The Story
Everything
baked twice
The breads are made the way bread is made. A baguette is rolled, scored with four diagonal cuts and then browned in three passes — a wash for the crumb, a wash for the crust, and a dry pigment rubbed into the scores so the cuts stay darker than the shoulders. The croissant is laminated: three sheets of clay folded and cut, so the layers you can see are layers rather than lines drawn on. It takes considerably longer than drawing them onto the surface would, and the dimension rewards close inspection.
The colours came out of a photograph of a shopfront rather than off a chart — the burnt sienna of an over-baked edge, the olive of a canvas awning after a decade of sun, the burgundy of a shutter, and the unbleached cream of the paper the loaf is handed to you in. Two tips are left almost bare so the hand can breathe, and one of those carries the word, lettered freehand in a liner brush that holds about four seconds of colour. It is written once.
Written once, in four seconds of colour.