The work jacket
Yesterday worn by our workers, today designed for you. Whatever your style, your look or your mood, our work jackets go with everything — and hide stains well thanks to their original color, blue.
Rugged by nature, elegant by construction.
Dense, raw, deeply tactile materials. Made to live, to age, to soften without ever weakening.
Our clothes are made with respect for tradition, on vintage machines — Union Special, Reece, Singer — to preserve authentic know-how.
Nothing we cut is designed for a season. A piece enters the wardrobe to stay, to take on marks, and to tell, a few years on, something about the person who wore it.
Yesterday worn by our workers, today designed for you. Whatever your style, your look or your mood, our work jackets go with everything — and hide stains well thanks to their original color, blue.
The noblest and most resistant cloths, from the greatest weavers in the world: Candiani, Berto, Nihon Menpu, Collect, Kaihara.
This narrow, raw and elegant cloth, long reserved for purists, opens here to as many people as possible. Relaxed, but uncompromising.
It is the call of the open sea sewn into every piece. Clothes marked by salt, wind and freedom, inspired by the workers of the sea.
Raw materials, straight cuts, for those who carry the horizon within them.
Heritage, robustness, patina, character. The utilitarian rigor of period American military uniforms, put back in the hands of anyone who wants to use it.
The compagnon du devoir is a journeyman craftsperson who hits the road to practice a trade in exchange for board and lodging, with the sole aim of knocking on every door and working with other craftspeople.
They are between sixty and ninety years old. We keep them because they make stitches that no new machine knows how to make anymore.
Two of the last houses weaving denim in Italy.
Shuttle looms, slow weaving, closed selvedge.
Toulouse for the house workshop; human-scale French subcontractors for the rest.
A vintage machine park, maintained, for the stitches modern machines no longer make.
A world is only worth the pieces it produces.