Made quietly in Portugal.
Inside the Lisbon atelier where every seam is signed by the hand that sewed it — a season shot on film across the old town.
Nothing leaves before Thursday.
The first thing I do on a Monday is open the windows. The atelier sits on the third floor of a building that has been a bakery, a printer and, briefly, a school of dance, and the morning air off the river still smells faintly of all three.
Then I count. Twenty-two bolts of Belgian linen, four of merino, a shelf of lambswool the colour of oat porridge. We have never owned more cloth than we can name from memory, and I have come to think that is the whole method.
A garment made here is cut by one person, sewn by another, and signed by both on the inside of the hem. Nothing leaves before Thursday. Nothing leaves that I would not wear myself.
Shot on film.
Three frames from the spring issue. Nothing retouched, nothing styled twice.
