Inside the workshop.

Our atelier occupies a former dance studio above a wine merchant in the seventh arrondissement. The light is good in the late afternoon. The floors are walnut. There is one cat, an opinion-haver named Cleo, who supervises the cutting table.

Each piece passes through seven hands before it leaves us:

1. The pattern, drafted in pencil over the measurement card and a glass of something cold.
2. The toile — calico mock-up, on the dressmaker's stand, critiqued on a Wednesday.
3. The cut, in cloth that has rested folded for at least a week so the grain has settled its arguments.
4. The build — channels for bone, stitched flat, bone inserted by the finger, never by tool.
5. The lining, hand-felled along the bottom edge.
6. Grommets and lacing, pressed by hand, never machine.
7. The check, where Cleo and the finisher walk the seams together. One of them is more rigorous than the other.

Visits are by appointment only. Bring excellent shoes and a clear sense of what you want.