Last week I wound nine yards of warp for a set of towels — more than I needed, on purpose.

Two towels are finished. Several more are still waiting on the loom, and now it's time to change it up.

I can change the weft color, or add several. I can change how often a section repeats. I can change the treadling and alter the pattern entirely. I can try something simply because I'm curious what will happen.

The extra warp turns a practical project—making towels—into a place for exploration.

Enough Structure to Begin

I do need structure. The loom is threaded, the warp colors are set, the basic weaving structure is in place. Those decisions give me somewhere to begin.

But I don't want every decision made before I sit down to work. If everything is already determined—the exact yarn, the exact colors, the exact result—much of what interests me about making disappears.

I want to participate in the work while it is becoming. I want the chance to notice something halfway through and follow it: to make a change, to discover an idea doesn't work at all, to see something in the cloth I couldn't have imagined from the draft on the page.

That's the part I'm interested in.

The Room to Play

The nine yards matter because they give me permission to play.

If I had measured exactly enough warp for a predetermined number of identical towels, every change would carry more weight. There would be less room for the unnecessary attempt—the version that exists only because I wondered what would happen.

But those unnecessary attempts are often where something interesting begins.

I think artists need some amount of excess. Not excess for the sake of waste, but enough material, enough time, enough openness that everything doesn't have to justify itself immediately. There needs to be a little room to ask: what if?

Discovery Is Part of the Work

This isn't limited to weaving. It's how I approach materials in general.

I want to know what a fleece will do rather than deciding in advance what it must become. I want to see how a structure shifts when I alter one element, and what happens when materials behave differently than I expected.

For me, the experiment isn't something that happens before the real work. The experiment is the real work.

That may be why a simple set of towels can hold my attention. On the surface, I'm weaving useful cloth. Underneath, I'm studying color, structure, rhythm, repetition, possibilities.

The first towel answers one question. The next one can ask another. Because I gave myself nine yards, I don't have to know all the questions yet.

There is still room on the loom to find them.

Leaving Something Undecided

It's tempting to believe good planning means deciding everything before beginning. Sometimes it does. I'm not sure that's always good for art.

For me, a good plan establishes enough structure for the work to begin while deliberately leaving something unresolved—something I can only discover by making.

That small piece of uncertainty keeps me engaged. It gives the material a chance to answer back, and gives me a reason to keep looking.

There are still several towels left on this warp. I don't know exactly what they'll look like yet.

That's precisely why I'm looking forward to weaving them.

~ Karen