The Weaver Turning Abandoned Lots into Living Colour

At the edge of a Melbourne laneway, an old parking strip can look like wasted space: cracked asphalt, waist-high weeds and a fence softened by windblown grass. For textile artist Mara Ellis, those overlooked places are full of colour waiting to be coaxed out. She gathers fallen leaves, seed pods and common weeds, then turns them into muted gold, smoky green and rust-red yarn. Learn more about The Urban Forager Who Makes Natural Dyes From Weeds And Parking Lot Plants.

Her practice sits between urban foraging, slow craft and field research. The plants are not chosen because they are rare or exotic. They are selected because they have survived heat, compacted soil, neglect and sudden rain. Their resilience becomes part of the finished fibre, giving each skein a story rooted in a particular street.

The process is careful rather than casual. Ellis checks whether a site has been sprayed, avoids protected vegetation and collects only small amounts from abundant growth. In Australia, where council reserves, railway edges and vacant blocks can carry contamination risks, a beautiful plant is never automatically a safe dye source.

The resulting yarn has a quiet irregularity that commercial colour rarely offers. A single batch might shift from pale straw to olive depending on the season, the water and the age of the leaves. For knitters, weavers and makers, that variation is not a flaw. It is evidence of place.

Gathering colour from overlooked ground

Ellis begins with a notebook, secateurs, paper bags and a phone camera. Before collecting, she records the weather, the site’s condition and the plants growing nearby. A weed beside a busy arterial road may produce a promising pigment, but exhaust residue and soil pollutants make it unsuitable for fibre work.

She favours fallen material wherever possible. Eucalyptus leaves, onion skins saved from the kitchen, pomegranate rind and dried grasses can all contribute colour without damaging a living plant. In Brisbane’s humid wet season, fresh leaves may need to be processed quickly to prevent mould. In Adelaide’s dry climate, brittle seed heads can be stored for later experiments.

The abandoned lot is also a social landscape. It may sit beside a new apartment complex, behind a row of small businesses or across from a community garden. Its plants reflect bird movement, drainage patterns and what residents have carried into the area. Ellis sees this accidental ecology as a form of local archive.

She photographs each harvest against concrete, brick or corrugated fencing rather than presenting it as an untouched rural idyll. For makers who enjoy combining process notes with playful visual storytelling, even the documentation can become part of the work; a collection of meme templates can help turn studio observations into accessible posts without flattening the craft itself.

From plant matter to a patient dye bath

Back in the studio, Ellis washes the yarn according to its fibre content. Wool and other protein fibres often take botanical colour readily, while cotton, linen and hemp require different preparation. A gentle mordant can help the dye bond to the fibre, though she uses the lightest effective treatment and keeps clear records.

The plant material is chopped or crushed, covered with water and warmed slowly. Boiling too aggressively can muddy delicate shades, especially when working with leaves. The bath may rest overnight before the yarn is added. This waiting period is part of the rhythm: colour develops through time, heat and observation rather than a fixed recipe.

Iron, alum and copper modifiers can alter the same dye bath dramatically. A yellow from onion skin may become khaki, while a soft tan can deepen into grey-green. Ellis tests each change on small yarn samples before committing a whole skein. She labels them with the plant, location, date, fibre and treatment.

Natural dyeing rewards attention to variables. Rainfall can dilute a plant’s pigment. Soil conditions can influence a leaf’s chemistry. A batch collected in October may behave differently from one gathered in February. The finished colour is therefore less like a product specification and more like a record of weather and neighbourhood.

A field guide for ethical colour gathering

For Australian makers, responsible collecting starts with restraint. Public access does not mean unrestricted permission, and an empty block may still be privately owned or scheduled for development. Local council rules, park signage and landholder approval matter, particularly around reserves and waterways.

Before taking plant material

A useful habit is to leave enough for insects, birds and the plant itself. Ellis never strips a patch clean, and she avoids plants that are difficult to identify. She also keeps a separate compost or disposal system for spent dye matter, especially when mordants have been used.

Useful studio records

This level of documentation may sound formal, but it makes the work more generous. Sharing a repeatable process helps other makers learn what can be gathered safely in their own cities, from Sydney’s suburban margins to Perth’s sandy verges.

Why local craft communities care

The yarn appeals to people who want a stronger relationship with materials. At weekend makers markets, customers often ask where a colour came from, how long it took and whether the plant was native. Those conversations create a different kind of value around a skein, one based on labour, traceability and curiosity rather than uniformity.

Ellis has found that her work changes when it leaves the studio. A Melbourne weaving circle may suggest using a muddy green for a wall hanging, while a ceramicist in Hobart might trade locally gathered madder or marigold seed. These exchanges make natural dyeing feel less like a solitary technique and more like a shared language.

Mass Musings’ programme of creative events reflects that wider appetite for gatherings where artists, audiences and independent makers can meet in person. A dye demonstration, neighbourhood walk or small-scale fibre workshop can build trust in ways a polished product photograph cannot.

The local market also shapes the practical side of the practice. Australian makers must account for postage across long distances, seasonal availability and the expectations of customers shopping at design fairs or through small online stores. Ellis sells limited batches, explains shade variation clearly and uses recyclable packaging, accepting that a natural-dyed skein cannot be perfectly reproduced.

The colour of a changing city

There is a gentle tension in Ellis’s work. Abandoned lots are often temporary. A patch of fennel may disappear beneath townhouses; a railway verge may be replanted; a vacant block may become a supermarket. The yarn preserves a small impression of a place that may soon look completely different.

Her palette is therefore chronological as well as geographical. Rust from autumn leaves, green from spring growth and pale brown from dry grass mark the passage of a year. When woven together, they create a map that does not need street names. Texture, shade and fibre carry the memory.

Material source Typical colour tendency Key consideration Best suited to
Fallen eucalyptus leaves Tan, olive, soft brown Collect away from traffic and avoid stripping trees Wool, felt, small weaving projects
Onion skins Gold, amber, orange-brown Easy to save from household scraps Wool, cotton with preparation
Dried grasses and seed heads Beige, straw, muted khaki Check identification and site cleanliness Rustic yarns, paper, basketry
Pomegranate rind Yellow, ochre, warm brown Use dried rind and record bath strength Wool, embroidery yarn
Common flowering weeds Variable yellow, green or grey Confirm species and avoid sprayed verges Experimental swatches

The work asks us to look twice at the city. A weed is not automatically a resource, and a vacant block is not automatically an untouched ecosystem. Yet with patience, permission and care, neglected ground can offer materials that connect making to climate, memory and community.

For Ellis, each skein is a modest form of attention. It carries the character of a particular Australian season and the evidence of a place that people usually hurry past. When the yarn becomes a jumper, tapestry or repaired cushion, that overlooked landscape continues its life in another form.