Worked examples — a family, a rowing club, a book club, a parish, a product team. Every one is really typeset, not a mockup, and every line can be changed. Open one and it becomes the starting point for yours.
Quiet, paired standards for a studio or agency that sells its judgement.
A grandparents' house-rules poster, where every rule is a small conspiracy.
Cabin and lake house rules for a place where nobody checks the day of the week.
Sixteen do's and don'ts for a dog who wrote his own legal code, in deadpan monochrome.
Laundry room rules for a room nobody decorates and everybody stands in.
Marriage rules that are funnier and more useful than the ones on wedding signs.
Fourteen rules for the room nobody else decorates, delivered with a straight face.
Fifteen rules for the weekend before the wedding, in unapologetic magenta.
A poster whose words are instructions for making a poster — set by the thing it describes.
Twenty-three first-person statements about taste, patience and not being sold to.
Nine values a grandparent would hand over, set in muted golds and sage with rails up both edges.
Sixteen lines for anyone whose battery runs down in company, set in quiet chalk.
The same manifesto from the other side, in a chartreuse that can be heard from the hall.
Twelve first-day affirmations for the walk out the door, not the classroom wall.
Sixteen roommate rules for two people sharing one room, in a magenta loud enough to survive move-in day.
Sixteen season-long rules for the couch where the game actually gets watched, in a near-black Colour Block built for kickoff.
Fifteen unbreakable rules for the couch on game day, set in Subway Manifesto's banded, vertical-rail layout.