The Poetry of Making

In Paris, each piece takes shape. From sketch to prototype, from fitting to final button, the process unfolds quietly, between the studio and a handful of expert ateliers. No volume. No urgency. Just the rhythm of craftsmanship, and the care that comes with time.

The hands that shape a sleeve are close. Within a few kilometres of where the line is drawn. That detail matters. It leaves a trace, imperceptible maybe, but present in the way the garment holds itself, or moves.

We choose cotton poplin, seersucker, gingham, fabrics that breathe, fabrics that live. Each piece passes through many hands. Nothing rushed. Nothing left to chance.

Behind the Silhouette

Claire Hirsch never intended to become a designer. Self-taught, discreet by nature, she created Zhiggie like one sketches in the margin of a page, delicately, thoughtfully, and with a precise sense of harmony. Her presence remains quiet behind the brand, but her vision is visible in every fold of fabric.

Drawn from the Past

Claire grew up in a home where creativity was a quiet but constant presence. Her mother, elegant, intuitive, and devoted, often sewed her own clothes, shaping silhouettes by instinct, not by rule. Her father, an architect, passed on to Claire an unwavering eye for line, balance, and space.

Saint-Tropez, Softly

There is a Saint-Tropez that isn’t spoken, it’s remembered. A table in the shade. The smell of salt on a cotton towel. The creak of a shutter. A summer house filled with light, long lunches, the garden gate left ajar. These soft, slow impressions linger, precise, tender, imperceptible. They shaped an instinct, a palette, a rhythm. Zhiggie doesn’t capture the place, but the emotion. A quiet memory of warmth.

Impressions, not References

Zhiggie pieces are drawn in Paris and shaped by memory, refined through intuition, and worn with quiet confidence. A certain line, a certain posture. The port de tête from years of ballet. The waist held, the movement released. Each silhouette holds something, a trace of gesture, of instinct, of places never named. The light of Saint-Tropez. The discipline of the studio. The softness of something remembered. Nothing explained. 

“Inspiration isn’t told. It’s felt, and then sewn.”