Barns and Backroads: The Hunt for Forgotten Fabrics

This week marks the unveiling of my latest collection—a culmination of months chasing history across Europe and an unforgettable road trip East, to a Civil War-era barn where the weight of the past still lingers in the air. This collection isn’t just clothing; it’s a mosaic of stories stitched into every fiber: the worn hands of French farmers mending grain sacks, the bold embroidery of Hungarian bed covers, and the profound trust passed to me in a barn filled with textiles that seemed to hum with life.

The journey began far from home, wandering the forgotten corners of Europe. In a German market, I ran my hands over stacks of patched grain sacks. Each was rough and honest, stained with sweat and earth, carrying whispers of harvests long gone. They smelled of damp wood and time—tactile reminders of labor and survival.

In Portugal, I stumbled upon a shop so crammed with textiles that the air felt thick with history. I unearthed quilt tops buried beneath piles of linen, their stitches deliberate, their patterns humming with purpose. Eastern Europe was quieter, more stoic. There, I found woven treasures tucked into shadowed stalls, the kind of artifacts that don’t demand attention but reward those willing to linger. And then, there was France. A Hungarian bed cover with bold, defiant embroidery stopped me in my tracks. The threads felt alive, a rebellion against time that refused to fade.

But as much as Europe gave, the story didn’t end there. Some pieces of history were waiting closer to home.

The East pulled me back—to Wendy, a woman whose life’s work was preserving the textiles of an era most have long forgotten. She lived in a Civil War-era barn, a building steeped in its own stories. First, a messenger’s waypoint during the war, and now, a sanctuary for hundreds of thousands of fabrics. Cabinets groaned under the weight of grain sacks, quilt tops, and bed covers, each piece saturated with the lives that shaped it.

Earlier this year, Wendy had sent me a note that still resonates: “Maybe the answer is you.” She had spent more than three decades curating these treasures, but she was ready to let go, trusting me to honor their legacy. This wasn’t a sale; it was a passing of the torch.

The trip to Wendy’s barn was as much a pilgrimage as it was a handover. My dad and I drove East, the truck groaning under its own anticipation. For hours, we dug into Wendy’s collection, layer by layer. The smell of the fabric—earthy, worn, and faintly metallic—was intoxicating. The feel of each piece, whether soft and faded or rough and raw, told stories as clearly as Wendy’s voice did. She handed me a patched grain sack and spoke of the farmer who had likely repaired it by firelight. A quilt smudged with time carried memories of hands too busy surviving to waste anything.

As the day stretched on, Wendy presented her final offering: a Hungarian bed cover embroidered with stunning precision. Draped across it was a handwritten note:

“To you, a torch I hand off, to shed light on the next generation.”

I held the piece, its weight more than fabric, and felt the enormity of what she was entrusting me with. These weren’t just textiles—they were lives, stories, and legacies. I left her barn with history strapped to the truck and a sense of responsibility I can only describe as sacred.

The drive back to Los Angeles was a blur of shifting fabric and silence, the kind that lets you feel the depth of what you’ve taken on. Now, these textiles—these artifacts of life and resilience—have found new purpose.

This week, they’ve been transformed into a collection unlike anything else. Each garment is a singular story, wholly unique. The grain sacks still bear the stitches of survival, the quilts their smudges of work and time, the bed covers their bold artistry. No two pieces are the same because no two lives that shaped them were the same.

This collection is more than clothing. It’s a tribute to the artisans who came before, a preservation of stories nearly lost, and a celebration of what it means to carry history forward. When you wear one, you’re not just wearing a garment—you’re holding a piece of the past, reimagined, yet unmistakably alive.