Damien Ajavon: Journey of identities

One of my most special memories related to the world of textiles was when I was about to leave the house, and my mother, with a sense of urgency, tore a piece of fabric from her cupboard. She returned holding what she called a ‘manjak cloth’ black with white and red squares. She explained that her own mother had made it for her when she left home, pregnant with me, to move to Paris with my father. That cloth, she said, had been made to protect her, and now it was going to protect me. Holding that piece of fabric, knowing it was from my grandmother during such a pivotal time in my mother’s life and understanding its purpose, truly felt like receiving a relic, a tangible connection to my family’s history and a powerful symbol of love and protection passed down through generations.

Ah, Chemin vers Milano… that piece is indeed a personal journey woven in threads. You see it as an ode to Milan. That city holds a unique and fascinating interplay of the hard and soft, the sophisticated and effortlessly chic. It’s a feeling I wanted to capture, that particular Milanese sprezzatura! An effortless grace that I find utterly captivating. The challenge was to evoke a three-dimensional experience on a two-dimensional surface.

But the narrative doesn’t begin solely on the cobblestone streets of Milan. Its origins are more layered, stemming from the very core of my being. My creative wellspring is connected to my cultural heritage as a French-African, intertwined with my formative years growing up in the vibrant tapestry of Paris. This dual belonging has always been a powerful lens through which I perceive the world. I’ve been acutely aware of this duality, this beautiful tension of identities, and the profound importance of honoring and preserving my ancestral roots.

Chemin vers Milano, in that sense, becomes a metaphor for this personal journey of navigating these different worlds. The chemin, the path, isn’t just a physical route to Milan; it’s a metaphorical passage through my own cultural landscape. The textures and colors within the carpet echo this interplay. Perhaps the harder, more structured elements speak to the architectural rigor I observed in Milan, while the softer, more fluid forms and perhaps earthier tones whisper of my African heritage. The sophistication might be a nod to the Parisian influence, the effortless ease a quality I admire in Milanese life.

My travels for craft, the encounters with artisans and their time-honored techniques, also subtly inform the story. Each knot, each color choice, carries the echo of these journeys, a reverence for the hands that have shaped textiles for centuries.

Ultimately, the narratives woven into my textiles aren’t singular; they’re a confluence of personal history, cultural inheritance, and the sensory experiences of the places I encounter. Chemin vers Milano is a testament to how a city can resonate with one’s own internal story, becoming a point of convergence for diverse influences and a celebration of the beautiful complexities of belonging. It’s an invitation to walk that path, to feel the hard and soft, the sophistication and ease, not just of a city, but of a life lived between worlds, and to perhaps sense the subtle dance of depth and flatness within its woven form.

For me, that story gets told through the textiles. Each piece I make is like a snapshot of where I am in understanding myself, my background, what moves me, how I see the world. And putting those pieces out there, letting them exist in the world, feels like leaving little breadcrumbs of that story (Archives).

It’s not always a clear path; there are twists and turns in the making, and those teach me things too. And when people connect with my work, it’s like another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. So, it’s a journey, definitely still in motion, and the textiles and craft are my way of figuring things out as I go.

My African roots, my upbringing in the West, and my queer experience aren’t separate boxes; they’re all threads woven into how I see the world and consequently into my projects. You might notice the bold colors of my heritage alongside a more Western sense of structure. And being queer definitely informs the stories I want to tell about fluidity about questioning norms.

That idea of fluidity really resonates especially being surrounded by the constantly moving water and shifting landscapes. It connects directly to how I think about navigating different cultures and communities. Donna Haraway’s concept of fluidity in the environment feels very relevant.

In my textiles this translates to a sense of movement in the fibers perhaps layers of texture representing different environments or even a feeling of a journey. It’s about capturing that dynamic relationship we have with the world around us that constant flow and interconnectedness in a way that feels both personal and universal.

It’s true, isn’t it? Identity is such a hot topic right now. When I think about what shapes who we are, it feels like a big, messy mix. Obviously, things like our background where we come from, our family stories, our cultural roots those are huge. They’re like the foundational threads in our personal tapestry. And then there’s our lived experience the things we go through, the communities we connect with, the joys and the struggles. That really molds us.

As for what’s less important? I’d say maybe the labels others try to stick on us if they don’t feel true to who we are inside. Or maybe superficial things like what’s trendy or what society expects at a certain moment. Those feel more like costumes we can try on, but they don’t necessarily define the core of who we are.

Why this big need to define identity now? I think it’s partly because the world is changing so fast. Old structures are shifting, and people are realizing they don’t have to fit into these neat little boxes anymore. There’s a real hunger to understand ourselves on our own terms, to find our people, and to feel seen for who we truly are. Maybe it’s also about pushing back against feeling invisible or misunderstood. In a world that can feel overwhelming, having a strong sense of self, of knowing where you stand, can be really grounding and empowering.

Experimentation? Yeah, that’s totally my jam, both in the studio and just, you know, living life. Creatively, it’s where the magic happens, right? Like, you have an idea, but you don’t really know what it’s going to become until you start playing with the materials, trying out different techniques, seeing what happens when you push things a little. That’s how I stumble upon the unexpected, those happy accidents that often become the most exciting parts of a piece. It keeps things fresh and stops me from getting stuck in a rut.

Personally, I think that experimental mindset spills over into how I approach things in general. I’m not afraid to try new things, whether it’s a weird recipe, a different way of looking at a problem, or even just striking up a conversation with someone new. And this is especially true with my travels for craft. Being in new places, connecting with artisans who have completely different skills and traditions it forces you to experiment. You have to push your own boundaries just to communicate, to learn, to forge those new friendships. It’s like the world becomes an extension of my studio, a giant laboratory of techniques and ideas.

Where do I feel like a really extraordinary experimenter? Hmm, maybe in pushing the boundaries of what textiles can do. I love mixing unexpected materials, trying out unconventional techniques, and seeing if I can make something feel completely new. It’s like, “Okay, fabric can do this, but what if we try that?” That’s the stuff that really excites me.

What should people experiment more with? I’d say failure. Seriously! We’re so afraid of getting things wrong, but that’s where so much learning and innovation comes from. Every “oops” moment is a chance to see something in a new light and maybe stumble onto something even better than what you originally planned. So, yeah, more playful messing around and less fear of the “wrong” answer. That’s my two cents, especially when you’re stepping into unfamiliar territory, whether it’s a new technique or a new culture.

That’s a great question because, honestly, my relationship with the ordinary and the repetitive is kind of like a secret love affair that fuels a lot of what I do. You might not see it on the surface of a finished piece, but it’s definitely there, humming beneath.

Take my music taste, for example. I can get totally monomaniacal about a song, listening to it on repeat until I’ve really absorbed every layer, every nuance, and then, yeah, I move on. There’s something about that deep dive into something seemingly simple that I find really satisfying. And you know, it’s similar with my obsession with warm colors. I can get completely lost in exploring the different shades and intensities of reds, oranges, and pinks, almost like repeating a visual melody until I truly understand its emotional resonance.

The ordinary, the everyday things around us a cracked tile, the way light falls on a certain texture, the colors in a market those are often the seeds of my inspiration. It’s about really seeing those things, noticing the beauty or the strangeness in what might seem commonplace. The repetitive actions of my craft then become a way to translate those observations, to pull out the extraordinary from the ordinary. It’s like taking a single note and repeating it, but each repetition allows you to explore its resonance and its relationship to the silence around it. So yeah, the everyday and the repetitive, along with my deep dive into warm hues, aren’t just background noise; they’re essential ingredients in my creative world.

What truly drives me? It comes down to a few essential elements. First, my mother has been a constant force. Her support, and her own inherent strength have always been a powerful inspiration.

Then there’s my inner circle, my trusted friends. They’re the critical eyes I rely on, the ones who challenge my perspectives and push my thinking.

And honestly, at its core is this visceral need to give form to the (in)tangible, this deep passion for the craft itself. Taking raw materials and imbuing them with narrative, allowing them to resonate with emotion that’s the fundamental impulse behind my work. It’s a necessity, this act of creation.

Of course, the vibrant spectrum of warm colors those intense reds, oranges, pinks is a constant source of energy and visual fascination.

So, it’s this convergence of deep personal anchors, the intrinsic compulsion to create fueled by a love for the craft, and the potent language of color that truly fuels my artistic path.

Exactly! I have this notebook that I start fresh every September and fill up until it’s completely full. It really becomes a mix for everything. It’s where my project ideas first take shape maybe just a quick scribble of a texture I’m imagining or a color combination I’m obsessed with.

Then, when I’m traveling for craft, it’s like that notebook comes alive with all the new input. I’ll add some notes about specific weaving techniques I see in my travels, or the way a certain community uses a particular dye. I’ll sketch patterns I find inspiring in Moroccan tilework or paste in a little snippet of fabric I picked up in a market somewhere. Even just a fleeting idea I have on a train ends up in there.

So, it’s not just a personal reflection space; it’s a working document that directly feeds my projects. Those travel observations become raw material, sparking new directions and informing the textures, colors, and narratives within my textiles.

If I had to make a super quick escape with just one thing… it would definitely be my tiny loom.

I got it last year specifically for making samples, and it’s become this incredibly important tool. It’s small enough to grab in a flash, but it holds so much potential. It’s where I test out new color combinations, experiment with different textures and weaves, and basically play without the commitment of a huge project. It’s like my portable laboratory of textile possibilities.

It’s also special because it represents that initial spark of an idea. It’s on that little loom that I first see a concept begin to take physical form. It’s the tangible starting point for so many of my larger pieces.