A modern object, an ancient gesture.
A city where it begins, a city where it ends. Every piece starts as a mark on paper in Istanbul; a colour, a symbol, an idea not yet ready to be named. Then it travels west, to Spanish families who have shaped fans with their hands for generations.
By hand
Wood becomes rib: cut, thinned, sanded until it forgets it was ever rough. The leaf is pleated fold by fold, pressed into a memory it will hold forever after; so that one day, opened, it moves like a breath being taken.
The rest
Some of it is skill, and some of it is instinct; the kind that only comes from doing something with your hands for years, not from being told how. It's less a secret than a feeling: the sense that a little mystery was always part of the making.
everyday objects, rooted in ancient rituals.
