Eight frames. One colourway each. Made once in Sabae, never reissued.
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I draw the inner rim first, to the lens. Then I laminate it into an outer silhouette that ignores it entirely. Round inside square. Cat-eye inside oval. From the front you see one clean shape; from the side you see how it was built. That is the whole idea.
Fukui prefecture has made eyewear for a century. I send every frame there for three weeks, most of it spent in tumbling barrels and under a polisher's thumb. I have never found a shortcut worth taking.
Every colourway starts on this table. I lay the acetate samples out, pair an outer against an inner, and throw away most of what I try. The pairs that survive go to Sabae.
Glasses sit on the one part of you nobody can look away from. I think that deserves more than a logo on a temple.
I spent years fitting other people's frames on other people's faces, and most of them were designed for a display case rather than a head. I knew where a bridge has to sit. I knew what a temple does behind the ear. So I began drawing the frames I could not buy.
The lens-in-lens construction came out of that: a way to give a frame a strong outer silhouette without asking the lens shape to compromise. It took four years and a workshop in Sabae to make it manufacturable.
People hide behind eyewear. I would rather you use it. The frames I make are unmistakable at a distance and quiet up close, so you can walk into a room ahead of them.
For two decades my frames were only available through the opticians who chose to carry them. I am starting here with sunglasses — eight shapes, sun lenses fitted, sold one pair at a time. Optical follows once these are in people's hands.
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