”10

Space design is’s usefully ambiguous phrase for a field that includes architectural, industrial, pedagogical, and sociological strategies. If is its epicenter, its antecedents can be found throughout California, particularly among its research laboratories and garage workshops. Space design combines elements of each in an attempt to produce the intellectually curious, interdisciplinary atmosphere of a lab within the unfinished, hands-on environment of a garage.

The garage environment in particular is resource-rich for space designers. Its physical properties are important: “expose raw materials,” Make Space’s authors advise, “keep supplies and tools visible for inspiration and instruction.”11 But equally significant is its symbolism. Silicon Valley itself started in a garage, or so the story goes. From 1938 to ‘39, William Hewlett and David Packard experimented with various electronic devices in a one-car garage next to Packard’s home. Their efforts eventually produced an audio oscillator that allowed them to launch Hewlett-Packard, now one of the world’s largest technology companies. Since 1989, Packard’s garage has been listed as an historical landmark, with a plaque in front declaring it “Birthplace of Silicon Valley.”12

Many of California’s best-loved companies, including Apple, Google, Disney, and the toy companies Mattel and Wham-O, have origin stories involving a garage. Their success suggests that all a would-be tycoon needs is talent, a marketable idea, and a little bit of space. It’s a beautiful notion, redolent of the best aspects of entrepreneurship, but it is largely fantasy. As researchers at UC Berkeley’s Haas School of Business have shown, the garage itself is often a small part the infrastructure needed for a successful startup. “The legend of the garage entrepreneur obscures a more central reality of entrepreneurship research,” Pino Audia and Chris Rider explain in their 2005 study A Garage and an Idea. “Many entrepreneurs acquire the psychological and social resources necessary to form new companies through prior experiences at existing organizations in related industries.”13

The story of Apple Computer Company bears this out. According to legend, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak built the first 100 Apple I computers in the Jobs family home and garage in Los Altos. (Both the house and garage are now protected landmarks.)14 According to Wozniak, though, the garage didn’t matter that much. In a 2014 interview with Bloomberg, the Apple co-founder described the story as a useful but misleading myth. “The garage represents us better than anything else,” he explained, “but we did no designs there… no breadboarding, no prototyping, no planning of products. We did no manufacturing there.” Where was the manufacturing done? “The work was being done—soldering things together, putting the chips together, designing them, drawing them on drafting tables—at my cubicle at Hewlett-Packard in Cupertino.”15

When they started Apple, both Wozniak and Jobs had full time jobs, at HP and Atari respectively. In addition to equipment, these jobs gave them access to the psychological and social resources Audia and Rider mention. Atari’s founder Nolan Bushnell advised Jobs and introduced him to a venture capitalist who in turn introduced him to Mike Markkula, an angel investor in Apple and co-author of its first business plan. The first fifty Apple Is were sold to Paul Jay Terrell, owner of a computer store called The Byte Shop, whom Jobs and Wozniak met in a PC hobbyist group called the Homebrew Computer Club.16

All of these resources were available in the companies and communities around Los Altos and Cupertino. As enjoyable as it is to imagine to two smart young guys side-by-side in a one-car garage building the basis of what would become the world’s richest company, the story of Apple seems to confirm what every real estate agent already knows: where the garage is matters more than who’s in it.

Still, the Apple garage shouldn’t be undervalued. It remains a potent symbol of what’s possible and a sacred site for startups of all kinds. Due in part to Apple’s example, the dream of DIY manufacturing endures and in many ways today’s hardware developers have it easier. Wozniak needed his job at HP to access the space and equipment required to make the Apple I. His descendants now have access to hundreds of public facilities that offer them superior tools, advice, and even an identity.

You too can be a manufacturer

In May 2014, Time magazine published an opinion piece entitled “Why the Maker Movement is important to America’s future.” Written by a tech industry analyst, the piece describes the movement as an extension of the grassroots, garage-based hacker culture that produced Wozniak and Jobs.

“I was in Silicon Valley in the late 1970s,” the author explains, “and I started to get more interested in the Homebrew Computer Club and similar user groups where people could get together and talk about tech-related interests. This was how I first got interested in computers.” A few lines later he adds, “Fast forward to today, and I am very excited about the Maker Movement.”17

Maker Movement is an umbrella term for an informal network of people, places, tools, events, and online resources that encourage the making of new things. These things range from Victorian bookmarks to synthetic biology, and its advocates insist that the movement is open to everyone.

In the opening chapter of his 2013 bestseller Makers: The New Industrial Revolution, Chris Anderson, former editor of Wired, states it plain:

We are all Makers. We are born Makers (just watch a child’s fascination with drawing, blocks, Lego, or crafts), and many of us retain that love in our hobbies and passions. It’s not just about workshops, garages, and man caves. If you love to cook, you’re a kitchen Maker and your stove is your workbench (homemade food is best, right?). If you love to plant you’re a garden Maker. Knitting and sewing, scrapbooking, beading, and cross-stitching—all Making.18

But as the title of Anderson’s book implies, the Maker Movement isn’t really about sewing or beading or any other pre-modern technology. It’s about high technology: specifically 3D printing and the Arduino electronic prototyping platform, CNC milling machines, laser cutters, and other fabrication tools, combined with an online infrastructure for the easy sourcing of parts and sharing of knowledge. It’s this combination of the industrial and the online that makes Anderson’s new industrial revolution possible.

What makes it Californian, I think, is the movement’s insistence on access to tools as a fundamental human right. In The Maker Movement Manifesto, Mark Hatch, the CEO of a chain of membership-based workshops, writes:

The tools of the industrial revolution have been exceedingly expensive, hard to use, and of limited power—until now. They are now cheap, easy to use, and powerful, yet we have not made any changes to how we organize access to these tools. This must change.19

Hatch sees the solution in his own company, TechShop, as well as hundreds of similar organizations that offer space, high-end prototyping equipment, and technical training to amateurs. These organizations take many forms, from loosely organized individuals to for-profit companies, non-profit corporations, and enterprises affiliated with schools, universities, and public libraries. Participants in these makerspaces gain access to resources surpassing what almost anyone can afford or fit in a garage. They also become part of a community of Makers. This community is loosely defined, but it extends around the world. As you would expect, they are a productive bunch and, in their unplanned, open source way, Makers are constantly expanding the tools at their disposal. At this point, someone with interest and no experience needs very little to get started. The Maker community offers educational resources for all levels via websites, podcasts, YouTube channels, books, TV shows and even entire networks dedicated to DIY. It maintains repositories of open source computer code, such as GitHub. The equipment and raw materials of desktop manufacturing are easily available in Maker shops online and off. Funding for the most ambitious projects generally comes from the community via Indiegogo and a dozen other crowdsource sites. Finished works are distributed directly or sold on Etsy, Ebay or in offline shops specializing in Maker products.

This ecosystem is nourished by its members’ enthusiasm. With each addition, the community reinforces and amplifies itself. At their most ardent, Makers present themselves as part of a resistance movement, struggling against the repressive impulses of industry. “Revolutions are fought and won with arms,” the former green beret Mark Hatch writes in his Maker manifesto, “Tools are our ‘arms.’ Without access to them, nothing has changed.”20

If this argument sounds familiar, it’s probably because it was popularized by Steve Jobs. The dream of democratizing industry has deep roots in California, but Jobs was its most insistent advocate. Apple based entire ad campaigns around the idea.21 Over the years, the company has contributed a number of important weapons to the Makers’ arsenal, but its greatest remains the Macintosh, the so-called “computer for the rest of us.”22

You too can be a publisher

In some ways, the Macintosh is an explicitly anti Maker machine. From the start, it was designed to reduce its users’ freedom to customize, upgrade, and expand. Jef Raskin, the initiator of the project, originally described the Macintosh as a computer for a “person in the street.” Frustrated with the intimidating adaptability of the Apple II, Raskin concluded that the person in the street would be better served by a complete and largely closed system.

“There were to be no peripheral slots so that customers never had to see the inside of the machine,” Raskin says of his initial concept. “There was a fixed memory size so that all applications would run on all Macintoshes; the screen, keyboard, and mass-storage device (and, we hoped, a printer) were to be built-in so that the customer got a truly complete system, and so that we could control the appearance of characters and graphics.”23

Controlling the appearance of characters and graphics was essential, because the Macintosh was to be the first mass-market PC that had a graphical user interface (GUI). This GUI allowed users to communicate with the computer using a metaphorical desktop that included icons of real life items, instead of abstract textual commands.

As the technology journalist Steven Levy has explained, until that point, personal computers were locked in an esoteric realm of codes and commands. They looked unfriendly, with grainy green letters glowing against a black screen. Even the simplest tasks required memorizing the proper commands, then executing several exacting steps.24 The Macintosh was not the first PC to offer an alternative, but it was the first to make it affordable and, perhaps more important, lovable.

As Levy explains:

The Macintosh was friendly. It opened with a smile. Words appeared with the clarity of text on a printed page — and for the first time, ordinary people had the power to format text as professional printers did. Selecting and moving text was made dramatically easier by the then-quaint mouse accompanying the keyboard. You could draw on it. This humble shoebox-sized machine had a simplicity that instantly empowered you.25

Even before its release, the Macintosh’s bitmapped screen was inspiring new forms of making. Many of its original icons, including the Mac’s startup smile, were designed by Susan Kare, a graphic designer and author of some of the first digital fonts. When Kare sketched the icons for the first Macintosh operating system in the early ‘80s, she had only basic black-and-white pixels with which to create a universal user language. At a time when most designers were put off by the limitations of the computer and its inability to exactly replicate existing technology, Kare was inspired by the digital environment, working within limitations as if they were assets.26 Using graphing paper, with one box equivalent to one pixel, Kare designed intuitive icons for various functions a computer user might undertake (for example, a pair of scissors symbolized cutting text). These pictogram icons were designed to be an instinctive language that could be understood by users of all backgrounds in all places.27

Kare’s efforts were soon echoed by the Macintosh’s first users. For a certain class of artist and graphic designer, Apple’s machine was more than a tool, it was a medium in itself. The LA-based designer April Greiman was an early adopter who explored the possibilities of digital imagery when the Mac’s technical limitations made the process exhausting.

In 1986, Greiman was commissioned to design an issue of Design Quarterly for the Walker Art Center. A year earlier, the combination of the Mac, Apple’s LaserWriter printer, and Mac-specific software like Aldus PageMaker had enabled users to design, preview, and print page layouts complete with text and graphics—an innovation later known as desktop publishing.28 Greiman’s Design Quarterly #133 took advantage of these new powers and transformed the issue into an open question on what a magazine could be.

Instead of the magazine’s standard sixteen-spread sequence, Greiman reformatted the piece as a poster that folded out to almost three by six feet. On the front is an image of Greiman’s digitized, naked body amid layers of interacting images and text. On the back, colorful atmospheric spatial video images are interspersed with comments and painstaking notations on the digital process—a virtual landscape of text and image.29

Today, this all sounds simple enough, but Greiman’s collage, entitled Does it make sense?, was an astounding technical feat. In 1986, the process of integrating digitized video images and bitmapped type required a degree of patience and craft more commonly associated with pre-digital times. Greiman built the collage on the computer and outputted letter-sized pages on her dot-matrix machine, then directed the magazine’s printer to assemble the pages and photograph the entire composition. The files were so large and the equipment so slow that Greiman would send the file to print as she left the studio in the evening and it would just be finishing when she returned in the morning.30

With its one megabyte of RAM and monochrome 9-inch display, it’s not hard to understand why many designers initially resisted the Macintosh. Those who didn’t, however, gained a previously unthinkable amount of control over everything from format to layout to type. The magazine that took best advantage of these new freedoms was Berkeley-based Emigre. Founded in 1984, just before the release of the first Mac, Emigre quickly became a forum for designers interested in experimentation and technology. It featured in-depth articles and visual essays, in layouts that broke all rules — with varying type sizes, overlapping layers, text columns crashing into each other and distorted letterforms, all techniques that the Macintosh made easier.31

Working with a bitmap font tool, Emigre co-founder Zuzana Licko created fonts for the magazine. Her Emperor, Oakland, and Emigre fonts were designed as coarse bitmapped faces to accommodate low-resolution printer output. They were used in Emigre #2 and, after several readers inquired about their availability, the magazine began running ads for them in issue three. Licko and her partner Rudy VanderLans then used proceeds from font sales to fund the magazine, allowing it to run ad-free.32

As former Emigre contributor Michael Dooley has observed, Brian Eno’s quip about the Velvet Underground – that only a few thousand people bought their record but every one of them went on to form a band – could apply as well to Emigre. Although the print run of the first issue was 500 copies and its circulation peaked at 7,000, its reverberations are still being felt around the world. The magazine that VanderLans published and art directed, and the fonts Licko developed for it, have stimulated designers to defy, and even overthrow, entrenched rules and to set new standards.33

For Jobs, and his compatriots in the tech community, the standards destroying, individual empowering, industry disrupting implications of desktop publishing were the whole point. Emigre’s typographic and editorial iconoclasm was a small but powerful example of their belief in personalized technology as a source of radical change.

In hindsight, the idea that computers can empower individuals and create new communities seems obvious. But as Fred Turner and others have observed, imagining the fruits of the military-industrial complex as tools of personal liberation was in itself a kind of revolution. For young Americans witnessing their emergence in the 1960s, computers loomed as technologies of dehumanization, centralized bureaucracy, and, ultimately, the Vietnam War34. The effort to undo these associations took decades and required thousands of contributors. Jobs was the most visible, but his inspiration came from Stewart Brand and his ‘make what you want’ manifesto, the Whole Earth Catalog.

You too can be a god

As Jobs would describe it decades later, the Whole Earth Catalog was “like Google in paperback form.”35 Originally created to help hippies find the tools they needed to build their own communes, the Catalog included everything from the fringed deerskin jackets and geodesic domes favored by the communards to the cybernetic writings of Norbert Wiener and the latest calculators from Hewlett-Packard.36 In later editions, alongside such supplies, Brand published letters from high-technology researchers next to firsthand reports from rural hippies.

Sized somewhere between a tabloid newspaper and a glossy magazine, divided into seven categories, the Whole Earth Catalog offered a cacophony of artifacts, voices, and visual design. Decades before Emigre would label itself “the magazine that ignores boundaries,”37 the Catalog provided a place where home weaving kits and potters’ wheels banged up against reports on the science of plastics and books on computer-generated music.38 As Turner has described, the Catalog presented these things within a design framework that echoed the frontier preoccupations of the back-to-the-land movement and the psychedelic design inclinations of the contemporary alternative press. Each page featured multiple typefaces, many seemingly created in the nineteenth century. They appeared on plain, rough paper – the tactile antithesis of the glossy magazine. Like its choice of products, the Catalog‘s design mingled the psychedelic, the nostalgic, and the practical.39

Like its audience, the Catalog celebrated small-scale technologies as ways for individuals to improve their lives. But it also offered up those tools, and itself, as prototypes of a new relationship between the individual, information, and technology.40 For Brand, the Catalog was a tool for readers, but the readers were tools too. They could write in and use the pages of the Catalog to tell one another about their experiences with particular products. They could learn of ongoing grassroots projects and contact one another to join in. Anticipating the Maker Movement’s user-generated online ecosystem, the Catalog and its quarterly supplement revealed to their readers an emerging DIY world in which all could potentially participate.

On the inside cover of every edition, Brand launched the Catalog with a mini manifesto:

We are as gods and might as well get good at it. So far, remotely done power and glory – as via government, big business, formal education, church – has [sic] succeeded to the point where gross defects obscure actual gains. In response to this dilemma and to these gains a realm of intimate, personal power is developing – power of the individual to conduct his own education, find his own inspiration, shape his own environment, and share his adventure with whoever is interested.41

These ideals still shape much of what is made in California. They ennoble everything from homemade skate videos to Frank Gehry’s experiments with chain link fencing and other cheap materials in his Santa Monica residence. They explain the impulse behind Tim Brown’s claim that design is too important to be left to designers and his conclusion that everyone should design. We are as gods – written in earnest, with the assumption that an unlimited supply of amateurs can accomplish more than all of the world’s experts. To those who motivate, connect, and control the content produced by these amateurs go the profits and the power. It is a rarified group, concentrated in California but open to anyone, if you can make it.

Originally published in California: Designing Freedom, edited by Brendan McGetrick and Justin McGuirk. Published by Phaidon (c) Phaidon 2017

1. Brown, T. (2009, July). Tim Brown: Designers — think big![Video file]. Retrieved from
2. Kelly, K. (2016). The Inevitable: Understanding the 12 Technological Forces That Will Shape Our Future (p. 6). Penguin Publishing Group.
3. Ernesto Rogers created the slogan Dal cucchiaio alla città (“From the spoon to the city”) in 1952 in the Charta of Athens.
4. Brown, T. (2008, June) “Design Thinking,” Harvard Business Review. Retrieved from
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. As Barry Katz explains in his design history of Silicon Valley Make It New, the genealogy of “Design Thinking” has become an academic cottage industry. Its origins lie arguably in the Ulm Model developed by Horst Rittel and his colleagues at the Hochschule für Gestaltung and imported by Rittel to the Design Methods Group at the University of California at Berkeley in the early 1960s.
8. Innovators, Not Innovations. (2016, November 24). Retrieved from
9. Doorley, S.; Witthoft, S. (2012). Make Space: How to Set the Stage for Creative Collaboration (Page 5). John Wiley and Sons.
10. Ibid., 236.
11. Ibid., 11.
12. Audia, P.; Rider, C. (2005, Fall) “A Garage and an Idea: What More Does an Entrepreneur Need?” California Management Review, Vol 48, No. 1. (Page 14-15).
13. Ibid., 7.
14. Green, J. (2013, October 28). Jobs house added as ‘historic resource’. The Mercury News. Retrieved from
15. Lisy, B. (2014, December 4). Steve Wozniak on Apple, the Computer Revolution, and Working With Steve Jobs. Bloomberg. Retrieved from
16. Walter Isaacson describes the circumstances around the creation of the Apple I in detail in his biography Steve Jobs (Simon & Schuster).
17. Bajarin, T. (2014, May 19). Why the Maker Movement Is Important to America’s Future. Time. Retrieved from
18. Anderson, C. (2012). Makers: The New Industrial Revolution. (p. 13). Crown Publishing Group.
19. Hatch, M. (2012). The Maker Movement Manifesto: Rules for Innovation in the New World of Crafters, Hackers, and Tinkerers. (p. 30). McGraw-Hill Professional.
20. Ibid., 26.
21. In particular, Apple’s iconic “1984” advertisement for the launch of the Macintosh.
22. In 1984 the Macintosh was marketed “the computer for the rest of us” in print and television advertisements.
23. Linzmayer, O. (1999). Apple Confidential 2.0: The Definitive History of the World’s Most Colorful Company. (p. 86). No Starch Press.
24. Levy, S. (2014, January 24). The Macintosh is thirty and I was there for its birth. Wired. Retrieved from
25. Ibid.
26. Alex Soojung-Kim Pang (2000, September 8). Interview with Susan Kare. Making the Macintosh. Stanford University. Retrieved from
27. Antonelli, P.; Fisher, M.M. (2015, March 4). Is This for Everyone? New Design Acquisitions at MoMA. Inside/Out. Retrieved from
28. Spring, M. (1991). Electronic printing and publishing: the document processing revolution. (pp. 125–126). CRC Press.
29. April Greiman biography. (1998). The American Institute of Graphic Arts.
30. Retrieved from
31. Ibid.
32. Clifford, J. (2014, October 3). Icons of Digital Design. Smashing. Retrieved from
33. Dooley, M. (1998). Critical Conditions: Zuzana Licko, Rudy VanderLans, and the Emigre Spirit. Graphic Design USA 18. Retrieved from
34. Ibid.
35. Turner, F. (2006) From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism (Kindle location 80). University of Chicago Press.
37. Turner, F. (2006) From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism (Kindle location 134). University of Chicago Press.
38. Emigre in Norfolk – Seeing and reading
39. Turner, F. (2006) From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism (Kindle location 1063). University of Chicago Press.
40. Ibid., (Kindle location 1202)
41. Ibid., (Kindle location 1184)