to: Craft > #11 - Immersed in Indigo

Immersed in Indigo

Heather K. Powers

My garden consists of about 20 mature indigo plants, harvested several times through the growing season. I harvest part of my crop, which stands about shoulder high, in a thickly planted area of my garden. I know they’re ready to harvest when I see coral blooms budding along the stems. I understand they are harvest-ready because I see their specific shape, size, and color. I learned to look for these visual cues in my indigo training. I rely on my visual and tactile knowledge from both my immediate and mediate perception[1]. These visual cues are what I have come to associate with the indigo being “ready for harvest.”

As I begin the process, I gather tools and supplies, including yellow-handled snippers and a clear five-gallon bucket, which I use because the translucent quality of the bucket allows me to see the indigo extraction process. I step close to the plants, clipping one- to two-foot lengths from their outer branches. My mediate visual perception acts as a ruler telling me how long the branches should be and how many branches it will take to fill the bucket with the right amount of leaves. I notice the sounds around me—the buzz of insects as they move around my body. The insects weave their way, moving too quickly for my ears and brain to register their exact location until they land on flowers. I perceive them; more specifically, I understand them as bees because I’ve had close interaction with them before—heard them, seen them, and felt their sting.

As I select each branch for harvest, visual cues of maturity inform me where to cut branches that are not yet blooming or on which flowers are just starting to bloom, while avoiding older sections of the plant (Figure 1).

Since the plants are almost as tall as me, I work standing up. I grasp the tips of branches, one by one, with my left hand; I pull gently, bringing them toward my waist so I can more easily clip them with my right one. The younger branches are still tender and green; they’re not yet hard to cut. The yellow snippers are comfortably worn and conform to my hand. I open the blade with my right thumb through one loop and my index and middle finger through the other loop. Closing my fingers together with the clippers brings their blades down on the branch, making a clean, easy cut that requires little pressure. I continue pulling each branch, while avoiding crushing the leaves or the insects on the stems and flowers. After each cut, I hold the stem in my left hand, gently shaking off any lingering insects before inspecting it and dropping it into the bucket on the ground by my left leg. I repeat this process for about 30 minutes, moving from plant to plant, cutting the younger stems until I’ve filled the bucket. I see that I have enough to proceed to the next step. I don’t use a scale or other tools but base this determination on my tacit understanding of what constitutes enough. The immediate visual cues allow me to see, and my tactile sense-impression of the bucket’s weight allows me to determine if this feels like indigo harvests done in the past.

Taking my tools and materials to a table in the shade, I continue. I remove the stems from the bucket, placing them onto the table (Figure 2). Next, I remove the leaves from the stems, keeping insects, flowers, and seeds out of the harvest. I do this sitting with the bucket between my legs on the ground or standing with the bucket on the table. I alternate between both positions, relying on my body to tell me what feels more comfortable as the strain of holding one posture for long sets in. The leaves are delicate, dull and silky with a soft surface. I hold each stem in my left hand with the tip pointing left and gently clench all the fingers on my right hand around the stem to pull the leaves from it. My hand moves down the stem, from the tip toward my body, left to right. When pulled in the direction opposite their growth, the leaves easily pull away, and I gather them in my right hand, dropping them by fistfuls into the bucket. Since the leaves are soft, they can “bruise” as friction between the leaf surface, hand, and vessel speeds the release of pigment and moisture. I want to prevent bruising in order to maintain maximum pigment in the leaves, so I’m gentle.

As I continue to strip leaves, my hand feels dry from the friction and plant matter. I don't use gloves because I enjoy the transitive bodily perception of soft, silky, and cool leaves. From time to time, I stop to brush off the almost invisible white fuzz from the stems that has accumulated on my fingers.[2] I notice how the repetitive motion and pressure leave a lingering sensation in my muscles and skin. This sensation helps me know when to switch hands to prevent calluses. I tire over the hour it takes me to process the leaves. I stop for a couple of breaks but work as quickly as is comfortable. I enjoy the chirping sound of birds, which I do not know by song or even sight, but my mediate perception recognizes the sound of birdsong.[3]

With all the leaves stripped from the stems and in the clear bucket, I place a layer of fine mesh fabric over the surface and weigh them down with a brick (Figure 3). The compressed leaves fill about one-third of the bucket, and the brick keeps them from floating to the surface once I fill the container with hose water. The clear water appears slightly green from the reflection of the leaves suspended in it. Now I wait. Three relatively warm days go by with temperatures of 70 degrees Fahrenheit with slightly cooler nights.

The warm temperature does much of the anaerobic work to break the leaves down, releasing the blue pigment. Blue-green water surrounds the leaves; the suspended pigment creates pale blue bubbles and a dark blue metallic, reflective substance that floats on the surface. 

After removing the leaves from the water, I aerate the liquid by pouring it back and forth between buckets until a thick, pale blue foam begins to form on the surface (Figure 6). This visual cue tells me to stop and add lime powder, which will bond with the indigo particles to remove them from suspension in the water and drop them to the bottom of the bucket. Precipitation can happen overnight, but might take longer.

The next day I see dark blue particles at the bottom of the bucket, which tells me I can proceed. I pour the liquid into a second bucket with fine mesh fabric stretched across the surface. The smell of slightly rotten plant matter is distinct, unpleasant, and attracts insects. I work quickly to strain the indigo pigment. As I empty all the blue liquid from one bucket into the second, a thin blue pigment settles across the surface of the fabric filter. After three and a half days, working and waiting, I can finally see the indigo pigment. I dip my index finger into the slimy film of paste; my finger comes away dark blue. Rubbing my index and thumb together, I feel the grit and slickness of the indigo paste. The color is a deep, almost black, blue.

I have successfully extracted indigo from these beautiful plants, using my perceptions, bodily sensations, and sensory input. Days and hours of working and waiting yield mere tablespoons of indigo paste. This indigo is precious; I not only see its beautiful color, but my body and mind understand the labor and time that go into its production. These sensations directly correlate with my perceived value of indigo. My eyes do not deceive me; I perceive the alchemy of indigo extraction!

[1] David M. Armstrong, Bodily Sensations. London: Routledge & K. Paul, 1962, 4–5. Armstrong makes a distinction between immediate perception, your cat Tom for example, and that which can be perceived mediately such as an image of object we understand as cat.

[2] Ibid., 20.

[3] Ibid., 4.