Togar.

Togar's whole life, short as it is, fits entirely into a single figure: his mother, Tiur. There's no teacher, no group of infants, no one else to teach. There's a female who goes through the canopy looking for food and a little one behind her who watches everything she does and tries to repeat it at once. That's how his people work: an infant spends years glued to its mother and gets everything from observing her, with no one to give it a lesson. For Togar, learning is simply his way of being with her. Each gesture he gets a little better at is a while longer on the same branch, at her side. Tiur, for her part, knows her son has a very long way to go, and doesn't rush him: she lets him watch, get it wrong and try again at his own pace, the way they did with her when she was the little one of the canopy.

There's a figure that explains almost everything: between seven and nine years. That's how long an orangutan's childhood glued to its mother lasts, the longest there is in the animal kingdom after that of people. No other mammal infant depends so long on a single figure. And it's because the mother has a single young every several years and raises it all by herself, with no help, wholly devoted to teaching it the entire forest before it's time to walk it alone. That's why Togar's bond with Tiur is so deep, and why he's in no hurry to let go: he has years of learning at her side ahead, and he knows it. He doesn't live it as a wait: among his people that's exactly the norm, two who go together through the canopy, without bustle or crowd. This t-shirt carries that particular stage, the one of the little one still living attentive to his mother, with all the calm of a childhood that's going to run long.