Abyaneh climbs the Karkas mountainside in red. Every wall is plastered in the iron-oxide clay dug from the slope it stands on, so the colour is the material itself — not a wash, not a filter over something neutral. Flat roofs double as the courtyards of the houses above, and the village reads as one continuous clay mass stitched with dark timber.

The system takes that literally. The page ground is sun-lit plaster; content sits in stepped bands; cards are small apertures punched into the wall rather than panels floating over it. The women's white floral headscarf supplies every bright note, and only in scarf-sized fragments.