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Officially, Mr. Kinori’s clothing — patch-pocket chore coats, zip-front jackets of matte waxed cotton, Belgian linen shirts or roomy trousers whose cut falls somewhere between that of classic, early Yohji Yamamoto and something you might spot on a butcher in an August Sander photograph — is men’s wear. Yet it seems increasingly likely that the relaxation of arbitrary boundaries between genders will turn out to be among the beneficial aftereffects of everyone being forced to work at home in hoodies and sweats.
None of this is of particular concern to Mr. Kinori, a sturdy man of brooding good looks with a thick tousle of hair and black-painted fingernails that could use a fresh coat of polish. Neither is he much interested in design in the rigidly formal sense. Mr. Kinori does not call himself a tailor or even a designer. Rather, he is a craftsman, somewhat in the tradition of people like the great Bay Area architect Joseph Esherick, who throughout his career concerned himself less with creating branded monuments to himself than with making harmonious, humane spaces. Think of Sea Ranch.
Mr. Kinori’s clothes bring to mind those houses — careful, deliberate, free of ostentation, handmade. They are cut from patterns he devises himself and sewn with French seams on single-needle machines. They are pieced together from cloth sourced from dead stock or traditional Irish tweed makers like Molloy & Sons in County Donegal or Belgian linen manufactories or kimono cotton mills in far-off Japanese prefectures. When he works, he thinks less about the demands of the industrial fashion machine than a desire to create durable objects.
“He is a disciplined clothier,” said Jon Robin Baitz, the playwright and screenwriter, for whom Mr. Kinori’s clothes have become a daily uniform.
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