F I N D I N G
BALANCE
IN
SOFT CHOREOGRAPHIES
UN R AVE LIN G STORI ES
ME MORI ES
YA H A N XIN G

EMILY CARR UNIVERSITY
OF ART+DESIGN
2025

A N D CARE

FINDIN G BAL AN C E I N S O F T C H O R EO G R A PH I E S:
UNRAV EL IN G S TO RI ES , M E M O R I ES , A ND C A RE

TABLE OF
CONTENTS

By
Yahan Xing

IN T R O D UCT IO N
abstract

Bachelor of Fine Arts
The New School Parsons School of Design, 2023

acknowledgements
glossary of terms

4
5
6

C H AP T ER O N E
ON ORDER AND DISORDER

12

FINDING BALANCE

15

C H AP T ER T W O
RESEARCH QUESTIONS

22

METHODOLOGIES

23

Supervisor: Hélène Day Fraser
C H APT ER T HR EE
A critical and process documentation thesis paper submitted
in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of
Master of Design

Emily Carr University of Art + Design, 2025

AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC RESEARCH

27

PARTICIPATORY RESEARCH

41

conclusion

60
62

bibliography

© Yahan Xing, 2025

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Abstract

Acknowledgements

This research unfolds as an intimate journey and a hands-on practice engaging
with textiles. It explores the dynamic shifts in personal and communal
relationships to material culture. Grounded in both individual reflection and
collaborative participation, the research investigates how textile-making processes
serve as meaningful rituals of care, healing, and collective storytelling. Through
autoethnographic experiences and participatory workshops, it emphasizes the
significance of engaging with materials as active participants in our emotional
and social landscapes, demonstrating how textiles become conduits for personal
memory, identity exploration, and community-building.

First and foremost, my heartfelt gratitude goes to my supervisor,
Helene Day Fraser, who answers my messages no matter the time—morning,
dusk, or weekend afternoons—and who always offers a helping hand when I
need it most. Your stories and photographs, gleaned from travels far and wide,
have brought a sense of wonder and boundless inspiration to my design process,
and your unconventional insights continue to spark my imagination.

At the same time, it acknowledges that working with textiles is not universally
soothing or positive – moments of frustration or discomfort can surface
alongside healing. Recognizing this complexity early on tempers an overly
romantic view, reminding us that even caring creative practices involve
challenges.
This approach gives room for a shared dance between the carefully
choreographed and the improvised, between structure and the unplanned.
Informed by the Chinese concept of Yin and Yang, this project highlights the
transformative potential embedded in the intentional and reflective handling
of textiles, advocating for a deeper sense of care toward our garments, ourselves,
and each other. These insights gained offer valuable considerations for designers
interested in exploring emotional connections, collaborative creativity, and
reflective approaches to material engagement in their own practices.

To my parents, who have provided me with both physical and emotional
support: I hope that I can become the daughter you take pride in. Your
unwavering love is the foundation upon which I build my ambitions and
dreams.
My dear cat, Hetao—thank you for your endless companionship.
Thank you for waking me up in the mornings and keeping me busy. Your playful
companionship brought light and comfort during the most challenging times.
To my boyfriend, Songbo Qiao: thank you for the countless dinners, the
hugs and kisses, and for rushing to my side after the car crash. Your
love and care have been a shelter in the storm, and I’m grateful for the
warmth you bring into my life.
I extend my thanks to my internal reviewer, Heather Young, for your
insightful feedback and prompt replies. Your thoughtful critiques guided
me toward clarity and depth in my research.
Thank you to Qianxuan Chen, who called me right after the accident, and
to Yining Zhou and Yingci Zhong—all three of you not only offered
wise conversations but also genuine affection that helped me stay grounded
in both my academic and personal life.

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Glossary of Terms

Care
An attentive, empathetic engagement with materials, people, and processes.
This thesis emphasizes the emotional and relational dimensions of working with
textiles can nurture both individual well-being and communal bonds.
Trauma
Refers to the emotional or psychological wounds arising from a distressing
event. In the context of this thesis, trauma specifically points to the car accident
I experienced and how textile-related practices became a vehicle for emotional
processing, offering a structured-yet-fluid space to work through pain or
disruption.
Memory
Reworking or repurposing clothing often acts as a trigger for personal and
collective memories, making the fabric itself a narrative tool that holds traces of
past experiences.

Yin-Yang
A Chinese philosophical concept emphasizing the interconnectedness of
opposing forces—neither side is absolute, and each contains an aspect of the
other. In this thesis, Yin-Yang frames how structured (orderly) and improvised
(disordered) processes coexist within my textile-making.
Deconstruction (of Garments)
A physical act of dismantling a piece of clothing—removing seams, cutting
fabric, or taking apart design elements. In this thesis, deconstruction invites new
design possibilities while prompting reflection on material value and personal
attachment.
The Emily Carr Soft Shop
The Soft Shop (C4220) is an interdisciplinary textile exploration space. The
Soft Shop supports processes such as sewing, pattern making, digital and hand
embroidery, weaving, leather working, knitting, crocheting and felting (Emily
Carr University of Art + Design, n.d.).

Wardrobe Practices
Denotes the routines and rituals involved in selecting, maintaining, storing, or
discarding clothes.

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Star ting Points
I come to this research as a designer—not of fashion, but of spaces and experiences. My
background is in interior design, but my curiosity has always extended beyond spatial
boundaries into the textures, materials, and objects that surround us. While pursuing
my master’s degree in interdisciplinary design, I made a conscious decision to shift my
focus from interior spaces to textiles and materiality. This was not a sudden or accidental
change but a continuation of the questions that had surfaced in my undergraduate years.
For my bachelor’s degree, my capstone project was designing a birth and postpartum
centre. I was drawn to the ways spaces, materials, and objects support and shape human
experiences, particularly in moments of vulnerability and transformation. This work
planted the seeds of my current research, where I explore the role of textiles, garments,
and material culture in design practice.
As a user and consumer of clothing, I engage with textiles daily. I see textiles as an
extension of interiority—both personal and spatial. My engagement with textiles began
as a response to theoretical readings on women’s historical relationship with craft and
making. Knitting, stitching, and working with materials became a way of processing
knowledge, not just producing objects. Over time, these acts of making became
increasingly personal, serving as a form of journaling—recording emotional states,
memories, and embodied experiences.

CH APTER ONE

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My earlier undergraduate experiences reinforced my understanding that design extends
beyond physical space to include the tactile and relational aspects of being human.
Building on this insight, my master’s research led me to explore craft more deeply,
particularly in relation to the histories of women and their work with cloth. Knitting,
stitching, and weaving became both methods of inquiry and personal reflection. I
became especially interested in how spaces, materials, and objects shape and support
human experiences, particularly during moments of vulnerability and transformation.
This exploration laid the foundation for my current research, which examines the role of
textiles and material culture in design practice.

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Then an accident altered my way of making. My earlier intuitive forms became
structured, my organic gestures replaced with a need to contain, to systematize, to hold
order where there had been none. I began inviting others into my process, a shift not
born of mere academic curiosity but of longing—for community, for connection, for the
reassurance that I was not, and did not have to be, alone. My participatory work was not
only a method but also a reaching out, mirroring my own desire for support.
My participants, like myself, are all designers. Through a workshop, I invited them to
reflect on their relationships with clothing by bringing garments they loved and those
they were ready to discard. Clothing became an entry point into deeper conversations
about identity, consumption, and personal design processes. I observed that sorting
through textiles became a way of sorting through thoughts—designers, in particular,
approached this act with intention, framing their choices through materiality, function,
and sentiment.
I am aware that hacking into clothing has a legacy of work connected to activism and
change within the Western fashion system (Fletcher, 2014). This research, however, is not
about activism but about care—the role of care in design practice, in material choices,
in how we engage with what surrounds us. As De La Bellacasa (2010) states, “caring is
more about a transformative ethos than an ethical application”. Clothing is deeply tied to
identity, yet in moments of reflection, we find that care, memory, and relationships often
hold more significance than consumption. By focusing on garments as designed objects
and integral participants in lived material culture, I seek to explore how designers make
sense of their own work, their decisions, and ultimately, their own identities.

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Osmosis
Growing up in China, the concept of Yin and Yang did not typically appear in textbooks,
yet the symbol was woven into my daily life. My earliest memory of it was the round stool
my grandfather used, emblazoned with the familiar swirl of black and white. I grew up
living with my grandparents, and I remember passing clusters of older adults wearing
clothes featuring the Yin-Yang pattern as they practiced tai chi in the mornings and
afternoons—on my way to school and again when I returned. The motif was everywhere,
so commonplace that I never questioned its meaning. To me, it was simply a pattern,
something to tinker with when I colored the small white dot black on my grandfather’s
stool while he played Chinese Chess with his neighbors.
Only now, in reflecting on the role of order and disorder in my design practice, do I
see how deeply this symbol of balance was rooted in my environment. My childhood
familiarity with Yin and Yang—unnoticed at the time—has shaped my present inquiry
into how opposing forces can coexist and support creativity in both design and everyday
life.

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On Order and Disorder
The interplay between order and disorder offers a profound lens for understanding
existence, creativity, and the human experience (He, 2014). This dynamic relationship,
long discussed in philosophical systems such as the Chinese concept of Yin and Yang, is
also reflected in the materiality of textiles. Textiles serve as both metaphor and practice,
embodying the tensions and harmony between structure and chaos, predictability and
unpredictability. Textile-making and manipulation, is a practical and therapeutic way of
exploring how balance fosters creativity and recovery (Odabasi, 2022). Order and disorder
are continuously interacting and transforming one another. Their relationship is not
oppositional but dynamic, shaping natural and human processes alike.

Disorder, in contrast, is characterized by confusion, irregularity, and disorganization.
In nature, it manifests in unpredictable events like natural disasters or the slow decay
of organic materials. Textiles, too, bear the marks of disorder through stains, wear, and
tears. These imperfections materialize the unpredictable aspects of life, emphasizing that
disorder is an inevitable and meaningful part of existence (Hunt, 2014). Far from being
purely negative, disorder introduces the potential for creativity and transformation.
Odabasi (2022) explores how textiles hold the hidden potential to heal and reveal
traumas, particularly through disruptions in their surface and form. These imperfections
challenge existing patterns, allowing for innovation and progress.

Textiles, as an expressive medium, represent this relationship through their structured
weaves and the disruptions caused by wear, use, and memory. The ancient Chinese
philosophy of Yin and Yang provides a conceptual foundation for understanding the
balance of order and disorder. These forces are not fixed but fluid, influencing and
defining one another through their interaction. Order, akin to Yang, provides structure
and stability, while disorder, aligned with Yin, introduces fluidity and unpredictability
(Meng and Liu, 2023).
Order is represented by structure, regularity, and organization. In nature, this is evident
in phenomena such as the cyclical change of seasons and the consistent movement of
celestial bodies. In textiles, the act of weaving or stitching embodies this principle, with
its predictable patterns and rhythms (Bristow, 2012). Bristow (2012) describes textiles as
“silent witnesses,” preserving life’s organized rhythms through their tactile continuity.
The structural nature of textiles reflects humanity’s attempt to impose order on a world
that is inherently unpredictable.

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Finding Balance
The relationship between order and disorder highlights their interdependence. Excessive
order can lead to rigidity, while excessive disorder results in chaos. Textiles adapt through
folding and fragmenting, illustrating the dynamic balance between structure and fluidity
(Barnett , 2012). Similarly, Beesley (2012) describes reflexive textiles as a means of
reconnecting with organic spontaneity, demonstrating how balance fosters creativity and
renewal.
Textiles map the tensions between order and disorder, serving as a material representation
of balance (Ingraham, 2010). This balance is also central in therapeutic applications,
where fabric collage integrates fragmented cloth into cohesive narratives to address
trauma (Homer, 2015). Stitching, too, becomes a reflective practice that mediates
between structure and spontaneity, offering a tangible metaphor for navigating life’s
uncertainties (Whitaker et al. 2024).
All of this perspective informs my study, while rooted in personal experience, my work
also has broader implications. It suggests that textile-based practices can serve as a method
of coping with trauma, offering a structured yet flexible space for individuals to process
emotions. The balance between structured techniques and intuitive making allows
for both control and surrender, which are essential elements of emotional and creative
resilience.

Fig.1 Yin and Yang Diagram

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Rituals of Care

Experiences

In this context, “rituals” refer to more than mere routines of garment maintenance.
Each action—tearing a seam, hand-stitching a patch, even ironing fabric—takes on
symbolic weight, opening up a reflective space where participants can pause and consider
the deeper layers of meaning in their closets. These tactile encounters often trigger
memories, resonating with individual identity, embodied experiences, and personal or
intergenerational trauma. Yet, when these rituals unfold in a shared, participatory context,
they also encourage communal empathy. Tending to a tear in a blouse, for instance,
becomes a collective act of care: a small but potent reminder that both garments and
emotional wounds can be stitched back together with the support of others.
Modern fashion’s emphasis on novelty and detachment discourages these exchanges.
When clothing is treated as disposable, it loses its capacity to hold and communicate
meaning. In response, acts of repurposing and reworking garments can be seen as small
but profound gestures of resistance—ones that reassert clothing’s role as a vessel for
personal history, intimacy, and shared experience.
Wardrobe practices are far more than practical tasks; they serve as expressive acts that
reveal how people navigate personal identity, relationships, and emotional landscapes
(Fletcher & Klepp, 2017; Woodward, 2007; Clark, 2008). The act of revisiting a
garment—choosing to mend it, alter it, or preserve it—becomes a moment of selfrecognition. It acknowledges the ways in which personal narratives are embedded in
fabric, offering an opportunity to reinterpret and carry those narratives forward in new
ways. By engaging in clothing care, from mending worn seams to reimagining out-offashion items, we shift from passive consumers and users to responsible caretakers of our
garments (Gwilt, 2014).
By embracing care, advocating for meaningful shifts, and respecting our materials, we
forge deeper connections among people and strengthen our collective design processes.

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and Ho w They Shape
Perso nal Creat ive Pro cesses
Personal Experiences
The early stages of my research were rooted in an instinctive, unstructured approach
to textile-making. Fabric served as a personal journal, a medium through which I could
externalize emotional shifts without the constraints of formal composition. There was
no predefined method—pieces were assembled freely, reflecting the fluidity of thought
and feeling. Textiles, with their inherent tactility, became both a vessel and a witness,
capturing traces of memory and sentiment in ways that written words could not.
However, the unexpected car accident disrupted my engagement with textiles, profoundly
altering my relationship with materials. With the sudden instability in my life, I found
myself gravitating toward structure and predictability in my practice. Textiles became a
means of imposing order, a way to categorize and control what felt uncontrollable. My
work shifted toward systematic documentation—creating archives, lists, and structured
compositions from soft materials and clothing sourced from my own wardrobe. This
need for organization was not purely aesthetic but psychological; by structuring my work,
I found a way to restore a sense of stability.
A significant moment in this process was my struggle to coexist with the clothes I had
worn during the accident. These garments remained physically intact and wearable, yet
psychologically, they carried a weight that made them difficult to confront. Over nearly
a year, I found myself resisting wearing them again, dealing with emotions that were
difficult to articulate. The textiles became charged objects, both personal and symbolic,
embodying the lingering trauma of the event.

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Experiences with Others
This research, then, became a personal and deeply emotional journey—not only to make
sense of personal trauma but also to explore broader implications for healing through
textile-making. By engaging with these garments through structured creative processes,
I attempted to reach a state of coexistence with my experience. This transition from
disorder to order eventually evolved into an understanding of interconnected duality,
wherein both chaos and structure could coexist within the creative process. This mirrors
the principles of Yin and Yang, where opposing forces are not in conflict but in balance,
each necessary for the existence of the other.

Following the car accident, my approach to textiles shifted significantly. I was seeking
shared experiences rather than solitary explorations, I became increasingly drawn to
collaborative textile-making. The idea of a participatory workshop at this time, and
potential disorderly responses and actions of participants, was initially daunting. I craved
order and stability in the aftermath of trauma. Still, I remained interested in this method.
Perhaps my shift toward collaboration stemmed from the contrast between my solitary
accident experience and the subsequent longing for support and companionship in my
recovery.

Textiles, particularly those marked by disruption, often reveal deeper narratives, serving
as material witnesses to personal and collective experiences (Odabasi, 2022). The
transition in my research process—from unstructured, expressive creation to methodical
organization, and ultimately to an acceptance of both—illustrates how textiles mediate
between order and disorder. This interconnected duality, informed by own cultural
lineage and background is not merely an artistic choice but a reflection of how we
navigate trauma, healing, and self-reconstruction through material engagement.

The act of making textiles collaboratively provides a meaningful framework for trauma
recovery, offering a balance between structured techniques and opportunities for creative
exploration. As Homer (2015) suggests, fabric collage serves as a metaphor for the healing
process, wherein fragmented materials are reassembled into new, cohesive forms—
mirroring the emotional journey of restoration. In this way, working with textiles can act
as a physical manifestation of emotional resilience.
Whitaker et al. (2024) further describe stitching as a reflective and communal practice
that fosters connection and endurance. In their study on textile-based art therapy, they
highlight how stitching functions as a medium for both storytelling and resiliencebuilding: “Art therapy in this context supports community-making and co-production,
encouraging agency and resiliency through stitched stories of resistance.” This
observation resonates with my own experiences in textile workshops, where participants
not only engage in tactile creativity but also weave their emotions and personal histories
into their work.

Fig.2 Journaling with Textiles.

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Collaboration in textile-making offers a space for individuals to share experiences,
reframe personal narratives, and ultimately transform trauma into tangible expressions
of recovery. The process of creating together fosters a sense of belonging and mutual
support, enabling participants to externalize inner turmoil in a controlled yet expressive
manner. As Hunt (2014) argues, textiles act as both personal and communal archives,
bearing witness to stories of pain, healing, and renewal.

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By integrating my own autoethnographic experiences with participatory research with
others, I aimed to further investigate how collaborative textile-making serves as a bridge
between individual trauma and collective healing. This approach not only acknowledges
textiles as repositories of memory but also repositions them as active agents in the
therapeutic process. Whether through stitching, weaving, or deconstructing fabric, the
act of making together becomes a symbolic and literal means of reconstructing oneself.
This discussion emphasizes that by centering care, embracing transformation, and
thoughtfully engaging with our repurposed materials, we nurture deeper connections
among people and honor the personal and collective narratives woven into every garment.

CH APTER T WO
Fig.3 Timeline of Life and Practice

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Research Qusetions

Methodologies

Based on all of these perspectives and considerations discussed above and the focus on
the interdependence of order and disorder in textile-making as a means of personal
healing, creative expression, and communal care, this research highlights how structured
techniques and intuitive making coexist to offer both control and surrender—essential
elements of emotional resilience.

In framing the study, I drew on theories from material culture studies, design research,
and psychology. Material culture theory informed my understanding of garments as
carriers of meaning and memory (Hunt, C. ,2014). Concepts from sustainable design
and fashion theory (such as Fletcher’s work on the “craft of use”) provided context
for repurposing as a form of design activism rooted in care rather than consumption.
Psychological and therapeutic literature on trauma and creativity (including the use
of textiles in art therapy) shaped the inquiry into healing. These theoretical influences
converge in viewing textile repurposing not merely as a practical activity, but as a symbolic
act rich with cultural and emotional significance.

My work in research-creation considers how acts of deconstructing and reimagining
garments function both as a personal ritual of care and healing, and as a communal
practice that nurtures dialogue about care, identity, and the shared stories woven into
material culture. These inquiries lead to the central research questions of this study:

1. How can the practice of intuitive textile/garment repurposing be
understood as both a reflective personal ritual of self-expression and
healing, and a communal act that encourages dialogue around needed
relational shifts with material culture?
2. How do personal experiences, emotional connections to
wardrobes, and embodied narratives influence expressive acts that
cultivate individual initiative and mutual well-being?
3. How does the interplay of order and disorder (Yin and Yang)
manifest in relation to work with textiles and cloth, and in what ways
can balancing these forces inform creative processes and outcomes?

Auto et hno graphy
Autoethnography invites an introspective examination of lived experiences as they
intersect with wider social, cultural, and political contexts. As Adams, Ellis, and Holman
Jones note, “Autoethnographers believe that personal experience is infused with political/
cultural norms and expectations, and they engage in rigorous self-reflection—typically
referred to as ‘reflexivity’—in order to identify and interrogate the intersections between
the self and social life” (Adams et al., 2015). Working with this method has enabled me
to bring forward my own background as a designer and my evolving relationship with
textiles, thereby weaving personal narrative with cultural critique.
By merging my personal trauma with a communal, dialogic approach, I discovered that
making together not only provided healing but also revealed how shared vulnerabilities
can open pathways toward empathy and collective support.
Engaging with textiles daily, I recognize that garments are more than protective
layers; they are sites where emotion, memory, and personal identity converge. This
autoethnographic lens underscores how working with textiles is deeply intertwined with
lived experience, emotional healing, and the human need for connection.

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Pa r t i c i p ato r y Meth ods
Participatory design emphasizes collaboration and shared decision-making, allowing
participants to co-create meaning through their engagement with materials and
processes (Kensing & Blomberg, 1998). This approach encourages dialogue and
collective authorship, where individual experiences are interwoven into a broader creative
exploration.

Integration of Methods
Using a research-through-design or research-creation approach, I allowed the
making process itself (both personal and communal) to generate knowledge. The
autoethnographic and participatory strands were not separate silos; they informed each
other in an iterative way (O’Connor, 2017).

The process of making together created an environment of trust and mutual support,
particularly as participants engaged in open-ended, tactile interactions with fabric. The
workshop became sites of shared reflection, where personal histories, emotions, and
creative expression converged. The act of co-creation, in turn, helped to reveal how
material engagement can be both a deeply personal and socially connective experience.

This understanding and form of duality opens a space where individual introspection
and community engagement can thrive side by side, illuminating repurposing as an act
of creativity and care, both within our homes and within our shared material world. This
approach reflects the principles of harmony and balance detailed in Yin-Yang philosophy,
which underlines the transformative potential of integrating disparate methodologies to
achieve a cohesive whole (Meng & Liu, 2023).

Ethical considerations, including informed consent and the respectful representation
of participant contributions, remained central to this methodology, ensuring that
each participant’s voice was acknowledged and valued By collectively deconstructing
and repurposing garments, my design participants contributed to a fluid collaborative
storytelling process that revealed the communal value of materials often overlooked or
discarded (Nagano, 2019).

Insights from my personal practice shaped how I structured the workshop (for instance,
realizing the importance of giving time for storytelling influenced me to include a group
reflection circle). Conversely, things I learned from participants made me revisit my
personal reflections. Throughout the research, a continuous dialogue between practice
and theory occurred, directly informing the insights and outcomes discussed in detail
immediately after the description of practices.

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Practices
This section details the personal autoethnographic and participatory research practices
that I undertook, which deployed acts of knitting, stitching, weaving, sorting, cutting,
tearing, archiving, photographing, and observing (methods of inquiry) to explore the
material, emotional, and conceptual dimensions of textile repurposing. These activities
became a way for me to critically examine personal wardrobe habits and collective
engagements with discarded clothing.

Auto et hno graphic Research
Journaling with Textiles
Early on in my masters studies, I started documenting my daily emotional landscape on
my phone. The process of monitoring my fluctuating moods catalyzed a sense of wellbeing. This method of data visualization informed my later work and direction. An initial
phase ( in the first couple of weeks of my studies) involved the collection of textiles and
tools, laying the groundwork for what I would later refer to as my “journal.” Utilizing
these gathered resources, I was able to materialize my introspections into tangible
expressions.

CH APTER THREE

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Over several months, I created a series of experimental textile
Fig.4 Journaling with Textiles.

pieces as a form of journaling. Each piece was improvised from
found cloth, threads, and found materials, allowing my mood
and intuition to guide the process.

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01

02

03

04

Fig.5 Vulnerability and memories without words

Fig.6 Reaching For...

Fig.7 Comfort and protective moves

Fig.8 Unpredictability and slowing dow

Journaling with Textiles 1.

Journaling with Textiles 2.

Journaling with Textiles 3.

Journaling with Textiles 4.

In February, 2024, I layered scraps of various

Some days, words fail me, so I reach for yarn. The

I chose to use only the color red that day. I stitched

The soft hues of plant-dyed fabric hold a kind of

fabrics found in the recycling bins in the Emily

act of selecting yarn became a quiet self-check-in:

small pockets of fabric and filled them with cotton,

patience within them. I turned to natural dyeing

Carr Soft Shop. My stitching was deliberately

What do I need to feel right now? What weight

making tiny, graspable cushions. At first, I thought

at a time when I was trying to be more intentional,

uneven, sometimes tight and sometimes loose,

of fiber will hold me steady? I turned them into

they were just for comfort—something to press into

trying to care for myself from the inside out. Boiling

mirroring the emotional ebb and flow I felt

a yarn swatch, but I felt too insecure about it that

my palms, to squeeze when I felt untethered. But

onion skins, steeping avocado pits, watching the

while working. This piece (Fig 5 above) served

I had to cover it with a translucent fabric (Fig 6

then I thought though I will cover it in a red tulle so

fabric absorb and transform—it all felt like a

as a tactile diary entry: the fraying edges and

above) .

that people would not touch it (Fig 7 above).

ritual, a practice in slowing down. The colors

overlapping translucent layers embodied feelings

weren’t predictable, just as my own progress wasn’t

of vulnerability and the overlapping of memories

linear (Fig 8 above).

that I could not easily put into words.

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Autoe th n o g raph i c Resea rch
Garments in My Wardrobe

Together, these items varied in texture, style, age, color, scent, and care—some frequently
washed, others barely used, their fibers still crisp. They ranged in price, from carefully
considered investments to thoughtless acquisitions that found unexpected longevity.
Yet, what unified them was their place in the liminal space between function and
sentimentality—garments too precious to discard yet no longer active in my daily
wardrobe.

My wardrobe/closet is filled with garments that I have collected over time. They
are remnants of past choices, physical records of evolving habits, and reflections of
attachment, utility, and transformation. Each piece carried traces of its history—
some well-worn, softened through repeated use, others barely touched, suspended
in an unresolved state between keeping and discarding. In June, 2024, aware of
these connections with clothing and seek to deepen my understanding of emotional
connections to clothing, personal decision-making in consumption and disposal, and
the transformation of garments as a creative and reflexive practice I began to observe and
document the things I have.

There were old socks with playful patterns, worn thin yet difficult to
part with, their fibers stretched, their form no longer intact. A wool
cardigan that once provided warmth but, after an accidental wash,
had shrunk beyond wearability—its fibers tightening, transforming
against my will. A bathrobe, always slightly too small, yet worn daily
for years, the cotton stiffened by time, its presence habitual despite
its impracticality. A high school T-shirt that, against expectation,
still fit—not just physically but as a persistent fragment of an earlier
self. A pair of overalls, an impulse purchase that became a staple, its
color unexpectedly rich, its presence spanning multiple destinations,
seamlessly integrating into different phases of my life…and many more
that shaped by my decisions, bodily interactions, and environmental
conditions.
Fig.9 Clothing Described Above.

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I wondered what it would take to let go, to navigate the tension between preservation and
transformation. I initiated a method of documentation that served as both a farewell and
an archival practice. In doing so, I drew upon established wardrobe research methods,
particularly those outlined in Opening Up the Wardrobe: A Methods Book by Fletcher
and Klepp (2017). This collection of wardrobe studies methodologies provided a
framework for examining the material, emotional, and social relationships embedded in
clothing.
I took on a methodical process, first removing the items from my wardrobe, laying each
garment out and, photographing them it in detail and then systematically cut a small
rectangle swatch (around 3x5”) from each garment. As I did this, I noticed the washing
tags, the stitching along the seams, the textures that had softened over time, and the
areas where fabric had thinned due to repeated wear. My act of documentation and the
removal of a fabric from each of my garments reduced them to fragments, all the while
preserving their essence in a tangible way. My swatches became artifacts, physical markers
of past interactions with fabric, bridging the space between material continuity and
material rupture.
Along with this, I also generated a set of guiding questions for myself to critically assess
my engagement with clothing:

• How long did you acquire it? How long have you have it?
• Why did you choose to discard it?
• Did you regret throwing it away when cutting it? Why?
Fig.10 Washing Tags of A Variety of Clothes.

• What is the fabric made out of?
• Would you buy something similar in the future?

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35

05

06

07

08

Fig.11a

Fig.11b

Fig.11c

Fig.11d

Fig.11a-11d Archive of Clothing Fragments.

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These questions reinforced a tension between order and disorder. The structured act of
documentation imposed stability—an attempt to categorize, to control. Yet, the physical
act of cutting introduced instability—disrupting the garment’s integrity, acknowledging
its impermanence. No matter how hard I tried to detach myself (through my acts of
categorization and cutting) material pushed back and reminded me of experiences
together.
Through these practices, I have come to understand materiality not as a static quality but
as a living, responsive entity. Materials hold memory, embody emotion, and participate in
an ongoing dialogue between preservation and reinvention. Some garments had resisted
change, persisting through time and wear. Others transformed—shrinking, fading,
unraveling—revealing instability. Their textile structures mirrored the balance of creation
and dissolution, the negotiation between preservation and loss.
I paid attention to the reasons why certain garments were selected to this archive rather
than maintained within my daily wardrobe. The process highlighted the emotional
weight of disposal, ranging from guilt associated with wastefulness to relief in letting
go of items that no longer served a functional or emotional purpose. The difficulty of
physically altering personal garments also underscored the significance of embodied
experiences in textile transformation. Every transformation we undertake, grounded
in care and attuned to our materials, reflects our commitment to the well-being of the
people and communities we serve.

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Auto-ethnographic Insights
Documenting and Letting Go
The clearest outcomes of the autoethnographic portion was understanding how the
process of documenting and letting go of clothing can transform one’s relationship to
personal possessions. By recording details and stories of my garments and then physically
altering them, I engaged in a practice of material storytelling that eased the emotional
tension of disposal. It became evident that sentimentality and the need for order both
influenced how long garments stayed in my life. Items with strong emotional attachments
remained tucked away (orderly in storage yet functionally forgotten), creating a kind of
stasis. The act of consciously deciding each item’s fate, and carrying out a transformation,
broke that stasis and replaced it with a sense of agency and clarity.
One of the most important insights for myself was that order and disorder both have
healing roles. Subsequent to cataloging tags, I moved toward a more introspective lens,
posing questions to myself (see page 33 above). This self-reflective process revealed that
for many of my garments longevity in my closet was dictated by sentimental value or
perceived usefulness. Even when I no longer wore these pieces I kept them with me.
Imposing order through archiving gave me a sense of control and acknowledgment of
each item’s value. Embracing disorder through deconstruction allowed me to confront
change and impermanence. Gardner and Pearson’s statement that “fashion is intimate
and personal, yet at its core it is a shared and public phenomenon” was reflected in this
process as well: my intimate handling of clothes connected to broader cultural patterns.

39

Par ticipatory Research

I noticed, for example, that many pieces I let go were fast-fashion items I had bought on
impulse. This resonates with critiques of consumer culture — things acquired without
personal resonance are easiest to discard and often accumulate in excess. By contrast,
things imbued with narrative are harder to part with. However, I also learned that we can
intentionally infuse narrative into things we make from discards, thereby re-valuing them.

An earlier experience: Group Creation Without Predefined Instructions

Another outcome concerns trauma and creative practice: Working through the trauma of
my accident via textile practice led to tangible shifts in my making style (from chaotic to
ordered, and then balanced). This personal evolution supports theories that creativity can
serve as a coping mechanism, externalizing chaos into a form where it can be examined
and reworked. It’s an autoethnographic confirmation of the idea that making is a mode
of healing. As I transformed cloth, I was also, in a small way, transforming myself —
regaining confidence, processing fear, and reclaiming authorship of my story.

After my car accident, I found myself looking forward to the quiet comfort of
shared moments. I began inviting friends over more often, searching for that sense of
togetherness I’d read about in the Chilean arpilleras workshops of the 1970s, where
women stitched their hopes and protests into cloth to cope with and protest political
violence; contemporary “craftivist” circles where people come together to make
handmade items as a form of gentle activism or support (as documented in Betsy Greer’s
2014 work on Craftivism).

One unexpected personal insight was the joy of resourcefulness I developed. Initially
motivated by emotional reasons, I found practical delight in using every part of a
garment. After cutting those standardized swatches for my archive, I had lots of offcuts,
which I sorted and kept. I donated them to my participatory workshop and let people
alter them again. This gave me a chance to emotionally participate in that workshop as
well. Giving them to other people and let them do the decision seemed to be the right
choice. These clothing items that I had been holding onto carried new potential—once
I recognized and confronted the personal stories tied to them I was ready to move them
onward - to be repurposed - to take on new roles and possibilities (Fletcher & Klepp,
2017).

Re- Constructing The Closet

One evening, rather than our usual board games, I suggested we try
something different: everyone should bring a piece of fabric from home.
They arrived with arms full of colored cloth, gently worn scarves, old
yarn, and half-forgotten remnants tucked away in closets. We placed
these assorted textiles in a bright heap across my living-room table, its
surface dappled with lamplight.

This progression makes visible how the intimate work of cataloguing and disassembling
my own clothes can evolve into a communal methodology once peers are invited to
handle, question, and transform garments together.

Fig.12 Table Setup.

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My friends started by tentatively picking up pieces of silk, cotton, or
wool. They held the fabrics to the light, folded and twisted them, and
tested their pliability. I realized that this phase of tactile exploration
served as a kind of ritual initiation—an opportunity to become
intimately acquainted with the materials on both a physical and
emotional level.
One person arranged layers of transparent fabric over opaque pieces,
observing how light interacted with color. Another casually twisted
a scrap of cotton into a makeshift flower, prompting a small ripple
of shared amusement. Conversations started to flow more readily,
punctuated by inquisitive comments and occasional laughter. This
spontaneous dialogue highlighted the role of tactile engagement not just
in individual creativity but also in building a sense of community. The
intimacy of working with one’s hands on something soft and tangible
seems to invite a parallel softness in conversation, a vulnerability that is
buffered by the activity.
As we continued, some of my friends lined up pieces meticulously,
striving for a certain symmetry, while others let the edges fray,
embracing the imperfect shapes that emerged. This unplanned artistry
reminded me of de Castro’s (2021) argument that textiles serve as
powerful vessels of memory, conjuring personal histories the moment we
touch them.

42

Many recalled memories linked to the textiles they brought,
underscoring how deeply embedded these materials are in personal
histories and futures.Tulle was associated with childhood ballet lessons,
white silk was connected to visions of a future wedding, the texture of
coarse wool recalled a scarf knitted by a grandmother. I have come to
realize that the patterns of approach reflected the central theoretical
framework my research: textiles act as both tangible objects and
metaphors for social and emotional complexity.
By the end of our time together my once-tidy table was scattered with
piles of fabric scraps, loose threads, and partly finished pieces. Yet
within this apparent chaos lay a cohesive narrative of shared discovery.
We had engaged not only with the tactile properties of cloth but also
with one another’s stories, reflections, and techniques.As Pamela
Whitaker and her colleagues (2024) suggest in their exploration of
Chilean women’s textile collectives, these acts of making transcend mere
production; they serve as a means of weaving together interpersonal
bonds, collective histories, and emotional landscapes.
No one left with a “finished” piece that night. Yet we all walked away
with something arguably more valuable: a sense that in the simple act
of touching, folding, and talking about fabric, we had discovered new
facets of each other’s stories—and perhaps of our own.

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Fig.13d

Fig.13a

Fig.13b

Fig.13f

Fig.13c

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45

A For m al Par ti c i pa tory Worksh op
Re-Constructing the Closet
Workshop Setup
I arranged the classroom tables into one large rectangle (a conference-style layout) so
that all participants could face each other. Participants, who had been asked to bring a
garment they were willing to let go of, placed their chosen garment near their workshop
workspace. Starting this way afforded the opportunity for all involved to easily observe
and hear about the clothing that had been brought in. In the center of each or the
workshop’s tables, I set up commonly used tools—scissors, seam rippers, rotary cutters,
needles, thread, and a secondary pile of donated garments for those who wanted extra
pieces to experiment with. This arrangement encouraged both self-guided exploration
and spontaneous collaboration.
Workshop Documentation Process
The workshop ran for ninety minutes. I placed my phone as a digital recorder at the
end of the table to capture every spoken exchange, from off‑hand banter to moments of
focused reflection. A fellow designer acted as an photographer, moving quietly around
the perimeter and shooting a continuous sequence of stills that traced both people
and garments as they shifted, opened, and fragmented. After the session I produced
a full, time‑coded transcript from the audio, then colour‑tagged each speaker and
cross‑referenced their comments with the corresponding photographs. Finally, I curated a
selection of the most revealing dialogues—those that illuminated attachment, hesitation,
or sudden insight—and wove these excerpts into the thesis to serve as evidence of how
participants negotiated care through deliberate unmaking.

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Fig.14 Workshop Table Setup.

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The mix of people for this workshop included designers who I had worked with before
as well as additional interested participants. The first group, who had worked with me
previously, tended to engage with the materials more quickly, cutting and removing seams
with noticeable confidence. By contrast, newcomers showed more deliberation, stopping
to study garment labels or gently pinch the fabric to feel the texture. The low hum of
conversation commenced almost immediately: participants inquired about each other’s
garment choices and exchanged first impressions of the environment. Subtle scents—aged
laundry detergent, faint perfume, musty cloth—mixed with tiny pieces of fibers, serving
as constant reminders of the tactile and intimate nature of working with used clothing.

Early observations revealed participants oscillating between impulses to salvage design
details and urges to tear fabric apart. This push‑and‑pull exposed the central tension
between mending and deconstruction: some saw careful unpicking as a way to “honour”
the garment, while others argued that cutting was itself an act of respect because it
prevented the piece from stagnating in a closet or landfill. Their dialogue demonstrated
that unmaking can become a form of care when it consciously acknowledges a garment’s
past while creating space for a future re‑use.

Early in the session, I posed a series of questions to guide participants’ reflections:
“Why did you select this particular garment to bring?”
One participant explained that they chose an oversized sweatshirt that was “too new to
toss but too small to wear,” stating, “I was never sure what to do with it, so it just sat in
the back of my closet” (Q. Chen, Re-Construting the Closet Workshop, November 22,
2024).
“Has this garment been altered or cared for before?”
Several participants discovered old stitching or label marks suggesting that the piece might
have been repaired or altered previously.
“What is your level of comfort in deconstructing this garment?”
Responses ranged from “I’m really excited—ripping fabric feels satisfying,” (Y. Zhou, ReConstruting the Closet Workshop, November 22, 2024) to “I’m worried about ‘ruining’
it and then feeling guilty later.” (J. Dumrath, Re-Construting the Closet Workshop,
November 22, 2024).
A few expressed relief that the workshop provided “permission” to finally do something

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Collective Experimentation

Almost immediately, small collaborative groups emerged. One team formed around a
tailored black jacket with a pink lining inside, strategizing on how best to preserve specific
design features during deconstruction. Another participant demonstrated the technique
of cutting along a shirt’s grain line, explaining to a neighbor why aligning to the warp
and weft reduces fraying. These spontaneous interactions exemplified the workshop’s
communal ethos (Gardner & Pearson, 2023), where informal knowledge sharing became
a central dynamic.
Creative solutions often appears from chance encounters: one participant converted a
scrap sleeve and loose threads into a fabric bouquet, while another carefully repurposed
an elasticated sleeve for a pet garment. The atmosphere provided an energetic exchange
of experimentation woven with purposeful “ordered” decisions—reflecting the thesis’s
conceptual framework of balancing order and disorder.
As participants progressed, I circulated the room and asked a direct question to spark
reflection:
“What emotions surfaced when you started cutting or seam-ripping?”
One participant said, “I don’t feel bad because it’s not mine,” (R. Zhong, Re-Construting
the Closet Workshop, November 22, 2024) since they chose something from the donated
pile. They admitted, however, that they might hesitate if it was a personal garment from
their own closet.
Another participant confessed: “I still feel a little guilty. It’s like I’m destroying something
that might have a story,” (Y. Liu, Re-Construting the Closet Workshop, November 22,
2024) but also acknowledged a sense of relief when the first cut was finally made.

Fig.15 Participants Selecting Garments From the Pile.

As participants continued, their collective confidence grew. Some elected to tear seams by
hand for a raw aesthetic, while others used seam rippers to preserve fragile threads. Piles
of offcuts found new life as fashion mockups, small accessories, or purely imaginative
assemblages. In line with Barnett’s (2012) argument that cloth embodies fluidity and
transformation, the very process of rearranging scraps inspired fresh ways of perceiving
textile potential. By the workshop’s end, most participants were thoroughly immersed in
both the physical dismantling of garments and the emotional introspection it provoked.
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09

10

11

12

Fig.16 Cutting.

Fig.17Embodied Making.

Fig.18 Ripping.

Fig.19 Collaborative Deconstruction.

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A brief group conversation captured immediate reactions by the end of the workshop.
Participants described surprise at the intricate constructions underlying ordinary
garments and the challenge of viewing once-functional items as raw materials. This
reflective exchange illuminated new insights into the “order” of garment assembly and
the “disorder” introduced by purposeful deconstruction. Simultaneously, participants’
individual emotional journeys reinforced how personal wardrobes carry layered
narratives. One participant mentioned the ease for her to deconstruct garments. She
explained that in her home country, old garments will be cut into strips and transformed
to floor mops instead of thrown away. (D. Nagi, Re-Construting the Closet Workshop,
November 22, 2024) Modern consumer culture, however, often encourages rapid
acquisition and disposal rather than long-term garment longevity.
In Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932), a futurist critique of consumer society, this
tendency is captured in the hypnopaedic mantra: “Ending is better than mending.” In the
novel, citizens are taught to continually throw away the old and embrace the new rather
than repair what they have​. Huxley’s satirical vision of preferring perpetual novelty over
repair resonates with our 21st-century fast-fashion reality. Ending is better than mending
has, in effect, become a widespread mindset: rapid turnover of styles and planned
obsolescence dominate mainstream fashion, exacerbating environmental damage and
weakening personal attachments to garments. Indeed, we see that Huxley’s “prediction”
holds true in many respects. Society today often values the new and cheap over the old
and well-cared-for, discouraging personal investment in objects and even in the practices
of care and repair.
By the end, participants reported a broadened definition of care—one that incorporated
emotional histories, tactile engagement, communal skill-building, and the often
overlooked potential hidden within a seemingly “useless” piece of clothing. These
reflections underscored the workshop’s core premise: when individuals feel invited
to examine why they hold onto certain items and how they approach the process of
transformation, they often discover new forms of connection, empathy, and creativity.

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Fig.20 Mock Up Fashion.

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Fig.21 Wine Covering/ Pet Costume.

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Fig.22 Fabric Scraps Bouquet.

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Pa r t i c i p ato r y I n sigh ts
Creativity, Community, and Balance
The participatory research confirmed and expanded many of the personal findings,
showing how they play out in a group context. A primary insight is that textile
repurposing can facilitate community-building and shared empathy. The collaborative
environment enabled a cross-pollination of ideas (people borrowed techniques and
materials from each other freely) and an emotional support system (they encouraged
each other through challenges like hesitation to cut). This demonstrates the potential of
participatory making as a tool for social cohesion. It aligns with literature on communities
of practice and also with the historical role of sewing circles as social support networks.
The workshop illustrated that introducing disorder (through breaking garments) in a
supportive setting leads to creativity and not chaos. Initially, one might worry that giving
people scissors and freedom could result in a mess or frustration. Instead, the opposite
happened: participants felt liberated to try unconventional things (like combining pieces
from different garments) because the environment was permissive and even celebratory
of experimentation. Here, garments became prototypes for new designs with no fear
of judgment. This yielded some ingenious outcomes none of us could have planned: a
bouquet made out of fabrics, a pet costume that could serve as a wine covering as well, a
complete set of outfit that turned the classroom into a runway… These outcomes speak to
the vast untapped potential in discarded clothing, unlocked simply by a shift in mindset
facilitated by group energy.

The communal act clearly encouraged dialogue around material culture. We saw
conversations about fast fashion, personal memories, cultural practices of reuse, and
the meaning of caring for clothes. These dialogues were sparked directly by the making
process. For example, encountering the insides of clothes led to talk about quality and
consumer habits. Sharing why a garment mattered led to talk about identity and memory.
Thus, textile repurposing in a group setting was both a catalyst for and medium of
discourse—essentially an experiential way of doing research on material culture with the
participants, not just on them.
Finally, an insight into design practice and education: All participants were designers
in some capacity, but not all had worked with textiles. Many commented on how the
workshop opened their eyes to new techniques and perspectives they could integrate into
their own practice. This points to a transferable outcome: the method of a repurposing
workshop can be a pedagogical tool to instill sustainability and creativity in design
students/professionals.
In summary, the participatory component of the research demonstrated that the practice
of textile repurposing is both a personal ritual and a collective narrative, validating the
dual nature posed in the first research question. It highlights well-being and agency
in individuals (through self-expression and skill-building) and simultaneously builds
community and dialogue (through shared activity and storytelling). The interplay of
order and disorder was found to be not only a theoretical concept but a lived experience
in the workshop—one that participants learned to navigate and even appreciate. These
outcomes underscore the value of combining autoethnographic and participatory
approaches: personal depth and collective breadth lead to a rich, holistic understanding of
the phenomenon.

The balance between structure and spontaneity was negotiated in real-time, often
through dialogue—when someone was stuck, another might offer a structured approach.
Conversely, if someone was overthinking, a peer might encourage, “just cut it and see
what happens.” The peer-to-peer interaction therefore helped participants balance their
approach, embodying a dynamic yin-yang exchange of creative energies.

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59

Conclusion
This thesis set out to examine how working with textiles—through acts of
deconstruction, repurposing, and collaborative workshops—can nurture both individual
healing and communal connection. At its core is the dynamics of order and disorder:
the notion that creativity flourishes when structure and spontaneity coexist, and that
even our most familiar materials (like old clothing) can become meaningful vessels for
care, memory, and shared storytelling. By drawing on autoethnographic experiences as
well as participatory engagements, the research has illuminated how personal rituals of
making intersect with broader conversations about identity, trauma, and our collective
relationships with material culture.
The work navigates a paradox: it treats acts of breaking or deconstructing cloth as acts of
care. Traditionally, “caring for” garments implies gentle preservation or mending, whereas
here I often carefully tore and reassembled them. This tension between mending and
destruction is intentional. By ripping apart old garments in an attentive way, I was able
to salvage their essence – understanding their construction, preserving small fragments
– and then reimagine them anew. In this sense, the very act of deconstruction became a
form of creative care, a necessary disruption that allowed new stories and uses to emerge
from the cloth.
This blending of personal reflection with social engagement has also changed how I
now make art. Once I started working full time, my approach to creative practice began
to lean more toward structure, organization, and—ironically—an openness to letting
others help. Developing the detailed archive of my garments and facilitating workshop
sessions came about not just from a desire to deepen my design research but also from
newly learned habits of seeking help and inviting collaboration. I learned the relief that
comes when you can turn to a group and say, “Do whatever you want with these scraps
and tools,” and then step back to watch profound and unpredictable expressions unfold.
Witnessing how participants wove their own stories into my materials confirmed that
textiles can be an intimate canvas for sharing hopes, hurts, and new beginnings.

60

In terms of scholarly rigor, this research sits at the crossroads of design theory,
sustainability discourse, and creative practice. It extends existing literature that frames
craft, garment care, and DIY interventions as vital to generating ecological awareness and
personal agency. At the same time, it bridges those frameworks with a human-centered
perspective—one that highlights the deeply emotional underpinnings of why we keep,
remake, or share our clothes. My experiences in interior design became an unplanned
supplement to the academic dimensions of this thesis, demonstrating that even when life
takes us temporarily “off course,” those side roads can offer knowledge, resilience, and
fresh energy to the research at hand.
To be sure, there are limitations to what has been explored here. The scale was small, and
the workshops primarily involved design peers. Future research might consider more
diverse groups and longer timelines to see if the therapeutic and communal possibilities
of textile repurposing endure. Additionally, deeper investigations into how professional
environments intersect with personal craft practices—much like my experience balancing
design office work and textile-making—could reveal new ways to integrate creativity and
care into multiple facets of everyday life.
In conclusion, Finding Balance in Soft Choreographies: Unraveling Stories, Memory,
and Care underscores that the gentle tearing of cloth, the reassembling of fragments, and
the sharing of these acts in community can all serve as conduits for healing and renewal.
Working with textiles, particularly in the wake of disruption—be it a personal accident or
any other upheaval—provides a tactile language for piecing ourselves back together.
Simultaneously, the collaborative dimension reminds us that we do not need to navigate
these transformations alone. By inviting others into our circles of making, we weave our
stories into communal tapestries of resilience and care. And in so doing, we discover
that the practice of design—whether interior spaces or soft choreographies of cloth—is
ultimately about embracing change, providing connection, and crafting spaces where new
narratives of hope and possibility can unfold.
Note: The participant-based research described in this thesis document has received official
Research Ethics Approval from the Emily Carr University Research Ethics Board.
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The balance between structured techniques
and intuitive making allows for both control
and surrender, which are essential elements of
emotional and creative resilience.

2025, Vancouver

Ya ha n Xi n g

Emily Carr University of Art + Design, 2025