In 1995, David Carson created what might be the most unreadable magazine spread in history. For an interview with Bryan Ferry in Ray Gun, he set the entire piece in Zapf Dingbats (a font of pure symbols). You couldn't read a word. It was chaotic, confrontational and absolutely intentional. Carson's reasoning? He found the interview boring.
That moment of deliberate imperfection, that embrace of chaos over clarity, feels strangely prescient as we look at design in 2026. Because after the recent boom of algorithmic visuals and machine-learned aesthetics, designers will be picking up their metaphorical spray cans, Tipp-Ex, pens and pencils, and fighting back.
The authenticity crisis
Here's what that rebellion is really about: authenticity. In an age where deepfakes can simulate anyone, where bot accounts masquerade as real people and where AI can generate convincing content in seconds, proof of human presence has become valuable currency. Imperfection isn't just an aesthetic choice, it's a trust signal. AI can give us the answers, but only we can give it soul.
When you see a rough edge, a hand-drawn element, or a deliberately wonky composition, your brain registers something crucial… a person made this. In the dangerous waters of the modern internet, where misinformation spreads instantly and authenticity is increasingly difficult to verify, those fingerprints matter. They're proof of provenance and markers of genuine intent.
For brands, the stakes are high. If your visual presence feels too algorithmic and/or formulaic then audiences could disengage. They’ll scroll past or click away, and at the end of the day they won't convert. In a world where consumers are increasingly suspicious online, looking artificial can hurt you. They want to know that there are real, honest people on the other side of the screen. The cost of appearing inauthentic isn't just aesthetic, it's lost trust, lost attention and ultimately, lost revenue.
This is why imperfection is more than a trend. It's a response to an authenticity crisis.
The rebellion has already begun
Walk through any design platform and you'll see the evidence. Lindsay Marsh's trend analysis identifies "Punk-Grunge" as a defining aesthetic. Designers turning toward "grit, noise, rebellion and the visual tension of 'brokenness' to reclaim authorship, voice and personality." Creative Boom's illustration trends report emphasises the need for experimental aesthetics and positivity, with industry professionals calling for innovation that breaks from over-digitalised work.
The pattern is clear across disciplines. In branding, Mother Design's Bentzion Goldman argues that weirdness can help brands stand out in an era of safe, forgettable design. In web design, Wix's trend report highlights designers intentionally breaking free of clean, algorithmic templates, blending playfulness with functionality.
This return to craft isn't nostalgia, it's recovering something fundamental. In the early 2000s, before software dominated design education, my university course emphasised techniques like collage, screen print and letterpress. Not because digital tools didn't exist, but because these analog processes taught something deeper about layout, composition and typography that you simply can't learn by dragging boxes around a screen. There's a tactile understanding that comes from physically cutting and pasting, from feeling the weight of letterforms, from making irreversible decisions with ink and paper. That appreciation – embodied, physical, human, is at risk of being lost from a generation of designers trained primarily on software, and designers that champion a craft-led approach will be the ones that capture attention.
When perfection becomes the problem
AI is getting better and better at generating acceptable design. It can create clean layouts, balanced compositions and pleasing colour palettes in seconds. It can mimic styles, follow rules and optimise for engagement. What it struggles with is being deliberately, meaningfully imperfect. And imperfection is where humanity lives and where authenticity is proven.
Lindsay Marsh identifies imperfection as a defining characteristic, with designers embracing organic and imperfect aesthetics featuring hand-drawn marks, texture overlays and intentional mistakes as a direct counter to AI. In a world where machines can generate competence, the value shifts to what machines can't do: be weird, be wrong, be wonderfully human.
This is why Chris Ashworth's collision of textures and hand-rendered typography resonates so powerfully for me. Why David Carson's legacy feels more relevant than it has in years, and why Neville Brody's observations ring true. He laments the loss of editorial experimentation, noting how content management systems impose rigid structures, reducing opportunities for expressive, non-formulaic design. These designers understand that the human touch, whether maximal or minimal, is what AI can't replicate.
The purposeful imperfection paradox
But here's the critical caveat: imperfection is a knife edge. There's a vast difference between deliberate, purposeful imperfection and work that looks amateur. Cross that line and instead of signaling authenticity, you suggest incompetence.
Carson's Zapf Dingbats spread worked because it was clearly intentional. A bold choice by a master designer. The imperfection was controlled. Craft masquerading as chaos. You have to know the rules intimately before you can break them effectively. Your "mistakes" need to read as choices, not accidents.
This is especially critical in digital design. Visual design isn't separate from UX. It is UX. If the visual language feels too synthetic, too algorithmic, users sense the artificiality and disengage. But if it looks genuinely broken, they'll leave immediately. The sweet spot is imperfection that feels intentional, authentic and paradoxically well-crafted. Imperfections that invite you to look a little closer and explore further.
Craft across the disciplines
The rebellion manifests differently across fields, but the DNA is consistent: visible hands, obvious humanity, deliberate imperfection as proof of authenticity.
In Digital Design: Wix reports that "Tactile Maximalism" is emerging. Think overlapping images, mismatched textures and layouts that feel deliberately messy rather than algorithmically perfect. These design choices signal human curation over algorithmic assembly. How&How's recent branding for Big Cartel exemplifies this approach. As founder Cat How describes it, the project was "never about chasing trends or polishing things to death: it was about texture over perfection, personality over polish", backing the messy, maker spirit that made Big Cartel iconic in the first place. But these approaches work only when underlying architecture remains intuitive. Visual warmth without functional clarity is just frustration in a prettier package.
In Illustration: Creative Boom's trends report emphasises hand-printed artworks and experimental aesthetics, with industry professionals calling for approaches that feel more obviously assembled by human hands rather than the seamless, algorithmic blending AI excels at.
In Motion Design: Motion is serving a crucial purpose in making brand and digital experiences feel more human. It can make flat screens feel physical. The bounce, the drag, the way elements respond to interaction. These micro-movements appeal to our haptic senses, making digital experiences feel tangible even when we can't touch them. When animation feels considered, playful, or even slightly imperfect in its timing, it signals human intention behind the screen. Thoughtful motion transforms pixels into something that feels warm, responsive and alive. Bridging the gap between digital precision and human touch.
In Branding: Bentzion Goldman argues that brands need to embrace weirdness and unconventional choices to stand out in an era of safe, forgettable design. In a landscape where AI can generate dozens of logo variations in minutes, the brands that stand out look like no algorithm would suggest them.
In Typography: The rise of display fonts, variable fonts with extreme weights and typefaces that feel hand-crafted all point to the same impulse. Creative Boom's typography trends for 2026 show fonts with irregularities and unconventional character construction dominating. These aren't fonts optimised for readability, they're fonts that prioritise personality.
In Music: Lo-fi production preserves visceral textures that feel organic and human. DJ and producer Four Tet (Kieren Hebden) exemplifies this, distinctively building electronic tracks with real samples (harp, guitar, piano, strings, hand percussion, vinyl crackles, analog warmth, etc) creating emotional resonance impossible with pristine digital synthesis. The imperfections aren't flaws, they're textures of reality.
There's also something profound about watching a DJ play vinyl-only sets. The crackling, the slight pitch variations as they mix, the physical manipulation. It's all evidence of skill, of human timing, of someone truly performing. Compare that to CDJs where every track is perfect, pre-mastered, digitally precise. The polish removes evidence of the process and the humanity. The imperfection reveals the talent.
I remember spending every penny I had vinyl shopping in record shops around Leeds and London in my 20s. Hours flipping through crates, hunting for specific pressings, building relationships with shop owners. That hunt created value beyond the music itself. It was earned. That experience is lost on generations raised on Spotify, where everything exists instantly. There's no achievement in finding a track when every track is always available. It's the same problem with AI-generated design. Instant gratification removes the craft, the journey, the proof of passion and dedication.
At university I worked on a project that captured this perfectly. In an attempt to showcase urban graphic design, I bought small wooden frames and walked around Leeds, framing found typography. Old signage, weathered shop fronts, hand-painted lettering slowly peeling away. I'd frame them, photograph them, develop the negatives in a darkroom revealing the grain of film, then hand-bound them into a book. Yes, it was a classic art and design student project, but every step was analog, physical, irreversible. The imperfections, the grain, the focus issues, the binding irregularities weren't flaws. They were tactile evidence of process, proof that a person made this.
The broader context
This craft rebellion is part of a larger cultural recalibration around authenticity in the age of AI. It's Nice That's trend analysis
notes that designers are adopting approaches that counteract increasing fatigue from hyper-digital design processes, recognising that design work cannot be separated from the hands that make it.
The pattern emerges across creative industries. In music, lo-fi production is valued as authentic. In photography, film grain signals realness in an age of AI-generated imagery. In fashion, visible stitching communicates handcraft. Everywhere, the polish is coming off. Not because people can't achieve perfection, but because perfection has become suspicious.
Most designers embracing these trends also use AI tools, for ideation, for acceleration. But they're deliberate about where the machine stops and the human begins. They're using imperfection as a signature, as proof of presence. Demonstrating that a person was here, making choices, taking risks, making mistakes. But definitely here.
What this means
If you're creating in 2026, the invitation is clear: make your presence visible. Let things be rough around the edges. Trust your weird ideas. Break your own grids. Embrace the reductive. Strip things down in ways that feel distinctly human rather than algorithmically minimal. But make sure your imperfection reads as purposeful. Your rough edges need to feel like creative choices, not technical limitations. Your chaos needs underlying structure. Your rebellion needs craft behind it. And remember, visual design is inseparable from user experience. Signal authenticity without sacrificing function, prove humanity without compromising usability.
The rebellion isn't against technology, it's against homogenisation, against the loss of authenticity in a world where anything can be faked. It's a reassertion that design is fundamentally human. Emotional, idiosyncratic, sometimes illogical, often imperfect.
For brands and teams, the question isn’t whether or not to use emerging tools like AI (that’s inevitable) or even about how you differentiate yourself (important to consider given AI is trained on existing material). The question is about how you project your authenticity. What parts of your process still require judgement, personality, taste and risk? Where do you show your workings, because that’s where trust is built.
Maybe David Carson had it right in 1995 when he set that interview in Zapf Dingbats. Maybe the point was never about the content being readable. Maybe it was about asserting that human choice, even a seemingly absurd one, matters. That the human in the system is the point. That the imperfection is the proof.
In 2026, as we stand surrounded by perfectly generated alternatives, that Bryan Ferry interview feels like prophecy. Because sometimes the most important thing a creative can do is make something no algorithm ever would. Something weird. Something imperfect. Something that couldn't exist without a specific human making a specific choice in a specific moment. That's not readable. That's not perfect. That's not always immediately understandable. But it's beautifully, defiantly human. In the age of artificial intelligence and opportunities to streamline every task, imperfection might be the most powerful thing that we can perfect.
So it’s time for the humans to fight back. Bring popcorn (and Tipp-Ex).