Graphic designer, do you need to study “The Design Greats”?

Despite how often design history is dissected in the academic context of crits and early-morning university lecture rooms, it rarely enters the conversations of working creatives as regularly. That is until recently, when the relevance of historic design figureheads, and whether they still matter, was brought into question on X. “Does a profession have a future if its contemporary practitioners don’t know who shaped it?” this Tweet proposed. “Or, perhaps, is it fine without such understanding?”

This topic intrigued us. Is our creativity somehow capped without this knowledge? Not only for creatives entering the field, but also those deeply immersed in their practices. What about those who are self-taught? To help us with these enquiries, we reached out to graphic designer and art director Shamma Buhazza, who embarked on her own journey of design education, to discuss the place of traditional design history in a rapidly evolving field.

There’s nothing wrong with studying and valuing Western graphic design history. The real issue arises, however, when this perspective becomes so narrow that it implies design can only come from one story – as I once believed.

When I studied graphic design in 2011, I was exposed to a traditional design education. At the time, the rigid methodologies I encountered often left little room for diverse cultural narratives or self-directed exploration. While I genuinely loved studying the history of graphic design, as it gave me a solid foundation, it had an unintended impact – I didn’t realise that people like me could have a place in this field. This led me to try to mould myself into someone I wasn’t. I took what I was taught about “good” and “bad” design to heart and, over time, began distancing myself from my roots. I felt that they were too loud, too different, to fit into the narrow framework of my design textbooks.

The personal drivers that led me to embrace a more vernacular approach to design came from a growing sense of cultural disconnection, and a desire to reclaim my narrative. Early in my career, I was shaped by a predominantly Eurocentric design education that emphasised traditional methodologies and left little room for diverse cultural narratives. In the absence of representation, I began to internalise the idea that my heritage was “primitive”, or didn’t belong in the design world. Over time, I recognised how limiting this perspective was – not just for my creativity, but for my sense of self.

I became determined to create a design practice that was rooted in the stories and aesthetics of my heritage. My goal wasn’t to present overt cultural markers, but to reflect subtler overlaps and intersections, letting the narrative emerge through layered influences. I wanted to convey the richness of my background in a way that felt integrated and organic, rather than forced or obvious. It’s a shift that opened my eyes to the power of a vernacular approach. Both as a medium for self-discovery, and authentic representation.

To explore this perspective, I stepped away from conventional design sources and focused on cultural research that felt personal, relevant. Rather than relying on academic or established design histories, I sought out materials and narratives that reflected the nuances of my heritage. I wanted to approach design through the lens of lived experience, rather than adhering to rigid frameworks or global trends.

My approach to research was organic. I drew inspiration from local culture and influences that resonated with my story. I engaged with the evolving aspects of my cultural identity – local crafts, traditional patterns and cultural artefacts. These elements weren’t static representations, but dynamic influences that intersected with contemporary design practices. It allowed me to bridge the gap between design theory and cultural identity, creating a practice that felt both inclusive and deeply personal. I integrate these influences in ways that subtly inform my work, letting cultural nuances emerge naturally and guide the design process.

I believe it’s essential for a profession to know its roots, but also to understand that history is often incomplete. Traditional design education often focuses on a narrow selection of “foundational” figures, overlooking the voices and contributions that don’t fit into the mainstream narrative. While it’s important to recognise these icons, it’s equally important to understand that they represent only a small part of a much larger story. We must ask ourselves: who decides who gets to be a foundational figure, and whose voices have been left out?

To truly engage with the profession’s past, we need to adopt a more active approach to history. This means questioning what we’re taught and doing our own research to uncover the perspectives that have been forgotten or sidelined. Knowing the figures typically celebrated in design history isn’t about feeling obligated to be inspired by them; it’s about understanding the frameworks they’ve created, so we can reassess, reinterpret, or even, rewrite them. History provides us with a foundation, but that foundation should support a broader, more inclusive story that allows us to connect with figures who genuinely resonate with us and reflect our own experiences. By doing so, we can honour the past while shaping a future that’s more diverse – and relevant.

For anyone looking to explore design history in a more vernacular and personal way, I would advise broadening your sources of inspiration beyond the well-known figures and iconic images. Design history isn’t just about famous names or static visual references. It’s found in the everyday surroundings, sounds, conversations and local cultures that shape us. Seek out stories and influences that resonate with you personally, whether through music, literature, or the textures and details of your environment.

Question what we’re taught as “foundational” and consider who might be missing from those narratives. Often, traditional design education overlooks valuable contributions from diverse voices and traditions. By doing your own research – and embracing cultural influences that speak to you – you’re not just learning history; you’re actively expanding and enriching it. This approach allows you to build a layered understanding of design, connecting with the past in a way that feels authentic and aligned with your own perspective. It’s about reimagining design history and creating a richer, more inclusive narrative that evolves with you.

Reflecting on this journey, I’ve come to understand the importance of broadening our perspectives beyond the Western framework. Today, as I continue to create, I see design as a tool for liberation – a means to reclaim and reshape narratives, bridging worlds and histories.