Using vintage oddments of textile, artist Louise O’Hara constructs images that evoke the traditional British countryside scenes she visited as a chile
The purples and greens of a moorland landscape start to come alive in a patchwork of lace, silk and paper shapes. Artist Louise O’Hara reaches for a pencil to outline the position of a ramshackle gate before threading a needle
and starting to sew. She works quickly, the stitches adding another dimension to her design.
Colour and texture abound in Louise’s small but fascinating studio in the heart of a Cheshire village. Vintage fabrics spill out
of boxes, acrylic inks and reels of thread cluster on wooden workbenches among pots of paint, glue and brushes. Lengths of cloth hang off chairs and bales of coloured paper are stacked under tables. Embossed black-and-white walls are lined with books, cabinets and tinted glass. An iron and crystal chandelier draped with ribboned hearts dangles from the ceiling.
Here Louise uses mixed-media art to portray the light and textures of the world around her. She crafts paintings and collages that capture the spirit of countryside and seascape. Her work is often in bright, uplifting tones but also reflects darker, moodier days.
The majority of her pictures are based on places she has visited, often as a child. “We spent many family holidays in the Lake District and Yorkshire, and that archetypal cottage scene features in a lot of my work,” she says. “My pictures tend to be constructed of a collection of memories I have of different places I may have visited many times.”
Concepts of the flow of time and continuity of human relationships are the centrepiece of her work. This is captured in the way she builds layers of paint and in her use of vintage fabrics. “I don’t like using new materials. I want to use old,” she says. “Because they have been used, there is a history there, a trace of all the people, all the conversations that have gone by. I find that exciting.”
Louise is always on the lookout for materials to use in her pictures. The studio is home to a vast collection of period clothes, fabric, beads, quilts and crochet at the studio. Some she may cut up or re-dye to achieve a particular colour or effect. She often produces
a collection of pictures with similar themes and colours. To do this, she may spend two days dyeing fabrics and paper with a combination of ink and paints.
Many of her vintage textiles come from secondhand shops. Friends and clients, aware of her fascination, also send her items. “People having a clear-out send me their granny’s old scarves, gloves and cardigans,” she says. “I think it’s important that these things aren’t just thrown away but can live on, reclaimed, in a new guise.
I got a parcel the other day from America and I cried when I opened it. It was full of buttons, Victorian ones, glass ones… It was absolutely wonderful.”
Building up layers
Louise uses a camera to record the landscapes and buildings she visits. If there is time she may even make rough sketches. “A piece will develop from a photograph, or sections of a photograph, and sections of memories,” she says. “I might see a photo and think, I like the colour of that field. I then seek to re-create it. And that willdictate the materials I use, the paint and possible fabric, the size and shape of the finished design.”
For a painting, she starts by applying modelling paste or paint to a canvas, creating a rich, uneven substrate. Then layer upon layer of paints, inks or oil pastels are added. This creates an undulating, tactile surface out of which a landscape gradually emerges. Next, she builds up the body of the drawing. White cottages are clustered against beguiling seas and fresh blue skies. Streams wind their way across mist-wreathed moors. Always there is a sense that home is waiting.
Textile pieces begin with Louise lightly glueing then machine stitching her carefully chosen fabrics to sheets of watercolour paper. Different materials are added to create further ideas of form and flow. Pieces of paper, wax, wool, buttons and beads create flower-filled meadows, boulder-strewn fells, the shifting waves and eddies of sullen grey seas. Scenes may be embellished with rows of stitching to emphasise detail. A soldering iron creates burns or a leaden effect. Stencilled text from songs or poems relevant to the landscape or seascape adds to the storyline imbued in a picture. She may include scraps of handwritten letters found in charity shops, bus tickets or other ephemera. As she works, the picture becomes three-dimensional and tactile.
“The sense of being able to reach out and touch the scene is an important part of my work,” she says. “But the textiles are delicate and to protect them I always frame the pictures under glass. My framer makes double-mounted frames for me to accommodate the thickness and layers.”
Beauty in imperfection
It can take several weeks to finish a picture, not least because she usually works on two or three at the same time. “I’ll go into the studio and one piece will grab at me, and I’ll work on that particular one for a while,” she says. “Then I’ll leave it. I like to reflect on a piece and give it time to settle in between sittings. This is usually up to two weeks.
“If a picture doesn’t work well for some reason, I may cut it up and then use the canvas pieces in another. It makes me see things in a different way. I am also a great believer in serendipity. If some ink gets spilled on a picture accidentally I’ll go with it and see where it takes me.”
Another defining feature of Louise’s work is the philosophy of ‘beauty in imperfection’. This was an idea
she first encountered when doing her MA at Manchester University. “I photograph battered walls and threadbare fabrics,” she says. “I love the layers and depth they lend to a piece of work. All have a story to tell. There are marks and qualities in worn-out things you cannot reproduce.”
As part of her course, Louise took photographs of paint peeling from a door. These then created a pattern more reminiscent of falling leaves, which were incorporated in a collection of scarves, cuffs and collars.
The finished piece
Confessing to a tendency towards obsession, Louise often pores over one little part of a picture until it is right. “I know when something else is needed in a picture,” she says. “It will pull at me until I’ve fixed it. Over the years I have developed my techniques and now know how to effect a change.”
Finishing a piece of work always brings great satisfaction, but there is the immediate impulse to start another. “I love what I do but I’m very driven,” she says. “There’s so much to explore.”
She believes her work appeals to a human sense of place. “People seem to like the sense of nostalgia. My pictures are reminiscent of places they have been, or perhaps would like to go. My paintings are not harsh. Although they can be moody, they are gentle to look at. And there’s so much in there, you always see something else.”
People do ask her to do pictures of specific places they know, or to use fabrics that were part of their lives. “I’m happy to do that, but I prefer it if the viewer sees a picture and thinks ‘oh gosh, that looks like such and such a place’. That means my memories are triggering their memories. I’d like them to have that sort of relationship with a piece.”
With major exhibitions on the horizon, Louise has never been busier. “I suppose I’m outgrowing this studio. I have so much stuff now,” she says. “But I can’t imagine moving; this house has so many memories for me. I’m a collector – of memories and of time and of objects. I’ll always be this way.”
A life in art
Louise has always painted. At a young age she felt a connection to the work of artists such as Kurt Schwitters, an early 20th century artist, typographer and writer. Another influence was Joseph Cornell, an artist and sculptor who was an exponent of assemblage. She was inspired by the way they gave new life to discarded and broken objects.
After school she did a degree in fashion and textiles at Liverpool John Moores University.
“I loved it,” she says. “But afterwards I was totally burned out and decided I needed to step away.” She became an art teacher and had two children but all the while found the time to paint. “In 2014 I decided I was split in too many directions. I took the plunge and became an artist full time. I wanted to show my girls they could carve their own path in life and that sometimes it is worth taking a risk.”
Words: Diane Wardle Photography: Clive Doyle
Using techniques that date back hundreds of years, Susie Gillespie weaves linen into subtle patterns.
Deep in the Devon countryside, a weaver is busy creating fabrics and yarn that hark back to a time long predating her 15th century barn. The linen cushions she weaves are inspired by ancient fabrics woven by early textile makers. Subtle geometric patterns are created in one or two colours, their muted tones reminiscent of a time gone by. Larger, wall-hung pieces are also inspired by prehistoric textiles and the ancient process of weaving.
Much of the visual interest of her work derives from the slight imperfections in the hand-spun yarns she uses. The differing textures introduced during the weaving add to the unaffected simplicity and appeal.
Inspired by the past
Weaver Susie Gillespie has long been fascinated by archaeology, an interest reflected in her work. She worked at the Oxford Archaeological Unit for several years. “I was keen on doing conservation work but I struggled with the chemistry,” she says.
It was during this time that she fell in love with Coptic textiles. These Egyptian fabrics are some of the oldest known surviving textiles and can date from as early as the 3rd century AD. People were often buried in these fabrics, which then survived because the dry climate helped preserve them.
As a child Susie loved making things with her hands. Working in archaeology failed to fulfil her need to be creative. Instead, she decided to study a degree in Structural Textiles at Leicester’s De Montfort University. “Textiles brought together all my feelings about making things with being creative and artistic,” she says.
Her BA was followed by an MA in Woven Art. Then, in 1995, a grant from the Theo Moorman Trust for Weavers helped her set up in business. She bought her first loom and since then has gradually built up her practice.
It is now 20 years since Susie started working as a weaver. She relishes the ability to work doing something that gives her so much pleasure. “I often feel a bit guilty as I have a lovely time,” she laughs. “I find weaving both emotionally and aesthetically satisfying.”
Her woven fabrics are influenced by her enduring love of the early textiles. Like her own work, these were mainly woven in linen with small areas of pattern. “I love the heavy plain linen tunics the Coptics wore and the detailed intricate tapestry bands around necks and arms,” she says. She takes great pleasure in using the same ancient techniques and materials as those used
by the ancient weavers.
At the same time, inspiration also comes from objects surrounding her home. These include field and building outlines, shapes of barns, textures of stone and cob walls.
“They are all materials which carry a human element, things that are worn out and have a feeling of history and of people in the past,” she explains. “I am very keen on simplicity and use mainly plain weave with everything done by hand.” Pieces often look slightly aged, in a muted range of colours. “I’m drawn to subtle colour palettes as I love things that look old.”
Most of her pieces are woven in linen. “It’s perfect to work as it’s strong and I can use it to get the tension really tight on the loom,” she says. She appreciates its sheen and the way it can look different depending on the light. Her preference is for hand-spun linen yarn as this contributes to what she describes as ‘the clothiness’ of her weavings. “You lose all the subtle variations of colour and texture with machine-spun yarns,” she explains.
To get everything exactly as she wants it, Susie now produces some of her own linen for her artworks. She is unable to make enough for all her work, however, so still has to buy in yarn. Hand-spun linen is not easy to source, which is why she was delighted to find an antique batch in a derelict weaving shop some years ago.
All her work is woven on a pine floor loom, measuring approximately 6ft 6in (2m) wide and the same high. Before starting on a new piece, the loom has to be set up. First job is to tie in the warps, the parallel yarns that provide the structure of the cloth. Each one has to be threaded through a heddle. This is alooped wire or cord with an eye in the centre which a warp thread passes through. There is one heddle for each warp thread. Threading them can be a time-consuming job as one of Susie’s cushions has 300 warp threads.
When all are in place, they run from the back to the front of the loom. The threads are tied onto the warp beam at the back of the loom and a wooden bar, known as a cloth beam, at the
front. It is a day’s work to set up a loom to make a 14in (35cm) wide cushion cover.
The weaving is done using her feet to work floor pedals. These move the different shafts, which separate the warp threads to create a gap known as a shed. It is through this gap that the shuttle is passed. The coloured weft is wound on to the shuttle. As it is passed along the loom the thread unwinds, leaving a line across the warp threads. The weft is then pushed down by a beater, which Susie pulls towards her. It is then passed back the other way, gradually building up a dense structure of thread running over and under the warps.
A different weft thread is used to introduce a new colour. Each new colour or weft in the pattern is on a separate shuttle. A cushion cover can take up to two days to weave depending on the amount of detail. When the weaving is finished, the piece is cut off the loom.
The loose warp ends hanging from the weaving are stitched up to stop them fraying. Sometimes these ends are turned into decorative tassels. The woven panel is then hand sewn onto a piece of plain linen backing to finish the cushion cover.
Some weavers draw detailed designs before they start work, known as cartoons, but Susie prefers to work more instinctively. “Ideas on paper don’t translate particularly well into my weaving. They can help, but it is more a combination of having ideas and then doing it and seeing where it leads you,” she says. Working in this way allows her the freedom to respond to the material taking shape on the loom.
Her work is very much about the weaving itself, rather than designing. She takes pleasure in the actual making process. “I love the act of weaving, the slowness of its growth and the feel of the yarn on my fingers.”
Flax: from seed to yarn
Three years ago, Susie started producing her own flax to spin into linen yarn. She grows the variety bred for fibre, Linum usitatissimum. This has long stems, up to 3ft 3in (1m) high, and fewer seeds than the type bred for linseed oil. The flax is grown from seed in a polytunnel, which protects the long stems from wind damage. Planted in spring, it is harvested in August. Once harvested the plants are dried in the polytunnel for approximately two weeks. The seedheads are then removed from the stems with a comb called a ripple.
The next stage in the process is called retting. The stems are soaked in water, which encourages the pectins that hold the fibres to the woody core to break down so that they can be easily released. The retting flax must be carefully monitored. “You have to test it to see if the fibres are coming free but you can’t leave them in the water too long as they lose their strength,” says Susie. The process normally takes up to two weeks. Once finished, the stems are dried again.
The flax fibres are then separated out from the stems using a breaker. This wooden machine is approximately 3ft (1m) wide and resembles a guillotine. It crushes the wooden core of the stems, releasing the fibres. Any remaining woody fragments are removed using a wooden knife known as a scutching knife. The fibres are then combed through with a hackle to create a smooth length of flax, 25in (65cm) long, ready for spinning.
The yarn is wound onto a distaff, a wooden stick approximately 3ft long, and then fed onto the spinning wheel. Susie turns the spinning wheel with floor pedals while feeding the flax onto the wheel. The process twists the separate flax fibres into one continuous thread, which is long enough and strong enough to weave.
A self-taught spinner, she is fascinated by this ancient process. “I love spinning. It’s amazing to think that people did exactly the same thing in the olden days. My mother gave me a hank of antique yarn and it looks identical to the stuff I produce. It has the same texture and colour even though it’s over 100 years old.” As well as the pleasure she gets from the process, the hand-spun yarns add an important aesthetic element to her work. “I love using the linen I spin because since I’m not a very experienced weaver, my yarns are quite coarse and irregular. But without the odd bump you might as well be using machine spun yarn.”
Words: Diana Wardle Photography: Jeremy Walker
Amanda Richardson creates vibrant collages in her Cornwall studio
Large windows flood Amanda Richardson’s studio near Land’s End with light. The airy space in the Cornish countryside is painted white, contrasting with the vividly colourful pieces of her textile collages that adorn the walls. Rolls of fabric are stacked in one corner, while boxes sit on the floor and worktops are piled high with dyed material. The only tools on show are paint brushes in jars, three irons and a pair of spring-loaded scissors.
The studio is in a converted watermill surrounded by two-and-a-half acres of garden. This plant-filled plot has been nurtured by Amanda over the 19 years she has lived there. Today it forms the overarching inspiration for her art. It is a glorious rambling landscape of pathways winding through flower beds, a pond and a traditional orchard. The Penberth river trickles through the garden, its moorland origin and route through golden granite giving the water a deep yellow-brown glow.
Amanda has been working with fabrics for 40 years, first experimenting as a teenager at art school in Penzance. She attributes some of her affinity for textiles to the fact that her artist mother also used fabrics in her work. At the time Amanda was accepted to Goldsmiths, University of London, the fashion among artists was for harsh work, using austere barbed wire and calico. Amanda rejected this to develop her own style. “I have always loved seductively beautiful fabrics and so I looked for a way to use them,” she says. She is also a painter and believes there is a link between the two art forms. Both require her to think in layers.
Now she creates beautiful collages of grasses, flowers, trees and wild landscapes using a combination of fabrics. She dyes many of them herself to get the right shades. “The natural world is what I find most exciting about life,” she says, “Artists should be working with what excites them.”
Her work is strongly influenced by the flora growing around her. Plants and flowers are kept in pots so they can be brought into the studio to be worked from. “My work is about the growing plant and so much information is lost if it is cut,” she says. “I am looking at how it comes out of the ground, the way the leaves connect to the stem, all of the minutiae.”
Selecting and dyeing fabrics
Each new collage starts with a spark of inspiration, influenced by something that captures her eye on a walk or while in her garden. She works out an initial composition in her mind. Then she creates a simple pencil drawing, often just 3in (7.5cm) square, to work out the weight and movement through the composition. “It is worth getting those qualities just right,” she says. “I then scale that up onto the background, the fabric of my piece.” This scaling up is achieved by using a grid and sketching the design onto backing material with a white pencil.
Next she chooses the fabrics. New ones are sourced from a small textile shop in Penzance. “They supply velvets and silks and extraordinary fabrics,” she says. Boxes are also filled with pieces saved from previous projects and these are delved into as she picks out the different surfaces and fibres she wants. Her choice is influenced by the light reflecting qualities and textural elements she feels are required for each collage. Her pieces use a combination of satins, silks, velvets and man-made textiles.
Each new piece of work requires fresh dyeing of new fabrics. She uses two main techniques, depending on the type of fabric. Silks and other natural textiles are coloured using what she terms the boiling cauldron method. This involves dipping the fabric into hot water that has been mixed with dye. Special dyes, known as disperse dyes, are used for man-made fabrics. These are painted onto paper then transferred to the fabric with heat.
Layers of depth
Working on an autumnal poppy and barley project, Amanda first creates the grass background. She applies dye with a paintbrush to a sheet of high-quality drawing paper. “By using brush strokes, I am suggesting the waving movement of the barley,” she explains. “By building the layers at this initial stage, I will have all of this sense of motion and texture built into the piece. That is what I am doing with all of my fabric, building character into it. It gives a sense of depth and complexity and brings life to the piece.”
Once the design is painted, the selected piece of fabric is placed under the inverted paper. Heat is slowly applied to the back of the paper using an iron on a high setting. This forces the image to bond with the fibres of the material below.
There is an important distinction between the results obtained by dyeing as opposed to painting onto fabric. “What is essential to the personality of my art is a light-reflective quality,” says Amanda. “If I were to paint directly, it would sit on top of the fabric and mask these qualities. In this case the dyes have actually entered into the fibres and so all those lovely surface qualities are retained. The colour becomes integral to the fabric rather than superficial.”
The selection and dyeing of the materials is time consuming. It can take as long as a week to achieve all the gradations of tone, colour and pattern needed on all the pieces of fabric she is going to use. It is a part of the process from which she takes great joy. “Because I am coming to it as a painter, it is the most exciting thing I could possibly do,” she says. “I love dyeing fabric, creating the tones and colours and suggestions of patterns. Sometimes I have to give myself a talking to and remind myself there is an end goal here. It is such an adventure seeing how each piece will react to the dyes, and envisaging how the fabrics will work together in the final composition.”
Once the dyed fabric is dry, it is ironed flat. Amanda then takes a roll of glue, which has a type of greaseproof backing paper on one side and adhesive on the other. This is bought in 328ft (100m) rolls, several at a time. It is placed glue-side down on the reverse of each individual piece of fabric being used in the collage and ironed on. Once the backing paper is peeled away, the fabric is ready to be used for the collage. A particular advantage of this technique is the way in which the glue holds the fabric together. Under any other technique, small cut pieces would fray and become almost impossible to use. The glue stiffens the fabric and holds the weave.
Building the collage
The poppies are now created petal by petal, building up the layers piece by piece, before transferring a whole flower to the main collage. There Amanda experiments with the different elements of the piece. “It is the association of plants that interests me, not just something standing on its own but the whole environment, the miniature landscape,” she explains. “When I have put that together, I then have the freedom of planting my flowers in the collage. I naturally think in layers. That is part of what gives a sense of depth. Building layer upon layer slightly fools the eye of the viewer.”
Using the iron on a warm setting, the pieces can be tacked in place so they do not drift in the breeze or move in the event of her cat, Artemis, jumping up. Everything can be peeled back and repositioned if necessary. The flex from the iron used to be a problem if it trailed across the work. This was solved by using an elasticated dog lead to keep it suspended above her.
Other than her hands, Amanda’s key piece of equipment is a pair of spring-loaded scissors. These open automatically after each cut, helping reduce the strain on her hands. She uses these regardless of the size or fineness of the piece she is cutting, never downsizing to a smaller pair. “It is just a matter of precision. If I really concentrate I can shape even the most minute fragments,” she says. She works with great dexterity, picking up and moving the pieces with the tips of the scissors without ever cutting them.
Once she is satisfied everything is in the best place, a warm iron is run over the whole artwork to tack it down. She then damps a piece of cotton fabric, squeezes out the moisture and lays it over the collage. With the iron turned up to its hottest setting, she firmly glides it over the entire surface. This permanently fixes the pieces in place.
The collage is now set, but she can still add pieces of fabric to tweak the composition if she wishes. The process of adding and sealing can be repeated as often as required. How much time is spent on each artwork varies widely, from two weeks to a month or more. It all depends on how many adjustments are needed and the fineness of the detail.
The collage does not have clean edges, with leaves and foliage creeping over the sides. Amanda prefers to leaving her pieces unframed which allows for these organic edges. It also means there is not reflective glass surface between the viewer and the collage. Instead the finished work has a wooden backing.
The act of displaying the collage is central to her art. “For me, the fascinating moment is when I first hang it up, put the lights on it and stand back,” she says. “The key factor is that it shifts and changes throughout the day in different lights and the different angles from which it is viewed. It is not static. I want it to work from 30 feet away or right up close, from either side or dead on. That journey of the eye is a very complex one but that is what is exciting about the work.”
Words: Eleanor Gasgarth Photography: Clive Doyle
The feature about Amanda's textile art originally appeared in the Sept / Oct 2015 issue of LandScape.
For back issues click here.
Ancient techniques create subtle patterns
Deep in the Devon countryside, weaver Susie Gillespie is busy creating fabrics and yarn that hark back to a time long predating her 15th century barn. The linen cushions she weaves are inspired by ancient fabrics woven by early textile makers. Subtle geometric patterns are created in one or two colours, their muted tones reminiscent of a time gone by. Larger, wall-hung pieces are also inspired by prehistoric textiles and the ancient process of weaving.
Much of the visual interest of her work derives from the slight imperfections in the hand-spun yarns she uses. The differing textures introduced during the weaving add to the unaffected simplicity and appeal.
It is now 20 years since Susie started working as a weaver. She relishes the ability to work doing something that gives her so much pleasure. “I often feel a bit guilty as I have a lovely time,” she laughs. “I find weaving both emotionally and aesthetically satisfying.” She takes pleasure in the actual making process, the act of weaving, the slowness of its growth and the feel of the yarn.
Her woven fabrics are influenced by her enduring love of early textiles. Like her own work, these were mainly woven in linen with small areas of pattern. She takes great pleasure in using the same ancient techniques and materials as those used by the ancient weavers. At the same time, inspiration also comes from objects surrounding her home. These include field and building outlines, shapes of barns, textures of stone and cob walls.
Photography: Jeremy Walker
This feature appeared in the Spring 2016 issue of LandScape.
For back issues click here.