Sara Willadsen
Featured: June 27th, 2025
The most unconventional material I’ve used in my work so far is hair—both my own and that of an ex-boyfriend. While we were dating, he cut his very long hair short and gave it to me to save for a future project. I didn’t have anything specific in mind at the time, but I tend to hold onto materials for years, thinking they might come in handy eventually. About a year after we broke up, I was taking a fibers class in grad school and learned that paper can be made from fabric like old shirts. I still had one of his old t-shirts stored away, so with the help of the TA, I beat the shirt into pulp and made paper, mixing in some of his hair as well. Incorporating the hair made the process pretty unpleasant. The hair became embedded in the paper and unintentionally caused three sheets to stick together, creating a vertical surface to work on. I ended up collaging over those stuck sheets, which became the piece 3 Sisters.
This piece became one of the most personal I’ve ever created and taught me that bringing intimate materials from my life into my practice can be both meaningful and cathartic. It also reminded me that I’m free to use any material that speaks to me.
I’m especially drawn to using familiar materials in unfamiliar ways. I’m always interested in pushing the boundaries of materials that aren’t traditionally associated with fine art. For example, I’ve deconstructed old clothes, not for their sentimental value, but for their texture and structure, treating fabric like collage or even like paint. I’ve also used quilt batting beneath surfaces, not as a visible element, but to subtly alter the form and feel of a piece, adding an unexpected softness and dimension that shifts how the work occupies space. One of the most boundary-pushing processes I return to is cutting up previous finished works and rebuilding them into new forms. This challenges the finality of a “finished” piece and keeps my practice in a constant state of transformation. Even with found paper, I’m not simply layering; I’m testing how far I can push its meaning and presence within a composition.
I’m currently experimenting with combining stained glass and collage, though I’m still in the early stages of this exploration. Growing up, my mother created many stained glass pieces like windows, lamps, and other objects, so I have a strong appreciation for the material as well as a decent working knowledge of its properties and possibilities. Bringing stained glass into my collage practice allows me to explore light, transparency, and layering in new ways. It’s exciting to think about how the rigidity and fragility of glass can interact with the tactile, flexible nature of paper and fabric. This experimentation is pushing me to rethink traditional boundaries between painting, sculpture, and craft.
