The Evolution of Graphic Design Industry From 1990—2020 w Executive Producer Ian Dawson
Chris Do and executive producer Ian Dawson recount the wild, high-budget evolution of the graphic design industry from 1990 to 2020.
Chris Do
Founder, The Futur™ · June 20, 2024
The Price of a Logo Was Two Million Dollars
Budgets ranged from "$250,000 up to two, three, four million." In the edit bays, some people were "literally doing lines of coke." Doors would open to reveal a scene straight out of Fast Times at Ridgemont High, a thick cloud of smoke billowing into the hallway.
This wasn’t a Hollywood movie set. This was the broadcast design industry in the mid-1990s.
For a young Chris Do, fresh out of ArtCenter College of Design, walking into the offices of novacom was a revelation. After a short stint at Epitaph Records, Do was a freelancer with no leads and no prospects. He describes his mindset at the time as, "I leap first and check to see if there's water in the pool." A chance connection through an Adobe After Effects demo CD led him to the Hollywood-based studio.
His first encounter was not with a creative director, but with executive producer Ian Dawson, who promptly guided him to a food spread rivaling a luxury hotel buffet. "She'll make anything you want," Dawson told him. "You want an omelette?" For a kid who just quit his job, it was surreal. "I feel like I'm staying at a high-end hotel," Do recalls thinking. "I could get used to this."
Novacom, along with a handful of other firms like Pittard Sullivan, represented the absolute pinnacle of the industry. They were, as Dawson explains, one of maybe four major players in Los Angeles, and by extension, the world. They launched television networks, rebranded global media empires, and designed the on-air look for countless shows. The money, the access, and the creative energy were intoxicating.
But that world was built on a foundation that was about to crack. Its lavishness was a direct product of a technological monopoly, and a revolution was quietly brewing on desktop computers that would ultimately bring the entire empire crumbling down.
The Economics of Scarcity
To understand the wild budgets of the 90s, you have to understand the tools. This was an era before powerful desktop computers could handle high-resolution video. The workhorse of the industry was the Quantel Paintbox, a machine Dawson calls "literally the Photoshop of the day."
It didn't come cheap.
A single Paintbox cost upwards of $250,000. The primary compositing tools, the Quantel Harry and Henry, ran into the millions. These weren't just software licenses; they were massive, dedicated hardware installations requiring specialized operators, engineers, and climate-controlled rooms. An entire ecosystem of expensive decks, drives, scopes, and monitors surrounded each suite.
This created an immense barrier to entry. You couldn't just start a motion design studio in your garage. Because only a few companies could afford the infrastructure, they could essentially name their price. Dawson remembers the logic well: "They knew you couldn't do it on a desktop... and there were a very small number of companies that were doing it."
This technological scarcity coincided with a massive global business opportunity. Media mogul Rupert Murdoch was buying networks around the world, and formerly government-owned television stations were being privatized. These new owners wanted to look like slick, Western-style broadcasters. Who did they call? Novacom.
"We were just in the right place at the right time," Dawson says. "I got to travel the world in my very early 20s rebranding networks around the world."
The business model was simple and incredibly lucrative:
- High Overhead, High Rates: With million-dollar machines to pay off, hourly rates were astronomical. A room could cost $1,000 an hour, and projects lasted for weeks.
- Global Demand: New networks in Europe, Asia, and beyond needed complete visual identities, from logos to show packages. A single network rebrand could net $1.5 million.
- Low Competition: With only a few shops capable of doing the work, clients had little leverage to negotiate pricing.
The result was a company grossing over $30 million a year in 1995 with margins Dawson estimates were "50, 60 percent." It was this firehose of cash that funded the lavish client service, the legendary parties, and the creative experimentation that defined the era. It was a golden age, propped up by technology that few could access.
The Desktop Revolution Begins
While the high-end suites at novacom were humming, a quiet disruption was underway. It was called After Effects. First developed by the Company of Science and Art (CoSA) and later acquired by Adobe, this desktop software promised to do for video what Photoshop was doing for print.
At first, it was considered a toy. "You couldn't do stuff on the desktop pretty much," Dawson recalls of the early days. The dedicated hardware of the Henry was much faster and more robust. But the potential was obvious, especially to those who had seen this movie before. Dawson, having worked in his uncle's pre-press business, saw the writing on the wall. "I knew where this was all going because the print world had totally changed," he says.
Pioneers like Flavio Kampah and David "Sparky" Sarno were demonstrating that creativity could trump raw processing power. They were, in Dawson's words, "magicians" with the new software, becoming the first true creative animators working directly on the desktop. They weren't just operators; they were designers who finally had the tools in their own hands.
This marked the beginning of **The Desktop Revolution**. Suddenly, the massive barrier to entry began to dissolve. You no longer needed millions in capital to compete. As Chris Do says, "You heard of the two guys in a garage? Well, that was starting to happen at that time."
This technological shift created a crisis for the established players. Clients, now aware that work could be done on cheaper systems, began pushing back. One of the first casualties was the paid pitch. Billy Pittard, of rival firm Pittard Sullivan, saw the danger. He tried to organize the major studios to agree on a minimum fee for pitches to stop the bleeding. "He wanted to try to stop that," Dawson notes. "He couldn't get kind of all the players together to do that."
The initiative failed. Studios in the new landscape were all too willing to pitch for free to get a foot in the door, a practice that continues to plague the industry. For a freelancer like Do, who was just starting his own company, Blind, this new world was an opportunity. For an incumbent like novacom, it was a threat to its very existence.
The combination of accessible tools and a fractured, competitive market spelled the end of the high-margin, low-competition era. "Ultimately that is... what ultimately killed a lot of these high-end companies," Dawson concludes.
A Case Study in Disruption: The Fall of a Titan
Novacom wasn't just a passive victim of technological change. A series of strategic decisions accelerated its decline, offering timeless lessons for any business facing disruption. Even as it was at the top, it was making critical missteps. The company was forward-thinking in some ways, but tragically rigid in others. For those learning how to build an agency, its story is a powerful cautionary tale.
The first major gamble was a physical move from the heart of the industry in Hollywood to the then-undeveloped area of Playa Vista. The logic was based on a planned multi-billion dollar studio campus by DreamWorks SKG, which promised to create a new entertainment hub. Novacom went from a 10,000 square-foot facility to a sprawling 40,000 square-foot one, betting big on being an anchor tenant in "Hollywood West."
But the DreamWorks project collapsed under financial pressure and fierce opposition from environmental activists. Novacom was left isolated in a massive, expensive building far from its client base. They were too far ahead of the curve. While the west side of Los Angeles would eventually become a tech and media hub, in the mid-90s, it was a ghost town.
The second and more critical failure was a refusal to diversify. Dawson, then a young executive, pushed the owner, John Ridgeway, to expand into commercial production. The company had the design and post-production talent. All it needed was a roster of directors. "We could have easily marketed and gotten music video work and commercial work if we had just made an effort," Dawson insists.
Imagine a world where a director could walk down the hall and collaborate directly with designers and animators on storyboards and concepts. That integrated model didn't exist then. It was a massive opportunity. But the owner was hesitant, telling Dawson, "I don't know that and I don't think it makes a lot of money." Dawson's reaction was disbelief. "What are you talking about? Commercials make a ton of money." But he was a junior voice, and the idea was shelved.
This failure to adapt manifested in other ways:
- Losing Talent: Key employees with an eye on the future left to start their own ventures. A team that was beginning to work on DVD menuing, a nascent but booming field, departed to form their own successful company.
- Ignoring Artist Development: The best talent, like flame artist and aspiring director Nick Piper, eventually left to pursue opportunities the company wouldn't provide. Failure to create a path for growth meant talent would find it elsewhere.
- Sticking to the Old Model: By focusing exclusively on the high-end broadcast package work that had made them rich, they tied their fate to a business model that was rapidly becoming obsolete.
The lesson is brutal and clear. When your market is being disrupted, clinging to what made you successful is the surest path to failure. Innovation isn't a single event; it's a constant process of adaptation. Novacom had been an innovator, but it stopped.
The Enduring Power of Professionalism
As the industry landscape shifted, another, more personal story was unfolding between Chris Do and Ian Dawson. It’s a story that reveals a timeless truth: your reputation and your professionalism are the most portable and valuable assets in your career.
Shortly after freelancing at novacom, Do was offered a full-time job for $50,000 a year, a significant raise for him at the time. But Do, with the confidence of youth, countered with a number that stunned Dawson: $85,000. "Ian's eyes like opened up like, 'What?'" Do remembers. "He didn't say that, but his eyes said something."
Before Dawson could formulate a response, fate intervened. Do got the opportunity to start his own company. When he told Dawson he was leaving, Dawson's response was a simple, "Good luck." But Do sensed a subtext: "Good luck. We'll see you come crawling back in a few weeks."
Years later, their paths would cross again. Do hired Dawson as a freelance executive producer at his company, Blind. It was here that Do saw the principles that made Dawson effective. Dawson describes his own philosophy: "If this was my company, how would I want somebody to act in that position?"
This meant being direct, holding people accountable, and having a fiduciary responsibility to the business. When one freelancer laughed off a mistake, Dawson’s response was chillingly effective: "Would it be funny if I didn't pay you for today?" The smiling stopped. As Do notes, "I had to come over and say, 'Ian, I thanks for doing that, but you know, they're creatives and they're going to get spooked.'"
Yet, Dawson balanced this toughness with a clear respect for the chain of command. He would state his case strongly, but always end with a version of, "Here's what I think we should do. Here's what you want to do...I work for you. You make the decision." For Do, this was the mark of a true professional. It demonstrated confidence without arrogance, a trait he found rare.
When Dawson’s gig at Blind was over, he didn’t linger or try to guilt Do into more work. He walked into Do’s office, shook his hand, and said, "Hey, it was a pleasure working with you. Appreciate the opportunity." This act left a profound impression on Do, becoming a cornerstone of his own management philosophy and a lesson in how to build an authentic personal brand based on action, not words.
This professionalism paid dividends. When the legendary title designer Kyle Cooper was at a poker game at Do's house, he later asked Do about Dawson. Do's recommendation was unequivocal. "You want somebody who's tough, who will tell you like it is, but follow your orders...who's going to help you make money...he's your guy." That conversation led to Dawson working with Cooper for the next eight years.
The industry changed, companies rose and fell, but a reputation for integrity and professionalism opened the next door. It's the ultimate career currency.
Art is Not a Service
The conversation between Do and Dawson ultimately lands on a fundamental distinction that every creative professional must grapple with: the difference between art and creative service.
Young designers and artists often enter the commercial world believing their job is to express their unique vision. They see client feedback as an obstacle and compromise as a failure. This, Dawson argues, is a profound misunderstanding of the job.
"You're not really creating art here," he states bluntly. "I know it's a terrible thing for people to hear."
He defines the two activities with precision. **True art** is something you do out of passion, a need for self-expression, without regard for a buyer. "You did it because it's what you were passionate about," Dawson explains. If someone wants to pay you for it later, that's a bonus, not the motivation.
**Creative service**, on the other hand, is a commercial transaction. Dawson clarifies: "We're in the creative services business. So people are paying you to do something. They are commissioning you to create something that they want." Your skills, your taste, and your input are part of the package, but the ultimate goal is to solve the client's problem, not your own need for expression. Understanding how to properly frame your value in this transaction is a key business skill, a topic Do explores in his talks on value-based pricing.
This doesn't diminish the difficulty or artistry of the work. Dawson expresses deep empathy for the creative struggle. "Every day coming up with something new and something different...that is not easy," he admits. He once considered being a designer himself until he sat next to novacom's creative director, Chris Williamson. "I realized I'm never going to be as good as he is. I don't have anywhere near the chops that this guy has."
The producer's role, as he sees it, is to support artists in that difficult process while navigating the commercial realities of budget, deadlines, and client needs. It's a balancing act.
For the creative professional, accepting this distinction is liberating. It allows you to separate your personal identity from client work. A project that doesn't align with your personal aesthetic isn't a personal failure; it's a service rendered. It allows you to do the work, collect the check, and save your purest artistic impulses for projects where you are the only client that matters.
The story of the design industry's evolution is not just one of technology and business models. It is a story of people navigating these massive shifts. The studios that dominated the 90s are gone. The million-dollar machines are museum pieces. But the core principles remain.
Adapt to technological change or be replaced by it. Build a reputation for professionalism that transcends any single job. And understand, fundamentally, the difference between the work you do for yourself and the work you do for others.
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“You're not really creating art here.”
— Chris Do
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