Weaving Safe Space

© Jess Feury

In the summer of 2024, I interviewed a few creative individuals with the hope of starting a new project—a printed journal. However, it turned out to be more challenging than I had anticipated, mainly due to time constraints. Rather than losing those valuable conversations, I decided to post some of the interviews on the website. Many of them were introspective and personal, while others felt like thoughtful reflections on art and craftsmanship. I connected the responses and transformed them into personal essays, which I found deeply inspiring and wanted to share them with you.

By Jess Feury

If I could weave my life into fabric, it would undoubtedly feature periods of intense color, neutrals with pops of color, and darker palettes corresponding to heavier times in my life. Bright yellow comes to mind first, symbolizing the persistent light in my life, even during its darker periods. This fabric would be three-dimensional and wonderfully messy, with metallic threads running through it, representing the journey from birth to death. While this may sound depressing, we hospice folk often think in seemingly morose terms to counter the largeness of death. However, I love the idea of this Life Weaving being placed on my body like a shroud when I am a very old, wrinkled, wise weaving woman.

I discovered weaving while living in the Bay Area, California. My daily routine included hiking the redwood hills above our home, with panoramic views of the silvery bay and the dry, dusty hills. The palette and texture of nature greatly influenced my color choices. I am drawn to earth tones, often with splashes of unexpected color. My weavings frequently incorporate antique metallic threads, which punctuate the forms within my designs. For years, I have collected antique French and Japanese metal threads. I love the subtlety of old metals—the way they feel worn yet special. Much of the European foil thread I use dates back to the 1920s and 1930s, while the Japanese threads often originate from the 1960s and 1970s, created for Obis. These materials tie my work to ancient practices and other cultures.

I feel deeply connected to my pieces woven primarily from my collection of antique metal threads, which I have gathered from antique markets, estate sales, and travels. These pieces showcase the beauty of raw materials versus the design elements in some of my more tapestry-inspired work. The drape of the metals, incorporated into linen and cotton warps, creates a reflective quality that captures light in a way that feels raw and authentic to the material's essence.

My introduction to weaving was through Saori Weaving, developed in Japan in the 1970s. This painterly style of weaving valued an intuitive approach to the loom, contrasting with the structured, mathematical weaving of the time. I gravitated toward this approach, aligned with the Wabi Sabi movement in Japan, valuing freedom within structure.

Weaving became an art form I instantly fell in love with the first time I sat at a loom. Before weaving, painting and fashion were my creative outlets. Weaving merged my love for color and fabric. It taught me patience and presence, both in body and mind. The repetitive motion of throwing the shuttle back and forth and alternating my feet on the pedals creates a rhythmic state.

Weaving is both my art practice and my source of income. While turning art into a commodity can be tricky, it hasn't changed my creative process. This has been a goal since starting my textile business, and I am grateful it remains true for me. My life, a mix of organized chaos, often leaves me scattered. However, weaving grounds me. It uses all parts of the body, connecting me to the earth and providing a sense of calm.

Weaving is often compared to meditation. Living with a practicing Buddhist who meditates for hours daily has made me reluctant to liken weaving to meditation. Traditional meditation requires immense discipline. While weaving can transport me to a flow state when I am silent, I hesitate to call it a spiritual practice. My two decades as an art therapist in the death and dying sphere make it difficult to compare weaving's meaning to that work. For me, weaving is an outlet of joy and creativity, not a lofty spiritual endeavor.

As an art therapist, I witnessed many clients transform their trauma into meaning through art. For example, grieving clients used clothing of loved ones to make quilts within a community of fellow grievers. Art served as a container for feelings, transforming experiences into tangible objects. During hospice visits, art provided activities for children alongside dying parents, sometimes creating lasting symbols of their relationship.

In weaving workshops for mothers experiencing child loss, I invited participants to write messages to their children on strips of fabric woven into memory pieces. Seeing these mothers weave together in a circle felt like something more—generations of women creating in a community for healing.

Attaching emotional meaning to my work has always been challenging. I find talking about art too lofty or cerebral. For me, weaving is about sinking into my body and letting the fabric unveil itself. My years in hospice work make it hard to compare meaning in my art with the deep emotional attachment of sitting alongside those in grief. Weaving is a vessel to calm my nervous system and create tangible beauty.

In the first few years of full-time weaving after leaving hospice work, I processed my experiences non-verbally at the loom. Sitting still and quiet for long periods helped integrate years of compassion fatigue and genuine love for the families I worked with into my body.

Jess Feury is a textile artist based in Berkeley, CA. She creates handwoven clothing, jewelry, and textiles, blending old and new craft traditions. Inspired by antique textiles, outsider and folk art, and unorthodox materials, Jess lets the creative process guide her work. With a degree in art education, Jess taught in Washington, DC, before pursuing a graduate degree in Art Therapy from George Washington University. She worked with low-income families affected by HIV/AIDS and later as an art therapist on the West Coast. After nearly 20 years of supporting others, Jess became a full-time artist, building a studio in her backyard to focus on her craft.