Turmeric, Skin, and Marigold
Some years ago, during an archive visit, I came across a small book. Half-hidden among other, more conspicuous objects, it could easily have been overlooked. Wearing the obligatory white cotton archival gloves, which served as a membrane between the present and the past, I carefully opened the book. As I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanned the delicate handwriting sporadically scattered among pieces of fabric. I interpreted the notes as instructions that had no intention of presenting themselves to a viewer. These were instructions written to track thoughts and enable replication of a potentially successful outcome. Experiments, they were.
As tangible proof of all these trials, squares of fabric were meticulously glued onto the pages alongside the written notes. Like small artworks with titles next to them, each page featured a piece of unfolded fabric next to a sample showing how it should be folded. The folded pieces resembled long cocoons holding onto something that was in the process of becoming. One page showcased a shifting emerald green and blue piece of fabric with numerous naked, undyed details from the creases of the fabric. Another page featured a fabric piece with a large round shape that resembled a halved beetroot with blood spurting out. There were turmeric-yellow shades and delicate pinks. Lightness, indifference, chaos, sensitivity, anger, fear, happiness, grief interwoven through the fibres of the pages. It felt incredibly personal to look at, as if they were diary entries never meant to be separated from their owner.
Some objects encountered in museums and displays seem more connected to their former lives than others.
Is it the physical evidence—impressions in the form of scratches, bumps, indentations, stretches and contamination from a series of actions in a lived life—that perpetuate life in an object? Like a mould forged by moving limbs and intermittent encounters with other objects, reflecting the lived experience. The American sociologist Harvey Molotch describes products as “a kind of prosthesis of our own minds.” Drawing on this notion, one could also ask if there is something more undefinable that resonates with parts of ourselves. Something that, like a mirror, puts us in contact with a potential past self, as is the case with so many other aspects of our lives.
As I enchantingly flipped through the pages, the archivist added some details in the background. I learned that the woman who had made this book was Anne Maile. She had moved to London with her husband in the 1960s from a small village in the East Midlands of England. She had children, and when they no longer needed her attention at home during their school days, she began experimenting in her kitchen with ingredients from her garden. She explored different colours and tie-dye techniques. Throughout the experiments documented in the book, you can see how she became increasingly methodical and advanced in her techniques. There were almost no books on tie-dyeing at that time, so she invented her own patterns and systems.
She might have started experimenting as a sole practitioner, but her work was an expression of the emergence of a broader movement in design at that time.
The 1970s was a pivotal decade for the design profession, marked by a significant shift towards more socially responsible, critical, and ecologically conscious approaches.
Designers began to recognise the broader societal and environmental impacts of their work and started to incorporate principles of inclusivity, sustainability, and community engagement into their design practices. It was also during this time that thoughts on self-sufficiency and DIY became prominent.
Natural dyeing stands in contrast to modern, industrial practices of product manufacturing, where the goal is to create standardised products that can easily be scaled in quantity. In these instances, designers often rely on machines, creating a separation between the maker and the product. With natural dyeing, no two outcomes are ever the same. While one may attempt to keep detailed notes and instructions to replicate a specific combination, it is impossible to achieve complete consistency. Ultimately, everything is determined by the natural processes, cells, tannins, and fibres of the plants, each possessing its own unique fingerprint. As humans, there is something intriguing about the impossible—an intrinsic, inherited urge to control and overpower nature, whether in the process of dyeing a piece of fabric or on a larger scale. Simultaneously, there is great satisfaction and a strange feeling of disarmament in accepting the uncontrollable and the potentially unpredictable outcomes.
In line with the aesthetic trends of the time, she experimented with all kinds of dream-like, abstract patterns—complicated designs that evoke thoughts of nature's ever-changing forms or the many acid trips that took place during this period. Common to these patterns was their hypnotic effect on the viewer, making one unsure of what one was actually looking at: the swaying wheat fields surrounding my childhood village, merging with the sky, the animals, the roads, the people, the dust, and the sweet scent of rain. One could get lost in these patterns, as everything seemed to merge and embrace one another.
I began dyeing my own textiles a few years ago. My motivation came from various angles: aesthetically, I had certain colours in mind that I believed would complement the shape and material language of my designs. Functionally, I couldn't find any material and colour combinations that satisfied my vision for the light I wanted to emit through my lamps. From a principled standpoint, I didn't want to create a product using prefabricated materials that could potentially harm the environment and the people involved in their production. Inspired by the book and its author, I began to delve into how I could experiment with various pigments derived from natural ingredients. Before starting, I had already set some constraints for myself: the pigment should come from a natural ingredient that was already a by-product. I began to sift through my compost bin to find materials that could yield some colour. Soon, without even realising it, I had created my own little experimental book, complete with various instructions and small clippings of the results.
My book