Dia Bassett

Fiskars Folk

2021. Inch by inch, I’m stripping my clothes. I’m baring all these raw, dangling parts clipped with my pair of Fiskars. Sliced fibers crudely stick out from the ends of the continuous thread I’m making. Before I reach the end of one side, I pivot to keep going and head in the opposite direction. The pieces that once wrapped around my body are now flattening and getting eaten by my machine. My hands are the drivers, steering back and forth until nothing is left but a large ball of giant thread. And it’s beautiful—all these colorful balls of cloth, ready to be woven into abstracted wall art. Crimson, vermillion, mustard yellow, disco gold, cobalt blue, kelly green, creamy white. Luscious tones unwind and drop to the floor as I loop, twist, pull, and thread the fiber into my latest creation. I weave directly on the wall using the nails I’ve pounded into triangular and circular contours to hold tension. Hours flash by in a blitz. Each day I get to create, time scurries along like a scattering lizard chased by the sound of crunching footsteps. When I finish, I view an array of floating shapes, playfully tumbling across the surface, with bits of fabric jutting intermittently across each form, a button here, a tag there. Contrasting textures and colors become blocks of meditation for my eyes. Perpetual delight.