Chapter 10 - The Master's Floor
Five years later.
The summer sun shone brightly through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the newly constructed Vance-Ainslie Atelier in downtown Manhattan.
The building was three times the size of our old loft—a massive, state-of-the-art facility housing fifty seamstresses, pattern cutters, and young design apprentices from all over the world.
I stood on the second-floor glass mezzanine, looking down over the bustling design floor.
Below me, rows of long oak cutting tables were covered in vibrant silks, linens, and cashmeres. Young men and women, filled with the same desperate, passionate fire I had possessed fifteen years ago, worked side by side, learning the delicate art of hand-stitching and pattern drafting.
Catherine Mercer, now fully retired and serving as Chairwoman Emeritus, walked up beside me, leaning gently on her silver-tipped cane.
“Look at them,” Catherine smiled, looking down at the floor. “Half of them came here because they read your story in Vogue five years ago.”
“They came here because they love the craft, Catherine,” I replied smoothly. “We just give them the cutting table.”
A soft knock sounded behind us on the mezzanine door.
A young woman stepped out onto the glass walkway. She was about eighteen years old, wearing a simple, homemade linen dress, holding a sketchbook tightly against her chest. She looked terrified, her knuckles white.
“Mrs. Vance?” the girl stammered nervously. “I’m... I’m Maya. The new junior pattern cutting intern?”
I turned around, offering her a warm, welcoming smile. “Welcome to the atelier, Maya. Come in.”
Maya stepped closer, looking around the incredible space with wide, awe-struck eyes. “I... I brought my portfolio, but honestly, I made most of my pieces at home on my mother’s old machine. They’re pretty simple... not like real designer clothes.”
I walked over to her, reaching out to gently touch the hem of her handmade linen dress. The stitching was slightly uneven at the shoulder, but the drape was intuitive, creative, and full of heart.
I looked the young girl in the eye, my voice echoing clearly across the quiet loft.
“Never apologize for something made by hand, Maya,” I told her gently. “Anyone with a credit card can buy a label. But real style? Real value?”
May you like
I pointed down toward the busy design floor below, where fifty seamstresses were bringing dreams to life with needle and thread.
“Real value is built from the ground up—one stitch at a time.”
