This renders on your computer, not on the server. It runs in the background — keep designing while it works, and the file downloads when it is done.
Three ways to own it. Every price is worked out from your actual design — its size, how many colours, and how much winding it takes.
Your address goes to the artist so the parcel can reach you. What happens to your details.
The nail template is drawn at true size. Print at 100% with scaling turned off, tape the sheets to the board and drill through the marks.
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A string art piece contains no curves. Every thread running between two nails is perfectly straight. The curve you see is an envelope — the shape that appears where many straight lines crowd together and their edges begin to agree. Nothing draws it. It arrives as a by-product of a counting rule: go round the circle, skip the same number of nails each time, repeat until you are back where you started. The rule is small enough to write on a card. The result is not.
Benoit Mandelbrot's The Fractal Geometry of Nature makes the same observation at a much larger scale. A coastline, a fern, a river basin, the branching of a lung: none of these are accidents of detail. They are one rule applied again at every size, which is why they still look like themselves as you move closer. That is what I mean by things being connected — not that everything is secretly one thing, but that a fern and a coastline and a wound thread are built by the same method. Once you have noticed it, you keep noticing it.
The other two books treat string art as something to investigate rather than something to decorate with. Change the number of nails, change the skip, and the whole family of shapes shifts in ways that turn out to be number theory: factors, remainders, cycles that close early or run long before they return. That is the part this studio makes usable. You set the rule — how many nails, how far each step jumps, how many turns — and it works out the winding, in real millimetres, as one continuous thread you could actually follow with your hands.
I am an artist and engineer. I wind thread on wooden boards, and I write the software that decides where the thread goes. Most of what holds my attention sits where those two meet: nature, physics and mathematics, looked at closely enough to see how a shape came to be.
If you would like to read further.
Designing needs no account and sets no cookie. What is collected when you sign in, order or share is written out in full on the privacy page.
The studio is a drawing board: a big canvas and a lot of dials. On a phone you get a trimmed-down version — enough to make something, order it and share it, but the finer controls are folded away.
Open stringart.ninja on a computer when you want the whole thing.
A link is created the moment you share, and anyone who has it can see the picture and open the design. Nothing is public until then.
Instagram, TikTok and Reels take a video file, not a link — so this renders here on your machine and hands the file straight to the app you pick. Nothing is uploaded to the studio.
Not rendered yet.
Designs you kept. Open one to carry on where you left off — it restores every setting exactly.
Everything you have ordered, with its receipt and the files that came with it.
You are entitled to a copy of everything held about you, and to have it erased. Both are one click — no email, no waiting.
Deleting removes your profile and your saved gallery. Orders you have placed are kept as accounting records, with your name and address stripped out.
This cannot be undone. Type DELETE to confirm.
The thread you actually have. Customers can only order a finished piece or a kit in these colours, so this list is what keeps you from selling something you cannot make.
I count visits with Google Analytics, to see which designs people make. It sets cookies and shares your visit with Google. Nothing is stored until you say yes, and the studio works exactly the same either way.