Alarge loom dwells in the corner of Lynelle Barrett’s living room. Of Swedish make, its stirring frame of pine and inscrutable guts of ‘shaft, heddle and weft’ sit like a pet dragon on the hearth—a reminder that to loom is also a verb. On it, Barrett, 59, has threaded the pattern for some cheery dishcloths. She is a weaver, part of a small but distinct community that has sprung up in Singapore. With yarn, looms and a rare gift for patience, these weavers have devoted themselves to the ancient craft of cloth-making. But their idyllic vocation conceals a secret defiance: they aren’t supposed to be here.
A cursory glance at history unearths the dearth of local weaving traditions. “I think there were rattan weavers once,” says Natalia Tan, traps to catch fish. Of their ilk, only three living practitioners remain. Besides, neither set bothered with textiles. The stark void is rare. Almost every other culture has been weaving for millennia, moved first by necessity and later, art. Singapore, which began as a port city, seemingly resisted both and for the most part has operated on a principle of pristine indifference. As recently as 10 years ago, there were no weavers. Now, we have two schools, while our metropolitan cousins, Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur, still tarry at zero.
