06/26/2026
The Lorimer,
worn in the afternoon.
The double bridge is a borrowed idea, and the Lorimer knows it. It comes from old flight frames β the second bar was structure, not style, a way to keep a wide front from flexing.
What keeps it from feeling like a costume is the proportion. The eye is a soft-cornered square, kept low and wide, so it sits like a pair of windows rather than goggles. A frame this size could easily overwhelm β the Lorimer doesn't, because the lines are clean and the acetate is honest about its weight. It's a big frame that wears quiet.
The color is the part a photograph almost can't hold. Smoke at the top, warming to a translucent honey-brown as it falls toward the cheek β not two colors but one slow gradient, the kind that only happens when the tortoise is cut from solid block and the pattern is left to do what it does through the depth of the material. Against pale skin and against this kind of light, it goes amber where the sun runs through it and near-black where it stacks. No two fronts come out the same. The pair in this picture is the only one of its exact color that will ever exist.
A few details that reward a second look.
The bridge join β where the two bars meet the front, the acetate is shaped, not just drilled. Run a thumb across it and there's no edge, only a turn.
The temples β they run thick and straight, then taper at the very end to sit flat behind the ear. Glasses you forget you're wearing by noon. That's the whole ambition.
Worn here on a clear day, it does the thing the best frames do. Made by hand, and built to be in plenty more afternoons after this one.