The workshops
34 of them, each setting their own regions, lead times and prices. They build the sofas; we only draw the shapes.
Low, wide and built for heat. Open-weave linens and a frame that does not mind a verandah.
Frames in slow-grown pine from the valley behind the workshop. They will not use a staple where a dowel fits.
Two floors above the Saône. Linen from Normandy, and a frame that is expected to outlast the upholstery twice.
A courtyard workshop behind the porticoes. They cut foam by hand because the machine gets the corners wrong.
Open-weave cottons and a frame that does not mind a terrace in August. Covers wash at forty.
Low-profile seating built to Japanese apartment dimensions. Nothing is taller than it needs to be.
Cork-cored cushions, which sound like a gimmick until you sit on one in a Porto summer.
Built for houses with dogs. Removable covers on everything, and a spare set before you ask.
Birch ply and reindeer felt. Built for rooms that are dark for four months and never quite warm.
Coffee-house benches by day, private commissions by night. The seat depth is deliberately old-fashioned.
Low, long, and unapologetically for apartments with one good wall and a view worth facing.
A tram depot with the rails still in the floor. They will not sell you a sofa that cannot leave the building.
Wool from three counties over. Built heavy, because the wind here tests everything eventually.
Prairie-built and insulated like it. Deep seats, high backs, nothing here is trying to look light.
Beech, webbing and a horsehair pad on anything you are willing to wait for. Four generations, one bench plan.
Modular systems designed to come apart, go up a Victorian staircase, and go back together.
A converted rope factory on Hisingen. Everything leaves flat-packed because the stairwells here are cruel.
Walk-up-proof. They measure your stairwell before they cut anything, and they have turned down jobs over it.
Jarrah frames, because the local timber is harder than anything they could import and half as far away.
Two workshops on the Oslofjord. Frames in kiln-dried pine, nothing stapled that could be doweled.
Horsehair, jute webbing, eight-way hand-tied springs. The waiting list is the point.
Joinery first, upholstery second. The frame is finished as if it were going to be seen, because sometimes it is.
Father and daughter, one bench each. Danish oak, wool from Gotland, and no veneer anywhere in the building.
Island workshop, mainland ambitions. Salt-resistant hardware on every piece as standard.
Designed around Dutch canal-house doorways, which are narrower than anyone believes until the sofa arrives.
Small-batch Pacific Northwest builds. Every frame is signed on the underside by whoever made it.
Built for houses with dogs. Removable covers on everything, and they will send you a spare set before you ask.
Four generations of frame-makers. Beech, webbing, and a horsehair pad on anything you are willing to wait for.
A former tram depot in Wedding. Everything is built to come apart again — they will not sell you a sofa that cannot leave the building.
Third-generation Tuscan upholstery. They still cut foam by hand because the machine gets the corners wrong.
Low-profile seating built to Japanese apartment dimensions. Nothing here is taller than it needs to be.
Low, wide and built for heat. Open-weave linens and a frame that does not mind a verandah.
Modular systems designed to be taken apart, moved up a Victorian staircase, and put back together.
Small-batch Pacific Northwest builds. Every frame is signed on the underside by whoever made it.