#various textiles

[norwaytrend]

Curtains & various textiles

The right curtains can help tie together the common thread in the room, or be a nice contrast. But curtains have a natural ability to attract dust and absorb odors over time. Because curtains hang in front of doors and windows, they also easily come into contact with insects and moisture that can lead to mould. This gives the curtains a grayer and duller appearance, while at the same time they can become a health hazard if the mold is not detected.

When you leave the responsibility to us, we carefully inspect the test styles to decide which method to use to give your curtains a 'like new' look again. Regular washing helps to increase the lifespan of the curtains.

#deadskincells #mattresstopper #carpetwashing #mophire #furniturecleaner #skincells #hiremats #deadskin #mattresstoppers #professionalcarpet

[mamawasatesttube]

my opinion on superhero costumes is that to a pretty far extent i don't Care about practicality. like sure for people who aren't invulnerable, cover up exposed skin. but do it in a way that has flair and pizzazz!!!! i don't give a shit about military grade tactical armor or whatever, i don't wanna see that garbage. just say this is some fantasy Xtreme Kevlar or whatever and we'll go with it because it looks fucking awesome!!! suspension of disbelief works so hard in your favor here. who cares if it looks like "realistic" body armor. that's fucking boring i don't care about "recolored military/cop"-looking nobodies. it's about the PANACHE. put on a kickass cape and some thigh high boots and OWN IT!!!!!!!

[loki-says-bite-cruel-hands]

tip for people doing embroidery/sewing gifts or projects: if you're using heat-erasible pens (look them up they're amazing), but you can't use your iron on the project for whatever reason? hit'em with a hair dryer on the low setting for like ten seconds or until you see the marks disappear.

[chiropteracupola]

Poverty, poverty knock / Keeping one eye on the clock / I know I can guttle, when I hear my shuttle / Go poverty, poverty knock...

...so I read @nothwell's novel 'mr warren's profession' at approximately light speed the other day and felt like drawing some of the cast.

[eahostudiogallery]

Speak Softly

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Dala Nasser - In the Purple

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Jo Goraz

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Salome Tanuvasa

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Issey Miyake - On Washi

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Sam Gilliam - Rondo

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Kate Scardifield

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Sam Lewitt - Untitled (two lineaments)

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Asger Dybvad Larsen

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Peter Buggenhout

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Diana Orving

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Yarn Dyed Egyptian Cotton Vintage Bedding

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David Hammons

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Berlinde de Breykere

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David Hammons

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Mire Lee - The Liars

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next: Lineage

[wombywoo]

What brushes do you use for coloring because I'm always in awe

these are the bad boys I've been using lately~ I usually use only one main brush while painting tbh, but I do have a few other ones for miscellaneous purposes. never underestimate the airbrush, but don't give him too many privileges ✌️

[positivelyghastly]

Taking a break from my big knitting project (which I’ve restarted like a million times now) to do a smaller, silly knitting project that you will see in due time :)

[avonengineering]

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@avonengineering

[tatangadragon]

taski maiden and why she's my favourite

ever since dream bbq got announced a few years ago, I've always been drawn to taski maiden - not only because she's silly, but also because her design is deeply fascinating to me, as it's rich in history. I haven't seen any posts discussing it yet, so I thought I'd make one!

the thing about taski maiden is that her design is very rooted in mesoamerican art. her appearance is heavily based on the textiles made by the chimú, who inhabited the coasts of what is now perú and were one of the most prolific empires of pre-columbus america - check these out!

if you look at the second image specifically - which shows chimú warriors - you can see how closely the top left figure matches taski!

in fact, all of her forms share the same colour scheme present in most chimú textiles: red, yellow, white, and black.

the little guys she's carrying are based on it, too! their face is a perfect match to the creatures the warriors are holding.

speaking of the little guys, the cloth taski is carrying them in is actually an aguayo! its a rectangular cloth used by various south american cultures to carry items and small children in.

final fun fact: taski is a quechua word that roughly translates to young woman or virgin.

and that's about it! as a south american person myself, I just think it's amazing to get a design that draws from our historical art and culture. just makes me love this series even more :]

[mewfistoe]

You find a soft sweater in Sylus’ closet.

———

You had never owned anything made from vicuña wool before. Hadn’t even known what a vicuña was until you looked it up online. Hell, you hadn’t even been able to spell “vicuña” at first, the search engine had to correct it for you when you tried to look it up.

Now though? Now you were gawking at the prices of various online listings of 100% vicuña wool sweaters in mild horror.

“It’s just vicuña wool,” Sylus had said.

“Just.”

****

You had found the sweater a week ago in Sylus’ closet when you stayed the night. You’d been looking for something comfy to lounge in his bed in, and when your hand had brushed up against this particular caramel-toned sweater, you couldn’t help yourself. It was so soft. It must’ve been one of Sylus’ favorites. He must have worn and washed it regularly for it to be as soft as it was.

Sylus had laughed when he saw you emerge victoriously from his closet with your spoils. Said you had surprisingly refined taste for someone so cheap.

You had never felt anything so buttery and soft before. Sylus doubtlessly used some very nice detergent and fabric softener. The sweater was a bit too large for you, intended to fit someone of Sylus’ frame, and the too long sleeves had felt so overwhelmingly cozy. You couldn’t stop petting yourself while you wore it.

Sylus had watched you with a smile and teased that you looked like a self-absorbed hamster grooming itself. You told him that he was just jealous that you had discovered his favorite sweater and had taken it hostage for the night.

When it came time for you to head home the next day, you were loathe to leave the sweater behind. And Sylus, dear sweet generous Sylus, had told you not to bother and to take it with you instead. He insisted. Said you clearly liked it better than he did.

You had hemmed and hawed about it at first. Both wanting, but not wanting, to steal his favorite. But you could tell by his smirk and head tilt that he knew how delighted you were with your new prize.

You had no idea that prize in question was made of one of the most luxurious textiles in the world. That it was worth over four months of rent for your apartment. That it wasn’t soft from Sylus wearing it all the time, but because it was made from the literal finest wool available on the market today.

Sylus just laughs when you call him up to confront him.

****

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s really not that bad, just a sweater.”

“It’s more than my rent! For four months!”

“Tch, that really says more about your meagre accommodations than anything else, kitten.”

“Why do you even have a sweater that costs $9,000 anyway?”

“$17,800.”

“WHAT?!”

“$17,800. It was custom made and I wanted a looser fit for comfort, so it required substantially more wool.”

“SYLUS!”

“Oh sweetie. It’s really not that bad. I have a rather large illegal white shahtoosh shawl somewhere that’s worth at least double that.”

“A what? A sharoo? Huh?!”

“Shahtoosh. Don’t worry, sweetie. It was a gift from a business associate trying to curry favor. And very old. Vintage. I wouldn’t buy one myself, I know how much you love animals.”

“Huh?”

“I’d give it to you, given your fondness for fine wools, but I know you’re a good law-abiding citizen so…”

“You…you big criminal! Why are even the fabrics you own illegal? Sylus? Sylus! Sylus, stop laughing at me! Sylus! It’s not funny. Sylus!!”

****

The next time he sees you, he hands you a skein of vicuña yarn.

“For my kitten to play with.”

“….”

You’ll never tell him that you do end up fiddling around with it later.

———

A/N - I know they use “Linkon currency” in the game but tbh I was too lazy to try and look up conversion rates so I just used what I know. Is Linkon money equivalent to the Chinese yuan, or no?

Sylus’ sweater is definitely extremely expensive, even for vicuña, but I’m assuming he would get the best of the best, so….

Also, apparently, shahtoosh wool is the finest wool in the world (literally. The hairs are the finest in the animal kingdom). It is made from Tibetan antelope (chiru), which are endangered, and the antelope have to be killed for the wool to be harvested, so there’s some ethical and legal concerns with it. According to wiki, it is also illegal to buy/sell/own shahtoosh, however it can still be found on the black market sometimes for exorbitant prices.

That’s all! Yay.

[fashionsfromhistory]

Tennis Dress

1885-1888

United States

It gradually became more acceptable for women to participate in sporting activities throughout the second half of the 19th century. Clothing requirements for most sporting remained strict towards retaining foundation garments such as corsets and bustle, which were thought to stabilize women's frail and weak forms. This example would have been worn for tennis, yachting or general seaside walking. Striped textiles were fashionable for such activities, probably due to the nautical theme and their jaunty air which inspires vigor. Although the silhouette remained the same, with the exception of the shorter, more maneuverable length, the trimmings were reduced. This is a striking example of this type of dress, which is fairly rare in museum collections. The bustle silhouette, although primarily associated with the second half of the 19th century, originated in earlier fashions as a simple bump at the back of the dress, such as with late 17th-early 18th century mantuas and late 18th- early 19th century Empire dresses. The full-blown bustle silhouette had its first Victorian appearance in the late 1860s, which started as fullness in skirts moving to the back of the dress. This fullness was drawn up in ties for walking that created a fashionable puff. This trendsetting puff expanded and was then built up with supports from a variety of different things such as horsehair, metal hoops and down. Styles of this period were often taken from historical inspiration and covered in various types of trim and lace. Accessories were petite and allowed for the focus on the large elaborate gowns. Around 1874, the style altered and the skirts began to hug the thighs in the front while the bustle at the back was reduced to a natural flow from the waist to the train. This period was marked by darker colors, asymmetrical drapery, oversize accessories and elongated forms created by full-length coats. Near the beginning of the 1880s the trends altered once again to include the bustle, this time it would reach its maximum potential with some skirts having the appearance of a full shelf at the back. The dense textiles preferred were covered in trimming, beadwork, puffs and bows to visually elevate them further. The feminine silhouette continued like this through 1889 before the skirts began to reduce and make way for the S-curve silhouette.

The MET (Object Number: 2009.300.2477a, b)

[magnetothemagnificent]

"Niche" knowledge that immediately outs you as someone who grew up Orthodox:

-all the steps of grain harvest and processing

-all the steps of textile making

-all the steps of hide tanning

-which animals are ruminants (and what a ruminants is)

-which animals have split hooves and which do not

-the porosity of various kitchenware materials

-always know when sunset is

-always know where East is

-what a heddle is

-what rennet is

-what cochineal is

-what murex dye is

-where the sciatic nerve is in an animal

-that gelatin is in *everything*

[ilium-ilia]

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter Three: pig

tw: dub-con, mentioned threats of non-con, mentioned/implied bestiality

To the victor belongs the spoils, but Ghost has no use for mere trinkets. 

A man of his status requires something of sustenance—meat and blood, something warm and fresh to dig his fingers into, and he finds that in you. Tender offals spewing from a gored deer, viscera tainting his skin no matter how long he scrubs at it. A warrior is not complete without proof of his vitality; without the conquered to trail behind him as a reminder of the pecking order.

That’s what this feels like—your ripped, sodden chiton clinging to your body as you stumble behind him through the halls while he struts as if the palace layout has been burned into the back of his hand since he was born; as if he’s lived here his entire life. A birthright finally passed down to him. Servants gawk carefully from the corner of their eyes, ensuring that they do not test your new lord too vigorously with their gaze. You hold your bosom tighter, water squelching from the fabric and dripping down your stomach. 

No—the pecking order is still the same. You’re still at the bottom. Fresh food. A toy for your new warlord.

After all, who wouldn’t be curious about the freak without a tongue? 

Still, it is nice to pretend that you are something else for a split moment when Ghost brings you to the room that was once Shepherds throne, now turned into temporary storage. A small band of soldiers sort through various items, all seemingly taken from the palace itself. They garner swords, daggers, bronze shields and thin armor. Pottery, artwork, banners. Sandals, himations, shredded chitons and silk. Two men banter in the corner over a gold bracelet, while a larger group picks at the tip of a sword, degrading its creator for how dull it is. 

If you pay close enough attention, you can almost still smell the blood that was spilt here yesterday—it almost stains the stone floor beneath the chair. 

Eyes begin to wander when you’re brought to the center of the room. You’re still dripping, chiton running cold against your skin as Ghost begins to rummage through a pile of textiles. Prismatic linen against his skin, he intermittently chooses an item and holds it up to your body, eyeing the size of the cloth against your figure before either tossing it back into the depths or slinging it over his shoulder. 

Eventually, there are five different garments shoved into your arms. Beautiful floor length peploses of saffron and rust, a chiton of delicate hyacinth, and two himations, beautiful shawls of seafoam green. You stare in awe at the delicate embroidery that laces the ends of the fabric. Geometric squares, delicate flowers of daisy and anemone, and sharp angles that remind you of the brightest stars in the night sky.

Gifts. That’s what Ghost says they are. He tells you to dress yourself how you please, and then dismisses you with the order to do whatever you wish for the day. 

He leaves you with his soldiers, citing work that must be done within the city, alone and standing in the midst of their mess, stunned. Having no way to voice your concern, you simply do what you do best—follow your leader, your emperor; your new lord. 

You spend your day the only way you can think of; down in your cove. It is a task climbing down there with your new peplos, but the moment you donned the cloth you knew you could never take it off. It is soft against your skin. Soaked to the brim with expensive dye and decorated with a craftsmanship you’ve never seen in your old, plain chitons. The pale sand is warm against your bare feet, and you spend many hours combing through the shoreline, tickling seashells as they pop up to kiss the soles of your feet. 

When the sun heats you too much, you strip yourself free of all clothing before dipping beneath the waves. Kelp wraps around your ankles like loving chains meant to keep you in the only place you ever felt at home, and you float on your back and stare at the azure sky as the tide wills your body where it pleases. Then, when dusk begins to paint the sky with mulberry, you slink out of the water, bones having turned into liquid, and you lay on the rocks next to the starfish caught in tide pools until you are warm enough to drag yourself back to the palace. 

Still, you are a creature of habit. 

Come morning, you are in Ghost’s chambers again, now with a new peplos and your hands ready to serve. His body lays motionless in his bed, and you find yourself stealing glances as you go about your work. Crooked nose, almost parted lips, bare chest rising and falling with his breaths. He groans when the sound of sloshing water echoes from the basin and you see his body pulse beneath his animal hides as he turns on his side, dark eyes stricken with pink. 

“No. None of that,” he dismisses. Pausing, you place your pitcher down before turning to fully face him. His face is heavy with lassitude. It pulls at his gaze and it trembles in his arms as he motions for you to walk toward him. “C’mere, little mouse.” 

Obeying, you approach his bed, yet you are still surprised when his fingers wrap around your wrist and drag you downwards. As if falling into the hells, you collapse against the mattress and turn to liquid when he begins to maneuver you how he wishes. Bent on your side, head on his chest, arm wrapped around the back of your head as he lies flat on his back, breath huffing from his lungs. 

“I was up half the night settling quarrels with your people,” he grumbles. “It’s only fair that one of their own aids me in sleep. At least you squawk less than them.” 

The rattling in your chest rivals that of a family of horses trampling through open plains with unforgiving hooves. You think Ghost might feel it as he pulls you closer, body sinking into the linens, exhaling a soft chuckle before his dark eyes flutter shut and you’re left as a prisoner in his grasp. 

Curious hands wander over your body just before his snoring overtakes him. Thick fingers paw at your waist, the dip in your hips, the soft pudge of your stomach. Just before his slumber devours him, he mutters something about how you are softer than silk—softer than anything else he’s ever touched before. 

Ghost’s heartbeat sounds like war. It’s the pulsing of drums promising impending doom. It’s the throbbing in your mouth after your tongue was stolen from you, leaving behind nothing but rot and ichor. It’s the beating of your mother’s fists inside of the brazen bull, fruitlessly attempting to escape her sealed fate. Still, it sounds like solace, because war is the only comfort you have ever known. 

Eventually, it lulls you to sleep; stuffs your skull full of cotton until your thoughts are just as fuzzy as your body. Dreams come sweetly like honey, but the smell makes you gag as your mother drizzles it on bread and holds it for you to eat. You always speak in your dreams. Though, it is rare that anyone ever understands you despite it. When you tell her you cannot stand the texture of honey in your mouth anymore, she only smiles and pushes it to your lips. 

Grip like tongs on your tongue. Knife meant for flaying. Blood spilling like juice. 

Forever scorned—a little girl so desperate to sing. 

You wake to Ghost’s fingers in your mouth. Gentle, hardly invasive; he doesn’t even push them past your teeth, just keeps them behind your lips to feel the way you instinctively suckle on it. He knows you’re awake when your actions cease. 

“I am a soldier, little mouse,” he says, pads of his index and middle fingers rubbing against your front teeth. “I can’t stand politicking.” Groaning, his body twists, elbow digging into the bed to prop himself up, torso curling over yours, hips rolling over your thigh. He is naked, and you feel the bite of his warmth through your peplos. “But I keep tellin’ myself it’s worth it, if it’s for you. My little treasure. All for me, yeah?”

When he pulls his fingers from your mouth, he drags them down along your chin, dipping to your throat, and then lower. A thin trail of saliva is left in his wake until it runs dry, and the rough calluses of his fingers trace between your breasts unheeded. 

“Dunno why I find myself so infatuated with you,” Ghost admits, though he speaks more as if he’s talking to himself than to you. “Maybe it’s because we’re not too different. You’re the only one in this fuckin’ city who understands me, yeah?” 

His words mean nothing to you, and still you nod. Your eyes are locked onto his lips and how they dance as he talks. 

“My name is Simon.” It’s a blunt reveal. Something that leaves your mind spinning. Ghost is a name fit for him—something you would not be surprised to hear that his mother herself named him—but his true title softens your aching heart. Simon smirks as he leans forward, nose knocking against yours. “I trust you enough not to tell anyone.” 

Then, he seals this revelation with a kiss. 

Simon’s lips are heavy against yours, chin rubbing against your own just as his thumb brushes your cheek. Never before have you had anyone embrace you in such a way, and you’re not sure how to react. So you lay there motionless as your ribs attempt to keep your fluttering heart at bay. 

It only worsens when his tongue slips into your mouth. It’s an action that brings along the very stars themselves with it, sizzling and sparkling to life what you once thought was long dead. Your mouth opens wider, cheeks hollowing out in order to bring more of him in, throat bobbing in anticipation, but he halts your endeavor with a chuckle as his mouth breaks free from yours with a quiet smack. 

“Greedy girl.” 

After that, you cannot leave Simon alone. Not now that you know his name. Not now that you’ve gotten a taste for his tongue. 

He enjoys it. At least, you think he does. He never allows you to trail far behind him when he’s running an errand somewhere within the city, always keeping a hand on your back. When he sits with his men, he ensures you’re next to him, if not damn near in his lap, arm snaking around your waist, hands quietly toying with you when the war talk riles him up too much.

It’s gotten to the point that people now regard you with some sort of authority as if you are brimming with power and wealth. But don’t you look the part with your purple peplos and hand tugging on the arm of the vicious dog who now leads your city? Soldiers greet you with salutes and bows, and even the servants have begun to follow suit. Heads lowering. Knees bending. 

Still—there are others who know you as you are.

A worm, groveling in dirt. 

That life finds you again when you wander into the kitchen, having been sent away by Simon to fetch something to eat when he was too concerned about your growling stomach to focus during his meeting. Before you lies a medley of breads, fruits and vegetables, oils and salts—nearly anything your mind can imagine. The aroma is nearly enough to trick your mind into believing you’re tasting it for yourself. Garlic, onion, chives, sun dried tomatoes. 

Your stomach growls, but the want is not here. The joy is bland. The action is a chore. It worsens when you spot a small jar of honey. 

Pale orange refracts the streams of sun slicing through the windows, and you stare at the liquid with contempt. When your tongue was ripped from your mouth, it was the only thing you could eat for weeks. You’d slather it on the tip of your fingers, then smear it along the open wound within you, rubbing it along the tender skin and pray that the antimicrobial effects would save you from infection. Each time you remember the way it coats the roof of your mouth, or how it sticks to your fingers, you shiver. 

Still, you fill your plate with kinder memories. Grapes, bread, butter—anything soft. Anything your traitorous throat can swallow. Then, your mind wanders to Simon, and you grab extras. Apples, cured meat, cheese. You’re nearly weighed down by the cluster in your hands. This is the most greedy you’ve ever felt, yet no one gives you a second look; not in your attire, not with your newfound status. 

No one except Caenis—the one who remembers you from before. 

The one who remembers you for what you are. 

Hands occupied, you nearly clash into her when you exit the kitchen. She stands tall and proud as ever, delicate fingers holding a fat pitcher of water against the side of her hip. For a moment, fear clouds her eyes. You suppose that’s what most of the servants feel these days—something you ought to feel, too, in your newly conquered city. Then, her eyes wander, golden like the metals from the earth tracing your body, reading the embroidery on your peplos, naming the color of the woolen fabric in her head. Then, fear melts into rage, and her lips press into a tight line as she glares at you. 

“Look at you. You’re enjoying all this, aren’t you?” she asks facetiously, each syllable dripping with ire. “Oh, of course you can’t answer me. Kissing the new lord’s feet still hasn’t grown your tongue back for you, I see.” 

Though your legs yearn to flee, you do what you always have done. Turning to stone like the statues in the garden, you stand there and take her berating the same way as you have always done. 

“Everyone’s noticed. You pleaded your innocence so much that day your wretched parents were snuffed out, but look at you now, bedding with The Ghost and following him like some well trained bitch.” There is movement behind her. Quiet, and swift like a diving eagle—it’s Simon; you’ve learned to recognize him anywhere. Curiosity pulls at his face when he rounds the corner in the corridor and spots you. You’ve taken too long. Fingers curling into your plate, you attempt to step around Caenis to meet your lord, but she only chuckles and slaps it out of your hand, sending your food clattering to the ground. “You might think it’s fun to pretend that you’re anything other than filth, but we all see you for what you really are.” 

Her throat catches on the last word she speaks as Simon’s foot swipes at the back of her knees, sending her pitcher shattering on the ground as she follows behind it. Caenis’s lambasting is silenced with a squeal as he runs his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back as the fresh well water wets both her chiton and your feet. It swirls with the bread on the floor, softening it until it’s soggy—a true waste of mush. 

“I am sick of this city’s kvetching,” Simon sighs. Caenis sends her hands backward, fingers pulling at his grip in her hair to get him to relent, but she freezes the moment she realizes who has a hold of her. Her face blanches. “Your tongue is wasted on you.” 

With his free hand, Simon retrieves a small knife sheathed in the side of his chiton and proudly displays it in the pale glow of the sun. Caenis whimpers as he twirls it, toying with her, and it’s nearly enough to get you to feel sorry for her. 

“Perhaps I should relieve you of it,” he muses before looking up at you. “What do you say, little mouse? I think her tongue would be of greater service in your mouth than it is in her own.” 

For a split moment, you entertain the idea. This notion that you may yet have a tongue to sing with. Something to stitch yourself up with so that you may be whole again. 

Then, you remember a time when a soldier cornered you outside of Shepherd’s chambers. Truly, he was handsome. The quintessence of strength and beauty, he sneered at you for a solid five minutes speaking of your wretched hideousness, how no one would ever want a woman as ugly as you, that he had thought of raping you just for his own pleasure but decided to get that relief out of a pig instead. 

Some time later, you caught Caenis with that soldier outside of the bath house. She was kneeling before him as he pulled his chiton up over his stomach, taking his cock into her mouth. Though you are not sure how true his claims were, all you could think about is how he must taste like pig. 

You do not want a swine flavored tongue. 

When you shake your head, Simon smirks before stowing his blade. “The only reason your blood is not on the floor is because of her,” he mutters to Caenis. Then, he releases her with a heavy shove, forcing her hands to brace against the wet floor as she sobs. “Remember that the next time you open your mouth.” 

Wide eyed, you stare down at her as you watch her shoulders shudder and head bow as if silently begging for your forgiveness. It’s a sight you never thought you’d see in a woman like Caenis, always so prim. So proper. So above you. 

Simon then reaches out his hand, taking yours into his own, before leading you away from the mess at your feet. His warmth and rage are palpable as it bleeds into you, but still, you cannot help but smile as Caenis’s pules echo off the corridor walls behind you.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

*full story is currently up for early access, updates will be posted every sunday night (may be a different day depending on time zones)

[vilecrocodile]

i will say tho blaming ppl on tumblr liking leather on "petit bourgeois ideology" is kind of nuts. people like leather because its cool, its durable, it can be found secondhand, and it lasts a long time. people are keen to invest in a good quality textile that has an associated history with various in-groups. thats all there is to it. is denim more proletariat or something. wdym

[eahostudiogallery]

Clothes Lines

Lucille Leger - Vulnerability Sinks into the Closed Doors

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Martina Cox

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Reto Pulfer

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Helga Stentzel - Smoothie

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Pia Camil

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Hanne Friis - The Juice from The Trees

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Liesl Raff - Retreat

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Leanne McPhee - Hung Over

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Edith Dekyndt - Mud 007

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Bernhard Walter - Rug Rat, 2018

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unattributed

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construction site art

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Robert Gober - Waterfall

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Annette Messager - Mes Voeux sous filet; 1997

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Helen Pynor - Inhale, 2006. Knitted human hair.

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we can iron things out

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Crochet sunshades in Alhaurín de la Torre, Málaga, Spain

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[saltedsnailstudio]

some recent happenings from the studio

linocut prints on various textiles + some stitchin’