Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Back on the Chain Gang
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.
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.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Lopaprogress
Fan me with a tulip, mother–the lopapeysa now has two sleeves, a collar, and all ends woven in.
Next comes:
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:
Come back, Susie Sunbeam, come back. We need you.
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.
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.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.
Come back, Susie Sunbeam, come back. We need you.
Friday, January 13, 2012
This Place Looks Familiar
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Off the Top of My Head
Honk if you've heard this one:
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.
- "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.
Sunday, January 01, 2012
New Year. New Sleeve.
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:
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Pretty Much My Entire Personality Encapsulated in Two Christmas Presents from My Parents
Item One.
Steve Madden "Ajax" Boots.
Item Two.
Hat form from Wilshire Wig. I've named her "Hedda."
Thanks, Mom and Dad!
Steve Madden "Ajax" Boots.
Item Two.
Hat form from Wilshire Wig. I've named her "Hedda."
Thanks, Mom and Dad!
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Have Yourself a Merry Little Krampus
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!
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!
Monday, December 19, 2011
Go Forth and Twirl
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.
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.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Collect 'Em All
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!
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!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Am I the Walrus?
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.
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.
Thursday, December 01, 2011
More Lazy Haiku
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:
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."
This one is called "Sudden Awareness."
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.
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.
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.
What? Damn! Rip rip rip rip rip
Rip rip rip rip rip.
And finally, "Pastoral."
I could do this for hours, but we're supposed to board soon. See you in Manhattan.
Baa baa baa baa. Hey!
Clip clip clip clip clip clip clip
Clip clip clip. Nude sheep.
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.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Steek Geek
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."
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."
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