Get in touch with usIn a world chasing fast fashion and faster profits, it’s easy to forget how textiles were originally made—by hand, with patience, knowledge, and care. This isn’t a ranking of techniques; it’s an invitation to slow down, understand, and re‑value four foundational methods of textile creation: knitting, tufting, knotting, and weaving.
All four were born of necessity and grew into art. Then machines came, and we surrendered soul for speed.
This article isn’t about nostalgia—it’s about survival. Ours. Our health and welfare. Our planet’s. Our sanity. Our economic future in a world with a growing‑population. When we stopped valuing handmade goods, we didn’t just lose culture—we compromised the well‑being of ourselves and the planet, our economy, and our connection to one another.
Knitting likely originated in the Middle East over a thousand years ago and spread into Europe via Ottoman and Mediterranean trade routes. By the 14th century, knitting guilds had formed, and during the Renaissance, hand‑knitted stockings became prized luxury items. Then, in the 19th century, the circular knitting machine was born. It revolutionized production speed, but not textile quality.
Hand‑knitting creates looped fabric from a single thread. It allows for variation in tension, detail, and warmth. It is meditative, adaptable, and inherently personal. While both hand and machine knitting can unravel if a loop breaks, hand‑knitted items are far more forgiving. Their stitches are visible, their yarns are typically higher quality, and repairs can be done easily by re‑looping or darning—often with nothing more than a crochet hook or needle.
Machine‑knitted garments, especially in fast fashion, are tightly tensioned on industrial frames and difficult to mend once damaged. They’re made for speed and profit, not for second chances. That’s the key difference: hand‑knits are made to be repaired—machine‑knits are made to be replaced.
The intimacy of handmade wearables, the joy of mending what matters, and garments designed to be cherished—not discarded.
Hand‑knitting is thriving—not in factories, but in homes, studios, and vibrant knitting circles around the world. From Istanbul to Iceland, Tokyo to Toronto, millions gather in living rooms, libraries, community centres, and yarn cafés to knit, share stories, and pass on tradition. It is a pillar of the slow‑fashion movement and a wellness practice for many, offering calm, community, and creativity in equal measure.
But the hard truth remains: well over 90 % of the knitwear found in stores today—from sweaters to socks—is machine‑made. Fast fashion relies on high‑speed knitting machines, low‑cost synthetic yarns, and disposable design cycles. Hand‑knitting, in contrast, prioritises quality, care, and longevity—making each piece a quiet protest against throw‑away culture.
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Tufting, in its broadest sense, follows two very different historical threads. One is ancient: a warm-garment technique—loops of yarn inserted into knitted fabric for insulation, used in mittens and socks across cold Eurasia. The other emerged centuries later as a decorative folk art: in 19th-century Appalachia, women hand-punched yarn into cotton cloth to make chenille bedspreads. By the early 20th century, this evolved into an industrial method—turbocharged in Dalton, Georgia, the tufted‑carpet capital—where machines and tufting guns replicated the effect on factory scale.
By the 1930s, tufting guns arrived, accelerating the craft: artisans could create sculptural rugs and wall hangings more quickly than by hand. Today, skilled makers crafting custom hand‑tufted rugs with wool or jute still rely on hand‑operated tools and artistic intuition to deliver unique, timeless designs.
Handmade tufting means design by feel, material honesty, warmth, and a direct connection between maker and piece. Machine tufting means adhesives, plastic grids, and petroleum backings that suffocate the Earth and leach toxins into homes.
Hand‑tufting is rare and revered—the realm of boutique ateliers and heritage workshops—yet it’s still overshadowed by chemically laden, factory‑simulated décor made to be replaced.
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Knotting is one of the oldest textile traditions on Earth. Early examples appear among the Huns—a nomadic people of Central Asia and what is now Türkiye—and spread into China, Persia, and beyond. But it was the Turks who invented the symmetrical Gordian (Ghiordes) knot: a double knot that wraps around two warps and tucks under, forming a tight collar that resists shifting and pile loss for centuries. While most of the world adopted the simpler single-knot technique, Turkish artisans remain the only weavers who still use the original double knot. Some true Turkish knotted carpets, such as the 2,500‑year‑old Pazyryk carpet, still survive in museums today.
Modern machine‑made rugs only mimic knots. Fibres are folded and hot‑glued into place, not tied. These rugs degrade quickly and shed micro‑plastics, often using petrochemical glues that off‑gas VOCs (volatile organic compounds).
Modern faux‑knotted rugs rely on synthetic fibres and hot‑melt adhesives laden with VOCs like styrene, benzene, toluene, and phthalates. Studies show VOCs from these rug backings are emitted for years, triggering eye, nose, and throat irritation, headaches, allergies, and even long‑term risks like endocrine disruption and cancer. These rugs also shed microplastics into indoor air and dust—posing respiratory and cardiovascular threats—and contribute to environmental degradation through non‑biodegradable plastic backings that leach toxins into landfills and waterways. We exchanged heirloom-quality, hand‑tied rugs—steeped in cultural heritage—for disposable, toxic carpet masquerading as art.
When we chose price over craft, we lost breathable, natural-fibre knotted carpets that not only last multiple generations, but also don’t irritate the body, off-gas harmful chemicals, or produce toxic dust—instead filling our homes with materials that burden both human health and the planet.
True hand‑knotting survives only in pockets of deep tradition—Türkiye, Pakistan, Iran, Nepal, Morocco—where family ateliers fight to keep the craft alive. In Türkiye, women once learned knotting at the home loom; industrialization displaced them, turning a household art into something rare and undervalued.
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Weaving is one of the earliest forms of fabric creation—found across ancient Mesopotamia (the heart of the Ottoman Empire), Egypt, the Middle East, Africa, India, and Mesoamerica. In its most basic form, it involves interlacing warp (vertical) and weft (horizontal) threads. As time passed, the looms became more sophisticated and capable of creating complex and beautiful designs—always using natural fibres and creating strong, long-lasting, and repairable pieces.
In the 17th century, Ottoman weavers, under the patronage of Sultans and Sultanesses, introduced a weaving innovation never seen before — adding looped pile to flat-woven cloth. This breakthrough laid the foundation for the modern Turkish towel.
The ‘looping’ technique likely began as a novel form of decoration on pestamel, or flat-woven towels — a result of towels being such an essential part of the daily hamam ritual in Ottoman life, and of Sultans and Sultanesses continually pushing their artisanal weavers to create ever more beautiful and elaborate pieces. Textile collectors with pieces from the 17th century have examples showing the early stages of this exceptional innovation. Over time, the loops spread to cover the entire towel — transforming both form and function. This breakthrough required the addition of a second warp to create the loops, an advancement that revolutionized the concept of what a towel could be. It’s this very technique that defined quality and durability — and made the term “Turkish towel” synonymous with both.
This art was nearly lost in July of 2009. The last towel weaver in Türkiye — and the world — was just ten days away from sending his final two looms, one not even manned, to the scrap yard. A chance encounter changed everything: a single conversation sparked the revival of a weaving technique that had all but vanished. Without that moment — and the decision to act on it — the true nature of Turkish towels might have quietly disappeared from living memory.
These old-style shuttled looms—whether for flat-woven pieces or the special looms used in the Ottoman-invented looping technique—rely entirely on the artisan to make the magic happen. When the weaver steps away, the loom falls silent. There’s only human rhythm, judgment, and mastery driving the production of these heirloom pieces. You can read more about our weavers here.
Textiles made this way are structurally superior—stronger, more durable, and lasting for decades with proper care. But their value goes far beyond the cloth. Each piece supports a human livelihood, contributes to a local economy, and keeps alive a lineage of skill that can’t be replaced by machines.
Mass production stripped away centuries of engineering genius. It centralized profits, collapsing rural economies that once thrived on local craftsmanship. It shifted us from natural fibres to chemically grown cotton and synthetics—at great cost to the environment and our health. Non‑organic cotton uses up to eleven times more water than certified‑organic alternatives. Its chemical processing pollutes soil and water tables, leaves toxic residues in the textiles we touch daily, and has been linked to allergies and other health issues. The result is degraded fibres that absorb less, trap moisture, and grow musty and brittle over time—unlike organic cotton, which remains absorbent, soft and breathable for years.
Across most of the world, hand weaving survives only as souvenir craft. In Türkiye, the loom still hums—under one roof, operating as two sister brands: Jennifer’s Hamam and Jennifer’s Collection. These working ateliers support the country’s last master weavers on shuttle looms.
But the losses are profound. The maternal line of teachers—mothers who once passed down weaving skills at home—has been broken. Read how the maternal link was lost. The craft itself nearly vanished entirely in 2009. And the looped towel technique that made Turkish towels famous came within ten days of disappearing forever.
Sixteen years later, the two sister brands continue to serve thousands of loyal clients—many still using towels that have lasted 5, 10, even 15 years without thinning or fading. But this is only a drop in the bucket: factory textiles—mostly chemically grown cotton or synthetics—still dominate global markets.
When machines replaced hands, we lost more than craftsmanship—we lost intentionality.
Mass production flooded the world with convenience but stripped away care. Handmade means fewer chemicals, less energy, and far less waste. It means textiles built to endure—not unravel.
But it’s more than durability. Every loop, knot, tuft, and thread placed by skilled hands carries a story. These aren’t just items; they’re the living record of human time, mastery, and connection. Each one holds the quiet hum of a loom, the wisdom of generations, and the dignity of real work.
And the future? It depends entirely on consumer choice. We’re standing at a crossroads.
Every purchase is a vote—for the planet or against it. For human hands or against them. For the health of our children and their future—or against it.
Choosing handmade may look more expensive up front, but in truth, it’s the most affordable and sustainable path forward. One heirloom-quality towel or blanket outlasts dozens of synthetic copies and eases the burden on landfills. One piece of organic cotton spares the soil, conserves water, and protects your health.
Fast-made goods come with hidden costs—on your body, our air and water, and on the livelihoods of the people who still know how to make things right. Your money either fuels more sickness, pollution, and waste—or it brings back vitality to our health, our planet, our economies, and keeps an endangered art alive.
What we leave behind for our children depends on what we choose today.
If we want a future filled with breathable fabrics, rich soil, clean water, and safe homes—it starts with something as small, and as powerful, as the towel you dry your hands with.
• Jennifer’s Hamam works exclusively with GOTS‑certified organic cotton—woven by hand on old-style looms into thick-looped towels, flat-woven pestamel, luxurious bed linens, bathrobes, kese, and throws. Every piece is created with the same craftsmanship that saved a dying art.
• Jennifer’s Collection offers small-batch, curated designs in GOTS-certified organic cotton, linen, and silk—heirloom textiles made entirely by hand. From original-sized Turkish towels to elegant blankets, robes reimagined, custom dream pieces, and exquisite bed linens in both organic cotton and linen—crafted with the highest thread count possible and woven entirely by hand by the same master weavers our clients have championed for over sixteen years.
Discover heirloom-quality textiles that honor the planet, support master artisans, and change what we leave behind.
Whether you’re drawn to the thick-looped classics of Jennifer’s Hamam or the luxurious, small-batch designs of Jennifer’s Collection, every choice you make is a step toward a healthier, more beautiful world.