The sky above your home, drawn daily.

Hangs like a print.

FlightPortrait is a 13.3-inch e-ink frame on a battery that lasts months. It reflects room light the way paper does. It redraws itself twice a day and sleeps the rest. There is no cable down your wall, no light in your bedroom at night, and no moment where it asks for your attention.

Our first prototype went on the wall in July 2026. When it finally asks for its USB-C cable, the measured number replaces this sentence.

Overhead, then on paper.

Aircraft announce themselves openly on 1090 MHz: position, callsign, altitude, broadcast to anyone with an antenna. All day, FlightPortrait's network listens to the sky over your home. At dusk the day's log becomes a poster. The rare visitor drawn large, the regulars in quiet procession, a colophon in the corner like a print's edition mark.

The data is open. More of it comes from our own antennas every month, receivers placed where our community lives, and what we derive from the commons we publish back to it.

Six inks, on purpose.

The panel can show exactly six colors, so the art is designed in exactly six colors. Every aircraft is drawn as an accurate side profile. An A321neo and a 787 read as visibly different animals, and each livery reduces to one color and a tail mark, the way a poster artist would have handled it in 1962.

A quiet day makes a quiet poster. That is part of the work.

Whole when you buy it.

No subscription required. The frame, the app, and the daily posters are one price, paid once. There is nothing to unlock and nowhere to upgrade.

Built to outlive us.

Too many connected things die the day their maker loses interest. We planned for that day before selling a single frame. The device protocol is three endpoints, documented in full, and the server is yours to run: point the frame at our cloud or at the machine in your closet, and it keeps drawing.

The hardware keeps its escape hatches on the outside. A failed update rolls itself back. The factory image lives in a partition no update can touch. USB-C reflash is a documented support path, and opening the case voids nothing. The firmware goes up on GitHub under an MIT license: read it, or rewrite it.

Every airframe, kept.

Each physical aircraft is an airframe, with a registration and a history. The one that crossed your roof this morning is now in your collection. The Hangar keeps your life list: first sightings, rare visitors, the day an A380 wandered over. No streaks, no badges. A log, kept well.

What it isn't.

It isn't live. The poster is drawn at dusk, like a log kept by hand, because a dashboard would have ruined the wall. It isn't a flight tracker; your phone already has those. It never pings that phone either; the poster changing is the whole announcement. It needs 2.4 GHz WiFi and a sky with aircraft in it. Under a truly empty sky it will make you spare, patient art, and we would rather tell you that now than after you've hung it.

The two of us.

We are Yoann and Audrey. We live under the Changi approach path in Singapore, and the first two frames hang in our flat, which makes us the entire customer base so far.

The reservation.

US$50 holds your place in the first batch and counts toward the frame. Refunded anytime, one click, no questions. Two emails after that: one when your batch is scheduled, one when it ships. Nothing else. The point of this product is fewer things asking for you.

No countdown timers, no urgency. Reservations sit untouched until your frame is built. There are currently two FlightPortraits in the world and both hang in our flat.