collared

“Collars have played a very important part in the drama of fashion, and today command the attention of dress designers of repute, as well as makers of simple dresses. Each realises and appreciates the value of the right collar. Each knows the scope given by their use to the expression of individuality.”
Elizabeth McCaskill ‘New Collars for Old Dresses’, Odham’s Big Book of Needlework (1935)

Collars now seem rather underappreciated things. Reading eighteenth- and nineteenth-century women’s manuscripts, one becomes very aware of the importance of collars. They are one of the most frequently discussed items of clothing, and (sometimes) they also form a sort of manuscript themselves. What you see above is a pattern for a collar that I found, complete with several pricked holes and one rusty pin, between the pages of a nineteenth-century album held in the Library Company of Philadelphia. The album dates from the 1820s — the collar seemed to be of a later date — probably the property of a reader at a couple of generations remove from the album’s original writer.

One only has to think of the trials of Mrs Forrester’s lace in Gaskell’s Cranford to realise the importance women attached to their collars. And they remained crucial items in women’s wardrobes until relatively recently — my new Odham’s Big Book of Needlework*, which was reprinted several times throughout the 1930s and 40s, has a whole section on collars, including a long essay about the virtues of collars in updating and brightening up items of clothing that are otherwise old and worn.

(black textiles really are impossible to photograph . . .)

Here is an old and worn collar, attached to a coat that needed updating. I bought this nice velvet coat about a decade ago. It has a faux fur collar (100% acrylic — aigh!) — one of those things that resembles a worn out teddy bear after a couple of years wear in the rain and snow. Because of the woefully ratty appearance of this collar, I’ve not worn the perfectly good coat for five years or more. It was time to fix all that with a new collar.

I unpicked the old collar, measured it, then happily threw it away. Then I made a crocheted mesh to more or less the same dimensions as the old collar with some black 4 ply. Along the vertical lines of each square in the mesh I crocheted long triple trebles up and down, in waves. I used a bit of black kidsilk haze I had left over from making this sweater, and a couple of balls of black kidsilk aura I had hanging around from when the yarn first came out last year. Man, that stuff is hairy. The idea was to create a dense, plush bobbly effect. In practice, the yarn was much more hairy than I’d imagined, and less bobbly than I intended, but still, it worked out fine, and crochet really is very fast. The new collar was made up over a couple of evenings. And today I sewed the collar to the coat. This was enjoyable. I got up early, sat in the good light by the kitchen window, watched the sky shift and brighten and the curlews arrive. Things were very quiet and wintry, I stitched meditatively, and drank about a gallon of tea. A very nice morning was had. The collar was finished. Then Tom and I went out for a walk and I got him to take a couple of pics. Here is a shot of the back of the collar:

The frizzled effect of the crocheted waves reminds me of a rolled wig. In fact, the basic structure of the collar — with the ‘hair’ laid down over a mesh — is not dissimilar to that of an eighteenth-century peruke. Hence I have christened it the bagwig collar.

You’ll have to forgive my penchant for black and white, and my vacant peering into what appears to be The Void. In actual fact, I was staring very intently at a bright wee feller in a tree two feet in front of me, and hissing at Tom to get a good shot:

How wintry does he look on those bare branches?
He’s just out of shot in this next picture

I had to lighten the whole shot so you could see the fabric and the collar. Shall I say it again? Photographing black stuff is a mare

Pattern: Bagwig Collar by me
Yarn: Kidsilk Aura, Kidsilk Haze, and some miscellaneous yarn (it may have been 4 ply soft).
hook: 3mm
ravelled here

3 posts in 2 days? What’s going on? The truth is, I am starting to feel well again, after being terribly unwell for several weeks now. Though I’ve been doggedly getting on with the big project I’m working on at the moment, I’ve felt so damn rotten that I’ve not had much energy for anything much at all of late. Today, though, I suddenly feel physically restored and stupidly enthusiastic. Much more like my normal self again. Hurrah!

And an owls update: I have written up the pattern. Someone who is far more experienced in these matters than I has kindly agreed to cast her eagle (or owlish) eye over it. Then testknitting commences . . . and then it will be available!

*delivered at lightening speed by Marsden Booksellers in Doncaster. Thankyou, Nick.

owls of the day

My friend Carolyn found this owl in a car boot sale and sent me a pic:

“It looks quite real,” she says, “but it is made of straw.”

My Ma bought me this wee owl at a fantastic shop in York:

it is a very happy owl.

November is a gloomy month, and curlews are sometimes regarded as a gloomy bird, but I do enjoy seeing large numbers of them at this time of year, feeding in the field behind our flat (we live very near the estuary). I was hoping to add curlews to today’s owls, but this morning saw a heavy frost, and they were gone.

EDIT: two hours later — the frost is lifting and they’re back!

retrovintage

Needled reviews:
Lise-Lotte Lystrup, Vintage Knitwear for Modern Knitters (Thames & Hudson, 2008)
Kari Cornell and Jean Lampe, Retro Knits: Cool Vintage Patterns for Men, Women and Children from the 1900s through the 1970s (Voyageur Press, 2008)

Most knitters will have noticed the recent ubiquity of all things “vintage” in the world of wool. There are numerous groups devoted to the subject on Ravelry, a lively trade in so-called “vintage” patterns, and a recent flurry of books. Jane Waller has just launched a reworked and rebranded edition of her popular 1972 title A Stitch in Time (not yet seen here) and two other books also appeared in 2008: Vintage Knitwear for Modern Knitters and Retro Knits: Cool Vintage Patterns for Men, Women and Children from the 1900s through the 1970s.

These books got me thinking about the way that terms like “vintage” and “retro” are applied to knitting. Being something of a stickler for historical specificity, I tend to approach such terms with caution, as they have always seemed to me to be rather misleading and lazy catch-all categories for “stuff from the past.” But a quick trawl through relevant websites and Ravelry forums revealed something quite interesting about the current usage of such terms. While “vintage” seems to be most often applied to garments from knitting’s “golden age” in the 1930s and 40s, “retro” is most commonly used in reference to anything vaguely kooky from the 60s or 70s, such as this popcorn-adorned hoodie, which any space cowgirl would surely be proud to wear.

(Fleisher, 1965; Cornell and Lampe, 2008)

These knitterly usages of “vintage” and “retro” are interesting, because they are broadly historically accurate—in terms of the two words’ etymology at least. According to the OED, “vintage”, in the sense of “classic” design, came into common usage during the 1930s, whereas the use of “retro” as an adjective first gained widespread cultural currency in the late 60s and early 1970s. But while there’s this incidental confluence between the origins of the words and the garment styles they suggest to many knitters, other usages of “vintage” and “retro” are a bit more, um, woolly — for example, when applied to particular styles, techniques, or methods of pattern writing in the world of knitwear design and marketing.

As regards pattern-writing, “vintage” seems a sort of shorthand for “inaccurate” or “error ridden” — as such, its a term that could perhaps be equally descriptive of the editorial practices of current issues of Vogue Knitting as much as any 1950s design. I’ve also seen “vintage” weirdly applied to techniques such as steeks, or knitting in the round: practices whose history extends back several centuries, and which have been used by knitters more or less consistently ever since. For some designers, “vintage” style seems to have exclusive reference to Victorian lace, while for others, its a term that’s solidly linked to colourwork or applied embroidery. Sarah Dallas’s version of “vintage” is certainly not Kaffe Fassett’s; nor, I imagine, would this “vintage” knitting classic have much to say to Melanie Falick.

(is this vintage? retro? or just plain astounding?)

The problem is, that “vintage” most often seems to be a shorthand for a designer’s particular style preferences, or (more troublingly) for what they deem “good taste” (whatever that is). And for those who market knitwear design to us, “vintage” is just one of those easy adjectival devices like “classic”, “timeless” or “heritage” that can be wheeled out in the service of selling more stuff. While “retro” seems to be most often used in (broad) reference to post-war design, “vintage” remains a real rag-bag of befuddled meaning. Do either of these books do anything at all to dispel the confusion? I’m not sure that they do.

The blurb of Lystrup’s book refers to vintage style both as historically situated (in the 30s, 40s, and 50s) and as entirely “timeless” — a little bewildering. The longer and much more careful introduction to Cornell’s and Lampe’s book also includes many miscellaneous usages of “vintage,” but does at least make clear what they mean by that term. Cornell and Lampe take a straightforward approach to all things “vintage” by arranging their patterns historically, producing a narrative of knitting fashion that is both engaging and accurate. Retro Knits is also handsomely illustrated with patterns and advertisements from every decade from the 1910s through the 1970s, and each of Lampe and Cornell’s selections of designs is prefaced by short, lively discussions of each era’s knitting styles. Lystrup’s patterns are reproduced without much context — fashionable, socio-economic, or otherwise — and the book as a book seemed to me to rather suffer from it’s lack of framework. Another shortcoming of Lystrup’s book is its styling. Now, this isn’t a matter of personal taste — its just that clothes look much better on real people than they do on dressmaker’s dummies. The styling of Lystrup’s book does little to make the patterns appealing to the reader/ knitter, and it is a real shame that the photography of her beautifully knitted garments does not show them at their best.

(“Evening Jacket in a Feather Pattern,” 1933; Lystrup, 2008)

Reasonable photography of a re-designed 1930s garment like this really is crucial: so much of knitting is based on trust, and knitters simply do not trust patterns written before the 1970s to give reliable results. Cornell and Lampe make the work of trusting the designer even more tricky, as their book includes no photographs at all of their re-sized and re-worked patterns. And, in reference to Cornell and Lampe’s book I will strike a personal note: I was really disappointed in the way their patterns had been re-sized. A couple of garments which they describe as updating to be ‘more in line with contemporary body sizes’ start at a 38 inch bust. Now, to those of us of diminutive height and meagre chest, this is more than a little frustrating. I had a similar problem with this book of Jane Waller’s (good historical research; bad sizing; terrible photography) in which every neatly tailored item of 1940s knitwear had been transformed into an outsized garment designed to fit a woman of amazonian proportions.

Lampe and Cornell’s Retro Knits is probably worth having a look at if you enjoy pattern styling and advertisements, as well as for the useful potted history it provides of twentieth-century American knitting fashions. But would I knit anything from this book? Probably not. I wasn’t that inspired by any of Lystrup’s patterns either, and other than her careful sourcing of contemporary British yarns, and the good size range of her patterns, I unfortunately can’t find much else to recommend about this book.

But my pernickety irritation at all things described as “vintage,” and my frustration that “modern vintage” never actually seems to be built for me, has probably been compounded by the love I have recently discovered for actual “vintage” design. Thanks to Ysolda, a whole world of wonder that issued in the 1930s and 40s from the Odham’s Press has recently opened up, and I have been really enjoying the encyclopedias and “practical guides” of the loopy, dictatorial, committed knitter that was James Norbury as well as the less loopy, but no less committed Margaret Murray and Jane Koster. Their books are generous, inclusive and engaging. They are full of knitterly wisdom, interesting stitch patterns, helpful design prototypes and tips that still strike a contemporary note, as well as original garments that the knitter with a bit of experience might well adapt to their own requirements just as easily as anything in Lystrup’s, or Lampe and Cornell’s, books. Odham’s publications are being sold for peanuts on ABE and other second hand booksellers sites. Now they are books I can heartily recommend.

(lovely Odham’s endpapers)

owls redux

Clearly there are many of you who like owls just as much as I do! Owl tattoo, Kirsty? Cor! As a brief glimpse into the murky depths of my long-standing owl obsession, I thought I’d show you a birthday card Tom made for me eight years ago. At this time, we were in our mod phase, and rode around Sheffield on 1960s Lambrettas we had acquired from the legendary Armando. The title of Tom’s genius artwork is “Wazz Rides with Owls and Bears”. It shows a heavily photoshopped still from the film Quadrophenia, with my head (note short haircut and youthful demeanour), and the heads of several owls and bears, superimposed over those of Phil Daniels and the other riders. Riding with owls. What could be better?

Ahem.

Anyway, just to let you know: I shall write up the pattern, it will be freely available here and on ravelry, and if you leave / have left a comment on yesterday’s post, I’ll make sure you are added to the email list to receive a copy.
hoot hoot!

owls

Thanks for your well wishes, everyone, which I really have found most cheering. I am starting to feel better (O, the wonder of evil antibiotics) and my OWLS are almost making up for the disappointment of missing Harrogate. Here they come! (note: I do actually have a head. But it looks pretty rotten right now.)

I imagine many of you are familiar with The Owl. It is most frequently seen on this lovely kid’s cardigan, designed by Penny Straker (1962) but there have apparently been owls in circulation since the 1940s. There are several more recent designs which feature The Owl. These include a dishcloth, Jodi Haraldson’s baby owl vest and, (thanks to this link from The Lady yesterday), a pair of mittens. The basic owl, (or th’owl, if you will) is formed with three sets of C4B, C4F cables. Different renditions of th’owl have different elements: some feature branches or eyes in raised purl stitches, some do not. My owl amalgamates a few versions of the basic cable that I’ve seen, and was worked over 19 rows.

I mentioned yesterday that my owls were inspired by other owls. First in the list must be the glow-in-the dark inhabitant of Suzanne’s wonderful Forest mural (go and check out the full set of photos on Flickr, and read about it on Suzanne’s blog). And then there were Alexandra’s owls (Yes! you too can make them! See her super tutowlrial). Mandy’s hooters just about killed me, and Liz has recently been turning out several fantastic owls. All these wee owls were just so eminently covetable! How I loved them. How I wanted to wear my own owls! But could one get away with adult owls? I was unsure. For a while I hesitated. But then the knitting mojo kicked in, and I decided that I liked the owls so much, I didn’t care if people considered it foolish. No! For I would hoot and sport my owls with pride!

So I designed a seamless yoke sweater, featuring owls around the yoke, in the round from the bottom up. I wanted it to be very warm, and picked a chunky yarn (Steel Grey Suffolk from the Rowan Sheep Breeds range). But I also wanted it to be shapely rather than boxy, so knitted the yarn at a reasonably tight gauge to fit my exact dimensions with very little ease. I also worked waist shaping at the back rather than the sides, and lowered the front neckline using two Japanese short rows.

Rather than decreasing a percentage of the stitches in several stages, (as Elizabeth Zimmerman suggests in her seamless-yoke protocol), I held off on decreasing at all until I had completed the owls – which, at four inches high are over half the height of the finished yoke. I then decreased stitches very rapidly on alternate rows (I credit this design feature to Ysolda, who pointed out to me a while ago that women’s bodies do not actually ‘decrease’ that much between the bust and shoulder line), and then worked a few more short rows across the back of the sweater to create a raised neck. Bingo! The whole thing knit up very quickly.

Someone sent me a link to this article last week, in which I read that John Lewis’ sales of buttons have increased by 40% in the past year. I fear I may be at least partly responsible, as there are 32 John Lewis buttons on this sweater.

Now, I’m sure it’s just me, but I swear that after I’d sewn on their eyes, every single one of my owls assumed a different personality. I know, I know I am foolishly anthropomorphic. Twit. Twoo.

Pattern: Owls
Needles: 6.5 mm circs
Yarn: Rowan Sheep Breeds ‘Steel Grey Suffolk’ (softens up nicely after blocking, will wear well, very little kemp in the yarn): 520g (5 skeins and a bit)
ravelled here

If anyone is interested, I may well write up this pattern: the way I worked out the shaping and the yoke decreases means that adapting th’owls to different sizes (or indeed, yarn gauges) is really very easy indeed.

not a hoot

Well, it turns out I am really rather ill. So ill that I am unable to do much of anything at all, and certainly not travel down to The Knitting and Stitching Show in Harrogate which I’ve been looking forward to for months. This is incredibly galling. But I am focusing on getting well. And on the good things that are happening here.

Tom made a pale ale — the first brewing he’s been able to do since he injured his hand. There shall be beer for Christmas!

And then there is this. What is it? Well, it is what restored my knitting mojo; shall soon be worn by me; and is a veritable beacon of foolish happiness in the glum fog of sickness. It is closely related to — and inspired by — Liz’s and Mandy’s projects, and is graced by sixteen of my very favourite beasties which, depending on your range of reference you may associate with Minerva, with Harry Potter, or with Sheffield Wednesday FC. Soon, all shall be revealed. Hoot hoot.

Trellick Tower skirt

I am unwell. I am grumpy because I am unwell. I hate getting colds and flu and am a very bad patient indeed. That is all you need to know about that. Now let us move on to the pleasant sewing activities.

I have been knocking up several Clothkits items recently. The two red needlecord thingies above are little gifts — a camera case and a pencil case — both made for a couple of friends who do not sew, but who have expressed admiration for the clothkits aesthetic. I used my own lining fabric rather than the ticking that that came with the kit. The other two images are of the the tasty orange facing and back seam of — you guessed it — another skirt. This one showcases Ernő Goldfinger’s Trellick Tower as interpreted by the fantastic designers at People Will Always Need Plates. It is very good for stomping around the city in, even with a heavy cold.

It is pictured here against a suitably urban, though unfortunately not brutalist backdrop. Edinburgh is not big on brutalism. But it does do a good line in hills.

. . . including the one on which I am standing, and the one behind, me, which, to those in the know is also Mead Mountain.

I like Clothkits skirts enormously, have made three now, and this is definitely my confirmed favourite.

Anyway, normal blog business will resume in the coming week. Hopefully I shall have more to talk about than being ill. (Erm, did I mention I was feeling peaky? . . .)

fylde

I love the Fylde coast, and particularly love photographing it. We’ve been there this weekend, and I took a lot of pictures of Lytham, of St Annes, and inbetween. Here’s a selection from today.

birds rising

now sadly closed, despite a vigorous local campaign

duck pedalos, wintering

the most intriguing shop in St Annes.

The Square

Wind round Pleasure Island

flowers for the dead near Fairhaven Lake.

Remembrance Day Parade, Lytham.

can anybody join in?*

Clearly we must be overwhelmed with election euphoria, or something, for last night Tom and I found ourselves attempting to vote in an election we weren’t even involved in! This is what happened.

Tom was working late last night and picked me up from knitting at K1 (where I completed the stocking stitch socks). As we neared home, I noticed that the streets were lined with campaign posters. “Is there an election going on or something?” I asked. “Dunno,” said Tom, “I’ve not heard anything about it. . . ” We then drove past the primary school where we usually exercise our democratic rights.
“POLLING PLACE” the sign outside declared.
“But what election is it?” I asked, “we’ve not had our polling cards delivered. . . “
“Well, theres that by-election in Glenrothes,” said Tom, “and now I come to think of, I *did* see other campaign posters up around Baillieston last week. . .”
“There is an election of some sort!” said I, “we must vote in it!”
We looked at the clock on the dashboard. The polls would be closing very soon.
“Come on then,” said Tom, “we’ve only got ten minutes to engage in the political process.”

Six rosette-sporting candidates lined the entrance to the polling station.
“Good evening,” they said hopefully
“Good evening,” we replied, in the confident and inscrutable manner of the electorate choosing their representatives.
“Good evening!” said Tom to the man behind the desk, “we’re here to vote!”
“Are you in Forth?” said the man
“Excuse me?” said Tom
“Are you in Forth?”
“This is where we vote,” said I, indicating the school classroom, “this is where we *always* vote.”
“Yes,” said the man, “but there’s only an election in Forth. . .” he lowered his voice, ” . . because of a death. Do you live at one of those addresses?” He indicated a list on the wall.
“Um, no. . . “
“Then you’re not in Forth,” he said, “you can’t vote.”

“Goodbye,” said the candidates as we shuffled out.
“Goodbye,” we said, sheepish.

EDIT: Tom has insisted that I mention what really happened at this point, viz, that it was only me that was sheepish, while he told the conservative candidate “I wouldn’t have voted for you anyway.”

Now, I am frankly much more embarrassed by the fact that we did not know there was a by-election for the city council seat in the ward next to ours than I am by the experience of trying to vote when I wasn’t even supposed to. Anyway, you can see the results of the election we weren’t involved in here.

*A Beiderbecke Affair reference.

PS thankyou so much for all your suggestions about the return of the mojo, and what do do with the cardigan. Many of your comments were so incredibly psychologically accurate it was really quite spooky. I intend to do some sewing, and ponder the fate of the cardigan.

come back, knitting mojo

Knitting mojo is such a curious thing. I lost mine a few weeks ago. I found myself not knowing what to knit, and not enjoying my knitting — the horror! Out of mild desperation rather than any interest or intent, I began to make some plain socks. Round and round I stitched, listlessly, aimlessly, willing the mojo to return. “These socks are nice enough,” I mused, “but they’re not particularly exciting. . .” Things went on like this for a while, and then I noticed that I was in the unprecedented position of enjoying watching MOTD more than I was enjoying knitting while it happened to be on, viz:

ME (animatedly): “wow! that was an amazing goal-incident! Did you see the way that one of them got the football to the other one and sort of bamboozled those other men before making the goal-incident?”
TOM (tolerantly): “you mean they broke up the defence?”

Something was clearly very wrong! I had to sort it out! I had to reflect critically on the loss of the mojo in an effort to recover it. I did so, and came to the following conclusions . . .

A while back I designed and made Quails. I liked it! Oh, how I liked it! And other knitters seemed to like it too! I wandered around in a lovely, woolly haze, clad in copper-coloured baby llama, with a halo of ravelry hearts* encircling my big swede.** “Why not write a pattern?” said my over-inflated ego, “Why not indeed? Nae bother,” my knitting mojo foolishly replied. Now, there were elements of this cardigan I really liked (the short-row shaping at the bust; the way the two fronts dipped naturally into an A-line) and others that I wasn’t so keen on (the ‘quails’ stitch pattern itself; the visible decreases on the yoke). I would improve these shortcomings in a new version of the cardigan, drafting a pattern (something I never do when making something to my own specs), and writing down any alterations and adjustments while knitting it up a second time.

I bought a yarn I liked – not quite as much as that near-edible baby llama stuff — but a nice yarn nonetheless, and began work on Quails 2. My knitting comrades were very kind. Ysolda helped me figure out (and execute) Japanese short rows, and Melanie offered to test knit when I was done. I had a few hiccups as I encountered the difficulties of accommodating the same stitch pattern to a range of different sizes, but then things progressed up toward the yoke, and were looking pretty good! I kept knitting, and revising, and was pleased with my simple cables inside which all the decreases were hidden. Neat! Edging and finishing approached. I bought blue buttons. I liked the buttons. I attached the buttons. . .

. . . the buttons looked fab. I sewed in the ends and tried on the cardigan. It was a great fit. The neckline dipped, the fronts hung well, the cables stood out, and there wasn’t a decrease or a sign of a short-row to be seen. “That looks really good,” said Tom. This was an excellent cardigan, a superlative cardigan, a cardigan with which there was no problem at all — except that I hated it!

Here is the offending garment:

You will see that the cardigan is modeled by an obliging wooden hanger, rather than myself. The shot was not carefully set up, and taken by Tom, with strict instructions about angles and f-stops. I am not wearing the cardigan together with a carefully co-ordinating outfit and my favourite blue shoes. Nor, you will no doubt note, am I excitedly throwing shapes of any kind. This is because I dislike this cardigan intensely.

Now, I am not sure why this is. Looking at the cardigan objectively, I actually like the colour, the shape, the fit, the yarn, the buttons, and the pattern (which I spent considerable time refining). But when I look at the whole cardigan, I like none of these things at all. I like nothing about this garment apart from the fact that it creates instant warmth when one puts it on. Perhaps this is just one of those odd reactions that clothes sometimes induce. You know what I mean: you like something in a shop, you try it on, you think you look pretty damn hot, you buy the thing, you take it home, then, when it is time to wear it, you find that you just don’t feel right. You feel lumpen and peculiar, uncomfortable, or inadvertent. You feel that while wearing this garment you actually might do something to embarrass yourself. And despite any attempt to uncover exactly why you liked the garment in the first place, and why your feelings about it have now so radically changed, somehow the sheer hideousness of the thing exceeds objective reflection. You relegate it to th’ugly pile and wash your hands of it.

However, I fear there may be something more raw and simple about my reaction to this cardigan, and that something is desire. Several months ago, before I made the first version of Quails, I pictured a cardigan, and I wanted it badly. I spent a long time knitting the cardigan. Now I had the cardigan! My Cardigan Desire was truly sated. Because of the work of Cardigan Desire, re-designing and knitting the garment again were completely superfluous acts. Even though this new incarnation is, in many ways, an improvement on the the original design, Cardigan Desire turns away from it in disgust. For this is not the object Cardigan Desire sought, coveted, pursued and finally possessed! No! This is the object’s pale imitation! An evil double that reveals both the fallibility of the desired-object and the temporary, shallow nature of desire itself!

Bejayzuz. Please save me from myself and tell me what to do. I have hit an impasse. I want nothing more to do with this cardigan. But why? How do I reconcile myself to it? Should I even try to? And most importantly, how does one recover one’s knitting mojo? Help, please.

*ravelry hearts. For non ravelers: These signs of knitterly esteem appear when someone marks your garment or design as a ‘favourite.’
**swede = head.