While weaving in a studio gives an opportunity to mould dreams, memories, thoughts, or even abandon the pain between each layer of the weft, I felt a desire to step out of the studio walls for this observation. On the other side of the walls accidental interactions happen; providing an opportunity to share and engage with other beings.

Wind strongly cuts the skin, and the little spider is gone. The remains of its web glitter under the cold sun. The colours are gloomy, but I still can see each knot, each bending of the yarn, and the touch that each thread makes with the other one in Annie’s weave. Water calmly emerges in small waves through the gaps between the woven yarns. The woven structure is swinging in front of the water forward and back, left and right. Three pigeons are clapping hard their wings in the air while standing on a pipe that passes over the weave. Two are mating, and the third one is gallivanting around. The vagabond looks down at me, we make eye contact, and some feathers fall to the weave and then to the soft sandy ground. We are here, me and the lovers.

The moment of sunrise is equal to the moment of spider-rise. When a spider appears on the fabricated weave, the sun begins to shine on the woven structure. As a spider works on the web, its lustrous fibres connect to the human-made weave, while both become one with the rays emitted from the sun. A tiny light-orange spider hangs from the red thread in the right corner of the weave. As I walk towards it, the spider pulls itself up and forms a round shape. I step back and take a walk around the whole structure. The fragile spider web — floating in the air between the pillars it is attached to — reclaimed the whole space. The still water mirrors the sky, as well as the concrete and metal anatomy of the bridge. We are here, me and the spider.

On this day the river seems wider, as if it extended itself into the space to climb up the pillars. I see a big black fish braided into the weave, and behind it a sharp pink mesh thread that I, a few days earlier, had given to the woman in the red jacket. I left, when she started to talk about difficulties with expressing her Christian belief in Sweden. ‘Isn’t it Muslims that have difficulty expressing their religious beliefs here?’ I asked, and walked away. The screeching sound of the tram passing behind me echoes under the bridge. I am here, alone.

***

The tram stops at the station. I see Annie with both hands in her pockets leaning against the glass of the station on the other side of the street. I wave at her, she notices me and waves back.

The air has a smell of gasoline, metal, and salt. Wind is pushing our bodies downhill. We are walking towards a bridge passing over a river. Its concrete grey pillars slightly cover the view of the river.

I pour out yarns on a plastic sheet to protect them from dirt and so they become more visible to the weaver. The wind strongly refuses my plan and blows the plastic sheet from the ground. Annie puts a stone on a corner, I add one to another corner, and so we steady the sheet.

Annie bends over and grabs a stretchy, coral-coloured ribbon yarn, and walks towards the pillars. She makes a knot on a drainpipe connected to the back side of one pillar and walks the distance between pillars while rolling out the yarn. She goes around the second pillar and walks back. Then, takes out the scissors from her pocket and cuts the thread, opens the knot made on the drainpipe, makes a new loose knot between two lines from two sides, and pulls back the yarn. First with wrists, then with the whole arm and later with the whole body, one foot forward and another leaned back. The first steady knot shapes a stretched oval around the two pillars. The red knot hugs the pillar and covers the grey concrete; the flow of blood increases in the vessels of Annie's hands.

We don’t have any eye contact but I can see that she is conscious about her surroundings. Her body moves in sync with the noises made by passing tram, passersby, and the flying pigeons, but her eyes are focused on the weave.

While working on the second knot, Annie puts her feet next to each other and tilts backward. Her arms open to the sides with hands holding the two ends of the thread, then the arms move up and down rhythmically and slowly. The thread is holding her weight. ‘Is this a spider-rise?’ I ask myself, excited.

Annie continues with the same yarn but from the middle of the horizontal ovals. She walks to the sides of the outer lines and enters the woven structure, and starts to weave. She patiently adjusts the lines to structure a cube. This cube represents the frame of the weave, where the vertical or diagonal warp sets up. Like an electrocardiogram of the city’s heart.

‘Should I stop here?’ She looks suspiciously at the woven cube. ‘You decide when to stop,’ I answer. She stands at a distance from the weave and checks it out. Afterwards, she walks back to the right pillar and puts her hand palm on the upper yarn, and rolls it up. The second oval climbs higher. She goes back to the pile of yarn and picks up a chunky burgundy yarn. She holds the yarn next to the other threads and takes a long look. She goes back to the pile and changes it for a thick beige yarn, walks back to the structure and starts to weave.

An inquisitive woman with a red jacket shows up. She wants to join the weaving, and I encourage her. ‘Not right now! But in a moment.’ Annie refuses, stubbornly. I hand out some tube yarns and tell her to come back later. She leaves, waving the yarns in the air. Annie cuts the cube lines that hold two woven sides near to each other, while standing in the woven structure. The sides fly apart; she laughs as her eyes follow the sides. The woman in red comes back and starts to weave.

‘It’s good for my ego, I just need to feel that I’m done and have a look,’ Annie says, and breathes deeply.

Annie’s hands are red — mostly from the cold, but also from all the gripping and pulling. Now the fingers crawl on each other for comfort. ‘I am so happy to have chosen this place, it feels that I’m taking my space in the area that I've been living in for 16 years. The area that I always liked,’ she says, excited but relieved. ‘Also, something about the scale of it. Bigger than me, bigger than my own body,’ she says, while holding her hands up in the air. We are here. Passersby, woman in red, pigeons, me, and the temporary spider.