Tucked down a small alley in Psirri, Savapile has been making hats by hand since 1960. Today, Lisa Sarigiannidou carries on the workshop founded by her father, working with century-old machines and techniques while keeping one eye firmly on the present. We speak with her about knowing when to stop, the character of straw, a changing Athens and why the right hat should never feel like a disguise.
Savapile has been tucked away in Psirri since 1960. What does an ordinary day in the workshop look and sound like?
There is no completely ordinary day here. Usually, you hear the old sewing machines, the sound of straw being shaped, people coming in, and the noise of Psirri outside. I work mostly on my own, moving between making hats, meeting customers and solving all the small problems that come with handmade production.
It can be chaotic, but it has its own rhythm.
There are very few places where things are still made entirely by hand. What do you think is lost when making becomes mechanical?
Perhaps the relationship between the maker and the material. When you work this way, your hands are constantly making decisions. You adjust to the straw, to the shape and sometimes to the person who will wear the hat. A machine can repeat something perfectly, but perfection is not always what gives an object its character.
As both Athens and the industry around you have changed, what has felt most important to hold on to — and what have you been happy to leave behind?
The most important thing has been to preserve the knowledge: the way the straw is sewn, shaped and finished, and the patience this work requires. But preserving tradition does not mean remaining trapped in the past. I am happy to leave behind the idea that craft must always look old-fashioned. The technique can remain the same while the hat belongs completely to the present.
How do new ideas find their way into a workshop with more than six decades of history?
Very naturally. I might notice a person in the street, an old photograph, a film, a colour or simply the way the straw falls while I am working. New ideas enter the workshop all the time, but they have to find a way to speak the same language as the old machines and the traditional technique.
What is the hardest thing about making a hat well?
Knowing when to stop. A very small change can completely alter the balance of a hat. You need precision, but you also need instinct to understand when the shape, the material and the person who will wear it have finally come together.
What makes a hat feel just right on someone?
When the person does not feel disguised by it. The right hat should look as though it has always belonged to them. It may change the way they stand or carry themselves, but it should still allow their personality to come through.
What is the oldest thing in the workshop that you still use every day?
All of the machines and presses are more than a hundred years old, and they are still part of my everyday work. I love that they are not museum pieces. They continue to do exactly what they were made to do, through my hands.
When you step away from the workshop, where in the neighborhood do you like to go for a coffee, a bite to eat or simply a walk?
For coffee, I like Bless Me Father on Karitsi square- or really any of the cafes around the square in the morning, when everything is still quiet and you can escape the noise of the city for a while. For food, I often go somewhere close by, like Tis Theatrou to Steki, Manari, Linou, Avli, Atlantikos, Ringo -these are my favorites. And when I simply want to walk, I head towards Kerameikos, especially along Salaminos str. I*t is one of my favorite parts of the neighbourhood.
Of all the people you have made hats for over the years, who has stayed in your mind?
I remember many people, but not necessarily because they were famous or important.
I remember the people whose expressions changed when they put on the right hat. That small moment when they suddenly see themselves differently in the mirror always stays with me.
If you could bring one thing back from the Athens your father knew, what would it be?
Perhaps its slower rhythm and the feeling that small workshops belonged naturally to the life of the city. People knew who had made the things they bought, and craft was not considered something unusual or nostalgic. It was simply part of everyday life.
After all these years, what can still surprise you about making a hat?
The fact that the same material and the same technique can still produce something I have never seen before. Straw has its own character, and sometimes it leads you somewhere you had not planned. After all these years, that element of surprise is still one of the reasons I love the work.
