KEYWORDS: scrapwork, sustainability, degrowth, periphery nations, imperial core, base, superstructure, peasant, proletariat, boro, sakiori, chogakbo, saeksilnubi, bojagi, pojagi

I want to discuss the importance of scrapwork as practices of class conscious environmentalism and resistance. Scrapwork—the making or altering of textiles out of existing scraps through piecing, weaving, spinning, and other methods—has existed as long as textiles have been made. The main pressure for such practices being the capital and labor involved in producing anything from fiber. Due to the significant role of labor, class, and capital in textile use and production, it is necessary to understand the exploitation inherent under the base and superstructural conditions which privilege capital over people. 

The production of textiles has been increasingly wrought with exploitation from the cultivation of crops to the creation of a completed textile. This exploitation is intrinsic to the current colonial and capitalist reality, and is not inherent to fiber art and craft. Additionally, the importance of scrapwork is tied to the past and current disparity of the accessibility of textiles within the peasant and proletarian classes—largely within periphery nations—because of the immense capital and labor investment needed to attain textiles. And, from this long history of scrapwork, and its diverse and variable care and creativity, the foundations for a revolutionary mindset in fiber art and craft can be built and perpetuated. 

Despite the ubiquitous presence of scrapwork throughout histories, the scope of my research only contains a handful of traditions with roots in pre-imperial Japan and Korea. These practices were selected arbitrarily based on the existing knowledge and interest that I had in them. From Japan, I am exploring boro patchwork mending and sakiori weaving; from Korea, I am looking at chogakbo piecing and saeksilnubi quilting. However, my research and intention does not stop with what is discussed here.

The two practices of boro and sakiori are very connected through their place of origin and in the motivations for their construction. The word boro, derived from “boroboro” which means tattered, literally means rags or tatters and refers to the process of patching something with scraps and stitching. Sakiori is a combination of the root “saki” which means to tear or rip up and “ori” meaning to weave. Both are traditions of utility from northern Japan meant to make cloth more durable.

Before the widespread use and cultivation of cotton in Japan in the 19th century, imported first from China and India, rural regions relied on local bast fibers. The most used fibers were hemp and ramie, but wisteria, mulberry, and elm fibers were also utilized.1 It was rural regions that relied most on these local bast fibers; southern regions, closer to seaports, had much more direct access to imported textiles and ideal growing conditions to cultivate cotton.2 Worn cotton textiles from the south—like rags and castaways—became important sources of the fiber for the north.3

The introduction of cotton to northern Japan led to the integration of cotton with bast fibers in textiles. While cotton had the benefit of being warmer and softer than the local bast fibers, it did not fully replace bast fiber use.5 The limitations of local bast fibers and the importation of cotton, spurred the emergence of boro and sakiori as a means to create denser textiles around the 18th and 19th century.6 The techniques and use of cotton rags and thread mitigated bast fibers’ weak protection against friction and cold, making boro and sakiori more durable under working conditions and provide poor insulation in winter. 

In boro, cotton scraps are used as patches. Worn garments, and other textile objects like futons, are affixed with cotton with series of sashiko stitches (running stitches) which adds strength and padding. Before the 20th century the thread used was usually composed of bast fiber, but if available, cotton thread and yarn would be used. The layers that can be built up by boro can make up the entirety of a garment which was common among peasant workers like farmers and fisherman.7

Similarly, sakiori was also most used by peasants in Japan because of limited access to cotton before the 20th-century. But sakiori is a process of weaving rather than stitching. It uses strips of worn garments and scraps as weft material for weaving. This weaving was done on backstrap looms and mostly utilized bast fiber warps.8 The dense compacting of scraps on the loom, like the layering of patches with boro, make the fabric sturdy and insulatory in the cold.

The TRC has a collection of obi made with sakiori from the mid-20th century. The pieces show a weft made of plain weave cottons that are likely from worn garments that have been cut or torn into stips and woven on a backstrap loom. Amongst the collection there are different dyes and patterns on the weft fabric, but the basic construction is the same.

TRCO 18.27 is an outlier in its construction as it is made up of blended spun fibers rather than strips of plain weave garments. The weft likely contains cotton and wool that have been spun together. The variety of colors in the blend—red, black, yellow, gray, orange—create an overall rusty color with flecks of gray that show the s-spin of the fibers. This obi also is an outlier because of its metal leaf thread insertions, which is not a material likely to be found in peasant or proletariat class textiles. This inclusion of a luxury material means the obis, if all from the same maker or makers, are likely not of the working class, even if the method of construction is historically. The appropriation of low class traditions, usually in aesthetics only, in ruling class textiles is increasingly common, especially with scrapwork. Sakiori and boro specifically have seen much attention in high fashion and luxury streetwear, but more traditional examples are common as products for tourism and cultural exportation.9

The difference between the sakiori examples in the TRC help demonstrate the diversity of craft in scrapwork; and potentially show the beginnings of sakiori as a trend among wealthier class people. Regardless of the demographic these obi were meant for, resourcefulness and creativity are intrinsic to scrapwork; manipulating or deviating from conventions and conventional material is a convention within itself. 

Like boro and sakiori, bojagi were traditionally made with bast fiber, the most common being ramie.10 Bojagi—also spelled pojagi—is the name for korean wrapping cloths, originating as early as the 14th century, that is used for a variety of purposes from wrapping gifts or covering beds or keeping food warm.11 Along with the many types of uses for bojagi, there are also different methods of constructing bojagi which are directly connected to class. 

Traditionally the peasant and proletariat class bojagi is chogakbo which is bojagi made specifically from scrap material. The high labor and capital value of textiles made piecing scraps to create useful textiles practical, economically and functionally. Chogakbo often lacks embellishment like the embroidery typical of kungbo bojagi (those for the ruling class), but chogakbo are adorned with knots and ties depending on the use of the wrapping cloth. Examples of several bojagi, which are not confirmed to be chogakbo, are in the AIC textile collection. 

As seen in the left and center bojagi there are ties attached to the cloth. The left shows a ribbon knot that is common for table covers that would be placed over food.12 The indigo piece at center has corner ties which indicate more general use. The indigo and white bojagi below resemble chogakbo, even if they themselves are not. The varied sizes of the scraps, improvisational piecework, and flat felled seams of the cloths is typical of chogakbo. The irregularity in the dye across the piecing in the indigo bojagi suggests the use of scraps, but that is my own speculation. However the white piece on the right is labeled as a “Modern Interpretation of Traditional Pojagi (Wrapping Cloth)” and has not seen any use, so it is unlikely to be actual chogakbo.

Saeksilnubi is a reemerging Korean tradition of quilting. The height of practice was during the ​​Joseon dynasty (1392–1910) and declined with industrialization because of the labor intensive process that requires handwork.13 There was continued practice to at least the 17th century, which saw the introduction of tobacco into Korea.14

Saeksilnubi quilting is usually made with a plain weave top and backing layer with cording as batting. The fiber used for fabrics and thread varies, but the cording used is made of hand spun mulberry paper scraps called hanji. Saeksilnubi differs from other Korean quilting techniques because of its use of cord batting. “Nubi” refers to quilting done with cotton wool batting, and saeksilnubi is when quilting is done specifically with hanji scrap cording.16

Similarly to boro and sakiori, saeksilnubi was developed by working class people to make their textiles more durable.17 The hanji scrap batting makes textiles more sturdy and moisture resistant. This made saeksilnubi containers effective at keeping contents dry—it protected items like needles and tobacco from humidity.18 Now saeksilnubi mostly used by artists for its cultural history interest to make functional and non-functional pieces. 

In the United States there is an extreme separation between people and the raw material, craft, and goods that they interact with; this separation is created by the base and superstructure of the US and other imperial core nations. The relationship most people in the imperial core have to textiles is one example of this separation from material and product. 

Pre-industrial peasant and proletariat production was largely low impact environmentally by nature of the small and slow scale manufacturing. The scrapworks mentioned historically utilized mostly local resources and pre-industrial tools, both of which would be made from natural materials. With the need for degrowth in the face of climate and class ruin, the practices of the past are incredibly relevant. And, there is an increasing interest in not-exclusively-necessity reuse, like scrapwork, as disillusionment of capitalism and climate justice proliferate across cultures.

In a capitalist world that is leading to climate disaster and increasing class disparity, scrapwork and craft knowledge gives people some means to be more economically, environmentally, and creatively independent. Contemporary scrapwork reestablishes and strengthens connections between raw material, craft, and people. While individual action and responsibility are by no means the path to class and climate stability, changing the culture to be that of degrowth practices—democratizing production and following traditions of reuse—is not insignificant. It is an act of material, ideological, and environmental reclamation, reforming, and restoration.

In my own work, scrapwork takes the form of material reuse and mending in functional objects and art objects. I use materials like plastic shopping bags, fabric scraps and castaways, street or beach trash, and other materials that I collect which would usually be discarded. I manipulate the physical and conceptual tension of their materiality as a way to explore the relationships between people and those between humanity and the environment. My process is one of grief and love, using making as an act in memoriam of things lost and as an act of reformation.

Below is my partner's jacket that I am mending. I am reinforcing points of damage that were accumulated while she was homeless. The material mending I am doing for her is, I hope, following the intangible mending that we are doing for each other.