There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference –
Where the Meanings, are –
None may teach it – Any –
‘Tis the seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –
When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –
Emily Dickinson
I am out of sewing practice.
At least that’s my excuse: yesterday I managed to make a botched job of things . .
I bought this tweed when visiting Harris a couple of years ago – I love the bright blue, green, and orange flecks sitting in among the herringbone.
My idea was to turn this cheap and cheerful Ikea footstool . . .
. . . into this glorious work of woolly art . . .
I have lusted after these Anta tweed cubes for years (this one is my favourite) . . . but neither my budget, or my sense of crafty pride would allow me to acquire one . . . surely I could make my own? How difficult could it be to upholster a cube?
But my cube confidence was misplaced!
Having measured up the stool, I cut out five squares from the tweed with a generous seam allowance, got out the iron and sewing machine, and began to stitch everything together, as per the layout above. The sun was shining in the kitchen, the machine was purring away merrily, Debussy was on the radio: all was well. Then, half way through the seam between squares 2 and 3, the power suddenly cut out. Had I blown a fuse? I looked outside. A hole had appeared at the corner of the road. The hole was accompanied by machinery, and a small fire. Some men were in the hole, who blithely confirmed that they were responsible for the outage.
There was nothing I could do, so I took Bruce for a walk. When I returned, a couple of hours later, so had the electricity. I got back to my seams, but things were not the same: the light was poor, I was tired from my walk, and, quite simply I was not in the zone (I am not a natural with the sewing machine, and have to be in precisely the right frame of mind to deal with pins, bobbins, threading and all its other general gubbins). I should have put my cube aside and gone and done something else, but instead, growing increasingly grouchy and frustrated, I ploughed onward, stitching up my wonky seams, and trimming my crappy corners. I got the footstool out for a fitting. All was not well.
Now, this is the footstool after extensive repairs conducted this morning: it still looks rotten, but you should have seen it yesterday. So many things were wrong: I gave myself a far too generous seam allowance, (which meant that the corners of the cover didn’t sit properly in those of the footstool and the sides flapped about like a badly fitting skirt). None of the seams were straight, and the corners were really messy and bulky (because several layers of fabric met there) . . .
. . .actually pretty much everything about the cover was wonky, including the Harris Tweed label, which I sewed on last of all.
Annoyed with myself, I set the stool cover aside, and returned to my knitting (how soothing! No electricity! No fiddlinesses! Just me and the wool and the needles!). Later last night it occurred to me that the first problem lay in my pattern layout. I should have cut and seamed the pieces like this:
or this:
or this:
. . .the final layout, which could be cut on the fold, uses up more fabric, but it also makes for less bulky corners, fewer seams and layers, and a design that is much easier to fit and adjust . . .Of course, when I examined the Anta cubes again, it was immediately obvious that the fabric had been cut and seamed in like fashion . . .
Kate, you choob, why didn’t you have a proper look in the first place?
I had settled on my first layout after examining the cover of the Ikea cube, and deciding that the seams between the squares were necessary to give structure. But I hadn’t considered how much more bulky Harris tweed is than Ikea furnishing fabric. A well-fitting cover, cut from a single piece of fabric, would have been far better than one with sticky-out corners and multiple, wonky seams.
looks botched, doesn’t it Bruce?
I find it curious that, while I can immediately visualise all sorts of 3 dimensional seamless knitted constructions – I find it much more difficult to think naturally about fabric layouts. It is probably just that knitting is my metier, or that I have made it such by doing an awful lot of it (I have done very little sewing over the past couple of years).
Ultimately, there is no excuse, quite simply: I made a shite job of it.
This morning’s repairs have made the cover look a little better, yet I still think I will have to cut it up again, use that tweed for cushions, and sew up another cover.
But not today.
Another quiet transformation. I could have stayed outside all day, today.
It is a beautiful day today – bright, crisp, golden – the sort of Winter’s day I love.
While we were out for a walk, I took the opportunity to get some quick shots of my Muckle Mitts, which I realised I hadn’t shown you . . .
It is a very satisfying pattern – so quick! So nifty! Thankyou, Mary Jane. I enjoyed making them so much that I knit up a little cowl thingy to match.
It was lovely to work with the yarn, which I’d had in my stash for ages – Toft alpaca DK – a gift from Ysolda in, I think, 2009. Cheers, Ys!
The yarn is spun in a pleasingly nubbly and rustic way – it almost feels handspun – and the natural shades are very pleasing – so soft and muted. My Muckle mitts are ravelled here
The light was so nice today – good for taking photos. I’ve had my eye on the changes in the undergrowth during my daily walks, and it has been pleasing me in recent weeks. I have a bit of a thing for the humble rosebay willowherb – I love the shapes that it assumes in all seasons. At this time of year, last years stems and seeds are mere dried-out husks – but I find them incredibly beautiful.
Crazy, scribbled wisps . . .
. . . like a kid’s sparkler-writing on bonfire night . . .
. . . or fireworks themselves, thin forms, exploding with light.
It is so nice to feel the sun returning – - we made the most of the day after returning home, and have just now finished building our new log store – and loaded it up with gleanings from Edinburgh’s recent storms (many fallen trees about!)
Bruce has being doing his bit, of course, helping to fetch the kindling. . .
Hope you are enjoying your Sunday too!
I’ve had a few queries about yesterday’s post . . . Jules asked a good question about the relationship between Shetland and Yorkshire, so I thought I’d explain. Jamieson and Smith and the Real Shetland Company exist under the same umbrella. You might have read Oliver Henry’s Wovember post (if you haven’t, do go and have a look) – - Oliver is the linchpin of this relationship. The crofters bring their fleeces to Jamieson & Smith (who, on the Shetland islands, are simply known as “The Woolbrokers”), where Oliver sorts the wool into its different grades. . .
(Oliver Henry, sorting Shetland wool)
After hand sorting, the wool goes on a trip to West Yorkshire (the heart of the British wool industry), to be processed at the Haworth scouring plant that I mentioned yesterday.
YORKSHIRE: wool’s own country.
While the finer grades of Shetland are set aside to make up Jamieson & Smith’s flagship yarns, such as the Supreme laceweight, or jumperweight, that I used for my Rams & Yowes blanket, the lower grades are used for the blankets, rugs, carpeting, and mattresses now produced by the Real Shetland Company. What is great about all of this is that nothing is wasted, and that ultimately, this great range of wool products goes back to supporting the sheep on the Shetland hill, and the crofters that raise them.
(Shetland rams at Lunna Farm)
At a time when many British sheep fleeces aren’t worth the price of the shearing, and are simply being burnt or discarded, what Jamieson and Smith and the Real Shetland Company are doing is to be loudly applauded. I come into the equation simply because I love their wool, I like what they do, and I am proud to support the skills of someone like Oliver — because, in the end, it is these skills (along with the sheep, of course) that enable my enjoyment in my work as a knitter and designer.
Anyway, I’ve also had a few emails and rav messages from some of you who were unable to apply the discount I mentioned – if you contact Adam at the Real Shetland Company (adam@realshetland.com) and tell him which blanket you’d like, he will apply the discount and sort things out for you.
Happy Friday, everyone! After the release of the rams & yowes blanket, this week really has been all about Shetland sheep and wool for me. And today I have a bit of Shetand woolly news for you:
In support of the Campaign for Wool, my friends at the Real Shetland Company have organised a competition for a new slogan to promote British Wool. The winning slogan will be printed up on bumper stickers, and distributed and used all over the UK. The slogan can be serious, humorous, bold or brash – - the only important thing is that it is catchy and memorable.
It is not the first time such a competition has been organised – you may have read the Wovember post I wrote about the International Wool Secretariat’s popular “There is no Substitute for Wool” campaign in the 1950s. . .
I am very fond of the ‘no substitute’ verses, but they are very much of their time – plus, an 8-line poem will not fit on a bumper sticker, so. . .
British Wool now needs a slogan to take it through the next decade!
The rules are simple: you can hail from any part of the world to enter the competition; you can enter as many times as you like – just let your woolly imaginations run riot and have a go!
The writer of the winning slogan will be invited to visit the world famous Haworth Scouring and Combing Company , to receive an exclusive behind-the-scenes tour of all the processes that transform raw sheepy fleece into glorious wool. (If you are from outside the UK, then you will have to make your own way to Yorkshire to take the tour!) The winner will also receive a beautiful Shetland wool throw in a design of their choice from the Real Shetland Company.
To enter the competition, just send your slogan, together with your name and contact details to adam@realshetland.com.
Or you can send your entry by post to:
The Real Shetland Company
Campaign for Wool Bumper Sticker Competition
Huby Court
Harrogate Road
Huby, Leeds,
LS17 OEG
UK
The closing date for entries is January 31st – so you have two weeks to enter. The winner will be announced on the Campaign for Wool and Real Shetland Comapany websites in early February.
I am the proud owner of two of these Real Shetland throws and I absolutely love them. They showcase the range of beautiful, natural Shetland sheepy shades and their subtle designs are inspired by those historically used by the famous Shetland weavers, Thomas Adie & Sons, whose sample books can be seen in the Shetland Museum.
Even if you aren’t interested in entering the competition, The Real Shetland Company is offering my readers a 10% discount on all of its Shetland wool rugs and throws until the competition ends on January 31st. Just use the code TEXTISLES when checking out to receive the discount.
Good luck to all competition entrants!
It is a while since I have been totally blown away by a book. Here is that book – a very generous gift to me from Mai, one of my Estonian readers.
It is hard to know how to start telling you about what this incredible tome contains – it really is that amazing. Perhaps I can start with a couple of images:
Like other areas of Estonia, Muhu island is proud of its textile traditions.
These textile traditions are many, varied, and very distinctive, and this distinction and variety is due to the incredible needlework skills of the women of Muhu. I’ve written a little before about how interesting I find Estonian ‘folk’ costumes, and about how the strong sense of regional and national identity one sees expressed in such textiles emerged against a backdrop of cultural annexation. I have only had the opportunity to read about Estonian knitted textiles before – but this book gives a much fuller picture of the wide-ranging skills of the women of Muhu, who are clearly possessed of a quite remarkable creative energy!
Muhu knitters. Photo reproduced from Rina Tomberg, Vatid, Troid, Vamsad: Knitted Jackets of West Estonian Islands. (Estonian Academy of Arts, 2007).
I have a perennial interest in how textile ‘traditions’ emerge on, and cluster about, islands. Muhu shares many cultural similarities with, for example, Shetland: over the past couple of centuries, the women have tirelessly worked the land in the absence of their menfolk in the fishing, and (later) the construction industries, and this has produced a similar discourse about the indomitable and formidable qualities of Muhu women.* Just like the women of Shetland, those of Muhu are described as proud, strong, and capable. They are skilled with their needles; they are dryly humorous. This Muhu aphorism is so very similar to some Shetland sayings I’ve seen:
“Kuidas Muhu naine korraga 4 asja tegi:
Ma aasi loomad karjaaruse, kudusi cardud,
aasi ärraga juttu ja kussi kua”
(How Muhu women do 4 jobs at once:
I was driving the cattle to the meadow, kniting,
talking to the landlord, and taking a piss)
But what makes Muhu very different from Shetland – and what I had never thought about until I absorbed myself in this marvelous book – is that domestic textiles (until very recently) never expanded beyond being dowry gifts or heirlooms into being produced for a market. Kabur, Pink and Meriste explain that the driving principle behind Muhu women’s production of domestic textiles was “to make one’s clothing as fine as the finest garment of one’s home village, and even a little bit better.” Without the pressures of external commercial markets, the women of Muhu simply competed among themselves to produce domestic textiles of ever-more glorious variety, ornament and colour. I think it is the sheer variety of styles and skills that I find most striking about these textiles, which include . . .
Stranded colourwork mittens, gloves and stockings – here with duplicate stitches . . .
stockings and gloves with travelling stitches . . .
. . men’s ‘vatt’ in traditional orange and black two-colour knitting (characteristic Muhu colours are bright pink, bright orange, and bright yellow)
. . . crocheted lace (this example was based on traditional Muhu designs, and was produced by Kaidi Holm of Vanamoisa village in 2010)
. . .cross stitch (This example is a traditional cap that belonged to the Raunmägi family of Liiva village)
. . . satin stitch (shirt collar from Tõnise farm in Koguva village)
. . . beading (bridal cap, owned by Helju Vaher of Võlla village)
There are also examples of different kinds of weaving, machine embroidery, and lace techniques. Clearly these women have an inexhaustible range of textile talents! Kabur, Pink and Meriste introduce the reader to gloriously decorative slippers and blankets, aprons and belts, skirts and jackets, stockings, gloves and baby garments. And as if the sheer range and variety of highly-skilled techniques that these women had mastered wasn’t enough, they then start to combine them in ways that are quite breathtaking.
Handknitted stocking with openwork and cross stitch (knitted and embroidered by Eleena Tuulmägi of Lõetsa village in the 1970s. Now owned by Tiina Tuulmägi).
Handknitted stockings with crocheted calves (Stockings owned by Ekaterina Aljas (born 1896) of Nautse village. Now owned by Helena Erik)
Hand knitted stockings with satin stitch ( embroidered by sisters Ekateria and Maria Kesküla of Leeskopa village in the late nineteenth century. Now owned by Inga Paaskavi)
But it isn’t just the pictures in this book that are absolutely wonderful. Kabur, Pink and Meriste also provide charted instructions for much of the embroidery, crochet, and knitting, and talk about technique in a way that not only demonstrates their own practical knowledge, but generously allows the reader to share in it as well. So the editors introduce the reader to, for example, the distinctive Muhu zigzagging decrease (which I am itching to try out on a sock) and explain how large bold motifs were added to the centre of plain-coloured mittens (using a particularly nifty combination of intarsia and double knitting).
This combination of the historical and the practical is what makes their book so very good, and it is really quite unusual. Textile books are often rather rigidly (and annoyingly) divided between the academic or the ‘how to’ markets, but Kabur, Pink and Meriste’s super tome happily crosses that divide, allowing the reader to gain a close, material understanding of some truly amazing objects – the sort of understanding that you would only ordinarily gain by taking a visit to an archive, handling textiles, turning them inside out, examining their stitches and their seams, decoding their canny methods of construction, and then going away to try things out for yourself. It is an absolutely brilliant book: the images are glorious, the cultural information is carefully and respectfully put together, the instructions for the different techniques are clear and well-demonstrated. Having this book in one’s hands really is the closest thing I’ve ever encountered to actually being right in among a museum textile collection. It is a very rare treat. Now, when do I get to go to Estonia?
So thankyou, Mai, for this lovely gift; thankyou, Anu Kabur, Anu Pink, and Mai Meriste for making this treasure trove available (and in English, too, which is a particular treat for me) and thankyou, most of all, to the needlewomen of Muhu to whose incredible talents this book pays fitting tribute. I’m thrilled to have been introduced to – and enormously inspired by – you all.
Anu Kabur, Anu Pink, Mai Meriste, Designs and Patterns from Muhu Island: A Needlework Tradition from Estonia (Saara Publishers, 2011) ISBN: 978-9949-9181-3-3
*For more on this discourse of indomitable femininity in relation to Shetland, see Lynn Abrams’ important book Myth and Materiality in a woman’s world: Shetland 1800-2000 (Manchester UP, 2005)
Hmmm . . . do I spy . . . some sheep?
. . . . many sheep?
. . . and many rams?
120 yowes and 48 rams?!!
Yes! It’s the rams and yowes lap blanket!
In case you were wondering, yowe means ewe in Shetland dialect and, just like the sheepheid design from which it emerged, the rams and yowes blanket is a celebration of the many-hued variety of Shetland sheep. The blanket uses all 9 natural shades of Jamieson & Smith Supreme jumper weight, and it is very simple to make: the body of the blanket is first knit up as a steeked, colourwork tube. When the colourwork is complete, the steek is cut, and stitches are picked up for the garter stitch edging. Increases and decreases create mitred corners, which fold to the back of the work, creating a neat facing inside which the steek is completely hidden. If you have never steeked before, this would be a good first project to try out the technique.
Here is the facing from the back with the steek hidden inside. To my mind, there are few things more lovely than graded shades of natural Shetland worked in garter stitch. So very pleasing!
Can you tell that I am stupidly happy with this design?
I love the way that the 120 yowes, worked in the graded Shetland shades, give the effect of a massive, ever-receding flock, and the rams lend a graphic, carpet-like aspect to the blanket’s centre
The finished blanket measures 3 feet square. It is just the right size for draping over your knees, or the back of the sofa, and can also be worn as a very cosy wrap or shawl.
The rams and yowes pattern has been expertly test-knitted by my friend Sarah (thankyou, Sarah!). If you’d like to make your own, the pattern is now up and available here, or here.
And in case you are wondering about my hand wear – yes, those are a pair of Muckle Mitts that I whipped up yesterday from a lovely free pattern – a new year’s treat from (who else?) Mary Jane Mucklestone – go and download yourself a copy!
Twelfth night has been and gone! 2012 is already unraveling. . .
Thanks to my friend Stacy, I can now experience that unraveling literally, with this most knitterly of calendars.
Such a satisfying representation of time’s passing. Thankyou, Stacy!
2011 was a pretty momentous year round here.
My dad was diagnosed with, had surgery for, and has now fully recovered from, prostate cancer. He dealt with all of this with a steady dignity and equanimity.
I continued the slow and difficult process of my own recovery from my stroke. There were many steps forward.
And some steps back.
Because of the continuing effects of my stroke, I had to give up my job as an academic. This was a drawn-out and emotionally harrowing process that was made even more difficult by my former employer’s department of inhuman resources. I didn’t write about any of this here, but, believe me, it was really pretty unpleasant. In September, I drew a line under the whole thing, and got rid of all of my books.
But being cut off from an institutional context did not mean that I stopped researching and writing. I published a few things I am very proud of.
And I began to support myself doing something I truly enjoy.
I brought out 8 designs in 2011.
I also fell in love with Shetland. . . .
. . . met some amazing knitters
. . . and continued to be astounded by the warmth, generosity, and genuine support of those of you that I know through the internet. (Thankyou, all of you.)
All things considered, 2011 really was a rollercoaster of a year, and I could not have got through it without the support of dear friends . . .
. . .a fun-loving dog . . .
. . .and, most importantly of all, a wonderful man.
Here’s to 2012!
