Zarifios Weaving School, Tinos, Greece

My research in Tinos developed through meetings at the Zarifios Weaving School and the Ladies’ Association, where I engaged with local women and their craft traditions. Unlike most regions in Greece, Tinian women have been notably influenced by European aesthetics, likely due to the Venetian occupation. This influence is evident in their filé lace, a delicate embroidery technique resembling fishing nets, with decorative patterns filling the open spaces.

I collaborated with two distinct communities, each representing a different relationship with craft.

At the Zarifios Weaving School, a historic institution founded in 1898, I worked alongside its three remaining weavers—former students who now produce woven souvenirs. Originally, the school trained rural girls in need, equipping them with weaving skills for economic survival. As part of my research, I transcribed filé lace motifs into woven patterns, bridging the two traditions through material translation.

At the Ladies’ Association, women gather weekly to work on their lace embroidery, a practice deeply tied to social connection rather than economic necessity. Their designs, often European-inspired, reflect a cultural history shaped by Tinos’ maritime past.

By working within both communities, I encountered class distinctions in craft—lace was embraced by urban women, while weaving remained a skill for working-class women. This contrast highlighted how craft traditions shape social structures, reinforcing divisions while also preserving collective identity.

Weaving, Tourism, and Women’s Labor, Jbala, Morocco

My research in Tangier and the Jbala region explored how tourism and gendered labor structures transform traditional weaving. I worked with three women, each representing a different relationship to weaving: 

Zohra, a weaving instructor at Darna, empowering women through craft 

Fatima, a young weaver producing mendil textiles for minimal wages under male intermediaries 

and Souad, the first woman in Tangier to own her own weaving workshop, selling directly to customers.

In Khemiss Anjra, I collaborated with Fatima, who represents the exploited labor force of young women weaving under the control of male middlemen. She, like many others, works for extremely low wages, with no control over the pricing or sale of her work. While she is highly skilled, she has been convinced that she cannot sell without male intermediaries, reinforcing a system where artisans remain disconnected from the value of their own labor. Her experience reflects the broader power imbalance in traditional craft economies, where tourism-driven demand accelerates mass production, diminishes technical knowledge, and reduces wages.

At Darna in Tangier, I trained under Zohra Chat, a weaving instructor with over 20 years of experience. Her work goes beyond teaching women to weave for income—she empowers them to see their craft as a tool for self-determination. She is committed to preserving traditional techniques, such as woven lace, which are rapidly disappearing due to the demand for faster, simplified production. During our time together, she introduced me to these nearly forgotten techniques, emphasizing the importance of passing down artisanal knowledge. This exchange underscored how knowledge preservation becomes an act of resistance, ensuring that tourism-driven market pressures do not erase the depth and complexity of traditional craftsmanship.

Souad is the first and only woman in Tangier to own a weaving workshop and shop, a radical act in a male-dominated economy. Unlike most women, who weave behind closed doors for intermediaries, she weaves in public, disrupting gendered norms. She is no longer an invisible producer but a visible artisan, reclaiming agency over her craft, making her a pioneer in redefining women’s roles in public and economic life.

Although these women do not work together, they form a community shaped by shared labor, struggles, and resilience. Their experiences reveal the broader implications of craft, tourism, and gender, making visible the hidden networks that sustain artisanal traditions in a rapidly changing economy.

Women and the Silkworm, Soufli, Greece

My research journey to Soufli, the historical center of Greek sericulture (silk farming), was inspired by an oral account that women once kept silkworm eggs in their bosom to accelerate hatching, as body heat provides the ideal incubation temperature. This tradition led me to explore the deep relationship between women and silk production, both in domestic sericulture and industrial silk processing.

Since the 17th century, major silk-producing centers in Europe established a global division of labor, shaping the international silk economy. In Greece, silk farming remained a domestic, family-based activity, largely unchanged by technological advancements, while silk spinning and weaving evolved through industrialization. Both in silk farming (raising silkworms) and in the spinning process, women played a central role, making their bond with the silkworm inseparable.

I traveled to Soufli to meet women who had lived through different stages of silk production—whether within households or in factories. Through interviews, I gathered oral testimonies, revealing a deep sense of care and attachment to the silkworm. Interestingly, none of them had witnessed their grandmothers incubating eggs in their bosom; by their time, homes used wooden incubators with heated water compartments and oil lamps. However, they all recognized the practice as authentic and valid, passed down from previous generations.

My artistic response was to revive this ancestral practice through an experiment, exploring the intersection of gender, labor, and material culture. As part of my research, I listened to memories of silk cultivation, factory work, and female relationships in the workplace. Some women recalled this labor as a harsh, exhausting experience, while others cherished it as a social network, strengthening their sense of belonging.

Among the women I interviewed:

Angeliki Giannakidou, president of the Ethnological Museum of Thrace, provided insight into the region’s silk heritage.

Matoula Demertzis, a local resident, shared how her mother’s silk farming shaped their daily life.

Pagona Manavi, the only contemporary silkworm farmer in Soufli, discussed the challenges of modern silk production.

Pepi Mourika, a former silk worker at the Tzivre factory, described the difficulties of unraveling silk cocoons and the bond between female workers.

Matina Lekka, a member of the Chrysallida Association, emphasized the material culture created through silk traditions.

Koula Tsiantouka, another Tzivre factory worker, spoke about the impact of sericulture on personal lives and the town’s development.

The interviews and research findings were incorporated into my video work “Korfos”, documenting the symbiotic relationship between women and silkworms, an entanglement that not only shaped gendered labor structures but also contributed to the region’s cultural identity and material production.

Antama, Leonidion, Greece

My research trip to Leonidio, Tsakonia, focused on the region’s unique weaving tradition, which has remained distinct due to the area’s historical geographical isolation. The Tsakonian weaving technique, known for its precision, symmetry, and durability, is practiced on a vertical loom, a rarity in Greece. Unlike other weaving traditions, Tsakonian textiles are woven as single-piece carpets, identical on both sides, using a technique that requires exceptional skill—entirely handwoven without the use of a shuttle.

Leonidio is also home to the Tsakonian dialect, the oldest surviving Greek dialect, preserved due to the region’s isolation. Like the language, Tsakonian weaving remained untouched by outside influences, maintaining its original motifs and methods. However, with only a handful of skilled weavers remaining, both the dialect and the weaving tradition face the risk of disappearance.

During a series of collaborative workshops, I worked with local Tsakonian weavers to create a woven textile that faithfully preserved the traditional pattern and technique, while introducing a contemporary element: woven paper threads made from pages of the “Tsakonian Dictionary”. By integrating text into the fabric, the project symbolically wove together the material and intangible cultural heritage of Tsakonia.

The final textile features a traditional Tsakonian motif known as “the little hand”, which, through repetition, forms a rhombus. This geometric pattern, traditionally woven with wool, was reinterpreted through woven words, highlighting the parallels between text (language) and textile (fabric)—both derived from the Latin word “texere”, meaning to weave.

Through this collaboration, the women of Antama (meaning “Together” in Tsakonian) and I explored how craft and language intertwine, forming a living archive of Tsakonian identity. The woven piece reflects a collective process of knowledge exchange and cultural preservation, emphasizing how personal histories and traditional techniques coexist within a contemporary artistic framework.

The project was realized with the support of Tsakonia Archives and the Melitzazz Festival, in collaboration with local weavers Evangelia Georgitsi, Sofia Kambysi, Erini Kambysi, Thomais Korologlou, Anna Lysikatou, and Metaxou Xanteli.

Di Mullieri, Metsovo, Greece

In Metsovo, a unique wool weaving technique has been preserved for generations, covering floors and walls of homes to protect against the cold. The technique follows strict rules in both design and execution, ensuring the longevity of traditional symbols. The weavers also maintain high standards for materials, using only specific types of wool. Today, only four weavers remain who still practice this rare technique.

One significant tradition that continues is the dowry-making process, where a mother prepares woven pieces for her daughter. A week before the wedding, these dowries are publicly displayed in the village. Since most young women no longer weave, they commission their dowries from the last remaining weavers.

Di Mulieroi (“From Women” in the Vlach dialect) is a collective of women from Metsovo and surrounding villages, connected through their love for traditional Metsovian weaving. Their goal is to preserve both the aesthetic and technical aspects of this craft while highlighting Metsovo’s intangible cultural heritage and Vlach traditions.

With the support of the Metsovo Municipality, we set up a traditional loom in a former school classroom, where we gathered to collaboratively weave a cape. The workshops paired older and younger women, encouraging knowledge exchange and ensuring long-term preservation of the craft.

The decorative pattern on the cape is a hybrid motif, inspired by traditional Metsovian designs. Each woman brought her favorite woven dowry piece, either for emotional or aesthetic reasons, sharing its history as we wove. Their commitment to tradition made them resist deconstructing the original motifs, yet through time and mutual exchange, we co-created a new design.

Once completed, each woman was invited to style the cape with her own clothing and be photographed in a personal, meaningful location in Metsovo. This collaborative process highlighted how women share a collective cultural heritage, deeply intertwined with their personal histories.

Cooperative Tawnza, Ait Hamza valley, Morocco

My research trip to the Middle Atlas of Morocco began with the aim of observing and learning the vertical weaving technique used in Amazigh wool rugs, a centuries-old tradition. With the support of Culture Vultures Sefrou, I traveled to the Ait Hamza Valley, where I met the women of Cooperative Tawnza—the first cooperative in Morocco where women market their products independently, without male intermediaries profiting from their labor.

Founded in 2012, Cooperative Tawnza provides a space for local women to weave high-quality traditional rugs using locally sourced wool. The initiative was spearheaded by Afkir Itto, an experienced weaver from the region, who donated half of her house to create a dedicated weaving space. Their goal is to gain global recognition, ensuring financial independence through their craft. Inspired by their vision, I wanted to collaborate with them.

Amazigh women historically carried tattoos on their faces, but since Islam forbids body modification, they began weaving these symbols into their rugs to preserve their heritage. These motifs are deeply symbolic, making each rug a form of cultural storytelling.

During my collaboration, I developed the project “Rugs of Life”. I first documented traditional woven symbols, then deconstructed them using the “Game of Life” algorithm, and returned them as a visual glossary. I invited the women to create new compositions based on these transformed symbols. I designed these symbols within a grid format, which was unfamiliar to the weavers’ traditional design approach. This exchange opened a dialogue, highlighting different ways of perceiving and recording textile patterns.

Language barriers—since I speak English while they speak Tamazight, Arabic, and some French—further reinforced our communication through craft. The differences in interpretation of design documentation were naturally embedded in the final woven pieces, visible through the scale and structure of the motifs.

The rugs produced through this collaboration have been exhibited in multiple art shows. The women hope that international recognition will lead to more commissions and economic self-sufficiency, further empowering their community.