Reversible Knitting: a conversation about sizing

(the front cover of Reversible Knitting features Norah Gaughan’s innovative Reverse Me jacket)

Today, I’m very pleased to introduce Lynne Barr, whose recently published Reversible Knitting has already become a must-have knitting title. The first part of Lynne’s book explores her original and exciting approach to stitch, with fifty swatches that that will make your eyes pop, your jaw drop, and your hands immediately get busy with needles and yarn, to work out exactly how she managed to do that.

(Lynne’s “Half Nelson” pattern – one of my favourite stitches in Reversible Knitting)

The book’s second part features some incredibly inspiring takes on the idea of reversibility itself, with twenty patterns from all of your favourite designers. There’s a great range of garments here that are both experimental and wearable: dresses and tunics, vests and sweaters, knitwear for the shoulders, feet, and head. Some of these innovative garments can be turned inside-out, or outside-in—such as Veronik Avery’s classic Lice Jacket, or Teva Durham’s bold Geometric Dress. Others, like Lynne’s playful Two Tone Vest or her stylish and eye-catching Folded Mini Dress can be worn back-to-front or front-to-back. Wenlan Chia and Norah Gaughan, meanwhile, have contributed designs that work equally well downside-up or upside-down. Chia’s Winding Path transforms itself from cropped-sweater to long tunic, and the cable-adorned shawl collar of Gaughan’s Reverse Me jacket morphs easily into a deep and richly textured waist band. In the world of reversible design, there is no right or wrong side—but how does one go about sizing these unique garments for a range of different body shapes? Lynne, and the tech editor for Reversible Knitting, Sue McCain, dropped by to tell us more.

(Lynne Barr’s Two Tone Vest)

KD: Recently I’ve been thinking more about sizing in order to extend the range in my own patterns, so I wonder how much more complex it was to size some of the reversible garments in your book?

LB: Sue McCain, our tech editor for the book, sized all of the patterns, and I too wonder what additional issues she had to contend with — in particular for Reverse Me by Norah Gaughan and Winding Path by Wenlan Chia. Both of those sweaters are designed to be inverted top to bottom, and I believe most women don’t have identical bust and hip measurements. But in both designs, having one wearable version short and the other long when flipped upside down, eliminates the need for both measurements around the bottom to fit the widest part of a body. It’s a clever design element that serves two purposes – to increase the visual difference between the two versions and to simplify potential fit problems.

(Winding Path worn as a cropped empire-style sweater)

KD: That’s really ingenious—in the book, the two versions do look very different, while both fitting well. Did these upside-down reversible designs involve their own unique sizing problems?

LB: Let’s bring in Sue, and hear her thoughts on the sizing of Winding Path.

SMC: Working with the large gauge and 4-stitch rib pattern repeat while grading Winding Path was the biggest challenge. With a gauge of 1.375 stitches per inch over the rib pattern, each four-stitch sizing increment used to maintain the pattern added just under 2.75”. Fortunately, the finished piece is fairly forgiving in terms of stretch, and the fit of the stockinette stitch portion is intended to be close to the body.

(Winding Path worn tunic-length)

KD: And did grading Reverse Me pose a different set of challenges?

SMC: The most important task when grading Reverse Me was to really understand how the pieces went together, and how changing the length and width of each piece would affect the other pieces. When grading any pattern, it’s important to remain true to the proportions of the original size, while keeping in mind potential fit issues arising from increasing or decreasing the measurements. The back width at the cast on edge was decided by the desired bust sizes, and once this width was determined, it was easy to grade the remaining dimensions following the proportions of the original garment. We did, however, keep some of the measurements fairly close from one size to the next (neck width, sleeve length and width, length to armhole) as these are dimensions that don’t change much from the smaller end of the size range to the larger end. Aside from limiting the size range, the reversibility of Reverse Me didn’t present any special issues.

(Reverse Me worn both ways)

KD: I had a sort of eureka moment while grading my manu pattern, when I realized how very little the neck width would differ between smaller and larger sizes. Proportional progression is one the things I’ve been finding most interesting (and tricky) the more I explore sizing from a design perspective. In “standard” sizing terms, I’m quite wee — 30″ chest, 23″ waist, 34″ hips. My fuller-figured friend might think she has little in common with my body shape — and yet when you work out the percentages — my proportions are actually exactly the same as hers (44″ chest 34″ waist, 50″ hips) — we are both equally proportioned pear shapes. Why can’t the smaller and the larger “pear” wear exactly the same style of garment, equally successfully? I’m still finding my way with this (when I began designing my size ranges were quite conservative) but am hoping to improve my sense of how garments work for fuller figures by getting feedback from test knitters in that size range.

LB: I’m not sure that sizing is a simple proportional progression though. When Sue sized the Folded Mini Dress in Reversible Knitting, I noticed that the armhole shaping changed significantly from the two smaller sizes I had already knit. Sue explained that the span under the arm is a greater percentage of the overall chest measurement in the larger sizes than in the smaller ones. And she also pointed out that if sweaters were a constant incremental increase for each size, plus sizes would have shoulders that would be enormous and they’re not.

KD: The variance of underarm width really does add another dimension. And then, within a single size range, individual body shapes can be so very different when one starts to consider waist position, shoulder width and so on . . .

LB: This makes me recall years ago when I worked for a bathing suit designer, whose business consisted of mostly custom-made work. It seemed easier working with an actual body to measure and fit rather than trying to fit everyone into a standard ready-to-wear suit. But still, we generally started a fitting with specific styles depending on the individual’s body type and whether they needed support, or wanted to look like they had more than they did. But I hate to think that a style was chosen simply based on some stereotype of what should or should not be worn by different people.

(Lynne’s fab Folded Mini Dress)

KD: Yes, the idea that there are definitive ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ styles for particular body sizes can be so prohibitive. Perhaps it’s just a mater of knitters being brave enough to experiment, feeling confident about adding shaping or changing a part of the sizing of a pattern to suit their particular body shape, as well as being able to visualize oneself in a range of different garment styles. I think it’s often difficult for knitters to picture themselves in a piece they only ever see in one size — and then there is the problem of encountering patterns that really don’t seem to accommodate body shapes outside the US or UK “standard” size range. I wondered whether you had any thoughts on the ways in which “non-standard” knitters might adapt Reverse Me or Winding Path?

SMC: For Winding Path, if you want to work larger sizes than offered in the book, it’s easy to do. While maintaining the given gauge, for every 4 stitches you add to the cast-on, you will add roughly 3″ to the circumference of the piece. When shaping the armhole, work half of the stitches before transferring them to the stitch holder. The sleeves can be graded in increments of 4 stitches as well – just make sure that you work a longer armhole length on the body to accommodate them. We don’t recommend working Reverse Me any larger than the largest size given, unless you don’t intend to wear the piece upside-down, because the bottom band has to increase quite a bit as the sizes get larger, and it will hang too low when worn upside-down.

(Teva Durham’s Geometric Dress, worn both ways)

LB: One last thing for knitters who believe there is a dearth of patterns, both smaller and larger than the typical middle range, I recommend they visit Sue’s website. She offers a line of knitting patterns with the widest range I’ve seen — sizes xx-small to 6x-large. And to expand your sizes upward, this site featuring plus-size patterns looks like a great resource.

KD: I second the recommendation of Sue’s website. And for those of us at the other end of the sizing scale, I remember Kristen Hanley Cardozo writing about some of the issues encountered by xxs knitters in a particularly moot and interesting way.

LB: Kate, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Thanks so much for having me on your blog… the topic of sizing is an interesting one that I think merits more in depth attention.

KD: Thanks so very much for being here, Lynne, and Sue, and for opening up a really stimulating discussion. I feel I’ve learnt a lot from your insights on sizing and grading. Very many congratulations on an inspired and inspiring book.

cable

We interrupt our regular proceedings with this cable. This is just to let readers of The Knitter know that I’ve a piece in the most recent issue of the magazine (no.13) — about the history and future of cable knitting. In the feature, I talk about Gladys Thompson, an old favourite inspiration of mine, and Lynne Barr, a confirmed new favourite. Barr’s Reversible Knitting is the most interesting and innovative knitting book I’ve encountered in an aeon, and I’m very pleased to say that I’ll soon have the honour of hosting Lynne here, as part of her Reversible Knitting blog tour. (Watch this space!)

(“folded cables” pattern from Reversible Knitting)

While I was working on the cables piece, I became fascinated with the (now) familiar myths surrounding the Irish Aran sweater. What I found most interesting was how far those myths are associated with loss. I refer, of course, to the apocryphal idea that drowned Irish fishermen were identified by particular cables. It is no coincidence that this myth’s origin is in the 1930s (not way back in the mists of time) — the moment when the Aran sweater was first successfully marketed to North America. Since I wrote the piece, I’ve been doing some more research about Paddy Ó Síocháin (the canny businessman whose Galway Bay Company became one of most successful exporters of Aran sweaters to the US and Canada) and Muriel Gahan (the inspiring doyenne of the Irish Crafts Council, the Congested Districts Board, and the Irish Countrywomen’s Association). From the mid ’30s, Gahan helped to break the punishing cycle of debt in which the craftswomen of western Ireland were bound (a similar situation to that of the knitters of Shetland) by promoting their work, and paying them fairly for it. Gahan’s most successfully promoted product was the now-iconic cabled sweater worked in undyed báinín, (rather than the dark blue or grey wool in which fishermen’s ganseys — including those of Ireland — were traditionally knitted). While Gahan encouraged the talented knitters of rural Ireland in their creation of elaborate báinín ganseys, Ó Síocháin invented myths of ancient origin for the sweaters in his publications about the Aran Islands. In his book Aran: Islands of Legend , for example, Ó Síocháin footnotes the misleading idea that “the Aran gansey has always been an unfailing source of identification of Islandmen lost at sea” with a reference to his own company “full particulars regarding the handcraft products of the Islands can be obtained from Galway Bay Products, Ltd.”

(Paddy Ó Síocháin resplendent in Aran — I really love this cardigan!)

To the Irish diaspora in North America, these sweaters were indeed powerful symbols of loss — not in the way that Ó Síocháin suggested, but rather in the imagined sense of a lost identity: old family connections, tribal belongings, a national heritage, the sense of place. Much like Robert Flaherty’s Man of Aran, then, the Aran sweater (as we now think of it) is an embodiment of something already lost, a material confection born out of absence, a singularly modern fantasy of what an ‘ancient’, ‘primitive’, ’simpler’ way of life might look like.*

(Man of Aran. Another misleading 1930s fantasy of Ireland successfully marketed in North America. Note that, like all other men of Aran, the kid wears a dark gansey, not a báinín sweater)

Knitters are fond of myths-of-origin, particularly those associated with family and place, and no matter how many times these ideas surrounding the báinín Aran sweater are debunked, the notion that a corpse might be identified by a stitch pattern carries a persuasive power beyond truth or fiction.** Today, you can still buy into the myth by purchasing an Aran sweater that claims direct clan associations and the comparison with the marketing of Scottish highland heritage is really an instructive one: whether or not one agrees with everything Hugh Trevor Roper says about tartan, he does bring home the way that textiles are singularly resonant “inventors of tradition”.*** I am still thinking about the way that Aran sweaters are “read” today, and may have more to say about this another time.

I also wanted to say a brief thanks to those of you who have sent me your good wishes, realising that something was amiss. At some point, I’ll find the wherewithal to write about what’s been happening, but at the moment am finding keeping blog business-as-usual really reassuring. Cheers, everyone.

*On Flaherty’s Man of Aran, See Lance Pettitt, Screening Ireland: Film and Television Representation (Manchester, U.K.: Manchester University Press, 1999).
**See Richard Rutt’s History of Handknitting, for a thorough debunking. The ‘myth’ still appears as ‘truth’ in many places, for example Debbie Stoller’s Son of Stitch and Bitch (2007)
*** Hugh Trevor Roper, “The Invention of Tradition: The Highland Tradition of Scotland,” in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, eds, The Invention of Tradition (Canto, 1983)

well, you asked

By request, another treat from The Archers pattern book. Here is the fragrant Caroline Bone / Pemberton / Sterling resplendent in a knitted suit of lemon hue. In this frothy confection, she may well run the risk of being mistaken for one of Ian’s more outlandish Grey Gables deserts. . . and yes – it is floor length! Check out the saucy glimpse of 1980s ankle.

And imagine the never-ending horror of actually knitting it.

Curiously, 1970s and 80s knitting has been preoccupying me this week. The other day, my good friend Matthew sent me a copy of the January 1982 edition of Spare Rib, in which this amazing sweater featured:

I have to say that I love this — not only does it make me nostalgic for a certain kind of politics, its a reminder that knitting has always been associated with feminism, despite some claims about its more recent integration. The pattern is described as “a luknitics exclusive” and it seems that “Luknitics” was a business registered in in Perth in the early ’80s. I am wondering whether any of you know anything about Luknitics or their patterns? I really want to find out more . . .

(but why not try knitting it yourself, love?)

Also, while on a trip to the butchers in Stockbridge yesterday, I nipped into a charity shop and scored 10 early 1970s copies of Golden Hands Monthly. A few of the craft activities are very much of their time (pasta art? aigh!), but there are lots of diverting, amusing, and indeed inspiring articles and tips, patterns and designs. I was pleased to find that all of the pull-out sewing and embroidery patterns were still intact, and that I actually really liked many of the skirts and dresses. I also found the Golden Hands knitting and crochet patterns so interesting that I’m starting to question my own taste. For example, there is something in me that really likes this crocheted bonnet-with-integrated-ear-muff:

. . . and I am fascinated by this vest:

The pattern also includes proud photographs of the back of the work, with all of the different coloured ends neatly sewn in, and claims the extra effort involved as a sort of victory for thrift: “with no weaving, you save yarn!” A writer for Spare Rib might have seen the costs of this garment rather differently, once the extra hours of labour were factored in. This really seems to be 1970s knitting at its most crazily time consuming. And yet . . . there’s just something really pleasing about all those tiny, different coloured hexagons . . . no . . . I. . .must . . . resist. . . intarsia. . .

Finally, here is an example of domestic time very well-spent — this is our Christmas cake, and that is Tom’s hand feeding it the first of many glasses of whisky. We had our stir-up Saturday yesterday (I believe Jill Archer’s stirring-up is actually today?). Tom uses the recipe in Jane Grigson’s fruit book, with the quantities of everything increased by 25%. I like a nice, big cake. Hope you have had a lovely weekend, too.

Ambridge

Warning! this post may seem both tedious and incomprehensible to anyone who is not an Archers fan . . .

I arrived home from work yesterday to find that a thrilling package had turned up in the post. On opening the envelope, the mere words “Ambridge DK and chunky,” were enough to send me into hysteric raptures. Tom could get no sense out of me for quite some time. “Look!” I shrieked, “check out Christine Barford in her horse-themed intarsia!” Ravelry really is an amazing thing. Last week, on the lively Archers’ discussion board, Woolhemina mentioned that she had six copies of a booklet of patterns featuring the characters of everyone’s favourite long-running BBC radio soap clad in delightful ’80s knitwear. I was lucky enough to score the last one. Life may never be the same again.

(Conservative prig, Shula Hebden Lloyd, sports an appropriately hideous tyrolean / intarsia combo whilst wolfing down Granny P’s ginger snaps)

I am not ashamed to say that I am a long-time Archers listener. I became obsessed with it while completing my first University degree. I well recall preparing for exams while being gripped by Clive Horrobin’s notorious raid on the village post office and Susan Carter’s subsequent imprisonment (oh, that she might have stayed inside!). I didn’t own a TV until 1999, and till then, my sole source of frothy-narrative-pleasure came courtesy of Brookfield and Grange Farm. A decade passed by to the sounds of Mark and Caroline’s car crash, Nelson’s disappearance, the destruction of GM crops, the doings of the evil Simon Pemberton. Oh, happy days!

(Wild child, Kate Aldridge, as an infant. Nice sheep-adorned duffle – but what a discomfiting stare! The gaze of Beelzebub is clearly a sign of what’s to come.)

What’s interesting about my Archers fascination – both then and now — is that, with a very few exceptions (Ed, Fallon, Jill) I despise, or am annoyed by every single character. But perhaps being irritated (or, in the case of Kenton, perpetually embarrassed) is part of the pleasure of The Archers. I love to shout at the radio whenever whingeing, needy Emma appears (will she ever get her comeuppance?), bawl expletives at Shula (I think I hate her most of all) or berate the script writers for representing Lynda’s concerns about the preservation of ancient rights of way as unnecessarily absurd. And clearly The Archers has this effect on others as well. My Dad, who is a very mild, easy-going sort of man, professes a violent dislike for Dayvidd Archer. “Its something about his voice,” he told me, “he’s just so bloody smug.” Indeed, its in the exchanges between Dayvidd and the vile Pipsqueak (his firstborn) that my Archers affection finds its limits. If they start discussing another earthworm survey, or reinforcing their father-daughter bond over the intricacies of bovine parturition, I just have to turn the radio off.

(Dayvidd Archer: the most hated man on radio?)

For those of you who don’t know, The Archers is Britain’s longest-running soap opera: set in a small rural community in the Midlands, and developed under consultation with the Ministry of Agriculture, it was originally designed to inform as well as entertain. The first episode was broadcast in the Spring of 1950–when post-war rationing was still in force–and the narrative provided a context for the dramatisation of themes that might improve productivity and accelerate the modernisation of British farming. The rural setting still remains the occasion for much issue-led drama, and the short lapse between recording and transmisssion often allows the programme to respond to urgent and pressing events in the British farming world (such as foot and mouth, or Bovine TB). So while I despise most of the characters, and though I think the show’s script writing is often pretty poor, I do enjoy its country context. Indeed, perhaps the most pleasing thing about The Archers is its pace and rhythm. Unlike other soaps, events unfold in real time. In this sense, the choices of the show’s writers and editors are often brave and important. Compare, for example, the different ways in which Coronation Street and The Archers have dealt with dementia-related storylines: in Coronation Street, a character was diagnosed and whisked off screen within a matter of weeks, while in The Archers, the condition is unfolding, slowly and painfully, over months and years, highlighting many life-changing, distressing and difficult decisions. Things take time, on The Archers, and they are also reassuringly regular, predictable. My life is neither regular or predictable, and for me, it is sad but true that each year’s diurnal round can be measured by familiar Archers events: the village panto, the single wicket contest, the flower and produce show, the happy reappearance of the Grundy World of Christmas. “When shall I make the Christmas cake?” Tom asked me, just a few days ago. “Not sure,” I said, “just wait until Jill Archer mentions Stir-up-Sunday . . . “

(Jill Archer. Baking and beekeeping doyenne).

Now: to the patterns. The booklet makes reference to the death of Polly Perks, and Nelson’s wine bar: I reckon that dates it to 1982 or 3. As one might imagine, it is peppered with ’80s attrocities (the thing that Caroline is wearing is just too horrendous to show), but there are actually some interesting patterns in here. One in particular caught my eye. . . . I have stared at this garment sported by prejudiced Brummy landlord, Sid Perks, many times, and am still not sure whether its pint-pot-and-dart motifs are a work of design genius, or a source of knitting horror. You must decide for yourselves.

(I like to think that Sid’s gesture suggests guilt, as he finally acknowledges his own appalling homophobia.)

As you can see at the top of this post, in addition to the patterns, Argyll Wools (still listed as a going business concern in Guiseley) also issued an Ambridge yarn range. Ambridge Yarn! Amazing! The fibre-composition is very much of its time, combining “the softness of machine washable wool enhanced with the durability of nylon”, but it did come in 33 shades, of which just 5 would enable you to knit a Sid Perks pint pot sweater! I am beginning to dream of unused skeins of Ambridge yarn lurking around the nation’s charity shops. Imagine!

As well as the more outlandish ’80s designs, I actually think many of the men’s garments in the booklet are rather pleasing — in particular this pair of sweaters sported by Phil and Jethro. I felt quite moved to see this happy picture of Norman Painting, sans beard. Archers listeners will know that Painting — who is depicted on the left, and who played Phil Archer — died a couple of weeks ago at the age of 85. His voice was heard in the first episode of the programme in May 1950, and will last be heard in one to be broadcast on November 22nd. A successful script writer as well as an actor, Painting also wrote over a thousand Archers‘ episodes in the 60s, 70s and early 80s — often attempting to write Phil out of the narrative to give himself a rest. I actually own a copy of Painting’s Archers memoir, Forever Ambridge (ahem), and I’ll remember Phil most for his love of pigs (which I share). I was very pleased to see him included in my now-to-be-treasured Archers pattern booklet.

*PS Those who have not yet experienced the delights of The Archers may be interested to note that you can download each episode as a podcast. Hurrah!*

**PPS I am feeling better**

testing

Many apologies for the fuzzy-wuzzy macro, but I am so excited by this sort-of-secret-ish project I had to show you just a little a bit of it. This thing is one of the satisfying fruits of a collaboration with my favourite Scottish dyer, and my favourite Welsh yarn producer. Working on it has lifted my spirits during a week in which they’ve felt rather downcast. Have you ever worked a two-colour braid? They are immensely pleasing and simple to produce. I’ve been reading a lot about Latvian and Estonian textiles recently, and followed up my reading with some happy experiments in casting on and braiding. This braid follows the method described by Lizbeth Upitis in her “Mitten from the District of Latgale.” There is a sort of mystery to working braids — in their early stages they don’t look like anything much at all, but then they literally unravel into a thing of beauty. I love the way that the two working yarns become entwined, and then magically untwist themselves on the final row. This particular method produces a very neat braid with a dense, raised appearance, and is definitely the best technique that I’ve found so far. There are two different “elements” to this collaboration, and I am enjoying them both immensely. Indeed, I can barely contain myself from foolishly raving about them, but I will save that for later, so prepare yourselves. In the meantime, I wonder whether any of you might be interested in test knitting one “element”? If so, please drop me a line at wazzuki AT gmail DOT com. Also, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about shaping and sizing, and would really like to get some feedback on the Manu pattern, before I release it, from anyone who knits sweaters for themselves in the 42 to 50 inch size range. If that’s you, and you fancy test knitting Manu, please do get in touch with me at the same address.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall return to the pressing and incredibly tedious business of Getting Well.

outing

It has been a very frustrating week. I’ve not been up to anything much, and have been unable to go outdoors. Tom decided to cheer me up with a non-taxing outing, and we drove to Hawick. I love to walk in the Borders, but when one cannot walk, pootling around in the car will do just fine. In a curious way, the landscape reminds me of home (Lancashire) with its hedgerows, its dry stone walls. By this, of course, I mean that what is familiar to me is the way that the land is parcelled up — the way that property and productivity are visible in it — and in this sense the steep valleys, the mill buildings, the nineteenth-century workers’ housing, are very familiar to me as well. Like Lancashire, this is textile country. What industry remains — in the brand-led processing of luxury yarns — is a mere vestige of what it once was, and yet the past inspires a tremendous amount of local pride. This is very evident in the new Borders Textile Towerhouse, which has recently opened, and is well worth a visit. The building (a restored sixteenth-century fortified tower) is truly fabulous, and the historical exhibits are thoughtfully and carefully put together. I liked the wheels, frames, and looms. . .

. . . and you can’t go wrong with a Trade Union Banner — particularly one that depicts and celebrates the stocking frame.

Tom inspected some knitwear. . .

. . . found himself a new bonnet.

and pondered the practicality of the kilt combinations.

Upstairs, there was an exhibit exploring the ‘future’ of Borders’ textiles, which largely focused on golf sweaters, and Vivienne Westwood. Now, the sweaters aren’t really my thing, but I will say (having examined them carefully) that they were beautifully designed and exceptionally well-made. However, I was so disappointed to encounter berloody Westwood, yet again. However hard one tries, one just can’t get away from her! I can think of several other exhibitions in several other Scottish institutions, all of which explore the past and future of Scottish textiles — and all of which conclude with some obligatory tartan / argyle / tweedy gubbins designed by Westwood. Whether or not one wants the ‘future’ of Scottish textiles to look like Westwood’s parodic aristocratic costumes, one certainly has to question whether Scotland really wants to celebrate a designer whose bespoke ‘Scottish’ materials are often not what they purport to be, and whose shameless appropriation of the Harris Tweed Orb has probably done more harm than good. (Yes, you can tell I talked to the weavers of Harris when I was last there). But whatever one thinks of Westwood, to have her represent the future of Borders’ textiles to me suggests a certain paucity of imagination. Over the past few years, I’ve met so many superb independent Scottish weavers, designers, artists, and makers — all of whom are graduates of the Borders’ textile college at Galashiels. Why not devote this fine, new exhibition space to some exciting, contemporary, truly forward-looking and local talent, rather than a hasbeen of metropolitan high fashion?

(spot the difference!)

Invigorated by anti-Westwood feeling, we went outside and bought some Hawick balls for my cough, and I got Tom to take a picture of my new hat.

This is the much-made Sideways Grande Cloche from Laura Irwin’s Boutique Knits. It was a quick knit, but — as I was attempting to manipulate a super-bulky yarn on 5.5 mm needles — not a particularly enjoyable one. I wanted to create a very dense, firm fabric — and it is certainly that. Following Mel and Sarah’s advice, I cast on 27 stitches (rather than the 45 recommended), and made several knitterly modifications to a suprisingly non-knitterly pattern (casting on provisionally; joining the brim with 3 needle bind off; knitting the crown in the round &c). I won’t be making another one of these in a hurry, but this is a very jolly hat, that goes well with a jolly coat, and which I can hide my non-jolly flu-ridden phiz in. It is ravelled here.

cheering

I have flu. But I also have this wee feller to cheer me up. He is lovingly fashioned from Shetland wool and looks great on my lapel. Thanks, Liz!

of pleats. . . and i-cord

At some point toward the end of last semester, I became distracted in a meeting. There is nothing novel in this situation, except that the source of my distraction was a cardigan. My colleague, Kate C is a very stylish person, and often wears clothes I find inspiring and curiosity-inducing. This cardigan was both. It was a well-made machine-knit piece in a sort of egg-yolk yellow. The fabric was plain stockinette, and a neat fit was created with minimal shaping, except for a feature neckline, formed by a sunburst of pleats. These pleats were very pleasing. They set off the rest of Kate C’s outfit nicely, and made a focal point of the neckline that was both simple and elegant. How I liked those pleats! After the meeting, I talked to Kate C about the cardigan. She had bought it in New York, and, being a knitter herself, completely understood my fascination with the neckline. On the train home that evening, I thought about cardigan construction, and sketched up my own pleaty design. The challenge would be to create a simple garment as elegant and well-fitting as Kate C’s through the use of pleats and gathers, rather than conventional shaping. I drew pleats a-plenty and added puffed-out pockets and gathered wrists (which did not feature on Kate C’s original). Then I went to Skye and I bought this yarn.

You may recall that there were things that troubled me about this purchase. But despite my misgivings about the yarn, I knew that after swatching with it that it was ideal for my pleaty project. It had fabulous drape, some firmness and body, and a pleasing fuzzy halo. Then I did something that will suggest to you the sorry depths of my obsession with clothing and design. I found a dress in Fenwicks that I felt would suit the imagined cardigan ideally: a garment whose sole purpose was to set off an outfit that existed only in my mind. I bought the dress, and hung it in the wardrobe, where it remained unworn while it waited for the cardigan.

Then I began to knit. I began with a provisional cast on, and worked bottom-up, with minimal shaping through the body — just enough to give a slight A-line. The sleeves began with an i-cord cast on, were gathered at the wrist and joined at the yoke. I then shaped the neckline into a deep scoop with what, to myself and my knitting comrades, are known as “Sunday short rows” (so-called because Mel first encountered this technique in a design by the very talented Carol Sunday). These short rows are quite similar to the conventional Japanese method, but I find them much easier to execute and to describe. They are also the neatest method of working short rows I’ve come across, which was important, as I didn’t want traces of the turning points displayed across the cardigan fronts. I then knit the yoke straight to the shoulder line, and reduced two thirds of the stitches by working pleats. Until that point, I had felt like I’d been knitting a sort of giant box — but, as I pleated the top of the cardigan, the box suddenly transformed itself into a shapely garment. Here’s the neckline. I’m hoping that the only trace of the short rows you can really see is that sort of curved line two inches below the pleats.

You will note that there is i-cord around the neckline, and will be unsurprised to discover that i-cord features everywhere in the finishing of this garment. It is worked along the pocket tops . . .

. . . across the the bottom edge of the cardigan, up the button bands, and forms the button holes. . .

Please take a moment to examine the i-cord buttonhole. Note, if you will, what a neat edge it produces along a garter stitch border. Compare its superior qualities to those of lesser buttonholes. Observe how un-wonky an opening it creates, how there are no stray strands of yarn lurking annoyingly and untidily at its edges. Marvel at its ease of execution; utter a grateful encomium to Elizabeth Zimmermann; and assure yourself that your search for the perfect knitted buttonhole is over! Yes, I heart the i-cord buttonhole!

I found these vintage buttons on e-bay. I like the fact that they are made of glass, that they were (luckily) a precise tonal match for the yarn, and that they have been previously worn and used (as you can see from the button on the left).

When I finished knitting, I asked Kate C to name the design, as she had originally inspired it. She chose Manu, the name of the friend she was visiting in New York, where she bought her cardigan. So here are some shots of Manu from the side:

And a full-length, so you can see the dress too, which with its pleats and pockets, is actually a sort of echo of the cardigan.

I found the necklace in Philadelphia, where I finished working up this design. And Philadelphia has inspired another aspect of the pattern, which is now forthcoming. During my afternoon at Rosie’s, I had a chat with smart-and-interesting Lisa about garment design and sizing. She pointed out that my pattern size ranges were rather conservative, and didn’t really accommodate anyone whose body shape tended toward the Rubenesque. The good thing about this style of garment, it seems to me, is that it will fit and flatter most body shapes, including those who actually have a womanly chest, unlike myself. Women of all shapes and sizes successfully wear cardigans with this sort of yoked construction and triangular front opening — as can be seen in the range of knitters who look fabulous in Gudrun’s lovely Moch cardi, or Pam’s incomparable FLS. So, I am designing this pattern to fit a size range from a 30 to a 50 inch bust. More soon!

Name: Manu
By: me. pattern coming soon.
Yarn: Shilasdair ‘luxury’ DK in tansy/indigo.
amount: 3 and-a-bit 100g skeins. Approx 1000 metres.
Needles: 3.75 and 4.5mm. All worked with Addi turbo circs.
Ravelled here.

wwwwo #1

I’ve written up the pattern for this wee headband — item #1 in wazz’s woollen winter walking outfit (wwwwo for short). The pattern is very simple — just a single large star repeat — certainly suitable as a first colourwork project for those who’ve not tried the technique before. You’ll need springy fingering-weight yarn in five different shades for the colourwork, and a small amount of a softer laceweight/ fingering-weight yarn for the lining. My lining yarn is Orkney Angora 4 ply, and the colourwork uses 5 shades of the Alice Starmore Hebridean 2ply: Selkie, Machair, Dulse, Pebble Beach, and Solan Goose. You know how I love this yarn: it knits up incredibly evenly and the colours are amazing. The lining is knit first, beginning with a provisional cast on, which is unzipped and knitted-in with the top edge of the headband once the colourwork is complete. Both edges are neatly (and predictably) finished with applied i-cord: on the bottom edge, you pick up stitches across the row of purl bumps (along which the lining is turned up), before binding off in i-cord. I tend to make i-cord quite tightly, so bound off on a larger needle to prevent the headband drawing in too much. (This may not be the same for everyone, so do bear this in mind.)

I feel that my compulsion to finish all knitted edges with icord follows the same irresistible impulse I had when drawing as a child: viz, to outline everything with strong, bold lines. My teachers repeatedly criticised me for this in school: but no-one has said anything about the potentially infantile nature of my i-cord compulsion . . . yet . . . In fact, I’d go so far as to say that my i-cord obsession has deepened since I discovered the sheer wonder that is the i-cord buttonhole. I get very frustrated with some buttonholes in knitted fabric — they can just look so poxy and untidy — but not so the i-cord buttonhole! It is, without a doubt, the neatest and most satisfying buttonhole I’ve ever come across. My current (and almost-complete) project features i-cord buttonholes and, additionally, almost 600 continuous stitches of i-cord. Imagine! i-cord heaven! I can hardly contain myself! More soon.

Anyway, if you fancy knitting an angora-lined, i-cord outlined headband for yourself, you can find the free download link over here on the designs page. Enjoy!

obliging

Last weekend I was lucky enough to visit Rosie’s Yarn Cellar, and spend a lovely afternoon with Jen, Jenna, Wendy, Magda, Lisa, and many other knitters. It was so nice to spend a few hours knitting and chatting in exceptionally good company, and when I left, they presented me with some good, strong, black leaf tea (which made me feel very at home as I had been, just that morning, cursing the generic horror of Liptons — whatever it is in those bags (cat fluff? ground-up egg shells? dust balls?) it certainly is not tea!) . . . as well as this marvelous vessel from which to imbibe my favourite beverage:

Hoot hoot! Thankyou, Rosie’s! I wrapped the owl in many layers and you will be glad to hear that he made it safely back across the Atlantic with me. I arrived home to find that a number of Very Exciting things had turned up in the post. First, a package of delight arrived from Hamburg. Lovely Viv (who loves neeps as much as me) made me these beautiful embossed leaves socks.

How fab are they? In the package were a number of other gorgeous treats, including some seeds, which shall produce actual — rather than knitted — leaves on the allotment next year. Viv, you really are a *star* – your socks made me very happy. Thanks so much!

And here we see the contents of another exciting package:

This is Liz’s beetheid, which she kindly sent on a brief trip North so I could see just how nice it looks at first hand. What I find really interesting (as I always do with colourwork) is how radically colour placement affects tone. The grey background of the ‘neepheid’ and the ‘beetheid’ are exactly the same shade (Jamieson & Smith no.27), but appear totally dissimilar — the purple / gold of the neep colourway, and the burgundy / brown of the beet colourway have brought out completely different qualities in the grey. ( Here are pictures of my original neep, and Viv’s super incarnation, if you, too, are interested to compare.) I love Liz’s beetheid — its so jolly and autumnal. It’s with some regret that I’ll return it in the post tomorrow. . . .

. . .but I’ve been keeping myself occupied, colourwork-wise, swatching like crazy, and repeatedly marveling at the remarkable things that colours do to one another. Here’s one favourite that I recently knitted up.

This is a swatch with a purpose. I made it wide and deep enough to fit my heid; added a knitted-in lining out of some exceptionally soft and cosy angora; and finished the edges with (you guessed it) icord . . .

This cosy, ear-warming headband constitutes item no.1 of my proposed entirely-woollen-winter-walking-outfit. I was looking forward to trying out its unique warming properties upon a windy Scottish hill . . . . But then someone got his hands on it first. . .

This headband is very practical, quick to knit, and clearly appeals to blokes as well. I now need to make myself another, which will prompt me to write up the (very simple) pattern. This will be a FREEBIE, and I’ll post it here later this week

And finally, as so many of you have been asking about The Shoes, I shall oblige you with the details: They are made by Red or Dead and are available here from Schuh. I saw my friend Mel in a pair a few weeks ago, and immediately had to buy some exactly the same as hers. At the top of this post, you can see my giant copy-cat hooves pictured alongside Mel’s neat, wee originals. Both of us agree that these shoes are exceptionally good for walking. They are also the sort of shoes that feel immediately foot-friendly, and require no breaking in. I like mine so much, in fact, I may well have to buy another pair in a different colour.