Chips of the Old Block

Written by Vikram Joshi

Calico: Cloth That Travelled the World

Calico begins on the Malabar Coast. A plain weave cotton—sometimes unadorned, sometimes alive with colour—named after Calicut, where it was first woven. Long before the Christian era, historians wrote of it. Early travellers marvelled at its fineness, its clarity of colour, its lightness in the hand.

By 1630, block-printed cottons from Calicut were arriving in England, known simply as Calicuts. Over time, the name expanded, coming to describe all Indian cottons woven with an equal balance of warp and weft. What remained constant was admiration. Indian textiles travelled far—carrying with them not just pattern and colour, but a philosophy of making.

Among those deeply influenced was William Morris.

William Morris and the Return to the Hand

Poet, artist, philosopher, and political thinker, Morris stood firmly against the tide of unchecked industrialisation. In 1861, he founded a home décor studio that revived what England had begun to forget: handicraft. His workshops produced block-printed wallpapers and textiles, embroideries, stained glass—objects shaped slowly, deliberately, with integrity.

By 1862, Morris focused intensely on block-printed wallpapers. In 1868, he began experimenting with natural dyes, attempting to recreate the richness of early 19th-century chintzes—chint, a word still spoken in India. His designs, Jasmine Trail and Tulip and Willow, emerged in 1870 and remain iconic even today.

Block-printed velveteen followed, becoming popular for upholstery in the latter half of the 19th century. Beneath these works lies a deep respect for Indian textile traditions—proof that inspiration does not diminish originality, but deepens it.

A Living Conversation: Morris, India, and the V&A

In 1996, as part of the centenary celebrations of William Morris’s life and work, the Victoria and Albert Museum invited me to conduct a workshop in London. The intention was simple: to demonstrate the richness of Indian textiles, particularly block printing, and its dialogue with Morris’s work.

The workshop formed part of the South Asian Arts Programme and welcomed both South Asian communities and the general public. Participants explored natural dyes and woodblock printing, tracing connections between Morris’s textiles and the museum’s Indian collection. Most materials and tools were brought from India, grounding the experience in authenticity. It became a shared moment—of learning, exchange, and recognition.

Edo Sarasa: When Indian Cloth Met Japan

Indian printed textiles travelled eastward too—through Persia, China, and across the oceanic Silk Route to Japan. During the Edo period (1603–1868), also known as the Tokugawa era, Japan was a society shaped by balance: economic stability, social order, artistic refinement, and careful stewardship of resources.

In this self-sufficient world, Indian-inspired textiles took on new meaning. Known as Edo Sarasa, these fabrics were initially imported by Portuguese, Spanish, and Dutch traders. Highly prized and strictly regulated, they were reserved for Samurai families, worn during tea ceremonies and formal occasions. Each family’s kimono carried a unique design, a marker of lineage and identity.

Eventually, Japanese artisans began reproducing these textiles locally—remarkably faithful to the original Indian colours and patterns. The respect was precise, almost reverential.

Encounters Across Time

In 2010, at a trade show in Paris, I noticed a quiet presence at our stall—a fourth-generation Edo-era printer, Motofumi Kobayashi. Polite, observant, returning each day to look more closely. When I visited his stall, the similarity between our fabrics was unmistakable. A conversation began.

Years later, Motofumi travelled to India to collaborate on Indian designs printed on special Japanese handwoven cloth. Soon after, I visited his workshop in Tokyo, where he showed me his remarkable collection of Indian-inspired prints. It was there that I encountered the original Sarasa designs—likely printed in Gujarat. The name, derived from saras, means “beautiful” in the local dialect. The cloth had travelled far, yet remembered its origin.

A Chip and the Old Block

Today, the question arises quietly but insistently: can digital tools coexist with traditional craft?

The world of block making is shrinking. Fine block makers are harder to find. Good wood is scarce. In Jaipur, traditional carvers have adapted—switching from gurjari to seesham wood, abandoning the compressed thassa technique altogether. Handles once carved from the same block are now often attached separately. Block makers from Farrukhabad, Bijnor, and Agra have migrated closer to printing centres like Sanganer and Bagru.

Change has always been part of craft. But what happens when continuity breaks?

What Is No Longer in Vogue

In Kashmir, embroidery once relied on printed block patterns to guide the needle across shawls, phirans, and kaftans. That practice has faded. Today, tracing paper and perforated vinyl sheets have replaced wood and ink.

Old printers once worked closely with specific block makers, who maintained detailed records—parat impressions—of every block carved for a family. Some blocks bore discreet marks on their handles, ensuring lineage and authenticity. Designs were guarded, rarely borrowed, deeply personal.

Much of this has disappeared.

Toward a Different Future

Block carving in India has long been sustained by Muslim artisan families, where tools were often handmade, and skills passed down through generations. Today, only a handful remain—perhaps 10 to 15 families from Uttar Pradesh who migrated to Jaipur decades ago. Many of their children now work in the IT sector, drawn by stability and opportunity.

And yet, perhaps this very shift offers a bridge.

Digital Block Carving: An Experiment at Rangotri

In 2014, during the Unbox Festival in Delhi, Rangotri collaborated with Falmouth University in the UK to explore whether digital tools could assist—not replace—traditional block carving. Led by Associate Professor Justin Marshall, the project sought to reproduce complex historical blocks from Rangotri’s archive using contemporary technologies.

Two approaches were tested: laser engraving using 2D image data, and full 3D CAD modelling followed by 3D printing. Each had its strengths and limitations. Laser engraving offered familiarity but limited depth. 3D printing allowed variation in depth and form, using durable materials like ABS and PLA, though scale and production time remained constraints.

The results were imperfect, but promising. Simpler designs translated well. More importantly, the process opened new questions.

Preserving the Hand, Extending the Language

The future of block printing will not be shaped by technology alone. It will depend on how sensitively tools are used—how traditions are honoured while capabilities expand. Digitising Rangotri’s archive could allow dormant designs to live again, opening pathways for new production and new expressions.

Some forms may emerge that traditional carving could never achieve. Others will remain resolutely handmade. Between the two lies a possibility.

Craft has always evolved—slowly, thoughtfully. The challenge now is to ensure that evolution remains rooted. That the block, whether carved or printed, continues to carry memory.