Five industries, five identities, one page. Keep scrolling and the world changes underneath you.
Concept work. None of these are clients.
Nobody buys a building. They buy the hour they imagine spending inside it.
So we took the house away and left the room.
Every listing photograph in the country is shot at midday with every light on. We did the opposite. One lamp, one room, and several hundred acres of nothing around it.
It photographs the feeling of arriving somewhere at night and finding it already warm.
Full width plates, no carousels, no price above the fold. The address appears last, after you have already decided.
Concept, not a client.
A gallery sells the room as much as the work hanging in it.
So we flooded the room.
Five centimetres of still water across every floor. Each painting, each light, each doorway doubled and hanging upside down beneath itself.
You look at the work and you also look at the building looking at the work.
The exhibition page opens on the empty space and the work arrives second. Dates and prices sit at the bottom where they belong.
Concept, not a client.
You cannot photograph a smell. Every perfume brand tries anyway, and every one of them ends up with the same bottle on the same marble.
We stopped treating scent as air and started treating it as liquid. Fog that fills a room to waist height and holds a perfectly flat surface, like water in a tank.
It behaves wrongly, which is the only honest way to draw something invisible.
Each fragrance is introduced by what it is made from before it is introduced by what it is called. Resin, peel, root, salt.
Concept, not a client.
Wine is sold on the same four photographs. Sunlit rows, a barrel, a glass held up to the light, someone laughing at a long table.
Barrels on the ceiling. Wine running upward out of a fallen glass and pooling above your head. Dust still falling the right way, so you know exactly what is wrong.
Nobody scrolls past a room that has been turned upside down.
Every wine opens with the ground it came out of, then the year, then the tasting note. The bottle appears once, at the point of buying it.
Concept, not a client.
A bathhouse is not selling hot water. It is selling the fact that for an hour, nothing can reach you.
One bath, full, steaming, standing in the middle of a live city street. Traffic streaks past on both sides and the water does not move.
That is the product. Stillness with the city still running around it.
No membership tiers, no wellness language, no stock photograph of a woman in a towel. A time, a length, a price, done.
Concept, not a client.