Paper Trail explores paper as both a weaving medium and a form of documentation. Through her handwoven works, Lin Qiqing traces the stages of her creative process while reflecting on migration, language, and memory, drawing from a range of textile traditions and techniques across cultures.
You came to weaving from a career in journalism in China. When did you first realize that textiles could carry stories that writing couldn’t?
I studied journalism as an undergraduate and worked as a journalist for five years, because I was curious about the world and had many unanswered questions. That experience brought me many eye-opening moments and friendships that I still maintain. But I grew increasingly frustrated, both because of censorship and because of the very flat image of China shaped by the format of news.
Around the same time, I discovered weaving. In 2019, I took my first weaving class and was immediately captivated by the mechanics of the loom. The first weaving book I read was On Weaving by Anni Albers, which also made me deeply appreciate the art form.
I think the charm of textiles lies in their rich history from all over the world, which allows me to immerse myself in an endless study of different cultures. At the same time, it is a contemporary art form that enables personal, visual, and tactile expression. I feel grateful to have found a medium that clicks with me.
Tell us about your process, start to finish, from conceiving of a piece to sourcing materials, spinning yarn, dyeing, and finally weaving.
Sometimes my ideas start from material research and experiments, and sometimes they come from personal experience or visual compositions I have in mind. I usually begin with concepts, writing, and small sketches, and then move on to making samples. I then dye the yarn, sometimes spin or make fabric collages as well, and finally weave. I often say that weaving is the simpler part; the preparation takes much more time.
Paper, particularly hand-spun yarn made from book pages and calligraphy paper, has become a signature in your work. How did you first come to paper, and what does it allow you to express that more conventional fibers can’t?
A few years ago, I experimented with many different materials, aiming to turn a usually flat weaving into a three-dimensional form. Paper yarn turned out to be a good option, giving a subtle stiffness and malleable structure without being as solid as metal or wood. For one project, I made a large weaving with hand-spun paper yarn and folded it into a mountain-and-valley structure. It held surprisingly well. But living in New York City means limited storage, so I stopped making large paper sculptures. I mostly make tapestries now, which I can roll up easily.
Since then, paper has become a central material in my work. It’s a very versatile material that carries great significance for language, writing, and documentation. I’ve been making hand-woven figurative tapestries that incorporate natural fibers and paper. To embed these connotations in my work, I’ve recycled books and calligraphy paper, and also made my own paper from pulp. Papermaking and spinning with paper have long histories in Asia, and I seek to bring these craft techniques into a contemporary context.
Self-Exile is woven from yarn spun out of a Petit Dictionnaire Français-Japonais Royal. Can you speak to the decision to unravel a dictionary, an object so bound up in language, and reweave it into something wordless?
For Self-Exile, I used a dictionary from a Chinese family who moved to New York in the 1980s. I got to know the family when they gave away thousands of books from their basement, collected by the father, who had been an English teacher in China. He still kept his love for languages and collected many dictionaries after he moved here. I cut up the dictionary pages and spun them into yarn. The process of deconstruction and reconstruction echoes the family’s immigration path and symbolizes transition and resilience.
Your Salvage Series, by contrast, is a set of eight small works on handmade abaca paper, incorporating book pages and loose fibers. What drew you to that smaller, more intimate scale, and how did the series come together?
I’ve taken papermaking classes, and it felt like a natural step to deepen my engagement with the material. It’s an entirely different craft, and I still consider myself a beginner. I’ve been experimenting with combining weaving and papermaking by weaving linen and paper yarn on wooden frames and then dipping the pieces into a vat of pulp. The fibers fuse together, creating interesting textures and possibilities.
As I don’t have access to a proper papermaking studio, the size of the tub I can fit on my kitchen table limits the scale of the work. But at the experimental stage, I’m happy with the small size because I can work quickly and test many ideas. I’ve also incorporated book pages, calendar paper, and joss paper into the pulp, creating fragmented text and subtle color variations. It’s a direction I’m excited to continue exploring.
Growing up in Guangdong, you’ve spoken about feeling disconnected from China’s long textile traditions, and about weaving becoming a way to reconnect with them. How has that relationship evolved, and are there specific regional or ethnic-minority traditions you hope to research further?
When I was growing up in southern China, it was a time of rapid economic and social change. Factories mushroomed, and traditional crafts were disappearing. I didn’t have the opportunity to connect with local textile traditions, as they had largely faded from everyday life.
Recently, I’ve been teaching textile art workshops at a senior center in Sunset Park, where many participants are from Guangdong and Hong Kong. When they migrated to the U.S. in the 1970s and 1980s, many worked in garment factories, one of the most common jobs for immigrant women of their generation. Many also recall helping their mothers with piecework as girls, knitting sweaters and sewing clothes.
So in an unexpected way, I feel I’m reconnecting with textile traditions through these senior ladies. It’s not a romanticized version; textile work was often a practical means of earning a living and a response to material scarcity.
How do you imagine your work evolving in the future? Are there new scales, materials, or collaborations you’re hoping to pursue?
In June, I’m going to start a three-month fellowship at Manhattan Graphics Center, and I’m excited to incorporate printmaking into my work. It feels like a natural addition, and I can already think of many possibilities: printing on special handmade paper, using textiles as screens or stencils, printing on weavings…
In the long term, I am not entirely sure which direction my work will take. It will likely evolve with my life, which is going through many changes. For now, I have to stay flexible and open to seeing how things unfold.
