We do not merely collect; we curate with the precision of a scholar and the passion of a dramaturge. Our pursuit of period western is not a passive act but a deliberate, laborious alchemy of history and craft. Every roll we touch, every thread we weave into our narrative, is a testament to our obsession with authenticity and the theatricality of the past. This is how we source.
We begin at the mills—those hallowed, often forgotten workshops where time seems to pause. These are not factories but sanctuaries of tradition, where artisans still employ techniques passed down through generations. We seek out mills with a lineage tied to the golden age of textile production, those that still use looms that hum like old violins. Their weaves are not uniform but alive, each stitch a whisper of the past. We do not commission new work; we unearth what already exists, ensuring that our selections are not mere imitations but living echoes of an era.
Our relationships with these mills are built on trust and an unspoken pact: we will not dilute their legacy. We visit them, sometimes in person, sometimes through the letters of trade that have survived the decades. Their catalogs, often bound in leather and inked by hand, are not just lists of materials but maps to a lost world. We study them with the reverence of archaeologists, sifting through pages to find the patterns that carry the weight of history.
Beyond the mills lie the trade-only catalogs—obscure tomes that exist in the shadows of the industry. These are not sold to the public; they are distributed only to those who understand the language of texture and time. We have spent years cultivating relationships with the curators of these catalogs, who guard their contents like alchemists guarding their formulas. Their pages are not adorned with photographs but with sketches, annotations, and the faint scent of aged paper.
We do not merely purchase from these catalogs; we negotiate with them. Each entry is a story, and we must determine whether it belongs to our collection. Some patterns are too fragile, others too modern. We measure not only their aesthetic appeal but their historical fidelity. A single misstep in the repeat or a deviation in the dye could render a design unworthy of our shelves.
Our criteria are as exacting as they are esoteric. We do not accept anything that fails to meet the following:
These are not mere preferences; they are the bedrock of our curation. Anything that fails to meet these standards is discarded, not with regret but with the certainty that it does not belong in our world.
Our process is not gentle. We are not collectors of