MATiAS / STUDIO

Ideas come from different places. Sometimes it's a particular fabric, an interesting shape, or something I've observed that stays with me. Other times, it's simply the desire to explore something without knowing exactly where it might lead.

I've never approached design as a linear process. An idea might sit for months before finding its way into a garment. Others develop unexpectedly through the act of making.

Working directly in the studio allows me to explore those ideas as they emerge. There's very little separation between imagining something and attempting to make it. And often, it's during that process that the most interesting discoveries happen.

There's a great deal to admire in the history of garment making. The ingenuity, the utility, the craftsmanship. Certain designs have endured for generations, and for good reason.

But I've never felt particularly compelled to reproduce them.

I find myself questioning why certain elements have become so fixed. Why a particular arrangement of pockets, a method of construction, or an established silhouette should remain the standard simply because it's familiar.

I'm not interested in rejecting tradition. Nor am I particularly interested in reinterpreting it. I'd rather approach the problem from a different perspective altogether.

Sometimes that means removing something. Sometimes it means reconsidering the relationship between form and function, or allowing the construction itself to determine the shape.

I'm not trying to make something unconventional for the sake of it. I'm interested in discovering what happens when I stop treating convention as a requirement.

There's something almost miraculous about cloth.

The idea that a material can begin as something grown from the earth, transformed into fiber, spun into yarn, and woven into a textile is something I've never taken for granted. The ingenuity behind it, the knowledge passed down through generations, and the extraordinary complexity of what we often regard as an ordinary piece of fabric. To me, it's one of the great achievements of human making.

I've always been drawn to textiles with character. Unusual textures, unexpected weights, irregular surfaces, and materials that reveal something different as you begin working with them.

Over the years, my pursuit of exceptional textiles has taken me to Japan and Italy, while the materials I've worked with have come from places as varied as Spain, Mexico, and parts of Africa.

I remember visiting Nihon Menpu in Ibara, Okayama, watching the machinery at work and seeing the extraordinary care involved in turning yarn into cloth. Experiences like that deepen my appreciation for the knowledge, patience, and ingenuity behind the materials we so often take for granted.

As a small independent design house, access to these materials isn't always straightforward. Production minimums, limited availability, and the willingness of mills to accommodate smaller quantities can present challenges. But through persistence and relationships, I've been fortunate to work with producers who recognize the value of what we're trying to create.

Sometimes I begin with a particular design and search for the right cloth. Other times, a material becomes the inspiration for something entirely new.

There's a kind of alchemy in the relationship between material and design. A change in weight, structure, or drape can completely transform a familiar silhouette. And sometimes the most interesting discoveries happen when a fabric is used in a way it was never intended.

For me, cloth is never simply a material. It's the beginning of possibility.

The way a garment is constructed can be just as expressive as its silhouette. A particular seam, a subtle adjustment in stitch density, or the decision to fold and finish something by hand can influence the entire character of a piece.

I tend to favor traditional single-needle construction, hand-folded seams, and clean, carefully finished interiors. Even the number of stitches per inch, a subtle contrast in thread, or the way a seam is folded can change the character of a garment. These are decisions that may go largely unnoticed, but they're never incidental.

I'm particularly interested in the small details that give a garment dimension. A carefully placed tuck, an unexpected seam, or a slight adjustment in proportion can introduce shape and character without calling attention to itself.

Much of this happens directly on the studio floor. During development, I'll reconsider the shape of a pocket, recut a pattern piece, or change the way something is assembled as I see the garment taking form. I prefer to make these decisions with the work in front of me rather than treating the original drawing as something that cannot be changed.

There's a certain restraint in the way I approach construction. I want things to be considered, clean, and resolved, but never so precious that they lose their purpose.

Ultimately, a garment isn't finished simply because we've finished making it. It begins another life when someone puts it on. The way the cloth moves, softens, creases, and carries the marks of its wearer becomes part of the design itself.

There's something interesting about the idea of a finished garment. At what point is it actually finished?

Some pieces leave the studio raw and untouched. Others undergo washing, dyeing, abrasion, or treatments that alter their surface and character. Even the way a yarn is dyed before being woven can influence how a fabric reveals itself over time.

I'm fascinated by the different states of a material. Something new, something worn, something that already carries the appearance of a history. The contrast between a carefully constructed garment and the unpredictable ways it will eventually change.

Oxidation, fading, softened edges, and the gradual abrasion of cloth all become part of that evolution. What might traditionally be considered wear or imperfection can become something far more personal.

I think of these marks almost like memories. Small scars that record where a garment has been, how it has been worn, and the life of the person wearing it.

We can make decisions about how a garment begins its life, but we can't entirely determine what it will become.

And I like that. The person who wears it ultimately becomes part of the creative process.

Some of the most meaningful details are the ones you don't notice immediately.

There's a delicate balance in creating something understated and timeless while giving it an identity of its own. A subtle contrast, an unexpected button, or a tonal variation can change the entire feeling of a garment without drawing attention to itself.

Many of these decisions happen late in the process. After a garment has been washed or dyed, I can see how the cloth has changed, how the color has settled, and what it might need. A particular button, thread color, or finishing element can suddenly feel right—or entirely wrong.

I spend an extraordinary amount of time considering these things. Sometimes I'll introduce a small contrast to give a piece another dimension. Other times, I'll choose something nearly invisible. There's as much intention in what I leave out as in what I add.

I like the idea that certain details reveal themselves gradually. Something discovered after months of wearing a garment can become more meaningful than something immediately apparent.

Ultimately, I want these decisions to give each piece its own identity without imposing that identity on the person wearing it. The garment should feel complete, but still leave room for you to make it yours.

The goal has never been to make something that demands attention.

I'm more interested in creating garments that have a quiet confidence. Pieces with a distinct identity, but without the need to announce themselves. Something that feels relevant today without being defined by the moment in which it was made.

Restraint doesn't necessarily mean simplicity. Sometimes the most unconventional shapes require the greatest discipline. Knowing when to push an idea further, and when to leave it alone, is a balance I'm constantly working toward.

I want the clothing to feel natural on the person wearing it. To have presence without overwhelming them. The proportions, materials, and construction should work together, but ultimately it's the individual who gives the garment its personality.

There's something satisfying about seeing a piece worn in a way I hadn't imagined. It reminds me that once a garment leaves the studio, it no longer belongs entirely to my original idea.

If I've done my job well, the design becomes less about me and more about the person who chooses to live in it.

The studio has always been more than a place to make clothes.

It's where ideas are explored, mistakes are made, problems are solved, and the work continues to evolve. There are patterns scattered across tables, fabrics waiting to be cut, machines in constant use, and garments in various stages of completion. It's not always particularly organized, but there's a rhythm to it that I've come to appreciate.

Keeping design and production together has allowed me to remain closely connected to the work and the people who help bring it to life. It's a very hands-on environment, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Over the years, I've also come to appreciate the relationships that develop around the clothing. Meeting the people who wear MATiAS, hearing their stories, and seeing how they make the garments their own has become an important part of what I do.

Our studio in Gardena, California, is open to visitors by appointment. Whether you're interested in experiencing the collection in person, exploring the fabrics, or simply seeing where everything comes together, you're welcome to visit.

After all, there's something different about experiencing a garment in the place where it was made.