Nine identical strips of yew, cut on the same day. Three meet first, taking a triangle's form. Six fan out, three from each base point, equally spaced along the sides. The nine strips now fuse sunrise and sunset into a single sign. An up, a down, no left, no right. Three gilded screws, one at each corner, holding a whole greater than the sum of its parts — now it is HALTAR.

Hold it with both hands by its outer ends, behind the head. In that moment, the ordinary breaks. The elbows spread. The chest opens. The spine finds its full length.

The HALTAR changes the way a person stands in the world. It centers and elevates. It gives presence a form, and weight to one’s stance. The HALTAR does not represent—HALTAR produces position.