The Piece

The Round Fan & Stand

A handmade Chinese round fan — 团扇 — with a face of cotton and linen stretched across fine bamboo ribs, a long bamboo handle ending in a cotton cord knot, and a solid dark wood stand with two upright posts. The fan face is round, and white, and glows faintly when the light shines through it, and the bamboo ribs cast fine, parallel shadows across the surface, like the bars of a window, or the lines of a cage, or the strings of a quiet instrument. The stand is dark, and solid, and warm, with a visible grain that flows across the surface like the lines on a hand, and it holds the fan at a gentle angle, as if the fan is about to move, as if the air is about to move, as if the heat is about to fall away. A form refined over two thousand years, from the silk fans of the Han dynasty to this one, made by hand in a small workshop. Made for the quiet corner of a desk, and for the air that moves, quietly, through the cotton and the linen and the light.

In the Light

Materials & Making

Made by hand, from bamboo and thread.

Fine bamboo, radiating like sunlight.

Fine bamboo ribs, radiating from the center of the fan like the rays of the sun, or the spokes of a wheel, or the lines on a still pond after a stone has been dropped into it. Each rib is thin, and straight, and evenly spaced, and they are all joined at the center by a small, tight wrapping of bamboo thread, holding them together, holding them steady, holding them in the shape of a circle. The ribs are made from a single piece of bamboo, split into thin strips, then smoothed and polished by hand until each strip is straight, and even, and smooth to the touch.

The bamboo is warm, and golden, and it glows faintly in the light, and the ribs cast fine, parallel shadows across the face of the fan, like the bars of a window, or the lines of a cage, or the strings of a quiet instrument. The center of the fan, where all the ribs meet, is wrapped tightly with a thin strip of bamboo thread, wound round and round, holding the ribs in place, holding the circle together, holding the whole fan in a shape that is both strong and delicate, both solid and light, both ancient and new. The wrapping is even, and neat, and quiet, like the binding of a book, or the knot of a letter, or the center of a flower where all the petals meet.

Bamboo is the fastest-growing plant in the world, and it has been used in Chinese crafts for thousands of years — for fans, for baskets, for furniture, for scaffolding, for the quiet, strong things that hold the world together.

Cotton and linen, glowing like the moon.

A round face of cotton and linen, stretched tight across the bamboo ribs, like the skin of a drum, or the surface of a still pond, or the face of the moon. The fabric is white, or off-white, or the colour of old paper, and it has a fine, woven texture, visible when the light falls across it, like the grain of wood, or the lines on a hand, or the quiet texture of things that are made by hand. The fabric is stretched tight, but not too tight — there is a slight give, a slight softness, a slight warmth, as if the fabric itself is breathing, as if the fan itself is alive.

The edges of the fabric are bound with a thin strip of the same cotton-linen, stitched by hand, or by machine, or by some combination of both, and the binding is even, and neat, and quiet, like the hem of a garment, or the edge of a letter, or the border of a painting. When the light shines through the fabric, it glows faintly, and the texture becomes visible, and the ribs cast fine, parallel shadows across the surface, and the whole fan feels like a small, quiet window, a small, quiet moon, a small, quiet world held in bamboo and thread and light. The cotton and linen are natural fibres, and they will soften and mature over time, developing a richer, warmer texture, like a well-loved shirt, or a well-read book, or a well-used fan that has moved a lot of air, and held a lot of light, and been a part of a lot of quiet afternoons.

The round fan is the oldest form of Chinese fan, dating back to the Han dynasty over two thousand years ago. It was originally made of silk, and later of paper, and later still of cotton and linen — but the shape has remained the same: a perfect circle, held in the hand, moving the air, quietly.

Dark wood, holding the fan at rest.

A stand of solid dark wood, with two upright posts, each topped with a small, curved notch that holds the handle of the fan, and a wide, flat base that grounds the whole piece, holds it steady, keeps it from tipping, from wobbling, from asking for attention. The wood is dark, and rich, and warm, with a visible grain that flows across the surface like the lines on a hand, or the flow of a river, or the quiet texture of things that are old and well-made. The posts are tall, and straight, and slightly tapered, and the notches at the top are curved, and smooth, and polished, so that the handle of the fan rests in them without scratching, without slipping, without making a sound.

The base is wide, and flat, and slightly stepped, with a small, raised lip around the edge, and a thin strip of dark felt or rubber on the bottom, to protect the surface of the table, and to keep the stand from sliding. The whole stand is oiled, or varnished, or finished with some quiet, natural coating that brings out the depth of the wood, and the warmth of the grain, and the quiet, solid presence of a thing that is made to hold something else, to lift something else, to give something else a place to rest. The handle of the fan ends in a small hole, through which a cotton cord is threaded, and tied in a quiet, decorative knot, with two short tassels hanging below. The cord is the same colour as the fan face — white, or off-white, or the colour of old paper — and the knot is simple, and neat, and quiet, like the knot of a letter, or the bow of a gift, or the end of a sentence. The cord is both decorative and functional — it can be used to hang the fan on a hook, or to hold the fan while it is being used, or simply to add a small, quiet detail to the end of the handle, like a period at the end of a sentence.

The stand is made from solid dark wood — likely black walnut or rosewood — chosen for its depth of colour, its warmth of grain, and its quiet, solid presence. The dark wood is a deliberate contrast to the light bamboo of the fan and the white cotton-linen face, like the earth beneath the sky, like the night beneath the moon, like the quiet beneath the sound.

Where It Lives

Light, passing through cotton and linen.

By a window, with bamboo leaves moving slightly in the breeze outside, and the fan resting upon its stand, the light shining through the cotton-linen face, glowing faintly, and the bamboo ribs casting fine, parallel shadows across the surface, like the bars of the window, like the lines of a cage, like the strings of a quiet instrument. The room is silent. The light falls. The fan rests, and the whole scene feels like a moment from a painting that has not yet been painted — or one that was painted a thousand years ago, and is still being painted, still being finished, one quiet afternoon at a time.

The bamboo leaves outside the window move slightly in the breeze, and their shadows fall across the wall, and across the fan, and across the stand, and the whole room feels more alive because of it. The cotton-linen face glows faintly in the light, and the texture becomes visible, and the ribs cast fine, parallel shadows across the surface, and the whole fan feels like a small, quiet window, a small, quiet moon, a small, quiet world held in bamboo and thread and light. The dark wood of the stand is a quiet contrast to the light bamboo of the fan, and the white cotton-linen face is a quiet contrast to the dark wall, and the whole piece feels balanced, and steady, and quiet, like a small, quiet world held in wood and bamboo and thread and light. When you need to rest your eyes from the page, look at the light shining through the fan. When you need to remember that some things are older and slower than the work in front of you, look at the dark wood of the stand. When you need to think, look at the bamboo leaves moving outside the window, and remember that thought is like a breeze — it moves, it passes, it leaves behind only the faint movement of the leaves, and the faint glow of the light through the cotton and the linen.

This is where the fan looks most at home — by a window, with light, and with bamboo, and with the quiet promise of a breeze.

Coolness, in the middle of tea.

On a tea table, with a small cup of tea beside it, and the fan resting upon its stand, the light falling across the dark wood, and the cotton-linen face glowing faintly in the afternoon light. The tea is hot. The cup is warm. The fan rests, and the whole arrangement feels like a moment held in wood and bamboo and light and tea — a pause, a breath, a moment between one sip of tea and the next. The dark wood of the stand is a quiet contrast to the light bamboo of the fan, and the white cotton-linen face is a quiet contrast to the dark table, and the whole piece feels balanced, and steady, and quiet, like a small, quiet world held in wood and bamboo and thread and light.

The fan casts a fine, radial shadow across the dark table cloth, like the shadow of a window, or the shadow of a wheel, or the shadow of a quiet instrument, and the shadow moves slightly as the light moves, as the afternoon passes, as the tea cools. The cup of tea is small, and warm, and the steam rises slowly from it, twisting and turning in the still air, and for a moment, the steam looks like the air moving through the fan, like the coolness that the fan brings, like the quiet promise of a breeze in the middle of a hot afternoon. When you need to cool down, pick up the fan, and move it gently, and the air will move, and the heat will fall away, quietly, like a breath released. When you are done, place the fan back upon its stand, and it will rest there, quiet and still, waiting for the next time the air needs to move, waiting for the next time the heat needs to fall away, waiting for the next quiet afternoon.

The fan is both functional and decorative — it can be used to move the air on a hot day, or it can simply rest upon its stand, a small, quiet object of beauty, a small, quiet reminder of coolness in the middle of the heat.

Coolness, in the scent of smoke.

On a dark wooden shelf, among old books and porcelain jars, with a celadon censer in the foreground, smoke rising slowly, twisting and turning in the still air. The fan glows faintly in the dim light, the white cotton-linen face a quiet contrast to the dark shelf and the dark books and the dark porcelain, and the smoke rises behind it, like a small, quiet cloud, like the breath of the fan, like the scent of summer rising from the cotton and linen. The room is silent. The smoke rises. The fan rests, and the whole scene feels like a moment from a painting that has not yet been painted — or one that was painted a thousand years ago, and is still being painted, still being finished, one quiet evening at a time.

The celadon censer glows faintly in the dim light, and the smoke rises slowly, and the fan sits among it all, a small, quiet world of bamboo and cotton and light, held in wood and thread and smoke, a reminder that even in the middle of the dark, there is light, there is coolness, there is a fan moving the air somewhere, even if you cannot feel it. The cotton cord at the end of the handle hangs quietly, with its small, decorative knot, and the two short tassels sway slightly as the smoke moves past them, as if the fan is breathing, as if the fan is alive, as if the fan is about to move, about to stir the air, about to bring a small, quiet breeze into the room, into the dark, into the silence. The dark wood of the stand absorbs the dim light, and the light bamboo of the fan glows faintly, and the white cotton-linen face glows more faintly still, and the whole piece feels like a small, quiet lantern, a small, quiet moon, a small, quiet world held in wood and bamboo and thread and light and smoke.

This is where the fan reveals its true nature — not as an object, but as a presence, a small, quiet world, holding the promise of coolness in the middle of the dark, the promise of breeze in the middle of the still, the promise of movement in the middle of the quiet.

Care

Keep a fan on your desk.

Each fan is made by hand, from bamboo and cotton and linen, in a small workshop, in numbered batches. When a batch sells through, the next begins at the bamboo — and differs, slightly, from the last. The ribs will radiate in a new pattern. The fabric will have a new texture. The handle will have a new grain. The cord will be tied in a new knot. The stand will have a new flow of grain. The fan will be its own small world, on its own desk, moving its own quiet air, holding its own quiet light.

The piece you receive will not be the one in these photographs. It will be its own fan, on its own stand, moving its own quiet air, holding its own quiet light.