Sofie Aaldering | On Slow Craft, Deadstock Textiles and the Power of Handmade Art

Through Sofie Aaldering’s work, the value of slow, handmade craft is brought into focus, transforming discarded textiles into intricate sculptures that explore vulnerability, growth and connection. Her delicate yet labour-intensive practice invites viewers to look beyond the finished object and consider the time, material and human touch embedded within each piece.

Your work is built through a slow, labour-intensive hand process in a world obsessed with speed. What goes through your mind – emotionally – in the hours of repetition? Is it a form of meditation?

For me, the handmade aspect is very important. I think people often don’t realise how much time and labour goes into a single piece. You can see the final object, but not necessarily all the hours that are hidden inside it. Emotionally, it really depends on where I am mentally.

For certain works, like fixing beads into the glass fibres, I need to have a quiet mind. I actually prefer to work on those pieces completely alone in the studio. When I’m in that state, I can work for hours and it becomes very meditative. I usually have music playing quite loudly, sing along, and just switch my brain off. I really love that feeling.

But when I’m restless or there is a lot going on in my head, the repetition can have the opposite effect. Instead of calming me down, all my frustrations and thoughts can come to the surface. When that happens, I usually move on to another piece and come back to the repetitive work when I feel more at peace with myself.

So for me, repetition isn’t always meditation. Sometimes it actually shows me what is going on inside my head. I think that’s also part of what I find interesting about working slowly and by hand.

You transform deadstock materials – fabrics that were discarded, unwanted, leftover. Do you feel you are rescuing them, or mourning them? Is there a grief in the material that you’re trying to turn into something else?

I feel like I’m giving these materials a new chance rather than mourning them. So no, I don’t really feel grief when I work with them. I’m actually happy when I find a material that I can work with and give a new life to.

I think what interests me is that these materials are often still beautiful and perfectly usable, but because they are leftover or no longer needed within the industry, they are suddenly seen as less valuable. For me, working with deadstock is a way of showing that value again. I want people to see how beautiful the material is and to think about why it was no longer wanted in the first place. It makes me question how the industry decides what has value and what doesn’t.

Tulle and mesh are delicate, translucent – they reveal as much as they hide. Do you feel your work holds a kind of vulnerability, like skin or memory? What part of yourself do you leave in the fabric?

That’s a beautiful way of describing it. I do think the material has a certain vulnerability to it, but at the same time, tulle and mesh can be incredibly strong. I’m really interested in that contrast. The material is transparent, so you can see through it, but when you start building up layers, it can also become almost completely opaque. It reveals something while hiding something else at the same time.

I think that contrast reflects something in me as well. There is a part of me that can be very open and vulnerable, but at the same time there is also a strong part that protects and hides. Maybe that is what I leave in the fabric — not necessarily a specific memory or story, but something of that tension between showing and protecting

Can you tell us about some of the artists that inspire your creativity and why?

I don’t really have one specific artist who inspires me. I find inspiration more in the craft itself. I still love watching haute couture shows, especially looking at all the incredible handwork and textile techniques that go into the pieces. I can spend a lot of time looking at the details and thinking about how something was made. I think that process of making, and seeing what is possible with textiles and your hands, is what inspires me the most.

Let’s explore your collections. The title Unravel suggests coming undone – a release, or a breaking. Was there a moment in your life or your practice where you had to let something fall apart before you could rebuild it?

Yes, definitely. There was a turning point that became really crucial for both me and my work. At the time, I was still working part-time as a stylist in a intertior store while building my practice as an artist in the evenings and during the weekends. It could be quite difficult sometimes, especially when I was in a good flow with my work and then had to stop because I had to go to my other job.

At the same time, I was in a relationship that had lasted eight and a half years, and that relationship came to an end. It really broke me for a while. But strangely, that also gave me the courage to make a decision I don’t think I would have made otherwise: to work completely for myself as an artist.

I quit my job that same month and started looking for a studio. Luckily, that all happened very quickly. I remember thinking, if everything is going to change anyway, I might as well give this a real chance and see what happens if I fully commit to myself and my work. And after that, things started moving very quickly. I got new opportunities with galleries, fairs and sales, and my practice really began to grow. So for me, Unravel is very much connected to that idea of things falling apart, but also creating the space to rebuild something that feels more true to yourself.

Sometimes you have to let go of the life you thought you were going to have before you can discover what you actually want.

Inflore evokes blooming, opening, becoming. Is there a fear that comes with growth? That the thing you’re making might outgrow you, or that you might not recognise yourself in it?

Yes, definitely. But interestingly, I don’t really feel that fear when I’m in the middle of the growth. When there is a lot happening and I’m in that momentum, I don’t have a second to be afraid. I’m just doing, making and moving forward.

The fear usually comes when things become quiet and I have time to reflect. Then I sometimes think: what if this was the peak? Can it get better from here? And do I always have to want it to get better? I’m also learning that it’s okay if my work outgrows me.

That’s how life works — you change, and your work changes with you. I try to enjoy where I am for as long as I can, while knowing that I still want to do so much more. And not everything has to happen within the next few years. I often try to look at the bigger picture. If I live to be a hundred, then this moment is still just the beginning. Thinking about it that way helps me put less pressure on myself and be a little less hard on myself about where I should be.