Obsessions.
​They happen.

 I call this one "material inquiry"
when I want to impress myself --
or use the other elegant phrases
I tried to conjure last week--
but while in its midst,
this infatuation mostly feels like joy.​

Except,
 I am learning as I go
so my information has gaping holes 
about which I know nothing,
and the things I do know
are somewhat situation specific.

Water, for instance.
Here in Idaho it is very dry right now
so I've found it necessary to soak the dry leaves
before splitting or twisting them into cordage
to prevent the strands from breaking.

A tub of water for a few hours works pretty well,
as does rolling in a wet towel overnight,
depending on character of the material.
A good soaking rain is great
(we had one once),
as the brown leaves around the edges of 
iris and daylily plants can be twisted immediately. 

Freshly made cordage (everything still damp),
is easy to weave with.
It packs in best
when going through a small section
of the open shed before packing
(one or two warps at a time instead of five or six
or, heaven forbid,
traveling selvedge to selvedge before packing).

If the cordage has had time to dry, however, 
(about five seconds around here right now),
it needs to be soaked till pliable enough
​ to bend smoothly around the warp.

If, however, a gal happens to soak her cordage
for too long in extra warm water
(cuz...tea... hot water in the kettle...),
said cordage may become over-saturated
and this may lead:
first  --to lovely, easy weaving
second --to shrinkage as the cordage dries,

third --to undesired needle weaving
and a revision of her original vision 
if she happens to have woven other elements
over the too wet cordage
using techniques/ materials that do not
want to slide down the warp
at the same rate as the cordage.

and fourth-- to a bit of house wrecking
when trying to force things
in an attempt to avoid needle weaving
and vision adjustment
.
Luckily, I kinda like the wrecked house
and its new island location
so decided not to repair it.

Of course I (that mystery gal),
likes all of it enough
to try other aqueous experiments,
for instance tossing a couple of rings of cordage
into a linen scouring bath
(linen skeins and washing soda
simmered for an hour+).

Astonishingly,
the cordage did not fall apart.

What it did do was grow plumply darker (dying itself?)
and develop a new character.
Wet, it felt a bit like holding
a string of dark brown pearls
and was lovely to weave--
when damp but no longer wet, that is.
Some lessons stick.

One person said the photo above looked like woven coffee beans.

After drying completely though,
the pearl/ coffee bean effect went away.
The cordage stayed quite dark,
and didn't exactly shrink as a whole,
but the character of the individual strands 
ended up different from any cordage I've used so far,
wet or dry,
and the bit with which I didn't weave
went boing.

No chance to try weaving with this weird stuff yet,
but rest assured that soon enough 
​it'll be damp once again
to see how it behaves, both off and on a loom.

Finding things out is  addictive, don't you think?

Part of me wishes that I knew
what I don't yet know,
so I could figure out how
to learn whatever those things are
in an organized way.
​
But then again...
The mystery is better.

At least until I do learn a thing,
whereupon I'm sure to write about here
because
duh
I'm blabby that way
even when apparently speechless with delight.

SO FAR:
-dead leaves,
-stuff that's in the studio,
-weird results
-four selvedge tapestry,

-all of you.

What a plus to know
you're here with me.
​Thanks.

Daylily cordage--
​ a restful break from weaving tapestry--

a girl who knew that there was a way
to transform fistfuls of dead leaves​
into houses for fairies--

and magic carpets,

and potions for flight--

if only she understood
exactly
​ how it was to be done.

What joy, then--

to learn --

What I clearly don't know --
and perhaps never will--
is where bits of idle curiosity will lead. ​

is not what I imagined I would do.

Oh, it started off according to plan--
painting walls and scrubbing floors.

​But clearing out the stuff --
completely emptying my studio 
as per my dream drawing above--
and going on to create  a calming,
almost anonymous space
that wouldn't make my brain buzz
(the kind of space you might find
at an exclusive artist retreat center
in a glorious and exotic location
where wonderful new ideas cannot help but flow in
and where they serve you lunch in an attractive basket
​just when you're getting peckish),
 proved to be easier dreamed than done.

At home,
without the luxury of that imagined, anonymous space,
but WITH a powerful drive to find it,
(and with the joy of picking lunch in the garden
just when I'm getting peckish,
and having neither to update my CV nor pack supplies),
I actually had to confront myself
in the form of my stuff:
 towers of books,
endless teapots,
(I am not a collector but somehow have an absurd number),
pipe parts for looms,
baskets of toilet paper rolls,
frogs of many forms,
​random sticks....
​
And that proved fascinating.
At least to me.

Because it turns that the decisions made
while doing all this clearing out
are much the same as those  I make
when creating new work--
(the satisfying work, that is), 
which allows the whole process to be about NOTICING--
not just with my head, but with my whole body.
(even if sometimes it is about my head,
for who knew ancient and slightly rusty
 thinning scissors would be so full of possibility).

So that's what I've been doing:
 practicing noticing.​

​What does it feel like,
this funny skein at the bottom of a drawer,
this book at the back of a shelf,
 this color, this technique, this teapot, this material,  this image?

Like a lead weight on my shoulders,
heavy with
​ expectation.

Fluttery-- like wings.

Like I can't breathe.

ALIVE.

Like my Grandmother's frown of disapproval.

​Like Dancing.

Like sorrow.
​
Like Anger.
​
Like the center of the universe.

Like possibility.

​

It's practically a cliché these days --
the joys of clearing up, uncluttering, death cleaning,
the miserly counting of garbage bags of routed stuff,
the endless compelling discussions about issues of abundance and scarcity
(all which made me not want to do it
much less write about here cuz -- HUGE topic),
but all that aside...
I didn't actually have much to  toss. 
And it is useful to take stock--
 to ask questions.

What am I doing.
What do I like.
What do I think I like.
What do OTHER people think I like
(teapots and frogs apparently).
What do I think I like because other people think I like them.
What do I not stop doing despite the weight of judgment (internal and/or external).

You know. 
At least I bet dollars to donuts you know...

And if you're a regular reader,
or read the post before this one,
you also know these are things I was trying to do
 before my staycation.

But apparently I required
summer school remedial work.

And to show you how helpful it has been,
(since there was not a final exam),
I will say that at this very moment
it is lovely to notice
how great it feels
​ be back,
writing to you all,
and  poking at ideas
in this particular way.
​I'm so glad.
​
Happy September!

I don’t know if it shows up on your screen,
but at the bottom of page, just under where I am typing,
is something I wrote when I first set up this site.
(otherwise it just says Weebly, and who wants that?).

In case you can't see it 
(since by now it is probably underneath about a dozen photos),
here it is.

things to make:
yarn . music . friends
whatever it is
you cannot
not
begin

This past week,
the thing I could not
NOT begin,
​was another pair of shoes.

Unlike the last ones,
I do not NEED another pair of shoes.
​
Indeed, considering  that both vamp and heel
are made with hand woven linen needlepoint canvas,
leftovers from a tangent of my
 backstrap loom sojourn two years ago,
these shoes are never going to prevent thorns,
​or anything else,
from biting into my ankles.

But not every pair of shoes has to be practical.
And I have a box full of these
beloved but unused linen/backstrap experiments
which have been whispering to me.
​"Choose us!  Choose us!"
ever since I turned onto a slightly different
path (see Backstrap Dialogues for details),

I could have put them to work
once the show was over,
but other ideas intervened and I didn't listen
until the shape and feel of that last pair of shoes
(too hot for this summer, esp after I waxed the canvas),
led me back to that box of miscellaneous rolls of cloth.

There isn't a lot of structural integrity to these shoes.
When the lace holes are nicely stretched out,
I'll probably have to stitch some solid eyelets.
(and weave some actual laces).

I'm also not completely happy with the way
​they tuck (or fail to tuck), around the bottom of my heel,
and wonder if I'm going to want to put a heel cover
on top of the X and bar stitches up the back. 
Heel covers are more traditional
and I had chosen a  narrow strip 
from the same box of experiments,
but found I so loved the look of the spindle spun linen 
stitches that I just couldn't hide them.

Overall the shoes feel great:
light and flexible,
open and airy,
just the thing
for my upcoming August holiday.

Just the thing, that is, 
but for one tiny detail.

Or maybe two.
​I do like to keep my work close by.

Not sure what the g is for --
other than that it is my favorite letter to weave.
  girl, perhaps?
Certainly I feel about 11 years old when I wear these.
which is a fine way 
for me, my shoes, 
and our four selvedge tapestries to feel
as we set forth to explore whatever paths may beckon
between now and when we return to the blog in September. 

While we're gone, if you have a yen to make shoes
check out Sharon Raymond's fabulous website
where you can find instructions, kits, materials, videos, tutorials and inspiration. 
She has a whole book just on sandals.

And if you have a yen to make four selvedge tapestries
as the finishing touch to your shoes (or whatever)
remember that early bird pricing for Fringeless
(the online four selvedge tapestry class with Rebecca Mezoff and me),
ends TONIGHT (31 July) at midnight Mountain Time.
Of course you can sign up and/or start at any time in the future,
but for those who register by tonight
will have your names entered in a drawing
for the tiny house tapestry pictured above--
a piece I wove on film  (or rather, video),
so that in the class you can listen to/watch me
weave and unweave and weave and unweave
and make all kinds of pick by pick decisions
in rather excruciating detail
for a LONG time.
(Some people seem to like it...:-)

Anyway, it could be that house wants to be on your shoe.

Tiny house...
movement...
no wheels...
​Just saying..
​
Have a lovely August and see you in September!

So you might have noticed a slight shift 
in the colors I've been using in my comics
since -- oh-- maybe May. 

All I really wanted, at first,
was a slightly brighter green.
Spring had arrived, after all,
and though it often poured rain on Farmer's Market mornings,

the grass, the trees, the new lettuces, the tunes
seemed to call for something more exuberant than
the greyed green  of the indigo/yellow ochre combo
from my beloved limited palette of last winter.

Just a little bright yellow, I thought --
something like the weld  with which I dye wool.
And then a couple of weeks ago
as I was messing about with madder,
I remembered lakes.

Some of the best known historic lakes
​are actually made from my standard  natural dyes:
madder (alizarin crimson)
cochineal (carmine)
and--ta da--weld, 
​which apparently is the source one of Vermeer's favorite yellows.

With the help of  this site,
and some glorious photos,
I did a few rough experiments
the results of which have.... varied.
The madder turned out more orange than I imagined,
the cochineal leans toward purple rather than carmine,
and the weld is more than a little chalky.

But I still ended up with some photogenic pigment,

that blended easily with gum arabic and honey

and allows me to paint my 
 linen shift (a summer staple)
​ with some accuracy.

Also, the greens are definitely brighter.
Weld and indigo watercolors combine nicely on paper
as they do on yarn.

Palette-wise though, I am left in a bit of a muddle.
 For even as I enjoy the new colors,
they can be overwhelming
(particularly the cochineal)
and it would not surprise me a bit
​ if I narrow back down---

once berry season is over. 

A couple of days ago in the Fringeless class
someone asked: 
​"How do you do that cool picking-up-the-sheds thing?"

The class includes a number of weaving videos
including a rather long one
in which I weave most of the piece in the photo below--
chatting all the while about what I'm doing and why I'm doing it.
At least I talk about building shapes.

Apparently I don't talk much about 
what I'm actually doing to open the sheds
and pass the bobbins however,
so I thought I'd try to explain further here
in case those of you not taking the class might find it useful too.

As I may have mentioned before,
I adopted both techniques--
first  bobbins then finger picking--
after a decade or more of  butterflies, beater and treadles.
Once again, it was Archie Brennan who made it seem worth a try.
With a big pipe loom warped and ready
I committed to weaving the entire thing
 (Hang Up and Draw first tapestry on the linked page)
using only bobbins.
 I started with leashes as well
(long heddles you can grab and pull), 
but before long found myself finger picking both sheds
so haven't bothered with leashes or butterflies since. 

Anyway, yesterday I decided to try to film myself weaving.
Without Rebecca Mezoff and her
excellent eye and amazing camera
the following two videos are not the snazziest thing in the world,
but here they are nonethless:
1-over and back, over and back, at 'slowed down normal' speed
2-over and back in super slow motion
3- a rather wordy description of what I think I'm doing
(which may, or may not, be what I'm actually doing
but is the closest I can come)
4. Some assorted comic drawings which might help too

 EDIT!!!!!!!OH NO!  The videos vanished.  SOSOSOOS sorry 
I have no idea what happened but will try to figure out
or fine another video solution
They take HOURS to upload so it'll be a while I'm afraid.
After all my boasting and that marvelous feeling of doing something cool
Maybe words and comics are the best after all
​SIGH.
​

The Wordy Description
-Bobbin in right hand going both ways, always
-Shed picked with left hand going both ways

OPEN SHED
(in this case weft moving from left to right but not always)

LEFT HAND:
(always picking up the warps from left to right no matter which direction the weft is going)
-decides which warp to pick up first,
- slides up that warp towards the shed sticks where the opening is wider
-fingers slip behind three to five raised warps
-pull them open
RIGHT HAND:
-slips into shed just opened
-passes bobbin through the space behind the warp and back into the same hand
(bobbin now in front of the warp)
-pulls slightly on the weft while 
LEFT HAND:
-releases warp threads
-drops down to grab the end of the weft
-adjusts weft tension
(leaving enough weft in the shed to make a nice bubble)
-holds onto weft while
RIGHT HAND:
uses bobbin to tap weft into place.

PICK SHED
LEFT HAND:
(scooping up warps from left to right no matter which direction the weft is going)
-chooses  warp at the edge of section to be picked up,
-pushes back against the open warp to the left of that warp
-reaches back and grabs desired "back" warp between thumb and middle finger
- pulls that warp forward, holding it on forefinger 
-moves one warp to the right, over the next open warp 
-pushes back against that open warp as before to make space to grab next "back" warp
 continuing in this way until 3 - 5 warp threads (about one inch worth) have been grabbed.
-pull to open that section of the shed
RIGHT HAND 
​​-slips into space just opened
-passes bobbin through the space behind the warp and back into the same hand
(bobbin now in front of the warp)
-pulls slightly on the weft while...
LEFT HAND:
-releases warp threads
-drops down to grab the end of the weft
-adjusts weft tension 
( leaving enough weft in the shed to make a nice bubble, which is easier with pick shed as the released warp adds its own tension)
-holds onto weft while
RIGHT HAND:
uses bobbin to tap weft into place.

All of this takes a LOT Of words,
and I generally find Comics to be a more efficient medium
than plain text, but hopefully the videos make things somewhat clear.
And alas, if I had to draw an entire comic 
for every blog post, you'd get one a couple of times a year!

NOTE: Bobbins
Still REALLY happy with both sets of new bobbins I wrote about here
Both makers are HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

NOTE: Sett
​ The warp on the loom in the videos above is sett at 10 epi,
8 epi is easier and smoother (more room to teach and grab)
but much of this depends on the size of your warp 
and the size of your fingers.
If your fingers are large and/or you like to work at closer setts
I  recommend some kind of shedding device for the pick shed --
Leashes and String heddles (very short leashes), are both excellent.
I describe the latter in Backstrap Dialogues,
and will put a detail below, which should help.

So that's it for now --
EXCEPT! that for those of you not on Instagram
I wanted to include a photo
of  the finished running shoes
I was working on last week!
SO happy.
(Shoe pattern from Simple Shoe Making)

that among the many reasons I make things, 
is that the very act of construction
is a kind of pathway
further into--
and also further away from
my daily life.

The 'into' part seems obvious.
Immediate  tactile engagement
with materials I love
and objects I use
helps me,
both literally and figuratively,
​to feel the ground as I walk.

This is particularly powerful,
when the soles of my handmade shoes 
are worn through--

and the quick and dirty replacements 
I whipped off in April-- 

​​and wore with glee in the springtime woods--

prove, in June--

to  be magnets for every sharp
quill-like
hitchhiking seed 
around.

To tell the truth, I was less than happy
about the the state of  those shoes.
Grumpy about miles of overgrown trails,
sad about the loss of dead friends 
(one of whom used to do a lot of trail clearing on my behalf),
and in pain because those seeds are SHARP.
I felt at a complete loss.

But drawing it into my diary,
(both in the moment and later),
I remembered that it's not the fault of the plants
(just trying to propagate the world as we humans do),
or the shoes
(they'd been doing a great job for months),
but rather that I had the wrong clothing
for that moment,
and that with a little bit  (lot) of effort 
with needle, branch loppers, thimble and weed whacker,
it would all be just fine. 

If nothing else,
​I  at least could see a way to proceed.

After yanking and properly disposing of
the bulk of the barbed and painful seeds,
the grey felt shoes work fine once again--
at least for town runs--
and when they are on my feet.

But I'm not going to bring them to the woods for a while, 
so  a new pair was still in order --
something with no nap
for burrs.

 A piece of hemp canvas 
laminated to a scrap of cotton
seemed like a grand idea,
so away we went.

Unlike the grey felt,
(which sews like butter),
this stuff is tough.

But that is what I wanted, right?
​
And pre -punching the holes helped a lot.

Though not entirely.

Indeed it would be nice
if all this noticing
didn't involve callouses and blood --
(glovers needles are made, duh, to slip through skin),
but it sure makes what might otherwise be a mundane task 
a time of  edgy productivity --
(micro drama in every stitch),
with moments of great satisfaction.

Indeed, now that I've given my hands a break to write this,
it is probably time to finish stitching on those soles.
The new four selvedge students
are running off without me



*Cordwainer: The term cordwainer entered English as cordewaner(e), from the Anglo-Norman cordewaner (from Old French cordoanier, -ouanier, -uennier, etc.), and initially denoted a worker in cordwain or cordovan, the leather historically produced in Moorish Córdoba, Spain in the Middle Ages, as well as, more narrowly, a shoemaker.[6] The earliest attestation in English is a reference to “Randolf se cordewan[ere]”, ca. 1100.[1][6]According to the OED, the term is now considered obsolete except where it persists in the name of a trade-guild or company, or where otherwise employed by trade unions.
​(from Wikipedia)

So technically I am not a cordwainer.
 I don't belong to a trade-guild,
(at least not one that has anything to do wtih footwear
though I am a member of the Palouse Hills Weaver's Guild
and thus of the Association of Northwest Weaver's guilds), 
and if I use leather, it is local buckskin
(possibly from a deer shot by my aunt).
But eleven generations back,
John Swett (1575-1651)
who immigrated to Newbury, MA in 1630*
with his wife Sarah,
apparently was. 
So, close enough.
Though I bet he didn't get his leather from Córdoba, Spain either.

*Shoemakers, tanners, and other tradesmen arrived in Jamestown (Virginia) by 1610, and the secretary of Virginia recorded flourishing shoe and leather trades there by 1616. The first English shoemaker to arrive in America whose name has been preserved, was Christopher Nelme, who sailed from Bristol, England and reached Virginia in 1619. Nearly one year later, the first Pilgrim settlers landed in Massachusetts. The first shoemakers who followed the trade there arrived in 1629.
from The Honourable Cordwainer's Company website --"What is a Cordwainer"

** The dates and names of my relations are from the book Jockey Corners: Remembrances by Paul P. Swett, M.D., compiled and edited by Norris P. Swett M.D. and Steven C. Swett, Bragg Hill Press; Norwich, VT,  1997

***ALL shoes shown here are from patterns from Simple Shoemaking
​

You know what never occurred to me?

Several things actually --
(apparently I am clueless),
but the two that just struck me are: 
1. that the response to Fringeless
would be so immediate and enthusiastic
(thank you SO much to everyone who is signing up --
I hear it's wild out there in the facebook group--),
​
and

2. that rather than grow tired of four selvedge warping
or be longing for a break
​after months of focus
(including the awkwardness of
listening to/watching myself on film
as I try to catch all the moments
when I say warp instead of weft),
I'm actually giggling as I review some of the videos,
enjoying all over again the pleasure of working with Rebecca--
​and of tapestry itself.

In fact, the whole thing
​ has made more interested than ever
 in the things this four selvedge warping business
allow me to do.

Actually I did take a break last week--
slipping off to our cabin to clear my head

But even as I relished the solitude
​and sank into the peace

of mending weed-whacking trousers
 listening to birds,
and reading books
(The Stranger in the Woods turned out to be an appropriate choice),

I was also thrilled to return to this linen warp
 (sized just before leaving),
and continue with my experiments.

Not that some of these experiments--
(weaving with unfamiliar or long ignored materials, for instance)
couldn't happen with other warping methods,

but somehow the completeness
​ of these tiny works
with their crisp edges
and contained little selves,

So thank you
EVERYONE
for your interest
(in four selvedge and whatever else)--
for reading, for weaving,
for making stuff,
for writing back
and generally supporting this work
in whatever way suits you.
I'm just so darned curious about
how it will unfold. 

And  speaking of miracles--
I wove three little four selvedge tapestries
while filming Fringeless 
and they were such fun to make
that we're going to share the joy
​and give them away.
Everyone who registers for the class before the end of July
(that'd be the early birds among you)
​will have your name in the hat.

​

Sometimes I forget
 the impact new things can have.
In the endorphin rush of a thrilling idea,
pausing to sit with it ​for more than a moment or two
rarely enters my head.
As a friend once said to me, 
"Must you do everything 500%?"

Apparently I must.
(Well, I'm pretty half-assed about many things,
but it's generally an enthusiastic kind of half-assed).

But given that reality,
it's amazing that it was a full two years
between the time my running partner Nancy, and I
first took off our shoes (for half a block),
until we were barefoot/minimalist running full time-- 
two years that included 
a crazy shoe-juggling period
where every run included three or four changes:
from 'conventional running shoes,'
to minimalist running shoes, 
to bare skin,
and back.

It was hassle to be sure,
​but worth the trouble:
to build calluses,
to strengthen all the new muscles
to NOT injure the bajillion little bones in our feet,
and  to get over my slight embarrassment
at being seen doing this crazy-seeming thing that felt so good.
(Not that many people are out and about at 5:30 AM, but still)

Anyway, thanks, 49 year old Sarah,
​ for giving it a try,
and for giving it time.

But even as I am grateful for whatever foresight we had,
I still forget that other body parts:
 eyes
nerves
ears
and hearts,
are as in need as feet, 
​and that too much of anything, 
​ too quickly,
can have a bigger effect than one might expect.
​Even  color.

Indeed, so overwhelmed was I
by that tiny red tapestry
that I hid all the freshly dyed skeins
in the bottom of my palette box,
turning with relief to some soft, safe, blue/greens.

Which was great except
that apparently it wasn't so much the intensity of the red
as the quantity.
For​ my freshly awakened rods and cones
 demanded that I include the wisp of purple
I'd hidden in the bottom of the box
after an over-reaction
to my last dalliance with super bright color.

Again though, I leapt before I thought --
and had to go find a paint color for my comic about the new piece 
for there was nothing in my lovely limited palette
that came close to describing that bright dot of purple
that dazzled and overwhelmed me at once.

And when I added said color (not quite right, but close enough) 
I was overwhelmed once again--
that bright hue
sucked up all the air in the page.

Who knew what DRAMA
there was to be found
in a few square millimeters?

But it's an interesting kind of drama.
In the right mood
​it is downright entertaining to notice
 how the simplest shifts
 change the tone of everything--
a  color
or fiber
or technique
bringing the familiar
into crazy new territory.
​ 
But what use are those wild leaps
if they are accompanied by so much extra information 
that it is  difficult to tell 
to what one is actually reacting? 

Indeed it could be that the color RED
was so overwhelming
only amidst the other things in my life at the moment,
not least the thrill that
​ Fringeless,
(the online four selvedge warping class
Rebecca Mezoff and I have been putting together),
is nearly out in the world.

It might even be  that this last
is a bright red four selvedge tapestry
​ all by itself. ​

The trailers are live, 
 Rebecca is finalizing the videos as I type, 
most of my drawings are in her hands,
​and early bird registration opens -- um-- TODAY  (June 25).

The actual class will become available July 9th,
and I can hardly wait to see what wonderful and dramatic things
 you weavers (and soon to be weavers)
will create once you are free
from hems, edge finishing and  thrums.

 I've never done anything like this before
yet I believe the class will be great
(if, occasionally, a little goofy).
Rebecca's firm and experienced hand on the camera
and on the video editor ensures that the information
is clear, thorough and lighthearted. 
And unlike an in-person workshop
where one or the other of us throws information at you
willy nilly for days (at least that's my exhausting approach),
 this workshop allows you to learn at your own pace,
watching the same videos again and again if you want
till each step makes sense.

But this going live business
is also quite nerve-jangling for me
because pretty soon
anyone at all
will be able to hear me play the concertina
in a venue I couldn't possibly have imagined
back when I swore to my first teacher,
that I'd NEVER, not ever,
EVER play in public.

Not that you actually see me playing.
All the video footage is about warping
and weaving
and yarn
and looms
and goofy textile joy.
 (Rebecca and I have both
 devoted our lives to tapestry
and take it so seriously,
that we can joke about it endlessly). 

But I was an adult beginner musician,
and am just a teensy bit fragile
about the way I play the tunes I love so well.
To be sure I've worked hard for the past decade,
and I practice daily,
but it's a private thing.
​Or it was.

Then again,
 a couple of years ago
my diary comics were a private thing too.
And now the fact
​that I didn't wait for my face to dry
before painting my hat,
doesn't stop me for a second from putting it here.
And I do love those tunes.

So here is to us all being brave--
to trying things out:
 tapestry, tunes,
color, comics,
or being ourselves.
​
But perhaps just one of these
(or two),
at a time.

Frankly, I wasn't  hopeful.
This grubby collection of  hastily collected
mud-encrusted roots had been drying out in an old torn paper bag
for... gosh... 15 years? More?

I'd planted the madder seeds sometime in the 1990s--
 the sticky leaves and stems scratching bare arms
and clinging to small boy clothing 
when my 28 year old son was
​a significantly smaller person than he is now--
and I remember being so impatient,
first for it to grow,
 then with its unpleasant and voracious character. 
Finally I dug out a few roots,
stuck them in a bag,
and forgot about them.

Still,  I shook off the mud,
broke the big bits apart,
cut them into the smallest chunks I could manage
with my not very sharp secateurs,
and  dumped them into a jar to soak. 
Without a dye-dedicated blender to puree the softened chunks
 the color would not be terribly strong.
But so what?
It was just an experiment.

And since these days
I'm a half-assed, seat-of-the-pants dyer--
and already making a big wet mess--
I might as well dig up some fresh roots
​and try them too.

Now when it comes to fresh madder,
there are two things you're not supposed to do:
1. dig the roots in the spring/ summer in the midst of the growing season
​2. use them right away.

But I am in the mood now
(well I was on Sunday-- two days ago).
The madder plants were encroaching
on the ripening raspberry patch
 and raspberry canes are prickly enough without
having to push one's arms through sticky madder leaves.
 I was ready to hack them back--
and why not make a few exploratory stabs with a shovel
​at the same time?

Fresh and dry cut roots went into separate jars
(and a little dry weld into a third just because). 
After an overnight soak they all went
into a hot water bath to simmer and soften.
Weld is fine being simmered more directly
​ but this double boiler-ish jar method
​ is an easy way to keep the temperature
of the madder from climbing into the 'brown' range.

Meanwhile, back at my work table
I filled just one more Kuchulu spindle with white yarn,
then plied it ​while listening to the A Playful Day podcast
(broadening my natural dye rainbow during Pride),
before alum mordanting my pile
of two ply "tea" skeins

But back to dyeing.

​Photos of mordanting (or mordanted) yarn
are rarely interesting. 
And anyway, I forgot to take them
so have none to bore you with. 
Nor, alas, did I document the dye extraction process.
But both are pretty standard.

Mordant: Alum at 10-12% WOF and Cream of Tarter at 5- 6%

Dye extraction: soak, simmer, pour off, soak, simmer, pour off.
As mentioned, I try to keep the simmer temp about 160 F ish
to avoid brown tones in the red.

Instead, then, you get a foggy photo of jars in a pot
and then-- voila-- red yarn!

I kept the first and second extractions separate:
the skein on the lower right was the first extraction from the dry madder
and is significantly darker even if this photo doesn't really show it.
The other three are the second extraction from the dry madder
and the first and second from the fresh.
There was some variation among these,
but actually less than I expected.

What I also didn't expect,
​was how un-orange the color is. 

I've been dyeing with madder for decades,
always with purchased flakes
or extracts (once they became available)--
everything carefully calculated, weighed and measured--
and there have been some pretty spectacular colors.
How not with this marvelous dye?
But because so much available madder
is R. cordifolia rather than R tinctorium,
the color often leans well into the orange range.

But this yarn does not.
Half-assed, casually measured, fresh or dry,
R. tinctorium is something else again.

 I'm dyeing as I write this,
pausing between sentences
to give things a stir, or a rinse,
 to hang the skeins on the line to drip,
to oooh and aahhhhh,
or take another photo.

Just added the one below:
first skeins and the first exhaust from the same jars.
The main thing I'm noticing? 
The colors on the fresh madder skeins
are brighter, clearer, and slightly less orange
than the dry.
Anyone have thoughts on this​???

Two days ago I was about to start weaving,
and got distracted.
But I guess now I know
what this little four selvedge warp
has been waiting for.

And -- OH WOW --one more photo--
(sorry, there have been a lot)--
two more exhaust skeins casually tossed into the jar with
what I thought were the well-extracted fresh roots.
How gorgeous is THAT????