By Jonathan Shih
Legendary artists in their studios, in their own words.
This video is intended for educational and commentary purposes under fair use (17 U.S.C. § 107). Archival photographs illustrate historical context alongside quotes attributed to each artist; no copyright infringement is intended.
Photo credits appear on screen for each frame. All rights belong to the respective photographers and/or their estates.
By Jonathan Shih
In July 1973, journalist Franco Simongini filmed Giorgio de Chirico painting inside his home studio at Piazza di Spagna in Rome, part of a RAI documentary on how a work of art comes into being. De Chirico was eighty-five at the time and had lived in that same studio for nearly thirty years.
The painting taking shape on camera, Il sole sul cavalletto, belongs to what de Chirico called his Neometafisica period, a return in his final decades to the enigmatic imagery he had pioneered as a young painter in the 1910s. The sun-on-an-easel motif first appeared in 1930, in a series of lithographs de Chirico made for an edition of Apollinaire’s Calligrammes, and he picked the theme back up repeatedly in his later years, treating his own earlier work as source material the same way he once treated classical architecture and myth.
Footage: Giorgio de Chirico, Il sole sul cavalletto, 1973. Filmed live at his studio in Piazza di Spagna, Rome, for the RAI documentary “Come nasce un’opera d’arte.” Film © RAI (Radiotelevisione Italiana). Artwork © Fondazione Giorgio e Isa de Chirico.
This footage has been edited, condensed, and captioned for educational and editorial purposes under fair use. All rights remain with the original footage and respective rights holders. No copyright infringement intended.
By Jonathan Shih
The image shows Escolta Street in Manila, Philippines, during the American colonial period around the 1920s.
Overview of Escolta Street
Location: A historic commercial thoroughfare in Binondo and Santa Cruz, Manila, running parallel to the Pasig River.
Era: Often referred to as the "Queen of Manila Streets," it served as Manila's premier financial and business district during the early 20th century.
Architecture & Scene: The street features a mix of early-20th-century commercial buildings, vintage automobiles, and pedestrians dressed in period attire, reflecting strong Western economic and cultural influences at the time.
By Jonathan Shih
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Whenever I hear someone complain that graphic design has become too dependent on software, I am reminded of the stories told by the designers who worked long before the arrival of Adobe Photoshop, Illustrator, or even personal computers. Their world was one of rulers, pencils, knives, tracing paper, rubber cement, and countless hours of painstaking manual labor. It was a world where graphic design was literally a hands-on craft, and where the phrase “cut and paste” described a physical process rather than a keyboard shortcut.
Looking back at that era, I am struck by how different the profession once was. Today, a designer can resize a layout in seconds, experiment with hundreds of typefaces, and undo mistakes with a simple command. Before computers, none of those conveniences existed. Every decision required commitment, patience, and technical skill.
Most importantly, you were not considered a graphic designer if you could not draw.
Before digital tools transformed the industry, drawing was one of the most essential skills a designer could possess. Designers needed to sketch concepts, illustrate ideas, create logos, and communicate visual solutions directly on paper. A rough idea could not be hidden behind software effects or digital filters. If a client wanted to see a concept, the designer had to put pencil to paper and make it visible.
When I look at portfolios from the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, I am amazed by the quality of the sketches alone. Many preliminary drawings were artworks in themselves. Designers were expected to understand perspective, anatomy, composition, lettering, and illustration techniques. Even those who specialized in layouts often possessed strong drawing abilities because it was simply part of the profession.
Typography was another area that required extraordinary skill. Today, I can scroll through thousands of fonts with a few clicks. Before computers, designers relied on typesetting houses to produce text. Headlines might be drawn by hand or created using transfer lettering systems such as Letraset. These sheets contained individual letters that could be rubbed onto a layout surface.
The process sounds simple, but it demanded precision. One misplaced letter could ruin an entire headline. Designers often spent hours carefully aligning text, checking spacing, and ensuring visual consistency. There was no automatic kerning, no font preview menu, and no instant resizing. Everything had to be calculated manually.
The actual layout process was even more fascinating. Once the text and images were prepared, designers assembled them on a mechanical board, commonly known as a paste-up. Using knives, rulers, and adhesive wax or rubber cement, they physically cut out pieces of artwork and arranged them into a final composition.
This is where the term “cut and paste” originated.
If a photograph needed to be moved, it was literally cut out and repositioned. If a column of text was too long, it had to be trimmed and rearranged. Every adjustment involved physical manipulation of materials. Mistakes could damage artwork, waste expensive supplies, and force designers to start over.
I can only imagine the patience required. Today, moving an image takes a fraction of a second. In the pre-digital era, it might require measuring, cutting, aligning, gluing, and checking everything again to ensure accuracy.
Photography also involved a far more complicated workflow. Digital cameras did not exist, and image editing software was decades away. Designers worked with photographic prints, film negatives, and darkroom techniques. Cropping was indicated using grease pencils and mechanical markers. Retouching often required airbrush skills, paint, or specialized photographic processes.
Many effects that modern designers create instantly once required highly trained specialists. Shadows, gradients, color separations, and image corrections demanded technical expertise and considerable time. What now takes minutes could easily consume several days.
The production process added another layer of complexity. Once a layout was complete, it was sent to printers, who photographed the artwork and prepared printing plates. Designers had to understand printing limitations because mistakes could be costly. Colors had to be specified accurately. Registration marks needed careful placement. Measurements had to be exact.
There was very little room for experimentation once production began.
As a result, designers often spent significant time planning and refining ideas before committing them to final artwork. Unlike today's environment, where revisions can continue indefinitely, the physical nature of production encouraged thoughtful decision-making from the start.
What impresses me most is the level of craftsmanship involved. Every stage of the process required specialized knowledge. Designers were artists, technicians, draftsmen, typographers, and production experts all at once. They needed to understand not only aesthetics but also the mechanics of printing and reproduction.
The profession demanded discipline. A shaky hand, poor drawing skills, or a lack of technical knowledge could become a serious obstacle. Success depended on mastery of tools that modern designers rarely encounter.
This is not to say that graphic design was somehow better before computers. Digital technology has democratized design and made creative tools accessible to millions of people. Tasks that once required teams of specialists can now be performed by a single designer. Creative possibilities have expanded dramatically, and workflows have become faster and more flexible.
Yet there is something valuable to learn from the pre-computer era.
The limitations of traditional methods forced designers to think carefully before acting. Every mark mattered because correcting mistakes was difficult. Every layout decision carried weight because revisions consumed time and resources. The process encouraged observation, planning, and craftsmanship.
I also believe the emphasis on drawing remains relevant today. Even though software handles much of the technical execution, the ability to sketch ideas quickly is still one of the most effective ways to explore concepts and communicate visual thinking. Technology may have changed the tools, but creativity still begins with observation, imagination, and problem-solving.
When I study the work of designers from the paste-up era, I gain a deeper appreciation for the profession's roots. Their achievements were built without layers, filters, smart objects, or artificial intelligence. They relied on skill, patience, and an intimate understanding of visual communication.
The next time I press Ctrl+C and Ctrl+V, I remember that those simple commands once represented an entire craft. Designers literally cut and pasted every element by hand, carefully assembling layouts piece by piece. It was slow, demanding, and often unforgiving work.
And in that world, one truth stood above all others: if you could not draw, you probably were not a graphic designer.
By Jonathan Shih
In 1983, American engineer and technologist Steven K. Roberts left suburban life behind and began traveling across the United States on a custom-built recumbent bicycle called Winnebiko. Over the next eight years, he covered roughly 17,000 miles across three increasingly advanced machines: Winnebiko, Winnebiko II, and the enormous BEHEMOTH, which eventually weighed about 580 pounds (263 kg).
Roberts wasn't simply touring. He was experimenting with a mobile lifestyle decades before remote work became normal. His bikes carried computers, amateur-radio equipment, solar power, and communications technology, allowing him to write and transmit work from the road. His companion Maggie Victor joined him for roughly 6,000 miles.
The journey became a real-world experiment in technology, independence, and location-free work—helping establish Roberts as an early “technomad” and a precursor to today's digital nomad.
By Jonathan Shih
Manila in the 1970s was a city of contrasts—a place where old traditions, postwar architecture, colorful public transportation, and rapid urban development existed side by side. Looking at photographs from the decade offers a fascinating glimpse into a Manila that was already busy and energetic, yet noticeably different from the city we know today.
One of the most striking features of 1970s Manila was its streets. Rizal Avenue, one of the city's major commercial thoroughfares, was filled with jeepneys, buses, taxis, private automobiles, pedestrians, and storefronts. Photographs from around 1972 show colorful jeepneys crowding the avenue, each decorated with distinctive paint, chrome, signs, and route markings.
Quiapo and other central districts were equally lively. Streets were lined with small businesses, department stores, banks, restaurants, theaters, and neighborhood shops. A photograph of Carlos Palanca Street in 1972, for example, captures a dense urban landscape of pedestrians, vehicles, overhead electrical wires, and commercial signs.
The architecture of Manila during this period also reflected several generations of the city's history. Art Deco and postwar buildings remained prominent in older commercial districts, while newer concrete office buildings and developments were beginning to reshape the skyline. The city's major avenues—including Avenida Rizal, Taft Avenue, Roxas Boulevard, and Quezon Boulevard—were already important centers of movement and commerce.
Transportation gives perhaps the clearest picture of everyday Manila. Jeepneys dominated many streets and served as an essential form of public transportation. Their colorful appearance became an unmistakable part of the city's visual identity. Cars and buses shared crowded roads with pedestrians, creating scenes that feel both familiar and distant to modern eyes.
The decade was also a period of significant change for the Philippines. Manila was experiencing continued urbanization and modernization, while political and social events were shaping everyday life. The photographs, however, often focus on ordinary moments: people walking to work, commuters waiting for transportation, shoppers moving through busy streets, and families going about their daily routines.
Today, these old photographs serve as more than nostalgic images. They are visual records of a city in transition. They preserve the appearance of streets, buildings, vehicles, advertisements, clothing, and everyday life that might otherwise be forgotten.
Manila of the 1970s may look unfamiliar in many ways, but the photographs reveal something timeless: the city's streets were already full of movement, character, and human stories. For anyone interested in Philippine history, these images provide a remarkable window into the past—and a reminder of how dramatically Manila has evolved.
