In 1919 a school in Weimar taught that a poster needs only three shapes, three colors, and one strong diagonal. HAUS puts that workshop in your hands: pull the lever, and a seeded machine composes real Bauhaus posters — yours to shuffle, tune, and print.
Zur Maschine — start composingSame seed, same poster. Forever. That is the contract.
Set in bold diagonal or vertical type, as the masters demanded.
Every print above is generated live from a fixed seed — nothing is a saved image. Click one and the machine reconstructs it, control by control. Then shuffle, and make it yours.
Ornament is a confession that the form was not enough. Every element on a HAUS poster earns its place: the dominant shape anchors the eye, the small ones carry it. Nothing is decoration — including the decoration.
Kandinsky's correspondence: the sharp yellow triangle, the grounded red square, the deep blue circle. Three shapes, three colors, one grammar. The machine's palettes never leave this family — restriction is the style.
Symmetry is easy and dead; balance is earned. A heavy circle near the fulcrum equals a small square far from it. The machine anchors its dominant element on a third — never the center — and lets the small elements do the counterweighing.
Walter Gropius fuses an art academy and a crafts school into one workshop. The manifesto's cathedral woodcut promises a building — and a way of seeing — built by every trade at once.
Pushed out of Weimar, the school builds its own manifesto: a glass curtain wall you could read like a poster. The workshops turn prototypes into products — lamps, chairs, type.
Harassed from city to city, the school ends in a disused telephone factory. Under pressure from the new regime, the masters vote to dissolve it themselves — closed, but never conceded.
The building closed; the idea shipped. Gropius to Harvard, Moholy-Nagy to Chicago, Mies to IIT, the white city of Tel Aviv. Every clean grid on your screen is a forwarding address.