We sat down with Canadian Kirk Dunn for an exclusive interview before his one-man show comes to the UK in May. 15-years in the making this show explores how his creative and spiritual marathon (creating three huge, knitted panels, designed in the style of stained-glass windows) highlighted to him commonalities and conflicts between the Abrahamic Faiths: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.
1. What was the moment that first sparked the idea of knitting these cathedral-sized stained-glass windows, and did you ever imagine it would become a 15-year journey?
I was looking for a project to take my knitting to the next level—I had been told that knitting sweaters, or gloves, or hats was not really important in the fine art world, and that if I wanted to do be considered as a textile artist, I needed to graduate to some sort of installation artwork.
I had always admired the colour of stained-glass windows—I was drawn to their rich blues, reds, yellows and greens. Growing up as a Preacher’s Kid (the son of a Presbyterian minister), I spent a lot of time around stained glass. I also liked that the images of the windows were used to tell stories and communicate ideas. At that time, the 9/11 attacks were still recent, and there was a great deal of religious conflict, and interfaith dialogue seemed to me to be sorely lacking. I had always wondered why these the three Abrahamic faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—had such trouble getting along, because they all come from the same root, and they’re all saying much the same thing.
It occurred to me that I could use this project to not only further my exploration of what it means to be a fibre artist, but to explore a theme that had been of interest to me my whole life—the commonalities and the conflicts between the three Abrahamic Faiths—and to delve into the question, why can’t we get along?
I had no idea how long the project would take. I told the Arts Council it would be one month to design the three tapestries, and then three months to knit each one: so, ten months in all. Of course, it took me 15 years.
2. As you worked on this project, how did your understanding of the common threads between Judaism, Christianity, and Islam evolve?
I had always known that the three faiths were quite similar, but I still wanted to know the specifics. So I did a lot of research, I read a lot of books, and I consulted with many faith leaders. And there were definitely a few ‘aha!’ moments for me,
One was learning that the golden rule (Do unto others as you would have them do unto you), which I had been taught was the essence of the Christian faith, was originally attributed to Rabbi Hillel, who lived a century before Jesus. If Rabbi Hillel offered that as an essential distillation of Judaism, and if I was taught that it was best sound byte to describe Christianity, what did that tell me about the relationship between the two faiths?
In studying Islam, I discovered that Islam is based on five pillars: The Profession of Faith, Prayer, Charity, Fasting, and Pilgrimage. It occurred to me that those were all pillars of Judaism and Christianity as well. This common ground was such an obvious link between the three faiths that I was deeply embarrassed that I had not heard of it before.
I also loved the Judaic tradition of questioning or struggling with one’s faith. And I felt that much of Christianity (conservative or right-wing Christianity in particular) could learn from that approach. I am afraid that so many modern Christians see their faith as a monolith—as something that has always been the way it is now, as something that hasn’t developed and is not developing, or reforming, or changing. Or, they may trying to turn it back into something that it never was: some golden age of perfection that never actually existed. So, I really appreciate the Jewish tradition of questioning: of looking at what we are doing now, and how one is being in the world, and evaluating it again and again and again. And it seems to me that if we do that, we have the constant opportunity to course-correct and respond to what is changing in the world around us. Sadly, I think very few of us actually do this.
3. Knitting is often seen as a quiet, personal act—what has it been like to transform it into something so public and deeply meaningful?
When I started knitting, some people expressed surprise that a young man (I think I was 24 at the time) would be caught dead knitting. They thought I’d be teased or mocked for it. But I enjoyed knitting, and I had a lot of free time in public in fairly public places. Being an actor, I would be at rehearsals or auditions, just sitting around, so I’d pull out my knitting and get to work on it, and I always received positive reinforcement. People were interested in what I was knitting and appreciated what I was doing. So, in addition to it being a contemplative thing that I enjoyed doing in private on my own, it was also something I did in public, and happily so. No one in my circles judged me for it. And it turned out—at least to my knowledge—that others haven’t judged me for it either. I knit on public transportation, at the theatre, while in long meetings, on airplanes. Usually, people are fascinated. I think they haven’t seen complicated, intricate knitting like mine, too—so that’s curious to them, too.
I’ve also realized that knitting, as a part of the larger art form of textiles, is ubiquitous in our society. Textiles are incredibly important and yet unnoticed. They are like the water we swim in, or the air we breathe—we don’t see them. Everyone wears clothes, everyone has a personal sense of style (whether they admit it or not), and knitting often factors in there somewhere.
It’s also an activity that our loved ones engage in to make things for us. We have sweaters or garments that were made by a family member with love and care and have great sentimental value. There’s an inherent emotional power in in knitting. And that makes it an ideal vehicle to convey an important message. Knitting is not threatening—it’s accessible, soft, warm, and comforting, and so it can be a way of addressing something that otherwise might be upsetting or jarring or intimidating.
That was one of the reasons I felt it could support the message of The Knitting Pilgrim: while all three faiths are in conflict at times, and all three faiths are invariably flawed (because they are created by humans, and we humans are flawed), nonetheless, Judaism, Christianity and Islam share the common ground of seeking the divine in the world, in ourselves, and in each other. And if we engage that search for the divine from any of those perspectives, it could be said that we are so from all of them.
Following performances of The Knitting Pilgrim, the audience is invited to get up-close and personal with the tapestries, and take a look at the ideas and narratives expressed by the images within them. Time and again, I am thrilled that the conversations I hear around me are all about empathy and understanding, proving to me that the knitting can, in fact, provide a gateway to important and relevant conversations about how we should be treating each other. That is incredibly rewarding for me.
4. What’s been the most surprising or moving reaction you’ve had from someone who has seen The Knitting Pilgrim?
By the time we finally premiered the show, I had been living with the tapestries for 15 years and I was pretty tired of them. I had come to think of them as an albatross around my neck—a commitment I couldn’t seem to complete, a source of frustration and shame. But at the end of the show, I reveal the tapestries by pulling down the large projection screens that cover them for the entire performance. And I am shocked by the impact that moment has on the audience. People tell me that in that they are so overwhelmed that they cannot move. Some have told me that they just sit and weep. I was completely unprepared for that reaction. And I am still amazed by it.
I’ve also had non-knitters be moved by the show. They’ve approached me after the show and said things like, I’m trying to finish my PhD in Biology—and I felt this show was entirely written for me. Or, I’ve been wondering all the same questions you asked in this show, and I’m just so glad I came.
The other very surprising thing that my wife Claire and I have been told time and time again after the lights come on (Claire was my co-writer and is my co-producer—and is also a big part of the story of the show) is that people feel the show is not just about knitting, but that it is, in a way, a love story. Neither she nor I had seen that aspect of it when we were writing it. I think we were just too close to it.
5. If you could sit down and knit with anyone from history, who would it be and what would you talk about?
Just one person? You couldn’t give me three? If I could get three, I’d choose one from each Abrahamic faith: Rabbi Hillel, Jesus, and Mohammed.
But, since I need to pare it down to one, I would choose Rabbi Hillel. And I would talk to him about his three questions:
If am not for myself, then who is for me?
If I am only for myself, then what am I?
If not now, when?
I had never heard of those questions until I began to research the Judaic window. And (full transparency) I find questions one and three to be a huge challenge. I am not good at sticking up for (or taking care of) myself, and I am a classic procrastinator. Those two questions hit me right between the eyes, and I have struggled with them ever since. (To be fair, I’ve been struggling with them all my life, but Hillel’s direct posing of them brought them into focus).
I would dearly love the chance to sit down with the Rabbi get some advice about how to act upon the answers to those questions.
Although now that I think about it, being a good Rabbi, he would probably just turn my questions right back at me and make me figure it out for myself.
6. How do you see knitting as a tool for social connection and change?
Knitting, as a craft, works well as a vehicle for craftivism. Craftivism is a form of activism that uses handmade crafts (knitting, embroidery, needlepoint, to name a few) to raise awareness and advocate for social and political change. It is sometimes described as a “gentle protest,” to a large extent because we associate crafts with positive, hands-on, functional, and intentionally caring acts of creation.
I talked above about knitting being accessible and non-threatening. Its disarming charm and coziness make it an ideal medium to sneak a subversive message past the rigid defenses of the staid status-quo.
For example, in 2022, I crocheted a huge rainbow tree “sweater” (sometimes called a “yarn bomb”) to wrap around an enormous maple tree on edge of the property of Morningside-High Park Presbyterian Church in Toronto (my church). The tree was 12 feet in circumference, and the wrap was about 14 feet high. We installed it to celebrate Pride month, and there was a wonderful reaction from the community. People honked their horns in approval as they drove by while we were setting it up. Strangers would stop, get out of their cars, and take selfies in front of the tree. But apparently, someone didn’t approve of the rainbow and what it represented, because a few weeks later it was found torn off the tree and on the sidewalk.
I repaired it and put it up again the next year. This time, it didn’t last 24 hours. And this time, whoever tore it down stole it as well. It was nowhere to be found.
There was no way I was going to give up expressing our support and love for the LGTBQ community. So, in the spring of 2024, I decided to put up another installation—only this one had to be even bigger, and also out of the reach of unhelpful hands. I put out the word that we were looking for knitted (or crocheted) 6-inch squares in every hue and colour. We would assemble whatever we received into a patchwork Pride flag and hang it from somewhere up high. I thought we would get just over a hundred squares, and designed a flag that would use 144 of them. Turns out, the project went viral, and we received over 1000 squares from across Canada and even into the United States. I had to keep redesigning the flag to deal with the extra squares, which was a really wonderful problem to have. A whole bunch of volunteers showed up to sew together the squares, apply a huge backing, and assemble the giant installation. The resulting Pride flag was 22.5 feet long, and 12 feet wide. We hung it from the bell tower of the church, where the entire neighbourhood could see it, but no one could reach it.
The Patchwork Pride flag was a huge hit. The neighbourhood loved it. People thanked us for our perseverance, and for our ability to find an inclusive, positive, out-of-the-box answer to the destructiveness of those who tore down the original yarn bomb. When they went low, we went high. And there is a delicious irony to the fact that something as soft and unassuming as knitting can make a statement that has the power to annoy and confound destructive vandals.
I’m so excited that the Patchwork Pride flag has been invited by the Canadian High Commission in the UK to hang from the face of Canada House in Trafalgar Square for Pride month, June, 2025. The piece is doing what craftivism does best: advocating for social change in a surprising, disarming, and charming way.