Preserving culture, one textile at a time
| Rupganj, Bangladesh; and Taloyoak, Nunavut
Two dozen artisans crouch over hand looms threaded with bright-orange and sky-blue cottons. Their fingers nimbly create a jamdani, an intricately woven sari dating back to the Mughal Empire.
Decades ago, this workshop on the Shitalakshya River, east of the Bangladeshi capital, Dhaka, would have been silent. Made of fine cotton or silk, the jamdani was a pinnacle of fashion centuries ago. But in the 19th century, British colonizers brought in their iteration of fast fashion, and the tradition nearly went extinct until its revival some five decades ago.
After Bangladesh became an independent nation in 1971, the nongovernmental organization BRAC set out to revitalize the weaving practice. It approached artisan families like that of Anwar Islam, owner of this shop. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 think it was feasible, but I was happy to be part of the solution,鈥� says Mr. Islam.聽
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onFocus is often put on preserving disappearing languages, but what of other traditions? For some, vitality rests with maintaining a culture鈥檚 visual representations, too.
Today he employs 120 weavers at Abul Kalam Jamdani Weaving Factory. Their jamdanis have been worn by everyone from Bangladeshi Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina Wazed to Bangladeshi actor Azmeri Haque Badhon at the 2021 Cannes Film Festival.
But this is not just a business success story. In an age in which 鈥渓ocally made鈥� is a moral demand of many consumers, when the pushback against cultural appropriation and the industrialization of fashion and art gains force, the jamdani is seen as a story of cultural success, too. It鈥檚 part of the championing and preservation of objects from sealskin parkas in the Arctic to duck decoys and quilts across the United States that otherwise may be forgotten.
鈥淧eople have been striving to decorate their lives to tell the world who they are for centuries,鈥� says Chris Gorman, a deputy director of the American Folk Art Museum in New York, which put on 鈥淎merican Weathervanes: The Art of the Winds鈥� in 2021.聽
鈥淭hese objects are made to be functional, but they are also forms of art,鈥� he says. 鈥淎nd, I think, without people championing the study and preservation of objects like these, and others, there is the possibility that people will simply forget about them, and it is hard to revive them or prove their relevance.鈥�
About the time the jamdani was being revived, a women鈥檚 collective was coming to life at the northernmost tip of Canada, in the town of Taloyoak. 聽
Begun in 1972, the group, called Arnaqarvik, garnered a burst of fame in its day with its Inuit parkas, mitts, and boots made from caribou, wolf, and seal and patterned with dyes from tundra lichen and flowers. The collective鈥檚 work 鈥� including, eventually, duffel-wool 鈥減acking dolls,鈥� or miniature stuffed animals carrying their babies in parkas as the Inuit do 鈥� was showcased in New York City and the 1974 Arctic Winter Games in Alaska.
Yet today, just as the jamdani is enjoying global appeal, the work of Arnaqarvik has been largely forgotten. So the Kitikmeot Heritage Society in Cambridge Bay, in Canada鈥檚 Nunavut territory, has set out to restore its memory in a digital archive.聽
And to mark the 50th anniversary of the collective, about 250 items in 2021 were sent back to Taloyoak in an exhibition. It was the first time most in the community found out what Arnaqarvik even was. 鈥淓verybody was really surprised by what their parents did in those days,鈥� says Arnaoyok Alookee, Arnaqarvik鈥檚 co-founder.
Brendan Griebel, an Arctic anthropologist and manager of collections and archives for the Kitikmeot Heritage Society, says this reconnection is about far more than just the production of goods. 鈥淗aving that physical contact ignites something in the memory and in the senses,鈥� he says.
When Arnaqarvik began, the semi-nomadic Inuit of Taloyoak had only gradually moved into this permanent settlement the decade prior. The collective helped the community bridge a gap 鈥撀燽etween its Indigenous traditions and the new wage economy into which it was settling.聽
Judy McGrath co-founded the collective with Ms. Alookee when her husband was posted for work in the Arctic community. She says she still recalls the sense of purpose that craft-making gave all of them. They collected flowers with their children in 24-hour sunlight; they鈥檇 use the 24-hour darkness of winter to boil their dyes on the stove. 鈥淚 can still feel the confidence that the skills they had mattered, and the excitement over making new things from the old, from the land,鈥� Ms. McGrath says.
In Bangladesh, the rise of the jamdani was also driven by economics, to help artisans whose enormous skills couldn鈥檛 find the market for livelihoods. BRAC, the country鈥檚 largest NGO, created the brand Aarong to distribute their products 鈥� from finely woven garments to woodcarved wares.
Today the brand supports 65,000 artisans across the country 鈥� mostly women 鈥� whose work is featured in stores including Aarong鈥檚 massive, high-end flagship in Dhaka.
Aarong has helped surface a narrative about a 鈥済ood job鈥� in a country known for its links with fast fashion. Stories of child labor and tragedy in the garment industry include the Rana Plaza collapse in Dhaka in 2013 when over 1,000 people were killed.
Making a jamdani, which derives from the Persian words jam (floral) and dani (vase), is what weaver Mohammed Monir calls a 鈥渞espectful鈥� job, he says while working on a recent day. 鈥淲hen I see someone famous wearing something I made, I feel proud,鈥� he adds.
Each floral pattern runs the length of the scarf requiring an entire day of work in pairs. The finest jamdanis can take up to six months to complete. Today jamdani weaving is included on UNESCO鈥檚 Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.聽
But to rebuild the culture in Bangladesh required research into archives. That included visiting museums worldwide where jamdanis were preserved and bringing back photos and documentation to reteach the art form.聽
It is, in some ways, where Taloyoak, back in Canada, finds itself now.聽
The collective had disbanded by the 1980s, but Mona Igutsaq now runs Taluq Design out of a single-room storefront that has taught sewing to women here since 1995. In an interview in June, Ms. Igutsaq said she wanted to soon offer a course on how to make packing dolls.聽
鈥淚t鈥檚 very important to carry on the tradition. It鈥檚 unique. No one else in the world does them,鈥� she says.
And even if the collective itself no longer exists, Ms. Alookee says she does what she can to pass down her sewing skills 鈥� to her granddaughters and at the local school. 鈥淎 lot of young people, they think they don鈥檛 know how to do things,鈥� she says. But all they need is a good teacher and patience to learn. 鈥淚t lifts them up and makes them stronger, and then they want to do more.鈥�
And that鈥檚 how cultural heritage is preserved. 鈥淧eople talk about, with these objects, how this knowledge is sleeping,鈥� says Mr. Griebel, 鈥渁nd you really need to wake it up.鈥澛�
