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the portfolio.

Nobody reads a homepage the way they read a letter. They arrive carrying a question and move like an animal through brush — sampling, discarding, following scent. Eye-tracking studies have watched thousands of people do it: one fast pass across the top, a shorter pass beneath, a skim down the left margin. An F, drawn in about half a second.

The researchers at Xerox PARC gave the behavior a name — information foraging — and the model is unsentimental. A reader weighs the scent of the current patch against the cost of moving to the next one, and the web collapsed that cost to nothing. When a paragraph opens with throat-clearing, the forager doesn't push through it. There is always a richer patch one tab away.

So we write for foragers. Verdict before argument. Nouns a customer would search for, not synonyms a writer would admire. Headings that promise only what their sections keep. The strange dividend is that prose built for scanners also reads better slowly — front-loading forces a writer to know the point of every sentence before typing it.

That's the discipline this studio writes with. The page you're on was written the same way — and if you've read this far, it did its job.