Trying my Hand at the Traditional Art of Block Printing in Jaipur

My most recent adventure into educational travel took me to Jaipur, the capital of India’s desert state of Rajasthan, to learn the art of block printing. In this style of textile printing, designs are stamped onto fabric with hand-carved wooden blocks. Most historians trace block printing’s origins to ancient China, and block printing has been used for textile design in India since at least the Middle Ages. In recent decades, this traditional craft has been seeing a major revival in mainstream Indian fashion. Today, much of the fabric used in these new clothes is made in the Jaipur area—particularly in the nearby town of Sanganer. The art’s renaissance is largely attributed to the efforts of local Rajasthani design houses, such as Anokhi (which also run a hand-printing museum). In all, these designers have made block-printed textiles available to wider audiences by working with local artisans to scale up production.

Indian block printing traditionally utilizes natural dyes, most of which are made from plants or minerals. While some designs use just one single color, more detailed designs use multiple colors. Each color is applied using a different, coordinated stamp, and each stamp fills in different parts of the design. But while block printing may sound as easy as using a stamp pad, I can assure you that it’s much harder than it seems.

My block-printing class took place in the top-floor studio of a Jaipur fashion design house located a short taxi ride away from the historic salmon-hued old town that gives the city its moniker: the Pink City. Here, I was greeted by Anil, an experienced block printer whom I would address as Masterji (an honorific typically used in North India for expert tailors and textile workers, as well as for male teachers). “What’s your favorite color?” he asked me. “Purple,” I responded without thinking. Within seconds he was pouring shades of blue and red into a white paste, stirring it effortlessly until it reached a shade of soft violet.

While Masterji was busy mixing colors, a pair of young employees had me pick out some stamps. The choices seemed endless: there were birds, elephants, butterflies, seahorses, and many more. There were also tons of floral motifs, many of which reminded me of the curlicue, Mughal-era pietra dura inlay that I’d seen all over Northern India—including at the Taj Mahal.

After I chose my stamps, Masterji demonstrated the printing process. He started by pouring the purple dye into a tray. Next, he added a layer of mesh screen over the paint, followed by a couple of layers of muslin cloth. This, he explained, would help distribute the ink more efficiently and reduce the risk of drippy, dye-drenched blocks. Masterji then picked up a block, dipped it in the dye, and set it right on the table, which had a cloth cover. He then made a fist and gave the stamp a sharp tap to set the ink before pulling the block off the fabric to reveal a perfectly even little bird, its mouth slightly open as if it were mustering a chirp.

“Looks pretty straightforward,” I thought to myself. I dipped the stamp in the dye, removed it, and then set it next to Masterji’s perfect little bird, giving it a little bop for good measure. I removed the stamp to reveal a less-than-perfect bird with a faint body and a slightly smudged head. After a few more attempts at refining my bird-stamping technique, I decided to accept my less-than-perfect stamping technique—and get to work making some printed items of my own.

My class included the chance to print two different items: I could choose to decorate scarves, tote bags, or aprons, or a combination of these items. Knowing my own limitations, I opted to make two simple scarves, both of which I planned to give my mother, who’s always asking me to bring her scarves from India. I decided to start with a simple floral design. Masterji offered to mix a few more colors for me, including a cherry red, which I used on my first scarf. I stamped away, creating a hopelessly uneven zig-zag border along the edges of the scarf, even though I tried to match up each stamp as best as I could. While my efforts were far from successful, the stamps were pretty enough that I hoped their beauty would detract from my undeniably shoddy craftsmanship.

For my second scarf, I attempted a multi-hued underwater scene. This involved dipping giant fish, leaf, and seahorse stamps into hues of turquoise and green. I even tried my hand at using a pair of stamps to create a dual blue-and-green border that I hoped would look like seaweed in the ocean. Instead, it looked a bit more … abstract. Still, I had a lot of fun, and by the end of my experience, I had two colorful scarves that were almost ready to take home—they just needed around 30­ to 45 minutes to cure.

While I was waiting for my scarves to dry, my hosts invited me to lunch—a typical Indian meal of dal (lentils), rice, roti (flatbread), and vegetables that were all specially prepared to accommodate my vegan diet. I’d been on the road for over a week at this point, eating all of my meals from restaurants, so a home-cooked meal was a welcome treat. By the time we’d finished lunch, my creations had dried and were ready to take home. I was surprised to see how well the ink had set. I’d expected my scarves to have a raised texture on the printed parts, but instead the dye had merged perfectly with the fabric and was nice and smooth.

I left the workshop with a newfound appreciation for the art of block printing and for the level of precision and care it takes to make such beautifully printed designs. I’d later give both scarves to my mother, who would accept my handmade gifts with the same enthusiasm that she used to reserve for the scribbly doodles of my childhood, wrapping them both around her neck and checking herself out in the mirror. “They’re beautiful!” she told me. While I usually take her enthusiasm with more than a grain of salt, I had to admit that they didn’t look half bad. While my hand-made block prints were far from perfect, they were—after all—made with love.