I was an illustrator and graphic designer for almost twenty years before I branched out into a discipline called, “User-centered Design” – a mixture of art, technology and psychology. I fell into it serendipitously when a psychologist named Dennis Wingman came into the art department where I worked in the early 1990’s and said he needed “icons” for a “graphic user interface”, (or “GUI” - pronounced, “gooey” – for short.)

Each icon in the set had to be 32 pixels by 32 pixels, and have enough of a look and feel so that the user would know intuitively that they were all related. At the same time, they had to be dissimilar enough so that the user could differentiate between them and their purposes.

I was the first – and only - artist in the telecommunications company where I worked to attempt this. Dennis was a patient and instructive mentor. There was no set way to design them. After a few false starts, I found that Adobe Photoshop worked best, and the icons were best designed pixel by pixel. I was also limited to the sixteen colors that Windows was able to display at that time.

What is a Graphic User Interface? Sounds very technical and mysterious, doesn’t it? Not really. The web page you are looking at now is a GUI. The desktop of your computer is a GUI. The dashboard of your car, that tells you what your speed and mileage is, is a GUI. So’s your wristwatch.

The purpose of a particular icon on the GUI is to make it easier and faster for the user to use the technology. The artist makes the icon distinctive and also gives a hint to its purpose. The psychologist provides guidance to the artist, and also tests the icons and the GUI with real people, to assure that the GUI is “user-friendly”.

Being employed by a telecommunications company, I learned very quickly how to work with technical people. For the most part, our collaborations were seamless. They knew what they wanted and were able to explain that very well. The drawbacks were that telecommunications technology was changing rapidly from week to week. Technical illustrations done for an article often had to be “updated” at the last minute to reflect those changes.

I did quite a few projects with one of the co-inventors of the lithium battery; he was a very amiable and cooperative man. Trouble was, he had a very thick French accent, and I had to pay attention very carefully when he gave me instructions. Despite what my beautiful wife might tell you, it did help to improve my listening skills.

Then, there was the technical writer I shared an office with later on in my career. Our work stations were on opposite walls, so we worked back to back. One day, he sent me an e-mail requesting some information. It was something I could have told him verbally, but sent the information via e-mail, and told him that if he was ever in the area, he should drop by and say hello. Suddenly, I heard laughing from his desk.

In 1995, I left the Art Department for the Rapid Applications Department. “Rapid Apps” was a new start-up department with my company whose mission was to quickly and efficiently build web sites for other companies. They needed a usability artist, and by then I had worked with quite a few of the Rapid Apps people on previous projects.

It was an exciting time to get involved with a “new” technology. I worked with quite an interesting group of characters.

There was Laura Hermann, a young usability expert. “How did you get involved with industrial psychology?” I once asked her.

“I majored in psychology and got my degree” she told me, “and then I had an internship listening to patients and discovered I didn’t like people. I found that I can’t stand listening to alcoholics tell me their problems all day, so I went into human factors.”

She was a conscientious – but intense - young woman, who failed to see the humor in going through four years of school, only to discover a critical flaw in her career path.

There was Martin Fugazy, another usability expert with a terrific sense of humor – thank goodness. Everyone in Rapid Apps had seen the movie “Mars Attacks” and laughed at it. Fugazy and I would greet each other in the hall with the stupid one-word Martian language from the film: “Ack-ack! Ack ack ack, ack ack!” Sometimes we’d carry on whole conversations like that. After a week, it got old, and we started talking English again.

Six months later, I called him, got his voice mail, and decided to leave a “Martian” message. When I had done, I pressed the button for “urgent” instead of “regular” delivery; I don’t know why. I figured “urgent” meant it would put the message at the top of the list of messages to be listened to. Then, I forgot all about it.

Two days later, he stopped by my office, laughing.

“I was flying to Chicago when my beeper went off, saying I had an urgent message. When I landed, I ran to a phone, dialed my voicemail – all out of breath - and I heard the message, ‘Ack-ack! Ack ack ack ack-ack ack!’”

Not all clients were so cooperative. Rapid Apps was contracted to put together an online training tutorial for a bank with international offices. They had installed a new premium-writing system and needed to train their people on how to use it. I accompanied my boss, Matilda Sydney, and Laura Hermann to a meeting at the bank’s corporate headquarters. We sat a large table in a conference room with a group of eight young MBAs and discussed how progress was going on the project.

“Jojo isn’t happy with the way some of the script is written.”

“Jojo wants final approval on what colors you’ll use.”

“Jojo feels that the deadline should be two weeks earlier.”

“Jojo wants two more lessons added on to what we’ve already agreed upon.”

“Jojo would like to see all the graphics by next week.”

I gathered that “Jojo” was the big boss. I never had the privilege of meeting him and never even got to see what he looked like, but I always imagined him to look a little like Dean Martin – wearing a tuxedo to work carrying around a martini wherever he went. Jojo was the stereotypical "difficult client", but it was hard to get annoyed with him. He had the aura of Zorro or The Batman; never actually seen, but his influence was everywhere.

Perhaps inspired by the helper magician in Lotus notes, Jojo wanted a “man in tuxedo with a cane” to point to various sections of the tutorial’s screen. So, I designed “Tuxedo Man” – a cartoony Thurber-esque fellow with yellow skin. I picked yellow as a multicultural salute to the Simpsons.

I had my graphics intern pose on top of a desk with a broomstick while I sketched poses for “Tuxedo Man” pointing this way and that. Inked illustrations were then scanned into Adobe Illustrator where they were auto-traced and colored.

The verdict?

“Jojo doesn’t like it. ‘Tuxedo Man’ looks too gay,” said Matilda in her pleasant, lilting Australian accent.

“Does he want us to re-design him so that he only looks a little gay?”

“No. He’s given up on the idea. He’d like some Archie-type characters to illustrate the tutorial.”

So I went off to the local library and checked out an “Archie” anthology. Next day, a set of illustrations drawn in the style of Archie comics was on its way to the insurance company.

The verdict?

“Jojo doesn’t like it. Change the style to ‘Doonesbury’.”

(By now, this had turned into a game of “Nixon and His Lawyers.” Nixon wouldn’t tell his lawyers his motivations for what he did during Watergate. They had to go off, figure out a theory, and then pass it by him. He’d reply along the lines of, “Good theory, fellas, but that’s not it. Try again!” Off they’d go again for another whack at it.)

Matilda presented my set of Doonesbury-type illustrations to Jojo.

The verdict? Oh, come now!

“Jojo doesn’t like it.”

We ended up using clip art of buildings from Microsoft Word; I had to draw red arrows from one building to another. Usually, in designing training tutorials, I try to use people in the illustrations; it's very easy for human beings to relate to other human beings.

Finally, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Matilda presented the prototype to Jojo. The next morning, Wednesday, the whole team met for a report. The first thing Matilda said to open the meeting was, “Jojo doesn’t like it.” There was a lot of overtime that Thanksgiving weekend.

There’s a Three Stooges movie where they are passing a red-hot iron to each other; that was our dealings with Jojo. I did design a Flash game called “What Will Jojo Like?” that everyone on the team enjoyed playing. You can too; it’s at the end of this column.

The project did get done, and on time. The members of the team – and their significant others - were treated to a Tex-Mex dinner in New York, and a Broadway show; Bring in Da Noise; Bring in Da Funk.

It was a great show.

I wonder if Jojo would have liked it?

(The game is below. You might have to click on the "Play" button twice.)