During my time in the Sacred Valley of Peru, I became increasingly aware that material was understood very differently to how it often is within contemporary culture. Plants, fibres, minerals, and textiles were not treated as resources separated from life, but as part of a living continuum—connected to land, ancestry, labour, and spirit simultaneously.

What stays with me most is the level of respect embedded within even the smallest gestures. Before harvesting or working with certain materials, offerings are made to the land. Not symbolically, but as a genuine act of reciprocity. The earth is approached as something conscious and sustaining, rather than passive or extractive. I found myself reflecting on how different this relationship felt—slower, more attentive, more aware of consequence.

There was also a profound sense of lineage held within the making itself. Knowledge moved through hands and repetition rather than instruction alone. Watching materials being prepared, dyed, woven, or carried across generations, I realised how deeply memory can live within process. Techniques were not preserved as static traditions, but continuously adapted while remaining rooted in care for the land they emerged from.

I became particularly drawn to the responsiveness of the materials themselves: mineral-rich earths shifting colour through sunlight and water, plant dyes changing subtly through atmosphere, fibres holding tension and softness simultaneously.

What I continue to carry from Peru is the understanding that material asks for relationship before intervention. That working with textiles, pigments, and natural matter is not simply about composition, but about entering into dialogue—with landscape, history, and the many hands that have shaped these practices over time.