Mandy Pedigo is a dedicated researcher and writer, who brings stories to life in her fiber art. She explores her heritage, as well as land, water, and environmental issues as inspiration for her work.

How did you find yourself on an artist’s path? Always there? Lightbulb moment? Dragged kicking and screaming? Evolving?
My path as an artist has been a slow evolution rather than a single defining moment. My mother was incredibly skilled, she sewed, knitted, crocheted, and did macramé, always figuring things out on her own. Though I didn’t have direct instruction from her (as she moved to another state when I was young), I inherited her resourcefulness and love for making things. I was always crafting, taking home economics in junior high, and keeping my hands busy.
However, I quickly learned to keep my creativity to myself. Several art teachers in school made it clear that what I did wasn’t “art,” which led me to pursue other paths.
It wasn’t until I left a career in education, during the unfolding of the Great Recession, that I truly returned to making. With time on my hands, I explored new techniques, pushed my skills further, and found myself drawn more deeply into textiles. I discovered that a nearby university had a textile program with weaving classes, and the idea of going back to school for art kept surfacing. At first, I joked about it, but my husband finally called me out and asked, “Why not?” That question changed everything.
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Handwoven rag rug tapestry
Painted linen warp with reclaimed fabric rag rug structure.

Tell us more about the research you do and how it impacts your art.
Research is at the heart of my work. Sometimes it begins with curiosity, discovering a new technique I want to learn, stumbling upon an artist whose work sends me down a deep dive, or uncovering historical narratives that resonate with me. Over time, my research has branched into two primary areas: personal genealogy and related histories, and the study of land, water, and the environmental issues that shape them.
Much of my work has been informed by my ongoing quest to unravel the mysteries of my maternal heritage. My mother’s side of the family was largely unknown to me growing up. I had only the barest of facts, that my great-grandparents had immigrated from Finland and Sweden, but little beyond that. As I’ve researched and pieced together their histories, I’ve realized how much of their essence has been passed down to me, even when I didn’t recognize the significance of certain traits or connections at first. Genealogy is like a detective puzzle, I never know when a missing piece will fall into place.
One particularly meaningful discovery came when I learned that my Finnish family surname translates to “the land endures.” This revelation tied directly into my research on nature, as I had always felt an intrinsic connection to land and the rhythms of the natural world. Some family traits, it seems, linger despite a scarcity of direct knowledge or storytelling.
I also consider my personal history a vital part of my research. Sometimes, experiences only reveal their significance once we have the right context to understand them. When I worked as an educator, I spent years with first- and second-generation immigrant students. Looking back, I now recognize echoes of my own family’s history in their struggles, the tension between preserving language and culture while adapting to new environments, the impact of intergenerational trauma, and the way silence often replaces what is too painful to articulate. Pain, like family stories, can be passed down.
Writing is another essential part of my research process. It helps me articulate the meaning of my work, place it in context, and refine how I present it to others. I’m fortunate to have a fantastic critique group that provides support in navigating research, refining techniques, and offering feedback.
At times, it feels like 90% of my studio practice is research, and the remaining 10% is the physical act of making. But for me, research isn’t separate from the creative process, it gives my work depth, grounding, and a connection to something larger than myself.

Cotton, linen, and silk.
Whole cloth quilt with handwoven fabric appliqué, hand dyed fabric, handwoven fabric, cheese cloth, hand embroidery, free motion machine stitched, and hand quilted.

How does your environment influence your creativity?
In May 2022, my husband and I moved from St. Louis, Missouri, to the Minneapolis area in Minnesota. Moving is always disruptive, but this transition brought a profound shift, not just in my surroundings but in my life and my work. Having the opportunity to choose where to live was a rare privilege, and after much consideration, we decided it was time to leave the place I had grown up, along with the ghosts that lingered there. When we visited Minnesota to explore the possibility of moving, I saw not just a new location but an invitation to say yes to an entirely new life. What I didn’t realize then was just how much that decision would change everything.
Before the move, my artwork centered around a landscape I had only imagined, an environment I longed for but had never truly experienced. However, after settling into a home surrounded by Minnesota’s wetlands, rivers, and lakes, I realized that the place I had yearned for was suddenly right at my doorstep. The ache that had driven so much of my work was gone. Strangely, this was destabilizing. Without that longing, I wasn’t sure what direction my studio practice would take.
During this period, I found myself in my studio, making things but not feeling the same overpowering urge to create. It was a deeply quiet time, part of me welcomed the stillness, but part of me was afraid. What if I no longer wanted to make art?
To push through this uncertainty, I sought out new challenges and researched and collaborated with organizations that connect art and nature. This structure forced me back into making, and in hindsight, it was exactly what I needed. It pulled me out of my head and reconnected me with the act of creating.
There are striking similarities between the landscapes of the Upper Midwest and Finland, and it was no surprise to learn that the Twin Cities has a significant Finnish American population. This move has allowed me to uncover so much about my family’s heritage, another layer of discovery that continues to shape my work.
Ultimately, my environment has become both a catalyst and a companion in my artistic journey. The landscape around me no longer exists as a distant longing but as a present and evolving influence, shaping the way I engage with materials, memory, and belonging.

Handwoven rag rug tapestry
Painted linen warp with reclaimed fabric rag rug structure and fabric scrap and linen yarn fringe.

Does your work have stories to tell?
At its core, my work is about fostering connections between viewers and the natural world, between past and present, and between personal history and collective experience. Textiles serve as both my medium and my message. There is a reason I create quilts, rugs, and other home-inspired objects: textiles are inherently accessible, familiar, and deeply tied to our everyday lives. We instinctively understand their function, their presence, and their role in shaping our sense of home. By using textiles as the foundation for conceptual work, I invite viewers to consider the ways in which land and home are intertwined.
Beneath the surface, my pieces speak to my family’s story of immigration, intergenerational trauma, and the attempt to mend the rifts caused by distance, time, and loss. At the heart of it all, I see my work as an ongoing conversation with my mother, an attempt to show her that I see her, that I understand. Through my art, I explore not only what has been lost but also what can still be reclaimed. It is a way of embracing what is possible, a life that is rich, full, and complete with possibilities.
When you decide to work on a piece, do you plan your work out ahead of time, or do you just dive in with your materials and start playing?
My work generally flows from one piece to another. It starts with materials and is deeply process-driven. I embrace the fluidity of the creative process, trusting that meaningful discoveries will emerge organically. As I immerse myself in making, I let the tactile engagement with materials guide my exploration. Through this hands-on approach, the true essence of my work unfolds, allowing layers of meaning and narrative to surface naturally.
While I have a great deal of control over my work, I also leave space for unpredictability, particularly in my dyeing process. I mix colors intentionally but allow them to blend freely in the dye pans, often producing surprising and unexpected results. Sometimes, these surprises are a gift, and other times, the colors don’t work as I’d hoped. Fortunately, textiles offer an inherent flexibility, if a piece isn’t quite right, it can be overdyed, reworked, or taken apart. The ability to transform and adapt materials is something I deeply value in my practice, as it reduces waste and encourages continual experimentation. Over the years, I’ve come to trust my instincts, and more often than not, the successes outweigh the disappointments.
That said, some bodies of work require extensive planning. I’m currently developing a new series that has taken years of research, experimentation, and refinement. Several years ago, I began exploring rag rugs as a foundation for expressive work. I’ve done extensive reading, sampling, and experimenting with ideas to understand how best to integrate this form into my practice.
Rag rugs hold deep cultural significance, particularly in Nordic traditions, and they continue as a living tradition in the United States. They are symbols of resilience and resourcefulness, crafted from repurposed materials to create something both functional and beautiful. Rag rugs evoke themes of domesticity and comfort, carrying the personal histories woven into everyday life. Traditionally made from worn clothing and household fabrics, they also symbolize memory and identity. The phrase “sweeping something under the rug” resonates with me, reflecting how unspoken family traumas have obscured my own cultural identity.
This body of work has been three years in the making, blending traditional weaving techniques with the rag rug form. Using a pictorial tapestry approach, I’ve combined these two traditions to create work that challenges conventional boundaries. This fusion has been both challenging and liberating, allowing me to further define my artistic voice. Weaving, with its slow, repetitive, and methodical nature, engages my mind deeply. It is within the process of weaving itself that I uncover meaning and solve the inherent problems within the work.

Do you have a dedicated space for creating? If so, what does it look like?
Yes, I do! My studio is a finished basement in our townhome, and over the past few years, I’ve been refining and optimizing the space for better flow and functionality. I’ve worked in a variety of spaces, both at home and in external studios at school, but I find I’m far more productive at home. The uninterrupted time and lack of a commute allow me to focus more on my work (especially in the winter when I prefer to avoid unnecessary outings). That said, I do miss the built-in community that comes with shared studio spaces.

My studio is a long rectangular room, divided into sections to accommodate different aspects of my practice:
- A pin-up wall for in-progress work and photographing finished pieces.
- A large worktable for cutting, ironing, and laying out work.
- A dedicated sewing machine area for machine work.
- A flexible desk space for computer work, which also doubles as a handwork station.
- Various cabinets for organizing sewing supplies and weaving yarns.
- Weaving equipment including a loom, a winding area, and drawers for various weaving tools.
- Two bookshelves for books and other reference materials.
- A small storage closet dedicated to textile supplies and finished work.
- A ¾ bath, which is surprisingly useful. It provides a wet area for dyeing and drying yarns and fabrics, as well as a space for mixing dyes.

It’s a highly functional space, and the more I work in it, the better I understand how to tweak it for improved efficiency. I generally keep my studio tidy. Over the years, I’ve become more fastidious about minimizing clutter. But being a textile artist sometimes feels at odds with this trait. There are just so many materials, tools, and equipment that come with the territory. At times, it can feel overwhelming, but I try to create a balance that keeps the space both functional and inspiring.
How do you manage your creative time? Do you schedule start and stop times? Or work only when inspired?
In graduate school, there were a few students who would pointedly check the clock and then look at each other, as if policing studio hours. What nonsense! I didn’t go to art school to punch a time clock.
That said, I am usually a taskmaster when it comes to my work time, but how I approach it depends on the time available. If I have a full day in the studio, I typically start in the morning and work a standard workday. If I have deadlines, my schedule becomes even more structured. However, I’ve also learned that creative time doesn’t always fit neatly into a 9-to-5 framework.
Some days, the work just doesn’t flow. Instead of forcing it, I pin up my in-progress pieces where I can see them. Keeping them in my sightline allows my mind to passively work through challenges, even when I’m not actively engaged. I’ve found that simply being in the studio can help me work through creative blocks without brute force.
Over time, I’ve had to broaden my definition of creative work. Running errands, taking a walk, or visiting the local lake are all ways my mind processes ideas, often without me consciously realizing it. This has been one of the hardest lessons I’ve learned about art. It doesn’t always look like work.
I’m not much for evenings in the studio, but occasionally, inspiration will strike, and I’ll find myself heading downstairs to work. I’ve learned to embrace the ebb and flow of creativity, trusting that even in the quiet moments, my work is still unfolding in its own way.

Linen, cotton Handwoven rag rug tapestry
Painted linen warp with reclaimed fabric rag rug structure and fabric scrap and linen yarn fringe.

Do you use a sketchbook, journal, or technology to plan or keep track of ideas? How does that help your work develop?
I’ve had a love-hate relationship with sketchbooks. When I first started using them, they were presented to me as a rigid task, strictly for drawing out ideas. But I’m not much of a visual note-taker, and this method never really worked for me.
It wasn’t until graduate school that I found a way of keeping a notebook that actually made sense to me. Instead of being just for sketches, it became a space to collect notes, paste images, artwork, and photos, and document where they came from. It became an idea tracker. When I’m in the thick of making and ideas are flowing quickly, this system helps me capture them before they slip away. It creates a reference book that I can revisit later, often revealing forgotten ideas that turn out to be valuable down the road.
That said, my approach is inconsistent. Sometimes I’m diligent about updating it; other times, I’m much more informal. I also rely heavily on my phone, taking photographs for inspiration and sorting them into albums. Some of these images I print out and add to my notebooks, while others stay digital.
One thing I’ve learned is not to fight my lack of discipline with sketchbooks. They are a tool, useful when they serve me, but not something I need to force. I used to feel envious of artists who fill beautiful, dedicated sketchbooks, but I’ve surrendered to the fact that my process works differently. My sketchbooks and notebooks don’t need to look like anyone elses; they just need to do their job.
How often do you start a new project? Do you work actively on more than one project at a time? Do you prefer the kind of project that is challenging and requires attention, or the kind where you get in your meditative zone and enjoy the process?
It depends. I usually have more than one project in progress at any given time. For example, I have a pieced quilt that I’ve been stitching away at for over a year. I’ll work on it for a week or two, then set it aside when another project demands my full attention.
That said, I try not to take on too many large pieces at once. If I have too many big projects in progress, my focus feels too divided. I like having a balance: a mix of complex, long-term projects alongside smaller ones that are quick to start and finish. This keeps my momentum going and allows me to shift gears when needed without feeling overwhelmed.

Cotton, linen, and silk.
Machine pieced, appliqued quilt, digitally printed text and photographs, hand embroidery, and hand quilted.

Can you tell us about the inspiration and process of one of your works? How does a new work come about?
When I was finishing graduate school, I had an idea: what if I printed my thesis onto fabric and incorporated it into my work? I felt dissatisfied that my thesis wasn’t a physical part of my exhibition. It was its own object, separate from the pieces on display. Yet, the relationship between my writing and my artwork was symbiotic: the thesis informed my creative work, and the work, in turn, informed the thesis. The idea of integrating the thesis into my practice lingered in my mind, resurfacing again and again, until I finally surrendered to it.
I printed the pages of my thesis onto white cotton fabric using an inkjet printer. Seeing the text and images stacked in a new medium, fabric, felt deeply satisfying. Without hesitation, I moved to the next step: cutting the pages into squares, mixing them up, and re-piecing them into a large quilt top. In some areas, the text remained readable; in others, it became obscured, fragmented, and lost in the seams.
During this time, I had been reading extensively, and I came across a passage by former U.S. Secretary of State Madeleine Albright that stopped me in my track,
“In general, the movement of people from their homes—the leaving behind of possessions, familiar sights, memories, and ancestral graveyards—does not occur without good cause. Most of us would prefer to remain in places where our names are known, our customs accepted, and our languages spoken.”
The next idea hit me just as suddenly: what if I cut individual letters from fabric and appliquéd Albright’s words onto my quilted thesis? It seemed like a wild idea, but I trusted it and got to work.
One step revealed the next. I followed the process, simply doing the next right thing.
The quilt itself embodies both revelation and concealment. The fabric contains the fragmented pages of my Master of Fine Arts thesis, reassembled in a way that disrupts the clarity of the text. Over this, I quilted the phrase This Land is My Land; This Land is Your Land in a subtle white stitch, layering another dimension of meaning into the piece.
My thesis had explored my journey through graduate school: how my hidden heritage shaped my artistic practice and my ongoing search for home and connection to nature. Through my research, I uncovered a heritage of dislocation and homesickness, passed down from my great-grandparents to me.
In the United States, we acknowledge that most of us are descended from immigrants, but we often fail to understand what that truly means. The hardships our ancestors endured are often softened in retrospect, their struggles reduced to neat, nostalgic stories. But migration is never easy. Even my own move from one state to another, a far less extreme transition, led to the loss of certain relationships, despite all the technology available to stay connected.
For many Finns, emigration to the United States was a last resort. They left after years of famine, economic hardship, forced conscription into the Russian army, and a lack of land or opportunity. For most, leaving meant leaving forever. They never saw loved ones again. Their sense of home became fractured, held in memories, stories, and the objects they carried with them.
This quilt, like much of my work, is a meditation on migration, memory, and belonging, an attempt to stitch together the past while acknowledging the distances that remain.

cotton, silk, and birchbark
Pieced, appliquéd map with embroidery, and hand quilted.

Which part of the design process is your favorite? Which part is a challenge for you?
I love the process of making; the experimentation, the day-to-day work, and the unexpected surprises that come from working with materials. There’s something deeply satisfying about discovering new possibilities through the act of making. I often find that certain parts of a piece hold memories of what I was thinking, listening to, or reading at the time, making the work feel like a personal time capsule.
The most challenging part for me is photographing finished work. I can set up lighting and my camera to capture a technically strong image, but textiles are meant to be experienced. They have texture, movement, and a physical presence that’s difficult to translate into a two-dimensional image. It’s frustrating because strong photography is essential for sharing work online and entering exhibitions, yet no image ever fully captures the essence of the piece.
How does your formal art education help your work develop? Does it ever get in the way?
I love this question because the answer is both.
Returning to school for art as a, non-traditional student was one of the best decisions I ever made. Having lived experience gave me a laser focus on what I wanted to gain from my education. I approached my learning journey with intention, drawing on my family research to shape my early work and build toward a cohesive body of art. By the time I graduated, I had a clear sense of who I was as an artist, what interested me, and just as importantly, what didn’t. Art school also taught me to set firm boundaries around my time and energy. I learned that saying no to certain things meant being able to say yes to what truly mattered.
Where does it get in the way? The inner critic. At times, I found myself carrying the critical voices of professors long after graduation, allowing them to linger in ways that aren’t always productive. I had to learn to separate myself from feedback that wasn’t relevant, recognizing that not every professor (or critic) is my audience, and that their opinions could exist separately from my own artistic direction.
Another challenge came after graduation, when I hit a lull in making, a common experience for many artists leaving school. There’s often a pervasive fear instilled in students: keep making, or you might never make again. I’ve struggled with this myth. Yes, some graduates stop making art entirely, but the creative process has natural cycles of ebb and flow, shaped by life, circumstances, and seasons. What I’ve learned is that fear doesn’t make the return to making any easier. And yet, I’ve always found my way back.
What’s the best piece of advice you’ve received?
The older I get, the more I see the wisdom in what my earliest teachers used to say: Mind your own business and do your work. It’s simple, but incredibly true. I’ve seen many artists, including myself, fall into the trap of looking outside ourselves for answers on how to make our work. But there isn’t a book or a map that can guide me through the unknowns of my creative process. The only way forward is to show up, do the work, and find the answers through making.
My mentor in graduate school, Laura Strand, reinforced this idea with another piece of wisdom: Always have something in progress when you finish a project. This advice has shaped my studio practice in profound ways. By ensuring there’s always something waiting for me in the studio, I avoid creative lulls and can dive right back into making. So many pieces have resulted from this practice. Even when I moved across states, I had the beginnings of my rag rug series in progress, with work and ideas waiting for me as soon as I unpacked.
Both of these lessons remind me that consistency and momentum are essential in an artistic practice. The work reveals itself through doing.

What do you do to keep yourself motivated and interested in your work?
One of the biggest things I’ve learned is to let myself feel how I’m feeling and not fight it too much. This ties back to the fear of not making that I encountered in graduate school, the idea that if you’re not actively creating, you might never make again. Over time, I’ve come to accept that creativity has seasons. Some periods are work-heavy, with ideas flowing freely, while others are quieter. And that’s okay.
Even when I’m not actively working in my studio, I’m still engaging with the world, taking in sights, sounds, and experiences. I trust that I will always return to the work. Sometimes, that return happens unexpectedly, like when I stumble across a piece of fabric I dyed months ago and suddenly feel compelled to pin it up. It might hang there for days or even weeks before I decide what to do with it. Or, just as easily, I may put it away again. But the process has already started. Ideas have a way of resurfacing when the time is right.
Staying open, curious, and maintaining a broad perspective, rather than narrowing my focus solely on the studio, keeps me engaged. Being part of an art group also helps tremendously. The energy of the group creates a feedback loop, where someone’s enthusiasm for a new idea, material, or discovery can be infectious. Seeing what excites others often sparks something in me, reminding me why I do this work in the first place.
Where can people see your work?
I share my work, process shots, and glimpses of Minnesota’s landscapes on my Instagram feed. I also post finished pieces on my website, where I maintain a blog featuring event updates, process writing, and essays about my work.
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mandy.pedigo
Website: https://www.mandypedigo.com
Interview posted February 2025
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