Get in touch with usThe warp roll is the tightly wound bundle of vertical threads — the warp — that feeds the loom. Preparing it is a mix of planning and logic: the design dictates how each thread lines up, one by one, in the right colour sequence and spacing.
Those threads are then drawn through metal combs and wound into a roll hundreds of metres long on what looks like a barrel missing slats, perfectly even in tension.
One mistake here and stripes wander, motifs skew, or the fabric shrinks crooked.
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Before heddles, treadles, or shuttles enter the story, the warp roll locks in the blueprint of the fabric. It decides whether the final cloth will fall like silk, wear like denim, or soak like a towel.
At Jennifer’s Hamam and Jennifer’s Collection, large rolls (considered tiny by the factory world) are wound using a sectional warper for accuracy, but the decisions — thread count, colour order, correction by feel — belong to the master warp maker working beside Jennifer. Machines can spin; only humans can see and feel when a colour shifts in daylight or a thread pulls tighter than it should.
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Every roll begins with design math — how wide, how dense, what colour sequence. It’s like writing sheet music: one wrong count and the melody falls apart.
A creel — a tall metal rack holding dozens of cones — stands ready. Each colour sits in its place, and the warp maker pulls threads down, passing each through a slotted metal guide. Colour by colour, strand by strand, the plan takes shape in hand and eye.

Each thread from the bobbins is then guided through a fine metal comb called a reed. Its narrow teeth keep the threads evenly spaced and aligned — the foundation of order before tensioning begins. The work looks simple, but one misplaced thread here will echo through the entire fabric later.

Once the order is set, the bundle attaches to the slatted warper drum. As the machine turns, the threads wind on in perfectly parallel rows. The rhythm never stops: pausing to tie threads, checking every cone, replacing one the moment it empties so the cloth’s continuity never breaks.
If the warp is colourful, it’s a living rainbow winding itself into order. To most people it looks like stripes; to the master it’s the unseen architecture of design.
Safety is strict: these drums move with real force. No loose sleeves, no scarves, no jewellery — every motion deliberate. History has unfortunately lost even the most experienced warp roll makers thanks to something getting caught while the machine is rolling the threads.

When the temporary roll is complete, it’s transferred onto the metal warp beam that will feed the loom.
This process, called beaming, is slow and careful. The roll unwinds under controlled tension while the beam turns, pulling the threads evenly onto its core.
Assistants feed paper or warping slats between layers to separate and cushion the build. This prevents threads from biting into earlier layers and keeps tension consistent; it also helps ensure humidity doesn’t affect the roll.

Seen from above, the colours form perfect bands — blues, greens, etc. or in this case, deep burgundy and cream. The design is now fixed, ready for the loom.
The finished beam, heavy with hundreds of metres of warp, is carried by hand to the loom.
Placement depends on what’s being woven:
If the pattern is new, every end must be drawn individually through the heddles and the reed. If it’s a repeat, the new warp ties onto the tail of the old so the threads pull through in order.
Here the warp’s story ends — and the loom’s begins.
Warping isn’t just meticulous; it’s risky work.
Each mistake echoes later in the cloth — invisible until it’s too late to fix.
Preparing the warp roll isn’t glamorous: no finished pattern yet, no cloth to show. But it decides everything — colour, tension, survival of the design. It’s exhausting, precise, and largely unseen. Without it, no towel, robe, or textile could ever take form.
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