Rooted & Woven

origins of a tactile curiosity

Deep in the memories of my childhood are routines of running down to the weaving room looking for my mother, to find her in the small and dusty space discussing patterns and colours amongst uncarded mohair that floated from the piles waiting to be spun onto spools. Ladies chatted in Shona whilst stirring long poles in aluminium milk churns of dye, over handmade fires.

Sitting on the floor along with the other children of the weavers crawling around their mothers feet at the spinning wheel or at the bench of the loom, I waited for my mother to finish. This left me in awe of the rhythm of the feet and hands that worked the spinning wheels or the carding of raw mohair, trying my hand at both. Whilst the old creaking wooden looms shifted as each weft was woven through. In this small space creative life was happening. It was where these beautiful creations were born - from the shearing of the small goat herd to provide mohair, to the carding of it, after which was spinning - to the dying and finally, the weaving into rugs that lay beneath my feet in every room of my house and memory.

Little blue notebook of my mothers handwritten recipes. Nearly as old as I am, this non-descript little book had memory and history seeping out of every page I turned. Filled with ratios of ramazol dyes for colours that were dyed into the woven mohair rugs that filled my home, my childhood and now my memory.

a dialogue of lines drawn through personal lives, artistic practice and textile process.

Process

Dyed Canvas, stripped & woven

I hope to find myself in another weaving room to meet with my memories again. Perhaps the looms will creek and spinning wheels will spin up the moments of my past. Nostalgia may overwhelm me, but I will search for the rhythm in my feet, with raw and carded pieces of wool being drawn between my hands. I will be out of practice and not very good, but my feet will remember and my hands will work. The wheel and the loom will not be sympathetic to my lack of practice, perhaps even spiteful of the time it’s taken me to sit before one. I want to feel my instinct leading me. My hands, my feet and my memory all connected. Emotions - raw and uncarded being drawn out of me, felt and guided by the work of hands, creating spools of memories tightly spun and safely stored - to be dyed and woven, until finally to feel beneath my feet.

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