stitching together

Handspun, handwoven wool panels I wove, being stitched with alternating colors of handspun yarn.

Sewing a seam to join handspun, backstrap-woven wool striped fabrics.

As soon as I began to stitch a figure-8 seam with alternating colors, these bits of weaving seemed to become a legit textile. This decorative joining stitch made my weaving look a bit like the handwoven textiles I brought home from Damascus and Doha.

Joining stitch detail of a handwoven, handspun camel hair rug made in Raqqa, Syria, and purchased in Damascus in 2011.

Damascus in February, 2011, just because

Bedouin and other nomadic weavers using ground looms tend to weave narrow cloth in long strips that are cut to the right length and sewn together. I’ve always admired the alternating colors on the joining stitches, and knew it required extensive care and time to make these figure 8 stitches so close together. It wasn’t until I started sewing that I understood that alternating colors has a structural function. If you alternate colors, you’re adding strength and protection, because if yarn breaks in one place, it’s surrounded by the opposite color yarn and won’t simply unravel. Traditional methods almost always have a practical, structural reason behind them, in addition to beauty.

Joining stitch detail of an Iraqu Bedouin weaving, purchased in Doha in 2013

Bedouin weaver Noura Hamed Salem Shehayeb working on a small frame loom in Doha, Qatar, 2011. This weaver is interviewed in a film from Qatar Museums: https://qm.org.qa/en/stories/all-stories/women-of-the-desert-video/

Souq Waqif in Doha, Qatar, where I bought the Iraqi weaving and saw many others from Syria, Jordan, Iraq, and the Gulf, 2011

Even this tatreez on linen, a Palestinian fragment that a friend identified as possibly from Bethlehem, shows the dense alternating joining stitches. Makes me wonder if this is a case of a popular technique being used in excess of its structural need. I’m sure this join is stronger than strictly necessary, but it’s definitely beautiful. The artist experimented with another type of joining stitch in the area on the left.

Palestininan cross stitch panels with intricate joining stitches

Now I'm noticing joining stitches everywhere. This is a nice join on an embroidered bag from Gujarat, which I've been using to hold a writing project. It's more of a double blanket stitch, maybe similar to Van Dyke stitch…. I don't know how it's done.

Meanwhile, I carry on stitching my panels together. Looking at the joins on these various traditional pieces, maybe you can see why my own weaving feels more like the real thing when it’s sewn together with decorative joining stitches. And it feels good to make narrow strips into a wider cloth (although I still can’t say what it “is”, besides handwoven wool cloth.) There are times when ‘putting in stitches,’ as my quilting mentor Mrs Graham used to say, feels like the only way to hold it together. I mean that in the widest, most global sense.

How it looked when I first began. The two sewing yarns are both in action, and the yarn is threaded behind to begin the next section of stitching.

I could say deep things about ‘joining together’, but I think the metaphor is already obvious. I continue to not be able to get enough of Abdul-Wahab Kayyali’s oud playing, which moved me to poetry when I heard him live with Les Arrivants last month. Just learned about this powerful project combining music and poetry around themes of survival and devastation (Mafaza project, through Henna Platform). Wishing for more beauty, less bombing.

Another detail of this wonderful Palestinian embroidery, known as tatreez. Check out this website for more: https://www.tatreezandtea.com/

Nostalgic Doha photo of someone fishing, 2008

taking up space

Colored Cotton, Walnut Wool, hanging at the PNW Quilt & Fiber Art Museum, La Conner, WA

I’m just going to start with the piece that was conceived for the space, as a way of introducing my art show, which has been up for some time, and has two more weekends before closing on May 1. The show is called Yarn, Cloth, and the Pull of the Earth, and it’s hanging at the PNW Quilt & Fiber Art Museum in La Conner, WA. It’s quite an experience to have a space that I can fill all by myself - an interesting, faceted, space, since it’s the third floor of a historic Victorian house.

One room of the show, on the upper floor of the museum, with me weaving by the far window.

The walls tilt inward, about 5’ from the floor, and this was actually perfect for what I wanted to do. Most of the pieces in the show involve two layers: a woven ‘ground’, hung against the wall, and suspended ‘lines’ of handspun yarn, which need to be higher and a few inches in front of the ground. Without this tilt in the wall, it would have been tricky to figure out, but the space had what I needed, so I could just hang the work. The colored cotton panels with bunches of wool in between make up the one piece that I made specifically for that wall, after visiting the space to scope it out. In this sense, “taking up space” means I used the space almost as a medium for the work, taking it up as one takes up a tool in the hand.

Handspun, handwoven cotton in natural brown and green.

The woven cotton is all handspun, essentially whatever I had ready to weave, supplemented with some new brown and green fiber from Vreseis and Traditions in Cloth. It’s all two-ply yarn, and I plied same colors together until I ran out, then some skeins were mixed, then I likewise wove until I ran out, so the color changes in the weavings happen by chance. They are interspersed with walnut-dyed wool, a gift from Devin Helman, spun rough with no prep and plied back on itself. In several of the pieces for this show, I’ve been exploring the expressive potential of strands of handspun yarn, the way they are like drawn lines or brushstrokes, handmade marks that have unpredictable voices of their own.

Coffee Lines - a handspun yarn based on the theme of coffee, hanging at the top of the stairwell before you enter the exhibit.

Handspun wool lines, with handwoven ground of walnut-dyed commercial 10/2 cotton.

Handspun wool lines (rescue sheep’s wool), handwoven ground of commercial warp, handspun Navajo Churro weft.

Taking up space is the real value of the show for me. Having this opportunity to fill two rooms with my work, my priorities, my ideas about what is important, and hoping to help others appreciate the wonder of yarn and cloth. The nicest moments have been just sitting in there, weaving in the light through the window.

Detail of weaving in progress, all cotton, at the museum.

A special day when I coordinated well with my weaving. Thanks to Dana Weir for the photo.

View from room 1 to room 2, through white lines. Cotton Strips on the right - more handspun cotton, in white and grey.

Caravan handspun, on ground of linen warp, handspun wool weft.

My Caravan yarn got to come out and play, hanging with a new woven ground. The pieces are all interacting with one another, creating something with their crosstalk.

I also included some microscopic images of fibers, taken when I was doing conservation study and using polarized light microscopy to identify fiber content. The images were so beautiful, I wanted them to be shown as artwork - and they emphasize the theme of looking closely. There is more I could say, but it has taken me long enough to post about this show, and I’d like to leave this here today.

about that string

A word about the string. Eine Saite, a string, is the title of this gathering place of thoughts and images. It comes from a poem by Rilke, Am Rande der Nacht (On the Border of Night), which sets up the speaker, the person experiencing, as a string:

Ich bin eine Saite,

über rauschende breite

Resonanzen gespannt.

(I am a string, stretched over rumbling, broad resonances.)

The full poem and translation are posted in the about page. I recommend reading the German aloud, if you can come close to pronouncing it. The rhythms are wonderful.

RIlke loves a wide open space - field of Queen Anne’s Lace and big firs during the heavy snowstorm days.

It has appealed to me to have “A String” be the title of a website that is mostly about spinning, weaving, sewing, textiles. However, I’m feeling the need to admit what German speakers must already know - although have been too polite to bring up: the string in Rilke’s poem is a musical instrument string. The word in German would be different if he were talking about yarn, thread, spun fiber. Strings for instruments are usually made from sinew or metal - a different material entirely. So there you have it, I admit to knowing that the stretched string in the poem is not the same kind of string I have stretched across my studio for weaving.

Beginning of a walknut-dyed weaving. 10/2 cotton warp and weft, mill spun.

And yet. We are in the world of poetry, where meaning is specific and also deep, layered. Any string of any material can be stretched across rumbling, broad resonances. The strings of my warp contribute to the vibrations within a vast space (more so, if I’m weaving outside.)

The poem culminates in the realization:

Ich soll zilbern erzittern - I must silverly shiver!

(My translation, my exclamation point) The person who is a string suddenly knows how to participate, how to create something that will cause “everything” to “live under me” - or as I interpret, to enliven in that space over which I am stretched. And this is another parallel - when my yarn is spun, and stretched, and woven, I silverly shiver. I choose my participation, that will resonate around me, through all the enlivened things.

This is elusive, but it has been deeply known to me since I first read the poem: that there is a way to be in the world, activating your own sound, evoking harmony, resonance, dance, light.

My writing slows as it becomes harder to make the words say what I understand from Rilke - but it’s there in the poem.

In Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows’ translation, they say:

A silver thread,

I reverberate:

then all that’s underneath me

comes to life.

My neighbor finds resonance in shaping found wood sculptures and suspending them.

I’ve been wanting to write about this for a long time, and about other things Rilke… so many unwritten Rilke thoughts! But especially lately, I’ve thought about poetry and translation and what words mean, because it’s important for subversion, for questioning what we’ve always been taught.

I learned about and ordered this book, an interpretation of the Therigatha, delving only slightly into the stir that it caused around the question of whether it could be called a ‘translation.’ (The current subtitle, “original poems inspired by…” is modified, post-stir.) Without going into my own reading of the original Pali text and various officially sanctioned translations, I will just say I’m more interested in finding out what a poem can do for you, how it cam make you feel and possibly change. (And this version of the poetry of enlightened women does more for me upon first reading than years of referring to the literal translations.)

And I also tend to think that anyone reading poetry, even in a native language, is engaged in translation to some extent, because we each bring our own history of understanding to all words, and we cannot say or know what a poet “means” with a certain word, apart from how it affects us. (Ooh, intent and impact… there’s another thick topic.)

I truly hope to bring more poetry here, alongside the weaving, since they are intertwined in my body and mind. This pulling of myself in the two directions, from words and intellect to hands and technique, makes me feel that they are two ends of the same string, and that all these meanings are present and vital, if not for Rilke then for me, through the intersection of his words and my life.

that soothing rattle

Peruvian captive ring spindle, called ‘chac-chac’ which means rattle. Between the wide whorl and the lower ring is a loose ring, which moves around when the spindle is twirled, making a whirring sound. Shown here with Targhee dyed by

High on my favorite spindles list is one of several from Peru, a little one-ounce spindle with a captive ring. The loose ring makes a sound while the spindle spins, a rattle that gives the spindle its Quechua name. I’ve heard various theories on why the captive ring, from audible tracking of the spinner, to woodworkers’ showing off. But in wandering around my own neighborhood spinning, I’ve found another, somewhat enchanting role for this chattering sound.

A passel of Peruvian spindles, with the chac-chac on the left. At least a couple of these are constantly in use around (or outside) the house.

We have a lot of birds around my house. Really, concentrated near my house. I can walk for over a mile with my binoculars, and not need them until I’m back within 50 yards of my driveway, where all the birds hang out. During the winter, it’s mainly American Robins and Varied Thrushes, Chickadees (Black-capped and Chestnut-backed), and Kinglets (Golden-and Orange-crowned), with Spotted Towhees, Dark-eyed Juncos, Red-breasted Nuthatches, and Anna’s Hummingbirds year-round. So, I’m wandering around outside with my spindle. This has, I realize, become an essential spiritual practice during pandemic times: walking outside with my spindle. On most days when it’s not (as now) pouring down rain, I tend to get out there at least for a spell, and it helps.

Bare chac-chac spindle, with a low whorl by Allen Berry, wool dyed by Abstract Fibers.

Recently, I was wandering up the hill behind my house, where there is an unbuilt lot full of trees, a band of partial forest very popular with the juncos. They are usually flitting around there, dashing across the open space by the drive, chipping and chucking their rapid, abstract calls. On this day, I was able to mingle quite closely, moving very slowly and standing still for long stretches of time, but never ceasing to use my chac-chac spindle. It rattled along, renewed with each flick, and the birds were never disturbed. On the contrary, I believe (and this is not the first time I’ve had the thought) the spindle’s irregular purr actually allowed me to get closer to the birds without causing alarm.

Orange on orange - love when the spinning matches my clothing!

The gentle sound of wood against wood, natural but irregular, may be similar enough to bird calls to mesh with their soundscape. If I knew the kind of language that had beautifully rich single words to express whole phrases, I would name this spindle “soothing to the birds.” As I stood there spinning amidst juncos and towhees I thought, this is really what it’s all about. This is belonging. I realized in that moment that the work of my life is to learn not how to stand out, but how to blend in.

It has been fun to gather images of soothing-to-the-birds from the various times I’ve taken pictures over the last few years. Lately the spindles have mostly been working toward the weaving above and its future companions, with stripes of Navajo Churro, dark Coopworth, Manx Longthan, and madder & indigo dyed Corriedale. The spinning moves me closer to the weaving I wish to be doing, the people who have practiced before me, and now the birds who share this place with me.

(Sometimes I put my musings about spinning over here in the spinning blog, in case you’re looking for more.)

feet

Finally, I have another warp on the Katu loom - the foot-tensioned backstrap loom which I acquired and learned to use from Keo and Mone Jouymany in Luang Prabang, Laos. As with other backstrap “looms”, it is a collection of specialized sticks, but the way it is warped and operated is different enough from my standard backstrap weaving practice that I had to work up to it. This is the fourth time I have tried this type of weaving, and I can possibly say I see a little improvement in my handling of the loom and the circular warp.

Warping with two-stranded balls of fine cotton from the market in Luang Prabang

The circular warp is wound directly onto the loom bars, using a frame of 2 x 4’s. The string heddles are added as the warp is wound. Preparing the 2 x 4’s and setting this up were a necessary part of the process of incorporating this type of weaving… — The circular warp is wound directly onto the loom bars, using a frame of 2 x 4’s. The string heddles are added as the warp is wound. Preparing the 2 x 4’s and setting this up were a necessary part of the process of incorporating this type of weaving into my life. Last time, I warped using a wooden ladder, which sort of worked.

I was thinking about how the foot-tensioned style of loom developed in areas where people are often barefoot, due to climate and culture (southern China and the peninsula to the south, and islands in the region such as Taiwan.) This barefoot life gives the feet enough habitual dexterity to work the loom. Going around in shoes all the time limits sensory awareness, as well as foot dexterity. And somehow Western civilization decided that less use of the feet equalled intellectual advancement - an odd equation. Even now, having foot and toe dexterity is something that startles adults in modern cultures - it is the reserve of small children, hippies, and indigenous people pre-contact. We no longer use the word ‘savages’, but the uneasiness with bare, wide, skilled feet persists.

Tim Ingold observes in his book Being Alive that European historical and philosophical separation of the upper and lower parts of the body, with the mind in the head and to some extent the hands, has led to shod feet which are mere mechanical extensions, best for marching, pumping, treadling. Which brings us back to modern loom development, and the increasing mechanization of what the legs do, keeping the focus of skill in the hands.

The typical, unskilled foot shown here, in my first attempt to use the Katu loom. The default for those of us who grow up wearing shoes is to brace with the feet, as if the loom bars are pedals. My toes don’t even know they’re supposed to be involve… — The typical, unskilled foot shown here, in my first attempt to use the Katu loom. The default for those of us who grow up wearing shoes is to brace with the feet, as if the loom bars are pedals. My toes don’t even know they’re supposed to be involved. (Ock Pop Tok Living Crafts Centre, Luang Prabang, 2013) You can see this stance in The Weaving Sisters’ students in their Instagram and Facebook photos. Mone and Keo do a great job of coaching awkward Western students through the use of their loom, but we all seem to start like this, with feet planted as if on the ground.

Compare with Keo’s feet and toes, which are fully engaged in the work - not simply applying force, but holding, manipulating, and controlling the tension of the loom bars. In this video, you can see that her feet are continuously making micro-adjust… — Compare with Keo’s feet and toes, which are fully engaged in the work - not simply applying force, but holding, manipulating, and controlling the tension of the loom bars. In this video, you can see that her feet are continuously making micro-adjustments as she works, then completely changing position to loosen the tension when the heddled shed is opened. Her toes work separately to hold the bars in different ways. It’s so cool to watch!

I had originally been thinking only of the practical, climate-related realities of loom design. Backstrap and ground looms persist in cultures that spend more time outdoors, with foot-tensioned looms (necessitating bare feet) in the warmest of those regions. Meanwhile, Europeans in colder climates developed warp-weighted looms, usually found inside the remains of buildings in archaeological sites. Then of course it was in Europe that treadled machines took off: spinning wheels, floor looms, eventually sewing machines. Asian spinning wheels appeared earlier, but were turned by hand and used a driven spindle, as they still are in many places, such as in Kashmir for fine fibers, and Laos for cotton.

Cotton spinning in Laos, using a hand-turned driven spindle wheel (and recruiting the foot to hold the wheel in place.) (Ock Pop Tok Living Crafts Centre, Luang Prabang, 2013)

The reason this matters to me is that I want to use my foot-tensioned Katu loom, so I’m keeping my feet bare as much as I can, and trying to move and exercise them in a way that restores some foot and toe dexterity. One of the points Ingold makes is that the habitually shod foot is not anatomically different from that of the lifelong barefoot person. They just develop differently based on constriction or freedom, lack of toe use or the reliance on toes for additional work. I’ve seen enough feet in India, Laos and Thailand to demonstrate the range of possibilities of foot shape based on lifestyle. And the way I’ve seen weavers not only in Laos but also Qatar recruit feet into the work shows a clearly different attitude from those of us stuck in shoes. The feet are accessible and available, and can be relied upon for assistance (shoes may be worn, but they’re easily and quickly removed, so that the transition to bare feet is not hampered). Laverne had a nice post about working with feet a while back, which included some of my notes about Keo. Of course with the Katu weaving technique, feet are essential, and this is what drives the whole inquiry and physical effort on my part.

Getting my toes into the game. Slightly less awkward, fourth time around….

You want to know about that gorgeous piece lying underneath my current weaving? Keo wove that, and I bought it soon after I first met her. We had a photo session with Mone, shown here. It’s usually draped over a table, but I’m using it to wrap my we… — You want to know about that gorgeous piece lying underneath my current weaving? Keo wove that, and I bought it soon after I first met her. We had a photo session with Mone, shown here. It’s usually draped over a table, but I’m using it to wrap my weaving when I roll it up - maybe it will add good vibes from my teachers. If you’re not familiar with Katu textiles, all those white bits are beads, embedded with the weft yarn. I’m still working on my basic weaving skills before attempting much beading. For more of these sisters’ amazing work, look for The Weaving Sisters on FB or IG (linked at the beginning of this post), or if you find yourself in Luang Prabang!

For now, I want to avoid the whole West vs. the rest trap, and simply think about how skill develops, how there is hope for anyone who uses the body assiduously, with trust. Somehow along the way many of us have been taught not to trust our bodies (thus, the buy-all-the-tools approach.) There’s a reluctance, in extra-traditional learning (by which I mean learning skills without, or outside of, a community of handed-down, traditional methods), to believe that the hands, feet, or whole body can change over time, can acquire skills as an adult. As adults, we tend to think “I can’t do that” is a true statement, case closed - whereas if a child says the same thing, we encourage her to keep trying, knowing that “can’t” may be temporary. It can be grown out of - but also grown into. Too often we are given a pass as adults, provided with excuses. And of course, we each have our own physical limitations, but functioning limbs and appendages can be trained to work in new ways. As I challenged myself to pick up a pencil with each foot, one after the other, I remembered Christy Brown, the artist featured in the movie My Left Foot, who drew, wrote, and painted with only the one working limb.

A woman spinning wool in Doha, Qatar (2011) uses her toes to hold a large distaff, freeing both hands to spin.

Toes are good for holding Peruvian spindles while winding a plying ball, too.

The fascinating thing is that western man (and I do mean “man,” since that’s where this agenda is coming from,) would deliberately cripple himself and then call that the ideal form - this limited, narrow, pale and soft foot with useless toes. And yet this is just what western civilization does again and again - cut off options, and then declare that this limited, narrow way is the way, in fact it’s the pinnacle of achievement. Ok, I did not avoid the trap, and I’m stuck in an epic eyeroll, but when I’m done I’ll get back to flexing my toes and weaving on my foot-tensioned loom.

Since this is a circular warp, there is an unworked layer of warp threads underneath the working shed. This also means the tension of the warp has to be correct at the winding stage - something that still needs much work, in my case.

open studio

From Frederick, by Leo Lionni — From *Frederick*, by Leo Lionni

In contemplating what to offer his first grade students remotely, by husband pulled out my childhood copy of Frederick, which was my number one favorite book from the age of about four. And this is my favorite page of that book. Granted, the poem at the end is a bit insipid (sorry, Leo,) and I was never much impressed with it. But the idea, the role of Frederick as poet - as someone who noticed and listened and stored things that became invaluable to the hungry mice in winter - this was a powerful idea to me even when I was very young. And this page illustrates that idea best: the warmth and light generated by the calm, inspired words of the poet, causing the very stones to glow.

Throughout my life, the power of that notion has stayed with me, that artists are gathering, observing, collecting, and creating a storehouse that will come to the aid of people in times of need. The system of consumer capitalism would tell us differently, but I’ve never stopped believing that poets and artists are vital.

Now, of course, I’m finding the truth of this confirmed, as I seek out and am fed by the warmth and beauty of words and images created, collected and shared by friends and fellow artists. It is essential nutrition right now.

~~~~~~~Erika Blumenfeld~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sarah Swett~~~~~~~~~~~ Thérèse Murdza~~~~~~~~~~ Jite Agbro~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything is disrupted, but the work of the artist is not much changed - our duties remain what they have been all along. And I want to beg my artist friends to stay faithful to your duties! Keep on with the work that makes you whole, and brings forth beauty and truth, because it is needed.

~~~~~~~ Helen MacDonald~~~~~~~~~ Camille Charnay ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bryan Whitehead ~~~~~~~~~ Sharon Kallis~~~~~~~~

Plainweave on the backstrap loom, with commercial cotton warp, handspun wool weft. Bamboo reed controlling the sett.

Especially while isolating, conditions are ideal for immersion and intimacy with our own universe of intent and exploration. Mine is focused on weaving right now, with backstrap projects multiplying, and study of both plainweave and Andean pickup in full swing.

Loraypo pattern in handspun yarn. Continuing my Andean pickup education, and trying to memorize this pattern.

I had the realization today that my studio is now never locked. I only lock it when I’m getting in the car and going away somewhere and no one else is at home. So now, the studio is always open. That’s an excellent thing, and it’s time to make it sing for everyone, for the love of this world.

Studio activities include making a new bamboo reed for weaving.

P.S. I finished the band from the last post. It is now covering and protecting my phone.

Phone cover, woven with #10 crochet cotton. Pattern from Laverne Waddington’s Andean Pick up book.

focus

For a while I was avoiding the word, because I had a tendency to pummel myself with it, as a thing that I failed to do. When I understood, finally, that accepting my own method of buzzing around between projects and mental states was more conducive, I stopped trying to focus, and just allowed for whatever was happening.

Spiral at Madrona MindBody Institute, Dec. 20. Much of the cedar and fir came from near my house.

But now I’m thinking of focus again, wanting to make it a touchstone, and as I helped build and then walked the spiral for a local solstice celebration, focus was in my mind. It requires a new definition, one that doesn’t exclude spontaneous expressions, deviations from the plan, or a wide range of media.

I’m still, and probably always will be “all over the place.” But I’m thinking that a breadth of possibility does not preclude focus. The new definition I’m choosing is: coming back to what is important. Focus will mean, not spinning out, not losing perspective, not letting go of intention and disciplined effort. Feeding back into the stream of This is What Matters.

Recent work in pieced fabric - see Clothscapes in the works tab.

An artist I respect very much puts in 10 hour studio days, but included in those days are walking outside, taking naps, some work online, and so forth. Work does not mean exclusively putting paint to canvas, pen to paper, shuttle through shed. It means one is focused on the work, in the grand scheme, and this is what I mean by focus.

Latest weaving going onto the rigid heddle loom. I finally found a way to sley this that is not uncomfortable, so I took a picture. Handspun yarn from Carolyn Doe <3

More and more shall feed into the work, shall be flowing in the same river, with the same general intention of seeking, spotting, or teasing out depth, strength, significance. What else are we supposed to do?

Sarah-Dippity skirt fabric on the loom, a while ago - Harrisville Shetland, yum. Now knitting the panels….

spindle, bobbin, shuttle

I started out weaving this with a two-ply handspun, churro and Icelandic. But the sett is too close with this reed, and the weft did not show through enough and I didn’t like the result, so I tried the churro singles. It was still on my spindle, and I discovered that this particular spindle (from Allen Berry) is of a length and whorl shape that works perfectly as a shuttle. Convenient! And I like the look of this weft, so I just kept weaving with the spindle as shuttle. Allen, who also carved the beautiful yellow cedar sword/beater, mentioned that he’d heard of people using spindles as bobbins/shuttles before, and this rang a faint bell for me, too. I knew I’d definitely seen people winding a warp directly from full spindles, and I found the video: winding a warp directly from spindles, in Western Ladakh.

It does sound familiar, though, putting a spindle into a shuttle as bobbin…. maybe a quill spindle, for cotton…? I can’t remember where I saw or heard of that, but pipe up if you know anything.

At any rate, I’m enjoying having a plain weave project with the reed on the loom again, and this time I’ve wound the far end, so I can weave a longer length without dealing with the full weight of a 3+ yard warp between me and the loom bar. Seems to be going ok. I have tension issues, but what else is new?

The lovely Navajo Churro fiber I’m spinning. It was a gift from Amelia, who got it from someone else, so I can’t say much about the provenance. This (beautiful Peruvian) spindle does not work as a shuttle, so I have to wind it onto a bobbin, but usi… — The lovely Navajo Churro fiber I’m spinning. It was a gift from Amelia, who got it from someone else, so I can’t say much about the provenance. This (beautiful Peruvian) spindle does *not* work as a shuttle, so I have to wind it onto a bobbin, but using it allowed me to spin while weaving with the other spindle.

Otherwise, I’m working on the opposite end of the spectrum from plain weave - trying to wrap my mind around a pattern and technique that have been calling to me for years. It’s the typical Central Asian yurt band weaving, which Laverne has graciously explained in various tutorials, under the name of “simple warp floats” (simple because they float on one side only, the top.) I’ve had those pages, and this one, bookmarked and screen-shotted, and photos copied and printed since she started posting about it back in 2010. For some reason, the yurt bands have always grabbed me, and I knew I would have to figure it out someday. Yes, Laverne has explained it nicely and given plenty of ways for it to make sense - BUT, the actual translation of woven pattern to chart, especially with the Central Asian tendency to stipple the background, is really quite challenging. That final link, where Laverne made a wide piece with pickup in foreground and background, has just always thrilled me.

Sample with striped (plain weave) background.

Note that in the tutorials, the background remains striped, which is plain weave with no pickup. Doing pickup on the whole surface is another ball game, and a very different one from Andean pebble weave or complementary warp pickup. The designs look similar, especially on the front, but structurally they are a different technique, and the rules for composing patterns are not the same at all.

I found out how different, and what some of the rules were, while trying to chart a section of a yurt band pattern, based on a printed photo of an actual band belonging to Marilyn Romatka.

Marilyn Romatka’s yurt band, about 13” wide by 15+ yards long.

I was still daunted by the wide yurt band patterns, but I really wanted to figure it out. Recently, circumstances came together that allowed me to sit down, look at Laverne’s images once more, and take on the pattern. I charted a quadrant of a symmetrical design, and started weaving a half-width to test it. So far, it’s working!

One repeat of the design. I took out a couple of rows to correct the vertical mirroring point, but now I think that’s figured out. Cascade Ultra Pima cotton yarn - it’s what I had handy.

I’m continuing to look at the yurt band photos and trying to understand more of the typical patterning, so that I can create border designs in narrower strips. Spending my morning on this kind of thing is deeply gratifying, in the way that finally being able to weave something one has admired for years can be. The next effort at this will be with handspun wool.

Trying to chart border patterns from this image and from Marilyn’s band….

sakiori pictures and unrelated thoughts

Some unwonted, taught pride diverts us from our original intent,

which is to explore the neighborhood, view the landscape,

to discover at least where it is that we have been so startlingly set down, if we can’t learn why.

- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

My sakiori (behind) with a traditional Japanese piece.

I read Annie Dillard and feel urgent, often. Her sense of duty is compelling, and it motivates me. But it motivates me to very minimal actions, since the imperative is, as I’ve mentioned before, to pay attention. To look, to see, to witness. In another passage, she writes of seeing a bird dive in free-fall before deftly landing on the grass: everyday, commonplace, and extraordinary. She concludes that “beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.”

So more often than not, her words compel me outdoors, as do Mary Oliver’s poems or Robin Wall Kimmerer’s essays on our participation in this world. Participating, as a seer, a person trying to have what Rilke called “the right eyes,” is a full-time occupation. Unless we get lazy and neglect our duties, which is easy to do. Easy to get pulled into online discussion or news, easy to binge-watch something as an escape from the arduous act of thinking. I try to increase the time away from such distractions (unless the online stuff is truly feeding a worthwhile train of thought, which happens.) I turn to Ursula LeGuin and her mother’s wonderful writings about Ishi, their tragically famous friend. I read David James Duncan and Robin Wall Kimmerer, Tim Ingold and Dr. Leticia Nieto. Most recently I read Elaine Pagels Why Religion?, a gift from my father-in-law who, as a Biblical scholar, has always been a fan.

They are all pointing down a similar road, leading away from colonialism and the old, destructive narratives that I somehow grew up with. I’ve been trying to dismantle that ideological box for a long time, and I keep finding new tools. But it is an uphill trek. For every sentence I manage to write here, there are countless thoughts and potential words swimming around, uncaught and fleeting. At any rate, I’m trying.

The sleying process. Reed is 8” wide, 22epi. (Ok, this photo was in the last post, but here it is again.)

My first project with the smaller bamboo reed that I made at home, on my own, is a sample of sakiori, a weaving made from torn up fabric. The weft is made of strips of kimono silk fabric. I’ve been preparing the strips for some time, and this is the warp I impulsively wound when I arrived home in December (last post.) It wove up quickly, and was finished in time to show friends in mid-January.

As with most of my weaving thus far, it is nothing more or less than an attempt to make a certain type of fabric, to see how it might be done with my backstrap loom situation. I’m pleased with the result, am interested to work with finer strips of fabric, and do not know what I will “do” with this piece at the moment.

Here’s the setup. Don’t be confused by the rolled up weaving on the floor beneath (extra sticks at the top of the photo.) This one has lease sticks, a fat shed stick, string heddles, two swords and a reed. I had to beat with the sword rather than th… — Here’s the setup. Don’t be confused by the rolled up weaving on the floor beneath (extra sticks at the top of the photo.) This one has lease sticks, a fat shed stick, string heddles, two swords and a reed. I had to beat with the sword rather than the reed to get this packed nicely.

Need to work on tidying up that selvage, apparently… (actual Japanese weaving on left)

on not knowing much, continued

Latest Andean pickup handwoven band, made with handspun yarns.

To clarify, because some may say that spinning and weaving with extremely fine, strong yarn is not about 'knowing' but rather the acquisition of skill: I see the acquisition of traditional skills as a way of knowing, and my own work shows me the extent to which I live and learn outside of any particular way. My efforts are self-motivated, not integral to my culture or the expectations of my community, and I have only for very brief moments learned from anyone in person.

A lesson in Lao supplementary weft weaving at Ock Pop Tok, Luang Prabang.

So in this sense, I really know almost nothing, set against any given way of knowing. Because a way of knowing is an immersion, a living-through, an acquisition of technique that goes beyond technique to the understanding of how it fits in with one's role in life, to one's purpose as a human being. This is the ineffable quality one sees or senses in the master's work, the craftsperson who is so completely at home with the work that every stage of the process looks like fulfillment.

It is also the quality of a living textile making tradition, that each skill and facet of knowledge is essential and integral to the person and the community. It is a belonging, and the reason I'm talking about it is because I feel the lack and the longing for it in my own explorations. I have the freedom of the unattached. Not locked into any tradition or community, I can play the dilettante, exploring Bedouin ground loom weaving here, and Katu foot-tensioned weaving there, but I miss the sense of home, the grounded identity that comes with being a weaver in a weaving culture, and the connection of my community with my work.

My Tibetan style pile weaving in progress, at the Tibetan Handicrafts Cooperative, McLeod Ganj.

At work in Mc Leod Ganj, Dharamsala, India, 1994

The state of not knowing is quite welcome to me, because it means I am open to learn. The first time I sat down as a weaving student, in a Tibetan handicrafts cooperative workshop in McLeod Ganj above Dharamsala, India, my teacher and I had only a few words in common, in Hindi. I imitated the Tibetan way of looping a double strand of wool yarn around the metal bar and the cotton warp threads on the vertical loom, and she would watch me and periodically say, "Aisa nahi... Aisa," which means "Not like that.... Like this." Often I would feel the explanations rise to my mind, the reasons why I was doing it 'like that,' because I thought blah-blah-blah..... Since we couldn't speak, I could never explain, and it was just as well, because I was stripped of my American defensiveness and the wish to prove that I understood, and could only ever prove it by doing it right.

So when I experience the truth of how little I know, it means that I'm fit to learn, and it often means I'm actually faced with a teacher, in which case it is even more welcome. Acknowledging my own ignorance is a way of appreciating the wealth of knowledge carried by so many textile cultures, and it is this ignorance that motivates me. I don't weave and spin in order to keep creating something I know, but in order to keep learning about what I don't know. As long as I have the freedom that comes with technical ignorance and cultural homelessness, I should exercise that freedom by learning as much as I can, anywhere I can find it.

on not knowing much

Despite all the studying I've done of Andean pickup weaving, and my own attempts to learn it, I had never seen real Chinchero weaving in person, with the exception of the wee tanka ch'oro jakima strip sent to me by Laverne Waddington. Finally, at the Textile Society of America Symposium in Los Angeles, I found CTTC represented by ClothRoads, and could get my hands on pieces woven in Peru. This small bag is from Chinchero, and is being compared to my own recent weaving. It reminds me of the childish taunt "Shows what you know!"

I say this with good humor, but it's decidedly humbling to see my best effort to date, made with handspun that I'm relatively proud of, next to the real deal. The S curve, or kutij, in the middle of the Chinchero piece, woven by Martha Quispe Huamán, is the same number of warps as the curves in mine. It's mind-boggling, really. Look at the size of the yarn ends, all 2-ply handspun.

Mine look monstrous! And we're not even going to talk about the beautiful, intricate ñawi awapa border, which is simply par for the course in Chinchero weaving. I have not learned that yet - I'm still in backstrap pre-school.

So this shows what I know, and don't know. But there is freedom in not knowing. It means I can weave things like this:

Because there's no one to tell me I can't do it like that. Yarn spun from old clothing? Warped as singles and woven clamped to my kitchen counter? Why not!