At the beginning of this year, I spent a month in Peru to complete my research. This journey brought new insights. I began in Lima, where I visited the Museo Amano: a remarkable museum with an impressive collection of archaeological material from pre-Columbian cultures.
The collection—assembled by the Japanese collector Yoshitaro Amano—includes textiles, ceramics, and tools from the Caral, Chavín, Paracas, Mochica, Wari, Chimú, and Inca cultures (ca. 3000 BCE to 1500 CE). What immediately stands out is the striking expressive power of form, color, and composition.
The richness of complex techniques and structures shows that many of the possibilities we now consider mechanical already existed thousands of years ago in manual form. Along the way, we seem to have lost much of that embodied knowledge—and the expressive power that comes with it. And yet, it is precisely through these textiles that I feel a deep connection to these earlier cultures.
- Hairnet. This lace was made using a knotless netting technique, in which the loops were formed and twisted by hand. Photographed at the Museo Amano. Photo: Maaike Gottschal.
- The Wedding (diorama), Chancay art. Scene of a ceremony inside a house, where the couple receives guests during a ritual accompanied by musicians. Photographed at the Museo Amano.
The Sacred Ground of Play / Huaca Puclana, in Lima
In Lima, I visited the archaeological site Huaca Puclana, which roughly translates as “sacred ground of play.” The most significant discovery to date is the tomb of the weaver(s). She was buried in countless layers of textile, like a matryoshka doll, with a funerary mask whose eyes are as clear as the sea. Water and the sea were as essential in Andean cultures as they are in Dutch culture: the control of water could determine the beginning or the end of a society. In this context, water is a realm of the gods; the human being, who imagines themselves the ruler of the earth, must learn humility here.
The weaver lay in her grave together with two attendants, likely children, along with her loom and tools for weaving and spinning. The site itself consists of several pyramids and open spaces for rituals, where natural pigments and dyes were offered. All structures are built from hand-formed adobe bricks, placed at a slight angle so they could withstand numerous earthquakes.
What stood out to me, and what I observed at other sites as well, is that ancient cultures never separated art from nature. Here, they sought collaboration: part of the mountain was literally integrated into the man-made site. Art, ritual, and environment formed a single whole—a vision of the world in which humans are always part of a larger weave.
- The Sacred playground
- The Tomb of the Weaver(s).
The Shop of the Future
In Cusco, I came across a shop that fascinated me: a collaboration between the Museo Amano, a supplier of alpaca yarns, and another partner. The shop offered high-quality products, while also functioning as a museum with archaeological textiles and as an information center on weaving and fiber processing. For me, it is an example of how ancient knowledge and craftsmanship can be shared.
Both handwoven and machine-made yarns and products were sold. However, there is no obligation to buy; entry is free. What stands out is the sense of responsibility taken here: presenting longstanding connections between people, animals, materials, and methods of making without directly asking for payment. I find that exemplary and inspiring.
Weaving classes by Maria
After Cusco, I left for my weaving residency in the Sacred Valley, on the edge of Urubamba, surrounded by mountains. For three weeks, my colleague Marisa and I had lessons three times a week with our weaving teacher Maria. We learned all the steps of weaving on a backstrap loom and the patterns that come with it, starting with the selection of materials and colors.
A residency like this is not only enjoyable; it requires attention, practice, and at times a certain struggle. Weaving even a simple X and O pattern by hand involves a surprising number of steps. I often wondered why weaving lessons place so much emphasis on endurance. Many teachers stress that weaving is a technique suited only to people with endless patience. That is not entirely true.
As Anni Albers emphasized, creating is not only about perfection, but about opening space for discovery: a process in which the work almost emerges by itself, because the maker listens, observes, and allows themselves to be guided by the material. Patience and play are not opposites; together they form the core of craft knowledge. This is likely how weaving once began, and how it can still be taught. Any complex technique can be explained in a simple way. When students are inspired, they will naturally continue and put in the effort.
Marisa and I always looked forward to the moment the lesson ended and we could begin a shared lunch prepared by Nelly: simple, full of flavor, and always the highlight of our day. Those moments remind us that learning and creating take place not only in the hands, but also within community and shared experience. Textile, as a language of making, becomes not just technique, but also poetry, philosophy, and connection. Older research and homework by me can be found HERE.
The Backstrap Loom
During my journey, I found myself wondering: why has the loom seen so little development in Peru? Why is so much still made on a backstrap loom? There are several reasons for this, but for me one stands out: many cultures that work with these looms place great value on direct connections.
Weaving on a backstrap loom is a conscious choice. It is not about producing faster, bigger, or more. It is a mobile loom that allows you to work anywhere—indoors, outdoors, at home with family, with other weavers, or in nature. As a weaver, you quite literally become part of the construction; the loom frees you from the studio and makes the process more dynamic, interwoven with its surroundings.
At the same time, this loom creates a direct, physical interaction with the textile. Every thread you tension and beat, every movement you make, transfers energy and attention. The act of weaving becomes a deliberate, almost ritual gesture—an exercise in presence, a moment of connection between maker, material, and world.
My teacher Maria’s loom is simple: a few bamboo sticks and some thread are enough to begin. Also weaving on a small frame (like I use when I’m traveling) costs almost nothing; the only real investment is time. The bamboo construction has another advantage: a backstrap loom must be tied to something, creating an additional point of connection. Traditionally, it was often fastened to a tree. As we now know, trees are remarkable weavers. It is therefore not surprising that humans feel drawn to connect themselves to one.
Weavers like my teacher Maria also know that memorizing around 47 patterns is an exercise in concentration and endurance. When working with a backstrap loom, the weaver creates the shed themselves—the moment in which the leap occurs.
Perhaps understanding that leap is the most essential aspect of all. It touches on the origin of weaving, and on the origin and nature of being human. From that leap, the work is, in a sense, (re)born.
It may be that knowledge gained through the hand will become more important again in the future—as a counterbalance to AI. Insight is needed to remain in control of modern technology, raising the central question: where can humans continue to make a difference, and where do we want to go? Art is humanity’s flint: a carefully passed-down stone. We need art as something to lose ourselves in. It creates space for contemplation and stillness—away from the drive for more and faster. Doing things ourselves, engaging in inquiry, gives insight into creation and into our own creative nature. A vital understanding, and one we could all use in times like these. A call, then, to dust off the weaver within us.
When I travel, I often work on small frames or pieces of cardboard. I use these simple setups for my own enjoyment and as a way to capture the journey directly in thread. I don’t really see these exercises as artworks, but I have to admit that I enjoy looking at them. I made 5 works on a frame at my stay in Peru.
I did bring a work with me to Peru and photographed it there with fresh beets of Nelly’s garden. Handwoven linen 100% made from handspun flax from Buijtenland van Rhoon.
It was a wonderful stay! I hope to come back one day.. More photo’s and stories of my trip can be found on my Instagram account.
