Mia Upton was interviewed for the fourth (and final) edition of the Contrast publication. You can find the online exhibition version of the publication here.
The works you’ve presented in this publication are still and contemplative moments—can you share the stories behind the original images that inspired these woven scenes?
The images came from a mix of family photographs, street photography, and pictures I took during my last visit to Hong Kong. I was walking through Central with a friend and their dog, and something about being a visitor allowed me to notice and appreciate the small, everyday moments more deeply. It was the ordinary things—the backs of restaurant workers on break, someone heading home with shopping bags, the worn texture of old signage—that compelled me to take the photos.
There’s also a strong personal thread. My great-grandfather moved to Hong Kong after World War I to work as a diver, and I recently learned that my family has been in the city for nearly a century. My grandfather was a keen photographer, capturing 1950s and ’60s Hong Kong in black and white film. Those images—quiet, observational, full of stillness—inspired me to create my own version of that memory, but in woven form. I wanted to explore how textiles could carry the same emotional weight as a photograph. These moments aren’t grand or posed—they’re honest, contemplative glimpses of a city and a heritage I’m still discovering.
How do you choose which moments or locations to preserve in this woven form?
I took many photographs during my time in Hong Kong, but I was most drawn to the ones with a strong human element. Those were the images that held a kind of quiet magnetism—glimpses of people caught in their routines, un-posed and entirely present. I like to imagine their stories: who they are, where they’re going, what led them to that moment. It’s those everyday lives that make Hong Kong what it is—not the skyscrapers featured in glossy media, but the people in the backstreets and behind the scenes.
The woman fishing, for example, made me laugh. I took her photo while standing next to a “No Fishing” sign. That moment, to me, says so much about the spirit of the city—a kind of gentle defiance, a stubborn independence that I love. Another piece shows a narrow corridor between the backs of restaurants and residential buildings—a shortcut only locals would know, the kind of path you’d never find on a tourist map. These are the places that carry the true rhythm of the city.
Choosing which moments to weave came down to what felt real and human. I wanted to preserve not the spectacle, but the intimacy—the overlooked spaces and the people who quietly hold the city together.
How did working with discarded materials change or inform your design processes? Were there challenges or limitations that became strengths?
Working with discarded materials was a completely new challenge, and it changed the way I approached the entire project. The process required a lot of careful planning—I had to calculate every detail to make sure I wouldn’t run out of yarn, which was definitely stressful at times. I was also using cashmere for the first time, a delicate and luxurious fibre that added both technical complexity and conceptual depth to the work.
I found something quite powerful in that contrast—using a material traditionally associated with wealth and luxury to depict scenes of everyday life and working-class realities. It added a quiet tension that aligned with the themes I was exploring.
Having limited resources forced me to be more intentional and precise. It pushed me to be methodical in ways I hadn’t experienced before, even in the already exacting world of artisan weaving. The limitations became part of the work’s message and ultimately strengthened both the process and the outcome. It made me more thoughtful as a designer and artist—more aware of the material’s story before it ever enters the loom.
The figures are silent in Quiet Hours—how do you see this work challenging the typical portrayals of Hong Kong?
Hong Kong is so often portrayed as fast, bright, vertical—a city of lights and movement. But on the ground level, it breathes differently. Quiet Hours, focuses on those unseen, hardworking moments—the breaks, the bodies at rest, the life behind the kitchen. It challenges the glossy exterior and centres the human, lived experience instead.
Can you talk about the decision to use reclaimed cashmere and cotton; what conversations around sustainability and memory were you hoping to spark?
The decision to use reclaimed cashmere began with my first Masters project, when I was researching my Scottish ancestry. I wanted to add another layer of meaning to the work by incorporating materials that already carried stories. I began sourcing mill waste yarn from Scotland, and that approach has continued into this series. The cotton used here forms the warp—something I couldn’t change on the loom and isn’t part of the conceptual focus—but the weft, which carries the imagery, is made entirely from reclaimed Scottish cashmere.
It was my first time working with cashmere, and I was struck by its softness and delicacy. Traditionally seen as a luxury fibre, it created an intentional contrast with the scenes I was depicting—quiet, everyday moments, often representing working-class life. That contradiction added depth and complexity to the work.
For me, sustainability is not just an environmental necessity—it’s also an emotional one. We discard things without much thought, and we often do the same with memories. These materials once held other lives and purposes. By weaving them into new forms, I’m asking how we remember, how we carry stories forward, and how nothing—or no one—is truly disposable.
It also opens up a conversation around the textile industry’s wastefulness. As makers and consumers, we often throw things away too easily. I wanted this work to invite reflection on what we value—not just in terms of material, but in memory and meaning too.
What do you hope viewers take away from experiencing this series—emotionally or intellectually?
I hope viewers come away with a new perspective on Hong Kong—whether they’ve been there or not. Emotionally, I want them to slow down and really look. These works are an invitation to notice the overlooked: the quiet, in-between moments that are so often lost in the speed of city life. I’m drawn to scenes that might seem ordinary at first glance, but hold a quiet beauty and depth when given attention.
Intellectually, the series speaks to ideas of time, change, and memory. Cities transform so quickly—what exists today may be gone tomorrow. Many of the places I’ve woven may no longer exist in a few years, just like the black-and-white photographs taken by my grandfather, which now capture a Hong Kong that’s largely vanished. I want to prompt reflection on what gets remembered and what fades away, and who decides what is worth preserving.
At the same time, I know as a maker I can’t control how the work is received. Some may find emotional resonance, a connection to their own city or memories of home. Others might simply find the pieces beautiful. That ambiguity is part of what I love about textile work—it holds space for different kinds of responses, layered like the threads themselves.
What memories or conversations with your grandfather most directly shaped the emotional essence of the series?
There are several layers to how my grandfather shaped the emotional essence of this work. I was partially raised by my grandparents during a difficult period in my childhood, so we’ve always had a close bond. When we were out together, he would often point things out—saying things like, “That row of buildings used to be a market I visited,” or “That building hasn’t changed since I was your age.” Those small comments stuck with me. They made me realise how places carry memory, and how easily those memories can disappear.
Growing up, I didn’t know much about his family. Only later did I learn about his estranged brother—who he recently reconnected with—and how his mother died when he was just seven. His father, grieving, rarely spoke of her and kept nothing of hers. That absence of memory, that quiet forgetting, stayed with me. When my grandfather moved to Scotland at fifteen—the same age I was when I moved to London—another parallel between our lives became clear.
Just before I started this project, he had a stroke. Emotions were high, and my grandmother began telling me stories I’d never heard before. That shift—the urgency of memory, and the fragility of time—deeply informed this work.
In a way, this series is a tribute to him. These woven scenes, based on photographs I took, are my way of honouring his stories through a medium I love. It’s about preserving memory, both personal and shared, and grounding it in something physical, something lasting.
Is there any upcoming project you want to share? Where do you see your practice in the next ten years?
I’m really just beginning my journey into textiles in a professional sense. I graduated with a Master of Art in Textiles from the Royal College of Art in September last year and took a short break to recharge before stepping into this next chapter. Since January, I’ve been exploring opportunities and slowly building my practice—I’ve launched my website, started shaping my artistic and commercial brand, and already had the chance to be part of a few gallery shows, including this one. I’ve also begun taking commissions and have completed two since setting up my studio this year, including a project to reimagine a tartan in modern, bright colours — an exciting way to explore my Scottish ancestry through a contemporary lens.
Alongside my conceptual woven work, I’m interested in how textiles intersect with identity, place, and storytelling. Whether it’s through large-scale jacquard weaving or smaller, more functional pieces, I’m drawn to the emotional and historical weight textiles can carry. I recently created a set of thread-wrapped cards and cards featuring images of my work.
Looking ahead, it’s hard to predict exactly where I’ll be, but I hope to return to Hong Kong one day—this time as an established textile artist and or textile designer. I’d love to continue developing my practice there and maybe even start a family, as my grandfather once did. For now, I’m focused on weaving stories through thread and building a life around the work I love.