Before there were garments,
there was silence.
And in that silence,
a thread —
quiet, trembling, alive.
This collection began not with fabric,
but with memory.
Crochet works,
forgotten and folded into time,
waiting quietly in a drawer.
My grandmother’s hands —
long gone,
still working through mine.
I did not know her well.
There was too much time between us,
too many years,
too much that I did not yet understand.
Her works had sometimes been shown in local exhibitions,
but we never went together to see them.
Only after she was gone
did we discover them again.
A trove of things she had made,
kept quietly away.
Years later,
my mother — her daughter —
gave me permission to work with them.
Not simply as heirlooms.
Something more delicate:
a collaboration between generations.
It took time.
These pieces belonged to her.
To my mother.
To a history I had not lived.
I wanted to touch them carefully.
So I began.
Not knowing exactly what I was looking for.
Perhaps I imagined my grandmother
seated beside the hearth
of her traditional Japanese home,
her hands moving slowly,
with the quiet concentration
of someone making something
for no audience at all.
I imagined asking her questions.
The questions I never had the chance to ask.
Who were you
when you were making these?
What were you thinking about?
Who did you imagine would wear them?
What did you hope would remain?
There were, of course,
no answers.
Only the threads.
Only the work.
Only the strange feeling
that someone who had already disappeared
was still speaking.
Lullaby is not nostalgia.
It is a conversation across absence.
A slow, imperfect collaboration:
her threads,
my hands,
my mother’s voice in between.
Each piece became a question
I never dared to ask.
Each stitch,
an answer I did not know
I was waiting for.
I called this collection lullaby.
A song full of love,
sung by a mother to a child
who rarely hears the end.
Perhaps this was how my grandmother loved.
Not loudly.
Not in words.
But through the things her hands
continued to make.
Beauty can live in silence.
Some of the truest stories
are never told aloud.
They remain in objects.
In gestures.
In worn threads.
In the shape of a hand
remembered by another hand.
This is not fashion.
This is what love looks like
when you finally see it.
A memoir of my grandmother, Hisa,
with my own hands
stitched gently into it.
—
A story in stitches,
told one piece at a time.
Spring / Summer 2026 begins here.
Lullaby
Collection Artisanale 15
Presented during Paris Fashion Week, Paris
