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Cultural
transmission has many layers. From language to dress to
mores, every generation passes along moments and memories to their
offspring, mementos that mark what it means to be a member of that
tribe. One of the things that Steve Jones remembers most about his
childhood were the smells. "It was definitely Little Jamaica in the
house," says Jones, who was born in North York, Ontario, to
immigrants from the Caribbean island. The fragrant aromas of
Jamaican dishes would flood his senses—and still do now when he
visits his mother's house just south of Oakland, California, to
partake in the mountains of food. Oxtail, curry goat, rice and
peas, escovitch and, of course, plantains—flavors that not
only fueled Jones' adolescence but became part of the script of his
design philosophy. "You didn't appreciate it growing up but it was
something that was always there," he says.
Like many designers, Jones was attracted to
images as a child.
Raised by his mother, a schoolteacher, and his father, a financial
planner, Jones was a big fan and collector of comics. He was weaned
on the drawings of Marvel comics like the X-Men and
Fantastic Four. In junior high school, he began drawing his
own superheroes, often combining the superpowers of his favorite
comic heroes into new characters. That pastiche approach predicted
a later interest in the blend of styles found in graffiti. "Through
high school I was thinking about being a dentist or something
cheesy," he says. "Because you figure that's what you should
do." But Jones' friends were trading their sketches during the day
and sneaking out at night to hit abandoned train yards to throw up
their pieces. Using the tag name "SABER"—not to be confused with
the Los Angeles-based tagger of the same name—Jones found
inspiration in places such as San Francisco's Psycho City, a
collection of walls and buildings that had become a mecca for
graffiti artists from around the world.
On
the importance of design:
We live in a produced and designed world. Design is like air, no
one realizes how vital it is to our survival unless it's gone.
Jones' love of graffiti, however, was not
openly accepted at the
California College of the Arts (CCA), where he studied to become a
professional designer. "The art school model was pretty
traditional, and it was unanimous that graffiti was a bad art," he
remembers. Favorite street artists like Crayone were hardly
recognized by his professors, which frustrated Jones. He was
passionate about the graffiti that he and his friends were
creating, and to have his new educational environment dismiss his
interests was disappointing. In fact, for Jones the dismissal of
graffiti artists was emblematic of a larger issue at art school:
the rampant dismissal of artists of color.
As a student, Jones faced consistent
discrimination. One of his
projects that reflected his heritage—a self-portrait featuring a
figurative bridge between Jamaica and his life in the States—was
poorly received by his instructors. "That was the first time I had
a teacher tell me that what I created was not a valid artistic
expression. It was ironic that it was up to us to define who we
were and someone else is saying, 'You have to change yourself
because I don't understand you.'" In an art history class, a
professor chose only to discuss "important" artists and disregarded
the contributions of minorities and women. In another, a teacher
showed an old German poster to laud its design aesthetic and
typography, but when German-speaking students pointed out that the
words on the poster were racially charged, the teacher merely
shrugged. "I remember that could have been a teaching moment, but
he thought racism is dead so it wasn't worth discussing," says
Jones.
Of course, not all of Jones'
experiences were quite so negative.
One professor pointed him towards the artwork of Robert Colescott
and Adrian Piper, whose approaches to identity politics would
inspire him. (Jones also cites Glenn Ligon, Lorna Simpson, Carrie
Mae Weems, Michael Ray Charles and Kerry James Marshall as sources
of inspiration.)
On
his first big break:
After college, I faced the usual "How do I get experience if no one
hires me?" Working at YSB magazine I learned about deadlines,
working with text, imagery, writers, editors,
photographers/artists, production, everything! I still use those
skills today.
After
graduation Jones began looking for work, and one project
in particular opened his eyes to the influence of the African
diaspora on design. After completing a design for a nightclub
geared toward African Americans, he received some disappointing
feedback. "I put all that design training to good use on the logo
and my friend looked at it didn't know what it was," Jones recalls.
"I came out of art school, but if I can't communicate to folks that
look like me, I was going to have a problem."
Jones moved to Washington, D.C., and was
hired as a designer for
a magazine called YSB, which stood for Young Sisters and
Brothers and was part of BET. Jones credits Lance Pettiford,
YSB's art director, with giving him his first opportunity.
In YSB's all-black art department, he thrived. "The work we
were doing wasn't stereotypical. It wasn't just adinkra
symbols and kente cloth. It was rewarding to do great work,
and also be recognized by the Society of Publication
Designers."
It was at YSB that
Jones started to question the idea of
a black design aesthetic. "I don't think there's a singular black
aesthetic, per se. I think of an aesthetic as a filter," says
Jones. "Growing up, reggae music was an example. There's a reggae
version of every pop song, but I have yet to find that in
African-American design." Specifically, Jones doesn't believe that
blackness can be codified in a rule set or script for designers to
follow. "It's more than a language. African-American design
evolved, for me, into issues of representation."
Jones explored such issues of representation
during his time at
the Rhode Island School of Design, where he earned his master's
degree with honors. One particular series blended the visual
language of advertisements with provocative images of race and
ethnicity. In one "ad," the image used to promote Jim Beam was
replaced with Charles Moore's iconic image of protesters being
sprayed with water hoses during the 1963 Birmingham protests. "I
wanted to deal with the issue of alcohol advertising in poor
communities. I saw those billboards like an attack since you don't
see malt liquor in rich neighborhoods." Another of Jones' images
took an old slavery poster and placed NBA players in it to
juxtapose the sale of human beings in two different contexts. "I'm
part of a generation, that is one or two generations removed from
segregation and the days of black and white entrances," he
explains. "That gives us a little more objectivity to look at that
stuff. It's not to say that we forget, but it's not part of our
personal history."
On
why diversity in the profession matters:
Graphic design as it is now doesn't even come close to representing
reality. Having more voices and representation at the table can
only make design better.
Personal
histories are important to Jones and taken into
consideration in his professional work. In 1999 he started Plantain
Studio, a multidisciplinary studio working in art, architecture and
graphic design, along with fellow CCA graduate Nick D. Gomez. For
his nonprofit work with Plantain he makes a point to include the
client in the design process. "People in the underserved
communities we do work for are usually never consulted. Design
firms come in and say, 'You'll take what we give you.' There's a
lack of research in what the communities are about." For one
project with the San Francisco mayor's office, Jones pushed for the
design and organizing committee to include local leaders in design
discussions. "They had to scramble to put that together."
As an educator Jones is attempting to fill
the gaps that he saw
as an art school student. He teaches graphic design at San
Francisco State University—where he began as a lecturer in 2000 and
is now on a tenure track—and at CCA he teaches community arts
classes, which emphasize service learning, civic engagement and
issues of diversity. Sometimes Jones has had to modify his approach
to broadening students' horizons. At CCA he put together a class on
identity politics, but only two students signed up. With his
classes at SF State, though, he incorporates a multicultural filter
in many of his assignments, such as designing a fictional
commemorative project for people like director Oscar Micheaux and
writer Audre Lorde. Jones contends, "Nothing against the dead white
guys, but you need to know something else outside of their
work."
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