There’s something electrifying about David Carson’s work—it’s like he threw the rulebook out the window and said, “Let’s see what happens.” And honestly, that’s exactly why he’s one of my absolute design heroes. Carson didn’t just break conventions; he built a whole new language for graphic design that feels as raw and untamed as a brushstroke on canvas.

Carson’s aesthetic—chaotic, rebellious, and always compelling—was a wake-up call for the design world, especially in the 90s when everything was locked in a kind of sterile, clean-cut corporate style. He gave us something visceral, something that didn’t apologize for being messy. This is the guy who turned typography into an art form, treating letters not as rigid vessels of meaning but as pieces of visual expression—sometimes unreadable, often abstract, but always packed with feeling.

It’s almost like Carson dares us to get lost in his designs. Whether it’s the jagged, distressed fonts in Ray Gun magazine or the disorienting layouts for Beach Culture, every piece of his work asks us to step out of the comfort zone of perfect alignment and conventional beauty. And that’s a beautiful thing because design, at its core, is about emotion and experience, not just rules.

What makes Carson so fascinating to me is his ability to take something old-school—like hand-drawn, grunge aesthetics—and slap it onto digital platforms without losing the energy that comes from traditional craftsmanship. Sure, the tools have evolved—he moved from analog collages to digital manipulation—but the soul of his work stays grounded in the hand-made, in the tactile nature of art. It’s this blend of old and new that makes Carson a true innovator, and something I think every modern designer can take a lesson from.

Now, let’s talk about the why behind Carson’s approach. For him, it isn’t about showcasing perfection—it is about visual storytelling. Every curve of a letter, every twist of the type, every jarring overlap of imagery has a reason. It’s all about reflecting the raw, unpredictable nature of culture itself, especially music culture, which he’s so deeply embedded in. Carson doesn’t design for sterile boardrooms—he designs for the messy, complex world of art, music, and rebellion. And that’s something that resonates with me.

You see, I often find myself grappling with the balance between the analog and the digital. I’ll be sketching in my notebook one minute, and next thing you know, I’m digitizing the work, tweaking it with Illustrator or even AI tools. Carson would totally be on board with that. He isn’t one to fear change; he embraces it, manipulates it, and makes it his own. That’s the kind of freedom I see in his work—the freedom to experiment, to make mistakes, and to find beauty in the chaos.

As someone who blends both traditional and digital methods in my own work, I look at Carson’s legacy and think, “Yes, that’s the spirit of what design should be—fearless, expressive, and unapologetically human.” And isn’t that what it’s all about? Pushing boundaries, mixing up the past and present, and creating something that speaks to the now. Carson’s designs aren’t just pieces of art—they’re a call to arms for every creative to ditch the rules and carve out their own visual language.

So, let’s be clear: Carson doesn’t just design with a pencil and a computer—he designs with heart. And that’s a reminder we could all use in today’s ever-evolving creative landscape.

For me, what makes The Group of Seven so exciting is how they’ve continued to inspire not just Canadian artists, but artists all over the world. Their work was all about pushing the limits of what art could be. They were creating, not just copying. They were responding to the land in a way that felt completely new, and in doing so, they made an indelible mark on the history of art.