Junki Jung (a.k.a. Jun Jung) is a Lead Senior Designer at Pentagram, New York, whose career bridges the worlds of Korean and international design. A graduate of Hongik University—one of Korea’s most prestigious art schools—Jung began his career at Ahn Graphics, the renowned design firm founded by typographic pioneer Ahn Sang-soo. There, he contributed to high-profile projects, including the 2018 PyeongChang Olympics commemorative book, the Typojanchi Biennale catalog, and Nike’s retail applications.
In 2019, he moved to the U.S. to pursue an MFA in Graphic Design at Yale University, where his thesis, Somewhere in Between, explored the balance of structure and play under the guidance of Sheila Levrant de Bretteville. Since joining Pentagram in 2021 as part of Eddie Opara’s team, Jung has worked across branding, typography, and environmental design, shaping projects for JFK’s New Terminal One, Rivian’s custom typeface, and the Smithsonian Museum.
Recognised with multiple Red Dot Awards, an ISTD Award, and other prestigious accolades, Jung’s work reflects a deep understanding of typography, cultural identity, and visual storytelling. Today, I had the pleasure of exploring Jung’s journey, design philosophy, and the impact of his work on the global stage.
Amber Weaver: Hi Jun, Thanks so much for taking the time to answer my questions! To kick things off, seeing how your work explores the tension between tradition and narrative in typography is fascinating. How do you determine the right balance between honouring historical forms and pushing toward contemporary storytelling in your type design?
Junki Jung: Since the extent to which a project reflects narrative in form varies, I adjust the balance step by step through a process of exploring different directions. The initial approach always begins with an experimental and bold form that actively incorporates narrative. This stage serves as a kind of temperature check. If this first experimental approach is well received, the focus shifts toward narrative rather than traditional forms, allowing for continued exploration of experimental shapes. Conversely, if the reception is less favorable, the design direction is adjusted toward a more historical and conventional form. This initial phase acts as a compass, measuring the elasticity of letterforms permitted within the project and guiding the next steps.
Through multiple iterations of this development and feedback process, the typeface eventually settles into a balanced form between the two aspects. Of course, there are exceptions—projects where the designer is given full control. In such cases, traditional forms serve as reference material for exploring different typographic expressions (e.g. whether the two middle diagonal strokes of a “W” should meet or intersect), while the primary focus shifts to how the narrative can be conveyed more assertively. At this point, as long as the letters remain legible, the project becomes a playground of creative freedom for me.
AW: You describe typography as a paradox, where opposing forces collide or fuse to create something new. Can you share an example from your work where this paradox led to an unexpected or unconventional design outcome?
JJ: The most fitting example of this paradox in my work is Paprika, a project for the Yale School of Architecture. This regularly published newspaper explored the compelling theme, “A Field: To Seed or Not to Seed,” questioning whether humans should intervene in nature through architecture. Inspired by the metaphor of seeding to represent human intervention, my collaborator Mike Tully and I approached typography in a way that mimicked the act of sowing seeds.
The process unfolded as follows: we utilised our studio with high ceilings, where one of us walked across the floor, imagining the shape of a letter with our movements, while the other captured this motion from a mezzanine level in a bird’s-eye view. The result was a physical embodiment of the letterforms we had in mind, but not a precise reproduction. Various unpredictable factors—such as our inability to see our own movements from above and spontaneous bodily shifts—introduced a paradox between our imagined letters and their actual forms. When we used motion tracking to capture the resulting letterforms, they appeared distorted, bent, and twisted in ways we had not anticipated. Yet, they remained recognisable as letters.
We incorporated these unexpected letterforms as the title typography of the newspaper and also embedded one oversized letter per page across four pages. Inside these large-scale letters, we placed pull quotes, reinforcing the idea that the contributors’ thoughts were metaphorically planted into the ground of the newspaper. Additional typographic elements enhanced this concept—for instance, the subtitle, which acted as a bridge between the body text and the title, was rendered in a pointillist font, resembling scattered seeds. The arrangement of body text and spacing between lines was also designed to resemble fields and irrigation channels, subtly altering the reader’s navigation through the text.
After the newspaper was printed, Mike and I took it outside on a rainy day, placed it on the soil, and photographed it. The imagery evoked the idea of intellectual seeds—thoughts expressed in the newspaper—floating on the earth in contemplation. This entire process exemplified how merging traditional letterforms with narrative could lead to an unpredictable yet deeply meaningful design outcome.
AW: In branding projects, typography often needs to be both timeless and adaptable. How do you apply your conceptual approach—where type exists between tradition and narrative—within the constraints of a brand identity system?
JJ: As you pointed out, branding projects typically do not embrace overly experimental or conceptual typefaces. From a branding perspective, a radical shift in visual language carries inherent risks, such as alienating an existing consumer base. However, if a brand employs not just a single typeface but a suite of typefaces as part of its typographic palette, it can mitigate the risks associated with conceptual letterforms while strategically deploying them at the right moments. This allows for a dynamic approach: when the brand’s identity needs to be more pronounced, a conceptual typeface can be used, whereas a more conventional typeface can be applied for subtler messaging moments.
Given the diversity of communication channels available today, relying on a single typeface to convey an entire brand narrative feels increasingly restrictive. That’s the reason I find this multi-font approach essential—it enables a brand to maintain flexibility across different contexts while still delivering a cohesive message.
If a client prioritises brand consistency and prefers to use just one typeface, the balance must shift toward a more conventional design. In this case, the challenge becomes how subtly and abstractly a narrative can be embedded within the typeface. This could mean modifying just one of the 26 Latin letters in a distinctive way or maintaining a traditional letter structure while altering stroke treatments to introduce a textural dimension that conveys the brand’s story. The level of subtlety depends on the project’s nature and necessitates continuous dialogue. As a designer, my role is to strike the right balance—ensuring the narrative remains present without becoming too diluted.
AW: In Fluctuation of Time, you manipulated letterforms to reflect the fluidity of time. When designing for brands, do you ever use similar experimental techniques to enhance storytelling, or does function take priority?
JJ: An example of incorporating experimental typography into branding is the custom typeface developed for Yale Engineering. However, unlike a typical typeface designed to convey messages through body text or headlines, this one was specifically created for the school’s sub-brand logos. The decision to use a typeface rather than static lettering combinations was intentional—it addressed the ever-evolving structure of the school.
Under the brand idea Co/lab, Yale Engineering encourages active collaboration across disciplines. This vision called for a flexible branding system that could adapt to different academic amalgamations over time, rather than adhering to rigid disciplinary distinctions. A typeface, unlike a fixed lettering composition, allows for this adaptability, enabling departments to generate appropriate logos as needed while maintaining brand cohesion. By following design guidelines, new department logos can be created seamlessly within the broader brand system.
When it comes to typefaces meant for brand messaging, radical experimentation is often more difficult to implement. However, as I stated earlier, subtle storytelling can still be embedded in letterform details. Going back to the Yale Engineering project—we had to adhere to the typography guidelines set by Yale University, which required us to work with two pre-established typefaces: Yale by Matthew Carter and Mallory by Tobias Frere-Jones. We chose Mallory as the primary typeface for Yale Engineering due to its technical aesthetic and then explored ways to infuse it with a distinct identity.
The key modification was a subtle yet dynamic change: we replaced the tittle (the dot above the “i”) with a rotating cube. The cube was a core visual element of Yale Engineering’s brand, symbolising the ever-evolving nature of ideas. We designed six different cube variations and developed a system where these forms would appear randomly when typed. Through discussions and technical collaboration with the original type designer, Tobias Frere-Jones, and his team, we created Mallory Engr, a custom version of Mallory that retained its foundational design while incorporating Yale Engineering’s unique identity. This approach allowed us to subtly infuse the brand narrative into the typeface while preserving the functional clarity.
AW: You reinterpret ‘modernity’ as ‘narrative.’ How do you think this perspective reshapes our understanding of contemporary type design?
JJ: Modernity is often understood as an antithesis to the past, shaping our expectations of what type should be in the present. However, when defined simply as ‘the present,’ its interpretation becomes as varied as the cultural experiences that inform it. This is the reason I reinterpret the abstraction of modernity as narrative, grounding the concept in something more tangible and specific to each context.
In the realm of type design, this perspective liberates us from the long-standing convention of equating modernity with sans-serif typography—a correlation that persists largely due to historical inertia. When modernity is reframed as narrative, stylistic prescriptions are rejected in favor of contextual relevance. The only criterion that matters is whether a typeface serves its narrative purpose.
For instance, a serif typeface—even its ornamental qualities and traces of ink traps—can be entirely contemporary if it aligns with the context in which it is utilised. This challenges the default assumption that sans-serif equals modern and invites a more nuanced approach to contemporary type design. Given today’s oversaturated landscape of sans-serif typefaces, I hope this shift in perspective gradually reshapes how we define type in the modern era.
AW: Typography does not exist in isolation—it interacts with cultural, technological, and social contexts. How do you navigate these external influences while maintaining your own design philosophy?
JJ: I’d like to separate culture and society from technology for a moment. To me, if the former represents the content within a vessel, the latter—though undeniably influential—still primarily functions as the vessel itself.
When it comes to culture and society, I reflect their shifts and nuances through the way I embody narratives in types. After all, society and culture are essentially collections of individual narratives, both large and small. On a micro level, letters can serve as personal expressions of these narratives; on a macro level, they weave a larger tapestry of cultural and societal identity. I believe this approach plays a crucial role in keeping typography relevant in everyday life, ensuring that my designs remain meaningfully connected to the ever-evolving dynamics of the present.
With the rapid development of technology constantly introducing new modes of expression, I am challenged to stay humble and continuously learn. At the same time, I maintain a sense of caution, ensuring I am not entirely consumed by these advancements. In a rapidly evolving environment, there are inevitably things we overlook. This is precisely why I place cultural and social contexts at the center of my work rather than focusing solely on technical innovation. I strive to ensure that my designs are not just demonstrations of technical skill but creations that truly resonate with people.
AW: Type design can be both a highly individual practice and a collaborative one, especially within branding. How do you navigate working with clients or teams while staying true to your conceptual approach?
JJ: In my experience, type design for branding operates within a broad spectrum of working environments. On one end of the spectrum, there are projects where the commissioner is actively involved in the design process, often bringing a refined understanding of typography. In such cases, type design becomes a deeply collaborative effort, with the commissioner’s perspectives and criteria significantly influencing the outcome. The magnitude of feedback can range from adjusting minute details of letterforms to refining the overall impression the typeface conveys.
On the opposite end, some commissioners fully trust the designer’s expertise and grant complete creative control over the type design process. In these situations, type design becomes a more personal practice. While internal feedback loops within a design team still play a role, once a direction is set, a single designer often leads the project.
The conceptual approach in my work adapts accordingly to these different environments. In highly collaborative settings, concepts tend to be expressed more subtly within the typeface, whereas in projects where I have more creative autonomy, the conceptual elements can be more pronounced. However, regardless of the degree of conceptual visibility, narrative always remains at the core. Every design project, at its essence, seeks to establish a coherent visual identity, i.e. one singular direction that aligns with the brand’s voice.
Naturally, the more stakeholders involved, the longer it can take to align perspectives. But I see this process as a valuable test, providing me with an opportunity to assess whether my conceptual approach resonates beyond my own vision and successfully connects with others.
AW: You describe paradoxes in typography as a conceptual framework for pushing boundaries. Do you think this approach has the potential to redefine what legibility or readability means in type design?
JJ: As you may also acknowledge, the criteria for legibility and readability are highly subjective. For some, a letterform must strictly adhere to convention to be legible, while for others, as long as they are identifiable, even an irregular form can be read. We often use terms like legibility and readability to articulate our own thresholds, but because they are context-dependent, they can be overly reductive when used as rigid standards.
Exploring typography’s paradoxical nature inherently raises questions about these assumptions. In my personal project Metamorphosis, for instance, I deliberately altered letterforms to make them difficult to read. This was inspired by Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, where Gregor Samsa’s transformation into an insect prompts the existential question: Is he still human? Similarly, I wanted to explore whether a letter, when distorted beyond recognition, could still be perceived as a letter.
Interestingly, those who engaged with my work found ways to decipher the distorted forms. Rather than being discouraged by the challenge, they became more invested—treating the act of reading like solving a puzzle. This experience reinforced my belief that legibility is not an absolute metric.
I hope my work serves as an example of how these conventional standards can be questioned and expanded. Rather than seeing legibility as a fixed constraint, I view it as a spectrum—one that offers room for experimentation and redefinition.
AW: You mention that synthesis often yields unexpected results. Can you share an instance where a typographic experiment took an unforeseen direction and how that influenced your design process?
JJ: The type design project for Rivian illustrates how synthesis can lead to unexpected results. At first glance, the final typeface might not appear to take a radically unconventional direction. However, the process of developing it involved constant adjustments between a narrative-driven concept and conventional typographic structure, ultimately leading to a result that diverged from my initial expectations.
Rivian approached Eddie Opara’s Team at Pentagram with a request for a custom typeface that embodied their brand identity. Unlike many other brand-exclusive typefaces, this project came with three highly specific constraints. First, the typeface had to be based on Söhne (designed by Kris Sowersby at Klim Foundry), maintaining its fundamental structure, side bearings, and kerning. Second, it needed to incorporate Rivian’s brand identity. Third, the numerals had to be completely redesigned. The first constraint served as the conventional foundation of the project, while the second introduced the challenge of embedding a distinctive narrative. The balance between the two was ultimately tested in the numeral redesign.
The starting point for the numerals was Rivian’s signature pill-shaped headlights. The Rivian team wanted this shape reflected in the numeral 0 to reinforce their brand identity. However, directly transplanting the headlight shape proved problematic—it was too geometric and didn’t harmonise with Söhne’s grotesque characteristics. Using it as-is would have resulted in a visual mismatch, resembling a fusion of DIN-style numerals with Söhne’s Latin letterforms. To resolve this, Eddie Opara, Ruben Gijselhart, and I gradually pulled the shape of 0 closer to Söhne’s design axis, refining it into a more organic form. While this wasn’t a radical discovery, it was something we couldn’t have anticipated from the outset—it was a form that emerged from the process of integrating narrative with convention. This final shape of 0 then influenced the proportions and curvature of the other numerals.
Beyond the numerals, we further refined the typeface to align with Rivian’s values of mechanical precision and human-centered design. We reduced the flare on terminals to enhance the mechanical aesthetic while widening apertures to introduce a sense of warmth and approachability.
This iterative process of balancing different values has made me view my design work with greater humility. It reinforced the idea that my perspective isn’t an absolute answer but one component within a larger dialogue—when combined with other values, it can lead to surprising and meaningful results. The Japanese designer Sato Taku refers to this as malleable thinking(塑する思考)—the ability to adapt flexibly to change. I believe this mindset is just as important as having a distinct creative identity. After all, the goal of design is to communicate a narrative, not merely to express oneself. That doesn’t mean losing one’s voice entirely—I trust that the way I shape and convey a story will naturally reflect my own perspective.
AW: Given your focus on the evolving nature of typography, where do you see the next major shifts happening in type design? Are there particular technologies or design movements you think will further challenge traditional notions of typography?
JJ: It’s undeniable that technological advancements are rapidly expanding the expressive possibilities of typography. Online tools now allow users to create motion graphics with type in just a few clicks. I believe these developments will make typography more accessible to a wider audience. As more people engage with type, more discourse will emerge, ultimately driving the industry forward. This stands in stark contrast to the early days of type design when it was often regarded as a kind of dark art.
While it’s impossible to predict exactly how typography will evolve, if technological progress continues at its current pace, artificial intelligence may eventually encroach on type design. As of early 2025, AI still has a long way to go before it can meaningfully contribute to the nuances of type creation, but its potential influence in the future cannot be ruled out.
Despite these shifts, I firmly believe that the core values we cherish in typography will endure. A well-crafted typeface will always captivate the eye, subtly enriching the reading experience. The way type conveys tone and emotion will remain an essential part of communication. As long as reading continues to be a fundamental part of human interaction and as long as narratives remain central to our culture, the intrinsic beauty of typography will persist.
Thank you, Jun, for your time and such considerate answers!
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