In a small workshop in northern France, in Montreuil-aux-Lions, a very special kind of thread has been woven for seven generations: the silk threads of Maison Declercq, master trimmers, whose creations enable the restoration of some of the finest fabrics and pieces of furniture in the world.
Their story touches me particularly deeply, as I grew up between Saint-Étienne, the capital of ribbon and trimmings, and Lyon, the capital of silk, where the most prestigious historic silk houses, such as Prelle or Tassinari et Châtel, still thrive today. Even as a child, I never tired of admiring the incredible wooden looms invented by the craftsmen of my homeland, impressive cathedrals of thread that gave birth to a thousand-and-one wonders in shimmering colours. Tassels, rosettes, ribbons, tiebacks: all these seemingly useless trinkets, yet they once elegantly adorned a delicate bergère chair where Queen Marie-Antoinette used to rest, or a sumptuous curtain drawn by Empress Eugénie. The Declercq family hails from the North, yet shares the same heritage and the same expertise.
There are artisan Houses that do not merely produce objects but weave “the thread of history.” Houses where every gesture seems to defy the brutality of the centuries, where the craftsman’s hand extends that of his ancestors in a stubborn fidelity to beauty. The Declercq workshop, an artistic trimmings maker since 1852, belongs to that category of French companies that the whole world envies us for.
In the workshops of Declercq Passementiers, the looms still beat to that ancient rhythm that accompanied the splendour of the dying monarchy and the heyday of the Second Empire. They have lent their expertise to the ambitious restorations of the most prestigious European palaces, from Dresden to Vienna, and to the successive revivals of French heritage at Versailles and Compiègne.
But behind the rustling of silk threads and the shimmer of gilded braids, a sense of unease has settled in. Today, this venerable House teeters on the brink of silence. It survived the First and Second World Wars, the 1929 crisis, and the decline in taste during the 1970s, but the 2020s could well mark the end of its destiny. Perhaps we must conclude that our world no longer believes it necessary to invest in beauty? Having been placed under judicial administration, the manufacturer is now appealing for donations and desperately seeking tens of thousands of euros to ensure its survival.
Trim-making is not a trivial craft. It is the discreet ornament of refined civilisations. The tiebacks, braids, fringes, and twisted cords crafted by Declercq adorn the armchairs of palaces, the draperies of embassies, the interiors of historic theatres, and the apartments of listed heritage buildings. Where the untrained eye sees only a decorative detail, curators recognise the signature of an irreplaceable craft.
For seven generations, the Declercq family has passed on this heritage with almost monastic devotion. The company has never sought media attention. It belongs to that France of quiet workshops, family traditions and highly skilled craftsmen who understand the value of a gesture repeated a thousand times until it reaches perfection. At Declercq, we do not mass-produce; we restore memories. We do not produce accessories; we keep alive a French idea of luxury, elegance and historical continuity.
This dedication, however, comes at a price. The arts and crafts sector operates in a fragile economy, exposed to industrial competition, cheap imports, and the gradual disappearance of ambitious public commissions. Yet, when a craft becomes too rare, it paradoxically ceases to be profitable even before it has ceased to be indispensable. At Declercq, the order books are full—that is not the issue: they are virtually the only ones in their niche. But when cash flow is lacking, and the investments essential to continuing operations cannot be made, having customers is no longer enough.
This is precisely what threatens Declercq today. The cash flow difficulties that have built up over several years have ultimately led the company before the commercial court. It was recently granted an extension to consolidate its business continuity plan. But time is running out. Behind the accounting figures, what is really at stake is the survival of an irreplaceable technical heritage. When a workshop like this disappears, it does not come back to life. The trades fall silent, the workers disperse, and the secrets of the trade die with them.
And this is where the matter becomes deeply political.
The paradox is staggering: at the very moment when, buoyed by the reconstruction of Notre-Dame rising from the ashes in just a few years, France is proclaiming far and wide its commitment to the arts and crafts, one of its most precious skills is at risk of disappearing amid an almost bureaucratic indifference.
The sum Declercq needs to continue his business seems paltry by the standards of contemporary public spending. A few tens of thousands of euros would be enough to preserve a workshop unique in the world, certified as an Entreprise du Patrimoine Vivant, and the custodian of nearly two centuries of French excellence. Restoring a velvet ribbon loom costs ‘only’ 15,000 euros. At the same time, the state and various institutions are committing considerable sums to heritage projects that are sometimes driven more by symbolic gestures or public relations than by the need for preservation. The debate surrounding the new contemporary stained-glass windows at Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris provides a striking illustration of this. The project centred on Claire Tabouret’s designs, intended to replace certain 19th-century stained-glass windows that were, in fact, spared by the fire, has for months sparked fierce controversy among heritage advocates. Associations are condemning the costly alteration of perfectly preserved historical elements at a time when so many workshops and artisans are struggling to survive. The issue, moreover, is not one of the talent of contemporary artists—which would in itself merit a thorough discussion—but one of priorities. Tabouret’s stained-glass windows will cost the French taxpayer the modest sum of €4 million, yet the Declercq family has been reduced to launching an online fundraising campaign in the hope of surviving.
What is the value of a cultural policy that funds the replacement of intact works whilst allowing the craftsmen capable of ensuring the transmission of works inherited from the past to die out?
The present age seems fascinated by grand, visible gestures and spectacular inaugurations. It loves projects that generate images, controversies, and discourse. It readily supports anything that allows ‘the mark of the 21st century’ to be stamped on ancient monuments. Yet it views with growing indifference the patient, discreet, deeply rooted trades that nevertheless ensure the tangible continuity of our material civilisation.
But a country’s greatness does not lie solely in its restored cathedrals or renovated museums. It is also measured by its ability to protect those who still know how to create beauty. In the Declercq workshops, it is not merely ribbons and braids that are being defended. It is a certain vision of France: one where luxury is the product of time. It’s time to acknowledge that a family tradition is worth more than quarterly profitability and that praising artisanal excellence is not merely an activity for ministerial visits but a daily reality.
There is a quiet nobility in these trades that our era struggles to understand. Artisans ask for neither privileges nor spectacular compassion. They ask only that the strategic value of their expertise be finally recognised. For when a manufacturer like Declercq disappears, it is not just a business that closes: it is an entire chapter of French history that is torn apart.
France loves to invoke its heritage. It celebrates it in official speeches, tourism campaigns and cultural ceremonies of dubious taste that make a great fuss. But heritage sometimes finds refuge in modest workshops, in expert hands, in techniques passed down in whispers from generation to generation. Saving Declercq would not be an act of charity. It would be an act of national wisdom.
Saving ‘The Thread of History’
Courtesy of © Declercq Passementiers
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In a small workshop in northern France, in Montreuil-aux-Lions, a very special kind of thread has been woven for seven generations: the silk threads of Maison Declercq, master trimmers, whose creations enable the restoration of some of the finest fabrics and pieces of furniture in the world.
Their story touches me particularly deeply, as I grew up between Saint-Étienne, the capital of ribbon and trimmings, and Lyon, the capital of silk, where the most prestigious historic silk houses, such as Prelle or Tassinari et Châtel, still thrive today. Even as a child, I never tired of admiring the incredible wooden looms invented by the craftsmen of my homeland, impressive cathedrals of thread that gave birth to a thousand-and-one wonders in shimmering colours. Tassels, rosettes, ribbons, tiebacks: all these seemingly useless trinkets, yet they once elegantly adorned a delicate bergère chair where Queen Marie-Antoinette used to rest, or a sumptuous curtain drawn by Empress Eugénie. The Declercq family hails from the North, yet shares the same heritage and the same expertise.
There are artisan Houses that do not merely produce objects but weave “the thread of history.” Houses where every gesture seems to defy the brutality of the centuries, where the craftsman’s hand extends that of his ancestors in a stubborn fidelity to beauty. The Declercq workshop, an artistic trimmings maker since 1852, belongs to that category of French companies that the whole world envies us for.
In the workshops of Declercq Passementiers, the looms still beat to that ancient rhythm that accompanied the splendour of the dying monarchy and the heyday of the Second Empire. They have lent their expertise to the ambitious restorations of the most prestigious European palaces, from Dresden to Vienna, and to the successive revivals of French heritage at Versailles and Compiègne.
But behind the rustling of silk threads and the shimmer of gilded braids, a sense of unease has settled in. Today, this venerable House teeters on the brink of silence. It survived the First and Second World Wars, the 1929 crisis, and the decline in taste during the 1970s, but the 2020s could well mark the end of its destiny. Perhaps we must conclude that our world no longer believes it necessary to invest in beauty? Having been placed under judicial administration, the manufacturer is now appealing for donations and desperately seeking tens of thousands of euros to ensure its survival.
Trim-making is not a trivial craft. It is the discreet ornament of refined civilisations. The tiebacks, braids, fringes, and twisted cords crafted by Declercq adorn the armchairs of palaces, the draperies of embassies, the interiors of historic theatres, and the apartments of listed heritage buildings. Where the untrained eye sees only a decorative detail, curators recognise the signature of an irreplaceable craft.
For seven generations, the Declercq family has passed on this heritage with almost monastic devotion. The company has never sought media attention. It belongs to that France of quiet workshops, family traditions and highly skilled craftsmen who understand the value of a gesture repeated a thousand times until it reaches perfection. At Declercq, we do not mass-produce; we restore memories. We do not produce accessories; we keep alive a French idea of luxury, elegance and historical continuity.
This dedication, however, comes at a price. The arts and crafts sector operates in a fragile economy, exposed to industrial competition, cheap imports, and the gradual disappearance of ambitious public commissions. Yet, when a craft becomes too rare, it paradoxically ceases to be profitable even before it has ceased to be indispensable. At Declercq, the order books are full—that is not the issue: they are virtually the only ones in their niche. But when cash flow is lacking, and the investments essential to continuing operations cannot be made, having customers is no longer enough.
This is precisely what threatens Declercq today. The cash flow difficulties that have built up over several years have ultimately led the company before the commercial court. It was recently granted an extension to consolidate its business continuity plan. But time is running out. Behind the accounting figures, what is really at stake is the survival of an irreplaceable technical heritage. When a workshop like this disappears, it does not come back to life. The trades fall silent, the workers disperse, and the secrets of the trade die with them.
And this is where the matter becomes deeply political.
The paradox is staggering: at the very moment when, buoyed by the reconstruction of Notre-Dame rising from the ashes in just a few years, France is proclaiming far and wide its commitment to the arts and crafts, one of its most precious skills is at risk of disappearing amid an almost bureaucratic indifference.
The sum Declercq needs to continue his business seems paltry by the standards of contemporary public spending. A few tens of thousands of euros would be enough to preserve a workshop unique in the world, certified as an Entreprise du Patrimoine Vivant, and the custodian of nearly two centuries of French excellence. Restoring a velvet ribbon loom costs ‘only’ 15,000 euros. At the same time, the state and various institutions are committing considerable sums to heritage projects that are sometimes driven more by symbolic gestures or public relations than by the need for preservation. The debate surrounding the new contemporary stained-glass windows at Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris provides a striking illustration of this. The project centred on Claire Tabouret’s designs, intended to replace certain 19th-century stained-glass windows that were, in fact, spared by the fire, has for months sparked fierce controversy among heritage advocates. Associations are condemning the costly alteration of perfectly preserved historical elements at a time when so many workshops and artisans are struggling to survive. The issue, moreover, is not one of the talent of contemporary artists—which would in itself merit a thorough discussion—but one of priorities. Tabouret’s stained-glass windows will cost the French taxpayer the modest sum of €4 million, yet the Declercq family has been reduced to launching an online fundraising campaign in the hope of surviving.
What is the value of a cultural policy that funds the replacement of intact works whilst allowing the craftsmen capable of ensuring the transmission of works inherited from the past to die out?
The present age seems fascinated by grand, visible gestures and spectacular inaugurations. It loves projects that generate images, controversies, and discourse. It readily supports anything that allows ‘the mark of the 21st century’ to be stamped on ancient monuments. Yet it views with growing indifference the patient, discreet, deeply rooted trades that nevertheless ensure the tangible continuity of our material civilisation.
But a country’s greatness does not lie solely in its restored cathedrals or renovated museums. It is also measured by its ability to protect those who still know how to create beauty. In the Declercq workshops, it is not merely ribbons and braids that are being defended. It is a certain vision of France: one where luxury is the product of time. It’s time to acknowledge that a family tradition is worth more than quarterly profitability and that praising artisanal excellence is not merely an activity for ministerial visits but a daily reality.
There is a quiet nobility in these trades that our era struggles to understand. Artisans ask for neither privileges nor spectacular compassion. They ask only that the strategic value of their expertise be finally recognised. For when a manufacturer like Declercq disappears, it is not just a business that closes: it is an entire chapter of French history that is torn apart.
France loves to invoke its heritage. It celebrates it in official speeches, tourism campaigns and cultural ceremonies of dubious taste that make a great fuss. But heritage sometimes finds refuge in modest workshops, in expert hands, in techniques passed down in whispers from generation to generation. Saving Declercq would not be an act of charity. It would be an act of national wisdom.
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