My name is Maris. Thirty-two years ago my grandmother put a knife in my hand and showed me how to cut leather without fighting it. I was eighteen. We worked at a table by the sea, and the sea is still outside the window where I work today.

I never wanted a large brand. I wanted to make a bag a woman could carry for years. The kind that holds a whole day inside it.

People told me a bag is either beautiful or useful. I spent thirty-two years proving them wrong.

I gave each one the name of a city that changed me. Bilbao. Córdoba. Florence. Every trip, every woman I met, became a drawing.

Now I am stopping. Not because something went wrong, but because I want to put the knife down while my hands still know what they are doing. It is the only way I know to end something I love.

The last bags from my own bench are in the Closing Sale. Final pieces, no restocks. When they are gone, they are gone.

If one of them is meant to be yours, I would like you to carry it.

With gratitude,
Maris