textile art
Marie Colin Madan
Please share a bit about yourself and your background.
I am a French artisan and textile designer, working with patterns across various forms, from drawing to shaping, for both prints and handcrafted objects. Originally from Grenoble, I later moved to Lyon to study textile design. It was there, in the vibrant setting of Grrrnd Zero concert evenings, that I met Jonathan, now my partner that is a musician.
During this formative time, I co-founded the silk scarf brand MILLENEUFCENTQUATREVINGTQUATRE with designer Amélie Charroin. It was an ambitious and enriching venture. Following the conclusion of that project, I collaborated with the Mr Paisley studio, creating gouache illustrations on cashmere for an Italian haute couture brand. I also worked as a freelance textile designer on a range of interdisciplinary projects involving art, fashion, dance, and design.
Motivated by the limitations of urban living and the natural transition of life stages, our family decided to relocate to the countryside, situated in the hills of the Loire, a region steeped in textile heritage. We have now lived here for a decade, and it has become a place of both personal and professional renewal.
The proximity to textile manufacturers has reshaped my practice in unexpected ways, often guided by a form of local, material-driven opportunism. I work closely with textile remnants and industry deposits, allowing the surrounding environment to inform and enrich my creative process. Pattern-making remains central to my practice, which now unfolds primarily through textiles, combining craftsmanship with elements of applied arts and interior design.
Time is an essential component of my work, and one I look forward to exploring further. I also deeply value transmission. Since 2021, alongside my creative practice, I have had the opportunity to teach textile design, first in the preparatory class at ENSBA Lyon (École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts), and more recently within the “DNA Textile Design” program. It is a collaborative environment I share with an inspiring group of students and a dedicated teaching team, including Amélie Charroin once again.
When was the moment of revelation that textiles became a form you wanted to explore?
I believe the moment emerged when I was around eight or ten years old. I have a clear memory of becoming aware that I didn’t yet know how to do anything. My godmother, a deeply artistic woman, lived on a farm with her husband and their four children, one of whom was my age and is still a lifelong friend. She was remarkably capable, managing tasks like cooking and cleaning with a natural ease. In contrast, I came from a city household where little was expected of me. Witnessing her independence made me acutely aware of a gap in practical knowledge. I realized I didn’t even know how to sweep properly.
It was around this time that sewing became a point of connection between my mother and me. We began making fabric dolls together and I saw how much joy this practice brought her, despite her work in the social services field. My grandmother also sewed, often making clothes for us. Sewing machines were a familiar sight in my maternal family, used more as a means of personal expression than as a profession.
For me, textile work became a space of freedom, somewhere I could create tangible things with my hands. It offered a sense of purpose and agency. As a city child, having the opportunity to carry out a creative project from start to finish felt rare and deeply empowering.
Could you walk us through your creative process? Do you have a favourite aspect of the creation process?
A few years ago, I entered a new chapter of my life. I concluded the Milleneufcentquatrevingtquatre project, became a mother for the first time, and moved to the countryside. It was a major shift that deeply influenced both my personal and creative paths.
As mentioned earlier, I found myself, somewhat unexpectedly, in a historic textile region. This area once served as a hub for subcontracting by Lyon silk manufacturers who were looking for more affordable and compliant labor compared to the canuts. While the industry has changed, several textile companies still thrive here today.
Over time, and thanks to my genuine interest in building connections, I gained access to local textile remnants and industrial deposits. It became a personal mission to reclaim these beautiful materials, often considered waste by the industry, and transform them into the foundation for future work. Around the same time, I met Christiane at the village patchwork club. Her generosity and expertise opened up an entirely new perspective for me on textile techniques.
This phase matched my desire to return to a more hands-on creative process. After my experience with the scarf brand, which involved many intermediaries and complex logistics, I wanted to regain control over the making of each piece. That became my first priority. After months of research and experimentation, I launched a series called BIGOULIN, short for bi-gout en lin or “linen bi-taste,” inspired by the two-flavored Malabar chewing gum many of us remember from adolescence.
Today, my studio is filled with shelves of fabric arranged by color and material, creating a rich source of inspiration. I approach these textiles like a painter with a palette, carefully selecting and cutting salvaged pieces to create patchworks. I also design shapes that become appliqués, adding depth and texture to the work.
My process is focused on balance and rhythm, paying close attention to how colors interact, the scale of patterns, and the play of transparency. By layering materials thoughtfully, I aim to create pieces that invite a deeper, more intimate experience of textile and craftsmanship.
How significant is it for you to prioritise the use of discarded textiles in your pieces, given the potential impact on resource conservation?
In 2019, I began the BIGOULIN story. I was deeply convinced that today it is impossible to ignore our impact on the world. To do so would feel cynical and hypocritical. At the same time, I was closely connected to linen scraps from a furniture workshop near my home, which felt like a perfect starting point.
Recently, I tried to visualize our shared human challenges and imagined an iceberg. I realized that we suffer from what I call iceberg syndrome — we deny the existence of the vast submerged part beneath the surface. It is easy to ignore what we cannot see: the working conditions of people on the other side of the world, invisible pesticides, textile waste dumped in the Atacama Desert or in Ghana, the realities of animal life behind our food, the exploitation of forests for cheap furniture, the destruction of marine ecosystems through overfishing, plastic nanoparticles in synthetic fibers, the suffering of populations affected by war, and much more.
This system of invisibility seems to numb our natural empathy. Nothing in our lives escapes the interconnectedness of living beings. How can we continue to turn a blind eye and deaf ear to this profound symbiosis?
Having two young children may influence my awareness. Living with financial uncertainty also sharpens my attention to the world because there is so much at stake. Yet, I would like to believe that simply living in our present time is enough to foster awareness. Fortunately, I think there is growing consensus on this today.
You beautifully mention on your website that “The concept of TIME is essential in my work; these slow and deliberate gestures bring me genuine joy and ground me in the present moment.” How did you develop this insightful philosophy, and how do you integrate it into your daily routine, especially in today’s fast-paced world?
The meaning of words is often overused. We live in what I call a “UBU world.” For me, working slowly is a necessity, almost like a form of meditation. It engages the body through hand-centered thinking. This idea naturally leads to your next question because these reflections are deeply connected.
How has your artistic practice contributed to your well-being and mental health?
I appreciate you bringing up mental health. It is one of the most essential parts of our lives. Aside from the challenges of turning forty and a few family losses, I consider myself fortunate not to struggle too much in this area. We are not machines; we are humans, part of the animal family. We need to touch, feel, and experience the world physically to understand what is happening inside and around us. I truly believe involving the body in daily life is crucial for mental well-being.
I say this, but it can be difficult. Having grown up in the city, this connection does not always come naturally to me. Jonathan, my partner, grew up in the countryside and is a drummer, so he is more comfortable with this way of life. Perhaps that is part of it.
Transforming textile scraps into art is also deeply satisfying on a psychological level. By incorporating ecological concerns into my work, I feel I am moving in the right direction.
Where do you believe the greatest potential lies for preserving important local crafts today?
When you mention local crafts, I think again about mental health. I believe scaling down our lives is essential. It allows us to engage more closely with the world, to touch and feel people and materials, and to test ideas through direct experience. This closeness is vital for healing our minds.
Preserving traditional know-how also builds connections between people and generations. It reminds us that we are not holders of all knowledge, especially when technology can create illusions of mastery. I find it valuable not to know everything, as it creates networks of shared knowledge and interdependence, much like trees or fungi in nature.
For example, I collaborate on natural dyes with Le Jardin des Plantes à Couleurs. Now that I live in a new village, I focus on local connections and work closely with my friend and neighbor Leslie Chanel. They are more passionate about plant-based cooking than I am, and that balance is perfect.
I feel I am reconnecting with the simple, childlike joy of mastering my own actions. Regaining control of manufacturing processes at every level is vital. Craftsmanship is the most natural way to understand where things come from, how they are made, and why we create them. It awakens appreciation for the value of objects.
This approach to education is profoundly positive, empowering us to take charge of our lives and consciences. It echoes the utopian ideals of the Arts and Crafts movement, which beautifully stated: “Happiness lies in craftsmanship, because a worker can only flourish and be proud of his work if he participates in each stage of its creation and manufacturing. We can only do good work if we live and work in a healthy and pleasant environment, which leads to an exodus towards rural districts. The big idea is that art had to intervene everywhere, first of all in the house to first rework everyday objects: dishes, silverware, bindings, carpets, lighting... the founding idea of design.”
This philosophy reminds us that creativity, purpose, and well-being are deeply intertwined. By reconnecting with craftsmanship, we reclaim a more meaningful relationship with the objects we create and the environments we inhabit.
What current projects are you particularly excited about?
I’m deeply engaged with a collective I co-founded in my village called CLUB de SPORES, which creates artistic projects in rural areas to connect communities like a “social mycelium.” Our recent project was l’ABRI, a giant 10x15 meter patchwork tent made through collaborations with locals—planting dye plants, singing, hiking to collect wild plants, dyeing fabrics, and creating costumes with students. We celebrated with a parade and exhibition last November, and this summer we’ll install l’ABRI again at a linen festival in Normandy.
Alongside this, I’m developing new textile paintings using macramé, called BIGOULINENGATES for the same festival. I’m also part of Collectif FU, a group of textile artists who share knowledge and experiment together to break the isolation of studio work.
Recently, we planted 510 vines with local friends to start a collective vineyard called LA GRAPPE, a joyful long-term project that celebrates community and shared effort.
Where and how can people engage with your work?
You can follow my work on Instagram and my website:
www.mariecolinmadan.com, @marie\_colin\_madan
Photos made by Ghislain Mirat @g_mirat.
Projects mentioned in the interview: @club.de.spores, @leslie.chaourse
