ISSUE 14: Woven With Care
On the quiet sophistication of straw, raffia, and other summer textures.
There’s a moment every year—usually sometime in May—when suddenly, nothing feels right except straw. Or raffia, or jute, or some kind of tightly wound plant fiber that’s been twisted, looped, and coaxed into form by hand. All the sleek leather and heavy denim of colder months start to feel like too much. Too loud. Too close. And instead, the eye craves texture. Air. Breathability. An open weave.
The shift isn’t just about weather. It’s a shift in rhythm. Straw has its own pace. Raffia refuses to rush.
These materials have ancient roots. Raffia is derived from the fronds of the raffia palm, native to tropical regions of Africa and Madagascar. For centuries, it’s been used in everything from ceremonial garments to basketry and architectural thatching. Straw, similarly, has a history in both utility and adornment—woven into hats to keep sun off the face, but also into intricate objets and delicate embroidery.
These fibers carry a long memory. They speak of craftsmanship, of repetition, of making something beautiful from the humblest of sources. They're not loud materials. They’re not high-shine or high-drama. But they’re loaded with time, and time, in the context of taste, is always a flex.
What I love about straw and raffia is their duality: they’re unpretentious and undeniably luxurious. Not in the gilded, high-gloss way, but in the way that signals ease. Freedom. Leisure. The kind of luxury that comes from knowing you have nowhere to be except exactly where you are.
Rattan and straw furniture—like the Marcel Breuer–designed Cesca chair—have long been symbols of this subtle elegance. In fashion, we see it in the cult of the woven summer bag, where even the most minimalist brands release their version every year. Gabriela Hearst said, “I believe the future of luxury is going to be about materials,” and I think that’s especially true when the materials are drawn directly from the earth. There’s something deliciously radical about making beauty from a leaf.
It’s worth noting that these materials are not passive. They require work. Raffia must be stripped, dried, softened, dyed, then worked—over hours, sometimes days—into its final shape. Each stitch, each weave, is deliberate. It’s a kind of visible patience, a record of care.
Straw also has a sense of transformation that I find poetic. It begins as agricultural waste—disregarded, trampled—and becomes something delicate and architectural. Something that holds shape and shelters. Louise Bourgeois once said, “Art is a guarantee of sanity.” I think straw is a guarantee of grounding. It reminds us to slow down, to pare back, to appreciate texture for texture’s sake.
This is the beauty of straw, raffia, and their many cousins: they hold space without trying to impress. They suggest you’re in on something quieter, subtler. That you understand summer is not about spectacle, but about air. Movement. Lightness.
In a culture that prizes sheen and speed, these materials whisper a different value: stillness. Process. The richness of things that take time.
This week’s goodies: sun-washed textures and perfectly imperfect pieces made from raffia and straw. Things that rustle when you touch them. Things that breathe. Things that remind you not to rush.
Next week: we turn to cotton—its softness, strength, and how this humble staple threads through both fashion and history.
