Type Specimen (due 10/12/2009) by Spice Hamster

Type Specimen Book

Whitney Whitney: clear for signage, compact for print. When Tobias FrereJones was asked to develop an institutional typeface for New York’s Whitney Museum, he had to contend with two different sets of demands: those of editorial typography, and those of public signage. Typefaces for catalogs and brochures need to be narrow enough to work in crowded environments, yet energetic enough to encourage extended reading. But typefaces designed for wayfinding programs need to be open enough to be legible at a distance, and sturdy enough to withstand a variety of fabrication techniques: fonts destined for signage need to anticipate being cast in bronze, etched in glass, cut in vinyl, and rendered in pixels. While American “gothics” such as News Gothic (1908) have long been a mainstay of editorial settings, and European “humanists” such as Frutiger (1975) have excelled in signage applications, Whitney bridges this divide in a single design. Its compact forms and broad x-height use space efficiently, and its ample counters and open shapes make it clear under any circumstances.

12pt. Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? 18pt.

Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature? Why should we care about nature?

Expensive

PhD

Types

Biophilic design

7.1/8.4 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake—or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth — impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United States patents. This is mostly good news. No sane person would give up antibi otics and anesthesia, farming and the written word. Our constructed environments shield us from heat and cold and protect us from predators. We have access to food and drink and drugs that have been devised to stimulate our nervous systems in magnificent ways. We sleep in soft beds and have immediate access to virtual experiences from pornography to classical symphonies. If a family of hunter-gatherers were dropped into this life, they would think of it as a literal heaven. Or maybe not. There is a considerable mismatch between the world in which our minds evolved and our current existence. Our species has spent almost all of its existence on the African savanna. While there is debate over the details, we know for sure that our minds were not adapted to cope with a world of billions of people. The life of a modern city dweller, surrounded by strangers, is an evolutionary novelty. Thousands of years ago, there was no television or Internet, no McDonald’s, birth-control pills, Viagra, plastic surgery, alarm clocks, artificial lighting or paternity tests. Instead, there was plenty of nature. We lived surrounded by trees and water and animals and sky. This history has left its mark on our minds. Children are irrepressible taxonomizers, placing the world of distinct individuals into categories based on their appearance, their patterns of movement and their presumed deeper natures, and some psychologists have argued that the hard-wired capacity to organize.

8/10 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth — impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United States patents. This is mostly good news. No sane person would give up antibi otics and anesthesia, farming and the written word. Our constructed environments shield us from heat and cold and protect us from predators. We have access to food and drink and drugs that have been devised to stimulate our nervous systems in magnificent ways. We sleep in soft beds and have immediate access to virtual experiences from pornography to classical symphonies. If a family of hunter-gatherers were dropped into this life, they would think of it as a literal heaven. Or maybe not. There is a considerable mismatch between the world in which our minds evolved and our current existence. Our species has spent almost all of its existence on the African savanna. While there is debate over the details, we know for sure that our minds were not adapted to cope with a world of billions of people. The life of a modern 6.6/8 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United

6.6/8 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth — impressive, but nothing compared to the

6/8 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth—impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United States patents. This is mostly good news. No sane person would give up antibi otics and anesthesia, farming and the written word. Our constructed environments shield us from heat and cold and protect us from predators. We have access to food and drink and drugs that have been devised to stimulate our nervous systems in magnificent ways. We sleep in soft beds and have immediate access to virtual experiences from pornography to classical symphonies. If a family of hunter-gatherers were dropped into this life, they would think of it as a literal heaven. Or maybe not. There is a considerable mismatch between the world in which our minds evolved and our current existence. Our species has spent almost all of its existence on the African savanna TFA. While there is debate over the details, we know for sure that our minds were not adapted to cope with a world of billions of people. The life of a modern city dweller, surrounded by strangers, is an evolutionary novelty. Thousands of years ago, there was no television or Internet, no McDonald’s, birth-control pills, Viagra, plastic surgery, alarm clocks, artificial lighting or paternity tests. Instead, there was plenty of nature. We lived surrounded by trees and water and animals and sky. This history has left its mark on our minds. Children are irrepressible taxonomizers, placing the world of distinct individuals into categories based on their appearance, their patterns of

7.8/8.9 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth—impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United States patents. This is mostly good news. No sane person would give up antibi otics and anesthesia, farming and the written word. Our constructed environments shield us from heat and cold and protect us from predators. We have access to food and drink and drugs that have been devised to stimulate

Type Specimen Book 3

Flama Mário Feliciano’s Flama is an unornamented sans serif initially designed for signage which mixes aspects of European and American sans serifs. Flama was initally released with 5 weights in roman and italic, and is now 45 weights across 4 widths, including Thin weights which were commissioned by Black Book magazine. With its ‘neutral’ flavour, Flama proves to be highly efficient for signage, corporate as well as for editorial design.

12pt.

On the other hand, the first law of social life is contagion. On the other hand, the first law of social life is contagion. On the other hand, the first law of social life is contagion. On the other hand, the first law of social life is contagion. On the other hand, the first law of social life is contagion. 18pt.

Ultimate Irony Hermetically sealed amidst our creations

7.5/10 There was a turkey on my neighbors’ roof. Not the kind wrapped in plastic found in your grocer’s freezer, but a live 20-pounder pecking at the grain my neighbors had scattered there. This wasn’t the first gobbler I had seen at the outer reaches of Berkeley, Calif., just blocks from where the city tumbles into a 2,000-acre regional park. And I have to admit, initially I was charmed. Turkeys! In Berkeley! How quaint! How colonial! Isn’t this communion with nature the very reason we moved to the hills? “Awww,” my 5-year-old daughter would say, catching sight of a tom on our way to the playground, “isn’t he cute?” We would pretend we lived in some distant past, that we were the first humans to set foot on this land. That is, until the day we rounded a bend to find a gang of fowl marauders glaring at us as if to say, “What are you looking at, pal?” The birds had a good three inches on my girl. I stepped between her and them, and with a bright, “It’s O.K., honey,” which fooled neither avian nor child, hurried past. Since then, we’ve taken a different route to the swings. It’s only a matter of time before the turkeys complete the circuit from novelty to nuisance. Until they become like the deer who ate $300 worth of landscaping. Or the geese who have turned jogging around a nearby lake into a trip through a sewer. Or worse: in October a raccoon slid open a screen door of a house across the street, jumped up on the bed where my neighbor was napping with her newborn son and bit her. Although we haven’t had the rabies outbreaks that are common in the East, the nursing mother had to endure a series of injections just in case. Am I alarmist? Not according to Justin Brashares, an assistant professor of wildlife ecology and conservation at the University of California

at Berkeley (who admitted to trying to kick a raccoon after it snatched a marshmallow from his 4-year-old son’s hand during a backyard barbecue). “What happens if these thousands of Canada geese become carriers of an avian flu that moves to people?” he asked. As for surburbanized turkeys, he said, during mating season, the testosterone-pumped males, with up to two-inch spurs on their legs, will “attack anything that moves.” Cats. Bicyclists. My kid. I shared that with my husband. “You’re always yammering about eating local,” he commented. “Why don’t you get a gun and shoot them?” I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys, not the neighbors. Well, I thought, why don’t I? I brag about descending from homesteaders. Recalling my grandpa’s stories about taming mustangs and outsmarting rattlesnakes on the North Dakota plains makes me feel rugged by birthright. I would venture to say there’s a little Daniel Boone in all of us Americans, whether our families immigrated in the 1890s or 1990s: the twin visions of love for this land and domination over it are part of its romance. Doubtless, my husband is right: if Great-Grandpa Abe happened upon a flock of wild turkeys lolling in his yard, he would be thinking: Dinner. As much as I would like to wring the birds’ necks, I’m not a homesteader. Not even close. I’m a middle-class, coast-dwelling, urban lady prone to hives when I brush against anything green — exactly the sort, according to a classic study by Stephen Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale University, who most abhors hunting. Also the sort who scores low in knowledge about animals and high in fear of them. Interestingly, what he terms “dominionistic” hunters — who see their pastime as a manly man pursuit — scored similarly. The people who were most informed and least afraid of wildlife were something called “nature” hunters: they enjoyed bird-watching,

8.2/10 There was a turkey on my neighbors’ roof. Not the kind wrapped in plastic found in your grocer’s freezer, but a live 20-pounder pecking at the grain my neighbors had scattered there. This wasn’t the first gobbler I had seen at the outer reaches of Berkeley, Calif., just blocks from where the city tumbles into a 2,000-acre regional park. And I have to admit, initially I was charmed. Turkeys! In Berkeley! How quaint! How colonial! Isn’t this communion with nature the very reason we moved to the hills? “Awww,” my 5-year-old daughter would say, catching sight of a tom on our way to the playground, “isn’t he cute?” We would pretend we lived in some distant past, that we were the first humans to set foot on this land. That is, until the day we rounded a bend to find a gang of fowl marauders glaring at us as if to say, “What are you looking at, pal?” The birds had a good three inches on my girl. I stepped between her and them, and with a bright, “It’s O.K., honey,” which fooled neither avian nor child, hurried past. Since then, we’ve taken a different route to the swings. It’s only a matter of time before the turkeys complete the circuit from novelty to nuisance. Until they become like the deer who ate $300 worth of landscaping. Or the geese who have turned jogging around a nearby lake into a trip through a sewer. Or worse: in October a raccoon slid open a screen door of a house across the street, jumped up on the bed where my neighbor was napping with her newborn son and bit her. Although we haven’t had the rabies outbreaks that are common in the East, the nursing mother had to endure a series of

injections just in case. Am I alarmist? Not according to Justin Brashares, an assistant professor of wildlife ecology and conservation at the University of California at Berkeley (who admitted to trying to kick a raccoon after it snatched a marshmallow from his 4-year-old son’s hand during a backyard barbecue). “What happens if these thousands of Canada geese become carriers of an avian flu that moves to people?” he asked. As for surburbanized turkeys, he said, during mating season, the testosterone-pumped males, with up to two-inch spurs on their legs, will “attack anything that moves.” I shared that with my husband. “You’re always yammering about eating local,” he commented. “Why don’t you get a gun and shoot them?” I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys, not the neighbors. Well, I thought, why don’t I? I brag about descending from homesteaders. Recalling my grandpa’s stories about taming mustangs and outsmarting rattlesnakes on the North Dakota plains makes me feel rugged by birthright. I would venture to say there’s a little Daniel Boone in all of us Americans, whether our families immigrated in the 1890s or 1990s: the twin visions of love for this land and domination over it are part of its romance. Doubtless, my husband is right: if Great-Grandpa Abe happened upon a flock of wild turkeys lolling in his yard, he would be thinking: Dinner. As much as I would like to wring the birds’ necks, I’m not a homesteader. Not even close. I’m a middleclass, coast-dwelling, urban lady prone to hives when I brush against anything green — exactly the sort, according to a classic study by Stephen Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale University, who most abhors hunting. Also

6/7.2 There was a turkey on my neighbors’ roof. Not the kind wrapped in plastic found in your grocer’s freezer, but a live 20-pounder pecking at the grain my neighbors had scattered there. This wasn’t the first gobbler I had seen at the outer reaches of Berkeley, Calif., just blocks from where the city tumbles into a 2,000-acre regional park. And I have to admit, initially I was charmed. Turkeys! In Berkeley! How quaint! How colonial! Isn’t this communion with nature the very reason we moved to the hills? “Awww,” my 5-year-old daughter would say, catching sight of a tom on our way to the playground, “isn’t he cute?” We would pretend we lived in some distant past, that we were the first humans to set foot on this land. That is, until the day we rounded a bend to find a gang of fowl marauders glaring at us as if to say, “What are you looking at, pal?” The birds had a good three inches on my girl. I stepped between her and them, and with a bright, “It’s O.K., honey,” which fooled neither avian nor child, hurried past. Since then, we’ve taken a different route to the swings. It’s only a matter of time before the turkeys complete the circuit from novelty to nuisance. Until they become like the deer who ate $300 worth of landscaping. Or the geese who have turned jogging around a nearby lake into a trip through a sewer. Or worse: in October a raccoon slid open a screen door of a house across the street, jumped up on the bed where my neighbor was napping

with her newborn son and bit her. Although we haven’t had the rabies outbreaks that are common in the East, the nursing mother had to endure a series of injections just in case. Am I alarmist? Not according to Justin Brashares, an assistant professor of wildlife ecology and conservation at the University of California at Berkeley (who admitted to trying to kick a raccoon after it snatched a marshmallow from his 4-year-old son’s hand during a backyard barbecue). “What happens if these thousands of Canada geese become carriers of an avian flu that moves to people?” he asked. As for surburbanized turkeys, he said, during mating season, the testosterone-pumped males, with up to twoinch spurs on their legs, will “attack anything that moves.” Cats. Bicyclists. My kid. I shared that with my husband. “You’re always yammering about eating local,” he commented. “Why don’t you get a gun and shoot them?” I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys, not the neighbors. Well, I thought, why don’t I? I brag about descending from homesteaders. Recalling my grandpa’s stories about taming mustangs and outsmarting rattlesnakes on the North Dakota plains makes me feel rugged by birthright. I would venture to say there’s a little Daniel Boone in all of us Americans, whether our families immigrated in the 1890s or 1990s: the twin visions of love for this land and domination over it are part of its romance. Doubtless, my husband is right: if Great-Grandpa Abe happened

upon a flock of wild turkeys lolling in his yard, he would be thinking: Dinner. As much as I would like to wring the birds’ necks, I’m not a homesteader. Not even close. I’m a middle-class, coast-dwelling, urban lady prone to hives when I brush against anything green—exactly the sort, according to a classic study by Stephen Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale University, who most abhors hunting. Also the sort who scores low in knowledge about animals and high in fear of them. Interestingly, what he terms “dominionistic” hunters—who see their pastime as a manly man pursuit— scored similarly. The people who were most informed and least afraid of wildlife were something called “nature” hunters: they enjoyed bird-watching, camping and, now and again, killing stuff. Edward O. Wilson, the Pulitzer Prize-winning entomologist, says that “biophilia”—the love of wild things — is central to us, that our relationship to other beings is what makes us human. That’s probably what drives the turkey feeders, even if their approach to nature merely reveals how disconnected from it they are. Meanwhile, the more sophisticated biophiliacs apparently demonstrate their understanding of the whole predator-prey-nature’s-balance thing by joining right in. Maybe so, but hunters still bear some responsibility for this turkey mess. The birds aren’t native to California; they were trucked into public and private lands from Texas for hunters to use as game. It turns out, though, that they breed. And have wings. So what to do? I find myself sympathizing (almost) with Sarah Palin—Sarah Palin!—who encourages Alaskans to gun dowapartly because of the cost of food, it was considering euthanizing 2,300 wild horses, who are among the 6,000, on average, the government rounds up each year (to prevent overpopulation and damage to grasslands) and who have little prospect of being adopted. Madeleine Pickens, wife of T. Boone, has offered to create a “retirement ranch” for those steeds. But horses actually are cute. Who’s going to take in a pack of surly turkeys? Which brings me back to the bird on the roof. As we drove by it on our way to her school, my daughter looked worried and said, “I hate turkeys.” This was not what I imagined when we moved to our woodsy neighborhood. Nor did I want her to consider the resident fauna to be so many stray cats in need of food. And I’m not about to turn her into a hunter, even one in tune with her environment. I’ll just have to find some other way to teach her that the best response to nature is not “Awww” but awe. Peggy Orenstein, a contributing writer, is the author most recently of the memoir “Waiting for Daisy.”

There was a turkey on my neighbors’ roof. Not the kind wrapped in plastic found in your grocer’s freezer, but a live 20-pounder pecking at the grain my neighbors had scattered there. This wasn’t the first gobbler I had seen at the outer reaches of Berkeley, Calif., Type Specimen Book 5

Galaxie Polaris The design of Galaxie Polaris was quite literally a labour of love. I created the typeface for my then-fiancee, now-wife Tracy for use in her MFA thesis. (Design of the font commenced in 2002, with a couple of â&#x20AC;&#x153;false startsâ&#x20AC;? which may find their way to market at some point in the future.) Galaxie was always planned to be a large family of families, all designed to work together. Polaris is the first Galaxie typeface to be completed, with the script Cassiopeia released in 2006, and serif and egyptian faces in the pipeline. Polaris was named for the pole star, and is the reference point for the development of the rest of the families. Version 3 of Galaxie Polaris was released in September 2008, and includes the addition of the Cyrillic script, small caps, an alternate I, extended fractions, and improvements to many glyphs, particularly in the Heavy weight. Type is a tool for delivering language; with Polaris, I set out to make a typeface that does this clearly and concisely, with the minimum of fuss.

12pt.

Ballooning destruction and degradation of the natural world Ballooning destruction and degradation of the natural world Ballooning destruction and degradation of the natural world Ballooning destruction and degradation of the natural world Ballooning destruction and degradation of the natural world 18pt.

serpent-averse 6

6/8 Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterflies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, flies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “flat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured semi-nature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a softcore biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia? You see a fine, fat maple tree ablaze with the sugared tannins of autumn, or the sun glittering on the Hudson River in an explosion of diamonds and for a moment you wish you were Julie Andrews: the hills are alive! But then you stumble through a bush and emerge covered with ticks. Or you watch a bunch of Hitchcockian crows maul and kill a baby squirrel. You try to tell yourself, c’est la guerre, there are too many squirrels anyway, but in fact you resent this chronic mouthiness of nature, these endless rounds of attack and snack, and you’re grateful anew for four walls and DEET. Nature is a mother in so many ways, and that means you adore her and depend on her but at times she’s pure

7/8.5 Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterflies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, flies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “flat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured semi-nature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia? You see a fine, fat maple tree ablaze with the sugared tannins of autumn, or the sun glittering on the Hudson River in an explosion of diamonds and for a moment you wish you were Julie Andrews: the hills are alive! But then you stumble through a bush and emerge

7.3/9 Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterflies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, flies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “flat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured semi-nature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia? You see a fine, fat maple tree ablaze with the sugared tannins of autumn, or the sun glittering on the Hudson River in an explosion of diamonds and for a moment you wish you were Julie Andrews: the hills are alive! But then you stumble through a bush and emerge covered with ticks. Or you watch a bunch of Hitchcockian crows maul and kill a baby squirrel. You try to tell yourself, c’est la guerre, there are too many squirrels anyway, but in fact you resent this chronic mouthiness of nature, these endless rounds of attack and snack, and you’re grateful anew for four walls and DEET. Nature is a mother in so many ways, and that means you adore her and depend on her but at times she’s pure Medea. And all of these messy, contradictory feelings are natural. In the two decades since Dr. Wilson published “Biophilia,” many other researchers have explored the meaning of nature-lust, and its components, and the extent to which we are possessed by it. They have found evidence of biophilia everywhere. Americans are said to be sports nuts, for example, yet more people in this country attend zoos every year than they do all professional sporting events combined. Of the many luxuries that money can buy, the most coveted has long been a pristine view: lakeside, seaside, mountainside, Central Park. “People don’t realize that New York has a larger proportion of its real estate in open spaces than any other major city,” said Dr. Stephen R. Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale and a leading figure in the biophilia field. Yet biophilia researchers also recognize that biophilia enfolds biophobia, a

7.9/10 Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterflies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, flies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “flat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured semi-nature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward

6.5/9 Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterflies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, flies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “flat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured semi-nature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia? You see a fine, fat maple tree ablaze with the sugared tannins of autumn, or the sun glittering on the Hudson River in an explosion of diamonds and for a moment you wish you were Julie Andrews: the hills are alive! But then you stumble through a bush and emerge covered with ticks. Or you watch a bunch of Hitchcockian crows maul and kill a baby squirrel. You try to tell yourself, c’est la guerre, there are too many squirrels anyway, but in fact you resent this chronic mouthiness of nature, these endless rounds of attack and snack, and you’re grateful anew for four walls and DEET. Nature is a mother in so many ways, and that means you adore her and depend on her but at times she’s pure Medea. And all of these messy, contradictory feelings are natural. In the two decades since Dr. Wilson published “Biophilia,” many other researchers have explored the meaning of nature-lust, and its components, and the extent to which we are possessed by it. They have found evidence of biophilia everywhere. Americans are said to be sports nuts, for example, yet more people in this country attend zoos every year than they do all professional sporting events combined. Of the many luxuries that money can buy, the most coveted has long been a pristine view: lakeside, seaside, mountainside, Central Park. “People don’t realize that New York has a larger proportion of its real estate in open spaces than any other major city,” said Dr. Stephen R. Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale and a leading figure in the biophilia field. Yet biophilia researchers also recognize that biophilia enfolds biophobia, a fear of being sucked down and overwhelmed by too much nature. Guns, cars, bombs and electric wires can be deadly, but when moviemakers want to really horrify an audience, nothing works like a giant tarantula on James Bond’s shoulder, or a pit of writhing snakes beneath the feet of Indiana Jones.

Type Specimen Book 7

Meta Serif It took three years and three designers to develop FF Meta® Serif. All through the ’90s, Erik Spiekermann made several attempts at designing a counterpart for his groundbreaking FF Meta®. Fans of Meta frequently asked him which serif face would best complement it. He recommended Swift™, Minion™, FF Clifford™, and others, until he realized that he should just buckle down and draw his own serif Meta. True to his principle of collaboration, Spiekermann enlisted the help of accomplished type designers Christian Schwartz and Kris Sowersby.

12pt. Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished 18pt.

Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished 24pt.

Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished Zoos absolutely must be abolished

Ota Benga

Deep nature is so transcendent that the ASPCA spends days upon years in the forest. 8

6.9/8.5 95% Black Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth — impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United States patents. This is mostly good news. No sane person would give up antibi otics and anesthesia, farming and the written word. Our constructed environments shield us from heat and cold and protect us from predators. We have access to food and drink and drugs that have been devised to stimulate our nervous systems in magnificent ways. We sleep in soft beds and have immediate access to virtual experiences from pornography to classical symphonies. If a family of hunter-gatherers were dropped into this life, they would think of it as a literal heaven. Or maybe not. There is a considerable mismatch between the world in which our minds evolved and our current existence. Our species has spent almost all of its existence on the African savanna. While there is debate over the details, we know for sure that our minds were not adapted to cope with a world of billions of people. The life of a modern city dweller, surrounded by strangers, is an evolutionary novelty. Thousands of years ago, there was no television or Internet, no McDonald’s, birth-control pills, Viagra, plastic surgery, alarm clocks, artificial lighting or paternity tests. Instead, there was plenty of nature. We lived surrounded by trees and water and animals and sky. This history has left its mark on our minds. Children are irrepressible taxonomizers, placing the world of distinct individuals into categories based on their appearance, their patterns of movement and their presumed deeper natures, and some psychologists have argued that the hard-wired capacity to organize and structure

7.8/10 95% Black Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth — impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United States patents. This is mostly good news. No sane person would give up antibi otics and anesthesia, farming and the written word. Our constructed environments shield us from heat and cold and protect us from predators. We have access to food and drink and drugs that have been devised to stimulate our nervous systems in magnificent ways. We sleep in soft beds and have immediate access to virtual experiences from pornography to classical symphonies. If a family of hunter-gatherers were dropped into this life, they would think of it as a literal heaven. Or maybe not. There is a considerable mismatch between the world in which our minds evolved and our current existence. Our species has spent almost all of its existence on the African savanna. While there is debate over the details, we know for sure that our minds were not adapted to cope with a world of billions of people. The 6/7.2 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth — impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United States patents. This is mostly good news. No sane person would give up

6.8/8 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the

7/8.4 Why should we care about nature? Should we care about it for its own sake — or for our sake, because it happens to make us happy or healthy? These might not seem like the brightest questions. Few people need convincing that the destruction of rain forests, the mass extinction of species and the melting of the ice sheets in Greenland would all be very bad things. Do we really need to list the reasons? We do. After all, in many regards our species has already kissed nature goodbye, and we are better off for it. Technology has come to be more diverse than the biosphere. In 1867, Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham, England. In 1988, Donald Norman, a cognitive scientist at the University of California, San Diego, suggested that the average American encounters 20,000 different kinds of artifacts in everyday life, which would be more than the number of animals and plants that we can distinguish. And right now, there are about 1.5 million identified species on Earth — impressive, but nothing compared to the more than 7 million United States patents. This is mostly good news. No sane person would give up antibi otics and anesthesia. Farming and the written word. Our constructed environments shield us from heat and cold and protect us from predators. We have access to food and drink and drugs that have been devised to stimulate our nervous systems in magnificent ways. We sleep in soft beds and have immediate access to virtual experiences from pornography to classical symphonies. If a family of hunter-gatherers were dropped into this

Type Specimen Book 9

Caecilia LT Designer: Peter Matthias Noordzij, 1990 The PMN Caecilia® Font Family is part of the Linotype Originals. PMN Caecilia™ is the premiere work of the Dutch designer Peter Matthias Noordzij. He made the first sketches for this slab serif design in 1983 during his third year of study in The Hague, and the full font family was released by Linotype in 1990. The PMN prefix represents the designer’s initials, and Caecilia is his wife’s name. This font has subtle variations of stroke thickness, a tall x-height, open counters, and vivacious true italics. Noordzij combined classical ductus with his own contemporary expression to create a friendly and versatile slab serif family. With numerous weights from light to heavy, and styles including small caps, Old style figures, and Central European characters, PMN Caecilia has all the elements necessary for rich typographic expression.

12pt.

I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader. 18pt.

I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader. 24pt.

I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader. I’m not a homesteader.

“dominionistic” I find myself sympathizing (almost) with Sarah Palin—

Sarah Palin!

8/10.3 in October a raccoon slid open a screen door of a house across the There was a turkey on my neighbors’ roof. Not the kind wrapped in street, jumped up on the bed where my neighbor was napping with plastic found in your grocer’s freezer, but a live 20-pounder peck- her newborn son and bit her. Although we haven’t had the rabies ing at the grain my neighbors had scattered there. This wasn’t the outbreaks that are common in the East, the nursing mother had to first gobbler I had seen at the outer reaches of Berkeley, Calif., just endure a series of injections just in case. Am I alarmist? Not accordblocks from where the city tumbles into a 2,000-acre regional park. ing to Justin Brashares, an assistant professor of wildlife ecology And I have to admit, initially I was charmed. Turkeys! In Berkeley! and conservation at the University of California at Berkeley (who How quaint! How colonial! Isn’t this communion with nature the admitted to trying to kick a raccoon after it snatched a marshmalvery reason we moved to the hills? “Awww,” my 5-year-old daughter low from his 4-year-old son’s hand during a backyard barbecue). would say, catching sight of a tom on our way to the playground, “What happens if these thousands of Canada geese become carri“isn’t he cute?” ers of an avian flu that moves to people?” he asked. As for surburWe would pretend we lived in some distant past, that we were banized turkeys, he said, during mating season, the testosteronethe first humans to set foot on this land. That is, until the day we pumped males, with up to two-inch spurs on their legs, will “attack rounded a bend to find a gang of fowl marauders glaring at us as if anything that moves.” Cats. Bicyclists. My kid. to say, “What are you looking at, pal?” The birds had a good three I shared that with my husband. “You’re always yammering about eating inches on my girl. I stepped between her and them, and with a local,” he commented. “Why don’t you get a gun and shoot them?” I’m fairly bright, “It’s O.K., honey,” which fooled neither avian nor child, hur- certain he was referring to the turkeys, not the neighbors. Well, I thought, ried past. Since then, we’ve taken a different route to the swings. why don’t I? I brag about descending from homesteaders. It’s only a matter of time before the turkeys complete the circuit Recalling my grandpa’s stories about taming mustangs and outfrom novelty to nuisance. Until they become like the deer who smarting rattlesnakes on the North Dakota plains makes me feel ate $300 worth of landscaping. Or the geese who have turned jog- rugged by birthright. I would venture to say there’s a little Daniel ging around a nearby lake into a trip through a sewer. Or worse: Boone in all of us Americans, whether our families immigrated in 7/9 There was a turkey on my neighbors’ roof. Not the kind wrapped in plastic found in your grocer’s freezer, but a live 20-pounder pecking at the grain my neighbors had scattered there. This wasn’t the first gobbler I had seen at the outer reaches of Berkeley, Calif., just blocks from where the city tumbles into a 2,000-acre regional park. And I have to admit, initially I was charmed. Turkeys! In Berkeley! How quaint! How colonial! Isn’t this communion with nature the very reason we moved to the hills? “Awww,” my 5-year-old daughter would say, catching sight of a tom on our way to the playground, “isn’t he cute?” We would pretend we lived in some distant past, that we were the first humans to set foot on this land. That is, until the day we rounded a bend to find a gang of fowl marauders glaring at us as if to say, “What are you looking at, pal?” The birds had a good three inches on my girl. I stepped between her and them, and with a bright, “It’s O.K., honey,” which fooled neither avian nor child, hurried past. Since then, we’ve taken a different route to the swings. It’s only a matter of time before the turkeys complete the circuit from novelty to nuisance. Until they become like the deer who ate $300 worth of landscaping. Or the geese who have turned jogging around a nearby lake into a trip through a sewer. Or worse: in October a raccoon slid open a screen door of a house across the street, jumped up on the bed where my neighbor was napping with her newborn son and bit her. Although we haven’t had the rabies outbreaks that are common in the East, the nursing mother had to endure a series of injections just in case. Am I alarmist? Not according to Justin Brashares, an assistant professor of wildlife ecology and conservation

at the University of California at Berkeley (who admitted to trying to kick a raccoon after it snatched a marshmallow from his 4-year-old son’s hand during a backyard barbecue). “What happens if these thousands of Canada geese become carriers of an avian flu that moves to people?” he asked. As for surburbanized turkeys, he said, during mating season, the testosteronepumped males, with up to two-inch spurs on their legs, will “attack anything that moves.” Cats. Bicyclists. My kid. I shared that with my husband. “You’re always yammering about eating local,” he commented. “Why don’t you get a gun and shoot them?” I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys, not the neighbors. Well, I thought, why don’t I? I brag about descending from homesteaders. Recalling my grandpa’s stories about taming mustangs and outsmarting rattlesnakes on the North Dakota plains makes me feel rugged by birthright. I would venture to say there’s a little Daniel Boone in all of us Americans, whether our families immigrated in the 1890s or 1990s: the twin visions of love for this land and domination over it are part of its romance. Doubtless, my husband is right: if Great-Grandpa Abe happened upon a flock of wild turkeys lolling in his yard, he would be thinking: Dinner. As much as I would like to wring the birds’ necks, I’m not a homesteader. Not even close. I’m a middle-class, coast-dwelling, urban lady prone to hives when I brush against anything green — exactly the sort, according to a classic study by Stephen Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale University, who most abhors hunting. Also the sort who scores low in knowledge about animals and high in fear of them. Interestingly, what he terms “dominionistic” hunters — who see their pastime as a manly man pursuit — scored similarly. The people

6/8 There was a turkey on my neighbors’ roof. Not the kind wrapped in plastic found in your grocer’s freezer, but a live 20-pounder pecking at the grain my neighbors had scattered there. This wasn’t the first gobbler I had seen at the outer reaches of Berkeley, Calif., just blocks from where the city tumbles into a 2,000-acre regional park. And I have to admit, initially I was charmed. Turkeys! In Berkeley! How quaint! How colonial! Isn’t this communion with nature the very reason we moved to the hills? “Awww,” my 5-year-old daughter would say, catching sight of a tom on our way to the playground, “isn’t he cute?” We would pretend we lived in some distant past, that we were the first humans to set foot on this land. That is, until the day we rounded a bend to find a gang of fowl marauders glaring at us as if to say, “What are you looking at, pal?” The birds had a good three inches on my girl. I stepped between her and them, and with a bright, “It’s O.K., honey,” which fooled neither avian nor child, hurried past. Since then, we’ve taken a different route to the swings. It’s only a matter of time before the turkeys complete the circuit from novelty to nuisance. Until they become like the deer who ate $300 worth of landscaping. Or the geese who have turned jogging around a nearby lake into a trip through a sewer. Or worse: in October a raccoon slid open a screen door of a house across the street, jumped up on the bed where my neighbor was napping with her newborn son and bit her. Although we haven’t had the rabies outbreaks that are common in the East, the nursing mother had to endure a series of injections just in case. Am I alarmist? Not according to Justin Brashares, an assistant professor of wildlife ecology and conservation at the University of California at Berkeley (who admitted to trying to kick a raccoon after it snatched a marshmallow from his 4-year-old son’s hand during a backyard barbecue). “What happens if these thousands of Canada geese become carriers of an avian flu that moves to people?” he asked. As for surburbanized turkeys, he said, during mating season, the testosterone-pumped males, with up to two-inch spurs on their legs, will “attack anything that moves.” Cats. Bicyclists. My kid. I shared that with my husband. “You’re always yammering about eating local,” he

commented. “Why don’t you get a gun and shoot them?” I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys, not the neighbors. Well, I thought, why don’t I? I brag about descending from homesteaders. Recalling my grandpa’s stories about taming mustangs and outsmarting rattlesnakes on the North Dakota plains makes me feel rugged by birthright. I would venture to say there’s a little Daniel Boone in all of us Americans, whether our families immigrated in the 1890s or 1990s: the twin visions of love for this land and domination over it are part of its romance. Doubtless, my husband is right: if Great-Grandpa Abe happened upon a flock of wild turkeys lolling in his yard, he would be thinking: Dinner. As much as I would like to wring the birds’ necks, I’m not a homesteader. Not even close. I’m a middle-class, coast-dwelling, urban lady prone to hives when I brush against anything green — exactly the sort, according to a classic study by Stephen Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale University, who most abhors hunting. Also the sort who scores low in knowledge about animals and high in fear of them. Interestingly, what he terms “dominionistic” hunters — who see their pastime as a manly man pursuit — scored similarly. The people who were most informed and least afraid of wildlife were something called “nature” hunters: they enjoyed bird-watching, camping and, now and again, killing stuff. Edward O. Wilson, the Pulitzer Prize-winning entomologist, says that “biophilia” — the love of wild things — is central to us, that our relationship to other beings is what makes us human. That’s probably what drives the turkey feeders, even if their approach to nature merely reveals how disconnected from it they are. Meanwhile, the more sophisticated biophiliacs apparently demonstrate their understanding of the whole predatorprey-nature’s-balance thing by joining right in. Maybe so, but hunters still bear some responsibility for this turkey mess. The birds aren’t native to California; they were trucked into public and private lands from Texas for hunters to use as game. It turns out, though, that they breed. And have wings. So what to do? I find myself sympathizing (almost) with Sarah Palin — Sarah Palin! — who encourages Alaskans to gun down wolves from helicopters. And I certainly feel for

Type Specimen Book 11

Requiem Inspired by an illustration in a sixteenthcentury writing manual, Requiem celebrates the fertile world of Renaissance humanism. The typefaces of the first generation after Gutenberg were all based on contemporary handwritten forms. But with the Renaissance came a renewed interest in the inscriptional lettering of the classical period, especially the capital letters that come to us directly from Roman monuments. Attempting to dissect these letters scientifically was a common pastime among the most prominent Renaissance minds: Fra Luca de Pacioli, remembered as the father of doubleentry bookkeeping, took up the subject in De Divina Proportione (1497); publisher Geoffroy Tory offered a more mystical analysis in Champ Fleury (1529). One of the great treatises on the constructed alphabet was On the Just Shaping of Letters (1535), by no less than the old master Albrecht Dürer.

12pt.

>I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys. I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys. 18pt.

>I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys. I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys. 24pt.

>I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys. I’m fairly certain he was referring to the turkeys.

Winterlude ∞e Garks are ﬂying

8/10 Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterf lies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, f lies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “ f lat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured seminature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia? You see a fine, fat maple tree ablaze with the sugared tannins of autumn, or the sun glittering on the Hudson River in

9/10 Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterf lies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, f lies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “ f lat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured semi-nature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has

Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterf lies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, f lies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “ f lat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured seminature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia? You see a fine, fat maple tree ablaze with the sugared tannins of autumn, or the sun glittering on the Hudson River in an explosion of diamonds and for a moment you wish you were Julie Andrews: the hills are alive! But then you stumble through a bush and emerge covered with ticks. Or you watch a bunch of Hitchcockian crows maul and kill a baby squirrel. You try to tell yourself, c’est la guerre, there are too many squirrels anyway, but in fact you resent this chronic mouthiness of nature, these endless rounds of attack and snack, and you’re grateful anew for four walls and DEET. Nature is a mother in so many ways, and that means you adore her and depend on her but at times she’s pure Medea. And all of these messy, contradictory feelings are natural. In the two decades since Dr. Wilson published “Biophilia,” many other researchers have explored the meaning of nature-lust, and its components, and the extent to which we are possessed by it. They have found evidence of biophilia everywhere. Americans are said to be sports nuts, for example, yet more people in this country attend zoos every year than they do all professional sporting events combined. Of the many luxuries that money can buy, the most coveted has long been a pristine view: lakeside, seaside, mountainside, Central Park. “People don’t realize that New York has a larger proportion of its real estate in open spaces than any other major city,” said Dr. Stephen R. Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale and a leading figure in the biophilia field. Yet biophilia

7.5/10 Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemonscented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterf lies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, f lies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “ f lat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured semi-nature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia? You see a fine, fat maple tree ablaze with the sugared tannins of autumn, or the sun glittering on the Hudson River in an explosion of diamonds and for a moment you wish you were Julie Andrews: the hills are

Not far from Washington is a voluptuously landscaped public park called Brookside Gardens, 50 acres of tumbling giant feather grass, creeping St. John’s wort, Brazilian verbena, rose mallows, hibiscus trees, Madagascar periwinkles, crape myrtle, purple plum trees, lemon-scented gum trees, Amazon water lilies and welcoming lotuses. Butterf lies as big as fists and hummingbirds the size of thumbs dart through the controlled extravagance, but food is forbidden in the gardens, so you won’t be pestered by platoons of ants, f lies or yellow jackets, and there is scant standing water in which nature’s wretched little phlebotomists can breed. A placard at the park in Wheaton, Md., gives a bit of history: before there were the gardens, there was nothing but “ f lat, swampy and wooded land,” a wetland. And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured seminature must every time. In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a softcore biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving. Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia? You see a fine, fat maple tree ablaze with the sugared tannins of autumn, or the sun glittering on the Hudson River in an explosion of diamonds and for a moment you wish you were Julie Andrews: the hills are alive! But then you stumble through a bush and emerge covered with ticks. Or you watch a bunch of Hitchcockian crows maul and kill a baby squirrel. You try to tell yourself, c’est la guerre, there are too many squirrels anyway, but in fact you resent this chronic mouthiness of nature, these endless rounds of attack and snack, and you’re grateful anew for four walls and DEET. Nature is a mother in so many ways, and that means you adore her and depend on her but at times she’s pure Medea. And all of these messy, contradictory feelings are natural. In the two decades since Dr. Wilson published “Biophilia,” many other researchers have explored the meaning of nature-lust, and its components, and the extent to which we are possessed by it. They have found evidence of biophilia everywhere. Americans are said to be sports nuts, for example, yet more people in this country attend zoos every year than they do all professional sporting events combined. Of the many luxuries that money can buy, the most coveted has long been a pristine view: lakeside, seaside, Type Specimen Book 13

NeutraFace

In short, I’m a practitioner of what may be called a soft-core biophilia. Biophilia is the term coined by the Harvard naturalist Dr. Edward O. Wilson to describe what he saw as humanity’s “innate tendency to focus on life and lifelike processes,” and to be drawn toward nature, to feel an affinity for it, a love, a craving.

Who has not experienced the thrill of biophilia?

Injections

We want to tour Yosemite with our water bottles and GPS devices.

Alaskan Shoreline

There is a fortune to be made!

surrogate people

Cats. Bicyclists. My kid.

DISPLAY Sans Serif

He admitted to trying to kick a raccoon after it snatched a marshmallow from his 4-year-old son’s hand during a backyard barbecue.

And though I know that wetlands are great and necessary habitats, I must shamefacedly admit that, if given a choice between a stroll at Brookside Gardens and a tramp through serious, forested, wetlanded wilderness, I’d take the manicured semi-nature must every time.

And I have to admit, initially I was charmed.

Turkeys! Since then, we’ve taken a different route to the swings.

rabies outbreaks

Bureau Agency

In October, a raccoon slid open a screen door...

Nature, Nuisance or Worse?

shoot them?

Am I alarmist? Am I alarmist? Am I alarmist? Am I alarmist? Am I alarmist? Am I alarmist? Am I alarmist?

Why don’t you get a gun and

Type Specimen Book 15

LUGGAGE

university of California 1.5 million identified species on Earth

Warm Fuzzies plate-glass window

nature-deficit disorder Karl Marx observed that there were 500 types of hammer made in Birmingham

priorities

herpes simplex

Natural selection shaped the human brain to be drawn toward aspects of nature that enhance our survival and reproduction, like verdant landscapes and docile creatures.

unstructured physical contact

interesting failures 16

Stimulate Our Nervous Systems

sacred value Hand over your pensions!

Slow on the uptake There was a turkey on my neighbors’ roof

Roman History

Dolphins

The life of a modern city dweller, surrounded by strangers, is an evolutionary novelty.

I said, “It’s O.K., honey,” which fooled neither avian nor child, and hurried past. Hmph!

United

carbon neutral

Type Specimen Book 17

Facebuster 18

Protect us from predators! Considerable

mismatch

Donaldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

If you want a view of the trees of Central Park, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll cost you.

“Virtual experiences from pornography to classical symphonies...” People don’t realize that New York has a larger proportion of its real estate in open spaces than any other major city,” said Dr. Stephen R. Kellert, a professor of social ecology at Yale and a leading figure in the biophilia field.

LanDscape Painting Protect us from predators!

Hard-wired Capacity

Quail Eggs

Poetica

“People like to be close to oceans, mountains and trees.”

Type Specimen Book 19