This summer marked our second full season in the garden, and for the first time I harvested lavender with intention.
We planted English lavender for its fragrance and resilience — a variety well suited to coastal winters and known for its soft, sweet scent. By mid-June, when the buds had deepened in colour but had not yet fully opened, I cut several bundles, careful to leave the woody stems intact so the plants would continue to strengthen year after year.
There is a quiet rhythm to harvesting. Stems are gathered, bound, and hung upside down in a dim room to dry. Over the course of two weeks, the colour deepens slightly and the scent concentrates. The transformation feels subtle but deliberate — a slowing and preserving of something fleeting.
Once dried, the buds release easily from the stems with a gentle pass of the hand. The scent, when gathered in small cloth sachets, becomes portable — able to rest in drawers, among linens, or in studio storage where textiles are kept.
Lavender carries more than fragrance. It holds memory of season, sunlight, and care. I am drawn to the idea of integrating small amounts into select felt pieces at some point — allowing scent to become another quiet layer of experience within the work.
Fibre is most often understood visually and tactilely. Scent introduces something less immediate, more intimate. It lingers. It settles.
Harvesting the lavender has reminded me that material does not begin in the studio. It begins outside — in soil, in timing, in observation — and only later finds its way into the work.
Leave a Reply