woven

Textiles are foundational to the human experience. Cultures all over the world have their own unique practice of dyeing fiber and weaving. Woven textiles sometimes take the form of clothing, sometimes rugs or blankets, baskets or nets. I like to think that we are all descendants of weavers. There is something very human and very grounding about using our hands to craft something in the same way that humans have been crafting things for thousands of years.

Learning to weave felt like learning a new language. Which makes sense because textiles have historically been used to communicate. The words ‘text’ and ‘textile’ have similar origins. We can read a weaving in the same way we can read a book. We can determine the origin of the fiber, of the plants used to dye the fiber, of the symbols or designs in the weaving. Sometimes I think of my art as modern artifacts. If an archaeologist were to discover my weavings hundreds of years from now, what would they learn about the values of our culture?

I think about this as I’m foraging. My home on the East Side of Detroit is surrounded by wide open fields of wildflowers and cattails, pheasants and foxes. I gather all of the plants that I work with from within the city of Detroit. The plants I work with have come to feel like friends – familiar in their shape and color. I am learning their preferences and their habits through daily walks amongst them. Goldenrod is a staple of these urban prairies. In the late summer the fields are awash in the sunny yellow flowers. The bees love them – one last feast before the colder months come.

Goldenrod is categorized as a native invasive plant. It grows so abundantly that it can inhibit other plants in the area. I wait until the bees have had their feast and then I go out with my backpack and my shears to forage. While I’m out I may come across a black walnut tree, or blue spruce, or even dyer’s polypore mushroom. The plants that I collect will be used to dye wool. And the wool will be used to weave a tapestry.

The process of gathering plants and dyeing yarn can take days but more often takes weeks. The tools and equipment I use may be more modern than that of dyers in the past, but the process is essentially the same. I use my shears to chop the plants as small as I can manage. I add them to a great big pot of water and set it over a flame. The heat will break down the cellulose structure of the plant and release the color into the water. I strain the plant from the water and add my fiber – usually wool. The wool can sit for a few hours or a few days in the colorful pot, absorbing pigment. Eventually, I will remove the wool from the pot and rinse it. When it’s completely dry, it’s time to weave.

My weavings are typically very minimal in composition. This is intended to let the colors speak for themselves. These colors are born from this soil, from this place. This palette is unique to this moment in time. In the same way that the symbols in a weaving can tell a story, the colors of the plants can tell a story. A story of cooperation between goldenrod and aster – two plants whose complimentary colors make them more successful at being pollinated when they grow together. A story of resilience – in the fields of coreopsis that are mowed down twice a year only to come back with even more vigor.

Weaving is an incredibly slow and meditative process. I will spend weeks threading the wool over and under and over and under, tucking in the weft ends and tying knots in the warp. The finished pieces are only part of the point. My art is mostly about the process. The process of looking and listening closely, of foraging ethically and sustainably, of dyeing wool using traditional practices, and weaving slowly and methodically. It can feel, at times, less like a craft and more like a way of life.