Togar.

What holds up Togar's day is a very childlike determination: he wants to do it himself, right now, without waiting to grow up. He proudly shows off whatever comes out half-done, insists when it doesn't come out at all, and at every stumble lets out his "not yet, but one day I will," like someone winding himself back up. Deep down, it's pure eagerness to grow.

That's why this print works so well hung where someone is learning something: a child's room, a study corner, the wall facing a desk. Togar looks out from the frame with that alert child's face that hasn't yet reached any of what he'll become. It's the kind of image you give with intention: to a little one starting something, to someone who's set themselves a hard goal, to anyone who could use having in sight a small one who, when something falls apart, puts it back together. It's a picture ready to hang; all that's left is choosing the wall.

Orangutans have no burrow, no fixed place they return to for sleep. Every night they build themselves a new nest, bending and weaving branches high up in a tree, and if rain threatens they set a kind of roof of leaves over the top. It's a bed for a single night, and you have to know how to make it well: not falling while you sleep depends on it.

Learning that takes years, and Togar is right in the middle of learning. Every evening he builds his practice nest beside the real ones, copying gesture by gesture what he sees the older ones do, and it almost always collapses before it holds anything at all. The next day he tries again. That's what this print brings to the wall: the face of a little one who's been bending branches that fall apart on him since he was very small, and who still has a way to go before he makes a bed that lasts the whole night. Orangutans start practicing the nest as babies and don't master it until several years on; Togar is on that road, one evening and one collapsed nest at a time.