E59 Transcript
At some point in your fabric journey, you stop asking certain questions.
You probably don’t notice when it happens.
There’s no marker for it.
You just realize one day that the question never formed.
You sit down to work — and instead of wondering if you’re doing it right,
your hands just go.
Early on, everything needs confirmation.
Is this allowed?
Is this how it’s supposed to look?
What happens if I do this instead?
Those questions are necessary. They’re part of learning.
But they aren’t meant to last forever.
Because after enough repetition — after enough contact with the material —
something else starts to lead.
I wouldn’t call it certainty.
And it’s not confidence in the conventional sense.
Maybe it’s familiarity.
Or perhaps it’s a kind of knowing — a sense of belonging.
In this episode, I want to talk about that big, but very quiet, shift —
the moment when your textile artistry stops feeling like a series of questions
and starts feeling like a conversation your hands already know how to continue.
Not because you’ve mastered everything —
but because something deeper has taken root.
If you’ve been a fabric creative for a while, you may have noticed a slight shift in your thinking. Or maybe not - because it’s subtle enough that it often slips past unnoticed.
You see, early on, questions do a very specific kind of work.
They help you locate yourself inside the craft.
They answer the basic, grounding things:
Where do I start?
What tool do I use?
What order does this happen in?
What do I need to be careful about?
And that’s a good thing. A necessary thing, even.
Beginners ask questions to find their footing.
Those questions bring relief.
They give you something solid to hold onto.
When you’re a beginner, you’re trying to understand where you are, what matters, what comes next. And there’s often a mix of excitement and nervousness underneath that.
You want to do it right.
You don’t want to break anything.
You don’t want to look foolish.
If that’s you, congratulations! You’re on the right path. That’s exactly where learning begins.
Then, somewhere along the way, most people move into a second phase — often without realizing it.
This is the phase people tend to stay in longer than they expect.
But again – necessary!
Intermediates ask questions for a different reason.
You’ve started to see what’s possible.
You’re beginning to develop your taste.
Your standards.
You may even be sensing the edges of a signature.
And with that comes pressure.
Mistakes feel more consequential now.
Time feels more expensive.
You’re no longer just trying to make something — you’re trying to make something good.
So, the questions shift.
They’re not about orientation anymore.
They’re about avoidance and protection.
How do I avoid ruining this?
How do I avoid choosing wrong?
How do I avoid wasting effort?
There’s often a low-level tension here — not panic, but vigilance.
You care more now.
You notice more.
And that can make every decision feel heavier.
And then — slowly, very quietly, almost without perception — something else begins to carry the weight.
Not expertise necessarily.
Not mastery.
Just judgment. Good judgement. A sense of belonging.
You trust what repetition has already taught you, even if you can’t always put it into words.
You start noticing this most clearly when you’re sharing your knowledge, or talking to a potential buyer about your art, — or watching someone newer ask questions you used to ask constantly.
And suddenly it’s obvious:
You didn’t skip the question because you’re careless.
You didn’t ignore it because it doesn’t matter.
You simply didn’t ask — because your hands already knew the answer.
Fabric reveals this especially well.
Fabric is fluid.
It’s flexible.
It’s collaborative.
There’s a moment when you stop asking, “Is this the right fabric?”
And start asking, “What will this fabric need from me?”
You don’t deliberate for long.
You don’t spiral
You adjust without undue effort.
You know where to add support.
You know where to let something move.
You know what needs reinforcing — and what needs freedom.
That knowing didn’t arrive all at once.
It arrived through repetition.
Through contact.
Through partnership with the material itself.
One of the first questions to fade is the one that sounds like permission.
“Can I do this? Am I allowed?”
You see it constantly at the beginning — the glance upward, the pause, the checking.
You’re not being timid.
You’re being careful.
When you’re just starting out, you’re trying to protect the work.
You’re trying to protect yourself.
You’re trying not to break something you don’t yet understand.
Rules are scaffolding at that stage.
They hold things steady while you learn how weight, tension, sequence, and structure actually work.
They form a solid foundation on which to create, to play, to learn and grow.
There’s safety in that.
There’s relief.
But over time, permission gives way to responsibility. And rules give way to creative license and experimentation.
Now I’ve done this a number of times in my textile art, my sewing and my patterns. There are times when asking the question – “I wonder what would happen if..” is a good call, followed by bending or breaking a rule.
Not because rules don’t matter —
but because you fully understand why they exist and you know the results they produce.
But there comes a time when you realize that every choice has a consequence whether you ask first or not.
That’s when the question changes!
It’s no longer:
“Am I allowed?”
It becomes:
“Am I willing to see where this takes me? Am I willing to live with the result?”
That’s a very different question.
And it lives in the body more than the head.
You can often feel the consequence of a decision before it happens.
You can feel it in the ambiguity.
In the way the piece responds.
Another question that begins to soften is “Is this the right way?”
Early on, that question feels urgent.
There’s comfort in knowing there’s a correct path. And there is a sense of strength gained from mastering it.
Technique builds confidence.
Structure builds capacity.
But as you grow, “right” starts to feel less absolute.
You begin to notice that right depends on context.
On material.
On intention.
On what you’re willing to adjust downstream.
I personally have adjusted downstream on my textile arts pieces, mixing highly unconventional materials. I do this while sewing in the way I set sleeves, or when I am drafting a pattern. There are Golden rules – non-negotiables that truly are just that. And then there are general rules that can be shifted a bit with context and artistry.
Fabric is an excellent teacher here.
It responds to handling. To environment. To suggestion.
Two identical shapes behave completely differently in different cloth.
And you can’t argue with the result.
You start to learn that fabric doesn’t care what the rulebook says.
It responds to how it’s treated.
And then there’s the question that sounds like planning, but often carries anxiety underneath.
“What will this turn into?”
That question feels practical.
You want to know where you’re headed.
You want a little reassurance before you begin.
But with experience, this loosens up a lot.
At some point, you stop needing to know the ending before you begin.
You stay curious longer.
You respond as the work develops.
You trust yourself to adjust as you go.
This was especially true as I designed wedding gowns and costumes using bias to my advantage. In the artistic phase of draping, the fun was in the discovery, not the knowing.
The pleasure is in the unfolding, in the discovery-led making.
This is true in all the textile arts, sewing, dying, felting, quilt arts and the like.
With practice, this question become less important.
Not because you don’t care —
but because you trust yourself to respond as it develops.
That’s not recklessness.
That’s experience.
It’s knowing you have the skill to respond — even if the work surprises you.
As all these questions fade, they don’t leave a void. But…
Nothing rushes in to replace them.
There’s no big announcement.
No sense that something has been solved.
Instead, they’re replaced by something quieter, more nuanced. Harder to name at first.
They are replaced by sound judgment.
By patience.
By a growing tolerance for ambiguity.
You start to notice that you’re willing to let something sit unfinished.
Not abandoned — just marinating.
You don’t panic when the next step isn’t immediately obvious.
You trust that it will reveal itself when it’s ready — or when you are.
And that trust shows up physically.
Your shoulders don’t tense as quickly.
Your breathing stays steadier.
Your hands move more deliberately.
You’re still working hard.
But you’re less rushed.
Less reactive.
There’s a difference between effort and urgency — and you begin to feel it.
In mixed media work especially, this often becomes a kind of partnership.
When I approach a collection now, I might have a color story in mind.
A small collection of materials I’m curious about.
A few loose sketches — nothing fixed, nothing final.
I might be wondering:
Is this fluid?
Is it angular?
Muted or bright?
There’s direction — but not control.
The work doesn’t resolve until I allow the materials to speak back.
Until they’re not just being arranged, but consulted.
At some point, I stop trying to force the material into submission.
And I listen.
With experience, you learn to read cues instead of issuing instructions.
You notice how fabric responds to handling.
How weight shifts a composition.
How resistance is often information, not opposition.
And that changes pacing.
You’re no longer performing productivity.
You’re inhabiting the work.
If you’re listening and recognizing yourself here, you might notice:
When was the last time you let something rest without labeling it unfinished?
When did you last trust your hands to hold the question for a while?
Where in your work are you responding — instead of directing?
These aren’t things to answer.
They’re things to notice.
Because this phase isn’t about certainty.
It’s about relationship.
And once that relationship forms — with the material, with your own judgment —
something else becomes possible.
All of this makes your work more sustainable. Makes you artistry more sustainable.
When you stop outsourcing judgment — when you stop constantly checking, comparing, or second-guessing-
-Friction decreases. Not because challenges disappear, but because you’re no longer fighting every decision.
-Doubt quiets. Maybe not completely, but it stops narrating every move.
-Motivation becomes steadier.
It’s less dramatic and less dependent on mood or momentum.
And satisfaction deepens — because the work feels inhabited, not managed. And by that I mean, you’re actually inside the work. You’re not standing over it, trying to control it.
You’re moving with it.”
This is one of the reasons working with fabric and fiber teaches this so well.
Cloth doesn’t reward certainty.
It rewards attention.
Stitch doesn’t reward speed.
It rewards presence.
Material teaches discernment by resisting control.
This kind of learning often looks very ordinary while it’s happening.
It looks like reaching for a tool without thinking — and only realizing afterward that you chose the perfect one.
It looks like adjusting a seam by feel, not measurement.
It looks like knowing when to stop before something is overworked.
It looks like sensing when a piece needs intervention vs restraint— without being able to explain why.
It feels like:
Your hands moving ahead of conscious thought.
Your body recognizing tension before your mind names it.
Your pace changing without a decision being made.
There is language for this.
It’s called embodied learning — the idea that knowledge lives in the body, not just the mind. In everyday terms, it means your body learn by doing — not by being told. You don’t have to think through every step anymore — your hands already know what to do next.
But you don’t need the term to recognize the experience.
You recognize it - when you notice that you’re less surprised by outcomes.
When mistakes don’t rattle you as much. You automatically know why it happened and what to do about it-if anything.
When you trust yourself to respond — even when you can’t predict the result.
This kind of learning only develops one way.
By showing up.
By staying long enough.
By letting yourself accumulate the evidence.
And if any of that sounds familiar —
that’s not coincidence.
That’s growth.
Now, just to be clear — this isn’t a finish line.
You don’t arrive here once and stay forever.
There are seasons when questions come roaring back.
New materials do that. New goals and projects do that.
Stretching yourself does that.
Learning something new does that.
If you notice you’re asking questions again, it doesn’t mean you’ve lost ground.
It just means you’re learning again. Stretching toward something more, something new, something bigger.
So, this isn’t about arriving anywhere.
It’s about noticing what you no longer need to carry so tightly.
For a lot of fabric makers, growth doesn’t announce itself as confidence necessarily.
Sometimes growth looks like fewer questions
And better metaphorical listening.
Listening to the material.
Listening to your hands.
Listening to what’s actually being asked OF you in the moment.
One of the clearest signs that something has shifted
is that the work feels less overthought
and more conversational.
You’re not constantly stopping to explain yourself.
You’re not negotiating every decision.
You’re simply responding.
The fabric responds.
Your hands respond.
You respond.
And the conversation continues —
quietly, patiently, to exactly where it needs to go.
That’s not the end of learning.
It’s what learning looks like when the learning is lived.
For textile artists, that’s the moment when fabric stops feeling like something you’re working on — and starts feeling like something you’re living and working with.
Until next time, keep your hands on the cloth - and your heart in the work.
