Lakshmi Madhavan On Turning Kasavu Into A Canvas Of Memory And Impact

Lakshmi Madhavan sees the world through gold-and-ivory-coloured glasses. As a Malayali, these hues are a deeply emblematic part of her sartorial heritage, embodying identity, divinity, and celebration. For Lakshmi, Kerala's iconic handloom kasavu is not just a cloth; it is a tactile language through which she expresses her ever-evolving relationship with ancestry, home, and self. 

In an interview with SheThePeople, Mumbai-based Lakshmi Madhavan spoke about how her ammamma's (grandmother) kasavu mundu veshtis shaped her earliest understanding of kasavu's significance, not as decoration but as an everyday ritual. Those memories have influenced the themes of grief, cultural continuity, and reconnection in her art.

Lakshmi, a marketing professional-turned-artist, collaborates with kasavu weavers in Kerala's Balaramapuram, merging age-old handloom techniques with contemporary expressions. She detailed how this has been deeply impactful; observing the rhythm of the loom, listening to stories, connecting with her culture, and tracing the symbolic weight of each thread. 

Lakshmi Madhavan in conversation with SheThePeople

STP: A career shift to follow your passion and what you believe in is a powerful move. What compelled you to make the transition from a professional career to pursuing your calling full time? 

Lakshmi: The shift didn’t happen overnight. It was a slow, emotional reckoning. Growing up in Mumbai and later living in different parts of the world, I often felt somewhat untethered from my roots in Kerala. But everything changed after the loss of my grandmother in 2021. Her kasavu mundu veshti, starched white and rimmed with gold, was more than just a garment; it carried the scent of rice starch, the quiet strength of her presence, and an unbroken link to a world I had long felt estranged from.

My grandmother and I shared a deeply personal bond, and her passing triggered something profound in me. I found myself drawn instinctively to kasavu, almost as if I were trying to stitch together fragments of identity, memory, and belonging. I didn’t come from a textile background, and I certainly never imagined becoming an artist. But the emotional gravity of that moment, and the quiet guidance I felt from her, gave me the courage to take an entirely new path.

Master weaver Jayan in Balaramapuram became another guiding voice. He saw his own story reflected in mine, and that recognition offered a kind of affirmation. His belief in the work gave me the conviction to keep going.

STP: What was your earliest connection to kasavu, and how did those impressions shape your emotional and artistic connection to the textile in your current practice?

Lakshmi: As a child visiting my Ammamma (grandmother in Malayalam) back home during summer vacations, I was struck by how she wore kasavu daily, each piece with a differently bordered design, reflecting her identity as a widowed Malayali woman. Those sensory impressions of texture, scent, and the quiet dignity of her presence stayed with me.

When she passed away in 2021, I felt a pull to reclaim those memories, and kasavu became my umbilical cord to her and my heritage. In my current practice, kasavu is more than a textile; it’s a storytelling medium.

Works like Hanging by a Thread and Generations in My Body weave personal and communal narratives, using letters in English and Malayalam or innovations like shadow play—to explore identity, loss, and belonging. The emotional weight of those early memories drives me to reimagine kasavu as a universal cloth, bridging my personal history with broader socio-cultural questions.

STP: Kasavu is a textile rich with cultural and symbolic meaning. How do you navigate the balance between honouring its traditional legacy and expressing your own contemporary voice through it?

Lakshmi: Kasavu is steeped in tradition, a cultural object that marks life’s milestones in Kerala—from birth to death, with its white and gold threads carrying stories of caste, class, and identity. Honouring this legacy means respecting the craft and the weavers of Balaramapuram, whose skills have sustained it for centuries.

I collaborate closely with them, learning the nuances of their techniques and the history embedded in each weave. But as an artist, I also push boundaries to express a contemporary voice. For instance, a lot of works are outcomes of lots of technical innovations that are not part of the regular traditional weaving methods – introducing thicker warp/weft threads for shadow play or experiments with thread switches and weave patterns.

Using black in kasavu, an unconventional choice, I highlighted the weaver’s body, often erased in the narrative of the wearer. My approach is to treat kasavu as a canvas for decolonised storytelling, weaving in themes of gender, caste, and memory while preserving its tactile and cultural essence. It’s about reanimating the textile, not just preserving it, so it speaks to today’s world while carrying its heritage forward.

STP: Having worked with local weavers, what have you observed about the intersection of art, financial liberty, and identity, particularly among women or marginalised communities?

Lakshmi: Collaborating with the weavers of Balaramapuram, many of whom belong to the Ezhava community, has revealed just how deeply interwoven art, economic autonomy, and identity truly are.

Kasavu, in its very fabric, holds a quiet paradox: it is crafted by hands that, historically, were not permitted to wear what they wove. Once it left the loom, the cloth, despite being a product of incredible skill, was reserved for the upper castes. This speaks to how textiles can carry encoded histories of power, access, and exclusion.

One of my oldest weavers once shared with me that after three decades of weaving kasavu, he had never worn one himself. That moment made visible the stark economic and social inequalities still embedded in the practice. Through my practice, I try to shift that narrative by reclaiming the presence of the weaver within the story of the cloth.

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By involving weavers in projects that push the boundaries of traditional weaving, like integrating text into fabric or experimenting with nano looms, I hope to open up new financial and creative opportunities, while also amplifying the value of their lived knowledge and craft.

For women, kasavu carries even more intimate layers, linked to matrilineal memory, rites of passage, and everyday rituals. My installations, such as Hanging by a Thread, explore these emotional and embodied inheritances. They reflect the quiet strength of women like my grandmother, who wore kasavu every day as both a garment and a gesture of dignity.

Art, in this way, becomes a space of dialogue—where we can begin to dismantle inherited structures and imagine more equitable futures. It allows us to speak not only about preservation, but about restitution, visibility, and empowerment for those whose labour has too long remained unseen.

STP: Over the years, you must have cultivated a strong relationship with the group of artisans, a relationship that goes beyond mere production and curation. How was the journey getting there? Were there any initial challenges or moments of hesitation in aligning traditional weaving practices with your artistic vision?

Lakshmi: Building a relationship with the Balaramapuram weavers was a journey of trust and mutual understanding. Initially, I faced resistance as an outsider to the community, proposing unconventional ideas or altering traditional patterns. 

When I first visited Balaramapuram for the Lokame Tharavadu exhibition in 2021, phone conversations with weavers were fruitless, and I had to travel there to convince them in person. They were hesitant, protective of their craft, and sceptical about my intentions.

A pivotal moment came when I met master weaver Jayan, who asked, “What is the purpose of doing this?” My response—that it was a memory for my grandmother—resonated with him. He said, “Your story is my story,” connecting my personal quest to his own fears about the craft’s future. His guidance, and later his son Aravind’s collaboration, helped bridge the gap.

Aligning my artistic vision with their traditional practices required patience—learning their techniques, respecting their expertise, and co-creating innovations. Over time, this evolved into a partnership where weavers saw themselves as co-authors of the art, not just producers, fostering a deep, collaborative bond.

STP: What are some of the challenges that traditional weaving communities face in today's world of mass production and fast fashion?

The weaving community in Balaramapuram faces significant challenges that threaten the survival of kasavu. Once a thriving hub with over 10,000 weavers, the village now has fewer than half due to low wages, lack of government support, and limited resources. The 2018 floods and the COVID-19 pandemic exacerbated financial struggles, pushing many weavers to abandon the craft.

Culturally, kasavu’s relevance is at risk as younger generations gravitate toward modern fashion, and the textile’s traditional designs see little innovation. Visibility is another issue—while kasavu is celebrated as a cultural symbol, the weavers themselves remain invisible, their labour undervalued. Economic pressures are stark: many weavers can’t afford the cloth they produce, and the bulky traditional looms are costly to maintain.

My work, including experiments with compact nano looms, aims to address some of these issues by making the craft more sustainable and visible. Without intervention—through innovation, fair wages, or cultural platforms and dialogue—the craft risks losing its relevance, and with it, the stories and identities it holds.

STP: How do you see the art community in India contributing to social change and community building?

The art community in India plays a vital role in social change and community building by amplifying marginalised voices and reimagining cultural narratives. My work with kasavu, for instance, highlights the stories of Balaramapuram’s weavers, challenging caste hierarchies and economic disparities. Exhibitions can create platforms where artists engage with issues like identity, gender, and heritage, sparking public dialogue.

By collaborating with the weaving community, artists like me foster not only artistic but also social community-led interventions that empower the community both economically and culturally. The art community is also attempting to bridge urban and rural divides, bringing indigenous domestic crafts like kasavu into contemporary spaces, which encourages younger generations to value traditional knowledge. Through these efforts, art becomes a catalyst for social justice, cultural preservation, and collective identity, inspiring communities to reclaim their stories and agency.

STP: You voice the eternal sense of feminism through your pieces. How do you see this creating a ripple effect and inspiring other women to follow their voice?

My work with kasavu is, at its core, a feminist act rooted in the quiet strength of my grandmother and the gendered histories embedded in the weave. Through kasavu, I explore womanhood not as a fixed identity, but as a layered, living narrative. Some of my installations weave together stories of matrilineal memory, domestic space, and the complex terrain of being a woman, sometimes visible, often invisible.

Kasavu itself holds contradictions—it’s worn during life’s most intimate and ceremonial moments, yet the stories of those who make it are rarely told. By reimagining this cloth with words like “some/body” or “no/body,” I seek to make space for the erased, the forgotten, the labouring feminine body—be it the wearer or the weaver.

I hope that through this practice, other women feel the permission to speak from where they are—to draw from their silences, lineages, and vulnerabilities, and turn them into something powerful. My journey from feeling culturally adrift to finding an anchor in art has taught me that our most personal narratives often carry the most resonance. If that can spark even one woman to tell her story a little more boldly, then the work has done its part.