The Hand of the Weave

Scott Norris is an accomplished weaver who has a unique sense of the "hand" of the fabric he creates.  He also has an intriguing relationship to the world of ceramics and is fed by the connection he has with the potters he knows.  This is a hallmark of fiber artsists—rather than differentiating ourselves from eachother, we tend to draw connections, creativity and energy from other media, artists and techniques.

When I caught up with Scott for a studio tour, our banter opened up into such an interesting view into his sensibilities that I wanted to share it with you right away...  

You have a very particular connection to the "hand" of the weave. Can you talk about that relationship a bit, and how it developed over time?  For example, originally, did you start by being attracted to the technical process, and then "grow" your connection to the fibers?

Of the various craft objects – including metal, pottery, glass, and wood – textiles are unique in that they show their age clearly and relatively quickly.  Fabric fades, it grows softer and, eventually, it wears away entirely.  I don’t welcome that disintegration, and don’t enjoy seeing good fabric being used carelessly.  However, I enjoy enormously seeing the signs of natural wear in fabric that’s being used repeatedly and respectfully.  That evolution in fabric, those signs of increasing age, makes fabric seem alive in ways that are different from other craft objects.  

The qualities that I’m describing in fabric –  graceful aging, durability, and sustained usefulness over time – are what I think of as its “hand,” and are what has attracted me to fabric throughout my life.  I admire these qualities in other useful objects as well, including aging buildings and fences, old books and tools, the worn glass in old windowpanes, and so on.  These objects reveal how they've been used in how they visibly grow older, as if their histories can be gleaned from their weathered surfaces.   This quality is most pronounced in fabric.  

You are also an accomplished writer, focusing on pottery.  How did you begin writing about that area?

I began writing about pottery because I know potters, admire their work, and often find myself thinking about pottery.  Pottery is the opposite of fabric – it’s as hard as a rock, it’s impermeable, it lasts forever, and it’s made in dirty, physically taxing ways.  Nevertheless, pottery and fabric are generally found together, despite their differences, particularly in the kitchen and dining room.        

By now you have certainly learned a lot from the potters you know.  Tell me about what they have conveyed to you that you bring to the art of weaving.  

For me, any influence I feel arises from the sense of community that envelops them, with the hard work, thoughtful discussion, and historical awareness bringing an intensity to their world that is unlike what I've experienced among other craft workers.   

More overt influences are hard to pin down because, in my experience, potters and weavers think very differently about what they do.  The potters I know think intensively about three-dimensional form, and far less about surface decoration, even though some of them decorate beautifully.  These potters are generally absorbed by considerations of a pot’s shape, its volume as opposed to its weight, the placement of its handles, and the relationships between its neck, shoulder, and foot.  Weavers, on the other hand, think intensively about the interaction between color, texture, and decoration.  A weaver will think, “If the stripe on the right hand border is yellow, should the stripe on the left hand border be yellow as well?” while being generally unaware of a third dimension. 

Potters and weavers are completely different in other key ways.  Potters work quickly and, in a good week, can produce 100 pots.  They don’t have time to ponder.  Weavers, on the other hand, labor for days, weeks, and months on a small number of pieces.  For example, I generally spend 4-6 months producing a tablecloth, starting with dyeing the linen, continuing by winding the warps (plural, because large tablecloths are woven in sections and sewed together later), dressing the loom, weaving the fabric, and finally sewing, hemming, washing, and ironing.  A potter will say, "How long did you spend on that?" and then will shake his head sympathetically upon hearing that it took months.

Moreover, they accept chance and accidents with grace and good humor.  They won't accept a pot that warps out of shape during firing, but generally will accept a once-pristine, pale green pot that emerges from the kiln with most of the green glaze covered by gray and brown ash.  Chances and accidents are part of the unpredictability of the way they work, and they maintain a fairly inclusive attitude about such things.  Weavers, on the other hand, seek absolute predictability, and become obsessed by the act of creating immaculate, precisely-woven fabrics.  It takes too long to weave a piece of fabric to accept unpredictability.   

Because of these differences, I think any influences are confined to my sense of being on the margin of a community of people with similar attitudes and energy, but who work in a very different discipline.  For me, to be near to a group of perhaps similar people who nevertheless do a different kind of work is an exciting place to be, providing frequent exposure to different ideas about how and why we make useful things. 

Of all the things you weave, what gives you the most pleasure?

Soon after learning to weave, I realized that I wanted to become a tablecloth maker.  I spend half of each year weaving tablecloths, with even the smaller, more saleable items (dishtowels, hand towels, napkins, and bath towels) I make during the remaining months usually being studies for tablecloths. 

My fascination with tablecloths stems from various things.  Some of these things are trivial.  For example, I'm fairly large physically, and enjoy the fact that I'm physically capable of weaving big things.  And, tablecloths are generally found at the pinnacle of the range of domestic, functional textiles, thus being more likely to assume "heirloom" status than other useful fabrics.   I like the idea of making something that has a better-than-even chance of becoming an heirloom, for the simple reason that it’s not a dish rag.  I'm pretty small-minded at times.

But my primary fascination with  tablecloths isn’t trivial.  Growing up, I had parents who were home for dinner every evening, who insisted that my brothers and I appear for every dinner, and that we remain in our seats until the meal had ended.   Although my family was no more or less happy than other families, I nevertheless enjoyed those times a great deal, particularly the conversations of my parents as they discussed the events of the day.   While listening to this talk, I also remember studying the tablecloths my mother used, tracing the colors and patterns with my fingers, enjoying the way the fabric felt, while also looking for repetitions in the woven patterns.  For me, the pleasure of listening to those conversations was inseparable from my involvement with the tablecloths on the table.   

Today, I like to think that tablecloths can play a role in the conversations taking place during meals.  It's good to think that a particularly engaging tablecloth can act as a stimulus to an engaging conversation, and that the discussions might grow more animated and focused as one's finger traces a raised ridge in a tablecloth, even if absent-mindedly.  We're rarely as occupied with one another as we are at meals, and there's an intimacy in the role of tablecloths at these times that's unlike that of any other functional textiles.

Scott's studio is the perfect place for creating, and he is probably there right now.  In lieu of actually visiting his studio, stop by Scott's website to see more of his work.

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