Meet Irene Infantes!
To begin with, tell us a bit about yourself. How did your relationship with textiles start, and at what point did your work transition into art?
My relationship with textiles began a long time ago—by the age of seven, I was already sewing and had learned to translate my drawings into cross-stitch. That meant I could draw with a needle, which was a big discovery for me. I moved to London on a scholarship to study at Central Saint Martins, and although I initially wanted to study fashion, I eventually decided to graduate in Textile Design. Central Saint Martins purchased some very experimental textile samples from me for their archive, and the University of the Arts London invited me to participate in an exhibition at the MKG Museum in Hamburg—not with my finished prints but with my “sketches.” The museum purchased one of these pieces for its collection. I didn’t understand any of it!
I started working as a carpet designer, and since most clients chose to hang the rugs on the wall, I decided to apply to several art calls. I won a few, and then exhibitions started coming my way.
Trained in London and with an international vision, your practice has a strong connection to the local, materially and symbolically. How do these two dimensions coexist in your work?
The local connection exists, first of all, because of nostalgia, and secondly because living abroad changes the way you see your own country. Looking at your roots becomes an almost anthropological exercise—no longer a love imposed on you, but one you choose. Suddenly, your culture no longer fully belongs to you, but you still belong to it. It’s like peeking through a keyhole that has always been right in front of me. That’s one reason I started researching Spanish merino wool, ancient practices related to shepherding, and the significance of fibre throughout history.
In your projects, you work with materials like wool, but also ceramic, foam, cotton… How do you decide which material to use for a piece? What interests you about the dialogue between different media?
My interest in mixing materials comes from a playful place. When I begin a piece, I start with the material—it kind of leads me and tells me what to do. I like mixing mediums or techniques because it brings joy through experimentation; otherwise, I’d get bored.
Your use of wool is especially meaningful—not just for its cultural and traditional value, but also for the paths these materials take. What story are you trying to tell through this fibre?
It’s almost an act of protest—wool was a cornerstone of Spain’s economic development. Today, despite Spanish merino being one of the most valuable wools in the global market, there are barely any sheep of this native breed left in the country, and there’s only one wool-washing facility still operating. The complexity and cost of managing the fibre lead companies to undervalue it, shearers even less, and shepherds almost not at all. After shearing, many shepherds are forced to get rid of the wool and send their sheep and lambs into the meat industry. I aim to reclaim this wool as much as possible; I use shearing waste or wool from old mattresses in my work. It’s my way of telling the story and showcasing it in a gallery setting, where the material suddenly gains new value.
Your work brings together landscapes like memory, the body, protection, and territory. What role do domestic and ritual elements play in your art? At Alhaja, we celebrate local craftsmanship and the history of the objects around us. How do you incorporate tradition, folk knowledge, or textile history into your work?
Textiles already carry an inherent domestic connotation, but they are also deeply tied to both religious and folk rituals. I’m more interested in the latter, perhaps because I’m nostalgic and because they’re so embedded in everyday life that they often go unnoticed: bridal trousseaus, hair ribbons, birth cloths, hand-me-downs, your first bra. Textiles are present from the moment we’re born, and I like to build an imaginative world based on a curious or moving detail. I observe what’s around me and ask: How many meanings can an apron have?
I also search in folk songs—knowledge that should be kept alive. These songs are full of ritual, domesticity, and tradition. My favourite as a child was La Tarara, and I still love it… I imagined that ruffled dress with little bells and tried to draw it so many times.
In your case, sustainability seems to go beyond materials: it’s about timing, methods, and care. How do you understand sustainability in artistic practice today?
I don’t consider myself a sustainability champion—I also use acrylic yarns or polyester bases, depending on the project. I try to use them less because I’m aware of the times we live in. For my artworks, I do recycle everything I can, from factory waste to flea market finds. When I attend an exhibition full of polystyrene sculptures, it hurts a little. My comfort is that most of my pieces can eventually disintegrate.
Much of your work stems from unexpected references: Caliphal turbans, hieroglyphs, diagrams, even technical instructions. What does an image or story need to have in order to become an artwork?In the end, assembly instructions are a form of storytelling, and a diagram is too. I like it when a seemingly simple image holds a lot of meaning—that fascinates me.
Unintentionally, I tend to create shapes or volumetric pieces that resemble a bag, a bowl—objects that hold something but require you to peer inside. Just like a symbol, you have to approach it and interpret it so it can take on one or many meanings. I find hieroglyphs fascinating—and even traffic signs; some are really beautiful. The Japanese are incredibly elegant in that sense: their symbol for physical disability, for example, is a four-leaf clover, and for people over 75, it’s an autumn flower.
If one of your pieces were turned into a piece of jewellery, what would it be like? What shape or gesture would condense the essence of your visual universe?
Oh, that’s hard—and how I’d love that! I’d probably go for a necklace made of little bowls. Some would contain a pearl, others a crystal, others a hole. Maybe even make a “mourning jewel,” like in the Victorian era, but with a lock of lamb’s wool. Or I’d likely study some rural object and start from there—there are such beautiful tools, full of possibilities.
Key moments in your career include recognition by figures like Christopher Farr and your presence at international galleries and fairs. How important is the way a piece is presented and contextualised?
The way a piece is contextualised is important—that’s why fairs can be challenging. There, the gallery or curator is in charge of a good display and making sure the piece is legible outside its usual context. Solo exhibitions are much easier; they come with a text and more support.
Lastly, what are you working on now? What new paths or materials would you like to explore in the near future?
Right now, I’m working a lot with paper, and I’m really enjoying it. On another note, I’ve realised how much I miss designing. I’m trying to return to those kinds of projects.
That’s why Matteo Pacella—furniture designer/artist—and I launched Fiormi, a personal furniture project born from the need to use different media. We do everything ourselves: we design the pieces together, Matteo builds the structures, and I handle the sewing and textile design. Our first collaboration is coming out soon, and it’ll be with the brand Vestaform—we’re really excited!
