First, weave a tapestry.

Next,
Decide if you can bear to sully its inherent perfection
with another medium.

 Sometimes I can't.  
Sometimes I must.

 I have never liked mixing my media.
(Never Mix Never Worry...)
But as I've mentioned before,
some ideas are hell bent on having their way.

So in I go.

1. Draw , or trace a drawing, onto rice paper.
Note: It'd be nice if I could specify what kind of rice (or maybe mulberry) paper,
but I'm using scraps left over from some else's printing class 
and it is unlabeled.  Perhaps you can tell by looking?
At any rate, it is semi-translucent, flexible and strong..
In my first experiments I used cheap tracing paper
but it crumbled beneath my needle.
  I read somewhere that tissue paper works, but don't have any.

​2. Baste the sketch to the tapestry with thickish cotton thread
-- something that is strong, easy to see and easy to pull out--
then start stitching along the lines of your sketch with wool yarn and running stitch.

3. When all the lines are in place, gently tear away the rice paper,
one shape at a time.  Bigger shapes are easier than small ones.
​This is a fiddly process.  Tweezers can be helpful.

4. When the paper is all gone, the lines can be further defined
and the shapes filled in.
​ I generally pause at this point.
​
In love with the simple dotted lines
it sometimes takes a day or two before I'm ready to 'color in' the shapes.

Once started though, it is hard to stop.

The colored stitching stays on one surface of the tapestry
though as you can see below, it shows through if I've not been super careful
Also note the slight drawing in of the tapestries where there is lots of embroidery on the other side.

 I often get carried away with the pleasure of needle and yarn,
but find less is generally more to my liking.
​
In the image below, a few solid lines
and  a little detached buttonhole stitch
​was all that was required.

Some works want even less than that.

ps. Before I hit 'post', it suddenly seems like a good idea to mention a few favorite books about stitching-and people-who-embroider.  There are, of course, myriad how-to stitching books out there, basic instructions and ways to think about stitching as an artist, but not so many that delve into the theory of embroidery.

Here are some links :
The Subversive Stitch by Rozsika Parker
Celebrating The Stitch by Barbara Lee Smith
Hand Stitch Perspectives and Machine Stitch Perspectives
both by Alice Kettle and Jane McKeating
Also a monograph on the artist Audrey Walker that I think I got from the Selvedge magazine bookstore, but am not sure. 

In making these links (and I apologize for using Amazon, but it is an easy way to get the information across) , I see that my copy of Subversive Stitch is out of date as it has been re-issued with new material, a new cover and a new high price.  Also, Celebrating The Stitch can be had for one American Penny (plus shipping). 

In going through my book collection, I found that I have more books on stitching than I have on tapestry weaving, but more catalogs of tapestry exhibitions. This probably just means that there ARE more books about stitching than tapestry, and more embroiderers than tapestry weavers.  But does it also mean that there are more tapestry exhibitions?  
Probably not. 

What are your favorites? Do tell!!

A few days ago I got a wonderful letter (actually an email), asking about knitting.
The author wanted to see a particular garment from an earlier iteration of my website.
She also wondered why I have so little knitting on this one.

The first query sent me burrowing around in old digital files
looking for the vest she remembered.
Alas, I found not a single pixel. 

Not a single pixel of that sweater, that is.
​ But I did find plenty of others.

My world is awash in hand knit garments

each a physical manifestation of time and place,

of ideas and dreams,
​some of which have become 'real,'

some of which remain swatches.

Each bit of cloth contains hours, weeks, decades of knitting pleasure,
the indescribably sensuous feeling of yarn slipping through fingers
wrapping around needles, loop through loop, through loop.

 I've attempted to capture it in other media:
​ tapestry, needlepoint and paint,

I've been knitting steadily and obsessively since my early teens.
 Like breathing, it is something I can't seem to stop doing.
And I don't want to. 

​Why, then is there so little knitting on this website?
Why a tapestry archive and no knitting one to balance it?
Am I being elitist?
 Is the  dreaded art/craft hierarchy  warping my thinking?
Eek!

The only reasonable answer I can come up with today
is that my professional life used to be more knitting centric than it is now.
Garments I made in the past ("Kestrels Alight" for Knitting in America, for instance),
garments destined for publication, were likely to be professionally photographed,
both for the magazine or book in question and for my records.

But as tapestry came to dominate the  portion of my work that was "out in the world," 
my knitting became private, my sweaters my everyday clothes.
And who wants to see that? 

With no plans to publish then,  I needed only enough information to make another for me
so I stopped writing down the patterns -- or only as jots on fragments of paper.

(Now that I write this, I find it curious that I  immortalized the scribbles
while the original sweater lives in a pile with all the others).

But clothes are important. I like making them.
And there is infinite pleasure in simple garments that I reach for day after day,
year after year.  
There are now so many that I  have a notebook of when I wash each one
​so I don't lose track. 

I rarely photograph them,
or only as not very good sweater selfies --
hardly fit for a knitting archive. 

Yet suddenly I'm intrigued with the idea of having a record---
a collection of garments I've made
​all in one place.

They wouldn't have to be terrific photos, would they?

Nah.

It could be interesting.
One of these fine days, I might actually do it.

Now, however,  I'm trying to get a pile of mismatched hand spun leftovers to work together as though I meant it.  Stay tuned....

When it comes to sewing bits of fabric together
and mending holes in my clothing
I'm a sloppy running stitch kind of gal.

But fixing stuff still demands decisions: 
Is it best to put the patch on the outside, or on the inside?
​Should I use denim or plain weave cotton?

Raw edge with chain stitch?
Raw edge with buttonhole stitch?
Or turn the ends under?

Might as well try all three and see which lasts longest.

These garments, after all, are for wearing while working.
I have no one to please but myself
​and it pleases me to be warm.

After 15 + years of almost daily use (and nearly that many of mending),
you can still see some of the original fabric on the sleeve of my studio jacket.
Every couple of years I dunk the whole thing into an indigo pot
​to even out the hodge podge of patches.

Silk/Rayon Velvet takes indigo very nicely.

Sometimes my patching fabric choices have not been wise.
​
​But so what?

Though deeply influenced by the concept of Boro 
and delighted to be distracted by looking at such garments
I choose my patch materials from my current collection of scraps--
 an ever-changing assortment-- 
and stitch with the yarn or thread at hand
so it never looks like proper sashiko.
​​
​The mood of the moment is all.

This is not the case when mending things for other people.

When an adorable puppy had his way with my friend Heather's precious hand spun mitt,  I agreed to do my best to make it useable -- then put it off for months while I worried about continuity, fretted about technique and dreaded trying to live up to the high standards of of the original maker, my dear friend Nancie who died a year ago this month. 

This past weekend on my annual retreat with my spinning group
 I finally tackled them,

First I darned all the little puppy-teeth holes.
Next I unraveled the mess around the pinkie, picked up what I hoped was the right number of stitches and re-knit it using my hand spun which didn't match in anything but grist (two ply cormo, about 3000 yards per pound). 

Then it was time for the mess around the middle and pointer fingers.
Truth to tell, by that time I was a touch frustrated.
Indeed, if it had been mine, I'd probably have done some casual stitching around the raw edge to halt the fraying and called it good -- anything to avoid more time with 00 needles, miniscule open stitches and fragments of yarn.

 But I couldn't do that to Heather and Nancie's  Mitties.
​And luckily my dear spinning comrades wouldn't let me.
Vicki took the whole thing out of my hands and carefully ripped back until she reached solid mitten (apologizing for undoing the pinkie finger I'd just made, but doing the wise thing nonetheless), and reknit to the base of the fingers, continuing one part of the complicated and unrepeatable cable into the new section. 

I patched my jeans, drank beer and practiced feeling grateful instead of guilty. 

Rochelle then re-knit the fingers -- three of them anyway.

I worked on my jacket with glee and relief. 
​
Mary Jo wanted to knit the last finger but found her gauge was too different
so Vicki remade the pinkie with a smidgn more of my even darker hand spun.

I wove in the ends and gave both mitts a bath.

Here is the result of our communal Visible Mending: 
functional, beautiful in a new way, worth the effort, clearly not new, done. 
Thank You Tom of Holland for the term.

 Thank You Nancie for what we hope is your approval. ​

After I send this post into the inter-webs
(and have a bracing cup of tea),
I'll deliver them to Heather. 


Then I can come home and resume admiring my knees.

I had a plan to list all the the things I love about using wool warp for tapestry.
But now that I've put all these photos in place,
 measured the grist of  various yarns on my McMorran Balance,
and written the captions,
it seems self explanatory.
What's not to love?

But I'll give it a shot anyway. 
Might as well put something in all the text blocks I carefully inserted.

1. Variety: Many fleece types seem to work
as long as the warp is even and well spun.
For larger tapestries, long staple, inelastic fibers are best
but as you can see from the captions below, 
almost anything goes with smaller  pieces--
​just be prepared for stretch in your warp (and maybe sample... ugh).

2.  It is easy to weave in weft ends as you go
Wool warp tends to be hairy, so the little wisps of warp fiber grab the little wisps of weft
 and everything stays in place.
NOTE--don't cut the weft with scissors. This makes a blunt end which will want to pop to the surface of front or back no matter what you do! Untwisting and separating is best, followed by breaking or, if necessary, feathering the end of your yarn with scissors

3. The finished cloth is stable.
Warp and weft work together to make a structurally sound fabric. 
In my experience, cotton or linen warp remains separate from the weft
and can be moved around -- its as though the weft is 'hung' on the warp
but not really part of it.
Some people really like this.
But it freaks me out. 

4. Wool Warp feels good in my hands. 
No seine twine hang nails

6. The pH needs of the finished cloth remain constant.
Wool can handle acid but doesn't like alkaline.
Cotton and Linen can handle alkaline but don't like acid.
Makes storage and cleaning tricky.
NOTE: I'm NOT a conservator, so if you are, or know more about this aspect of things, I'd love to hear your thoughts 

7.  Wrapping weft around a single warp is a viable proposition.
The little hairy bits grab each other, anchoring the weft in place

Some of my tapestries demand a  LOT of wrapping.

8. Shaped pieces are easy to deal with
On this tapestry I used a needle to work the warp ends into the back of the tapestry.
This is perfectly possible to do with a cotton or linen warp of course, but some of my  warp ends were VERY short (those on the inside curve had to be cut in half), and I was happy to know that once I had those 1/4 inch bits of warp anchored into the back, they would stay.
Wet finishing and a little agitation helps, of course.

NOTE: this tapestry is one tiny part of Line Dufour's
ongoing International Tapestry Project,
Fate, Destiny and Self-Determination.

All are invited to participate.
You too!

9. Wool warp is just so pretty.
Subjective, of course.  
But everything I write is subjective, so...

10. NO (or minimal) shopping
As a spinner, I can make my warp with the materials at hand
  A big plus for me.

11.  Hand spun wool makes great fringe.
(especially with a little deliberate overtwist in the plying)
and with a little forethought, the finished edges can match the body of your tapestry.



Wow -- 11 reasons.
I should put that in the title of the post.
11 REASONS WOOL WARP WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE!!!!!
Kind of like a tabloid newspaper.
​
Never Mind.

​Have a lovely week!

Unlike my Grandmother's  silver, paintings and jewelry, these exquisite pieces of cloth were uncontested, my sister and I the only grandchildren to even notice them.
Simultaneously gleeful and mournful, we 'rescued' these gorgeous things from whatever fate might have had in store for them had we left them there.

My plan, at the time, was to use them as ground fabric for embroidery--
such lovely cloth (edges already finished), cried out for imagery.

Or so I thought.
But after one attempt, I found myself paralyzed.
I'd get something out, turn it this way and that,
imagine drawing with needle and yarn,
then put it away. 
​
At first I thought it was because I wasn't all that interested, 
stitching a short-lived distraction from tapestry with no staying power. 

It turns out, however, that embroidery doesn't work like that for me.

 Exquisite fabric demands perfect stitching,
or at least a plan,  and my deliberately messy, spontaneous needlework is more at home on bits and scraps where I am free to change my mind -- about stitches, about yarn, about whatever it is that I have to say.

This is probably why I'm not a quilter. 
Pristine yardage is  lovely already  and cutting it to bits only to sew it together again
​makes my scissors shake. 
Perhaps it is also why I am a weaver and knitter.
With those techniques I can build fabric the exact size I need for whatever I have in mind.
As, indeed, I can build an phrase out of scraps. 

Sometimes I worry about the linens in the suitcase.
I don't, after all, want them to feel abandoned.
So now and again I heat up my iron and give them a little press with lots of steam,
admire their sheen and think of ways I might put them to work.
Then I roll them neatly (don't want permanent creases in the folds), and put them away.

One of these days perhaps I'll start eating my granola on one of the placemats,
 accidentally slop some tea in one corner then wipe blackberry juice from my mouth with my great grandmother's monogram.
Loosen them up.  Loosen me up. 

Until then, I'll continue to delve into my scrap basket and see what shows up.