Joah Baldwin
Once a word-of-mouth detail shop with slow weeks and a clipboard of regulars. Now a fully booked studio with a CRM that knows every car, every owner, every quirk. Same hands, sharper tools.
A streaming surface for a small label that loves Japanese city pop and lo-fi anime cuts. Pixel display type, glass cards over moving stills, and a station-id bug that lives in the corner of every page. Built to feel like late-night cable, not Netflix.
A 96-page photo book and accompanying microsite for a Tokyo-based photographer. Editorial layout, warm-graded throughout, and a Caveat-italic caption beneath every plate that reads more like a journal entry than a credit line.
A two-location roastery in Portland that refuses to call itself "third-wave." Identity built around the actual time it takes — six minutes for a pourover, six weeks for a roast to settle. The packaging is mustard and ink. The menu is a single typed sheet.
Three perfumes, three stories — Dusk, Tideline, Late August — written first as 200-word prose poems, then translated into bottles, copy, and a Shopify storefront that reads more like a slim novel than a checkout flow.
A small Brooklyn label putting out four 12-inch records a year. Sleeve system, a microsite that streams the catalog in order (no search, no shuffle), and a subscription that puts each pressing in your hands the week it ships.
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