SPARK
SI-007, 2021.
Punk Futurist Letterpress.
Dafi Kühne doesn’t do nostalgia. His work is neither a sentimental nod to the past nor an ideological rejection of digital methods. Instead, the Swiss designer has re-engineered letterpress into a contemporary, process-driven approach that is as much about invention as it is about craft. Operating from his studio babyinktwice in Näfels, Kühne builds his own tools, devises new methodologies, and refuses to separate concept from production. His posters are loud, rigorous, and defiantly physical. In a design landscape obsessed with frictionless digital output, Kühne revels in resistance.
How do limitations of letterpress or limitations of material influence your work?
I don’t want to restrict myself at the design stage. I push experimentation as far as possible, but at some point, I have to negotiate with the realities of production. Letterpress is incredibly limited—which paradoxically means it has infinite possibilities. If I constrained myself too early, I’d be trapped within the same aesthetic loop that letterpress has existed in for the last 150 years. My job is to drag it forward. Experimentation belongs in the design phase, not in production. If I commit to a process, I need to guarantee its feasibility. When I designed a poster for Schule für Gestaltung Basel using Elmer’s glue as a printing medium, I had to be sure that I could produce 850 copies without technical failure. These aren’t limitations; they’re parameters for discovery. Lately, I’ve been investigating how to break letterpress’s binary of sharpness. Traditionally, if an impression isn’t crisp, it’s considered a mistake. But I want to see what happens when I blur the edges—when I let a controlled softness emerge. I collect these techniques, storing them in a mental drawer until the right project calls for them. The challenge is knowing when to use them, rather than indulging in process for its own sake.
You’re a contemporary designer drawn to an obsolete technology. What led you to letterpress?
It wasn’t about ideology; it was about access. I grew up in a scene of snowboarders, skaters, and punk kids. We organized shows, made our own flyers, and consumed graphic design through skate magazines rather than design history books. I wanted to print my own posters for the events we put together. But to get a poster job, I had to make the show happen first. That meant booking bands, securing sponsorships, and ensuring people actually showed up. I was my own client, manufacturer, and distributor. I wasn’t thinking about letterpress; I was thinking about survival. My first press cost $500. As a student, that was manageable. If someone had handed me a silkscreen setup instead, I might have gone in a different direction. But letterpress suited my way of working. You can’t print on just any substrate, but you can print with almost any material. It’s not just about ink on paper; it’s about material intervention.
Did your experience organizing shows influence your Summer Letterpress Academy?
Absolutely. It’s about having a maker’s instinct. I could teach at a university, but I wouldn’t have the same autonomy. Traditional semesters force students to overload their schedules, rushing through work rather than actually learning. My academy gives them a space to slow down, focus, and engage with production on a deeper level. I can’t offer them a degree, but I can offer them time. And time is the most valuable resource in design education.
How do we overcome visual pollution?
Bad typography is everywhere. Look at shop signs, posters—aesthetic clutter dominates public space. I designed a poster confronting this issue: an act of controlled typographic chaos. I used four different typefaces, all stretched beyond recognition. Some were outlined, their weight artificially inflated. The color choices were intentionally abrasive. Is that typographic pollution? I say no. Real pollution is the generic, lifeless typography we accept as neutral. The most damaging design isn’t loud; it’s invisible. And semantics are king, always.
What do you mean by that?
Typography should reflect content. If I’m designing for a punk show, the poster should feel loud, dark, intense. If it’s for a classical concert, it should carry a different rhythm. Style is secondary to meaning. I don’t chase an aesthetic; I respond to context. That’s what makes the work honest.
Have you made posters using found materials?
Constantly, but often in unexpected ways. Sometimes it’s a physical material; other times, it’s a technique unearthed during experimentation. Maybe I flip a sheet by accident during a print run and discover an unexpected effect. It might not work in the moment, but I file it away for later. Found materials aren’t just objects—they’re discoveries.
What can a designer do for the public good?
Why should there even be good graphic design in the public sphere? The most important thing I can teach young designers is to value their own work—to take pride in their process. That, in itself, is a contribution. My practice isn’t scalable; it’s a direct economy. The money I make either funds my studio or feeds my family. It’s as honest as buying potatoes from a farmer. And maybe that’s enough.
Follow Dafi’s work here.
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