Since 2018, I have been moving between graphic design and type design. What follows is a small fragment of that journey. For those who have known Typografische only through its typefaces, this is a glimpse into the process behind them not the foundry as a brand, but the mindset behind it.

• • •

I have always believed in turning points. In football, a single moment can change the course of a match. In life, it works the same way. Some moments feel ordinary when they happen, but in retrospect, they quietly redirect everything.

For me, that moment was truly understanding and believing that typography is the foundation of graphic design.

At university, we heard this sentence repeatedly: “Typography is the foundation of graphic design.” At first, it sounded like doctrine. Over time, it became conviction. I began to see that the most honest form of graphic design lives in letters. A logotype built only from type no illustration, no ornament carrying the entire identity on its own. That purity fascinated me, and it still does.


• • •

My initial intention was simple:
To build my own graphic system using letterforms drawn by my own hand.

It was not an act of arrogance. It was curiosity.

The first letters I drew were technically weak. I can see that very clearly now. But at the time, what my eye could not yet perceive was less important than what my courage allowed me to attempt. When I made my first sale, the feeling was not “This will become big.” It was something quieter: “My education, my effort they have some value.”

That feeling spread.

I saw myself both as a baby learning to walk and as someone brave enough to move toward mistakes rather than away from them. Fragile, yet stubborn.

When I released my first typeface, excitement dominated. But excitement slowly gave way to another emotion: the fear of public failure. I was aware of the flaws imperfect Bézier curves, inconsistent spacing, unresolved proportions. Part of me wanted to wait. Another part understood that waiting would not make me better.

You learn by entering the field.


• • •

So I released it.

Not long after, the first serious criticism arrived.

The criticism came from someone well-known and respected. I may not have been the direct target, but a social media post referencing my work was a harsh introduction to the profession. That night, if I am honest, I was afraid. I realized how much fundamental knowledge I still lacked. I understood that this field was deeper and more demanding than I had anticipated.

But I also knew something else: I wanted this in my life.

Was I angry? Yes.
Was I hurt? Absolutely.
Did I consider quitting? No.

I responded quickly, perhaps defensively. But inside, I did not think, “They are wrong.” I thought, “Then I need to learn.”

The sentence that ran through my mind that night was simple:
“Maybe I really messed this up. But this isn’t the end.”


• • •

A young graduate becomes ambitious. I became ambitious. Who are the best? What has already been produced? Who defines quality in this field? What are the real requirements of type design? I immersed myself in those questions. In many ways, I still swim in them. I will never say “I’ve arrived.” But I will continue to make letters a permanent part of my life.

Starting from Turkey was not easy. The institutional depth of type design education here is limited. Growing up academically in Switzerland, Germany, or France shapes perspective differently. Culture, training, and exposure refine one’s sensitivity. I acknowledge that.

But Turkey has its own richness visual density, cultural layering, contradiction, energy. And along the way, I met friends and colleagues who encouraged me, who reminded me that meaningful work can emerge from anywhere.

Was there a hidden desire to prove something when I founded Typografische? Perhaps but not to a specific person. More to an earlier version of myself.

During my academic years in the early 2010s, like many designers, I encountered Helvetica. Some see it as neutral, some as characterless. For me, it was a tool. It allowed communication without ego. It did not dominate the design. That neutrality appealed to me deeply. The works of Emil Ruder, Josef Müller-Brockmann, and Wolfgang Weingart shaped my understanding of structure and restraint. I wanted to create type families that respected that neutrality while carrying internal coherence.

At the beginning, I could not see the imperfections in curves. I was not capable of critiquing spacing. My eye was untrained. But repetition, analysis, comparison slowly, the eye learns.


• • •

There was also a period of speed.

During the pandemic, with time and isolation, I decided to release a new typeface every month. Four different styles in four months. Today, I would not defend that approach. Type design does not mature under pressure. It matures with time by revisiting forms, questioning decisions, letting distance reveal weaknesses.

Speed creates excitement.
Time creates depth.

When sales increased significantly at the end of 2019 significant within the conditions of my own life my ego did not inflate. My appetite did. “One more,” I thought. And then another.

If I could speak to my 2019 self today, I would offer one piece of advice: Do not rush.

Maturity has its own tempo.

• • •

Today, my intention is not to chase trends. Not to produce what is fashionable. I am interested in longevity. In being remembered quietly. In existing on someone’s computer years from now perhaps not actively used, but present.

I do not have a specific dream of where my fonts must appear before I die. Not a major brand. Not a global stage. The unknown is far more exciting. I design within a conceptual framework and present my typefaces inside carefully constructed worlds. But what truly fascinates me is not knowing how they will be interpreted.

Design is imagination.

To become part of another designer’s imagination to support their idea in ways I cannot predict that is enough.

Kris Sowersby once wrote that a typeface completes its life cycle only when it is used. I agree. A font that remains untouched feels incomplete. But not knowing where or how it will live that uncertainty is the most beautiful part of the process.

Typografische is more than a brand to me. It is a record. A diary. An archive of phases of how I thought, how I drew, where I failed, and how I refined. A project I hope continues to exist long after I do.

• • •

This is not a defense.
Not a manifesto.
Not a justification.

It is simply an opening.

Giriş.