The Value of Wool

If Maria Lai and Margaret Tait introduced me to the ethical and poetic dimensions of artistic practice, the work of Magdalena Abakanowicz revealed something equally powerful: the potential of materials themselves to carry meaning.

Abakanowicz’s practice occupies a singular position in the history of textile art. Her monumental fibre sculptures, particularly the series known as the Abakans, challenged the boundaries between sculpture, installation, and textile practice. Using materials such as sisal, hemp, wool, and burlap, she created large suspended forms that appear simultaneously organic and architectural.

These works evoke natural structures: cocoons, nests, skins, or fragments of landscapes. Standing beneath them, the viewer often experiences a strange tension between familiarity and unease, as if encountering something both human and non-human at the same time.

This tension lies at the heart of Abakanowicz’s work.

Her sculptures frequently explore the relationship between the individual and the collective. In works such as the series Crowds, she created groups of headless human figures, each one slightly different yet clearly part of a larger body. The repetition of these forms evokes both individuality and anonymity, reflecting on how human beings exist simultaneously as singular identities and as members of larger social systems.

This idea resonates strongly with ecological thinking. Just as individuals form part of a social collective, humans exist within broader environmental systems that connect species, landscapes, and resources.

Abakanowicz’s materials reinforce this connection.

By working with natural fibres and organic textures, she emphasised the physical relationship between artistic creation and the natural world. Her sculptures appear almost as if they have grown rather than been constructed, suggesting that art can emerge from the same material processes that shape natural environments.

In many ways, her work anticipates ideas now associated with biomimicry — the practice of designing systems and objects inspired by nature’s structures and strategies. By observing natural forms and processes, artists and designers can discover more sustainable ways of working with materials.

Abakanowicz’s sculptures embody this philosophy intuitively. Their organic forms remind viewers that nature already contains sophisticated systems of structure, balance, and resilience.

For me, encountering her work reinforced something I had begun to sense through my own engagement with textiles: materials are not neutral.

Every fibre carries a history.

Where it was grown, how it was processed, who handled it, and what ecological systems were involved in its production — all of these factors shape the meaning of the material itself.

This awareness became particularly important as my own practice increasingly centred on wool.

Wool and the Politics of Material

My journey into wool craftsmanship began in an unexpectedly simple place: the discarded fleece left behind after shearing season on my family’s farm.

Surrounded by sheep and immersed in the rhythms of agricultural life, I became increasingly aware of a strange contradiction. Wool — a natural, renewable fibre with centuries of cultural significance — was often treated as waste.

Certain types of fleece, particularly those considered low-grade or unsuitable for industrial processing, were frequently discarded or destroyed. Farmers often faced the economic burden of disposing of wool that had once been a valuable resource.

Witnessing this process deeply troubled me.

The effort involved in raising sheep, shearing them, and managing the land stood in stark contrast to the fate of the material itself. Wool, once an essential fibre for clothing and textiles, had become economically marginal in a world dominated by synthetic alternatives.

This realisation prompted me to engage directly with the material.

My early experiments began with the most basic stages of wool preparation. Cleaning raw fleece required careful attention: removing debris, separating fibres, and preparing the material for further processing. The process of skirting — selecting and removing unsuitable parts of the fleece — became an act of learning.

Through washing and drying, I began to understand the complex relationship between fibre structure, lanolin, and texture.

The tactile nature of this work transformed my understanding of textiles. Wool was no longer an abstract material used in finished garments; it became something living and dynamic, shaped by animal biology, agricultural practices, and human labour.

This process eventually led me to explore hand spinning.

Spinning yarn is one of humanity’s oldest textile techniques. Turning raw fibre into thread through the rotation of a spindle or spinning wheel connects the practitioner to a lineage of craft stretching back thousands of years.

Each movement of the wheel carries echoes of historical textile traditions.

Spinning became not only a technical process but also a form of meditation. The repetitive movement, the gradual formation of thread, and the quiet rhythm of the wheel created a sense of continuity with generations of makers who had worked with fibre long before industrialisation transformed textile production.

Felting introduced another dimension to this exploration.

As one of the earliest forms of textile creation, felting relies on heat, moisture, and pressure to entangle wool fibres into dense fabric. Unlike weaving or knitting, felting requires no loom or tools — only the physical manipulation of fibre.

Its simplicity reveals the remarkable properties inherent in wool itself.

Working through these processes deepened my understanding of wool not simply as a material but as part of a broader ecological system.

The Wool Industry and Environmental Responsibility

While studying in the United Kingdom, I encountered challenges within the wool industry that mirrored those faced in many agricultural regions.

Declining demand, fluctuating markets, and the dominance of synthetic fibres have placed increasing pressure on wool producers. At the same time, environmental concerns surrounding textile production have intensified, highlighting the need for sustainable alternatives.

Wool presents a fascinating paradox.

On one hand, it is a renewable and biodegradable fibre that can offer a sustainable alternative to petroleum-based textiles. On the other hand, its economic value has diminished in many regions, leading to practices that undermine its potential.

Exploring this contradiction became central to my research.

My work began to focus on how low-grade wool could be repurposed into new materials and applications. Possibilities include insulation products, agricultural textiles, biodegradable composites, and other innovative uses that extend the life cycle of the fibre.

By transforming what is currently considered waste into valuable resources, it may be possible to support both environmental sustainability and rural economies.

These ideas align closely with the traditions of textile recycling that have historically existed in regions such as Prato, Italy.

The cenciaioli of Prato represent one of the most remarkable examples of textile recycling in Europe. Emerging during the nineteenth century, this network of workers specialised in sorting and repurposing discarded textiles.

Faced with limited access to raw materials, they developed sophisticated techniques for separating fabrics by fibre content, colour, and quality. These recycled fibres were then reintegrated into new textile production.

Over time, this practice became a defining feature of Prato’s textile industry.

Even today, the city remains a global reference point for textile recycling, demonstrating how economic necessity can generate innovative sustainable practices.

For me, the cenciaioli represent an important reminder that sustainability is not always a modern invention.

Often, it is a rediscovery of practices that once existed before industrial systems prioritised speed and scale above all else.

Community, Collaboration, and the Future of Textile Practice

In addition to historical practices, contemporary initiatives have also played a crucial role in shaping my research.

One particularly influential platform has been Colèchi Journal, founded by the designers and researchers Piarvé Wetshi and Tina Gorjanc.

Colèchi operates as both a research platform and a creative community dedicated to sustainability within fashion and textile practices. Their work explores the relationship between agriculture, material production, and cultural storytelling.

What makes their approach particularly compelling is their emphasis on dialogue.

Through essays, workshops, and collaborations, Colèchi brings together artists, designers, farmers, and researchers to explore alternative models of textile production. Their project Agriculture examines the relationship between fashion and farming, tracing garments back to their origins in soil, fibre, and labour.

This perspective resonates deeply with my own research.

Textiles do not begin in design studios or fashion houses. They begin in landscapes — fields, farms, and ecosystems that sustain the materials from which fabrics are made.

Understanding this connection is essential if we are to imagine a more sustainable future for fashion.

Towards an Ecological Manifesto

The growing environmental impact of the fashion industry has often been described through the concept of eco-anxiety — the emotional response to ecological crises that increasingly shape contemporary life.

For me, this feeling has become both a burden and a motivation.

Living in what scientists and scholars describe as the Anthropocene — an era defined by human influence on Earth’s ecosystems — demands new ways of thinking about artistic practice.

Textile art, positioned at the intersection of material culture, agriculture, and design, holds a unique potential in this context.

It can function not only as aesthetic expression but also as a form of ecological reflection.

Through my research and practice, I have begun to imagine the possibility of a personal manifesto — a set of guiding principles that shape how I engage with materials, landscapes, and artistic production.

This manifesto does not propose simple solutions.

Instead, it asks questions.

How can textile practice respond responsibly to environmental crises?
How can artists honour the histories embedded within materials?
And how might creative work inspire new relationships between people, landscapes, and the objects we create?

These questions remain open.

Yet through the works of artists such as Maria Lai, Margaret Tait, and Magdalena Abakanowicz, I have discovered a powerful lesson.

Art does not always need to provide answers.

Sometimes, it simply needs to create spaces where reflection becomes possible.