As the 2026 Winter Olympics in Milan and Cortina d’Ampezzo reached their ceremonial close on February 22, the conclusion of nearly three weeks of competition also marked the end of a global design moment unfolding in real time. Every iteration of the Games offers a fresh opportunity to consider how identity systems translate place and culture into visual language that must work for local spectators and global audiences alike.
The Milano Cortina 2026 identity, with its angular wordmark referencing the Dolomites alongside softened geometry that nods toward Italian design history, exemplifies the tension between symbolic specificity and systemic coherence that defines contemporary Olympic branding. That tension — between emblematic motifs and expressive, adaptive systems — raises larger questions about how typography and visual systems can articulate meaning at scale. To explore the past, present, and possible future of large-scale cultural branding, I spoke with Charles Nix, Senior Executive Creative Director at Monotype, about how typography functions as a vehicle for place, identity, and resonance in the modern Olympic era.
Charles Nix headshot by Matt Carr, Olympic identity imagery courtesy of the International Olympic Committee
The Milano Cortina 2026 wordmark subtly references the Dolomites through its angular construction, yet sits within a broader identity that includes softer geometry and expressive illustration. From a typographic standpoint, how do you assess the balance between emblematic symbolism and systemic coherence in large-scale cultural branding?
From a typographic standpoint, large identity systems operate as layered storytelling structures: big type (logos and headlines), medium type (subheads), and small type (text and captions), all ideally in dialogue with one another. In the Milano Cortina system, the wordmark functions as an anchor—clear in what it says, and more suggestive in how it looks, with angular forms that hint at the Dolomites alongside a subtle nod to Milan’s late-20th-century fashion typography. But the full lockup is a stack of four assertive elements—the tubular italic “26,” the place name, a repeated “2026,” and the Olympic rings. Each piece is legible and purposeful, yet the parts feel more assembled than integrated. It works, commercially and functionally, but the symbolism and the system don’t fully resolve into a single, cohesive typographic voice.
Olympic identities have shifted from logo-first thinking to more expansive, culturally rooted systems. In your view, how has typography evolved from a supporting asset to a primary vehicle for expressing place, landscape, and social values on the global stage?
Typography’s role has expanded largely because we’ve been looking in the wrong place for too long. We fixate on the logo because it’s the biggest, most obvious element, but in systems of this scale, the real work is done by the supporting type, graphics, and symbols that carry the identity across every touchpoint. These identities have to function for people on the ground in venues and cities, and for global audiences experiencing the event through screens. The job of typography is to coalesce those varied experiences into something that resonates—a consistent tone that accumulates meaning over time.
In that sense, the logo lockup acts more like a drumbeat: something we return to again and again for recognition and rhythm. The visual melody comes from the supporting type, the gestural graphic language, the color, and the symbol system working together. When it all aligns, typography becomes the primary vehicle for expressing place, landscape, and social values. The 1968 Mexico Olympics remains a benchmark because all of those elements were orchestrated into a unified visual voice that felt inseparable from the culture it represented. Milano Cortina has strong moments, but it doesn’t fully reach that level of cohesion or exceed what we already know is possible.
When a type system is tasked with representing an entire nation or host city, what distinguishes authentic cultural reference from aesthetic pastiche? Where is the line between meaningful typographic storytelling and visual cliché?
Authentic cultural reference in a typographic system tends to show up in structure—in proportion, rhythm, and the underlying material logic of the forms. Pastiche, by contrast, lives on the surface. It borrows motifs, textures, and visual cues without absorbing the deeper principles that shaped them. A simple test is whether the work still holds together without its backstory. If it depends on explanation to feel meaningful, it risks becoming costume rather than culture.
This question comes up often, even outside design. Standing in front of a geometric painting recently, I found myself wondering where the line sits between a commercial logotype and a piece of art that opens a broader cultural conversation. The difference isn’t always obvious, and it rarely comes down to a single factor. Time, talent, resources, and motive all play a role. Both art and design have circled this tension for decades—sometimes embracing pastiche, sometimes pushing past it. Pop Art confronted appropriation directly. Postmodern graphic design blurred distinctions between high and low. The strongest typographic storytelling emerges when reference is absorbed and transformed, not simply quoted.
Many recent Olympic brands lean into flexibility and motion, building adaptive systems rather than static marks. Does this increased expressiveness strengthen cultural resonance — or does it risk diluting clarity and recognizability at scale?
We’re still at the beginning of motion-based identity systems, so it’s natural that they feel exploratory. In Milano Cortina, the gestural lines and movement cues—which at times recall something like dance notation—clearly aim to echo the energy of sport. They create a sense of dynamism, and that can help an identity feel alive across screens and environments. Motion, in that sense, has real potential to deepen engagement.
But flexibility and expressiveness come with tradeoffs. The layered spray-paint effects, shifting color pairings, and gestural marks create a contemporary, urban tone, yet they don’t strongly evoke a specific sense of place. They read more as atmosphere than location. When motion, color, symbols, and typography don’t fully resolve into a unified voice, the result can feel commercially viable but not especially distinctive. The system works, but it doesn’t quite build the kind of clarity or resonance that makes an identity unmistakable at scale.
Looking ahead, as global events compete in an increasingly digital, fragmented media landscape, what do you believe will define the next era of large-scale cultural branding? Will typography become more locally specific, more technologically responsive, or something else entirely?
I find this a difficult question to answer not because the future is hard to imagine, but because we’re already living inside the fragmented media landscape that will shape it. Think about how most people actually encounter an Olympic identity: a television promo, a news aggregator, a story in the New York Times app, an official website, a broadcast graphic package. Very few of us experience it in person at the venues. Some of those encounters are “official” expressions of the identity; most are mediated through other branded systems that frame, crop, translate, and reinterpret it. The challenge for the next era of cultural branding is how to create something recognizable enough in its parts that it still communicates its essence through all of those layers.
I’m reminded of the way Picasso’s Guernica lives in our minds. Most people have never stood in front of it in Madrid, yet they can picture its composition and the anguished faces. Its power has carried across decades of reproduction, writing, and reinterpretation. The next Olympic identity won’t be Guernica, but it will need to survive and even thrive through that same kind of amplification system. It will need to be strong enough that fragments—a typographic detail, a color pairing, a symbol—can evoke the whole.
So I might gently push back on the premise that the future is only about becoming more local or more technologically responsive. It may be both. Identities will likely become more dynamic, more context-aware, better able to translate themselves across languages, screens, and environments. They may function as living systems that adapt to full-color, motion-enabled, sound-on media. But the core requirement won’t change. Each fragment, each frame, each appearance needs to carry enough of the system’s DNA to signal place, culture, and the Olympic spirit. If we don’t feel or recognize something in those fragments, then all the dynamism in the world risks becoming noise rather than meaning.
You’ve spent decades thinking about how typography carries meaning across cultures and contexts. When you look at something as globally visible as the Olympics, do you respond first as a strategist, a typographer, or simply as a viewer? And has your personal philosophy about what makes a mark endure changed over time?
These days, I encounter an Olympic identity first as a viewer. I see it the way most people do—in broadcasts, apps, headlines, and the layered environments of other brands. Only later, when I’m asked to comment, do I begin to take it apart as a typographer or strategist, diagnosing why it does or doesn’t resonate. That kind of critique comes from years of looking at my own work and the work of others: finding the essential idea, the exciting element, and building a coherent system around it. Unless something is truly exceptional—or truly flawed—it often passes by without much notice. That’s the real risk of banal design. It fills space, but it doesn’t provoke, inform, or stay with you.
My own philosophy has changed over time. Early on, I was drawn mostly to the formal qualities of type and design, and what I found exciting was shaped by a narrower set of references. Decades of seeing more, reading more, traveling, and talking with people have expanded that view. I still care deeply about formal excellence, but I now think more holistically. Does the work do what it needs to do? Is it clear? Does it push into new territory? Does it connect the origin of the idea to the mind of the audience? Enduring marks still depend on craft, but they last because they carry meaning across context, time, and culture.
As Olympic identities become more adaptive and culturally expressive, is there a risk that flexibility starts to outweigh distinctiveness? In your view, what must remain non-negotiable in a typographic system for it to feel both locally authentic and globally recognizable?
There’s always a risk that one quality in a system will overpower another. Distinctiveness can overwhelm utility just as easily as flexibility can dilute recognition. The real non-negotiable for any typographic system is that it communicates. That sounds broad, but it’s fundamental. The parts need to work together clearly enough to carry meaning. I tend to be wary of systems where clarity breaks down, though there are moments when disparity itself becomes the organizing idea. When that’s done well, it creates a kind of micro-verse—a visual language the viewer learns to read.
Typography adds another layer to this because it carries language, and language is an anchor. Well-written, well-edited text grounds even the most expressive systems. And yet, there are powerful examples that lean almost entirely on image and gesture and still communicate deeply. Which brings it back to the core issue: the idea. The concept has to be strong enough to live through whatever form it takes. If the underlying truth connects—if the work carries a clear intent from origin to audience—the system can flex without losing itself. It will still inform, move, and be recognized.
Imagery courtesy of the International Olympic Committee
Director of brand, identity, and look: Raffaella Paniè
Foundation: Fondazione Milano Cortina 2026
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