ian m. wright

In the nearly four decades since I slithered into this world—with calculated stealth and acute punctuality—particular interests, quirky hobbies, fleeting obsessions, and the occasional bout of inexplicably specific disdain have been stitched together by an intense respect for the necessity of a few parameters:

efficiency, quality, attractiveness, utility, organization, and ingenuity.

Today, my hopefully-healthy compulsions are manifested by a concurrent passion for—and insistence upon:

⎔ the tactical, effusive, poetic brand of football championed by North London's Arsenal Football Club;

⎔ design with an intrinsic duality—wherein a succinct, effective message infiltrates the subconscious—deftly under the guise of awe-inspiring, occasionally inharmonious aesthetics;

⎔ a mechanical pencil's relationship with graph paper that sanctions accuracy, precision, and any number of lascivious urges;

⎔ literature demonstrative of equal parts dry humor, wet humility, and for the love of Lynne Truss—proper grammar;

⎔ typography—the purest, most charming embodiment of the aforementioned parameters—that facilitates coherence and organization whilst oftentimes managing to appear downright sultry.