Behind the Scenes of SFT Royalbrick

Tell us a little about your diploma project. How and when did you decide to create a typeface based on brickmakers’ marks?

Before type unexpectedly and irreversibly took over my life, I was sure I would become a book designer. My diploma project was actually meant to showcase my skills as the designer of a complex, multi-page publication. We were free to choose our own topics, and I decided to dive headfirst into one of my favorite areas — architectural ceramics.

Over the course of my diploma project, it transformed quite radically, but its starting point was the idea of creating a catalog for the Museum of Architectural Ceramics in Saint Petersburg. I looked for inspiration first and foremost within the museum’s own walls — and I found it quite literally on the doorstep, in a brick installation at the entrance to the exhibition. That was my very first encounter with the subject of brickmakers’ marks from Imperial Russia, and I decided to dig deeper, sensing that this was where I could find the key to the graphic concept of the publication.

What qualities in those brickmakers’ marks convinced you they were promising material for a type design study?

What drew me in was, quite literally, the “hidden” potential of the subject — a unique kind of lettering made to be walled in and to disappear beneath layers of plaster and paint. When you live in a city built largely with this kind of brick, searching for its traces becomes a playful quest.

Each discovery — during a renovation at home, under a patch of crumbling plaster, in a pile of construction debris, or simply on the street near yet another building entrance — feels like a delightful surprise and a small celebration. I began collecting these bricks, bringing them home and arranging them as a decorative display. The more I studied the fragments of stamped inscriptions, the more I wanted to “stamp” them into something contemporary — something that would exist in plain sight, rather than hidden deep within the city’s walls.

Which specific examples and inscriptions did you look at first? Can you name a few particular marks or manufacturers?

I began with a quick survey of the available brick-stamp archives — there are a few detailed online collections that seem to include almost every existing mark, even from the smallest and lesser-known producers. At first, I wasn’t sure where hidden gems might turn up, so I collected everything I found. In the end, though, I mainly focused on manufacturers from Saint Petersburg.

Among the most common and memorable were bricks from Neva, Stroganov, Skala, Ukke, Ermak, and Zarya.

What stood out to you about these historical lettering designs — what felt especially characteristic of the 19th century?

Across all the lettering I studied at that initial stage, there were enough ideas to inspire at least a dozen more typefaces. Above all, there were many charming solutions for narrow grotesques and slab serifs — the styles most popular at the time. I even stumbled on some fascinating concepts for ultra-thin styles, which I hadn’t expected to find at all.

The discoveries I liked most I sketched for the future — all together on a single sheet. That sheet still hangs above my desk, right in front of me, as a daily reminder and with the hope that one day I’ll bring those ideas to life.

The first shape to “crystallize” out of all that typographic material was the distinctive form of the letter K, simply because it appeared so often. It was also the first to naturally take on a concave center — that characteristic “softness” found on many marks as a technical byproduct of stamping.

The more expensive bricks from large manufacturers, unsurprisingly, had higher-quality impressions, with edges as clean and even as possible, but even there the effect remained visible. All the more interesting were the less successful impressions. Those were the ones that suggested how to handle serifs and complex details: stamped into the brick clay, they often bled toward the center, staying sharp at the edges while softening in the middle. That soft convergence, combined with the crispness of the counterforms, became the foundation of the entire graphic language.

Were there other examples of typography from that era — posters, signage — that influenced the letterforms?

In truth, I tried not to look much beyond that — it felt like the bricks themselves already held enough visual and historical material to serve as a foundation for something original. Still, I suppose some accumulated visual memory was at work in the background, because the typeface inevitably hints at Art Nouveau and Art Deco, and even at certain Neo-Russian elements that were popular in the decorative and applied arts at the turn of the century.

How did your observations of the marks’ technical features lead to the typeface’s extreme contrast?

The essence of the typeface lies in that same technological concavity. It entered the design as a defining feature, and at first, I treated it carefully, trying not to stray too far from the original. That’s how the first style was born — a kind of “normal” weight, quite bold and hefty, and closest to the source material in appearance.

But I quickly realized that for the original project this wasn’t enough — it needed to grow into a family, with a range of weights and widths. That opened up room for bolder experiments with form. I could let go of the strict historical reference and instead focus on my own graphic language, exploring new possibilities within it.

The first thing I wanted to try was to see how these constructions would look in an ultra-narrow format. And in this extreme compression a new story emerged — one with wild contrast and eccentric, wave-like verticals that had originally been rather calm, solid stems.

What techniques did you use to “break away” from faithfully repeating the original and create your own style?

The style emerged the moment I allowed myself to treat my drawing as an independent idea — to forget that it had any historical roots at all. When you hold too tightly to the prototype, it stifles your imagination — I notice this every time I work on any kind of revival.

What helped me here was the need to develop additional directions for the typeface so it could address more needs within the book project. Having the freedom to look at the design from angles that the historical and technological context of the source never anticipated gave me room to go further and find unconventional solutions.

Did anything prove especially difficult when shaping the letterforms?

Surprisingly, I now remember this project as almost effortless — done in one go. It began as a personal challenge, and much of what I came up with in the early stages — almost playfully — ended up staying nearly unchanged.

The real difficulties came later, during the process of expanding the character set. That’s when I encountered letter constructions that were hard to adapt to the typeface’s eccentric forms. At that stage, the design could no longer be assembled like a puzzle out of pre-made parts — I had to invent entirely new details for specific situations, while making sure not to overcomplicate an already intricate design. The goal was to keep the system coherent and the shapes readable.

Were there any constraints that dictated specific design decisions?

Things became more complicated when I began to notice a distinct, almost shimmering gradient effect across a line of text — caused by that same concavity in the stems combined with ultra-thin horizontals. This was something I hadn’t anticipated at all, and it became the first and most significant limitation I had to work around.

It meant adjusting some of the more complex constructions — especially in Cyrillic and in punctuation and other functional symbols — to keep the overall texture consistent while minimizing this unintended visual effect.

How did you deal with these challenges?

There were two main challenges: keeping the concavity consistent across the entire character set, and managing that effect at the line level. There was no room for compromise.

I had to bend what doesn’t naturally bend, sometimes breaking shapes and inventing unconventional constructions. In the end, though, they turned out to be surprisingly easy to get used to — as long as you see them in the context of a full line of text rather than as isolated characters.

Do you have specific contexts in mind for how SFT Royalbrick should be used?

It’s first and foremost a bold, attention-grabbing display face — it naturally pulls focus, which makes it work beautifully as a standalone decorative element. Thanks to its distinctive shapes, the typeface has strong ornamental potential: in dense settings, it can read almost like a ready-made pattern.

At the same time, the eccentricity of its forms means that even a single letter can stand on its own as a graphic element, capable of forming a recognizable mark or logo. Underneath that visual impact is a precise, well-balanced structure: the typeface feels solidly grounded, holds the line with confidence, and forms clear, readable text blocks with crisp counterforms at any scale. This makes it an excellent choice for book design and exhibition graphics.

Have you used this typeface anywhere yet — in your diploma project or other layouts?

From the very beginning, the typeface was intended to be a key element that would pull together a complex layout and bring life to the strict structure of the catalog — all without overpowering the main visual content of the publication: the color photographs and drawings of ceramic tiles, which were already visually rich and intricate.

This is where the ornamental quality of the typeface proved especially valuable. In large headlines, it worked almost like a decorative pattern, reminiscent of the texture of carved white stone or wood. This created an unexpected nod to Old Russian culture — the very subject the publication largely illustrated.

In the end, I even decided to build the cover design entirely around this effect, resulting in what looked like a patterned clay block — something between a ceramic tile and the mold used to shape it. The typeface also worked surprisingly well in more technical roles, such as in headers and labels naming specific manufacturers. In those cases, it became a literal visualization of the historical prototype — small, improvised stamps, but now for ceramic producers mentioned in the historical context of tile-making rather than for brickworks.

In what direction do you see the type family developing?

I think it would be interesting to bring the family to what I originally envisioned — a range from the current narrow style all the way to an extremely wide one, with a matching spread of weights, reviving the very first prototype: the bold “normal” style.

What intrigues me most is developing the width axis within the current weight. The light, wide style was conceived as a purely experimental piece, and in character it doesn’t much resemble its narrow sibling — even though it’s built on the same structural principles. It turned out even wilder and strayed far from the historical source, which I see as a perfect excuse for a playful typographic ride.

What turned out to be the most unexpected and engaging part of working on this typeface?

For me, the process was, above all, a discovery of where an abstract experiment can lead. I witnessed a kind of magic sparked by a simple “what if?”: “What if I take this design and compress it dramatically?”

That experience taught me not to shy away from risk in type design and to set myself unusual tasks. When I do that, the work turns into an engaging game — full of its own surprises and interesting challenges.

What advice would you give to someone who wants to follow your path and base a type design on an unconventional historical source?

I think the main advice is not to hold on to the source too tightly: study it thoroughly, take the most essential, inspiring elements from it, and then let it go.

It’s essential to find a fresh perspective — to start seeing your own sketch as an independent source of inspiration. Infuse it with new meaning, and don’t confine yourself to the original context.