A reflection on selecting the yarn before the design, letting the structure support the process instead of dictating it.
I don’t begin with the design. I begin with the material.
Before choosing a pattern, I try to understand how the yarn wants to move — its weight, the way it drapes, the rhythm the fabric calls for.
The design comes later, as a structure that allows those qualities to emerge without interference.
I knit patterns by other designers, but I don’t follow them as fixed instructions. I read them as frameworks.
I look for those that leave room for the material to breathe — clean surfaces, quiet proportions, constructions that don’t compete with the yarn.
Over time, I’ve come to understand that I’m not interested in immediate effect. I’m not drawn to pieces that demand attention through excess texture or complexity.
What moves me instead are garments that reveal themselves slowly — a balanced density, a natural drape, a quiet presence that becomes more apparent the more they’re worn.
Choosing yarn is an exercise in calibration. It’s not about finding “the best,” but about locating that precise point between structure and lightness, between definition and softness, between the technical and the emotional.
That balance is what allows a garment to belong to a real wardrobe rather than to a fleeting moment.
More often than not, the process is one of editing rather than creating — removing before adding. Recognising what belongs to the same language and what introduces unnecessary noise.
Coherence doesn’t arise from strict rules, but from a sensitivity that is built slowly, project after project.
The result isn’t meant to be perfect or spectacular. I prefer to think in terms of garments that accompany — that age well and retain their relevance beyond novelty.
Knitting then becomes a way of listening to the material and allowing it to find its most honest form.
