Angela Damman’s
Agave Atelier
Just past the Yucatán capital of Mérida—where pastel facades give way to dense jungle split by narrow red-dirt roads—U.S. designer and former environmental consultant, Angela Damman, uncovered a calling that would transform her life and aid the revival of an ancient craft. Today, Angela leads a growing community of local artisans, who handweave native fibers like henequen, once known as Yucatán’s “green gold.”
(Craftsmanship) Before moving to Mexico, Angela Damman and her family lived in Colorado, where she restored homes and developed a deep interest in sustainable design and international business. But nothing could have prepared her for what awaited in the small town of Telchac Pueblo—a crumbling hacienda, overtaken by vines, its walls weathered by time. Damman saw promise not only in the building, but in the native plants growing wild around it. Among them was henequen, a type of agave once known as Yucatán’s “green gold.” For centuries, Maya communities had spun it into rope, bags, and textiles. After the industry collapsed, only a few artisans still worked with the fiber.
Drawn to the material and the women still weaving it by hand, Damman spent two years learning alongside local artisans, travelling to rural villages and relearning lost techniques. She began collaborating with the local community—reviving skills, then experimenting with new forms. Her brand grew from this process: sculptural lighting, bags, and textiles, all made by hand from native fiber. That run-down hacienda is now a home, studio, and workshop for Damman, from which she supports a network of artisans across Yucatán and helps to revive an ancient craft once on the brink of extinction. MAISON Ë reached her at golden hour via video call. Soft light filtered through the tall, arched windows of her workshop, birdsong filled the air, and distant laughter marked the end of the day’s work as Damman began to share her story.
Maison Ë What first brought you to the Yucatán, and what was your initial impression of the property you now call home?
Angela Damman We found the hacienda when it was still in ruins—overgrown, with collapsed walls and fallen timbers. The previous owner had begun a renovation, but very little had been done. Even so, the setting felt incredibly peaceful, and there was a certain energy to it. We had originally planned to stay for six months or a year, to fix it up and then return to Colorado. But within the first month, my husband and I looked at each other and thought, maybe this is it? There was a sense of adventure, but also a lot to learn. The people here were so warm and generous that it became hard to imagine leaving.
M.Ë Did you have any previous experience with restoration work?
A.D. We’d restored homes in Colorado, but this was entirely different. Everything here is done by hand—no heavy machinery, no shortcuts. All the walls are built from hand-cut stone. So the process was slow, but also intimate. You’re physically closer to the work. It demands patience and precision. I remember my husband asking why we didn’t just rent a cement mixer or get a special drill, but those things aren’t used here. The builders rely on skill, not tools. There’s a kind of beauty in that.
“Everything here is done by hand—
no heavy machinery, no shortcuts.”
M.Ë When did you begin to take an interest in the plants growing on the land, and in the fiber traditions of the region?
A.D. I grew up on a farm in Minnesota, so I’ve always been curious about what people grow and how they use it. Our property is surrounded by henequen, a variety of agave native to this region. It was once grown on an industrial scale to make rope and twine, but it also has a deep history in Mayan craft traditions. I saw what local artisans were doing with plant fibers and wanted to learn more. I was especially drawn to the idea that these plants grow without irrigation or chemicals—they belong here and they thrive.
M.Ë How did you begin working with artisans, as someone new to the area and the culture?
A.D. I didn’t speak Spanish at first, and many of the artisans I now work with speak Mayan as their first language. But I showed up, I listened, and I made it clear that I wasn’t just passing through. I wanted to build long-term relationships and that meant creating ongoing income and opportunity for everyone involved. I had studied international business, so I understood the importance of cultural respect. Most of all, I just kept learning—about the people, the traditions, and how to communicate across languages and perspectives.
M.Ë What was the first textile you developed?
A.D. I was fascinated by the agave fiber because it reminded me of horsehair. I had studied fashion briefly at university and had taken textile courses, so I started wondering, could we create a fabric fine enough to be mistaken for horsehair? It took a couple of years, but we did it. People couldn’t believe it wasn’t horsehair. That was a breakthrough. Suddenly, we had a luxury textile made entirely from local plant fiber. It helped clarify the direction I wanted to go—refining process and material while staying close to the land and the people.
M.Ë How has your practice evolved since then?
A.D. Everything is made to order, so the design process often begins with one of my existing pieces, then adapts depending on the client’s needs—scale, shape, color. Right now, we’re making a set of oversized chandeliers for a house in Pennsylvania. They’re nearly two and a half meters tall. Pieces at that scale are a challenge—you have to consider armature design, shipping, installation—but they also offer this sense of presence that I love.
“I didn’t want to compete with
existing craft traditions, so I focused
on developing something new.”
M.Ë What does production look like today?
A.D. It starts on our property—we grow the plants, and extract and clean the fibers by hand. Then we build and finish pieces here in the studio. But I also work closely with craftspeople in nearby villages. Some women still weave using the backstrap loom, which is incredibly labor-intensive and at risk of disappearing. Others hand-spin fibers from plants like sansevieria, also known as “mother-in-law’s tongue.” Some sew, others crochet or macramé. Everyone is close by. It’s important to me to keep everything local—no outsourcing.
M.Ë Your work has been shown internationally—at the likes of Salone del Mobile in Milan and Design Miami. What do you hope people understand when they encounter it outside of Mexico?
A.D. That these materials and techniques come from a specific place and culture. The fibers haven’t had much visibility beyond this region. Showing the work at a global level opens up conversations, not just about aesthetics but about knowledge, labor, and value. I always share those experiences with the artisans—where the pieces are going, who’s engaging with them. It’s meaningful for them to see that what they do is being noticed and appreciated around the world.
M.Ë You’re about to host your first artist-in-residence. What’s the intention behind that program?
A.D. It’s open-ended. Some people might want to work with the fibers, others might be writing, researching, or simply looking for a place to reflect. The land and the studio have a certain presence—people often say they feel grounded here. Visitors started asking if they could stay for longer periods to work on their own projects, so I decided to make that possible.
M.Ë What do you hope people take away from your work?
A.D. I want people to see the possibility in these fibers—that you can create something refined, even luxurious, using only what grows around you and the knowledge held in a community. Everything we do is organic, local, and entirely made by hand. It’s literally built from the ground up. That brings a certain energy. When people visit, they feel it. And I think that feeling—of something alive—is what I hope travels with the work.