Buncha Buncha Bohus

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.

A Little Tribute

The bicycle and the chicken warmer I wrote about yesterday were both entries in the Knitting Camp contest. The theme–pieces celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Schoolhouse Press–was inspiring. But given the frantic and fraught nature of my spring and summer, I figured I'd skip it because there'd be no time (and less money) to prepare something really good.

Then, as I was packing for the Provincetown trip, I got an idea for a project that would be portable, inexpensive, challenging, and attainable in a short time. I knit and mounted what is possibly the smallest-ever traveling exhibit of works by Elizabeth Zimmermann.



All three sweaters are "true" miniatures, meaning I followed Elizabeth's formulae exactly as written, including ribbing, sleeve decreases, underarm grafting, etc. The trickiest bit was working out new numbers for the Baby Surprise Jacket to keep it in scale with the others. The yarn is laceweight and sock reinforcing thread, all worked on size zero needles.

I displayed them in a glass-fronted box under the heading GENUS ZIMMERMANNII with individual Latin labels for each specimen. My Latin's shaky (to put it mildly), but the effect is pretty funny.

And to my immense surprise, when the votes were tallied–I won.

Here's a closer look.


Tunica mirabila infantis


Subucula mathematica, var. Retinaculorum


Tunica tomtena

All the patterns (for full-size garments) are available in Knitting Workshop. They were fun to make, though I will advise that if you wish to enjoy a nice, relaxing knit I advice against working a 12-stitch sleeve in laceweight on four needles.

The Horror, The Horror

I have half a mind not to bother writing about my week at Knitting Camp. I have pictures that convey better any paragraph the terror to which I've been exposed.

Would you, knowing full well what lay ahead, choose to sequester yourself in a small hotel among the sort of people who knit bicycles with cabled tires?



Or who carefully craft rib warmers for rubber chickens?



And always, always at the front of the room was this crazy woman who kept showing everybody her underarms.



At regular intervals the "campers" (not like any Boy or Girl Scouts I've ever seen, let me tell you) would parade shamelessly in front of the class with objects they had created.



When that was over, we'd have to knit some more. For hours at a time. Hours!



And then they would start again with the fancy-ass knitting parade.



So ostentatious.

I do not exaggerate when I tell you it was like this the entire four days. And don't even get me started on the piles of wool and knitting books that were just lying around in plain sight waiting for somebody to buy them. Disgusting.

So if you've been wondering whether you ought to check out Meg Swansen's Knitting Camp, obviously the answer is no. When the lottery opens for the extremely limited spaces in next year's camps, you should not consider trying to get in. It was an ordeal, darlings, an absolute ordeal.

Of course, I shall feel it is my duty as a photographer to return and document the moral turpitude, but then you know me–I'm all about sacrifice for the Greater Good.

You're welcome.

Scenes from Camp

If a picture is worth 1,000 words, I'm about to deliver the Upanishads. Sorry. It was that kind of weekend.

Objects of Inspiration

A bewildering conglomeration of knitted pieces (many from the needles of Meg and Elizabeth) filled one long wall of the classroom. I spent a lot of time rummaging around and turned up several pieces I'd seen before in photographs or on video. It was like running into old friends.



This is perhaps a fifth of what was on display. And according Amy Detjen, there was more piled up under the tables that I never got to.



For Jean Miles: Elizabeth's original rib warmer.



A watch cap, "art socks," and yet more sweaters.



Elizabeth's famous Aspen Sweater. I tried it on.



One of several Baby Surprise Jackets.

Role Models

The teaching staff was nonpareil. We had the pleasure of learning from:



Joyce Williams, a gigantic amount of knitting know-how ensconced in a quite tiny person. The sweater she's holding is an example of Armenian Knitting, one of the techniques we covered. Joyce will be forever in my heart as the woman to whom I lost my steek virginity. She sat next to me and coaxed me through the whole process from crocheting to cutting.



Amy Detjen, who in spite of her breathtaking command of yarn and needles remains gratifyingly down-to-earth. I confess to having been very shy around her, which meant I didn't talk to her as much as I would have liked. I was in awe.



And of course, Meg. You remember Pa Ingalls describing Ma Ingalls in the Little House on the Prairie books as "Wise as a serpent, gentle as a dove"? That's Meg. Except she's also funny as hell.

My longstanding schoolboy crush on Judi Dench has now been transferred to Meg. Judi, you're a fantastic actress and we'll always have Paris, but Meg knits.




My Fellow Campers

Knitters, they're good people. This group took knitting seriously, but not themselves. This became evident during one lesson when the whole crowd spontaneously burst forth in song:

Knitting Camp is one week long,
Doo-dah, doo-dah.
Knitting Camp is one week long,
Oh, doo-dah-day.
Going to knit all night,
Going to knit all day.
Spent all our money on the lace-weight yarn,
Oh, doo-dah day.

And then the lesson resumed as though nothing had happened.

We sat at long tables and I had the pleasure of sitting across from:



Charlotte and Luz, who were both very nice to the New Boy. They didn't try to short-sheet my bunk or anything.

At each day's show-and-tell session, what might have been an exercise in vanity was instead a parade of top-flight workmanship.

A small sampling:



My girl Martha not merely showing her splendid stuff, but holding the swatch she made to get the fine details just right.



My bud Carol Shirley absolutely working the floor. Sashay, chantay.



Carol Shirley and Maureen in matching Fair Isles.



And the charming Pat, who apparently doesn't find modern life challenging enough as it is, displaying her method of knitting socks on two circulars. Four at a time.

There was lace all over the damn place. It was common as stockinette.



Fellow Chicagolander Cathy.



Nancy, in a cuddly summer shawl and one of my Worldwide Knit in Public Day shirts.



Maureen, who let me hang around her even though I kept drooling all over her work.



Shawn and her awe-inspiring wedding shawl. Is that a symbol of committment or what?



Lace-in-progress. Maureen helps Kate block her elegant Violets By the River shawl, done in Koigu.

I was so impressed by all the lace that I asked the lace knitters to sit for a group portrait, and they graciously agreed.



A beautiful group of women if I ever saw one.

You Knit What?

Of course, not everything the knitters showed was Serious Work.

The ladies who took me into their little group had quite surprise for us, in progress since the end of last year's session. May I present: Meg Swansen's Knitted Camp.



Here's the full site set up on Meg's table. The banner is double knitting. The tent has a steeked front opening, and inside is a two-color sleeping bag (also steeked) that's also a swatch for Meg's Baby Russian Prime sweater.

Ready for a closer look? Hang on tight.



They knit the campfire. And the marshmallows.



I'm not sure which of Barbie's friends this is, but I seem to recall that what she's knitting is the start of an Aran cable.



Another camper, wearing one sock while knitting its mate. Note the (wool) daiquiri and tin of needles in handy proximity.



"Dude...knitting fucking rocks," says Ken.



The perpetrators, L-R: Lynn (kneeling), Kate (behind), Carol Shirley, Maureen, and Martha.



When Meg came in from lunch and found what was waiting for her, she lit up like a Christmas tree. Apparently prior to this she had never handled, much less owned, a Barbie doll.

And then somebody pointed out there were three campers and one sleeping bag. The French have a word for that, don't they?

Say Not Goodbye, But Au Revoir

It was all over far too quickly. We'd only just arrived, and suddenly our teachers were standing up for a much-deserved ovation.



There was time for one last conga.



And before leaving I felt compelled to make my intentions clear on the dry-erase board in the classroom.

Too Tired Make Post

Home now camp wonderful post pics later this week must lie down with ice bag on head have yarn hangover ow.

A Bee Drowning in Honey

Dolores made it back to room at about 7 a.m. on Friday, just as I was brushing my teeth. She was wearing an oil-stained work short which indicated that her name was Willard and that she was employed by Greater Marshfield Auto Body and Car Salvage.

"Did we have fun?" I asked.

"We made the natives restless," she giggled.

"Do you not think Willard might miss his shirt?"

"I had to take it," she said. "He wouldn't give me back my muumuu."

Somebody Pinch Me

Allow me to offer a quick sketch of Knitting Camp.

We spend most of the day in the classroom. The classroom is a large, well-lit space with the teaching desk up at the front and a horshoe of student work tables facing it.

As you come into the room, along the right wall are hundreds of finished objects - sweaters, hats, mittens, you name it - knitted by the Schoolhouse Press gang, including Elizabeth and Meg. The original rib warmer is there (I took a picture for you, Jean). So is the aspen sweater, and Lloie's own Baby Surprise Jacket. It's quite moving to pick up something you've seen Elizabeth hold in a video and realize every stitch in it came from her needles.

There are also yarns for sale: Shetland, Icelandic, real Gansey from England, alpaca. And notions. And needles. And books! Sample copies of every book Schoolhouse Press sells. And their line of knitting videos. And $10 bags of mixed whatnot from Meg's stash. (She's downsizing. At least for the moment.) When you want something, you just take it, and record your purchase on your personal sheet in the "brown book" at the back of the room. At the end of camp, you settle your bill.

So you have yarn, you have needles, you have knitting books, and you have samples pieces to fondle and turn inside out. It's basically a yarn store of superior quality.

And you get to live in it for four days. With Meg Swansen.

That's what camp is like.

If you ask me, Disney World pales in comparison.

The Campers

Anybody who imagines us sitting in straight-backed chairs quietly counting "knit one, purl two" has never seen a group of knitters on the loose before. You're thinking Carmelite convent. You should be thinking of the backstage scenes from Showgirls.

The format is quite freewheeling. In the mornings, we go over specific techniques (I'm having a love affair with Bavarian twisted stitch), and Meg answers questions that have been placed in a basket on her desk. Often, getting to the answer is half the fun.

For example, this morning somebody wrote: "Please demonstrate your method of two-color knitting."

And Meg did demonstrate her method. So did our other excellent teachers, Joyce and Amy. Before we got to that point, however, we meandered through invisible cast on, circular brioche, the origin of "faggot stitch," intarsia in the round, yarn thimbles, spit splicing, forthcoming knitting books, "rules" in knitting, and the paramount importance of defending independent thought in today's world.

And I seem to remember somebody telling a slightly off-color joke involving Kitchener stitch and the farmer's daughter.

This is not a church social, kids.

We were knitting away last night after dinner and somebody asked Dolores if the long, tubular piece of cabled knitting she'd created was a Aran willy warmer.

"I am a willy warmer," said Dolores.

My face hurts from laughing, which is a nice change from the pain that comes from banging it repeatedly against the wall of my office.

It's gonna be hard to go home.

Knitting Camp: On the Road

No surprise that dinner with Lars on Wednesday night was a delight, albeit all too brief. Such a good fellow. I can't wait to see him again at Stitches. He's funny, smart, and cool as a cucumber. Even the sight of Dolores suggestively slurping her pad thai noodles didn't seem to phase him.

But we had to say goodnight early, as the next day was our departure for Knitting Camp. Martha and Susan anticipated swinging past our place at about 10:30 a.m. and we did not want to keep them waiting. As it happened, they called up from about thirty miles south of the Loop at 9:30 a.m. and said they were running early.

Dolores freaked; she was only half-finished with her morning toilette in nothing but curlers, cold cream, and a slip. She need not have worried. A combination of cataclysmic construction work and rolling thunderstorms slowed city traffic to a crawl, and the poor dears rolled in half an hour late.

We set off from Chicago in high spirits, although Dolores was miffed when Martha told her not to light up in the car.

"Just little one?" said Dolores.

"No," said Martha.

"It's filtered," said Dolores.

"No," said Martha.

"How about if I stick my head out the window?" she said.

"How about if we tie you to the roof?" said Martha.

Happily, before we even made it to the expressway the Lunesta tablet that had accidentally fallen into Dolores's traveling flask kicked in. She passed out with her head on the armrest and was silent for the next six hours, aside from one somnolent snort to "Viggo" to "do that again, but higher."

As it turned out, I couldn't have been driven to Wisconsin by two better people. Martha and Susan are a hoot and a holler, respectively. And so full of information. Before we even hit the Illinois border I'd been fully briefed on the personalities of the knitters I'd be meeting and what sort of knitterly frolics I could expect. However, as Susan had enabled the child safety locks on the back doors my attempt to leap from the moving vehicle was unsuccessful.

We arrived in Marshfield with just minutes to spare before the opening dinner. Camp is being held at a quiet, comfortable Holiday Inn on the main drag (the one with the traffic signal). There was some trouble checking in. I gave my name and the desk clerk said she couldn't find any record of my reservation.

"How do you spell your name again, please?"

"H-A-B-I-T."

"I'm sorry, sir, " said the clerk. "We have nothing under that name."

"Try looking under Van Hoofen," gurgled a bleary voice from the sofa in the lobby. I glared at Dolores, who gave me a sheepish grin.

The clerked tapped her keyboard. "Oh, yes," she said brightly. "Here we are. Would you care to swipe a credit card for any incidentals, Mr. Van Hoofen?"

"We're not married," said Dolores. "He just likes to play with my fleece."

The clerk pursed her lips. "I don't know what you may have heard about Wisconsin, sir," she hissed. "But this is a respectable hotel and we don't really appreciate that sort of thing."

As I rolled Dolores and our luggage (two suitcases, two knitting bags, three hatboxes, a makeup case, and a dozen assorted California varietals) up to the third floor, she yawned and stretched and smacked her lips.

"I need a pick-me-up," she said. "Does this joint have a lounge?"

"Yes," I said. "I think it's closed, though."

"Crap."

"I did see a bar across the street. But it looked a little grungy."

"Good grunge or bad grunge?"

"Well...there were two rusting pick-ups with gun racks parked outside, the windows are blacked out and the sign says it's called 'Nutz Deep.' "

"Nutz Deep?"

"Nutz Deep."

"See ya," said Dolores.