I’m suspicious of brands that choose Minimalist design.
Minimalism is one of many tools a brand designer can use to connect a product with upscale city life in consumers’ minds. However, too many strategists think it’s the only tool. They default to minimalist design when they shouldn’t; they needlessly crowd into that niche when it doesn’t serve their brands. By so doing, they miss a chance to stand out.
Some creative directors embrace modern design because they love the style. On packaging, websites or showroom interiors, the style is clean, pure, loud, and luxurious when a talented craftsman holds the reins.
Other creative directors and chief brand officers perceive an obligation to create minimalist visual identities. These are the execs frightened of being left behind in the race to be most contemporary; and these are the designers who halfheartedly go along with Bauhaus-chasing clients. They build their designs around a generic typeface rather than a smart concept, and their mantra is “Make it look expensive.”
Competitive minimalism has a place in New York’s mediascape. You’d expect an empty square to stand out against the overwhelming waves of imagery crashing against consumers. Michael Kors can maintain a niche in New York’s fashion scene because it seems to be winning the race to be most minimalist. Credit the outside designer Fabien Baron for keeping the Proxima Nova logotype in the corner, thus protecting that beloved empty square. Glossy beige against white does help the brand look expensive.
At Apple and Louis Vuitton, designers balance emotional impact, art, and modernity.
Compare Kors to Apple, which non-designers might suppose is a clean, spare, adequately modern brand (web designers always hear “Can you make my site look like Apple’s?”). But Apple’s hi-tech faux textures are a world away from Micheal Kors’ flat square.
Apple”pastich[es] stuff from the analogue world,” says Karl Heiselman, the design director. Faux textures (called skeuomorphs) and a translucent-plexi logo give Apple a layer of richness that eludes Michael Kors. Onlookers approach Apple’s brand materials with a web of memories and emotions attached to plexi, to brushed chrome, to beveled edges, and to analogue dashboards. Apple wisely exploits the viewer’s feelings for these stimuli. You can imagine how it would feel to touch the trompe l’oeil icon for iCloud or iOS 6. You can imagine how if would feel cold against your skin, how it would smell. Skeuomorphs can be elegant, and yes, even modern.
Like an iPad, a Louis Vuitton bag is presented as a labor of love, perfected through tinkering, and expertly crafted. The ornamental graphics surrounding the LV brand reinforce this message: she who shops at LV becomes a connoisseur of fine art. The same goes for Dolce & Gabbana and Dior, both of whom reject the race to be most minimalist.
The most boring place in Disney World is the Contemporary Hotel.
You move towards your audience if you design in a way that engages their emotional associations with materials, textures, sound, and images. You move away from them if you don’t.
Disney’s Contemporary Hotel in Orlando is wearyingly dull. It’s a plain white shirt contrasted against the vibrant Grand Floridian, Polynesian Resort, Port Orleans French Quarter, or Coronado Springs. The latter four resorts serve visitors sounds, smells, colors and textures that they’ll remember. They engage visitors emotionally.
Disney built the Contemporary Resort as a hub for professional conventions and as a space for overflow from the other resorts. Like the Michael Kors graphics, the resort’s design is corporate blah. No Disney magic here.
Minimalism fails when brands subtract art from design in the pursuit of simplicity.
As we saw from Louis Vuitton and Apple, a brand benefits from dialing down its adherence to 100-year-old Bauhaus values. Only by relinquishing minimalism can Louis Vuitton look artfully hand-crafted (expensive). Only by letting go of minimalism can a brand elicit an emotional reaction from an audience. You follow me?
Remember the Cooper Hewitt study that asked non-designers to vote on whether they liked popular logos before or after their redesigns in the modern style? Michael Bierut wrote about the study:
I was surprised by how often the civilians got it “wrong,” voting enthusiastically for the cartoony old version of the Comedy Central logo, the needlessly fussy and insecure pre-redesign Starbucks, the dated Clarissa Explains It All-era Nickelodeon splat.
Again and again, commoners hated the logos that designers admired, and loved the logos that designers snippily chastised. Beirut concluded that (1) audiences favor complicated or even busy visual identities over modernized ones, and (2) they prefer literal imagery over that which is cunningly implied.
People like actual splats on their Nickelodeon logos, not metaphoric splats, actual drawings of Saturn on their SciFi logos, not metaphoric alternate alien spellings. And they react with suspicion, if not outright contempt, when designers refer to the mystical characteristics of colors and shapes, to meanings that are open to interpretation or that will emerge only upon examination.
The old Nickelodeon splat aligns with the spirit of the brand while the modern logotype doesn’t. Likewise, the cliched Saturn symbol is true to the SciFi brand and its audience, all of whom would find Disney’s Tomorrowland more inspiring than the Contemporary Resort. Are highbrow branding execs really this out of touch with middlebrow consumers?
In all likelihood, Michael Kors wants to attract the highbrow elite minority that voted for the modernized logotypes. Kors may grasp the tastes of its audience to an extent that Nickelodeon, SciFi, and Comedy Central demonstrably do not. Yet, Michael Kors seems to occupy a needlessly overcrowded niche—that is to say, supply overwhelms demand for those minimalist brands. And that means the empty square on the shopping bag doesn’t stand out from the background so well when every brand is doing it.