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A look at my own little love knot, the ampersand.

Scottish writing, 9th century

In the most delicious turn of events, the modern ampersand is the product of many centuries of evolution—in other words, an unholy corruption of its hard-working ancestors. Derived from the Latin and ,‘et’, the letters began their life as separate lovers. They lived in different parts of town, kept their own place, had their separate hobbies. It was great. But over time, they got closer and closer until, in the immortal words of the Spice Girls, two became one.

Around the ninth century, as scribes got a little quicker and hence lazier, the word had evolved into a tightly formed ligature that comes closer to what we know today. As far as I know, the name itself (“ampersand”) is the bastard child of the Latin “and per se and,” which has a weird Latin reason for repeating itself.

Unfortunately, with the rise of slab serif and sans serif typefaces in the 19th century, the roman version of the ampersand (the basic model: &) got invited to all the typefounding parties, in both italic as well as roman style. It was a harsh scene. I HATE YOU, SANS SERIF! (I'm kidding! I love you! But for very different reasons.) Thankfully, all the old guard kept it together, and you don’t need to look farther than Jenson, Garamond, Baskerville, et all to see some truly beautiful examples of ampersands done correctly.

That’s because for typographers, the ampersand has always been the playground of typefaces: you can let loose and channel your inner Prince, allowing for the most artistic of expression. I’m not going to lie, the italics of many modern typefaces are like poetry read by a lecherous but well-meaning Frenchman, drunk on his own lovemaking skills:

Actual usage of the ampersand varies across languages. English and French condone the use of the ampersand as a substitute for and, but I think it’s reached the point when it’s most generally accepted either in design or as the in-text bridge between a pair (eg. Gilbert & Sullivan). The Germans only condone it in formal and corporate titles--it is VERBOTEN in running text. 

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You might say I spend too much time looking this stuff up; my counter would be a triumphant chuckle as I insisted I already knew it, hence required no research. Then, as I realized the implications of my rebuttal, my victorious smile would darken, and my head would droop ever so slightly, and I would finally put a name to the feeling that haunted my days: it is shame. Never has a victory felt so like a defeat. 

Thanks Adobe, for indulging my geekiest sounds.