Encode the taste once. Let AI do the repetition.

The site is built to feel like a warm archive on film rather than a tech product. The canvas is a warm fabric gradient over a deep red, never flat black. Fine grain sits over everything at soft light. Headlines are set in Chivo, uppercase and tight. Metadata reads like a contact sheet in Chivo Mono. One oxide red does all the accenting.

The move a visitor actually feels is the background. Full-bleed photographs cross-fade from section to section as you scroll, and the type recolours with them — warm paper over the dark sections, warm ink over the limestone ones. The identity holds in both modes because only the text tokens change. The grain, the vignette and the layout stay put.

It moved quickly because the look was written down before it was built. Spacing, type scale, easing and the accent treatment were fixed once, so each new section was an assembly job, not a fresh negotiation.

The whole brand lives in a single page. It names the exact palette and tokens, the two type families and their scale, spacing, the signature accent, the motion easing, and the anti-patterns to avoid. At the end it carries the written standard as copyable text, so a designer or an assistant can lift the rules verbatim instead of guessing from screenshots.

This is the part that makes the pace possible. The colours and type in the banners on this page were pulled from these exact values. Change a token in the standard and the next render inherits it. The standard is the source, the rest is output.

Most of the site is warm paper over the dark fabric gradient; the limestone sections invert to warm ink. The grain, the vignette and the layout never move — here is one section in both modes, split down the diagonal, and the written standard embedded as a copyable code window at the end of the page.

The site needed to be editable by its owner without handing the brand to a heavy platform. So the editing layer is a small content manager called Petrus, built into the site on flat files. No database, no framework, no build step.

There is one content file at the centre, state.json, and it describes everything dynamic on the page. The read path is plain: a visitor asks for a page, PHP renders it on the server with the saved state already in the HTML, so there is no flash of default content. The write path is just as plain. The owner unlocks the page, edits text and photographs in place, and saves. Each save writes the JSON and files the previous version into a history folder, so rolling back is a step backward rather than a restore. Uploaded photographs are never deleted, which means any old version can always point at its images.

Keeping it this small is the point. The moving parts are few and named: the render, the in-browser editor, the handful of endpoints for saving, uploading and history, and the one JSON file they all agree on. There is nothing to provision and nothing to keep patched.

Social posting is where a brand usually erodes, one off-template graphic at a time. The card engine removes that drift. It is a studio that reads one spreadsheet and lays out finished cards on the brand's real canvas.

The content is a single TSV. Forty lines today, across five themes and six card types, from short quotes to questions, field notes and calls to action. The renderer draws each line on a true 1080 pixel canvas and refits the headline so it never overflows. At the render step a few controls switch the output without touching the words: five aspect ratios, seven brand backgrounds, four layouts, a vignette toggle. Export gives a single card or the whole set as a zip, with the fonts embedded so the files look right anywhere.

The same renderer drives the studio preview and the export, so what you arrange is exactly what ships. It also produced every banner on this page, which is the cleanest test of the tool that there is.