(And the realization that history isn’t just shaped by talent. It’s shaped by opportunity.)
Sometimes I read something that sends me down a rabbit hole about fashion history, and this was definitely one of those times.
This week, it was a New York Times article about Yves Saint Laurent.
The thing that caught my attention wasn’t actually the clothes. It was the photographers.
As I read through the piece, I noticed that the photographers behind all of the iconic images it highlighted were men. Richard Avedon. Helmut Newton. David Bailey.
All male.
At first, I thought, *Huh. That’s interesting. *Then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I started mentally listing famous fashion designers I could name off the top of my head: Yves Saint Laurent. Christian Dior. Gianni Versace. Easy.
Then I tried to think of women. Of course I know Coco Chanel and Elsa Schiaparelli. But after that? I had to pause.
The same thing happened with photographers. Annie Leibovitz popped into my head immediately, but after that I found myself digging through my memory… and eventually opening Google. Now, to be clear, I’m not saying influential women photographers and designers didn’t exist. They absolutely did.
The realization I had was much more personal:
Why don’t I know their names as easily as I know the men’s?
And then I wondered if I was asking the wrong question entirely. Instead of asking, “Why weren’t there more famous women photographers?” maybe I should be asking:
What opportunities did women realistically have to become famous fashion photographers in the first place?
Looking at it through the lens of fashion history, I realized I wasn’t just asking who took the photos. I was asking who had the opportunity to become the names we still remember today.
Yves Saint Laurent’s rise coincided with a period of enormous social change. Women were entering professions in greater numbers, but they were also pushing against legal and cultural barriers that are surprisingly recent. Access to credit, workplace protections, reproductive autonomy, and professional independence were all evolving during the 1960s and 1970s.
When you remember that history, it’s a lot easier to understand why the biggest opportunities may not have been equally available to everyone. And if you don’t get the opportunity, it’s a lot harder to become the name everyone remembers fifty years later.
And maybe that’s the bigger lesson.
History isn’t just shaped by talent. It’s shaped by opportunity.
It’s shaped by who gets hired, who gets published, who gets exhibited, who gets remembered, and who gets written into the history books. We don’t inherit a perfectly objective record of the past. We inherit the stories that were documented, celebrated, and preserved by the people and institutions with the power to do so.
That’s true in fashion.
It’s true in design.
It’s true in film, advertising, architecture, literature, and probably just about every creative field you can think of.
I don’t have a grand conclusion or a neat answer to tie this all up. But I do have a question that I can’t stop thinking about:
It makes me wonder how many brilliant people we’ve overlooked, not because they lacked talent, but because they didn’t have the same opportunities to become household names.
And if you know of influential women photographers or designers whose work deserves more attention, send them my way.
I have a feeling this rabbit hole is only getting deeper.
I’ve been watching enough Scooby-Doo lately that my brain has apparently decided it counts as brand research.
Which, honestly, feels correct.
Because once you look past the haunted amusement parks, suspicious caretakers, dramatic hallway chases, and one deeply snack-motivated dog, Scooby-Doo is actually a surprisingly good lesson in branding.
There have been countless versions of the franchise over the years. Different shows. Different movies. Different animation styles. Different decades. Different levels of Scrappy-Doo involvement, for better or worse.
And yet, it’s still Scooby-Doo.
You know the characters. You know the Mystery Machine. You know the spooky-but-safe tone. You know there will be a chase scene involving an unreasonable number of doors. And you know there will eventually be an “I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids” moment.
That’s not just nostalgia. That’s brand memory.
What fascinates me about Scooby-Doo is that it doesn’t stay frozen in time. The animation changes. The humor changes. The pacing changes. The audience changes. But the core remains recognizable.
It reminds me of Nike. Nike can change the campaign, the athlete, the photography, the product, the typography, and the cultural moment. But the swoosh still anchors the brand.
Scooby-Doo has Scooby.
Without Scooby, there is no Scooby-Doo. He’s the emotional shortcut. The memory trigger. The recognizable core that allows everything else to evolve around him.
Different category. Same principle.
One of the biggest misconceptions about branding is that consistency means never changing. Scooby-Doo proves the opposite. The franchise has been reinvented over and over again for more than 50 years, yet every version still feels connected to the same world.
After all, just look at IMDb. There are countless versions of the show. Different animation styles. Different decades. Different formats. Different movies. Different spin-offs. Somehow they all still feel like Scooby-Doo.
Part of the reason is that the world itself has rules. It’s spooky, but usually safe. There is tension, but not true horror. The monster is scary, but usually explainable. And the reveal gives you closure.
Even the visual world has recognizable cues: the Mystery Machine, the group dynamic, the chase scene with all the doors, the spooky locations, and the inevitable unmasking at the end.
All of these things work together to create recognition.
And that is the bigger lesson for brands. A strong brand is not just a logo. It’s a collection of recognizable cues that tell people what world they’re entering.
The lesson hiding inside Scooby-Doo isn’t “make everything nostalgic.” It isn’t “add a mascot.” And it’s definitely not “put a dog in your brand,” although, as a dog person, I remain open to the possibility.
The lesson is this: a strong brand doesn’t need to reinvent itself every five seconds. It needs recognizable rules people remember. It needs an anchor. It needs enough flexibility to evolve and enough consistency to still feel like itself.
Sometimes branding is about changing.
And sometimes it’s about knowing what not to touch.
…Ruh-roh.
Disclaimer: This article is an independent design and branding analysis and is not affiliated with or endorsed by Warner Bros. Discovery, Hanna-Barbera, Nike, or any related brands or properties.
I know this isn’t the most typical title, but lately I’ve been feeling a weird amount of guilt around my (slightly obsessive) use of AI. And honestly, I didn’t expect that. I’ve been seeing more posts about the environmental impact of AI; the water usage, the energy, the sheer scale of it, and now it’s sitting in the back of my mind every time I open it. Which is… a lot.
The thing is, I’m someone who does care about the environment. I’ve been recycling forever. I still cut up six-pack rings if I get pop. (Yes, it’s pop. I’m from the Midwest. We’re not changing.) So now I feel a little stuck, because I also use AI every day.
As a graphic designer, I treat it like a second set of eyes. An art director. I’ll go back and forth with it for hours sometimes, refining ideas, pressure-testing concepts, figuring things out faster than I could on my own. And now I’m like cool, love that for me. But also, am I draining the planet while I do it?
I started looking into it more (on Google, not AI, which feels like it should count for something), and one suggestion that kept coming up was to use it more intentionally and sparingly. To be mindful of how often you’re prompting, and to support companies working toward more sustainable data centers. Which makes sense. But how does that actually work in real life?
Because at the same time, AI isn’t optional anymore. If you’re job searching, it’s expected. If you’re already working, companies are pushing it. Even in my own role, it’s becoming more and more part of the process. So what’s the move here? Use it less and fall behind? Use it freely and ignore the impact? Somewhere in the middle?
And this is the part where the guilt kicks in. Which is wild, because I’m not even Catholic. But still, it’s there.
I keep thinking about that Robert Frost line, “Two roads diverged in a wood…” and now I’m like, are the woods going to still be here if we keep going like this? Okay, I might be spiraling a little. But I do think there’s something here.
Maybe the answer isn’t all or nothing. Maybe it’s just being a little more aware. Using it with intention. Not defaulting to it for everything. Paying attention to when it’s actually helping versus when it’s just… easy.
I don’t have a clean answer. I’m still figuring it out. But I have a feeling this is one of those questions we’re all going to have to sit with for a while.
Hands up those of us who feel like we’re yelling into the void.
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
I just read an article (H/t to Callum on Instagram) about how to attract big brands to you (not having to go out and pitch them, but having them come to YOU). And on reading the first sentence, especially the first three words: “Be loud online, build connections, and look for side doors,”I felt my stomach drop.
I would love to be loud. Only… how do you actually do that?
Like, you have to figure out who your audience is and talk to them. But if your audience is big brands because you’re trying to get noticed, is that really going to grow your following? Are any “normal” people even going to care about what you post?
Am I spiraling?
Yeah. I’m mid-spiral. Bear with me.
Here’s the thing. I AM posting. I’m on Instagram, LinkedIn, Substack. I have a point of view. I refuse to be boring. So why does it still feel like shouting into an empty room?
I think I finally figured out part of the problem.
I follow a lot of designers. One of them, Callum (yes, the same Callum from the article, he’s having quite the influence on me today), has what I’d describe as a show. Every post teaches you something about design, delivered in a fun, energetic, totally consistent way. You know exactly what you’re getting. His grid is like a TV series with a clear premise and a loyal audience who keeps coming back for the next episode.
My grid? Is more like a sketchbook.
Branding Crimes Unit. A cartoon llama. A moodboard. A book cover concept. A hot take on cartoon visual identity. A villain spa. It’s all me, genuinely, unapologetically me, but it’s a lot of different mes showing up at once.
And I’ve been telling myself that’s the point. That safe is boring (see: my very first post). That keeping to one format, one lane, one vibe forever sounds like a slow creative death.
But here’s where I had to check myself.
Maybe the issue isn’t the variety. Maybe it’s that I’ve been thinking about content from the wrong direction entirely.
I’ve been thinking about how I feel making it. Does this feel exciting? Does this feel like me? Does this feel too safe, too expected, too done before?
What I haven’t been asking is: how do I want you to feel when you see it?
Do I want to inspire joy? Teach something? Make you snort-laugh and then immediately screenshot it to send to your designer friend? Some unholy combination of all three?
Because THAT question (the audience-first question) changes everything. It doesn’t mean I have to become someone else or shrink my point of view into a neat little content box. It means I need to get clearer on what I’m actually putting into the world and why.
Rebel Tori doesn’t disappear. She just gets a little more intentional.
I don’t have this figured out yet. I’m genuinely working through it in real time, right here, with you watching. Which is either brave or chaotic, possibly both.
But I think the path forward looks something like this: less “what do I feel like posting today” and more “what do I want someone to feel after they spend 30 seconds with my work.”
Joy? Inspiration? A little bit of “wait, I never thought about it that way”?
I think that’s the version of loud I actually want to be. But if it’s not, it’s ok to pivot.
So I’ll ask you: if you follow me, or if you’re a designer figuring out the same thing, what made you stop scrolling and actually pay attention to someone? What’s the thing that made you think yeah, I need more of this person in my life?
I genuinely want to know. Drop it in the comments.
On tight storytelling, visual identity, and what Bluey might teach designers.
Since I moved, I’ve been finding myself turning on cartoons more and more. When I was living with my sister and her family, my nephews were always watching them, so naturally I was too. And I have to say, I enjoyed it. More than that, I started realizing how impressive cartoons actually are.
First off, the storytelling is tight. Take a normal episode of Bluey. The story is told in about seven to nine minutes. That’s it. Beginning, middle, end, emotional payoff included. When you only have a few minutes, you can’t wander. Every moment has to move the story forward.
One of my favorite episodes is Workout, where Bandit turns exercising into a game with the kids. It’s funny, chaotic, and somehow still lands an emotional beat by the end. Watching that episode, I realized it’s doing exactly what good design does: delivering a clear idea quickly, without anything unnecessary.
As designers, we tell most of our stories through visuals. And anything that makes someone stop and pay attention usually has some kind of story attached to it. It might be funny, nostalgic, dramatic, or heartfelt, but it makes you feel something. Cartoons are great reminders that storytelling doesn’t have to be complicated to be effective.
They also know their audience. Bluey is technically for kids, but there are plenty of little jokes clearly meant for the adults watching along. Looney Tunes used to do the same thing. When I was younger those jokes went right over my head, just like they do now for my nephews when they watch Bluey. That layered storytelling is intentional, and good design works the same way. The best work often speaks to more than one audience at a time.
The other thing cartoons do extremely well is visual identity. Every cartoon has its own unmistakable style. You’re not going to confuse an episode of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! with Beyblade. The aesthetics are completely different. Each show has its own visual world.
Design works the same way. You wouldn’t drop a Beyblade character into Scooby-Doo, and you wouldn’t design something for Wendy’s that looks like it came straight out of McDonald’s branding. In fact, there’s currently a lawsuit where Buc-ee’s is suing another convenience store because their mascot looks too similar to their beaver logo. We’re not talking about getting that close, but the principle is the same. Strong design creates a world of its own.
Finally, cartoons remind designers to stay playful. They pull you out of the seriousness of everyday life and drop you into a world where anything can happen. Talking dogs? Sure. Kids solving mysteries and somehow never going to school? Absolutely. That kind of imaginative freedom is something designers can easily lose if we’re not careful. Cartoons remind us to loosen up a little and let our imaginations wander.
Oh, and one last thing. I recently found out that Bluey uses colors that dogs can actually see. Is that completely true? I’m not sure. Does it even matter? Not really. I just love the idea that the creators thought so carefully about their show, their world, that they may have made it watchable for dogs too.
Honestly, that level of audience awareness is kind of genius.
Life feels serious right now. And design reflects that. Minimal. Muted. Safe. Corporate-approved.
I work a corporate job, and I genuinely love parts of it. Health care. Stability. Not having to hunt for freelance clients at midnight. There’s comfort in structure.
Brand guidelines. Dielines. Approvals. Revisions. Stakeholders. Sensible color palettes.
And somewhere in there, playful design often gets filtered out. Not because it’s bad; because it’s risky.
That’s where Rebel Tori shows up.
When I design something like a spa for villains, I know it would never make it through a corporate approval chain. That’s exactly why it feels electric. It’s play without permission. It’s pushing an idea further than practicality would normally allow.
Playful design feels rebellious because it resists convention. It asks: what if we didn’t default to safe?
Imagine designing a probiotic drink. The expected route is wellness. Clean typography. Calm colors. Gut health. But what if it’s positioned as the drink you grab after a night of carousing? Suddenly the tone shifts. The audience shifts. The energy shifts. It’s still strategic. It’s just unexpected.
Play isn’t the opposite of strategy.
It’s the opposite of fear.
Not everyone is going to go viral and have Adobe slide into their inbox with a dream offer. Most of us will build careers inside systems that require structure and restraint. But carving out space to play, even on the side, is its own kind of resistance.
It keeps your thinking sharp. It keeps your instincts bold. It reminds you that safe isn’t the only option.
Maybe the most rebellious thing a designer can do isn’t quitting corporate, but choosing to play anyway.
