The Panopticon

Back on the Chain Gang

2012-01-26T20:19:00.022-05:00

Hi. It's Dolores.

His Grace regrets he's unable to be with you tonight, but he's still recovering from having sucked down one too many chocolate milkshakes at his wild birthday bash. If you weren't there, you might as well just give up on going to parties, because The Definitive Party has been given and you missed it. It kicked off at four in the afternoon and the rockin' did not stop until the last bunny cookie with a weak tea chaser went down the hatch two hours later, and the wild band of Bacchae who constitute Franklin's social circle spilled out into the street. Normally to see such goings-on one must attend a gathering of philatelists.

What happened in between? Well, we should all be worried–because I'm pretty sure it's the sort of behavior that brought Rome to its knees. I swear I heard somebody say "F-ddlest-cks!"

Anyway.

I'm on the clock tonight, working off the cost of recovering the sofa. Not re-covering the sofa, recovering the sofa. From Lake Michigan. Something happened at the afterparty, the details of which need not concern us here. So until further notice or the equivalent of $1,000 labor, whichever comes first, I'm doing the book reviews around here.

Today we have two titles from the United Kingdom, which is a nice place to visit unless you piss off the Queen by trying to take your rightful place at one of her fancy-ass parties.

First, we have Novel Knits: British Literature in Stitches (Ann Kingstone Designs) by Ann Kingstone.

Here's what you get: fifteen patterns for garments and accessories, all inspired by the works of Jane Austen, J. R. R. Tolkien, and J. K. Rowling. (I thought maybe there were previous volumes focusing on British writers with first names beginning A through I, but no, this is the first.)

I like what Ann has done here. The pieces are inspired by, not copied from. If you're looking a particular sweater or cloak or reticule from the movie version of Sauron and Sensibility or Harry Potter and the Return of the Sequel you won't find them here.

No, instead you get original pieces–in a nice range of styles and skill levels–that begin with a character or setting and take off in an interesting direction. If you've seen the photos of me on or under various red carpets, you know I have a fondness for pattern. Kingstone's colorwork designs are sharp. I would totally wear Lissuin, although I might put in a bit more negative ease to make sure it properly highlights my curves. I am here to tell you that stranded colorwork will absolutely stretch like Lycra if you just insist a little bit.

Since nothing here takes its theme too literally, you don't need to be a fan of the authors or their works or the derivatives of their works to enjoy the patterns. Check it out, if only to marvel that somebody has made five Tolkien-inspired patterns that don't look like set dressing at the Renaissance Faire.

And there's this one, Sweet Shawlettes (Taunton Press) by Jean Moss.

I like this one, too, and not just because I told my friend Maurice-Jamal about it and he decided his new drag persona is going be a genteel but eccentric mixed-race Louisiana belle called Sweet Shawlette.

Jean has been around the block a couple of times with the whole design thing (her stuff is all over the magazines) and so when you buy her book, you're getting patterns by somebody who knows what the hell she's doing. "Sweet" is not for amateurs, honey. There's a thin line of pink mohair between "Sweet" and "Sappy" and Jean keeps it on the right side of the line.

You get twenty-five designs (there's a gallery here), not all of which are strictly speaking shawlettes, but all of which are made to go around your neck in some fashion.

What impresses me is the range, kids. Within four categories, "Country," "Folk," "Couture," and "Vintage," you got your fine lace, your stranded colorwork, your texture, your entrelac, your bulky, your fine. And they pretty much all work. It's boggling to think every one came from one chick with a pair of needles.

And color. Always with the color. You don't have to use Jean's colors, I know, but if you do, your neckish area is going to look so much peppier.

All the fash mags are talking about how the world is having a Neck Moment, so get on with it.

That's it for now, but we have a stack of review books in the apartment that's taller than Maurice-Jamal's Sunday hair, and I have another 900 bucks to work off, so I'll be back.

Order Novel Knits from Ann Kingstone.

Order Sweet Shawlettes from Amazon.com.

Lopaprogress

2012-01-20T16:26:00.011-05:00

Fan me with a tulip, mother–the lopapeysa now has two sleeves, a collar, and all ends woven in.

Next comes:

washing/blocking,
sewing in the zipper,
sewing down the inside edge of the collar (with the upper end of the zipper tucked inside),
wearing it through the long remainder of the Chicago winter (i.e., until the fourth of July) feeling warm, snug, and happy to be a knitter.

Here 'tis on the form, with the fronts pinned to mimic the appearance when partially zipped.

After playing hunt-the-zipper in and around Chicago, I gave up and have ordered a metal zip in a custom length. It's worth it. The alternatives were a sticky, white plastic piece of crap from Jo-Ann Fabric; or the same piece of crap marked up 50% more at one of our few remaining sewing shops. Before I let anything like that near my knitting, I'll close the fronts with wads of chewed bubblegum.

Learn Along with Franklin: Part II

In our first installment, we learned something about Native American culture. Today, our topic is good manners. The lessons are taken from this tiny volume.

It doesn't look like much on the outside, but inside it's a Wow.

Etiquette for Little Folks (part of "Susie Sunbeam's Series") was printed in Boston in 1856. It's a model of didactic mid-19th century children's literature.

The sole decoration is an engraved frontispiece showing a young girl literally taking her younger brother under her wing. Behind the kids, Mama contentedly gets on with her sewing.

After that: nothing but ninety-six closely-printed pages of firm, unvarnished admonitions. The upright, emphatic metal type gives the text a bold authority that you won't find in any modern namby-pamby children's book.

A few lessons, quoted verbatim, from the redoubtable Miss Sunbeam:

AT HOME.

If you wish to speak to your parents, and see them engaged in discourse with company, draw back, and leave your business till afterwards; but if it is really necessary to speak to them, be sure to whisper.

Never speak to you parents without some title of respect, as Sir, Madam, &c.

Never make faces or contortions, nor grimaces, while any one is giving you commands.

Use respectful and courteous language towards all the domestics. Never be domineering or insuting, for it is the mark of an ignorant and purse-proud child.

AT TABLE.

Sit not down until your elders are seated. It is unbecoming to take your place first.

When you are helped, be not the first to eat.

AMONG OTHER CHILDREN.

Be not selfish altogether, but kind, free, and generous to others.

Scorn not, nor laugh at any because of their infirmities; nor affix to any one vexing title of contempt and reproach; but pity such as are so visited, and be glad you are otherwise distinguished and favored.

IN SCHOOL.

Bow at entering, especially if the teacher be present.

Make not haste out of school, but soberly retire when your turn comes, without hurrying.

IN THE STREET.

Jeer not any person whatever.

Give your superiors place to pass before you, in any narrow place where two persons cannot pass at once.

GOING INTO COMPANY.

A young person ought to be able to go into a room, and address the company, without the least embarrassment.

CLEANLINESS.

Now, clean garments and a clean person, are as necessary to health, as to prevent giving offence to other people. It is a maxim with me, which I have lived to see verified, that he who is negligent at twenty years of age, will be a sloven at forty, and intolerable at fifty.

MODESTY.

Nothing can atone for the want of modesty; without it, beauty if ungraceful, and wit detestable.

GOOD BREEDING.

Observe the best and most well-bred of the French people; how agreeably they insinuate little civilities in their conversation. They think it so essential that they call an honest and civil man by the same name, of "honnete homme;" and the Romans called civility, "humanitas," as thinking it inseparable from humanity: and depend upon it, that your reputation and success will, in a great measure, depend upon the degree of good breeding of which you are master.

I cannot read this book without thinking of the well-to-do children in my own neighborhood. They routinely call their mothers "stupid" at the top of their lungs, insult their teachers and bully their nannies, kick passers-by, and yell at coffee shop baristas for insufficiently sprinkling their cocoa–all without fear of reprimand. And I weep.

Come back, Susie Sunbeam, come back. We need you.

This Place Looks Familiar

2012-01-13T13:26:00.005-05:00

I'm in New York City again–which is fine by me. This was my last glimpse of the dining room table (where the packing happens) before my suitcases and I rolled out the door.

Yes, I leave notes for myself as I pack. And I make lists. Many lists. Seven, this time. Otherwise I'd arrive at the gig with three kilts, a dozen mismatched knitting needles and one shoe.

This time the gig in question is the second coming of Vogue Knitting Live! at the New York Hilton.

Classes start tomorrow, but the yarn huffers are already here in force. Walking from the front desk to the elevator I must have passed at least two dozen. Guests who aren't here for Vogue Knitting Live! are already looking adorably alarmed. You can hear the internal monologues and whispered conversations as they pass.

"Is that...knitting? But...why are they all knitting? Omigod one of them is a guy! Is this a New York thing? What the hell is going on?"

Well they should worry. We will accept nothing less than world domination.

Off the Top of My Head

2012-01-10T16:05:00.005-05:00

Honk if you've heard this one:

"I could never just sit there and knit. I don't have the patience."
"My grandmother / Aunt Betsy / sainted mama / Avon lady / Girl Scout Leader/ field hockey coach used to do that!"
"I think it's so sad that nobody knits any more."
"How much would you charge to make me a [name of project]?"

My favorite of these is number three, because it leads me inevitably to the conclusion that I have died and am now a ghost. I would love to be a ghost, because the list of people I plan to haunt is longer than my nose and I might as well get on with it.

My least favorite comment is the last, because the well-meaning person who asks to hire your needles is seldom prepared for any answer you may give.

"I don't sell my work" sounds snotty (even if you don't mean to be).
"You couldn't afford it" sounds presumptuous (because it is).
"For a pair of socks like this, at least three hundred bucks" will bring a gasp of disbelief followed by a minor cardiac event. And once the paramedics have left and the spilled drink is mopped up, you have to talk to the innocent victim about fair trade, and the rights of artisans to earn a living wage, and the number of stitches in a sock, and Wal-Mart, and how actually, no, good yarn doesn't cost about a buck a ball.

Once in a great while, however, the questioner throws you a curve ball. A couple months ago, a good friend of mine asked about a hat for his wife. I hemmed. I hawed. I offered him another vodka stinger. He insisted.

I estimated the price of good yarn. He didn't blink.

I estimated the cost of labor. He blinked.

But then he said, "Okay. So, for that price could you have it ready in time for Christmas?"

Well, alrighty then. I could, and did, and here it is.

It's worked in Madeline Tosh Vintage.

I kept copious notes in case it might, some day, turn into a pattern.

In a few places the cables cross and travel at the same time, which is something I hadn't played with before. I love the effect, but I wrote on Twitter this reminded me of a diamond-studded toilet seat (pretty, but a pain in the ass) and Fiona Ellis got all mad at me.

Lessons learned:

always quote a fair price, even if you think it won't possibly be accepted; and
it never hurts offer the client another vodka stinger.

New Year. New Sleeve.

2012-01-01T16:04:00.006-05:00

In case you haven't noticed, the holidays are over.

Signs are everywhere. This morning, Dolores took down the Christmas tree. To be perfectly accurate I should say that she took out the Christmas tree when she landed on it at 4 a.m.; but in our house it amounts to the same thing.

The cookies are all gone. So are the pies. Mrs. Teitelbaum has put her menorah back on the top shelf and flown to Fort Lauderdale to wait out the winter with her great-nephew Maurice the Florist. And instead of my inbox filling with junk messages that say LAST CHANCE PRE-HOLIDAY SALE!!! my inbox is now full of junk messages that say LAST CHANCE HOLIDAY CLEARANCE SALE!!!

In America, your last chance is never really your last chance. That's one of the things that makes this country great.

Meanwhile, I'm able to knit for myself again. The lopapeysa (remember the lopapeysa?) grew another sleeve.

You may recall that I decided to just follow the pattern for this one, aside from changing everything about it. That meant coming up with a new chart for the colorwork about the cuff. Not a tall order, as the yoke contains elements that are easy to echo in a smaller circumference.

After the colorwork passage, I knew I wanted purple cuffs. I plan to wear this while teaching, and my flailing wrists + purple cuffs should = wide-awake students.

Notice, though, that there are no needles in the cuff; nor has it been bound off. That's because the photograph was made right before I ripped back the entire sleeve.

Lesson learned:

It does no good to try on a top-down sleeve repeatedly
if you refuse to acknowledge that the sleeve is way too tight
and correct your course.

That little voice in my head kept telling me it was fine, because I like a "snug fit." But this was not a "snug fit," this was cutting off the circulation to my fingers. Granted, the typical baggy generosity of an unshaped lopapeysa doesn't do a fireplug body like mine any favors–some shaping is a must. But lopi should never be expected to stretch like the Lycra in Kim Kardashian's Sunday drawers.

Learn Along with Franklin: Part I

In keeping with the theme of learning new things in the new year, I've decided it might be interesting and useful to share some of the lessons to found in my collection of antique and vintage children's books. This will be an occasional series–I'll post whenever I run across a particularly sparkly gem of wisdom.

For today, we have a word about multiculturalism/architecture from Health and Safety Series: Everyday Living by Brownell, Ireland, and Giles, published in 1935. This is from "Unit Five: The House You Live In."

Better you should live in a casino.

Pretty Much My Entire Personality Encapsulated in Two Christmas Presents from My Parents

2011-12-27T12:23:00.003-05:00

Item One.

Steve Madden "Ajax" Boots.

Item Two.

Hat form from Wilshire Wig. I've named her "Hedda."

Thanks, Mom and Dad!

Have Yourself a Merry Little Krampus

2011-12-24T15:21:00.007-05:00

It's Christmas Eve in Chicago. Though a bit more gift wrapping must be seen to, the approach to a quiet holiday is otherwise unobstructed.

I know not everyone reading this celebrates Christmas, but it's certainly part of my heritage. In the spirit of the season, I'd like to offer a warm cup of holiday knitting to one and all–regardless of whether or not you usually partake.

There are veritable snowdrifts of patterns for knitting up Santa Claus, snowmen, candy canes, reindeer (plain- and red-nosed), elves, nativity scenes, mice (stirring), bears (teddy), toy soldiers (because nothing says Peace on Earth like a trained killer with a rifle) and most the rest of the cast of sugarplums.

But I was shocked–shocked–when I consulted the Ravelry pattern database and found not a single representation of the character I (and many millions of others) consider essential to a well-balanced festive season: Krampus.

Do you know Krampus? If not, a few words of introduction.

He is, mainly in Alpine countries, the friend and companion of dear Saint Nicholas. His useful function is to deal with the children whose behavior in the year past has been weighed in the balance and found wanting.

This is, I believe, a most logical and reasonable division of labor. In America, we not only expect Santa Claus to reward the good children by scattering presents around; we also require–in the course of the same evening–that he stick lumps of coal into the stockings of the naughty. Have you ever held a lump of coal? I have. It's heavy, it's dusty, and it leaves black smudges all over everything.

Is it fair, I ask you, to make a man wearing white fur cuffs distribute tons of coal and tons of gifts from a miniature sleigh with less horsepower than a riding lawn mower? I think not.

Countries which employ Krampus do things far better.

Saint Nicholas visits only the nice children, hands around the goodies, and calls it a night. Krampus, meanwhile, drops in on the bad children–the ones who didn't finish their vegetables, and stuck out their tongues at Grandma, and boosted the ratings for Glee while Community was put on hiatus. He smacks them soundly with a bundle of birch twigs; licks them with his long, slimy tongue; carries them away screaming in the basket on his back. When he's good and ready, he tears them limb from limb and then eats them.

Note that coal doesn't even enter the picture. Krampus is very eco-friendly and discourages the consumption of fossil fuels.

That such a darling fellow should be absent from the knitting round-up appalls me. To redress the imbalance, I present the Little Knitted Krampus.

He is made from several colors of Skacel's excellent Fortissima Socka sock yarn, and the free pattern will appear in a few days.

My gift, gentle reader, to you–provided you've been a good child.

Otherwise, expect the Real Thing to tap on your door and spread you on toast like a chicken liver.

Merry Christmas from me, Dolores, Harry, and whole of the Sock Yarn Colony. We love you very much.

P.S. If you'd like to see more of Krampus, including absolutely adorable Krampuskarten from the 19th and 20th centuries that I used as visual references, visit this site. An animated treatment sure to gladden the hearts of your children (show it to them just before bedtime) is available on Youtube.

P.P.S. Anna Hrachovec of Mochimochiland, I wouldn't have had the chutzpah to tackle my first knitted toy design without your inspiration, encouragement, and the excellent treatment of the technical aspects in your books. Thank you!

Go Forth and Twirl

2011-12-19T18:22:00.005-05:00

The last time you saw it, it was just a hood.

To knit the rest has taken almost exactly a year and a heap of Cascade 220 Sport–a yarn I love to pieces. Happily, the fit is generous; so the recipient should (in spite of considerable growth) get a goodly amount of use from it.

I might have finished faster; but the cape was knit, ripped back to the hood, and re-knit four times. The file for this piece has eleven swatches, and forty pages of instructions–most of them crossed out. The problem with me as a designer is that I'm not very good at it.

Children's clothing is a tough nut for me to crack, mostly because I fear my taste is not in step with the modern child–not to mention the modern parent. I wouldn't put my son in a Fauntleroy suit or my daughter in petticoats. On the other hand, I look to nineteenth-century children's clothing and sigh for the neat tailoring and the elegant details. Most of the kids in these parts run about in loud, shapeless rags and usually look as though they were dressed in the dark by a drunken nanny. (In these parts, they probably were.)

Maybe shapeless rags is what twenty-first century childhood requires. If so, I know my work in this genre will have severely limited appeal. So be it.

Anyhow, here are the first photos of the finished hood and cape. With a grateful nod to reader Rams S., who suggest a variation of the name, I will call the piece Manteau Rose.

I hope you'll like it, Abigail. It should twirl very, very well indeed. Uncle Franklin road tested it.

Note: After a rather unfortunate string of unsuitably, um, "whimsical" technical editors, I've finally found one who promises to deliver quality work in a timely fashion–so I hope that this and several other patterns (including the Anna Shawl) will be available for online download sooner rather than later. Fingers crossed.

Out of the Sketchbook: Holiday Edition

2011-12-17T10:45:00.003-05:00

Collect 'Em All

2011-12-13T10:56:00.006-05:00

Having already knit the Tiny Rabbit and the Tiny Mermaid–wait, sorry. I don't think I posted the mermaid here, did I? Here she is.

Let's try that again.

Having already knit the Tiny Rabbit and the Tiny Mermaid from Anna Hrachovec's Teeny-Tiny Mochimochi, the next choice of project was patently obvious: the Tiny Chicken.

Now, as you will have doubtless realized, I have the complete trio from the immortal anecdote about the rabbit, the mermaid and the chicken who walk into Claridge's Hotel. But my parents are due to arrive any moment, and I must dash, so I'd love it if one of you could tell the rest in the comments. Thanks awfully!

Am I the Walrus?

2011-12-11T18:53:00.006-05:00

When I was in second grade, my science class did an electricity experiment that went haywire while I was touching the metal end of the apparatus. I looked a smidge odd until my eyebrows grew back; yet on the whole I thought the experience of being briefly connected to a live current was pretty cool.

This may help to explain why I like New York City so much.

I saw it for the first time in the late 1980s, courtesy of a gracious college roommate who invited me to stay with his family in Manhattan during Spring Break. My parents, upon hearing our travel plans, were full of grim foreboding. The words filthy, noisy, crowded, and (above all) dangerous were thrown about. They didn't mean to be wet blankets, truly they didn't; but my great-grandmother got mugged on the street in Brooklyn in 1966 and after that whole place went straight to Hell.

On the afternoon of the first day, I dutifully called home to reassure my mother that I hadn't been kidnapped and sold into white slavery like Mary Tyler Moore in Thoroughly Modern Millie.

"Well?" said Mom, "How is it?"

"I found it!" I sighed. "I finally found the place where everybody walks at the same pace I do!"

That was not the right answer.

Americans who are not New Yorkers are not supposed to like New York. They're allowed to like certain things about it, maybe. A good musical, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or spotting Yoko Ono shopping at Barney's Uptown. But then they're expected to go home to a split-level house with a two-car garage and complain about the rushing, the crowds, the noise, the dirty streets, the overwhelming muchness of it all. Real Americans (as we were repeatedly reminded during the last election) are supposed to live in the suburbs and like it. Real Americans are supposed to prefer placid, empty, quiet, tidy.

But who would want a placid, empty, quiet, tidy New York? Not me. That wouldn't be New York, that would be Pyongyang. You may have it.

I go to New York to plug in. I love the way it wakes me up, even when it's unpleasant. Take, for insance, the smell of the subway underpass at 42nd Street. I'm not saying I savor that aroma, but you must admit it cannot be taken casually.

This month I went to the city to play with the good people at Lion Brand Yarn Studio on West 15th Street in the Union Square/Flatiron neighborhood. I gave a talk (and people came! and they laughed!) and I taught three classes (and people came! and we all laughed!).

The Studio serves as a public face for the company and is completely adorable. I don't care if you've never touched a skein of yarn in your life–you cannot ignore a display window that looks like this.

A closer view of the walrus. They were considering naming him "Franklin." I hope they did.

And the Inuit fisherman.

These folks go way beyond the customary yarn store mode of a-couple-baskets-of-yarn-plus-a-limp-sweater. The Studio interior is punctuated by spolia saved from previous installations, so you never know what you're going to encounter when you turn a corner.

I'm afraid I had only a pocket camera of limited capacity, but here are a few snaps of what I found.

In the larger upstairs classroom, spare materials for students who may have forgot something.

The needles are size US 300. Not sure about the metric conversion. Wouldn't want to take them through airport security.

This guy sits in the window of the smaller classroom, looking out to West 15th.

Hug it? Knit it? Hug it? Knit it?

On the way into the company owner's office, there's a crocheted Empire State Building complete with a couple of sightseeing tourists.

Inside the office, there's a vintage-style postcard (eight feet wide) celebrating the city's icons.

What you can see a little more clearly from this angle (click to embiggen)

is that the letters are three-dimensional and contain knitted and crocheted versions of (partial list!) Patience and Fortitude, the NYC Public Library lions; the giant Cup o' Noodles from Times Square; the Statue of Liberty; a Yankees cap; the Flatiron, Empire State, and Chrysler Buildings; the World Trade Center in memoriam; the Guggenheim Museum; and a hot dog cart that's half the size of the nearby hot dog. Underneath is the Brooklyn Bridge and a street crowded with a police car, a fire truck, a couple of taxi cabs and a tour bus.

At first I thought the little dude on the Brooklyn Bridge was a suicidal jumper, but it turned out to be the Phantom of the Opera consulting a city map. (Yes, he is so a New Yorker. He's been running in Manhattan since 1988.)

In the same room, there's also a chair/trellis hybrid crawling with butterflies and summer flowers.

I was trying to come up with a "country seat" joke here, but it wouldn't gel.

This is a box of something. I don't know what's in it. I was afraid to lift the lid.

Down in the basement, among the yarn storage bins, a friendly bunny keeps the staff company while they sort stock.

A wall map, about five feet across reminds one that there aren't Red States or Blue States, only states that like to play with yarn.

Kind of a nice thing to remember as the political candidates try to convince us otherwise.

While I was there, they caught me on cameras both still and moving:

I'm so happy I remembered to get my hair did. Also, I have a boycrush on Patty Lyons, the maven/doyenne/manager/queen of the LB Studio. She arranged the whole splendid shindig with such mastery that when she told me to stop fussing and relax, I actually did.

It was fun. I woke up. I hated to leave. I can't wait to go back. Hint, hint.

More Lazy Haiku

2011-12-01T09:58:00.002-05:00

Yet another airport post. Hi! I'm en route to New York City for some fun at Lion Brand Yarn Studio. Back home Monday, at which point I promise new pictures of the lopapeysa, which has grown a sleeve.

Over on Twitter (yeah–I finally knuckled under and I'm @FranklinHabit), I posted a lazy haiku:

Hey! I am a cow.
Moo moo moo moo moo moo moo,
Moo moo moo moo moo.

There were requests for more, which makes me fear for the future of our world. But I live to serve, so here you go.

I call this one "Monotony of an Autumn Afternoon."

Knit knit knit purl knit
Knit knit purl knit knit knit purl
Knit knit knit purl sigh.

This one is called "Sudden Awareness."

Knit knit knit knit wait
What? Damn! Rip rip rip rip rip
Rip rip rip rip rip.

And finally, "Pastoral."

Baa baa baa baa. Hey!
Clip clip clip clip clip clip clip
Clip clip clip. Nude sheep.

I could do this for hours, but we're supposed to board soon. See you in Manhattan.

News Flash: Knitters Are Weird

2011-11-28T15:13:00.005-05:00

Film at eleven.

Out of the Sketchbook: Holiday Edition

2011-11-24T12:02:00.002-05:00

Pssst...

I wasn't going to post about this until tomorrow, but the 2011 Knitting Ornament and Associated holiday cards are ready. I mention it now because it looks like Café Press is discounting the ornaments (both this and previous years) today. I don't know how long the sale will last, but it's a whopping fifty cents you could spend on yarn.

Eternal Love Is Only Worth So Much

2011-11-20T19:13:00.002-05:00

Steek Geek

2011-11-17T13:14:00.005-05:00

The lopapeysa chugged one station closer to Finishville yesterday, after I cut the steek down the front. Snippity-snip. Instant cardigan.

This isn't my first steek, but it's the first time I've secured the edges using a sewing machine instead of rows of crochet. I chose the sewing option because it was for me the less familiar and the more unnerving. Like that nice Mae West, when choosing between two evils I always pick the one I haven't tried yet.

I've only recently started to make friends with my sewing machine. There are still awkward moments, when I'm not sure of myself and she just sits there waiting for me to make a move. We have navigated successfully through a couple of hems, a square pillow and the lower portion of a doll; but never had I run a length of hand-knitting between the presser foot and the feed dogs.

A test drive was in order. I whipped out a swatch* that transitioned (like the lopapeysa) from one color to two. This took ten minutes, and probably saved me an hour's trouble in the long run.

I used the swatch to determine the top tension setting, the stitch length, and the amount of effort I'd need (not much, it turned out) to keep the fabric sliding along the machine bed.

This is not to say there were no bumps. Some knitters like to preserve the illusion of infallibility, but I blew that opportunity years ago. I might as well 'fess up.

The first pass–done with the wrong side of the fabric up, which I'd been told would help me stay on track–was a disaster. It wiggled like an EKG for the first eleven inches, then ran off the steek and and landed in the yoke pattern.

Notice, however, that I am still here, alive, typing this. Notice that the sweater was not wrecked. Notice that the police blotter in the Chicago Sun-Times did not report a man hurling a sewing machine out the living room window and into Lake Michigan.

I learned what happens when (horrors!) your sewn steek goes astray. What happens is you get your seam ripper and you un-pick the stitches. I decided to undo the entire twenty-inch seam. It took thirty minutes. I watched half an episode of Monarch of the Glen while I was doing it. There are worse ways to pass time.

The second and third passes (with the right side up) were uneventful, and whatever jitters attended my maiden voyage with this technique will bother me no more.

Before starting the sleeves, I decided to run a row of single crochet up each selvedge.

I'm so happy I did. The edges have more body, look spiffy, and will provide a more stable base for the zipper.

Sleeves are next. I know I can do sleeves.

*I felt compelled to post a photograph of the swatch to prove that I had done it. I think not swatching and saying you did is one of the dirty little secrets of knitting. It's like flossing your teeth. Maybe you do, maybe you don't; but either way you're going to give the dentist the same answer–which is never "Oh, frankly, I just couldn't be bothered."

The Transformation of the Bunny Rabbit

2011-11-14T11:40:00.008-05:00

Did you ever have one of those days when you woke up and knew with fearful certainty that absolutely nothing else would be accomplished until you had knit yourself an extremely tiny specimen of Oryctolagus cuniculus?

Fortunately, in preparing Teeny-Tiny Mochimochi, Anna Hrachovec (the benevolent queen of mochimochiland.com) had anticipated this eventuality and provided a pattern. It took about thirty minutes scratch to my itch.

Cute, right? Yes. But...pedestrian. Unremarkable.

The eyes had to go. Too predictable. Bigger. Brighter. Caffeinated.

Better.

Then, a haircut that didn't look like a haircut. Something tousled and shaggy, probably unwashed, maybe styled with an ironic nod to the 1970s and The Doobie Brothers but decidedly modern in color.

And a piercing, of course.

I was going to complete the makeover by knitting the bunny an extremely small Death Cab for Cutie t-shirt, but he had decided this post was So Over.

Casting On

2011-11-08T09:09:00.003-05:00

Possibly because she's had enough of waiting for her Pink Cape,* and has decided to just do it herself, Abigail (who is pushing five, can you believe it?) asked my sister to show her the ropes. Or yarns, as it were.

In her message to me, Susan noted that I should not give the impression that my niece will now be augmenting the family income as a stocking knitter, like those kiddies of old you hear about who were turning heels at age three. She enjoyed herself, and began to get the gist of it all. But she was mightily distracted the entire time by the basket of yarn on the table. She kept wanting to stop knitting so she could pet and squeeze it.

Sounds like a Knitter to me.

*I'm at the bottom, about eight rounds from the end. Stop shovin'.

Little Man, Big Sweater

2011-11-02T12:08:00.006-04:00

The lopapeysa isn't the only thing I've been knitting, but it's the one thing I can show you.

Having now shown it, I will confess that almost everything you see below the yoke has been ripped back and is being re-knit.

One of the great advantages of working from the top down is that the sweater can be tried on while still in progress, without any danger of this happening. For interim fittings to be of genuine benefit, however, the knitter must be able to make honest assessments of his work and correct as needed. I, perhaps due to an excess of enthusiasm, was unable to face facts until I'd nearly completed the ribbing at the hem. Denial, as I was saying to Kevin Spacey and Ryan Seacrest the other day, is a powerful thing.

The problem? The front was fine, but the back had enough extra room to park a couple of minivans, one of them pulling a trailer. It looked like that flap of skin mother dogs use to carry puppies around. This, in spite of my attempts to head off exactly such an outcome by dividing the work at the underarms with considerably more stitches in front than in back.

Man knits; God laughs.

It's startling for a guy to become a knitter, take stock of his measurements and realize that he requires what his dressmaker grandmother taught him is called a Full Bust Adjustment. Even if it does indicate that all those bloody bench presses haven't been for naught.

In a ready-t0-wear sweater, I might have let it pass. I'm accustomed to store-bought clothes not fitting properly. Commercial menswear lines consider stocky fellows under five feet, seven inches to be flights of fantasy, like the Loch Ness Monster or Mitt Romney's moral compass.

But there's no such excuse when I'm making it with my own hands. Rip I must, and rip I did; and the results will be worth it in the end.

I can't sign off before drawing your attention to the length of insipid pink yarn that's holding the live armhole stitches–you can see the ends hanging down. It came from a gigantic ball of shoddy acrylic I picked up years ago, when I still believed that yarn was yarn was yarn. I made three baby gifts from it, taught myself lace by using it for swatches, and have sliced off what must be miles of it in bits and pieces to use for class demonstrations, provisional cast-ons, stitch holders, and stitch markers.

The ball is still exactly the same size it was when I bought it. When Bill Clinton was in the White House.

This never happens with cashmere.

New York Calling

Online registration is open for my early December classes at Lion Brand Yarn Studio in New York City. This will be a first visit for me, and they'll also be hosting a talk/book signing the same weekend. The place is a kick–come and join us.

Spooky Poetry Corner

2011-10-31T11:44:00.004-04:00

Happy Halloween, kids.

I've lost the battle, yet again, about how our merry little band is celebrating.

My plan was to dress in my favorite costume (a Cloak of Indifference), sit on the couch and stream old episodes of Acrylic Intervention with Clara Parkes on Netflix. (The one where she gets knifed at the Methodist church bazaar while counseling the lady who can't stop knitting toilet roll covers is scary enough for two Halloweens.)

In the event, I was outvoted 231 to 1 (stupid traitor sock yarn colony) in favor of Dolores's plan that we make an appearance at the Bottom Dollar Lounge's "Haunted and Humpy" party in a group costume.

It could be worse. The first idea on the whiteboard was that we all dress as the Human Centipede, with Dolores in front. After much spirited debate, she's going as Slutty Barbara Walker and the rest of us are going to be swatches and top-down sweaters.

I'm still finishing my Slutty Baby Cable costume, so I hope you won't mind re-visiting an Occasional Piece I wrote several Halloweens ago but which has never actually appeared on the blog. It's an homage to one of the great American masters of horror literature, and was created for Brenda Dayne's Cast On podcast; if you'd rather listen than read, it's available (with pipe organ accompaniment) in her archives.

And yes–I know Slutty Baby Cable is in questionable taste, but my first choice (Slutty Moss Stitch) seemed way too obvious.

Anyway, here's the poem.

The Romney

by Franklin Habit, d'aprés E. A. Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I knitted, weak and weary,
On a lumpy Aran sweater that was truly quite a bore,
While I cabled, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping–
As of hoofbeats gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis the maintenance man,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door.
Only this–and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember I was knitting for December
For a boyfriend who stretched six feet from his temples to the floor.
Eagerly I wished it finished, yet the skeins were undiminished–
Though I knit ’til I was crippled and the sweater was a bore–
Though that lumpy Aran sweater was a never-ending bore.
So I sighed–and knit some more.

When at last the row at last had ended and the stitches dropped were mended,
“Sir,” I said, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.
But the fact is, I was counting and my agitation mounting
When so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.”–here, I opened wide the door;
Darkness there–and nothing more.

As I stood upon the doorstep, suddenly I heard a sure step,
And in walked a fluffy Romney ewe I’d never seen before.
Without a word or nod, across the welcome mat she trod
And lighting up a Camel cigarette, she perched beside the door–
Perched beside the bust of Barbara Walker near my chamber door;
Perched, and smoked–and nothing more.

Then, quoth the Romney, “Knit some more.”

Much I marveled this unruly sheep to hear command so truly
In my native tongue an order rendered in a tone so sure.
“Tell me, madam,” I addressed her, “Why am I the one you pester?
Why not Mabel, Midge, or Esther?” Questions did not interest her.
She just rolled her eyes and flicked some dying ashes to the floor.

Quoth the Romney, “Knit some more.”

And the Romney, sitting primly in the hallway, smoking grimly,
Those words only ever said, and those words only–nothing more.
So, into my armchair sinking, I resumed my fruitless tinking,
Working on the Aran sweater ’til my fingers all were sore.

And the sheep said, “Knit some more.”

And that Romney, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
Near the bust of Barbara Walker just inside my chamber door.
And she smokes, and drinks, and titters while I try to knit with jitters
On the lumpy Aran sweater that is as it was before.
Though Decembers pass away upon this sweater, every day,
I shall be knitting–evermore.

Yoked

2011-10-23T11:04:00.007-04:00

For knitters, one of the staggering things about the streets of Reykjavik is that they are so full of people wearing handknits that you almost stop noticing. The lopapeysa is everywhere. What's more, it's on everyone. The hip and the dowdy, the young and the old, the ample and the spindly all hike about with the signature patterned yoke around their shoulders.

On day one, spotting them was sport enough. "Over there," Stephen would hiss in my ear, "by the coffee shop." Mike would snap a surreptitious picture with his iPad, if a photo taken by waving a large, flashy piece of electronic equipment in the air can be said to be surreptitious.

By the end of the trip, we had moved along from mere sighting to identifying according to which Lopi book they'd been published in. "Number 26," I'd say, casually nodding my head in the direction of a passing specimen. "That's four this morning," Stephen would note. Stephen is good at counting things. Mike would snap a surreptitious picture with his iPad, if a photo taken by waving a large, flashy piece of electronic equipment in the air can be said to be surreptitious.

You can attribute the universal popularity of the lopapeysa to many things. It's warm. It's handsome. It's durable. You can buy the yarn for it at the grocery store for thirty bucks.

But that's not the whole story. It also turns out the damned things are addictive to knit. I started my Vetur three days ago with a swatch to test the colors. I have already finished the yoke,

and I'm having trouble setting it aside so that I can eat, sleep, bathe, engage in human contact.

I had to force myself to put it down so I could photograph it and write this. In fact, I'm tempted to stop writing immed

Directions

2011-10-20T14:00:00.005-04:00

In order to compensate, in part, for no longer being surrounded by this,

or this,

(click to embiggen; it's worth it)

I have begun working on this:

It's Vetur, a lopapeysa by Védis Jónsdóttir, from Lopi 28. I left Iceland with a sweater's worth of yarn (thanks to Ragga of Knitting Iceland), and had thoughts of designing my own yoke. There's lots of other work on the table, however; and I decided following somebody else's instructions for a change would be a vacation in itself.

So I'm knitting Vetur as written, aside from changing it from the two original colors to four completely different colors.

And using Létt-Lopi (a spun yarn, with a finer gauge) instead of Plötulopi (which is unspun and slightly bulky).

And trimming some of the lower edge of the yoke, since I don't think a large yoke flatters a small person.

And eliminating the pattern from the body and sleeves.

And altering the neckband.

And making it a zippered cardigan instead of a pullover.

And working it from the top down instead of the bottom up.

Aside from that, I'm absolutely going to sit back and let dear Védis do the driving.

Whee.

They Weren't Kidding

2011-10-16T04:51:00.004-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the yarn section of the grocery store–this one's attached to a mall in Reykjavik. The yarn is just past the dairy case.

Mostly Lopi, but also a very large selection of Dale of Norway. Also sock yarns, mystery acrylics, pattern books, needles, notions, and buttons.

The above is plötulopi (unspun yarn, in wheels), wrapped in plastic to preserve the yarny freshness.

I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.

Birthplace of Lopi

2011-10-14T05:30:00.004-04:00

This was taken at Álafoss, a few hundred yards from the modern Istex mill where Lopi Yarn is produced.

In the early days of the industry, in the late 19th century, this river ran with naturally warm water. The raw wools were washed in it.

Today, the original mill building houses a shop that sells Lopi–including the famous unspun yarns that are put up in little wheels.

Footnote: Across the path from the shop is a former swimming pool that became the recording studio for the band Sigur Rós.

Before this trip I wasn't a fan of either Lopi or Sigur Rós. Boy, did that change in a hurry.

Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy

2011-10-13T05:20:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, in an antiques shop near the harbor in Reykjavik, I found these* under a stack of old sheet music.

Last night, inside the blue one, I found this.

That's the most exquisite hand-drawn lace chart I've ever seen. I think it's time for a mystery knit.

*Kunst-stricken is "art knitting"–in other words, knitted lace.

Having a Terrible Time

2011-10-12T04:06:00.006-04:00

Iceland is just so cold and barren and forbidding and stark. Help, help.

New On the Calendar

As much as it pains me to contemplate a time in which I shall not be in Iceland, at least I have some exceedingly cool stuff to look forward to.

December 2 and 4, I'll be in New York City (hurrah!) at Lion Brand Yarn Studio for three classes and an evening talk / book signing. Sign-ups are open–follow the link for more information.

Answer Man

2011-10-11T05:16:00.003-04:00

Am rushing off to the Blue Lagoon (my life, it is bleak) so only time for three quick answers this morning.

1. Prancing pony Lopapeysa in the Lopapeysapalooza post is available here as a free download in English. Awesome, no?

2. The sheep in the graffiti post is in the upper left corner. It's wearing black sneakers, which is the way that Icelandic sheep camouflage themselves. Very effective, apparently.

3. Yes, I have heard about the volcano possibly erupting any minute now. I hasten to reassure you that I am not sitting on top of it. Please stop with the alarming e-mails. I'm fine, we're all fine, and if by chance it blows me sky-high I'll die happy. I'm surrounded by sheep and yarn. What more can you ask for.

Speaking in Tongues

2011-10-10T04:00:00.009-04:00

Before this trip, the only thing I knew about the Icelandic language was that it was sprinkled with letters I didn't recognize, most notably the eth (ð) and the thorn (þ). Aren't they pretty?

Now that I've been here a few days and heard it spoken constantly, I'm in love with it. It has lilt and sparkle. It falls gently on the ear. A casual conversation in Icelandic sounds less like chitchat than a duet. (Or a trio, quartet, or–after a substantial amount of Gull has gone down the hatch–a free-for-all twelve-tone Viking war chorus.)

I love languages and am usually pretty good at picking them up on the fly. But not Icelandic. Three days and I still can't pronounce the name of my street (Þórsgata) in a way that doesn't make taxi drivers say, "What?"

Being unable to decode anything written–menus, shop signs, magazine titles, street signs–is wildly disorienting. The street signs, in particular, make me seasick. Þórsgata is an easy one. Usually you're confronted with Rauðarárastígur, which when spoken properly sounds as though it only has two syllables, neither of which uses any of the letters in "Rauðarárastígur."

To cope, while I try earnestly to improve myself, I've had to resort to remembering street names by what they kinda look like instead of what they actually are. This morning, I'm in charge of navigating myself and my companions (Mike of FiberBeat and Stephen of Hizknits) to a thermal pool we haven't tried yet. It's at the corner of Burgermunch and Snuffleuppagus.

If you don't hear from us in 24 hours, send help.

Addendum: I opened Flickr this morning to be greeted by this.

Go fuck yourself, Flickr.

Lopapeysapalooza

2011-10-09T03:55:00.005-04:00

A flock of lopapeysa (traditional Icelandic yoked sweaters) caught on the fly during a community inspection of rams.

Check out the size and spacing of some of these motifs. Notice that strands are often carried for far more than five stitches–and nobody died. No weaving on the wrong side, either. When I asked about this, I was told that Icelandic wool felts so readily to itself that with very little wear, the long floats pretty much disappear into the fabric.

The longer I knit, the more I realize that Elizabeth Zimmermann was right: there are no rules in knitting that cannot be broken.

The tour company that brought me here has produced a thoroughly charming instructional video about these sweaters. Highly recommended.

Morning in Reykjavik

2011-10-08T08:53:00.003-04:00

A corner of the graffiti park.

Did you spot the sheep?

Iceland Welcomes You

2011-10-07T15:26:00.002-04:00

A sheep farm in the West Country.

Sheep here don't say "baaaaa" they say "mehhhhhhhh." But aside from the language barrier, we got along famously.

Next Stop Reykjavik

2011-10-06T19:45:00.003-04:00

Twice in one day. It's either feast or famine around here, isn't it? Not, come to think of it, that two brief posts constitute a feast.

Not unless you're one of the two French women at the next table, here in the Food Court at the Boston Logan International Terminal. They are having quite a heated conversation about how all the options here are too much, too much! They haven't mentioned liver attacks yet, but they're French, so it should come around any minute.

I happen to agree with them. It's too much, and it's disgusting. What passes for decent food in an Airport–any airport I've been through, even outside the United State–would be considered slop for half the price in the land outside the runways. I settled on Chinese food, like the two French women. They are splitting a single entrée, a bottle of water, and a cup of rice. They might consider these two entries a feast.

Notice how I finally remembered where I was going with that?

Oh, and the hat. I finished the hat, aside from weaving in the ends. I wound up just doing an asymmetrical garter-stitch brim. Here's a picture.

I hope you noticed the cleaning lady in the background, asking herself, "What in the Hell is he doing?" You work at an airport, honey. This cannot possibly be the weirdest thing you've seen today.

Maybe I should leave the needle in, and tell people who ask that it's an antenna. Better yet, leave the needle in and tell that to everyone, even if they don't ask. I bet I could get three seats all to myself.

Fine, it's not going to win any design awards, but it'll keep my flipping ears warm. It's also my first top-down hat, and it's a method I'll be delighted to repeat.

I could fuss with the brim some more, but I have to move on to the next project.

Because I forgot to pack a scarf.

PS They just said it! Crise de foie! I feel like I should yell, "Bingo!"

I've Been a Little Busy Lately

2011-10-06T15:13:00.003-04:00

I remember a time when I didn't write most of my posts while sitting in airports. But here's another one. I'm in Chicago, waiting for a flight to Boston. From Boston, I go to Reykjavik, Iceland.

I've never been to Iceland; but I hear tell that they sell yarn at the grocery store, so I'm expecting it to be an Earthly Paradise. Albeit a slightly chilly Paradise, which would explain the omnipresence of yarn.

I was packing for the trip when I realized, last night, that I don't have a winter hat for myself. Not one. I've knit tons of them, but they've all gone off into the world on other heads.

It's in such a situation that Knitters and Those Who Do Not Knit part company. Those who knit not would go out and buy a hat. Knitters, or at least this knitter, reach a point where buying a winter hat feels like cheating (at worst) or giving up (at best).

There is simply no way I can show up in Iceland with a four-dollar hat from Target.

So I'm knitting one en route.

I have until I get there to figure out and finish the brim treatment. Ribbing is out. Too pedestrian. This should be a Project Runway challenge: finish your garment by the time the plane lands, or get frostbite.

Off we go.

Such Language, and In Front of the Dolls

2011-09-20T12:45:00.006-04:00

Knitty's Deep Fall 2011 issue is out today, which brings with it the second (and blessedly final) installment of the Weldon's Practical Knitter baby doll ensemble, the first part of which appeared in the previous issue.

A prominent feature is the looped edging that gives the otherwise simple bonnet a bit of kaboom.

Weldon's was on a loopity-loop kick at the time. In the twenty-sixth series of Practical Knitter (from whence come the doll clothes) the technique is featured repeatedly. Good thing, too. The pattern I was working from omits the key maneuver that prevents the whole thing falling to pieces when you shake it. A comparison with a pattern for a woman's coat–on the very next page–showed me where the error lay.

Once I had the knack, looped knitting wasn't difficult, though I wouldn't want to edge an entire coat with the stuff. It's certainly eye-catching. Tom was transfixed when he saw it.

"What the heck is that?"

"Another piece for Knitty."

"One of the antique ones?"

"Yep."

He pondered the narrow, furry strip trailing off the needles.

Tom doesn't knit, but at this point he's heard (ad nauseam) about Fair Isle knitting, Faroese knitting, Estonian knitting, Latvian knitting, Portuguese knitting...

"What do you call it?" he said. "Because it looks like Brazilian knitting."

Nota bene: If you don't get it, darling, I'm afraid I am not going to explain it to you.

Sleepish in Seattle

2011-09-14T14:18:00.006-04:00

It’s stuffy in here. My eyes are shut, but the glare of cheap fluorescent lights is barely tempered. The air smells of exasperation, perspiration and panic. Every few minutes, a woman with a voice like a Valkyrie hoots directions sternly into my ear. I’m either in seventh grade, taking a math test; or I’m at the airport.

Eyes open. Airport.

Which is worse. Airport? Algebra? Not sure.

But it's worth it. I’ve had a week and then some of intense knitting out here in Seattle; including a talk to the Seattle Knitters Guild,* and classes at two shops I love: Fiber Gallery and Weaving Works.** For that, I will bear a security officer (whose career consists largely of looking at nude X-rays of strangers) telling me that traveling in a kilt is A Little Weird and Asking for Trouble.

The first four days were spent in the company of these fellows:

Those are the faces of the Men’s Fall Knitting Retreat 2011, which I look forward to the way I used to look forward to the arrival of the Sears-Roebuck holiday catalogue. So many shiny new toys to look at,*** and always something interesting to see in the underwear section.

This year, Show and Tell Night was combined with a parade of non-bifurcated men’s garments–also known as kilts and sarongs.

Then we had a tickle fight. No, not really. But feel free to imagine that we did.

* I presented a new talk, and they laughed at the jokes. I am so very grateful.

** I bought books at both. I almost bought a loom at the latter, because I don't spend enough of my life playing with fiber already.

***I was particularly taken, not for the first time, by a demonstration of the Pocket Wheel; and left Skacel Collection headquarters with a dreamy hank of something that will become a new design this winter.

Edited to add: By popular demand, a larger version of the kilt photo is available here.

Harry's Home Movies: Concluded

2011-08-21T00:43:00.002-04:00

The last of Harry's travel trilogy–highlights of Sock Summit 2011–is now up and running on our YouTube Channel.

Before you click over, I feel compelled to warn you that some scenes of this installment may prove disturbing to very young children and anyone who doesn't quite understand the whole yarn thing.

But that's their problem, innit?

Yeah, I'm Working on Another Column For Knitty

2011-08-18T15:08:00.008-04:00

Dear Anonymous Nineteenth-Century Designer,

Often, as I wend my way through your patterns, I wonder who you were and where you lived.

I imagine what it would have been like to meet you face-to-face; and ponder what you might have tried to say to me as my fingers closed firmly around your throat to choke the life out of you.

Love,
Franklin

Harry's Home Movies: Transatlantic Intermezzo

2011-08-17T17:05:00.003-04:00

The first episode of Harry's video chronicle has shot past 3,500 views in just a few days. Very gratifying. Thank you.

In editing the rest, we discovered there's so much ~~weird~~ good stuff from Sock Summit that it's best to give the centerpiece of the trip–our voyage on the Cunard liner Queen Mary 2–its own installment. No knitting in this one, but there is a hint of what's to come near the end.

If you would care to experience the luscious filling of crème chantilly that separated our two gooey, high-calorie layers of fiber festival, please click over to my YouTube Channel and make a young ball of sock yarn very happy.

Harry's Home Movies: Part One

2011-08-12T18:08:00.004-04:00

Harry took his new video camera (a gift from my parents) everywhere during our long, strange trip.

Herewith, the first part of what he saw. Aside from the out-takes which largely feature me in various states of undress.

As the movie's a little too large to show properly here, kindly visit my YouTube Channel to view.

Culture Corner with Dolores

2011-08-05T16:01:00.006-04:00

Hi, it's Dolores.

Franklin "Stop Calling Me Frodo" Habit is still stuck in the video editing suite (which if you ask me looks a whole lot like the kitchen table) with Harry. After three days, they're still only halfway through Harry's 10,000 hours of footage showing mostly carpets, ankles and Franklin screaming, " I told you to keep that thing out of the bathroom, dammit!"

Not to point hooves, but I was the one who said at the outset of the trip that giving the camera to somebody who needs a ladder to see over a speed bump was perhaps not the brightest idea.

So Franklin chucked the keyboard at me and said to show you my contribution to the team travelogue. It was supposed to be a series of photo studies highlighting hand-embroidery and block printing in the textile collection at the Victoria and Albert Museum, but that was completely boring and the sun was in my eyes and don't tell me what kind of art to make so I went another way.

Naked Tushes of the V&A

Whoops, how did that last one get in there?

We at The Panopticon thank you for your kind attention to our educational programming. Please exit through the gift shop. I'm going for a drink. Bye.

10,000 Uses for an Ocean Liner

2011-08-02T12:39:00.006-04:00

Use #8,247: Sock Dryer.

When using an ocean liner as a sock dryer, it helps if you happen to be traveling with your entire collection of old wooden clothespins. Keep an eye on the weather: It is undesirable to find that a sudden gale has soaked your sock anew or–worse still–blown it away entirely. Should rough weather arise during dinner, you are advised to leap up (even if dessert is on the way) and waste no time in effecting a rescue. You may find it helpful to shout, "My sock! My sock!" all the way to your cabin in order to warn passengers and crew that they need to clear a path.

If you were in my Knitted Tessellations classes at Sock Summit 2011, you'll recognize this as the new "Feline" sock–fresh from a long soak in the bathroom sink (Use #8,246) after being knit up in the Spa, the Britannia Restaurant, and the Coffee Bar (Use #8,245). Paired with "Canine," it'll be online for download in a few weeks.

We of The Panopticon are home from Sock Summit and in the midst of the usual round of mail sorting, laundry, unpacking, and trying to find space for all the new books. (Space for new yarn is easy. Yarn squishes. Books squish not.)

I'm also helping Harry to edit all his home movie footage. Turns out the little dickens is quite the budding cinematographer.

The Glamorous Life: A Tasteful Vignette

2011-07-28T07:39:00.009-04:00

It was only after I reached Portland yesterday that I realized I had passed through four time zones in a little more than twenty-four hours; a new personal record. I was standing, but my body felt as though it had been neatly and expertly de-boned like a turkey galantine.

My brain, which is congenitally befogged on the best of days, was on the verge of shutting down. I woke twice in the night, confused, in a cold sweat. Happily my custom of leaving bedside notes for myself prevented a full-blown panic attack and unmanly screams that might have summoned the police.

The third time I woke, it was to (as Sister Mary Cynthia used delicately to put it) visit the gentlemen's private accommodation. I was perhaps twenty percent awake, the room was dark, and I felt in my head (as I always do on the first night ashore) the delicate rocking that suggested I slept yet in the luxurious bosom of Mother Cunard.

So I padded over to where the bathroom was in my cabin on the Queen Mary 2; and it was only when by happy chance a sleeve brushed my face that I came to full awareness and narrowly avoided having a hearty pee into the shoes on the floor of my closet at the Red Lion Inn.

The Advantages of Knitting in the Middle of the Sea

2011-07-27T10:04:00.006-04:00

...and other, random notes from aboard the Queen Mary 2, transcribed at LaGuardia Airport in New York while I wait for my flight to Sock Summit.

Leaving England and KnitNation because you have a passage to New York on a Cunard liner takes some of the sting out of leaving England and KnitNation. But not all of it.
Ill-mannered children with overly-indulgent parents are an international phenomenon. The self-centered little darling kicking your shins on the gangway, yelling in the restaurant or spilling expensive drinks in the ship's bar s/he really should not be visiting in the first place is as likely to have come from England, France, Spain, Japan or Germany as from America. This is simultaneously comforting, alarming and depressing.
European families seem to like to go to the spa together. On the one hand, I think that's rather sweet. On the other hand, though I love my mother, I do not wish to sit in a Turkish bath with her.
Speaking of the spa, had my first view in years of bare breasts when I walked into the aromatherapy sauna and surprised a French lady who had forgot to put on her maillot. She hitched up her towel and cheerfully wished me bonjour, but not before I'd taken in the panoramic view of her aureolas and instantly found myself thinking, Yup–still gay.
The sound of the Queen Mary 2's horns as the ship leaves Southampton is one of the strongest aphrodisiacs I know.
You cannot have too much chocolate lava cake at one sitting. You can try, and suspect that you are coming close; but then the waiter will explain that it's time to set up the dining room for the next day's breakfast and graciously shoo you back to your cabin. Happily, you will then find that room service is only too delighted to send up a frozen chocolate bombe as a pre-bedtime digestif. They will even send two, so you can save one for morning.
Regarding point 6, it's a good thing the ship has a gym and that I remembered my running shoes.
If you go to Needlework Circle (every afternoon at 2 pm in the Champagne Bar), you will meet knitters, crocheters, embroiderers and quilters from eleven states and six countries. One of the knitters will turn out to be a colleague of your sister's, from the same tiny school district in rural Maine, and exclaim that "You're the uncle who made the christening shawl!"
I could be a self-made multi-billionaire who only condescended to travel this week with Cunard because my own, larger bespoke liner is still being assembled in France. I could, in addition, be an internationally famous cover model with my own clothing and home accessories lines, a budding film career and a reputation as a humanitarian and philanthropist. I could, in addition, be in possession of so many advanced degrees that Oxford, Harvard and the Sorbonne were trying to come up with new fields of learning just to keep me occupied. And there would still be a couple of bitchy New York queens on the ship who would cut me dead because I live in Chicago instead of Manhattan.
Watching a full-length Royal Opera House production of Carmen in high-definition 3D while you float across the ocean is cool, even if the soprano who sang Micaela was about as convincing as a 17-year-old blonde Navarraise virgin as I would be.
Do not excitedly run to your balcony to photograph the whales without stopping to put on some clothes first, especially when your balcony is directly above the very crowded promenade deck.

Harry is editing his KnitNation videos, and Dolores has asked for space to exhibit her photos from the Victoria and Albert Museum, so mine won't be the last word on the trip. This is just a quick hello. I've missed you all–it's nice to be back in touch.

Whew.

2011-07-12T17:27:00.005-04:00

Hi. I'm sitting at Logan Airport, in Boston, waiting for my flight to London for KnitNation. I saw on Facebook that Clara Parkes is getting ready to leave Dulles for the same, and I know other teachers are on the move as well. Most of us will hit Crumpetsville tomorrow.

I like the idea of mass migrations of knitters. More colorful than migrating wildebeest. Less liable to poop on your head than migrating birds. Far more pleasant than the roving swarms of locusts or beetles or whatever it is that has been eating the damn leaves in my flower bed. (Oy. Don't even ask, seriously.)

My schedule for the next three weeks may be summarized thus:

Fly to London.
Teach in London.
Play in London.
Leave London for Southampton.
Leave Southampton for New York.
Leave New York for Portland.
Teach in Portland.
Leave Portland for Chicago.

Packing took nine hours and six different lists, and I still left the apartment without my #@$%!* phone.

This will be a family event. Tom joins me for numbers 3 through 5; Dolores and Harry will be in attendance for the whole shebang.

(Shebang is, don't you think, an almost too-apt description of an undertaking in which Dolores becomes involved?)

Getting ready for all this has turned me into a terrible blogger, and I beg your indulgence. Will you think more kindly of me if I show you some actual knitting? No kidding, actual knitting. A whole shawl, in fact. I was going to wait until after this trip to post about it, but I can't stand it any more. It's been finished for yonks.

Tell you what, I'll show you some of the test photos; the pattern will be for sale via download come August. If you want to see it in person, I have it with me.

It's another in the series named for women in my family. This one's for my mother, so it'll be called Anna. Anna is Giovannina's daughter, Pauline's daughter-in-law and Sahar's mother.

The yarn is Cascade Heritage Silk, about which I do not believe there is yet enough happy screaming. I fell in love with it halfway through Swatch #1; and having completed one project in it I'm already in the mood for another.

This piece taught me something interesting, which is that you cannot sum up your mother in a couple of stitch motifs. Or at least I can't sum up my mother in a couple of stitch motifs. So there's less overt symbolism here than in, say, Pauline; and fewer outside references than in Giovannina.

While I was designing the lace patterns, I tried knitting Things That Spoke of Mother; and every time the results fell short. How could they not? A woman goes through very scary labor in order to bring you into the world, then spends decades dealing with your quirky child self and your weird teenage self and your annoying adult self. She never once complains, she never stops loving you. And then you turn around and say, "Hey, I put everything you are and have done into in this bunch of yarnovers that kind of looks like a flock of doves if you squint." Right.

In the end I set the whole idea of symbolism aside. I just played with the yarn until what was on the needles seemed to bear some kinship to my mother's spirit.

So almost every time I look at this shawl, I see different things. Once it was honeybees–very suitable for a mother who has uncomplainingly spent her life in near-constant motion, making things for other people. Another time, during the knitting, I realized that the little pair of yarn overs that pop up periodically reminded me of her eyes. Especially since they were all over the place. If there is anything that makes me think of my mother, it's all-seeing eyes. She was and is a modern Argus, only she's a hep chick from Detroit and she can dance better.

Mom, I hope you like it. In the end, I admit that I can't sum you up in one shawl. But what the heck. You know the truth. They're all dedicated to you, even when they don't have your name on them.

Giovannina

2011-06-20T22:24:00.014-04:00

The series of lace designs I've been naming after beloved women in my family (it began with Sahar and continued with Pauline) has a new addition: Giovannina.

That was my maternal grandmother's given name, as recorded (to our collective surprise) on her birth and baptismal certificates. She never used it, and neither (so far as any of us recall) did her mother. She was called Jennie, and called herself Jennie, and signed my birthday checks (thank you, Grandma) Jennie.

She was born in the early 1930s in Detroit, Michigan, to parents who had immigrated from adjacent Sicilian towns but married (in a match arranged by their families) in the United States. On the day of their wedding my great-grandmother was a few days shy of 16.

Giovannina was the third of four children and the first of two daughters. She fell in love with a nice Sicilian boy from New York City and went on to have five children of her own - four daughters and a son.

The priceless image below was taken before my arrival in the 1970s, but it's a fair representation of how I remember her.

The Christmas tree was in the front room of the house in St. Clair Shores, a suburb of Detroit. In the local patois this space was invariably referred to as the "frontroom"–one word. It was reserved for state occasions: Christmas morning, wedding photos, visits from clergy, official visits from my mother's gentlemen callers–including, eventually, my father.

When I think of my grandmother, I think of this room. She decorated it herself, and it was filled with her favorite things. When she wanted new furniture for it, she did the unspeakable for a good Italian wife in that time and place–she went out and got a job to pay for it.

The front room was a textbook example of what I affectionately call Dago Baroque. Imagine the crossing of St. Peter's in Rome, but with top-of-the-line seven-layer curtains from J.C. Penney and pale yellow deep-pile shag that never, ever has vacuum marks in it.

The gigantic furniture, including the console record player, was French Provincial upholstered in white damask under clear plastic. The wallpaper was gold foil with green flocking. You could see yourself in it. It remained absolutely pristine for decades until the never-to-be-forgotten morning when one of my cousins accidentally smacked it with a wet lollipop. Years later, Grandma still could not refer to this incident without turning red.

Bric-à-brac of the most elevated variety covered every horizontal surface. The customary painted miniature pony cart, of course; and a cabinet stuffed with a prized collection of porcelain angels and bells.

I now own two of the other major pieces: an 18-inch high Infant of Prague with a metal crown and a full seasonal wardrobe; and a hefty cut-glass candy dish on a marble base guarded by a pair of gilt cherubs. There was one other candy dish - a white marble urn with birds perched on the rim. The former held ribbon candy, the latter green and pink pillow mints. The stuff was so vile that sneaking it when the grown-ups weren't looking wasn't even worth the risk. When my grandmother died in the late 1990s, the candy in the dishes is believed to have been the same that was already installed when my mother was a bride in the late 1960s.

There were also, on pedestals, a pair of plaster statuettes of Italian peasants lugging huge baskets of velveteen grapes. My father was parked in an adjacent armchair chair near these on his formal visit, while my mother stirred pasta in the kitchen and presumably begged her parents to go easy on this one. After a while the eligible bachelor got bored and started shooting spitwads into one of the baskets. My mother caught him and happily was able to clear away the evidence before my grandmother could get wise and throw him into the street.

I loved my grandmother, and as a child I loved this room because it was so beautiful and brilliant and untouchable. I used to stand by the door and just stare across the threshold. On occasion, because I was such an odious little goody-goody, I was allowed to sit quietly on the sofa and just look at things. Just look, not touch. If I so much as extended a tentative finger toward the incredible cover of the Bible on the coffee table (with an inset reproduction of Leonardo's Madonna and Child with Saint Anne) she would shout from the laundry room in the basement, "I told you, don't touch!"*

I had an epiphany in that room. Not a pleasant one, either. My mother and I drove in for a visit. I was in my mid-twenties, and we were there specially to see my grandfather, who was ill with the condition that would eventually kill him. He had been moved from the bedroom to a hospital bed in the family room (a later addition, off the kitchen). My grandmother, unable to face her wedding bed without her groom...had taken to sleeping on the Sacred White Couch in the front room. While we were there, she ceded that space to me. The plastic furniture covers were gone. There were clothes thrown in a corner near the glass cabinet, and bottles of pills scattered on the coffee table by the candy dish.

I was shocked. It was the first time that I realized that certain people and things you thought would always be there, unchanging–Grandpa, Grandma, Grandma's sitting room–are not as eternal as you would wish. It was the moment I first understood, viscerally, that nothing is forever.

I can't claim that I consciously intended it, but when I started working with the lovely Filigran (100% merino superwash) that Skacel sent to me with a request for a lace design, these memories of my grandmother manifested in the square motif that became the main element in the stole. It's ornate, but orderly.

I hope she would have liked it, though she was not one for wearing shawls. (She did like drapey flowy gowns, though, and bought one or two each year for my grandfather's annual convention in Las Vegas.)

The construction's a bit unusual, by the way. I took inspiration from the eminently sensible technique of the Orenberg lace knitters–who work their shawls in one piece, center and edging simultaneously. The method for turning the corners is different, but the end is the same: when the shawl is finished, it's finished. You have a center completely surrounded by a lacy edge, with nothing else to do but wear it.

Skacel wholesales their pattern collection to yarn retailers everywhere, so if you'd like a copy, contact your LYS. If you run (or know of) a shop that's got Giovannina in stock, please feel to speak up in the comments. If you'd like to ask your shop to place an order, the pattern number is 21100405.

*My mother has inherited this supernatural ability to see through solid surfaces, as well as the skill to effortlessly stun small children with it.

Let's Pretend Flowers are Almost the Same as Knitting

2011-05-31T21:13:00.006-04:00

This Part Doesn't Really Have Much In It About Knitting

So I went out to Guthrie, Oklahoma for the annual Sealed with a Kiss Knit Out. It was the first time I'd done anything in Oklahoma other than spend a night in a hotel during a drive to Santa Fe, and it's not fair to make a decision about any place based on the quality of your stay at a Hilton Garden Inn.

I had a blast. In writing about Oklahoma, Mr. Hammerstein got it surprisingly right for a New Yorker–there was indeed a bright golden haze on the meadow every morning; and I saw a hawk making lazy circles in the sky. I awoke to the cry of a lonesome train whistle, and that would have been extremely Johnny Cash except I was sleeping in a canopy bed covered with blue roses.

The knitters were good-hearted in the extreme (a future post will be devoted to a piece of stunning generosity–I haven't yet been able to photograph the gift properly). The event itself is so awash in charm, I didn't wonder that students had come from far afield (and my fellow teachers, the redoubtable Fiona Ellis and Jane Thornley, had come all the way from flippin' Canada).

Guthrie, which you should visit, is about the size of the frozen foods section of our Costco. It consists in the main of gloriously untouched High Victorian buildings standing cheek-by-jowl, with occasional outcroppings of Art Deco. There's a historic theater (the kind with live actors and footlights), a truly splendid yarn shop (see Sealed with a Kiss, above), art galleries, good restaurants and so many, many, many antique shops.

We have antique shops in Chicago, but I usually can't afford to look in the windows. For example, once I noticed in passing by a store in Ravenswood that they had a bag of old wooden clothespins for sale. They were the kind with no spring that I remember my grandmother keeping in a big old chip basket, handy to the washing machine. They were nicely weathered, and I thought they'd be useful for photographs, so I went inside and asked the price.

It was $35.00 per dozen. That's $2.1966666 per pin. The saleswoman explained that they were eco-friendly and upcycled, and that hanging out your wash is the new In Thing for the local yuppified supermoms–apparently it offsets the carbon they generate while driving their kids three blocks to school in a Range Rover. Rustic "vintage" clothespins are sine qua non for the fashionable wash line.

Guthrie is far more reasonably priced, not to mention blessedly free of yuppified supermoms; and on one afternoon plus two lunch breaks plus a quick dash in early evening I...um...well, I bought some stuff.

Including thimbles. It seems I have kind of a problem with buying thimbles. Well, no. I have no problem with buying thimbles, I have a problem with not buying thimbles, at least when they're as cheap as they are in Guthrie.

I'm not gaga for all thimbles, mind you. I don't care a fig for the twee pewter souvenir variety that could never be used to sew because they were designed to sit on a rack and remind you of your crazy party weekend in Yucca Flats.

The thimbles I like could be used for sewing, if you (okay, me) could fit your stubby manfingers (okay, my stubby manfingers) into them. They're old, and slightly battered, and often offer charming suggestions like "Make It Yourself with Wool."

And yes, fine, along with that one and the bridal thimble from Royal Worcester, and the advertising thimbles from Newsom's Flowers of Marion, Kansas and Glass Portrait Studio, there is a souvenir thimble from Mesa Verde. I'm hoping it will give visitors the impression that I once had a crazy party weekend in Mesa Verde, because my reputation could use a dash of daring.

The only thing difficult about shopping in Guthrie was that I was making the rounds on the eve of the Rapture, and the little old ladies at the cash desks kept wishing me "a blessed day." I'd stand there holding my two dollars and wondering, "Are you saved? Because if you are, I'm just going to come back the day after tomorrow and pick this out of the rubble."

This Part Has Even Less in It About Knitting

I wish I could show you what I'm knitting right now, but everything is either for a client and therefore top secret, or it's my niece's not-a-pink-poncho and still bunched up on a circular needle and therefore unphotographable. However, I fully expect the pink thing to be unfurled in a week or so–we're nearing the end of the third version of the cape. There's also a new design for Skacel, of which I am immensely proud. Pictures forthcoming.

In the meantime, I have flowers. If you don't care for flowers, you can go back to planning your Disney vacation or reading Justin Bieber slash fiction or whatever.

I took a head count a week ago and realized that in the two main flower beds I have to play with, which together measure a whopping sixteen square feet, I have 14 herbaceous perennial species represented in a total of something like 34 specimens. This is the antithesis of the American suburban gardens of my childhood, which considered three gaudy Burpee marigolds in a line near the front door to be overdoing it.

Among the plants currently doing their thing, and doing it well, we have Dicentra spectabilis "Alba," a white clone of one of my favorite plants, commonly known as Bleeding Heart.

And there's also an Aquilegia, or Columbine–new for this year–which is obliging me with a second round of blooms. It's my first Columbine, and what the gardening books don't warn you about is that once you have one, you'll find yourself wanting more. They're like thimbles that way. I will for the present confine myself to hoping it sets seed .

And not yet in bloom, but getting there, is another new acquisition: Alchemilla mollis, or Lady's Mantle. The leaves are shaped like inverted umbrellas (which I, as a Chicagoan, know all too well) and are covered in tiny hairs. The hairs catch the dew in the morning and the entire plant sparkles like a dress covered in crystal beads.*

The first spikes, which will be covered in chartreuse flowers, are just emerging.

Yes, I know it's not knitting. But aren't they pretty?

* Hence the name, or so I've read. Alchemists believed the water collected by the leaves was purified, and therefore suitable for alchemical experiments.

Proof That Knitting Makes You Smarter, Even If You're Me

2011-05-20T12:04:00.007-04:00

Hi, kids. I'm sitting at O'Hare airport, waiting for a flight to Oklahoma. I'll be teaching this weekend at the Sealed With a Kiss Knit Out 2011 in Guthrie, in the exalted company of Fiona Ellis and Jane Thornley.

I only just got home from my last trip–a joyful co-production of Boston's Common Cod Fiber Guild and Mind's Eye Yarn in Cambridge. The first event was a talk at M.I.T., in a terribly swish lecture hall designed with verve aplenty by Frank Gehry. We arrived to find the place crawling with equations. It looked like Einstein had inhaled too much chalkdust and sneezed violently across all twelve blackboards.

I had a few minutes of downtime before curtain, so I put on my thinking cap and got to work finishing what the class had started. Piece o' cake. Add a couple yos, balance with a few k2togs, start and end with asterisks to indicate the repeat and now you have a theory of velocity (or electricity, or gravity, or energy, or something) that also makes a really cute lace capelet.

Hearty thanks to Patience for sharing her photograph with me. I hope the nastypants meanie meanie teacher who made me cry over long division in fourth grade in front of the entire class runs across this post and has a stroke.

Incident at Westminster

2011-05-08T12:42:00.006-04:00

“So,” I said. “How was the wedding?”

Dolores lifted herself off the sofa just enough to fling a wine glass at my head, but jet lag had sapped the oomph from her pitching arm. The remains of that morning’s indifferent breakfast Cabernet fell short by half and landed on the rug.

“Meh,” she said, and passed out again.

“She’s cranky,” said Harry.

He was sitting on the table, scissors and glue at the ready, preparing to paste souvenirs and photographs into his scrapbook. His copy of the Official Programme, which he’s been carrying with him everywhere, was propped against the toaster.

“Looks like you had a lot of fun,” I said, picking up a napkin on which someone had scribbled a snippet of music with a lyric. “Is this from Elton John?”

“Yup,” said Harry. “He’s so nice. We were near each other at the Abbey and when I started to cry because everything was so pretty he hugged me and I said I’m a good bloke, and he cried, too. Then at the party we were talking and he said I made him think of a whole new song and he wrote down the first part for me.”

“Is seems to me,” I read, “you lived your life like a sock yarn in the wind.”

“He must know what Chicago weather is like,” said Harry, “because I sure do.”

“And where are the leaves from?”

“The big one came off a tree in Kew Gardens. You aren’t allowed to pick stuff but it was on the ground already so I figured it was cool. The little one fell off one of the trees in the Abbey when Dolores–well, you know.”

Oh, yeah. I knew. You’ve probably heard already, or seen the leaked video clips on TMZ, but in case you’ve been otherwise engaged here are the details.

It was evident from the wording of Harry’s invitation that Dolores remained persona non grata with the palace crowd, thanks to her impromptu audience with the Queen’s dogs at Windsor Castle. She did not take the snub gracefully. After a hatchet-faced goon from the CIA turned up at our door to ask about unsettling e-mails that had been sent to Kate Middleton from our computer, I revoked her Internet privileges for a month.

To her credit, Dolores spent the duration of her punishment making amends. She watched news bulletins about the wedding preparations without throwing cocktail nuts at the screen. She took Harry down to one of the fancy tailors in the Loop to have his royal ball band fitted. She helped him bake and pack eleven dozen snickerdoodles for the royal cookie table. She confirmed and re-confirmed his reservations at the International Yarn Hostel in Wapping. And as I was up to my Gandalfian eyebrows in deadlines, she offered to escort him to the airport.

Right. I know what you’re thinking. You might have spoken up at the time. But you didn’t, did you? No, you did not.

Dolores was terribly worried about Harry’s navigating O’Hare Airport all by himself, so she secured a pass from the ticket agent that allowed her to usher him through security and into his seat without incident. She then attempted to leave the aircraft, whereupon she tripped, fell and became wedged beneath a vacant seat in First Class. Alas, she was unable to extricate herself until the flight was somewhere over Iceland.

The crew did not eject her immediately (that would have been unfair to Iceland), but the captain made it clear that she would be sent back to Chicago on the next flight from London. A few hours later, as the captain was visiting the loo, Dolores busted in on him to plead for clemency. She emerged with a highly personal narrative the captain does not wish to have shared with the media, plus enough Frequent Flyer miles for a round-trip ticket to Rio.

In the days leading up to the wedding, Harry made friends with some lovely Australian and German yarns from the hostel. They visited Kew Gardens,

took in a couple of shows, got lost on the Underground–the things one does when one is young and free and superwash in London.

Dolores, meanwhile, did a good deal of shopping because she hadn’t planned on traveling and therefore had only a week’s worth of clothing, her passport and her make-up kit.

Harry said that on Friday morning you could feel the crackle of excitement in the London air. Or it might have been radiation from all the surveillance equipment. Anyhow, he was up at dawn and rolled out the door on his way to the Abbey. He had expected Dolores to tag along and try her hoof at getting past royal security (practice makes perfect), but she hadn’t come home the night before.

“I never saw anything like the crowds on the way to the church,” Harry told me. “They had little flags and champagne and funny hats and it was sort of like Gay Pride Day except way bigger and Englisher and most of the guys had shirts on.”

Harry presented his credentials at the door and was warmly welcomed, though he says getting to his seat was exhausting and perilous. “It’s a long building. And that creepy lady who married the famous soccer player tried to step on me when I got in her way. But I got a space near the front so I could see pretty well.”

Everything went off without a hitch. Almost. I’ll let Harry give you his version of what happened next.

“Seriously It really was like a fairy tale,” said Harry. “There was the prince and Cinderella and I even thought they had paid two ladies to be the wicked stepsisters but then I found out they were princesses, too. Weird, right? So the choir started to sing and it was amazing like angels and I sang too, because they put all the words in the booklet, and then the tree I was sitting near shook a little and some leaves fell down. And I thought oh it’s the wind, but then I remembered we were inside and there’s no wind unless somebody left the window open, but when I looked around I didn’t see any open windows, and then I looked up in the tree and I saw Dolores’s butt.”

Yes. You remember the trees? The beautiful estate trees that decorated the aisle?

How did she get up there, you might well ask. Probably best to let Dolores handle this part of the narrative herself.

"It was almost too freaking easy,” she said. “I happened to be doing some sightseeing in the neighborhood the day before, and along comes this truck with the Hundred Acre Wood on top. So I ask somebody who looks official, what’s with the greenery? He says, all confidential-like, ‘I’m sure I can’t say, miss, but perhaps it might 'ave something to do with the big do tomorrow, eh?’ And he winks at me. Big winkers, the English.”

“Did you say...winkers?”

“Yeah, winkers.”

“Oh, good.”

“What did you think I said?”

“Never mind. Continue.”

“Right. So at that moment the whole gorgeous plan just popped fully-formed into my head. I knew what I had to do. I went over to where they were unloading the trees and I said, in my best la-dee-dah Lady Bracknell voice, ‘To whom, please, do I speak about my role in the décor?’

It took some bleating but I finally got some guy with clout to listen, and I told him I was sent by that Campaign for Wool that Prince Charles is so hot about, and he wanted me to be part of the modest green recyclable country-type outfittings as a surprise to the happy couple.”

“And he bought that?”

“Not at first. He looks me up and down and says, ‘Are you sure you’re British?’ in that hoity-toity way they do. And I said, ‘Yes, quite.’ And he said, ‘Well, what breed are you then?’ and I said Blue-Faced Leicester. And he said, ‘Then ’ow come you ’aven’t got a blue face?’ and I said, ‘Because it’s very warm in here.’

“Then I showed him the hat I picked up that day at Philip Treacy, and I said what would I, an ’umble English sheep, be doing with a hat like that if I wasn’t gonna be at the royal wedding? So finally he let me in, and I kicked back in one of the little chapels until they were finished unloading and nobody was looking. Then I shinnied up the nearest tree and got comfy.”

“And that’s where you were when Harry saw you?”

“Well, yeah. See, I was still pretty jet-lagged and fell asleep up there and when they struck up the band it scared the living shit out of me and I lost my balance. I slipped a little off the branch, but kept hanging on for dear life until the show was on the road. I didn’t want to cause a scene or anything.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“Naw, I have too much class for that. But once they were all up front and everybody’s eyes were glued to the bride’s face and her sister’s ass I figured I could let myself down the trunk really slowly, and then just blend in with the crowd.”

“Uh huh.”

“But my hat got knocked sideways, so I grabbed for it and that’s when I fell out of the tree.”

“And landed on the Archbishop of Wales.”

“And landed on the Archbishop of Wales, yeah. That pointy hat hurt like a mofo.”

It speaks to the efficiency and steel resolve of the security staff, as well as the ready availability of chloroform in the UK, that Dolores was removed from the Archbishop’s hat, and then from the Abbey, with such speed and tact that the event barely registered with the other guests and the ceremony proceeded without a hitch.

While Dolores slept off the rest of the day under guard, Harry headed off to Buckingham Palace for the wedding breakfast and the parties that followed. “I was afraid it would take me forever to get there,” he said. “But when the Queen was going by I waved and said, ‘Hi, Queen!’ and she smiled and picked me right up and carried me down the aisle and outside!”

“And then she said she had to stop and powder her nose before they left so she gave me to one of the princesses and she took me the rest of the way.”

I was watching, groggily, from home. But I woke up the neighbors when the wedding party emerged to wave from the balcony.

Harry boogied until dawn at Buckingham Palace with the young royals, carefully avoiding any further engagement with the resident Corgis. He was, in fact, the last guest to leave.

“I think I had too much chocolate milk,” he said, “because I came over all fuzzy and then I guess I fell asleep on a chair and they didn’t find me until they were cleaning up. And when they saw the Queen’s initials on my ball band they handed me over to somebody who handed me over to somebody who handed me over to somebody else and then before I knew it I was sitting there with the Queen and she was having breakfast and looking at the newspapers and she asked if I was busy and I said no and she asked me to come have a look at her horses. She likes horses.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And while we were giving the horses some carrots and sugar I apologized for Dolores falling out out of the tree and landing on the Archbishop and I told her I would make sure Dolores behaves herself when we go to London for Knit Nation.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She said for such a little ball of yarn I have very big dreams.”

“Her Majesty is very perceptive.”

“Righty-ho,” said Harry.

A Stole Full of Peas

2011-04-28T16:09:00.009-04:00

If Chicago's rainy streak doesn't break soon, I'm afraid I'll break out in moss. Everyone passing the café window is bent forward, shoulders hunched under the weight of the persistently beastly weather.

This has been a dreary spring even for a city in which dreary weather is a specialty. The only thing grayer than the sky is the grass. Optimistic trees that put out buds during a freak warm spell weeks ago are now shivering with regret. We got a few daffodils and tulips, here and there. Most died quick and humiliating deaths, beheaded or stabbed in the back by the north wind.

To garden near the lake in Chicago is to be a masochist. Nature intended this land to be swamp, wind-swept and mostly populated by grass and skunk cabbage.* You are reminded of this every time you watch a perennial trumpeted as "bulletproof" pop its clogs due to the sort of bizarre weather you thought went out of fashion after they put the finishing touches on the Book of Exodus.

Mind you, the city's official motto is Urbs in horto–city in a garden. Hah. A fib in Latin is still a fib.

But this is the first place I've actually got dirt to play with, after a frustrated lifetime of poring over gardening books and poking dejectedly at window boxes. It's not my dirt, but it's dirt. Though I don't own it–it's a series of neglected beds attached to a condominium in my neighborhood–as long as I've got it, I'm going to make it bloom, dammit.

Unlike many of my strong impulses, which will not be itemized here as my mother is probably reading this, I know where this urge to garden comes from.

One of my very earliest memories, clear as a bell, is of sitting on the turf by my grandmother's vegetable garden, watching her dig and plant. I can't have been older than a year-and-a-half. I may have only just learned to sit up. But I recall the scent, and the feeling of the clammy earth, and the print of her cotton shirt and the soft sound of the spade. It was a moment of pure joy, and before I die I plan to recapture it as nearly and as often as possible.

The garden is long gone, but I know for certain that my fascination with planting and growing–which for years has been stifled–comes from that moment.

A New Pattern

When Véronik Avery asked me to do something with Boréale, the fingering weight yarn from her St-Denis Yarns line, the color and texture sparked the memory of my grandmother's garden. I'm sure it was because of the richness of the brown–deep, not dull–very much like well-worked soil.

I turned into a stole, Pauline, named after this lady, to whom I owe more than I can ever hope to repay. It's in Issue 3 of the St-Denis Magazine, now winging its way to local shops and online shops pretty much everywhere.

The pattern is designed to be extremely adaptable. Without any complicated math whatsoever you can change the width and length to suit your purposes. It'll scale down to a scarf or up to a bedspread with ease.

And the framework will accommodate your own choice of small lace motifs if you so fancy. I've put in things I remember my grandmother growing: peas-in-the-pod, strawberry blossoms, and (because even a vegetable garden should be pretty) hydrangeas.

The overall look is rustic. I wanted to see if I could make lace look pretty, but tough...just like my Grandma.

Royal Wedding Report

In case you haven't been following the unfolding events via Twitter at @yarnpoetharry and @doloresvanh, Harry made it to London. So did Dolores. She wasn't supposed to go, of course, but was (this is what I've been told) a victim of her own selflessness.

So worried was she about Harry's ability to negotiate the perils of O'Hare Airport on his own that she jumped through hoops to secure a "gate pass" from the airline and accompanied him to the aircraft. After helping him settle his snickerdoodles in the overhead compartment, she tried to exit, but tripped and got stuck under an empty seat in First Class.

Fancy that. It's a good thing she had a toothbrush, a copy of Liberated Ewe Quarterly and a week's worth of clothing with her.

I asked why the airlines didn't send her right back upon arrival at Heathrow. All I got was somewhat incoherent babble about one of the pilots busting in on her in the loo, and now having something in his private life he'd rather not have her tell the tabloids. If you want to know more, you can ask her. I'm keeping out of it.

Harry's Twitter feed suggests that he is having a marvelous time, making friends with Australian yarns who are also staying at the International Yarn Hostel in Wapping, visiting Kew Gardens, and going to see friends at I Knit London. Dolores can barely type at all, so I infer that she is also having a marvelous time in her own way.

I have been promised a full report after the solemn occasion, so look for it here this weekend or keep an eye on Harry's tweets. I hope he remembers to iron his formal morning ball band before setting off for the Abbey.

*Shikaakwa or chee-ca-gou in the tongue of the native peoples, from which comes our name.

Dream Girl

2011-04-24T11:04:00.011-04:00

I've been sorely in need of a dress form. Not a mannequin–which is meant to display finished clothing–but a dress form, which is used to check and adjust the fit of clothing in progress. It's a design tool that's hard to do without if you're trying to create professional work. A dress form, unlike most mannequins and most models, doesn't mind if you stick pins into it.

I could have put a crowbar in my wallet and bought a new one. They're readily available, and may be had in two varieties:

fairly expensive and staggeringly ugly;
staggeringly expensive and fairly ugly.

Staggeringly expensive is, alas, out of the question. And since I'd spend a lot of time looking at this thing, I hesitated to dent my finances for a budget dummy that would induce aesthetic dry heaves.

I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted a vintage dress form, made with care in the pre-plastic era. I did not something that had been made indifferently in China with toxic waste and strip-mined panda carcasses. My dream girl was a statuesque, attractively worn dame made from the time-tested combination of linen over jersey over papier-maché over wire, with a brass-plated skirt frame and a rolling, cast iron base.

I have friends who work with clothes for a living, so I made inquiries. "Where does one go," I asked, "to purchase a reasonably-priced vintage dress form?"

An hour and a half later, when the laughter died down, the replies were discouraging.

All of my friends outside New York City suggested a regimen of Craigslist, eBay, patience and prayer. The most knowledgeable of the bunch told me that old forms are the first thing snapped up any time a shop or workroom goes under (which is happening all the time–see "made in China," above) and when you do find them, they cost serious gelt. This fellow should know, since he has a small stable of them in his own workroom.

I asked if I could buy one of his. I offered cash, lifelong friendship, a kidney, and high-quality free sex. More laughter.

Then there were the friends in New York City. They gave the sort of reply friends in New York City always give to this kind of question:

Yeah, I know a place. You have to go out to Queens, and they're only open on the third Tuesday of every month from 10:47 am–noon. Unless it's November, then it's the second Tuesday and the hours are shorter. They don't have a phone, a Web site or email and they don't ship. Anyway, you just go out there and it's this warehouse and there's no street number and the entrance is unmarked, so you look for the boarded-up door with the PREZ BUSH SUK MY DIK graffitti on it and knock; and when they yell at you to get lost, ask for Sol. Unless it's November, then ask for Miguel. They have ten thousand of them and they're all $1.92, but if you try to take them across state lines they spontaneously combust.

I took to half-heartedly searching for "dress form" on Craigslist now and again. This mostly turned up mannequins, which are not dress forms; and form-fitting prom dresses, which are not dress forms; and rants about forms of address, which are not dress forms.

Last week, the search yielded an estate sale ad. There, in a color photograph, was a beautiful vintage dress form. The sale–which for once was actually in Chicago, and not in a suburb seven hours away pretending to be in Chicago–was by appointment only and had ended two days earlier. I called anyway and left a message. I had as much hope of the form still being unsold as I do of the Republicans and the Democrats doing the Virginia Reel down Pennsylvania Avenue.

The lady who had placed the ad called me back the next day. "Yes," she said, "the dress form is available. Would you like to come and see it? How about this afternoon?"

I figured it was 50/50 that voice on the phone was bait in a Very Special Episode of Punk'd featuring on gay male knitters. I could live with those odds.

That evening, thanks to Tom Terrific and His Magic Volvo Station Wagon, I came home with Mildred.

She's a classic Wolf Adjustable, Model 1959, made (as far as I can tell from checking her patent numbers) some time in the 1940s.* And still being made, which tells you something about the quality.

The lady who sold her to me (for a very fair price) is an artist who just liked the look of her. She had spent the recent past as a decoration, but her little steel casters told an older story. When I bought her she was completely hobbled, and no wonder. Look at this.

Those are threads picked up over the years from the floor of a workroom–apparently a very busy workroom. This is the thread I pulled out of one side of one 1" diameter wheel.

Mildred is battle-scarred. I don't mind–it's honorable.

After a damp cloth, sandpapering to take the rust off her base and wheels, and a lick of brass polish, she has a patina you can't fabricate. For practical purposes, she's good as new.

The artist told me she'd had other several calls about the form, but something in my voice suggested I'd give her the best home–so I got her.

I'm grateful for the chance to put the old gal back to work. And it's been awfully difficult, until now, trying to do fittings on Dolores.

*Correction! Made in 1959, per her model number - a tip o' the hat to commenter Marcia in Austin!

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Jug

2011-04-20T17:02:00.010-04:00

When I was out at Madrona I saw an uncommonly large amount of jaw-dropping knitting, including a glittering heap of works by Betsy Hershberg. If perchance you haven't heard of Betsy yet, you will. She's got a book coming out from XRX, with the working title Betsy Beads: Creative Approaches for Knitters.

Betsy's thing is beading. She does things to yarn and beads that make me gasp like a codfish on a treadmill. After my talk on antique patterns, she took a shine (you should pardon the expression) to one of the sample pieces–the 1840s Pence Jug I translated for the Winter 2008 issue of Knitty. Would I mind, she asked, if she took a whack at beading it?

Would I mind? Of course I wouldn't mind. I just asked her to please drop me a line and let me know how it went.

She did, and she did. I'll let her tell you:

As a lover of all things knitted with fine yarns, very (very!) small needles AND teeny, tiny beads, I told you that creating a bead knitted version of this little ditty had instantaneously taken over my knitter's brain.

Additionally, I've recently been focused on creating three dimensional knitted components for my own work designing bead knitted jewelry. So I was off to the races.

Here's a side-by-side of the original (knit with fingering-weight yarns in the colors called for in the original pattern) with Betsy's...version? No. Adaptation? No.

With Betsy's transfiguration of the Pence Jug.

And a solo shot, larger, so you can really see what's going on.

Betsy continues:

If you're interested in the technical aspects of this project, it is worked on 0000 double pointed needles with half strands (3 threads) of two colors of DMC metallic embroidery floss and approximately 600 Size 11º Miyuki glass Delica beads. The finished jug is all of 2" high and 1 1/2" wide. In other words, I expect the men in the white coats to come take me away at any moment.

It is important to understand that when knitting 3-D objects, using needles that would otherwise be considered too small for a given fiber is the way to go. It is the very dense gauge created with this needle/fiber combination that creates the stiffness that helps these objects hold their shape.

For the sake of full disclosure, working at this gauge and scale can be tough on the eyes and on the fingers, especially when working the K2tog's on top of a bead in the row below. It's also probably not a great a idea to use black fiber (as I did) for your first attempt at this kind of work. But it was soooo much fun! I just might have to tackle that knitted orange some day...

In other words, the second of those photos is a little more than twice as high as the actual object. Did you just break a sweat? Because I did.

How hard does a fellow have to beg to get you to do the orange, Betsy? Come on. You know you wanna.

More Summer Fun

I'm teaching at Sock Summit 2011, July 28-31 in Portland, Oregon. No, I can't quite believe it, either. I mean, I'm right there on the list of teachers, but I still can't quite believe it.

If I Were a Drag Queen I'd Want My Name to Be Carte Blanche

2011-04-05T19:02:00.009-04:00

One of the things I very much enjoy about writing a column for Knitty is that the lady in charge over there usually lets me muck about unsupervised. I admit that I've had an issue with authority figures at least since my first report card came home with the notation, "An intelligent child, but often needs reminding that he is not the person in charge."

In my own defense, I well remember the person in charge of that kindergarten; and she needed reminding of a few things, such as the indignity of engaging in semantics with a five-year-old. We had quite the little debate about my decision to stick a black-and-white photograph of a banana on the collage of Things That Are Yellow. I maintained that bananas are yellow, even if this picture of them hadn't been printed in color. She ripped the bananas off the poster and put me in the corner.

I lost that battle, but carried the day when it came time to name the towering, green papier-mache brontosaurus we'd all built as a group art project. My suggestion, "Raquel Welch," won by a landslide in spite of her attempts to bully and intimidate the electorate. She preferred "Greenie," the (if you ask me) pedestrian and predictible brainstorm of Jennifer K., one of the four Jennifers in our class of 25. Jennifer K. was a perfect little angel who never, ever asked the tough questions like, "If you're tired, why do we have to take a nap?"

Of course, to her credit, she tallied the votes fairly. Maybe she knew if there were so much as a whisper of fraud I'd have gone to the principal and demanded a recount.

Wait. What the hell was I writing about?

Knitty. Right.

The Spring + Summer issue is up, and I'm in it. And I forgot, when the last issue hit, to publicly thank Amy Singer for not even batting an eyelash when I referred to a famous, fictitious knitter as a "stone-cold pain in the ass." There are not a whole lot of fiber arts publications that will let you call somebody a pain in the ass, even though–this is strictly between us–the world of fiber arts is replete with persons (self included) who are a pain in the ass.

This issue's pattern first appeared in 1843, but I'll be a monkey's muffatee if the thing doesn't look like it was designed last Tuesday.

It's a neckerchief knit on the bias (the drape is to die) that can easily–and I mean easily–be worked as a full-size shawl in whatever weight yarn you fancy. In fact, the original author's directions for a shawl variation are right there, down at the bottom, in case you just aren't a neckerchief sort of person.

Upcoming Events

I'm going to be back in Boston at the Common Cod Fiber Guild on May 13, 2011. I was the speaker at the Guild's first meeting, and take some pride in the fact that there was ever a second meeting.

Then I'm jumping over to Oklahoma for the Sealed with a Kiss Knit Out 2011, part of a merry trio that also includes Fiona Ellis and Jane Thornley.

June 24-26, I'll once again be at the Midwest Fiber & Folk Art Festival in Grayslake, Illinois. I don't know the full teaching line-up (it'll be posted soon, I hear), but I know they're bringing in some big names again this year.

And in July, I'll be over in London at Knit Nation, the schedule for which is now up. It bodes well that I've just received my Tier 5 Creative Worker Sponsorship Certificate, which makes it legal for me to teach in the UK. Her Majesty's Goverment was most obliging.

That's not the whole summer calendar, but that's what I can tell you about as of now. Stay tuned.

Two Paths Diverged, I Chose the One with Tire Tracks

2011-04-01T09:19:00.004-04:00

There comes a time in every man's life when he must stop and take stock.

I have done so. With regret I find that knitting just doesn't turn my crank the way it used to. Yarn is fine and dandy, don't get me wrong; but it can only take you so many places before you start to feel that you've seen all the sights and sent all the postcards.

The Panopticon will persist. However, I'll be shifting the focus from fiber arts to the new and consuming passion that rules my days: NASCAR.

Screw Rhinebeck. See you at Talladega!

Jabber Jabber Jabber

2011-03-25T20:30:00.004-04:00

The voices in my head have started shouting again. Video transcript follows.

Scram, I Sayeth Unto You.

2011-03-17T16:12:00.002-04:00

Spinning Terms

2011-03-13T22:40:00.005-04:00

...that sound like positions left out of the Kama Sutra, if you are in the proper frame of mind.

The Andean Bracelet
The Bottom Whorl
The Balkan Spindle
The Swan's Neck Hook
The Freestanding Distaff
The Spiralling Cop
Retting and Scutching
Thigh Rolling
Collapsible Maidens

Well, How About That?

2011-03-09T18:28:00.002-05:00

This arrived for Harry while he was away at a three-week Winter Yarn Camp in Texas. Apparently the incident at Windsor is remembered fondly on both sides.

Dolores has been locked in the bathroom for six hours and is refusing to come out.

Fast Sock, Slow Sock

2011-03-04T10:36:00.002-05:00

The first of the pair of self-striping Goth Socks is complete. I have deadlines circling like sharks, but I allowed myself to work on it as treat every time I crossed a quarter mile off the to-do list.

The skein-in-chief came with an assistant mini-skein of pure black, therefore the plain heel and toe. I appreciate the black heel and toe because I never enjoy what happens to self-striping when you hit the heel and the colors start to hiccup.

My only issue with the finished product is that it's so terribly cool, I fear I am insufficiently cool to wear it. It suggests a level of gritty urban élan I will only ever possess if I can develop a personal style that goes beyond slipping into whatever mud-colored sweater from Kohl's is lowest on the shelf in the morning.

I'll toss you the link to Goth Socks (catch!) but Steph is still replenishing her stock after rabid fans sucked her dry in forty minutes at Madrona. Please be advised that as of this writing, the cupboard is bare.

Also on the needles under the category "Socks, Assorted" is the blue Bavarian twisted stitch number I started a couple of weeks ago just for the sheer hell of it. Twisted stitch is not as easily picked up and laid aside as stockinette, so the growth is less spectacular, but I'm bewitched (yet again) by the technique.

The Pink Thing, in case you're wondering, has grown by leaps and bounds but I'm not going to bother putting up a photograph. At this awkward stage, it's all smooshed up on a circular needle and doesn't look like anything except a whole bunch of smooshed-up pink. If you'd like to get some idea of the effect, find a whole bunch of something pink and smoosh it. Smoosh it real good.

On the Air

In the last, frantic minutes of the marketplace at Vogue Knitting Live!, a pair of exquisite Canadian Podcasting sisters, The Savvy Girls, asked me for an interview. I was delighted, and they were delightful. The episode is here. It will be of particular interest to anyone who wants to know what I sound like when my body and brain are running on adrenaline, yarn fumes and cheap chocolate from the 24-hour deli on 53rd Street.

On the Road

Coming right up, I'll be in Madison, Wisconsin for a pair of appearances at The Sow's Ear prior to and following the dizzy whirl of the annual Madison Knitters' Guild Knit-In. I'll be hanging out and signing stuff at the famous Sow's Ear Late Night Knitting on Friday, March 18 from 6:30 pm–8:30 pm; and teaching two classes ("Photographing Your Fiber" and "Working with Antique Patterns") on Sunday, March 20. Check out the shop's Web site for details.

Looking ahead, it appears that Iceland won't be the only international destination on the calendar this year.

I've just been added to the roster for Knit Nation London 2011, the second coming of Cookie A's and Socktopus's brilliant idea in London from July 15-17. The schedule isn't up yet, but you can get yourself on the mailing list to be notified once it is. You know how I feel about London, and England, and knitters, so you'll also understand that now I have to go lie down for a while, because I feel one of my spells coming on.

Moments at Madrona

2011-02-19T10:22:00.018-05:00

It has taken me fully a week to recover from the Madrona Fiber Arts Winter Retreat.

It may be premature to speak of "full" recovery. I may never recover fully. I know I have been changed by the experience. I'm not sure I want to change back.

The retreat hurtled past with such velocity that I find myself unable to offer a fluid narrative. All I have are a sprinkling of moments, and a handful of dreadful photographs. (I know my limits. I can be a participant or I can be a decent photographer, but not both. I chose to be a participant. Carpe diem.)

Herewith, a small selection of the memories (sweet) and the photographs (otherwise).

Funny Moment: Meet Faye

I was prepping the classroom for round two of "Photographing Your Fiber" when I heard a student come through the door. I turned to welcome her, and was startled to meet a lady in dark glasses being led by a Seeing Eye dog.

Now, I've had students who've forgotten more about lace than I will ever know show up for my "Introduction to Lace" class, and I've managed to show them a good time; but I confess to a moment of panic at wondering how one teaches a blind lady to capture true color.

The lady in question was Michelle, and Michelle's guide was Faye.

Happily, Michelle can see well enough to knit and to make photographs; in fact, photographing objects makes them easier for her to encompass visually.

Faye, on the other hand, hadn't brought a camera. She settled herself under the table at Michelle's feet, with her furry derrière sticking out from under the cloth. Occasionally, while I was speaking, her tail would thump delicately against the floor. Or during a pause, I would hear a gentle complaint from her squeaky pony.

I'm thinking of re-writing my classroom requirements henceforth to include a desk, a flip chart, four thick markers of different colors, and a puppy dog.

Personal Note to the Universe Moment: Pocket Wheels

I rode on one of these and I @#$*!! WANT ONE. Just putting it out there, Universe.

Guess Again Moment: Mystery Knitting

A lady in my "Antique Patterns" class held up her half-finished mystery project and asked me, "Is it a vagina?"

No, it is not a vagina.

She's Pretty and Talented Moment: Sivia

I stopped by the Abstract Fiber booth and Jasmine showed me a glove design from Sivia Harding, so new it was still bleeding.

It's simple, yet intriguing. It's energetic, yet elegant. It's perfect. It's typically Sivia. If I didn't like Sivia so much, I would want to smack her.

Excuse Me for Drooling on Your Booth Moment: Retail Therapy

Churchmouse Yarns and Teas.

Socks That Rock.

No further explanation necessary. Moving on.

Sometimes It Pays to Have Puppy Dog Eyes Moment: Goth Socks

The night before everything started I got to peek around the marketplace and saw an entire booth of hanks by a dyer whose work makes my eyeballs knock together, Rainy Days and Wooly Dogs. This is she.

Steph dyes the increasingly famous Goth Socks–including the only self-striping I've seen in years that I truly want to knit with, if for "want" you read "lust with the fiery passion of a thousand guys fresh off a six-month deployment on a submarine."

By the time I got to the market the following morning, during the first break between classes, this is what all the shelves in the booth looked like.

Gone. Gone. That's not a rush, that's a feeding frenzy.

I grew despondent, until a gentleman to whom I'd just been introduced–the friend of a dear friend–took pity on me and insisted on sending me home with his own hank of Goth Socks "Dark and Twisty." And he's straight! He didn't demand sexual favors or anything!

The kindness of some human beings is not to be believed.

Sock one is nearly complete, and it is to die. Pictures coming soon.

Getting to Know You Moment: Karen and Jacey

At the teachers' dinner I sat between Karen Alfke and Jacey Boggs, and amidst the lofty talk and low (but delicious) gossip going on around us, we shared our personal experiences of public nudity, both first- and second-hand.

That's all I'm saying. And no, there are no pictures.

Lord, Let Thy Servant Depart in Peace Moment: Evelyn

During the Teachers' Gallery event at which we displayed the patterns we'd written, Evelyn Clark came to my table, picked up Sahar and said, "This is absolutely lovely."

Fanboy Moment: Vivian

I got seated at the banquet next to Vivian Høxbro. It turns out she has to eat food, just like a normal person. I always figured her to be the type who lives on pure mountain air and ambrosia.

I asked if she would mind having a picture with me. She did not mind.

Jeepers Moment: View from the Lectern

Anybody who goes to Madrona will tell you that among all fiber retreats, it is Different. The reasons for the difference are legion, not least the organizers' insistence on treating the faculty with enormous respect and courtesy. (At some events, the employer/teacher relationship is closer to that of, say, Pharaoh and the Israelites.)

When the teachers are happy, everybody's happy. We all came together–students, teachers, organizers, vendors–for a merry banquet on Saturday night; and I had the honor of addressing the company.

This (if you will tip either your head or your monitor to one side) is what I saw when I looked down from my perch.

It's enough to make a guy choke on his angora.

The warm energy in that room was enough to sustain me through about 365 days of swatching, ripping, re-charting, re-writing, re-ripping, re-knitting and answering e-mails with the subject line "I Think There's a Mistake in Your Pattern."

But I still don't know how I'm going to wait until it's time for Madrona again.

And So We Begin

2011-02-17T10:50:00.004-05:00

I flew to Tacoma, Washington yesterday morning* to teach at the Madrona Fiber Arts Winter Retreat, which kicks off in just an hour. I'm so excited I could pee, and have.

It's a honor to be here, and heaven knows I love to travel; but when you do it a great deal–as I lately have–confusion sets in.

This is the sort of note I now customarily leave for myself on the bedside table before I go to sleep. It helps immensely when I wake up in a cold sweat and can't remember where I am, or why I'm there.

Speaking of travel, wanna go to Iceland with me?

*Dolores flew in later because there were no seats left in First Class on the early flight. Yup, First Class. She also has a rider in her contract requiring a chocolate fountain in her hotel room. I got a granola bar.

This Might Sting a Little

2011-02-14T20:35:00.001-05:00

Stealth Knitting

2011-02-09T16:36:00.009-05:00

Time was when I could have called myself a monogamous knitter: one project at a time. Okay, sometimes two; but the projects always knew about each other and agreed that an occasional tricotage à trois* added spice.

Now, much older and denuded of anything like wide-eyed innocence, I can no more claim fidelity to a single project than Empress Messalina could have sung “I Only Have Eyes for You” at karaoke night without raising a bumper crop of eyebrows.

I think it’s due to a difference in the way I approach my knitting. Once, I worked from patterns, and casting on was like cracking open a Dickens novel. The beginning was full of intrigue, the middle veered from high comedy to grim despair, and the end wrapped up with nary a loose thread. Off with one hat, on with another. Neat.

Working as I do these days, the clear narrative is blown to smithereens. I sketch, I swatch, I rip, and pieces have a disconcerting tendency to shape-shift in mid-flight. I’ve gone from Charles Dickens to William Burroughs.**

I already wrote about the winter hat. Was supposed to be for me, is instead for somebody with enough moxie to pull off a cloche. Since so many of you liked it (thank you!), I’m refining the pattern and I’ll be releasing it in a new yarn to be determined.

Likewise, Abigail’s Pink Thing started as a poncho and has become a cape and hood.

It progresses, by the way–or will, when the rest of the yarn arrives from the nice lady at Cascade. Turns out I didn’t ask for enough; I confess I’m being rather prodigal in my lavish use of 220 Sport. More fabric in the right places makes for a better twirl.

I still want to knit something for myself, and was going to attempt another hat. But a set of needles were thrust at me that changed the game. They’re called Blackthorns, and the suckers are made of–are you ready for this?–carbon fiber.

Things that are made from carbon fiber:

Stealth Bomber

Boeing 787 Dreamliner

My knitting needles

You know I’m not given to stereotypically boyish crowing over new industrial technology; but this gave me the shivers. Even adamantly non-knitting males in my social circle have been forced to concede that carbon fiber knitting needles are Pretty Freaking Cool.

And they handle, my dears, like a dream. Pointy. Light. Bendy as wood but not prone to snapping under the brute force of my manly fingers.*** And they have the perfect (to my mind) balance between slippy and grippy.

They’re US 00, which means socks, so I’m making some from Cascade Heritage Sock.

The pattern is a pretty little motif in Bavarian twisted stitch. It fit perfectly (one repeat on each needle) and is taken from Twisted-Stitch Knitting, the superb one-volume English edition of Maria Erlbacher’s Uberlieferte Strickmuster–an out-of-print trilogy revived with much loving care by Schoolhouse Press. (Dear, dear Schoolhouse Press–if you were not fighting to rescue these books that would otherwise be lost to us, who would?)

So, socks. I think. For all I know, next week they might have turned into a soft-sculpture giraffe. Harry continues to suspect this is the pernicious influence of Wool Pixies; but that’s another blog entry and I’ve got to go make dinner.

*I have no idea whether this is decent French or bullpuckey, but I'm too lazy to look it up right now. It will have to do.

**Without the sex. Not that some of the silks I’m playing around with haven’t tempted me.

***Hey, share the fantasy.

My Thoughts on the Super Bowl

2011-02-06T09:40:00.000-05:00

Compare and Contrast

2011-02-04T13:51:00.001-05:00

Letter from Texas

2011-01-27T17:03:00.008-05:00

I know I’m in Texas, because I can see a Lone Star flag out the window. Make that four Lone Star flags. Query: Is it accurate to call it a “lone” star when there’s a caboodle of them?

Houston is the first place I’ve been to in four months that isn’t suffering from the kind of frigid weather that makes headlines: HUNDREDS IN METRO AREA DEAD OF SNOWFLAKE POISONING.

The weather here is just fine, thanks; yet nobody seems to notice. A nice lady from the café I’m sitting at as I type this came over and asked if I’d like to move to a table out of the sun. Get out of the sun? That’s like telling a famine victim he only gets one trip through the buffet line.

I tend to be slow on the uptake, so it’s hard to fathom that I’m sweating in Texas so soon after shivering in New York. Last weekend I was in Manhattan for the maiden voyage of Vogue Knitting Live!–me and something like 3,000 other knitters. The New York Hilton is a dim, grim Death Star of a hotel, but we warmed it right up.

Everybody was there. Tout le ever-loving monde. This was my first gig as part of an all-star cast; I almost went blind from the combined mega-wattage at the mandatory teachers’ meeting on Friday. Example: I was talking to Cat Bordhi when Stephanie Pearl-McPhee tapped me on the shoulder; so I turned around and almost tripped over Iris Schreier, who was sitting next to Carol Sulcoski and Cookie A, who were sitting next to Meg Swansen, who was talking to Beth Brown-Reinsel and Nancy Bush.

And there were donuts.

It would have made one hell of a picture, but I don’t photograph knitters I love at 7:30 in the morning, especially before the coffee kicks in. That's a great way to wind up with 23 needles stuck in your neck.

The last time I turned giddy from meeting knitters whose work I greatly admire (at TNNA), I caught flak from some folks (mostly guys, oddly enough) for the perceived sin of name-dropping. I expect that will happen this time, too. Know what? I don’t care. If you can meet Debbie Bliss, Mary Beth Temple or Catherne Lowe with indifference–good for you. This blog is my party and I'll squee if I want to.

Hit List

I have to get ready for tonight’s event (book signing, Twisted Yarns, 5:30–7:30, y’all come on down), but first a snippet of between-class conversation from VKL between myself and Melissa Morgan Oakes, noted author, designer, apiarist and chicken-killer.

Melissa has taught at the famous Knitter’s Review Retreats organized by Clara Parkes. When I mentioned that I’d like to do the same, she informed me (with a touch of nyah-nyah-nyah in her voice, may I add) that I have to wait for somebody to die before a slot will open up in the roster. It’s that sweet a gig.

I looked downcast. Melissa cheerfully suggested I could be pro-active and kill somebody, instead of waiting for the Grim Reaper to cull the herd. She then went down the list, teacher by teacher, trying to determine who should be the prime target.

“Not Cat Bordhi, obviously,” she said. “Ann Budd…no, definitely not.” And so on, until only one name, and one likely victim, remained: Melissa Morgan-Oakes.

“Wow,” she said wistfully. “I guess I’d be the one to kill. Dang.”

Never fear, Melissa. I’m Buddhist to the core. Plus, I hear from the chickens how good you are with that axe.

I'll just wait.

A Puzzlement

2011-01-13T11:04:00.005-05:00

First there was some Shetland wool I liked very much.

I recall distinctly that I bought this yarn from two different suppliers (Schoolhouse Press and Churchmouse Yarns and Teas) with the idea of combining it in a splendid new winter hat for me.

Next came notes and sketches and especially charts, because I love making charts. Sometimes I make charts in Illustrator, sometimes I make charts in my notebook. (Harry loves notebooks, especially Moleskine notebooks, and he gave me this one for Christmas.)

Then swatches, calculations, more notes and more charts. All to make a new winter hat for me.

Then there was knitting, to make a new winter hat for me. Knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting. There was ripping, of course–because Life, as a wise woman once observed, is often Like That.

But there was more knitting than ripping. At last, there was binding off and blocking of the new winter hat for me.

So why, please, am I sitting tête-à-tête with what is plainly a roaring twenties-inspired woman’s cloche?

A hat that would, to put it mildly, strike an incongruous note if paired with my customary winter ensemble of biker jacket and jeans?

That a meticulously planned piece of knitting should transform itself, phantomwise, between cast-on and blocking suggests either that I am prey to the twilight machinations of wool pixies; or that I am apt to veer wildly off course because I am easily distrac

Where Was I? Am I? Shall I Be?

One of the strongest knitting Podcasts out there is Mike Wade’s Fiber Beat. I’m honored to be the guest for Episode 14, and to have a signed copy of It Itches offered as the prize for the latest contest. Dolores was less pleased. Certain of her tastes and proclivities are given a thorough airing at the start of the program; she was going to sue, until her legal counsel pointed out that this would mean getting off the sofa.

I’m excited as a cat at a midnight mouse buffet to be heading to New York City next week to be part of the first-ever Vogue Knitting Live! (the exclamation point! makes it even more exciting!!) event, after which I bounce back home long enough to chuck clean socks in the suitcase before heading south to Houston, Texas.

In Texas I’ll be teaching and speaking at both the Knit at Night Guild, and at Twisted Yarns–please follow the links for complete information.

I have to go knit a new hat now. My head's cold. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with the cloche.

Alright Already

2010-12-28T16:12:00.010-05:00

Cripes, what a pushy bunch. I take time out from a rare family holiday to write a post with photos of a finished project*and what happens? Almost as one, the readers rise up and shout,

"BUT WHERE'S THE PONCHO?"

Perhaps, like global warming and the war in Afghanistan, it's my own fault. I mustn't have been clear that the pink poncho is not, and was never intended to be, a Christmas gift. It's taking far too long for that, and anyhow it can't be worn in this beastly northern climate until May at the earliest. Not to mention that I am enjoying taking my time with it–finding my own way to shape the hood, experimenting with lace patterns, checking out late-1940s couture draping to figure shaping for the cloak.

Yes, cloak. Not poncho. I know–she asked for a poncho; but there's a problem. I hate ponchos. Hate them. I intend no offense to those who love them; I simply do not share your taste. I find them graceless and droopy. And as I am a child of the 1970s, they are forever associated in my mind with aesthetic nightmares like gloppy terra-cotta pottery, tourist-market serapes and macramé plant hangers. I'll be damned if I'll expose my niece to any of that, even if she begs.

I'm turning out to be a very old-fashioned sort of uncle. No–a very old-fashioned sort of aunt. I find that I have nothing but gender in common with the famous, old-fashioned uncles who spring to mind: Remus, Tom, Scrooge. However I closely resemble quite a few old-fashioned aunts: Polly, March, and especially Aunt Alicia in Gigi.

Like Aunt Alicia, I adore my niece exactly as she is. And I intend to fix her. Indiscriminately catering to small children's natural sartorial whims is dangerous; it leads to college graduates who go grocery shopping in their pajamas. Noble savages are fine and dandy, but I have no intention of taking one to the ballet.

So though I wish dearly for her to love it, the Pink Thing will honor the spirit and not the letter of the request. For example, on my watch we do not wear clothing that sparkles unless we are going to an evening party. Therefore, in lieu of iridescent novelty yarn extruded from a unicorn's ass, I'm using a pretty but serviceable and sensible wool (Cascade 220 Sport) in pure pink.

We have just had a wholly successful fitting of the finished hood. I didn't want to proceed until I was certain it was the right size and shape, with enough drape to be romantic but not so much as to flop backwards and forwards willy-nilly.

A picture:

That's it, there ain't no more. I had to bargain to get this one, because the sun came out and the new (pink) snow saucer from L.L. Bean was calling. The client's response was extremely positive. She even attempted a twirl, but as there are still two balls of yarn attached you can guess what happened.

I hope this answers a bit of the curiosity. All kidding aside, I appreciate your interest in the progress of the design. It jolts me from the natural indolence that is my nature. More to come.

*Floradora V.1.0 made a successful maiden voyage today, carrying gift cards which I hear were used to purchase a hamburger.

Making Things

2010-12-26T11:15:00.004-05:00

We have been making things.

Abigail and her mother have been making cookies. Those cookies.

I have already had it up to my proto-Gandalfian eyebrows with holiday baking so I kept out of the kitchen. Instead, I sat down with Abigail on Christmas Eve and (courtesy of a sweet little notion from Girl on the Rocks) did my best to further instill the home truth that Making Things with Yarn = Fun.

(You get to choose your own yarn. We chose Cascade 220 Sport.)

On Christmas morning, I presented Abigail with another yarn-based thing I had just finished making.

I've named the purse* Floradora. This is the beta, child-sized version. A grown-up version, larger and considerably refined, will hit the shops in January to herald the launch of a new class, "Cavalcade of Colorwork," débuting at the Madrona Fiber Arts Winter Retreat in February.

Now that I have made this blog post, I am going to make a trip to the cookie jar. (I said I was fed up with holiday baking, not holiday eating.)

*I forgot to mention it's in Cascade 220. I guess we're having a Cascade Christmas.

Cookies

2010-12-17T21:09:00.009-05:00

If this post smells of butter and drool it's because I've spent about half the day baking cookies. The kitchen looks like Open House at the Keebler Factory, including the flour-covered resident elf who is typing this from a perch by the cooling racks.

I hope you can't get fat from inhaling near a pile of fresh cookies. I just got back into these jeans.

Oh, such a display. We have pinwheels, we have brownies, we have chocolate chips–courtesy (respectively) of Maida Heatter, Irma Rombauer, and Ruth Wakefield.

Piled highest, at the back, are the other cookies. The special cookies. You won't find the recipe for them in any published book; and don't bother asking for it, because after I told you I'd have to kill you. It's a family secret–as deep and dark as the one that keeps the Kardashians on the air, except ours goes better with coffee.

These are Grandma's Jennie's cookies.

Grandma Jennie, rest her soul, was my mother's mother.

She's on the right, in the bow. That's my mother on the left, and the howling lump in the center is me–a week old. (I was either hungry, or commenting on the prevalence of drip-dry polyester fabrics in early 70s fashion.)

We assume Grandma learned how to make the cookies from her mother. We don't know for sure. We never thought to ask. It's a bizarre recipe. I've got about 32 linear feet of books on cookery ranging from 1747 to the present, and there's nothing in any of them that comes even close. It starts out a little bit like shortcake, only without sugar; and then–

No, wait. Can't tell you. Would have to kill you.

These cookies were the first thing I ever baked. I was about ten or eleven, and my younger sister was my accomplice. Every pass of the rolling pin was an act of transgression. Mom wasn't home, we didn't ask permission to use the stove, and these were Christmas cookies. We made unsupervised, unauthorized Christmas cookies in May.

I know that seems piffling at a time when the second graders on "Gossip Girl" get their kicks by snorting cocaine and crushed Flintstone vitamins during little bitty orgies in the VIP room at American Girl Place. But back then, to us, it was thrilling.

My sister, once the sous chef, is now the master baker. She inherited Mom's gigantic yellow Tupperware bowl–you could take a bath in it–which holds the stupendous amount of dough produced by the full recipe. She has developed and perfected a system that allows her to keep one hand clean and dry while the other adds ingredients and kneads them in. And her cookies always have the proper amount of crunch on the outside, while the inside melts in your mouth.

We grew up rolling out the dough and cutting it into moons and hearts and trees, which is what Mom does. But we were surprised to learn during a visit to Grandma's that she didn't use cutters. She rolled the dough out into long ropes with her hands, then twisted sections of rope into curlicues, knots and braids.

Her hands flew. She twisted, we watched. My grandmother was a lovely woman; but she didn't like children mucking around in the kitchen. Baking cookies wasn't a game, it was work. Without interference she could produce six dozen in record time. If you were good, you might be allowed to help with the sugar sprinkles. If you got too enthusiastic and sprinkled the floor, you'd better run.

Susan and I still mostly roll and cut, but near the end of each batch we also make a few twists as a tribute. It's not a hospital wing or a fountain in Central Park, but there are worse ways to be remembered than through a cookie recipe. I think Grandma Jennie would have appreciated it. Especially with coffee.

A Queen Looks at Princesses

2010-12-07T20:26:00.016-05:00

Sweet Sally Melville, can you believe how long it’s been since the last post? I’m appalled. I intended to chirp immediately upon my return from Loop in Philadelphia (it was marvelous, thank you for asking) but on the way home a nasty little microbe or virus or microscopic protoplasmic sonofabitch slipped past my defenses and landed me on the sofa, huffing decongestant.

While the bug was in residence I felt it best to keep mum, for which you should be grateful. I’m not exactly a bouncy ball of fun when I’m well, and when I get sick I head straight for Act III of La Traviata.

Alfredo…is that…you? Everything…everything’s going black…

I am such an ill-tempered, ungrateful patient that if Florence Nightingale had been put in charge of me she’d have quit and become a bus driver. If you’re in the room and I feel myself going down, I’m taking you with me.

Catastrophic sniffles aside, I’ve got a surprising amount of knitting done. The trick, I discovered, is to hold one needle in each hand while you knock on death’s door with your forehead.

In our household, works-in-progress are usually referred to by color, i.e. The Pink Thing, The Green Thing, The Blue-and-Orange Thing. The Pink Thing is the one I can write about, and you’ve heard me mention it before–it’s Abigail’s Bespoke Pink Princess Poncho, now in Version 4.0 (beta).

I think I’ve probably done more research and development for this design than any other. Rumors to the contrary notwithstanding, I was never a little girl and have never experienced the desire to be, or dress like, a princess. This puts me at risk for turning out a poncho more suited to a marchioness. Disaster.

So I’ve been digging into primary source material, the better to discern the essential characteristics of princess gear.

Here’s what all I’ve been able to figger so far.

1. Go pastel or go home. Princesses don't wear tweed.

2. Put a swag on it. At least one. Swags are good.

3. Put flowers on it. Flowers are even better than swags.

3. Put swags and flowers on it. Simplicity and moderation are for peasants.

4. Fringe is not an acceptable substitute for flowers or swags. A princess who wears fringe will tank at the box office.

5. Drama above the shoulders is key. If there’s not a crown, there’d better be a tiara. If there’s not a tiara, there’d better be a big floppy romantic hood from which to peer with your goo-goo-googly eyes.

6. It had better look good when you twirl. The typical princess will twirl 87.23 times on an average day.

On days when a ball is given, the average rises to 149.25.

The above list is incomplete, of course. Research continues. Meanwhile I'll show you little bit of The Pink Thing in a few days, when I come back from a place where princesses, so I hear, are very thick on the ground.

No, not a private school in Lincoln Park. Somewhere else. You'll never guess.

Peek on Earth

2010-11-11T16:59:00.004-05:00

Judging from the pile of comments, the little movie in the last post touched a chord in quite a few tender hearts. Mind you, whether that chord was major or minor depended on how the heart was feeling about this year's roster of holiday knitting.

I'm taking my own on the road (to sweet Loop in Philadelphia for classes on lace and photography, information here) tomorrow, but before I head for the airport I'd like to let you know that this year's edition of the annual Panopticon Shop Holiday Knitting Ornament, "No Peeking," is ready and waiting in the shop. I've put it on cards as well. I do hope you will like it.

Peeking at your presents is a time-honored holiday tradition. Our family had another, related tradition: a merry reminder from my mother that any child caught or even suspected of hunting around for hidden goodies would get to watch in silent horror as every last box and bag went back to Santa's Workshop. I was 23 years old before I could open a closet door between Thanksgiving and Christmas without having an anxiety attack.

An Animated Discussion

2010-11-01T19:35:00.005-04:00

Halloween 2010 is but a memory–a hazy memory for some in this household. Between us and the gift-oriented holidays lies only the blip of Thanksgiving. Now dawns the sobering realization that we may already be too far behind to catch up.

I was talking about this with my therapist just last week. She suggested that I deal with my holiday angst in a constructive fashion by putting my heated inner dialogue down on paper so that I could properly analyze it. But I was out of paper, so instead I made an animated cartoon starring Albert Einstein and the Queen of England.

That will strike you as an odd coupling until I explain that whenever I experience a heated inner dialogue, that's who the voices in my head sound like. (Although sometimes instead of Einstein I hear Fanny Brice; but the animation Web site doesn't offer a Fanny Brice avatar.)

The result is that I still don't have my holiday knitting under control and I have to find a new therapist.

Anyway, here's the stupid cartoon.

Trick or Tweet

2010-11-01T11:06:00.003-04:00

Fresh Ink

2010-10-29T16:11:00.011-04:00

Somebody left a comment a few entries back–I can't remember who, and to find out I'd have to stop typing, get off the chaise longue and walk all the way over there to look–asking whether I still actually knit anything, or do I just sit around now making smart remarks about knitting in between hits on my hookah?

Well, missy–or mister, I can't recall–yes, I still knit. Sweet Barbara Walker, do I knit. I've spent the past many months doggedly knitting my stubby little peasant fingers to even stubbier little peasant fingers. I haven't been able to show you much, because most of it was in the service of publishers who get all hissy and litigious when you leak photographs before the books or magazines come off the press.

This week two of the pieces have been de-classified.

The first is tiny, a bagatelle: a book cover, called Aemelia in honor of the pioneering authoress Aemelia Lanyer, in the new issue of Interweave Knits Holiday Gifts.

It was inspired by the demure sewn cloth covers my mother and her friends used to slip over the bodice-ripper paperbacks they read and traded with each other–classics like Johanna Lindsey's The Devil Who Tamed Her, which invariably sported cover art as overheated as downtown Chernobyl.

I had planned to put a cable on the front, but wound up designing my own interpretation of a Jacobean embroidered tulip because a) that seemed more interesting and b) I wanted to see if I could do it.

I put in my pattern notes that the tulip bud is a traditional symbol of hidden, burgeoning female sexuality, but they didn't include that in the magazine. Go figure.

The second is larger, and my first pattern in a printed book, and a beautiful book it is, too: Modern Knits, Vintage Style: Classic Designs from the Golden Age of Knitting.

The publishers, Voyageur Press, asked folks to design new pieces based upon an iconic fashion images. I chose Jacqueline Bouvier's wedding veil, because I am gay like that. I figured if I was supposed to pick an icon, why not go with the Regina Coeli of mid-20th century fashion?

The original lace veil wasn't knitted but it was utterly gorgeous, especially the huge pairs of bouquets marching up the center. I created a new motif–little primrose nosegays–and put them into a white-but-not-necessarily-bridal stole worked in undyed Lorna's Laces Helen's Lace. I liked the color of the undyed wool; it makes the finished work look gently aged, like a special-occasion piece that was carefully put away a generation ago for safe-keeping.

The short edges are self-scalloping and the long edges have a looped edge similar to one I first encountered, and loved, in Sharon Miller's Heirloom Knitting. Like Sahar, it's knit in two halves and grafted in the center. Unlike Sahar, there's no edging at all–when you're done, you're done.

Meanwhile, I've been working on something close to home–Abigail's bespoke poncho. But pictures of that will have to wait for the next entry, because the hookah's pooping out and I have to stop typing, get up off the chaise longue and scream for one of the servants to fetch me a fresh one.

A Public Service Announcement

2010-10-17T15:31:00.002-04:00

With the holiday travel season fast approaching, a timely reminder seems well advised.

Experience The Magic of Photo Retouching

2010-10-14T10:14:00.004-04:00

TO: Franklin
FR: Tom
SUBJ: Photoshop help?

Hey, is there any way you can fix this pic of Augie with Photoshop?

Thanks,
Tom

-----

FR: Franklin
TO: Tom
SUBJ: Re: Photoshop help?

Done. Fifty bucks, please.

-Franklin

A Keeper

2010-10-12T10:25:00.008-04:00

A few years ago I started cataloguing my personal library over on a site called LibraryThing. At this point I'm a little less than half finished, with 887 books on the list.

I used to think I had a lot of books, mostly because upon stepping into my apartment visitors invariably confront the phalanx of overstuffed shelves and exclaim, "Whoa! You have a lot of books!"

LibraryThing has reassured me that no, I do not have a lot of books. There are more than a few collectors on that site whose collections number in the tens of thousands. I don't think most of the school libraries I encountered growing up were that well stocked.

Lucky bastards.

If I attempted to fill this place with tens of thousands of books the floor would collapse. Also, I would have to sell all the furniture and sleep on a catafalque made from the complete works of Anthony Trollope. It's frustrating, this lack of square footage. On the other hand it keeps me from ending up on a very special episode of Hoarders.

Truth is, it's tough for a book to merit a permanent slot on my limited shelves. I cull twice a year, and a dozen or so titles head to the charity shop. I'm still running out of room, but without discipline it would have happened years ago.

It's especially unusual for knitting and needlework titles to stick around longer than six months. So many arrive by mail these days (my life, it is hard) that the population, if allowed to grow unchecked, would soon invade the adjacent cases devoted to authors from the British Empire (on the left) and biography/autobiography/memoirs/letters/journals (on the right).

For a knitting book to earn permanent residency it must bring more to the table than a good collection of patterns. My favorites have taught me to be a better knitter, not just how to add a particular sweater to my wardrobe. I'm a child of Elizabeth Zimmermann and I can design my own sweaters, thankyouverymuch.

So it's rare that a book grabs me as quickly as Gwen Bortner's new Entree to Entrelac.

I've heretofore avoided entrelac by pretending it did not exist. Once, when it tried to say hello during a knitting retreat show-and-tell, I was forced to put my fingers in my ears and shout "La la la la I can't hear you I can't hear you." (Nobody likes to sit next to me during show-and-tell.)

Why this aversion? I wish you wouldn't have asked, because it kills me to admit this.

Long ago, a knitter at a neighborhood meet-up who was working on an entrelac scarf told me what was involved in producing it, and called it a pain in the ass. She demonstrated the making of one square, and I was so put off I swore I'd never touch it. Cowardly!

But when I learned that Gwen–who is nobody's fool–was sufficiently enchanted to run on about it for a couple hundred pages, I got curious. After several weeks of cohabiting, I've decided the book gets to stay. It's empowering, and that makes it a keeper.

Entrelac itself is a very specific technique. It does what it does and it looks like what it looks like, and that's that. To her credit, Gwen pushes it about as far as it will go, using it to fashion not only the usual suspects like scarves and other mainly flat pieces, but also surprisingly fetching fitted garments.

Patterns aside, however, the book explains the underlying principles of entrelac so clearly and exhaustively that after working through the practice exercises an intermediate knitter could begin to design his own projects, or adapt the attendant patterns to suit. I waded in, as directed, with needles and scrap yarn in hand. In 15 minutes I produced my first complete square.

Yeah, fine. I'm not going to enter it in the county fair, but it led me all the way 'round the garden path without veering off into the pachysandra.

Gwen also pushes the technique of knitting left to right (also known as knitting back backwards) as essential to making entrelac a joy, since it obviates the need to constantly turn the work. You knit the stitches from the left needle to the right needle, as usual–and then you knit them back from the right needle to the left needle.

I'd seen it done. I'd envied those who could do it. But I'd never done it. Using Gwen's tutorial, I learned to fluently knit, purl, k2tog and p2tog backwards in five minutes flat. Obviously, here is a work written by a born teacher.

Now, a bit of irony. Learning to knit back backwards has put entrelac within my reach, but it's also the reason I won't be knitting any entrelac right way.

Thanks to Gwen, I can finally tackle a project I've wanted to make since the moment I saw it: the Roman glass vest from Kaffe Fasset's Glorious Color. There are two photographs, but no pattern–only Kaffe's succinct description in the text of how he did it. It's knitted flat, and involves working both intarsia and jacquard in the same row throughout.

I've wanted to make it as a showcase for some of the beautiful, beautiful yarn I've been given by spinners and dyers when I travel (did I mention that my life is hard?),

but didn't want to face working the wrong side rows. Now that knitting back backwards will allow me to keep the right side facing me at all times, it's time to go swatch.

Philadelphia: Back to Loop

Before I forget, I've added a trip to my calendar that's coming up pretty soon–to beautiful Loop in Philadelphia, November 13 and 14. I had so much fun there the last time that I can't wait to come back.

I'll be teaching three classes (lace and photography) as part of a lovely weekend that will also include a class and trunk show by my bosom companion Carol Sulcoski of Black Bunny Fibers and Knitting Socks with Handpainted Yarn. Full details are here.

And My Thanks...

The outpouring of supportive comments to It Gets Better was mind-boggling. I've managed to put high school behind me–although as you can tell, the memories are still vivid when I summon them. But should some kid in need stumble upon that entry, I have no doubt that she or he will find far more encouragement in your responses than in my testimonial!

And thanks, also, for making my maiden voyage into self-publishing a sweet one–Sahar is doing quite respectably, and there's already a beautiful FO in Rowan Felted Tweed on Ravelry. Who's next?

It Gets Better

2010-10-07T20:52:00.007-04:00

(NOTE: I'm sorry that there won't be much today about knitting. I don't often veer off topic these days, but this is something I feel like I ought to write. I'll return to the usual yarn-based tomfoolery in my next entry.)

My last post, in which I suggested via t-shirt that persons unspecified should do something anatomically impossible to themselves and repeat from asterisk, has been up rather longer than intended. The plan was to follow up with something considerably chirpier, since bad moods are just that–moods. They pass.

The chirp has been pre-empted, however, due to a recent spate of suicides by young gay people.

This is not a new problem. Nor, sadly, is it uncommon. Suicide is the third-highest cause of death among Americans aged 15-24; and studies published in the past 15 years by the Federal government and the American Journal of Public Health suggest that youth who identify as gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender are two to three times more likely still to attempt to kill themselves.

It’s probably the lurid nature of the events leading up to the death of Tyler Clementi, a Rutgers University freshman, that have pushed the problem out of the pages of specialty publications like our own, dear Windy City Times and into the mainstream media. Tyler Clementi’s private life was surreptitiously streamed onto the Internet by his roommate, who also Twittered to let the world know what he was doing. Tyler, distraught at his abrupt outing and the subsequent torment by his peers, jumped off the George Washington Bridge.

Tyler was one of at least nine young gay men known to have taken their own lives in the past few weeks due to anti-gay bullying.

As a result there have been, and continue to be, statements made by high-profile types–Ellen DeGeneres, Tim Gunn, the cast of “Modern Family,” etc.–under the theme I’ve used as the title of this post: It Gets Better. The message is simple, short, and (one hopes) effective: it may seem like life isn’t worth living, but don’t give up just yet. As you grow older, it gets better.

I’m certainly no celebrity, but I’m adding my squeaky voice to the chorus on the off chance that it might, in a small way, help somebody somewhere sometime. Who knows? Maybe there’s a gay kid out there who’s suffering at the hands of his classmates because he’d rather knit than kick soccer balls. And maybe he wandered in here after Googling “garter stitch” or “toy elephant.”

If you’re reading this, kid, it’s for you.

I know what you’re going through. That’s not an empty statement. I mean I know exactly what you’re going through, because I walked a mile and then some in those leaden sneakers when I was your age.

Thinking about suicide? So did I. In fact, I did more than think about it. I tried it.

It wasn’t my idea.

I was egged on by quite a few authority figures, the ones who seemed at the time to run the world. They weren’t my parents, I hasten to add. I got lucky in the parental department; they didn’t always understand me, but they always loved me.

They–my bullies–were mostly teachers and school administrators. You see, I went to this really, really awful little private high school devoted less to academics than to promoting the veins-in-your-teeth cult of virility. It was no place for sissies, and if they suspected you might be a sissy they did their best to beat it out of you.

I was only there for two years, but the life lessons they taught on a daily basis have always stuck with me. Here’s a small sampler, verbatim, including the language they felt was appropriate to use in front of schoolboys:

“We have to believe gay men choose to be gay. Otherwise we would have to admit that God makes mistakes, because there is no sorrier mistake than a bunch of faggots.”

“If my son turned out to be gay, he’d have two choices. He could shape up, or he could get the hell out of my house before I shot him through the head.”

“God created you to be a man, and to fuck women. If you don’t fuck women, you’re not a man. If you’re not a man or a woman, you don’t fit into creation and the sooner you leave it the better.”

“Frankly, if I was a gay man I’d shoot myself. I mean, I’d be going to Hell anyway and I might as well get on with it and skip over dying from AIDS.”

(Isn't it funny, Mr. Roberts? I don’t remember anything you taught about biology–you were a lousy teacher, so that’s no surprise. Yet I remember so much of what you said with shocking clarity.)

Day in, day out for two long, painful years, I drank it in. I remember being flabbergasted at how often our teachers could work jabs at homosexuality into topics you’d think were completely unrelated. I was 13 and hitting puberty hard, yet I swear I was less obsessed with dick than they were.

Usually these barbs were volleyed at all of us, a general exhortation against the evils of buggery. But on especially bad days, they were aimed pointedly at me, the designated class pansy–while the other boys listened and smirked.

That led directly to problems with a classmate who decided after one such lecture that he was going to prune me, the mutant bud, from the Tree of Life with his own hands–since that’s what God, the saints, and the faculty wanted. I appealed for help to a couple of teachers and to the dean, all of whom told me I was on my own.

If you’re going to act like that, they said, you deserve what you get.

Sound familiar?

Now, I was brought up to be a good kid and respect authority. And authority was telling me I was a horror in God’s eyes, and ought to bump myself off.

So I tried it. Not successfully, obviously. And not right then. I have a strong constitution; it took years for their poison to reach my vital organs. But it was probably bound to happen sooner or later.

It might not have if somebody, anybody, had been there tell me what I’m going to tell you.

People–teachers, parents, classmates, pastors, whoever–who call you a mistake are wrong. Totally wrong. Completely wrong. Wrongeddy-wrong-wrong.

You’re no more messed up than the straight kid in the next chair.

When they say that your nature is unnatural, they do not speak from wisdom. They are either misguided themselves, or they know better and are deliberately lying to you. Either way–you don’t have to listen. In fact, you shouldn’t. In fact, don’t.

I know. They appear to hold all the cards. They can force you to run laps, sit in detention, do punishment homework. But you have my solemn promise that this is temporary. One of these days you’ll be out of there, and such petty power as they possess can no longer touch you.

Hang on. Don’t let them keep you from pushing forward, because what’s waiting for you beyond is quite wonderful. It’s not all couleur de rose, but it’s so much better than what you’re going through right now.

There are ways to get help. The Trevor Project is a good place to start. You don't have to be desperate, either. Better, in fact, to seek a little support before you are desperate.

(And in the meantime, if you don’t know how to knit, please consider learning. It’s a marvelous way to keep calm, knitters are wonderful people to gather ’round you, and nothing says “piss off” to the bigots like a really amazing hand-knitted scarf.)

Been There, Done That, Made a T-Shirt

2010-10-01T20:29:00.005-04:00

Did you ever have one of those days? Today, I did.

Now that it's quite over and the bodies are neatly buried, I've made a t-shirt to commemorate it.

In case you should at some point find yourself having a similar day, please note that I've added it (on a few different items, including a mug and button) to the shop.

Sweetness, light, conviviality, gemütlichkeit, etc. will return within 24 hours.

Color Me Impressed

2010-09-27T13:36:00.015-04:00

It’s been a wonderful tour. I’m waiting for my flight home (via Los Angeles) from cozy, foggy Eureka and so have a little time to tell you about an unexpected and delightful adventure last week in Washington during the Men’s Fall Knitting Retreat.

WonderMike, host of the popular Fiber Beat podcast, is the driving force behind the gathering; and one of his many strengths is finding unique outings for us. Last year, we visited the Moonshadow Alpaca Ranch in Auburn. This year, he arranged for us to try our hands at indigo dyeing at Earthues in the Ballard section of town.

Now, I have a confession to make. I went to Earthues with only the mildest curiosity about what I might see. I love to knit, obviously. I enjoy spinning, when I can get to it. But though dyeing seemed interesting in theory–I certainly have enjoyed my visits to Lorna’s Laces and admire my friend Carol’s work at Black Bunny Fibers–I had very little desire to get my own fingers into the pot.

We were advised to bring along fiber to dip, so at the last minute I casually tossed a few odd hanks of blah stash wool into the suitcase. Word was that the neighborhood around Earthues is full of interesting shops, and I figured I could prowl through them if the dye studio turned out to be a snorefest.

Once through the door, it took all of fifteen seconds for me to lose my mind and begin fantasizing about planting a guerilla dye garden in the park near my apartment.

Calling Earthues a dye studio is like calling Disneyland a kiddie pool. The company was founded by Michele Wipplinger, a visionary dyer with almost a quarter-century of experience, as a home base for her mission of promoting and supporting the worldwide use of natural dyes.

There is a retail space (as of this writing, open Monday–Friday from 1o am to 5 pm), gorgeous and beautifully stocked with naturally-dyed fiber products from around the world, including a selection of yarns and beautifully printed cottons in fat quarters. They also offer gift items, objéts d’arts, and even some notions–I lucked into a beautifully carved wooden needle case and crochet hook I’ll photograph when I get home.

Beautiful light and sources of inspiration are everywhere.

We spent most of our time in the educational area with Michele’s passionate, charismatic business partner, Kathy Hattori. While Michele travels a great deal to consult and teach, Kathy keeps things buzzing in Washington State–managing the shop, fulfilling commissions, teaching classes, and–during our visit–deftly guiding 30 guy knitters through the ABCs of natural dye in one short afternoon.

I learned a lot in a hurry, including that indigo (above) looks a lot like basil and marigolds (a flower I have always detested) produce a lovely yellow dye.

It was like finding out the smelly, annoying kid across the street is secretly a concert violinist.

After our introduction, we moved into the yard where four big pots of indigo awaited. Since this was, of course, a group of guys, we were interested (and perhaps slightly disappointed) to hear that our own indigo experience would not require the use of pee.

One by one, we dipped and watched as our yarns turned from white

to green

to blue.

At the end of the day I had two skeins of yarn and one shin that were dyed several exceedingly fetching shades of deeps blue.

My assumptions that the natural palette would be limited, muddy and fugitive turned out to be utterly incorrect. Turns out you can, in fact, make brilliant and lightfast colors without recourse to petrochemicals; nor does Earthues use heavy metal mordants of any kind.

I was so impressed I went back later in the week on a free afternoon to hang out with Kathy some more. When I told her about my budding interest in quilting she showed me a fascinating project undertaken a few years back by another dyer at the shop. She had subjected a rather insipid selection of quilting cottons to systematic overdyeing in a series of natural hues.

The word "magic" is as overused these days as Lindsay Lohan's prescription drug plan, but it's the only word that seems appropriate.

Since my dream of of planting an indigo patch is likely to remain a dream, I was particularly interested to learn that in the 1990s Michele pioneered extract forms of natural dyes; they allow you to play with the process even if you aren’t ready to grind your own cochineal bugs or grow your own woad. Earthues sells the extracts in little kits and pots, and I know with fatal certainty that I’m going to have to try them out. Happily, they already sell some products online and there are plans to expand the range of Web site offerings in the near future.

If you find yourself in the Seattle area, for goodness' sake head over the Ballard Bridge (the Number 17 bus will take you there from downtown) and knock on the door at Earthues. If you care about fiber in any form, you really ought not to miss it.

Quickie

2010-09-24T13:31:00.003-04:00

I am typing this from the airport in San Francisco, waiting for the plane to Eureka for the Northcoast Knittery events. I whispered a fond goodbye to Seattle half-asleep, from the back of a taxi; but I'm not finished with it yet.

At present, with boarding imminent, I'll confine myself to a single image, caught at random on the street downtown during one of my free days.

I had more random sightings of this kind in Seattle than I've ever had anywhere else, which may help to explain why I felt so at home.

More soon.

Mrs. Weber's Lace

2010-09-22T00:59:00.005-04:00

Last night, I am pleased to report, we had a rip-snorting good time at The Fiber Gallery. The official topic was photography; but before the class one of the students, Sabrina, pulled out something she'd brought to show me.

This is Sabrina's Romanian grandmother, Regina Weber.

When Mrs. Weber passed away earlier this year at age 87, she left behind a legacy.

Lace.

Some of the pieces were knitted.

Others were crocheted.

Still others appeared to be–to our eyes anyhow–a mix of crochet and...tatting? Are those rings tatting, perhaps? Sabrina's not sure.

Do any of you out there recognize this sort of work? Can you tell us about it?

One thing is certain: Mrs. Weber was an accomplished needlewoman. I feel lucky to have seen her work. Thank you, Sabrina!

Hay Hay Hay

2010-09-19T20:17:00.006-04:00

Greetings, my dears, from Seattle. Pardon my typing if it's a little lopsided–the Men's Fall Knitting Retreat 2010 has just adjourned, and yesterday we made merry until the wee hours at the traditional Movie Night Pajama Party.

In the aftermath, I can state with confidence that you haven't experienced Young Frankenstein to the fullest until you've heard thirty grown men sing, "Roll, roll, roll in ze hay!" in falsetto with Teri Garr.

The coming week promises to be interesting, starting with a book signing tomorrow (Monday) evening at The Fiber Gallery (7000 Greenwood Avenue North) from 5 pm–6pm, so look for a posting or two (at least) as adventures develop.

Supper is due at any moment, so I'd just like to show you this–the Sahar Stole I wrote about ages back but was only able to present in black and white as the colorway hadn't been released.

The yarn is Lorna's Laces Honor, a silk/alpaca DK in the colorway "Fjord." The pattern is available for sale via Ravelry.com download–my first foray into that sort of thing. (You don't have to be a Ravelry member to click over, so don't be shy.)

Just been called in to supper, which means I have no time to tell you another story about the Men's Retreat and why my left shin has turned blue. Another time, perhaps.

Pins and Needles, Needles and Pins

2010-09-12T09:32:00.008-04:00

One of the side effects of having your avocation become your vocation is that you have to find another avocation. I love knitting as much as I ever did–more, if possible–but most of my projects now come with contracts and deadlines attached to them. This will, on occasion, tend to harsh one's mellow.

My alternative mellow for quite some time has been working out. It clears my head, it calms me down. If I don't get to do it for an entire day, I turn crabby and starting hitting people. Since it also makes my jeans fit better, it's productive fidgeting–which happens also to be my friend Joe's incredibly apt description of knitting.

Unfortunately, the weight room at the gym can't be kept in a pretty basket on an end table or stuffed into hand luggage. It cannot be employed to pass the time while waiting for a flight, or casually picked up when the after-dinner conversation lulls.

But a guy has to have something to do in those restless moments when after six hours of knitting I really, truly cannot stand to look at yarn one single minute more. I was at a loss until, while sorting through files, I found my notes from a PieceWork article about my grandmother's childhood...and her quilts.

Then there was a hazy patch, and a flurry of e-mails with a friend who plays with fabric for a living, and a surprise from another friend across the sea who sent me this.

Then another hazy patch, and last night I came to while standing at the ironing board. It seems I was pressing my first quilt block.

It's made from men's shirts I picked up for a buck apiece at the thrift store down the block. There will be six fabrics in the finished piece, and when I looked at my pattern after laying it out, I realized I've moved progressively through all the colors in the same way I'd put together a swatch of Fair Isle.

Once a knitter, always a knitter.

Gimme Gimme Gimme

I'm piecing the quilt top by hand–it's incredibly soothing–using needles I bought at Stitches Midwest. They were imported by Bag Smith from a French needlework company called Sajou.

I had never heard of Sajou before I walked up to the Bag Smith booth. They were founded in the nineteenth century; and though the company folded in the mid-twentieth century, it has now been revived by the descendants and is producing all the old lines in their original styles.

I opened the Sajou catalogue and wanted to climb inside and stay there.

I didn't know you could still buy things like this. Embroidered cotton labels for marking household linen, or adding little tags to your work that say ATELIER or FAIT MAIN in dignified red letters. A positive fleet of albums (including the gorgeous old DMC books) stuffed with elegant, playful alphabets, borders, friezes and motifs to embroider–none of which include Sunbonnet Sue or Kountry Kitchen geese in bandannas. I want them all. Wooden mercery drawers and pin boxes, porcelain bridal thimbles, and the scissors...oh, the scissors.

Even the packaging is glorious. This is the packet of needles I bought.

I spent fifteen minutes dithering, because there were half-a-dozen designs in the booth and they were all glorious. You should see the three or four that include spinning wheels. When the needles are used up, I'm putting it into a frame.

Now, honestly–isn't that easier on the eyes than this?

Who the hell thought that was a good idea? When was it decided that the utilitarian need not be a pleasure to look at?

On a practical note, the needles are so well made they leap through fabric like dolphins playing in gentle surf.

Personal to the people in my family who always want my wish list at Christmastime: here it is. The whole site. Just pick something.

Urban Legends of Knitting No. 2

2010-09-09T11:32:00.006-04:00

EZ Photo: T.S. Zimmermann

Franklin Goes West

I'm knitting and writing about fourteen hours a day right now, finishing up as much work as possible before I take off for what is turning out to be quite a nice little tour of the West Coast. Here are the details:

Seattle, Washington

Sept. 20, 2010: Two events at The Fiber Gallery (7000 Greenwood Avenue North). From 5 pm–6 pm: book/calendar signing. From 6 pm–9 pm, "Photographing Your Fiber." To register for the photography class, call (206) 706-4197.

Sept. 22, 2010: "Introduction to the History, Methods, and Styles of Lace Knitting" at The Weaving Works (4717 Brooklyn Avenue NE); call (206) 524-1221 for information and reservations.

Eureka, California

A whole weekend at the wonderful Northcoast Knittery (320 Second St, Ste. 1A).

Saturday, Sept. 25: "Introduction to the History, Methods and Styles of Lace Knitting" 11 am–2 pm and "Lace Edgings: Before, During and After" from 3 pm–6 pm.

Book and calendar signing to follow!

Sunday, Sept. 26: "Photographing Your Fiber" from 11 am–2 pm.

For information and to register for classes, call (707) 442-YARN (9276).

Gershwin for Dummies

2010-09-03T17:08:00.002-04:00

Yes, thank you, I am getting my work done. I just had to do this first.

The Development of Communication in the Human Niece

2010-08-29T19:33:00.006-04:00

They warn you about this day in Uncle School. They tell you there's no way to avoid it, but not to fear it. Just be prepared, they say. It comes to all uncles, sooner or later.

Yet you believe in your secret heart that your niece–who is exceptional in so many other respects–will be different.

But human nature will out.

The day does come. And though you swore you would not suffer it gladly, after the briefest hesitation you straighten your back, pull out your sketch book, marshall your knitting needles, and start swatching with the excruciatingly pink 220 Sport that has suddenly, as though by magic, arrived in the mail from Cascade.

How did they know? Because everyone knows. Even you knew, though you tried to deny it.

Oh, well. Amor vincit omnia.

More to come.

Do Not Do This

2010-08-26T09:56:00.006-04:00

When you are sitting in a coffee shop working on an entry about the amazing stuff you saw at Stitches Midwest, and you look up what you know perfectly well to be a lace weight yarn in both Ravelry and Yarndex to double-check the fiber content, and you note that in both places this lace yarn is listed as fingering weight, do not accidentally exclaim in your outside voice, "Fingering my ass!"

The Five Stages of Niebling

2010-08-16T20:57:00.006-04:00

1. Denial. "I really don't care if I never knit a pattern by Herbert Niebling. Hundreds of millions of people are born, live and die without ever knitting a Niebling; and yet they lead happy, fulfilling lives. What do I need with a doily, anyway? I don't even like doilies. No, I am absolutely not going to buy this book of lace patterns by Herbert Niebling."

2. Anger. "You know what, you stupid m-----f----ing doily? There's no law that says I am required to finish you. I can't be arrested for refusing to undo the same four rounds again. I could go shoe shopping or watch 'The Bachelorette' like a normal person. But first, I could cut you up into little pieces and use you stuff a cat toy. I've got the scissors right here. How would you like that, stupid doily? You want to end up inside a cat toy? How does that sound, m----f---er? Answer me! Shut up!"

3. Bargaining. "Listen, if we can just get to the end of this round of blossoms without running into any errata, I'll make a handsome donation to the American Society for the Preservation of Antimacassars and we'll go get some ice cream."

4. Depression. "A doily. A floral doily. In twenty-first century urban America. Stacks and boxes of thousands of unused, neglected doilies going for a nickel each at garage sales all over the place–and I'm knitting another one. Why? Why bother to bring another doily into a world that doesn't want it?"

5. Acceptance. "It wasn't so bad, really.

Of course, I'm not going to knit another one.

One is plenty.

I really don't care if I never knit another pattern by...[repeat from Stage One]."

Hello, Dolly

2010-08-11T11:14:00.005-04:00

My reputation as an ass-kicking, macho all-American he-man precedes me; so I need not explain how excited I was to find myself with a legitimate work-related reason to buy a late Victorian porcelain shoulder head doll.

This is Ethel.

I found her ignominiously tumbled into a heap of plastic action figures and cheap jewelry on a table at the Kane County Fairgrounds. She was filthy but intact (I know the feeling) and marked with a ridiculously low price, which I whittled away to a shockingly low price.

Ethel is a "Pet Name" doll, manufactured by the German firm Hertwig. The Pet Name line was created in 1895 specifically for export to the United States, presumably because then as now American children were considered too unimaginative to do anything so taxing as name their own dolls.

As you can see, she's minus her original body, which likely was sewn from cloth printed in American flags or the letters of the alphabet. After studying a bunch of photographs of extant period pieces, I cut up an old cotton bed sheet and fashioned a new one. It came out tolerably well, I think, given that the sewing machine and I are still getting acquainted. All that's left is to embroider her fingers and stitch the whole assembly to her shoulders.

Before I do that, though, Ethel has asked leave to present her very striking signature series of tableaux vivants, "Impressions of Famous Women."

Mary, Queen of Scots:

Marie Antoinette:

Anne Boleyn:

And she says this one is either Ann Coulter or Jan Brewer:

(Don't blame me. Ethel's politics are her own business.)

A Conversation with Herbert Niebling (1905-1966)

2010-08-05T23:00:00.013-04:00

Transcription of a séance conducted this afternoon chez Panopticon.

Present in body:

Dolores Van Hoofen
Franklin Habit
Harry Bollasockyarn (secretary)

We gathered at 3:30 pm around Franklin’s brand-new Knitters’ Special Edition Ouija board.

DVH: Yo, ghosties! Speak to me!

FMH: Dolores, the instruction book says spirits won’t show up if you don’t take it seriously.

DVH: Right. I don’t understand why you can’t just post these questions in the “I’d Fuck Herbert Niebling to Get Free Patterns” group on Ravelry.

FMH: Because whenever possible, I prefer to get my answers direct from the source. Even if he’s dead.

DVH: Harry, let the record show that Franklin has been huffing the Eucalan again.

FMH: If you have something better to do today, I can call Mrs. Teitelbaum.

DVH: Or you could wait for Fred and Velma to drive up in the Mystery Machine.

FMH: Are we doing this or not?

DVH: We are. We are. Fine. Just let me top up my tea. More tea, Harry.

HB: One olive or two?

DVH: Olives? Am I having breakfast?

FMH: Put your damn hoof on the damn pointer.

DVH: Done.

FMH: And no pushing it.

DVH: Oh, please. I want this thing to work so I can ask Elizabeth Zimmermann a few choice questions.

FMH: I am the one asking the questions. You are sitting quietly and not pushing.

DVH: Whatever you say, Professor Dumbledore.

FMH: Alrighty. [cough] Ahem. Um...Testing. One, two, three.

DVH: Is this a séance or are you addressing a knitting guild?

FMH: Hoof on pointer. Mouth shut.

DVH: Oopsie.

FMH: Now. Are there any spirits with us in the room?

[Pointer moves to YES.]

DVH: Holy crap.

FMH: Are you pushing it?

DVH: Sir, your accusation wounds me.

FMH: Spirit, tell us, what is your name?

[Pointer spells out ABRAHAM LINCOLN.]

FMH: Whoa.

DVH: Hot. I like tall guys with facial hair.

AL: THANK YOU KINDLY

DVH: Is your crazy wife in the room, too, or may I speak frankly?

FMH: Dolores!

AL: SHE ALWAYS GETS HER HAIR DONE ON THURSDAY AFTERNOONS WONT BE BACK FOR TWO HOURS

DVH: Ooh. So…what are you wearing?

AL: YOURE A SAUCY THING, PRETTY MISS

DVH: Oh, go on, you big lug. [giggles]

AL: DID YOU EVER HEAR THE ONE ABOUT THE NAUGHTY EWE AND THE PREACHERS SON

FMH: I hate to interrupt, Mr. Lincoln, but we’re wondering if there’s a guy named Herbert Niebling floating around there by any chance?

DVH: Killjoy.

AL: IS HE A WEIRD GERMAN WHO KNITS DOILIES ALL THE TIME

FMH: That would be him.

AL: HANG ON A SEC

[Brief silence. Pointer moves to SHUT UP, I’M COUNTING.]

DVH: Typical.

FMH: Quiet, it’s moving again.

HN: THIS IS NIEBLING WHO THE HELL ARE YOU

FMH: Mr. Niebling, sir, oh my gosh...My name’s Franklin and I’m a knitter, and I really love your work. I just started knitting one of your patterns for the first time. It’s so much fun–and so beautiful. Gosh, I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you!

HN: FOR THIS YOU INTERRUPT MY SOAP OPERA

FMH: Oh. I’m sorry.

HN: IS OK WE HAVE TIVO

FMH: Whew. So can I ask you some questions about the doily?

HN: WHICH ONE IS IT

FMH: The piece with the gloxinia blossoms from Gestrickte Spitzendecken.

HN: WTF IS A GLOXINIA

FMH: Well, I think they’re gloxinia blossoms. Maybe they’re daffodils?

DVH: I thought they were petunias.

HN: MAYBE INSTEAD OF ME YOU PEOPLE SHOULD BOTHER A DEAD HORTICULTURIST

FMH: Honestly, the type of flower doesn’t matter. I just wanted to ask you about the funky maneuver on round 60.

HN: FUNKY UNUSUAL OR FUNKY LIKE JAMES BROWN

FMH: I mean “unusual.”

HN: NOBODY EVER COMPARES ME TO JAMES BROWN

FMH: I’m sorry. So, about the triple yarn over–

HN: I COULD HAVE BEEN VERY FUNKY YOU KNOW

FMH: I’m sure you could have, but–

HN: I WANTED TO JOIN HANS BREUER AND HIS HANOVERIAN SWEETHEARTS OF POLKA JAZZ BUT MAMA HAD A CONNIPTION WHEN I TOLD HER AND SHE LOCKED ME IN THE CELLAR WITH ONLY A CRUST OF BREAD AND A PIECE OF COLD SAUERBRATEN

FMH: That’s…sad. But–

HN: PEOPLE THINK GERMANS HAVE NO SOUL BUT LET ME TELL YOU WHEN I HAD A COUPLE OF STEINS UNDER MY BELT I COULD MAKE THAT ACCORDION SWING LIKE A CHEAP HOOKER ON A WINDY PLAYGROUND

DVH: Now we’re getting somewhere interesting.

FMH: Please, Mr. Niebling, do you think we could talk about lace?

HN: ALL I EVER GET TO TALK ABOUT IS LACE DONT YOU WANT TO HEAR ME PLAY THE ACCORDION

HB: I do! I love the accordion! Do you know “Lady of Spain?”

HN: THATS ONE OF MY PARTY PIECES

HB: Oh boy!

HN: THIS IS NICE FOR A CHANGE ALL ANYBODY EVER WANTS ME TO TALK ABOUT IS THOSE FRIGGING DOILIES

DVH: Personally I wouldn’t mind hearing more about the hooker in the wind.

FMH: Honestly, Mr. Niebling, it’s just a quick question about the triple yarn over in Round 60.

HN: GOTT IN HIMMEL IS HE ALWAYS LIKE THIS

DVH: Pretty much.

HN: IM SO SORRY

FMH: I think we’re finished, here.

DVH: Wait a sec. Hey, Herbie–is Elizabeth Zimmermann there by any chance?

HN: WE JAM TOGETHER TONIGHT AT 7 SHE REALLY WAILS ON THAT BASS GUITAR MAYBE YOU WOULD CARE TO SIT IN

DVH: I could clear my schedule. You need a singer?

FMH: I feel that I have become superfluous to this conversation.

HN: YOUR LITTLE BALD FRIEND THERE IS A BUZZKILL

DVH: You don’t know the half of it.

HN: HEY HOW ABOUT AS A JOKE I GET THIS POLTERGEIST BUDDY OF MINE TO BUST IN ON HIM WHEN HES TAKING A SHOWER

DVH: That would be a scream. You should totally do that.

FMH: Hello! Hello! Still in the room!

HN: ROFLMAO

[And then Franklin threw the board at the wall, so I don’t think we will be having another séance real soon.]

Respectfully submitted,

Some Thoughts On Having Attended the Opening Day of the Newberry Library Book Fair

2010-07-29T17:23:00.004-04:00

1. Whoops.

2. If only I'd had more time to browse.

3. I got kind of a sick thrill when the lady at the cash desk staggered back and said, "Whoa."

4. Now that I've been, you may go and pick through the leftovers.

Buncha Buncha Bohus

2010-07-28T15:37:00.009-04:00

First, a follow-up to the previous post. The lovely people at Schoolhouse Press graciously allowed me to spend some alone time with the samples from the upcoming book of unknown and revisited patterns by Elizabeth Zimmermann, and to photograph them; but I've promised not to show any until the book is nearer to press. I promise they're worth the wait.

What I can post right now are a few snaps I took of the Schoolhouse Press collection of sweaters from Bohus Stickning, the Swedish high-fashion knitwear house whose products were all produced by home-based handknitters. Meg brought them in for us to examine and paw over (which we did, while emitting uncontrollable squeaks of delight).

I won't undertake a history of the Bohus, as you can find a neat and authoritative account here. The book Poems of Color, happily back in print, will tell you the full and inspiring story–and probably tempt you to try your hand at emulating the talented Swedes who crafted the originals.

Look at these.

All are worked in light DK/fingering weight yarn, usually an angora/merino blend. The light halo softens the transitions, rather like blended watercolors.

It's common for a single round to incorporate three or more colors,

and purls periodically mix it up with knits for a fascinating texture.

The interiors are as neat and finished as the exteriors.

Each one is a masterclass in color mixing.

I can only hope that anything I create will look this fresh half a century later. Amazing.

Knitting Camp Bulletin

2010-07-24T11:19:00.006-04:00

I'm at Meg Swansen's Knitting Camp, watching a parade of projects that will be included in an upcoming book from Schoolhouse Press of revisited and new Elizabeth Zimmermann designs in garter stitch, many of which have been drawn from previously unpublished notes and sketches.

Incredible sideways gloves. A chic biased garter stitch pullover. Little slippers with curled Turkish toes. Piece after piece after piece after piece and they're not done yet.

I will beg Meg for permission to post a few pictures. For the moment, this is all I can show you:

Bridal Suite

2010-07-21T17:33:00.006-04:00

Talk to any professional artist or designer you can find (seedy bars and discount grocery stores are good places to look) and chances are they will agree that inspiration is probably the most misunderstood ingredient in the murky chowder of creativity.

In movies, inspiration looks much like the manic half of manic depression. The artist runs amok in montage, flinging paint around in a large, white studio while loud bits of Mahler (or possibly the Pointer Sisters singing "I'm So Excited") flood the soundtrack. He is hyperkinetic, unfettered, unstoppable. He is not the person you want living in the apartment upstairs. But he can't help himself...he is inspired.

I admit that occasionally, out of nowhere, the Inspiration Fairy socks you in the gut with a full-grown idea so damned good it almost lifts you right off the barstool. But if you intend to make a living from your ideas, and you only sit down to work when that happens, you'd better have a rich uncle or a back-up plan in something nice and stable like accounting or dog grooming.

Inspiration (for me, anyhow) is less like a lightning bolt than like being constantly pecked by a flock of unfocused chickens. Here a peck, there a peck, until the combined pecking reaches critical mass and you can't take it any more and you scream, "Stop, chickens! Stop! Stop!"* and you sit down and draw the cartoon.

This can be every bit as unpleasant as it sounds.

The only way to avoid going mad, which usually happens to artists in movies shortly after the Pointer Sisters stop singing, is to learn to love your chickens. Think of the pecking as their way of alerting you to little details that will move you along, by slow inches, towards something good and whole and new.

And now I want to show you some drawings of old wedding dresses.

That sounds like a non sequitur, I know, but the old wedding dresses were inspiring. Everything you've just read was intended to lead up to them. But then I introduced the chicken motif, and it hasn't come out where I thought it would, and it's almost dinner time so I'm not going back and rewriting it. Sorry.

Inspiration at the Chicago History Museum

This is my second year as a member of the Chicago History Museum, which not so long ago was the Chicago Historical Society. In the old incarnation, it was just as clubby and dusty as it sounds–mostly of interest to the people around here who have major streets named after them.

After a grand renovation and expansion, however, it has become one of my favorite places in the city. Along with a first-class permanent exhibit about the Great Fire of 1871 and several rooms of Lincolniana unmatched by anything at the Smithsonian, they have frequent and splendid shows of items from the textiles collection.

The latest is called "I Do! Chicago Ties the Knot," and it's a doozy. Wedding gear from the mid-19th century (when Chicago sprang, almost overnight, from the mud) to the present day, including bridal gowns, corsetry, going-away attire, and men's costumes–including a pair of matching tuxedos worn by a gay couple, thankyouverymuch.

Oh, and there's a perfectly preserved 120-year-old top tier from a wedding cake, just for good measure.

They don't allow photography in the exhibit, but I spent a fun afternoon there, sketchbook in hand, drawing interesting details under the puzzled eye of the guard.

Here are a few. I plan to go back soon and collect more.

I would write something about the chickens here if I could think of a good tie-in, but it's Thai delivery night and I want my panang curry.

*If it's near Christmas and so they happen to be French hens, I suppose you could scream "Arretez-vous, poulardes, s'il vous plaît!" If they're German chickens, I got nothing, but that almost never happens.

Pachydermia

2010-07-08T14:47:00.005-04:00

The First Fall 2010 issue of Knitty is live, and my contribution to the potluck is Flo, a little elephant with an interesting history.

My inner six-year-old is unable to look at that picture without feeling compelled to share some of my very favorite elephant jokes. (Please set aside your juice boxes before proceeding.)

How do you stop an elephant from charging?

Take away his credit card before he goes into the yarn shop.

Why did the elephant cross the road?

To get to the yarn shop on the other side.

Why do elephants paint their toenails red?

Because they need something to do while they wait for the yarn shop to open.

What did the grape say to the elephant?

Nothing–grapes can't talk! But if grapes could talk, the grape would have asked for directions to the yarn shop.

If you see an elephant in your car, what time is it?

Time to drive the elephant to the yarn shop.

Midwest Fiber and Folk Art Fair

My inner six-year-old is also busting with anticipation because next week (July 16-18) is the annual Midwest Fiber and Folk Art Fair in Grayslake, Illinois. Have you been? This year I get to not only go and wander around the market, the art show, and the exhibits, but I'm also teaching.

The problem with teaching, of course, is that I can't also take classes, and my friends Edie Eckman (the knitting and crochet sorceress who taught me intarsia without killing me) and Carol Rhoades (of Spin Off and PieceWork magazines, et al., and on whom I have the most uncontrollable schoolboy crush) are also in the line-up.