It was 2009 and I was a wet-behind-the-wacom-ears intern at Co. Every now and then Mr. D would show us the ropes of form correction (or something similarly fundamental) with intent. In my memory, the ritual always starts with staring at the black and white form on Illustrator, stylus in hand, in silence. Then the slightest, deliberate movement of one or two of the many handles. Then a calculated pause. Then another handle moves an imperceptible bit. Then another. Then a short pause for a printout and the thing would restart, sometimes with a pencil on copier paper.

We would watch from the sidelines and from behind his chair, expecting hurried movements and complicated shortcuts. None arrive. The stylus-in-hand-deeply-lost-in-the-black-and-white-ness-of-it-all would go on for far longer than we think it would. Then another shift in the curves.

For someone obsessed with the efficiency of shortcuts and execution at the speed that the good-old franken-laptop allowed, this was a difficult circus to watch. I knew, by then, that Mr. D understood the software in ways I could only hope for then—and even now, and that he could play it like an instrument to a crescendo at the drop of a dropcap. So this ‘inefficiency’ was strange to witness. Why would someone so well-versed in the tool want to waste so much time ‘not’ doing anything, I would ask. In time—over weeks—I saw how quality of movement trumped quantity and speed in ways more than one. How ‘efficiency’ was a byproduct at best and not the meat of the journey. Each one of the slow-small movements was a step decidedly closer to what the form was trying to tell us. The silences were spent listening to the it. The small movements were a filtered, economised lot. There were no missteps or wasted moves. It was years later at Kala Ghoda, watching Sudha Chandran and crew dance (watching the larger-than-life shadows cast on the stage more than the three-dimensional dancers) that I connected this slowness to a level of dance that revelled in refinement and a quieter kind of efficiency. There were no missteps—no flourishes undeserved, no glances unnecessary. The moving shadows were an exercise in precision and grace.

Day before, on H’s recommendation, we watched an episode of Chef’s Table and sat speechless post. There is a scene where a mother and two daughters are making pasta (corkscrew trofie) by hand. Same feeling. Same graceful watching and learning and ’doing’ nothing unnecessary.

Over the years, thanks to how we (KL11) work, I have pendulum-ed between all-out efficiency and snail’s-paced-deliberation. Investing time and effort in systems (hardware and software) that trivialise repeat-tasks brings me a lot of joy on some days. I’m moved by purpose-made workspaces (physical and digital) to a point where sometimes it feels performative in an old-fashioned theatre-sense. (The kind that would make you say ‘overacting’ under your breath. Not the kind that inspires awe.)

I have a ‘Form-Correction’ playlist—some Tycho, some Paul Simon, some Malayalam Rap, and some white noise—that loops. Last week, trying to layout a set of slides for a hiring exercise, I realised how automated and far from the silent-staring ‘dance’ of it all I have come on this swing of the pendulum. (R bailed me out of that stuck-ness with simple, pointed reminders as to what she expected from KL11, and no-mercy criticism of the stuff that I was casually iterating.)

As—over the years—software starts to feel like the hardware it apparently replaced, one starts missing the accidents and slowness of progress that the hardware allowed even without you trying to be all WaldenPond deliberate. I miss homebound tracing paper sketchbooks the most. They balanced speed and deliberation in a way that ‘efficient’ use of software tends not to. This is not a call to go back to the ‘good old’ lead on papyrus days. What I am really interested in is slowing myself down with difficult hardware input. In making it harder to manipulate forms on a computer so the act takes longer. In putting myself on unfamiliar-usteady terrain to slow down and look. In forcing myself to weigh each potential choice against ten others like a chess player contemplating a move. In doing less and thinking more.

Guideline-aided-graphic-design isn’t working for me as well as it used to. There is a sense of joy in making predictable work that works but there is none of that standing-on-the-sidelines-watching-MrD-manipulate-beziers sense of adventure in it. I am going to try to be inside the head of that twenty-year-old self again. At least once in a while. At least once or twice a week.

Much navel. Much gazing. Back to checking what that AstuteGraphics license is up to.