CLOUDS BRING BLESSINGS
When I first began experimenting with fabric-making, I imagined a dive into a technique- a study in both historical and contemporary craftsmanship. As I began to research how to create a fabric, tie & dye seemed like a natural starting point. It was a textile that is often seen colourfully displayed along the long beaches of Kenya’s coastal region, Mombasa. Not complicated by difficult production techniques, or so I thought, the freedom and approachability of this method drew me in. Journeying deeper into the art of fabric-making, what was supposed to be a reconnection to traditional methodologies soon turned into a recognition of our longstanding dialogue with the environment. This isn’t just a series about fabric. It is about impact; about the undeniable entanglement between what we make, and the world we make it in.
Where ancestral African craftsmanship is found, the earth is never far. Textiles made from tree bark, dyes drawn from fermented leaves, red ochre clay used as hair dye — the materials of our making have always come from a deep collaboration with nature. For me, working with tie & dye is not a nostalgic return, but a yielding of process. As I entered this language of making, it became undeniably clear that the environment was not a theme but a co-creator. The more I tried to control the outcome of the dyeing process, the more the environment resisted. Even with a formula in hand, the results shifted: the air, humidity, temperature — each left its mark on the fabric. In this work, I am not the sole artist. I allowed the environment to speak, to alter, to intervene. I surrendered control.
I did this research during a time of climatic chaos — Europe was burning, North America was flooding, and East Africa was unusually cold. Working in ‘The City Under The Sun’, Nairobi, I ironically battled dense cloud cover as I created my textiles. It feels important to include this context. In today’s world, where survival is at stake, environmental consciousness has become a luxury, not a priority. We have severed our intimacy with nature.
But still it persists. An artist completes their work; the environment never does. It is the unseen and uninvited co-author of every work of art. Over time, with quiet intervention, it continues to shape and speak. The most celebrated masterpieces in museums attest to this truth; the Louvre is filled with paintings that have gradually darkened, becoming versions their creators never intended or imagined.
Today, tie & dye is not necessarily done with ingredients sourced from the earth, but the impact of climate on the result remains. Tie & dye is one of humanity’s oldest textile traditions — a gesture of color and resistance that spans centuries and continents. From the indigo pits of Kano in Nigeria to the intricate Shibori folds of Japan or the Bandhani dots of the Indus Valley, it is a technique developed in multiplicity, evolving through culture, necessity, and imagination. Its fragmented but interlinked histories remind us that textile knowledge has no singular origin- just like identity, history, and the act of becoming. Its unpredictable nature, where the artist binds cloth with precision but relinquishes the outcome to the fluidity of liquid colour, echoes the mechanics of abstract art.
Tie & dye is a choreography between skilled hands, calculation, and time. The tying, twisting, and dipping of the fabric dyeing process brings to mind the deft manipulation involved in braiding hair. The language of textile making, where terminology like coarse and fine texture is used, is not far removed from that of hair. For my canvas, the strands of my choosing were rough cotton for nostalgic reasons- many of the modern East African textiles known today have their origins in a coarse, white cotton cloth holistically known as ‘Mericani’ – a direct reference to its place of origin, America. We interweave the personal with the historic. Much like the naming of the Mericani cloth and hairstyles in salons, patterns in tie and dye have highly localised names- Nadia, Corona, Samosa; each speaking about who or what circumstances surrounded their inception.
Our history is written in our objects, and our objects point to our kinship with nature. What we make is deeply influenced by where we are. The adornments, architecture, and fabrics of our forefathers reflect this truth. Vessels, in particular, are longstanding artistic expressions of how we have transformed the natural elements available to us into beautiful forms. I drew from this source. Shaping hair in the same way my ancestors shaped these materials Akan clay pots and wooden Ekyanzi milking pots are carried by my subjects.
In the creation of these works, through the motions of pulling, folding, and straightening, I began to discover not how to bend the environment to my will, but how to walk beside it. Through this journey, I was humbled into a newfound respect for the environment; a deep recognition that historically we had learnt her lessons, then forgotten them.
For me, the process of letting go became a way to remember. I named the images after memories. Memories of moments where my heart beat in unison with the environment. Memories locked to specific places, contexts and environmental factors. This work is a journey of return. The environment, once a combatant, slowly became my friend. Perhaps we only needed to reconcile.
“If you want to know the end, look at the beginning.” African Proverb
