À la recherche du temps perdu ― What the Silk Thread Connects

A grandmother's cashmere coat, its black wool exterior now lined with French vintage silk — a new life for both.

A French friend gave me a piece of silk.It had belonged to her grandmother, kept all these years.

A geometric pattern, impossibly smooth, a sheen that moves like liquid.Ah — I can feel the silk's brilliance, its texture, right in my hands.

Japanese silk thread, woven in Lyon, I believe. No proof at all.

"My grandmother had this, but I don't know when it's from.I think you'd know what to do with it better than I would."

That's what my friend said, as she handed the fabric to me.

Not heavy, exactly — but not light either.There's a presence to it, the breath of something alive.Silk is alive. Like wool, it's an animal fiber. It breathes.

I can tell it was made for Western clothing —a different weight entirely from a kimono's haori lining, or habutae silk.Still, a performer who has waited silently in the wings for decadesdeserves better than a quiet retirement.

The cashmere coat my grandmother left behind.I found it the finest partner, with the respect it deserved.Beneath that solid black face, a hidden brilliance, like diamonds catching light.

And then, one more.A young, foreign partner.A haori.I used it as the lining for my son's haori ensemble.Will grandmother approve of such a mischievous boy?Will they understand each other?Which language will they speak?

Another journey begins.

Vintage French silk with geometric pattern, glowing under washi lamp light, layered beside toile de Jouy fabric boxes.

You may never wear a kimono. But you can wear the art of Wasai.

On ne porte pas forcément un kimono. Mais on peut porter l'art du Wasai.

— PASSIONEER

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