Profile in Style: The Exacting Eye of Akris’s Albert Kriemler

“I grew up to the steady hum of sewing machines,” says Albert Kriemler, the creative director of his family’s 96-year-old company, Akris. Founded in 1922 by his grandmother, Alice Kriemler-Schoch (the company’s name is a sort of acronym of her initials), the Swiss label got its start making polka-dotted aprons in the alpine town of St. Gallen, famous for its embroidery, where the brand’s headquarters are still located. In the ’60s and ’70s, Kriemler’s parents, Max and Ute, expanded Akris’s scope, producing prêt-à-porter for such houses as Ted Lapidus and Givenchy. As a young man, Kriemler would often travel to fabric fairs with his family; on a trip to Paris in 1976, he attended his first Yves Saint Laurent show. “It was then that I knew I was completely infatuated with fashion,” he says. He made plans to study at Paris’s École de la Chambre Syndicale de la Couture, but they were waylaid when, after Akris’s managing director died suddenly, Kriemler’s father convinced him to join the business as creative director in 1980. He was just 19.

Now 58, Kriemler has helmed the house for 40 years, during which he’s transformed Akris into a major global brand while never straying from his taste for minimalist luxury and impeccable craftsmanship — and he still employs artisans from St. Gallen for his colorful but discreet collections. It’s an aesthetic that has earned Kriemler a devoted following: Charlene, Princess of Monaco; Maye Musk; and Nora Fehlbaum, the C.E.O. of Vitra, are all loyal clients. “My clothes are not obvious. I hate trends and shameless self-promotion,” he says. “I’d rather create a sense of selbstverständlichkeit, or naturalness.” It’s an idea often applied in architecture, an area of enduring interest for Kriemler, whose work has been inspired by the highly textured facades created by the Swiss firm Herzog and de Meuron and by the art and architecture of early 20th-century Vienna. “I believe that when fashion has a narrative and a design-driven concept behind it,” says Kriemler, “the most interesting clothing pieces can also transcend into art forms.”

A portrait of me from 2003 by Steven Klein, with whom I’ve collaborated many times — our first shoot together with Stella Tennant appeared in 1995. It’s the closest relationship I’ve ever had with a photographer, and, in a way, I think he’s formed most of the brand’s public persona.

Left: I own all seven editions of Spazio, an Italian art magazine published sporadically during the ’50s. The mix of art, culture, history and architecture is so brilliant — it pushes me as a designer. Right: This IWC watch belonged to my great-grandfather and was then passed on to my uncle, who was an architect and taught me all about great design. Right before my uncle died, he gave it to me. I’ve worn it for more than 20 years.

Left: I received this doll-size wool Akris jacket as a gift for my 30th anniversary as creative director. It’s double-faced, of course, because that’s my favorite way to do a jacket, and extra special because it was handmade by one of the tailors who has worked with our family since the early ’70s. Right: My grandmother used this wooden chest to keep records of the brand’s history. Inside are sketches and lace and embroidery samples from the ’30s up through the ’60s — family memories, really. I keep it in my office in St. Gallen and still use it as an archive.

Left: For Akris’s latest resort collection, we created a lips motif with embroidery, using a threading technique to imbue the silhouettes with a draping effect. The thread isn’t stiff, like couture thread, but has more of a soft, technical jersey-like feel to it. Right: In 2001, the artist Al Taylor’s widow, Debbie, graciously gave me a tour of their apartment in New York. There hadn’t been very many exhibitions of his paintings because she was very selective about showing them. I now own a few of his drawings, sculptures and Crayola paintings.

Left: A snapshot of my grandmother Alice holding my father as a baby. It was taken in 1922, the same year she founded the company. I’m so lucky to have spent the first 12 years of my life learning from her. Right: The couturier Hubert de Givenchy adored my mother and later became a great friend of mine. We had lunch this past February, shortly before he died, and he talked about his plans to travel to Morocco and his desire to curate an exhibition comparing Azzedine Alaïa’s work to Cristóbal Balenciaga’s. He was so full of spirit and life, and the grandest gentleman you could ever meet.

Bottom left: In my early 20s, I moved into my first apartment in St. Gallen. I owned zero art, so I bought this watercolor at a little furniture shop. I had no clue what it was until 10 years ago, when I visited Le Corbusier’s chapel in Ronchamp and saw the same bird in one of the stained- glass windows. I call it Sisyphus, because I see it as symbolic of our daily life: You fly forward, you fly backward; you move up, you move down. Center: For many years, whenever I was in Tokyo, I stayed at the Hotel Okura. I fell in love with the proportions — it was so grand without being huge, somehow — and the beauty of the materials: all that wood and stone. I stayed there the last two weeks before they tore it down in 2015. Right: When I was traveling regularly to New York City in the late ’80s, I took advantage of my jet lag by going in the early morning to the flea market on 26th Street. That’s where I found this and two other pieces by Cristóbal Balenciaga, though nobody there knew what they were! I love the tailoring and the coloring of its flowers. He was a true master.

Left: My home studio sits just southwest of the Appenzell Alps. From April to June, I like to look out and see my lawn in full bloom with wildflowers, and it’s just as wonderful when it’s snowing or covered in fog. It’s in those quiet moments that I feel far away from fashion. Right: This patchwork bag is also from the 2019 resort collection, which was all about an evolution of workmanship. The cervocalf leather is from Tuscan tanneries, where it’s barrel- dyed, meaning the colors saturate all the way through.