Lanzarote is known as the “island of 1,000 volcanoes” and its dramatic landscapes are vivid reminders of nature’s power. “Don’t worry – only one of the volcanoes is considered active,” says longtime resident Adrián Nicolás von Boettinger, as he leads Monocle through Lagomar, an architectural marvel built into an old rock quarry. At first glance, Lagomar’s façade barely registers as part of a building. The semi-subterranean structure features rooms, tunnels and terraces; only the balconies, stairs and footbridges, which cut into the rock surface, offer a sense of structure, while looking like beads of icing flowing down the side of an uneven cake.

Lagomar encapsulates how Lanzarote, the easternmost of the Canary Islands, has grabbed the design world’s attention since the 1960s with its idiosyncratic combination of oddity and invention. Its lava-hewn landscapes are arresting spectacles that can help to unlock architects’ imaginations; the inhospitable landscape, however, also prompts sobering civic discussions. The island has long been grappling with questions of how to live within its limitations and make the most of tourism without being overwhelmed.

With his sister, Tatyana, Von Boettinger took over the Lagomar property from their parents, architects from Germany and Uruguay, who bought the cliffside home in a state of disrepair in 1989. “There was so much mystique surrounding the building that they put down a deposit for it without even stepping inside,” says Tatyana, who adds that it was once home to Egyptian film star Omar Sharif.

After a gun-toting squatter was politely paid to leave the premises, the site underwent several years of structural improvements. In 1997 the house finally reopened as an architectural museum; more recently it was renovated as a restaurant, bar and music venue (plans for an artist’s residency are also in the works). It’s a microcosm of the island’s identity crisis: a vision for the future that’s firmly anchored to the past.

Lagomar is unique but in some ways it isn’t alone. Since the 1960s the island has walked a tourism tightrope in order to transform an agrarian society into a modern one, while trying to balance economic and ecological sustainability. From the 1960s to the late 1980s, artist and sculptor César Manrique was the island’s visionary-in-chief and, in effect, its architectural art director. Aghast by the postwar construction boom on neighbouring islands Tenerife and Gran Canaria, Manrique championed an ethos for Lanzarote that honoured the landscape, preserved tradition and resisted harmful development. He also designed scores of the traditionally inspired structures hewn into the island’s almost extra-terrestrial looking rocks.

Manrique’s less-is-more vision often sat uncomfortably with the island’s financial and political ambitions. The tourism sector, in particular, bridled at the idea of being constrained by an artist’s whims. Over the years, many hotels of varying standards were built and entire coastal towns turned into holiday resorts – much to the chagrin of Manrique, who agitated for restraint until his death in 1992.

To some, the artist and sculptor’s message was nuanced and prescient; to others, however, it was plain confusing. The house where he lived between 1968 and 1988, built into a petrified lava field, is now the base of his eponymous foundation. Among its exhibits is a video of Manrique warning about the island’s existential decay and criticising various beachfront hotels, mostly in front of the kind of visitors who stay in such places. It’s unclear whether his fervent approach was persuasive or just made those listening feel unwelcome.

“It’s not tourists that people are tired of,” says restaurateur Georgia Coles. “We love them and live off them. The problem is the tired model of tourism.” Today is the soft-opening of her new venture, La Lapa, and the first-day fluster is palpable. Coles steadies the ship, keeping an eye on the hungry guests in the dining room, while telling Monocle about some of the local tensions in the front bar. “In summer the taps in some of Lanzarote’s towns run dry but then we see hotels’ water supply safeguarded,” she says. “Residents can feel like their concerns are secondary.”

This delicate balance – between local and visitors’ interests, between too many tourists and too few – is on everyone’s lips. “Lanzarote teaches you how to live with very little,” says Zoe Barceló, an art director from Alicante who started a new life here with his partner, Geo Giner, a fashion designer from Barcelona. They tell us about their previous work lives, in which demanding deadlines meant more than 10 hours of screen time a day. “This is sort of a pre-retirement,” says Giner with a grin, gesturing at his surroundings. Looking for a rental property, the couple found a run-down toolshed and perrera (a house for hunting dogs). They have transformed both into an impressively appointed modern home and studio.

“We have seen more people coming to the island looking for peace, sometimes silence,” says Giner. But life didn’t stay quiet for long for the pair, whose new landscape-inspired clothing brand, Latitud Fuego, taps into the surf culture that’s thriving in coastal towns such as Caleta de Famara. Selling pieces sourced mainly from Portugal but embroidered by a Lanzarote-based artist, they started with 200 garments, which quickly sold out. The couple also juggle consulting work with other small businesses, helping to upgrade menus, signage and merchandise. “Manrique remains an inspiration,” says Barceló. “His legacy gives the island a conscience.”

For those working Lanzarote’s crater-strewn land, Manrique-style ideas of minimal intervention are more than just theoretical, given how difficult it is to cultivate crops here. Self-taught winemakers Eamon López O’Rourke and Laura Fábregas Camacho are the married couple behind a winery called Cohombrillo. The 13-hectare site hosts bi-weekly tastings in a garage. “Our techniques help us to make do with very little,” says O’Rourke. “We try to stay attuned to the limitations and wisdom of the land. Lately, we have been getting a lot of visitors from Japan who are curious about how we cultivate the volcanic soil.” He points to a pallet loaded with 300 bottles earmarked for export to Asia, underlining what that means for business.

María José Alcántara Palop is the director of MIAC, a fort turned-modern art museum, as well as of Lanzarote’s biennale. The current edition, which runs until 30 June, features excursions around volcanoes that morph into panel discussions and performances staged inside “teleclubs” – rural bars known for bringing the first televisions to the island’s remote villages. “Lanzarote needs more artists and more spaces – to be more courageous and insistent, even in the face of resistance from a bureaucracy that’s stuck in its ways,” says Palop, who worked with Manrique when he was younger. “He taught us to be bold, to honour the island’s singularity. He envisioned Lanzarote as a beacon for creativity.”

Yves Drieghe and Bert Pieters swapped their 20 sq m rooftop garden in Belgium for a 20,000 sq m hillside farm near the town of Los Valles. They refurbished the farmhouse, transforming it into a residence for writers, painters and makers that they named Hektor. Guests are encouraged to adhere to the island’s logic. “Small is beautiful,” says Drieghe. “Nature and the locals require respect.” The farm has gradually also become a kind of animal shelter, with a donkey, a duck, two pigs, some sheep and Frits the dog wandering the grounds.

Older generations of residents have been welcoming of new arrivals, as long as they respect the island and its people. “In our case, we held up a mirror to the beauty of their community and what they did so well,” says Drieghe, pointing to farming practices that harness the soil’s mineral richness despite the paucity of rainfall. “Meanwhile, artists bring with them new visions about what the island is and what it could be.”

Prior to this, Drieghe and Pieters ran an agency overseeing big projects, a small magazine shop and a café. “It’s no wonder we were stressed,” says Pieters, laughing. They apply their new stripped down life philosophy to the artists staying in Hektor, who don’t have to submit works at the end of their residency. “We have removed all of the pressure,” says Drieghe. “The same goes for us: there’s no intention to expand.”

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Bode
Paris

Bode is branching out of the US with an ambitious retail opening in Paris, a stone’s throw from the Palais-Royal. “France has played a significant role in Bode’s history and the search for a retail location in Paris started more than four years ago,” says founder Emily Adams Bode Aujla, who has built a reputation for her eclectic designs, made using upcycled fabrics.

Working with her husband Aaron Aujla, one of the men behind New York-based interior design studio Green River Project, Emily drew inspiration for the boutique from the story of a French hotelier known for his love of fly fishing. The aim was to marry French and US tropes in the shop, which features antiques sourced from both sides of the Atlantic; sofas upholstered in silk; and stained glass. On the rails are the brand’s striped pyjamas, bold knits and embroidered shirts, as well as some Paris exclusives, including ties and shirting crafted from century-old French fabrics.
bode.com

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Sophie Bille Brahe
Denmark & USA

Copenhagen-based Sophie Bille Brahe is becoming a household name in the world of fine jewellery, having opened her first international outpost on New York’s Madison Avenue last year. “The history of the street made it feel like a natural home for my designs,” says Bille Brahe, who often takes inspiration from ancient Egyptian constellations and Venetian mythology. “The shop’s design is rooted in my heritage, blending Danish craftsmanship with understated luxury,” she says of the minimalist space and its Dinesen wooden floors, lace curtains, worktables by Danish artisan Poul Kjaerholm and Mats Theselius chairs that are a nod to Bille Brahe’s muse, Peggy Guggenheim. To mark the opening, the brand debuted Collier de Madison, a take on its Collier de Tennis Royal diamond necklace. “The Madison Avenue shop isn’t just about bringing Copenhagen to New York,” says Bille Brahe. “I wanted the space to welcome visitors by telling my story.”
sophiebillebrahe.com

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Plan C
Italy

Carolina Castiglioni usually thinks about herself when designing her label’s biannual collections, so venturing into menswear didn’t come naturally. “It was a request, especially from Japan, where male customers kept coming in our boutiques to shop for themselves,” says Castiglioni, who realised that most of Plan C’s designs – slim tailoring, roomy cotton shirts, workwear-inspired parkas and denim jackets – could be translated for men. “There have always been menswear inspirations in my work, so we focused on unisex pieces that can be styled in different ways,” says the Milanese designer (pictured), who unveiled her first menswear range at last summer’s Pitti Uomo. Plan C’s successful formula from the get go has been high-quality wardrobe classics sprinkled with novelty and excitement via the right accessories. Come spring, you’ll find the label’s menswear designs at its standalone boutiques in Tokyo and Osaka, plus a handful of multibrand boutiques including Dallas’s Forty Five Ten.
plan-c.com

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Junyin Gibson is the brand and creative manager for UK menswear outfitters Drake’s. Unsurprisingly, he’s a great dresser. “I like to think of my style as practical, considered and reflective of my life; there’s a blend of Hong Kong, my birthplace, and British styles,” says Gibson, who is now based in London.

Gibson oversees collaborations for Drake’s, which include collections with celebrated London restaurant St John and Maine-based boat-shoe specialist Sebago, as well as the making of its lookbooks. Over a drink at Leo’s, his favourite east London spot, Gibson tells us about his sartorial choices and sources of inspiration.

When did you begin to develop an understanding of style?
When I moved to the UK [from Hong Kong] aged 17. Being able to don wax jackets and caps was an exciting change of scene. I became passionate about layering these styles and playing with more colours and textures than before. While I love traditional Eastern styles, Hong Kong is a financial city – and a hot one too – so there’s a limit to which fabrics you can wear.

Who influences what you wear?
First, Drake’s creative director, Michael Hill. The consistency of his styling is what inspired me to adopt more of a uniform and focus on timeless styles rather than reacting to what others wear. When we travel together, he makes sure that we put time aside for exploring – some of my best finds have come from scouring Koenji’s vintage markets in Tokyo. Elsewhere, films such as In the Mood for Love and actors including Tony Leung and Toshiro Mifune have all had an effect on me from early on.

Are there items that you consider to be must-haves?
JM Weston’s 180 loafer is my staple shoe. I never wear lace-up shoes like Oxfords, only loafers. I like the way a good pair of trousers falls above them and they truly make an outfit. You’re always on the move. How do you dress while travelling? You have to be logical and prioritise utility but that’s what some of the best design does. In that regard, a utility vest is perfect for the airport: it’s light, everything you need is on-hand and you can layer it over anything.

How do you weave Eastern styles into your wardrobe while representing such a British brand?
Drake’s travels all over the world and takes inspiration from Japan, the US and beyond. For my own wardrobe, I love to pick up Lee Kung Man’s Henley tees – even Bruce Lee wore them.

Should we all adopt a uniform of sorts?
It makes mornings easier. The majority of my wardrobe works together because I’m always collecting timeless styles and similar silhouettes. When you have a good base of neutrals that work well, you can then throw in pops of colour. I always recommend a jumper or scarf wrapped over the neck.

In Taiwan, breakfast can be a rushed affair. On the curb in front of a street-food vendor, you’ll see scooters hastily parked as their riders, helmets still fastened, queue beside smart office workers and uniformed students, waiting for their turn to order. Now and then, a retiree or an idle auntie claims a low plastic stool, savouring their choice with unhurried ease. But for many, breakfast is eaten on the go as they sweep through the city.

The Taiwanese breakfast shop is a product of the region’s postwar history: its origins lie with the steady flow of wheat that came as part of Cold War-era aid programmes from the US and also with the arrival of mainland Chinese refugees who knew precisely what to do with it. Until then, rice, not wheat, was the island’s staple stodge and the latter was a foreign commodity, largely unfamiliar to most. For breakfast, wheat flour was used to make long, deep-fried dough sticks, flaky flatbreads or pillowy buns. Sometimes the flatbreads were rolled up with spring onions and an egg to form a dan bing, a morning staple. The first breakfast shops in Taiwan were street stalls, stacked with layers of bamboo steamer baskets and bouquets of fried dough sticks. Eventually, bricks-and-mortar locations began to crop up, though many maintain a certain simplicity: they tend to be humble, utilitarian spaces where food is prepared on a single stainless-steel flat-top griddle facing the street.

“Dan bing is usually pan-fried but we deep-fry ours,” Cheng Hsu-Chong, the second-generation owner of the Chongqing Soy Milk and Fried Egg breakfast shop, tells Monocle. The 50 year-old institution on the edge of a traditional market has neither a front wall nor a door. Why deep fry? “It’s faster,” he says. “And it tastes better.”

The main action takes place at a vendor cart in front of the shop, where Cheng’s son is poised over a fryer. He drops a thin flatbread speckled with spring onions into the bubbling oil, then cracks an egg into the fryer. As the bread crisps and expands, he folds it around the egg, lifting it from the oil, before adding a diced pickled daikon radish. With a swift motion, he hands it over to the cashier, who finishes it with a few generous shakes of ground white pepper. The dan bing is paired with a hot cup of sweetened, freshly brewed soy milk, a popular drink at Taiwanese breakfast shops.

The precise origins of the dan bing, which is more like a light puff pastry than fried dough, remains as murky as the bubbling oil from which ours has just emerged. In Mandarin, dan means “egg” and bing means “flatbread”. It is thought to have originated in Taiwan as an extra-thin riff on the spring-onion pancake. Variations exist, some more crêpe-like than others.

“Many people use the batter method but we just roll it out from dough,” says Qin Hui Lin, the owner of Miss Qin’s Soy Milk Shop. “It’s what I grew up with.” Qin’s parents came to Taiwan by way of the eastern Chinese province of Jiangsu during China’s civil war and she grew up eating dan bing stuffed with chopped-up fermented long beans, served with finely minced chilli and a thickened soy sauce flavoured with bean curd. It’s one of the specialities at her family’s shop, which began as a modest stall under an awning 76 years ago and has since expanded into two adjacent shopfronts. One of them, positioned on a street corner, has a deli-style counter, while the other is for those who want to eat in. A solid wall divides the two areas.

Qin’s son, who is now in charge, refreshed the shop recently with a new coat of paint and professionally taken photos of the dishes, displayed both on the menus and in the décor. The food bears plenty of influences from the family’s Jiangsu heritage. Among the highlights are the lion’s head meatballs, a dish that consists of pork with soy sauce and spices. “The meatballs were originally just for the staff but our customers liked them too and now they’re one of our signatures,” says Qin. Traditionally served in a broth with cabbage leaves, they’re now sold by Qin in a sesame-dotted flatbread that resembles a meatball sub. “You have to keep adapting,” she says.

Despite such willingness to adapt, most breakfast shops have remained little changed for decades. That said, a new wave of younger entrepreneurs is taking a different approach. You’ll find Lao Jiang’s House, which is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, not in an old market but on the edges of Taipei’s financial district. The owners are five friends who quit their day jobs to start the business after the coronavirus-related lockdowns.

“Most of us have worked at traditional breakfast shops at some point,” says co-owner Din Tsung-Hsiung. “We just wanted to create something a little different.” Servicing mostly white-collar workers during rush hour and late-night club-goers on the weekends, Lao Jiang’s House has a menu that offers all of the classics but with subtle updates. For example, there’s a dan bing stuffed with spring-onion-scented beef instead of just egg and another with a rice-paper exterior. “It’s stuff that we want to eat ourselves,” says Din.

What makes Lao Jiang’s House stand out is its décor. With white tiles, light-wood trimmings and solid timber tables, it looks more like a Western coffee shop than a traditional breakfast shop. The space has been carefully designed to encourage diners to linger. Across Taiwan, the idea of a more design-forward breakfast space – albeit with the same level of comfort as the original breakfast shops – is gaining traction. Few do it as effortlessly as Nite-Nite Breakfast, a newcomer that has quietly entered the scene. Tucked away in the Neihu district, it has floor-to-ceiling glass windows and is branded with a smiley-face logo with bright-yellow accents. The dining area is spacious and flooded with natural light, a deliberate counterpoint to Nite-Nite’s often cramped competitors.

“Most breakfast shops are on busy street corners. We chose this spot to help people to unwind,” says Jane Hu, a marketing manager – a position that few old-school breakfast shops employ. When Monocle visits on a Monday afternoon, the shop is full of diners sitting down for their meal. The menu is full of unexpected flavour combinations. There’s a mapo tofu dan bing, stuffed with tofu, minced meat and fermented chilli sauce; we’re also tempted by an egg sandwich featuring pork floss – dehydrated pork with a candy-floss-like texture – and century egg, a preserved duck egg with a distinctive blackish hue.

Traditionalists might scoff at new establishments of this kind (as well as at the tendency of their clientele to take photos of their food) but they are attracting footfall. Perhaps this evolution of the breakfast shop is a quiet rebellion against the sameness of so much brunch culture, with its bland avocado toasts, or the relentless pace of Taipei’s commuter hours? That’s something to discuss over a dan bing, anyway.

It has been a short two weeks after a lively opening party and business is brisk at Kaptain Sunshine’s new Tokyo flagship. Designer Shinsuke Kojima is on the shop floor as a trio of young South Korean tourists, a dapper Japanese gent and a pair of well-dressed Tokyo friends are all browsing and buying. Clearly the word is out that the brand has opened its first standalone shop. “We’re happy with how it’s going,” says Kojima, surveying the throng. “A third of the customers are coming from overseas.”

To those in the know, Kaptain Sunshine is simply one of the best brands to have come out of Japan, having mastered the kind of smart-casual wardrobe that Tokyoites are always celebrated for. The label’s success is down to Kobe-born Kojima, who started the brand in 2013, to indulge his passion for vintage uniforms and relentless eye for detail. He manufactures everything in Japan and favours original fabrics made to his specifications. His most recent spring/summer collection, currently in store, includes garments such as field shirt-jackets in deliciously light cotton-polyester mixes, garment-dyed work jackets in hemp and cotton, and military trainers in white leather.

Every piece is connected to a different maker in Japan. Denim comes from Okayama and Hiroshima; leather purses and belts are made in Tokyo and Kamakura; and hand-finished silk squares are made with fabric from Yamanashi. The detail in the denim is something else: a 13.5oz selvedge, dyed with pure indigo and woven on an old-fashioned loom to give the uneven texture that Kojima likes. “We give the factories highly detailed sewing instructions to ensure a one-of-a-kind line-up that we take pride in,” he says.

There are stories woven into every piece – and fashion fans lap them up. But Kaptain Sunshine also happens to be the easiest brand to wear. “We’re using high-quality materials and precision sewing but this is everyday wear that can be washed without worry and dried in the sun,” says Kojima. “We’re thinking about comfort, even when travelling.” Some basic garments, such as the Okayama-made blue denim trousers and T-shirts, inspired by American vintage, appear every season. There are collaborations too, from nylon bucket hats co-designed with the brand Kijima Takayuki to suede shoes crafted with Paraboot.

Kojima is equally passionate about vintage furniture, which becomes immediately evident in the shop’s interiors, designed alongside Fukuoka architect Koichi Futatsumata. The store is on a quiet street just off Kotto Dori in Aoyama and is filled with Kojima’s finds: French rope chairs from the 1950s, a 17th-century English chest, an Okinawan pot that’s several hundred years old. There’s a rare wall-mounted Dieter Rams for Braun hi-fi from the 1960s playing, when Monocle visits, some mellow jazz. Like the brand’s signature garments, the retail space’s overall look is relaxed rather than laboured.

This laid-back approach appeals to the label’s core male clientele – and, increasingly, to a new crop of in-the-know female clients too. “We make clothes in four sizes so that anyone can wear them,” says Kojima. “We just want everyone with a sense of style to see our collection.” With the new Tokyo flagship and a twice-yearly trunk show in Paris, his message is certainly getting through.
kaptainsunshine.com

STAY

25Hours Hotel The Oddbird, Senayan, Kebayoran Baru
A new addition to Jakarta, 25Hours is conveniently housed on top of the Ashta shopping mall. Indonesia’s take on the expanding Hamburg hotel chain is called The Oddbird and embraces every opportunity to be bold and a bit whimsical. Rooms are equipped with Freitag bags and Schindlehauers bikes.
25hours-hotels.com

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FOOD & DRINK

Modernhaus, Senopati, Kebayoran Baru
Modernhaus feels more like an architect’s lounge than a cocktail bar. The mid-century-inspired space by Union Group hums with low-lit warmth, an inviting bar and cocktails from mixologist Mirwansyah “Bule”.
+62 817-7233-3368

Kaum, Menteng, Central Jakarta
Kaum distils Indonesia’s culinary heritage in an unpretentious experience courtesy of the Potato Head Family. Recipes including lamb drizzled in pickled greens, beef slow-cooked in red lado, and rice laced with green stinky beans, are given a polished edge and sit
with inventive new ones.
kaum.com

Scarlett’s House Blok M, Melawai, Kebayoran Baru
Scarlett’s textural riot of sugary delights was the talk of the town during their time in Pantai Indah Kapuk: patrons started queuing at 09.00 for a slice of its poured tiramisu. Their latest in the vibrant Blok M/Melawai sees the patisserie take on another mantle as a bistro-cum-listening bar.
+62 812-9272-1601

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SHOP

Archie, Selong, Kebayoran Baru
In the quieter end of Gunawarman, Archie showcases a curated line of tailorings and ready to-wear pieces from names such as Drake’s and made-to-measure clothes from Flannel Bay and Sartoria Melina. Founder Michael Wong regularly hosts trunk shows, with the latest from Japan’s Lecteur (Yuki Igarashi flew in) and Florence’s Leonardo Simoncini (hosted together with Wong’s other venture Soroi in Panglima Polim). The collaboration pieces with Alden are perfect for Jakarta’s unending summer.
archiestore.com

Sarinah, Gondangdia, Menteng
Jakarta’s oldest department store, first envisioned by Soekarno in the 1960s, is now a dynamic cultural and retail space housing everything local (well, almost). Its post-renovation offering spans from heritage-rich batik ateliers to new homegrown brands alongside an extensive selection of local food and beverages (all worth sampling), while the plaza often holds events and performances.
sarinah.co.id

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SEE

ROH Projects, Menteng, Central Jakarta
A maverick gallery that took its permanent space in 2022 in a converted mid-century colonial house on Jalan Surabaya. Notable names it represents include Maruto Ardi, Kei Imazu, Bagus Pandega and art collective Tromarama.
rohprojects.net

Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art of Nusantara (MACAN), Kebon Jeruk
Museum MACAN (founded 2017) is the country’s leading institution for modern and contemporary art with a growing international significance. While it offers a window to the world – bringing in heavyweights such as Chiharu Shiota and Yayoi Kusama – it also brings forward local names through major exhibitions.
museummacan.org

To discover Jakarta through our lens and meet the people shaping it as well as business in Asia, join us for The Chiefs this April, 2025. To find out more, visit monocle.com/events

“This is a new vision of power dressing,” says Sara Ferrero, pointing to lightweight cashmere cardigans, satin tube skirts and breezy crêpe-de-Chine shirts by Sasuphi, the womenswear label that she co-founded in Milan with Susanna Cucco in 2021. Ferrero and Cucco are widely known for their exceptional taste and stellar CVs, which include executive positions in some of the city’s most established fashion houses. Ferrero, a former investment banker and consultant, worked as CEO of Valextra and Joseph. She was also a general partner at Neo Investment Partners, leading the private equity firm’s investments in beauty and fashion; and remains a board member at Ferragamo. Cucco has spent decades working as an art director for companies such as Max Mara.

Even after seeing the output of some of the biggest houses in the world, both Cucco and Ferrero felt that the luxury fashion market was missing a sense of pragmatism – bold designs that can still fit into day-to-day life. “Fashion designers create according to their vision, not according to what women want to wear to feel good,” says Cucco, also pointing to fashion’s perennial obsession with youth culture. “We thought that there was space for women like us who are not necessarily young; people who work, who have meetings in the day and events in the evening,” says Ferrero.

That’s how Sasuphi was born – from a desire to offer well-made, adaptable clothes that won’t go out of style in just a few months. “The market is insulting the customer when it offers clothes that become irrelevant after one season,” says Ferrero. Instead, Sasuphi makes pieces that “you don’t want to let go”. Designs from previous seasons remain part of the collections, styled with new-season creations, the focus always being on clean-lined silhouettes inspired by architecture rather than fashion trends. “Living in Milan, you’re surrounded by buildings by some of the best talents of the 20th century, and that shapes how you think about design,” says Ferrero. “Architecture is also about functionality,” she adds, while sitting at the long conference table of Sasuphi’s showroom-cum-studio, which occupies the sunny first floor of one of Milan’sgenteel residential palazzos in Brera. “We bring the geometry of architecture to our clothes.”

Close inspection of their pieces reveals outstanding Italian fabrics sourced from the country’s best textile makers: thick silks from Ratti in Como, finespun cashmere from Cariaggi, heavy cotton shirting from Albini and wool from Zegna’s famous facility in Piedmont. “As Italians, we want good ingredients,” says Cucco, who firmly believes that everyone deserves to wear natural materials. “They’re luxurious on the skin, plus they breathe in the summer and retain heat in the winter – the original tech materials.”

Despite the pair’s industry connections, Sasuphi launched without investors and without a marketing team. “We needed independence in order to follow our values,” says Cucco. “And it’s working.” The brand is now available in more than 50 top outlets worldwide, from Net-a-Porter to Bergdorf Goodman, and sells out quickly.

For spring the label’s collection focuses on a potent, mood-boosting colour palette, from poppy red and periwinkle blue to hyacinth pink. Colour is a form of “gentle power”, says Cucco, who wears pink-framed glasses.

The line also includes lightweight, fuss-free styles, from silk trenches to voluminous knits and silk T-shirts, which can be easily layered, becoming the cornerstone of any spring wardrobe. As the two women pull items from the showroom racks – white trousers that button down the sides, a butter-yellow shirt dress, a silk khaki T-shirt – they restyle themselves as they go, creating various combinations with every garment. That’s the best way to wear Sasuphi.

Ferrero and Cucco also demonstrate how adaptable their designs are by taking them on the road and hosting trunk shows around the world. “As a small company, this is the best way to generate interest,” says Ferrero, explaining that even the smallest in-person trunk show creates opportunities to connect with customers, share stories and showcase the garments’ artisanal quality. “You don’t need 100 million followers on social media. You don’t need followers, period. You need fans. You need 1,000 people who believe in you and buy your products.”
sasuphi.com

On the fifth floor of a corporate tower in the centre of Mumbai, sandwiched between IT and accounting firms, women sit around a spanking white table, diligently weaving golden thread through cotton. These are the students of the Chanakya School of Craft and they are practising zari, an embroidery style favoured by the ostentatious rulers of the Mughal era. When Monocle visits, the sun is falling over the airy classrooms, lending a milky glow to the skyline. An aura of quiet concentration pervades the space: the women are at the tail of their day, their fingers stitching and folding for hours already.

Neelam Bhujbal is a graduate of the second cohort to pass through the Chanakya School of Craft, which was established in 2016 by textile and embroidery house Chanakya International. She tells Monocle that zari and zardozi – a similar style, which uses metal bullion thread rather than gold – are her favourite of the 300 stitches and techniques learned during her studies. It’s the style, she says, of kings.

Bhujbal’s is a typical story: she was a housewife and stay-at-home mother before starting at the school, which she heard about through a neighbour. In fact, most women in the room discovered the craft training opportunity through a friend, sister-in-law or neighbour’s cousin. Word of mouth is the only recruitment strategy that matters here – and younger students are not the only target.

Bhujbal thrived during the 18-month course, whose teachings are contextualised with important women in history, including Frida Kahlo and Indian poet Sarojini Naidu. Now she works full-time at the Chanakya International atelier, which regularly collaborates with fashion houses such as Lanvin, Fendi, Valentino and Dior. The French house’s long-time creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri regularly commissions the Chanakya atelier to create tapestries for its runway show sets and hand embroidered gowns for couture collections. She was the first to suggest that the school open up to female students from underserved communities. “She has been instrumental in looking at craft through an expansive lens,” says Karishma Swali, artistic director of Chanakya International. She has developed a friendship with Chiuri over the past 30 years, born out of their mutual love of craft. The pair met in Rome in the mid-1990s, when Chiuri was still head of accessories at Fendi, and Swali was showcasing Chanakya’s designs to Italian fashion houses. The relationship has deepened since then, and Chiuri chairs the advisory board for the foundation and collaborates with Swali and the Chanakya School of Craft for artistic projects.

“We try to absorb as many graduates as possible in our atelier,” says Swali, referencing the 1,300 women who have passed through its programme since its inception. Others have gone on to start their own small businesses or work at different ateliers as seamstresses and artisans. Chanakya is SA8000 certified, meaning that its artisans are paid a “living wage” rather than minimum wage. This also means that it’s easier for students to balance multigenerational caregiving responsibilities with the hours required to receive certification. Students are given small honorariums to travel to and from their classes, which are free and can be taken either in the morning or the afternoon.

Swali funds the school using revenue from the design and manufacturing arms of the Chanakya International business. This is a worthwhile investment, as the training courses also double as talent incubators. She is adamant that these courses aren’t just intended to churn out technically proficient workers; they also form creatives who go on to build careers within the Chanakya atelier. “The way these women feel about themselves, once they see what they can make, once they see their work on a global stage – they really are artists,” she says. “They become custodians of these crafts. It’s incredible to see the change in them.”

The Chanakya atelier and corporate headquarters are a 30-minute drive from the company’s school, even with Mumbai’s notorious traffic. This is the engine room of the business, employing more than 1,000 artisans to execute commissions from the world’s top luxury fashion houses. “My role has been about creating a new language,” says Swali. “Balancing the skill of an artisan, with the DNA of a house. That’s really what I’ve been doing for the past two and a half decades.”

Chanakya HQ houses an archive gallery behind a heavy wooden door; this is a fashion enthusiast’s dream setting. Here is a pink netted Lanvin dress, fresh from the runway; a spangled Gucci gown that dances even in situ; a Dior frock that Natalie Portman once wore on the red carpet. Couture sits alongside retrieved historical artefacts, from mirror-worked petticoats (common to the northern states of Rajasthan and Haryana), to double-ikat weaves from Andhra Pradesh. The works are handled with deep precision and care, so even one stitch askew is noticeable. This is why the artisans of the past always included a single mistake in their work: perfection was said to be reserved for the gods.

A corseted gown, in what looks like, from afar, a pure silver thread, is one of the most intriguing pieces in Chanakya’s archives. On closer inspection, it is constructed entirely by an intricate network of filigree lace, woven by hand using a technique called chaand jaal. The gown demonstrates the unparalleled expertise of the school’s artisans, made using the precise geometry of the traditional Indo-Islamic style, though using a lighter and more durable alloy thread than the original 18th-century designs. These innovations are the work of Chanakya’s substantial merchandising and research teams, who travel the country studying craft traditions and reinterpreting them for modern wear.

This unique creation first took to the runway as part of Dior’s pre-autumn 2023 show, which was held in front of Mumbai’s Gateway of India. The show marked the first at this historic location, thrusting the city into the collective global fashion consciousness. Local and global fashion luminaries were welcomed by a vast toran, the typical fabric door hanging in Hindu households across India, enlarged by Chanakya to reach 14 metres tall. Hundreds of students and master artisans were given creative license to experiment with patchwork creation’s design. “All of them used their own symbols of good luck,” says Swali. “We just let them create – and we ended up with this masterpiece.”

Chanakya’s work has also infiltrated the art world thanks to this increased visibility. Women at the School of Craft were commissioned to weave large multi-textile maps for En Route, an art show at the Vatican’s library until 2025 that celebrates women who have made incredible voyages through history. In 2024, Chanakya collaborated with painters Manu and Madhvi Parekh for a piece at the 60th Venice Biennale titled “Cosmic Garden”, which renders the Parekh’s watercolour designs in layered thread work on canvas. Most recently, Dior Couture dressed the set of its spring-summer 2025 runway show with a series of awe-inducing Chanakya-made tapestries, depicting the artworks of Rithika Merchant.

But fashion remains Chanakya’s bread and butter, with its atelier working to the beat of the global fashion calendar. The school doesn’t tend to cater to Indian luxury houses, most of which have their own in-houseateliers. Instead, its business comes from the West, with European brands increasingly looking to Chanakya’s ability to marry Indian craftsmanship with modern luxury aesthetics.

The team makes eight or nine collections a year, presenting swatches of new fabric designs to fashion houses in countries such as Italy, France, the UK and the US. Sometimes houses will come to Chanakya with mood-boards for their forthcoming shows. The process also works in reverse. “I was searching for ‘best in field’ for hand embroidery,” says Amber Keating, the founder of Common Hours, an Australian label known for its bold designs that are printed and embroidered onto heavy silk. At Chanakya, she found makers who were able to meet her vision for an “extreme abundance of detail”, employing a combination of Indian and Western techniques – including knots, macramé ties and layered embroidery – to create pieces that are tactile and full of movement. “Every piece is unique,” she says.

Collaboration and collectivism is certainly at the heart of the school. Swali wasn’t just handed the keys to the family business: before she started at Chanakya, she undertook a craft documentation at her father’s behest, tracking craft traditions in polar points of the coun- try. It was a lesson in understanding the interreliance of communities. “In Hinduism, there’s the idea of ‘purusha’,” says Swali. “It’s about being a small part of a whole, of the inherent interconnection of everything. That’s what I wanted to bring to Chanakya.”

It’s an unusual way to approach craftsmanship, particularly in India, where creative contributions of the artisans themselves are often overlooked, considered instead as the technical arms that manifest the vision of a designer. But here, there’s a heavy emphasis on creativity and vision – not least in the work of the women at the School of Craft. “They’re very impressive,” says Hanif Jamader, master artisan at Chanakya, who has been trained in craft since he was eight years old. “We try to teach them what we know but they’re creative in unusual ways. We learn from them too.” Jamader is an expert at drawn thread work, a particularly finicky embroidery style where threads are pulled from the warp and weft of the fabric to create mathematically precise designs that collapse if just one thread is pulled incorrectly.

This level of expertise, along with a taste for adventure and creative experimentation, has turned Chanakya into one of the luxury industry’s most sought-after manufacturing partners; its delicate, hand-embroidered creations fly from Milan to Paris to New York for season after season. “I haven’t travelled,” says Jamader. “But seeing the pictures of our designs around the globe, I feel like the world is coming to Chanakya.”