Today we’re going to play a little word game to set the tone for this fine Sunday (at least here on the Athenian Riviera) and guide us through the days, weeks and months ahead. Ready, readers? Here we go!

Lojel
This Hong Kong-based luggage brand might not (yet) have the fame of a bigger German label in the wheels business but just you wait. With a more competitive price point and a growing distribution network, the company is becoming recognised as a leader and innovator in the top-opening space. In simple terms, it means that you don’t have to look for a flat expanse to crack open your clamshell wheely. Instead, you can just zip it open from the top and avoid the explosion of socks, tees and undies while still saving on space – particularly in rooms that don’t have the dimensions or common sense to offer proper space for hard-side luggage.

Kikiya
If you find yourself in Tokyo now or over the coming months then make your way to the newish Takanawa Gateway City development and secure a perch at Kikiya. This 60-seat counter set-up reinvents the classic beef bowl with a selection of premium cuts and an array of accompanying dishes. They also pour a crisp, dry koshu white from Yamanashi. Go late when it’s a bit quieter and more relaxed.

Timsum
If you want a perfect table for eight outside in Nihonbashi that pairs great wines with dim sum and excellent service, then ring up and reserve. For now the crowd is local, so avoid over-sharing this little tip.

Margot
This is a woman who deserves the Monocle Service Award for Diplomacy, Enforcement and Charm. On my Etihad flight from Tokyo to Abu Dhabi on Wednesday evening, Margot (a Filipina flight attendant of the old school) was taking no prisoners when it came to inconsiderate passengers watching their HBO shows without headphones or chatting to colleagues as if they were working from home. Thanks to Starlink and ever-faster connectivity on board, digital indecency is likely to become a bigger in-flight flashpoint than drunken British hen parties to Portugal.

6-0
On Friday, an Emirati gentleman of senior rank came up to me to offer a word of thanks. “Thank you my Canadian brother for thumping Qatar.” It even came with a fist bump.

Lisbon 
By now you will have seen that the Portuguese capital will play host to the 10th edition of our Quality of Life Conference and the stunning Gulbenkian will be the backdrop. The conference is timed to work with North American Labo(u)r Day and we’ll be opening up the best of the city as we bring the sharpest minds to the stage for discussion of what makes for the best possible life in urban centres, whether massive or mid-size. All your favourite editors will be onstage and possibly in swimwear for a side trip down to Comporta.

Astir Beach
Need a jolt to get into your summer groove? I can recommend a set of loungers at the Astir Beach Club in Vouliagmeni, south of Athens. The staff are polite and fast, the guests mostly local and the sea superb. You can even stay at The Ilisian (check our wares and those from our brother company Trunk at The Store at The Ilisian) and pop down for the day for some sunshine and assyrtiko.

And on the topic of retail, three letters for you: ZRH. We’re back for the summer season at Zürich Airport – right outside the main Swiss business class lounge.

Enjoying life in ‘The Faster Lane’? Click here to browse all of Tyler’s past columns.

In the town of Avilés, northern Spain, a collection of eight large-scale voile fabrics printed with blue cyanotypes hangs in a former fish market. Fittingly for the marine setting, one of the fabrics shows the silhouette of a pile of prawns. The artist behind the installation, Agnes Essonti, says the image draws from her ancestry in Cameroon – named by 15th-century Portuguese conquistadors after camarões (prawns) for the region’s abundance of shellfish.

Barcelona-based Essonti is among the 40-plus artists exhibiting in Spain’s new Bienal Climática, an exhibition on view until 20 September that seeks to connect contemporary art with ecological and industrial issues. Ingredients such as cocoa, sugar cane and okra also feature in Essonti’s project, which she says relates to how food is “affected by the eco-social crisis that we’re going through”. 

The new climate biennial was thought up by Atelier ITD, a Madrid-based foundation that develops collaborative projects around issues including the environment, employment and demographic change. Atelier ITD secured €1m in funding from the Spanish government to produce the new event, which it sees as part of Avilés’s wider regeneration, and hopes to reach some 90,000 visitors across its three-month span.

“Art has a role to play in times like these,” says artistic director Amanda Masha Caminals, who curated existing work and artworks in progress to fit the exhibition’s themes, which include weather phenomena, industrialisation and the emotional aspects of ecological transition. Artists have also been chosen to participate in residencies that will produce new works for the biennial. The showcase unfolds across 13 venues spread out across Avilés and nearby areas – many of which are current or former industrial sites. Future iterations of the biennial are planned for other Spanish cities. 

Home to approximately 75,000 inhabitants, Avilés is the third-largest municipality in the principality of Asturias. The 1950s and 1960s saw a boom of industries such as steel, zinc, aluminium and glass. It drew workers from across Spain but also turned Avilés into one of Europe’s most polluted cities. “Industry sacrificed the city’s identity,” says Mayor Mariví Monteserin Rodríguez. “It devastated the environment, degraded the air and river, and hid the city’s heritage under a layer of dirt.”

Several local artists engage with this legacy while incorporating Asturian folklore and agricultural traditions. At Factoría Cultural (a former clothing factory), Avilés-born Alba Matilla’s video-projection triptych was inspired by a local legend about a mystical fog that engulfed helpless wanderers. She has reimagined the fog as industrial smoke billowing from factories. At Palacio de Camposagrado, an installation by Sara García features dresses decorated with tear-shaped bread, while a video shows bread offerings being ceremonially placed in nature to highlight how this staple has been polluted by chemically assisted mass production. 

Over the past couple of years, Avilés has been part of an initiative to decarbonise industrial manufacturing across several midsize European cities. For the biennial, it was important to make sense of the transition through art while acknowledging how much industrial manufacturing has shaped the city. “Industry is a source of pollution”, says Masha Caminals, “but it is also part of the identity and sustenance of many people in this region.”

To connect with the city’s industrial identity, the biennial set up one of its displays in steel company Arcelormittal’s training centre. Asunción Molinos Gordo’s textile wall piece, made of 52 species of sheepswool, questions the notions of purity that underpin modern agriculture, economy and society. Works by Elena Lavellés and Olmo Cuña consider the transition towards green hydrogen, while Gabriela Bettini’s painting focuses on an open-cast copper mine on the border between Chile and Bolivia that has deteriorated the land’s topography. The same venue also hosts artists from outside Spain, including Singapore’s Priyageetha Dia, who explores rubber plantations in Southeast Asia, and Jordan-born Lawrence Abu Hamdan, who looks at Israeli wind farming projects in Golan Heights, Syria.

A similar event, Klima Biennale Wien, launched in Vienna in 2024. Such initiatives diverge from the conventional biennial model, which is now notorious for its heavy carbon footprint. The model was “built for a different era”, privileging spectacular displays and international movement without considering their impacts, says the director of the Austrian event, Sithara Pathirana. Changing the system also entails more than exhibiting environment-related art: “If the content is about ecological transformation, the container has to change too,” says Pathirana. “Otherwise it’s just greenwashing with better wall texts.”

Bienal Climática, however, doesn’t claim to pressure anyone into closed conclusions. “It’s not a lobby,” explains Masha Caminals. “It’s a meeting place between agents who probably wouldn’t cross paths otherwise.” By engaging on a local level and celebrating contemporary artists’ capacity for envisioning alternative futures, the initiative is out to show how culture can contribute to a city’s ecological changes. “Art won’t give us magical solutions,” the artistic director continues. “It can’t erase conflicts – but it can give us the tools to inhabit them together.”
bienalclimatica.org

As summery music goes, Káryyn has the kind of glacier-cool falsetto that could help to bring down the temperature. In her pop songs, R&B and glitchy beats meet soaring vocals, experimental electronics and 3D sonics, like an ice sculpture splintering into shards only to fuse back together with the listener at the centre. 

Káryyn’s refreshing style has won over heavyweights of the avant-garde. Her 2019 debut album, The Quanta Series, explored her American-Armenian-Syrian heritage and she has just released her second, Physics Universal Love Language (PULL). Its songs are inspired by Buddhism, neuroplasticity, works by folklorist Alan Lomax and Princess Peach from the Super Mario Brothers video-game franchise. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg: a thread of female empowerment runs through her work. It’s complex, Káryyn explains while sitting in a London café, having just arrived from Los Angeles and often breaking into song to illustrate her point. “Brevity is a book that I need to read,” she says.  

PULL took nearly two decades to finish. It has a stellar cast of collaborators, including producers James Ford, Hudson Mohawke and mix engineer Marta Salogni. They helped to fine-tune the album’s layered sound, though Káryyn is also the album’s executive producer. “It sounds the way it sounds because of me,” she says. It’s an intense, immersive listen. “I want everyone to be able to feel this.”

You started writing this album a long time ago. Was revisiting the songs like reopening an old diary?
I worked on this album for 16 years but it’s not [made up of] old songs. I collaborate with my past, present and future self every year. Why did it take so long? It just is what it is. What even is an album cycle, when songs that came out 10 years ago are going ‘boom’ [on Tiktok]. I believe that everything has its perfect timing. 

Your music is very visceral. How do you visualise it?
Every sound I hear has a texture or a colour. I’m now understanding that I have something called synaesthesia. I always feel this way. When someone has an emotion, I see the emotion. All I’m doing is painting with words, so every part of this production helps to serve what [the voice] is saying and feeling. 

There’s a lot of emotional intensity on this album. How far were you willing to go?
I am not afraid of being cringey. What I’ve made is for people who want to feel their emotions. That has to be the purpose of my life – not about being fabulous or being seen. I play a show and people tell me that they felt their feelings, that they could sit with what they couldn’t before. That’s it. 

Were you tempted to experiment with AI for this record?
Definitely not. This album is about being human. 

The styling in your album artwork is striking. What did you envisage?
Fashion tells a story on this album. I’m thinking a lot about the suffragette era and the 1800s, women selling their bodies and corsets. [The album is] about empowerment and becoming a grounded woman who owns her sexuality. She’s in control of it and she can reveal it. I wanted the revolutionary jacket because of the human revolution that I’ve gone through, from child to woman.

What else will you be wearing during the warmer months?
Erdem is a longtime obsession – that painterly romanticism with real structure underneath. Right now, I’m living in vintage silhouettes from the 1880s to 1910s and anything cut with a Japanese menswear sensibility. I lean toward a sculptural, deep-coloured wardrobe with a bit of armour to it. In the heat, my go-to is Parisian eyewear brand Izipizi, which is cheap and charming.

What kind of artist are you at home?
I am in my room reading. When I was younger, I was running around at all the shows. [These days] I’m in my room with my TVs. I’ve got a camera feeding [a] TV. I’ve got Blade Runner on [on another]. I like the hum of the DVD player. I’ve got my Nintendo 64 if I get bored. I love analogue stuff because it’s tactile. For me, it’s always been about this idea of the past, present, future of technology. It’s all interconnected.

What about your summer plans?
I’m splitting my time between London, Berlin and Yerevan, where I’ll be playing on 26 June. It’ll be a kind of homecoming, given my Armenian roots, so there’ll be family, mountains and a lot of long tables in the late light. 

And for summer listening, which records will you have on repeat?
Journey in Satchidananda, Alice Coltrane
Summer needs something devotional and weightless. This [album is] warm air made audible.

Keyboard Fantasies, Beverly Glenn-Copeland
It feels like driving with the windows down at dusk.

World of Echo, Arthur Russell
A cello, a voice and a lot of space. Intimate and a little oceanic, perfect for the hour between day and night.

And something from home: Nancy Ajram, always.

Last week, while catching up with a friend under the low lights of an east London restaurant, she suddenly announced that she had split up with her partner (writes Rory Jones). A four-year relationship, burned away with the quick intensity of flashpaper. I asked why. She played the hits: lack of communication, different life stages, et cetera. But then she added, “He also started consulting ChatGPT about everything, as though I had no answers or opinions.”

We managed to laugh but a lingering confusion plagued my journey home. Are people actually prioritising AI over their partners? Apparently, yes: it’s happening and the numbers are increasing. In Los Angeles, AI-related “virtual infidelity” is now cited as a contributing factor in three to five divorce cases a week.

I’m not an AI user and lament the idea that it is being used to cut corners in the creative arts – particularly writing. But when did some people start turning to chatbots instead of those around them to answer their everyday questions? What makes matters worse is that ultimately unnecessary musings such as “Why is the sky blue?”, “What’s the difference between a mongoose and a meerkat?” and “Where actually is Amarillo?” are incredibly resource-draining. AI data centres are consuming water at unprecedented scales. A recent Morgan Stanley report forecasts that they will drive annual water consumption to more than a trillion litres by 2028, an 11-fold increase on 2024 figures. It’s worth wondering how many prompts are genuinely productive.

ChatGPT and others might have instant access to a breadth of knowledge that your partner doesn’t. But my advice? Take them to dinner. Look them in the eyes. Ask them your pointless questions instead. Let them make up an answer and believe whatever they say, right or wrong. You might just save the planet as a result. Or, at least, your relationship.

Now, I wasn’t going to tell you this but I have to be honest with you, even if this tale does underline my reputation for misplacing just about anything. Here goes.

As the flight from Madrid to Montevideo reached its cruising altitude and the fasten-seatbelts sign was switched off, I set about organising my quarters for the next 12 hours. Pen, notebook and headphones were lined up to use. Next, I needed to charge my phone. But as I picked it up, it leapt from my grasp like a runaway mouse and darted through a gap at the side of the seat. At first, I could just see it resting upright on a little ledge but with just one touch of my pinkie finger it skedaddled out of sight, off to be the Perse-iPhone of the aircraft’s underworld.

It only took a minute for a steward to come and see why I was scrambling on the floor like Gollum while shouting “my precious!” Taking in the gravity of the problem, he secured from his colleagues a torch and a pair of tongs usually used to take reheated chicken from the ovens in the galley kitchen. A gentleman of some considerable height, he lay on the floor to try and literally shine some light on the situation. He attempted a recumbent poking investigation with his tongs. However, as he stood up, he had a look on his face that, if he were a doctor about to give his diagnosis, would make you think that you should get your affairs in order.

He reassured me, however, that the issue would now be reported to the captain who would message ahead to Montevideo. The plane would not be allowed to make its return journey until my phone was freed from its subterranean lair. I suddenly wondered how watertight my travel insurance was because it would be hard to get the cost of a grounded airplane through on expenses.

Yet my steward was not the sort of person who shied from a challenge. Every 20 minutes or so I would spot him back lying on the floor next to me and sporting yet another potential extraction tool. One time he came with a litter picker but it was too fat to wedge under the seat. Later, I stirred from a nap to find him waggling a coat hanger beneath my perch. Sadly, another failure. There was an attempt at pulling up the carpet with the aid of some teaspoons. I tried to assist but just buckled the cutlery and, anyway, he seemed reluctant to accept the assistance of someone who had already caused enough problems for one flight.

By now all the crew seemed to have heard the story of the man in 4A and soon a more seasoned steward arrived to offer his services. He confidently flipped up the cushioning on my seat and dived into the void below by dangling over the backrest, while his tall colleague held on to his calves to prevent him vanishing into the underworld. My issue was by now capturing the attention of all around – passengers pausing their movies. I tried to look nonchalant. But still, no phone.

Next, with the aid of a screwdriver, the senior steward removed part of the seat’s undercarriage. He located a runaway water bottle, a pair of men’s reading glasses, a supermarket-worth of mini biscuits and chocolates and a mariachi band that had vanished on a flight to Mexico City some months ago. Yet still, no phone.

Then I had my first bright idea. I had signed in to the wifi before take-off, so if my travelling companion and co-worker Rebecca phoned me, perhaps the screen would light up, revealing where it was secreted under the tangle of cables and machinery. It worked. My phone sent out an illuminated rescue signal.

The steward surgeons set to work with new hope in their hearts while I stood in the aisle offering words of encouragement and occasional updates to the cabin.

One gent wrapped gaffer tape, sticky side out, around his hand in a bid to make the phone attach itself to his fingers. But he was a little too big to get far enough under the seat. Step forward Rebecca. Under she went. “I can see it!” she exclaimed. “What I need now is a pen,” she added like a heart surgeon asking for a scalpel. A moment later, “I’ve got it!”

And out she backed, phone held aloft. There were high-fives between the four of us. Hugs too. We were as elated as rescuers who managed to bring a lost miner back to the earth’s surface. “We were a team!” said the more senior steward, before looking at Rebecca and conceding, “But you scored the goal.” All saw me less as the star striker and more as an aged cheerleader. Sadly, I had no pompoms to hand.

So next time you settle into an airline seat, remember that beneath you lies a miniature archaeological dig. Also, never let go of your phone, unless you want to cause an engineering incident at 40,000 feet.

For more of Andrew’s columns, click here.

When James Lee McQuown started running along Seoul’s Han river some 15 years ago, pedestrians, speed-walkers and casual joggers were his main company. In recent years, however, the South Korean-American model, DJ and co-founder of Private Road Running Club (PRRC) has seen running grow into a cultural phenomenon. “At any time of day, regardless of the weather, there are people out there running,” he says. “When Koreans do something, they really commit to doing it well.”

The Korea Times reports that the number of citizens who run for fun has reached 10 million, an amount that has roughly doubled since 2015. The number of marathons is increasing too, while running tourism is on the rise and spending at speciality shops has grown 216 per cent over the past two years. The running wave has also sparked debate about the use of public space, leading the Seoul Metropolitan Government to promote “runtiquette” – a portmanteau of “running” and “etiquette” – and local municipalities to enact measures to reduce disruption to daily life.

Companies from a range of sectors are seizing the moment. Convenience store chain CU’s Running Station in Yeouido has proved so successful that the concept has been rolled out to 18 other branches along the Han river. The flagship model adds lockers, changing rooms and fridges stocked with energy gels, protein drinks and sportswear to CU’s standard retail space. Demand for products linked to exercise and health data has even led Shinhan Bank to offer preferential interest rates to runners and incentivise them to record their daily mileage.

McQuown established PRRC in 2013, which has since helped to pave the way for ever-growing numbers of crews and clubs. “It’s a community for not only running but also Korean culture across the board,” he says. This is reflected in the approach of many international brands seeking a foothold in the Korean market. Swiss brand On’s events, for example, have ranged from running-posture workshops and fartlek training to meditation in a classical concert hall, while Michigan-based footwear maker Merrell has trekked to Inwangsan mountain for a landscape drawing class. 

“Rather than simply going for a run and being done with it, people are looking for something extra to add to the experience,” says Hiromichi Tanaka, head of marketing for Goldwin Korea. Since opening its largest flagship in Seoul’s Dosan Park in February, the Japanese outdoor brand has convened fieldwork events to deepen engagement. Preparation, performance and recovery were the themes of a recent programme featuring a road-to-trail run and tea ceremonies, inviting participants to recognise subtle changes within their body and the surrounding environment. 

While international names are making their mark, Korean brands are also carving out a niche of their own with pieces designed for discerning runners. Founded by Euijae Lee in 2011, Cayl has grown into a fully fledged outdoor brand producing everything from roll-top packs to shorts. “It’s now common to hit the trails on your lunch break or join group runs at shops or cafés,” says Lee. “The outdoors have seamlessly blended into people’s daily routines, leading to diverse products and rising consumer standards. Brands must now work harder than ever.”

By-elections, in the British context, are constituency elections that occur outside general elections. They are most often occasioned by the death, retirement or resignation in disgrace of the sitting MP and are usually of interest only to the voters of the district in question – unless the reasons for the resignation in disgrace have been noteworthily picturesque. 

Yesterday’s by-election in Makerfield, Greater Manchester, was an exception. Makerfield’s voters were likely choosing the UK’s next prime minister. The constituency’s previous MP, Labour’s Josh Simons, stepped aside in May to allow long-serving Greater Manchester mayor Andy Burnham to seek the seat in the House of Commons necessary for the launch of a bid for the top job.

That first hurdle has now been cleared and with room to spare – Burnham convincingly saw off his nearest opponent, Robert Kenyon of far-right populists Reform UK. Burnham was helped by the fact that Kenyon was deeply unimpressive, even by the lackadaisical standards of the party that he represented, and that Makerfield’s seething oddball vote was split between Reform UK and its even more feral analogues, Restore Britain. Burnham has been a popular and effective mayor, hence the hopes at large within Labour that he might be able to do for the country what he has done for one of its cities. 

There will now probably be – and in pretty short order – a challenge to the prime minister, Keir Starmer, for the leadership of the Labour Party. Starmer has vowed to defend his position but he will likely lose it to Burnham, who will take charge of a party with a huge majority in the House of Commons. As such, Burnham will be duly asked by King Charles III to form a government and will become the UK’s seventh prime minister in just over a decade. Another general election is not due until August 2029; Burnham would have three years to prepare. 

These will be three important years. Defeat in Makerfield notwithstanding, Reform UK leads in national polls. Though surveys suggest that some 64 per cent of British voters disapprove of Reform UK’s leader, Nigel Farage, he remains on track to follow Burnham into 10 Downing Street. Burnham might be the last bulwark against the UK emulating the US’s ongoing experiment in turning its governance over to a cabal of clowns, cranks, quacks and grifters.

If any analysis of the Makerfield result is, by definition, a first draft of Starmer’s political obituary, it should at least be noted that his career, which seems to be ending in proverbial failure, can boast one considerable and commendable success. When he became leader of the Labour Party in 2020, it had been out of power for a decade, losing four consecutive general elections – the previous two under Jeremy Corbyn, a backbench barnacle around whom a peculiar cult of personality had coalesced (Corbyn, still an MP, was expelled from the party in 2024 and has resumed doing what he has always most enjoyed, striking vainglorious poses in the service of lost causes and bickering with his fellow left-wingers). Turning Labour back into a plausible party of opposition, then a party of government, in just four years was no meagre accomplishment.

If Makerfield is the beginning of the end for Starmer, he is entitled to feel somewhat aggrieved. Measured on the issues about which British voters profess to be most vexed, he is delivering. Net migration has been reduced, ditto the unsanctioned crossing of the English Channel in small boats. National Health Service waiting lists, though objectively horrendous (there are more than six million people in the queue), are down from their peak and much the same could be said of inflation. Energy prices are up but Starmer wasn’t the one who started a war in the Persian Gulf – and he was the one who ultimately decided that the UK would not, as it usually does, play Sancho Panza whenever the US’s Don Quixote lowers its lance at a Middle Eastern windmill. 

But this is not how politics works, less so than ever in a modern media environment that is ill designed to flatter an earnest, awkward, methodical lawyer in his mid-sixties. Labour will probably turn to Burnham because he is liked, or at least less disliked than anybody else available.

Art Basel is under way and accompanying the artworks on the walls are some shiny new plaques that form part of an initiative called Basel Exclusive. The idea is simple: in a bid to encourage attendees to see art in person, galleries are required to withhold select artworks from the digital previews that they send to buyers. These pieces are then unveiled on the opening day. At Berry Campbell Gallery, the chosen work is a striking, abstract blue-and-yellow painting by Grace Hartigan, priced at $750,000 (€653,000). “It’s like a treasure hunt,” says co-founder Christine Berry when describing the initiative. “This adds a little game to the art-fair experience.”

Whether you praise or lament the gamification of the commercial art fair, Basel Exclusive is a sign that this event, now in its 56th year, is willing to try new things. Also debuting at Art Basel is Zero 10, a new section dedicated to digital artworks and curated by US artist Trevor Paglen. The bleeps, bloops and flashing lights that greet you on entering Zero 10 are a far cry from many of the works on show in the main part of the fair. Among those already sold is Canadian artist Rafael Lozano-Hemmer’s “Pulse Agglomerate”, a biometric piece (worn by a performer during the event) made up of wearable armature to which string lights are attached. Each light represents the pulse of a different person, including heartbeat recordings taken from people in Ukraine. It’s an intriguing, sensitive work that has now been acquired by a private foundation from Kharkiv.

In contrast, sales in the main hall are being driven by pieces from artists such as Pablo Picasso, Gerhard Richter and Willem de Kooning. Most galleries seem to be playing it safe. Considering the volatility of the global art market and the increasing pressure on the mega-gallery model – US behemoth Pace announced that it was downsizing earlier this month – who can blame them? 

Basel Social Club remains the place to see (and ponder purchasing) the fair’s most radical artwork. This year the nomadic commercial event has taken over a labyrinthine, vacant office block, with the space transforming into a nightclub that closes at 03.00. When Monocle arrives for a sneak peek ahead of its public opening, a performance artist is practising dance moves in the underground carpark. Clad only in platform heels and underwear, their writhing movements and Yoko Ono-like screaming suggests that we are in the right place for a taste of the offbeat. 

A sense of freshness might be difficult to feel in the halls of the Messeplatz but it is reassuring to discover it at satellite fairs around the city. The world’s most significant commercial art fair is a little safe but it’s also steady. And that’s more than many in this industry could have hoped for. 

Sophie Monaghan-Coombs is Monocle’s associate culture editor. For more opinion, analysis and insight, subscribe to Monocle today.

When you’re the descendant of pioneering polar explorer Roald Amundsen, outdoor adventure is less of a calling and more of a birthright. Jørgen Amundsen leaned into his familial connection (his great-grandfather was Roald’s cousin) to found Amundsen Sports in 2009. The Norwegian brand draws inspiration from textiles and techniques used during the senior Amundsen’s era to make clothing and gear for modern-day outdoor sports. 

The outdoor-clothing industry relies heavily on synthetic fibres but Amundsen Sports has carved out a space for natural fabrics. The company sources most of its material from small manufacturers in the UK and Europe: waxed cotton from Scotland; wool from Austria; corduroy from France. Today most rainwear is made from laminated plastic but Amundsen Sports uses Ventile in its collections, a water-resistant cotton constructed from densely woven fibres. The material doesn’t disintegrate in the same way as synthetics, meaning that it can withstand years of use.

Monocle spoke with Jørgen Amundsen about the origin of his brand, how it has positioned itself in the industry and the value of wearing silent clothing. This conversation has been edited for clarity and length.

How did your connection to Roald Amundsen impact your approach to the brand?
I’ve always been inspired by Roald Amundsen’s story – not only his feats but also his philosophies. He lived with the Inuits in the Arctic for three years, learning cold-weather survival, and combined that knowledge with the cutting-edge technology of his time. We apply a similar philosophy at Amundsen Sports by looking at how things were done in the past and asking: ‘What can we learn from that?’ We combine that approach with modern technology to create our products. 

What inspired you to launch Amundsen Sports?
When I was living in Switzerland, I struggled to find things that I needed for my outdoor lifestyle. It was impossible to get my hands on any wool. There were no good cotton anoraks. I couldn’t find wool ski sweaters. Everything was fleece; it was all plastic. It seemed like the whole industry had forgotten how things used to be and what has always worked. I wanted to do something about that.

How do you design clothing that draws on historical influence while meeting the needs of customers?
We always challenge ourselves to make clothes that we believe in, that are differentiated and that the market will hopefully understand. For 15 years, the knickerbocker trousers have been our flagship product. This is an item that everyone used to wear – hikers, hunters, skiers – but at some point it disappeared. We researched and tested why knickerbockers were superior to pants [and we found that] they offer more adaptability and mobility. If you wear them with gaiters, you are fully protected.

It wasn’t easy to launch with knickerbockers because people didn’t understand them. It took some education before they started taking off. Now, I would say there aren’t many Norwegian outdoor enthusiasts who don’t own a pair of Amundsen knickerbockers. We just have to do the same outside Norway.

Within your inventory, what’s the perfect example of a natural textile that you believe outperforms synthetics?
We have a collection of cotton mountainwear sewn in Ventile, which was invented in England during the Second World War. It only uses the top three per cent longest cotton fibers in the world. It’s very densely woven, so when it comes in contact with water or moisture, the weave swells and [the fabric structure] becomes more compact. It’s not waterproof but it’s highly water-resistant. The fabric is just so much more comfortable. It’s silent and it feels great on the skin. We use it to make jackets, anoraks, pants and knickerbockers.

You mentioned silence. How important is it that clothes don’t make noise?
Hearing the swishing of your garments as you move reduces the pleasure of being outdoors. We view silence as part of our products’ performance.

Are textiles and fabrics the most important part of Amundsen Sports?
The materials provide our products with versatility. It’s easy to wear technical clothing when you’re on the mountain but [when it’s made from] natural materials, you can wear them to a restaurant or the office too. [Natural materials] age so beautifully compared to synthetic [alternatives].

We also do some synthetics, including a three-layer ski suit. If you’re going to be outside for days on end and it’s raining, there are benefits to [synthetics]. But it won’t have the same lifespan. The lamination will wear off and then you have something that isn’t breathable, that isn’t silent, that isn’t waterproof. So, yes: you can say materials are the most important thing to us.

Given that the brand has a higher price point and is more niche, how do you strategise for growth?
We would not be successful if our business model focused on producing something cheap or by following trends. The only reason why we have had this strong growth is because we do our own thing. Being a small company, we don’t need everyone to like our products. But we are growing. Last year, we had a $50m [€43.05m] turnover, which sounds small but that’s coming from zero 15 years ago.

You have shops in Norway, the US and Verbier. How does retail factor into your plans for growth? 
We want to continue opening shops in Europe and the US. [These locations] are very important for us; it’s where the customer can really understand the whole brand. We want to follow our customers where they are. They don’t live under a stone in the mountains – they have normal lives in cities. Our e-commerce orders come from New York and London. We opened [a shop] in New York’s Nolita neighborhood four years ago. The natural next step is London. After a few recent visits, we’re still looking for the right location. But we’re hoping to open there this year.

The 110th edition of biannual menswear trade fair Pitti Immagine Uomo comes to a close today. Monocle has been on the ground at Florence’s Fortezza da Basso to take the industry’s temperature. Here are five observations from the fair.

1.
Whether or not it’s worth the time or money to set up a booth at Pitti is a frequent topic of discussion among brands. “We hadn’t been at Pitti for a few years but we decided to return to see how it has changed,” says Marin Corti, co-founder of St-Tropez-based resortwear brand Baindemer. “We make T-shirts out of wood and shorts out of superfine silk but it’s hard to stand out and to tell our story when all the booths look the same.” Some exhibitors professed frustration at the old-school Italian business mentality that pervades Pitti – namely, a reliance on putting pen to paper to make orders instead of using digital systems. But other exhibitors say that the trek to the Tuscan capital is worthwhile. “For us, this is always an important moment to make sales and meet new buyers,” a sales rep at London-based sunglasses brand Oscar Deen tells Monocle. “It’s a no-brainer to return year on year.” 

2.
If the lovingly (or perhaps derisively) named “Pitti peacocks” are anything to go by, it’s time to invest in a safari jacket. This summer the men preening for attention at the Fortezza da Basso and on the narrow streets of Florence have leaned into pocket-forward numbers, cinched in just so at the waist. We have our eye on a navy linen version by Manhattan-based menswear label J Mueser or Armani’s classic beige take. For those prepared to take their Pitti-inspired look to the next level, a straw boater hat by Herno, paired with a leather briefcase, is strongly encouraged. 

3.
The guest designer slot is always a highlight of the Pitti programme. This year, Irish designer Simone Rocha presents her first independent menswear collection at the event, following in the footsteps of Giorgio Armani, Jean Paul Gaultier and Yohji Yamamoto. Rocha’s work is best known for its whimsy, oversized proportions and intricate embellishments. Bringing this identity to menswear is an opportunity for Rocha to rise to a new challenge. 

4.
Away from the fashion capitals of Paris and Milan, there is talent brewing in Florence. On Monday evening, 20 graduates of Polimoda (the city’s highly regarded fashion school) presented the culmination of four years of studies at the Manifattura Tabbacchi. As with any student showcase, there were a variety of ideas on the runway. Ukrainian student Evelina Kryvopust’s collection was inspired by the archetype of the piano teacher. For Thai graduate Jirat Jitdee, the experience of moving from the countryside to Bangkok influenced shirts with loud prints and sarongs. Whether these students go on to start their own brands or find placements at luxury fashion houses, the next generation is coming prepared with fresh ideas. 

5.
In Florence, the undisputed master of ceremonies remains Brunello Cucinelli. The Italian septuagenarian’s Pitti dinners are a masterclass in the power of a great venue and generous portions of pasta. On Tuesday night, guests gathered in the cloisters of the Santa Maria Novella church (steps away from frescoes by Domenico Ghirlandaio and a Giotto crucifix) to toast his brand’s summer collection.