Weaving Stories
Fyti is more than just an authentic village in the Cypriot countryside – it is a living testament to one of the island’s oldest crafts. Fythkiotika embroidery is honoured by UNESCO as part of an Intangible Cultural Heritage.
Text: Eleni Xenou / Photos: Silvio Augusto Rusmigo
The day is sunlit, nature at its finest, and the journey to the village of Fyti is a pure delight. “A truly authentic Cypriot landscape,” I say to Silvio as I take in the blooming almond trees, the vineyards, the lush green plains, the sandy hills, and the charming little villages with their traditional stone houses. The only figures we encounter seem to belong to another era – people sitting in courtyards or at cafés, as if time itself has forgotten them there. It is their stories, I think, that have woven the history of this place. And as we approach Fyti, I eagerly anticipate meeting one such storyteller –Mrs Irini– who will welcome us into a world that is both handmade, symmetrical and harmonious.
ART FROM THE 12th CENTURY
We park the car in the village square, just outside her workshop. Across from us stands the Folk Art Museum; to the left, the beautiful Church of Agios Demetrios. At an altitude of 680 metres, the crisp air invites us to take deep breaths and let our gaze wander over the breathtaking panorama that stretches in every direction. Three small dogs come bounding toward us in greeting, the only movement in the surrounding stillness. “Only a handful of residents remain,” Mrs Irini explains after her warm welcome. “At this hour, the only people you’ll meet in the narrow streets are visitors who come specifically for the Fythkiotika.” She herself never left the village – nor did she ever want to. “We’re like exiles here,” she says with a hearty laugh. Her humour is the first thing that stands out; the rest of her many gifts reveal themselves gradually through her stories.
Before telling us about her renowned woven textiles, she suggests we sit outside in the sun for a coffee. Joining us is her daughter, Diamanto, who works as a curator at the museum. The coffee is prepared by Shermila, a young woman from Nepal who lives with Mrs Irini.
“We’ve grown old … we need a little help,” she says with a smile. She’s approaching eighty-seven. “You don’t look it,” I tell her. She enjoys the compliment. She’s worked hard since childhood. She did all kinds of jobs: working the fields, tending the vineyards, and when she returned home, she would weave at her loom. But the loom, she says, was her rest. And Diamanto agrees. “When we sit at the Voufa (loom bench), our troubles disappear.” Diamanto only learned to embroider in recent years, having married young and left the village. She decided to return after her father’s passing, visiting daily to keep her mother company while also learning the craft of Fythkiotika embroidery, a tradition dating back to the 12th century. It is one of the island’s oldest art forms.
INSPIRATION AND MEMORIES
The space around us feels like a scene from a film. Exquisite embroideries of all shapes and sizes hang everywhere, their patterns and colours mesmerising the eye. Shermila brings the coffees. “I also taught her how to weave. She has great talent,” Mrs Irini whispers to me. Without thinking, I picture her selling Fythkiotika textiles in Kathmandu. And in that moment, it occurs to me that perhaps the world is nothing more than an endless tapestry of stories – intertwining, knotted together, woven like a vibrant fabric.
On an old piece of furniture, I spot a collection of photographs: Mrs Irini in black and white as a young woman, then in colour alongside her daughters. In the foreground, looms; further back, a large basket filled with spools of thread. Strands are already threaded through the loom, ready for weaving. The Fythkiotika textiles, draped everywhere, envelop the room in an atmosphere that feels almost ritualistic.
Mrs Irini brings over her phone, saying she wants to show me something important. She taps the screen, and an old video from the state television archive of 1978 begins to play. A young woman with perfect posture stands before the camera, recounting the history of Fythkiotika embroidery. “That’s me in my youth,” she murmurs with pride. I watch her in admiration. “Back then, I used to go to the vineyards too,” she continues. “And at the same time, I made my embroideries. But now … hardly any young women want to learn the craft,” she adds, shaking her head dismissively. “They prefer working in hotels.” I ask her about the patterns – if they are her own creations. “Only a few. Most were passed down from my mother and grandmother,” she says. The names of the designs intrigue me: the teacher’s shoe, the little palm trees, the tiny people, the young girls – “all inspired by everyday life,” she explains. “For example, if the teacher visited, we’d notice a pattern on his shoe, like it, and turn it into a motif.” Diamanto adds that ancient Cypriot pottery designs also served as inspiration and suggests we go back to the very beginning of the Fythkiotika story.
HANDMADE HISTORY
The art of weaving flourished particularly during the Lusignan era, and the village of Fyti is explicitly mentioned in the records of their fiefs. Many years later, during British rule, Mrs Lewis –the wife of a British official– enthusiastically describes Fyti’s exquisite handicrafts in her book, A Lady’s Impressions of Cyprus, in 1893. Fythkiotiko embroidery is, therefore, one of the most significant loom-woven textiles of the Cypriot countryside. Diamanto adds an important detail: Telemachos Kanthos, the renowned Cypriot painter, was also captivated by Fythkiotiko embroidery when he visited the village in the 1960s.
In her workshop, Mrs Irini has two looms –one traditional and one more modern– both crafted by local artisans. She tells me that Fythkiotika embroideries are known as Ploumia tis Voufas (the loom’s decoratives) and that their designs are called Ploumia. They stand out for their vibrant colours and intricate geometric patterns. In the old days, the colour palette was limited to red and blue; later, yellow, orange, and green were introduced. As I admire the looms, she explains how she threads them – either with her fingers or using the Makoutzin (shuttle). She emphasises that Fythkiotiko embroidery is double-sided, with both a front and a reverse, but during the weaving process, the reverse side faces up. In other words, when she embroiders, she doesn’t see the finished side. “And what if you make a mistake?” I ask. “A mistake can become a new design,” she replies, and I find that thought remarkable. As for the production process, she gives me a brief overview of how it once involved multiple steps: harvesting the cotton, removing the seeds, spinning it into thread, winding it using an Anemi (swift) and a special wooden, hand-operated wheel, gathering the stretched threads, and finally setting them onto the loom. Today, of course, ready-made threads are used, and much of this process has been simplified.
LENTILS AND THE AROMA OF BASIL
It’s already one in the afternoon, and both women insist that we stay for lunch. Before we even have a chance to reply, the table is already set beside pots of basil. “The genuine hospitality of the people in the Cypriot countryside embodies all the values of this land,” I whisper to Silvio as Diamanto arrives, carrying a large pot filled with lentils. Behind her, the Fythkiotika embroideries sway proudly in the breeze – like ancient secrets.
