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Silk production is at least 5,000 years old—the age many Chinese give for their civilization itself. The fabric's history is entwined with that of the nation, and particularly the region around Hangzhou. In the 1950s, archaeologists unearthed 4,700-year-old silk ribbons in nearby Huzhou, where much of the raw silk for Fei's textiles is still made. Inscriptions about silk appear on oracle bones, the objects on which Chinese inscribed their earliest written language. Designs that look like embroidery cover the bodies of the bronze figures that are among the Chinese people's first images of themselves. Silk has also long been central to the country's identity abroad. The Romans called China Seres, derived from the Greek word for silk—as if the place were indistinguishable from its most coveted product.

By the time Marco Polo wrote about Hangzhou (a city he called Kinsai), noting the sums the city's government made from taxes on silk merchants, China's trade with Persia had already transferred the technology for processing silkworm cocoons to the West. Yet the Chinese continued to innovate and adopt patterns and styles from abroad. Polo noted the Mongols wore satins that mixed silk with gold—a technique they picked up in Persia. Through the Ming and Qing dynasties, however, styles were more homegrown; Hangzhou even housed workshops principally responsible for clothing the Emperor and his court.

This heritage weighs heavily on the city. Hangzhou calls itself "The Capital of Silk." The name pays homage to the past, however, not the present. Tourists can still buy silk scarves and parasols along the shores of the city's picturesque West Lake. But the scarves look the same as in any other place in China, and the parasols are made of nylon. Down the road, the China National Silk Museum feels like a memorial hall, full of wistful eulogies to Song gauze and Ming damask.

A collection of early 20th century cheongsams occupies its top floor. The dresses are arranged chronologically so that visitors can see how their designs have evolved over the years. Quickly the demure brocades and flowers give way to prints and textures of exuberant, jazz-age geometry. They are quintessentially modern: inventive, daring, hopeful. The last dresses are from the mid-1940s. There, the exhibit and the museum's collection end without explanation.

The Secret Weapon
Walking through his factory Fei points out the features and provenance of his machines. One is from Switzerland, another has a chamber to regulate temperature, a few are from Japan. He races through a series of high-tech labs where patterns are developed and transferred to silk screens. "But really," says Fei, "this factory isn't that advanced." A model of a new plant is on display, but Fei has other strategies for advancement up his sleeve. "Where are those Italians?" he shouts into his phone as the tour winds down. "Get me the Italians."

Above the shop floor in a room filled with swatches of fabric, Matteo Fiori and Andrea Ziggiotti are drinking instant coffee. The two are fabric-development experts who hail from Vicenza, just inland from Venice. Their job is to help Fei anticipate trends, an area in which few Chinese textile manufacturers have been able to compete. Much of their work involves subtle tweaks to the finish of fabrics the plant already makes—adding wrinkles, diluting colors, shredding edges. Fiori says the biggest challenge of their work is a lack of shared vocabulary. "In Italy I can say, 'I want this soft, like a lady's skin,' and everyone knows just what to do. Here, they say, 'What? What's a lady's skin?' But it's mainly a problem of language. You follow certain steps. They do it two or three times and then they know how."
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