The shirt drawn around the car you keep.

The print begins with the model you keep. Our artist sets a single-weight line drawing of your car at the mouth of a contour valley, threads a road up through the ridges behind it, and stops there. The whole drawing sits in one quiet ink, a shade or two off the cotton, so it reads clearly at conversation distance and fades politely at ten paces.

People who keep old cars tend to keep one model for a long time, and a shirt should know which one. A 911 keeper gets the long alpine descent, and a first-generation Camaro keeper gets a wider, faster valley, because those two machines have never once wanted the same road.

The mountains are built from contour lines the way a surveyor would draw them, and the road switchbacks down through the gaps the way you would drive it. Your car sits low on the hem, small enough to stay discreet and detailed enough that another keeper will name the model from across a fuel station. The wordmark stays small at the chest, where it belongs.

The two stock lines ship inside a week. The 911 wears the falling roofline Ferdinand drew in 1963, and the Camaro wears the long flat hood Detroit answered with four years later. We add stock models as the artist finishes them, slowly, because a bad line drawing of a good car is a small tragedy we refuse to print.

Charcoal takes the print in a warm grey a few shades lighter than the cotton, and bone takes it in a soft graphite a few shades darker, since tone-on-tone works in both directions. Both shirts are 200-gram combed cotton with a woven neck label, flatlocked seams, and a collar that will still be a collar in three years.