Even I find the following statement a little over the top —but life is like that, over the top— and stories, if you want to tell them right and actually get someone’s attention, they need a headline, a climax, a slap in the face, a fist on the table before you get up, take a deep breath, open your mouth and say the thing. So here goes. I’m done pretending. Today, I’m here to publicly admit that, on the afternoon of June 27th, 2022, graphic designer Ena Cardenal de la Nuez changed my life.

Why today? Well, maybe it takes two years, nine months and fourteen days to be fully sure that a statement like this actually holds up. Maybe it’s because it’s raining and a little girl waiting next to me at the bus stop broke the silence with a “Mom, look! A rainbow!”, pointing at a giant oil stain on the road. Or maybe it’s because today’s bus driver decided to bless us with the epic soundtrack of a lifetime — is that even legal? — whistling along and tapping out the rhythm with his nails on the steering wheel.

I don’t know. The thing is, today I thought about Ena, and about that long afternoon when our bodies were less than a metre apart in a room that couldn’t have been more than twenty square metres.

We were in Madrid, inside the building on Flor Alta street that houses the IED (European Institute of Design). We’d been invited by Alberto Salván, from Tres Tipos Gráficos, to be on the jury for the final presentations of the master’s in editorial design. The setup was simple: the students presented their projects, we gave feedback and/or asked questions, and then their tutors decided what grade each one deserved. The whole thing was meant to simulate that moment when you go out into the world with your project under one arm and your degree under the other, knocking on your first door.

After each presentation, I tried to give feedback that was, above all, kind. I pointed out what I thought could be improved or might be confusing, sure, but most of my effort went into highlighting what worked. Naming the effort, the intention, the decisions. Letting them know that beyond the grade, what they’d done made a certain kind of sense. But also that, while they were about to get a master’s in editorial design, I —for better or worse— had a PhD in people-pleasing.

Ena, on the other hand, wasn’t there to please anyone. When she spoke, she was direct. She told the students that yes, the story they’d just told was lovely, but that in the real world, they wouldn’t be standing next to every single copy explaining the why behind every design choice they’d made. She genuinely celebrated the fact that they were in love with their projects, but she also made it very clear that “if I were at home and came across this book, I wouldn’t understand a single thing you just told me.” A project, she insisted, has to speak for itself. No one’s going to be standing next to it to explain. And sadly, most of those projects didn’t. And she was totally right.

That afternoon, Ena Cardenal de la Nuez stopped being just a name behind some of the most important pieces in the history of graphic design on this peninsula, and became a kind of ghost — one that haunts my studio and quietly watches over every decision I make. She shows up every time I hesitate. And without exchanging a single word, I listen. And then, with conviction, I move forward.

Thanks, Ena.
Warm regards from the H6 bus,

Ingrid