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Hand woven artisan blanket. Unique designer gift.

My Hand Woven Blankets and Wraps

Rhythm and memory methodically intersect,

as my hands and heart weave each of these unique blankets using indie dyed pure wools. 

These pieces are treasured in families across the world,

and will warm and be part of stories for generations to come.

Hand weaving with Soul. Artisan blankets.


I am Skeinydipping, diving in living boldly; and with my heart and hands create unique and beautiful blankets and wraps which hold stories and memories from my experiences of journeys around the world.

I interlace my memory into the weft. Weaving. Side to side. Repetitive. Meditative. 

Its final mark, a unique motif, I hand stitch.

Weaving a Story

Weaving memories
End stitched then cut from the loom.
Warp on my Rigid Heddle Loom
Warping my loom
Header and end stitch on weaving
Simple shuttle weaving.
Warp threads using indie-dyed merino yarn
Rigid heddle loom
Warp threads ready to lash
Placement strips and header on loom.
Indie dyed yarns are balled
Rigid heddle loom.
Artisn hand weaving, unique gift.



Memories of an incredible journey in a vintage car road trip Bhutan.
So many stories. Wonderful friendships.  The Mongar festival was a highlight and the memory of this journey is woven into this functional artwork.


Fields of corn and rice crept close to the road we travelled in our vintage car driving from Bangkok to London. This blanket/wrap was inspired by the weeks of having fields being our companion through Thailand, Laos and China.


In Morocco; sitting on an earthen floor weaving with other women… those memories are the framework for the blankets I’m weaving five years later. 
We travel the world in our nearly one hundred year old car, and my experiences continue to live through my expression of my artworks.


Denim jeans strewn on the floor of our teenage son's room, beneath a desk with scattered drawings of faceting styles; and glistening small coloured gemstones. This blanket was woven for our son. A childhood which seemed to pass so quickly.


Our vintage car meandered along the rough and dusty roads; passing fields of memory when Max grew tobacco 40 years ago at our farm here in Australia. We stopped and spoke with the farmers, celebrating a common crop and kinship with the land.