There are two aphorisms on my mind this week. The first is: “Never judge a book by its cover.” The second, perhaps less well-known, is: “We eat with our eyes first.” They’re kind of contradictory, aren’t they? Maybe that’s why the second one is less well-known; we have to pick one or the other, and the first makes us feel better about ourselves for following it. The second accepts that there is a tendency toward superficial judgment in all of us, for while not everyone enjoys picking up a book and reading, we all eat. And thus we all judge.
The number of people who drink beer falls somewhere in the vast distance between reading and eating, but you’re reading this, so I’m going to assume that you’re a beer drinker in some measure. And boy, do beer drinkers judge.
We judge the contents of the bottle or can or glass, but we also judge the container in which the beer is presented to us. I’m going to skip over being fastidious with glassware choices, because that’s a whole different shaker pint of worms. Right now, I’m thinking of the way we look at beer labels, and how those labels speak to us.
There are labels that embrace modern art’s spartan and geometric sensibilities. Think Marz Community Brewing in Chicago or some of the newer releases from Stillwater Artisanal Ales in Maryland. Even Evil Twin’s colorful, occasionally in-jokey labels still roll with angular, color-blocked, pixelated themes. It seems to me these styles are attempting to convey thoughtfulness and artistic intent. The beers inside aren’t chuggers or throwaways. They’re hip, contemplative.
Taking that seriousness to a more businesslike zone are the beers that embrace minimalism and white space. Maine Beer Company is just so...Maine, with its low-affectation label aesthetic that may be in itself kind of an affectation. St. Louis’ Side Project froofs it up a little with a flowery script, but there’s still just that one, simple image at the center of most of its highly sought-after labels. (Locally, Funk Factory’s single-fruit lambic series displays a similar vibe.) What these labels say to me is that, for one reason or another, no embellishment is required. “We are confident that these beers will speak for themselves,” the brewer implies.
Goofy and cartoony labels are abundant in the craft beer scene. Lucette Brewing up in Menomonie used to reside in this zone, with a repeating theme of a be-cleavaged young woman in a midriff-baring red gingham shirt.
This is about to change, however. Lucette co-founder Mike Wilson recently tweeted out the new can design for Lucette’s flagship beer, The Farmer’s Daughter, and its new IPA, Harmonia, and while the pretty brunette is still there, the male gaze factor is significantly reduced. The new labels are more artistic, in line with the aesthetic of breweries like Jolly Pumpkin, Lone Pint or Jester King. I like the new look.
What many of the aforementioned brewers embrace is consistency, a badging of sorts that allows the consumer’s eye to recognize quickly a Jester King bottle or a Maine Beer Company bottle just by virtue of the layout of the label. Stillwater doesn’t quite have that down, with three fairly distinct styles ranging from geometric to nautical tattoo to trippily Lovecraftian. New Glarus, even with its new shaded color gradient, is still instantly recognizable for co-owner Deb Carey’s hand-drawn illustrations.
Consistency in label art breeds familiarity, whether the target audience is hipsters, bros or fans of the art nouveau posters of the Belle Époque. But novelty — changing it up, bucking the trends, breaking a pattern — draws new consideration and lively conversation. So perhaps what the beer world needs is its own aphorism. Shop with your eyes, but judge with your tongue.
