By Anne Karin Jortveit

Editor’s note: This essay is included on the website of the artist Liilian Saksi, featured in this issue, “Liilian Saksi: An Artist in Språngning.” Anne Karin Jortveit is an author, critic, and artist; two of her textile works are highlighted following her essay. 

«No other animal tends so thoroughly to become (for most of us) nothing but a signifier or blank page or resource unit. For it is surely the case that, despite their massive contribution to our lives – past and present – we think less of sheep than just about any other animal.» – Philip Armstrong

A few years ago I waited for the ferry that would take me from Hovedøya to Aker Brygge [across the bay to downtown Oslo]. It was early fall. The sheep, who had worked a summer job for the community, now wandered about freely, accustomed as they were to the flood of people on the island. The flock had gathered at the edge of the pier, as if they also waited for the boat, as if they also were ready to leave. I stood and talked with a friend when I suddenly felt a careful, almost friendly nudge in my side. One of the sheep had come close to us without our noticing. It seemed like it wanted to be scratched on the nose. For a moment I forgot myself, taken up as I was with the conversation, and immediately I felt that little nudge again. The rest of the time before the boat arrived this bold little animal received my full attention, and I went onboard with a new understanding. From then on my interest in wool developed a greater depth, all because of a confident sheep.

People talk about whether we have entered the Human Age, the Anthropocene. The whole world is affected by what we humans, with the help of technology, have created. We use, misuse and consume at an escalating rate, and often at the cost of something or someone. This truth also intrudes on the work of artists. When considering those who utilize animal fibers, the use of wool, and the fact that it once belonged to a living entity, undeniably becomes part of a larger picture. In this day and age, it is difficult to pretend that there is no connection. Within the fibers one finds the connection between animals and people. Wool is like a door that opens on the living world and between species. How do we manage this gift from nature going forward? With respect and care for its source? Or is it primarily just the material itself that has worth for us? We seek out the quality of the raw wool we wish to use, but spare few thoughts for the sheep body on which the wool actually grew. The sheep then becomes a distant supplier, reduced to fiber type and sorting. But perhaps it is precisely in the Human Age that we now have the possibility to truly reflect on the missing link between our materials and their origins?

The arts are a place where this concept can unfold. In artistic circles, one no longer considers just the aesthetics but also the ethics. For more and more artists these two categories are joined. This is not always expressed in themes, but nonetheless emerges as a driving energy, like an underlying attitude in artistic choices. To work with art is to be an active participant in the world, to be sensitive to events and changes, and to know that what one does affects the use of resources and leaves footprints. At the same time, one’s own motivation can inspire others, and can reflect back an uplifting feeling of contribution in this larger context. Wool also connects artists to others who value fiber, and of course on a higher level, textiles concern us all.

Our familiarity with wool has very long timelines, one enters a handcraft relationship with roots that stretch back several thousand years. Sheep were among the first farm animals to be domesticated. Just in Norway they have been present for around 6,000 years. Wool is connected to survival itself, and before we learned to spin and weave we made felt, itself the original textile. Wool fiber’s unique characteristics have seen humanity through harsh winters and difficult weather. Wool breathes, provides insulation and draws dampness away from the body. It is flame resistant and dirt repellant. We have protected ourselves with it, and we have adorned ourselves with it. We have enfolded it in myths and stories. It’s no wonder that wool has been highly valued throughout history, often being considered more important than meat. As the respected felt maker Claudy Jongstra puts it: “Nature is so clever; the fibres are constructed so ingeniously that it intrigues me. To this day, we’ve been unable to make a fibre that combines the same characteristics and qualities. I think that’s unbelievable. I deeply respect that.”

Even when artists use spinning or felting in projects that do not have a practical use, an echo of wool’s contribution to life’s necessities and life’s pleasures is felt through mere contact with and manipulation of the material. Today wool is a byproduct of sheep raising, but fortunately some things are in the process of changing. It blossoms forth in the handcraft milieu, it is incorporated into artistic thinking, it enters into the design process. Even the handcraft enthusiast wants more than to knit with purchased yarn. It is about wanting to know. People seek out and bring forth tools, techniques and insights that have had changing and sometimes low status in our recent past. It is as if we want to assure ourselves that this knowledge is not lost, now that these skills are no longer passed seamlessly from one generation to the next. Most important of all, it is about taking care of and guarding the diversity of the surrounding landscape. This also raises questions about values, both material and existential, and between humans and animals. 

As I finish writing this, I look over at Molly, my dog, where she lies curled up between the pillows on the sofa. She also has met the sheep on Hovedøya. On one of our trips we suddenly stood face to face with the whole flock. One sheep decided to take a step forward. I held the dog leash firmly, a little anxious. Both animals neared each other and finally stood nose to nose. When the other sheep saw that this was not a dangerous animal, they also came forward. I stood on the sidelines, touched as I observed what happened. Perhaps this was the same year as my own meeting on the pier. Perhaps it was even the same sheep that was seeking contact. 

«…to understand other living things, their environmental conditions, and their ecological relationships in such a way as to awake in us a deep sense of our kinships with them as fellow members of the Earth’s community of life.».  Paul W. Taylor

www.annekarinjortveit.no

Translated in February, 2023, by Katherine Larson, Affiliate Assistant Professor,
Department of Scandinavian Studies, University of Washington, Seattle

Anne Karin Jortveit is and artist and writer who lives in Ås, Norway. She works in Ås and Oslo, with a studio on Hovedøya. She works three-dimensionally with textiles and recent years has immersed herself in handspinning, weaving and plant dyeing. These pieces by Jortveit are on her website, only two of many compelling installations.

Jortveit wrote about Sorrow’s Signature: When I cleared out my father’s personal belongings, I found a paper with the words “Astrid Died January 15.” My father had become very forgetful. He no longer remembered details of the recent past, such as dates, so he had written down the death date of my mother, his wife.

​This little note was perhaps a kind of anchor. He himself died half a year later.

​This is not intended to be a private work. The name and date are interchangeable.
This simple, raw and bare sentence also contains a shared experience.
Regardless of time, place and circumstances.

Anne Karin Jortveit. 11,2 kilo (11.2. Kilos), 2004.

This weaving consists of clothes from my wardrobe, clothes I acquired but rarely used.
This weaving is a picture of one year’s discards.

In 1998, each and every one of us threw away 11.2 kilograms of textiles and clothing.
When I began this project, I had access to statistics from 1998; therefore this piece weighs 11.2 kilograms .

In 1998, discards were distributed as follows: 68% was sent to the dump; 16% was burned; 7% was reused or recycled, mostly to the Third World and Eastern Europe; 19% had never been used.

Traditionally, rag rugs were the final use of textiles. When clothes could longer be repaired, they ended up here, under our feet, the place where we leave traces of dust, dirt and sweat. This is a rag rug for today. I could wear all the clothes in this weaving and still be well dressed. None of the clothes came close to being called rags. I just got “tired of them.”

Afterword: ​This text was from 2005. In 2013, I checked the numbers again and read that each one of us threw away around 24 kilos of textiles a year. That would have become quite a weaving.

[Editor’s note: Textile discards are not improving. According to figures published by the Boston University School of Public Health, Americans discard more than 45 kilos (100 pounds) of textiles per year. The figure is based on the most recent year of EPA statistics available, 2018. See “The Aftermath of Fast Fashion: How Discarded Clothes Impact Public Health and the Environment.“]

March 2023

Help support wonderful articles on Scandinavian textiles with a donation to the Norwegian Textile Letter. Thank you! Tusen takk!