There are at least two dozen bicycles in Paul Smith ’s office. They’re propped against the walls, forcibly fastened together like mismatched jigsaw pieces. “We designed this one.
It’s our first pro-grade racing bike,” he says, grabbing a yellow and blue carbon-fibre model and gently but purposefully placing my hands on its handlebars. “And I was sent this one. People send me things, y’know, from all around the world.
” One bike is from Japan; another raced in the Giro d’Italia, southern Europe’s answer to the Tour de France. Smith recounts how everyone gathered in the local bars to cheer and celebrate. “I don’t ride these bikes so much any more,” he says.
“But over the years, that was the idea. It’s all good fun, isn’t it?” Good fun . That’s the best way to describe being in Paul Smith’s office.
Or being around Paul Smith in general. Along with the bicycles, there are stacks of papers on every available surface, piled high and precariously like a Machu Picchu of A4. There are books, ornaments, drawings, photos, all stuffed into every imaginable crevice and collected from all over the world.
His offices feel like a British Museum exhibition, except the Greek government isn’t demanding any of it back. It’s a vault of every inspiration that’s ever sprung into Smith’s mind, as mixed and multicoloured as the tiny bookshelf-like logo of stripes that serves as his calling card. Of all these treasures, Smith can’t pick a favourite child.
.
