How I discovered this technique was, how I like to put it, half accident, half intrigue. One morning snagging a shirt I was wearing on sharp corner as I was rushing to leave to get to a lecture on time. The fabric began to unravel; my intrusive thoughts took over and I began to pull on the fabric over and over. Watching this fabric unravel, becoming more fragile and delicate but never completely falling apart, never disconnecting or separating. Holding its form, though it appeared different, it was still the same piece of fabric that began as a shirt.

What I first thought of as an act of destruction and weaking, thinking I was taking strength away from the fabric to something fragile and needing to be handled with care. Only to realise that was not the case at all, little did I know I had just discovered a technique that I would carry my work to new places I never thought possible and would carry me on a journey through patience and transformation. It has become a vessel for me as the artist to connect the process of creating and the final work into one. Having my touch embedded within the very fabric of my work, leaving my touch and presence as a ruminating essence on every work I create.

Even more so, being someone with an anxiety disorder certain habits have engrained themselves into my subconscious. For example, picking at my cuticles and always needing to keep my hands busy to control my overthinking and my overactive mind, which makes me a very fidgety person. I have been able to translate this into my practice; through the distressing of fabrics, I am able to sit for hours pulling and stretching the fabric to create completely new textures and test the limits of its capabilities  – experimenting with many types of fabric discovering the textures that are created through the distressing process. My practice has become a control for anxiety, further demonstrating the therapeutic aspect of my work. The repetition of sitting in a state of hyper fixation of stretching these fabrics to their limits, not to make them weaker, but to witness their resilience.

For me, it is this intimate process to channel me, my work and the viewer into one, connected together through layers that reach beneath the surface of the physical, into a connection that brings the emotional into play, a deeper feel of connect, a feeling in the soul.

(*Now I must say I am sure others have discovered and used this technique, this is just my story of how I came across it myself)

I use this technique of distressing and manipulation for the woven fabrics, fabrics that contain a weft (the threads going across) and the warp (down or vertical threads). This technique is a little easier than the previous, but still, my patience is tested, and the end product of all the individual threads opens the door for opportunities that are unlike the other technique is every way. Sitting and pulling the individual threads out one, by one, by one, until I am left with a pile of thread, raw and undone, ready to be transformed into something new.

I began twisting and coiling, almost absentmindedly at first, as if in a state of thought, letting the fabric wrap around itself again and again, forming spirals, loops, and layers around my finger. My fingers found a rhythm in the motion, a quiet repetition that slowed my thoughts and centred me in the moment. As I wrapped the threads around my finger, as I pulled it off, I half expected it to fall apart again, back into their individual spaces. But they held their form, no securing with glue, just standing, a new form created, a new life breathed and a new limit broken.

What started as a simple act of twisting became a way to transform flat, pliable pieces of fabric into something with presence and weight. Each coil holds tension and release, a balance between control and surrender. The fabric curls back on itself, retaining its softness even as it gains structure. I realised that in coiling, I was not constraining the fabric — I was giving it a new life, a new form that carried both its past and the intention of my hands. As the coils are laid next to each other and again, a composition emerging throughout

This technique became a new kind of language through which I could communicate with the material. Some fabrics resist, stubborn and firm; others yield, delicate and pliant. Through hours of coiling, I learned to respond, to guide without forcing, to let the texture emerge naturally. And allowing the colours to fade into each other, to keep and embrace the randomness, to dissolve myself into the process and enjoy the creative journey. The repetition of the process became grounding, almost therapeutic — a way to channel transforming fidgeting into something tangible and beautiful.

Some people ask me, “why don’t you just buy thread? It would save you time.” But for me, fabric coils are more than structure; they are a vessel for presence. They carry the story of every twist, every pull, every pause, embedding me into the work in the most intimate way. For me and the viewer to witness quiet dialogue between patience, transformation, and the material.