Haddon Row
Suits, jackets and coats, cut from a paper pattern drafted for one person and made by hand in our Adelaide cutting room. The swatch on the rail is woven on this page, warp over weft. Brush it, choose another from the book, or hang one from any picture in the issue.
No. 04 — Twill, midnight navy. Worsted twill, all-season weight. Each weft passes over two warps and under two, stepping one thread with every row, so a fine diagonal climbs to the right. Quiet from across a room and exact up close: the cloth for a first suit.
Brush the cloth to swing it, or hold it by the hem. Arrow keys push it that way; Enter lifts the hem and lets it fall.Swipe across the cloth to swing it; hold it to lift the hem.
This issue is about cloth, and what a cutting room does with it. A row, to a tailor, is a line of stitches; Haddon Row is the room in Adelaide where ours are sewn. We choose cloth by a south window, because here that is where the steady light comes from, and a navy that looks black under a lamp is blue in daylight.
Every cloth starts as a small grid on paper. Columns are the warp, the threads that run the length of the bolt; rows are the weft, thrown across. A filled square is warp over weft. Repeat the grid and you have the cloth. The cloth on the cover is simulated from four hands, light, medium, crisp and heavy: the heavier the cloth, the slower it swings.
A twill that turns back on itself every eight threads. Where it turns the rows do not meet, and that break is what makes it a herringbone. Across a room it reads as a soft stripe; up close, as chevrons. For jackets and coats that will see weather.
Over two, under two, one step along with every row, so a diagonal climbs the cloth. It is dense, drapes cleanly and holds a crease: the suiting weave.
Two threads over two, square on square, like a small basket. It is open, so it breathes: the summer jacket.
The same twill again. The check is all in the order of the coloured threads, four dark and four light, then two and two. Nothing is printed: the small houndstooth and the larger check appear on their own.
A herringbone is a twill that turns back on itself. Slate herringbone, close enough to count: follow one column of chevrons down and watch it stop, as the next column starts half a step out of line. A woven herringbone breaks; a printed one meets.
Close up No. 01, herringbone, slate
We don’t weave; the mills do. But a few squares will show you why a twill runs and a hopsack breathes.
Each square is one crossing. Fill it and that end of the warp rides over the pick; leave it empty and the pick rides over the end.
That’s a 2/2 twill, climbing to the right.
Shears, white chalk and a brown-paper pattern on midnight navy worsted. The pattern’s edges are notched where the pieces meet, so each seam finds its partner at the bench.
On the board No. 04, twill, midnight navy, under a brown-paper pattern
One person, one pattern. Drafted in pencil on brown paper, laid on the cloth, marked in chalk, cut with shears.
Measurements are taken standing, the way you stand every day. From them the cutter drafts a paper pattern by hand, a set of shapes that belongs to one body. It hangs in the cutting room under your name and is redrafted whenever you change.
The pattern is laid on the cloth and traced in chalk. A chalk line is all the instruction a tailor needs, and it brushes away without a mark. Every piece is cut with inlays left in its seams, so a jacket can be let out or taken in at a fitting, and again years later.
Glue would be quicker. It would also lie flat.
Every jacket is built on a canvas, pad-stitched to the cloth by hand, one small diagonal stitch at a time. Each row turns the lapel a little further, until it rolls over on its own and stays rolled.
The sleeves are set by hand at the fitting, eased so they hang forward the way an arm does.
Buttonholes are worked by hand after the last fitting, and the jacket is pressed on a pressing cushion, a little at a time.
A first fitting: the forepart held in white basting thread, the collar not yet on, the shoulder marked where it will be taken in. The chalk is a question; the next fitting answers it.
At the first fitting No. 04, twill, midnight navy, held in white basting thread
The jacket is tacked together in long white stitches, without its collar or pockets, so it can be taken apart and recut. You stand as you always stand; we chalk what the pattern could not know.
Collar and pockets are on and both sleeves are set. We check the balance, how the coat hangs from front to back, and the pitch of each sleeve, so it falls the way your arm does.
Buttonholes worked by hand, the last press, the lining felled in place. You walk, sit and reach; we watch the cloth move with you.
How long it takes is set by the fittings rather than a calendar: usually several weeks.
An overcoat cut to the ankle in No. 06, the camel coating, and a two-piece suit in No. 04, the midnight navy twill. Neither was adapted from a stock pattern: each began as brown paper and a pencil, drafted for one person, and went through three fittings before it left the cutting room. Seen from behind, because that is where a coat is honest: across the shoulders, down the centre seam, at the hem.
Left Overcoat, to the ankle: No. 06, twill, camel, wool coating
Right Jacket and trousers: No. 04, twill, midnight navy, worsted
Usually three: the baste, the forward and the finish.
Yes, if there is enough of it. Bring it to the first visit and we will lay the pattern on it.
The shoes and the kind of shirt you’ll wear with it, and whatever you usually carry in your pockets.
No. We show the drafts because they tell you how a cloth will fold and take the light before your hand is on it. At the first visit you’ll choose with your hand, not a chart.
No. The cutting room only makes.
It depends on the cloth and the garment. We give you a figure at the first visit, in writing, before anything is cut.
The pattern is yours. It stays in the cutting room, and it changes as you do.
Write us a note. We’ll write back with a morning and the address: mornings, because the light is steadiest for choosing cloth.
Adelaide.
The cloth has gone to be cut. Hang another
A twill that turns back every eight threads; where it turns, the rows don’t meet, and that break is what makes it a herringbone. For a jacket that will see weather, and a coat.
Brown warp, fawn weft: soft chevrons at a distance, plain up close. A country jacket that goes to town.
Navy on navy, so the herringbone shows only when the light crosses it. A suit with something to look at up close.
Each weft passes over two warps and under two, stepping one thread with every row, so a fine diagonal climbs to the right. Quiet from across a room and exact up close: the cloth for a first suit.
The same twill, milled until its surface blurs into a soft nap. Warm, forgiving on a long day, and the grey for trousers.
A heavy twill, brushed. It swings slowly on the rail because it will hang slowly on you: the overcoat cloth.
Two threads over two, square on square, so the cloth is open and breathes. The summer jacket.
Linen in the weft gives it a dry hand and a slight slub. It creases, as linen does, and wears the creases well.
The basket weave in a dark olive: a jacket for grey trousers.
Nothing here is printed. A twill woven four dark and four light, then two and two, makes the small houndstooth and the larger check on its own; the blue line is a single coloured thread.
The same colour order in brown and cream, with a rust line: an odd jacket for autumn.
Over one, under one: the simplest cloth there is. For a first commission we may cut a trial jacket in it to see the pattern on you before your cloth is cut. Not for wearing. This page is set on its colour.