Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy

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

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

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

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

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

A corner of the graffiti park.



Did you spot the sheep?

Iceland Welcomes You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...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.

1. 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.
   
   
2. 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.
   
   
3. 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.
   
   
4. 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.
   
   
5. The sound of the Queen Mary 2's horns as the ship leaves Southampton is one of the strongest aphrodisiacs I know.
   
   
6. 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.
   
   
7. Regarding point 6, it's a good thing the ship has a gym and that I remembered my running shoes.
   
   
8. 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!"
   
   
9. 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.
   
   
10. 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.
    
    
11. 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.

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:

1. Fly to London.
2. Teach in London.
3. Play in London.
4. Leave London for Southampton.
5. Leave Southampton for New York.
6. Leave New York for Portland.
7. Teach in Portland.
8. 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.