Jeong.

Jeong's fondest memories are the summers at his grandmother's house, near Barabash: a wood stove, a garden, jars of preserves in the cellar. She spoke to him in Korean when they were alone, taught him to chop wood without wasting any and to smell the wind before choosing which way to go. He learned that caring is a matter of actions, not words. Every October he makes the kimchi she taught him, imperfect and too spicy, and it tastes like that house to him. Almost everything he is today comes from there.

The backpack carries his front-facing portrait: crisp rosettes, the aviator helmet with the goggles on top—that helmet belonged to his grandfather—and his usual calm gaze. I created it front-on and against a plain background: the image holds up well printed and is recognizable from a distance. It's designed to carry your things hands-free, like someone heading into the forest in the morning. An outdoor character for an outdoor backpack, and there's more about him in his biography.