Alistair McCready
Monolith
From playing in bands in Hawke’s Bay, working at a spiritual water sculpture factory to designing typefaces for Fifa and Toblerone with his company Monolith and how that chance meeting at a pub in London lead him to working one of the worlds most admired type foundries.
Al makes typefaces through his company Monolith
Not so much design, but I was always into finding the best version of things. I used to design floor plans, sketch them out, and design spaces — the table goes here, seats go there, the guitar over there — and I would move my bedroom around to figure out the most optimum layout. I remember I used to scribble on the fogged-up windshield in our family car and make up alphabets. I was always trying to imagine a better version of the present; not that the present was bad, I was always striving and trying to adapt. I think back on those times and wonder how on earth I didn’t arrive at what I’m doing now much sooner.
I suppose it’s all related and it makes sense now looking back. A few months ago I was sitting in a psychologist’s office and there was a magazine on his coffee table for which I’d drawn all the fonts; it helped him understand more about the way I was wired. I’ve landed on a good thing, an enabling thing, and I’m not held back. Learning about myself and my headspace paired with the work I’m doing all seems to add up.
Not really, to be honest. My mum was a nurse, my stepfather an engineer, and my dad ex-army. They’ve always been supportive, but I think growing up I should have had a little more faith in my own ambitions and ideas. I mean, I was never going to excel in physics equations; my brain doesn’t operate in that manner. Equations are emotionless. One of the reasons I got into drawing fonts was because I didn’t want to learn how to write code.
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Well, it is quite component-driven and logical in some ways — like a big puzzle you put together once you’ve found a few key pieces — so, yes. Growing up, I guess I was trying to make sense of and process my family’s surroundings in their way, but I understand now how their perspective was quite contrary to what I was seeing and feeling at the time.
I grew up in the Hawke’s Bay, which has a real history of traditional craft and alternative thinking. Architects like Chapman-Taylor, William Gummer and John Scott had all built a number of houses in my neighbourhood, and through that presence of different architectural styles I became aware of creativity expressed through a craft lens. I never figured any of that out at the time, but I remember feeling an aura about those spaces. I think I lodged those thoughts in this weird filing-cabinet in my head, and only in the past couple of years have I started to trawl through and appreciate that things are linked, and pull things out.
When we spent the first lockdown for COVID in the Hawke’s Bay I spent a lot of time walking those same streets again, and it all started to reveal itself.
Nah. My older brother took graphics, but I was trying to do the subjects I thought I was supposed to be doing. I thought I was supposed to be good at maths, so I did statistics and calculus and was failing miserably. I ended up bombing out and taking up a second music paper, hanging out on the school benches, playing guitar all day long and feeling sorry for myself.
Yeah, I did heaps of band stuff — we won Rockquest — and it was a very formative time. It sort of bled through into everything, including design. To me, music and design are pretty interrelated. After finishing school I sort of bummed around working in music shops, and I got to know Jeff Boyle quite well from the band Jakob, who really influenced the way I played.
I enrolled in a short art course at the local polytech for three months, making up for what would have been the Year 13 art and design year. The bands I liked were doing all their own album artwork, and I realised there was common ground in those things, so I went into this course to try to unpack the idea of graphic design and what it all meant.
After that, I worked for several years as a fibreglass finishing technician in a spiritual water-sculpture factory — again, more alternative thinking. I was a total lackey and did absolutely everything. I got really good with my hands — finishing, spray-painting — and became really adept at crafting and learned how to work hard. I even made my own tools.
I worked with this guy who used to be a clay modeller for Porsche — a real high-end crafter — and then CNC (computer numerical control) machines came along and basically killed his industry overnight. I was also playing in a lot of bands, leaving early every Friday and driving to gigs somewhere. Then, randomly, I went into a print shop to get some shirts done for my band and was offered a job.
They needed help making transparencies, shooting screens, and developing artwork. I had to learn how to trace and use the Bezier tool really quickly. After a year I ended up taking over the shop and bringing on a business partner, Lee Hansen, to help. He had studied at Whanganui, had a degree in graphic design, and we could both look at a T‑shirt design and decide if it was good or bad, but he could tell me more about why it wasn’t working, and I wanted to know more about that. He had actually studied with Kris Sowersby, and I remember him showing me some of Kris’s early work. I was like, ‘Why would anyone want to make fonts? What a strange idea.’ I’ve since told Kris this, too.
I was getting pretty exhausted and thought the fumes were probably going to do some damage, so after six years I needed a change and thought I might enroll at the local polytech and do an art or design degree. But my tutor from that short course years earlier, Rakai Karaitiana, encouraged me to head to AUT in Auckland instead, as did my wife, Betty. I was 26 at that point, so I wasn’t old, but older than all the other students, and I felt a bit out of sorts. I’m really happy that I started later, though, because I was already pretty good on the tools. But even though I thought I knew what good design was back then, I was totally clueless and was really running before I could walk, and I had to unpack and relearn a whole lot of stuff and do it properly.
I think I felt like I had something to prove. I originally asked if I could start straight into the second year, and Jonty Valentine, who was interviewing me at the time, said, ‘You could, but you’re going to get more out of it if you just start at the bottom.’ University didn’t seem to be designed for slightly older, married guys, so it was a bit strange. I’d already left those days behind me. It felt like no matter what stage of life you were in, everyone was put in the same box of being a poor student who would do anything for a free lunch.
That’s the thing about type: everyone’s an ‘expert’, for better or worse. Historically, AUT had this rich history of printing, letterpress and typesetting, and they still had some of the old equipment. The tutors knew the history of type and the history of design, but I felt like nobody was really standing on the foundation of that, and there were a lot of conflicting opinions. Initially, I didn’t fully understand that the point of being at university was to learn how to learn, not to learn how to design; once I got my head around that, I started taking ownership. The people on the course a year above and below formed a little alliance, and through going to exhibitions and doing a lot of extra time out of class, we learned a lot about how to design.
AUT had this amazing facility on the top floor with a proper proofing press, and drawers and drawers of type, a book bindery, and a print shop. We heard through the grapevine that they were going to close it all, and we were like ‘You can’t do that — that’s why we’re here; we came because of that!’ I got really angry, formed a student organisation, and invited myself into these meetings with all the heads of department as a representative for the students, just kind of sticking up for everyone.
Like I said before, I did feel I had a lot to prove, and I think a lot of students have had an experience like that, where they end up doing their best work because they’re simply trying to prove themselves. Even in the work I do now I catch myself thinking ‘I proved that person wrong.’ It’s strange that it still gets to me like that because it’s totally my issue.
Yes. I was also the Designers Institute of New Zealand (DINZ) Student Council for a couple of years as one of their foundation members. I got to know Cathy Veninga again through that same circle of friends, and she’s always been very supportive.
She helped me channel some of that energy into getting among the Best speakers and Best events. I wasn’t trying to get anything out of it, I loved that I could bring something to it. And I think I had this idea that at the end of the day we’re the young designers who will inherit this industry, and it made sense to get amongst it and actually bring what we’ve got to the table. I think a lot of people approach those things asking ‘What’s in this for me?’, but I don’t think that’s the best way to approach it — I was looking for something to give.
And then, over the course of a few years, I did really well at Best as well as AGDA, who decided to give my work a Pinnacle award. I remember being pretty chuffed, but also feeling vindicated. There’s nothing quite like having people you look up to in the design industry assess and affirm your work; it spurred me on for sure. Some pretty hard things were said to me as a student, which I understand now were just a few disgruntled opinions, but I took it pretty personally at the time. I had to hold onto and believe in what I was doing.
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Yeah. I had a friend who was the CEO there, Al Keating, who has always been a very magnetic personality. He needed someone to drive the van; I wasn’t doing design at all. This was all while I was doing a postgraduate year of study continuing my work with monuments. It was a really good time, and in a way quite resrorative. I’d make coffee for everyone, make them lunch, sweep the floors, organise the cleaners and what not. A lot of the design crowd would come in, and I’d have great yarns with them — it was a good way to link up.
I can be an extrovert when I need to be, but probably because I’ve always been a bit of a chameleon. Networking is really important as a designer, but I always loved the idea of being the designer in a room full of non-designers.
My old man has been a member of NZ Warbirds for as long as I can remember. I used to go with him out to the airfield, hang out with these pilots, talk about the planes, talk about the graphics, and do the odd bit of design for them. That kind of thing felt more meaningful than standing around gushing over Swiss typography. I mean, I love that stuff, but networking doesn’t have to only be with other designers. It can just be about getting out there, getting involved, and being who you are. Of course, many of my closest friends are also designers, but I think ultimately my work output benefits from having many different interests.
We both realised we wanted to go and give it a crack. I had a job at Designworks for a while, and they wanted me to stay, but we’d already bought these plane tickets, and I had promised Betty that after my studies we would go. It was the least I could do, as she had been so supportive. Once we were there, I ended up at a studio called Studio Juice. I had seen some of their work and thought it was cool, so when I got to London I looked up the studio, emailed them, and went in for a trial run.
It was mainly brand activation stuff: heaps of work with adidas. They didn’t do brand guidelines much, or at least I didn’t get my hands on that. In my mind I just wanted to go to London and work hard — maybe get alongside someone like Fraser Muggeridge, or some other typographic guru — and just absorb.
The truth was that most of the designers I worked with were quite typographically illiterate, and they didn’t really respect the craft as much as I hoped. I’d spend my lunch breaks sketching in cafés and trying to get better, and then teach myself at night how to draw fonts properly. I went to all of the events I could, and got to know heaps of people in the type community really well. It was around this time I got to know Jeremy Tankard. One evening we all ended up at the pub, and it was me, Jeremy, Matthew Carter, Catherine Dixon and the great American letter cutter Nick Benson … all sitting around the table. People I’d written about and referenced during my studies. I still wonder how I ended up there.
At work I would find myself in scenarios where there were all these senior designers in a room, and then me, because I was better at precision than they were. I ended up in all of these fancy meetings with some bigwigs talking about the nuances of type. It was still a hard environment, though, because the team loved to mess about during the day so they could work late and be social. They were all living large, whereas I wanted to go out with Betty and see a bit of London. You felt bad if you left work before dinner.
I got to know designer Tom Baber at the pub, and we became good mates. We’re still good friends now. He ended up getting a gig with Colophon not long after we met. The next time they advertised I put together a portfolio with all the work I’d been doing in the evenings just trying to learn, and I got the job. I felt so validated. Suddenly I was in a type foundry, talking about fonts, and I couldn’t have been happier.
Frustratingly our visas were almost about to expire at this point. Colophon wanted to sponsor me to stay, but we’d been away from New Zealand a while and our mental health wasn’t in a great space. London isn’t an easy place to live. So we decided to come home with the idea of potentially going back. Some years later Colophon did ask me back, this time to help run the foundry. Sadly this was right around the time COVID flared up, and then everything went on ice. It became clear it wasn’t the right move for us. But that’s fine, because I’m doing what I’m doing now, and we still keep in touch, and we’re good mates.
It was a similar scenario, really. I had admired Arch MacDonnell and the studio forever. I always joke that I had to go to London to get good enough to come back and work at Inhouse. I already knew some of the team there, and it was a beautiful space to work in. While in London I developed a much stronger appreciation for art and architecture, which primed me for that place. I ended up being more into the craft end of the projects, as per usual, and we did some big stuff — Meridian, New Zealand Post — and some books and fonts as well, which was obviously right up my alley. But I think the main thing about working there was that I felt safe for the first time. I didn’t really understand that until I came home to New Zealand and realised that it was okay to get something wrong sometimes.
I remember one time I presented work in a way that a client didn’t like; he wasn’t a great communicator, and we were flying blind a little bit. The team came in to bat for me, turned around, and said, ‘Al, you know you’re really important here.’ In past jobs, it was sort of like you lost a client, you lost your job — not that I lost the client. But now I finally felt safe, and it was good. That was the last proper design gig I had before I went out on my own and set up Monolith. I’d do anything for them, even now.
Did stepping out feel risky? I did it, too, starting McCarthy Studio just when my wife was made redundant, and then the earthquakes hit 2 weeks later. You have to keep going and back yourself.
I didn’t have any clients or anything, but I had been waking up for a while thinking I needed to do this. We had just had our first baby and a mortgage was on the horizon, and it was all quite daunting, but I had to give this thing a crack. So we tried to save up some cash to buy us a month or two, and then the Stuff project with Designworks came along, which was a massive piece of work. By this point, I’d drawn type at Colophon, and I knew how to do the work, but it was such a huge leap of faith that Jef Wong and the team trusted me to pull off something on that scale, and I’m very grateful. We did the FIFA Women’s World Cup, too, in that first year. A studio in Canada was doing the master brand for the tournament, and they wanted to get me on board. I created the type, and they pulled in several Indigenous artists to do the pattern work.
Yeah, I still freak out, but there always seems to be something showing up. I want to say that it’s because I try to focus on doing good work, but I think there’s something to be said for working hard and having a strong work ethic. I’ve also come from the brand world, so I try to communicate in that language. Instead of coming at it like a type designer full of type-designer terminology, I try to communicate in the language that brand studios understand. And I present the work in the same manner, to a degree, rather than just having this kind of cold specimen that is ‘select the font, set it and send it off’.
It’s helped a lot that you don’t just do the work, but you share the work. We also still craft as much as we draw full fonts. Sometimes there isn’t a letter to be seen; it might only be a crest or something. For example, the Lloyds Bank rebrand we recently worked on: as well as the wordmark, we also drew their iconic horse logo. I think the type design process can translate to lots of different areas of design, and the more studios rely on machines, the less people seem to know how to do the precision craftwork. So we have a little industry of crafting the best versions of whatever that project is, and it makes it better. Once we’ve had one job, those studios tend to come back. That’s how it’s gone for us.
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We have to try and embrace it, however that looks. Some days I’m really not worried, and then other days I’m terrified. We have an opportunity for it to become a part of our process and maybe speed up the work, help with spacing, or help roll out a few design variations: parts of the design process that typically take weeks, we’ll suddenly be able to do in a heartbeat. I think there’ll always be a place for the human hand, but I don’t necessarily trust that those who have the power to commission are going to pay a human being when they can get a machine to do it for free. We’re in the midst of a new industrial revolution of sorts, and so there will undoubtedly be a new form of arts and crafts movement as a result of it, but I fear the industrialists will win in the long run.
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We’re gearing up to launch our new website, which showcases all the work we’ve been doing. We’ve done some pretty cool stuff that hasn’t seen the light of day yet, and I’m quite excited about sharing. I’m still really hungry to do good work with cool people, and enjoy talking to people like yourself about what I’ve been working on, which is a nice thing to do. We also have a big library of our own type designs in development that I’d like to get out into the world at some stage. I want to build something, whatever that is, something that my kids can be proud of me for — but we’ll see.