This is a taste. Not the finished brand — a demonstration of the thinking and the system, drawn in drafts, with the name and the logo withheld on purpose. What follows is the how, never the final artwork; the next page shows exactly where in the process we are. Read it as one thing: each page is a direction, and the directions are cut to fit together — a world, not a menu of options. That world stands on two foundations and no decoration: authorship, a point of view carried through every decision, and a product that earns it. It begins at the product and expands outward — into art, into culture, into education — until the pieces stop reading as marketing and read as a single place, where taste is communicated with confidence. And it holds without smoke and mirrors, because beneath the world is a product that scales, and delivers on the promise it makes.
Picture the shelf. There is the influencer’s bottle — bought for the feed, not the food. There is the purist’s — the single-estate trophy you cross town and pay a ceremony for. And there is the mass incumbent — cheap, ordinary, everywhere. None of them is the target. The buyer we want is the one standing in front of all three and reaching for the honest upgrade: genuinely better oil that still behaves like an everyday one.
Graza is the north-star — but that win happened in America. The ambition is theirs; the crossing to Sweden is the work. We are not chasing the people who already trek across town for their oil. We are converting the ordinary buyer one notch up — a real step in quality, sold plainly, at a price that keeps it in the basket. The gap between “better” and “still everyday” is the whole opening, and nobody owns it yet.
This isn’t a hypothesis — the same Swedish buyer has traded up category after category, in living memory. Craft beer came first, premiumising a commodity into a scene. Specialty coffee: a daily ritual, quietly upgraded. Natural wine: demand forced even the state monopoly to stock it — Systembolaget resisted in 2012, then followed. Same buyer, same move — trade up the moment the better version is within reach. Pantry oil is next.
Behind these two numbers sits a 60-section intelligence file. We’re not sending it — each card reads its own source record, and the record lives outside the deck (a row, a section) — pointed at, never linked. The proof is total; the dossier stays in the kitchen.
Graza taught the whole category one thing: the bottle on the counter is the advertising. It works while it simply sits there — no media buy, no feed, just the object earning its keep every time someone cooks. So the package stops being decoration and becomes the growth strategy — and that is the first advantage. A genuinely nice object is not only nice: on a shelf of sameness it is the differentiator, the one people want out on the counter, the reason a hand reaches for it instead of the other.
The second advantage is the surface everyone forgets: the label. Most brands treat it as a sticker — a name, a volume, a barcode — and stop there. It is far more than that. If the package is the channel, then the label is the message: the one place you hold a buyer’s full attention, and a great way to actually say something. How we’d use it — starting with olive oil — comes a little further on.






The aesthetic direction — the fonts, the colours, the final look — needs more of your input; that is the owner’s call, not something a pitch should lock. What we have done is scope the market across every direction, a sampling of it here. So this document stays on the strategy around the packaging and the label, not the typeface or the palette. Choose the lane, and the system renders it.
Three oils, not two — and all three are the lesson: cook teaches the base, layer teaches the middle nobody else names, finish teaches the crown. This is one sample of IM’s educational content: a “how to” the brand owns, made to be watched and saved, not skipped.
The engine makes hundreds more — how to layer, how to finish, how to read an oil by its colour — each one another reason to reach for the bottle. The next page teaches the rest: how much you use, and what it costs. →
The education rides inside content people actually want — a field note, a carousel, a “how to.” One sample; the real brief carries a library of them.
The whole ladder in one line: the less you pour, the more it costs. Cook you pour freely (the base, priced low), Layer by the half-pour (the middle), Finish is a drizzle (the signature, the premium) — three oils, three price points, taught in one pour. Hover a card to read the record.

The education, drawn as an assembly diagram (à la Tom Sachs) — the dish exploded into layers, each oil at its stage, each with a measurement. Crude by hand, precise by number: the instruction becomes the identity. A poster you’d actually pin up.
It teaches more than a recipe. Acidity, texture, origin, age — everything the range sells gets taught the same way, connected: how a palette builds, and why it matters. Taste the difference, buy differently.
The colour isn’t decoration — it’s a fact about what’s inside, picked label by label to match the actual content. An early harvest presses green: unripe fruit, more chlorophyll, a sharper, grassier taste. Wait longer and the same grove turns gold — riper, milder, buttery. Colour, taste, origin and age are one continuous fact, not four separate choices. Sorted, the library reads as five families — two greens, citrus yellow, vinegar brown, pantry beige; shuffled, the same chips become a field. Either way, the system teaches before it decorates — educational first, art second.
One system, three products, a shade each — colour comes later. The label never changes; only the band does, climbing from a light Cook to a mid Layer to a deep Finish. These greys are placeholders — no real design job done yet.
The front sells this oil — the shaded band standing in for its eventual colour. Turn it, and the back reveals the whole range: the Cook·Layer·Finish cycle and the swatch library that maps it. One object tells you the product and where it sits in the family.



The three above are commissioned art in the José Gourmet register — and they are gorgeous. But that is the whole of it: beautiful, with no strategic or conceptual job beyond looking good. We saw that as the opening — art on the label that earns its place: it signals a seasonal flavour, sets a vibe, or teaches the oil. So we took it further. The next page is what we did.
DAVID SHRIGLEY
DAVID SHRIGLEYFor example: the real things people say in a kitchen — our cooking sayings, the ones we believe in: “salt the water like the sea,” “finish with the good oil.” A standing series in a deadpan artistic register (à la David Shrigley), but it teaches food culture instead of gags — endlessly repeatable, deeply shareable, the education always on. (Likely made in-house.)



The object isn’t a single — it’s a set: a 3×3 paper library, a mixed three-pack, a sardine flight. It is the sample pack of the brand’s whole taste and a gift that sells itself — and, underneath, the high-volume, highly modular way to put the visual system to work: the same label logic, boxed and multiplied, sharp on the ICA shelf and lived-out at home. This is the version built to scale. There is also a rarer one — a limited edition made for the inner circle and the people who seed us. That comes next.
The collaborations don’t stop at packaging. We’d commission artists to make limited-edition, food-adjacent objects — shakers, servers, vessels, tableware — each a real edition, each merging product and art. It moves the brand off the supermarket shelf and into interior design and lifestyle: a name you don’t just cook with, but furnish a room with. The objects above are the register — the direction, not the catalogue.
The brand extends into objects worth keeping — cooking gadgets, a hat, a collectible tin. Curated, editioned, desirable. Never a logo on a cheap tee: the merch is the world, not the swag.
A road & sales trip across the map — ~50 stops, shot close enough to feel stolen. Taste authority, indie texture, sponsored low-key and never super-branded. The one strong idea that introduces the whole world.
The flagship is a voyeur food-tour — a worldwide road trip, the great introduction. Around it runs the always-on engine: education, campaign imagery, lifestyle stills, reels. One strong idea over many simple ones — the product rides inside the content, never on top of it.

KEITH FLOYDHUGO

Three references, one method. A host with real character, on camera and unscripted — Keith Floyd, and our Floyd is Hugo. A high-octane production tone. A format that is part lesson, part commercial, always digestible (Spain… On the Road Again). Together they make an authored way to produce — the way Vice and Fuck That’s Delicious each have their own. Not a content calendar; a show with a point of view.
It starts with Hugo and the ten he knows — give them the special treatment, and each ripples out. The mechanism is inception: seed those first ten deeply enough and each carries the belief to roughly ten more, who carry it to ten more again. Plant the first seeds well and the ring propagates itself — geometric, organic, self-funding. No PR agency required; Graza proved it with a 300-bottle seed run off a real list.


Two paths, your call. One: we hand you the concept and the one-off pieces, and you attach any producer team to execute. Two: we run the whole production, ongoing — the media house, built and operated.
The plate a canvas, the pour a gesture, the tin a readymade nobody thought to sign. Culture eats itself and asks for seconds. You have seen how we see it now. You choose what comes next.