I first encountered Aboubakar Fofana’s work about a year ago while researching everything blue for Common Things. His dedication to the craft of indigo dyeing—along with its cultural roots in West Africa, especially in Mali—left me deeply impressed.
This June, I was fortunate enough to attend a workshop hosted by Tatter at Pratt Institute’s dye garden in Brooklyn. The three-day event took place outdoors under ideal conditions—bright, warm, and breezy. After a brief introduction, Mr. Fofana shared the childhood curiosity that first drew him to indigo: how could a green-leafed plant, when crushed, turn blue? It felt like magic to him then, and it still does and after this workshop this feeling of magic in nature still resonates with me.
Indigo dyeing has ancient origins in many parts of the world, including West Africa. At Fofana’s farm in Mali, two species of indigo are cultivated: Philenoptera cyanescens, which takes five years to mature, and Indigofera tinctoria, ready for harvest in just six months. After harvesting, the leaves are pounded in a mortar and pestle, forming small two-inch balls. These balls turn blue when exposed to air, thanks to the oxidation process. Once dried, they’re used to create clay vats with a fermentation agent, typically a fructose-based material. Each vat, with a nine-month life span—akin to human gestation—develops a unique concentration based on its contents.
Given the limited time of the workshop, Mr. Fofana explained that we wouldn’t be able to create fermentation vats. Instead, we worked with reduction vats, which don’t require prolonged preparation. The formula was simple: one part organic ground indigo powder, two parts fructose, and one part lime, combined in vats wrapped in insulation with boiling water added to the 150L mark. The water temperature was critical, initiating the chemical reaction necessary for the dye.
On the second day, we began working with cotton fabric, aiming to create six distinct shades of blue. In Malian spiritual tradition, there are twelve shades, each with its own significance. Mr. Fofana explained that the indigo plant shares not just its color, but its spirit. The lightest shade, the blue of nothingness, particularly resonated with me.
The blue of nothingness is more than just a color; it is a meditation on the fleeting nature of life and the cycle of creation. It is the first shade that emerges when the bacteria in the fermentation vats are near exhaustion, producing the lightest and most delicate hue of blue. It evokes a sense of transience—when the plant has given almost everything, and yet, in its final act of vitality, it offers this shade that feels as if it is barely there.
In Mali, this color holds a deep spiritual meaning. It is a reflection of simplicity, humility, and the quiet power found in the natural world’s most subtle transitions. This shade is often described as having a quality of emptiness, not in the sense of void, but in the sense of possibility—the blue that emerges when the indigo plant has shared all it can, leaving behind a residue of color that is almost ethereal.
From my understanding , the blue of nothingness serves as a reminder of the interconnectedness between plant, dyer, and wearer. The plant, after months or even years of cultivation and fermentation, offers its final breath in this subtle shade. In this blue, one can sense the culmination of its journey, the quiet resignation of life to its final purpose.
This notion of "nothingness" becomes a powerful metaphor for the cycles of life, nature, and creativity. It’s not a void but rather the culmination of a process where everything that has been given is still present, though faint. It’s a color that requires the viewer to pause, to be still, and to listen to what remains unspoken and what is still left to be expressed.
By the final day, we had each dyed six pieces of cotton, ranging from light to dark blue. The assignment wasn’t just about technique—it was poetic. Fofana encouraged us to create a shift in hues that felt melodic, forming a visible harmony as the shades transitioned from one to the next. This wasn’t merely about achieving a gradient; it was a personal process of interpreting the "beat of blues" through careful attention to each dip and shift in concentration. This workshop was equally a lesson in techniques and recipes, and trusting your perception to find harmony in all of the different shades of blue.
