The title seemed appropriate  first thing this morning. 

After all, I have been having a grand and interesting time
weaving walnut-dyed coffee filters and zip loc bags
into mountains, rivers, houses and meadows
and I was excited to tell you about it. 
Indeed, I've been taking pics all along the way,
both to remind myself of what I did when,
​and so I could share them here.

But a short while ago
after transferring said photos to my computer,
I discovered that Apple,
in its wisdom
(and endless desire to make our lives easier, don't cha know),
had,
without asking,
converted all my photos to some new
(and oh so efficient),
format
that Weebly,
my website/ blog builder
 cannot read.
(for some reason it left the photo two up as a jpg. Why?  Maybe because it was  out of focus?).

Turns out that delving into the bowels of my settings
I could turn this new feature off for future photos
(though of course the device urged me not to),
which is how I managed to take
the pics you see here.

But all of this has annoyed me more than I can say.
so I think
instead of downloading and learning
 some OTHER new app
that will allow me to transform all my other photos
(the ones they automatically changed),
back into a form I can use,
so I can do what I originally planned--
which was to wax poetic
about the delicate process
of making yarn
from annual reports
​ and coffee filters--
I will go back to the loom
and transform
 dead leaves
into sky. 

Yippeeee!

Well, right now I'm home in my studio,
but last week I was tromping through
a chunk of country that  was once my home--
or at least the place I lived from the age of nineteen
​ till I was nearly twenty-six.

I have to admit that I embarked on the trip
hoping to come to some big old conclusions.
You know --
stuff about the past and present,
about time and change,
about  life, the universe,
​the wilderness and everything.

But though my feet knew how to walk on the trail,
and the smells were familiar and lovely,
and I didn't get any blisters,
big conclusions were elusive.
Duh.

This Instagram Post
says most of what I know so far,
and perhaps more conclusions will show up in time.
Or not? 
​Who knows.

I do know it was a great trip.

Even in the rain.

​Or maybe especially in the rain?

And I also know
that plastic and wool
​make excellent  backcountry companions,

and that I am everlastingly grateful
to my motley collection of supplies,

and for the tiny miracles
of fire, friendship, feet and all.

I'm off and away
to the 100 acre wood--
or will be when you read this.
​
Just now though,
 I'm in full-on
list-crossing,
pile-making
lonely loom mode,
which is not my fave
(to put it mildly),
and yet seems, alas, to be
​ the nature of the beast.

I'm trying to suck it up though--
or at least--
to put it more pleasantly--
to be one with the angst,
which mostly seems to involve
attempting to stop second guessing every moment,
while still packing the things I might need
for mixing my metaphors
in hope that  the interesting idea I had last spring
will have enough nourishment
to bear the as yet unknown fruit
that it will.

​
Till then,
I hope you enjoy
 your opposable thumbs
in whatever way(s)
you like best
(which for me today
apparently means
​ drawing my hands
in such a way
that no thumbs
​ are visible).

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.

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!

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.