Togar.

Every evening, before it goes dark, an orangutan bends branches in the canopy and builds itself a new nest to spend the night. Togar's mother does it in a moment, almost without looking. He's been trying the same thing since he was very small, beside hers, branch over branch, just the way he sees her bend them. And almost always it collapses on him. He doesn't call it failure: it's the pure determination of an infant, of someone who wants to do it himself, right now. He shows off the half-made nest, proud — "look, I made one" — and adds without drama that it fell apart, "but almost." The next day he tries again. That back and forth between "not yet" and "one day I will" is Togar entire. Infants start bending their first branches while they're almost babies and don't put together a firm nest until they're five; Togar is right in the middle of that road.

Togar is still an infant: a grey face, bright eyes and not a trace yet of what awaits him grown up. Because the males of his species don't grow up all the same. There are those with flanges — wide pads that grow on the sides of their face and change their silhouette completely — and those without. Some take years for them to come in; others spend much of their life never developing them at all. It's one of those true oddities of the orangutan that almost nobody knows. Togar has neither of the two forms yet: he's far too small, and that's why his "one day I will" looks so far ahead, toward the big one of the canopy he'll one day be. The portrait on this t-shirt catches him right in that before, when the only sure thing is that he's going to grow and he doesn't yet know which of the two he'll turn into.