Research:
Voices of Creativity
Visual Design
From Research to Visual Exploration
After months immersed in interviews, theory, and case studies, I am shifting into the visual research phase. This move feels inevitable. The earlier work clarified what needs to be said. Now design begins to ask how. The rationale is simple. The insights gathered about voice, exclusion, and symbolic power must be translated. Not into explanation, but into form. Colour. Typography. Sequence. The platform’s visual language is not separate from the research. It continues it. Each element becomes a site of meaning. A way to carry forward what was learned.
This is not a leap. It is a quiet progression. We listened. We read. We reflected. Now it is time to think in image. To let the interface hold the tone. To let layout become method. To ask what inclusion might feel like, not just look like.
On Running: Challenging the Status Quo Through Brand Narrative
The Swiss sportswear brand On Running became a useful reference point in this phase of the project. Its design language is clean and minimal, with structured typography and generous white space. The tone is premium but not exclusionary. That balance felt aligned with the type of interface I wanted for Voices of Creativity. Something pared back, deliberate, and open. Not sleek for its own sake, but spacious in a way that invites attention.
On’s wider brand narrative focuses on innovation and momentum. Their stated mission is to ignite the human spirit through movement and to challenge the status quo (On Running, 2023). That phrase stayed with me. I wasn’t designing for athletes, but I was designing for movement. Not physical, but cultural. A shift in how creative legitimacy is imagined. That meant the platform needed to feel intentional. Structured, but not rigid. Calm, but not passive.
I mirrored some of On’s visual system in my own. A limited colour palette. A consistent grid. Minimal motion. But these decisions were not aesthetic alone. They were grounded in the idea that the interface should hold space for the voices within it. On uses restraint to elevate product stories. I wanted to use restraint to foreground lived stories. Of bias. Of belonging. Of voice. On’s storytelling approach also offered something useful. Their journal highlights personal narratives from athletes, artists, and community members. This blend of story and brand felt cohesive. It wasn’t an add-on. It was central. That affirmed something I already knew. Narrative is the structure. Not the decoration.
In Voices of Creativity, user stories sit at the core. They are not framed as testimonials or marketing copy. They are the platform. Each one is treated with care. Edited lightly. Kept close to how it was spoken. This approach draws from On’s model of centring people in their own words, but shifts it from promotion to reflection.
Interaction design was another area of influence. On’s digital presence is smooth. Navigation is clear. There is little resistance. I wanted that clarity, but not the polish. Too much gloss can feel like a filter. I introduced small irregularities into the platform. Slight image shifts. Subtle textures. Informal transitions. These touches were not accidents. They were ways to hold on to the imperfect. To reflect that the stories shared are not always neat.
Typography was treated similarly. On’s typographic choices are modern, balanced, and precise. I took cues from this clarity. Body text is set in a simple sans-serif, optimised for legibility. Headings are bold but not heavy. I introduced lowercase titles in places as a signal of informality. It is a small gesture, but it changes the tone. The aim was not to mimic a brand, but to learn from it. To carry its sense of cohesion, but redirect it toward inclusion rather than product. On has described its approach to typography as sharp and well defined, but never alienating (On Running, 2023). That sentiment felt useful. In my case, the aim was not polish, but presence. A type system that stays out of the way, but still holds a sense of care. This case study confirmed that minimalism does not need to be sterile. With the right intentions, it can make room for something else. Something slower. More considered. More human.
At the same time, I stayed alert to the limitations. On’s optimism is compelling, but it avoids deeper structural critique. It creates aspiration. But it rarely asks what sits beneath it. I didn’t want to replicate that. So the platform includes small factual inserts. References to research. Quiet reminders of why this work is needed. These elements are not meant to overwhelm the interface. They are there to hold context.
What On Running offered was not a template, but a position. A way of working where structure supports story. Where the visual system does not distract, but focuses. Where clarity can become a form of care.
Warp Records: Embracing Experimental Identity Without Losing Clarity
Warp Records became an important reference during the visual design phase. Known for its experimental visual identity and cultural influence, Warp has developed a brand that is never static but always recognisable. From the early collaborations with The Designers Republic to the label’s more recent visual and motion work, the identity moves across styles while still feeling coherent (Vice, 2023). That balance between aesthetic freedom and brand clarity resonated with what I was trying to build.
Voices of Creativity needed to challenge norms. It had to feel distinct from polished institutional design. Warp offered a model of how a brand can signal dissent without losing structure. I started experimenting with asymmetric layouts, colour shifts, and texture overlays. These were not decorative choices. They were decisions made to signal that this platform is not neutral. That it exists to unsettle.
At the same time, I was careful to maintain a consistent framework. Warp’s work might look unpredictable, but a shared sensibility runs through it. A futurist tone. A sense of tension and speed. For the platform, I chose a core colour scheme, a repeating set of wave-based motifs, and a restrained layout grid. These became anchors. They helped the interface stay legible, even as its visual energy moved. Warp’s narrative also mattered. The label emerged from Sheffield’s underground scene and built a platform for unconventional sound. It became a cultural institution by supporting what had previously been ignored (Electronic Groove, 2023). That idea of building space for the unheard felt close to the heart of this project. In response, I designed the platform as a kind of album. Each user story is treated like a track. Individual in mood, but part of a larger body of work. The interaction reflects that. A slow scroll. Each story arrives with its own tone, typography, and rhythm.
Warp’s willingness to straddle mediums also informed my use of audio and motion. Small sound clips were introduced. Subtle motion elements were layered in. The goal was not spectacle, but depth. I wanted interaction to feel responsive and dimensional, but not disorienting. One challenge I encountered was balancing clarity with experimentation. Some of Warp’s covers and posters embrace visual illegibility. That works in a music context. It doesn’t work when the audience may already feel unsure whether they belong. I stayed close to Warp’s spirit, but made sure that body text remained legible and that navigation was intuitive. Display type was used carefully. Occasionally distorted, but always readable. The intent was to hint at resistance, not to create barriers. I also considered tone. Warp often speaks to an insider audience. For this project, that would have been exclusionary. The platform needed to feel open. It needed to welcome users who may not have deep design literacy. That meant weighing every bold move , every font choice, layout shift, or visual effect against the risk of alienating someone.
The solution was moderation. Visual experimentation was used to emphasise content. Never to obscure it. Each risk had a reason. If it didn’t serve the narrative, it was removed.
Warp showed me that design systems can hold contradiction. That structure and rebellion are not opposites. That a strong visual identity can support complexity, even discomfort.
This case study encouraged me to stretch the visual language of the platform. It validated that rule-breaking can be strategic. That clarity and resistance can co-exist. That design can be critical without becoming cold.
Bauhaus: Modernist Clarity and Its Utopian Limits
The Bauhaus design movement became a foundational case study for the development of the platform’s visual language. As someone working within a self-defined Critical Reflexive Minimalism, I found resonance in Bauhaus principles. Its emphasis on clarity, functionality, and social purpose offered both a framework and a provocation. Bauhaus rejected traditional ornament and design hierarchies. It imagined a new kind of visual order, built from geometric structure and radical simplicity (Bauhaus, 2023).
I drew from this when establishing the platform’s visual system. A simple grid, generous white space, and modernist proportions helped shape the layout. The colour palette remained tight: black, white, and a single accent tone, echoing the controlled use of Bauhaus primaries. Typography followed a similar logic. The wordmark and body text used clean, unadorned sans-serifs. These were chosen not just for legibility, but to create a neutral backdrop. The goal was to let stories stand out. Not to impose a tone, but to hold space.
This sense of neutrality was always strategic. Bauhaus designers created systems meant to carry content without distortion. But I was aware of the limits. The movement’s ideal of a total design system sometimes tipped into rigidity. The Bauhaus voice, despite its social aims, can now read as cold or institutional. That tone would not serve this project.
To address this, I introduced humanising elements. Subtle illustrations. Handwritten flourishes. Occasional grid breaks. These were deliberate interruptions. Small gestures that softened the structure. Bauhaus inspired the platform’s clarity. But its ideology was adapted. Never adopted whole.
Bauhaus was not built on narrative storytelling. Its legacy is not personal voice, but ideological mission. Still, the movement imagined design as a tool for social progress. That idea felt close to the platform’s purpose. To use interface, typography, and visual logic to interrogate cultural bias. To make space for stories that often go unheard.
This shaped the interaction design. Navigation was kept simple. Hidden gestures or over-designed menus were avoided. Layouts were responsive. Cues were subtle but consistent. These decisions were rooted in Bauhaus’s democratic ethos and the belief that design should be accessible. At the same time, I was mindful of who gets left out when design assumes universality. Every element was checked. Was it serving understanding, or just design ideology?
I also took note of Bauhaus’s own historical tension. It was visionary. But also flawed. Its closure under political pressure, and later appropriation by corporate modernism, served as a reminder. Design does not exist outside of context. The ideals of clarity and function must always be held in relation to who is included, and who is not.
One example of this in practice was the decision to avoid overly decorative animation. Interactive features were only used when they supported comprehension. A map of regional accents. A sound clip that reveals bias in voice perception. These features are not embellishment. They are tools. The goal was not novelty, but depth.
Typography carried similar contradictions. Bauhaus fonts convey authority and rationality. I used geometric sans-serifs to hold that tone. Fonts inspired by Futura, or by Herbert Bayer’s experiments. They signal modernity. But they also carry cultural weight. To offset this, I introduced elements of vernacular design. A phonetic spelling. A looser graphic mark. Small details that hint at the diversity of voices within the platform.
The result is a dual typographic system. Structured, but softened. Hierarchical in places, but never rigid. This balance was shaped by critical reflection on Bauhaus. To adopt its clarity. But to question its universality.
Bauhaus reminded me that minimalism is not neutral. It is shaped by context. It can be elegant, but also exclusionary. This tension became part of the design process. Could the platform feel clear without feeling cold? Could it carry structure without suppressing expression?
The Bauhaus case study helped frame that search. It affirmed that visual systems can support political work. That minimalism, when grounded in meaning, can carry weight. But it also made visible the limits of utopian design. No system is outside power. The work lies in using structure to reveal, not to obscure.
This influence remains present in the final platform.
Norm (Studio): Systems, Type, and the Question of Neutrality
Norm, the Swiss design studio founded by Dimitri Bruni and Manuel Krebs, became a central reference in developing the platform’s visual system. Their approach is meticulous and highly rational. Norm sees itself not as expressive or authorial, but as a studio of information engineers (Type Journal, 2023). This framing aligned with my intention to build a platform where stories, not styling, take the lead.
From Norm’s work, I adopted a disciplined approach to layout and structure. Every module on the site, whether text, image, or audio follows a consistent grid. Spacing, alignment, and placement are fixed. This creates cohesion without noise. The interface becomes quiet, allowing the voices within it to be heard without distraction.
This strategy was particularly important given the subject matter. Class and accent bias are often subtle. They don’t require dramatic visual gestures to be understood. Instead, I wanted the structure to feel stable. Trustworthy. Like a research document. Norm’s approach to design for institutions, publications, and exhibitions gave me a model for how this could work.
Norm also influenced the site’s restraint. Their work often uses limited colour. Often just black and white. Sometimes muted tones. Ornament is avoided. I followed this logic by removing extraneous visuals. No icons. No flashy transitions. Just simple visual rules. Key terms are highlighted the same way throughout. Quotes follow a consistent format. The system becomes invisible, but supportive.
Where Norm diverged from my needs was in its treatment of narrative. Their work is not designed to move people emotionally. It informs, but it does not invite empathy. That difference mattered. My platform carries data, yes, but also lived experience. It needed to hold emotion alongside structure.
In the early stages, I leaned into neutrality. Straightforward scrolling. Linear sections. Minimal interactions. But as I progressed, I began to question whether that clarity was enough. Was it honouring the stories, or flattening them?
That led to small departures from the Norm model. One was the inclusion of a soundwave animation in the intro sequence, a metaphor for voice and resonance. Another was a feature where users are invited to guess someone’s background based on their accent. These interactions aren’t decorative. They provoke reflection. But they add a layer of engagement that Norm’s strict minimalism might resist.
Typography is where Norm’s influence was most direct. Their own typefaces, like Simple or Replica, are examples of engineered clarity. I chose a similar sans-serif with even strokes and open spacing. Body text is set at a modest size, with considered line height and spacing. Typographic hierarchy follows a rule-based system. The tone is clinical, but calm.
Still, I knew this could not be the whole story. Norm’s aesthetic for all its precision can read as culturally detached. If left unchecked, it can feel cold. That would not serve the project’s aims. So I introduced a second typographic voice. Handwritten annotations layered over certain quotes. These appear occasionally, as if the content has been marked or responded to. A kind of visual marginalia.
This gesture allowed for a dual tone. The main structure remains objective. But within it, the subjective can surface. The stories are not just presented. They are acknowledged.
Norm showed me the value of constraint. It taught me that removing noise can be an act of respect. That clarity can give content space to breathe. But it also reminded me that neutrality is never neutral. It is a position. And that position must be examined.
Radio Alice: Rebel Media Tactics in the Digital Arena
Radio Alice, the 1970s Italian pirate radio station, became a key conceptual and visual influence for the platform. Though it was not a commercial brand, it carried a strong identity. It stood for dissent. It broke the state monopoly on media and gave space to voices that had been excluded. Its shutdown by police only strengthened its legacy as a symbol of grassroots resistance (Intrusion Project, 2023).
For this project, Radio Alice functioned as metaphor and method. It reminded me that design could broadcast opposition. It encouraged me to loosen some of the visual structure, to allow space for grit. Grainy textures, collage-inspired overlays, and bold uses of red and black entered the system as intentional disruptions. These choices referenced both protest design history and the raw look of 1970s zines.
The platform still follows a largely modernist structure, shaped by earlier references like Norm and Bauhaus. But here, that structure is occasionally punctured. A misaligned element. A flashing banner. A line of type that cuts across the grid. These interventions are small but deliberate. They simulate the feeling of a rogue signal interrupting a standard feed. That was the aim to suggest that what is being broadcast here is not part of the usual media landscape.
Radio Alice’s core principle was storytelling from below. It gave space to marginalised voices, without over-editing or framing them through institutional lenses (MACBA, 2023). This ethos informed how I built narrative into the platform. Audio became central. Users can play short voice clips. Each one features a creative professional speaking in their own accent, unfiltered. These fragments cut through the clean layout. They resist standardisation. Their presence is a quiet refusal.
Navigation borrows from radio, too. Content is loosely grouped into “channels” , for example, industry voices, public voices, informal audio diaries. The tone is exploratory. You can scroll, but you can also jump. You might land in a manifesto. Or an ambient recording. This rhythm echoes Radio Alice’s horizontal structure. It gives the user autonomy. There is no one route through the content.
The narrative voice across the platform also shifts. Some sections read like a report. Others lean into a more declarative tone. The introduction is almost a broadcast, direct, urgent, voiced in resistance. I imagined how it might sound if spoken aloud on air. That pacing shaped the editorial sequence.
Interaction builds on this idea. Moving between sections triggers a subtle burst of static. A scratch of sound. A flicker in the background. These aren’t distractions. They are part of the story. They remind the user that they are tuning into something unfinished. Something off-frequency.
At times, I had to pull back. A prototype that used a simulated tuning dial proved confusing. Too literal. It interrupted usability. I replaced it with a simpler menu, but kept other elements that carried the theme without getting in the way. This was the balance I kept returning to roughness as signal, not as aesthetic alone.
Typography followed the same thinking. The base font remains a neutral sans-serif for readability. But in certain moments, I introduced a secondary style. Monospaced, typewriter-like text appears in side notes or captions. All-caps pull quotes break the page with visual force. These shifts evoke printed protest material, radio transcripts, teleprinter output. The message is that this platform is not neutral. It holds tension between the official and the underground.
The typography helps structure that. The neutral font plays the role of the institutional voice data, statistics, polished quotes. The monospaced or hand-drawn elements act as counterpoints. They speak for those who are often marginalised. Together, they layer the visual narrative, much like a radio toggles between news and callers.
Radio Alice helped me take risks. It showed that rawness can be powerful when it serves the message. It gave me permission to use disruption as a formal tool not to confuse, but to provoke. It reminded me that design can embody dissent.
But it also taught caution. Radical aesthetics can become hollow if they are not grounded in context. Not every glitch, not every red headline, carries meaning. I kept asking does this element serve the message, or is it just noise? At one point, I scrapped a full retro interface styled like a vintage terminal. It looked distinctive, but tested poorly. It alienated users unfamiliar with that visual language. Instead, I kept the references subtle. Static effects. Cropped type. Fragments of voice.
This case study taught me that rebellion in design is not about chaos. It is about control and disruption held in tension. About structure that allows interruption. About visual systems that leave space for voices that were not heard before.
The Role of Readymag in the Speculative Design Process
Using Readymag to build Voices of Creativity was both a practical decision and a speculative exercise in itself. Readymag is an online platform that allows designers to create interactive web experiences without writing code. It became the space where layout, narrative, and interaction were tested in real time. Its features and limitations shaped how the platform took form. It also shaped how the story was told.
Constraints and Challenges
The first constraint was structural. Readymag is fundamentally scroll-based. While I had imagined a non-linear interface, perhaps inspired by radio tuning or layered maps, the platform encouraged a more linear sequence. That pushed me to refine the narrative into a clear progression. Each section became its own screen or scroll zone. The pacing improved. The trade-off was reduced complexity. Some speculative features, like an interactive map of UK accents, had to be simplified. Instead of dynamic mapping, I used a static image with hotspots. At first, this felt like compromise. But in retrospect, it clarified the message. The simpler interface allowed the content to speak more clearly.
There were technical limits too. Readymag can be slow to load on mobile, especially when using high-resolution media. I responded by reducing visual weight. Vector graphics replaced photographs. Motion was used sparingly. This shift aligned with the platform’s minimalist tone. The limitations of the tool became design cues. I avoided heavy styling and focused on pacing, proportion, and type.
Another constraint was the absence of custom scripting. Certain interactive ambitions were simply not possible. But these boundaries encouraged discipline. Each feature had to justify itself. There was no room for excess. In this way, Readymag echoed the ethos of the project: stay focused, reduce noise, remain intentional.
Freedoms and Advantages
Where Readymag excelled was in immediacy. As a designer with limited coding knowledge, the tool allowed me to iterate fast. I could test a scroll sequence, adjust type, add audio, and preview the result in moments. This made the speculative design process more fluid. The gap between idea and execution was short. That helped maintain a personal voice. The tool supported autonomy.
It also supported integrated thinking. Text and image were developed side by side. I often edited narrative based on how it felt in the layout. A long paragraph became two shorter sections. A visual cue became a break in the pacing. This kind of embedded design-writing process felt aligned with critical design practice, where form and content evolve together.
Multimedia was another strength. Embedding audio was easy. This was crucial for the Bias Mirror and capsule stories. Hearing different accents alongside reflective prompts gave the platform a multisensory rhythm. Transitions between pages were also customisable. I used fades and scroll-based reveals to guide the user’s attention. These tools became part of the story’s structure. Each section was paced like a scene. The rhythm moved between intensity and reflection.
One moment of realisation came late in the process. While reviewing the flow, I noticed an unused page slot. That led to the decision to add a final scene, a personal sign-off. A page that speaks directly to the user. A moment of closure. Without Readymag’s visual page manager, that addition may not have occurred. The platform shaped not just what was made, but how it ended.
Influence on Narrative and UX
Because Readymag is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get tool, the story was shaped in the medium of its delivery. Design and writing were entangled. This encouraged reflexivity. I could test tone and sequence in real time. If a section felt too dense, I edited. If a transition felt jarring, I simplified. The user experience was not mapped in theory. It was built in motion.
This feedback loop kept the platform grounded. A speculative idea became a working interface. Constraints guided clarity. Freedoms enabled responsiveness. Small ideas emerged from the process. A delayed animation. A pause before a quote. A question that fades into view. Each element was adjusted to suit the pace of thought I wanted to invite.
Readymag shaped the platform’s tone. Its limitations prevented overcomplication. Its interface encouraged considered pacing. Its features supported narrative rhythm. The tool became a partner in the critical process.
Reflection
Looking back, the decision to use Readymag helped preserve the voice of the project. It allowed one designer me to make and test a complex idea without external development. That mattered. The work stayed personal. The design stayed close to the research.
There were trade-offs. The final outcome is locked into a proprietary system. That raises questions of access and openness. What happens if the platform goes offline? What happens if someone wants to build on it? These questions reflect the project’s own themes who gets access, and who is locked out.
I tried to mitigate this by creating static backups and ensuring the content could live elsewhere. But the concern remains. It reminds me that every platform is political. Even the tool used to make something carries assumptions.
In the end, Readymag was both canvas and constraint. It influenced form, structure, and tone. It made speculative design tangible. And it made the process reflexive. The tool asked questions back. It shaped what was possible. It also made me decide what really mattered.
This alignment between tool and method reflects the heart of the project. In Voices of Creativity, nothing exists for effect alone. Every feature must carry meaning. Readymag helped keep that standard in place.
Conclusion: Toward a Critical Visual Language of Voice and Class
Reflecting across the five core case studies, On Running, Warp Records, Bauhaus, Norm, and Radio Alice I see a layered set of influences that shaped, stretched, and refined the visual language for the Voices of Creativity platform. Each acted as a kind of conceptual mirror. Some confirmed my instincts. Others disrupted them. All played a role in clarifying how visual design could support a project centred on class and accent bias within the creative industries.
From On Running, I drew confidence that minimal design could still carry emotional weight. Their use of clean, structured visuals paired with a strong brand narrative gave me a model for how clarity can inspire. At the same time, On’s optimism reminded me to stay grounded. A critical project cannot rely on polish alone. I responded by blending visual restraint with content that asked harder questions.
Warp Records gave me license to be bold. Its legacy of experimental visuals and sonic disruption validated my interest in breaking some formal rules. This helped the platform stand apart from institutional design defaults. But Warp also taught me caution. Experimental aesthetics risk becoming exclusionary if they are not handled with care. I worked to hold that balance, enough friction to disrupt, enough structure to remain usable.
Bauhaus offered a foundational philosophy. Its belief that design could be a tool for social progress aligned with my intentions from the beginning. I followed its principles of simplicity and clarity. But I also resisted its universalism. Bauhaus design can feel detached from the individual. My platform needed to hold real, embodied voices. This meant softening the geometry. Letting imperfection in. Using the system, but not being confined by it.
Norm reinforced my commitment to precision. Its system-based approach and typographic rigour gave me a blueprint for building trust. On a platform that deals with bias and identity, that credibility matters. But Norm’s philosophy of neutrality also raised flags. Neutrality can easily become silence. And silence can mirror exclusion. I took from Norm what supported the message, and left behind what diluted it. Where clarity helped, I kept it. Where it erased emotion, I shifted course.
Radio Alice reminded me what this work is really about. Not aesthetics. Not systems. But voices. Disruption. Urgency. It gave me permission to be louder where needed. To introduce static. To let the interface show signs of tension. It also kept me focused on who the platform is for, not the design community, but those who feel excluded by it. Radio Alice, more than any other influence, reminded me that community must come before concept.
Across these influences, a visual language emerged. One I would describe as critically reflexive and minimally expressive. It is structured, but not rigid. Clear, but not neutral. Subtle in places, insistent in others. The design holds space, but does not dominate. It asks questions rather than offering resolution.
This language exists in tension. Between order and resistance. Between institutional cues and outsider energy. Between the grid and the glitch. These tensions mirror the social dynamics the platform aims to surface, who gets to speak, and who is heard.
The case studies were not simply design references. They were conversation partners. Each challenged me to refine, edit, and rethink. Some days I leaned heavily on one. Other days I rejected its influence entirely. The resulting design is the product of that ongoing negotiation.
What I learned is that visual language is not neutral. It carries values. It signals belonging. It shapes perception. In a project about voice and class, every design decision had to be questioned. Does this element invite or exclude? Does it amplify or obscure?
On Running showed that design can be clean without being cold. Warp reminded me to stay strange. Bauhaus brought structure. Norm brought discipline. Radio Alice brought resistance. Together, they formed the vocabulary from which the platform could speak.
References
Bauhaus-Archiv. (n.d.). Idea: Bauhaus History Overview. Bauhaus-Archiv Museum. https://www.bauhaus.de/en/das_bauhaus/44_idee/
Bruni, D., & Krebs, M. (2017). An Interview with Studio Norm. Type Journal. https://typejournal.ru/en/articles/An-Interview-With-Studio-Norm
It’s Nice That. (2024). Behind the Scenes at On, a Brand Driven by Design, Innovation and Experimentation (Interview with Thilo Alex Brunner). It’s Nice That. https://www.itsnicethat.com/features/on-behind-the-scenes-product-design-110924
Radio Web MACBA. (2014). RADIOACTIVITY #1 – Radio Alice. Radio Web MACBA. https://rwm.macba.cat/en/podcasts/radioactivity-1-radio-alice
Saulet, R. (2024). FWA of the Day: Intrusion, Voices of Alice. Medium: Bootcamp. https://medium.com/design-bootcamp/fwa-of-the-day-april-24-intrusion-voices-of-alice-f64787fb15ad
Stubbs, D. (2013). A History of Warp Records in Eight Releases. Vice. https://www.vice.com/en/article/youneedtohearthis-a-history-of-warp-recordings
