Free & Cheap File Transfer

Pack Mule

A client just asked me, so now I’m asking youse:

[We] are looking for a free way to get an ftp site so we can get some huge images sent to us over the Internet. . . . do you have any recommendations? When I do a Google search, of course many options come up, but we thought maybe you’d know of a particularly reliable or reputable service.

What I said:

I don’t know of any free FTP services, but I do use web-based file transfer sites pretty often: yousendit.com, senduit.com, dropload.com. Most of those are good for up to 1 GB for free; you can transfer bigger files for a monthly fee.

You’ve probably got some FTP space included with [your] website hosting package or e-mail account, but check the size and bandwidth limits—it may be too expensive to use for anything other than web stuff.

There’s also a service called BoxCloud that I haven’t tried; I think it’s basically peer-to-peer file sharing.

What do you recommend?

Photo: cp 2533-2, “Pack mule carrying medical and surgical chests (side view). Contributed by San Francisco Hospital Corps, 1902. Selected by Scott.” Posted by staff of the Otis Historical Archives National Museum of Health & Medicine. Some rights reserved.

An illustration project unfolds

origami gecko

Art director–turned–illustrator Penelope Dullaghan, whose name I previously knew only from Illustration Friday, has a series of five posts up at Sessions.edu’s Notes on Design blog about The Unfolding of an Illustration Project.

So the way it starts is usually with your assignment. And you get this little sensation in the back of your brain that makes you think: “Boy, an illustration would be perfect for this!” (I agree, it would!) And so you set out to look for the perfect illustrator for the job.

. . .

Then you tell us about the project: timeline, your ideas, the client’s ideas, (or that you have NO ideas… we can help there, too), the budget, etc. And we’ll be pleasant on the phone and say yes, we’d love to work with you. (See, aren’t we nice?)

She gives a brief walkthrough of the process for a typical job. Too brief, in my opinion, but better than nothing, for an ignoramus like me.

I guess I’d like to see something like a series of checklists—“What you need to figure out before you contact an illustrator. How to help illustrators help you. How not to be the client from hell.” Optimized for short attention spans and messy desks.

I’ve got my own hunches and SWAGs, of course, but surely somebody has already rounded the corners off this wheel, no? Is it in the GAG guide? Because I sure don’t have one of those. Is it worth having? My impression of that book has always been that it’s for designers who work in Fantasy Land. Like, I’ve never met anyone who actually gets paid what GAG says is the going rate for stuff, and I’ve gotten absolutely blank looks whenever I’ve tried to refer to what they say is called trade custom. Does this perceived lack of relevance merely reflect the seedy circles I’ve been running in? Should I be sleeping with a copy under my pillow?

Photo: Origami Gecko by /kallu; some rights reserved.

These are the good old days

lead

Hey! I actually read a Design Observer article all the way to the end! From Our Little Secret by Michael Bierut (whose name, is it just me?, always grates on my brain as a typo):

As a young designer in his first real job in 1980, I learned that this made typography a high-stakes game. It went like this. You’d get a manuscript from a client, say 20 pages of Courier (although no one called it Courier, or even thought of it that way). You’d have to calculate how many characters were in the manuscript the old fashioned way—no Microsoft Word, no word count tools—by counting characters per line, then total number of lines, then doing the math. Next you’d have to decide out what text typeface you wanted to use, what size and what measure. Finally, you’d refer to a copyfitting table to see how long the columns would run: more math. If it seemed like this figure would fit the layout, you’d mark up the manuscript and send it to a typesetter. It would be back, set in beautiful type the following morning, galley after crisp, clean galley of it. If it fit, good for you. If it ran long, guess what? You just lost $250, stupid.

. . . It was a system that rewarded deliberate planning, not creative experimentation. You found yourself repeatedly specifying certain fonts just because you knew how they would set: after a few years I could make a pretty accurate guess about how long a typewritten manuscript would run in Garamond #3 (12 on 13, flush left, ragged right on a 30 pica column measure) just by looking at it. So I set a lot of Garamond #3.

So, here’s my flippant comment: Not much has changed for those publishers that still send their books out to to be typeset. At the job I just left, this is still how they do castoff, this is still how most of the designers choose body type and estimate length, and this is probably still how the typesetter bills. (I don’t know how much they charged us to rerun a book that didn’t make castoff on the first try, but I’m sure it wasn’t free. I’d guess that it cost less than $250, but only because if it had cost that much, I’m sure someone would have scolded me at some point—I had a lot of do-overs for a stretch, there.)

Anybody seen Helvetica or going to see it tonight? (Me, I’m waiting for it to come to Netflix, as I do with every movie.) If so, please report on how many people in attendance were wearing appropriately typographic garments.

Picky, picky

Dunwell Sushi sign

Yesterday afternoon, I ran into a fellow designer who was chatting on the street with a friend who works in the kitchen at a high-end restaurant known for its sushi. As I walked up, my friend informed me that the chef had just popped the “So, do you pick the fonts?” question, and the chef continued a little defensively, upon being informed that I, too, use those crazy font things, “Well, I have a couple of friends who’re designers, and some of them are really picky about fonts.”

In typical slow-witted form, not until today did I think of the proper response, which would have been to say that I’d heard that there are some sushi chefs who are really picky about fish.

(Photo by unsure shot / Karen. Some rights reserved.)