For drinks in cans.

Not a label.
A living brand.

Mark, type, colour, motion —
one system, from the can out.

An empty charcoal-grey studio under one long soft light, a dark oval on its floor

A bone-white can named LOPE standing on the threshold of a dark room under one light; the hare cut as a wood engraving on its label has noticed the lamp: ears up, head lifted

Lope · a living brand · 2026

Every brand owns a colour.
Almost none owns a motion.

A colour gets you recognised. A motion of your own gets you remembered — on a phone, on a shelf, anywhere your can is seen. I build that. Lope isn’t a client; I made it to show you.

The making of a can · nine sheets

Lope was one. Here’s the second, from the first look to the can.

A drink that isn’t on a shelf yet, made the way I’d make yours: I look first, I try more than I keep, and I stop only when it’s right. Nine sheets, in the order they happened. The last one is the can.

A pen and ink study of a royal fern’s young shoot: its curled tip with woolly hairs, the shoot from the front, a cut through its stalk, a scale bar

The seeing

Before I drew a line, I went to the real thing and looked.

Nothing on your can will be a symbol someone else can download.

Pen and watercolour studies of the fern: the hairs on its stalk, the coil in colour, five paint swatches matched to five inks, a spore frond, a leaf, a half-open frond, a clump of young shoots and the coil’s spiral drawn with a compass

The hunt

I drew forty and kept one.

You get the one that survived, never the first idea.

Forty small brush drawings of the fern’s curled shoot in black ink, in three rows; some struck through, one circled in rust

The shape

Four parts nobody will ever see this big, drawn this big.

It’s why the small one still reads from a metre away.

The kept mark printed small in pale green, rust and black on deep green, circled in rust

Under a loupe: rust hairs and a black ring on the mark’s pale green coil, the paper’s grain showing

Under a loupe: the stalk’s black line beside its pale green, a thin deep green groove between them

Under a loupe: the coil’s black tip and three rust hairs on deep green

The fern mark drawn large: its pale green coil edged in black, rust hairs and small black rings, on deep green

The name

The name, cut in the same hand as the mark, proofed at every size it will be read at.

Shelf, phone, shoulder of the can: one voice.

The name OSMUNDA cut in heavy black capitals at three sizes, beside three letter Os, the middle one circled in rust

The print

The whole print, flat, on the printer’s own template, in three inks.

Your printer runs this file. Nothing to redraw, nothing to guess.

The light

The same can under three lights. I kept the one it belongs in.

The picture you’ll use isn’t a mockup; it’s the can where it lives.

The green OSMUNDA can in a fern wood under three lights side by side: open noon, one fleck of sun circled in rust, deep shade

Eight numbered animation sheets of the fern mark on deep green, its coil unrolling into a frond from the first sheet to the last

The life

Before it moved on a screen, it moved on paper, frame by frame.

The motion is yours as files: your site, your feed, wherever the can is seen.

The small things

Then the small things: the same corner before and after, until it’s right.

The part you never see and always feel.

Four small details of the can, each before and after, the before circled in rust: a groove in the coil, two inks lined up closer, the coat from satin to gloss, a frond’s edge from zigzag to round

9 · THE CAN

Osmunda.

A sparkling green tea, grown in the shade.

Nobody’s client. Made to show you how far I go for yours.

Osmunda · a living brand · 2026

A new can, from nothing.
Or the one you already sell. Same price.

1First I read your brand — and your can, if it’s already out there. That costs nothing.

2Your can, print-ready on your printer’s own template.

3Mark, type, colour, motion — one system, from the can out.

4Your motion as files you own, moving and still, for your site and wherever else your can is seen.

5All of it yours, with the few rules that keep it whole.

€15,000.

Each next can in the same brand, €3,500.

You say yes once, to the brief. Half then, half when you love it. A real date. You see it once, finished.

If you never love it, every cent goes back.

The site around it, when you want it. Its own thing, every time.

Eight RESOL cans standing in a row on a stone shelf against a sunlit old lime wall under a strip of blue sky, each can half its own colour and half white, their long shadows laid to the right

Resol · a family of sodas · 2026

More than one flavour.
One family.

I give each flavour its own colour and keep everything else the same. Your range reads as one brand from across the shop, and the next flavour is a colour, not a new start.

Questions

I just launched. Do I have to change my can?: Only if it needs it, and never the part your buyers know you by. The brief tells you exactly what changes before you pay anything. The cans you’ve printed sell through; the new file waits for your next run.
Will my printer actually print it?: Yes. Before I draw anything, I ask your printer what their line can print on your can, and they check the file before you see it. The three cans above are mine, made to show you. None of them is on a shelf yet.
Is printing included? What else will I pay?: Printing stays with your printer, at their price. If your can changes, they may charge once to set up the new artwork; they’ll tell you what. From me, €15,000 is the whole build.
How long does it take, and how much of my time?: About four weeks from the day I have your printer’s template. The exact date is in the brief. Your part: three facts about your can, a yes to the brief, and that template. I never ask you to explain your brand.
Do I still have a say in my own brand?: Yes, before anything is made. The brief says what I’ll build, the story, and where it will live. Nothing starts until you say yes.

Send me your brand.

Anyone can. I pick the ones I love. Within a week you’ll hear from me: what I see, if I love it, and why not, if I don’t. It costs nothing and commits you to nothing.