There are still people out there who believe that the best thing a designer can do when faced with a brief is to disappear. That their hand should go unnoticed, that their gaze should be invisible, that they should act as some kind of neutral mediator between message and recipient. Yep. There are still people who claim that the ideal designer is the invisible one—the one who plans the party but, most importantly, slips away unnoticed as soon as the music starts.
The last time I heard someone say this was at La Capella, right here in Barcelona, just over a month ago. The person defending this idea was an artist presenting an editorial piece. Beside him, the designer of the publication nodded along, while the artist told us that his collaborator’s role had been, basically, to have none. To become a pair of hands that neither think nor question—just execute. The artist was Jordi Mitjà, the designer was Manel Gràvalos. Just so we’re clear and no one says I’m making things up.
There are still people who claim that the ideal designer is the invisible one—the one who plans the party but, most importantly, slips away unnoticed as soon as the music starts.
I’ve got nothing against either of them—honestly. But this little story works well as an example of the ongoing murmur that’s been bouncing around in my head since the beginning of my career. Because, truth be told, I don’t buy into that way of thinking. I don’t believe our value lies in disappearing. Or staying quiet. Or becoming obedient extensions of someone else’s vision, be it a client, a curator, or one of those classic “this has already been decided, just lay it out nicely” kind of briefs.
I’m trying not to lose my train of thought here, but it’s tough. I’m typing this in one go, deep in my own head on the bus, but today I’ve been blessed with The Dramatic Bus Driver. The one who thrives on being the main character in this asphalt stage. I don’t know his real name, but let’s call him Toni. Why? Just because. Because Toni doesn’t like to justify himself. He doesn’t like to go unnoticed. Toni likes to honk. Doesn’t matter if what’s in his way is a legit threat or just a fly—Toni barrels through the city letting everyone know he’s arrived, while I’m over here trying not to get completely derailed.
Where was I? Oh, right: the disappearing act.
This debate is older than walking. In fact, there’s a wonderful book called The Debate that transcribes a public conversation from 1972 in Amsterdam between designers Jan Van Toorn and Wim Crouwel on this very topic. It’s not an easy book to find, and it was given to me by Quique López, designer and founder of Pino Design Practice, as part of a kind of anonymous book exchange, along with a note that read: Unknown Ingrid, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Unknown Quique.
I have no idea if the person who signed that note as Unknown Quique is the type who prefers to remain invisible when designing or the type who’s not afraid to honk the horn now and then when things veer off track. But the discussion that book captures still feels relevant today—maybe more than ever.
Because yes, we still need to be here. With AI, sure, if you want. But with perspective, with intention, with our own voice.
Design is about observing. It’s about reading between the lines. About seeing what’s being said and what’s not—and asking why. It’s about raising uncomfortable questions, questioning the brief, offering a new one. It’s about reading the assignment through political, social, aesthetic, and historical lenses. It’s about interpretation. It’s about making decisions. And I don’t know a single decision that doesn’t carry our own gaze and an unavoidably objective personal vision.
Warm regards from the H6 bus,
Ingrid
