I should note that I know not everyone can afford a $500 sweater. That's why my Black Friday post includes things such as this $80 J. Crew sweater. In the past, I've also written guides on how to to get top-of-the-line vintage Scottish cashmere knits on eBay for ~$50.
But since I appreciate craft and wish to see craftspeople be able to earn a living, I'm also happy to promote things that I think help keep these traditions alive.
So, why is this Chamula sweater $500? It's because of how it was made.
Most sweaters are made on flat bed or circular knitting machines. If the manufacturer is good, they'll hand-link the panels together so the finished product doesn't have a bumpy seam. When shopping, look for something called a "fully fashioned" sweater. It's a sign of quality.
The amount of industrial technology in this process allows you to buy a pretty good sweater for $200 or less. But there are also companies that produce sweaters the old fashioned way: by hand.
Chamula is one of those companies. Here is the brand's founder, Yuki Matsuda
Chamula uses Merino yarns sourced from pure bred sheep grazing on mountains in Mexico. These fibers are then hand-spun on spinning wheels and then hand-dyed into rich colors. The resulting yarns are given to indigenous Mexican knitters who hand-knit them into sweaters.
Does the amount of handwork make for a better sweater? Well, it depends on what you mean by "better."
Depending on the design, hand-knitting a sweater can sometimes produce intricate stitches not possible on a machine. Depending on the process, you can also get customization.
Flamborough Marine is one of my favorite producers for handknit sweaters. They make in a fisherman style known as the guernsey (sometimes spelled gansey), which has identical panels from front-to-back and features a high neck collar and dropped shoulder seams.
Daniel Day-Lewis once had a sweater made here. He said it was inspired by a fisherman knit once owned by his late father, Cecil Day-Lewis, and had a similar design made through Flamborough Marine. Rajiv Surendra also owns a sweater from the company.
These knits are itchy, dense, and wonderful. They function like windproof outerwear. Since each sweater is fully handmade and knitted upon order, you can ask for anything you want. When delivered, the sweater comes with a little card signed by your knitter.
Cost? About $625.
Chamula's sweaters are ready-made, not custom, and they're not as dense or windproof as Flamborough Marine's guernseys. Instead, the yarns are extremely plush and spongey; the low gauge means you get a slightly looser, more open knit.
I treat mine a little more delicately than I would, say, a standard machine-knit Shetland. But I love the unique texture they bring to an outfit. I also love that these were made by hand from start to finish by indigenous Mexican knitters carrying a craft tradition forward.
The $500 price reflects the time and skill that goes into these garments. Is hand-knitting better? Not necessarily, but if you fall in love with the process, perhaps you'll love and treat the knit with more care. And be more likely to repair and wear the sweater for a long time.
That said, I think you can appreciate something without wanting to own or purchase it. The price alone should not be reason for ridicule. Workers deserve fair pay, and even if you can't afford to buy something, you can appreciate that someone is laboring to keep a craft alive.
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Not true. Both Joe Biden and Gavin Newsom wear ready-to-wear or factor-made clothes produced on a block pattern.
I'll show you how I know. 🧵
First, what do you notice about this jacket?
For me, the glaring issue is how far the sleeve comes down.
In a 1966 essay titled "The Secret Vice," Tom Wolfe wrote about men obsessed with custom tailoring. He talked about "marginal differences" such as working buttonholes.
On first glance, you may be impressed but not know why.
The reason is deceptively simple: they hang pin straight. This is more obvious when you compare them to trousers that don't hang so cleanly.
It's not easy to get trousers to hang this straight. There are a few reasons for this.
First, if you were to take off all your clothes and look in the mirror (do this privately, not on the internet), you'll notice your body is not perfectly symmetrical.
As some may know, my family is from Vietnam. My parents fled Saigon shortly after the Tet Offensive, as bombs were falling around them and they weren't sure what was going to happen once the North Vietnamese took over the city.
When my dad left Vietnam, he wasn't able to take much with him — just some family photos of life back home, some clothes, and a 1960s Rolex Datejust he bought as a present for himself. Growing up, I always saw my dad wear this watch. It was basically part of his body.
Earlier this year, it was reported that JD Vance has a tailor in Cincinnati, Ohio. It was a charming story about an Italian immigrant named Romualdo Pelle, who has worked as a tailor since he immigrated to the US in 1960.
Watch the story very closely. What do you notice?
Those familiar with tailoring will see something very peculiar:
In the 19th century, gentlemen wore black frock coats or tailcoats with a white shirt and dark waistcoat. As the frock coat gave way to the suit, the white linen shirt — a mark of respectability and propriety — remained.
For much of the 20th century, this was the standard uniform of the American male that sat at any social station above blue collar. And even then, blue collar people often wore these clothes to churches and weddings.
A couple of weeks ago, Trump struggled with a broken umbrella as he boarded Air Force One.
Let me tell you how we got to this point — and the tragic downfall of the noble umbrella. 🧵
It's hard to imagine now, but it was once controversial for a man to carry an umbrella. The modern umbrella's progenitor, of course, is the parasol, which 18th century French women carried to preserve their light-colored skin (at the time, a mark of class and status).
British men considered the accessory too French, too foreign, and most importantly, too effeminate. That was until 1756, when Jonas Hanway, an upper-class philanthropist, started to carry a waterproofed version around London to protect himself from the rain.