Even the untamed like something soft against the skin.
A small collection in natural silk and cotton — drawn in A Coruña, dyed by hand with methods rooted in sacred Tulum, woven in Hanoi. Made in short runs, so no two pieces are ever quite the same.
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Made, not manufactured.
Colour drawn from cochineal the old way, with methods rooted in Mayan tradition. Silk brought slowly off the Hanoi looms. And mycelium — the quiet teacher that keeps the whole thing alive.
Jazz Chemise
A washed-silk shirt that behaves in company and forgets to at home. Dyed by hand in short runs — the vat signs each one differently.
View the garmentSalt mist, and what it edits out.
Salt mist is an editor. It takes the noise off a colour, the vanity out of a silhouette, and leaves whatever was honest to begin with. We draw beside a window that looks straight at the Atlantic, and the tide keeps our hours now; we stopped keeping our own. The rituals are small — chalk, pins, the second coffee — and they are the whole religion.
By night, the same cloth means something else.
What we draw in the salt light of A Coruña was always meant for the heat that comes after dark — for rooms that stay loud long after the coast has gone quiet.
Kasumi Soul
Hand-painted silk; no two leave the brush alike.
View the garmentA red you crush, not a red you buy.
The dye house works after dark because the heat insists on it. Cochineal goes into the vat furious and comes out devoted; indigo does the opposite; nobody has explained either. Tulum taught us ceremony — that a garment can be a small fire carried into a room. The nights here do not end so much as relocate, and the silk goes along, and in the morning it tells us only what it wants us to know.
Nothing leaves this atelier
before it is ready.
Cut to behave.
Worn to forget it.
Two vows — the rest is sewing
Sunset Spell
A long dress that keeps the last hour of light — fourteen shades, each from its own vat.
View the garmentSilk that arrives like a letter.
The silk reaches A Coruña folded and patient, smelling faintly of the room it was woven in. In Hanoi the looms keep a rhythm you could set a pulse by, and the weavers count threads the way collectors count first editions. Our drawings travel eleven time zones east; the silk that answers them is always kinder than the sketch. At sunset the workshop turns amber, and that hour is sewn in with everything else.
The atelier is awake.
This is a real workroom, not a story we tell. I draw, I dye, I unpick what doesn't move me, and start the day again. I only finish what I'd want to wear myself; the rest quietly go.
When something sells out, I'd usually rather begin the next thing than repeat the last. It isn't a strategy — it's just how I like to make things.
What sells through is retired, not repeated.
Gentle threads, wild core.
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