THE SCALE OF BLACK AND WHITE

I’m walking my dog to the park. Firm tread. The day is fresh; I took a shower, did my makeup and hair__everything looks fine. Perfect, even.

Except for one thing: a tiny crumb is stuck in my panty. It’s rolling around, scratching at the most inconvenient spots on my leg. Every step, every shift, turns into an awkward battle with one annoying bit of grit.

[
Uncomfortable.
Irritating.
Impossible to ignore.
]

__Message from a student

“Good afternoon Britt, I am now in the Czech Republic and walking in the museum. And I saw this text. What do you think about the alignment between p and d? For me it is disturbing since it is slightly not aligned. But maybe it’s better like this because if it is aligned it creates some statement… I want to know your opinion on this.”

Typography can feel like the grit in your panty.

[
Uncomfortable.
Irritating.
Impossible to ignore.
]

__A proud smile appears on my face.

“Dear Sarah,

That’s an excellent picture and an excellent question! It’s a perfect example of how typography often forces you to choose between two bad options and then decide which one is the least bad.

I agree__it IS disturbing. The tight leading is a deliberate choice, and while increasing the leading might seem like the obvious fix, it would completely change the design. I like the tight leading because it suits the condensed typeface. If the designer had increased the leading, the overall text image might have been compromised, and I suspect the designer would have found that more problematic than this ‘detail’.

As for connecting the ‘p’ and the ‘d’? Definitely not. That would feel forced and unnatural. Plus, how much text was there in the exhibition? If there was a lot, it would mean endless adjustments across every paragraph, which isn’t practical. Oh, and the typesize? Of course, if it’s billboard-sized, the issue is only magnified.

Without knowing all the context, here’s my solution: I would add a tiny bit of extra leading and adjust the word or letter spacing so the alignment feels balanced but not forced. The best bad option, in my opinion. But one thing’s for sure__I wouldn’t leave it like this.

Let me finish with the most important thing: the fact that you noticed this detail is what matters most. That’s how you start becoming a skilled typographer! Enjoy your holiday.”

I hit SEND, but my mind keeps spinning. Do I even agree with my answer? Yes, it’s a response from a typographer’s perspective, but I think there’s a bigger story here__too much to cram into one message. This isn’t just about a single piece of text. It’s a perfect example of the fundamentally different approaches to text by graphic designers and typographers.

Once, my psychologist asked me, “What does it mean that you always dress in black and white?” I knew what she was getting at, probably some deep metaphor about contrasts or control. But I smiled and said, “Because I’m a typographer.”

My wardrobe is a monochrome playground: black and white, nothing else. Makes shopping easy. I skip past anything with a hint of color like it doesn’t even exist. No distractions, no debates. It’s foolproof.

Some days, I go for black, like an ultra-extended block serif. Strong and solid. Other days, I choose white, clean and clear, like spacious margins. And if I’m feeling high contrast, maybe a splash of neon on my nails.

But here’s the thing: I care less about the look of the whole outfit and more about the soul of it. The fabric, the stitching, the way it’s cut. Does the fabric have weight to it? Does the hem sit just right? To me, these details matter more than the silhouette. They’re what make something feel right, even if nobody else notices.

It’s the same with typography. Most graphic designers see the black and white, the contrast, the overall picture. They nod and move on. But typographers? We’re there with a magnifying glass. Details are the difference between ‘good enough’ and perfect.

Graphic designers and typographers might play on the same field, but they’re in different games. A designer treats text like an accessory__part of the look, never the whole. A typographer lives in the fabric, obsessing over every weave and wrinkle, making sure the whole thing holds together without a single thread out of place.

In an ideal world, graphic designers would obsess over typography the way typographers do. But, as we know, ideal worlds are a bit overrated.

[
Stop the talking.
Let me show you.
]

Did you actually read it? Maybe. But I bet your first instinct was to LOOK at it. Reading it wasn’t the same experience as reading this text. It challenged your brain to work in a completely different way.

[
As you probably noticed, I used different typefaces. I found all of them on a site called velvetyne.fr. French charm.
]

The typeface for this website, Grotta Medium, was no casual pick. It took me a week to find. I had a clear picture in mind__how it should feel, how it should work. A serif typeface? Too expected of me. Sans-serif it was. But not just any sans-serif. It needed a touch of oddness, a bit of flair. There it was. The soul-crushing hunt for the perfect typeface through the labyrinth of typefoundries. (I’ll get into those some other time.)

Next came the proportions. Page size, margins, type size. Ah, the type size… 10? Too small. 11? Too big. 10.5? Close, but not quite. 10.3? Still no. 10.4? Perfect.

Then there was the leading. It needs to breathe. 13? I’m too superstitious for that. 12? Too tight. 14? Perfect.

And the text, how to handle it? Whitespace is essential. I want to help the reader. Adding extra space gives them a break when I want them to, but it also makes the design.

It’s always the same process for me: zoom in for the details, zoom out for the big picture.

[
Black and white.
]

“So, dear Sarah, there’s never a short answer. Even within this answer, you can question if there is such a strict line between graphic designers and typographers.

It’s not about who’s right or wrong, it’s the shades of black in between__the decisions, compromises, and priorities that decide on the final outcome. Two perspectives, sometimes clashing, preferably complementing.

Maybe my psychologist is right. Let me take another look at my wardrobe.