Designing Redesigns Me Every Single Time

I design, I design all sorts of stuff, and the process redesigns me; yes, some of them irreversibly change me.

In the soft glow of my computer monitor at 2 am, I find myself staring at the silhouette of a solitary boatman against an amber horizon. The words from the Fisherman’s prayer, God, be good to me: the sea is so wide, my boat is so small, hanging in between the screen and me drags me up to another realm. The weight of meeting the deadline for the cover of January 2012 issue of Together national magazine becomes a collaborative effort between me and my God. When I first began designing, I saw it merely as arranging text and images in aesthetically pleasing ways—just another project to be completed. But something shifted when I started working with themes that speak to the human condition—to our vulnerabilities, hopes, and spiritual yearnings.

The Small Boat cover, as I affectionately addressed it in the studio, came during a particularly turbulent period in my life. I was involved in setting up a , for me it was like venturing into the large ocean. Though it was a dream project for the province/organisation, hurdles were many, finance, time, and of course, handling people who refused to think along. I felt adrift in an ocean of uncertainty. Each element I adjusted on that cover—the golden haze of the water, the solitary figure, the vastness surrounding them—was unconsciously becoming therapy, a visual prayer I was creating for myself.

I remember the moment when it clicked. I had spent a lot of time trying to perfect the contrast between light and shadow when suddenly I realised: I wasn't just designing a cover; I was crafting a visual metaphor for faith itself. The smallness of our individual journeys against the immensity of life. The courage it takes to keep paddling when you can't see the shore. The trust that somehow, despite everything, you are not alone in the vastness.

By and by, my approach to design has transformed fundamentally. Each design becomes an opportunity to engage with life's profound questions. When tasked with illustrating themes of forgiveness, I found myself releasing old grudges I didn't know I still carried. A cover about intergenerational wisdom led me to call my parents speak to them and get guidance for my life, and so on.

The typography choices, colour palettes, and image selection are no longer just aesthetic decisions—they've become extensions of my own spiritual battles. Should this font be more grounded to represent stability, or more fluid to evoke grace? Does this shade of blue speak to tranquility or to melancholy? In answering these questions professionally, I find myself wrestling with them personally.

I live with each idea. I carry them into my morning coffee, my evening walks, and my daily reflections. They change me before I change them. Perhaps the most unexpected outcome has been how these designs have connected me to others. I've received messages from people describing how a particular design spoke to them during their darkest or special moments—how the image of that small boat made someone feel less alone in their grief, how a visual metaphor gave words to feelings they couldn't express.

I never anticipated that arranging pixels on a screen could become a spiritual dialogue between myself and thousands of unseen others. That my personal wrestling with life's biggest questions could somehow help others navigate their own. That commercial art could become a form of communion. I've discovered that design is never a solitary act. It's a conversation between artist and audience about what it means to live, about our shared smallness, about the wide seas we all must cross.

My name may never appear on these covers. Most readers will never know the tears, prayers, and personal revelations that went into their creation. But perhaps they don't need to. Perhaps it's enough that when they see that small boat on that wide sea, something resonates in the space between their experience and mine. And in that resonance—in that shared recognition of our beautiful, terrifying human journey—we are, for a moment together.

Here are a few earlier designs that have made an impact on my perspective and life.

Experiencing material excess alongside persistent hunger, Bread for myself is a material matter; bread for other people is a spiritual matter—attributed to Russian philosopher , encapsulates a profound insight about the nature of generosity and human connection. This got me thinking that our humanity is most fully realised not in what we consume but in what we give. And that has made giving a little easer for me.

In a world often characterised by quick judgments, conditional acceptance, and instant gratification, designing this maxim, What we need is a cup of understanding, a barrel of love, and an ocean of patience, reminded me of the deeper resources needed to build truly meaningful connections with one another. As I was choosing the progressive sizing from cup to barrel to ocean also implies a practical wisdom—that while understanding may come in moments of insight, love requires more consistent practice, and patience must become as vast and enduring as the sea itself. Placing each letter making up the word love tested my patience to the seas.

The cover, Laughter Is The Closest Thing To The Grace Of God, effectively made me take life a bit more lightly, and joy can elevate the human spirit even in challenging circumstances, positioning us closer to the divine.

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