— This interview has been edited for length and clarity from a 2018 conversation.
Because nature is not my material. The city is my material. I live in Shinjuku. I see plastic banners, acoustic ceiling tiles, the mesh of a construction fence. Synthetic fibers are the skin of modern life.
In the world of Japanese textile art, fabric is rarely just fabric. For (1977–2019), it was architecture, cartography, and memory rolled into one. Before her untimely passing, Tachikawa was a rising star in the intersection of industrial design and fine art, known for turning woven structures into three-dimensional landscapes. rie tachikawa interview
(Pauses) Yes. In "Unwoven," I stopped pulling the threads tight. I let them hang. I created pieces that were literally falling apart—edges fraying, wefts gaping. My students asked, "Isn't that just damage?" I said, "No. That is honesty."
In this previously unpublished interview from 2018, we sat down with Tachikawa in her Atelier in Setagaya, Tokyo, to discuss how she un-wove the rules of contemporary craft. — This interview has been edited for length
Most beginners think weaving is about repetition. It is not. It is about decision . Every time the shuttle passes, you are saying "yes" to one texture and "no" to a thousand others. I wanted them to feel the loneliness of that decision.
The "violence" you see is the tension between the soft and the rigid. The felt wants to lay flat; the copper wants to spring back. That struggle is the art. In the end, the pieces looked like topographical maps of an earthquake. I think that is the truest map of Tokyo: a city always trying to hold itself together while the ground moves. I live in Shinjuku
Also, natural fibers lie. They pretend to be warm and organic. But polyester? Polyester is honest. It says, "I am petroleum. I will last 500 years in a landfill. Deal with me." I want my work to make people uncomfortable about their environment, not comforted by it.