Rie Tachikawa Interview May 2026

(Laughs) That is very true. I was never interested in the body as a thing to be wrapped. I am interested in the negative space —the air between the body and the room. Most textile artists ask, "How does this feel on the skin?" I ask, "How does this define the air around the skin?"

I would lock them in the material library. Literally. I told them: "For one hour, you cannot touch a loom. You can only touch the thread. Smell it. Stretch it until it breaks. Burn the end and watch the bead of plastic form."

Most beginners think weaving is about repetition. It is not. It is about decision . Every time the shuttle passes, you are saying "yes" to one texture and "no" to a thousand others. I wanted them to feel the loneliness of that decision. rie tachikawa interview

In this previously unpublished interview from 2018, we sat down with Tachikawa in her Atelier in Setagaya, Tokyo, to discuss how she un-wove the rules of contemporary craft.

And remember: The most important part of a woven thing is the hole. The light that passes through. The gap. Don't fill every gap. Let the air in. Rie Tachikawa passed away in 2019, but her pieces remain in the permanent collections of the Museum of Arts and Design (New York) and the 21st Century Museum of Contemporary Art (Kanazawa). Her students continue her seminar on "Critical Textiles," proving that even when the thread breaks, the pattern remains. (Laughs) That is very true

My father was an architect. I grew up looking at blueprints, not fashion magazines. To me, thread is just a line that forgot to be straight. When you weave enough of those lines, you get a plane. When you fold that plane, you get a room. Textiles are the softest form of architecture.

The "violence" you see is the tension between the soft and the rigid. The felt wants to lay flat; the copper wants to spring back. That struggle is the art. In the end, the pieces looked like topographical maps of an earthquake. I think that is the truest map of Tokyo: a city always trying to hold itself together while the ground moves. Most textile artists ask, "How does this feel on the skin

In the world of Japanese textile art, fabric is rarely just fabric. For (1977–2019), it was architecture, cartography, and memory rolled into one. Before her untimely passing, Tachikawa was a rising star in the intersection of industrial design and fine art, known for turning woven structures into three-dimensional landscapes.