weave on

Sunlight on a warp of gold cotton with my bamboo reed and a sword beater carved by Allen Berry.

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 wa… — 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… — 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. — 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.

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.

fundamental

“Yarn” made from strips of plastic bread bags.

An excerpt from The Late Homecomer: A Hmong Family Memoir, by Kao Kalia Yang

Grandma liked to work by the window in the natural light. Sometimes she mended her skirts…. Sometimes she used her scissors with the long handles to cut plastic bags from Rainbow Foods, from Sears, from Kmart, from Wal-Mart,... the white “Thank You” bags from the Asian grocery stores, into long strips of light brown, mostly white, sometimes red and green. In the last years of her life, she would spend hours before the window twisting the plastic strips into ropes, carefully massaging the lengths of cut plastic into the exposed, wrinkled skin of her leg. Wearing her thick reading glasses, she spent her days making bags and bags of twisted plastic ropes. She said that there were always uses for ropes in life, things to tie together.

Adding twist to strips of plastic bread bags with a Bulgarian spindle. I did this about a year ago, trying to quit wasting so much plastic. I wanted to crochet bags from it, but then would need to learn crochet.

Such a fundamental process of skill, fiber, material, joining. Someone who cannot not work with her hands, make useful things. It got me thinking. Some of us have been focusing on the fundamentals for a while now.

Like Sarah spinning coffee filters

Sally breeding sheep and cotton

Neanderthal 3 ply plant fiber cord

Jude moving from old bed sheet to temple robe

Abby explaining traditional irrigation

Spindle made from half an avocado pit and a stick. Spinning cotton from a pill bottle.

Handmade bamboo reed - sleying with commercial cotton warp acquired in estate destash.

The essence of who we are, as people, can be seen in our use of fiber. We who have distanced ourselves immeasurably in 150 years from these processes of hands, from the knowledge that grows from handling plant stems, pods, cocoons, locks of wool, wriggling lambs --- from the intelligence inherent in managing various sticks, knowing their size, weight, heft, details of purpose and potential --- how many of us have tools that are worn into softness by our hands’ continuous use? Not many, in the industrialized world. I don’t - I’ve only been spinning for 15 years and weaving for 10, and I use lots of different spindles and sticks, not the same ones daily.

Flax singles on vintage Bugarian spindles….. need more practice with this.

We can look at a culture, at the clothing and use of fibers for multiple layers of shelter or containment, and know how these people relate to their environment, how the lifestyle developed in a way that honors the processing of fiber into cloth or basket, net, bag, rope, blanket, house wall or roof. The expressions of textile making speak the essence of a traditional community.

Sweater from a Spinner’s Eden Farm fleece - a CVM/Romeldale ewe named Glenda. Bow fleece sale, Washington. Whitehorse sweater pattern by Caitlin Hunter, modified.

The modern world’s depletion can be likewise observed, in the lack of understanding and skill in fundamentals of fiber - in the assumption that clothing is a ready-made thing to be purchased, along with bags, nets, rope. Fiber needs are manufactured at a remove, by machine, with minimal human intervention, and the only relationship the mainstream modern person has with cloth is as a consumer, who chooses using money.

Money and the abstract ‘economy’ have come between humans and cloth, driving a wedge that separates us from the knowing of hands. As industrialization progressively took humans out of the equation of cloth making, even a weaver became someone who operated a complex machine, and understood not how to work with fiber and yarn, but how to troubleshoot the machine.

Hand carded Shetland wool rolags, from a Marietta Shetlands fleece. Bow fleece sale, Washington.

Getting our hands back onto the fiber is crucial. It’s the only way to really learn. Touch, handling, and practice inform the neural pathways that give us skill. It is the way back to knowing.

It starts with picking up a stick.

Coyote brown cotton from Fox Fibre, spun on Mexican spindle made by husband/wife team (found through Cloth Roads.)

Spindles made by friends, cotton and wool/silk handspun, Gee’s Bend quilts, Indian and US handmade wooden vessels.

There’s an essay in here somewhere, waiting to happen. But at this point, it’s just a collection of thoughts, piled in with some images, in hopes of taking your mind toward the small, important, hands-on things.

intensive workshop for one

My little collection of spindle-spun wool for backstrap weaving

I didn't know I was going to focus so much on this weaving today, but it just sucked me in. I've been spinning for backstrap weaving for a while now, trying to build up a collection of different colors that are all spindle-spun and suitable for warp. Not a huge range of colors, but enough to choose from to make a bag-sized weaving.

I was in the midst of warping this handspun for a striped piece with Andean pickup bands. It needed to be warped in two bouts due to the width of the piece in relation to the size of my warping pegs - that's why I stopped in the middle. So today should have been just finishing up less than half of the warping. But, after doing that, and laying the two bouts side by side on loom bars, the second bit was clearly much tighter, so I did it again: 30 rounds of dark, some stripes, a pickup band of 8 pairs, border, then 20 rounds of green. Much better results. Got it heddled and felt good, apart from noticing a stripe I'd left out - ah well, it wouldn't be my weaving if there weren't something odd in there.

When I needed weft yarn, I was able to wind a shuttle from the green at the top of my discarded too-tight second bout. Then I started to consider patterns for the pickup, and was looking at Nilda Callañaupa's book on Textile Traditions of Chinchero. The book includes patterns that have been found in old textiles and reproduced or documented. One was a variation on the cutij/kuti or "hoe" pattern, an 8 pair design I've worked with.

Kuti is on the right (left band works with doubled kuti and variations)

The pattern in the book seemed to have the same number of pairs, so I lifted the 8-pair pickup section off the discarded bout of warp to test it out (the discarded bout of warp was coming in very handy!) After a very focused half hour or so, I had a replica of the double-bar kuti pattern, in 8 pairs. At this point I was very proud of myself.

My test band on the picture from Nilda's book.

Usually it takes a workshop with a teacher to get me to focus so intently on one thing all day, and to slow down and sample to figure things out. But today I got to have my own private workshop, and it was so gratifying to dig a little deeper, all on by myself (with help from Nilda, of course.)

This will be my side pattern, and I still have yet to choose the pattern for the center panel of pickup. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

a chance to share

A woman in Mandvi, Gujarat, ties tiny dots into silk to make a bandhani garchola, a wedding sari with a grid of designs. My photo from 1995. — A woman in Mandvi, Gujarat, ties tiny dots into silk to make a *bandhani garchola*, a wedding sari with a grid of designs. My photo from 1995.

Some things take time. This is one of the gentle lessons of getting old (which is a very relative term, and I use it knowing that with any luck I have only just begun the process.) You have to learn to wait, and be patient, but without abandoning the effort.

I moved to this town a year and a half ago, and was soon trying to spread the word about what I do, what I can offer, what I'd like to share in the form of teaching or speaking. I proposed textile talks in different settings, without getting much response. Finally I wandered into Maestrale, an import store, and happened to meet the owner. In asking her about some Hmong batik cloth, I found out she is a real textile enthusiast, with a weaving and dyeing background herself, and a strong interest in traditional techniques and cultural context. "We need to talk," I told her. That was last September.

Kutch embroidery pieces from my collection, on display at Maestrale during my talk.

And so it happened that I'm giving a series of textile talks, with slides and collected pieces, at Maestrale this winter. The first one happened on February 1st. The topic was Indian bandhani dyeing and embroidery from Kutch, Gujarat.

A work in progress. The pattern is tied, and the first layer of dye has gone on. My photo from Mandvi, Gujarat, 1995

The wonderful thing is that these images, scanned from printed photos and slides, were taken on my very first trip to India in 1994-5. The pieces I shared were also collected at that time. And this is what I meant by "some things take time." I headed to Mandvi, in Kutch, in 1995, to observe and document bandhani dyers for a day, hanging out in their workshop, being fed an amazing and spicy lunch, taking loads of photos and buying finished pieces. My goal was to write it up, or share the information somehow, and I never have until now. That first little foray into textile research lay dormant for over 20 years. Long enough for me to lose track of any notes I took (I was less organized then, and didn't have everything on a laptop and backup hard drive, of course.) But the images can still tell the story, and the technique still fascinates, and it was extremely gratifying to present this information to the group of women who came to Maestrale full of interest.

Some of my collected bandhani textiles, including a garchola, at left, on display at Maestrale during my talk. — Some of my collected *bandhani* textiles, including a garchola, at left, on display at Maestrale during my talk.

An exquisite embroidered festival top I bought in Bhuj in 1995, a block print skirt to go with it, and two bandhani scarves. Slide show in the background at Maestrale. — An exquisite embroidered festival top I bought in Bhuj in 1995, a block print skirt to go with it, and two *bandhani* scarves. Slide show in the background at Maestrale.

The fun continues this week, with Lao weaving. Here's the flyer for my whole series this winter - I hope it's legible. I'm really enjoying digging through my textile collection and all my images to create these presentations, and it's wonderful to meet my fellow textile enthusiasts around here.

indigo interlude

A roomful of kimono at the Mood Indigo exhibit. The two uppermost are from the Ainu people, indigenous residents of Hokkaido (my favorite designs.)

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.

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 indi… — 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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

Mapuche woven cloth, Mood Indigo exhibit Seattle Asian Art Museum

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

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 fr… — 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.

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

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

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

my weaving

I'm currently working on a piece that is all handspun wool, and relatively large for a backstrap weaving.

It's traveled around with me, and I've given demonstrations to weavers, friends and students in Seattle and Kansas City. I don't have many good photos of it, but I'm honored to say that Laverne posted some here.

As I've been working on it, this weaving has become a kind of home base for me - an experience I haven't had before with weaving.

At home, I check in with it almost daily, putting in a few rows in the early morning. Already, before taking it elsewhere, the weaving felt like a space, a separate place to go for a while. When I'm there, I'm in the weaving, in the world of it, which has certain rules that I needed to learn when I began. How to manipulate these yarns, and open these sheds, slightly different from any other project I've done. The pickup is a different set of patterns - so although the technical process of pickup is familiar, I had to learn to read them.

pickup pebble weave backstrap weaving handspun

The first time I demonstrated, I remained silent, and was able to weave along, without mistakes, for several picks. The second time, I was trying to explain the process to students, and I couldn't fathom my pickup, then forgot to pass the weft (which, by the way, is a good way out if you have made pattern mistakes during a demo - just don't pass the weft!) I learned that people just want to see you change sheds a few times, so "pretend weaving" is good enough for a warm-up. After a few minutes, I got to the point where I could weave for real and answer questions.

These experiences made me bond more with the weaving, in a way. I had to master its language enough to do it while semi-distracted. Not arguing for multi-tasking, but it's interesting how the distraction made me focus more, and go a bit deeper into my relationship with my weaving. Which is what I'm trying to talk about. There's a relationship with this weaving, as a process and as a piece. My time with it is valuable, and necessary. Like feeding a friendship, the time weaving solidifies something good in my mind, something deep and true.

So when people ask what I'm planning to do with it, I have no reply because I'm not thinking of it that way. Not trying to get something done, but just doing. Something important.

practice

I love watching this pattern take shape. Warped up a quick band of al'ouerjan, just to make sure I could still do it. I tend to combine Joy Hilden's instructions from her Bedouin Weaving book, and Laverne's tutorial to remind myself of the slightly odd warping technique. (The beautiful little sword is one that Laverne brought from a maker in Bolivia - adds joy to the process!)

Having woven a bag with this pattern, which I'm proud of and use so much it's nearly wearing out, I wanted to revive my familiarity with the lovely dotted strips.

I've already written about why I like it so much, so I'm going to link to my old blog post celebrating al'ouerjan.

I didn't consciously reverse the colors of the diamonds in the new band - they just happened that way. we will see where this leads....