E8
14 NOV

Each piece posted in a paper envelope, date typed in red.
cut, shaped and stitched by hand in london. one at a time, so no two are the same.
Open the archive
1
2
3
found, not grown
Some people press flowers. We cut ours out of silk, bruise them with tea and stitch them back together until they look like they’ve lived a little. Each one is worn out once, photographed, then filed away here — like the strange, lovely thing it is.
Found on the shoulder of a grey jumper on a grey Tuesday, doing all the work.
Pleated like a rosette from a village show nobody remembers entering — and won anyway.
1
2
3
Ribbons long enough to argue with the wind, and win about half the time.
On Columbia Road it collected three compliments and one “wait, is that real?” No. Better.
1
2
3
with love, E2
Not everything sits still long enough to be mounted properly.



Shot in bed because it was raining, and because that’s where the good light was anyway. He refused to give the ribbon one back. We’ve stopped asking.
Window sill, trees going yellow exactly on cue. Two roses on one pin. She called them the twins and now so does everyone.
Ribbons everywhere. A man outside the Hackney Empire asked if we were a band. We said yes. We are not a band.
Glass-block wall, three friends, one borrowed fur. Cobalt is the only blue we’ll allow this season. Tea afterwards, obviously.








Everything we’ve made this season, filed by name. Hover — or tap — to open the drawer. The ones marked gone have found new lapels.
Members of the Adorn Herbarium Society see each new specimen before it’s catalogued, and get a letter twice a season. Never spam — we’re far too busy stitching.
Membership is free. Unsubscribe whenever, no hard feelings.