That series was born from frustration. In Japan, we have this word "ma" (間)—the pause, the interval. I wanted to see if I could make the interval physical. I took industrial felt—something hard, used for machinery—and cut slits into it. Then I wove copper wire through the slits, pulling it tight until the felt buckled.
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. rie tachikawa interview
I would lock them in the material library. Literally. I told them: "For one hour, you cannot touch a loom. You can only touch the thread. Smell it. Stretch it until it breaks. Burn the end and watch the bead of plastic form." That series was born from frustration
My father was an architect. I grew up looking at blueprints, not fashion magazines. To me, thread is just a line that forgot to be straight. When you weave enough of those lines, you get a plane. When you fold that plane, you get a room. Textiles are the softest form of architecture. It is not
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.
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.
