Self-Taught Teacher
Marian Bantjes
In August 2004, I was approached to teach a continuing studies class in typography at Emily Carr Institute in Vancouver, Canada. I had never taught anything before in my life, but despite having only one week to prepare, I accepted.
Lesson 1
I’ve always heard that preparation was a bitch, but this is ridiculous. What I know about typography I learned over many years working as a book typesetter—what you might call a classical training. Because I never like to make things easy on myself, I have decided that a course in typography should be taught from an historical perspective, i.e., from exactly the perspective I know almost nothing about.
So my very first task, after accomplishing the fun part of designing beautifully typeset templates for all my materials, is to hit the books. A stack of seven design and typography books that have been languishing on the floor all summer have come into heavy use as I cram for each section I’m about to teach.
What is interesting about my education is how much I actually know without knowing that I know it. Going through the books systematically, I find that I am not so much learning things completely anew, but filling holes in a puzzle, each piece of information interlocking with something else already in my brain: “Oh, so that’s why . . .” or, “Well then that must be the origin of . . .”
But I am exhausted and my brain hurts.
Lesson 2
I decide to teach the history with a bit of “fast forward” thrown in—that is, to show contemporary typefaces that were either influenced by or based directly on historic examples. Although this may put undue emphasis on certain nonessential typefaces (e.g. Herculaneum, Clairvaux), it does seem to effectively provide the instant gratification of relevance to my students. I can see them physically sit up and take note when they realize that this thing that was carved in a piece of stone longer ago than they care about has resulted in something that they can actually use.
Lesson 3
I love my students!
For my second class, after an in-class exercise on using a pen with chiseled nib, I give them the homework assignment of making a sentence or paragraph with the pen nib and including an ornamented capital in the style of the illuminated manuscripts. I am nervous that this is asking too much of them but, viewing the results, I feel a euphoria akin to falling in love. I do love them! Each and every student suddenly looks adorable to me! Although I know, rationally, that they have done all this work for the grade, I can’t escape the feeling that they’ve done it for me. I feel like I’ve received twenty-one handmade presents, and my knees are weak with gratitude. In my exuberance, I am giving a lot of A’s, but they deserve it.
Lesson 4
After learning the origins of many, if not most, text faces, I assign my class to go out into the world and bring me back a real-world printed sample of either Bembo, Bodoni, Centaur, Baskerville, or Garamond with a written comparison to the face and rationale for why they concluded the match.
I still think this is a difficult assignment, and I am not sure I would have been able to complete it myself, but once again they surprise me. Most of them find a match, a couple of them find Centaur in incredibly unlikely places (a sailing magazine advertisement!), and some of them have the most interesting hits and near misses. My favorite sample is a Baskerville set letterpress in an old and beautiful copy of Winnie the Pooh: a treasure that I positively gush over like a madwoman. I believe they think me a fanatic, but I hope they can also see I have a point.
Lesson 5
Contrary to popular opinion, grading is fun. In fact, it brings me an alarming amount of happiness. It seems somehow wrong that I should gain pleasure from grading and sorting people in this way, and yet the logic of it, the way everything falls into place as expected fills me with satisfaction.
For each assignment I draw up a chart, allotting a certain percentage for required aspects of the assignment, and first I go through each one in this objective process, lining them up on the floor with grades attached on post-its, then I overview them all in relation to each other. Most of the time a picture of my class emerges. The good students on one side, and the weaker ones on the other. Although occasional adjustments have to be made, the rightness of it is overwhelmingly gratifying. My system works, and here is proof!
Lesson 6
I take a break from history and spend a few lessons teaching them the practical knowledge that I know from years of experience. I toy with consulting a few more books to brush up on my knowledge, but decide instead to just sit down and start writing. I write about twenty-four pages, complete with examples.
In my brain-dump of knowledge I include a section on the proper use of quotation marks and apostrophes (including, but not limited to, the difference between quotation marks, inch-marks, apostrophes, and primes) and a few other things that are, strictly speaking, editorial. But given the number of small (and large) signs and notices that are blatantly illiterate in this regard, I’m determined to arm my soldiers with at least an awareness of this typographic war.
I also teach them proofreaders’ marks and give them a proofreading test, which causes panic among the ranks until I reveal that they won’t be marked on it. These are happy times, as I no longer dread a question I might not know the answer to, and they revel in what is clearly practical knowledge that they can impress their friends with.
Lesson 7
The computer is the spawn of the devil.
By edict of the school, the last three classes are spent on hands-on work on their final assignment. This is misery for me. As soon as they get in front of the computer, I lose them. It is incredible how inattentive they become. The computer acts like some evil toy that diverts their attention (to the Internet) and seems to willfully encourage them to ignore many of the things I had just taught them. The final assignment for me has become a laborious act of trying to harness a team of twenty-one horses who really just want to wander off and eat grass.
Lesson 8
Am I a bad person for feeling delight at their dreadful awe when I announced, in the very first class, the existence of a test? I had only a vague idea of what would be on it, but I was certain there was enough partially objective, only semi-opinionated knowledge that they really should know before being set loose on the world. The anatomy of the letterform, units and rules of measurement, definitions of terms, and a few trick questions regarding hyphenation and punctuation. I’ve been looking forward to this, partially, I admit, because they have not.
The day has finally arrived and they have been fretting for weeks. I know they all studied, and they almost all aced it. My bonus questions were, perhaps, a mistake, resulting in a number of marks over 100 percent. I am wondering if I should have made the whole thing harder, but in reviewing the material, I am glad that they know these basic things and am happily giving the A-plusses.
Lesson 9
After my last class, during which I spent some time showing them my own work, one of my students came to me and said, “After I saw your work, I realized how much more we have to learn.” It was the highest compliment—not on my work, but on my teaching. I can’t think of a better lesson for them to come away with.
Now I occasionally get emails from some of them. They tell me they are “type geeks,” buying books, going to presentations by Robert Bringhurst, and, most importantly, scrutinizing text and typefaces wherever they go. The world can use a few more type geeks.