The fabric of dreams: When contemporary tapestry weaves the invisible

Yet despite this hypnotic presence, contemporary tapestry remains that medium we admire without daring to collect, that we exhibit without truly understanding. An art that oscillates between artisanal heritage and contemporary radicality, between the warmth of natural fibers and the coldness of conceptual installations. How can a simple piece of fabric be worth tens of thousands of euros? Why do artists like Louise Bourgeois or Tatiana Trouvé choose textile to express the inexpressible? And above all, why does this medium, as ancient as humanity itself, continue to baffle artistic institutions?

The answer may lie in an anecdote Magdalena Abakanowicz, the grande dame of Polish fiber, often told. In 1965, as she presented her first "Abakans"—those organic sisal forms that seem to breathe—at the São Paulo Biennale, a Brazilian critic exclaimed, "But this isn’t art, it’s decoration!" Abakanowicz, unruffled, handed him a piece of her work and said, "Here. Now it’s up to you to decide what it is." Fifty years later, those same pieces sell at auction for six-figure sums, and the art world has finally understood that textile was not just a medium, but a revolution in progress.

01When threads become memory

There is something profoundly intimate about working with fibers. Unlike painting or sculpture, textile demands constant physical contact—the friction of fingers against thread, the resistance of materials, the infinite patience of weaving. This carnal relationship may explain why so many contemporary artists turn to this medium to explore themes of the body, memory, and identity.

Take Tracey Emin, whose embroidered works have upended the British art landscape. Her I do not expect... (2002) or Hate and Power Can Be a Terrible Thing (2004) transform scraps of fabric into open-air diaries. The words, clumsily stitched as if by a trembling hand, tell stories of violence, desire, and redemption. "Embroidery is like writing with thread," she says. "Each stitch is a letter, each space a breath." What fascinates in these works is their assumed vulnerability—those loose threads, those deliberately left sewing mistakes, as if to remind us that perfection was never the goal.

At the other end of the spectrum, El Anatsui pushes textile into an almost architectural dimension. His immense hangings of aluminum and copper, made from thousands of recycled bottle caps, defy classification. Are they paintings? Sculptures? Tapestries? It doesn’t matter. What counts is how these works capture light like Byzantine mosaics while telling the complex history of postcolonial Africa. "I’m interested in transformation," he says. "How discarded objects can become something precious." His pieces, which can measure up to ten meters long, are designed to be handled by gallery staff—folded, draped, rearranged for each exhibition. A flexibility that recalls how textile, by nature, is an art of movement.

But perhaps it is in Do Ho Suh’s work that the memorial dimension of textile reaches its peak. His transparent fabric replicas of houses and apartments, like Seoul Home/L.A. Home (1999) or Passage/s (2016), are architectural ghosts. Suspended in space, these structures seem to float between two worlds, between memory and the present. "Fabric is the perfect material for talking about migration," he explains. "It’s light, portable, and yet it can contain an entire universe." These works, which require months of meticulous labor, are often made with hand-dyed traditional Korean fabrics—a way for the artist to literally carry his cultural heritage across continents.

02Textile as political act

If textile fascinates so much today, it’s also because it carries within it a political and social charge few other mediums can claim. Historically associated with women, the domestic, and the "minor," it has long been relegated to the rank of mere craft. But this very marginalization has made it an ideal playing field for engaged artists.

Judy Chicago understood this as early as the 1970s with The Dinner Party (1974–1979), that monumental installation celebrating forgotten women in history through a table set with 39 embroidered place settings. Each plate, each napkin, each element of this collective work (made by over 400 volunteers) is an ode to sisterhood and resistance. "Textile has always been a feminine language," she says. "And that’s precisely why it had to be used to rewrite history."

More recently, Dinh Q. Lê has used the traditional Vietnamese weaving technique to create works that explore the traumas of war. His Light and Belief (2012) blends drawings by Vietnamese children from the 1960s with American propaganda photographs. The result is both poignant and unsettling—a tapestry of memory where each thread tells a different story.

But perhaps it is Tatiana Trouvé who pushes this political dimension of textile the furthest. Her Bureau of Implicit Activities (2014) are complex installations where threads stretched between metal structures create invisible maps of power. "Textile is the medium of the border," she explains. "The one between public and private, inside and outside, what is shown and what is hidden." Her works, which resemble ghostly architectures, invite the viewer to lose themselves in a labyrinth of meanings.

03The revolution of materials

One of contemporary tapestry’s greatest strengths lies in its ability to constantly reinvent its materials. Where traditional tapestry was limited to wool, cotton, or silk, today’s artists explore fibers that defy imagination.

Ernesto Neto, for example, creates sensory installations where elastic fabrics filled with spices or sand become entire environments. His Léviathans (2006), those vast lycra structures visitors can walk through, transform space into a physical experience. "I want people to feel, touch, live art," he says. "Not just look at it."

At the opposite extreme, Chiharu Shiota uses black wool threads to create monumental spiderwebs that seem to absorb space and light. Her installations, like The Key in the Hand (2015) presented at the Venice Biennale, are meditations on memory and absence. Thousands of keys suspended in a network of black threads evoke lost objects, forgotten memories, lives that cross without meeting.

Even more surprising, Tomas Saraceno collaborates with spiders to create living sculptures. His Hybrid Webs (2017) are structures woven by multiple spider species, combining their webs to form ephemeral works of art. "Textile is nature’s first building material," he explains. "And we’re only beginning to understand its potential."

04The art market and the textile paradox

Despite this creative effervescence, contemporary tapestry remains a niche market, often misunderstood by collectors. "People struggle to see textile as an investment," explains Marie-Ange Guilleminot, a specialist dealer. "They see it as decoration, not art."

Yet the numbers speak for themselves. A Louise Bourgeois tapestry like Ode à l’Oubli (2002), made from pieces of her old clothes sewn together, sold for $2.5 million at Christie’s in 2019. El Anatsui’s works regularly reach $500,000, and Sheila Hicks’ exceed $100,000. "The market is catching up to the quality of the works," confirms Nathalie Obadia, a Parisian dealer. "But there’s still a lot of education to be done."

One of the main challenges lies in preserving these works. Unlike a painting or sculpture, a tapestry is a living object—sensitive to light, humidity, and insects. "A silk work can degrade in a few years if not properly displayed," explains Cécile Verdier, a specialist restorer. "And synthetic materials, like those used by Ernesto Neto, pose even more complex conservation problems."

Yet despite these challenges, textile continues to seduce a new generation of collectors. "What appeals is the authenticity," says Isabelle de Maison Rouge, an art historian. "Unlike a painting or sculpture, a tapestry carries within it the traces of the creative process—the mistakes, the hesitations, the artist’s choices. It’s something profoundly human."

05The future of textile: between tradition and innovation

So what is the future of contemporary tapestry? Today’s artists are exploring paths as varied as they are unexpected.

Some, like Alicja Kwade, integrate technological elements into their works. Her Trans-For-Men 1 (2018) are tapestries where metallic threads create optical illusions, playing with the perception of space and time.

Others, like Ibrahim Mahama, use textile as a medium for reflections on colonialism and global trade. His vast installations made from used jute sacks, like Out of Bounds (2015), transform everyday objects into political manifestos.

And then there are those who push the limits of the material itself. Diana Al-Hadid, for example, creates fiberglass sculptures that resemble melted tapestries. Her works, like The Tower of Infinite Problems (2017), evoke ruined architectures, at once fragile and monumental.

But perhaps the most exciting innovation comes from artists who reinvent traditional techniques. Faig Ahmed, an Azerbaijani artist, creates carpets that seem to liquefy or pixelate, playing with traditional patterns to produce hypnotic optical illusions. "I want to show that textile can be both ancient and contemporary," he says. "That it can tell stories that are both personal and universal."

06Why collect textile?

Faced with this effervescence, one question arises: why collect textile works? The answers are as varied as the works themselves.

First, there’s the tactile dimension. "Unlike a painting or sculpture, a tapestry is experienced with all the senses," explains Marie-Ange Guilleminot. "You want to touch it, feel its texture, see how it catches the light."

Then there’s the narrative dimension. "A tapestry always tells a story," confirms Nathalie Obadia. "Whether through its materials, its patterns, or its technique, it carries a memory."

Finally, there’s the political dimension. "Collecting textile is often about collecting marginalized voices," says Isabelle de Maison Rouge. "It’s about giving visibility to artists who have long been ignored by institutions."

But beyond these considerations, there’s something deeply moving about owning a textile work. "It’s like owning a piece of time," says Sheila Hicks. "Each thread, each knot, each mistake tells a story. And that story is yours."

So the next time you encounter a contemporary tapestry, take a moment to approach it. Let your fingers brush the surface. Feel the warmth of the fibers. Because behind these intertwined threads may lie the future of art itself.