by Patsy Carvalho Ask someone what a creative practice looks like, and they will often describe a routine. They may picture an early morning ritual, an organized desk, a favorite notebook beside a favorite mug, or a studio where inspiration thrives. We share a strong belief that creativity is dependent upon finding the right system. But something quieter eventually breaks through amongst a cluster of storms. A creative practice isn't built from perfect routines. It is built f

by Patsy Carvalho That is a loaded question. Creativity is often pictured as a singular moment where inspiration is at its peak. The designer has this idea that has been floating in their head for a while, they sit down and just create something absolutely breathtaking. We celebrate the breakthrough, the finished piece, and polished portfolio. But we overlook everything that came before it. The reality is much quieter. The creative practice starts well before anything comes t

What is rarely seen are the crossed-out sketches, abandoned layouts, and piles of references. Yet, those things that are never seen are where the most is learned.

This article explores Jennifer Peterson's process as she works through a design trend, specifically the scrapbook design trend. This design is like a collage with a homey feel. It is a collection of tape, images, typography, and paper organized in a way to “document or portray an idea,” says Jennifer Peterson.

Have you looked at your own shelves and wondered what does this show about who I am as a creator? Are you aesthetic to the eye? Or are you chaotic?

These are five things that I’ve been paying attention to lately.

What didn't work this month?

Make Something From One Photograph

Most Creative Growth Is Invisible When It's Happening.

Connect to Understand. Question to Learn. Archive to Remember.

Observation doesn't become a habit because we understand its importance. It becomes a habit because we practice it. That realization sits at the heart of the Marginalia Deck.

After enough projects, enough revisions, enough failed ideas and successful ones, certainty begins to soften. You realize that many of the strongest pieces of design you've admired don't succeed because they followed every principle. They succeed because someone understood exactly when those principles no longer served the work.

There is something different about holding a book that has lived a life. The corners are softened. The pages no longer lie perfectly flat. A coffee stain interrupts the margin. Someone folded the corner of page forty-three because they intended to return but never did. A strip of yellowing tape holds together a spine that refused to give up. None of these marks was part of the original design, yet together they become inseparable from the object itself. They tell us someon

There are moments when a page seems to breathe, like the words and the page they live on are alive in all the ways that matter. A poster catches your eye as you walk past it, with the typography feeling like it’s pushing just beyond the edges of the paper, expanding more than the space allows. A photograph appears frozen in the middle of an action you instinctively finish in your mind. An album cover leans forward with such force that it almost feels impossible for it to r

The first issue of Marginalia is an invitation to slow down and study the visual world with greater intention. Rather than collecting trends, these pages trace their origins, asking what today's design language reveals about the culture creating it. Each article builds upon the same belief: creative judgment is developed through observation, not imitation.

There is always a temptation to dismiss trends as surface-level. Fast-moving, temporary, and often disposable. In design, trends can feel especially dangerous, something to chase rather than question. But observation asks for something different; it asks us not what is popular, but why.

Before design becomes anything, it starts with an observation. From the shape caught in passing, a color on a weathered wall, or the curve of lettering on an old storefront; the world is full of visual fragments, waiting to be noticed. This magazine was born from that act of noticing.

As both founder and editor-in-chief of Marginalia, Jennifer has spent years collecting references that most people would walk past without noticing. Old books with worn edges. Quiet typography. Weathered buildings. The soft grain of printed photographs. The subtle texture of fabric catching the morning light. Rather than chasing the new, she has become increasingly interested in understanding what endures and why certain visual ideas keep returning across generations.