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????

So how silly is it
​to spend a chunk of the morning
​wandering around the garden, 
looking for the perfect place to pose
(excuse me, to STYLE)
my suddenly expanded collection 
of hand turned tapestry bobbins?

Or maybe silly isn't the word -- 
it's more that I find it interesting to notice
that my desire to do this
​ has become something to notice.
​If you know what I mean.

Not that I don't relish the warm feelings I get
from visually satisfying images.
It's just that after a time one begins to have some judgement.
This photo will do.
That one will not.

And since Photography is not my gig,
I'm a little bit annoyed
that I might consider avoiding an idea for a blog post
because I don't have good enough photos.

So I don't.
Avoid it, that is.
Indeed, as most of you know
I usually do show my work
(and tools, and face)
in  less than perfect conditions:
sprawled across an old piece of cardboard,
​in active use,
 neither well lit nor artfully arranged
so probably you're not even here for photographic eye candy.

Or that though I meant to take more pics once I began to warp,
the process sucked me in,
​and photos were not taken.
Having the perfect tool for a job is so distracting.

And who could pause for a moment
when a second package arrived:
a collection of Skinny Minnies
​(with and without brass tips)
made by Milissa Dewey of Bobbin Boy?
​Not me. 
Those too were put right to work.

But this morning
​ ​I really wanted to try to show them off
in all their luscious, hand turned,
hardwood glory--

even if that meant getting my feet wet
and taking photos
​in a place where they will ​rarely, if ever, be used. 

But so what?
A small attempt at bobbin porn never hurt anyone.
​Least of all me.
And vicarious pleasure is most definitely a thing.

Then again,
given a choice between styling exquisite tools
and actually using them, 
I usually choose the latter.

Which I guess is one of the many ways
you can tell 
that I am a weaver
and not a photographer. 
For which I am a little bit sorry --
but not all that much.
Because weaving is the BEST,
​don't you think?

Sometimes
doing two things at once
is a handy way
to avoid making decisions.

These tapestries began as a
a regular four selvedge warp--

but quickly evolved into parallel dwellings
separated and connected
​by a single warp.

I fully intended to cut them apart,

but  somehow
​just couldn't.

There's an awful lot of real estate in my world these days.

Good thing the houses are so easy to clean.

Not sure why sitting on the floor 
using my ever available  'knee swift'  to wind a skein
​is so comfy and satisfying.
But I guess I don't need to understand.
I can simply do it.

I do, however, know that these 'bones'
(bobbins for Aubusson low warp tapestry weaving 
which have been sitting unused for decades), 
make fabulous holders for hand spun linen warp.

I also noticed  yesterday (for the bazillionth time)
how much I love building little pipe looms,
even ones I've built dozens of times before,
and how pieces of cardboard
from the backs of sketchpads
make excellent
(if not the most photogenic),
work surfaces.

Weaving little tapestries is a good thing for me to do right now--

​not only because they are endless compelling, 
​filled with questions and answers
​and ever ready for some experiment or other 
(here I've used some flour paste sizing to tame my less than smooth hand spun linen),
note: size = flour and water mixed to the consistency of cream and applied with my fingers

but also because they keep me in one spot
for large chunks of time
which means the old dog
can keep track of me
without moving too much.
And moving can be hard
when you are 117 years old (17 1/2 +).

Anyway, for these reasons and more
tapestry weaving pleases us both.
So I guess I'll try another.
Today -- back to  wool warp
(only 1  1/2" square four selvedge)
​But what weft?

Now that I've begun to mix wool and linen in the same work
and have noticed that despite my apprehension
I quite like it,
there are ever more things to try. 
Which pleases both me and the old dog.
Guess I'll have to stop typing,
sit back down on the floor,
​wind a bobbin,
​and keep exploring. 

ps. Work on the Four Selvedge Class continues.
You can find out the latest  here: Fringeless

pps. The photos and videos that Rebecca took for this class are amazing.
They sure make me notice and appreciate
the difference between my ipad pics
and those from a serious camera.
  Golly. 
I think I'll go make some pictures with yarn.

What's not to love
about a mahogany Hepty
or a handmade mast  
awaiting its boat's new deck ?

How not to salivate
over spring greens
​ flourishing in buckets of compost?

 Yet another flax distaff

works just fine--
​ as long as I spin with the proper tool.

And experimental linen yarn

doesn't seem to mind
the precise sett  and high tension 
of a plastic loom.

What's not to love
about coming to know
when precision matters,

and when the half-assed
is simply
​perfect. 

Standing desks are apparently quite the rage these days, 
so I,
as a contrary sort of gal
have  moved my operation (and my butt) to the ground.

It wasn't a carefully thought up plan,
but rather a happy accident 
that resulted from ​a sudden urge
to clear out the seemingly endless binders 
of expensive and carefully collected slides 
from back in those pre-digital image days
when the last step of tapestry completion 
was a trip to the photographer 
and subsequent filing and storage of 
the resulting 4x5 transparencies
and sheets and sheets of images in their little plastic cases
that exhibitions and publications demanded.

Since I didn't exactly intend to tackle this project,
I just plunked down on the floor and began.
​
But of course the sorting took hours
and was somewhat distracting
as somehow
between 1990 (when I wove my first tapestry),
and 2007 (when digital images took over completely),
I managed to do a lot of weft faced plain weave.

And what an unexpected  pleasure
to come upon projects long forgotten
(Scarface was such a great dog,
​that carpet bag-on-a-box project was pure fun).

But even more delightful
was standing up afterwards
and noticing the absolute absence
of a nagging hamstring pain
to which I've grown so used 
that its absence was more noticeable than its presence.

So not only did I manage to get rid of pounds and pounds of slides 
(still have one fat binder for  posterity and/or my son to toss after my demise,
but NO discards for future Pinterest-worthy window covering projects),
​but was also was moved to remove
​the work table in the middle of my studio.

In other news --
​spring is definitely here,
and the new insta-desk (board on books) 
has coincided with comic diary #18
to which I added a few sheets of  Reeves lightweight
that I had in the basement.
So far this paper is more satisfying to draw and paint on
than the lovely-to-look-at-but-hard-to-use
handmade Mexican paper in the last book
(visible in the running drawing above,
and on the right in the slide sorting comic at the top).
But as with so many things (image storage etc),
only time will reveal the efficacy
​of one's  seemingly sensible decisions.

Speaking of which...
version four of the knitting project
proceeds apace,
in all its fat stockinette glory. 

​Never a dull moment around here.

Can you see it?
It's right there--
in the wrinkled, raveled remains

of the last best idea
that wasn't quite right.
Sigh.
But such a relief. 

For the last couple of days
I've caught myself  wondering
​what the yarn would 'really' become
even as I knit on.

​I was, it seemed,  in love the idea of  the sweater,
more than the garment itself. 

Also, I'd put a graft in it, which I was reluctant to undo.
(I quite like grafting, but un-grafting is just not as pleasurable as pure unraveling).

Do you ever have this experience--
 continuing to knit 
occasionally muttering,
"it'll be all right,"
knowing all the while 
​that it is not?

If so, you'll understand my delight
when finally,
this morning,
I realized that I loved the yarn too much
to 'waste' it on a clever concept
 I would never wear. 

The yarn is a 5 ply Cormo:
 local grey and white fleeces
blended in various ways,
spindle spun over time,
and collected as singles on toilet paper tubes
(not archival but never intended to be).

By the time I brought the whole works to my cabin a few weeks ago.
I had a fat pound waiting to be plied.

Unlike the sweater I just decided to reject, 
Plying 5 strands with the Charkha was an experiment that worked, 
but only when I turned it into a two step process
like when plying with a spindle:
​
1. wind the singles together without twisting
​​2. add twist.

While I wouldn't take this extra step with a treadle wheel
where both hands are available,
with the Charkha, the extra step was worth every second
 because there I only have one free hand
many strands to manage
and no tensioned lazy Kate 
 (though my makeshift multi-mug system pictured above was ideal).

At any rate,  I used the Charkha for both steps,
 covering the spindle shaft with paper purns (rolled up squares)
that I could hold in one hand as I turned the crank with the other.

The weather that week was very April --
nice enough to be outside whenever  it stopped raining,
but cool enough to make the cookstove a constant necessity
 for cups of tea
and to dry the yarn after blocking.

You might notice that the drying skeins twist a little --
this is because the yarn sat so long as singles
that the warm water released the stored twist energy
rather than relaxing it has happens when you wet the yarn
closer to the time it is actually spun. 
Kathryn Alexander of Entrelac and Energized Yarn fame.
first brought this phenomenon to my attention.
Check out her work. 
It truly is beyond anything.

At any rate, the finished yarn was/is YUMMY --
squishy and super soft--
and I started knitting with it
the moment it was dry,
used double no less
with gargantuan needles --
​size 9 I think. 

Alas, whatever I had in mind then wasn't quite right--
​or anyway another idea,
the one I decided against this very morning,
took hold and wouldn't let go
until today.

​But the yarn is still waiting--
so yummy I can hardly wait to cast on with it again.

And see --
​there it is--
the new idea--
waiting.