ManuelaMenziStudio_WrappingPaper_TheQueenofAlgorab.jpg
ManuelaMenziStudio_WrappingPaper_TheQueenofAlgorab.jpg

WRAPPING PAPER "THE QUEEN OF ALGORAB"

CHF 30.00

PAY WITH TWINT

Winter arrives quietly at the old observatory. Frost creeps up the copper dome. By midnight it has dulled to silver under a hard white moon. She has kept this place for forty years, since the gears still turned smoothly and the telescope was the newest thing on the hill. For this wrapping paper we climbed up to find her there, still tending the same instruments, still watching for whatever the sky might show her next. A shooting star. A comet. A shape she hasn't charted yet. We call it "The Queen of Algorab," after the one she found and never stopped looking for.

She told us the story slowly, pausing to check a dial, to wipe frost from a lens. Every night she climbs the narrow stair, log book under one arm, and cranks the dome open to a seam of sky. The hinges complain, as they always have. Cold air pours in, carrying pine resin from the slope below.

One night, decades ago, fog swallowed every star she knew. She waited it out, sleeves pulled over her hands. Then a single gap opened directly above her. Through it, a shape she had never charted: a bird stretching its wings across the dark, one point at its edge burning steadier than the rest. An old colleague, visiting for the meteor shower, named it for her. Algorab, the crow's wing, a white star some eighty seven light years off, marking the corner of a small quadrilateral sailors once steered by. Its name comes from the Arabic for crow, older than the observatory, older than the hill itself.

She cannot see it all year. It climbs into view only as the coldest nights start to loosen their grip, low near the horizon before dawn, higher each week as the season turns. So she watches for it here, in this narrow stretch of winter, the way you might watch for one particular person in a crowd you know will thin eventually.

By morning the dome closes over a sky gone pale grey. She locks the door, leaves the key under the same stone as always, and walks down the hill. Somewhere above her, fading now, Algorab is already waiting for next winter to bring it back.

PAY WITH TWINT

Winter arrives quietly at the old observatory. Frost creeps up the copper dome. By midnight it has dulled to silver under a hard white moon. She has kept this place for forty years, since the gears still turned smoothly and the telescope was the newest thing on the hill. For this wrapping paper we climbed up to find her there, still tending the same instruments, still watching for whatever the sky might show her next. A shooting star. A comet. A shape she hasn't charted yet. We call it "The Queen of Algorab," after the one she found and never stopped looking for.

She told us the story slowly, pausing to check a dial, to wipe frost from a lens. Every night she climbs the narrow stair, log book under one arm, and cranks the dome open to a seam of sky. The hinges complain, as they always have. Cold air pours in, carrying pine resin from the slope below.

One night, decades ago, fog swallowed every star she knew. She waited it out, sleeves pulled over her hands. Then a single gap opened directly above her. Through it, a shape she had never charted: a bird stretching its wings across the dark, one point at its edge burning steadier than the rest. An old colleague, visiting for the meteor shower, named it for her. Algorab, the crow's wing, a white star some eighty seven light years off, marking the corner of a small quadrilateral sailors once steered by. Its name comes from the Arabic for crow, older than the observatory, older than the hill itself.

She cannot see it all year. It climbs into view only as the coldest nights start to loosen their grip, low near the horizon before dawn, higher each week as the season turns. So she watches for it here, in this narrow stretch of winter, the way you might watch for one particular person in a crowd you know will thin eventually.

By morning the dome closes over a sky gone pale grey. She locks the door, leaves the key under the same stone as always, and walks down the hill. Somewhere above her, fading now, Algorab is already waiting for next winter to bring it back.

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

  • 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 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

POSTCARD POSTCARD
POSTCARD "CROWNED GAZE"
CHF 5.00

PAY WITH TWINT

Somewhere between two old worlds, a road is waiting for you.

For this postcard, we found ourselves drawn to an old Norwegian tale, East of the Sun and West of the Moon, where a girl crosses impossible distances to break a spell cast on someone she loves. Marigolds, too, called us in, the flower used across Indian courtyards to mark thresholds and devotion, offered wherever one world meets another. Between these two traditions, one frost bound and windswept, one sun warmed and ceremonial, we found the shape of a single journey.

You cross the courtyard at dawn, when marigolds still hold the night's damp and the plaster walls blush pink under a sky the colour of weak tea. Petals fall from the vines above you, catching in your hair, scattering at your feet like small coins spent on a wish. The road ahead runs through orchards heavy with unripe fruit, then woodsmoke villages where dogs bark once and go quiet, then a coast where the houses wear ochre and rust like old coats against the wind.

You carry little: a loaf wrapped in linen, torn and shared with a stranger at a crossroads shrine who asks for nothing but company. A knife with a bone handle worn soft by other hands, used to cut rope from a gate long fallen shut, its hinges orange with rust. One thing you keep unlit, a stub of candle, pressed into your hand by your mother, who told you, light this only when you are certain, and even then, be careful what falls.

By midday the path climbs through a ruined garden, where vines have pulled half the stones down into the grass and left the rest leaning like old men. At its edge, where a stone face watches from beneath a broken crown, you pause. Its eyes have seen centuries of weather, of flowers offered and forgotten, of travellers who came this way and either turned back or did not. You press a marigold into a crack in the stone, the way travellers do when they mean to return, and for a moment the whole garden seems to hold its breath with you.

If you are reading this, you have already crossed something yourself, a distance, a threshold, a season. Keep the marigolds. You may need them for the way back.

PAIRS WELL WITH

GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS GIFT TAGS
GIFT TAGS
from CHF 10.00

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.

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