Gobsmacked in Cambridge

A final note from the England trip, an addendum of sorts to the notebooks (one, two, three).

We spent most of the day doing what visitors do in Cambridge. College, college, college, Trinity Street (I bought a beautiful English-made bow tie at Arthur Shepherd), college, college, church, church, church, lunch.

It was mid-afternoon, the clock was ticking, and I had not yet set foot in a bookshop.

Working on a hunch that an ancient center of learning might yet have one or two of these to root around in, I asked Liz.

"Yes," said Liz. "I will point you at two. Tom and I can go have a drink at the pub while you browse."

(Liz has done this before.)

After some negotiation it was agreed that I should have one hour, thirty seven minutes before presenting myself at the pub.

"Now," Liz said. "Over there is the larger shop. Over here is the smaller shop, but they specialize in antique children's books."

I'll repeat that.

"They specialize," said Liz, "in antique children's books."

I think Tom said something after that, but I was already at one hour, thirty six minutes and ten seconds and didn't have time to fool about. I can talk to Tom any time.

The children's bookshop was the size of four phone booths. For those of you too young to remember phone booths, it was the size of those four retro novelty photo booths at Jerusha and Skylar's wedding in Williamsburg, the one your whole dodge ball team went to.

I walked in, and the first thing that hit me in the face was a shelf crammed with titles I have read about but never seen in person. This place is the physical embodiment of my lifelong wish list. Within seconds, I was confronted by four linear feet of what I gauged to be turn-of-the-century Caldecott.

"May I help you find anything?" said the nice lady at the desk.

"Gasp," I gasped.

"Well, do please let me know," she said.

I stared dumbly at the row of Caldecott for a moment. I tried to reach for a book and realized my fingers had gone numb.

Then, much as those who have survived environmental catastrophes say that an inborn, automatic survival instinct pulled them through, I heard a voice that was not quite my own say,

"Listen. I'm from America and only have a few minutes. I see you have piles of Caldecott. I'm also interested in Ernest Shepard, Arthur Rackham, Dulac, and Walter Crane. Oh, and I wonder what you might have in the way of needlework titles–especially knitting."

She sprang into action.

"Needlework. Hmm. Now, that's a tough one." But she had that look in her eye, the one book people get when presented with a novel challenge.

"I know," I said. "There really isn't much."

"Well, have a look at these." They were crochet books from the 1950s, aimed at the plucky post-war girl of twelve to fourteen.

"Sweet," I said. "But I don't really crochet."

"Hmm. Well, I'm afraid aside from those all we have at present would be some Girl's Own annuals with needlework patterns..."

"I like the sound of that."

"...and then there's that."

Up on a top shelf, cover facing  out, leaning casually against a row of who cares what, was this.



It's Jane Gaugain's The Lady's Assistant for Executing Useful and Fancy Designs in Knitting, Netting, and Crochet Work.

Jane Gaugain, in case she's not a household name for you (yet), is the woman you might call the mother of fiber arts publishing. She ran a haberdashery business in Edinburgh with her husband, she wanted to sell wool yarns from Germany, and she realized that you sell more yarns with pattern support. So she began to circulate patterns by request and subscription. (There is a wonderful article about her in this issue of Twist Collective.)

Then, in 1840, Mrs Gaugain produced her first book. This book.

This book, which is the beginning of everything that brought you all those knitting and crochet titles on your shelf. Elizabeth Zimmermann, Mary Thomas, Barbara Walker, Alice Starmore, Interweave, Soho, STC–it all starts here.

Now, please keep in mind that I went to England owning exactly one (1) knitting book that pre-dates 1880. And it's terrible. I mean, absolutely terrible. Fun as a relic, interesting to look at, useless to work from.

So for me, standing face-to-face with the first widely acclaimed, best-selling collection of knitting patterns was a little overwhelming.

But not so overwhelming that I didn't check the price. I was afraid to look.

It was really good. More than I'd normally drop on a single book–but really good. There aren't piles of knitting titles from this era lying around. Think about it. What do you usually do with outmoded books of knitting patterns? You throw them away, that's what you do. Or you donate them, or trade them, so that others may throw them away. And so it has always been.

It means that when you do find Mrs Gaugain for sale, she's pricey. But this shop was not a specialist in this topic, and though they did note "scarce" on the front flyleaf they didn't price it to keep it lying around in space that could be better occupied by, say, a nice first of Wind in the Willows.

So I bought it, with a beating heart and just one sad glance at the big, blue, oblong, I'd-never-even-heard-of-it album of Caldecott illustrations that's still sitting there, probably, and she said they would ship it to me if you haven't yet bought my Christmas present.

When I left the shop, I checked the time. I had been inside for exactly ten minutes.

While strictly speaking I had another hour and twenty-seven minutes allotted to book shopping, I found myself unable to go on. After you find the book at the top of your Life List just sitting there, what's the point of trying to beat that in a second venue?

I didn't know what to do, honestly. I felt like a dog that had spent his life chasing cars, and then caught one.

I stumbled toward the pub, clutching Mrs Gaugain to my palpitating chest.

Liz and Tom weren't there, of course. They weren't expecting me for more than an hour. In fact they were probably expecting me to forget them entirely, then scream NO NO LEAVE ME HERE IN PEACE as they attempted forcibly to extract me from the stacks.

(Liz and Tom have done this before.)

I turned around and ran smack into them on the street. They were startled.

"What happened? Did you find something?" said Tom.

"Mmrrbrblp," I said.

It was all I could do to get the book out of my bag and show it to them. They, being kind people, did not even make fun of me (much) when I started to cry.

The copy's in beautiful shape. Sound and complete, right down to the hand-colored plates demonstrating netting.



Note the errant smudge of red left by the colorist, who was probably a tubercular orphan, aged four, or similar. Poor kid.

This is not, I hasten to add, a first edition. It's a third edition (1842) as shown by Mrs Gaugain's preface.



She notes:

The Work has again undergone a thorough revision by me, and from the Receipts all having been worked by many of the subscribers–the best means of ascertaining its correctness–several little inaccuracies in the former Edition have been detected and corrected.

Inaccuracies corrected? Does this mean–can it be?–that am I holding the corrected version of the Pineapple Bag?! Did she fix the decreases at the bottom?!!



No.

I Like to Swatch

From Fleisher's Knitting and Crocheting Manual, 1906:

Nowadays, every woman who gives thoughtful preparation to her wardrobe includes a variety of knitted or crocheted garments, because of their artistic beauty and their comforting warmth. Wherever women meet, the art of knitting and crocheting is discussed–the newest garments, the best stitches, the prettiest colors. Many have recently been converted to the charm of this work, realizing that machine made garments do not equal in softness, beauty, and distinctive elegance, those made by hand, and that, therefore, the time spent in knitting and crocheting is both pleasant and profitable.

Pleasant and profitable. That goes right to the heart of why I fell in love with knitting.

Pleasant, in the sense that needlework steadies me sufficiently to keep me out of the Police Blotter. Profitable, in the sense that after the pleasure fades I am left with something tangible and (amigurumi and novelty fruit handbags aside) useful in exchange for my time.

The longer I'm at it, though, the less I find I care about the tangible outcome. I had been knitting for years before I learned about gauges and swatching; once I learned about them, it was another few years before I learned to care. I didn't want to swatch for the thing, I wanted to make the thing. A rogues gallery of the elephantine and miniscule hats that followed would be shown here as evidence, if said evidence had not been destroyed.

After the fifth gift hat a friend refuses to wear because she could easily fit her own head and those of both her children inside, you start to get the message: Swatch. Swatch, and learn something.

Nowadays I love practicing, experimenting, playing with process.

When I get the "What's that you're making?" question, about half the time the true answer is "Nothing in particular." But that draws puzzled looks and prolongs the conversation, so usually I just say it's a scarf. Non-knitters are satisfied, since they can't tell the difference and don't really care. Knitters glaze over at the word "scarf" and will happily change the subject, which allows me to go back to swatching.

A new-to-me technique is my favorite thing to swatch. Recently I sat down with a book that's been on my worktable in the "PLAY WITH THIS" pile for ages, Alasdair Post-Quinn's Extreme Double-Knitting: New Adventures in Reversible Colorwork. Full disclosure: I saw the book before it came out, and liked it. I liked it so much that there's a quote from me on the back cover, saying so.

But this was the first time I really sat down and threw myself into working from it. I'd played with two-color double-knitting before; but it was of the slip-this-side-then-slip-that-side variety and I found the process tedious and the results unsatisfactory.

I like Alasdair's method, though. You get a firm, handsome, dense fabric with it. And when I say dense, I mean dense enough to wear as a winter hat in Chicago when you are a bald male of Mediterranean and Middle Eastern descent and therefore are genetically designed to crumple at the first blast of January wind from Canada.

Alasdair takes "Extreme"–a sadly overused word these days, often denoting either a modest level of skill or an immodest level of bad taste–seriously. His basic method in two colors is a bit of challenge to begin with; but he blows past two-color reversible patterns into working it in the round, shaping it, adding extra colors, working different patterns on opposite sides of the same fabric, double-knitting cables and other textures, and building three-dimensional double-knitted objects. He would probably have zoomed onward into metaphysical double-knitting that alters the time-space continuum if the editor had not at last told him to Put a Lid on It.

I waded into the shallow end with a wrist warmer. The design in the book is cute–a pair of opposing spirals–but as usual I had to get funky and Make It My Own so I adapted a pair of charts from a book I bought at the university bookshop in Reykavik. One is either a flower or a snowflake. The other is a dragon, a griffin, and a Boston Terrier all at the same time.



The result–worked in DK leftovers from my stash–was fun to knit. It's a real charge to flip your work inside-out and see the same pattern with the colors reversed.

This was fun enough that I know I'll take another crack at it, albeit with smaller needles. Alasdair urges you to work at a tightish gauge, and he's right. This specimen, worked with a size 4, would benefit from sliding down to size 2.

My wristlet looks more than a little frowsy and is much too big for my wrist, yet I keep getting compliments on it at the coffee shop.



Yeah. Cup sleeve. I know I said it was going to be a scarf, but I really meant to say cup sleeve.

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.

Lopaprogress

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

Next comes:

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

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



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

Learn Along with Franklin: Part II

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



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




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

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



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



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

AT HOME.

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

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

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

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

AT TABLE.

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

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

AMONG OTHER CHILDREN.

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

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

IN SCHOOL.

Bow at entering, especially if the teacher be present.

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

IN THE STREET.

Jeer not any person whatever.

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

GOING INTO COMPANY.

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

CLEANLINESS.

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

MODESTY.

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

GOOD BREEDING.

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

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

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

Fresh Ink

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

A Keeper

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

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

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

Lucky bastards.

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Philadelphia: Back to Loop

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

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

And My Thanks...

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

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

Some Thoughts On Having Attended the Opening Day of the Newberry Library Book Fair

1. Whoops.



2. If only I'd had more time to browse.

3. I got kind of a sick thrill when the lady at the cash desk staggered back and said, "Whoa."

4. Now that I've been, you may go and pick through the leftovers.

Knitting Camp Bulletin

I'm at Meg Swansen's Knitting Camp, watching a parade of projects that will be included in an upcoming book from Schoolhouse Press of revisited and new Elizabeth Zimmermann designs in garter stitch, many of which have been drawn from previously unpublished notes and sketches.

Incredible sideways gloves. A chic biased garter stitch pullover. Little slippers with curled Turkish toes. Piece after piece after piece after piece and they're not done yet.

I will beg Meg for permission to post a few pictures. For the moment, this is all I can show you:

Franklin in Wonderland

The last time I changed apartments, the moving crew was deeply amused to find that I had five smallish pieces of furniture, eight huge bookcases, and 110 boxes, 97 of which were labeled BOOKS.

I attract books the way velcro attracts cashmere. In spite of a strict policy of twice-yearly culling, which sometimes eliminates as many as seven volumes, I'm still hovering around the 3,000 mark and fear that my cataloguing project will never be complete.

Some of what's on my shelves has been known, read and loved for so long that the books themselves have become almost superfluous; the contents are embedded in my brain and will likely remain until I am otherwise old and dotty and pluck at specks of dust, unable even to spell my own name.

The Alice books are on that list. I remember with absolute clarity the first time I met them, in the first library I can remember, at my first school. I didn't twig to all the jokes–unlike Alice, I had been deprived of peeks into an elder brother's Latin grammar–but I loved Tenniel's pictures.

They were unlike anything in my other favorites: Curious George, Corduroy or even Where the Wild Things Are. The last of these had scenes that were twilit and vaguely threatening; but the illustrations in Alice touched a level of absurd creepy chaos so spine-tingling and delicious that I suspected that I wasn't supposed to be looking at them.

Which is why Alice was the first book I ever stole from a library and hid in my bedroom. (Don't make that face. I felt guilty and brought it back two days later. I always brought the stolen books back.)

When I started working on the Looking Glass Socks I didn't want to get too elaborate. These needed to be low-stress travel knitting. I still hoped to have some kind of visual reference to Wonderland, but after the chessboard fiasco I gave up and settled for plain ol' stripes.

It wasn't until I was getting ready to write this entry, and actually pulled my copy off the shelf to scan an illustration, that I looked at Alice meeting Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum...



...and was startled to notice that in the second book, Alice is wearing striped stockings.

As the second of my pair reverses the colors of the first,



I've decided that one sock must be from the waking side of the looking glass; the other is from the dreaming side.



And I did it without realizing what I was doing. Funny, isn't it, the things that knitting will pull out of the deepest wrinkles in your brain?

Footsie

I was putting away clean laundry the other day and realized that my collection of dress socks–which I grant you is not uncommonly extensive–is now about fifty percent hand-knit.

That's a respectable total, I think, especially considering my tendency to over-think knitting projects in general, and socks in particular. After a recent speaking gig somebody asked me, "Do you swatch?" and I replied that it sometimes feels like I never do anything else.

Those Looking Glass Socks I wrote about a few entries back, the ones made from Supreme Possum, are a perfect example. I fussed and fussed and cast on and knit and ripped back and cast on again and ripped back again and broke out the colored pencils and doodled on napkins and Googled "Fibonacci" and created charts in Illustrator and stared at the wall and bent the ears of several persons willing and unwilling. I wound up with this.



I'm happy with it. It's fine. It may even be cute. But after all the exertion I keep thinking of a favorite anecdote from one of my culinary idols, Madeleine Kamman. In When French Women Cook, Madeleine tells of slaving for hours in the kitchen over a new dessert intended to impress the chef to whom she's been apprenticed. The chef looks at the finished dish, tastes a spoonful, and says, "Congratulations, chérie. You have just re-invented Nesselrode Pudding."

After all that effort, it does seem one might have come up with something more revolutionary than 2-4-2 stripes, doesn't it?

On the other hand, just at present I need a bit of plain vanilla. When I have an odd moment to knit, I can pick these up and knit. No charts to consult, no maneuvers that can't be accomplished on a speeding bus, no passages that preclude conversation. There's something to be said for that.

Part of the swatching process involved testing five different solutions for avoiding that ugly color jog that you get when working stripes in the round. The first two solutions were

1. pretending I didn't care about the ugly color jog, and
2. pretending the ugly color jog didn't matter if I kept it at the back of the leg.

The other three were various sly tricks figured out by knitters far smarter than I. I ultimately settled on the jog-less jog Meg Swansen sets forth with characteristic brilliance in Handknitting With Meg Swansen. I'm not going to explain it here, because it's Meg's technique and not mine. And for heaven's sake, the book is cheap, amazing, and readily available. If you don't have a copy, you should get one.

I will show you how well it worked. Here's the foot, with the spots where the color jog would be in plain view.



Here's the path of the jogless jogs.



As you can see, Meg's maneuver (which I can perform, but still not comprehend) causes the first stitch of the round to travel one stitch to the left each time it's performed. Here's how it looks on the inside, with the unused yarn being carried up a short distance between stripes.



Maybe, just maybe, if I keep fiddling and dawdling, I'll eventually come up with such a fabulous contribution to the field.

Or maybe I'll be 96 and still knitting freaking stripes. Time will tell.

A Gold Medal

Ironically, while I've been doing this very unremarkable work I've also been preparing a reward for those who have completed extremely remarkable work.



It's the Gold Medal for Yarn Harlot's 2010 Knitting Olympics. If you like it, you can get one of your own here, or snag sidebar- and Ravelry avatar-sized versions from Stephanie's blog.

A big ol' salute to everybody who took part, including Harry, who finished his animal blanket with time to spare and didn't even care when Dolores told him the cow looked like an elk.

Fleece-to-Face with Janel Laidman

Hi everybody it's Harry and I am so excited.

Because you know normally when we have a Guest Star visit Dolores gets to do the interview and all I get to do is sit in the next room in case they yell for help.

Well not today. Because it turns out that Dolores is having such an enlightened time at the ashram in Oregon that she did not come back yet and Franklin is in the room with the drawing board and the sign up that says ON DEADLINE DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS STEPHEN FRY IS AT THE FRONT DOOR NAKED AND HOLDING CASHMERE and so guess what I get to do the interview!

Our guest is Janel Laidman who wrote the The Eclectic Sole last time she wrote a book, and it was about socks. And now she wrote another book about socks which is The Enchanted Sole and when we got our copy I stayed up past my bed time reading it because it is very pretty and unusual, and so I have read the whole book. And also I am qualified to talk to Janel about knitting socks because as you know I am sock yarn.

And so anyway here is our chat which I hope you will enjoy or at least look at the pictures.

Harry: Hi, Janel! I hope you don’t mind if I do the interview. Dolores usually does them but Franklin asked if I would fill in, is that okay? I haven’t done it before but usually I get to watch Dolores so I know how I’m supposed to do it.

Janel: Well, Harry, I’m actually thrilled that you’re doing the interview. I’ve always had a bit of a secret crush on you. Dolores is all well and good with her antics and shenanigans, but I’ve always had a bit of a fondness for a guy who is clearly steady, useful and down to earth. If you ever need a place to get away from it all, I have a lovely stash you could come hang out with.

Harry: Oh gosh I am blushing! You are so cool, Dolores is going to be mad she didn't come home to do this interview! Okay, before we start would you like some milk and cookies? I made snickerdoodles and chocolate chip.

Janel: Mmmm…I’ll have the snickerdoodles, please. I mean really–snicker, doodle–how can I resist?

Harry: Excellent choice, madame. Now it's the question part so let me get my notebook. When you first tried knitting a sock, what sock was it? Was it plain or fancy? Did you think right away how cool it is to make your own socks, and dream you would make up your own sock patterns some day?

Janel: I first tried knitting a sock because I saw these really cool people called Danish schoolgirls and they were knitting socks in physics class! And somehow also learning physics, in Danish! I thought that must be the trickiest thing on earth and I decided I wanted to be a Danish schoolgirl too, so I tried knitting a sock.

It was a plain ribbed sock, and I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even know how to knit. It came out looking like an elephant might wear it if he liked mustard yellow cotton socks. I was in Denmark because I was an exchange student and I dreamed I would someday be a famous language expert and work for the United Nations. I had no idea that my special language would end up being the language of K and P.

Harry: I understand, because I really admire Danish too except when it's prune. So you have made two books now, and the new book is called The Enchanted Sole. It has a lot of patterns, and all of the patterns are based on make-believe. Like you have a Mermaid sock, and a Pixie sock, and a sock called Licorne which is unicorn when you are speaking French. So do you enjoy make-believe stories a whole lot?

Janel: Yes, especially when they end with lots of golden coins piled up in a vault with my name on it, and fairy princesses scattering flower petals and a magical fish dinner, with a goblet that sings…Where was I?

Harry: I don't know. I kind of got lost when you said magical fish.

Janel: Well, actually I just like stories a whole lot, both make-believe and stories of “true grit." I like to work with themes as an inspiration and this particular book had a make-believe story theme.

Harry: Do you have a most favorite make-believe story? Mine is the one about the shoemaker and the elves because I think it would be fun if elves did my chores, like if I made cookies they would come in after and load the dishwasher. I like to imagine that.

Janel: I always liked the one about the talking fish who grants wishes, and the stupid guy who wishes for sausages and his stupider wife who wishes they were stuck to the end of his nose. And I also like stories that are sad and a little wistful, yet the earnest and honest person gets the rewards in the end.

Harry: That's the best kind of story! When you were making your book, how did you get ideas? Did a story make you think of a new sock, or did you maybe see a good-looking ball of yarn and it made you think of a story that you read that would be an excellent sock?

Janel: Well, both actually. Sometimes it was the story, like for example with the Snow Queen sock which was inspired by Snow Queen stories, or the Tree of Life sock - that one was definitely inspired by the many stories with a tree of life in them.

Other times a handsome ball of yarn would come along and whisper what it wanted to be. The Tintagel sock was like that and so was the Atlantis sock. I knew when I saw that watery aqua color of Madeline Tosh yarn, it just had to be something about mystical water and the word Atlantis floated up into my brain. Sometimes I was inspired by the technique and then had to figure out which story it went with. Like the Traveler sock. I knew I wanted to make a sock with a secret pocket, but then I had to figure out who would be wearing that sock.

Harry: I love the one with the secret pocket! I'm going to make it for Franklin to wear when he goes to the nudist resort so he can have a place to put his room key.

Janel: I'm sorry...what?

Harry: Would you like some more cookies? I made tons and Franklin is on a diet.

Janel: Oh my, I’m on a diet too, but really it’s hard to resist. Snicker, doodle. Who named that cookie? Oh, alright, just one more.

Harry: Do you think it is a shame to make socks with pretty feet and then put them into a shoe and nobody gets to see the pretty part?

Janel: Well, I usually wear my socks with pretty feet in some kind of open shoes like Birkenstocks so I can be as much of a show-off as possible. But I think that sometimes it’s really delicious to have a secret pretty thing that only you know is there. It makes you walk around all day with a silly little Mona Lisa smile because you know that, secretly, you have princess feet.

Harry: I agree! Are there any make-believe characters that are too scary so you wouldn’t make a sock of them because while you are knitting you would get too scared and have to put all the lights on and call your best friend?

Janel: Well, usually I think the villains in the make-believe stories are more complex than they appear to be, so they don’t usually scare me too much. However, I don’t think I’d make a scary or ugly sock. I mean, there is just too much pretty out there to enjoy. I definitely wouldn’t make a sock from The Shining because that story made me put the lights on and stay up all night singing lalalalalalala.

Harry: Now these socks aren’t made out of scary stories but they might be scary to make. I will explain what mean. Like this one, Firebird, has a great big picture across the whole entire leg! If somebody is nervous about making a sock like that what would you say to be helpful and encouraging?

Janel: It’s actually not scary at all. Colorwork is a lot of fun because you can’t wait to see the picture emerging. And a colorwork sock is a much smaller project than that Henry VIII pullover by Ms. Starmore.

Most people are worried about getting the tension even doing colorwork on a small project like that. If you haven’t ever done a colorwork sock, try knitting it with the sock inside out so the floats are going around the outside, that makes the tension very even and allows for a little bit more stretch.

Also, that sock, and the other colorwork socks in the book have built in leg shaping so that they will fit the curvy part of your leg much better than a straight leg sock.

Harry: Okay, I think that is very comforting. Hey, do you only knit socks or do you knit other things, too?

Janel: I love to knit other things. It’s just that socks are kind of like potato chips, once you start it’s hard to stop.

Harry: Would you like to do more books about socks right away or do you need to rest for a little while?

Janel: My next two books will definitely not be about socks. I love socks, but I also love other items. I’m currently smitten by mittens and gloves so I think a book about those will be in order, and I’m also quite excited by lace, and textures and sweaters. I’ll come back again to socks some day, but I think my current books can keep sock knitters busy for quite a little while.

Harry: I think you're right! Janel, it sure was nice to meet you! Thank you for being interviewed. If you want you can take some cookies home as a souvenir.

Janel: Well, it was truly a treat meeting you Harry, remember what I said, if you ever need to get away for a while…

Okay everybody, that's the interview! If you want to get The Enchanted Sole you can go to Rustling Leaf Press or visit your friendly neighborhood yarn shop. And tell them Harry sent you and I said hi!

Fleece to Face with Kristen Rengren

Dolores’s occasional series of author/designer interviews continues today with Kristen Rengren, author of an absolutely splendid new book of baby knits (from the always reliable Melanie Falick Books/STC Craft) that draws inspiration from the not-so-distant past.

DVH: Hi, I’m Dolores. Who are you? I can never keep track of these things.

KR: I’m Kristen Rengren. It’s nice to meet you.

DVH: You look familiar. Wait–did you used to dance at Club Whoopee over in Sauganash? And call yourself Amber Waves O’Grain?

KR: Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls. And possibly to some of the boys.

DVH: What can I get you to drink? I just finished the last of the Dewar’s, but there’s plenty of everything else.

KR: Maybe I should just have a Shirley Temple. It looks like you’re doing enough drinking for the both of us.

DVH: This is medicinal. Like vitamins.

KR: Sure. Okay.

DVH: Now, the Supreme Commander told me the last couple of these little chitchats were too loosey-goosey, so before we start I need you to agree to some ground rules. Let me see, where's that list? Yeah, here we go: no vulgarity, no inflammatory political statements, and no trying to take my top off. Is that clear?

KR: Are those rules for you or for me?

DVH: Oh, will you look at that–you’re right. So, you’re still welcome to take your top off if you feel so inclined.

KR: I thought this was a family show.

DVH: We have a very broad definition of family. Now, let’s get the official business out of the way so we can have some fun. What is it that you brought to show me today?

KR: I just wrote a book called Vintage Baby Knits–it’s a compendium of over forty vintage patterns from the 1920s through the 1950s, all rewritten for the thoroughly modern baby.

DVH: Groovy. We love babies around here, as long as they go home at the end of the day. Is this your first book?

KR: The first under my real name. All the rest have Fabio on the cover.

DVH: You grow more interesting by the minute. These are some very classy baby duds you got in here. When Debbie Bliss sees it she’ll have a freaking conniption. I think that would be fun to watch, don’t you?

KR: Well, I wouldn’t want to ruffle Debbie’s feathers, especially if she’s got as many pointy sticks in her house as I do. Vintage knitting has taught me a lot, but I’ve picked up very little in the way of vintage self-defense.

DVH: Hypothetical situation: you’re in a coffee shop minding your own business, having a latte, and Debbie comes at you from behind the bagel toaster with a butter knife. How do you defend yourself?

KR: I suppose in a pinch I’d have to hold up the Louise cardigan from the book, and just hope that she keeled over from the cuteness. I’m not exactly a knitting ninja, but I do know how to wield some heart-stoppingly cute sweaters. And I carry some size fifteens with me just in case.

DVH: Another hypothetical: you, me, Debbie. Wrestling in a big vat full of Jell-o. Your thoughts?

KR: I think I’d like to talk about the book.

DVH: Fine, play coy. Anyway, this is obviously a top-drawer production. No schmattehs, and the babies are all good looking. Must have cost a fortune. A-list baby models don’t come cheap. Were they difficult to work with on the set? Anybody throw a sippy cup at the makeup girl? Or wee on the furniture? Come on, you can tell me.

KR: I have no idea how they got those babies to sit still for so long on the set. My initial guess was duct tape and baby aspirin, but I think my stylist just turned out to be an astoundingly effective baby wrangler.

Actually I do know one trick the photographer used – she rustled up about twice as many babies as they needed for each shoot, and then just didn’t photograph the babies who cried that day. We had a super cutie for the Christening dress in the test photos, but she apparently cried like it was The Exorcist when they put her in it on the day of the shoot, so we ended up with a still shot.

DVH: Baby diva tantrums! We loves it. Hang on, though. I see a pattern for a stuffed elephant and a lion. Are those the only toys in the book? No sheep? You got something against sheep?

KR: Half the items in here are made of sheep. I thought it would be redundant.

DVH: Nice save. You know, you have shapely ankles just like Amber at Club Whoopee. Maybe she’s your sister?

KR: I have three sisters, but none of them are taxi dancers. At least for their day jobs.

DVH: I swear looking at these pictures makes me want to push out a flock just so I can knit the hoodie on page 22. You know a good place to meet rams in this city?

KR: You don’t even need a ram anymore if you hang out in the right places. Just look at Dolly.

DVH: Forget Dolly. Can I take a closer look at your ankles?

KR: What a coquette you are!

DVH: Mais oui, ma petite! La plume de ma tante! Baba au rhum!

KR: Maybe you shouldn’t take so much medicine.

DVH: I’m sure this thing is going to be a big-ass hit, so can we expect a volume two? Or do you have other plans?

KR: I’m already at work on a book of vintage kids’ knits as a sequel. And I’d also love to write a book of vintage patterns for women. The only trouble is that ladies in the forties and fifties wore such punishing under-things. I’m working on how women can get that look today without restricting any vital organs.

At the same time, I’m also working on original designs, because it’s just too much fun to design my own patterns, too. You can expect to see a bevy of vintage-inspired original patterns from me this fall and winter – for kids and grown-ups. If you’re lucky there might even be something for lovely lady sheep... provided you’d actually keep it on, of course. Don’t make me pull that camisole down again, darling.

Other than that, it’s world domination, getting the bathroom cleaned… you know, the usual.

DVH: In addition to all that would you be interested in dancing at Club Whoopee? I know a guy. I just need a good picture of your ankles.

KR: If you saw me dance, you’d tell me to not quit my day job and to stick to my knitting. I promise.

DVH: You’re being way too modest. Let me put some James Brown on the hi-fi and we can get down and funky. Here, I’ll start.

KR: Gosh, will you look at the time? I have to…go…wash my….eyes.

DVH: You’ll be back. They always come back.

If you'd like to enter to win a free copy of Vintage Baby Knits, click here to learn more about the contest being run by STC Craft.