“Originality is the best form of rebellion.” ― Mike Sasso
Design, Grounded in Human Intent
I had an entire issue of Parcel Post written and ready to send. As always, I took my time writing the issue, and I was happy with how it came together. And then I set it aside.
Over the last few weeks, I kept feeling pulled toward something else. The images coming out of protests across the country, the signs, the gestures, the way people were showing up visually, felt more urgent than the topic I was originally writing about. So: I scrapped the original draft and started paying closer attention to what I was already noticing.
As we move into 2026, there’s a noticeable pull toward authenticity that feels directly tied to how fast AI expanded in 2025. Last year was about capability, speed, and scale. This year feels more like a reckoning with what all of that produced. When systems can generate anything on demand, people start caring more deeply about what feels lived-in, intentional, and rooted in real experience. Authenticity becomes less of a buzzword and more of a filter. It’s how we decide what to trust, what to engage with, and what feels worth carrying forward. You can sense it in design, in culture, and especially in how people choose to show up publicly.
Adam Mosseri, Head of Instagram, said as much in an open letter on Threads recently. I actually agree with almost everything he said, with the exception of the appalling concept of “authenticity at scale,” and a complete and willful disregard of the huge, outsized role that platforms like Instagram had in actively shaping the current state of things, and being directly responsible for ushering in an era where it is even necessary to write such a letter. But that’s not exactly what I want to write about (now, at least), so I digress.
Authenticity becomes less of a buzzword and more of a filter.
The visual language of protest sits squarely in that shift: handwritten signs, imperfect lettering, bodies gathered in shared space, and symbols reused across cities and communities all act as clear assertions of agency. These visuals say, “This came from us,” without needing to explain themselves. They communicate community and personal autonomy in a way that feels difficult to automate or smooth over. In that sense, protest imagery becomes a reminder of what design has always been capable of when it’s grounded in human intent. Design, at its best, is a powerful tool for alignment, for visibility, and for change, helping people see themselves reflected in a movement and understand that their presence matters. I think a lot about this quote from exceptional storyteller, type designer, and fellow Marylander, Tré Seal:
By placing marginalized histories at the heart of our designs, we contribute to a more inclusive, reflective, and powerful design culture. A culture where authentic storytelling becomes the standard.
That absolutely resonates. In a way, it makes me think of my own approach to Rural & Co., drawing specifically on the ethos of historically underserved and marginalized rural communities. At one of the early No Kings protests in Rhode Island last year, I took a photograph that I’ve been coming back to lately: just people standing together, holding signs, occupying space with intention. The longer I looked at it afterward, the more I realized that what stayed with me wasn’t just the message on any single sign, but the composition of the scene itself. It made me think about how protest communicates visually, often before words fully register.
That’s what I mean when I talk about the visual language of protest. The shared cues, symbols, and design choices that make belief visible. The way a message is lettered. The decision to use black marker on cardboard or red paint on fabric. The collective agreement, sometimes unspoken, about how something should look in order to be understood. This language has been developing for centuries, shaped by artists, organizers, and ordinary people responding to the conditions around them.
The shared cues, symbols, and design choices that make belief visible.
I think about this often when I’m sitting in my own office. On the wall behind me is a poster by Shepard Fairey that reads Make Art Not War. I’ve had it on my wall long enough that it’s easy to stop noticing, but every so often it reasserts itself. Fairey’s work understands that images can hold positions. They can circulate, persist, and give movements a visual anchor. That poster feels connected to a much longer lineage of protest imagery that values clarity and recognizability over ornament. I also have another large, framed Shepard Fairey print on the wall facing my desk, arguably his most famous work, slightly yellowing and creased after surviving one of the largest crowds of people I’ve ever been in. At the bottom of the print is the date and location: JANUARY 20TH, 2009 – WASHINGTON, DC. I’m sure you know what it is. I look at it every day.
I visited the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, TN over the summer, and they had a powerful exhibit depicting one of the most enduring examples of that clarity: the 1968 Memphis Sanitation Workers’ Strike. The signs that read I AM A MAN were stark and direct, using nothing more than bold typography and repetition. They didn’t rely on metaphor or illustration. They stated a truth that the system was refusing to acknowledge, and they did it in a way that was impossible to soften or misinterpret. The power came from restraint and consistency, qualities that show up again and again in effective protest visuals.
Art history is filled with moments where images have carried moral weight in similar ways. When Pablo Picasso painted Guernica, he created a visual record of civilian suffering that still resonates decades later. The fractured forms and distorted faces communicate violence and grief without needing explanation. You don’t have to know the full context to feel what the painting is responding to. That ability to transcend language is part of what gives protest art its staying power.
That ability to transcend language is part of what gives protest art its staying power.
Street artists have continued this tradition in public space. Banksy has a particular talent for compressing complex political realities into single, legible images. Works like The Flower Thrower use familiar visual cues to create tension and reflection. In another case, a mural painted in support of Palestinian protesters became even more resonant after it was removed, with the remaining shadow acting as an unintended extension of the work. The absence carried meaning alongside the original image.
Artists like Keith Haring and Ai Weiwei have also shaped how protest looks and feels. Haring’s bold figures and symbols made care, fear, and solidarity visible during the AIDS crisis, while Ai Weiwei’s work often uses scale, repetition, and documentation to challenge authority and make systemic harm harder to dismiss. Even acts of censorship and destruction become part of this visual history. The demolition of Man at the Crossroads by Diego Rivera is remembered as much for what it revealed about power as for the mural itself.
Language itself has often been the primary visual tool. Barbara Kruger built an entire body of work around the idea that text can confront as forcefully as imagery. Her use of bold typography, stark contrast, and direct address borrows from advertising while turning its techniques inward. The viewer is implicated simply by reading the words. The design does the work of pulling you into the conversation.
Some of the most affecting protest imagery appears when familiar or sacred spaces are recontextualized. A Nativity scene at St. Susanna Parish in Massachusetts depicted the familiar scene with the notable omission of Baby Jesus, and a stark, ominous sign reading “ICE WAS HERE.” The impact came from the collision of religious iconography and contemporary policy. It asked viewers to reconcile belief with reality, using imagery that was already deeply embedded in cultural memory.
Other images emerge without any formal design process at all. At the Bluebonnet Detention Facility in Texas, detained migrants arranged their bodies to spell out “SOS,” a message only visible from above. The photograph that captured it carries a weight that comes from necessity rather than aesthetics. When traditional channels are inaccessible, the body itself becomes the medium.
I keep returning to the visual language of protest because it operates on a level that feels both immediate and enduring. These images tend to bypass debate and settle into memory. They become reference points for how a moment felt, not just what it argued. In a culture saturated with content, the visuals that last often share the same qualities: legibility, intention, and a willingness to be seen.
Paying attention to these signals feels important right now. Not as an academic exercise, but as a way of understanding how people are communicating when other systems feel unresponsive. The images tell us what matters, where pressure is building, and how communities choose to represent themselves when they step into public view. That’s what I’m watching, and that’s what felt worth writing about this time.
