Mirka Knaster creates fiber art, both inspired by the world around her and to tell visual stories. Creating is central to her life. She enjoys playing and seeing what evolves.
When did you first realize you are a creative person?
Like many kids, I was creative during my childhood, but that wasn’t a word we used. We fooled around with crayons, finger paint, and so on, starting in kindergarten.
When I was dexterous enough, my mother taught me how to mend, knit, crochet, embroider, darn, and sew on her uncle’s Singer treadle sewing machine. For her, it wasn’t about creativity, but domesticity –being a competent housewife and mother.
I took a painting class in college, but I majored in Romance languages and literature. During my hippie years, I knitted and crocheted gifts, hand-built objects with clay, embroidered my clothes, did crewel work, made a suede jacket and shoulder bag, and, using a rug hooking technique, created wall hangings based on Mayan designs.
As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. Read more about our affiliate linking policy.
Which came first, writing or fiber art, and how do the two intertwine in your work?
Writing came first. After engaging in academic research and writing, I had a decades-long career as a freelance writer as well as a contributing/consulting editor. The books and articles I published covered many topics, but not fiber art.
After a visit to Bhutan in 2008, I wrote about papermaking there. Trips to Korea led to writing about bojagi. I also began posting about fiber art exhibits on my art blog.
However, a different kind of intertwining is now emerging. For years, I assumed that, as a writer, I would pen a book about my family’s tragic and traumatic history. I have two boxes of materials, not to mention what’s on my computer, from the research I’ve done. It puzzled me that I hadn’t transformed all that documentation into a book.
One day, I realized what was missing. Two fellow fiber artists who have become close friends suggested that, perhaps, the book hadn’t yet materialized because I needed to create the visuals first. Since last year, when I returned to Poland, where my parents were born, I have been focused on a multi-faceted project, one which entails several fiber art installations that combine visuals and words (also sounds).
Creating as a fiber artist has made me more conscious of the visual element as a significant factor in conveying a story. Yes, we can impart history through words on paper, but visuals reach us differently, through a separate neural network. I learned that 90 percent of the information transmitted to the brain is visual. Our brain can process images up to 60,000 times faster than text. We tend to remember pictures better than words because visual memory is encoded in the medial temporal lobe of the brain, where emotions are processed.
Remember the adage “A picture is worth a thousand words”? We can convey complex, even multiple ideas through a single image more effectively than through a verbal description. Consider Picasso’s Guernica, compared to a text about what happened there. As African-American quilter Carolyn Mazloomi says: “Art can make a statement about difficult subjects, whereas people might not want to read about those difficult subjects.”
All that said, I haven’t given up on the idea of a book. Interestingly enough, once I accepted the shift to fiber art first and began to work on my family project in earnest, the outline of a book emerged. Now that’s intertwining!
Where do you find inspiration for your designs?
Given the beautiful environment I live and work in on the coast of northern California, I never lack for inspiration. I witness, with awe, how the ever-changing light transforms the colors and textures of land, sea, and sky from dawn till nightfall. The movements, sounds, and hues of water are integral to my daily experience.
In addition, I have spent a lot of time in Asia, where I am especially drawn to an aesthetic of elegant simplicity in Japan and Korea. I also favor geometry-influenced aspects of 20th-century abstract art.
What do you do to keep yourself motivated and interested in your work?
Whether in writing or in fiber art, ideas have always flowed freely, too many for me to ever fulfill in one lifetime.
Does your work have stories to tell?
Committed to a meditation practice for some 45 years, I have been more interested in a non-objective style that evokes a sense of serenity than in representational storytelling. Of course, when we view any kind of artwork, our mind often weaves a story about it. Since embarking on my present project with photographs, I feel more inclined to tell actual stories about my family’s background through visuals and words.
What different creative media do you use in your work?
Mostly, I stitch textiles and handmade paper by hand and machine. I like to repurpose such materials as interior design samples and dye old linens and kimono linings with rust to keep textiles out of landfills. I add whatever is needed—black bamboo from my garden, beads, wax, ink, paint, metal, wood, sounds, etc. As I mentioned, now I’m also including photographs printed on fabric.
How do you make time for creating? Do you try to create daily?
Creating is simply central to my life. I try to work daily, but sometimes other things (e.g., adopting a dog) in my life take over or I have to be on the road, and then I get back into the swing of things.
Do you plan your work out ahead of time, or do you just dive in with your materials and start playing?
My tendency has been to pick up materials and see where they take me. The materials, physical sensations, and thoughts guide me as I engage with color, texture, line, pattern, shape, and space.
Curiosity leads to serendipity. I love the surprises resulting from this open-ended improvisational approach. However, for a commission or public art, I have to plan ahead. It’s more fun just playing with things and coming up with artwork I never even imagined, but simply watched unfold intuitively. Journeys into Unknown Territory is a good example.
Can you tell us about the inspiration and process of one of your works? How does a new work come about?
Journeys into Unknown Territory came about completely by happenstance. I traveled to South Korea annually for a few years as part of a textile tour I helped to originate.
In 2016, I wandered into Jang Ji Bang, a shop that features hanji (Korean handmade paper) in Insadong, a neighborhood in Seoul. I oohed and aahed over large sheets of hanji made by Master Jang. Those pieces, though exquisite, were far too big to fit in my suitcase without damaging them. When I ambled over to a table covered with paper strips, I saw that, like the large sheets, each one was unique in its earthy organic colors and patterns. As someone who, at that time, worked primarily with textiles, I didn’t have a clue as to what I’d do with paper. But I trusted my attraction to those strips. And, unlike the large sheets, they were easy to roll up and bring home.
I don’t recall how much time elapsed after I returned to California before, one day, I chose a strip from my little pile, sat down, and pondered how to work with it. I found myself picking up some embroidery floss and a needle and making marks on the strip. I would set it down, come back to it later, the next day, or several days afterwards, and carefully add more marks. Then I concentrated on another strip and so on, each one emerging entirely sui generis, with seed stitches, French knots, backstitching, couching, cross stitching, satin stitch, etc. Along with floss, I incorporated perle cotton, wool yarn, even a twig and raffia, all in colors compatible with the organic hanji. I wasn’t specifically embroidering, simply making marks intuitively.
As I stitched, I didn’t know where I was headed nor how I would get there. I just kept going. I didn’t have to dye or paint the paper; it was perfect just as it was. I realized that the naturally occurring contours of color in the handmade paper reminded me of shapes in landscapes and seascapes. Working quietly alone, I very much appreciated and enjoyed the contemplative nature of the process. Instead of pushing fabric through a sewing machine, I felt a pleasant congruence between hand stitching and handmade paper. I wanted more!
On my next trip to Korea, I purchased additional strips and continued the stitching journey. Gradually, I became aware that the pieces I’d created were akin to maps of imaginary rather than real places. They had all evolved without any intention or plan. What I wasn’t conscious of when I was working on them was that they were the beginning of a diaspora series that would include many rust-dyed pieces resembling maps, such as those in Where Can I Go? Where Might I Belong? and Where Tomorrow?
For me, Journeys into Unknown Territory is representative of life itself, for who among us ever truly knows what or where is next? Certainly, the COVID-19 pandemic made everyone keenly aware that uncertainty undergirds both our daily existence and plans for the future. Similarly, Journeys reflects the creative process that I described. It is also a trope for the experience of emigration/immigration. I understand how challenging such a journey is, and I empathize with and try to support others who undergo it. Like immigrants everywhere throughout history, my refugee parents and I left Europe and ventured on a voyage toward a land that was a mystery to us—geographically, culturally, and linguistically. I was far too young to wonder where we were going and what kind of life we would find there.
Without depicting particular landscapes, the stitched panels are reminiscent and evocative of places immigrants travel internally and externally in order to reach safety. They travel up and down rivers, across mountains and oceans, through canyons, swamps, deserts, and forests. Sometimes they sleep under starry skies; at other times, they are tossed about in the midst of storms. When we stop to consider the background of any family, we are all immigrants. It’s only a question of when.
Describe your creative space.
I am truly fortunate to have a fabulous studio on a bluff at the Pacific Ocean. A courtyard garden separates it from our house. I worked with a neighbor who is an architect to design it to my specific needs and the slope of the land.
I have three open spaces within the studio. Walking up slate stairs through the garden, I reach a glass door to enter a small “living room” with a long window seat below three large tall windows, two armchairs, a lamp and round table between them, built-in bookshelves behind them, a closet, and a half bath.
From there, I go up two steps to the central work area that includes a sewing machine, a cutting table, an ironing station, a stand-alone bookcase for fiber art books and magazines as well as binders, two design walls, and another closet.
Beyond this work area is my office, next to a long counter, punctuated by a double sink below a window. There are drawers under the countertop as well as cabinets above and underneath it. The glass door at this end leads to a wooden ramp to the driveway, making it easier to wheel things in and out, such as a cart full of supplies for teaching or taking a class. The high beamed ceiling has three skylights.
Working across different media, how do you organize all of your creative supplies?
Because of the many cabinets, drawers, shelves, a wire-basket system, and two closets, I can easily separate materials for both writing and fiber art. For convenience, I added strips of wood with hooks to both ends of my cutting table so that, on one side, I can hang rotary cutters and, on the other, rulers.
Have you found something intended for one media that works well for something else?
Until I brought home hanji from Korea, I thought paper was for writing on, not stitching. I also wound up creating “books” with fabric or used herbal tea bags. When I started working on my family project, it occurred to me that I could integrate my photographs by printing them on fabric, then stitching them together with fabric “pockets” to make a standing accordion book. It’s been fascinating to incorporate sound with fiber art, repurpose book art techniques, and employ photography for textile projects.
How often do you start a new project? Do you work actively on more than one project a time?
How often I start a new project varies greatly, but I’m always working on something. I find that having another less demanding project is helpful when a major project stymies me at certain points. It allows me to let things sit without coming to a complete standstill until I resolve a difficult issue. When I need to keep my hands active but am not sure where to go next, making textile cards is useful for priming the pump. When I’m occupied with a series, I work on it in intervals.
Which part of the design process if your favorite? Which part is a challenge for you?
Picturing something in my mind’s eye, running my hands over textiles or papers, quietly stitching and watching things come together, then delighting in the surprise results, are what I enjoy the most.
I tend to get frustrated when I’m not in the making phase, not yet in the flow of the work, due to challenges or glitches that arise. Because I have artist friends who adore problem-solving, sometimes I turn to them for advice (and cheerful support) when I’m feeling stuck in a logjam and desperate to resume floating down the creative river.
How has your work evolved over the years?
Since I don’t have a formal art education and an MFA (my BA, MA, and PhD are in other fields), I have, instead, attended many classes and workshops as well as explored how to do things on my own. I’ve been moving along from 2-D to 3-D, from wall hangings to outdoor public art, from abstract to representational.
My journey in fiber art began when I was remodeling a house. I wound up with bits of fabric and lots of samples in order to figure out which were suitable for the interior decor. Looking at a handful of them, I knew I wanted to create a vertical scroll to hang in one room. I envisioned an East Asian-inspired abstract textile scroll, not calligraphy. Since I hadn’t stitched for years, I didn’t own a sewing machine or the requisite tools and skills. I asked a woman who did have them to teach me. Instead, she suggested I take a course in quilting at our local arts center. When I protested that I had no desire to make grandma’s calico quilts, she said that didn’t matter: “Go learn the techniques and then do whatever you like.” So I did. I learned how to make a quilt, but quickly went non-traditional, creating what today are known as “art quilts,” but some of us prefer to call textile collages or simply fiber art.
At first, my pieces were two-dimensional and hung on a wall. But when a museum in San Francisco invited me to create something for an exhibit, I unexpectedly produced my first three-dimensional work, together with an audio component. Then, as described earlier, I incorporated handmade paper as well as bookmaking techniques and embroidery stitches for mark-making. I also added encaustic, combining wax and fabric. When I received a grant to create public art, I constructed a large outdoor installation with materials (e.g., bicycle wheels and webbing) I’d never previously used. Now, with my family project, I’m also including photography.
Learning is what feeds me, so who knows what’s coming next.
What advice would you give to emerging artists?
Trust your intuition or gut, even in the midst of a trend different from what you love to do. Let yourself follow your own path, however divergent from the mainstream. Trends come and go, but if your work is authentic, people will respond to it, whether it’s commercially popular or not. And just keep learning. When we talk about being creative, there’s no end to evolving.
Where can people see your work?
My website lists where I’m exhibiting and teaching.
www.mirkaart.com
www.mirkaknaster.com
Interview posted May 2025
Browse through more fiber art inspiration on Create Whimsy.