Most days I am constantly moving, binding and folding cloth of all descriptions, and other days I get to sit back and just watch the dye make its mark. There is a yin and yang element to dye; a frenzy and a calm. I love all of it, even on the days when I’m tired and cold.

I spend a lot of time lost in thought when I work. Sometimes my head is full of a technique, a colour, or how can I achieve what I want to do, and will anyone care that it took me 8 hours to get this shade.

 At the heart of it though, I love dyeing because I love colour and I love the alchemy of changing the colour of cloth using plants.

It’s pleasing to think that a plant can yield an incredible amount of colour if you know which part to use. Knowing how to extract the colour is important; does it require heating, or will a cold treatment work better? Does it like an acid or alkaline environment, and will it fade if I wash it or leave it in the sun, and will it get darker if hidden away. I love the secrets of natural dyes, and how slowly you are forced to learn them. Each dye has it’s own personality to express. It’s like a wary friend, slowly sharing secrets, building trust.

Indigo and I have a special relationship. We’re like high maintenance lovers, both fiery and stubborn, quick to temper and and easy to appease. We’ve spent a lot of time together and I feel we have settled into something comforting and easy. We’re each other’s old sweaters, and most days we go with everything.

To dye with indigo is a bit like developing a photo. A lovely chemical process occurs, and working with it reminds me of the darkroom I spent many hours in back when I was at university. I remember the smell of the chemicals, the agitation both physical and mental, and the few seconds of hesitation and expectation as I waited for an image to emerge. Perhaps one of the reasons I am so drawn to dye and indigo in particular is because it has such a similar process. When you first pull your work from the vat, it is an acid yellow or green, which shifts to blue as the indigo goes through a chemical transformation. It is completely mesmerising and exhilarating.

Indigo is a patient friend. I can leave my vats alone for days, even weeks, and slowly they will fall asleep until I need to wake them. With a gentle shake indigo will awaken from its slumber, and only requires a little nurturing to be back in top shape. I have learned over time when the vat is ready, worn out, or too old by its colour and scent.

The type of indigo vat I run begins with a fresh coppery burning smell, similar to the smell of a match being struck, and continues to smell this way while in it’s usable state. In the beginning and on revival it has a coppery purple sheen, and its depths turn a sickly yellow green. After a few weeks of being left idle, or being revived too many times, it will start to smell repugnant, and eventually, if I leave a worn out vat for too long, it will stink like slippery fish past their prime. At its disposal indigo is a dull, sludgey deep green and navy.

I always feel a twinge when I tip out a vat I have made great work in. It can be hard to say goodbye, but I love the challenge of making friends with the next.

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Victoria Pemberton is teaching indigo shibori workshops at the Cecilia Fox warehouse in Brunswick, Melbourne on the 12th and the 19th of October. Quick! Book here.