Gabriel Mendoza in Conversation with Julie McIsaac
Posted: Nov 13th, 2025 | Collection Spotlight

Julie McIsaac: I believe you said you were 11 years old when you started weaving. Were you always drawn to becoming a weaver, or did you resist it?  

Gabriel: Yes, I was 11 years old when I began weaving. At that age, it wasn’t so much a choice as it was simply part of life. Everyone around me wove—my grandfather, my father, uncles, aunts—so the loom was as natural to me as school or play. I didn’t resist it, but I also didn’t yet see it as “my destiny.” It was just the rhythm of daily life. 

What drew me in more deeply was reading about my father’s work, talking with people—including fellow and famous artists who admired him—and slowly understanding the importance of his heritage and legacy. Watching him was also a big influence. My father, Arnulfo Mendoza, wasn’t only making rugs to sell; he was creating something different. And this was possible because he had La Mano Mágica gallery backing him, which allowed him to produce fine weaving without being forced into the inexpensive, purely commercial side of the craft just to survive.   

From him I learned that weaving was not only tradition—it could also be art, innovation, and a language for ideas. I didn’t realize it fully at the time, but the training I received from my father and his master weavers—like Tito Mendoza, Guadalupe “Lupe” Mendoza, and José Luis Gutiérrez—defined something very specific in me: I was trained only in fine weaving. Unlike many who first work with rough wool and later transition to silk or finer materials, my foundation was always in high-quality weaving, with a focus on detail and refinement.  

Of course, as a teenager, there were moments when I thought about other paths. I even went on to study veterinary science. But weaving was always present. I also had the chance to travel widely with my parents—journeys to places like India and Peru, as well as trips across the U.S. for my father’s exhibitions. Those experiences opened my eyes to how universal textiles are, how every culture carries its own weaving traditions, and how my family’s work connected to a larger global story.  

Eventually, I realized weaving was not something external I had to “choose”—it was already in me, in my family, in my community, in my daily habits. So, in a way, I never truly resisted it. Instead, I came to understand it gradually: first as an inheritance, and later as a calling. Today, I see it as my language—one that allows me to carry my father’s legacy forward while also shaping it into my own 

Julie McIsaac: I was particularly struck by your description of your father’s trips to Japan for weaving materials and supplies. You pointed out that, back then, a devoted textile artist couldn’t just go on the internet and find whatever colour or fibre their heart desired. Instead, Arnulfo would travel to procure metallic threads and vibrantly dyed yarns. You seemed to indicate that your father was happy to use whatever materials were available to give him the broadest pallet possible. You, on the other hand, have access to online shopping and international delivery services, and prefer to use local, natural dyes. Can you talk about this difference? Why did your father go so far for different dyes? Why does natural dyeing appeal to you?    

Gabriel: My father’s way was always to travel for materials, usually when he was running low, places like Japan, India or Peru were places he looked for supplies or weaving tools. Even with today’s technology, one of the biggest challenges is trusting photos and descriptions online. You never really know if the fiber will be flexible enough, if the width will be correct, or if the tones will match what you envision. He was an extremely meticulous person, and harmony of colors and tones was essential to his creations.  

He grew up working with natural dyes, which could be grown and extracted in the countryside. But when synthetic dyes appeared, imagine the fascination—it was a revolution for textile makers in the 1960s and ‘70s. Synthetic dyes allowed for more colours, greater stability, and a simpler process. In an interview with Artes de México, he explained how combining natural and synthetic dyes gave him a much broader palette. With the work he was doing alongside artists, and in his own creations, having more options for colour meant greater freedom: more combinations, more imagery, more shadows, and richer compositions. He had studied art, so the language of colour was central to him. He also understood how different fibers, when dyed, could alter the perception of color, adding yet another dimension—something I continue to explore in my own work. 

I was very young when my father passed away. At the time, I was still studying veterinary science at the university, so there was no way I could have afforded to travel to Japan when I was just 21. I still haven’t, though perhaps someday I will. My own path has been different: I’ve turned to what I can find online or locally, working with the fibers that are available to me.  

The dyes themselves are mostly regional. Indigo, or añil, comes from Niltepec in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, about six hours from Oaxaca. Cochineal is cultivated in and around Oaxaca City, while marigold I collect after the Day of the Dead, once the altars are taken down—I dry it to use later. Natural dyes have always been a foundation in our family’s work, and my father expanded their possibilities. For my generation, however, natural dyes have taken on added importance: they are not only cultural but ecological.  

One of my dreams is to develop a sustainable dyeing project. I’ve met people who are already doing this, and although it requires a major investment of time and resources, the results are deeply rewarding. To me, natural dyeing is like alchemy—you can unlock a vast range of colours through experimentation with different plants, minerals, and natural additives. My work now focuses on this search for colour and on refining the harmony and coordination that follows. 

Julie: Can you discuss the weaving community that you are from? In our meeting, you said that weaving is not just a job, but an integral part of everyday life. What does it mean to be part of such a strong, historically well-known weaving community? 

Gabriel: The weaving community of Teotitlán del Valle—my home and heritage—is far more than a place of work. Here, weaving is woven into the very fabric of daily life. As Mary Jane Gagnier de Mendoza writes in Oaxaca Celebration: Family, Food, and Fiestas in Teotitlán, ‘With a population of more than eight thousand and practically every person over age fifteen participating in the weaving process, Teotitlán may very well be the largest hand-weaving community in the world.’ 

This quote captures how deeply embedded weaving is in our lives—it’s not a career choice but a shared destiny. From childhood, you hear the rhythms of looms, smell the wool and natural dyes, and see designs come alive under the hands of family and neighbours. It’s a learning environment, a cultural space, and an emotional home all at once.  

Being part of such a renowned community comes with both pride and responsibility. It connects us to centuries of Zapotec history—ancestral techniques, symbols, and rituals passed down generation to generation. At the same time, it pushes us to carry that legacy forward with integrity and creativity.  

In our family, weaving has always been about both tradition and experimentation. My father collaborated with prominent artists, weaving their imagery into bespoke tapestries that were original and alive. He later revived traditional Saltillo sarape motifs—diamonds especially—merging them with Zapotec symbols and art-school color theory, creating a distinctive, hybrid style unique to Teotitlán. 

He also experimented with luxury materials—fine yarns and Japanese metallic threads—not as mere decoration but as bridges between cultural memory and contemporary aesthetics. What began as his exploratory practice is now my foundation: I use these fine materials as a defining element, subtly reworking saturated traditional patterns to feel fresh and resonant for new viewers and collectors.  

In essence, being part of the Teotitlán weaving community means you are never alone. You are in dialogue with your ancestors, your family, the landscape, and the wider world. The craft is both inheritance and innovation, memory and identity, survival and art. Every weaving I make is one more voice joining this chorus—a living tradition that continues to evolve, line by line, colour by colour.