In December 2020, I asked myself a question I hadn't planned on asking.
What if starting over doesn't mean running faster, but slowing down enough to notice what I truly love?
I didn't have a strategy. I had an instinct. And a quiet certainty that if I was going to build something, it had to be done with an open heart and a clear sense of beauty. No compromises. No pretense.
The truth is, it didn't start with design.
It started deeper—from the roots of my worldview. From what I value, what I notice, and what I don't want to rush.
And that led me to materials.
Paris, Milan, Florence. Fabric exhibitions where everyone seems to be looking for "what's next." I wasn't looking. I was looking for people—those who had been working with silk, cashmere, and leather for decades. Those who spoke about materials the way others speak about old friends. These fabrics held memories. They begged to be cared for. And I listened.
I fell in love not only with their craftsmanship and unparalleled quality, but also with the feeling that I wanted to be part of this world—to cherish its history, to continue its legacy, and to create something new from these precious materials. Something that could live, be worn, and be passed down from generation to generation.
Somewhere among the bolts of silk, leather skins, and cashmere yarn, hats emerged.
Perhaps it was inevitable. My grandfather had been making hats for nearly thirty years. As a child, I could spend hours watching him work, and then stand in front of the mirror wearing these hats, somehow realizing that this was something special. Something stylish. Something meaningful.
The design came later, as good ideas often do. Slowly.
I spent two years in archives, libraries, and at fashion history exhibitions all over Europe. I looked more than I drew. I let the shapes and proportions take root in my mind before asking them to become reality.
When it became clear that hats would be the beginning, Italy wasn't a dream—it was a necessity. The skills were there. The respect for the process was there. The passion was there.
I found a small studio in Tuscany run by a woman with over forty years of experience. I was deeply impressed by her work with some of the greatest Italian and French fashion houses. We began working together as if we'd known each other for years.
We created many pieces that never left the studio. Berets, scarves, wide-brimmed hats, headbands. Some turned out well. Many didn't. Nothing was rushed. It took two years before the first hat collection was completed—nineteen pieces, each painstakingly crafted.
It was a wonderful period of my life. I spent a week in Tuscany every month, working with passion and discipline. It taught me more than I expected.
Today I work with another Italian artisan workshop that shares the same values—precision, patience, and respect for craft. The rhythm hasn't changed. Materials come first. Small volumes. Attention over speed.
And sometimes I think—
Isn't that how the best stories begin?
Quietly. With caution.
And with the courage to trust your instincts.