The Ireland Dispatches

Home

Archives

Feedback

I’m at a world famous handweavery. The gift shop is crowded with a coach tour, so I wander into a building marked "The Weavery". The only sound is the wooden clank-clank of a hand loom in the back. There a man is weaving a bolt of green plaid woolen cloth. He’s under a bare flourescent lamp. I nod, watch for a minute, and ask, "Is it OK if I photograph you working?" "Sure, no problem," he answers. I set up a tripod, put a 30M filter in to correct for the light. He’s young, early 30’s at the most, black hair starting to recede. Clank, clank, goes the wooden shuttle back and forth between the warp strings. He moves it by yanking a rope overhead that is attached to the shuttle by a series of pulleys. Then he pulls forward to tighten the weft. He stops to tie on a different yarn color, then proceeds again.

It all looks very crafterly. I imagine a man proud of his creation. "How long have you done this." "Four years." "Do you like it." "No, it’s a terrible job. Imagine doing this eight hours a day now. It’s boring as all." "Your wrists hurt?" "Ah, yes they do, terrible pain, here," as he points to his forearms. "These looms now, they’re a wreck, we’re having to keep them up ourselves all the time. The owners, they don’t care about anything but the money. It’s a terrible job."

"I’ll send you a photo. You can remind yourself where you were once, when you have your own business."

21 October 2000
Avoca, Co. Wicklow