The Value of Testing and Not Giving Up

Lately, my studio time has been filled with experiments. For the FibreArts Take Two course with Toni Hill, Unbound, I’ve been researching, testing, and trying out materials for my books. Before getting anywhere close to “the real thing,” I’ve made sample after sample—some successful, some not, and many that had me starting over from scratch.

All this testing and experimenting is my way of translating paper instructions into fabric. The methods described for paper don’t always behave the same way when I work with textiles, so each sample is a way of learning how the techniques need to adapt. By trying, failing, and starting over, I discover what works, what needs tweaking, and how to make the final book truly my own.

There are days when the fails feel frustrating. But I’ve learned that testing is part of the work. Each thing that does not work right teaches me something about the materials, the structure, or my own patience. Each restart sharpens my vision of where I’m heading. Slowly, step by step, I’ve been getting closer to a project that excites me. And what we call mistakes are really opportunities to learn, tweak and adjust. There is no waste in the creative process.

One of the things that has been absolutely essential during this time is my workbook. It has become my anchor in the middle of all the experiments—holding pages and pages of notes, measurements, sketches, plans, and final thoughts. I write down what I tried, what worked, and what didn’t, so that each “mistake” becomes a reference point rather than a dead end. Without it, I’d be lost in a pile of half-remembered tests and repeated errors. With it, I can trace the path of my process, see how my ideas evolve, and keep momentum moving forward.

In the middle of all this experimenting, I’ve managed to finish a few books that remind me why persistence (and note-taking!) matter. Two flag books came together after much trial and error – built with image transfers, buckram spines, and my own printed papers. For these, I used images of three fish: mackerel, Norwegian tuna, and ahi tuna. These aren’t just any fish—they hold a special meaning for my son Ale, who is a chef renowned for his fish butchering skills. He even has tattoos of two of these fish: a mackerel and, more recently, a Norwegian tuna. Including these images felt like a way to honour his craft and personality, connecting family, art, and memory in a playful and personal way.

Another book gathers 23 of the 47 small pieces I stitched in 2023 while working in a series inspired by a Peruvian vessel I keep at home. Binding them together using the sandwich binding gave them a new context, and suddenly, these pieces felt whole again (one of the reasons I joined the course). The cover has its own story too: it began as a small quilt from last year, waiting for me to add the finishing touches. Instead, I cut it down and transformed it into the front cover, pairing it with a piece of deconstructed screen printing on the back. Giving old work new life this way felt both resourceful and deeply satisfying – like past and present meeting in the same place.

Looking back, I realize the “mistakes” were never wasted. They were stepping stones that taught me how to push through frustration and keep going. They also taught me the value of documenting, because without my workbook I wouldn’t have been able to see just how far the process has brought me. And you know what? All this testing and trying makes me happy.

In many ways, the workbook has become a book of its own—running parallel to the finished pieces I’m making. It’s less polished, full of scribbled notes, but it carries the heartbeat of the process. Just like my finished books, it holds a record of trial, persistence, and discovery. Together, they tell the whole story.

Thanks for reading. Until I write again,

Ana

The Language of Folds