HAND AS PEDIGREE

HAND AS PEDIGREE 

[THE RECIPE IS SIMPLE: SOME SILK, SOME THREAD AND A COMPETENT NEEDLE. QUINTESSENTIALLY, ENDEARINGLY: ANALOG.]

Silk is the oldest fiber known to man.  Prior to silk it was just fig leafs and animal pelts.  To appreciate silk, we look to the writings of Confucius, 27 BCE: "One day Empress Leizu was sat beneath a large mulberry tree, sipping some blossom tea when a cocoon fell into her cup.  Enamored by the cocoon’s glistening threads, but still wishing to extract it from her cup, she pinched at the cocoon only to have it start unraveling before her fingers.  With the delicate strand in hand she had the idea to weave it, to make something beautiful.  Fiercely passionate, she immediately began raising her own silkworms and, sericulture, the rearing of silkworms for silk production was born."  

The French have a word that doesn’t translate directly to English when describing the environment to which a wine is born… "terroir."

It’s the idea that the wine isn’t just the product of soil and sun, but also of the wind and rain and the hands of the farmer himself. Something greater than nature alone; the indescribable intersection of Nature and Man. 

We feel much the same way about our silks and even have a similar, intangible word:  "hand." 

It’s how the fabric moves, how it bounces, folds and unfolds.  Romantically, it’s how the fabric captivates and how it seduces. Anytime you fold or bunch or ruffle the fabric you leave a little memory of yourself buried within.  A good silk absorbs a little of your energy, a little of you.  It remembers.  That is hand.  That is something special.