"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 18
The Paris exhibition left a long shadow, not just in the fashion world but in the hearts of the artisans and communities they'd touched. Back in Marrakech, the council's workshop buzzed with new energy. Orders flooded in for custom pieces inspired by the exhibition—cloaks with Maasai beadwork for a New York gallery, scarves woven with Australian kapi dye for a Tokyo boutique, parkas with Inuit embroidery for a Canadian outdoor brand.
Su Yao sat at a table, sorting through fabric samples for their next project: a collaboration with a group of Navajo weavers in the American Southwest. The samples were a riot of color—deep indigos, earthy reds, and sunflower yellows—each thread carrying a story. "Look at this," she said, holding up a swatch with a complex diamond pattern. "It's a Navajo yei design, representing the spirits. We need to get this right."
Elena nodded, sipping mint tea. "Their reservation has been hit hard by drought. This project could be a lifeline."
As they planned, a courier arrived with a large envelope marked "Confidential." Inside was an invitation from the Vatican—to create liturgical vestments using their sustainable fabrics. "The Pope wants to 'usher in a new era of eco-conscious worship,'" Su Yao read aloud, her eyes wide. "They've set up a meeting in Rome next week."
The council debated late into the night. "The Vatican? That's huge," Fiona said, twirling a lock of hair. "But what about our commitment to the Navajo?"
Nala leaned forward. "We can't choose one over the other. We need to find a way to do both."
They decided to split the team—Su Yao, Elena, and Giovanni would head to Rome, while Nala, Fiona, and Maria's granddaughter, Lin, would travel to the Navajo reservation. "We'll keep in touch," Su Yao said, squeezing Nala's hand. "This is what 'Threads Without Borders' is all about—spreading the work, not hoarding it."
In Rome, the Vatican's grandeur was overwhelming. Su Yao, Elena, and Giovanni were led through marble halls to a meeting room filled with cardinals in red robes. The head of the Vatican's cultural department, Cardinal Rossi, greeted them with a warm smile. "Your work has inspired us," he said. "The Pope believes that faith and sustainability go hand in hand. We want these vestments to be a symbol of that."
Su Yao presented their ideas: a chasuble made from recycled seaweed fiber, its hem embroidered with gold thread in the shape of a dove; a stole woven with Navajo yei patterns, representing the universal nature of spirituality; a mitre topped with a crown of recycled metal, symbolizing the Earth as a precious gift.
The cardinals listened intently, asking questions about the materials, the artisans, the environmental impact. When Su Yao mentioned that some of the gold thread was sourced from recycled electronics in Nairobi, Cardinal Rossi's eyes lit up. "This is exactly what we need," he said. "A message of hope, of renewal, woven into every stitch."
But as they delved deeper into the project, they faced a challenge. The Vatican had strict liturgical guidelines for vestment design, and some of their more experimental ideas—like a see-through alb made from a new biodegradable mesh—were met with hesitation. "We need to respect their traditions," Giovanni said, frowning. "But we also want to push the boundaries a little."
Back in the Navajo reservation, Nala, Fiona, and Lin were welcomed with open arms. The weavers showed them their looms, passed down through generations, and shared stories of how the land and its spirits inspired their work. "Our patterns are our prayers," an elder named Atsidi said, running his hand over a rug with a lightning bolt design. "They keep the balance."
Fiona was struck by the way the Navajo weavers used negative space in their designs—leaving gaps that were as important as the threads themselves. "It's like a breath of fresh air," she said. "In Scotland, we're all about filling every inch. Here, the empty spaces speak."
They spent days experimenting with new combinations of materials—blending Navajo cotton with seaweed fiber, using kapi dye to add a touch of Australian desert to the Southwest palette. Lin, who had a background in graphic design, created digital mock-ups of the new designs, which the weavers then translated onto their looms.
One evening, as they sat around a campfire, Atsidi told them a story about the first weaver, a woman who learned the art from the Spider Woman herself. "She wove the world into being," he said, his voice soft in the darkness. "And every time we pick up a thread, we're continuing her work."
In Rome, Su Yao and the team found a compromise. They kept the traditional shapes of the vestments but used innovative materials and added subtle modern touches—like hidden pockets in the chasuble for the Pope's reading glasses. Cardinal Rossi approved the designs, and the work began.
As the days turned into weeks, the two projects took shape. The Navajo weavers sent photos of their progress—rugs and blankets that were now infused with the global spirit of "Threads Without Borders." In Rome, the Vatican's seamstresses worked alongside Giovanni, carefully stitching the seaweed fiber and gold thread into the ornate vestments.
Su Yao, exhausted but elated, stood in the Vatican's workshop, watching as the final touches were added to the chasuble. She thought of the Navajo elder's words about the first weaver. They were all continuing that work, she realized—weaving a new world, one stitch at a time.
The future was full of unknowns, but she knew one thing for sure: as long as there were threads to be woven, stories to be told, and hands willing to work together, the journey would never end.