LYLIA

On 21 June the sun rises over Bar at 57° on the compass. At noon it stands due south, at 180°. It sets at 303°, and by the time the town goes quiet it has slipped under the horizon at 329°. Those four numbers are the whole range. 57°, the serum, for skin that wakes up hungry. 180°, the sunscreen, for the hour that burns. 303°, the body oil, for the golden hour that wants to be indulged. 329°, the night cream, for when skin only wants to rest. No product names to remember, no routine to follow. Just the time of day, written the way a sailor would write it.

Every container is the same glass at a different hour. Sandblasted until it is soft to the touch, it fades from the green of the grove at the base into black at the shoulder, the way an olive tree goes into shadow. Nothing is printed on the front. The name and the number are simply left unfrosted, two clear windows in the glass that only show when the light comes through. They are set in LYLIA Slab Serif, a typeface we drew for the brand from an old film photograph of a 1970s restaurant: olive wallpaper, cane chairs, and a menu numbered big enough to read from the door.

Then the shadow became the label. Each box carries the true shadow of its bottle at its moment, calculated from the sun's real position over Bar: long and low at sunrise, a short stub pointing north at noon, long again at sunset, and at night no shadow at all, only the moon. The boxes are thick cotton board, the name pressed blind into it, each bottle's silhouette raised on the side, the back set like a lab report in English and Montenegrin. Put the four side by side and they read as one sentence: four shadows from the longest day.