Banish the Monotony.

In 1965, aircraft had become almost indistinguishable from one another. Braniff International decided that was a problem.

They handed it to Mary Wells, who saw something others hadn't. An opportunity to make flying feel different.

She brought in Alexander Girard to rethink the experience, and Emilio Pucci to rethink the uniforms. Girard's brief was simple. Destroy the monotony.

What followed was anything but simple. Seven colours of aircraft. Seventeen thousand redesigned items, right down to the sugar packets. A promise that you could fly with Braniff seven times and never fly the same colour twice.

They called it The End of the Plain Plane.

Sixty years on, we're picking the same fight on a much smaller scale.

Banish the Monotony.

t's our phrase, descended from Girard's, and it runs through everything we make.

Because the same thing has happened again, this time in the bag on your shoulder.

Everyday carry has talked itself into grey, black and beige. Function has become a style. Seriousness is signalled in gunmetal, as though a little colour might somehow compromise the zips.

And when colour does turn up, it often arrives pre-filed by gender. Pale pink or lilac for women. Red for men.

Somehow the things we carry every day are supposed to be serious. We don't agree.

So we're building the third thing. A grown-up aesthetic that is equally at home in a boardroom or on a beach. Colour chosen deliberately, and used with concentration rather than scattered everywhere.

That is genuinely hard to do. When you care as much as we do about how your things look, you have to spend the time getting them right.

And stripes are at the heart of how we do it.

They're not a pattern we happened to like. They're one of the core elements of our visual language. We use them to bring colour, rhythm and a sense of movement to otherwise useful, functional objects. They make something ordinary feel deliberate.

And they have their own ancestors.

In the late 1960s, a group of designers looked at an architecture that had talked itself into austerity. White walls. Clean lines. Colour treated as a lapse in judgement.

They rebelled by painting stripes the size of buildings.

Up stairwells. Across ceilings. Around entire rooms. Full strength, no apology.

They called it supergraphics.

And it was never really about stripes. It was about bold geometric form let loose at scale. Circles, arcs and lines too big to sit politely on the surface of anything.

That is the strand that moves us most. The idea that geometry can transform an ordinary space or object simply by being confident enough to occupy it.

You can see that instinct in our mark. An oval carrying stripes. Pure geometric form, drawn in the same spirit.

So our stripes aren't decoration added at the end. They're part of the architecture of what we make.

Every stripe is drawn for the object it sits on. The scale, spacing and colour are chosen with intent. Sometimes they're restrained. Sometimes they're not. They always make the object feel more like itself.

A stripe that could sit anywhere sits nowhere.

These are the good days. Drawn boldly.