Blog — textile

From all the new designs that we worked on with C JEAN for our collaboration there is one pattern in particular from the collection that we are especially proud of. The overlapping wavering lines of blue, white and grey seen on the shirts (and C JEAN’s spectacular pants) are made using an adaptation of the Japanese “katazome” stencil dyeing technique. Although having dyed it made us feel pretty darn happy about ourselves it still remains a technique that we use sparingly in our work, the main reason being that at first glance it can be very difficult to distinguish this kind of fabric from one that is digitally printed. This makes it a particularly difficult kind of textile to hook people’s fascination with since it requires considerable time investment to understand what the textile is and how it was made. To help fellow textile enthusiasts understand what is going on with this design and to spread awareness of the method we are going to share a brief step-by-step process of how we achieved this pattern.

To start with a stencil is made by cutting a design from a waterproof material. Japanese dyers of olden times traditionally would use paper treated with fermented tannin-rich persimmon juice. Unfortunately these tend to come in a standard size and while this can work for smaller pieces or kimono-width fabric the large size of our project (a 2.5 meter long and 50 inch wide silk) meant we had to use something bigger. We ended up going for the largest thinnest sheet of flexible acrylic and laser cutting our design into it. It worked pretty well.

We steamed some rice flour and bran for several hours which we then blended to create a resist paste. This was applied through the stencil onto the tightly-stretched silk. The hardest part was connecting the lines by lifting the stencil, repositioning it further up the fabric and continuing to apply paste so that the pattern could repeat. This did not work so well. We ended up adding (more than) a few hints that it really was a handmade textile. Ah, c'est la vie.

The powder you see being brushed over the rice paste lines is sawdust and this helped to keep the paste from smearing the other sections of the textile once we put it in the indigo. After several dips in our indigo vat the paste is easily washed away and we can see the uniform blue and white lines running down nicely parallel to each other.

But this is only half of the puzzle because to achieve the illusory mirage-like effect that we wanted another set of lines had to go slightly across the first. We had seen a design like this already somewhere done with blue and white only, so for fun we thought of trying to add a third colour – grey/black. To do this we stretched the silk back out again, steamed new rice resist paste and started pasting on top of the previously dyed pattern – but this time at a slight angle. This angle is what created the intriguing intersections of lines that give us the desired pattern.

Once the paste dried we carefully applied a concentrated extract of myrobalan (Terminalia chebula) and light iron mordant with a brush. The tannins in the myrobalan reacted with the iron to give us a grey/black colour.

As I mentioned before without investing the time to understand the steps in this process it can be difficult for almost everyone today to distinguish a “katazome” stencil-dyed fabric from a digitally printed one. As we worked late into the night trying our best to shift the stencil a little this or that way to make the design repeat perfectly down the fabric we were forced to ask ourselves some hard questions: what was the point of getting covered in sticky rice goop at 2 in the morning and having to vacuum sawdust from the couch? Wouldn’t it just be easier, cheaper and quicker to print this design using modern technology?

There was a time when this technique represented the forefront of textile printing technology when extremely delicate graphic designs could only be made with these sorts of stencils. Staggeringly complex images with multiple layers of colour were created with sets of stencils that added layers upon layers of detail until a full picture emerged. Now we have the power at the tips of our fingers to have infinitely more beautiful designs with the push of a button almost instantaneously. Times have changed and sometimes I feel like there is no choice but to adapt and leverage the tools at hand. But then there was something about the “imperfections” of those lines that could be leveraged too. If we as craftsmen compete in the realm of visually precise repetitions and impeccably executed designs against machines then we will lose every time. But if we leverage those “imperfections” to accentuate the handcrafted nature of our arts and crafts we can start to turn the game to our favour. Overall this was a fun and challenging project from which many new ideas are emerging and already finding their way into our work.

Back in March this year we were invited by TCDC (Thailand Creative & Design Center) to join a collaborative project with a Taiwanese fashion designer C JEAN. The project was created by TCDC and Taiwan's SCCP (Songshan Cultural and Creative Park) and the aim is to build a relationship between designers from the two countries by exchanging ideas and collaborating together to develop works for a mini-exhibition in Bangkok in April.

Although the time given was extremely limited we felt that it would be a good opportunity for us to try new techniques and build a connection with C JEAN and SCCP. We also love Taiwan so much that we couldn't say no. Besides, the project theme 'Inspired by Nature' was also a perfect match with our work. 

To branch out from our usual shibori works we decided to try the eco-printing technique as we wanted to capture the colours and forms of our natural environment and transfer them onto the fabric. We started with pre-treating the silk with aluminium acetate. This helped the dye molecules from the plants stick to the fabric. Once the silk was ready we took a walk around our garden and collected various plant materials – leaves, flowers, stalks, petals, berries, etc, all of which were placed onto the silk. We also sprinkled some powdered dyestuff like sappanwood, safflower and mangosteen for an extra burst of colour. Then we rolled the fabric into a tight bundle which we secured with string, steamed for several hours and left to stand overnight. The next day after untying the bundle and washing the results could be seen. A fun and totally unpredictable technique that works really well on lustrous silk! 

C JEAN scanned our samples, digitally manipulated and printed onto silk to make some stunningly elegant garments. We’re really happy to see how the final pieces came out!

This collaboration continued when TCDC approached us again and asked if we were available to go to Taipei for a week in July to work towards another mini-exhibition at SCCP similar the one held in Bangkok. This time we had about a month and a half to work on the project.  After discussion with C JEAN we decided to take inspiration from the Op Art movement and the spectacular works of Venezuelan artist Carlos Cruz-Diez. 

Playing with the visual concept of kinetic energy and optical illusion effects we created the textiles with natural dyes and the use of shibori technique and stencil dyeing (katazome). These textiles were then featured in C JEAN’s designs for her sustainable fashion collection. She also made our outfits for the exhibition opening with the textiles we developed for this project!

The exhibit shows early development of our collaboration. Although we only had a short time to prepare for this exhibition, we are excited about future developments. The works are now being displayed in a mini exhibition in Songshan Cultural and Creative Park in Taipei until August 27th.

On one of these visits in last year’s October as we were walking back to the car our ears caught the unmistakable rhythmic beating of a loom punctuated by distinctly high-pitched “clicks” coming from a rickety old farmer’s house across the road. We couldn’t resist investigating further and walked through the rusted gate and past a shiny orange “Kubota” tractor as we called out to announce our presence. We came face-to-face with the only source of sound in the sleepy street: a lone weaver immersed in her work at an incredible contraption of a loom and surrounded by a sea of household objects. A deep earthy smile emanated from her warm face worn with time and long rays of sunshine as she beckoned us to come closer. The house she sat under looked as if it had moulded itself around her and there did not seem to be a distinct boundary between where her activities ended and where the surroundings began. Even her loom seemed as if it was an extension of the house – a squeaky collection of pipes, wooden cogs and lumber off-cuts that were all ingeniously held together with mysterious joinery and rusty bent nails. The high-pitched “clicks” that we heard earlier had been coming from a pulley system which she had rigged up to allow her to sling the shuttle back and forth with dazzling speed and precision. The cotton she wove was sublime. Soft as spun silk with a modest weight to it. Her nimble fingers kept a coordinated pace with her feet as she pushed pedals, slung the shuttle to and fro and adjusted various things all the while happily chatting away with us about her work and life in the village. She told us about other weavers in the area who still supplemented their households’ income with this kind of work and then (casually) remarked how next week she and her weavers’ group planned to take their looms apart and re-assemble them at the local temple to collectively spin this year’s cotton harvest, weave bolts of cloth, dye it using jackfruit wood and then sew robes that would then be gifted to the monks of the temple. All in one night. Our eyes opened wider and wider as she went on until our jaws dropped and she smiled as we stood there blinking at each other. She seemed amused at our reaction. For her this was part of the way of life in the village, something that had happened countless times before and would happen countless times again: the annual Thod Kathin Festival. For us it was something we knew we had to see.

When we arrived at the gold speckled temple on the night of the festival the celebrations were already well underway and the village members sat in a semi-circle in the middle of the temple grounds, dressed in white. We silently slipped inside as their attention was focused on elaborate dances put on by the youngsters behind whom stood a small grove of potted cotton plants with fluffy flowers white and ready for harvest. An announcement rang out at the sound of which everybody promptly stood up. We joined our palms in Buddhist prayer and listened to the chanting of monks as two dozen children dressed as mythological characters in dazzling costumes of golden scales ran out and began to circle the grove of plants. With woven bamboo baskets in hand the children ran amongst the plants, picking cotton as they went. The chanting was said to be one of gratitude for this year’s bountiful harvest.

When all of this was done larger sacks of previously harvested cotton were brought out and a few elderly women in their 70s started making their ways to the looms. These were the weavers of the village and our new friend was amongst them. All the equipment was already set up. There was a group for spinning, another for weaving, and a third to keep everybody awake and cheerful with merry singing. There were bags of jackfruit woodchips that would later be simmered to dye the cotton in the splendid deep orange colour that is reserved only for monks’ robes. Singer sewing machines stood by at the ready. Somebody had even brought a washing machine to give the dyed cotton a good wash. As the hour grew late the singing grew more vigorous and a big pot of bamboo shoot stew was brought out. We eventually decided to start making our way back home around midnight, leaving the weavers to work deep into the night.

Earlier this month we visited Hokkaido, Japan and had a chance to see an exhibition of NUNO Corporation’s textiles. I first came across NUNO was when I was researching for an essay about innovative textile in the library of my college. I remember looking at images of their textiles in the books with great admiration for the innovation and artistry of their designs where an array of unusual materials ranging from stainless steel and aluminium to newspaper and bird feathers are featured. How did they make this fabric? What processes are involved? What kind of technology did they use? Can this really be done on a machine? What is this fiber? What is the inspiration for this design? How much time does it take to produce this fabric? I had so much curiosity and fascination from just seeing pictures of their textiles and so I felt very lucky and excited that there would be an exhibition just when I planned to be in Hokkaido.

The exhibition was held in a small gallery space in a hotel in Sapporo. Two large tubular envelopments made of NUNO textile swatches patched together were on display. One is a vibrant and colourful circular tube while another one is a compilation of subdued off-white pieces rich in both textures and delicateness. Apart from admiring and touching the front sides of these wonderful fabric swatches, you could also walk inside these envelopments and inspect the back side of each different one.

Other than the two main textile exhibits, several boards of design developments were also humbly displayed on the wall. It was interesting to see how some of their cutting-edge and complicated textiles were initially developed from simple and straight-forward hand processes such as laying stickers on paper, folding origami, making paper cut-outs or dyeing fabrics with rust.

Some of NUNO textile products such as scarves, bags and pillows were also featured in the exhibition space. Although I was never able to categorise NUNO textiles into fashion or interior purposes because of their avant-garde qualities, it was refreshing to see how their textiles can be wearable and interior products for everyday lives. The exhibition space was small but we found ourselves spending quite a lot of time there while being pleasurably immersed in the world of NUNO textiles. It was an inspirational moment to be able to see and touch the beautiful collection of textiles from a company with fascinating innovation that expands the boundaries of contemporary textile design.

After Hokkaido we spent some time in Tokyo where decided to visit Amuse museum in Asakusa to see their exhibition on Japanese Boro textiles. Despite the garish exterior of the building and the touristy museum shop, the exhibition itself was exquisite. The collection of Boro garments is expansive and the history of each piece is fascinating. All the boro clothes were made purely for retaining warmth in the snowy areas and for its longevity in places where obtaining cloth is difficult. Patches of cloth and scraps were layered on top of one another and each stitch was painstakingly done by hand. Large robes made with think layers of hemp and patches of old cloth were used as cover blankets for families to sleep in during the night while cuddling inside to keep warm. Kimonos were hand woven, worn and fixed with stitches countless times while being passed down for four generations. Each piece of garment is filled with delicate history. While most places would not allow for viewers to touch their boro exhibits, you can touch and feel the pieces displayed in Amuse museum. The exhibition also featured some Kogin-sashi garments, Ainu clothes and Jomon pottery.

During our recent travels in Belgium we took some time to visit Brugge: a city well known for its picturesque canals and tall church towers that stand as testament to the city’s magnificent past as a major trading port. You can feel it everywhere, from the angelic melodies ringing out of the clock tower bells to the gilded doorknobs of merchant houses and the occasional horse carriage taking tourists for rides up and down the cobblestone streets. But walk for 15 minutes away from the bustle of visitors, statues and Van Eyke paintings and one begins to see a very different picture of Brugge. The buildings change from monumental mini-palaces to humble houses of single-storied red brick. The streets are empty and quiet. Here, in its modest origins, we can start to catch glimpses of something ethereal hanging silently in the windows or laying on a tabletop. These are the silent alleyways of handmade lace.

With the invention of mechanised production processes the handmade counterpart has very nearly disappeared. What little remains of the industry is wonderfully displayed at the Kantcentrum (Lace Centre) where one can see and buy some astonishingly beautiful pieces and lace making tools.