205TF – Gando

TypefaceGando

DesignerMatthieu Cortat

Release 2025

Specimen

Clear, sharp, and slightly haughty, Didot typefaces have a distinct personality. Yet when used for running text, this very charisma can work against them; their readability would be improved if they were more rounded and flexible.

Gando, designed by Matthieu Cortat in 2025, combines these two seemingly incompatible temperaments. Developed as variable fonts, Gando openly embraces both extremes along with the full spectrum that lies between them: from a bold and glamorous “Poster” style to a rounded, charming, and discreet “Caption” style, along with a number of intermediary nuances. It is a typeface able to shine in the spotlight while also capable of reliably playing a supporting role; a family that ranges from the flamboyant diva, the young leading man, and the supporting actors, to the extras.

Everything starts with a specimen dating to 1828, printed in Paris for the Gando brothers’ foundry, which primarily presents running type in the Didot style of the period. Close study of these models reveals designs cleverly adapted to small sizes, along with some singular choices—notably an alternative series for the letters a, g, and j with a distinctly modernist appearance.

Gando’s design draws on this entire corpus while freely exploring the original forms.

Gando comes in four optical sizes: “Caption,” with a reinforced x-height and spacing optimized for small sizes; “Text,” with softened edges; “Display,” which fully embraces the Didot aesthetic; and “Poster,” where attention to the expressiveness of the curves is at its peak.

This palette is enhanced with italics and a range of weights from Regular to Bold. Carefully designed arrows, currency symbols, and roman numerals complete the set. The numerals are available in five series: tabular, oldstyle, tabular oldstyle, and two proportional sets—one aligned with capitals (ideal for more theatrical titles), and the other slightly reduced in height to blend more discreetly into lowercase running text.

From charismatic icons to extras, from grand dames to young leading men, Gando modulates typographic voice with consistency and finesse, playing its role on the stage of the page.

24 Styles

Poster

Display

Text

Caption

Poster Italic

Display Italic

Text Italic

Caption Italic

10 Variables

Poster

Display

Text

Caption

Total Roman

Poster Italic

Display Italic

Text Italic

Caption Italic

Total Italic

Total Variable

word

Tritagonist I believe that all men of letters are like myself, that they never reread their works once they have been published. Nothing, indeed, is more disheartening, more painful, than to look back, after years have passed, upon one’s own sentences. They have, in a sense, settled and deposited themselves at the bottom of the book; and, most of the time, volumes are not like wines that improve with age. Once stripped bare by time, the chapters lose their fragrance and their bouquet fades. I experienced this impression with certain bottles arranged in the cabinet of À Rebours, when I was compelled to uncork them. And, somewhat melancholically, I try to recall, as I leaf through these pages, the state of mind I must have been in at the moment I wrote them. We were then in the full tide of Naturalism; but that school, which was destined to render the unforgettable service of situating real characters in exact settings, was condemned to repetition, treading endlessly in place. It scarcely admitted, in theory at least, of exceptions; it confined itself therefore to the depiction of ordinary existence, striving, under the pretext of being lifelike, to create beings as similar as possible to the average run of people. This ideal had, in its own way, been realized in a masterpiece that was far more, even than L’Assommoir, the paragon of Naturalism — Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert. That novel was, for all of us of the Soirées de Médan, a veritable Bible; but it allowed for few variations. It was complete — unrepeatable, even for Flaubert himself; and thus all of us, at that time, were reduced to beating about, prowling along more or less explored paths all around it. Virtue — being, it must be confessed, an exception in this world — was thereby excluded from the naturalistic plan. Lacking the Catholic conception of fall and temptation, we were ignorant of the struggles and sufferings from which virtue is born; the heroism of the soul victorious over snares escaped us entirely. It would never have occurred to us to describe that struggle, with its ups and downs, its devious assaults and its feints, and also its skilled helpers who prepare themselves far away, often in the depths of a cloister, from the person whom the Tempter attacks. Virtue seemed to us the attribute of beings without curiosity or devoid of sense — little moving, in any case, from the artistic point of view. There remained the vices; but the field, to be cultivated, was narrow. It was confined to the territory of the Seven Deadly Sins — and even among those seven, only one, the one against the Sixth Commandment of God, was reasonably accessible. The others had been thoroughly gleaned, and there were hardly any clusters left to pluck. Avarice, for instance, had been pressed dry to its last drop by Balzac and by Hello. Pride, Wrath, and Envy had trailed through all the Romantic publications, and those subjects of drama had been so distorted by overuse that it would have required real genius to rejuvenate them in a novel. As for Gluttony and Sloth, they seemed better suited to episodic figures, fit for minor roles rather than for leading characters or prima donnas in novels of manners. The truth is that Pride would have been the most magnificent of crimes to study, with its infernal ramifications of cruelty toward others and of false humility; that Gluttony, dragging after it Lust and Sloth, and even Theft, would have furnished matter for astonishing excavations, had one scrutinized those sins by the lamp and the blowpipe of the Church and with Faith in one’s heart. But none of us was prepared for such work; we were therefore driven to chew over again the easiest of all misdeeds to dissect — the sin of Lust, in all its forms. And God knows how much we chewed it over! Yet that sort of carousel was short-lived. Whatever one invented, the novel could always be summarized in a few lines: to discover why Mr. So-and-So did or did not commit adultery with Mrs. Such-and-Such. If one wished to be distinguished, to reveal oneself as a man of refined taste, one placed the carnal act between a marquise and a count; if, on the contrary, one wished to be a popular writer, a casual proseman, one set it between a working-class suitor and some girl of no consequence. Only the setting differed. The former distinction seems now to have prevailed in the good graces of the reader, for I see that nowadays he seldom feeds upon plebeian or bourgeois loves, but continues to savor the hesitations of the marquise going to join her tempter in a small apartment whose appearance changes with the interior fashions of the time. Will she fall? Will she not? This is called a psychological study. Well, so be it. I confess, however, that when I happen to open a book and see there the eternal seduction and the no less eternal adultery, I hasten to close it again, being in no way eager to know how the announced idyll will end. A volume without authentic documents, a book that teaches me nothing, no longer holds my interest. At the moment when À Rebours appeared, that is to say in 1884, the situation was as follows: Naturalism was running out of breath, turning the millstone in the same circle. The sum of observations each one of us had stored up, taken from ourselves and from others, was beginning to run dry. Zola, who was a great stage decorator, got by by painting backdrops more or less precise; he suggested most skillfully the illusion of movement and of life. His heroes were without souls, governed simply by impulses and instincts, which simplified the labor of analysis. They moved, performed a few summary actions, and filled in with broad silhouettes the settings that became the principal characters of his dramas. In this way, he celebrated the markets, the department stores, the railways, the mines; and the human beings lost within those environments played only the roles of extras and stagehands. But Zola was Zola — that is to say, an artist a bit heavy-handed, but endowed with powerful lungs and mighty fists. Tritagonist

Total Variable Italic

sentence

Everyman I believe that all men of letters are like myself, that they never reread their works once they have been published. Nothing, indeed, is more disheartening, more painful, than to look back, after years have passed, upon one’s own sentences. They have, in a sense, settled and deposited themselves at the bottom of the book; and, most of the time, volumes are not like wines that improve with age. Once stripped bare by time, the chapters lose their fragrance and their bouquet fades. I experienced this impression with certain bottles arranged in the cabinet of À Rebours, when I was compelled to uncork them. And, somewhat melancholically, I try to recall, as I leaf through these pages, the state of mind I must have been in at the moment I wrote them. We were then in the full tide of Naturalism; but that school, which was destined to render the unforgettable service of situating real characters in exact settings, was condemned to repetition, treading endlessly in place. It scarcely admitted, in theory at least, of exceptions; it confined itself therefore to the depiction of ordinary existence, striving, under the pretext of being lifelike, to create beings as similar as possible to the average run of people. This ideal had, in its own way, been realized in a masterpiece that was far more, even than L’Assommoir, the paragon of Naturalism — Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert. That novel was, for all of us of the Soirées de Médan, a veritable Bible; but it allowed for few variations. It was complete — unrepeatable, even for Flaubert himself; and thus all of us, at that time, were reduced to beating about, prowling along more or less explored paths all around it. Virtue — being, it must be confessed, an exception in this world — was thereby excluded from the naturalistic plan. Lacking the Catholic conception of fall and temptation, we were ignorant of the struggles and sufferings from which virtue is born; the heroism of the soul victorious over snares escaped us entirely. It would never have occurred to us to describe that struggle, with its ups and downs, its devious assaults and its feints, and also its skilled helpers who prepare themselves far away, often in the depths of a cloister, from the person whom the Tempter attacks. Virtue seemed to us the attribute of beings without curiosity or devoid of sense — little moving, in any case, from the artistic point of view. There remained the vices; but the field, to be cultivated, was narrow. It was confined to the territory of the Seven Deadly Sins — and even among those seven, only one, the one against the Sixth Commandment of God, was reasonably accessible. The others had been thoroughly gleaned, and there were hardly any clusters left to pluck. Avarice, for instance, had been pressed dry to its last drop by Balzac and by Hello. Pride, Wrath, and Envy had trailed through all the Romantic publications, and those subjects of drama had been so distorted by overuse that it would have required real genius to rejuvenate them in a novel. As for Gluttony and Sloth, they seemed better suited to episodic figures, fit for minor roles rather than for leading characters or prima donnas in novels of manners. The truth is that Pride would have been the most magnificent of crimes to study, with its infernal ramifications of cruelty toward others and of false humility; that Gluttony, dragging after it Lust and Sloth, and even Theft, would have furnished matter for astonishing excavations, had one scrutinized those sins by the lamp and the blowpipe of the Church and with Faith in one’s heart. But none of us was prepared for such work; we were therefore driven to chew over again the easiest of all misdeeds to dissect — the sin of Lust, in all its forms. And God knows how much we chewed it over! Yet that sort of carousel was short-lived. Whatever one invented, the novel could always be summarized in a few lines: to discover why Mr. So-and-So did or did not commit adultery with Mrs. Such-and-Such. If one wished to be distinguished, to reveal oneself as a man of refined taste, one placed the carnal act between a marquise and a count; if, on the contrary, one wished to be a popular writer, a casual proseman, one set it between a working-class suitor and some girl of no consequence. Only the setting differed. The former distinction seems now to have prevailed in the good graces of the reader, for I see that nowadays he seldom feeds upon plebeian or bourgeois loves, but continues to savor the hesitations of the marquise going to join her tempter in a small apartment whose appearance changes with the interior fashions of the time. Will she fall? Will she not? This is called a psychological study. Well, so be it. I confess, however, that when I happen to open a book and see there the eternal seduction and the no less eternal adultery, I hasten to close it again, being in no way eager to know how the announced idyll will end. A volume without authentic documents, a book that teaches me nothing, no longer holds my interest. At the moment when À Rebours appeared, that is to say in 1884, the situation was as follows: Naturalism was running out of breath, turning the millstone in the same circle. The sum of observations each one of us had stored up, taken from ourselves and from others, was beginning to run dry. Zola, who was a great stage decorator, got by by painting backdrops more or less precise; he suggested most skillfully the illusion of movement and of life. His heroes were without souls, governed simply by impulses and instincts, which simplified the labor of analysis. They moved, performed a few summary actions, and filled in with broad silhouettes the settings that became the principal characters of his dramas. In this way, he celebrated the markets, the department stores, the railways, the mines; and the human beings lost within those environments played only the roles of extras and stagehands. But Zola was Zola — that is to say, an artist a bit heavy-handed, but endowed with powerful lungs and mighty fists. Everyman

Total Variable Italic

word

Relief & Anxiety I believe that all men of letters are like myself, that they never reread their works once they have been published. Nothing, indeed, is more disheartening, more painful, than to look back, after years have passed, upon one’s own sentences. They have, in a sense, settled and deposited themselves at the bottom of the book; and, most of the time, volumes are not like wines that improve with age. Once stripped bare by time, the chapters lose their fragrance and their bouquet fades. I experienced this impression with certain bottles arranged in the cabinet of À Rebours, when I was compelled to uncork them. And, somewhat melancholically, I try to recall, as I leaf through these pages, the state of mind I must have been in at the moment I wrote them. We were then in the full tide of Naturalism; but that school, which was destined to render the unforgettable service of situating real characters in exact settings, was condemned to repetition, treading endlessly in place. It scarcely admitted, in theory at least, of exceptions; it confined itself therefore to the depiction of ordinary existence, striving, under the pretext of being lifelike, to create beings as similar as possible to the average run of people. This ideal had, in its own way, been realized in a masterpiece that was far more, even than L’Assommoir, the paragon of Naturalism — Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert. That novel was, for all of us of the Soirées de Médan, a veritable Bible; but it allowed for few variations. It was complete — unrepeatable, even for Flaubert himself; and thus all of us, at that time, were reduced to beating about, prowling along more or less explored paths all around it. Virtue — being, it must be confessed, an exception in this world — was thereby excluded from the naturalistic plan. Lacking the Catholic conception of fall and temptation, we were ignorant of the struggles and sufferings from which virtue is born; the heroism of the soul victorious over snares escaped us entirely. It would never have occurred to us to describe that struggle, with its ups and downs, its devious assaults and its feints, and also its skilled helpers who prepare themselves far away, often in the depths of a cloister, from the person whom the Tempter attacks. Virtue seemed to us the attribute of beings without curiosity or devoid of sense — little moving, in any case, from the artistic point of view. There remained the vices; but the field, to be cultivated, was narrow. It was confined to the territory of the Seven Deadly Sins — and even among those seven, only one, the one against the Sixth Commandment of God, was reasonably accessible. The others had been thoroughly gleaned, and there were hardly any clusters left to pluck. Avarice, for instance, had been pressed dry to its last drop by Balzac and by Hello. Pride, Wrath, and Envy had trailed through all the Romantic publications, and those subjects of drama had been so distorted by overuse that it would have required real genius to rejuvenate them in a novel. As for Gluttony and Sloth, they seemed better suited to episodic figures, fit for minor roles rather than for leading characters or prima donnas in novels of manners. The truth is that Pride would have been the most magnificent of crimes to study, with its infernal ramifications of cruelty toward others and of false humility; that Gluttony, dragging after it Lust and Sloth, and even Theft, would have furnished matter for astonishing excavations, had one scrutinized those sins by the lamp and the blowpipe of the Church and with Faith in one’s heart. But none of us was prepared for such work; we were therefore driven to chew over again the easiest of all misdeeds to dissect — the sin of Lust, in all its forms. And God knows how much we chewed it over! Yet that sort of carousel was short-lived. Whatever one invented, the novel could always be summarized in a few lines: to discover why Mr. So-and-So did or did not commit adultery with Mrs. Such-and-Such. If one wished to be distinguished, to reveal oneself as a man of refined taste, one placed the carnal act between a marquise and a count; if, on the contrary, one wished to be a popular writer, a casual proseman, one set it between a working-class suitor and some girl of no consequence. Only the setting differed. The former distinction seems now to have prevailed in the good graces of the reader, for I see that nowadays he seldom feeds upon plebeian or bourgeois loves, but continues to savor the hesitations of the marquise going to join her tempter in a small apartment whose appearance changes with the interior fashions of the time. Will she fall? Will she not? This is called a psychological study. Well, so be it. I confess, however, that when I happen to open a book and see there the eternal seduction and the no less eternal adultery, I hasten to close it again, being in no way eager to know how the announced idyll will end. A volume without authentic documents, a book that teaches me nothing, no longer holds my interest. At the moment when À Rebours appeared, that is to say in 1884, the situation was as follows: Naturalism was running out of breath, turning the millstone in the same circle. The sum of observations each one of us had stored up, taken from ourselves and from others, was beginning to run dry. Zola, who was a great stage decorator, got by by painting backdrops more or less precise; he suggested most skillfully the illusion of movement and of life. His heroes were without souls, governed simply by impulses and instincts, which simplified the labor of analysis. They moved, performed a few summary actions, and filled in with broad silhouettes the settings that became the principal characters of his dramas. In this way, he celebrated the markets, the department stores, the railways, the mines; and the human beings lost within those environments played only the roles of extras and stagehands. But Zola was Zola — that is to say, an artist a bit heavy-handed, but endowed with powerful lungs and mighty fists. Relief & Anxiety

Text Regular

paragraph

Total Variable Italic

word

Casting Intensity I believe that all men of letters are like myself, that they never reread their works once they have been published. Nothing, indeed, is more disheartening, more painful, than to look back, after years have passed, upon one’s own sentences. They have, in a sense, settled and deposited themselves at the bottom of the book; and, most of the time, volumes are not like wines that improve with age. Once stripped bare by time, the chapters lose their fragrance and their bouquet fades. I experienced this impression with certain bottles arranged in the cabinet of À Rebours, when I was compelled to uncork them. And, somewhat melancholically, I try to recall, as I leaf through these pages, the state of mind I must have been in at the moment I wrote them. We were then in the full tide of Naturalism; but that school, which was destined to render the unforgettable service of situating real characters in exact settings, was condemned to repetition, treading endlessly in place. It scarcely admitted, in theory at least, of exceptions; it confined itself therefore to the depiction of ordinary existence, striving, under the pretext of being lifelike, to create beings as similar as possible to the average run of people. This ideal had, in its own way, been realized in a masterpiece that was far more, even than L’Assommoir, the paragon of Naturalism — Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert. That novel was, for all of us of the Soirées de Médan, a veritable Bible; but it allowed for few variations. It was complete — unrepeatable, even for Flaubert himself; and thus all of us, at that time, were reduced to beating about, prowling along more or less explored paths all around it. Virtue — being, it must be confessed, an exception in this world — was thereby excluded from the naturalistic plan. Lacking the Catholic conception of fall and temptation, we were ignorant of the struggles and sufferings from which virtue is born; the heroism of the soul victorious over snares escaped us entirely. It would never have occurred to us to describe that struggle, with its ups and downs, its devious assaults and its feints, and also its skilled helpers who prepare themselves far away, often in the depths of a cloister, from the person whom the Tempter attacks. Virtue seemed to us the attribute of beings without curiosity or devoid of sense — little moving, in any case, from the artistic point of view. There remained the vices; but the field, to be cultivated, was narrow. It was confined to the territory of the Seven Deadly Sins — and even among those seven, only one, the one against the Sixth Commandment of God, was reasonably accessible. The others had been thoroughly gleaned, and there were hardly any clusters left to pluck. Avarice, for instance, had been pressed dry to its last drop by Balzac and by Hello. Pride, Wrath, and Envy had trailed through all the Romantic publications, and those subjects of drama had been so distorted by overuse that it would have required real genius to rejuvenate them in a novel. As for Gluttony and Sloth, they seemed better suited to episodic figures, fit for minor roles rather than for leading characters or prima donnas in novels of manners. The truth is that Pride would have been the most magnificent of crimes to study, with its infernal ramifications of cruelty toward others and of false humility; that Gluttony, dragging after it Lust and Sloth, and even Theft, would have furnished matter for astonishing excavations, had one scrutinized those sins by the lamp and the blowpipe of the Church and with Faith in one’s heart. But none of us was prepared for such work; we were therefore driven to chew over again the easiest of all misdeeds to dissect — the sin of Lust, in all its forms. And God knows how much we chewed it over! Yet that sort of carousel was short-lived. Whatever one invented, the novel could always be summarized in a few lines: to discover why Mr. So-and-So did or did not commit adultery with Mrs. Such-and-Such. If one wished to be distinguished, to reveal oneself as a man of refined taste, one placed the carnal act between a marquise and a count; if, on the contrary, one wished to be a popular writer, a casual proseman, one set it between a working-class suitor and some girl of no consequence. Only the setting differed. The former distinction seems now to have prevailed in the good graces of the reader, for I see that nowadays he seldom feeds upon plebeian or bourgeois loves, but continues to savor the hesitations of the marquise going to join her tempter in a small apartment whose appearance changes with the interior fashions of the time. Will she fall? Will she not? This is called a psychological study. Well, so be it. I confess, however, that when I happen to open a book and see there the eternal seduction and the no less eternal adultery, I hasten to close it again, being in no way eager to know how the announced idyll will end. A volume without authentic documents, a book that teaches me nothing, no longer holds my interest. At the moment when À Rebours appeared, that is to say in 1884, the situation was as follows: Naturalism was running out of breath, turning the millstone in the same circle. The sum of observations each one of us had stored up, taken from ourselves and from others, was beginning to run dry. Zola, who was a great stage decorator, got by by painting backdrops more or less precise; he suggested most skillfully the illusion of movement and of life. His heroes were without souls, governed simply by impulses and instincts, which simplified the labor of analysis. They moved, performed a few summary actions, and filled in with broad silhouettes the settings that became the principal characters of his dramas. In this way, he celebrated the markets, the department stores, the railways, the mines; and the human beings lost within those environments played only the roles of extras and stagehands. But Zola was Zola — that is to say, an artist a bit heavy-handed, but endowed with powerful lungs and mighty fists. Casting Intensity

Caption Variable

text

OpenType Features

On Standard Ligatures

LIGA

Confidence | Reflection | Gaffer

On Arrows

SS01

--W --E --S --N --NW --NE --SE --SW --NS --WE

On R

SS02

Repertoire | Role | Recitation

On a

SS03

Tragedies | Interpretation | Ranging

On b q

SS04

Soliloquy | Celebrity | Acrobatic

On g

SS05

Backstage | Tragedies | Imagine

On j

SS06

Projection | Objective | Project

On Filleted triangular serifs

SS07

COMEDY | DRAMATIC | VISION

Character Map

Style

Cap Height1638

X Height931

Baseline0

Ascender2172

Descender-700

Basic Latin

(

)

;

[

]

{

}

Latin-1 Supplement

Latin Extended-A

Latin Extended-B

IPA Extensions

Spacing Modifier Letters

Combining Diacritical Marks

Greek and Coptic

Armenian

Thai

฿

Latin Extended Additional

Ḍ

ḍ

Ḏ

ḏ

Ḡ

ḡ

Ḥ

ḥ

Ḫ

ḫ

Ḵ

ḵ

Ḷ

ḷ

Ḹ

ḹ

Ḻ

ḻ

Ṁ

ṁ

Ṃ

ṃ

Ṅ

ṅ

Ṇ

ṇ

Ṉ

ṉ

Ṝ

ṝ

Ṟ

ṟ

Ṣ

ṣ

Ṭ

ṭ

Ṯ

ṯ

Ẁ

ẁ

Ẃ

ẃ

Ẅ

ẅ

Ẏ

ẏ

Ẓ

ẓ

Ẕ

ẕ

ẖ

ẗ

ẞ

Ẽ

ẽ

Ỳ

ỳ

Ỹ

ỹ

General Punctuation

–

—

‘

’

‚

“

”

„

†

‡

•

…

‰

‹

›

⁄

Superscripts and Subscripts

⁰

⁴

⁵

⁶

⁷

⁸

⁹

₀

₁

₂

₃

₄

₅

₆

₇

₈

₉

Currency Symbols

₦

₩

₪

₫

€

₭

₮

₱

₴

₵

₸

₹

₺

₼

₽

₾

₿

Letterlike Symbols

ℓ

№

℗

™

Ω

℮

Number Forms

⅛

⅜

⅝

⅞

Ⅰ

Ⅱ

Ⅲ

Ⅳ

Ⅴ

Ⅵ

Ⅶ

Ⅷ

Ⅸ

Ⅹ

Ⅺ

Ⅻ

Ⅼ

Ⅽ

Ⅾ

Ⅿ

ⅰ

ⅱ

ⅲ

ⅳ

ⅴ

ⅵ

ⅶ

ⅷ

ⅸ

ⅹ

ⅺ

ⅻ

ⅼ

ⅽ

ⅾ

ⅿ

Arrows

←

↑

→

↓

↔

↕

↖

↗

↘

↙

Mathematical Operators

∂

∅

∆

∏

∑

−

√

∞

∫

≈

≠

≤

≥

Geometric Shapes

■

▲

▶

▼

◀

◆

◊

●

Miscellaneous Symbols

♠

♡

♢

♣

♤

♥

♦

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Dingbats

❤

Alphabetic Presentation Forms

ﬁ

ﬂ

Supported Languages

▼

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