TAY TAY — big big pun

TAY TAY (a.k.a. Taymor Buford Taylor III)

FOUNDER

Taymor Buford Taylor III was born into the kind of La Jolla family where money doesn’t talk — it hovers, judges, occasionally arriving in a Himalaya Birkin never touched by human flesh. The kind of rarified socialite stratosphere where children are considered… unfortunate accessories. His mother acquired her wealth the old-fashioned way: by marrying it on its last gasp and keeping it alive — through sheer surgical intervention and moral flexibility. A former socialite with lips as inflated as her expectations, she held an unaccredited PhD in Personal Leverage. She spent her days in Bob Mackie and her nights in a slow parade of social climbers without souls or ladders, reminding the household who, exactly, had sacrificed the most (it was always her, and somehow also everyone else’s fault).

Maternal presence, when it occurred, came through a Nutone in-home intercom system — a disembodied voice issuing directives from somewhere behind electric shades. Love arrived as instruction. Affection was scheduled upon performance. Eye contact was considered excessive.

So he built his own world.

While his mother curated perfection — white upholstery, Gucci tableware, Versace place settings, lighting calibrated within an inch of its life — Tay Tay discovered dirt. Not metaphorically. Literally. Clay, slip, dust, glaze. A parallel universe that did not care about linen choices or guest lists. A place where things could be formed, distorted, destroyed, and — most importantly — left out in full view without a designer label attached.

At first, it was sabotage.

Small, deliberate acts of aesthetic terrorism. A pinch pot here. A crooked vase there. Objects appearing like rabbits breeding where they absolutely did not belong — design violations of the interior kind. Little monuments to disorder quietly infiltrating a life built on control. It was deeply satisfying.

But something shifted.

What started as rebellion turned into fluency. What started as mess became a message. The chaos stopped being a reaction and became a practice.

He got good. Annoyingly good.

Somewhere between a poorly timed glaze experiment and a complete disregard for consequence, Tay Tay realized he wasn’t just ruining picture-perfect personas — he was making things that held their own weight. Things that might actually belong somewhere. Things that didn’t ask permission. Things that, against all odds, worked. He didn’t need permission either.

Then he met Big Big Pun.

And for the first time, someone didn’t try to clean it up. Someone met him with a full Ozark embrace — physical, emotional, and deeply unconditional.

They didn’t correct him.
They didn’t suggest restraint.
They didn’t reach for a towel, a vowel, or an adjective.

They added another layer.

The rest is, technically, history. But more accurately, it’s ongoing.

Tay Tay still doesn’t travel well. Still resists containment.

Still prefers things slightly off, slightly wrong, and fully committed —

with a degree of unresolved mischief and rebellion that refuses to settle.

But now there’s structure to the chaos.

Or at least… a shared understanding of it.