Slowly, steadily, I am overcoming my trouble with nervousness at these conferences. I can deliver the introductions with relatively few butterflies. I can meet, and can hold some modicum of intelligent conversation with, recognized legends in the field. My hands are drier, my voice is steadier, and I no longer feel – when such isolated moments of anxiety approach – as though I must choose from among the incommodious alternatives of running like hell, vomiting, or shitting in my pants.
People tell me that I never appear to be anxious, and I am invariably relieved to hear this; to paraphrase Fernando, it is far preferable to look calm than to feel calm. And even on those increasingly rare days when tension trumps reason, I can still manage to fake my way through and create an impression of confidence. But every once in a great while – say, one day in a thousand – the facade crumbles, and no amount of acting can conceal the neurosis within. Today was one of those days.
During a midafternoon session break, I inadvertently brushed the shoulder of a fellow conference attendee. As I turned to apologize, I was astonished to find myself vis-à-vis one of my typographic heroes, Veronika Burian; I just hadn’t expected to see her here. Foolishly and impulsively, I attempted to speak, and although I cannot now recall it word for word, I said something quite like: “‘Scusum, buh Maiola ... um, great! So, hee hee (sigh) ... uhhh, you’re ... um ... (clear throat, swallow, sigh, grin) here!? Yeeeaaahh ... er, um, duuuuuhhhhhhhhh ... .” And thus my how-do-you-do was a lamentable, inscrutable amalgam of primitive vocalizations, so wholly bereft of syntax and diction that Ms. Burian could only have concluded I was crapulent, profoundly mentally retarded, or perhaps both.
Much to my credit, however, I remained stationary and upright. Though I was at this point functionally mute, essentially paralytic, and completely dumbfounded, I had no inclination whatsoever either to keck or to eliminate. And much to Ms. Burian’s, she endured the idolatry all very graciously, and she even engaged in a minute or two of what must certainly have been rather one-sided repartee.
If you lack the context to comprehend either my enthusiastic admiration for Ms. Burian, or my stupefaction upon my unexpected meeting with her, then by all means get hold of her scholarly, fascinating 94-page M.A. thesis on OldÅich Menhart; read it for pleasure and then read it again for knowledge and inspiration. Follow that by licensing her vivacious, calligraphic, Menhart-inspired FF Maiola – quite possibly the most beautiful and important typeface of the last two years, and certainly one of the most complete with respect to language support – also crafted toward fulfillment of her M.A. degree, and in which her thesis is set. Work such as Ms. Burian’s lends further depth and complexity to the field of typography, and it leaves one with an overwhelming sense of confidence in its future.
As for me, I’ll undoubtedly continue my hero worship unabated; one has to have something to believe in, after all. But I’ll continue to work on my composure, such that the next time I meet Ms. Burian, I just might be able to offer “congratulations” in English, using all five syllables.