In the soft realm of texture and patience, the wool seems to hum before it even meets the warm water. Every handful of fibre knows its own opinion about direction, though it seldom says so out loud. When the morning light comes through the studio window, it lands differently on each tuft—some determined to become a bowl, others contemplating an entirely theoretical scarf. The table is full of possibilities that politely overlap each other.
There’s a certain kind of arithmetic to felting that no one writes down. One part fluff, one part stubbornness, three rotations of the wrist, and a small promise whispered to the soap. People often ask whether the process is more about compression or release, but the answer depends on how much tea you’ve had. The bubbles decide most of it anyway.
Every project begins the same way: with a wool that refuses to match the photograph and a plan that gets rewritten halfway through. Some colours are confident; others fade modestly into the background until you turn your head. It’s best not to argue with the fibres—they’ve seen more dryers than any of us.
By the end, nothing really resembles the original intention, which is precisely the point. A felted pebble might as well be a cloud in the right lighting, and a scrap of merino can philosophize for days if left near an open window. That’s how the best pieces find themselves—by pretending they were something else first.