Gotta have ‘em!

Fabric store ‘eco-felt’ (from plastic bottles apparently),
that has been languishing in my shoe experiment stash,
plus a scrap of nylon something-or-other
​from a failed waterproof shoe experiment,

and the not-quite-worn-out soles
​ from the now-disintegrating yellow ones,

equals a relatively swift,
and somewhat half-assed,
pair of minimalist running shoes.

Function has an elegance all its own.

Or, as wise women have said,
“​Done is better than perfect.”

So what effect does the shape of the distaff
and the length of its 'handle'
have on the spinning--
and thus the yarn?

And what about the relationships between
 -the position of the distaff
-the position of the fiber
-the preparation of the fiber
-the positions of  my hands
-and the style of spindle?

My first two willow distaffs
(distaves?--my computer thinks not)
are inclined toward narrowness at the bottom--
a bit like a pointed lozenge shape-- 
causing the ever decreasing fiber mass
to slide down as I spin.

Unlike the willow I used for the first two (which had been drying for a year),
the fresh osier branches are still very flexible --
and also relatively heavy. ​

The two plants also branch differently --
the willows alternating as they go up,
the osier branches sticking out in pairs, 
(what is the botanical word for this phenomenon?)
allowing  for distaff symmetry.

 I'm not generally all that attached to symmetry.
But I'm pleased with the shape,
though can't so much about  its effetiveness
or the increase in weight
since I've only just begun to spin.
​Stay tuned.

And since this box of fleece just arrived
I might get a teensy bit distracted.

 Thanks as ever for all the wonderful comments and ideas --
I do so enjoy them even if I rarely seem to answer -- except in my head, alas.

Also -- any thoughts on this combination of comics and 'regular' photos?
Somehow it seems best to me to stick with one or the other--
the  transition can be jarring.
But sometimes I  don't have enough drawings
for all I have to say. 
Hmmm -- a lesson there?

So just as I pushed ‘post’ on last week’s blog,
​a package arrived at my door:
​two plastic Turkish style spindles (10g and 14g),
3-D printed by my son.

Wetspinning flax is a drippy business
and I didn’t think all that moisture was good for my lovely wooden spindles,
so before tackling my second strick of flax (this one from Vävstuga),
I asked him to make one for me.
He thought I needed weight options, so made two.

Though they lack the romance and sweet hand feel of wood,
both spin beautifully and I don’t have to worry about wrecking them.
Well, that’s not strictly true --
​I can’t help but grow attached to most useful tools
(note previous love letters to my PVC loom),
but at least moisture won’t be a problem with these.
They’ve already survived the odd clunk to the floor
​ and so far are none the worse for wear.

Note: there is open source code (google)
that you can take to your local 3-D Printer

Of course I had to try them out instantly
and as I’d promised myself I’d try ‘properly’ dressing a distaff with this new strick
(before I’d used the strick-wrapped-in-a-towel-and-draped-over-my-shoulder method),
I ran outside, cut a piece of willow
bent a couple of thin branches into a vague oval,
and tied them together with a bit of string.

Though not really like the distaffs described in the books I’d consulted*
it worked astonishing well --
the linen fanned out in thin, curved layers on a bed
just as they all said it should,
and when I’d wrapped the delicate array around the willow,
tied it with a ribbon,
lashed it to my body with an apron and stuck the butt end into my leg warmer
(this last was not described in any my sources but made a big difference for this novice),
the strands of flax poured smoothly down into my waiting hands.
Not that the videos above and below show this exactly --
but take it from me, it felt simply amazing.
The fibers drafted  more smoothly and evenly than with my first attempts at the towel method,
and though it took a while to figure out where to put my dish of water
 the time-honored and oh-so-elegant spit technique helped me get started..

*Linen: Hand Spinning and Weaving by Patricia Baines (Batesford 1989)
-​Your Handspinning by Elsie G. Davenport (1953 and 1964)
-the handout from my 1992workshop with Marge Bentley from whence came the flax I talked about before
-a couple of You Tube Videos on dressing a distaff
All gave essentially the same information,
though the Baines book was the most specific and gave the widest range of. options,
​many of which I look forward to trying.

Making these two videos I learned:
1. A belt works better than an apron (and looks classier too)
2. It’s easier to see at that focal length without my glasses
3. I look awfully grim when I’m concentrating.
4. The website upgrade that now allows me to put videos in my blog posts might be a dangerous thing.

The rest of the evening was spent clutching the distaff with my elbow and
alternately filling yellow and white spindles.
 I got pretty comfortable with the whole business after a while,
but  next morning I strapped the distaff to an old tripod we’d fished out of a dumpster,
and found that this, though still less portable,
allowed for a little more elbow room and general drafting ease.

It also makes it possible for me to spin without a belt,
and with my glasses.

​I imagine it’ll be quite some time before I can read and spin flax
as I can with wool,
but next I want to try a hand held distaff and some other ways of dressing it
so I can practice spinning while walking around the yard --
or at least around the studio while waiting for spring.

Drawing the above was a good reminder
of how much pleasure I get from the act of making yarn--
the sensation of fibers in my fingers,
the energy of the twist transforming fleece into wool or flax into linen,
and the subtle vibrations that flow up the yarn and into my hands
from the twirling tool below.

It also reminded me how much I dislike drawing my hair in a messy ponytail,
so this morning I got out the scissors,
and now there will be NO ponytail drawings
for at least a couple of months.

One final note —issue 20 (Spring 2018) of PLY magazine is devoted to flax,
so I ordered a copy and it came a few days ago.
- info about growing and processing, which of course makes me want to do that,
-articles on scouring and bleaching (another fascinating topic)
​-a fair bit about working with tow top (which so far I don’t like nearly as much as the line).
-and naturally quite a few very useful discussions on spinning (twist, handling the fiber, water in the drafting zone etc).
The only specific how-to discussion of dressing a distaff is by Hannah Merritt Woods,
and she shows a different method again from the sources mentioned above
(fibers hanging straight down rather than swooping across and around),
so I will probably try that eventually too.

In the meantime there is another freshly sized linen warp waiting on my loom.
Cuz yeah -- there is that cool thing to do too.
​

(reasons include:
acid/base chemistry,
stretch, compression,
textile integrity),

I'm doing it anyway.

And naturally, it is a blast.

What fun to poke at my prejudices--
​to weave spindle wool and flax
into unwearable sweaters,
​on a loom made of plastic?

How freeing to 'hackle' a messy strick of flax,
(using Russian Paddle combs that have been gathering dust for years),
and make deliciously lumpy yarn from the disorganized tow,

then to spin some rather nice singles
from the now silky smooth hackled flax
and ply it for warp for the next tapestry?
note:  plying stick HIGHLY recommended for keeping the fine line linen orderly 

Then to discover that my wet spinning technique
left much to be desired,
for after plying, washing and warping --
 hairiness ensued. 

Then to remember that I wanted to try flour and water size
(approx 1 teaspoon flour mixed with water till consistency of thin cream
applied with my fingers then allowed to dry).

Then to find that some of the hairiness returned with all the handling
(perhaps particularly with finger picking?)
but that it all worked fine anyway,
(though perhaps if I'd  soaked the warp with size
rather than just lightly coating it,
it'd have stayed glued down?)

Then to notice that I had some selvedge wonkiness --
in part because of my carelessness
(as Susan Iverson says, "if you weave it right you don't have to block it ")
and in part because I wasn't taking into account 
 the huge differences in the size and properties of my wefts:
--ground: the lumpy tow I showed being spun up above (singles)
--house: leftover warp (two ply wet spun line)
--sky:  two strands of cotton I've had floating around for years,
( Sally Fox organic roving spun on a supported spindle
and purchased punis spun on a book charkha--
the latter the source of the black flecks).

But also to notice how interesting it all is.
And how much I want to keep experimenting.

​It is worth noting that all three tapestries were woven at 10 epi 
but because of differences in grist
between the hand spun warp,
 the commercial linen warp in the two pictured at the top,
and all the different weft materials--
the surfaces vary as much as the selvedges.

(Note: Rebecca Mezoff is in the midst of writing
​an amazingly clear and useful series of blog posts on the relationship between
sett, warp and weft size. 
The photos of her samples make this deliciously clear!)

This is all I can think to say,
today,
at this point on my creative oxbow,
but hopefully there will be more.

There is a fair bit of texture around the studio this morning,

an interesting shadow or two,

and no shortage of neutral/ natural shades,

but not much in the way of bright color.

This should not be a surprise as,
with the odd exception,
an ever quieter palette has been an ongoing trend,
 in my yarnish life.

The idea of applying this freedom of limitation
to my comics, however,
came as a bit of a surprise.

But the new comic diary, with its sheets of textured paper
seemed to eschew the pinks and purples and bright greens
that have been delighting me for the last year,
so I thought I'd go with it.

The first idea was to use only  Walnut Ink
(though of course I had to debate whether or not
​ this would include the line work).

But when push came to shove
(or brush touched paper)
 I realized that the pleasurable pull
​ of crow quill, black ink and watercolor
was too important to set aside.

Besides, after trying this Redwood Willow watercolor sampler,
I'd been longing for some indigo watercolor 
​to go with all the other indigo in my life.
And ever since Jodi 
(who made the exquisite tiny watercolor sets I've been using for the past year)
showed me the Greenleaf & Blueberry web site
 I had been seeking an excuse (and a spare moment),
to make some of my own.

So....since I happened to have plenty of pigment
(left over from my egg tempera flirtation in 2005)
some liquid Gum Arabic
(leftover from the Chemistry and Art class my husband taught for years before he retired)
and honey (because --how not to have honey in the kitchen?) 
I googled 'making watercolor paint",
half-assedly  followed some directions I found out in cyber land
and made two colors: yellow ochre and indigo.
​I really like how they turned out.

As ever, 
it's just an experiment.
But experiments with materials (esp those lying around the house), are the best!
Indeed, though many things in the world can induce me to quivering jelly
(elevators, airplanes, merging, politics, Stephen King books, the internet, meanness, movies...),
it is good to know that for some of us
(here's looking at you Nicole and Jodi and Rebecca and Patti and Bonnie and... and ... and...maybe most of you reading this?)
 art supplies are our friends.

Of course part of me wants to make a couple of more colors,
but the internal majority is so enamored of this simple set of colors,
that am going to hold off.
At least for today.

This strick of flax has been waiting in my somewhat minimal stash since about 1992 --
untouched but for some reason, uncullable.

Almost exactly a year ago I got it out and spun a little bit,
then set it aside once again when I realized I wasn’t going to use it for the project at hand.

There were some wonderful comments on the post linked above
and as luck, or fortune, would have it
Tracey even came to opening of my show in LaConner,
spindle in hand, towel over her shoulder,
to give me a short tutorial on wet-spinning flax on the fly.
A dream come true.
​
Naturally, I intended to try the moment I got home --
​
Perhaps in the greater scheme of things,
​ 10 months is but a moment?

My first tiny skein is more than a little bit rough --
and this pleases me no end as
I love being a crappy beginner.
It means I’ve moved beyond the thinking phase
and actually started whatever it is--
entering a thrilling period of focus, learning and improvement.

And since one new thing leads to another,
why not a four selvedge linen warp
on my beloved and absurd plastic pipe loom?

The four selvedge part is not new, duh,
nor is the PVC loom (a trifle bendy but still works beautifully).
But barring my backstrap experiments of last year,
linen has not been my tapestry warp of choice since I switched to wool in 1995.

The four selvedge technique, however, eliminates problem #1,
as the weft is locked into place when I’m done weaving.
Indeed, barring some untoward scissor action, it can’t slip out in any direction.
And linen definitely works with linen!

Problem #2 is still in the works
as I’m not quite ready to warp a loom with my very first spindle spun linen,
but the stuff is astonishingly strong,
especially the two ply,
​so I might have to try pretty soon.
​I mean, why not?

And while in trying mode, why not go all the way?
Inspired by the results of an American Tapestry Alliance member survey
on favorite tools, materials and techniques
(alas only available to members, but check out the website anyway if you're not),
I decided to use all manner of stuff as weft too.
Granted, half-assedly cleaned dogbane fiber with bark still clinging to the strands
Is not my favorite thing to wind on a bobbin, but it looks interseting once packed into place
and at the very least it made weaving with my little skein of spindle spun linen
feel like the height of sophistication.

And then there were those wheel spun singles experiments from last year:
silk (bombyx and tussah)
cotton: (Sally Fox’s natural brown and some white of unknown origin)
linen: (the strick that has now re-appeared to do its thing).

A wee cotton house, anyone?

Clearly, the tapestry isn’t yet done
but it’s blog day,
and I’m having such fun as a wool girl in linen land
that I thought I’d share.

What I know so far:
—Linen warp is harder to put on than wool
mostly because of all the precise tension issues it’s famous for,
but once in place it is lovely on my hands and I like weaving with it as much as I remember.
—The various wefts pack into place very nicely on the nice tight warp,
and feel astonishingly normal to work with.
—The PVC loom will always make my tapestries look good
but for all its aesthetic imperfections is still utterly functional,
with a fine tension adjustment
and the best price in town.

When I know more,
you will too...

If you’re interested in the fibers, from bottom to top they are:
Linen warp used as weft — 7 ply yarn from the stash of dear Winnie Robinson who left us in January
Linen Twine — too hefty for comfortable weaving, but interesting (also from Winnie’s Stash)
Dogbane fiber and bark
First spindle spun linen (two ply)
Sally Fox Brown Cotton (house)
Tussah Silk (window)
One strand each of fine cotton and linen from Winnie’s Stash, wound together onto bobbins (sky).
The spindle is a Jenkins Lark (17 g)

As winter draws to a close (or pretends to),
the pile of sweaters in need of a minor mend
grows ever larger --
​one more unfinished task among many.

​Knitting sleeves from shoulder to cuff with mending in mind
means it’s generally just a matter of removing the worn out fragments,
ripping back a few rows (admiring the shape the currugated rib yarn while I’m about it),
and picking up the waiting stitches to cast off again--
so I know I’ll be thoroughly engaged in the process once I start.

Indeed, I love mending--
just as I love the satisfaction of having mended
and of using/wearing things that have proven their worth over time--
so I’m not sure why I put it off.

Perhaps that is why mending is helpful —once I start--
as it helps me to remember how much I liked this yarn,
​ how much I like it still.

​Look —the colors glow brighter even as the re-knitting commences.

Or maybe it’s just that the sun is now shining on the snow
and bouncing into the studio,
reminding me that it is not yet spring
and an almost mended sweater will keep my best beloved warm
far sooner than the fleece I’d otherwise be carding for the next one.

 Last night I noticed that I'm almost at the end of  Comic Diary #16.
YIPES!
Bone folder to the rescue.
​
For how would I make sense of my days
without Comic Sarah to give me perspective?

Though I"m in year 5 of this daily drawing practice
I've only  been making my own books for the last 10 months or so,
and I have to say that ​experimenting
​with paper, aspect ratio and binding methods
has added immeasurably to the whole business.

What I might have lost in consistency
(a lovely shelf with equal-sized Moleskines all lined up),
I've gained in the practice
of making time for crow quill, ink, watercolor,
of asking questions,
of trying to stay alert for answers. 

What role, I wondered a few months ago,
​ does aspect ratio 
play in the way I think about my days?

(Cleaning aside--which I"m also supposed to be doing today--
I'm having a little envy of my last spring self 
sitting in the sun...)

With a square, or nearly square area on the other hand,
I seem to leave more white space,
and am included to let a single image tell the tale of the day.

Paper, too,  has a huge influence --
do pencil marks and  watercolor sit on the surface
leaving time for me to adjust, erase,
and reshape then into a form that is particularly pleasing?

 Or is every mark drawn instantly into the fibers of the paper,
turning each day into a  palimpsest,
of me making my uncertain way?

There isn't a lot of it (one folio per four folio signature),
but I'm curious to see how the texture will mess with my mind.

Even more,
I'm thrilled to know
that Comic Sarah
is worth the experiment.

It’s 2 degrees F this morning in North Idaho with no shortage of snow
so the wool shirt Henry asked for last spring
that I finished yesterday,
​is still just the thing.

His shop does have a wood stove,
but one wall is an old sail
​and to actually get work done,
​wool layers are essential.

A boatbuilder by trade,
​Henry is also the son of a spinner
and a couple of years ago
he designed a spindle
that just happens to be perfect
​for the yarn I like to make.

It’s called The Hepty, and I’ve blogged about it at least twice...
Indeed, many of the spindle photos on this blog are of Hepty #1
which I’ve used almost exclusively since I snatched it out of Henry’s hands two years ago.
(Once in a while he makes a few to sell-- the Heptys
in the photo above are waiting for their very own spinners--
and since I was visiting I got to try them all...)

At any rate, from Henry’s first casual request for a shop shirt
there was no question as to how I’d spin the yarn.

Since almost every knitting project begins with fleece,
I ordered one from the Ortmann’s in Wolf Point, Montana.
Their marvelous fine fleeces have been a staple (pun sort of intended)
of my spinning life for years (Cormo, Polworth, Debouillet),
and this time I chose a Targhee/Debouillet cross--
 out of curiosity and a desire for something both next-to-the-skin soft and wearably robust.
The fleece was (and still is), lovely.

About 20 microns, it is soft and silky with enough integrity ​that my fingers
don’t feel like they are covered with sandpaper when I touch it
​as sometimes happens with superfine fleeces.

It has, indeed, been a pleasure to work with at every stage

An early sample helped me to decide that the fabric I envisioned -
fine, light and very stretchy— would begin with three ply yarn.

Of coruse I was disposed to want a three ply,
as it is so easy to chain the singles from my spindle onto a plying stick
(at left in the photo below), and then add twist when plying back onto the spindle.

—note: I wrote about plying sticks in the same February 2, 2016 blog post linked above, so no need to click again if you clicked on that one!

The joy of this technique is that I can spin and ply each spindle full of yarn
with the tools at hand, wherever I am.

By fall — I had spun about 380 grams (13.57 oz)

I never did count the yardage, but I was pretty sure the sweater would be less than a pound.

Lobaria Pulmonaira (lungwort lichen), from a particular spot near our cabin
​ provided the dyestuff.
I went there for a few solo days in early December,
enjoying the full circle satisfaction of dyeing on a wood cook stove
using the same aluminum pot in which I dyed my first yarn ever,
while living in the tiny house you can see a couple of photos down,
​ back in 1985.

These lichens work best for me when there is direct contact,
but I didn’t want bits of lichen in the skeins
​ so put the yarn in a net bag
and the net bag in the pot with the simmering lichen.

The color was not as even as it would have been had I let the skeins float free,
but it is luscious nonetheless,
And certain amount of a abrash can be a fine thing
​on an otherwise unadorned garment.

The structure is a simple top down raglan in the round,
all in stockinette stitch, which means i could read while knitting— always a plus for me.

The pattern is the shape of Henry with numbers based on the yarn I had made.

The final garment weighs in a 295 grams (about 10.5 oz)

But this one is Henry’s.
He has things to make in his shop.

A couple of days ago I lifted the lid of my palette box...

Might as well begin with ORANGE warp
(actually  brighter than it appears in this photo)
because -- why not?

But first ...
since the last couple of blog posts have generated questions about beginning and ending yarn when weaving in the ends as I go, I tried to pause to take some process photos.
Alas, I didn't get as many as I intended as I slipped into the tapestry and
forgot I was supposed to be on the outside, explaining things.
But here is a brief, crooked (and slightly out of focus) explanation of one approach.

Below are a couple of photos of another way to start a strand of weft
​(without the risk of added bulk).
Note how the wispy end of the lavender yarn (broken not cut),
drapes over the dark purple and is both held in place and covered by subsequent passes.

The photos also show the pink weft at the top of the house
​ending with an ‘eccentric slide’ down the slope of the roof.

That's all for now...
Not sure why these bright colors and shapes are suddenly the thing,
but when color calls, what can you do but
release the tapestry from the loom and see what is next.

OH yes -- and for further reading (and visuals of other work in progress), 
might I recommend the blog posts from January 2016?  
I recently put the date links back up in the sidebar, and noticed that that month (and some of February too)  has a lot of info -- including, in the Value of Value post, a downloadable PDF of a tiny house cartoon...
​Presents!