We're having a  thoroughly wintery week here in North Idaho--
cold and white and silent (except for the snowplows).
It is perfect weather
for the long tweedy Sarah-Dippity
I've been working on.
Except--

That I've been doing so much of this (see above)
that the skirt still looks like this (see below).

So, thought it's probably not how the internet works,
I'm going to declare today a Snow Day,
make another cup of Oolong,
and go stitch these yummy swaths
of knit and woven cloth 
into something I can wear.
See you next week!

One of the great things about comics

I only wish I could draw a picture
that could describe the weight and texture 

of these two swaths of cloth
(each 104" x 8.25" after washing/light fulling)

The sett issue of last week
really did end up working in my favor
as, not only did I get another two days of blissed-out weaving,
(this kind of cloth-making is super fast compared with knitting),

but I also have nearly 70 inches of fabric left--
enough to make a second 
(if decidedly shorter) skirt.​

The extra yardage also meant
another expedition downtown
(all of five blocks away),
to buy some more yarn
​for the knitting parts of this project.
Fresh from weaving yummy yardage
I just happened to notice
that there are quite a few possibilities
for future Sarah-Dippity skirts
in that store.

While there, deep in a discussion
of how mill spun yarn is finished
​and why I find the knitting experience
so much more pleasurable
​if I wash such yarn before knitting
(if not for weaving),
we conjured an experiment,
​the results of which you can see above and below.
The yarn is not only fluffier and shorter,
it is also distinctly softer.
Why wait till after the knitting is done?

At any rate, after several swatches
I'm now deep in the knitting portion of this skirt show,
where, given the length of the woven panels I just cut,
​ I am likely to remain for a while.

But that is no hardship. 
I do love to knit.
And it'll provide balance to the other enticing
(but less pictorially sharable), thing I'm working on:
​an article for the autumn 2019 issue of Ply magazine!
​Wheeeeee!

Indeed, I seem to be having an extra delicious magazine moment,
as I drew a cartoon for the new issue of Spin Off
which should be showing up at any moment.
I haven't seen it 'in paper' yet,
but am most excited. 
Has anyone received their copy?

I sure do love to be part of this yarnish world
and treasure absolutely everyone in it. 

Nope -- not the burn carbon,
catch a cold on the airplane
on the way to someplace else
kind of holiday.

That sun is shining
​into my very own studio.

Though  I did go somewhere --
me and my big black rubber boots
strolled through the slush
to The Yarn Underground (my local yarn store),
where I was dazzled by the abundance 
and walked home with 
8 skeins of Harrisville flywheel yarn.

 So did you know about this?
That you can buy yarn that has
already been carded and spun?
It's a little weird.
But AMAZING. 

(One of the great things about spending most of my time in the studio
is that am a cheap date -- dazzled and overwhelmed by
the local downtown shops.
Of course I'm also dazzled by dead leaves 
which is slightly less helpful to the local economy....).

But no matter how you look at it,
this feels like a mighty quick turnaround--
from a mad desire
​ for a long, dark grey Sarah-Dippity skirt,
to yarn in hand.
(if not exactly fast fashion, at least less glacial than my usual approach).

Said mad desire was initially generated
by a vision of the thing I wanted to wear that day,
the realization that I had the knowledge and technology to make it,
and a teensy bit of project envy generated by
 slipping Backstrap Dialogues zines into envelopes 
and mailing them to Sweden and Germany, Califorina and Kentucky
as Sarah-Dippity instructions are downloaded
to computers around the world.

At any rate, it felt (and still feels), rather marvelous
to take a mid winter break from my cellulosic adventures,
and start winding a warp almost before 
shucking off the rubber boots.

Alas, my starry-eyed haste
also led to a teensy bit of
of a miscalculation --
this mill spun yarn is NOT
​ as much like mine as I thought.

I stormed about a bit and felt like an idiot
for making assumptions, 
and for not weaving a sample --
or at least doing a yarn wrap.
But drawing this comic gave me an idea
(you might note that the little "but maybe if..." thought bubble
was written in with a different pen),
so I clipped together a ten dent rigid heddle 
from four Schacht Variable Dent Rigid Heddle sections, 
scribbled a new sketch for the skirt
and away I went.
(10 epi vs 12 epi  meant weaving two narrower swaths of cloth since I did not want to buy more equipment, which leads to the skirt being made of  four or maybe five 8" wide panels instead of three 12" ones-- though I don't have to decide for sure till later since the design is flexible and the final
shaping and fitting is in the knitting).

The broken threader was another bummer,
but this paper clip worked just fine-- 
​indeed, maybe better than the diz threader
I've been using for the last couple of years.
​Golly, I love makeshift solutions.  
​And I really love this loom.

The last few inches of the first warp
turned into cloth
​ just before I started to write this morning.

And there's a good chance
I'll start winding the second warp 
shortly after I hit "post."

Perhaps  next week I'll be knitting the skirt wedges
and my holiday will be done.
zoom zoom zoom!
But so restful.

And then back to real life.
​
If that is what this is.

I had a plan,
this morning,
to examine
form and function 
​as they relate to the book form.

Snazzy topic, eh?
I pretty much impressed myself when I thought of it. 
Not that I have the language or training for such a discussion,
but it has been on my mind.
After all, I've been building and binding little tapestry books,
putting the final touches on set of a PDF instructions,
and sending paper instruction/story zines around the world,
so it's  hard not to wonder
as I choose a design for each--
​ why this --why that?

I also read other people's books every day--
mostly the kind I can hold in my hand,
though sometimes those of the e-reader variety. 

And I have  yards of reference books.
​
How different then, are my feelings 
about books I read for their stories,

and those I open to a specific page to learn something?

In what ways do I relate to
books I've written (but not designed), 

differently from books I've designed and made?

What about books I'm in--
if long ago when my hair was still dark

and books that are in me--
often so demanding
that I have to create imaginary shelves
in which to house them. 

In addition, there are books I listen to,
as stories read aloud
and ​as part of insightful discussions. 

Then there are books that act as muse--

as vehicles for transport,

as objects in a still life.

And (she wails)
​what about the midcentury feminine middlebrow
my favorite book category of all ?

My plan,
​made early this morning while lying in bed
and thinking this up,
was to illustrate my as yet undiscovered 
but undoubtedly insightful thoughts
on these pressing questions
with a few images of the books
  I've drawn, painted, woven and built over the years.
​
It seemed a reasonable  approach at the time.
​Of course I hadn't yet had any tea.

Alas, once I got going, 
​ three things happened.

​First: a visit to the bowels of my computer
unearthed a crazy number of images, 
each of which stirred up all kinds of distracting memories.

Second: after devoting a good many of the subsequent hours
to tying myself in letter-ridden knots,
I remembered that I am not an academic
and really don't have the language for such a discussion.

Third: when I decided to untangle
​and rewrite one of those knots,
(heaven knows how),
the Weebly blog app,
in its wisdom,
deleted every word I'd written thus far--
for which action
I can only feel tremendous gratitude
(as, no doubt, should you).

So here I am at the end,
bowing to the wisdom of bits and bytes,
shelving the whole idea of codex deconstruction,
and leaving you with this:
​
Books are the best, right?

​ps.   Next Day Edit -- I've been asked about instructions for the wee blocky books, and all I can say is that, while I'm pretty comfy with weaving the tapestry covers, I'm still learning about paper and binding etc, so here are a couple of links to help further
--HERE is where I learned the two needle coptic binding.  
---Keith Smith's books -- Volume 1 of Non-adhesive binding; Books  Without Paste or Glue--where I learned the curved needle coptic binding I've used up till the ones in this post, 
--Velma Bolyard has also shared an enormous amount of book and paper related info, particularly information of kami-ito and shifu (spun and woven paper)
​

In October 2017,
I had an idea for a skirt.
My thought was to combine
shaped, hand knit panels
with my myriad backstrap experiments
to build a flexible and fitted garment. 

It was just an experiment.
​
Definitely a one-off.

Though not usually short ones--
or at least I haven't since the early 1970s
when my mother and grandmother tsk tsked 
over my desire to share more adolescent leg
than they thought fitting or attractive.

But attractive is as attractive does
(whatever that really means),
and anyway, the skirts are fun at any age--
to make and to wear.

The simple structure makes fitting a breeze--
the unbeatable texture of specially selected (or spun) yarn,
the underlying energy of hand woven cloth,
the built-in stretchiness of  hand knit panels
all work together to to make each skirt
as comfy as plain leggings--
and as long or short as I want
(​or fabric length will allow).

note: my skirts are mostly short because I made them 
using existing color and weave experiments
designed, warped and woven
with no thought to future leg coverage.

Anyway,
I've long wanted to share the idea
and fully intended to have these instructions done
shortly after the concept showed up.
Backstrap Dialogues,
(the instructional story zine that led to
the cloth that led to Sarah-Dippity),
was freshly out in the world
and somehow I imagined
that after a 56 page comic,
 a straightforward skirt guide
​ would take a mere few weeks!
​Sigh.

​But finally, after writing and re-writing,
drawing and re-drawing,
and overriding a firm decision
to shelve it permanently,
​(shows what I know),
I am beyond pleased
that Phineas reminded me
about the underlying joy
of the garments themselves--
(well, he bullied me just a bit,
​ as only a squirrel can do,
insisting that other weavers and knitters 
might well want
to cover their butts
​with their own magnificent cloth).

So HERE IT IS, 
freshly loaded into my web store:
a 16 page downloadable PDF guide
​ to using your cloth (hand woven or otherwise),
and your yarn (knit at a gauge that suits your hands and taste),
to make a garment that fits your body,
your life and your style. 

And to help celebrate the joy of hand woven cloth,
hard copies of Backstrap Dialogues
are now on sale for $13 
(I love prime numbers)
with free shipping.

Endless thanks to Phineas, for spurring me on,
and my ever patient reader/testers,
for all their support.

Yesterday,
my drawing comrade and I
​ were talking about that feeling you get
when you are making
or designing
or working with
the 'right' thing.

It's the feeling you might already have
with long term projects
where decisions have been made
and inherent pleasure already built in
so (at least for the time being),
there is nothing to do
but enjoy the doing. 

enjoying the general direction,
not quite sure what you're doing,
but aware
(or at least hoping),
that pretty soon
there will be more information--
about material
 texture
color 
or even medium
that will shift things,
​ this way
or that. 

It's important, at least for me,
to stay loose when walking this path --
to not analyze every step--
(it's usually too foggy for that anyway), 
but rather to feel,
to listen,
to notice nuances--

alert and hopefully awake
(though sometimes not)
​to the way that ideas,
processes,
hands,
feet,
eyes,
​mixed metaphors
and materials
​respond to one another.

Eventually,
​if you keep walking
(for minutes, hours, weeks, months).
you find yourself in that magical reciprocal relationship
where the stuff you are making
is also making you.

I'm in the foggy part right now. 
Full of hope and possibility.
Honing my nerve endings.
Meandering with intent. 

It's interesting, 
​clearly compelling,
​a teensy bit unnerving.

But so what?
There is much to be learned
even when I stumble.

Speaking of learning,
and to end on a practical note,
I've been doing some glycerine experiments. 
Jillayne brought the idea to my attention.
and Sue mentioned it again in the comments a couple of weeks ago.

The point is to soak dry plant material in a glycerine solution
which keeps it permanently flexible even when dry again. 
The point, for me, is to have cordage that doesn't need soaking before weaving
and which can be made into things that won't crack when bent.
Some internet sources talk about soaking the stems of fresh plants in the glycerine solution and letting the plant draw it up into the leaves and flowers,
but so far I've only worked with  dry material --
​both cordage and leaves -- to good effect. 

We'll learn more if lots of us try.
Anyone up for some experiments?

Tiny Tapestry Books.

Who knew?

Not me.

But perhaps the tapestries did.

Woven side by side last July

they refused to be parted.

Scraps of  Washi
​and Reeves Lightweight printing paper.

Sometimes it is a little unsettling.
​
But ultimately,
I cannot resist.

Especially if I'm not quite sure what I am longing for.

Material?

Skill?

Information?

Adventure?

Baskets?

All of the above?

Well,  yes.

Having devoted an inordinate number
of hours, days, weeks and years 
to textile-based adventures,
it slowly becomes clear
that I am endlessly alert for--
and susceptible to--
those elusive moments
when material, story and manual skill come together. 

My winter plant identification skills are limited,
and botanical sources were not at hand,
so I did some experiments --
twisting it damp.
 twisting it dry,
removing the outer cuticle,
leaving it on.
I relish the lustre and strength of the fibers.
But they are also unexpectedly brittle,
and when I try to imagine them woven
into soft, flowing fabric, finer than linen,
 I cannot.

Consulting my internal store of fairy tales,
(so useful when Google is not available),
I wonder how swans who had once been young men
could possibly get fabric made of these fibers over their wings?
It would  be too stiff.
Strong to be sure, but stiff. 
​
"No," says the Fiber. "I am not nettle."

Home again, I consult a botanist friend,
who does not know what this plant is either,
at least from a photo of the stalks and my cordage samples.

But she hands me a book,
and some vague directions,
and a few days later on the banks of the Snake River
​among willow and teasel,
bramble and grass
I find  tall, hollow, dead stalks
with opposite branches and a distinctive reddish hue.

These sticks have no thorns or stings
and are definitely not nettle,
though they are apparently toxic to various animals,
 so, like nettle and thistle (my mystery fiber-producing plant), 
can be seen by some as an herbaceous 'pest'.

fiber that can be tided up in various ways--
none very well, by me, as yet
but well enough that eventually
I hold a small bundle ​of something I want to spin.

Mick Jagger is right.
 You Can't always get what you want.
But if you try sometime
you might find,
you get what you need.

I wanted nettle,
And maybe when I pick nettles for tea and supper
perhaps I'll harvest some of the fibers while green.
But for now,
I got thistle (like me, a non-native species), 
and dogbane (a thrilling local adventure-in-waiting),
some interesting cordage,
and useful experience. 
Treasure indeed. 

In early December,
the  sun vanishes over the rim of the canyon
at what seems an unconscionably early hour.

The hills are very steep
(we have had to dig flat spots to stand or walk),
which means  it also takes quite a while
for the sun make its way back
over the opposite hills
 in the morning.

​But getting up before the sun isn't too hard 
in these modern times,
thanks to a couple of old solar panels
(one light at time to preserve the batteries,
and a very warm old parka.

And since there is no internet, phone, radio or cell service
 the days,
if  short on natural light,
​are long on time.

These solo weeks
are always remarkable in some way --
if rarely easy.
Endless uphill and downhills can be hard on the legs.
And  I can almost guarantee 
that on the first day
I will be awash in what I've taken to calling
"transitional melancholy,"
a thing I cannot like but am learning to embrace
(or at least accept),
as an elemental if uncomfortable part
of shifting into a different gear.
"This was SUCH a bad idea,"
I mutter as I unpack the absurd pile of projects.

But the next morning (at least so far)
I can hardly wait to get up
light the fire,
and get started.

Sometimes, all I want to do is knit.
On other trips I've been glued to my loom,
or gathered lichen for wood cookstove dye experiments,
or carved magic wands from sticks.
There was one memorable one
when I was drawing a naked self portrait
(I was weaving a lot of nudes then, and not so prone to getting cold),
when an old friend knocked in the door
walked in and introduced me to his his brother, who I'd never met.
They had just walked across the canyon
​and were mostly interested in scrounging some lunch.

On my visit a couple of weeks ago,
​I became obsessed with:
trying to play my old recorder,
 drawing hourly (ish) comics.
and gathering  stuff 
(dead plants, coffee filters, grocery receipt),
to twist into cordage.
​
Oh yeah -- and playing the Cello suites by headlamp.
(Actually only the Allemande from the G major suite
which I play in D major on a baritone concertina,
​which I'm sure is exactly what Bach had in mind....).

One of the things I most love
about these solo visits to the canyon,
is getting to practice being how I am
when no one else is around.
With minimal outside input,
and no emotional labor,
(other than dealing with myself that is),
I can immerse myself utterly
in whatever takes my fancy--
really notice how it feels,
and remember that once upon a time
I was good at solitude.

It's awfully easy to get out of the habit of solitude -
way easier than to get back into it, at least for me.
And these days, even when seemingly alone,
our devices are usually there
to connect and distract.
And that's a wonderful thing.

Until, sometimes, it is just too much,
especially around this time of year
when everyone seems to be trying to sell something,
or ramp us up about how perfect things should be.
​
So it's nice to step away,
to gather weeds
and tunes--
to gather myself together. 

And then to write about it,
​ to you! 

You know how sometimes
an idea just flies into your head?

Often as not
such distractions show up
at awkward moments,
and they need to be filed away.
But not always.

This one came when I was sitting on the toilet --
the quintessential location for such notions--
and though I quickly relegated it to the 'later' category,
it demanded instant action.
What can you do?

Those of you familiar with 
four selvedge warping with a jig
and/or are in the Fringeless class,
will see what is going on here--
two sets of bars on one jig,
warp wound around both to different heights,
and supplemental warps to meet each section.

NOTE: having the middle set  of bars slightly smaller than the  top and bottom
 seemed like it'd  be a problem,
but tape kept the smaller central ones
from falling out of the holes during the initial winding,
and in the long run the size difference was helpful
as it made the box bottom
more proportional to the sides.


A structural problem I didn't foresee
might also be visible from the photo above:
 the outside warps of the bottom section are split 
because the bottom and top loops are offset,
so when weaving that bottom section
the edge warps are 'half loops'.
The selvedge warps on that bottom section
thus had a short, tight shed,
the extra short one on the right
needing special handling and a very small bobbin.

 I think this is an unavoidable issue overall,
but the right side could be as long as the left
if, when beginning to wind the last section
(the right wing as it were),
I brought the yarn down from the top
rather than up from the bottom.

On another structural note,
the photo above makes it look like
there is a lot of draw-in on the bottom section
but that is actually not the case.

The side warps just got a little scrunched
as my hands manipulated those funky edge bits,
and a few passes all the way across on the middle section
allowed all the warps to fall into alignment,
so the shed was its lovely
four selvedge/ supplemental warp self 
from there to the top. 

Split warp and spacing issues  solved,
the rest of the tapestry was a piece of cake.
(well, I still don't like the feel
of seine twine warp on my hands
but that is another story).

Knowing that each face of the box
would present as its own thing
gave me freedom to mess around --
a few lines here, 
some weird weft there,
the ubiquitous  house somewhere else. 
note: The two-ply ziplock bag yarn is a new favorite,
though its stretchiness required a gentle hand.

At the top of each facet
the warp loops are individually locked into place
as per the four selvedge system,
and when I released the whole thing from the loom,
I just needed to fold up the edges,

and sew the corners closed.

I love the peek-a-boo  nature of the plastic bag yarn.

But might it be worth weaving
a couple of solid strands across another such window
to make square/ rectangular panes?
Always something to try.

But there it is--
a five second idea,
days of interesting weaving,
 myriad possibilities for the future--
split warp issues and all.
Happily, having learned what I needed to know for now
(including how much I love the three dimensional structure),
I can now let the idea sit 
while I go prove a few other concepts
that are loudly demanding attention. 

If this form interests you,
I hope these vague instructions are enough
as it is all I have time to write just now.
You fringeless/ four selvedge friends
should be able to figure it out though, eh?

Or,
if you're hankering for 3-D fringeless tapestry, 
 the good old Bag-On-A-Box approach 
will achieve the exact same end
without having to sew the corners,
and all on the ultimate portable, recyclable loom.
​
Seasonal travel?
Gift boxes?
Wrapping paper for yarn and cordage?
Oh dear, oh dear...