Image 1 of 3
Image 2 of 3
Image 3 of 3
DETAILS
SET
3 rolled sheets
A1 594 x 841 mm
A2 420 × 594 mm
A3 297 × 420 mm
SIZE
PAPER
100 g/m², uncoated offset
FINISH
Matte
PRINTED IN
Germany
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Handle with clean, dry hands to keep the print looking its best. Store flat in a drawer or re-roll and secure with a ribbon, not with tape. Keep away from direct sunlight to preserve the colours over time.
Read more here
PAY WITH TWINT
A book lies open on a reading table. The pages turned to a flamingo, painted by hand in rust and coral, that long curved neck, those improbable legs. Afternoon light catches the detail. The room smells of beeswax and old paper.
There is a particular quality to rust and coral when they sit together. Warm but not sweet. Rich but not heavy. We wondered, making this postcard, if we could capture something of that.
We began with the colour of the bird itself. A flamingo is born grey-white, almost pale as milk, and builds its warmth entirely through what it eats. Algae. Brine shrimp. Carotenoid pigments accumulated slowly, year by year. A warmth that seems to come from somewhere deep inside.The feathers a record of a whole life lived in full colour.
From there we found ourselves thinking about the flamingo differently. Not as a colour but as a specimen. As something someone once wanted badly enough to bring home. John Gould spent years producing hand-coloured plate books of exotic birds, great luxury objects made to be returned to again and again. We found the same quality in the taxidermied specimens that stood under glass domes in Victorian parlour rooms. A flamingo rendered so carefully it could outlast the century.
For the cooler tones we looked elsewhere in that world of natural history illustration. To the facing page of the book, to the blue of a painted hyacinth. That particular shade sitting somewhere between violet and grey. A contrast that keeps the warmth from tipping into sweetness.
We were happy with this world of colour and wonder. The book gently closed, the green scent of hyacinth still in the room.
PAIRS WELL WITH
PAY WITH TWINT
For most of human history, birthdays belonged only to kings and saints. Ordinary people were born, grew older, and said nothing particular about it. Most didn't even know their exact date. It wasn't recorded, wasn't kept. It wasn't until the industrial revolution that birth dates began to be written down for everyone. And once written down, they could be celebrated.
The candles came much earlier. In ancient Greece, people brought honey cakes to the temple of Artemis, goddess of the moon, the hunt, and of childbirth itself. The cakes were called amphiphon, meaning shining on both sides. Round like the moon, with candles placed all around the edge. It was not just a wish. It was a thank you. For the birth itself.
We kept the candles. We kept the wishes. We added the gifts. And somewhere along the way, we added the gift tag.
It is the last thing you do. The gift is chosen, wrapped, ribboned. And then you sit down with a small piece of paper and a pen and try to find the right words. Not many. There is no space for many. Just enough to say what you mean, in the handwriting that the other person will recognise before they have even read it.
It arrives first. Before the gift itself. The smallest part of the whole gesture. Written last, read first.
PAY WITH TWINT
Salt wind arrives before anything else on these cliffs. It finds gaps in the church windows, cracks between stones, the hinge she never fixed on the greenhouse against the south transept.
Nothing else grows here. That was the rule she set for herself thirty years ago and has never once broken, not even for the roses everyone assumes a church garden needs. Orchids only. Not the kind lined up in pots on a windowsill. Hers climb. They hang from the roof beams on threads of root, gripping stone that was never meant to hold anything alive. Some wedge into the gaps where mortar has crumbled away, no bigger than a fingernail. Others sprawl the length of a transept wall, decades of growth nobody trained or trellised, left to decide its own shape.
She doesn't call it a collection. A collection implies order, implies she chose each one and placed it where she wanted it. What she has is closer to a population, thousands of plants she has mostly just allowed. An orchid seed is smaller than dust and needs almost nothing to take hold: a crack in stone, a pocket of moss, the bark of another plant. Once she understood that, she stopped potting them. She started giving them places to land. The church, with its ledges and joints and centuries of small imperfections, turned out to be exactly the kind of ruin an orchid hunts for.
No two mornings inside these walls look the same. A species that has shown nothing but leaves for six years might flower overnight above the choir stalls, and she'll only know because she happened to look up while carrying water somewhere else. She has stopped trying to track them all in a single log. There are too many, growing in too many directions, keeping their own time. Instead she moves through the building slowly, most days, scanning walls and beams the way you'd scan a crowd for one face, not expecting to find it, unwilling to be the one who wasn't looking when it finally shows itself.
Visitors sometimes ask why she never added anything else: a hedge, a tree, something to hold colour between blooms. She tells them the same thing every time.
Nothing else grows here.