EDITION NO. I
FREE TO READ · PAID TO WEAR
ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE OF LIMITED GARMENTS & CULTURAL CURIOSITIES
PUBLISHED AT IRREGULAR INTERVALS
EVERY DESIGN STRUCK ONCE & NEVER REPRINTED
POST PAID TO ALL STATES
From havana with love
IN PRESS THIS EDITIONWe slice through the noise with eight sharp offerings, each designed to move the needle from “maybe” to “where have you been all my life?”
In 1855 the Reverend Charles Kingsley
looked upon the young women of England,
noted that they had abandoned novels for
the collection of ferns, and gave the affliction a
name. He called it Pteridomania. He meant it
glass cases — the Wardian sort — stood in
parlors like small green hostages.
We find this instructive. A nation can lose its
kindly. It did not help.
Within a decade, the fern had colonized the
entire visual field of the middle class. It was
pressed into glass, cast into iron, glazed onto
porcelain and carved onto headstones.
A THICK CLOTH, AND NO APOLOGY FOR IT
The proprietors have long held that a shirt ought to have some substance to it, and that a garment one can read a newspaper through is not, properly speaking, a garment at all. This one cannot be read through.
It is a heavyweight unisex tee in 100% ring-spun cotton, garment-dyed — that is, dyed after it was made rather than before, so the colour settles into the cloth instead of sitting on top of it. The practical result is a shirt that arrives already softened, with the faint irregularity of something that has been somewhere. No two take the dye in quite the same way. We consider this a feature and decline to correct it.
Ring-spinning is the tedious part. The fibre is twisted and drawn out repeatedly until what remains is long, fine and smooth. It is slower and it costs more, which is why most shirts are not made this way, and why most shirts feel like most shirts.
Cut regular. It will sit agreeably with whatever you already own, which we assume is black.
100% ring-spun cotton
Garment-dyed
Unisex, regular fit
I n 1855 the Reverend Charles Kingsley
looked upon the young women of England,
noted that they had abandoned novels for
the collection of ferns, and gave the affliction a
name. He called it Pteridomania. He meant it
glass cases — the Wardian sort — stood in
parlours like small green hostages.
We find this instructive. A nation can lose its
kindly. It did not help.
Within a decade the fern had colonised the
entire visual field of the middle class. It was
pressed into glass, cast into iron, glazed onto
porcelain and carved onto headstones.