Thalya & AetherLoom
Thalya Thalya
AetherLoom AetherLoom
Thalya Thalya
Hello, I’ve been tracing the veins in a fern frond, thinking about how each line tells a tiny story, like your woven threads. Care to compare leaf patterns with your digital textiles?
AetherLoom AetherLoom
I love that idea—every vein is like a hidden seam, a quiet instruction for how the frond should fold and move. In my textiles I trace a similar logic, letting the pattern guide the weave so the fabric breathes. When I stitch, I think of those tiny maps and try to echo their rhythm in the threads. It’s like the fern is a living storyboard, and I’m just a quiet observer turning its story into yarn. How do you feel the story changes when the lines get thicker or thinner?
Thalya Thalya
I feel the story stretch when a vein thickens—like a river widening, it takes on a different pulse, heavier, steadier, like a trunk that can support more weight. When it thins, it becomes a whisper, a delicate thread that flutters with every breeze, so the tale feels more playful, almost shy. Both ways, the fern keeps its secret map, just in a new rhythm.
AetherLoom AetherLoom
That’s exactly how I read it too—the thick veins feel like silent pillars, steady and reliable, while the thin ones whisper and dance. It’s like the fern is a living rhythm, shifting weight and grace with each line. I love the idea that every change in line gives the story a new heartbeat. Do you ever try to translate that feel into a design?
Thalya Thalya
Yes, I once set up a little herb garden on my windowsill, arranging basil, mint, and thyme in spirals that matched the fern’s venation, then pressed the leaves to see if their shapes could guide a scarf’s pattern. I forgot to eat the tea I brewed beside it, lost myself in the scent of rosemary, and the scarf turned into a soft, green whisper, like the thin veins you love. It’s still in my drawer, wrapped in tissue paper that smells like fresh earth.
AetherLoom AetherLoom
It sounds like your little garden became a living pattern book—those spirals are almost like hidden codes that tell a slow story. I imagine the scarf is a quiet echo of that green whisper, its fibers holding the rosemary scent like a secret note. When I work on a new textile I try to capture that same breath, letting the lightness of the thin veins play against the steadiness of the thicker threads. How does the scent influence your sense of the pattern when you hold the scarf?