Robin draws the shape. Anne gives it a body.
In Breda, Anne and Robin make furniture that looks like it wandered in from a gallery, and wall pieces that feel like they grew there. Any Way the Wind Blows, the studio they founded together in 2023, is what happens when a graphic designer and an illustrator decide to stop working on screens and start working with their hands.
The process is precise and a little unpredictable, which is exactly how they like it. Robin designs. Anne translates into material. Hand-sawn wooden blocks, individually upholstered, assembled into bold compositions. No two pieces the same. Then felt arrived and softened the whole operation: less control, more trust, more life in the edges.
Their color palette is fixed. Terracotta appears often. Pink always finds a way in. The shapes are graphic, the surfaces are tactile, and the gap between the two is where the work lives.
Long-term vision: large-scale textile installations. The wind, apparently, has bigger plans.
"Make it yourself. Let the wind decide where it lands."
The Makers : portraits in words
Two people, one studio, zero compromises. Worth sharing with someone who makes things too.… →
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Somewhere between the magnesium glycinate and the cold plunge protocol, someone forgot to mention that knitting lowers your heart rate, slows your breathing, and drops your cortisol.
Cansu of No 8 Atölye worked in finance until one ordinary weekday afternoon when all she wanted was to step outside and feel the sun on her skin.
Before the skein, before the pattern, before the stitch: a sheep standing in a field, wearing exactly the color your living room needed.
Ambistitcherous. /am-bih-STITCH-er-us/. Adjective.
The 1970s are back and they brought the lace doilies, the oversized crochet vests, the big retro wall weavings, and the bell-sleeve cardigans with them.
It starts innocently. One cupboard. One basket.
Michelle Maclise wanted to work for Walt Disney. That version never arrived.
Estate sales. Charity shops. Online classifieds. Fiber arts communities.
Lanuginous. /luh-NEW-jih-nus/. Adjective. Covered in fine, soft down.
Brioche is a two-row repeat: knit, yarn-forward, slip. That's it.
That idea you keep talking about with your friend? It's time to do something with it.
Hand-sawn, upholstered, assembled. No two pieces the same. No blueprint either.
Wine tourism built an entire industry on the idea that knowing where something comes from makes it taste better.
Charts aren't a different language. They're a shorter one.
Late, mid-story, already laughing. She's the reason you stayed. She derails everything. She makes everything better.
She builds the frame, sets the grid, then lets the paint disrupt everything.
Start with what you already have. A glass bottle, a ceramic vase, a found object with a good silhouette. Yarn does not need to start from nothing.
You spent hours on it. The fabric is beautiful. The stitches are even.
It starts innocently. A pattern calls for DK weight and suddenly you're standing in a yarn shop holding a merino in one hand and a cotton in the other, wondering what you actually believe.
The most countercultural thing you can do right now fits in a project bag.
A van, a punch needle, and half a year on the road. Now: Italian mountains.
Every pattern you've ever knitted started as someone's hunch. A stitch combination, a silhouette, a color sequence that wouldn't leave them alone.
The selvedge is the self-finished edge of woven fabric, born when the weft thread turns back on itself and says, that's enough, I've got this.
The pattern that works in every room and every craft.
When the forecaster talks, the fiber world listens. Wool is having a moment. The sheep knew first.
There is something almost comic about asking an algorithm for help with crafts that predate electricity by several thousand years.
Dorothy Offeciers once left her knitting bag on the metro on purpose. She was done with it.
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MODERN YARN STORIES
Real Stories. Real Patterns. Ideas YOU’ll want to make.