I love the idea of taking a pile of miscellaneous threads and turning them into something useful, like a piece of fabric. Consumers in the craft industry, like in most industries, can be a bit removed from the manufacturing process. Fabric and yarn stores are full of materials, and sometimes it is easy to forget how they got there.
For me, creating something from bits of nothing is a really satisfying experience. Sometimes it’s a pie, sometimes a table mat. My love of handmade can probably be traced to one or all of the following:
- I grew up making things with my DIY-style parents and my thrifty grandmother, a woman with a sense of save! save! save! and a collection of every size and color of milk/egg/meat carton you can imagine.
- A culture being overrun with cheap, wasteful, and uninspiring commercial goods — not just in Japan or the US, but the global commercial marketplace in general.
- My growing Etsy community, where I’ve met artists and craftsmen who value and support handmade objects of all kinds. We’re internet friends, real-life friends, and all-around craft addicts.
- The Walking Dead has resumed on AMC and inspired me to plot my post-apocalyptic lifestyle and skill set.
My friend invited me to try saori weaving and I gladly accepted. I wanted to learn to create a textile rather than simply embellish it. Unfortunately, I still have little grasp of how that actually happens because I didn’t understand most of the Japanese spoken to me. I could probably search the internet to find a clear explanation, but it’s more fun to bring you along on my craft adventure as I experienced it — as a mute copycat. Living abroad has taught me the fine skill of mimic.
When we arrived at Jota‘s satellite location in Ikeubukuro the looms were already prepped. I was instructed to pick a few colors from the yarn bin, and the shopkeeper showed me how to wind the yarn from a big bobbin to a little one.
She gave me a basic demonstration on how to work the loom. Slide, clack, smack, switch. I repeated that over and over while trying to keep the seemingly thousands of threads in front of me from tangling. A note of warning, if you’re a tall foreign girl in Asia, don’t wear heels to weaving class, because your knees will knock against the loom and you’ll feel like a giant in a little loom land. Slide, clack, smack, switch, knock. Ouch. Curse under my breath. The instructor claimed she couldn’t speak English, but I recognized the matronly looks of disapproval.
I got a few pointers here and there — literally, the instructor pointed and either smiled or shook her head — but for the most part I was left to my own devices.
Here is my takeaway:
Any questions? Good! Me too!
It turns out saori weaving really embraces the imperfect: don’t think about it too much, see what evolves. I love this approach to creating. Saori also emphasizes recycling old materials, reusing bits of yarn or threads from other projects. Both of these ideas are rather unique in Japan, a place where efficiency and perfection are often valued in a process.
Thanks to everyone for the kind words about my messy little table mats! I left the class thinking it was a one-and-done experience, but after learning more about saori and your heaps of encouragement, I might be convinced to give it another shot. Next time I’ll leave my high heels at home.
If you’re in Tokyo and interested in trying saori weaving, you can visit Jota in either Kichijoji or the Seibu department store in Ikebukuro (7th floor). Contact them in advance to schedule use of the loom or to inquire about a one-day course. email@example.com