Why do we remember some images and forget others?

There are images we recognise almost immediately, even when we know very little about them. Picasso’s fragmented figures, Mondrian’s geometric compositions or Andy Warhol’s portraits of Marilyn Monroe form part of a shared visual imagination. We do not need to know their techniques, understand the artistic movements they belong to or have visited the museums where their works are kept in order to identify them.

But why do we remember them?

We might think it is because of their originality, a particularly successful composition or their ability to convey something that other images cannot. And there is probably some truth in that. However, there is also a less romantic explanation: we have seen them many times. In books, adverts, documentaries, T-shirts, social media and all kinds of everyday objects. Their constant presence has helped turn them into familiar images, even for people who have never shown any particular interest in art.

This raises an interesting paradox. We tend to interpret recognition as evidence of quality, when in reality they are two different matters. An image can be extraordinary and go unnoticed, while another can achieve enormous popularity without standing out especially for its visual qualities. Memory does not work like a jury selecting the best compositions, nor is familiarity in itself a guarantee of value.

In contemporary design, this distinction is especially relevant. Every day we live alongside thousands of visual stimuli: corporate identities, interfaces, advertising campaigns, digital publications, packaging and signage. All of them compete, in some way, for our attention. And in that environment, it is easy to assume that standing out means communicating better, or that making someone remember an image means we have designed something effective.

The question is what we are measuring when we talk about a memorable image: its ability to attract attention, to convey an idea or to stay with us after we have seen it.

The history of art offers us an interesting starting point for exploring these differences, not because Picasso’s, Mondrian’s or Warhol’s works can be assessed using the same criteria as a digital interface or a corporate identity, but because they allow us to observe how certain images become part of our collective memory.

And, above all, they invite us to ask a question that goes beyond aesthetics: what truly makes an image remain in our memory, and what relationship does that memory have with the quality of its design?

Recognising does not mean understanding

It is enough to look at a composition by Piet Mondrian to identify some of the elements that characterise his visual language: black lines, rectangular surfaces, primary colours and large white areas. We do not need to know about Neoplasticism or understand its theoretical foundations to recognise that style. Something similar happens with Andy Warhol. His celebrity portraits, chromatic contrasts and repetition of the same image create an aesthetic that feels familiar even outside the artistic context.

Both artists developed very different visual languages, but they share something important: their works show how a relatively limited set of formal resources can give rise to a recognisable identity. The choice of colours, the organisation of shapes, proportions and the relationships between elements are not independent decisions. They form part of a visual system that gains coherence through its use.

However, recognising that system does not necessarily mean understanding it. We can identify a Mondrian work without knowing what he intended to express through his geometric relationships. Likewise, we can immediately recognise a Warhol screen print without understanding his reflection on image reproduction, celebrity or consumer culture. Familiarity allows us to identify certain features, but it does not guarantee that we understand their meaning.

This distinction finds an interesting basis in the work of Rudolf Arnheim, particularly in Art and Visual Perception, originally published in 1954. Arnheim, influenced by Gestalt psychology, argued that visual perception does not consist of passively receiving a collection of stimuli. Our minds organise what we see, establish relationships between its parts, identify structures and seek a degree of order within complexity. Perception involves an activity of organisation and interpretation.

From this perspective, visual recognition depends not only on remembering colours or isolated forms, but also on identifying the relationships they maintain with one another. A composition can retain its identity even if some of its elements change, as long as certain structural characteristics remain. Conversely, using the same colours or the same typeface does not guarantee that two compositions will be perceived as part of the same system.

In graphic and digital design, these issues have direct consequences. A visual identity needs enough coherence to be recognisable in different contexts, but it must also communicate what it represents. An interface can maintain a perfectly consistent aesthetic and yet have confusing navigation. An icon can be visually distinctive without the user understanding which action it represents. Even a very well-known brand can use graphic devices that make its messages difficult to read or interpret.

Here, a fundamental difference emerges between identity and communication. The former helps us recognise who is speaking; the latter helps us interpret what they mean. A well-defined identity can facilitate communication, provided its visual resources are in the service of the message.

This does not mean that every design must be obvious or that any ambiguity is a flaw. In an artwork, open interpretation can be an essential part of the experience. In an interface intended to carry out a banking transaction, however, ambiguity in a button can become a significant problem. The degree of clarity required depends on the purpose of the design and the context in which it is used.

That is why, when we talk about creating a memorable visual identity, perhaps we should ask more than whether people will be able to recognise it. We should also consider what they will understand when they encounter it, what associations they will make and whether its visual elements will help them interpret the message correctly.

Because getting someone to recognise a design is an achievement. Getting them to understand it is another, and the two do not always go hand in hand.

Originality needs context

When Picasso and Georges Braque began developing Cubism at the beginning of the twentieth century, they challenged some of the conventions that had shaped pictorial representation for centuries. Rather than showing objects from a single point of view, they explored the possibility of representing different perspectives within the same composition. Forms were fragmented, volumes were rearranged, and the relationship between what we saw and what we believed we recognised became less obvious.

Those works were not difficult to interpret simply because they were new. They were also difficult because they altered the visual rules that much of the public had learned to use in order to understand a painting. Perspective, continuity of form and recognisable representations of objects provided familiar reference points. By questioning them, Cubism demanded a different way of looking.

Over time, many of those formal solutions became part of the contemporary visual language. Devices that might initially have seemed disconcerting began to appear in other disciplines, from graphic design to advertising and visual communication. What at one moment represented a rupture could, years later, become a recognisable convention. Originality, therefore, is not a quality that can be fully understood independently of its historical and cultural context.

In digital design, we find a similar tension, although with different aims. People do not arrive at an interface without prior expectations. They have learned how menus usually work, what a link looks like, where they expect to find certain options or what happens when they interact with a button. These expectations form part of what we know in interaction design as mental models: representations users build from their experiences and use to anticipate how a system will work.

When a proposal respects certain conventions, it takes advantage of that prior learning. It does not need to explain every interaction from scratch. However, when it chooses to break them, it may require additional effort to interpret. This does not mean conventions are always right or that we should preserve them indefinitely. Many important innovations have arisen precisely by questioning solutions that seemed inevitable. But introducing a different way of doing something does not guarantee that the difference represents an improvement for the person who has to use it.

Consider, for example, a website that replaces its usual navigation with a completely experimental visual experience. It may achieve a striking result, distinguish itself from its competitors and even receive recognition within the design community. But if visitors cannot locate the information they are looking for, or need to discover through trial and error how to move between sections, originality begins to conflict with function.

The opposite can also happen. An interface overly constrained by existing conventions may miss opportunities to simplify processes, introduce more intuitive interactions or respond to needs that traditional patterns do not resolve adequately. Familiarity makes learning easier, but it should not become an excuse for avoiding any change.

The issue, therefore, is not about choosing between innovation and conventions as though they were incompatible positions. It is about understanding which reference points people need to retain in order to find their way, and which we can transform in order to offer them a better experience. An innovative proposal can introduce new possibilities without forcing the user to continually reconsider everything they already know.

Here we also find an important difference from the artistic example. Cubism did not need to make a practical task easier or provide immediate interpretation in order to justify its value. Its capacity to challenge representation could itself be part of its purpose. By contrast, when we design a digital service, an application or a work tool, we must consider how our decisions affect the people who need to use them.

Perhaps this is why originality should be understood less as the constant search for something nobody has done before, and more as the ability to find an appropriate response to a particular problem, even when that response requires abandoning familiar solutions.

Being different can help us stand out. But only when that difference contributes something meaningful can we begin to speak of an improvement in design.

An image never exists in isolation

Let us imagine the same photograph presented in three different places. In an art gallery, accompanied by the name of its author and a brief account of their career. On an online shop page, next to a price and a purchase button. And in an Instagram post, surrounded by comments, reactions and other images competing for our attention. The photograph has not changed, but we are unlikely to interpret it in the same way in all three cases.

In each context, we expect to find something different. In the gallery, we may pause to observe its expressive qualities or wonder about the photographer’s intention. In the shop, we look for information that allows us to assess a product. On Instagram, we may decide in just a few seconds whether it deserves our attention. The place where an image appears, the expectations we bring with us and the elements surrounding it shape the way we look at it.

John Berger explored these issues in Ways of Seeing, published in 1972 from a BBC television series. His argument challenged the idea that images could be understood independently of the cultural and social conditions in which they are viewed. Berger paid particular attention to how the reproduction of artworks changed their circulation and made it possible to place them in contexts other than those for which they had been created.

A painting that originally occupied a particular space could appear reproduced in a book, on a screen or in an advertisement. In doing so, not only did its size or medium change. The relationships it established with other images, with the texts accompanying it and with the people viewing it also changed. Reproduction expanded the possibilities for access, but it also made it possible to construct new interpretations from the same work.

This observation is especially relevant to design, because much of our work consists precisely of organising contexts. When we design an editorial page, we do not only decide which images to use, but also where to place them, how large they will be, how much space will separate them from the text and what relationship they will establish with the other elements. A photograph can take centre stage or become a secondary resource depending on its position within the composition. A headline can guide its interpretation before the reader has even examined its details.

Something similar happens in a digital interface. An image placed in the header of a website can help establish a brand’s tone, while that same image, placed next to a technical description, can take on an informative function. The elements surrounding it also influence its interpretation. A label, a rating from other users or a call to action can direct our attention towards certain aspects and cause others to go unnoticed.

Product presentation offers particularly clear examples. Think of an object photographed against a neutral background, with even lighting and enough detail to appreciate its features. Now imagine that same object integrated into a carefully constructed scene, accompanied by materials, colours and elements that suggest a particular lifestyle. In the first case, the image can help us examine the product. In the second, it can invite us to imagine how it might fit into our lives. Neither approach is necessarily better, because they respond to different purposes.

However, context can also be used to generate misleading interpretations. A sophisticated visual presentation can convey a sense of quality that does not correspond to a product’s real characteristics. Likewise, an interface can highlight certain information and relegate other information to less visible positions, influencing users’ decisions without needing to alter the data it presents.

That is why designing context involves accepting a responsibility that goes beyond aesthetic composition. Visual hierarchy, proximity between elements, reading order and the associations we suggest all take part in constructing meaning. We do not fully control how each person will interpret what we design, but we do make decisions that can facilitate certain readings and make others more difficult.

Perhaps one of Berger’s most interesting contributions is reminding us that the way we look is never completely independent of what we know, expect or believe. And although his reflection developed mainly within art and visual culture, it offers us a valuable perspective for analysing contemporary design.

Because when we design a visual experience, we do not work only with images, texts and spaces. We also organise the relationships that make it possible to interpret them.

Context is not simply the place where an image appears. It is part of what the image ultimately communicates.

When repetition builds identity

In 1962, Andy Warhol presented a series of thirty-two paintings depicting Campbell’s soup cans. Each canvas showed a different variety, but all shared virtually the same composition: a can against a light background, with its distinctive red-and-white label. What we would normally find lined up on supermarket shelves now appeared in an art gallery, transformed into a sequence of almost identical images.

Repetition was not a secondary device. It was an essential part of the work. Warhol brought into the artistic space a visual logic already present in consumer culture: industrially reproduced products, recognisable packaging and brands whose identity remained stable regardless of where they appeared. The familiarity of those cans did not depend on each one being visually extraordinary, but on the coherence of a graphic system that millions of consumers had learned to identify.

From a design perspective, this example reveals something important. A visual identity is not built solely by creating a distinctive symbol. It also depends on its ability to remain recognisable across multiple applications. A logo, a colour palette or a typeface can help establish that identity, but it is their consistent use in different situations that helps consolidate certain associations in memory.

Think of a brand that uses the same visual principles on its website, in its commercial communications, on its products and in its digital publications. Although each medium has different characteristics, there are elements that make it possible to recognise a continuity. We do not need to find exactly the same composition in order to identify it. It is enough for certain relationships between colours, shapes, typefaces and styles to retain a perceptible coherence.

Design systems bring this principle into a broader environment. Rather than resolving each screen or component as an independent problem, they establish shared criteria for organising visual and functional decisions. The repetition of certain patterns makes it easier for people to recognise behaviours, anticipate interactions and find their way within a digital experience. A button that maintains a coherent appearance and behaviour across different sections not only contributes to a product’s identity; it can also reduce the effort needed to learn how to use it.

However, it is worth distinguishing between consistency and identity. Repeating the same graphic resources does not guarantee that a brand communicates something meaningful. Two organisations can use similar colour palettes, minimalist compositions and virtually indistinguishable typefaces, while maintaining impeccable coherence across all their media. The result can be visually uniform and, at the same time, difficult to distinguish.

There is also a risk of turning consistency into an overly rigid rule. A visual identity needs a certain stability in order to be recognisable, but it must be able to adapt to different contexts, content and needs. An advertising campaign does not necessarily require the same solutions as technical documentation. A social media post may need a different hierarchy from the one we use in an administrative interface. Maintaining the same principles does not mean always reproducing the same compositions.

In this sense, repetition is useful when it reinforces relationships that people can recognise and understand. It loses some of its value when it becomes a mechanical application of rules that no longer respond to the purpose of the communication. A design system should provide coherence without preventing each problem from finding an appropriate solution.

Returning to Warhol, it would be a mistake to interpret his soup cans only as a demonstration of advertising effectiveness. The work also questioned the boundaries between art and consumption, between original and reproduction, and between what we consider everyday and what we attribute cultural value to. That is precisely why his use of repetition is so interesting: he did not merely reproduce a recognisable image, but transformed our way of looking at it.

In contemporary design, repetition can help us build familiarity, reinforce an identity and facilitate certain interactions. But none of these effects guarantees, in itself, that we are communicating something relevant.

Ultimately, consistency does not mean repeating a formula without variation, but recognising what should remain stable and what needs to adapt in order to continue communicating.

Designing to be seen or designing to be used

So far, we have talked about images that remain in our memory, recognisable visual languages and how repetition or context can influence our perception. But there is one question we have not yet addressed: what happens when what we design is not intended only to be observed, but also to be used?

A composition can be extraordinarily attractive and yet not help us understand what is in front of us. Think of an application that confirms an operation with an elegant animation, but does not explain whether the change has been saved or whether we still need to do something else. The experience may seem carefully considered and still leave us with a fundamental uncertainty. Visual impact does not replace a clear response from the system.

Don Norman addressed this relationship between design and human behaviour in The Design of Everyday Things, originally published in 1988. His work begins with an apparently simple observation: many of the problems we experience when using objects and systems are not due to a lack of ability on the part of people, but to design decisions that make it difficult to understand how they work. Norman analyses concepts such as the visibility of possible actions, the correspondence between controls and outcomes, constraints and the feedback we receive when we interact.

These ideas are especially relevant in digital design. When we use an application, we do not observe its elements independently. We try to interpret what we can do, what will happen if we take an action and how we will know whether we have achieved our goal. An interface should provide enough cues to answer these questions without forcing us to repeatedly discover how it works through trial and error.

This does not mean that a digital experience must give up its visual personality. Aesthetics also play a part in how we perceive and use a product. They can generate interest, convey trust, establish hierarchies and make an interaction more pleasant. They can even influence our initial willingness to use a system. The problem arises when we confuse that first impression with a complete assessment of the experience.

A visually striking website can be difficult to navigate. An apparently simple application can hide important functions. And an interface that works properly for one person can present considerable obstacles for another. That is why talking about quality in design requires us to look beyond the visual result: we must also consider how the system behaves and under what conditions people can use it.

Here, accessibility introduces a fundamental dimension. A typographic choice may seem appropriate from an aesthetic point of view, but make reading difficult if the size is insufficient. A colour combination can reinforce a brand’s identity and, at the same time, offer inadequate contrast. An animation can enrich an experience for some users and become a barrier for others. Designing with these differences in mind does not mean adding a series of corrections at the end of the process, but recognising that people do not perceive or interact with systems in a single way.

It is also worth avoiding the opposite conclusion: that anything without an immediate practical function lacks value. Design is not limited to organising buttons, reducing steps or making tasks easier. It can express an identity, provoke emotions, build cultural relationships and generate experiences that go beyond efficiency. An editorial publication, a corporate identity or an interactive installation may pursue very different goals, and it would be unreasonable to assess them solely by the same usability criteria.

The key is to understand what we expect to achieve with each decision. If an experience aims to arouse curiosity, it may make sense to introduce unexpected elements. If it must facilitate an important operation, it will probably need to offer clearer and more predictable cues. And if it seeks to combine both, the challenge will be to find a balance that neither sacrifices understanding in the name of visual impact nor eliminates every possibility of expression in pursuit of maximum simplicity.

Perhaps one of Norman’s most valuable contributions is precisely helping us shift attention from the designed object to the relationship people establish with it. An interface is not fully defined when its composition has been resolved. Its quality also becomes apparent when someone tries to use it, interprets its signals, makes decisions and discovers whether the system responds as expected.

That is why evaluating an experience requires looking beyond the first impression. What happens when someone tries to act, encounters a difficulty or needs to confirm that they have achieved their goal also matters.

Conclusion

We began by asking why we remember some images and forget others. The answer does not depend on a single visual quality: it also involves what we have learned to recognise, the circumstances in which we see an image and how often we encounter it again. But the question concealed another assumption: that being remembered is necessarily a measure of quality.

In a digital environment where attention seems to have become an increasingly contested resource, it is understandable that we seek to create experiences capable of standing out. We want recognisable identities, different interfaces and visual proposals that do not blend in with the rest. However, this pursuit may lead us to value designs primarily for their ability to attract attention, relegating to the background what they allow us to understand, experience or do.

Think of the digital tools we use regularly. Many of their best design decisions barely register consciously. Navigation that responds to our expectations, a visual hierarchy that allows us to locate information effortlessly or a form that prevents errors before they occur may go unnoticed precisely because they work as we expect. We may not remember their colours, their proportions or the exact arrangement of their elements, but we may remember that the experience felt simple, clear or pleasant.

Of course, surprising, moving or building a distinctive visual identity can be an essential part of a design’s purpose. Its value is not exhausted by the absence of difficulties: it can also enrich our relationship with the products, organisations and spaces we inhabit.

What we may need is to stop considering memorability a universal goal. Not every design has to stand out in the same way, nor does every experience need to remain in our memory because of its visual features. Sometimes, the most valuable aspect of a solution is not that we remember how it was designed, but that it allowed us to move forward without obstacles, understand something that had previously been confusing or carry out an activity with greater confidence.

The works of Picasso, Mondrian and Warhol show that images can transform the way we look and become part of collective memory. In design, this capacity coexists with another responsibility: thinking about the experiences we are building and what they contribute to those who interact with them.

Sometimes, a design’s most lasting contribution is not its appearance, but what it has enabled us to do, understand or feel, even if we barely remember the elements that made it possible.

And that leaves us with one final question:

Should we aspire for people to remember our designs, or to remember what they were able to do thanks to them?