Meet the designer

by Patsy Carvalho

Every publication reflects the person who creates it. Some reveal themselves through bold opinions or polished manifestos. Others emerge more quietly, through recurring questions, familiar textures, and the observations that recur between the lines. Marginalia belongs to the latter.

Long before the first issue was planned, before grids were established or articles were written, there was simply the habit of paying attention. A photograph of peeling paint saved without explanation. A magazine spread revisited months later. A handwritten note scribbled in the margin of a book because a single sentence felt worth remembering. These small moments rarely seem important on their own, yet together they become something larger: a way of seeing.

That way of seeing belongs to Jennifer Peterson.

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.

It is this curiosity that gave birth to Marginalia.

More than a magazine, Marginalia is an ongoing archive of visual culture, a publication devoted to studying how design reflects history, technology, and the changing ways we experience the world. It asks readers to slow down, observe more closely, and develop creative judgment through attention instead of imitation.

For Jennifer, design has never been about collecting trends or creating the loudest work in the room. It has always been about asking better questions. Why does one typeface feel timeless while another quickly feels dated? Why are designers returning to handmade textures in an increasingly digital world? What can a faded sign, an old photograph, or a margin note teach us about the people who came before us? Those questions rarely have definitive answers, but perhaps that's the point.

These pages are not intended to be a traditional biography, but rather they are an invitation into the observations, routines, lessons, and experiments that continue to shape Jennifer's creative practice. Think of them less as a profile and more as opening someone's notebook; a collection of ideas still in progress, references still being gathered, and questions that continue to evolve. Before every designer develops a visual style, they develop a way of looking at the world.

Understanding that perspective is perhaps the best introduction to both Jennifer and the publication she is building.

Biography

Before there were logos, layouts, or carefully considered typefaces, there were sketchbooks.

Jennifer Peterson grew up filling pages with cartoons, characters, and imagined worlds, spending hours drawing simply because she loved the process. Long before she understood the language of branding or visual communication, creativity was already becoming the way she made sense of the world. Every drawing was an observation. Every page was another attempt to capture an idea before it disappeared.

That curiosity eventually led her to study graphic design, where she discovered that design was about much more than making things look beautiful. It was a discipline built on communication, problem-solving, history, and storytelling. She learned that every color carries emotion, every typeface has a personality, and every design decision quietly shapes the way people experience a brand. It was a realization that changed the way she looked at everything.

Design stopped being something that only existed on screens or in textbooks. It became something she noticed everywhere; in the weathered lettering painted on old storefronts, in magazine layouts, on book covers, in museum exhibitions, and even in the quiet rhythm of everyday objects. Inspiration no longer came from searching online for the latest trends. Instead, it emerged through observation, collecting fragments of the world that felt honest, timeless, and deeply human. That philosophy continues to shape the work she creates today.

Based in Wyoming, Jennifer specializes in thoughtful branding for small businesses, creating visual identities that feel warm, intentional, and rooted in the stories of the people behind them. Her process begins long before opening design software. She spends time listening, researching, asking questions, and understanding what a business wants people to feel before considering what it should look like. For her, branding is less about aesthetics and more about creating connection; design that reflects values, personality, and purpose rather than simply following visual trends.

Outside the studio, she spends time with her husband, her son, and their dog, finding inspiration in the ordinary moments that often go unnoticed. She enjoys knitting, photography, reading fantasy novels, sketching, and collecting references that most people would likely pass without a second glance. Whether it's the texture of woven fabric, the grain of an old photograph, or the light filtering through a window, these small observations continually expand the visual library she carries with her.

Over time, Jennifer realized she wasn't simply collecting inspiration, she was building a way of seeing. That realization became the foundation for Marginalia.

Rather than creating another design publication focused on trends or tutorials, she imagined a magazine devoted to observation. A publication that studies visual culture with curiosity instead of urgency. One that encourages designers to slow down, ask better questions, and develop creative judgment through research, history, and careful attention to the world around them.

In many ways, Marginalia is a natural extension of Jennifer herself. It reflects the notebooks filled with sketches, the folders overflowing with saved references, the articles covered in handwritten notes, and the belief that creativity isn't sustained by constant inspiration, but by remaining curious enough to keep looking.

The magazine is still growing, just as every creative practice is. Each issue becomes another chapter in an evolving archive, a record of observations gathered over time and shared with others who believe that good design begins long before anything is ever made.

What I'm Paying attention to

Lately, I've noticed that I'm saving fewer finished designs and more fragments.

Instead of collecting polished brand identities or perfectly curated portfolios, my folders have become filled with typography samples, paper textures, handwritten notes, editorial layouts, and photographs that capture a feeling more than a finished idea. They're incomplete pieces of something larger, but that's exactly what draws me to them. I find myself studying how a page breathes, how a headline sits against a margin, or how the grain of recycled paper softens an image. Those details tell a story long before the words ever do.

The same shift has happened with color. I'm continually drawn back to faded blacks, warm creams, muted greens, earthy browns, and pale yellows. They aren't colors that demand attention. Instead, they feel as though they've already existed for years, carrying quiet histories with them. They remind me that good design doesn't always have to be loud to leave an impression. Sometimes the most memorable work whispers.

Even the things I'm reading have changed. There are very few books stacked on my desk these days. Instead, it's piles of printed articles on editorial design, publishing, art history, and visual culture. They're covered in highlights, folded corners, and notes scribbled in the margins. I return to them often—not because I'm looking for answers, but because each time I read them, I notice something I missed before.

That's become one of the biggest lessons of building Marginalia: observation is never finished.

The more I pay attention, the more I realize that design trends rarely appear out of nowhere. They're responses. They reflect the world we're living in and the questions we're collectively trying to answer. Recently I've been thinking a lot about the return of handmade textures, documentary photography, visible imperfections, and editorial typography. On the surface they may seem like aesthetic choices, but I believe they're reactions to something much larger. As artificial intelligence becomes increasingly capable of producing polished work, people seem to be searching for evidence of the human hand. We crave texture because texture reminds us someone made it. We gravitate toward imperfections because imperfections make things feel honest. That idea has changed how I look at design.

It has also changed how I look at the world outside of design.

Some of my favorite photographs aren't photographs of people at all. They're flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. Faded buildings with peeling paint. Weathered signs that have outlived the businesses they once advertised. Tall grass moving in the wind. Trees standing quietly through changing seasons. These places remind me that everything leaves a mark. Every object carries a history, even if we never know the full story behind it.

I've realized that some of my favorite sources of inspiration aren't intentional at all.

One afternoon I found myself staring at the curtains in my office. When the light hit them just right, the woven texture reminded me of old magazines printed on coarse paper. The tiny grid, the subtle grain, the softness of the fabric, it all echoed the tactile quality I've been trying to bring into my own work. It wasn't something I had been searching for, but once I noticed it, I couldn't stop seeing it. That's often how inspiration works. It doesn't arrive with an announcement. It quietly waits for you to notice.

The typefaces I continue returning to reflect that same philosophy. I gravitate toward editorial serifs and clean, readable letterforms that feel timeless rather than trendy. Typography should invite someone into the page, not compete with the story being told. The fonts I love most are the ones that could have existed decades ago and will likely still feel relevant decades from now. Perhaps that's why I spend less time looking for inspiration online than I once did.

The more time I spend away from screens; walking outside, reading books, spending time with family, taking photographs, or simply noticing the rhythm of everyday life, the more connected I feel to my work. The pressure to constantly consume new ideas fades, and in its place comes something quieter: curiosity.

I've stopped asking myself, What should I make next? Instead, I find myself asking, What am I noticing? Because every project I've created has started there first. Not with an answer. With an observation.

July time capsule

Every issue of Marginalia will capture a moment in time, not just in design, but in the life of the people creating it. This page is exactly that: a snapshot of July 2026. Some of these things will undoubtedly change. Others may become lifelong companions. Together, they document the creative season I'm in as this first issue makes its way into the world.

Current Playlist

Music has always been tied to memory for me. Most days you'll find me listening to my Favorites playlist, a collection of songs I've gathered over the years that instantly transport me back to specific moments, places, or people. It's less of a playlist and more of a timeline. When I'm not listening to familiar songs, I'm usually exploring a discovery playlist, letting new artists quietly find their way into my rotation.

On My Desktop

My computer wallpaper is one I designed myself. It's soft pink with subtle net textures, floral imagery, and photographs of my husband and son tucked along the bottom. Around them are neatly organized folders and shortcuts to the programs I use every day. It's functional, but it's also a reminder that the work I do is deeply connected to the people I love most.

Favorite Tool

If there is one piece of software I couldn't imagine working without, it's Notion. It has become the home for everything; client projects, research, article outlines, meeting notes, editorial calendars, and countless ideas waiting for the right moment. Marginalia simply wouldn't exist in its current form without it.

Current Typeface

Raleway.

I keep coming back to it because it's versatile without feeling ordinary. It has an editorial quality that feels timeless, balancing elegance with simplicity. It's the kind of typeface that quietly supports the message instead of trying to become the message itself.

Camera Within Reach

My Canon EOS Rebel T7 has become one of my favorite creative companions. It encourages me to slow down and notice details that might otherwise pass unnoticed—a patch of afternoon light, the texture of weathered wood, flowers growing beside the road, or the worn pages of an old book. Photography has become another form of observation.

Coffee Order

A caramel macchiato with oat milk.

Simple. Consistent. Comforting.

Some routines don't need reinventing.

Current Creative Challenge

Right now, I'm learning to trust the process before I can see the outcome. Building a magazine means making hundreds of small decisions without always knowing exactly how they'll come together. There are moments of uncertainty nearly every day. I'm learning that good work doesn't come from controlling every outcome, it comes from continuing to move forward, one page at a time.

What's Inspiring Me

More than anything, I'm inspired by the real world. The best ideas rarely arrive while scrolling.

They appear during conversations with people I care about, while walking outside, reading an article, flipping through an old magazine, or noticing something beautiful that wasn't trying to be noticed. The more time I spend away from my screen, the more connected I feel to my work.

What's On My Desk

Printed research articles covered in highlights.

A planner filled with deadlines.

An appointment book.

Loose sheets of sketches.

Pens scattered in every direction.

More coffee cups than I'd like to admit.

Lip oil; because if my lips are dry, I genuinely can't concentrate.

And somewhere beneath all of it, the next issue of Marginalia quietly beginning to take shape.

Right Now

If I could describe this season in one sentence, it would be this: I'm learning that building something meaningful isn't about having all the answers before you begin. It's about paying attention long enough to ask better questions.

Lessons From This Year

When I think back on the past year, I don't immediately think about projects I completed or milestones I reached. I think about the quieter shifts; the ones that happened slowly enough that I didn't notice them until I looked back.

Building Marginalia, starting my own design studio, and stepping into unfamiliar territory has taught me far more about myself than it has about design. Somewhere between client meetings, article drafts, and late nights refining layouts, I realized that creative growth has very little to do with mastering software or following trends. Instead, it has everything to do with changing the way you think.

One of the biggest changes has been learning to prioritize joy.

For a long time, I approached creativity with the mindset that every project needed to prove something. I wanted to prove I was capable. That my work had value. That I belonged in the design industry. It was easy to measure success by outside approval, but over time I realized that chasing validation is exhausting. It turns creativity into performance instead of practice.

This year, I stopped asking whether my work would impress other people and started asking a much simpler question: Does this feel true to me?

That question has become a compass. If a project aligns with my values, if it allows me to create thoughtfully and honestly, then it's worth pursuing. If it doesn't, I've learned that it's okay to let it go. Designing from a place of joy has made me more intentional than designing from a place of pressure ever could.

Alongside that shift came another realization: perfection isn't the goal.

For years I believed that if I could just refine something a little longer, it would eventually become worthy of sharing. Another revision. Another adjustment. Another day spent making tiny changes that no one else would ever notice. But perfection has a way of disguising itself as productivity. It convinces us that we're making progress, when in reality we're often delaying the moment we have to let our work exist in the world.

I've learned that thoughtful work will always matter more than flawless work.

A design with a little texture, a handwritten note in the margin, a photograph with visible grain—those things don't weaken the work. They remind us that another human being made it. Those imperfections have become some of my favorite parts.

Perhaps the most surprising lesson has been discovering that I genuinely enjoy building a business. For nearly a decade, I worked for other people. My creativity lived within organizations, classrooms, and teams. There was comfort in that structure, but there was also a quiet curiosity about what it might look like to build something of my own.

This year, I finally answered that question. Starting a business has been equal parts exciting and intimidating. There are moments when I still wonder if I'm making the right decisions, but every challenge has reminded me that growth rarely feels comfortable while it's happening. It asks you to trust yourself before you've collected enough evidence to feel confident. That has been one of the hardest lessons to learn.

Trust the process. Not because every step will go according to plan, but because meaningful work takes time to reveal itself. I've also learned that creativity can't be forced.

There was a season when I believed discipline meant producing something every single day, regardless of how I felt. If I wasn't creating, I convinced myself I wasn't being productive. I've slowly let go of that belief.

Rest is part of the creative process.

Going for a walk.

Reading a book.

Spending time with my family.

Looking at flowers.

Taking photographs.

Watching the light move across a room.

These moments aren't distractions from the work, they're often where the work begins. The best ideas have never arrived while I was desperately searching for them. They appear while I'm driving home, while I'm reading something unrelated, while I'm watching a movie, while I'm making dinner.

The only thing I've learned to do is write them down before they disappear. More than anything else, this year has reminded me that fear never completely goes away.

There will always be reasons to wait.

Reasons to think you aren't ready.

Reasons to believe someone else is more qualified.

I've stopped waiting for those feelings to disappear. Instead, I'm learning to create alongside them.

Launching Marginalia has been one of the clearest examples of that. There wasn't a moment when I suddenly felt ready to publish a magazine. There wasn't a day when every article felt finished or every decision felt certain. If I had waited for complete confidence, this publication would still be sitting inside a notebook instead of in your hands.

Sometimes courage doesn't look like certainty, it simply looks like beginning.

Looking back, I don't think this year has made me a completely different designer. I think it has made me a more honest one. I've become less interested in proving what I know and more interested in continuing to learn. Less concerned with creating perfect work and more committed to creating meaningful work. Less focused on finding inspiration and more devoted to paying attention.

And perhaps that's the lesson I'll carry into every issue of Marginalia from here forward: The best creative practice isn't built by having all the answers, it's built by staying curious enough to keep asking better questions.

Things that didn't work

Every project leaves behind a trail of abandoned ideas.

Some are discarded after a few minutes. Others survive for weeks before quietly being replaced by something stronger. For a long time, I saw those unfinished concepts as evidence that I was getting something wrong. Now I see them differently. They're part of the process. They document how my thinking changed, and in many ways, they've become just as valuable as the finished work.

When I first imagined Marginalia, I believed I needed to have everything figured out before I could share it with anyone.

The branding needed to be perfect.

The logo needed to be final.

The visual identity needed to be complete.

Every system, every layout, every page had to feel polished before the first issue could exist. It seemed like the responsible thing to do. Build the foundation first, then invite people in. However, the longer I waited, the more impossible that goal became. Every time I solved one problem, I discovered another. Every revision uncovered a new possibility. Instead of moving forward, I found myself endlessly refining something that had never been tested in the real world.

Eventually, I realized I was trying to create the identity of a publication that hadn't yet been published. That's impossible. A magazine doesn't discover who it is before the first issue, it discovers who it is because of the first issue.

Its identity isn't built in isolation.

It's built one article at a time.

One photograph at a time.

One annotation.

One layout.

One conversation with a reader.

That realization changed everything. I stopped trying to create the perfect version of Marginalia and focused instead on creating the first version.

The publication became lighter.

More honest.

More willing to grow.

Looking back, there are countless ideas that never made it into these pages. Layout systems that looked beautiful on my computer but felt rigid once they were printed. Color palettes that were technically balanced but lacked warmth. Typography pairings that felt fashionable one week and forgettable the next. Entire mood boards that, despite hours of collecting references, simply didn't reflect what I wanted this publication to become.

At the time, those moments felt frustrating. Now they're some of my favorite parts of the process. Each unsuccessful attempt narrowed the path a little further. Each abandoned idea clarified what Marginalia wasn't trying to be.

Failure has a strange way of doing that. It quietly removes distractions until the important things become impossible to ignore. I've also learned that not every good idea belongs in the current project.

One of my habits is collecting everything like photographs, sketches, notes, color palettes, screenshots, magazine clippings, bits of typography, thoughts scribbled on sticky notes. Years ago, I thought that collection needed to be organized into something useful as quickly as possible.

Now I know better. Some ideas simply need time.

There are folders on my computer that haven't been opened in months. Sketchbooks filled with concepts that never became client work. Research articles with highlighted passages that still haven't found a home inside Marginalia.

I no longer see those as unfinished. I see them as an archive waiting for the right question. Not every observation demands an immediate answer.

Perhaps the hardest thing that didn't work was my own expectation of certainty. I thought that becoming a designer meant eventually reaching a point where every decision felt obvious, where self-doubt disappeared, where confidence arrived and quietly stayed. It hasn't.

Every issue brings new questions.

Every project asks something different of me.

The uncertainty never really leaves, it simply becomes more familiar.

I've stopped waiting for the day when I feel completely ready.

I've learned that confidence is often something you build after taking the first step, not before. That's probably the biggest lesson hidden inside everything that didn't work. The failed layouts weren't failures. The abandoned branding wasn't wasted. The unfinished sketches weren't evidence that I wasn't capable. They were evidence that I was paying attention. That I was willing to revise. That I cared enough to keep asking whether something could be better.

If Marginalia is an archive of observation, then it should also be an archive of revision because observation doesn't end when something is published. It continues every time we turn the page.

As I begin thinking about future issues, I'm carrying far more questions than answers. And honestly, I hope that never changes. Curiosity has always been a better guide than certainty.

It's what started this publication.

It's what continues to shape it.

And it's what I'll keep returning to, one observation at a time.