After working a few years weaving The Dump tapestries, it was a great pleasure to work with the book, to write down my thoughts and try to give form and shape to the texts. Also to invite others to share their perspectives on the work. If you want to buy the book you can get it at Tronsmo bokhandel, The National museum, FORMAT, Soft galley, Kunstnernes hus in Oslo and at Bastard Lillehammer.
ISBN 978-82-997307-2-3
About the book:
The book contains essays by Hilde Østby, Nina Mauno Schjønsby, and Vibeke Hermanrud. The texts shed light on various aspects of the work and Sæterdal’s artistic practice. Sæterdal has written short prose pieces and the drama Veverens sang (The Weaver’s Song), conveying thoughts on the weaving process from the work’s inception in 2021 to its completion in 2025. The book is richly illustrated, featuring photographs by artist Marie Sjøvoll, among others.
The book is supported by the Arts Council Norway (Kulturrådet), Norwegian Crafts (Norske kunsthåndverkere), BKV, and KiN Regional Project Funds.
Weaving
Throwing a snowball! … the power in the throw, the speed through the air, the direction out into nothing, no target to be seen, and the spot where it lands, the weight of the snow, the snow becomes meltwater. Some of the water rises as steam when it meets the warmth of the ground. Most of it seeps into the ground, stone and soil. Lasting impression: no sign of activity.
Weaving is building upwards by entwining materials like a bird, stacking up pine needles like an ant, or interlocking branches like a beaver, until it eventually becomes something that has weight and volume and color and physical presence. It becomes something that doesn’t leave me, that I can live in, hold on to and show off. Something I can possess as my own story.
Writing is listening with open senses, standing up and walking around for a while. I find that it requires being in a different mental space than weaving. The loom, which is standing a meter away, calls out to me – come, come! – enticing me with a simple one-colored section, easy to weave. I resist, want the words to come now, yes please to whole sentences that point the way forward.
Weaving while the others are talking and laughing in the room next door; one ear directed at them. Maybe that’s where life is happening? I’m sitting here weaving on the loom, with nice weather outside, and yellow autumn leaves to run about in. I have one eye looking out the window. Maybe that’s where life is happening? I want to go out to the others, but resist, I have to weave now if this is going to become art. My room is where it’s happening, where my hands are sparking and smoking and both eyes are focused on the creation occurring in the tapestry. Something nice and durable can arise from the warp and the weft and the work of my hand if I just stay here.
Walking a long distance has become something I yearn for and talk about constantly. Putting the hills and the miles and the mountains behind me, always something new and yet always the same. The condition is described variously in the books I have read. In his book A Philosophy of Walking Frédéric Gros states that in walking, the authentic sign of assurance is a good slowness. A sort of slowness that isn’t exactly the opposite of speed. In the first place it’s the extreme regularity of paces, a uniformity. Gros writes about the meaning of walking as understood by different philosophers throughout history. Many of them crossed mountain ranges and deserts countless times during their lives. After a long walk it is good to come home. Back in the slowness of the loom the yarn finds its crooked path upwards.
Weaving a yarn between the warp, then pushing it down into place on top of the other threads. It is raining outside, and nobody is waiting for me, I’m happy to sit here and take my time. One thread after another. My mind is slightly ahead of my hands, like a skilled director visualizing what will happen a few minutes from now. Little decisions made in quick succession by hands and head together. The color of the thread, the technique I choose and the shape of the woven area. The result of a long series of moments is collected in the works that eventually will be exhibited.
Text by Kristin Tinsa Sæterdal