I'm an illustrator working out of a small studio crammed with riso ink, half-dry test prints, and far too many markers. I draw loud, friendly, slightly chaotic things — cats on rooftops, overgrown gardens, deep-sea weirdos — and I print them big and bright. Every one costs twenty dollars, because picking your favourite shouldn't require a spreadsheet.
It began with a jammed-up second-hand risograph and a stubborn refusal to throw away the "ruined" misprints. Those happy accidents — the off-register cyan, the gritty fluoro pink — turned into a style. I leaned all the way in: heavy black outlines, two or three loud inks, no fuss. What you see on the wall is what comes off my press, slightly imperfect and entirely on purpose.
I hated walking into shops where the "good" art was locked behind a price that made my stomach drop. Art should live on real walls, in real apartments, owned by real people who aren't collectors. So everything is twenty dollars — the big ones, the new ones, the ones that took me forty hours. One flat price, no tiers, no "premium edition" upsell. Pick what you love and that's the price.
Each print is pulled by hand on the riso, then hand-checked for the right kind of imperfection. They're A3, on heavyweight 250gsm uncoated stock that drinks the ink and ages beautifully. I roll every order into a sturdy tube the same week you order it, scribble a thank-you on the inside, and send it off. No middlemen, no warehouse — just me, the press, and the post office down the road.