For people who have sat in the dark with themselves — through plant medicine, ceremony, breath, grief, or whatever finally cracked them open — and came back wanting clothes that don't pretend it didn't happen.
Not festival merch.
Not healing tourism.
Just clothes for people
who have seen things.
A 320 gsm garment-dyed heavy tee, the colour of a kitchen wall after a long cry. Embroidered glyph at the heart. The kind of weight you feel when you put it on.
Pure faded bone. Boxy fit. The tee you reach for the morning after. Subtle Sri Yantra screen-print on the back, just below the collar.
An older drop, kept here for the archive. The tee that started the irreverent print project. Sold out in 9 hours, never reissued.
A boxy, double-needle stitched overshirt in deep cacao linen. For the long pause between the journey and the return. Pockets deep enough for a notebook and a small stone.
Six-panel cap. Garment-washed olive. Embroidered triangle at front, small enough to be a private joke, large enough to find your tribe across a room.
A2 risograph print on heavy mould-made paper. Run of 100, signed, numbered. The reminder you don't have to be a hard thing to be a permanent one.
96 pages, cloth-bound, prompts and blanks in equal measure. For writing the things you can't say at dinner. Also acts as a doorstop.
Here is the story in one paragraph. We came back from that weekend — the one you don't talk about at dinner — and tried to find clothes that reflected it. Everything was either ridiculous (rainbow-print, sanskrit-quote rubbish), or hostile to it (the "logical man's" workwear cosplay), or quietly mocking (festival merch with a discount code). None of it fit anymore.
We didn't want clothes that screamed I've been to ayahuasca.
We wanted clothes that quietly knew.
So we made what we couldn't find. Heavy cotton. Restrained palette. Subtle geometry. Print runs small enough that you'll never see your tee on someone else at the airport. A self-aware sense of humour, because if you can't laugh at the absurdity of being human after sitting through nine hours of one, what was even the point.
On the strange domestic problem of having had a vision and now having to make breakfast. Notes from the kitchen at 6am.
Read →
A loving rant about Sanskrit screen-prints, mass-produced mandalas, and what happens when reverence stops paying rent.
Read →
We asked: what do you wear to your own integration? Three honest answers and one really, really good t-shirt recommendation.
Read →If you want to know when the next twelve pieces land — or just want to read one decent letter a month from someone who has done the work and isn't selling you a course — here is where you sign up.
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