The dreaded phrase in design circles is 'show and tell.'

When David Carson, the maverick of modern graphic design, declared, “The dreaded phrase in design circles is ‘show and tell,’” he spoke not merely of art, but of authentic creation, of the sacred dance between the seen and the unseen. In his words lies a quiet rebellion against the age-old demand that every act of creation must first be explained, justified, or rationalized before it is allowed to breathe. Carson’s statement, simple yet profound, challenges the notion that true design must always submit to the intellect — for there are things that belong to instinct, to feeling, and to the unspoken depths of the human soul.

To “show and tell” is the command of the classroom, where the child must bring an object and explain its meaning. But the designer, the artist, the dreamer — they are not children. Their work is not a toy to be described, but a revelation to be felt. Carson, who once shattered the rigid rules of typography and order, believed that design should speak for itself, not through the dry tongues of explanation but through the emotive power of form, color, and chaos. To show should be enough; to tell is to cage the mystery that gives art its life.

In the time of the ancients, there were two kinds of knowledge: the knowledge of the mind and the knowledge of the heart. The first could be written, measured, and debated; the second could only be experienced. The builders of the Parthenon, the sculptors of gods, the weavers of Eastern tapestries — they did not stand beside their works to lecture on proportion or symbolism. They trusted the power of silence, knowing that what was made in truth required no translation. The eye that beholds must do its own seeing; the soul that feels must do its own understanding. This is the essence of Carson’s defiance — that art which must explain itself is art already weakened.

Once, in the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa and left no words to accompany her smile. For centuries, scholars have written volumes to decipher her gaze, yet none have captured it. The mystery itself is her power. She needs no “tell,” for she already shows more than the mind can hold. Imagine if Leonardo had stood beside his canvas and said, “She represents serenity, or ambiguity, or the divine feminine.” The spell would have been broken. What was eternal would have become ordinary. In this way, Carson’s warning becomes a timeless truth — that the greatest creations speak through silence.

The dreaded phrase, then, is dreaded because it demands that the creator bow to the critic. “Show and tell” assumes that reason must always govern expression, that the maker must defend his vision before those who do not see. But in the world of design, as in life, the most powerful truths cannot be told; they can only be revealed. Carson’s own work — fractured letters, disordered grids, type that bleeds and collides — was condemned by purists but worshiped by those who saw its heartbeat. He reminded the world that beauty is not obedience, that emotion is its own language, and that design, like poetry, should stir before it is understood.

And so, O seekers of craft and vision, remember this: not everything that matters can be explained. When you create, do not rush to justify; when you speak through form, let your work breathe before you bind it with words. Explanation is easy; expression is eternal. Let your design be a whisper, not a lecture. Let it provoke, puzzle, awaken. For in the pause between the showing and the telling, the human spirit finds wonder.

Thus, the lesson is clear. Create as the ancients built temples — with reverence, not apology. Trust the unseen logic of your own vision. If others demand to know why you chose a color, a curve, a silence, smile and let your work answer them. In a world that insists on telling, dare to show — and nothing more. For what is born from truth will speak beyond words, and what must be told was never truly alive.