weaving
Hope Wang
Please share a bit about yourself and your background. What was the early motivation to express your creativity through weaving?
My name is Hope, and I have lived and worked in the American Midwest my entire life. I moved to Chicago, IL, USA almost exactly ten years ago. It was then when I fell in love with handweaving. I came from a painting and photography background, with a strong love for fashion as well. I tried various methods of making around those disciplines, but found that weaving has really stuck with me as a maker. In school, I became acquainted with multi-harness floor looms as well as a digital jacquard loom, which I now have in my studio. This exposure converged my many interests through the language of weaving.
Even though my first few weavings were disastrous–as I would consider an essential experience for anyone learning this–I still had an ever-growing appetite for more. Perhaps it was the challenge and thrill that so much pre-planning and meticulous organisation could spin chaos into order.
We know you gravitate toward different mediums, such as poetry, and printmaking. Can you share more about these practices and how they influence your approach to weaving?
Poetry is a significant part of my practice. I have been writing pretty much all my life as a way of feeling the world as I experience it. I say this a lot about my visual art, and I think it’s even more true of my poetry, but it all forms inevitably as a symptom of living. It is like a fruit that grows on a tree; it bears because I am alive. I am not attached to expressing myself through any single medium. Trying different processes is my way to better understand my curiosities, like studying a rock over and over again through different paradigms–first, texture, then shape, then colour, then taste, then smell, and so forth.
I think language helps describe this inexhaustibility. Few languages have a one-to-one translation. When we translate meaning from one system to another, we have to use words that are relative to the origin point. Direct translations are often offset from its original meaning, so we use other words to fill the space that might be missing. I see this as a sort of ghosting, much like print transfers. In the loss of translation, new meanings and connections are born.
For example, I take photographs as an instantaneous way to capture things that interest me. It is the most quotidian exercise I do, and I would say I compose images many times every single day. It helps me accumulate the critical mass to translate something that repeatedly interests me for a year or two into a woven object or another medium. Weaving then becomes this very methodical set up that I only do a few times a year because the rest of the time, I’m exploring my curiosities through other languages.
Could you tell us more about the origins of LMRM and the importance of collaboration with your local community through these project initiatives?
As I mentioned, I first fell in love with weaving in school. Schools are special spaces not just for learning, but also for collective exploration and experimentation. It’s one of the few times in adulthood when you're constantly surrounded by others, all trying new ideas together, sharing failures, discoveries, and new inquiries. Outside of school, this sense of community often diminishes, and people can feel isolated. I missed the camaraderie of working in a studio with others, where their energy and ideas were an integral part of my own creative process. This need for collective creativity was the driving force behind starting LMRM (pronounced “loom room”). LMRM, my project space, began right after the world shut down in 2020 and the art world was also experiencing a reckoning with its exploitative habits. At a time when certainty was scarce and isolation was widespread, building a community-focused space felt especially important to me.
Many people were in a similar predicament, lacking access to weaving tools, as looms are expensive, take up a lot of space, and are often confined to private studios. I wanted to address this lack of access and use it as a means to model a different way to exist with other artists. My co-director, Murat Ahmed, and I added a TC2 digital jacquard loom to the studio, which had been my dream tool for many years, making LMRM the second place in the US to offer public access to such a loom. The TC2 loom, although more complex and expensive, allows for intricate, image-informed weavings by controlling individual threads separately. This contrasts with traditional looms, which manage threads collectively. The TC2 loom's advanced capabilities offer a new dimension to weaving, though it's still a hands-on process. Access to such technology is limited in the US, with few public spaces offering it. Murat and I have been working [sprinting] to create exciting programs, workshops, and collaborations to build a community centred around shared resources and shared knowledge.
The TC2 loom also serves as a conversation starter about textile history and craftsmanship. Despite its high cost, it can inspire renewed interest in weaving and craft by making the process more exciting and engaging to people who otherwise may not be invested in making cloth by hand. The weaving process and the challenge of access have led me to reflect on the values of slowing down and valuing craftsmanship. In a world driven by rapid production and consumption, weaving offers a chance to appreciate the meticulous labour and human care behind each piece. It's an opportunity to focus on the relationship between maker and object, fostering a deeper connection to the materials and processes involved. More people will open more spaces offering access to this loom. I know it’s happening and I’m really thrilled about it. I can’t wait for us to show each other all the different ways to be weavers and artists in the world.
How do you think the places, people, and traditions where you grew up are now manifesting in your art? Could you share your feelings about these cherished gifts and heritage?
It’s funny how growing up with certain influences can shape your art without you fully realising it. My father played a significant role in my artistic development. He introduced me to Chinese poetry and literature, and we frequently visited art museums together, discussing what resonated with us.
What particularly stayed with me was the influence of language and the art of Chinese calligraphy, which my father taught me. Calligraphy emphasises constant practice and repetition, and each stroke can reveal something about the writer’s mindset or emotional state. A wobble in your line might convey a lack of focus, a mental perturbation. Reading calligraphy is a forensic act. Writing calligraphy is to expose yourself.
This mental landscape has shaped how I observe the world and what people leave behind. I often find inspiration in overlooked or discarded items, which I fondly refer to as "trash." These seemingly insignificant things can reveal more about a person’s personality and environment than we might expect. My art frequently explores these unnoticed aspects of public spaces, such as shadows appearing only at specific times of day or neglected parking lots. These are places filled with untold stories and memories, offering a different perspective on human experience. There’s a wealth of beauty in these everyday moments, and I want to encourage others to explore and appreciate them.
Can you take us through your process? Do you have any particular rituals that help you dive into it with greater ease and foster a more natural flow?
I have my own full time studio practice and now manage two creative businesses, so my rituals are crucial for creating a peaceful environment. To start my day, I like to get into the studio about 20 minutes before anyone else arrives. I have my coffee, light incense, and enjoy a brief moment of quiet. It doesn’t always work out perfectly—sometimes I end up rushing in and have to do this ritual with company—but it helps to set the tone for the day.
At the end of the day or a project deadline, I have to reset any clutter that has accumulated. Whether it’s yarns or fibre dust, I feel this instant relief after vacuuming and re-organising tools back to their places. Tackling the physical and visual clutter in my studio are essential. Without this, my motivation and ideas can easily stagnate.
When it comes to the tactile aspect of your work and its connection with your body, how does the hands-on nature impact your overall happiness and well-being?
The loom is essentially an extension of the body. You use your legs and hands, and even with the digital loom, where most people stand and use one pedal to advance the next line, the movement is dynamic. It’s like playing the piano or performing an orchestral piece, involving the whole body. My loom weaves at almost 60 inches wide, which is basically my entire wingspan. It requires athletic movement—standing, pedalling, leaning back and forth, and sometimes lunging to catch the shuttle on the other side of the shed. It’s a full-body experience.
Our project space emphasises not only slowness but also rest. It is about moving with respect and gratitude for the tools, bodies, and ideas we have the opportunity to respond to and collaborate with. Working on a loom like this has physical limitations; it can become painful very quickly if you are not careful. For our loom rentals, we cap working hours at eight hours per day, and I personally prefer working even less. I take as many breaks as possible. In terms of the tactile aspect and its connection to my body, I’m deeply aware of how labour-intensive weaving is. I think a lot about balancing and honouring the work involved in such a physically engaging activity. As for the hands-on nature, repetitive labour creates a mental space that I find clarifying. It’s similar to how humming or listening to the same music repeatedly can stimulate the brain and block out external noise. For me, this repetitive action creates a mental space where I’m fully engaged with my body and mind. It allows me to puzzle through challenges or think about other things in a way that wouldn’t happen in my daily life. It’s interesting how repetitive movement can lead to such a reflective state. I find that creating stillness in my life is really important, and I think it’s something we all need. I often don’t give myself enough of it.
How do you interpret the impact of your surroundings, be it environment, culture, experiences, and social context, on the evolution of your artistic expression?
It goes back to stillness. Slowing down in a world driving us to move faster and be more efficient. As an optimizer, this feels unnatural to me sometimes. But in a world that threatens to take everything from us as long as we’re willing to give it, I think it has become essential to believe we have the power to say “no,” or be forgiving with each other when we definitely do have the power to accept “no’s.” I try to live this in the work relationships I have: knowing that so much of what creatives do is already coming from a place of genuine passion, it is important not to exploit it.
Just because you CAN make this deadline or stay up all night days on end to meet it, doesn’t mean we should normalise it. I have done this punitive thing to myself for too long. It is hard to resist the mindset where if I don’t say yes right now, willingly staking my health, finances, and relationships, this opportunity may never come back to me again. If it never comes back to me, it probably wasn’t meant for me anyway.
Moving slow also means creating room for the unpredictable. It means allowing “mistakes” and the unexpected to have breathing room to grow. Moving slow means letting an idea cook overnight, and letting your body recharge so that you can welcome a new day of making. My work is absolutely better for this.
What upcoming projects are you excited about right now?
I think I took almost two years off from actively collaborating with others, whether creatively or administratively, because I found myself in situations misaligned with the kind of person I wanted to be and the relationships I wanted to have. It spiritually drained me from the kind of work I wanted to do. This past year has been full of jumping headlong into deeply invested collaborations, working intimately (sometimes painfully close) with several people in ways that have been incredibly generative, compassionate, and expansive. It’s taken A LOT of work (and conflict management!) to get to this place. I’m really, really proud of that. Most of the tangible projects that are really close to my heart are all collaborations that absolutely would not have been possible if any of us did it alone, and without genuine respect for each other. One of them is through LMRM, where my co-director, Murat Ahmed, and I are teaming up with another artist, Abraham Cone, whose art and intuition we admire.
This will be LMRM's first collaboration where we invite an artist who does not currently weave in his practice, but together, we hope to explore new woven experimentations that expand the possibilities of Abraham's current practice and our medium. On a personal level, I’ve been very slowly working together with friends and colleagues who are independent curators and writers on an artist book that has been developing for over a year now. The design development of this book has been marked by a really intentional amount of care for each other and our personal limitations, which has been really important to me as a creator, to move at the pace of our own internal processes and connect with the external process when it's right for everyone.
Where and how can people engage more with your work?
Thank you so much for coming across my work and reaching out for a conversation! I appreciate your curiosity. It’s always really special for people to take the time to dive more deeply into my world with me. You can find regular updates and details on my website and Instagram. LMRM also has its own website and Instagram, where you can follow our latest projects and public events. Artist website: hopewang.com Artist IG: @hopeless_hope Project space website: lmrmchicago.com Project space IG: @lmrm_chicago
Image [1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 9, 10, and 22] by Khalid Ibrahim, and the rest belongs to Hope.
