Handmade in Hong Kong
HONG KONG — In a brightly lit cubicle tucked under the staircase of a tenement building in Hong Kong’s Jordan district, Cheung Shun-king guided a chisel over a pearly white mahjong tile to form a groove of concentric circles.
“I have been doing this my whole life,” he said, standing to brush off the shavings with a voluminous feather duster. “That’s why I have to continue.”
Against a backdrop of breakneck transformation, handmade items in Hong Kong have taken on a special meaning among a younger generation, and those enamored of the grit and glamour of the city’s late 20th century.
Over the past two decades, other family businesses and decades-old diners have been toppled by inhospitable rents and redevelopment projects. Political upheaval since 2019, coupled by restrictive pandemic rules, have triggered a wave of migration away from the city and kept tourists at bay. As one cultural icon after another has faded, residents have sought to hold onto what remains.
Cheung, 70, came from a family of mahjong carvers and inherited Biu Kee Mahjong from his father in the 1960s. The future of his shop, which he has run for nearly three decades, is in limbo and he may soon be forced to move because of government building regulations. But he continues to open the shop every day of the week. “I will keep working as long as I have the strength to do so,” he said.
A three-minute walk away from Biu Kee, up a flight of steps at the austere Bowring Commercial Center, Miru Wong sells embroidered footwear at Sindart, a matchbox-size*
shop lined with jeweltoned slippers.
The business was first established in 1958 by her grandparents. Back then, her grandfather made shoes that her grandmother would embellish with embroidered fish, dragons and peonies. Wong, 32, was the only member of her family to learn both skills.
She took over Sindart about a decade ago after studying design and making the task of modernizing embroidered shoes the subject of her final thesis project. Since then, she has introduced new designs, such as peacock feathers and bamboo-munching pandas. Working with her father, Billy Wong, a graphic designer, she replaced the soles of the slippers with an anti-slip material.
After the onset of the coronavirus pandemic, Wong noticed that the wholesalers from which she sourced textiles and sequins were closing one after another.
“You use many different materials when you make shoes,” she said. “So when those materials disappear, you have to find new ways.”
To Elton Chow, the 32-year-old director of
Full House Denim & Workshop, contemporary cutting and trendy touches
were essential in making otherwise retro garments appealing in everyday settings. His airy shop is on the 11th floor of the Multifield Center in the Mongkok district.
A former denim merchandiser, Chow’s decade-old business is known for selling custom jeans for all shapes and sizes. Chow also designs ready-to-wear denim apparel with everything from suit trousers and newsboy caps to chambray kimonos and wide-legged hakama pants.
“I have quite a lot of admiration for Japanese artisans and their devotion to traditional methods. What they make is very refined,” he said. “Japanese denim is also renowned in the world, so that’s where we source a lot of our fabric.”
The Japanese patchwork tradition of boro and sashiko — patchwork and stitching that is simultaneously decorative and functional — was the ethos behind denim teddy bears, tote bags, purses, socks and the inner layers of several jackets.
“If you wear a traditional garment, it might not look very good,” Chow said. “We use special fabric to create traditional styles, while incorporating cutting and features that adhere to contemporary aesthetics.”