Beyond the loom: Connecting tradition, textiles, and tomorrow
The modern sari-sari store is often small and cramped. You feel the beads of sweat cool on your brow as you step off the sidewalk into the direct path of a noisy fan in the corner. It’s a brief respite from the elements, whether that be rain or shine. The walls are lined with plastic that glows practically neon with the oversaturated packaging of instant noodle brands and assorted tsitsirya.
Hanging from the ceilings are bright, plastic packets: Tide, Milo, Bear Brand, Tang, Magic Sarap. You name it, they’ve got it.
“I like to base my work on observation,” says Andrea Garcia, a young Filipina designer from the University of the Arts London. “I was in Intramuros in January… I came across a lot of sari-sari stores, and I noticed the manufactured colors, the plastic packaging, and something about it really resonated.”
As bright and boldly colorful as the next
Garcia’s final exhibition in textile design titled “Sari Sari” pays homage to and responds to the vivid colors and materiality of Southeast Asian markets. “I wanted to see how maximalist I can make my work because I love color and I love this playful aspect of Filipino textiles,” she says.
As a young artist, Garcia had first developed her creativity through acrylic and oil painting. But her love for textures led her to the art of weaving. At 17, Garcia learned how to weave on a traditional Filipino backstrap loom, taught by an Inabel weaver in the Cordillera region. “Honestly, from then on, I fell in love,” she confides.
Garcia’s “Sari Sari” exhibition features five curated pieces, each as bright and boldly colorful as the next. From playful yellows and greens to the deeply vibrant hues of blue and pink, color is the eye-catching centerpiece of Garcia’s work. “I hope that it gives other people joy,” she says.
And indeed, it does. As stripes of color run across woven fabrics, Garcia’s designs are jubilant and spirited.
“People see textiles, and they think, ‘it’s flat,’ but it’s so dimensional. You have to think about what goes up and what comes down, and how to get in and out,” Garcia explains.
The setup process alone can take up to a week, barring the weeks of weaving that follow. Each thread must be individually threaded through each needle, and every change in a shade of color requires a different dye to be used. The textile art form is a slow and meticulous craft.
Art and the environment
Garcia highlights a particular detail in her work: “The pleats are a huge part of my work. They’re pleated in the shape of those sachets in sari-sari stores… I want people to see my references and be confronted by it.”
According to GAIA, an environmental non-profit organization, plastic sachets, like those commonly found in sari-sari stores, make up an estimated 52 percent of residual plastic waste in the Philippines. Globally, sachet sales comprise over one trillion units annually, as reported in a study by Cranfield University researcher Elizabeth Cullen. Nearly impossible to recycle due to their material composition, these single-use plastics—once thrown in the trash—are often left for landfill or incineration.
“I wanted to present our climate crisis by making it color-forward and material-forward to present the current realities Southeast Asia faces to make awareness approachable for people who are not affected by it,” says Garcia.
Her art aims to estrange the audience from their comfort by provoking questions and stirring discussion.
Weaving a fabric of heritage and modernity
In the 18th and early 19th centuries, the Philippines’ textile industry flourished, with Iloilo hailed as the “textile capital.” By 1887, a report made to the British Parliament revealed the industry had shrunk greatly, with the rise of mass-produced cotton cloth imports from Europe in the wake of increasing industrialization and globalization.
The years following World War II and the Japanese Occupation revealed the damage done to weaving and textile production in the Philippines, including the destruction of abaca cultivations and hand looms. And today, the Philippines’ textile industry is largely unable to compete with foreign manufacturing, as textile imports in 2025 amounted to $2.18 billion, according to the Observatory of Economic Complexity.
But Garcia paints another picture: “I worked with the Elisario family. They grow their own piña. They wash it in the river next to their house. The daughter ties the fibers together. The son is now a weaver and very big in the preservation of pina cloth.”
The story she tells is one of cultural resilience, patience, and community in today’s world. “Every region in the Philippines has its own unique materials, dye systems, and weaving techniques. Textiles are such an accessible form of art because they’re everywhere,” she says.
“It’s on my shirt, it’s in your car, your curtains… That’s the beauty of the medium. We have such a diverse design language in the Philippines; I think that’s where modernity and our history connect.”
Beyond and between where dye sits, Garcia’s use of silk organza and piña yarn in her textiles honors the Philippine climate, a tribute to Filipino heritage amid the often spotted wool-sporting crowds of Britain. Yet her use of color is ostensibly contemporary—ever playful in hue and simultaneously an increasingly relevant response to the plastic crisis of present-day Southeast Asia.
“Sari Sari” unites sustainable weaving traditions with the mass-produced goods of the modern landscape, hopeful in its vision of the future of the Filipino weaving industry and confident in its connection to Filipino material heritage.
