A stack of marks I've been sketching for myself. I kept drawing different answers to the same question — what should my logo actually feel like? — so instead of picking one, here's the whole notebook.
This is the mark the site actually wears. I pulled the five Bauhaus primaries, gave each letter of Thien its own shape, and let them sit next to each other like a Dessau poster. It feels like 1926 and 2026 at the same time.
In tennis, “the T” is where the service line meets the centre line — the exact spot every serve aims for. My name starts with the same letter. So I just framed it: a horizontal bar, a vertical bar, and a yellow ball sitting at the junction.
Same idea as the T but collapsed into one shape. One path, no gaps, no ball. It reads like a keyboard key the size of a car — the kind of mark you can't misread.
“Thiên” means sky in Vietnamese. I drew a sun sitting exactly on a horizon with a single pin-star above it. A logo that tells you my name in three shapes without spelling it.
A personal chop. Vermillion ink pressed slightly crooked the way a real hand presses it — the glyph inside is abstract, just a cross and a serif bar. Feels less like a brand and more like a signature.
One imperfect brushstroke — circle begun and not quite closed, the Japanese ensō drawn in a single breath. Paired with a quiet italic wordmark. The whole brand becomes one gesture and one name.
Massive black slab, a T cut straight through. It's 2001 the film, it's Serra the sculptor, it's a headstone. Zero warmth by design — the kind of mark that stops feeling like a logo and starts feeling like a thing that exists.
Two sets of concentric rings, offset just enough to make interference. Feels like Bridget Riley meets a CRT test pattern. Animate the offset and the logo literally hums.
Five shapes, five letters — each piece of Thien gets its own form and its own color. Read as a row, it's a logo. Pulled apart, it's a system: five standalone marks for avatars, loaders, merch.
A triangle on a mast, split into two colors. Reads as sport, as maritime, as staking a claim. Not being subtle about being a flag.
A half-disc sitting on a baseline, with a single keystone dot floating above. Architectural, weighty, warm — the logo equivalent of a doorway.
Four concentric discs. Reads at six pixels and at six feet — it's the shape your eye finds first no matter where it's printed.
Five vertical bars, five different heights, five colors, one baseline. Reads as a chart, a skyline, an equalizer — whichever domain I point it at, the mark still fits.
Two circles offset by half a radius. Where they overlap, you get a crescent of copper for free. Two shapes doing four jobs.
A square creased along the diagonal into two triangles. One thin line down the middle. Origami energy, zero fuss.
A full disc with a quarter cut out and filled the opposite color. Part data-viz, part Pac-Man — and endlessly animatable, because the wedge can just spin.
An oval, a thin line, a single yellow dot at the sweet spot. The whole silhouette reads as a lowercase t — with the crossbar doing double duty as the racket head.
The whole tennis court seen from above, drawn at its minimum line-count. The ball still sits on the T, where it belongs. Closer to a diagram than a logo — which is the point.
A yellow ball about to strike the top of a T. Two faint dots mark its descent. Motion held still, one frame before contact.
A lowercase t drawn in seven rows of pixels, with a blinking cursor clipped to the side. It nods to the builder side of me and collapses perfectly into a 16×16 favicon.
Just a dot. That's it. The period from thien.me made monumental — the boldest possible reduction, and still unmistakably mine.
A tight diamond mesh inside a perfect square. Tennis DNA without showing a racket or a ball. Doubles as mark, pattern, or background — one shape, many jobs.
A wordmark where each letter carries a different weight and a different baseline — ultralight leaning into ultrablack, rising and falling like a waveform. Designed to animate, not to sit still.