Fred Afrikyan once said we’ve moved beyond the constraints of traditional metal type design, and that we’re free to go further. That idea stayed with me. When I began designing type, I wasn’t drawn to what already existed. I was reacting to what was missing. The typefaces I needed simply weren’t there. So I created them, forms that dressed my design work rather than competing with it. At the time, it didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like survival.

What began as a personal need slowly evolved into Biliktu Foundry. But its foundation was always something deeper: the realization that I couldn’t stay within the limitations I had inherited. Drawing that first typeface was unnerving. But the alternative, staying silent, was worse.

Over the last five years, the work matured, and so did I. The foundry became more than a space for expression. It became a question: Why do we treat typefaces as neutral tools, as isolated products? Why can’t they behave more like garments in a collection, tied to narrative, to intention, to identity?

My typefaces have never existed for their own sake. They come from internal places; frustration, joy, memory. In the early days, that energy was loud, even aggressive. The Core Collection was unapologetic, erratic, sometimes brazen. But that phase was necessary. I needed to push, to provoke. Now, I’m more precise. The voice is quieter, but more focused. Still expressive, but framed, structured, intentional.

That shift gave rise to Vestige, my first true collection. It was a search for a new rhythm, one where emotion and restraint could live together. I wanted to hold onto the rawness of my early work, but allow it space to breathe.

As I developed the collection, I imagined the worlds these typefaces belonged to. I began building soundscapes. I looked to the way garments speak to each other in the work of Jan-Jan Van Essche, Sarah-Linh Tran, Christophe Lemaire. Their language of softness and control, of quiet construction, stayed with me.

And then, Margiela. I had known the name, of course. But I hadn’t felt the work until I read the interviews, the texts, the subtext. His vision, the poetic anonymity, the intentional deconstruction, the refusal to explain, gave me a kind of permission. To subtract. To unpolish. To leave something unsaid.

That spirit is present in Vestige.

Typefaces, for me, are like garments. They dress the design. They support. They shape tone. They never shout over the form they live within. My earlier work took up a lot of space, deliberately. But just as my wardrobe has changed, so has my design philosophy. The work must now carry intention, not just impact.

I’ve stepped away from the model of releasing individual typefaces as isolated products. That approach no longer reflects how I think, feel, or work. Instead, I’ve adopted a collection-based structure, not as a reference to fashion, but as a design philosophy. Collections allow space for rhythm, narrative, and evolution. They reflect a system of thought, not a trend. Each one is a complete expression, a world with its own internal coherence. Whether it includes one typeface or several is irrelevant. What matters is the clarity of the voice, and the intention behind it.

These collections will always be multi-sensory. Sound, video, photography, they are not accessories. They are part of the narrative architecture. Each element is crafted with the same care as the type itself. To support this new structure, I’ve created a Glossary to clarify the language I use and the frameworks I’m introducing. You’re welcome to explore it.

Thank you for your time,

Murathan Biliktu