Pastorale takes its name from one of humanity's oldest daydreams, the pastoral: a life lived close to the land. Days measured in light rather than hours. A world imagined a little softer than the one we've built. 

The longing is ancient. Hesiod dreamed up a golden age when people lived in easy harmony with nature; Theocritus later gave it verse, conjuring shepherds who wandered far from the noise of the city. The dream keeps returning. It resurfaced with particular flourish in the 17th century with a genuine turning point in what we now call modern fashion, when pastoral fantasy stopped being just a literary mood and became something you could fit to your skin. 

This collection lives inside that same delightful tug-of-war.

The 17th century's reverence for nature would later swell into Rococo's exuberance — nature rendered grand, ornamental, celebrated almost to excess — before settling into Neoclassicism's restraint at the century's end: nature distilled rather than decorated. Pastorale moves between these two impulses: the impracticality of romance and the practicality of daily life. Fabrics like silk carry that same long history: luxurious, ancient, resurging again and again alongside pastoral longing itself; set here against modern, practical construction. 

There's a charming ideation that pastoralism and childhood are really telling the same story. Both a wandering back toward some greener, gentler, unhurried place. Both are a return to something imagined as simpler, freer, and less corrupted by complexity. Pastorale takes that thought by the hand and follows it into the forest: clothes made for a child ambling after butterflies through an endless afternoon, dressed for the sheer luxury of time rather than any particular occasion.

Pastorale is a small, gleeful notion that childhood, left to its own devices in a field somewhere, shoes long since kicked off, still moves at exactly this pace.