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POSTCARD "A PORCELAIN DREAM"

CHF 5.00

PAY WITH TWINT

Welcome, trader. Before dawn, the harbour already smells of wet rope and salt. Gulls circle the masts where a ship from the south rides low, its hold packed with cargo still cool from the sea crossing. Word has already run ahead of it: this is the season's first delivery, and the whole quay knows it.

By midmorning the whole square has become a market. A flower seller unpacks armfuls of narcissus, stems dripping onto the stones, their scent catching on the salt air. A spice cart rattles past, cinnamon bark and dried peel spilling from an overturned sack. Across the aisle, a tile merchant stacks squares of blue and white glaze, each one catching the light like water, and children run their fingers along the cool surface while their mothers move on toward the crates everyone has come for.

Porters haul the crates across the cobbles, wax paper rustling, and a boy breaks one open before it even reaches the scales. The orange inside is small, freckled, almost too bright to be real. He bites straight through the skin. Juice runs down his wrist. Someone laughs. Someone else is already shouting a price.

Merchants lean over the barrels now, comparing rinds like jewellers testing stones, holding each fruit to the light, turning it once before naming a number. Someone's sleeve smells of narcissus. Someone else's hands smell of cinnamon. By noon it's all the same smell.

By evening the crates are empty, the cobbles sticky, and the gulls have moved in to pick at the peel. The tide turns. The ship makes ready to leave for more.

Tomorrow there will be another cargo, another rumour, another crowd pressing toward the scales. Tonight, only the scent of orange oil lingers over the empty harbour.

PAY WITH TWINT

Welcome, trader. Before dawn, the harbour already smells of wet rope and salt. Gulls circle the masts where a ship from the south rides low, its hold packed with cargo still cool from the sea crossing. Word has already run ahead of it: this is the season's first delivery, and the whole quay knows it.

By midmorning the whole square has become a market. A flower seller unpacks armfuls of narcissus, stems dripping onto the stones, their scent catching on the salt air. A spice cart rattles past, cinnamon bark and dried peel spilling from an overturned sack. Across the aisle, a tile merchant stacks squares of blue and white glaze, each one catching the light like water, and children run their fingers along the cool surface while their mothers move on toward the crates everyone has come for.

Porters haul the crates across the cobbles, wax paper rustling, and a boy breaks one open before it even reaches the scales. The orange inside is small, freckled, almost too bright to be real. He bites straight through the skin. Juice runs down his wrist. Someone laughs. Someone else is already shouting a price.

Merchants lean over the barrels now, comparing rinds like jewellers testing stones, holding each fruit to the light, turning it once before naming a number. Someone's sleeve smells of narcissus. Someone else's hands smell of cinnamon. By noon it's all the same smell.

By evening the crates are empty, the cobbles sticky, and the gulls have moved in to pick at the peel. The tide turns. The ship makes ready to leave for more.

Tomorrow there will be another cargo, another rumour, another crowd pressing toward the scales. Tonight, only the scent of orange oil lingers over the empty harbour.

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 "THE LEMONS OF SICILY"
CHF 30.00

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There is a particular quality to a Sicilian summer. The light is dense, almost heavy. It settles on things, on lemon groves and stone columns, on ceramic tiles and still water, and seems to make them more themselves.

For this wrapping paper, we wondered if we could capture such a summer. Its colours, its heat, the particular stillness of a Sicilian afternoon.

At the centre of it all sits the lemon. Not lemons in general, but a specific one. The Femminello Siracusano, a variety grown on this island almost all year round. Its skin is thick and fragrant. Its scent is sharper and cleaner than most, carrying something of the salt air it grows beside.

From the lemon groves, the eye moves to the towns. Sciacca. Caltagirone. In both, the tradition of tin-glazed ceramic runs deep, painted in the blues and yellows that seem to answer the landscape they come from. These tiles appear on walls, on floors, on staircases climbing from harbour to hilltop.

And then the columns. The Corinthian kind, carved with acanthus leaves, standing in fields where wild herbs grow between the stones. Ancient and unhurried. Sicily carries its history lightly, folded into the ordinary rhythms of the place.

We wanted to gather these things together. The lemon, the tile, the column. Not as decoration, but as a kind of memory of a particular afternoon, when the heat settled, and everything smelled of citrus, and the Mediterranean sat still and dark beyond the grove.

Lemons of Sicily is the perfect wrapping for a summer occasion. Hold it and you can almost feel the Sicilian sun on your skin, and catch, just faintly, the scent of lemons on the air.

PAIRS WELL WITH

WRAPPING PAPER WRAPPING PAPER
WRAPPING PAPER "RARE THOUGHTS"
CHF 30.00

Rare Thoughts wrapping paper was inspired by colours that are both bright and soft at the same time. Each color mixes energy with gentleness, creating shades that spark your imagination and make you stop to wonder. The name ‘Rare Thoughts’ captures the essence of those hidden treasures within our minds—the quirky, unconventional ideas that add a touch of magic to our lives. They remind us of the beauty in being different, in exploring new perspectives and embracing the unexpected. In today’s fast-paced world, where we're constantly bombarded with information, it’s easy to overlook these fleeting moments of creativity and introspection. Rare Thoughts serves as a gentle reminder to cherish these special thoughts, infusing your gift-giving with a sense of wonder and delight. This luxurious wrapping paper not only enhances the presentation of your gifts but also transforms them into thoughtful, memorable experiences.

WRAPPING PAPER WRAPPING PAPER
WRAPPING PAPER "THE AWAKENING OF SPRING"
CHF 30.00

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Push the old wooden gate and step through.

Rain came through in the night and has left the garden dripping. Bamboo along the north wall, planted for shelter, still ticking water onto the gravel. A weeping willow at the pond's edge, because her grandmother had one, hanging heavier than it did yesterday. White peonies by the gatepost, because she wanted something extravagant, face down in the wet now and needing tying. And at the centre a pond, stone lined and shallow, holding a low grey sky.

The garden was planted for two people, thirty summers ago. That morning a pair of goldfish came from her grandparents' house in a clay jar. Jin yu. Gold fish, and also abundance, a pun worn so smooth that nobody troubles to explain it. Keep the fish and you keep the wish alive in the house.

Come closer and they rise to meet you, taking you for someone who feeds them. Six fish now, from that first pair. One is red and white, all fins, dragging its tail behind it like a sleeve. They graze the pond wall, scatter, regroup, hang nose to the current as though a current ran here at all. Above them the lily pads sit flat and overlapping. She thins them twice a year so the light still comes through.

The irises are staked before they lean. The gravel is raked and the peonies that went over in the night are stripped back to the stem. She reaches in past her elbow for the willow leaves that sink and rot and cloud the water. The fish come to her hand while she does it. All of it before breakfast, most mornings.

She sets the rake against the stem of the willow, where it lives. Steam lifts off the wet stone.

Under the lilies, the gold moves.