What can you discover if you stand very close to a tapestry, where the overview disappears and material details stand out? What pieces of information can be found in the fibres and thread modellings of the V&A’s ancient and medieval tapestries – and how were such clues essential sources of inspiration for an artist in the 20th Century?
Swedish-Norwegian artist Hannah Ryggen (1894—1970) wove monumental, political comments on contemporary world events. Her early works are evidence of her strong opposition to fascism, and she committed to themes such as the nuclear threat and chemical warfare towards the end of her career.
In my ongoing PhD project, I argue that Ryggen’s motifs are even stronger because they are woven, and I study how her use of tapestry as a medium and thread as a material adds several political layers to the artistic statements. As a Visiting Research Fellow within the V&A Research Institute since January, I have been surrounded by the V&A’s remarkable collection of tapestries and explored some textile histories that are often overlooked as essential context for Ryggen’s work.
Modelling with thread
Inspired by the art historian and textile curator Alois Riegl (1858—1905), I experiment with different levels of proximity to the woven surface. On a level of nearsightedness, I am able to adopt a haptic mode of looking where I “touch” with my eyes and let the fibres tickle the senses. Up close, it is also possible to see how the thread not only builds the structure but models the figure.
In a small 4th-century tapestry from Egypt, the limitations of tapestry weaving have been used creatively as devices for building facial anatomy. The holes that naturally occur when two colours meet parallel to the vertical warp have been left open as part of the design; here they represent the contour of a rounded cheek. Furthermore, the weft threads are laid eccentrically and thus run organically, defying a strictly angular relation to the warp. May Morris (1862—1938), in an article on what at the time was called “Coptic” tapestry, has described how the Egyptian weavers stepped “light-heartedly over the trammels of logic and sobriety”, resulting in a remarkably “frank and free” sense of modelling with the threads. In our example, eccentric weft is seen, for instance, in the shape of the eyelids.
Weaverly, not painterly
15th-century tapestries, such as the great Devonshire Hunting series, are brilliant examples of how woven compositions of the time were organised as if unfolded flat on the surface, with figures and verdure crowding the shallow space. Even though the Renaissance weavers copied a cartoon credited to a renowned master from the painter’s guild, we find many examples of a specialist textile knowledge being put to use.
Ryggen often employed a tapestry technique known as dovetailing, a way of avoiding the already mentioned holes and slits. As a result, the contours are coarse and toothed, and the picture visually “textilised”. Renaissance weavers would never use dovetailing on a figure’s face; however, it is the perfect method for creating the organic outline of leaves.
In an interesting detail of The Swan and Otter Hunt, ornaments have been accentuated by leaving the technical holes open. Functioning as outlines, the rows of holes are what make us interpret a figure’s cream-coloured dress as if it were made in a monochrome brocade-patterned fabric. Perhaps there was a colour contrast in the dress pattern when the tapestry was new, but yellow nuances have disappeared, as they typically do.
An uneven history of art
Art historian Julia Bryan-Wilson has suggested we use ‘textile’ as a verb; “to textile politics is to give politics texture.” Adding texture to politics is a way of acknowledging unevenness and structural complexities. I believe that looking for complications in Ryggen’s work and how it has been contextualised in art history can be a way of lifting women’s art and textile expression to new levels of recognition.
Ryggen’s peculiar picture space, her use of ornament, and her free and expressive thread modellings are, I believe, all parts of a respectful nod to a medium-specific art history. Gazing beyond the obvious narratives and into the inner levels of woven artworks, one may discover a vibrating string of political significance articulated with hands, rather than words.
