By Lisa-Anne Bauch

“Rya has a long tradition and history but that does not mean it is orderly and docile; rather, it’s the opposite. A rya is constantly trembling between chaos and order, crying and bleeding yarn.” Emelie Röndahl

Handwoven: Between Chaos and Order, a major exhibit by Swedish artist Emelie Röndahl, is on view through June 7, 2026 at the American Swedish Institute (ASI) in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Rya is a traditional Scandinavian technique in which rows of plain weave alternate with rows of knotted pile. Fluffy strands of yarn are knotted around pairs of warp threads to create the soft, luscious pile. In the past, ryas were made for household use. They were often woven as bedcovers, with the pile side turned toward the body to trap warmth, or as wall hangings to prevent drafts. In Emelie Röndahl ‘s vision, the humble ryas become works of contemporary art, monumental in scale yet intimate in imagery. 

Röndahl holds a Ph.D. in Crafts from the University of Gothenburg, Sweden, and is currently a Professor of Textile Art at the National Academy of Art in Oslo, Norway. Rya has been her area of study for many years, and while she respects the history of the technique, she refuses to be bound by the strict rules she learned as a young weaver. (Three rows of plain weave, one row of knots, repeat.)

Likewise, the imagery in Röndahl’s work has also travelled a path from the political to the personal. “A mix of new and old is significant of what I do,” she writes in the text accompanying the exhibit, “traditional weaving with contemporary images of society and my private life.” Because the exhibit is laid out in chronological order, the visitor is allowed to follow along on her journey of discovery in both technique and imagery. (Starting from either entrance to the second floor of the mansion—the main staircase or the elevator—the visitor encounters her earlier work before her more recent.)

Method to Madness: Technical Details

Rather than the traditional bedcovers, Röndahl’s ryas are woven in panels, some sewn together to create massive wall hangings. In the case of Maxim, a portrait of her dog, the piece spans the entire width of the stage in the soaring Turnblad ballroom and is lit by the skylight above. Rather than trimming the pile to even lengths, as is traditionally done, she allows the weft strings to hang, so they appear to be “crying”—that is, bursting out of the fabric to express the emotion of the image. Some of the strings are so long they reach the floor, while others bulge outwards, making the rya sculptural and in the case of Rumpa (Butt), delightfully three-dimensional.

In her weaving, Röndahl uses a vast array of yarns of all shades, lengths, and textures, increasing the shaggy, colorful chaos. “Over the years,” she writes, “I have learned how the motif is affected by different lengths, colors, contours, and materials. In that knowledge there is a fascination and wonder that has not diminished.” Although she works from a cartoon, her process at the loom is intuitive, as she chooses the length and color of yarn that seems best to her in the moment. Likewise, once a rya is removed from the loom, she does not make any alterations to it. 

Another of Röndahl’s innovation is showing the back side of the rya—that is, the non-pile side. “The technique has a built-in two-sidedness, the front, a hairy, messy fringe, and the back, clean rows of knots,” she explains. Several of the weavings in the exhibits are hung from the ceiling so the viewer can see both front and back and discern the hidden images created by the knots. Others are hung so that the back of the weaving appears in a mirror. In the case of Serial Baby (below), the mirror reveals the smiling face behind the shaggy pile.

These methods provide opportunities for interaction between viewers and weaving. Rather than passively looking at the rya, visitors can search for images that only gradually appear. Peering at a weaving through a cell phone camera sharpens the contrast between light and dark and can help viewers see hidden motifs more clearly. In one wall hanging, what looks like random blobs of color resolve into the TV character Marge Simpson. Other images, like Maxim, are immediately apparent on first sight, and it is instead the vast scale and colorful explosion of yarn that create the visual impact. All the works reward the viewer both when seen across a room as well as up close, when unexpected details emerge: A doll’s head, a strand of tinsel, weft strings tenderly plaited into a braid. This visual treasure hunt is part of the joy of the exhibit.

Imagery: The Motif Underneath

From the 1700s through the 1900s, ryas in Scandinavia were decorated with folk art motifs such as hearts, flowers, and stylized human and animal figures. This gave way to abstract designs during the twentieth century, especially the Mid-Century Modern era. 

Röndahl’s work is figurative rather than abstract or geometric. Her most recent ryas focus on self-portraits along with portraits of friends, family members, and beloved pets. With each portrait, she begins with a photographic image, blown up until it becomes pixelated. The printed version then becomes a cartoon she places behind the loom. But rather than realism, Röndahl’s purpose is to express the (sometimes conflicting) emotions of the figures. Like the exaggerated pile strings bursting out of the rya, the human figures can appear distorted, like the elongated Self-Portrait in a Blue Bikini and the monstrously large heads in her Serial Babies series. The goal is not to recreate the original photos but invite the viewer to contemplate the image and ponder its possible meanings.

Röndahl writes that the question driving her technical experimentation has always been, “How can this image become a rya?” But her more recent weavings explore her emotional connection to the image in all its complexity. Her work expresses both love and discomfort, relationship and loneliness, and what she describes as “the tragicomic everyday.” Her physical experience of weaving is also part of the story, as her woven panels measure 50–100 centimeters, matching the scale of her body at the loom.

While Röndahl’s work has previously been shown in contemporary galleries, the exhibit’s new home in the Turnblad mansion lends an additional aspect to her work. Rather than a cool, neutral space with white walls and no distracting elements, the mansion is a showcase of the decorative arts: Ornately carved wooden doorways, tinted plasterwork ceilings, elegant tile stoves, rich Oriental carpets. This allows Röndahl’s weavings to interact with the setting, drawing out both symmetry and contrast. The soaring ballroom on the third floor is perfectly suited to the massive scale of Maxim, while the open floor invites children to run and play. The fact that the mansion was built as a home, not an art gallery, relates to the intimacy of Röndahl’s work.

The contrasts, on the other hand, are subversive, even transgressive, as in a room where three of Röndahl’s female figures clash with the mansion’s late Victorian elegance and propriety. Alex (shown above) in her red underwear, stands proudly, legs spread, hands on her hips, while Katerina squats in a deep plie. (Is she a gymnast, ballerina, pole dancer?) The cheeky Rumpa contrasts delightfully with a crystal chandelier and polished tile stove. One can almost hear the gasps of the ghosts. 

The End Result: Trembling Discomfort

All these elements—technique, size, imagery, emotional expression, and setting—come together in two recent weavings. Om Bara (If Only) is a self-portrait by the artist. Composed of eight panels, the weaving stretches across the width of a bay window, allowing sunlight to filter through the loosely woven fabric as the weft strings cascade down. Over her many years of working with wool, Röndahl has developed an allergy to the fiber, including breathing issues. Rather than flatter, the self-portrait clearly shows her symptoms, including watery eyes and a red, bloody nose. The effect is that of an enormous sad clown face. 

Flanking this is Röndahl’s most recent work, a portrait of her mother, portrayed with similar yellow hair and red nose. Röndahl’s caption for the weaving addresses her mother directly, citing their broken relationship. “It will be complicated to stand at the loom and see you up close,” Röndahl writes, “but the energy of the work will drive my understanding deeper precisely because of this trembling discomfort.” Her words are wistful but with no trace of sentiment or self-pity, just trust in her weaving process to reveal and share the complexities of reality and the tragicomedy of the everyday. Her vulnerability is the price she pays for her insight, and the viewer is the beneficiary of her boldness. 

“The weaving body possess silent knowledge,” Röndahl writes. Handwoven: Between Chaos and Order gives the visitor a tantalizing glimpse of this knowledge. Rather than relegating ryas to the past, her exhibit stands as testament not just to its technical possibilities but its power to express our deepest emotions—if we are willing to make the journey to the in-between, the space where chaos and order meet.

Lisa-Anne Bauch is a Minnesota-based folk artist whose work is rooted in the traditional weaving techniques and materials of Sweden, Norway, and Finland, as well as their respective immigrant communities. Her writing has appeared in PieceWork, Norwegian Textile Letter, Väv, and Shuttle Spindle & Dyepot.