Everything here was free except the winding
Two snapped twigs, crossed and wound many times in scarlet thread. Every material cost nothing, so the turns of thread are the whole of what anybody spent.
A rust-red tee, held up by two hands. One small mark on the chest and nothing else printed anywhere.
Two pale twigs with the bark still on them, crossed at a right angle. The upright is the longer of the two, and every one of the four ends is snapped off rather than cut.
Scarlet thread is wound around the join many times, in two directions that cross over each other. Two loose ends of unequal length hang down and to the left. Neither is knotted.
The twigs were lying on the ground. The thread is the only thing here that came out of a house.
What does the wood alone tell you?
That no tool touched it, and that somebody still made a decision.
All four ends are broken, with the ragged spray of fibres a snapped green stick leaves and none of the flat face a blade gives — so the twigs were taken off a tree or picked up under one, sized by hand, and used at whatever length they broke to. No bench, no knife, no measuring.
The crossbar then sits above the halfway mark on the upright, leaving most of the wood hanging below the join. A bar at dead centre would give a plus sign, and two sticks that fall across each other in a wood look exactly like that. Raised, the proportion stops being available as an accident, which is the difference between this and a flat sea-worn stone hanging on a cord: one was picked up as it was, and this one was put together.
How much of this object is the thread?
Nearly all of it, because everything else was free.
The winding goes round the join many times and then comes back across itself at an angle, so the crossing point is buried under a small block of scarlet several layers deep. Two twigs and a length of thread cost nothing anybody would count. What was spent was the minutes, and the turns are the one part of the object that records how many there were.
The ends were never dealt with
The two tails hang loose, at different lengths, with no knot on either — somebody wound until it held, stopped, and never came back to tidy them. A finished object gets finished. This one got as far as staying together.
Does a shape this plain belong to anybody?
No, and there is nobody to ask.
Two sticks at right angles is a geometry, a whipping of thread round a joint is a technique, and neither has an author. Nothing in this mark is anybody's artwork, which is why it can be printed without a single permission being sought. Style has no owner. A work does.
A record of a specific object does have an owner — a museum photograph, a plate in a published survey. Those are licensable, and clearing one is ordinary admin when a particular object is the point of the shirt. This pair was invented, down to the unequal tails, which is why it reads as one person's handful rather than a copy of a photograph.
Does this work with materials other than twigs?
Yes, and the substitution that matters is the binding, not the sticks.
Wire round two nails, wet grass round two reeds, a strip of rag round two bones. Any of them survives as long as the binding is many turns of something and the parts cost nothing, because the arithmetic is what carries it: free plus free plus time.
Where it breaks is with bought components. Dowel cut to length and a bought cord give you a neat object with a receipt behind it, and the shirt then argues something else entirely — closer to a folded paper stitched shut inside a coat lining, which is somebody's careful needlework rather than a handful of found material.
Isn't a mark this small lost on a shirt?
At this size it stays the size of the thing it is drawing, which is the point.
The object was a few inches of wood that sat in a pocket or over a door. Enlarged to fill a chest, the scarlet block at the join turns into a graphic device and the twigs turn into a logo — a small private thing making a large public announcement it was never asked to make.
Kept this size, the mark resolves when somebody is close enough to count the turns of thread, which is about as far away as the original was ever legible from.
Does it print well?
Yes, on two inks, and one of them is doing very little work.
Pale bark against a rust ground plus one scarlet for the binding. The scarlet sits close to the shirt in hue and well above it in saturation, so it reads as the one bright thing in the frame without needing a third colour to separate it — which is roughly what strips of cloth bleaching out along a thorn branch does with a single warm ground.
The individual turns of thread are the detail at risk. Below the weave's floor they merge into a solid red lozenge, so they are drawn as fewer, thicker passes than a photograph would show and the two crossing directions stay legible. Rust, clay, oatmeal and deep olive all carry it. The mark has no border and wants none — the snapped ends and the loose tails are the edge.
How do I get one made?
Describe the object at JustOG — what it is made of, how the parts are held together, and what was left unfinished. 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.
Two ends of thread hanging at different lengths, still not tied off.