Almost a half-century ago, one of the first purchases I made in preparation for leaving my parents’ house was a Hudson’s Bay Company wool point blanket.
I walked into the HBC department store at suburban Fairview Mall, found the item with its iconic wide green, red, yellow, and indigo horizontal stripes on a white background, and paid what felt like a lot of money at the time.
Most things I owned in that apartment are long gone, but I still have the blanket.
But lately, I’ve noticed an increase in items for sale, including pillows, footstools, outerwear, and luggage, that carry the HBC multistripe wool blanket pattern. Some, including pickleball sets, cornhole games, tote bags, aprons, umbrellas, beach towels, cedar strip canoes, Muskoka chairs, outdoor cushions, and decorative paddles, have migrated into kitsch territory as part of Canadian Tire’s Summer 2026 collection, the first assortment the company designed itself after purchasing the HBC brand assets for $30 million following bankruptcy.
This raises an important question: why do some visual identities outlast others?
The Hudson’s Bay blanket is a useful case. In the late eighteenth century, the HBC (formed in 1670 and granted a monopoly over the fur trade in what would later become Canada) commissioned the production of wool blankets from mills in Witney, England. The pattern was not originally conceived as branding, visual, or graphic identity. It emerged from production realities. Early dyes and manufacturing processes limited what could be reliably produced at scale, and durability mattered more than symbolism. The wool was dyed before spinning, embedding color directly into the fiber and helping the blanket resist fading and wear.
Over time, the pattern migrated beyond the blanket. It appeared on packaging, marketing materials, retail displays, clothing, and eventually a wide variety of products sold under the brand. It became a symbol of the HBC.
About the pattern. The colored bands are comparatively simple, provide a strong contrast with the white background, are legible from a distance, and are recognizable regardless of the item on which they are placed and the size of that item.
These attributes enable the HBC blanket design to survive changing technologies and tastes.
But I don’t believe that these factors alone explain why this pattern has lasted so long. Design strength may get something into the conversation, but something else keeps it there.
In the case of the HBC blanket, the institutional history of the HBC enabled this to happen. The HBC was not simply a retailer. For generations, it occupied a central role in Canada’s economic development and territorial expansion. Throughout the corporation’s 335-year-old history, the blanket remained one of its most visible and continuously sold products. That kind of staying power is not achieved from good design alone. It’s accomplished by being sold by an institution that became inseparable from a national story.
Along the way, the pattern accumulated meanings that extended far beyond its original function. It began as a trade good, evolved into a branded product, and eventually became a cultural symbol that could be detached from the blanket itself and remain recognizable.
Once a visual form reaches that stage, it acquires a degree of independence from its original intent. Thus, the pattern can migrate onto all sorts of items because observers and consumers already understand what it signifies.
There is also a feedback loop at work. The longer a design survives, the more opportunities it has to be reused and reinterpreted. Each new appearance reinforces familiarity. Each new audience encounters it in on different items. Over time, continued visibility begins to look natural, even though it is the product of repeated cultural, commercial, and institutional selection.
This dynamic extends beyond the Hudson’s Bay blanket. The sustained visibility of selected pieces created by street artists like Banksy, Shepard Fairey, and Kenny Scharf, for example, depends not only on the work itself but on the museums, galleries, publishers, collectors, retailers, and media organizations that continue to circulate it. Systems of reproduction sustain recognition. Take those systems away, and most strong work fades into obscurity.
Most visual identities dissipate, not because they are poorly designed but because the institutions, markets, and cultures that sustain them disappear. What the Hudson’s Bay blanket demonstrates, and what I keep coming back to when I see the stripes on so many items, is that visual longevity is rarely a property of design alone. Strong design may make a symbol recognizable. But symbols endure only when successive generations continue to find reasons to reintroduce them into everyday life.
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/Screenshot-2026-06-02-at-10.53.11-AM.png7401088Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2026-06-07 04:22:392026-06-07 04:22:39Why do the Hudson’s Bay Blanket Stripes Travel So Well?
On my first visit, I brought my Japanese knives (the short deba and the long yanagiba), packed away in my knife case. Then, standing at the trunk of my car, parked across the street from the restaurant, I decided to leave them in the trunk.
But none of that stopped me from standing across the street, second-guessing my cutlery.
I was hoping he might agree to a stage (a short, unpaid stint in his kitchen), over the course of a few days, once a week, or even once a month. And if this worked out, maybe it might lead to a part-time paid position sometime in the future.
Two months earlier, my wife and I had eaten at the counter, and I’d struck up a conversation with the chef. He was rocking a Jiro Dreams of Sushivibe, already in his seventies. I knew him by the quality of the food he prepared and served. His establishment was known to be the most authentic Japanese restaurant in town, and he had decades in the game.
I told him about my background. He seemed genuinely interested. Before we left, he told me to come by on a Sunday afternoon, and he’d show me some techniques. I thanked him and said I’d be in touch after the trip to Japan.
At the end of May, I called the restaurant. He sounded as if he remembered me, confirmed the invitation, and told me to come the following Sunday in the early afternoon. I hung up feeling excited about the forthcoming meeting.
When I walked in, he looked up and said he had forgotten I was coming.
My first thought wasn’t anger. It was: did I get the day wrong? Did I misinterpret our communications? I replayed the phone conversation in my head. No, I had the right day and time. But for a moment, I doubted myself completely before I understood what had actually happened: I had obsessed about something he had probably not thought about once since we last spoke.
He was unhurried, precise, entirely in his element. He talked about his life the way a man talks when he has nothing left to prove, seven generations of rice farmers in his family, an apprenticeship that began at fifteen, nearly four decades cooking in another big American city before this one. He estimated the day’s rice by feel. His sister, he mentioned, washes rice seven times.
The conversation was interesting enough. But I was also sitting there, increasingly aware that none of it was moving in the direction he promised and I wanted.
At some point, almost as an aside, he told me he doesn’t give instructions. He doesn’t like to tell his workers what to do. They learn through observation. Knowledge and skill development are acquired in his kitchen indirectly, through watching, proximity, and what he called, with a slight smile, a lot of bullshitting.
Toward the end of our conversation, I asked him directly: could I come in once a week, unpaid, for a few hours, just to observe and learn? He said there were no once-a-week arrangements like that. Maybe one day a week, paid positions, he said. I took that as a hopeful sign.
Before I left, he served me kalbi (flanken-cut beef short ribs), marinated in something I couldn’t quite identify. I asked about the marinade. He said the recipe was complicated. I pressed gently. He declined. I knew variations of the basic recipe were readily available online. I had made it myself a couple of times. Whatever he was protecting, it wasn’t a secret.
I had brought my knives, driven fifteen minutes, and listened to this bullshit for two hours, all for this?
As I was leaving, he said: Come back next Sunday for the staff meal.
Maybe I was misreading the whole thing. Perhaps this was how it worked. Acceptance was slow, indirect, a test of commitment. I decided to give it one more Sunday.
The following Sunday afternoon, I came back. Again, he had forgotten I was coming.
He was at the counter peeling a large, thick daikon, drawing a knife around the outside of it in one long, continuous motion, producing a single unbroken sheet (katsuramuki). It’s a technique that looks impressive to onlookers, but after some minimal practice, I can easily do it myself.
After about forty-five minutes, the staff meal was ready, curry ladled over ramen, served in ten bowls. He picked up a bowl, a glass of water, and a small bowl of miso, and sat alone in a corner near the door. I followed and sat nearby, leaving a space between us that I assumed a worker would fill. Nobody did.
Workers filtered in one by one, took bowls from the counter, ate in silence, and left when they finished. He neither introduced me to anyone nor did any of the workers come up to introduce themselves. Nobody spoke. I found myself wondering whether this was tradition or whether everyone hated his guts.
I showed him some photos from my Japan trip and mentioned the kaiseki meal we’d eaten in Kyoto. He looked at the photos and said that what I ate was not kaiseki. It was for tourists. He said it more than once.
After finishing his meal, he got up, muttered something about getting ready for dinner, and walked into the bathroom.
I sat at the counter for five minutes. What the fuck. No goodbye. I got up and left.
On the drive home, and a handful of times since, I tried to make sense of the interaction. To begin with, I don’t think the chef was intentionally being mean, but other things were happening.
He simultaneously expressed a considerable amount of bitterness towards his workers, other Japanese restaurants, the city he lives in, and venerated Japan with the intensity of someone who feels the place he actually lives has never given him his due. I suspect that he had spent decades feeling undervalued.
Perhaps he was operating according to a system of knowledge and skill transmission that has no mechanism for what I was asking, that in the tradition he came from, knowledge and skills move through years of proximity and hierarchy rather than formal arrangements, and that my certification and years of practice didn’t have any currency that he recognized.
Alternatively, maybe he was adopting the habit of many experts who are dismissive of the work and skills of others. The overall effect was an attempt to minimize my efforts in trying to master Washoku. It reminded me of the countless interactions I’ve had with contractors or tradespersons who throw a previous tradesperson’s work under the bus (a process called trade denigration), but when asked for specifics, provide nothing but mumbo jumbo.
In the end, it didn’t much matter which explanation was closest to the truth. What mattered was recognizing that whatever he knew, he had no interest in passing it on. That was enough.
Since then, I’ve eaten at the restaurant a couple of times. It’s still probably the best Japanese food in town, though I’ve had better in New York City and Los Angeles. On my last visit, I walked past the counter, and we exchanged glances. Nothing registered in his expression.
Three times, he had forgotten me. That said something about him. It also saved me from wasting my time.
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/IMG_1034.png11702532Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2026-05-24 03:39:392026-05-25 12:53:43Two Sundays In a Row
Unlike some other social sciences, criminology and criminal justice consistently produce job openings. But not all positions are created equal, and where you land can affect your career and your mental health in ways your graduate advisor never mentioned. And many young criminologists enter their first position with unrealistic expectations about just about everything. Whether you are still in graduate school or already a few years into a job that isn’t quite what you expected, the same blind spots apply.
Start with the basic pecking order. Community colleges sit at the bottom, R1 universities at the top, with regional teaching institutions somewhere in the middle. Each tier comes with its own culture, expectations, and daily grind.
Community colleges expect lots of face-to-face interaction with students. Creativity in the classroom is limited, students are often indifferent to the subject matter, and your colleagues are more likely to be current or former practitioners than scholars interested in academic research.
At the R1 end, the pressure is on grant-funded research, longitudinal data collection, and the methodologically rigorous but sometimes soul-numbing work that may look great on a vita but reads like advanced calculus.
Regional teaching universities sit in the middle and are genuinely fine, possibly even quite good, depending on what you want from academic life. The catch is that almost all junior faculty there seem to be pining for something better.
And there’s another divide few people mention in graduate school, and that is how much of a “cop shop” criminology and criminal justice departments are. The cop shops (a term that is frequently used dismissively) primarily focus on training future practitioners, police officers, corrections workers, and probation officers. The job ad won’t tell you which one you’re applying to. If you don’t figure this out during your in-person interview, when faculty are typically on their best behavior, you’ll recognize it during your first faculty meeting when someone suggests the department needs more “practical” courses, and one third of the room nods enthusiastically while another third rolls their eyes, and the balance tries to sustain their best poker face.
The fit problem in criminology has a particular shape. The field draws from two very different pipelines: practitioners who tend to gravitate toward teaching and are generally comfortable there, and R1 graduates trained as researchers who take positions at regional universities or community colleges, telling themselves they’ll carve out time for scholarship.
Some colleagues (or administrators) may also expect (or encourage) you to initiate or collaborate on research projects with local criminal justice agencies or to guest lecture at events sponsored by them. If you’re a critical criminologist who studies police violence or mass incarceration, this creates awkward dynamics. You’re supposed to maintain town-gown relationships with institutions you critique in your research. Similarly, it’s difficult to be a scholar who critiques the carceral state while also serving on the committee that selects law enforcement officers for departmental scholarships.
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/changbok-ko-F8t2VGnI47I-unsplash-1-scaled.jpg17102560Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2026-05-10 12:22:022026-05-10 13:58:04What Your Graduate Advisor Never Told You About the Criminology Job Market
Why do the Hudson’s Bay Blanket Stripes Travel So Well?
/by Jeffrey Ian RossAlmost a half-century ago, one of the first purchases I made in preparation for leaving my parents’ house was a Hudson’s Bay Company wool point blanket.
I walked into the HBC department store at suburban Fairview Mall, found the item with its iconic wide green, red, yellow, and indigo horizontal stripes on a white background, and paid what felt like a lot of money at the time.
Most things I owned in that apartment are long gone, but I still have the blanket.
But lately, I’ve noticed an increase in items for sale, including pillows, footstools, outerwear, and luggage, that carry the HBC multistripe wool blanket pattern. Some, including pickleball sets, cornhole games, tote bags, aprons, umbrellas, beach towels, cedar strip canoes, Muskoka chairs, outdoor cushions, and decorative paddles, have migrated into kitsch territory as part of Canadian Tire’s Summer 2026 collection, the first assortment the company designed itself after purchasing the HBC brand assets for $30 million following bankruptcy.
This raises an important question: why do some visual identities outlast others?
The Hudson’s Bay blanket is a useful case. In the late eighteenth century, the HBC (formed in 1670 and granted a monopoly over the fur trade in what would later become Canada) commissioned the production of wool blankets from mills in Witney, England. The pattern was not originally conceived as branding, visual, or graphic identity. It emerged from production realities. Early dyes and manufacturing processes limited what could be reliably produced at scale, and durability mattered more than symbolism. The wool was dyed before spinning, embedding color directly into the fiber and helping the blanket resist fading and wear.
Over time, the pattern migrated beyond the blanket. It appeared on packaging, marketing materials, retail displays, clothing, and eventually a wide variety of products sold under the brand. It became a symbol of the HBC.
About the pattern. The colored bands are comparatively simple, provide a strong contrast with the white background, are legible from a distance, and are recognizable regardless of the item on which they are placed and the size of that item.
These attributes enable the HBC blanket design to survive changing technologies and tastes.
But I don’t believe that these factors alone explain why this pattern has lasted so long. Design strength may get something into the conversation, but something else keeps it there.
In the case of the HBC blanket, the institutional history of the HBC enabled this to happen. The HBC was not simply a retailer. For generations, it occupied a central role in Canada’s economic development and territorial expansion. Throughout the corporation’s 335-year-old history, the blanket remained one of its most visible and continuously sold products. That kind of staying power is not achieved from good design alone. It’s accomplished by being sold by an institution that became inseparable from a national story.
Along the way, the pattern accumulated meanings that extended far beyond its original function. It began as a trade good, evolved into a branded product, and eventually became a cultural symbol that could be detached from the blanket itself and remain recognizable.
Once a visual form reaches that stage, it acquires a degree of independence from its original intent. Thus, the pattern can migrate onto all sorts of items because observers and consumers already understand what it signifies.
There is also a feedback loop at work. The longer a design survives, the more opportunities it has to be reused and reinterpreted. Each new appearance reinforces familiarity. Each new audience encounters it in on different items. Over time, continued visibility begins to look natural, even though it is the product of repeated cultural, commercial, and institutional selection.
This dynamic extends beyond the Hudson’s Bay blanket. The sustained visibility of selected pieces created by street artists like Banksy, Shepard Fairey, and Kenny Scharf, for example, depends not only on the work itself but on the museums, galleries, publishers, collectors, retailers, and media organizations that continue to circulate it. Systems of reproduction sustain recognition. Take those systems away, and most strong work fades into obscurity.
Most visual identities dissipate, not because they are poorly designed but because the institutions, markets, and cultures that sustain them disappear. What the Hudson’s Bay blanket demonstrates, and what I keep coming back to when I see the stripes on so many items, is that visual longevity is rarely a property of design alone. Strong design may make a symbol recognizable. But symbols endure only when successive generations continue to find reasons to reintroduce them into everyday life.
Two Sundays In a Row
/by Jeffrey Ian RossOn my first visit, I brought my Japanese knives (the short deba and the long yanagiba), packed away in my knife case. Then, standing at the trunk of my car, parked across the street from the restaurant, I decided to leave them in the trunk.
I had been studying and cooking Washoku (traditional Japanese food) for six years. I held a Bronze-level certification from the Japanese government. I had an Instagram site where I posted the Japanese dishes and meals I prepared. I cook Japanese meals at least three times a week, and almost all the others have one dish that is Japanese or Japanese-inspired. And I had just returned from Japan.
But none of that stopped me from standing across the street, second-guessing my cutlery.
I was hoping he might agree to a stage (a short, unpaid stint in his kitchen), over the course of a few days, once a week, or even once a month. And if this worked out, maybe it might lead to a part-time paid position sometime in the future.
Two months earlier, my wife and I had eaten at the counter, and I’d struck up a conversation with the chef. He was rocking a Jiro Dreams of Sushi vibe, already in his seventies. I knew him by the quality of the food he prepared and served. His establishment was known to be the most authentic Japanese restaurant in town, and he had decades in the game.
I told him about my background. He seemed genuinely interested. Before we left, he told me to come by on a Sunday afternoon, and he’d show me some techniques. I thanked him and said I’d be in touch after the trip to Japan.
At the end of May, I called the restaurant. He sounded as if he remembered me, confirmed the invitation, and told me to come the following Sunday in the early afternoon. I hung up feeling excited about the forthcoming meeting.
When I walked in, he looked up and said he had forgotten I was coming.
My first thought wasn’t anger. It was: did I get the day wrong? Did I misinterpret our communications? I replayed the phone conversation in my head. No, I had the right day and time. But for a moment, I doubted myself completely before I understood what had actually happened: I had obsessed about something he had probably not thought about once since we last spoke.
He was unhurried, precise, entirely in his element. He talked about his life the way a man talks when he has nothing left to prove, seven generations of rice farmers in his family, an apprenticeship that began at fifteen, nearly four decades cooking in another big American city before this one. He estimated the day’s rice by feel. His sister, he mentioned, washes rice seven times.
The conversation was interesting enough. But I was also sitting there, increasingly aware that none of it was moving in the direction he promised and I wanted.
At some point, almost as an aside, he told me he doesn’t give instructions. He doesn’t like to tell his workers what to do. They learn through observation. Knowledge and skill development are acquired in his kitchen indirectly, through watching, proximity, and what he called, with a slight smile, a lot of bullshitting.
Toward the end of our conversation, I asked him directly: could I come in once a week, unpaid, for a few hours, just to observe and learn? He said there were no once-a-week arrangements like that. Maybe one day a week, paid positions, he said. I took that as a hopeful sign.
Before I left, he served me kalbi (flanken-cut beef short ribs), marinated in something I couldn’t quite identify. I asked about the marinade. He said the recipe was complicated. I pressed gently. He declined. I knew variations of the basic recipe were readily available online. I had made it myself a couple of times. Whatever he was protecting, it wasn’t a secret.
I had brought my knives, driven fifteen minutes, and listened to this bullshit for two hours, all for this?
As I was leaving, he said: Come back next Sunday for the staff meal.
Maybe I was misreading the whole thing. Perhaps this was how it worked. Acceptance was slow, indirect, a test of commitment. I decided to give it one more Sunday.
The following Sunday afternoon, I came back. Again, he had forgotten I was coming.
He was at the counter peeling a large, thick daikon, drawing a knife around the outside of it in one long, continuous motion, producing a single unbroken sheet (katsuramuki). It’s a technique that looks impressive to onlookers, but after some minimal practice, I can easily do it myself.
After about forty-five minutes, the staff meal was ready, curry ladled over ramen, served in ten bowls. He picked up a bowl, a glass of water, and a small bowl of miso, and sat alone in a corner near the door. I followed and sat nearby, leaving a space between us that I assumed a worker would fill. Nobody did.
Workers filtered in one by one, took bowls from the counter, ate in silence, and left when they finished. He neither introduced me to anyone nor did any of the workers come up to introduce themselves. Nobody spoke. I found myself wondering whether this was tradition or whether everyone hated his guts.
I showed him some photos from my Japan trip and mentioned the kaiseki meal we’d eaten in Kyoto. He looked at the photos and said that what I ate was not kaiseki. It was for tourists. He said it more than once.
After finishing his meal, he got up, muttered something about getting ready for dinner, and walked into the bathroom.
I sat at the counter for five minutes. What the fuck. No goodbye. I got up and left.
On the drive home, and a handful of times since, I tried to make sense of the interaction. To begin with, I don’t think the chef was intentionally being mean, but other things were happening.
He simultaneously expressed a considerable amount of bitterness towards his workers, other Japanese restaurants, the city he lives in, and venerated Japan with the intensity of someone who feels the place he actually lives has never given him his due. I suspect that he had spent decades feeling undervalued.
Perhaps he was operating according to a system of knowledge and skill transmission that has no mechanism for what I was asking, that in the tradition he came from, knowledge and skills move through years of proximity and hierarchy rather than formal arrangements, and that my certification and years of practice didn’t have any currency that he recognized.
Alternatively, maybe he was adopting the habit of many experts who are dismissive of the work and skills of others. The overall effect was an attempt to minimize my efforts in trying to master Washoku. It reminded me of the countless interactions I’ve had with contractors or tradespersons who throw a previous tradesperson’s work under the bus (a process called trade denigration), but when asked for specifics, provide nothing but mumbo jumbo.
In the end, it didn’t much matter which explanation was closest to the truth. What mattered was recognizing that whatever he knew, he had no interest in passing it on. That was enough.
Since then, I’ve eaten at the restaurant a couple of times. It’s still probably the best Japanese food in town, though I’ve had better in New York City and Los Angeles. On my last visit, I walked past the counter, and we exchanged glances. Nothing registered in his expression.
Three times, he had forgotten me. That said something about him. It also saved me from wasting my time.
What Your Graduate Advisor Never Told You About the Criminology Job Market
/by Jeffrey Ian RossUnlike some other social sciences, criminology and criminal justice consistently produce job openings. But not all positions are created equal, and where you land can affect your career and your mental health in ways your graduate advisor never mentioned. And many young criminologists enter their first position with unrealistic expectations about just about everything. Whether you are still in graduate school or already a few years into a job that isn’t quite what you expected, the same blind spots apply.
Start with the basic pecking order. Community colleges sit at the bottom, R1 universities at the top, with regional teaching institutions somewhere in the middle. Each tier comes with its own culture, expectations, and daily grind.
Community colleges expect lots of face-to-face interaction with students. Creativity in the classroom is limited, students are often indifferent to the subject matter, and your colleagues are more likely to be current or former practitioners than scholars interested in academic research.
At the R1 end, the pressure is on grant-funded research, longitudinal data collection, and the methodologically rigorous but sometimes soul-numbing work that may look great on a vita but reads like advanced calculus.
Regional teaching universities sit in the middle and are genuinely fine, possibly even quite good, depending on what you want from academic life. The catch is that almost all junior faculty there seem to be pining for something better.
And there’s another divide few people mention in graduate school, and that is how much of a “cop shop” criminology and criminal justice departments are. The cop shops (a term that is frequently used dismissively) primarily focus on training future practitioners, police officers, corrections workers, and probation officers. The job ad won’t tell you which one you’re applying to. If you don’t figure this out during your in-person interview, when faculty are typically on their best behavior, you’ll recognize it during your first faculty meeting when someone suggests the department needs more “practical” courses, and one third of the room nods enthusiastically while another third rolls their eyes, and the balance tries to sustain their best poker face.
The fit problem in criminology has a particular shape. The field draws from two very different pipelines: practitioners who tend to gravitate toward teaching and are generally comfortable there, and R1 graduates trained as researchers who take positions at regional universities or community colleges, telling themselves they’ll carve out time for scholarship.
Some colleagues (or administrators) may also expect (or encourage) you to initiate or collaborate on research projects with local criminal justice agencies or to guest lecture at events sponsored by them. If you’re a critical criminologist who studies police violence or mass incarceration, this creates awkward dynamics. You’re supposed to maintain town-gown relationships with institutions you critique in your research. Similarly, it’s difficult to be a scholar who critiques the carceral state while also serving on the committee that selects law enforcement officers for departmental scholarships.
The criminology-specific wrinkle is this: your institution sits next to police departments, courts, correctional facilities, and social service agencies that could generate meaningful research partnerships. But you don’t pursue them because you’re already planning your exit and don’t want to start something you might not finish. So the data goes uncollected, the relationships go unbuilt, and the publications don’t materialize, which makes the exit harder, not easier.
If you’re navigating any of this, Letters to a Young Criminologist was written for you.
Photographer: Changbok Ko