stitching together

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

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.

finishing, and other distractions

This tiny snail was on the stem of my CSA broccoli, and I remembered I have a camera with a good macro setting. So I was diverted by looking at the snail and taking lots of photos as it scooted around on the stem. I called this one Snail Side-eye. That shell! The delicacy was entrancing. The shell is only about 1/4” wide, maybe 5mm.

You know that thing I said last time about how once I’ve finished something, it already seems old? That may be one reason why it’s hard for me to get around to sharing Finished Object photos. The other is the distraction factor, because the thoughts and images that elbow their way to the front of the queue are never exactly what I thought I might intend to talk about. Witness, the tiny snail.
But anyway, this weaving is finished, except for the fringe/edge treatment. I’m still undecided on what I’m doing at each end, but here’s three panels, joined with figure 8 stitch. It has been incorporated into the textile array in the low seating area that we call the majlis, our couch, where I am currently ensconced among weavings and pillows.

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Bedouin style weaving, from handspun Navajo churro wool, 3 panels stitched together.

Now, I meant to include this next item with the petticoat details in the last post, because they are related. The Sarah-dippity skirt is, at long last, finished. The picture below is from nearly a year ago (this has been a long-running project). I tried it on when I had finished knitting the panels and put buttonholes in the last panel, whose shaping was made with short rows - and yeah, I could use some short row shaping finesse, but I decided what’s a little hem wonk among friends?

Backing up as I realize I may never have shared the in-progress bits, possibly because I was waiting until it was finished…..? Sigh. However, this is backstrap-woven fabric, begun in October 2019, 100% Harrisville Shetland wool yarn in a random stripey warp that was a bit of a circus act to wind, but satisfying to weave. I knit the intervening panels with the same yarn, using up the dark brown cone. I was sewing the panels together in February 2020, prior to knitting the final front piece. My waist-to-hip ratio required some more radical deductions in fitting the wedges to the straight pieces, which added to the delay in getting through that phase.

Shetland wool stripes in progress on backstrap loom, leather backstrap of unknown origin in foreground. Handmade bamboo reed in use.

Shetland wool striped fabric finished - about 8 x 100'“

What the skirt really needed, to be finished, was some elastic in the back half of the waistband, which I inserted in a sleeve of brown wool, a remnant from my lovely long skirt. And the buttons were pulling at the knitted fabric, so I wanted to add button bands. Another job for my new best friend, handwoven tape! I had some handspun tussah silk yarn in appropriate colors handy, and got to work. the cool thing is, being custom-made, the tape has woven-in buttonholes.

Hanspun tussah silk yarn, in natural, rust, and bronze.

I kept the skirt in my lap as I wove the buttonhole band, and buttoned each button as I went, so that the length between would be correct.

The skirt has already been recruited into use, but I don’t have fully-done photos yet. I’m sure you’ll see it underneath some weaving in progress eventually.
Meanwhile, how about some sleeve gussets? The next FO is actually a radical mending, or a reboot. A linen dress I’ve had for a very long time, love dearly, and never liked the fit of the sleeves. In sewing a linen shift, I learned a thing or two about gussets, and I wanted to apply that to this dress. But the sleeves were joined into the princess cut in such a way that merely adding gussets in the underarm was not enough. I had to cut the whole sleeve off and insert a wedge at the shoulder.

The linen dress on my work table, one sleeve reconfigured. The original sleeve is angled so low that anytime I raised my arms, it was too tight around the upper arm. Simply adding room below did not solve this problem - I had to reduce the angle from the shoulder, make it nearly straight out.

I’d been searching for linen of a harmonious color for these insertions, but my smart friend Ann suggested using a print fabric that shows right up, and carrying the insert all the way to the sleeve hem. Which sent me stash diving and gave me the joy of using more long-held fabrics to not only enhance function but jazz up this dress.

Whee, freedom of movement! I’ve worn it many a day since making this change. Seen here with a necklace made of weaving-enhanced driftwood, work of my friend Tininha.

It’s interesting to think about what counts as ‘finishing’ in my little textile world. I meant to show things that are done, wearable, no more work left until they need mending. But I realized that each plied ball of handspun yarn is also a small finished object. There are many stages of finishing, and the sense of accomplishment comes whenever I wind off a ball or a skein of yarn.

Four balls of handspun yarn, from top left cotton 2 strand plying ball, Corriedale plied, Coopworth 2 strand plying ball, Gnomespun dyed Gotland 2 strand plying ball. All of these have been plied since the photo - woot!

My life is filled with balls of yarn like this. And I never know what will strike me when sorting, or moving, or plying, or grouping them. As it happened, I went through the main ‘weaving yarn’ bin the other day, and found the Syrian silk in there. This stuff is heavy, in more ways than one. It has weight. Just holding three skeins’ worth was like a presence - I held them against my stomach, as if carried in the womb, and I remembered the market in Damascus. The Souq al Hamidiyyeh, a huge covered arcade of market stalls where I searched for the yarn shop a friend in Doha recommended.

I was there the end of February, 2011, only months before the rapid disintegration of what was then normal life for Syrians. It is sobering to think of these places now, and the yarn holds all of that.

Shelves of the yarn shop where I bought my silk, Souq al Hamidiyyeh, Damascus, Syria.

I wove some of this silk once before, along with some textured corespun yarn in the warp and an additional wool yarn in the weft. The resulting scarf was sold to a friend at an art fair in Doha.

Handspun yarn and Syrian silk scarf, modeled on the roof of my Doha apartment, 2011.

As I realized then, this silk (I call it silk, it may have some viscose in it, but they said it was silk, even when my Arabic speaking friend bought it,) needs something to stabilize it, something less slippery and lighter weight. It occurred to me to try weaving it with plain, white, handspun wool. This juxtaposition of flashy, shiny, bling yarn and earth-grown, undyed sheep’s wool parallels what I encountered in Arab culture. There is a deep history of pastoral connection to land, animals, and hand-worked materials, which coexists with a love of gold, sparkling jewels, and lush adornment. Very broad strokes here, but I could give examples if this post were not already getting lengthy. Suffice to say, this combination felt right, as an honoring of the yarn’s place of origin.

Syrian silk yarn and handspun CVM/Romeldale cross wool from Bellingham, WA.

I probably want to make something large-ish, as the yarn allows, but first I needed to sample my idea. I spent much of a day working up this sample, and I can’t even express how much I adore the fabric.

Sunlight on weaving in progress.

The sun was shining on this day, and I enjoyed the glint of sunlight on silk immensely, broken up with all the little dashes of wooliness.

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A small sample, a tiny little piece of fabric, but I love everything about it, the hand, the texture, the rhythm of bright and matte surfaces, and the way the light shines through.

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The rug in the background is also from Syria, bought on the same brief visit. Through my own weaving, my heart honors and hopes for the place and the people, that they (and we all) may thrive in some new form.

motley

I’ve come to accept that I always have a motley collection of intentions, a patchwork of projects, each inching along at its own pace.

Warp-faced strip of two handspun merino/bamboo/silk yarns who have long awaited being woven together to see what happens.

The slow pace can sometimes drain the excitement, so that by the time I share or finish something, it’s already old to me.

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Handspun cotton accumulating in the to-be-washed pile.

But maybe the slow pace is the excitement, or the importance of the thing.
Not rushing can be a subversive, significant act.

Linen shift stitching in progress - felling a seam.

Valuing flashes of brilliance over steady accumulation of skill and knowledge is part of the prevailing illness today —- why not glory in taking a long time to slowly make a thing?

Which I do. In several different directions, all at once.

Twisting some fine cordage from long leaves. Love the fineness, but the fingers get tired, and my joins need work.

Closeup of backstrap woven bath mat in progress, with weft of cotton t-shirt strips and carved Allen Berry sword beater.

I wanted to share an update on my 18th century-style petticoat skirt, mentioned at the end of this post. The fabric is so light that the skirt simply crawled up my legs when I walked in it, so something needed to be done. I thought of adding a handwoven hem band, probably getting the idea from Lao skirts and the separate hems they often add to the main skirt fabric. Looking at the photos, I realize now that even when a separate hem is not sewn on, the additional woven decoration at the bottom adds weight (as in the second photo below.)

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Lao tube skirt (pha sinh) - the ikat upper part is the main skirt, the brocade weaving below is a separately woven hem section.

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These pha sinh are woven in one piece, but the borders are decorated with supplementary (brocade) patterning.

One of my narrow woven wool bands looked good against the skirt fabric, but I wanted the hem band wider. So I scaled up the pattern using my handy Inkle Visualizer app, and wound a warp in the same colors, closer to 2”/5 cm wide. As often happens, I miscalculated length because I don’t have a good sense of takeup percentage (how much length is lost in the weaving), so I ended up with a nice hem band that was about a handspan and a half too short.

Backstrap-woven, handspun wool hem on petticoat.

What to do? Standing in my studio, the stacks of folded fabric catch the eye, and in my life “patchwork” is more than just a metaphor. The solution was obvious.

Patchwork fabric infill, at the back of the skirt hem where the woven band did not reach.

I actually padded the patchwork strip with batting, and put in some quilting stitches along the seams for strength, since the patchwork needed to be equal to warp-faced woven wool. Solving these little problems of durability, weight, and behavior in garments teaches so much about how and why people made clothes in various ways, throughout time and place!

And the tiny bit of quilting sparked something else, the memory of my love for that act, that set of skills and motions. As it happens, I had a fully assembled, partially quilted project handy to get back into the joy of hand quilting. This is a 20-year-old piece with its own story, which I will feature at another time. Suffice to say it has a theme of colonization, refugees, and war, which unfortunately never ceases to be relevant. Meanwhile, I also find it beautiful and highly evocative, with memories of Dharamsala, India, where it began.

Patchwork quilt in hoop and on the floor below, big basting stitches and quilting stitches shown in the hoop.

Hand quilting in progress, red thread on cotton and Tibetan silk fabric patches.

Even these photos are already a few months old, because I somehow got distracted from working on this, as well….. As I said, it’s a constant, swirling dance of discovery, my inching along with each project as the mood strikes. But the stitching here may have fed into the stitching on the linen shift, which is nearing completion. It’s all moving, deepening and spreading like water filling a dry, rutted patch of earth. Something will grow here, surely.

Self in linen shift, showing finished neckline and cuffs, in nice afternoon light.

weave on

As long as I have one, or two, or maybe more, weavings in progress, I feel secure in the knowledge that I have Something to Do. I can always put in a few rows or inches, especially if one of the projects is plain weave. I was happily, if slowly weaving along on the gold warp with a mishmash of weft yarns, destined to be several yards of 15” wide cloth for sewing, when another project suddenly took hold.

Double decker weaving. When you have one tie-up spot for larger pieces, they have to make way for one another. The gold warp is chained and secured at one point, so it can move side to side. I weave it while sitting in the rolling chair. The wool warp is secured on a loom bar, so it faces the tie-up (antique treadle sewing machine, that is) directly, and I sit on a cushion on the floor to weave it.

It all started with this Navajo churro fiber that Ameila G. was unloading before a big move. I happened to mention that I like that fiber, and a huge box came home with me. I spun the white and dark brown a few years ago, and the medium grey-brown just recently, a soothing pandemic spin. I had the skeins posed on my table to share a photo with my weaving friend.

Three shades of Navajo churro fiber, from the large stash I acquired thanks to Amelia Garripoli, spun and plied on my Louët S10 wheel.

Well, backing up, it all started when I had the idea to try to do a Bedouin-style weaving with the churro. Back in 2017, I started weaving the side panels - two strips that would mirror each other, with the patterning of al ‘ouerjan. The plan was to have a center strip with the shajarah supplementary warp technique, an improvised pickup which allows for the choice of dark or light color in each pattern warp in each shed. I’d learned the weaving methods while living in Doha, Qatar, through a combination of visiting Um Hamad, a Bedu/Qatari weaver in Souq Waqif, and consulting Joy Hilden’s book, which gave me the vocabulary to talk about the techniques with Um Hamad. I set up at home using my backstrap arrangement, rather than the ground loom or frame loom typical of Bedouin weavers, and while I wove a few practice pieces and made some projects with al ‘ouerjan, I only ever did the shajarah once, on a band which I later gave to Joy Hilden. So this idea for a larger weaving came from an urge to give “real” Bedouin weaving a try. What I mean by that is to use handspun wool of a heavy carpet weight, to do a warp-faced piece with multiple panels, and to use both types of supplementary warp technique. The pounds of churro fiber I had handy were just the thing.

In sending the photo to my friend, I then got out the side panels to show her what the yarn was for. And with everything sitting out and looking tantalizing, it was only a short step to winding a new warp. (This is why it’s important to have weaving friends.)

Brown and white wool side bands, and the three colors of yarn in the middle. Yeah, I can’t really figure out why the patterned bands are so different in these two, but I’m ignoring it. Symmetry is not my strong suit.

It had been so long (and had predated the sensible weaving notebook I now use) that I did not remember what length I had wound for the two warps. I decided, based on finished length, the most likely answer was “the full length of the table” - which is a standard unit of measure, at least in my studio.

Should I have put this behind a spoiler, for those who are made twitchy by the sight of a hectic warp? Sorry, this is my M.O. I wound in three bouts. I fixed tension issues in one set of white warps later, while getting set up on the loom bars. Joy’s book is open to some shajarah designs, to help me decide on the number of pattern warps to use.

For this supplementary warp technique, you wind one of each color held together for the full number of rounds equalling your desired pattern warps. I went for 30. Each shed thus gives all 30 warps, with the option to choose either dark or light for each one. Much improvisational freedom, with an emphasis on the smooth diagonal lines that are easy to achieve. The textiles I’ve seen seem to show a disregard for long floats on the backside, but I find myself designing in order to catch floats before they get too long. And as I wove, I realized this could explain the role of a certain type of framing I see in the pattern bands of Bedouin weavings. See Um Hamad’s work, below.

The very beginning - working out some kinks. A simple repeated hourglass pattern gives me a feel for the numbers and the pickup method, as I try to snug the warps closer together in the pattern section.

Um Hamad points out the patterns in a weaving. The rows of black diamonds seem to make boundary lines between designs, and would also serve to catch any long floats.

A weaving Um Hamad made in 2011, spinning and dyeing the yarn before weaving. Repeated rows of black diamonds again frame improvised sections of pickup.

The back of Um Hamad’s handspun piece, showing the floats in the shajarah section, and the bright orange, blue and red of the narrow stripes - dyed with packaged dyes from India, in a loosely plied skein. The yarn is plied tighter after dyeing.

Bedouin traditional looms have string heddles that are raised on props, with a shed stick behind them. The shed is opened in opposition to the raised heddles with a wide sword, or simply punched down, leaving the heddled warps raised. Raising my heddles with my hand and punching down the wool is a physically satisfying experience, getting me deeply involved with the wooly, three-dimensionality of my warp.

Heddles being raised, shed opening.

Having an improvisational design entices me to weave, with the promise of the unknown and the chance to experiment. This weaving has been a good place for me to settle during the past month.

More thorough explanation of Bedouin weaving as seen by me in Qatar, and lots of pretty pictures here.

Woven cloth with pickup design in the middle, grey stripes to either side, white borders that will join the white of the side panels. String heddles and shed stick behind. Heddled shed is open, design is picked up.

Souq Waqif rug arcade, Doha Qatar, 2011 Layered examples of different weaving styles.

reinforcement

I love weaving tape! Plain weave tape with warped-in design is enormously gratifying right now. It’s a way of always having weaving in progress that is simple, straightforward, and practical. It’s also a way of using handspun yarn that I may not have enough of to make something larger, but I want to see how it functions in a weaving. The tussah silk above is a good example of that - and I’m very happy with it as warp-faced tape. I feel like making a whole garment of some kind, just for the sake of using that silk tape as an edging.

Being preoccupied with weaving tape means I’m noticing garment edgings more, such as these details on Uzbek robes, again from the beautiful Susan Meller book Silk and Cotton: Textiles from the Central Asia that was. All the robes have edging, some of which is embroidered, some woven on with a “loop manipulation” technique that I’d like to research further, and some woven separately and sewn on. It makes sense, these were hard-wearing garments, meant to last through many years of daily use, and the edging protects and reinforces the most vulnerable parts of the cloth.

This is also the reason and rationale for the card-woven hem that Morgan Donner recreated, using the Medieval Garments Reconstructed book, which analyses archaeological textiles found in Greenland. And it’s why I decided to try the technique on my recently completed long wool skirt. In fact, I think weaving this edging did even more for getting me interested in exploring garment edgings, and noticing their various manifestations.

Shetland from a sheep named Kevin, Superior Fibers in Edmonds, WA. Romney lambswool from One Straw Ranch, Nordland, WA.

The skirt after sewing was finished, prior to adding woven binding. This is my winter uniform: handspun sweater, long-sleeved shirt, scarf, handknit hat, wool skirt, boots (leggings underneath.) I can put together an outfit made by me except for leggings, underpants and boots - but in this case I did not make the shirt or scarf.

The beautiful Italian wool suiting from my skirt has a deep brown warp and a charcoal grey weft, both of which were wools available in my stash (surprise, surprise!) I spun up some of the dark brown Romney lamb and the grey Shetland, both from nearby sheep farms, and got out the cards from my 2017 class with John Mallarkey, and got to it.

Card weaving in progress. The tricky part was figuring out how to hold it, to keep the shed open, tension on, stitch the weft through, etc. Hand had to learn the best method to avoid hours of awkwardness. The point nearest me is pinned to my belt, and the far end attached to a clamp on the table.

Hem view of nearly finished cardwoven binding.

This was quite the learning experience (hint: Morgan makes it look extremely easy), but so gratifying to see a sturdy, handwoven binding develop along the hem. The weight and density of it enhances the twirl factor of this skirt, giving it a liveliness as I move around, and it has become even better suited to my inclination to wear it ALL the TIME this winter.

And you know, I didn’t even realize I was going to talk about that, but it is closely related to this narrow tape weaving, and all of a piece with investigating handmade clothing and the relationship with my weaving and spinning. The other thing that made band weaving extra fun was the new release of Inkle Visualizer, a charting software application for warped-in plainweave designs (no inkle loom required, as long as you can weave warp-dominant construction.) It’s essentially a digital coloring book, making the testing out of stripe patterns very quick and entertaining. My tussah silk band motif came from my Inkle Visualizer experimentations, as did the design for the handspun wool band below.

Spindles-spun wool in heathered green, deep purple, pale orange and bright orange with warped-in design. Ball of green handspun wool.

My only regret for the ones that work well is that I did not make a longer warp. So far I haven’t done more than a couple of yards, but I’m thinking of trying some longer lengths, to store up some serious yardage for future use. The ones that aren’t long enough to use as garment edgings can always be ties for backstrap weaving, or bundling things, or as tape for making hanging tabs on dish towels, or as straps on bags…. I’m convinced they will all come in handy somehow.

My handwoven tape stash so far: six tapes, mostly cotton, one handspun wool, one handspun silk.

learning: the many little missteps

I’ve been thinking about skill again, and how we develop skill not only through repetition, but by making mistakes. Not necessarily big, bad mistakes, but all those small misjudgments that need correction. This happens sometimes on a larger scale, and often in the moment, almost constantly, infinitesimally. While it helps to have someone point out the larger errors before we make them, the tiny ones are how we learn, and they are necessary steps to learning - they’re even joyful, because that’s when the mind suddenly sees the right way, the best option for here and now, or at least a better one. It’s the kind of learning that sticks because we’ve discovered it ourselves, we know it with the body.

I’m just going to meander through the things I’ve been doing, and see how these thoughts may apply. I’m also surely going to get distracted by the robins whooping it up in the madrona tree outside. The berries are ripe and red, and I’ve never seen such a robin party. I’m still not used to seeing them in the fall, anyway, having grown up in Missouri where they are a springtime bird. We have flocks and flocks of birds right now, as if trying to make up for the quiet of August and the eerie silence of the fire smoke weeks. Goldfinches, in their duller plumage, are still here in force, favoring the madrona across the way, but occasionally visiting my bird bath. You’ll have to take my word on the bird scene, because I don’t have equipment or skills for good bird photos, and backlit tress with indecipherable blobs in them would not be convincing.

Anyway here are the berries - madrona tree branches laden, no robins at the moment (they flee if I come this close, of course.)

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Same handwoven natural cotton tape, with wooden sword beater. Not handspun yarn. Woven with string heddles.

Handwoven tape!! This has grabbed me for real. I’ve been enthralled by the idea of it for some time, seeing both the Susan Faulkner Weaver book a friend owns, and another friends’ exploration of the Japanese manifestation, Sanada himo (Ravelry link). A few months ago, I got out the “knee heddle” that I own (because people give me weaving tools) and tried some tape weaving. I got quickly frustrated with this heddle, because not only is it unclear how many hands you’re supposed to have to open the shed, pass the weft, and beat, the distance between knees and waist is short enough (on me, at least), that the warps remain spread apart and it’s difficult to get a true warp-faced look. Which is fine if you don’t want that, but all the tape I’ve seen has it, and it’s what I want.

Wooden “knee heddle” with crochet cotton tape being woven in stripes of rust and grey, with blue down the middle. This image shows how the warps are closer together in one section, which I’d prefer for the whole length.

Handwoven crochet cotton tape, spooled on top of a navy blue T-shirt being converted to a skirt.

Any long woven band with integrity is a functional thing, and this worked nicely as a skirt drawstring. But I immediately warped for another, to be woven with string heddles in my more accustomed manner. Much more satisfying - and I did not like the crochet cotton either, so I chose a natural colored laceweight which lives in my weaving yarn bin for some reason. Very much better!

Warp-faced natural colored cotton band in progress, brown-green-brown lengthwise stripe, about 1/2 inch wide, held in the sun against my fingers (this was in May, when life was sunnier.)

This same cotton was also used in my current band, shown in the first two photos. I warped up 4 yards or so this time, because I aspire to the hefty bundles on the cover of that book. And with that much to weave, I can already see one reason why people may have preferred heddles: less abrasion. I still want to see a demonstration of this knee heddle thing- I can find only pictures of it and written explanations, and haven’t seen anyone showing how it’s done. I find it awkward, and ended up pushing it away beyond my knees, and letting it hang. In which case, a sweet little, small heddle would be much better.

Cover image of Susan Faulkner Weaver book Handwoven Tape, with my crochet cotton blue and white band on top. I was imitating the pattern third from left in the bundles shown.

At any rate, this warp-faced tape is a surprisingly deep rabbit hole, teaching me more than I expected very quickly. The one above, for example. While I’m still not convinced that the one in the picture has more than one dot in the center, and absolutely could not find a way to make that happen and still have symmetrical embracing wavy lines, we’ll leave that aside. Just to get those symmetrical lines, I had to discover that mirroring the pattern doesn’t just mean warping another blue round in the same position. No, look here. The lines are crooked, right? They jog right and left with each pick. and they all jog the same way. So the first one comes from winding a round of blue - it forms the left and right jog. But for the second one, we want the jog to move in the opposite way, so it has to be wound half white, half blue, then half blue, half white. I don’t expect this to make sense unless you’re either well-versed in warp-faced structure, or way beyond me in the logic department. I had to make use of Warp Visualizer’s oval chart to spell it out for myself. I’m the opposite of whatever logical mind it takes to grasp this kind of thing at a glance.

Anyway, moving on - that image on the cover is what really keeps me coming back to this book - those beautiful bundles! So much handwoven tape, in natural dye colors that look so reassuring and earthy. The second from left also wouldn’t let me go, with its two zig-zag lines of indigo. So I wound another warp, since I was conveniently located in an undisclosed location (not my home!) with a very large amount of available yarn.

Brown and blue warp-faced band, 5/2 cotton, weaving in progress with small rigid heddle. Short sample with different warp scheme, woven with string heddles.

And look! There was also a wee, handy heddle in this place, so I could try again to compare the rigid heddle experience, without the bulky knee heddle causing me frustration. The truth is, my habits are so ingrained that I heddled up with string and started weaving before I remembered that I meant to use the wooden heddle! But this was good, since I’d also noticed that I wasn’t getting the double zig-zag I intended. My zig-zag was happening in the middle, where two blues were right next to each other. Second thing I learned about warped in design for warp-faced bands! When I cut off the string-heddle bit, I was able to place the threads in the correct position in the rigid heddle to get the double zig-zag. So cool! So fun! So pleasing!

I may still favor the type of fabric I get with string heddles - the difference is clear in this instance, with the same yarn.

Double zig-zag band in progress, with small wooden rigid heddle, draped over my lap - and I’m wearing my new rust denim jumper, recently designed and sewn by me.

One thing leads to another, and an Instagram post of the blue and white band got the attention of Cassie Dickson (Instagram link - she’s also profiled nicely here.), who is a masterful weaver and flax whisperer. Seeing her handwoven flax and her tantalizing processing pictures reminded me of how much I want to get better at spinning flax for weaving. At this same location with all the yarn, there was also some well-aged flax which needed hackling, so I took it home to test it out and see how it compares to the varieties I have. It’s beautifully blond, and seems in fine shape, after hackling. Not long ago, I got the tip from Sharon Kallis, who was told by Karen Barnaby (more IG links), that spinning flax from the fold is a good way to go when using a spindle. This was revelatory, because it’s true, and it gave me a way to take my flax with me as I wander about, which is my preferred spinning method and gets a lot more spun than the stationary techniques.

Hackled flax, folded and tied, and spinning in progress on Ashford high whorl spindle.

My addition to this approach is to wrap a cloth around the flax, so it can be held in the hand without mussing it up as too much handling will do. This is a great use for some of my vintage ladies’ hankies, which are delicate and lovely and I never use them (I prefer a larger, less precious man’s style hankie for actual hankie needs.) But I have a sweet collection of beautifully hand-worked hankies, most of which came from my grandmother. Perfect chance to show one off below, which has been washed and pressed - different from the one in use with the flax.

Spindle with flax cop and flax fiber folded and tied into a hankie. Green plants and trees in background.

Vintage hankie detail. Whitework and cutwork embroidery and edging. not showing scale, but this is very fine work. The whole thing is only about 9” square.

Spinning flax is what made me think about learning and making small mistakes. I’m constantly making mental notes about what works and what doesn’t because I’m still getting to know this fiber. I learned, while spinning the largest of the three clumps shown above, that I should use smaller amounts at a time with this from-the-fold method. It has less chance to tangle and mat within the wrap of the cloth. I’m learning what’s too thin and what’s too thick, and how to join, and how wet I want my fingers…. and that this is a great choice for the rain/sun/rain weather we’re having, giving me lots of little drops of water to dip my fingers before drafting.

I hope to keep this up and compare some different types of flax, before getting distracted by something else, although there is a new warp going into the bamboo reed at the moment, and another on standby. And I also intend to keep increasing my bundles of handwoven tape. And of course, my wool spinning and weaving is always calling to me as well… the dance of learning is quite syncopated around here, but it continues.

Handwoven warp-faced wool with pickup designs, Navajo churro is the main color, bundles of cotton handwoven tape, a few skeins of handspun wool yarn, in a basket on top of a Turkish handwoven salt bag.

If my captions seem obvious, it’s because I was looking up the low vision accessibility of Squarespace, and saw that the captions of photos will appear as alt text image descriptions automatically. Trying to make sure this works for people. If anyone reading knows of other things I can do, I’m open to suggestions. I enlarged the main body text a while ago because it was hard for me to read, but the caption text remains very small. Some things are within my control, and some are not.

Slug’s eye view of me spinning on the trail the other day. Lots of sky, clouds, trees, me in a skirt made from a Lao handwoven sarong (sinh mukh kho) a handknit sweater, and spinning a little Turkish-style spindle made by Allen Berry.

Thank you for being with me, and keep doing those things that keep us real.

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 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 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.

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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.

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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….

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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.

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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.

warp on

I always feel better if I have a warp on the loom. Either patterned or plain, something waiting for me to rejoin it and put in a few rows or inches. It’s a continuity I want to maintain, and for a short while I’ve had empty loom bars, so I’m glad to be back in. This is an exciting exploration of a complex design, typical of Chinchero, Peru (the bit in the middle, at least), that I have never tried because I was trying to work my way up to understanding it. Learning patterns in my mind without charts is a deep aspiration, and has gone slowly. Then a friend designed, created, and released a great program for charting weaving on the iPad, and that gave me the impetus I needed to just work from a chart and weave something above my actual comprehension level.

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How fun is that? My weaving on screen and IRL.

So I’m off and running. This is meant to be a phone case - another reason I just wanted to do it and move on. Speaking of weaving from a chart and above my actual level, I just finished another piece, which I’m writing about in more detail in the weaving blog realm of this website.

Handspun yarn, wide warp, confusing Central Asian pattern made for a challenging weave, but I’m very happy to see the end result.

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Finished spindle bag, with Japanese fabric band, Peruvian chak-chak spindle

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 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.

Warning: this could hurt your head….

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….

The yarns I have in mind.

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 the reed to get this packed nicely.

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

home again

Whenever I come home from being away, I tend to re-assess, to inventory my projects, ideas and materials. I need to go around and touch things, fluff the space, remind myself of what was going on. At the same time, I tend to be most open to doing something completely new during this re-entry phase. This was the case yesterday. I’m home, only for a week, with warps on the looms, fiber on the wheel and spindles, and plenty of things in some state of generalized progress. But as I moved through my studio space, every corner, bin, and shelf called to me with fresh voices, things that wanted to jump the queue and happen now.

Glancing at these papers in a baskets, I had the urge to use them all, immediately.

I see papers and paints and pencils, and itch to pick them up. Then I see fibers lurking in a bag and start to think about enticing new combinations.

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Wouldn’t these look great together? Recent acquisitions from Abstract Fibers and Abundant Earth. (I seem to have lost the ability to resize photos in this website, so bear with me as I go from too big to too small.)

What I ended up doing, though, was pouncing on the box labeled Saki Ori, and saying This is it. This happens today. It had been a long time coming. I prepared the kimono silk weft many months ago, maybe even a year ago, I knew what I wanted to use for warp, and I knew I would use my 8 inch bamboo reed. So it was all ready to go, awaiting the moment of ignition. I spent the day preparing a whole new warp, musing on the materials visible through the warping frame as I wound.

New warp on frame, with handspun Nomad Caravan peeking through.

Sleying the bamboo reed. I think this is 20/2 cotton (unidentified, from a destash sale), and the reed is 22 epi.

This part is really quite relaxing, if I’m in no hurry.

And then we’re off and weaving. I’m happy to be doing something new, but also a planned thing: it was on the list, but it has a spark of excitement because I’ve never done it before. I have a beautiful example, an obi that I bought in Japan 20 years ago. Ever since I made the small bamboo reed, I’ve been wanting to weave with kimono silk weft. My silk strips are wider than those in the vintage obi, but this is my first go, just getting acquainted with the possibilities (I have a lot more silk scraps.)

Japanese sakiori obi, on top of a patchwork camel trapping.

Work in progress. I find the irregularities mesmerizing.

Kimono silk strips for weft, hanging around with some random yarn.

The various vignettes in my studio continue to intrigue: the sakiori weft balls themselves, before being wound onto shuttles, begin to make tentative conversation with some aged handspun cops I picked up at the guild auction. The air hums with possibilities, even as I commit to a single project for hours and days.

bamboo reeds

I took a pre-conference workshop at ANWG in Victoria BC at the end of June. Bryan Whitehead came from his home in a silk farming town outside of Tokyo to teach us how to make bamboo reeds for weaving. He brought all the materials, and had spent more than a year preparing them for us.

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Workshop materials: whole Aodake, higo strips, blocks of hinoki for supporting reeds-in-progress, and packets of prepared reeds.

The Aodake (type of bamboo) is split and peeled progressively from the whole chunk, about 5-6 cm diameter, to the narrow higo strips used for basketry. These strips are then cut to size for reeds. Each individual reed is about 9 cm long, 4 mm wide and 0.4 mm thick, with beveled edges (the length is variable, the width and thickness uniform because that's important for consistency in the finished tool.) All of Bryan's students received packets of 330 of these small pieces to make our reeds. The amount of effort that went into preparing them is astounding: before the bamboo is even cut, it is dried for months, cured over a fire to release oils, and dried some more. During the first day of our workshop, Bryan demonstrated the methods of splitting and peeling bamboo, and beveling and planing the higo. It looked smooth and easy as he worked, but when we tried we found that doing it right is tricky and difficult.

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Splitting the bamboo in half with a machete, after making initial cuts in the top.

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Peeling off the outer 1/3 of a 1cm strip. The inner bit will be discarded.

Throughout the workshop Bryan gave us the historical, cultural, and aesthetic context of bamboo, weaving, and cloth in Japan. Since I'd lived in Japan years ago, it was nice to re-immerse in this world, and memories of the place and the language came to the surface of my mind. The block of wood we used as a stand for reed building is made of hinoki, a type of cedar used in Japanese baths. The smell evoked onsen, hot springs, one of my favorite aspects of living in Japan, and I kept happily inhaling the distinctive scent as I worked. I'm grateful that we got to keep the wood. Bryan didn't just bring us a technique - he brought as much of a cultural experience as he could to the physics lab on the UVic campus. When people attend workshops in his home, they're surrounded by the indigo and tea fields, the bamboo forest, and centuries-old silk weaving houses. It was challenging for him to translate both the terminology and the experiences into English, but he succeeded - probably because he's spent the last 30 years bridging cultures.

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Antique reeds from Japan that Bryan showed us, pointing out the details we would learn as we made ours.

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Tools used for cutting the bamboo.

Our class was unusual for a weaving conference, and more than one weaver asked me why I was making a reed. As a backstrap weaver, I've been seeking this kind of tool-making skill and knowledge for a while, but to most weavers using floor looms, it's not necessary. For this reason, our class was a group of people with interests slightly outside the norm for North American weavers. We were remarkably harmonious, and many in the group have a strong urge to travel to Japan for further study with Bryan sensei.

More to come on what we actually did, and where it has led me.

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The beginning of a reed, after I got the knotting right.

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Physics lab transformed....

overwhelmed

Sarah Swett Rough Copy series detail, at La Conner Quilt & Fiber Art Museum, La Conner, WA.

I mean 'overwhelmed' in the best possible way. I've been trying to mentally catch up with everything I've experienced in the last week or so, and I don't know if it's even possible. Textile inspiration coming on strong, combined with nice weather and plenty of natural beauty.... I mean, is this for real?

Glines Canyon Spillway Overlook, Elwha River, Olympic National Park

All of these photos were taken in the last 8 days, so I'm feeling very rich. And insufficient. But I'll try to at least share some of the bounty here.

Last Monday was the Maiwa Loft. My weaving guild had a special behind-the-scenes visit with Charlotte Kwon, who gave us hours of her time and enthusiasm amidst the boundless wonder of the Maiwa collection. As the table filled with layers of textiles, we heard decades' worth of stories from India. 

Contemporary Rabari head shawls, spun, woven, dyed, and embroidered by artisans from multiple tribal groups, in a traditional style.

Ikat silk saris from Orissa, dyed with indigo and pomegranate.

Every piece we saw is of the most exquisite quality, the pinnacle of multiple skills, each more mind-bending than the last. Charlotte has made a life's work of seeking out and promoting the best textile skills, in their traditional family context. Maiwa supports artisans in keeping their skill and knowledge honed and growing, not designing and ordering so much as commissioning the weavers and dyers to do what they do best. The magnificence of the work uplifts the makers, the viewers, and the market in general. There is so much optimism here!

Charlotte Kwon in the Maiwa Loft, talking textiles.

Handspun jamdani cotton from Bengal. If you wanted to know the meaning of the word "diaphanous", it is this cloth.

And then there was the Sarah Swett opening, at the La Conner Quilt and Textile (or Fiber Art) Museum. I'd been paying close attention to Sarah's recent work because she's doing this, and posting pictures like this. Backstrap loom. Plainweave. Be still my heart.

The La Conner show doesn't have that new work, but I definitely wanted to meet Sarah, and the entire Rough Copy series is hanging there, only an hour or two away. So a mere two days after Maiwa, I was in a room with these...

Detail of Rough Copy #8. Every letter is woven in.

Rough Copy #9, near the window.

Just to absorb the impact of typewritten text on scraps of paper as door-sized woven tapestries was mind-boggling. But then Sarah was also there, crackling with energy, explaining details in a guileless manner. I could listen to her all night.

Sarah talks us through weaving typeface, from the bottom of Rough Copy #13.

Other pieces showed the breadth of her work, reaching back into her archive of color and story. Being able to touch this book was a great experience - so supple and wooly!

Detail from the woven book Casting Off. All the tapestries are double sided, so the back mirrors the front as you turn the pages.

I may have to go back and visit the show, alone and quiet, so I can spend some more time looking up close. I definitely need more time to get my mind around all this wonder.

Exquisite detail from Rough Copy #6. It's a postcard, with cancelled stamps. Only four feet tall.

Meanwhile, it feels right to carry on with my cotton. Just doing this one thing, and working toward doing it better...

Work in progress with my backstrap - handspun cotton.

indigo interlude

I had to go to Seattle the other day, so I took advantage of the chance to see the Mood Indigo textile exhibit at the Asian Art Museum. I'd been hearing about it, and knew it was a must-see sometime before October. I'd also heard from Rowland Ricketts that he'd just hung a show in Seattle, but I didn't put two and two together until I saw this interview.

The prospect of seeing Rowland's work in person was galvanizing. I'd seen his presentations at the Textile Society symposia, and knew from assisting him at an indigo workshop that his work is deep and resonant. Steeped in the traditions of Japanese indigo processing, and constantly manifesting awe and respect for the materials, it seemed utterly appropriate that his work would feature in an indigo-focused exhibit.

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Rowland Ricketts' installation piece: dried indigo plants hang along the wall, and a pieced work of dyed plant fiber created a cylindrical space in the center of the room. There is also a soundtrack playing, which is derived from aspects of the indigo processing.

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A view from inside the hanging fabric, looking at the indigo on the wall and into the next room. I like the way that the patchwork can be layered with the shapes beyond, creating a secondary patchwork.

Beginning with his work at the entry, this whole exhibit felt like a gathering of friends. Each piece was familiar to me in some way, from the Yoruba eleko cloth to the Lao supplementary weft weaving. I've encountered these things before, and the commingling of their stories made for a polyphonic celebration of skill, with the powerful undertone of indigo holding it all together.

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Detail from a Japanese resist-dyed robe

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Yoruba agbada - a traditional embroidered robe. I've admired these in images for many years, but this was the first one I saw in person.

Some of these pieces I just knew from seeing images, or seeing things like them, such as the Nigerian robes and the Japanese futon covers and fireman's clothing. Others were more technically familiar, such as the Yoruba resist-dyed cloths. The year I spent at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston was focused on a resist-dyeing course taught by Stanley Pinckney, who studied with the Yoruba in Nigeria. He taught us the techniques one by one: elo, eleso, alabere, sabada, eleko.... all different manners of tying, stitching, folding or otherwise resisting the dye on cloth. We did not get to use indigo in that class, but were shown countless images of the traditional cloths from Nigeria, intricate and stunning.

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Yoruba eleko cloth, made with a starch paste resist, painted onto the fabric and allowed to dry before dyeing.

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The main African section of the exhibit: the two pieces on the upper right are alabere, using stitch-resist techniques.

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Stitch-resist sample (alabere) from my class with Stanley at SMFA (not dyed with indigo!)

Another piece that felt strikingly familiar is the Mapuche ikat weaving.  I've been admiring this bold design and impressive technique since I saw it on Laverne's blog post a couple of years ago. Since then, she has reproduced the technique quite successfully, and I attempted it, with less success - but constantly felt inspired by these strong shapes. Wonderful to see them in indigo.

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Mapuche woven cloth, Mood Indigo exhibit Seattle Asian Art Museum

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My warped and dyed ikat piece - looks okay while still tied.

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With the shifting of the warps while changing sheds, the top and bottom layers drifted apart, and the disturbance only got more severe later on. So it's an interesting piece, but the ikat is extremely rugged. I've since heard some tips and tricks from Laverne, but have yet to try them out.

There were also familiar supplementary-weft weavings from Laos, Indonesian ikats and batiks, and ancient Peruvian tapestry-woven pieces. Each one spoke to me in a known language, each containing a wealth of technique, traditional expertise, and cultural significance. Since I surround myself with this sort of thing as much as possible, I felt at home, but of course the quality, antiquity and sheer volume of textile wealth of this exhibit are nothing I encounter very often.

Even so, I could think of things that were not included, such as Hmong handwoven lengths of indigo batik hemp, used in skirts. The hill tribes of southern China and Southeast Asia use a lot of indigo in their fabric for clothing. 

Leaving you with images from my collection and my own work, and with the urge to use more indigo. It just never gets old, this true color.

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Hmong batik cloths in the middle of the pile, interspersed with Japanese fabrics and my own weaving at the bottom.

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Handwoven from Lao handspun indigo dyed cotton and my own handspun wool 

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Detail of a cotton scarf dyed in an indigo workshop with Rowland Ricketts

textiles, domesticated

These textiles were not encountered in the wild. They were part of an organized program, I knew I would be seeing textiles from the collection of Marilyn Romatka. But still, it's hard to be prepared. Marilyn filled a long room's worth of tables with samples from her collection - fascinating, impressive pieces from around the world, old and new. I remained enthralled with one of the first ones she showed, however. It's a yurt band.

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Yurt band, detail. Collection of Marilyn Romatka.

These things just thrill me, largely because I want to learn to weave like this, in the terme style of Central Asia. I've done some small samples, with the help of Laverne's tutorials, but I have yet to grasp the all-over patterning, or to be able to copy designs on my own. Laverne's recent blog post about "Length" resonated with me. The sheer yardage of these bands is awe-inspiring. This piece is about 5 yards long, and it has been cut.

Here's another piece that lay near me and absorbed a lot of my attention. It's from Burma (aka Myanmar):

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Woven belt from Myanmar. Collection of Marilyn Romatka.

It's a narrow, long piece, used as a belt which is wrapped many times around the body. In the image above, the white section at right is the back of the weaving. Uh-huh. The red work doesn't show up at all on the back. How do they do it? No idea.

(ETA: Laverne has weighed in with her knowledge of the technique and this link to a tutorial - thanks, Laverne!)

And here's the full table, with Marilyn at the far end, standing and explaining. It was quite an overwhelming array.

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Textiles from the collection of Marilyn Romatka.

Between that, and my recent experience with Pinterest, where I've encountered all manner of stimulating and inspiring textile images, I've been thinking I need to make my own collection more visible. I'd love to do as Marilyn did, and bring choice pieces to the weaving guild for show & tell. But I can also share and educate online - and that's what this website is for, after all. At first, with the "textiles" section, I had been thinking I had to get studio-quality, full-view images of each piece, and create a detailed entry with full information. However, I'm seeing the value of glimpses, detail shots and stacks of fabric on my own creative psyche, and I can easily share that sort of thing.  So keep an eye on the textiles tab, and I will get to work with tidbits from my collection.

textiles in the wild

When I'm at home, I surround myself with handmade textiles. I also seek out any opportunity to see exhibitions or other showings of  textiles. But it's especially fun to come across them unexpectedly, as when I wandered into The Artful Ewe, a yarn shop in Port Gamble, and found this vignette next to a comfy knitting chair:

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yurt band and Bolivian Jalq'a weaving - wow look at those reds

The strip of supplementary warp is a long band, wound into a roll, and Heidi, the shop owner, informed me "It's a yurt band - not for sale." She has her own textile collection interspersed among the fibers and yarns throughout the shop, and I had to spend a long time just taking it all in. Anyway, the yurt band (sitting on top of a beautiful Bolivian weaving.... sigh!), was fascinating to me because it is so similar to the Bedouin sh'jarah method of warp substitution. The floats are loose on the back, in the same way.

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back view of the yurt band, with floats where the warp is not used in the pattern

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front and back view of a Bedouin sh'jarah band in Doha, Qatar

I kept trying to get my mind around it: this kind of weaving, done in Central Asia?? Most of the yurt bands I've seen, and I've only seen pictures, are woven using what Laverne calls simple warp floats, where the colors of the warp alternate in plainweave, and warps are lifted on the front to make the design. There was one of those in The Artful Ewe, as well:

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yurt band woven with simple warp floats, front view

This is the technique I was working on earlier in the year, with aspirations of weaving a more complex design someday.

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my sample band, using a pattern I copied from a Central Asian bag 

The bands were given to Heidi by a friend, and she had no information on their origin. So I'm left to wonder, and keep looking at my photos of the beautiful weaving.

Meanwhile, I now have my own shipment from Qatar to contend with, so there are plenty of textiles to ponder at home. Need to figure out where all these are going to live.

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random rug rant

A good-natured mini-rant, more of a pet peeve, really just a way to show off a rug or two.

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Soumak rug, purchased from Dagestani pilgrims on their way to Mecca, in Damascus in 2010. The pilgrims bring a large load of rugs to sell, in order to finance their pilgrimage. A friend was in Damascus at the time, and offered to get a rug for me.

I get impatient with rug dealers' penchant for pointing out the 'mistakes' in a handwoven rug, and explaining that there is "always one mistake, because only God is perfect," or some such explanation. This story is told often, and not only for handwoven rugs. I heard a similar note about Japanese ceramics (only the Emperor's bowl is perfect.) And I don't doubt that some people, somewhere, at some time, have practiced adding a deliberate anomaly to their work, as a sign of respect for some entity, or as a demonstration of humility, or to avoid the evil eye. That's perfectly plausible.  But this endless game of finding "the mistake" in a rug, which is repeated by the owners of the rug at every opportunity, is tiresome because it misses the point. And the point is that the rug is handmade, of course it's not perfect!

The rugs I own have not one, but many delightful variations of shape here and there, and I see them as signs of the humans who wove them, making choices as necessary and weaving along without too much concern for perfection. I don't believe that they considered picking it out and making it 'perfect', but decided not to because of some traditional practice. I believe they didn't much care, as long as the whole thing worked and looked harmonious.

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This is most obvious in a soumak rug from Dagestan, purchased from pilgrims in Damascus. The design has concentric rectangular borders, building out from a central grid. Concentric borders, as anyone who has made a quilt top knows, present the challenge of numerous corners. None of the repeated patterns in the Dagestani rug borders are perfectly aligned with their length, making for some entertaining improvisation in each of the corners. This rug, more than any other I've seen, highlights the tendency to make it work. Because the motifs are not simple, and they do work within a grid, but clearly counting and planning it all out ahead of time to fit just right was not part of the agenda. Someone familiar with the tradition might even be able to tell in which direction the rug was woven. Certain motifs are more condensed on one end and spread apart on the other, and I wonder whether the condensed end is the beginning (which would be my guess, knowing from my own experience how the enthusiasm for intricacy can fade later in a project.)

The variations on motif shapes and placement are a view into the mind of the weaver. They not only attest to the handworked nature of the rug, but show the thinking, responsive person who put him or herself into the piece. If something is perfectly executed, we can perhaps admire the skill, but we don't connect with the humanity of the craftsperson quite so easily as with a more improvised work.

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This is the internal grid pattern of the middle section - the most regular part of the whole thing.