Everything feels edited now. The streets, the feeds, the faces. Even chaos has a colour palette.
Flavour 011 cuts through that. It’s the visual equivalent of an unfiltered espresso, rough at first, but honest enough to stay with you. There’s no set dressing here, just real energy. Supreme Tyson standing where he belongs. Jerseys that look more like memories than merch. A Citroën blueprint that reminds you design once had grit before it had gloss.
It’s that space between intention and instinct that stands out this week. The imperfect brush stroke. The studio wall that never got repainted. The typography that feels pulled straight from a printer’s hand rather than a brand deck. Everything has fingerprints again.
This flavour doesn’t chase perfection. It just observes. From Song for the Mute’s poetic stillness to Martine Rose’s garage-turned-gallery perspective, the mood is quietly self-assured. No loud announcements, no hype. Just makers making.
If there’s a thread running through it all, it’s honesty. The kind that lives in the details, a crease, a corner, a cup left on a café table long after the meeting’s done.
Shot of the good stuff
