Before a single thread of Harris Tweed reached a shop floor, it passed through the hands of women who sang to it. The songs were not decoration. They were the process itself. This is a piece about the Outer Hebrides, the waulking songs, the Hattersley loom in the home, and the generations of women whose names most people will never know — but whose hands made one of the world’s most enduring cloths.
In 1943, a young man named Chan Wing Wah earned a certificate from the Shanghai Cutting and Tailoring College. It still hangs on the wall of WW Chan in Hong Kong. This is a piece about a lineage that survived a revolution, crossed the water to Kowloon, and has been cutting suits by hand ever since — in a city that has changed beyond recognition around it.
In 1943, a young man named Chan Wing Wah earned a certificate from the Shanghai Cutting and Tailoring College. It still hangs on the wall of WW Chan in Hong Kong. This is a piece about a lineage that survived a revolution, crossed the water to Kowloon, and has been cutting suits by hand ever since — in a city that has changed beyond recognition around it.
Inside every Chittleborough & Morgan jacket, before the lining closes forever, the floating canvas is padded by hand in purple, white, and green — Suffragette colors. The client will see it once or twice during fittings. Then never again. This is a piece about the invisible standard, the hidden work, and what it means to do something properly when no one will ever see it.
Somewhere in Paris, in a workshop with no sign on the door, someone is spending three hours making a single buttonhole. It will never be used. It exists on the lapel purely as a declaration that someone cared enough to do this properly. The Milanese buttonhole is going quietly — one retirement at a time. This is a piece about what disappears with it.