I kept needing a font that didn't exist.
So I started drawing them. Loneman Type Studio is one person in Boulder making the typefaces he wishes he could have licensed.
Every family here started as a dead end on somebody else’s project. A packaging job that needed a slab with actual grit in it, not a clean revival with a texture filter slapped on top. A poster that wanted letters looking like they’d been pulled off a garage wall. I’d spend two days scrolling marketplaces, find nothing that fit, and settle for something close enough.
Eventually settling got old. I figured if I had a use for it, some other designer probably did too.
That’s the whole thesis
These aren’t typefaces designed to be neutral or to cover every case. Each one solves a specific problem I actually ran into, which is why they have names like Motor Oil and Garage Floor instead of Latin surnames. Bar Cart came from a menu. Panic Switch came from a record sleeve. Milk Crate came from wanting something stackable and blunt.
Why the textures
Four of the families ship with a texture axis alongside their weights — the same letterforms pressed harder, inked wetter, or scraped back clean. Real materials aren’t consistent. Ink bleeds differently on newsprint than on coated stock, and a stencil sprayed twice doesn’t land the same way twice.
Drawing those variations by hand instead of generating them means you get to choose how rough a thing reads, and it stays legible at the sizes you actually set it. It’s the part I’d want as a customer, so it’s the part I spend the most time on.
How it’s made
Drawn first, usually badly, usually on paper. Digitised, spaced, kerned, and then set in something real to see where it falls apart — because a typeface that only looks good in a specimen isn’t finished.
What you get
OTF and self-hosted WOFF2, a license written in plain English, and a foundry small enough that the person who drew the font is the person who answers the email.