Manuela_Menzi_Studio_Laelaps_Still_Life_03.jpg
ManuelaMenziStudio_Postcard_Laelaps.jpg
Manuela_Menzi_Studio_Laelaps_Still_Life_03.jpg
ManuelaMenziStudio_Postcard_Laelaps.jpg

POSTCARD "LAELAPS"

CHF 5.00

PAY WITH TWINT

Dry ground. Low sun. A hound comes over the ridge at speed.

Laelaps, whose name means hurricane, gifted by Zeus and passed hand to hand down through kings and queens, has never failed to catch what he was sent to catch. He is sent after the Teumessian fox. The fox cannot be caught.

So they run. Over stone that shifts and rings underfoot, through groves where the fruit knocks loose as they pass. Down the dry riverbeds, out across the olive terraces, the fox a length ahead the whole way, the hound always closing, the gap holding at exactly the width of the impossible. Whole orchards rise and are felled while the two of them are still crossing the far hills. One that always catches. One that can never be caught. The ground runs out before either of them does.

Zeus solved it the only way the sky allows. He turns them both to stone, mid stride, and sets them running across the stars, Canis Major behind Canis Minor, chasing still, gaining nothing, crossing the sky together every night since.

On winter evenings the smaller one clears the horizon first. Two stars only, a short line between them, an animal you could cover with two fingers. The big dog follows lower and brighter, Sirius burning at his throat, flickering hard through the thick air near the ground.

On winter evenings the smaller one clears the horizon first, a full hour ahead. Ptolemy could find only two stars in it: Procyon at the body, Gomeisa at the neck. Two points and the space between them, an animal you could cover with two fingers.

The big dog follows lower and brighter, and this one has a shape you can trace. Sirius burns at the throat, the closest bright star we have and the loudest in the sky, low enough that the air breaks his light into colours. Below him the chest, then a long line running back to the tail. Both of them keep behind Orion, who has been hunting ahead of them all night.

Then the dawn lifts them off the sky and sets them down again the following night, in the same order, at the same distance.

PAY WITH TWINT

Dry ground. Low sun. A hound comes over the ridge at speed.

Laelaps, whose name means hurricane, gifted by Zeus and passed hand to hand down through kings and queens, has never failed to catch what he was sent to catch. He is sent after the Teumessian fox. The fox cannot be caught.

So they run. Over stone that shifts and rings underfoot, through groves where the fruit knocks loose as they pass. Down the dry riverbeds, out across the olive terraces, the fox a length ahead the whole way, the hound always closing, the gap holding at exactly the width of the impossible. Whole orchards rise and are felled while the two of them are still crossing the far hills. One that always catches. One that can never be caught. The ground runs out before either of them does.

Zeus solved it the only way the sky allows. He turns them both to stone, mid stride, and sets them running across the stars, Canis Major behind Canis Minor, chasing still, gaining nothing, crossing the sky together every night since.

On winter evenings the smaller one clears the horizon first. Two stars only, a short line between them, an animal you could cover with two fingers. The big dog follows lower and brighter, Sirius burning at his throat, flickering hard through the thick air near the ground.

On winter evenings the smaller one clears the horizon first, a full hour ahead. Ptolemy could find only two stars in it: Procyon at the body, Gomeisa at the neck. Two points and the space between them, an animal you could cover with two fingers.

The big dog follows lower and brighter, and this one has a shape you can trace. Sirius burns at the throat, the closest bright star we have and the loudest in the sky, low enough that the air breaks his light into colours. Below him the chest, then a long line running back to the tail. Both of them keep behind Orion, who has been hunting ahead of them all night.

Then the dawn lifts them off the sky and sets them down again the following night, in the same order, at the same distance.

DETAILS

SIZE

A6 10.5 x 14.8 cm

BACKSIDE

Blank for your message

Soft and uncoated, that welcomes ink and holds it well

PAPER

MADE IN

The UK

  • FREE WORLDWIDE SHIPPING ON ALL ORDERS

    Orders are usually shipped within 2–3 working days, and international shipping is available.

    Please note that customers may be subject to customs duties in their respective countries, which are their responsibility.

    You can also pay directly via TWINT.

    You’re also welcome to pick up your order directly from the studio in Meilen. Important: Please call or text ahead to arrange a pickup time. This ensures I’m at the studio and have your order prepared.

  • Handle with clean, dry hands to keep the print looking its best. Store flat in a drawer. Keep away from direct sunlight to preserve the colours over time.

    Read more here

WRAPPING PAPER WRAPPING PAPER
WRAPPING PAPER "SPRING COCKTAIL"
CHF 30.00

PAY WITH TWINT

The river slows at dusk. Reeds lean, then still. Somewhere upstream a coot calls once and waits for an answer that never comes.

A picnic winds down at the water's edge. Crusts left on linen. Glasses catching the last of the light. A cardigan pulled over shoulders as warmth drains from the air. Above the trees, the sky begins its old sequence: lilac into blush, blush into sage, gold pooling low where the sun went down. These are the colours we gathered for the paper spread across the table, lilac, blush, sage, gold, as if the evening had been cut into sheets and folded flat.

Centuries have watched this same hour. Before winter's dark gave way to resolutions, spring opened the calendar, and the year began not with frost but with flower. Farmers watched the hedgerows for the first blossom before they touched the soil. Fields woke before minds did. People set their years by bud rather than by the length of the dark.

Somewhere in that design sits a portrait of Anne, Princess of Orange, painted by Johan Valentin Tischbein. A hand soft in silk and lace, rising before dawn to study orange blossoms and paint them into permanence. They called her the flower among princesses. She kept petals on her windowsill overnight, so the morning light would find them first. Her brushes stood in jars of rainwater, her fingertips faintly stained with green. Look closely and you may still find a fleck of paint on her finger, left there from whatever bloom she had been studying that morning.

Fold the paper gently, then carry it onward, to a birthday, a picnic, some evening still waiting for its own soft sky.

PAIRS WELL WITH

POSTCARD MIXED SET POSTCARD MIXED SET POSTCARD MIXED SET
POSTCARD MIXED SET
CHF 20.00

Five postcards, endless possibilities. Send a spontaneous hello, a note of gratitude, or a small surprise — no occasion required. Each card adds a touch of charm and joy, whether mailed or tucked into a wrapped gift.

Select a single design to receive 5 identical cards, or enjoy variety with the Mixed Summer or Mixed Winter sets.

Details
– Set of 5 postcards
– A6 size
– Printed in full colour on premium paper, 400gsm
– Uncoated finish with a soft, tactile texture
– Blank on the reverse
– Made in the UK
– FSC® certified, recyclable, sustainably sourced, and chlorine-free

WRAPPING PAPER WRAPPING PAPER
WRAPPING PAPER "CRAZY FOR AN EMPIRE"
CHF 30.00

PAY WITH TWINT

The air within the tiny greenhouse smelled of damp, peaty compost. Along the bench sat trays of seedlings and a row of jars, seed saved from last year and labelled in her own hand. Through the glass ceiling she could see the sky darkening. Heavy clouds gathered above her garden, and soon enough streaks of water raced down the panes, warping the apple orchard outside into a blur of greens and golds. The first rain of the autumn, arriving as it always did, a week later than she expected.

For over a decade she had been getting her hands dirty in this small patch of earth, the only place she ever owned. Her apple trees had gone past her height years ago, and their branches were shifting now in the wind. Wild greens, lavender and geraniums grew alongside the crops she planted herself. Turnips, carrots and small Berner Rosen filled the baskets on her kitchen counters each year. Nothing here grew in rows. The lavender had seeded itself into the carrot bed and the geraniums had followed, and she had let both of them stay.

The work was mostly deciding what to leave. She picked the apples she wanted and left the low branches to the wasps. Seed heads stood through the winter because the birds came for them. The turnips were lifted, the beds were turned, and the foxgloves were allowed exactly as much ground as they could take.

She remembered how her next-door neighbour once called her land "sweet chaos." Perhaps it was a hint for her to try to control the unstoppable spread of foxgloves and willowherbs. Perhaps it was about her own presence; her untamed hair, the dried lumps of soil crusting onto her sleeves, her jacket studded with sharp brown seed pods. She could never truly tell.

The rain thinned. Light came back through the panes, and she reached for the door with the seed pods still on her sleeve.