Saint-Tropez

The story

The bay at seven in the evening

A harbour that never hurried

Before the crowds, Saint-Tropez was a fishing village with a very good habit: the whole town stopped at seven. Runabouts idled against the quay, engines ticking as they cooled, and everyone drifted toward the same handful of tables.

We built this collection around that pause. Soft ivories and butter creams, navy worn back by salt, a single line of champagne gold borrowed from a varnished hull. Nothing shouts, because nothing in that harbour ever did.

The pieces are printed with restrained yacht-club marks — the kind stitched onto a burgee rather than shouted across a chest.