As regular readers of this blog know,
I've been weaving nothing but balance plain weave on a backstrap loom for the past  10ish months, switching back and forth between linen and wool.

If asked at the beginning I'd never have guessed that all this non-pictorial simplicity would hold my exclusive attention for so long, 
but a couple of weeks with linen,
then back to wool for a time--
--​then off to linen again
has continued to delight.

​Linen is less forgiving and is not so inclined to stay put,
but once woven the fabric stays open and deliciously translucent
while bouncy wool will happily relax into any space provided.

Wool bounces and stretches and drapes and glows.
Linen holds its shape and undulates and whispers and glows.

Both are satisfying to stitch.

A few weeks ago I wrote, among other things,
about  the difference in my feelings toward the linen and the wool fabrics,
indicating a stronger connection to the wool--
a connection I thought unlikely to change and which I attributed to me having spun the yarn. But now, though the attribution remains the same,
the difference does not.

For a few days ago, just as I was finishing up a longish linen warp,
​I discovered some forgotten samples from a linen spinning workshop I took in 1992.
There wasn't much -- a few plied yards, each wet spun
from bleached sliver, tow, and what is now a rather messy bundle of long strick flax.
But Golly, they felt good to work with, inconsistencies and all.

I'm sure its all in my head, this difference in my feelings,
but so what? 

 I doubt I'll become a passionate flax spinner,
(famous last words),
but one of these fine days I'm going mess about that messy bundle
​and see what happens. 

In between, of course, the yards of wool.

And if any of you have any linen spinning advice (esp. on a spindle),
I'd love to hear it!

Just in case, you understand... nothing serious.

Wool is my favorite fiber.
Raw fleece (from a known and preferably local source), is my favorite form in which to get it.
And once I've washed said wool (subject for another blog post),
my favorite preparation method is hand teasing then Drum Carding.
Here's a quick pictorial overview of my standard procedure
as that is what I was doing yesterday!

Starting with  a pile of clean fleece, I gently grab both sides of each lock or vaguely lock-shaped wad of fleece, pull it apart to open it up, then toss it into a basket.
If there are second cuts or egregious bits of Vegetable Matter (VM) I try to pick them out at this stage. 
I used to long for a picker which would make this part really fast, but over time have come to realize that I get a sense of the fiber's nature by handling every lock, even if briefly, and I don't want to miss that.
Best done outside with birds singing and a cup of tea that is slightly upwind. 

My Drum Carder is a Pat Green that I bought in 1984 or so, in Missoula, Montana.
It has processed more pounds of wool than I care to stop and calculate but I've not yet  had to replace the carding cloth, which I would describe as "medium."
I've actually never really used any other drum carder so can't make comparisons, but this has been a faithful workhorse and an essential part of my practice since then and I've
 never begrudged it the space it takes up, even in the years I lived in a 200 square foot house.
(note: I just went to the Pat Green website to make the link above and read that the drum carders they make now are vastly superior to the ones they were making 10, 20 or 30 years ago, but I'm still happy with mine!)

With one hand I put thin bundles of the teased fleece onto the tray while the other turns the crank. One of the big reasons for teasing is so that clumps of fleece to not jam and put strain on the carding cloth.  There should be a gentle pulling feeling but no fierce resistance. 

The teeth on the licker-in (smaller drum) always get clogged with bits of fiber but somehow, as long as the distance between the two drums is right for the weight of the fiber, most slips neatly into the teeth of the big drum. 

I do not try to keep all the locks going one direction as I will end up spinning the batt from both ends.  At other times in my spinning life I have worked to keep all the locks going one way,  teasing with extreme care and only spinning from one end of the batt,  but not just now. If I want that kind of directional preparation I am more likely to use use combs. 
 
When the big drum is full (sooner than I usually think because sometimes I prop a book up in front of me and read while I feed the carder and turn the crank and I have been known to get lost in the pages), I slip the doffer into the open spot in the carding cloth and lift, first one end then the other, separating the strands of wool  until-- Pooof-- they slip apart and there are two ends. 

Grabbing one of these and unwinding the drum, I peel the batt off the teeth.

I see that there are some neps in this batt, and it is still pretty uneven, but a second trip through will smooth things out, and the neps are nothing I can't pick out while spinning.

Tearing the batt lengthwise into four or five strips (forgot to take a photo), I then feed each through individually, spreading it out in the tray so the fibers hit the teeth slightly differently than they did the first time through.
This can be a great moment for blending-- different parts within an uneven fleece or two different fleeces carded together in the second  or even a third run through can produce interesting batts.  In general though, I'm not that into blending as I don't like to spin in color. 

Rolling each batt keeps it tidy and separate for storage.

I have breathable insect/ dog/  dust/neglect resistant bags that I put them in, though I imagine plastic tubs with good lids would work well too.

When ready to spin I take them out individually,
unroll,  shake a little, then tear into zig zags as you can see below.

Attenuating this is what gives me a lovely long continuous length of fiber to spin.
I start by tugging gently along the length of each 'leg' to even things out and to remind the fiber that it's current position has been only temporary, then when I get to the 'turns' a few gentle tugs on each side allows the fibers to switch direction without  much of an interruption to the flow.

A  slight twist with my wrist as I wind it into a ball helps hold thingstogether for spinning on a wheel.

A little twist is also a good idea when winding onto a wrist distaff, a tool I am never without when spindle spinning--these days  my primary method for making yarn.
The usefulness of a wrist distaff belies the simplicity of its structure, for with it and fiber stays contained and orderly, is unaffected by wind or an urgent need to divest oneself of spindle and distaff  to rescue a child or move a  pressure canner or make a piece of cinnamon toast. Without said distaff, a spinner is forever making joins or wrapping and unwrapping great wads of fiber from head or shoulder, or mashing and felting the poor wool in a sweaty armpit, or stopping the spindle because a breath of air has just blown the dangling loose fiber mass into the newly spun length of yarn.
Not that any of those things ever happened to me... But in theory, it could.

Here is a slightly awkward pic of me using said distaff, trying to make sure that both my hands,  the spindle and the distaff are in the photo before the timer goes off.
Selfie taking is way more angst inducing than preparing fleece, methinks. 

Last week my friend Shelley of The Yarn Underground (my LYS), posted the pattern for a sweater  of mine on Ravelry. Shelley is also an indie dyer and I knit the sweater with her yummy Palouse Yarn Company yarn.

 I have some other patterns available on Ravelry, patterns for garments I love but most of which were originally published long ago in various Interweave magazines which makes their  online life less dramatic.  This weekend, however, I was  able to see, almost in real time, all sorts of people download the pattern for the Magic Medium.  
Who knew what fun that would be?

The story of how the sweater came to be is on the pattern page and it includes the information that it began with a few scribbled numbers from another top down sweater I’d knit. 
I know that a few of you have already downloaded the pattern and are planning on knitting it from  your handspun yarn, so today I thought I'd share some info about that original sweater (and another later one from the same pattern and still different yarn), in case it might be helpful.

 I know I should post these pics on Ravelry too, but I'm embarrassed to say I haven't actually figured out how,
​ so for the moment they are only for you, dear blog readers.

The three ply yarn for this version (I call it the black T shirt), was spun from a brown Cormo hoggett fleece (the sheep was named Panda), that I over dyed in Indigo to produce this heathery brown/blue/black yarn -- butter soft but unobtrusive.  
This yarn is heavier than the Palouse Yarn Company yarn and the gauge slightly larger (I see from my scribbled notes that it was 4.5 sts/inch on size 7 needles), so the sweater is slightly larger in it's relaxed state than the one on Ravelry, though the large needle size makes it nearly as stretchy.  It has the same smooth fit through the shoulders and around the arms which is probably why I used it as the starting point for the Magic Medium.  
Also, as you can see, I used cables to provide some below bust/ waist shaping instead of changing needle size.  I wear it often though it is not quite through its pilling phase.  
​Another year or so should do it.

After knitting the Magic Medium in Palouse Yarn Company Yarn, but before Shelley had the wherewithal to format the pattern properly for Ravelry, I knit another sweater with the same numbers. This time I used a combination of hand spun and sport weight merino yarn I'd plucked from the sale bin at Mountain Meadows Wool Mill when I "happened" to be passing through Buffalo, WY.

With two in yellow and one in sorrel , I decided that the body would be knit of the former,  the sleeves of the latter that I'd pad out with strips of  purple (indigo and cochineal), hand spun Rambouillet.  Naturally I ran out of both of those, but I still wanted some forearm warmth so knit the last few inches with some other Cormo -- indigo over grey-- I had lying around.  
So much fun when a hodgepodge of leftover bits works together (at least in my eyes) to give a layered look without the bulk and the bliss of super soft yarn next to my skin.

Though it uses the exact same numbers for the yoke, this one is smaller and more snug than the black one and not remotely as stretchy as the  Palouse Yarn Company version -- indeed, it is pretty much exactly my size with a smooth fit around the shoulders, bust and arms without being tight. In other words, super comfy but not magical enough to fit a huge range of sizes. 
As with the black version, cables provide some bust/waist shaping.

My life has been seriously weaving-centric for a long time,
in part because, duh, I love it, but also because weaving is my job.
Knitting on the other hand, like breathing, is something I do because I must --
  more avocation than vocation,
​ if also a major source of clothing.
But perhaps it's time for that to change.

Sometimes I think my love of mending has nothing to do with practicality 

and everything to do with the energy of time.
It is as though the fabric itself is imbued with accumulated stories
​ and by continuing to use it,

by saving the good parts of beloved but unwearable clothing to make other things

and then mending them again when, surprise  surprise, they continue to disintegrate,
the stories in the fibers not only stay put, but also get to keep unfolding in ways that might never have been predicted decades, or days before.
​
Two weeks ago I posted about fixing my running shoes and in the comments Lisa asked:
​  "At what point does the "Ship of Theseus" kick in and they become not the original shoes?"

I dont' have an answer to that, though it is fun to think about.
​And certainly once I've covered up all of this-beloved-but-vanishing linen-that-was-once-my-favorite-favorite-jacket with chain stitch, 
the nature of this particular bag will be quite different.

I might feel a new person when I carry it.
Or perhaps it'll demand a fresh purpose.
Being stuffed to the gills with spindles and pens and notebook and wallet and phone and empty bags for whatever I might find, or unceremoniously  twisted into a sort of a backpack while I bicycle downtown, or hanging patiently on a hook waiting for me to do something--anything--out in the world and away from the studio, is probably not that much fun.
But it will be usable, which is the point.

Yesterday I wound a linen warp -- the first in a while--

and I noticed, as the strands unwound from the cone, how very differently I felt about the yarn
than I have about the hand spun wool with which I've been weaving for most of the winter.
​Setting aside the widely different nature of the two materials for a moment
(not least the ability of my camera  to focus easily on linen and not so much on wool),
with the wool I am careful and careless at once and work with familiar ease.  
We, the yarn and I, already have a history together and therefor a kind of casual trust.
I know what to expect from it even as together we make something new.
Its flaws are my flaws and therefor both forgivable and irritating.
Like a piece of clothing I've been wearing forever.
Or shoes I made for my feet.

With the linen (which I inherited, unlabeled, from a retired weaver), all is new,
all unknown, and though I can admire its sheen and color and texture, it is not until I've leaned against the backstrap for a few hours,
not until I've unrolled and washed and stroked the yards of cloth, that I begin to feel a connection with its future.
It's not bad. Indeed, it is exciting.
Until yesterday though, I hadn't been able to name the difference. 

Note: Margaret Sunday wrote a wonderful piece for ATA talk, a forum for members of the American Tapestry Alliance which you might think about joining if you are not already a member,  about the inherent creative possibilities of the juxtiposition of the new and the familiar:  "...we are simultaneously neophobes (haters of the new)  and neophiles (lovers of the new). Where/ when the two qualities meet, ie: where their contrast is most intense, is the ah-ha!"  

My attachment, then, is not fear of the new.
Nor is it a belief that my labor is so precious.
Indeed, one of the many reasons for making and mending my own things (particularly if I can connect with the material from the very beginning), is because I'm distressed  by how little others (usually women, at least in the garment industry), are respected for their labor.
My hands and the work they do are in no way more important or valuable than anyone else's.
It's just that they are mine to use and abuse and admire as I will.
So ​I've grown attached. 
As I do.
:-)