A white t-shirt, worn near engines, on purpose.

There is a certain kind of person who can spend an afternoon in a garage and emerge spotless, and science has yet to explain them. This shirt is for them, and also for the rest of us, who will get one thumbprint of grease on the hem within an hour and wear it afterwards like a service medal.

The wordmark sits across the chest in plain black. Everything else is white cotton, heavy enough to hold its shape, opaque enough to be worn on its own, and cut so it looks right whether it is tucked, untucked, or half-tucked in the manner of a man who has just been asked to help move a gearbox.

One color, one pass, screen printed and cured until it sits in the fabric rather than on it. Cheap prints crack along the letters after a dozen washes. This one softens instead, which is a different thing entirely and much nicer to live with.

The details are the same ones we insist on across the range, because a white shirt hides nothing. The neck tape is woven, the seams lie flat, the hem is doubled. White cotton this weight either looks expensive or looks like an undershirt, and the difference is entirely in the sewing.

Heavy cotton looks after itself if you let it. Cold wash, easy on the dryer, and it will stay white the right way, which is to say white with a life behind it. A shirt that has been to a hillclimb and a christening in the same month carries itself differently, and people can tell.

White cotton and patinated steel were made to be photographed together, and the shirt seems to know it. It is the one you wear when the forecast is good, the windows are down, and there is no particular reason to be anywhere before dark.