A Weekend Out of Time
Up on the plateau, the wind dances and whispers. It makes the dry grasses tremble, slips under the buron’ s door, tangles in the hair, brushes against the skin.
A laundry day. The linens snap on the clothesline, calling out to the open air. Thick towels, still damp, soak up the scent of the wind and the sun. Pale light filters through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the cool stone. Everything is silent, except the wind. Everything moves, except time.
Botanical Traces
The days are slowly growing longer, but the light remains low, hovering as if suspended. I paint in the morning, in the stillness of a cold workshop, my wool sweater pushed up over my wrist.
The brush glides across the fabric, soaking the fibers in a deep hue- cachou brown, rich and golden like tree bark warmed by the sun.
Layers of color build up, uneven and shifting. On the surface of the cloth, foliage takes shape, somewhere between abstraction and memory. I work with stencils, but the hand always wanders, letting the material find its own way. Each pattern is unique- a trace of the moment, an echo of pressed herbariums or late-summer shadows streching across the ground.
Beside me, the dye jar sits, thick and dense. I stir the mixture the way one stirs jam, watching the hues slowly develop. There’s something organic about this process, a natural rythm, almost instinctive.
I don’t know what this fabric will become. Maybe a shawl, a tied kerchief, a fragment of something larger. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is the gesture, the plant-based ink sinking in, and that familiar sense of being connected to the world through color and texture.
The luxury of evening
Monday night. The day fades slowly, and the light settles in amber reflections on the linen. I shed my clothes. The ones
for the outside world, for the rush of the day. And I slip into my linen robe, tattoed with grasses, adorned with tiny vintage glass beads. Just enough to make this moment feel precious, without excess.
A washcloth, a hand towel, a bath towel. Simple gestures, repeated every day, yet transformed. The softness of washed linen against my skin, water gliding slowly, a new awareness. Taking care of oneself is also this: slowing down, feeling the fabric, letting it wrap around you.
The house still murmurs, then quiets. In the dim light, I allow myself this ritual. A gentle way to close the day.
A Tilly Niel cushion in your home
A quiet corner. Light sliding over the fabric. The delicate imprint of cosmos and fennel. Memories of a summer gone by…
I love seeing my creations come to life, blending into carefully chosen interiors, becoming part of everyday moments. They leave the studio bearing the imprint of a landscape, a season, a hand that took its time. And then, they live elsewhere, in different homes, under new gazes.
Thank you Laurence for the glimpse. A touch of nature in your home.
And in your home? I'd love to see how my pieces place in your space. Feel free to share your photos!
A special language
Light captures the invisible, revealing the subtle connections between elements.
There is something intangible in the way light moves over things this afternoon. A fleeting breath, a silent caress that makes each moment unique, as if the world were holding its breath. A streak of amber light cuts across the table, catching on the edge of a glass, pooling into warm reflections on the wood…
Each fiber carries the imprint of plants and time.
On the surface of the table, the grain of the wood tells its story. The deep ridges, the soft knots- they are the echoes of the tree it once was. The glass sits above it, its golden light refracted, spilling over onto a piece of hand-dyed fabric. The textile is rough to the touch, but alive, as though it carries the breath of the plant that gave it color.
Each object, alone is modest. Together, they are a scene. A tableau where light speaks, where shadows answer.
These are the moments that slip unnoticed if you’re not watching. The interplay between the vegetal and the human, the organic and the crafted, the fixed and the fleeting. The glass reflects the light, the fabric absorbs it, the wood cradles it, and in between, a faint whisper of connection hums.
Light plays like this only once. Tomorrow, it will find a new story to tell, a new corner to illuminate. Perhaps that’s what makes this moment so magnetic. Its temportality. The scene exists because you chose to see it, because you paused long enough to listen to its quiet language.
White silence…
Morning stretches, muffled, swallowed by frost. Snow has covered everything, laying a new slowness upon the world. Our world.
Under my steps, the delicate crunch- the only voice in the vastness. The air smells of cold, chimney smoke, the waiting for something undefinable.
Everything feels suspended. Maybe time, too, is holding its breath.
A moment, a light…
The light falls gently on the table, revealing tones of amber and honey, reflections dancing on the glass, and soft shadows resting on the wood. A hand-dyed napkin, printed with black grasses like a memory of the meadow, lies there- unassuming, yet full of character.
It’s an unpretentious composition, almost instinctive, yet every element has its place. The materials speak to each other: the crumpled linen of the napkin, the rough texture of the wood, the glass’s transparency capturing the pale winter light. What matters is the warmth these objects bring.
Morning Rituals
The morning stirs quietly. In the dim light, the kitchen still holds the warmth of yesterday. The kettle sits on the stove top, its metal dulled by years of use. The water begins to boil, a soft murmur filling the air. My hand reaches out to grip it, the motion almost instinctive, shaped by countless mornings like this. It's a simple act, yet it carries the promise of the day ahead.
In the bedroom, the linen sheets hold memories of summer. Delicate imprints of grasses appear in soft, earthy tones - yellows and browns that speak of days spent in the fields under the sun. This fabric, with its texture and imperfect hues, wraps around me still, like a quiet, comforting whisper.
Outside, the cold bites at my skin, but my fingers close around the kindling. Twigs and small branches, gathered and brought inside, are ready to spark the fire. This simple act - placing the wood, hearing it crackle, feeling the warmth rise - holds the beauty of life's essentials.
Each morning, in these suspended moments, I find a part of myself. Between the singing kettle, the linen carrying the past, and the fire coming back to life, there's an invitation to slow down, to notice. To welcome the light of a new day with gratitude.
Frosted Silence
The landscape feels frozen in a deep breath. Frost coats everything - every blade of grass, every stone, every shadow. The first rays of daylight glide across this crystalline blanket, making the world shimmer with a soft, almost otherworldly glow.
The view is vast and open, yet everything here invites introspection. The frost transforms the landscape, erasing the details to leave only what's essential: shape, texture, history. It's a suspended moment, a pause in the rush of daily life.
The buron, the frost, the sky… It all forms a scene that asks for nothing, yet offers everything.