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forEword What is the difference between a graphic designer and a “fine artist,” between he who gives highway signs their typeface and she whose canvasses and sculptures live in museums where admission must be paid? In terms of talent, possibly none. The difference is one of intimacy. We gaze up at our favorite paintings, gingerly circumnavigate the greatest sculptures—we literally put them on pedestals. But we hug our favorite books and records, and kiss their covers, and a particular typeface will forever conjure the road-sign at the turnoff to the summer lodge, that last turn that led to nirvana, the last week of August, the summer after tenth grade. I don’t want to meet the artist (the painter, the sculptor, the violin prodigy, the rock star), for if I did, she’d probably disappoint, and if she didn’t, I’d be tongue-tied. But the graphic designer? I want to clasp him to me, and ask how he did it, and say Thank you. No need to invite George Corsillo into your living room and offer him a nip or a puff—he’s been there all along. He’s been in your album crate since the early 1980s, showcasing John and Olivia at their Grease-iest, Luther Vandross at his sultriest, Benatar, Mellencamp, Yoko. In his toolbox, George always brings his analog chops, learned with the legendary book-jacket designer Paul Bacon; nobody has that facility with typeface or silkscreening who grew up only on computers. He brings, too, a party- down fierceness, a willingness to get his hands dirty (on the Grease jacket, those are George’s teeth marks on the pencil), a scavenger’s resourcefulness (the legs on the Tilt cover? his wife, Susan’s), and a tactful deference to the artist, masking, as needed, Vandross’s girth or Benatar’s pregnancy.
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