ME LIKE

A fabric is not created to remain exactly as it was on the first day. On the contrary, change, wear, and transformation are part of its nature. That is why some garments do not lose their value over time; instead, they become personal. This is precisely where the memory of fabric begins.

Neither the consistency of a cake, nor the proportions of a ring, nor the drape of a jacket’s shoulder is ever “right” the first time. Mastery is formed through mistakes, failures, repetitions, and time.

Humans can exist on their own, but being together is something entirely different. The desire to be in the same place has roots far older and deeper than a simple need for social interaction. Gathering, for humans, feels less like a choice and more like a reflex.

For the Vikings, nature was not a background to move across, but a living system that produced knowledge. In a world where written sources were limited, navigation, timekeeping, and survival depended on the ability to interpret environmental signs correctly. For this reason, knowledge of nature was not an individual intuition but a collective field of experience passed down through generations.

Hardship is an unavoidable part of human life. Its impact, however, depends less on its presence and more on how it is experienced. Under the same conditions, one person may move forward while another comes to a halt. The reason lies not so much in the intensity of the hardship, but in its duration and its meaning.

The perception of a fabric as luxurious often begins long before its appearance—within the production process itself. The origin of the fiber, the preparation of the yarn, the weaving or knitting technique, and the finishing treatments all shape the fabric’s character. Luxury, here, is not a result but an accumulation.

Some surfaces are not satisfied with a single touch. The hand pulls away, yet almost instinctively reaches back again. This repetition is not the result of a need; it is more like a quiet signal the body gives itself.