E45 Transcript
These days, we can “travel” the world of fabric without ever leaving home.
Scroll long enough, and you’ll see the cottons of India, the silks of Japan, and the linens of Italy — all on your phone screen before breakfast.
But long before the internet made that possible, I had the chance to see some of those fabrics in person — to stand in the places where they were woven, dyed, and embroidered by hand.
And let me tell you — it changes the way you see everything.
I remember the drone of sewing machines in an Indian workshop, where rows of artisans were hand-beading faster than I could ever dream.
The thick, crisp feel of linen, still warm from the press.
The quiet focus of silk weavers who treated every thread with precision.
And the unmistakable smell of ink vats, as technicians scooped and poured dyes across massive printing screens.
Those experiences stayed with me.
Not because of the travel itself, but because of what it taught me about creativity — that the love of fabric, and the pride of making something by hand, is a language spoken everywhere.
That’s really what today’s episode is about.
Not travel stories, but connection — the way fabric links us across borders and generations.
Because you don’t have to fly around the world to find that sense of wonder. You can find it in your local quilt shop, your favorite thrift store, or right in your own studio at home.
Creativity isn’t about how far you go — it’s about how deeply you see.
And when you start to look at fabric through that lens, you realize we’re all part of the same creative conversation.
So today, I want to share a few stories from my own fabric adventures — and show you how they shaped the way I see beauty, craftsmanship, and creativity.
And along the way, I hope you’ll start to see your own work through a slightly different lens — one that feels a little more connected, and a lot more inspired.
Everywhere I’ve been, one thing has always stood out to me — fabric has its own language.
You don’t have to speak the words to understand it.
You can see it in the way someone handles cloth, the way their eyes light up when they’ve made something beautiful. This is certainly true for me.
In India, I remember walking through an open-air fabric market where vibrant color was everywhere.
Yards of silk in fuchsia, emerald, and turquoise, with iridescent fabrics shimmering under the morning sun.
India has such a deep history with color — you can feel it everywhere you look.
Their silk is rich and nubby and takes dye like it was made for it.
Even the cottons — those madras plaids woven in every combination imaginable — were art in themselves.
And the embroidery!
Beads, sequins, mirrors and coins, all sewn by hand with speed and precision that left me in awe.
You couldn’t help but feel the joy of it — a country that celebrates color the way some celebrate music.
Then there was Italy, where the tone shifts completely.
Everything there feels measured, deliberate, refined.
On the island of Burano, lace-making isn’t just a craft — it’s a heritage.
Mothers teach daughters, who teach their daughters.
They sit by the windows stitching tape lace to linen, working with a patience that would probably drive me nuts!
I remember thinking how opposite it felt from the chaos of the markets in India, yet it carried that same devotion.
Different rhythm, same heartbeat.
And in China, I saw a different kind of artistry again.
Rows of embroidery machines moved in perfect synchronization, but even there, you could see the human touch in the details.
The color choices, the finishing, the quiet pride when a piece was done right.
It reminded me that craftsmanship isn’t defined by where something is made — it’s defined by the care behind it.
What struck me through all of it was how easy it was to connect — even without sharing a single word.
When someone loves what they make, you can feel it.
That moment when they hold up a finished piece and smile?
That’s universal.
And that’s when I realized — fabric doesn’t just connect threads.
It connects people.
And if you look closely, it has a lot to teach you.
It’s funny — once you start noticing how fabric connects people, you also start noticing what it gives back.
Some fabrics whisper their lessons quietly; others demand your full attention.
In India, what stayed with me most wasn’t just the color — though it was unforgettable — it was the patience.
The way a beading artist would move slowly over a garment or down a length of silk, one stitch at a time, completely focused.
There was no rushing it. No shortcuts.
Just a rhythm — the steady repetition that turns simple materials into art.
That kind of patience changes you.
It teaches you that beauty lives in detail, in the time you give it, in the willingness to stay present for the work.
In Italy, I learned something different — reverence.
When you watch lace makers work, you see generations of knowledge in their hands.
It’s precision, but it’s also beauty and pride.
I was completely mesmerized by the quick flip of dozens of lace bobbins as the women flipped them back and forth and the lovely intricate pattern emerged beyond the bobbins.
There’s this quiet respect for lineage, for the people who came before them, and for the idea that excellence isn’t new — it’s practiced.
That reminded me to slow down and remember that refinement is a process, not a personality trait.
And in China, I learned the power of discipline — the kind that frees you rather than restricts you.
Their embroidery and weaving showed me that structure and creativity aren’t opposites; they work together.
There’s beauty in restraint — in knowing when to stop, when to leave a little white space, when to let the material speak for itself.
It’s a different kind of artistry — one that values control, harmony, and balance.
Back in the States, working in the California print houses, I saw yet another lesson — play.
Innovation wasn’t about throwing out tradition; it was about reimagining it.
They experimented fearlessly, layering patterns, combining color in ways that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did.
That reminded me that creativity thrives in curiosity — in the willingness to say, “What if?”
Each of those experiences taught me something different about myself as a creative.
Not because I was in some faraway place, but because I was paying attention.
Because every culture, every fabric, every technique has its own wisdom — if you take the time to notice it.
And the best part?
You don’t have to fly across the world to have that same kind of awakening.
It happens every time you pick up a new fabric, try a new stitch, or ask yourself, What could I do with this?
When I look back on all those travels, I realize the best souvenirs weren’t the things I packed in my suitcase — they were the lessons that stayed with me long after I got home.
Sure, I brought back a few tangible treasures. There’s a silk sari from India hanging in my studio closet — turquoise fading to deep emerald, embroidered with fine gold threads. I have no idea how to actually wear it as a sari, but one day it’ll become something new — maybe two garments, maybe one. For now, it’s a reminder that beauty doesn’t have to make sense right away. Sometimes it just asks to be kept.
And then there’s a sketch. A rough pencil drawing on yellow legal paper that lives on my bulletin board. I made it in a California print house years ago — rows of 55-gallon ink drums lined against a half wall, hundreds of ladles hanging above them, and color everywhere. The floors were splattered with it — primaries, secondaries, neutrals — a real-life color wheel spilling across concrete. I drew it in the margin of my notes, and I’ll never throw it away. That messy, beautiful scene reminded me that color itself is alive. It’s still one of the reasons I love dyeing fabric and designing prints to this day.
Those memories taught me something simple but powerful: the real souvenirs might not be the fabrics.
They’re the moments that make you fall in love with color, texture, and process all over again.
The kind that shift how you see the materials in front of you.
And the best part? You don’t need a passport for that kind of discovery.
You can cultivate that same curiosity right where you are.
For me, it happens every time I walk through a local maker’s market or visit the Cottonwood Arts Festival or the Dallas Craft Guild show. There’s something special about standing face to face with the people who make things — asking them where their fabrics come from, what inspires their work, and watching their eyes light up when they talk about it. That connection is every bit as rich as anything I experienced overseas.
And while the internet gets plenty of well-deserved criticism, one of the best things it’s given us is access. I can follow artisans in India, Italy, or Guatemala, and see how they print, weave, or dye — in real time. I can even message them, trade tips, or buy from them directly. It’s a global creative conversation, and it’s never been easier to join.
If you want to take it a step further, create your own “creative passport.”
Jot down textures, colors, or techniques you come across — African wax prints, Japanese indigo, Guatemalan weaving, Scandinavian knits. You’ll start to notice patterns — not in the fabrics, but in yourself. What draws you in? What feels like home?
Because the goal isn’t necessarily to collect. It’s to connect.
To recognize that your creative world is bigger than your zip code — and that curiosity, not geography, is what keeps it growing.
Every culture has its own artistry.
But the love of making — that spark of wonder — that’s what unites us all.
Travel taught me something I’ll never forget — that fabric is one of the few languages that doesn’t need translation.
It speaks in color, in texture, in care.
You don’t have to understand the words of the maker to feel what they’ve poured into the cloth.
When you hold it in your hands, you just know — this was made with attention. With pride. With love. With Intention.
And when you start to see fabric that way, it changes how you see your own work, too.
It reminds you that what you make — however small, however simple — carries that same story of connection.
Every creative person has an underlying language — a rhythm, a cadence, a quiet signature that runs through what they make.
You might not even see it at first. But it’s there, in the way you choose your colors, the way you handle a hem, or the way you reach for the same brush or thread or texture over and over again.
It’s what makes your work unmistakably yours.
The choices we make in our creative process are a kind of conversation between who we are and what we value.
When we learn to listen to that conversation — to feel the meaning beneath the making — creativity stops being just an activity.
It becomes a form of translation.
It becomes how we speak to the world.
So instead of pushing yourself to produce something new this week, maybe just pay attention.
Notice the idea that runs through everything you create — the tone, the texture, the feeling that keeps showing up, no matter what medium you use.
That’s your language.
That’s your creative fingerprint.
When you learn to recognize that voice in your own work — the one that’s been quietly speaking all along — that’s when you realize: you’ve been fluent in your own creativity all your life.
And here’s the beautiful thing about that language:
When you start to recognize it in yourself, you also begin to hear it in others.
You notice it in the way another maker folds a seam, paints a line, or arranges color.
You start to realize — we’re all speaking versions of the same creative language.
And that brings me to something I’ve learned after a lifetime surrounded by fabric…
Every fabric tells a story — not just of where it came from, but of who held it, who shaped it, and who dreamed through it.
And when I look back on all these years of working with fabric — from the simple cottons of my childhood to the silks and linens I still love today — what I really see isn’t a career or a collection.
It’s a conversation.
One that started long before me and will keep going long after.
That’s the thread that connects us all — makers, dreamers, stitchers, artists — no matter where we live or what tools we use.
We’re all part of this shared language of fabric, and through it, we remind the world that beauty still matters.
That care still matters.
That making is, in itself, an act of hope.
And next time, we’ll close this series by coming home — to the fabrics that hold our memories and the stories they quietly keep.
Because sometimes, the most powerful thing we can make isn’t something new at all — it’s understanding what our work has been saying about us all along.
Until then, keep creating, keep noticing, and remember: every piece you make is a story worth telling.
