Weaving is dead. It is not dead the same way Delaroche declared painting dead. It is dead like cassettes are dead. It is an inefficient way of recording, storing, and transmitting information. It is a dead way of working but not a dead way of thinking. And like musicians who still choose to record on cassette tape, artists who choose to weave must do so for specific and poignant reasons. It is a coded material. 

Weaving mirrors life in that they are both linear and finite. It starts when the warp is tied on and ends when it has all been woven through. There is a clear beginning and ending. All you can see, however, is the few inches directly in front of you until it is wound around the beam and disappears. Although the treadling is actively decided and executed by the weaver, the structures are preset. There is a certain predetermination to weaving and a guarantee for miscalculations and mistakes. I champion these calamities. I love them. For as much as we plant it is always beyond our grasp. We are all just pissing in a river.