Three orange blocks are part of the film now
A running time drawn as a bar, with the three advertising breaks filled in and timed underneath — nobody cut them out, so they are part of the copy that household knows.
One bar across the shoulder blades, divided into seven roughly equal segments of fine grey hatching. The second, fourth and sixth are filled solid orange, each with a hand-drawn bracket sitting over it. Above the brackets, in the same orange, somebody has lettered STILL IN IT.
Under the three filled blocks, left to right: 2:55, 3:10, 2:40.
What is the bar across the back measuring?
One recording, laid out end to end as a single length.
The seven segments are the order in which things come off the tape, not a scale drawing of them — they are drawn at roughly the same width because the point is the sequence, and nobody stood there measuring. The bar covers about seventy per cent of the back and stops well short of both shoulder seams, which is enough width to count seven of anything without the print running into the sleeve.
Four of the segments are the film. Three of them are not, and those three are the ones somebody took the trouble to fill in.
Why are three of the segments filled in?
Because they are the parts that were never the film, and they are still there.
Whoever recorded this started the machine before the film began and stopped it after the end. What went onto the tape in between is everything that was transmitted in between, advertising breaks included. Nobody sat with a finger on the pause button for two and a half minutes at a time, three times in an evening, so the breaks went on with everything else and stayed.
Filling them solid says they are a different substance from the four hatched segments without saying what they contain. Those four are not untouched either — the film in them had already been shortened by somebody else to fit an afternoon before it was ever transmitted.
What do 2:55, 3:10 and 2:40 change?
They turn three interruptions into three known quantities.
Three minutes is long enough to leave the room for and come back without missing anything, and a household that has run this tape enough times knows which of the three is the long one. That is the difference between a break and a procedure: the kettle, the stairs and the phone call all got allocated, in advance, to a specific block on this bar.
The times are also the only figures anywhere on the garment, which puts them under a lot of pressure. They are what stops the design being a diagram of nothing in particular.
Why is STILL IN IT lettered by hand?
Because it is the only part of the design a person says out loud.
The bar and the fills are a record of what a machine did while nobody was supervising it. The brackets and the three words above them were added afterwards by somebody who had decided the breaks counted — that they were part of what this copy is, in the way that a stretch skipped by feel every time is also part of what it is.
Set in type, that line would read as a label supplied with the object. Drawn by hand, it reads as a note somebody added to a record they did not make. The wording is a claim about the tape and not about the broadcast.
Does a chart like this belong to anybody?
No. A bar showing where three breaks fell in one household's recording is nobody's work but that household's.
Nothing on the garment names a film, a channel or a single product. The orange blocks are blank, and blank is the right amount of information — a break identified by its advertiser would be somebody's property, and it would also be a duller drawing, because the interesting fact about those blocks is their length rather than their contents.
Titles, artwork and performers do belong to somebody, and they are licensable. If a real one is the point of what you are making, the permission is part of the job and it is worth having in hand first. Usually it is not the point, and the invented version is better anyway: the recognisable one is the shirt a thousand people already own. Style has no owner. A work does.
Would this work for something that is not a taped film?
Yes, because the shape is general: a stretch of time with the parts that were not the thing marked in.
A shift with its breaks timed. A commute with its three changes. A long call with the four holds in it. Anything where the interruptions turned out to be as fixed as the thing itself, in the way the minute and a half of whatever followed ends up counting as part of the evening.
For two or three people, the same bar with different figures underneath works better than matching copies — the segments stay identical and the times say whose evening it was.
Does it print well?
Yes, and it is built for two inks from the start.
The hatching is the part to watch. Fine parallel linework at this scale drops below what the weave can hold and fills in to solid grey, so it wants to be drawn coarser and with fewer strokes than a pen would naturally make. The orange blocks are the opposite problem and no problem at all: flat colour with hard edges is what survives a wash.
There is no rectangle around any of it, and there should not be. The bar's own outline is the print's edge, and the lettering and the times break out of it top and bottom, which is what keeps the whole thing from reading as a picture glued to a shirt. Washed black, deep charcoal and faded olive all hold the orange.
How do I get one made?
Describe the recording at JustOG — how many segments the bar runs to, which of them are filled, and what the times underneath read. Pick a direction, drag the crop frame, see it composited on the real garment, and it's made to order and shipped.
Designs other people have published are in the shop.
The middle block is the long one, and for years that room emptied out for it.