artist interview: sarah haskell

translating nature into cloth; one thread leads to another

Rachel Snack

Jun 24, 2026

Name: Sarah Haskell (she/her)

Studio location: York, Maine

Website / social links: sarahhaskell.com, @sdhaskell

Loom type or tool preference: Macomber

Years weaving: 52

1. How did you discover weaving and was what your greatest resource as a beginner?

I was introduced to weaving as a college freshman when a local weaver came and did a series of workshops at the college. Up to that point I was dabbling in whatever art form I came across: pottery, sculpture, painting, photography and printmaking. My greatest resource was this visiting weaver — an innovative and talented woman who had attended Cranbrook Academy of Art. I later became her apprentice and with her encouragement pursued a BFA in textiles at Rhode Island School of Design.

2. How do you define your practice – do you consider yourself an artist / craftsperson / weaver / designer / general creative or a combination of those? Is this definition important to you?

I am an artist who weaves, dyes and spins paper to create work. Although my training is in traditional textile techniques, my work is more poetic than practical; finding beauty in the subtle variations of hand-dyed and woven threads. I approach my art work with the curiosity, discipline and motivation required to sustain a long career with a deep and singular focus.

Parallel to my studio art work I have a long abiding passion for community art and education focused on textile arts. This avenue of work is driven by two objectives — to build community and raise self-esteem. In this work I strive to shine a light on the individual and the collective, the unique and the universal.

The label I have used for decades is artist/educator. This balance between solo work in the studio and work with communities/schools is a dance that has nurtured my creativity, strengthened my authentic voice and honed my communication skills.

3. Describe your first experience with weaving.

Weaving answered questions that were elusive with painting, sculpture and printmaking. As a medium that is built with three dimensional lines (threads), weaving offered me a method to build texture, pattern and most importantly to manipulate color. Because weaving is constructed of many threads that intersect and overlay each other, I found that I could create a surface of pixelated colors that mimicked the multidimensional color I saw in nature. The natural world around me has been my inspiration, my teacher and my solace for as long as I can remember. With the language of threads and the structure of weaving I felt like I was finally able to bring what I felt and saw in nature into my art.

Like many beginning weavers I made rugs, clothes and domestic cloth. Coming from a practical New England Yankee heritage, I thought if I failed as an artist I could make a blanket or coat to keep myself warm! I spent my first few years as an apprentice and then as an art student learning the language of patterns, weave structures, drafting, dyeing, spinning, knitting, embroidery — basically anything that involved threads. I explored ancient weavings of Peru, Egypt, Indonesia, China and colonial America. All the while I kept testing the waters, experimenting how threads could be used to make art. And ultimately I grew the confidence to call myself a textile artist.

4. What is your creative process, from the initial idea to the finished piece? Are there specific weave structures, looms, or fibers that are important to your process?

Often my creative process begins with an image that I see in nature. For example, driving home from town last winter I was awestruck but the way the sun hit the ocean, all silvery and reflective; the sky was a brilliant blue, the horizon a thin dark blue line. From there I came home, did a quick sketch in my journal, then kept mulling over the pathway to create this piece. Months later this piece has come to fruition — and is the beginning of a series of similar works in progress. Dipped in indigo after being woven, this piece with a little stretch of horizon just begged for a small island. So there it is — bright and sturdy, claiming its place in the beautiful universe. The water is woven with a metallic thread in a brocade weave that floats the silvery thread on the surface, giving the water a shimmery quality. As a sailor and a swimmer, the ocean is my muse, her wide horizon offering opportunity and hope.

The old expression “one thing leads to another” is the best description of my creative process, and in my case it might be “one thread/line leads to another”.

Another inspiration for creation might be a current event, social injustice or universal longing. An example of this thread of works is “Each One: the Button Project, a 9/11 Memorial”. This piece was motivated by my need to count something after the tragic losses of 9/11. I soon discovered that I had tapped into a universal longing, a need to make sense of the enormity of this event — and my first large scale community art project was born.

When I set up the loom I use a long warp, longer than might be needed for my initial project. I have found that my primary idea for the warp is often a doorway to other pieces that are not quite conceived yet. As I weave, I become aware of other possibilities and options for this warp — and having the extra yards affords me the space to develop these ideas. One thread leads to another.

For decades I was enthralled with complex structures. I had a 16-harness dobby loom with a CAD/CAM system. I wrote patterns and developed lessons about computer aided weaving, and worked closely with Macomber Looms to grow their compu-dobby business. I still love the challenge of constructing a well woven multi-harness complex cloth, but I have slowly let go of these complicated structures and lean more and more into simple plain weave.

I often employ the Theo Moorman technique where I can draw on the surface with a brocade structure and threads that contrast in quality such as light absorbing linen and light reflecting rayon. I think of my handwoven linen as akin to a painter’s canvas — a cloth upon which I dye, rust, paint, stitch or embellish.

5. Does your work have a conceptual purpose or greater meaning? If so, do you center your making around these concepts?

My definition of weaving is: separate elements that are put together in a structure. Following this idea — the concept of separate elements that are in a common structure — one could think of a family, a town, a country, a school or any gathering of people as a weaving. The metaphor of cloth as community has so much potential and depth, that I lean into this concept time and again when teaching and creating community art. My hope is that with each teaching experience I dispel the “otherness” and the divisions that our world is currently embroiled in — literally weaving our lives together into one coherent cloth.

The Buddhist concept of impermanence has been at the core of my work for over a decade. Lately I have been exploring the parallels of impermanence between organic fibers and our bodies by treating my handwoven linen to dyes, weathering, bleach and rust. These transformative processes allow me to witness the natural progression of metamorphosis and to challenge my attachment to what I once deemed as precious. I find that acts of experimentation and observation require a willingness to risk failure and are critical to my creative and personal growth.

6. What is your favorite part of the weaving process and why? What’s your least favorite?

Each step of the weaving process has it’s own reward and its own drawbacks. All in all I try to approach each step with an open heart, because I believe that any negative attitude towards a part of the creative path can affect the whole piece. If I had to pick one it might be the weaving of plain cloth — the physical rocking and rhythm from throwing the shuttle unleashes a frame of mind that is akin to meditation.

Within all of the repetitive methods inherent to textile making, I find a quiet space of engagement — a place to illustrate universal stories of love, loss and longing, the heart ache of the ephemeral, the tender beauty of the natural world and the astonishing gift of being human.

7. Do you sell your work or make a living from weaving? If so, what does that look like and how has that affected your studio practice?

Yes, I do sell my art work. I am involved in exhibits local and nationally and have a website from which I sell my work. I have a following of clients and fans who purchase or commission works.

I also design and guide community art projects that focus on textile techniques, such as my most successful project — the Mandala Community Weaving ©. For decades I have been an artist in residence in schools, communities, churches, prison and retirement centers. Working out in the community is a healthy balance to the solitude of working in my studio and I find that being an artist/educator is very helpful to my solo work.

In order to be a successful teacher, I have to be able to put myself in the shoes of a beginner again and again. I have to be able to understand the frustrations, the confusion and struggles that people might feel when approaching a new process or medium. To be a guide and cheerleader as others discover the joy of simply going over and under threads, is to witness the process of healing, growing and discovery. The privilege of being the teacher, guide or supporter of this process feeds my heart, giving me the motivation to begin again, alone in my studio.

8. Where do you find inspiration?

My work is inspired by the human spirit and observations of the natural world. Through the practice of art-making, I explore personal losses, patterns of human behavior, comprehend family lies and explore the language of truth. I believe that my best art stems from that place that is a clear line to my authentic voice, my individuality. At the same time, I believe that successful art touches a common thread in other people.

In a series of past works, I have explored the practice of embedding text into textiles by spinning kozo paper inscribed with words and drawings. The imagery may originate from my own hand and heart, or from the contributions of others. These fragile paper threads are then woven into larger artworks, transforming individual voices into a collective fabric.

Well Used, Well Loved is a community-based piece composed of two six-foot-tall panels filled with kozo paper threads bearing colored text and drawings from more than 45 contributors. Participants responded to a set of prompts addressing themes of age, beauty, attachment, and impermanence. This work reflects an understanding of self as both singular and interconnected: I am a small part of an infinite universe, yet inseparable from it. Through weaving, I seek to express this intricate web of relationships — where each thread, like each voice, is distinct, yet essential to the whole.

At the center of a more recent piece, Dissolving Boundaries, a floating body is suspended within a cathedral-like arch of embroidery stitches, set against a sea of indigo blues. The work is inspired by a frequent swim to a small island in the protected waters of a local cove. Before returning to shore, I roll onto my back and float — fully supported by the salty water, held and cradled, suspended as if in zero gravity. There is no perceptible sound except for my breath.

This experience comes as close as I have known to merging with oneness — of dissolving boundaries between self and surroundings.

If there is one lesson to carry forward from COVID-19, it is our shared vulnerability and mortality. When we cultivate an awareness of this common fragility, we open the possibility for deeper connection, compassion, and care for one another.

At the core of my practice is a deep reverence for the natural world. Over the past five years, I have shifted from fiber-reactive dyes to natural dyes and processes in my handwoven linens, aligning my work more closely with environmental rhythms. As an observer of the wild, I’m drawn to moments of quiet connection. When a pair of hawks nested outside my studio window this spring, I felt a longing to see from their vantage point — to gain perspective on the divisions below.

Again and Again: Calling in the Birds reflects an ongoing call toward resilience — not as denial of hardship, but as a return to compassion, empathy, and connection. Inspired by the vantage point of birds, again I imagine a broader perspective from which divisions soften and a shared humanity comes into view. Woven on an indigo-dyed warp, deepened through repeated immersion, the cloth carries layered blues that echo sky and sea. A gesturing hand, made from handspun paper and embroidered into the textile, reaches outward—an offering, a call, a return. Again and again, this act of reaching becomes resilience.

9. What other creatives do you admire – weavers, artists, entrepreneurs – and why?

Textile artists: Anni Albers, Magdalena Abakanowicz, Theo Moorman, Lenore Tawney, Eli Anatsui

Painters: James Fitzgerald, Agnes Martin, Rockwell Kent

Indigenous art: Australia/aboriginal, Africa, Japan, American Indian

Composers : Philip Glass

10. If you could no longer weave, what would you do instead?

It’s interesting that you ask this question! At age 40 I developed sciatica and eventually a ruptured disc. It was determined that this back injury came from the repetitive motion of weaving. I was bedridden for two months, and finally had spinal surgery.

I was faced with the question — will I ever weave again? If so, what can I do to change my practice to avoid further physical harm? I couldn’t imagine a life without weaving — so I followed a path of healing that included yoga, PT, meditation and a more mindful approach to my body as I worked. To this day, I pay attention to the subtle cues my physical body might be telling me to change position, to shift weight or to simply rest. I continue to practice a self-care routine that includes yoga, massage, meditation and daily walks. And yet, I cannot deny that age is having its influence on my body — and there might be a day when I cannot get down on the floor to change tie ups, or to stand winding long warps, or to hunch over and thread a 48” wide 24 epi warp.

What will I do?? I have plenty of yarns that could be knit, crocheted or embroidered. If my hands or eyes no longer allow me to thread needles or cast on stitches I’ll draw or paint or create collages. I have no doubt I will find a way to create.