walking into 2009

Grainger St, Newcastle. January 26th. 5.5 miles

I am feeling rather sombre this week. I think this may be partly to do with the dark. Though my feet have covered the equivalent of a marathon in the past few days, and though I am really enjoying both the walking and the thinking about the walking, my journeys mostly occur in the hours before dawn, and those after dusk. In order to take any sort of photograph of my walking day, I’ve had to seek out the light of illuminated places: bus stations, platforms, stores.

Haymarket Bus Station, Newcastle. January 27th. 4.5 miles.

The other reason I am feeling sombre is the hypocritical and obfuscatory response I received from the BBC to my complaint about their refusal to broadcast the appeal from the Disaster Emergency Commission, who are co-ordinating the important work of supplying aid to to Palestinians whose homes, lives, and livelihoods have been destroyed in the recent bombardment. I imagine some of you may have complained about the BBC’s decision as well, and will have received exactly the same message. After reading their blithe and unapologetic email, I walked home, stopping to pick up a pint of milk in Tesco, where I saw hordes of shoppers stuffing cellophane-wrapped salads and herbs labelled Produce of West Bank into their baskets. These apparently innocuous packets of basil have their origin in occupied land. They are grown in the settlements that the UN, and every other nation in the world apart from Israel have condemned as illegal. I left without buying my milk, and walked home. In the dark.

Princes St, Edinburgh. January 29th. 4 miles.

Eldon Square war memorial, Newcastle. January 28th. 4.5 miles.

a parliament of owls . . . and a competition

I promise this will be the last owl-related post . . at least for a while . . . but I just had to show you this version of the sweater, made and worn with great style and aplomb by my friend Kate B, who, along with Hannah, was one of the pattern’s original test knitters.

It is knitted in Rowan cocoon, which makes for a deliciously luxe, warm sweater. And check out Kate’s fantastic owl brooch too . . .

Kate’s owls spent the morning knitting in Falko, and then made their way over to the meadows, where, with the assistance of Ysolda, they attempted to take flight . . .

thanks for your help, Kate B!

Since a few of you have suggested it, I am going to set up an owl gallery . . . or more properly, a parliament of owls (see tabs at top of page). There will also be a competition, into which every member of the parliament will be entered. Your owls could win a prize!! Here’s how the competition will work: please email a digital image of your completed owl-sweater to the address you’ll find at the bottom of the pattern. Include your name, location, and the date you completed your owls. Your sweater will then join the parliament, and be entered into a draw to win some beautiful Scottish yarn, a handmade knitting bag (sewn by me) and some other tasty goodies. The closing date will be March 1st. Show me yer owls!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to put my haggis on and prepare to toast the bard

loose aboot this hoose

words seem unnecessary . . .

. . . some time later . . .

It was a Christmas gift. It is designed by these genius people. Thanks Ma!

U.S Owls

Hannah just sent me some great pictures of her o w l s enjoying themselves stateside.
Here they are cavorting by the banks of the Mississippi . . .

. . .and getting into the spirit of things in Memphis, Tennessee.

o w l s have also been seen this week in New Zealand and Japan. Most exciting.

braf

In Welsh, braf means fine or delightful. I have been knitting with tasty bowmont braf recently, and can confirm that it is indeed a fine yarn for producing delightful garments. Above, you see my swede in a bowmont braf Selbu Modern that I started knitting while in Islay. I like all of Kate Gagnon’s designs, and this is a very nifty one. I thought the colours of the yarn were suggestive of spring, and of snowdrops, but the look of the finished hat turned out to be much more wintry than I expected. Wintry in a good way, though. I really like it. ( Ravelled here).

A few weeks ago, I also made a pair of two-colour fiddlehead mittens for my sister.

I love the edge that the i-cord cast-on produces, and you just can’t argue with those swirling scroll motifs. Being quite substantial, these mits are made without the suggested lining and are ravelled here.

These two projects have confirmed two things for me:
1) I heart stranded knitting
2) I heart bowmont braf

Its been a while since I knit anything using more than one colour, and I had forgotten how much I love it. I am also so enamoured of the bowmont braf 4 ply that I’ve just had to keep on knitting with it. It really is a very distinctive yarn. It is almost airy to work with, yet it produces a dense, matt fabric of incredible velvety softness. There is also no give in the yarn at all — knitted up, it is robust, solid, and inelastic — but still very light.

This was meant to be an edging, reverting to plain stockinette after 2 inches, but I am liking the effect of this rib so much I fear I may not be able to stop knitting it.

in with the new

After the conclusion of my clothing-myself project in 2008, I have a new project for 2009.

I think that most things are seen better when seen from on foot, and I am often struck by just how much more atuned one becomes to the changing uses and meanings of a landscape when walking through it. Walking radically changes one’s sense of place. For example, when I walked from the West to the East coast of Northern England in 2006, I became very aware (as I passed fishing ports, and slate quarries, and leadmines, and sheep pasture, and reservoirs, and grouse-filled moors) that I was moving through the landscape’s many different economies, sometimes encountering the relics of old economies as well. I noted the shifting geology and ecology of the ground under my feet, and began to look at hills and valleys in a completely different way. I developed a fondness for limestone and an antipathy to bracken.

Loch Uigedail circuit. January 8th, 2009. 7 miles.

Though one is perhaps less concerned with geology in an urban landscape, similar things can be said about walking in towns and cities. Walking allows the walker to really read an urban space — to encounter corners and ginnels, neighbourhoods and the boundaries of neighbourhoods — in a way that is completely impossible in a private car or from public transport. On foot, you can seek out and be party to a city’s particular vernacular.

January 2nd, 2009. Post Hogmanay crowds, Edinburgh. 3 miles.

I have long been intrigued by peripatetic projects — for example, Patrick Keiller’s Robinson in Space, or Ian Sinclair’s London Orbital — and this year seemed like a good time to pursue one of my own. There are downsides to commuting, but one of the good things about it is the four daily walking miles I can clock up, as well as the many amazing things that I see on my way. My weekends often involve walking in more remote locations, but I am most interested, I think, in the ordinariness of walking — in walking as a daily, quotidian activity. Anyway, armed with podometer and camera, I intend to document a year as a pedestrian.

January 4th, 2009. Kilchoman – Kilchiaran circuit. 4 miles.

I’ll be keeping the visual record over on flickr, but will certainly be making remarks about the progress of the project here from time to time. Meantime, here’s a taste of the project’s beginning, and some walks from the first couple of weeks of 2009.

January 5th, 2009 Bunnahabhain, 2 miles.

January 9th, 2009. Goatopia. 5 miles.

January 18th, 2009. Pickled eggs (after seeing Charles Avery’s The Islanders: An Introduction). 6 miles.

the best wee yarn shop in the world?

If you are lucky enough to find yourself at Kilchiaran, where lichen, wind and water claim the graves of Islay’s ancient dead. . .

(Kilchiaran)

. . . if you take the narrow road that winds up the curve of the bay; if you follow that road in sight of the sea; and if you turn on that road a few miles before Portnahaven, you will discover what may well be the best wee yarn shop in the world: Tormisdale croft crafts.

(the road to Tormisdale croft)

At Tormisdale croft, the wonderful and talented Anne Kemp hand spins the fleeces of many different breeds of sheep currently on Islay: Manx Loghtan, Black Hebridean, Cheviot, and Shetland, to name but a few. She also handspins some truly amazing yarn from Port Mor’s now-famous residents:

The alpacas near Port Mor. If I were an alpaca, I would like to graze in sight of Loch Indaal. (Photo taken last July)

Anne sells her handspun yarn; a wide range of quilting and knitting supplies; horn buttons and walking sticks; and some truly beautiful finished garments — including finely-worked lace shawls. These are all made by the knitters of Islay from her handspun. If you, like many contemporary spinners and knitters, are concerned about the environmental impact of your craft — the stages of processing and the miles your raw materials travel — then what Anne is doing is really exemplary. The yarn is processed, spun, and knitted up on Islay. From the back of the beast to the shawl round your shoulders, nothing has been taken off the island.

(handspun manx loghtan)

Anne’s yarn is powerfully connected to, and redolent of, Islay. Just like the island’s whisky, it speaks of the landscape.

(handspun suri alpaca)

I hope to knit something with it that speaks of the landscape too.

And if you think I am sounding slightly crazed and rhapsodic now, just imagine what I was like when I was actually there, in Anne’s workshop, surrounded by fleeces, baskets of naturally dyed shetland, gorgeous handknitted shawls, and handspun alpaca. When I first felt the skein of suri depicted in the photo above I emitted a range of curious noises and entered a troubling state of near-hysteria. Poor Anne put up with all of this most tolerantly. Anyway, just in case you haven’t got the idea already, I really, really like Tormisdale croft crafts — I am impressed both by the ethos of what Anne is doing, as well as the quality and beauty of the things that she produces. I shall return in the Spring when the lambs are there, and write a proper feature about Anne and her yarn.

Anne doesn’t have a website yet. But I encourage all of you who can to visit the croft in person. Take the back road between Port Charlotte – Kilchiaran – Portnahaven.

o w l s. the pattern.

Yes, the o w l s pattern is ready. You can now download it as a PDF under ‘designs’ (see tabs at top of page). Later today I hope to be able to contact all of you who requested the pattern by email. I’ve encountered several wrongly-typed or rejected addresses on the list, so if you do not receive a message from me, it is not because I’m ignoring you — just please download the pattern here. I hope to soon have it listed as a ravelry download also.

A few things I wanted to say:

THANKS. Big thanks to my knitting comrades Hannah, Kate B, Melanie, and Ysolda, who have shared their champion knitting skills and technical expertise most generously. As with most things knitwise, this pattern has really benefited from collective knowledge and effort.

Short rows. The original o w l s featured Japanese short rows. These can be tricky to work in the round and (I discovered) it is even trickier to describe precisely how to work them in the round. The horror! There are some great online tutorials for working Japanese short rows back and forth (here, for example). But when you are working in the round, you encounter the turning point / gap in (as it were) the wrong direction, and face the tricksy problem of forcing the turned yarn back on itself, up onto the needle, and closing the gap by twisting the previous stitch so that it sits the wrong way round as well as knitting through a loop that is stretched to near breaking point. Sheesh! I take my proverbial hat off to anyone who has figured out a straightforward way to describe this. Anyway, for ease, clarity, and my general sanity, the pattern has reverted to good old ‘wrap and turn’ to work the short rows. This is certainly an easier method for beginners (and many people who have asked for the pattern have described themselves as beginner knitters). But I do like Japanese short rows (even though I can’t for the life of me describe how to close up their gaps in the round) and if you like them too, I recommend you use them in place of the wraps and turns the pattern includes.

Expertise. Lots of you have emailed me asking if o w l s is suitable for a beginner knitter, or as My First Sweater. ™ I would rate the design as reasonably easy, but while my pattern shows you how to make an owl sweater, it cannot teach you to knit. The pattern begins with a list of necessary skills. If you are familiar with the techniques on this list, you should be able knit the sweater.

Yarn rationale and working at different gauges. Many knitters are not fond of chunky yarn, either because it can be a rather blunt instrument, design-wise, or because of its general bulk. This pattern reduces bulk through the fit of the sweater and uses chunky yarn because 1) I wanted to be warm and 2) I wanted BIG owls. A chunky yarn produces several large, tall, owl cables standing proudly on the yoke. If you re-work the pattern for finer yarns and gauges, your owls will be smaller and perhaps a little less owlish. On the other hand, a finer yarn would produce more owls. This is always a bonus.

Labour. Value. Credit. Designers should be paid for what they do. For us to keep knitting the shawls and sweaters and socks that we love, we should be supporting our designers, and paying them in a way that reflects our appreciation and their hard work. To not do so devalues both their talents and their labour. It is the same issue as with other forms of work that are performed independently, or (in a rather different way) within the domestic sphere — such labour should be properly remunerated, and properly valued. This is why what Twist Collective is doing is so great, and I have no truck with those who churlishly complain on Ravelry and elsewhere about paying for individual patterns. Seriously, folks! Should your pleasurable hobby be the focus of designers’ charitable endeavours? I think not.

Having said all that, I am offering this pattern for free. Why? Well, here are my reasons. First, I am now working with a company who will hopefully be producing the pattern in children’s sizes (from toddler to pre-teen) as part of knitting kits, with yarn and lovely buttons included. The adult version of the sweater I have released today counts as a sort of taster, and should also later be available in the form of a purchase-able kit. Several of you have said you would like to knit this sweater for your kids, and if you would like to support me and the work that went into producing the owl sweater, then please buy the children’s pattern as part of a kit. I’ll keep you updated on progress with the new, kid’s version of owls. Second, I did not imagine, when I whipped up my sweater having seen the vests that Liz was then knitting, that the design would be the focus of so much knitterly love. It is certainly apparent that if I sold the pattern as an individual download I could expect to recoup a fair few donuts. But, while my sweater is an original design, the owl cable is a familiar motif, currently in circulation on several other patterns. To profit from that motif on a pay-per basis (as opposed to the far less remunerative flat-fee arrangement from selling the pattern on) seems frankly unfair. I don’t want to speak for other designers here, but it is a similar issue to that of the meticulous and skillful redesigning of EZ’s February baby sweater for a grown ass woman, or producing an innovative, asymmetrical BSJ (that is still, undeniably, a BSJ). Suffice it to say though, the next time I design something sizeable like a sweater (and there are a couple in the pipeline) solidarity with other designers as well as the desire to receive fair recompense for my hard work means that You Will Pay (rubs hands and makes ha ha ha noises in the manner of the Sesame Street Count).

Thankyou. And enjoy your owls.

out with the old

You may remember that a year ago I decided to stop buying clothes for the duration of 2008. My decision to do this was sparked by a couple of things. I had been reading a bit about darning and mending and wanted to think about what repairing and caring for one’s clothes meant. Also, since I heard this very-well researched series of documentaries on the BBC world service, I had been increasingly bothered by textile waste — the sheer amounts of it, as well as the complicated politics of its disposal. I then had a moment of utter revulsion after seeing Florence and Fred’s Affordable Elegance advertisements, in which the disposability of the 20 quid dresses they had designed for Tesco’s was “cleverly” celebrated.

(textile waste now makes up 30% of rubbish destined for UK landfill sites)

The year is up, and here’s my summary of the project: During 2008 I have fashioned or refashioned for myself 7 tops, 5 skirts, 4 dresses, 3 sweaters, 3 pairs of socks, 2 shrugs, 2 cardigans, 2 hats, 1 shawl, 1 coat, 1 maud, 1 tank top, 1 jacket, 1 pair of gloves, and 1 scarf. Additionally, I have repaired and re-repaired the sleeves of sweaters, the seats of pants, the hems of coats, the heels of socks, the tops of mittens, and the feet of stockings. I made lots of things from patterns and kits and in doing so, have participated, in a vicarious sort of a way, in the design process of some really talented people. I also designed several items of clothing for myself from scratch, and have encountered my own limits and shortcomings along the way. This year of stitching and knitting and learning has been both enjoyable and thought provoking. It has certainly changed the way I think about the making, consumption and meaning of worn textiles.

(clothing myself in 2008)

Despite the apparently prohibitive terms I set myself (“you will not buy clothes”) this project was never about denial. As you may have gathered, I am someone who loves clothes. I mean, I really love clothes. The things I wear are a source of tremendous pleasure for me, and I regard dressing up in them (however foolishly) as a sort of creative act. So I was not about to deny myself that pleasure or that creativity, but rather wanted to think about focusing it a little differently. One other thing that the project was not was generically anti-consumerist. For I am undeniably a consumer. I exchange money for stuff. I do not regard The Commodity as the root of all evil and in fact I think that commerce — of ideas and words as well as things — is generally a very necessary good. So I did not deny myself the pleasure of clothes, nor did I cease to be a consumer. I bought notions and fabric and quite a lot of yarn. I continued to cut pictures out of magazines, read about fashion history, and dream about the qualities of fabric, and the possibilities of different outfits, just as I had done before. Raw materials, ideas and images continued to be rich sources of inspiration and enjoyment to me. And I had many, many clothes already. To be frank, I had no need of any more. But if there was something that I wanted, as opposed to needed, I would have to think about how to make it, about where the stuff to make it was coming from, and then about how to sew or knit it up for myself. So, in fact, the only thing that I stopped doing this year was spending a lot of time in shops, and buying a lot of clothes in them. And I can honestly say that I’ve not missed this in the slightest.

(handsome Romney. Diamonds Farm. Horam, East Sussex)

What I started rather than stopped doing over the course of the year is much more interesting (well, it is to me at least). Of course, I made things, and I thought about what I was doing when I was making them. But additionally, I also visited farms, crofts, mills and other businesses where fibre is spun, dyed, and woven into cloth. I have learnt how fabric is produced from animal or plant to finished garment, how and where it is sold, to whom, and why. My love of finished textiles has developed into an interest in the process of their production, and the history of those processes. I’ve started thinking in a new way about the importance of textiles to different local economies; about the provenance of materials; about how Britain’s regional fabric is a very literal thing; and about the ways in which different national, local and global histories are all woven up in, and told through, textiles. I’ve also met and learnt from lots of wonderful people who live and work with fibre and fabric. Through this, I have also started to regard the value of textiles very differently indeed.

Clothes are not cheap. Time and care and labour are all expended in the rearing of a British sheep, but the three pence the farmer receives for the fleece makes it hardly worth the shearing. At the other end of the production-consumption chain, 2 million tonnes of largely man-made textile waste is discarded in Britain every year. The quality of this stuff is so low that charity shops cannot re-sell it, and laudable schemes like Oxfam’s wastesaver find it difficult to re-use or recycle. Our cheaply bought and easily discarded textiles swell mountains of domestic landfill, or are exported in containers for other countries to deal with. In the Czech Republic, for example, the outbuildings of former collective farms are now filled, floor to ceiling, with Western Europe’s abandoned clothing. Meanwhile, in Sri Lanka, adults and children suffer the indignity and poverty brought by brutal employment practices that we should more accurately term indenture or slavery. And all to make a mountain of transitory crap that is daily bought and thrown away.

(Antonio Ricci (Lamberto Maggiorani) exchanges his bed linen for his bike in the Bicycle Thieves)

Now, I am not making any great claims for myself here. I know that my 2008 make-your-own project was an exploratory luxury. While I could go on about how I have learnt new things about production, process, and materiality, I also know that fundamentally, this is the politics of luxury: of someone who has enough disposable income to spend on yarn and fabric, and enough leisure time to make things and (crucially) to enjoy making them. People do not have the time or money for such luxuries, and they certainly still need cheap textiles. But we also need textiles of durable, lasting quality. We aren’t pawning our good bedlinen (as in the Bicycle Thieves), we are chucking it out and buying another flimsy ten-pound duvet cover whose seams were sewn up by an impoverished ten-year-old on the Indian subcontinent. A recent consumer survey for Asda has apparently shown that supermarket shoppers now value durability as much as price where clothing is concerned. Asda is now changing its “George” ranges to reflect this shift in priorities. Wouldn’t it be nice if they added a guarantee of fair, non-exploitative labour into this mix?

I want to conclude with some inconclusive remarks about mending and representing mending. I’ve been doing a lot of darning this year, and have become very interested in the care and repair of clothes, as well as in the way that mended and re-made textiles are such rich repositories of personal and cultural memory. A lot of really good British artists are interested in this as well. I particularly admire, for example, Kirsty Hall, Celia Pym and Tabitha Moses, who all use the processes of mending or repair to explore the evocative and ritual nature of textiles. The work of these artists is rich with thought and meaning. But their practice is now one of the only ways, it seems to me, that contemporary audiences can look at made and mended things as public objects upon which to think and reflect. And sometimes, I am a little troubled by how the only way to approach the acts of women and men that were once quotidian and exceptionally ordinary is through extraordinary forms of representation, such as those that art affords. While the work of the three artists I mentioned is without exception, truly brilliant, there are certainly many other art practitioners whose work does little more than decontextualise familiar household textiles and the practices associated with them to very little end. I am naming no names, because this is something I am still thinking about . . . but I am wondering . . . could there be another way? Or if this is just a matter of there being Bad and Good textile art, as with any other form of art or practice. Anyway, there’s something to mull over further. (Any thoughts on this issue appreciated).

Scrap of linen check (1759) used to identify foundling number 13169. (London Metropolitan Archives)

Making and mending my own clothes will continue in 2009, as will the thinking about the making. But I might just have to buy myself the odd pair of pants, and also hope to have a bit more time for some other truly luxuriant crafty things that I enjoy and have not done much of in 2008 — in particular, embroidery. I also have a new and exciting year-long project for 2009. More on this — and on my lovely trip to Islay — anon.

owl release

It is curious what mist can do to one’s sense of place. A little cloud descends, and familiar hills one has climbed many times before are transformed into strange, alien moonscapes. The whole narrative of the landscape suddenly becomes lost in its details.

Having missed our Highland walking with Felix because of seasonal colds (bah! boo!) it was very nice to get out into the Pentlands this morning. A good walk really is the best way to break in the new year.

And if you are thinking that the sweater on my back looks a wee bit familiar – yes – it is indeed the Owls. The poor beasties were well-nigh frozen up there in the foggy, frosty hills — but they certainly kept me warm.

They were very nearly snowy owls as that haze of moisture began to turn to ice.

Since Hannah’s impressive and speedily knitted Owls appeared over at Ysolda’s, lots of you have been asking about the pattern. It is imminent! I promise! I’m away for the next few days in a wonderful place without computer access, but shall release the owls as soon as I return. The pattern will be free, and I’ll stick it up on Ravelry, as well as emailing those of you who left a comment on the original post. And I should also mention that myself and these lovely people are now developing a kid’s version of the pattern which will be available in kit form.

Happy 2009 everyone!