I used to think fungi were just those slimy things you scrape off old bread.
Turns out, in the foothills of Uzbekistan’s Tian Shan mountains, a handful of artisans have been transforming bracket fungi—those shelf-like growths you see on dead trees—into something entirely different: lampshades, boxes, even intricate wall hangings that look like they belong in a gallery, not a forest. The practice goes back centuries, maybe longer (the historical record gets fuzzy before the Silk Road era), and it centers on Fomes fomentarius and Ganoderma applanatum, two species that grow dense and woody enough to carve. These aren’t the mushrooms you sauté for dinner. They’re tough, fibrous, and—here’s the thing—they dry out into something that feels almost like cork, which is why Central Asian craftspeople started experimenting with them in the first place. The Fergana Valley, with its mix of walnut forests and semi-arid climate, provides ideal conditions for these fungi to grow large and slow, accumulating layers of tissue that artisans can then slice, shape, and even dye using natural pigments extracted from pomegranate rinds or madder root.
The process is weirdly meditative. You harvest the fungus in late autumn, when the fruiting body has hardened. Then you wait—sometimes six months—for it to dry completely. Rush it, and the material cracks.
Honestly, I was skeptical when I first heard about this. Who carves fungus? But watching a craftsman named Akmal in Margilan work a piece of Ganoderma with a curved knife, I got it. He’d been doing this for roughly thirty years, give or take, learning from his grandfather, who learned from his grandfather. The designs often incorporate traditional Uzbek motifs—geometric patterns that echo tilework you’d see in Samarkand’s Registan, or stylized botanical forms. Akmal mentioned that the smell of fresh-cut fungus is earthy, almost sweet, nothing like the musty odor you’d expect. He also said—and this part surprised me—that the material has mild antimicrobial properties, which is why some artisans use it for small storage containers meant for dried herbs or spices. (There’s limited scientific literature on this, though Fomes fomentarius has been studied for its medicinal compounds in European contexts, so it’s not entirely implausible.)
When Ancient Techniques Meet Modern Markets and the Challenges That Follow
The craft nearly vanished during the Soviet era. Collectivization disrupted traditional knowledge transmission, and synthetic materials flooded the market.
What saved it—wait, maybe “saved” is too strong—what kept it flickering was a small cohort of families in places like Kokand and Rishtan who refused to stop. Now, with Uzbekistan’s tourism sector expanding (visitor numbers jumped something like 40% between 2018 and 2023, though I’d need to double-check those figures), there’s renewed interest. Younger artisans are blending old methods with contemporary aesthetics: minimalist fungus coasters, laser-etched designs on traditional boxes. It’s a weird hybrid, but it’s working. One artisan I spoke with, Dinara, sells her pieces on Etsy and at craft fairs in Tashkent. She told me that Western buyers are particularly drawn to the sustainability angle—fungi are a renewable resource, they grow on dead wood, no trees felled. But here’s the tension: rising demand means some harvesters are overpicking, potentially disrupting forest ecosystems. There’s no formal regulation, no sustainability certification. It’s just individual ethics and, honestly, whether people care enough to harvest responsibly. Dinara does, but not everyone will.
The Textural Paradox of Working with Living-Dead Material
Fungus occupies this strange biological category—not plant, not animal. It’s decomposer, network-builder, silent recycler of forests.
And that’s part of what makes fungus craft so conceptually rich, I guess. You’re working with something that was never technically alive in the way we usually mean—it doesn’t photosynthesize, doesn’t have a brain—but it’s also not inert. Even dried, the material responds to humidity, expanding slightly in wet weather, contracting in dry. Artisans have to account for this, leaving tolerance in joints, avoiding overly tight fittings. The fungus remembers the tree it grew on, its grain patterns echoing the host wood’s texture. Some craftspeople lean into this, highlighting the growth rings visible on the underside of bracket fungi, each line representing a season. Others sand it smooth, erasing the history. Both approaches feel valid, though I admit I prefer the former—there’s something about seeing the fungal record of time that makes the object feel less like decor and more like… I don’t know, evidence. Of patience. Of slow, quiet growth in a world that usually demands speed. The color palette is naturally muted—tans, grays, occasional streaks of rust-orange from oxidized compounds—but artisans sometimes enhance this with smoke treatment, holding pieces over smoldering juniper to deepen the tones. It’s a technique borrowed from leatherworking, adapted for fungal tissue. Does it always work? No. Sometimes the smoke just makes it smell like a campfire, and you have to start over. But when it does work, the result is this warm, earthy gradient that no synthetic stain could replicate. I’ve seen pieces that look almost like aged parchment, others that have the depth of polished stone. The variability is part of the appeal, though it definately frustrates buyers who expect consistency.
Anyway, the craft persists. Imperfect, niche, stubborn.
