a typeface that breathes
a slow study of how letterforms swell and contract under different inks. eight months of pen tests, pressed into a single variable axis.
a quiet observatory for slow craft — daylight just rising, instruments laid out on felt.
I work on small things that take a long time. The kind of work where you set a kettle to boil, sit down, and an hour later notice the water has gone cold and you have moved a single line three pixels to the left and finally, finally, it sits where it was always meant to sit.
This page is not a brochure. It does not want anything from you. There is no form, no calendar invite, no monthly newsletter. If you wandered in by accident, that is the correct way to arrive. Stay as long as you like. Read slowly, or do not read at all — the watercolor will keep moving even if you only watch.
What I make sits between two materials that should not get along: the soft, breathing surface of something hand-painted, and the precise, ruled grid of something engineered. I have spent years trying to make those two things touch without either one losing its temperament. The work below is what that conversation looks like, on a few good days.
a slow study of how letterforms swell and contract under different inks. eight months of pen tests, pressed into a single variable axis.
a single-hand clock that ticks once an hour, made for spaces where time is supposed to soften rather than sharpen.
notes on how a workspace, left alone overnight, can hold the shape of yesterday's attention until you return to it.
a small leather slip-case that holds whatever loose paper happens to be on the desk. the design problem was learning to leave it empty.
If you have read this far, thank you for your patience with the slowness. I think a great deal about how the surface of a thing tells you what its maker believed about time. Pillowed shapes ask you to press into them. Watercolor asks you to stand still and let it dry. Circuits ask you to follow a path until it ends.
The work I am most proud of usually looks like nothing happened — like the room was always this way. That is the highest praise the studio aspires to. It is, of course, not for everyone, and that is also fine. The page will keep breathing whether you stay or wander on.
— with care, the studio