yarnstorm

stitching peace and quiet

It's just dawned on me why Crinoline Lady embroideries were so popular with ordinary housewives in the 1930s: they were stitching themselves some peace and quiet.

It's always struck me as slightly perverse that women who were in touch with the daily reality of childcare, washing, housework and queuing in shops, and all without modern conveniences, should want to embroider solitary ladies simply looking pretty or gently exerting themselves to pick flowers while dressed in large hooped dresses which prevented any natural movement. But now I realise that they were stitching a fantasy in which they were free to be decorative and self-absorbed in a flower-filled landscape in which hollyhocks grow in profusion (and never refuse to self-seed) and herbaceous borders pop up as if by magic. There are no partners, offspring, bosses or phones to deal with, and all is peaceful and quiet.

I've reached these conclusions after wondering why I chose to start embroidering my own crinoline lady just as the children are all off school and asking to be driven hither and thither or tested on physics and history and Latin for next week's exams, when I have my accounts to do, bits of work which need to be completed, and someone asking to be taken to TopShop in London. I realise I'm putting myself somewhere else where my greatest concern is to match my dress to my flowers and to decide what colour hair looks best with my bonnet.

And I thought the Crinoline Lady was just another pretty woman, when really she was the alter ego of thousands of stitchers. She's addictive, too - I can't wait to get back into her garden.

rummaging

I love a good rummage. Most of all, I like a good textile rummage. Baskets of yarn, drawers of thread, wardrobes of clothes, cupboards of fabrics, all offer hours of lovely displacement activity.

My cupboard of vintage, hand-embroidered textiles was looking decidedly overstuffed and under-organised when I tried in vain to shut the doors yesterday. The only solution was to drag out the entire contents, turn into a Victorian housekeeper (minus the starched apron and military discipline) and fold, pile and replace every item so that the doors could fasten.

It's always good to take the time during a rummage to look carefully at everything you come across. I have been collecting crinoline lady and floral tablecloths, tea-cosies, aprons and tray cloths for three years or so, but I don't keep everything out or in use all the time. I have a rotating selection of current favourites which means some things are ignored shamefully - until I rummage.

 

I don't collect out of sense of nostalgia or a sense of connection with a past generation of needlewomen. In fact, I rarely see my knitting, stitching and baking in the context of traditions or members of my family. I like buying these cheap and cheerful textiles because I think they are worth keeping and are wonderful examples of domestic hand-embroidery which is too often overlooked and despised by the 'art' embroidery establishment.

I think it's important to define my/our domestic activity in the terms of today's world and not always with reference to the past. Maybe it's because I am cut adrift from any connections (no-one else in my family does what I do and hasn't for years) or maybe it's because I prefer to stay in the present and not feel weighted down by the past.

I find that textile rummaging is also a great opportunity for a little thought rummaging,

which led to a rummage in my photo album where I discovered these almost-forgotten photos which had been metaphorically bundled away, like the textiles, in an uncategorised heap.

Never underestimate the benefits of a good rummage, I say.

cheap thrills

I'm quite easy to please. Lots of little things give me pleasure, and they don't have to cost the earth. Today is a day of cheap thrills:

1) Flapjacks

actual cost: about £2 for ingredients

time cost: 5 mins preparation, 45 mins baking

pleasure rating: 10 out of 10 when arranging them on new cake stand and then watching hungry children eat them

2) Cottage garden tablecloth

cost: selective amnesia has set in with this one, thus increasing pleasure

pleasure rating: huge because this turned out to be so much better than I'd imagined. It has big, bold, bright flowers and it's on a massive, starched, linen cloth which cracks when you open it, and you can imagine you are having tea in one of the best English country houses when you put it out. (Well, you are really...)

3) Crinoline lady embroidery

cost: not sure, but cheap as chips from eBay

pleasure rating: this is one of my favourite crinoline lady designs and I've mananged to collect of few of her now, so very high

bonus pleasure rating: this came as one of three, and she looks even better in triplicate (but I'm still wondering why anyone would make three identical embroideries - the stitcher hasn't even varied any of the colours)

4) This photo

 

Cost: free, courtesy of Sara who very kindly emailed it to me (it's from Mr Lucky)

Pleasure: immeasurable

Additional pleasure: imagining Cary coming to our Foyles knitting group.

Bonus pleasure points: infinite

5) Planning a weekend in Stockholm

Time cost: doesn't count, because it's all useful research

Pleasure rating: high because completely free

Bonus: I get to go to the real Stockholm after spending hours looking at travel guides/books/blogs/maps and in gentle reverie. I can't wait.

jolly hollyhocks

It was too hot to knit or to quilt this weekend. I would have expired with anything lighter than a little linen in my hands. So I ironed one of my vintage transfers onto fabric (holding my breath and going even redder in the face with the tension of trying to position it correctly). It's a large picture and I've decided to use thick strands of DMC embroidery thread to gain quick and even coverage, and I'm trying to be a little more relaxed about my stitches this time as I want a speedier, more homespun result.

I love hollyhocks and the way they are incorporated into so many 1930s hand embroideries, so I started with the huge hollyhock (or 'olly 'ock as one of my friends once called them - quite seriously) and had a great time on Saturday totally ignoring the World Cup and grappling with threads and colour.

This year we have quite a few self-seeded (sown?) hollyhocks after years of trying to establish them. I love their height, their toughness, their deeply veined leaved, their tight buds and, above all, the wonderful flowers in all shades of pink, peach, yellow and ruby. The hollyhocks have a protection zone around them (ie I shout at anyone who goes near them) as last year Simon pulled a few up thinking they were weeds. Love the man, not so about sure his flower recognition skills.

Hollyhocks are stately and sculptural and stand up to horrible winds and drought. I'm sure that's why they are the ultimate cottage garden flower. They often frame a crinoline lady, their height and rigidity setting off her billowing skirts.

They allow embroiderers to experiment with stitches and colours. The hollyhocks below are some of my favourites; I love the density of the colours and the beautifully even buttonhole stitches.

While I was looking for jolly hollyhock colour ideas I found some great paintings. Hollyhocks are wonderful on their own - these doubles are incredible - 

   

George Baxter (1804-67) 'Hollyhocks'

and in mixed displays.

 

Albert Williams 'Garden Flowers in September'

Fantin-Latour (one of the most accomplished flower painters, I reckon) captures the beauty of the flowers,

 

'Flower Study' 1876 Henri Fantin-Latour

while Albert Williams used their shape and straightness as a counterpoint to the floppy roses and twining morning glories.

Albert Williams 'Floral Rapture'

and I would give wall-space to this beauty:

'Hollyhocks' 1889 Henri Fantin-Latour

I've finished my first hollyhock and am now moving onto my first crinoline lady (in the same piece). It's great to stitch what's out in the garden, and feel I realy ought to dress up in my best crinoline and waft about to get into the mood for stitching the lady. But really, it's just too hot for that today.

flower power

The embroidered bowl of flowers from a 1930s magazine transfer design is finished.* I am surprised how much I enjoyed working on it and, in the end, how little time it took here and there and in the evenings. I'd now love to find a copy of the magazine it came with so that I could compare their suggested stitch and colour ideas to the ones I chose. The embroidered design measures 33cm/13" across and 23cm/9" down.

I love embroidering flowers and these stylised, art deco ones were just right for me.

I was looking through some 1930s issues of The Needlewoman and saw transfer designs for robins, tropical fish, pandas and zebras, and realised I just couldn't spend my free time on those. The colours would drive me mad, for a start, as there's no getting away from red for a robin and black and white for a zebra, unless I want to end up like Salvador Dali.

I've recently been given two lovely pieces of 1930s floral embroidery, both linen table-runners. Eireann, a hugely talented designer & wordsmith, sent me this exquisite flower basket. The detail is amazing; the actual stitching covers an area only 18cm/7" across and 14cm/5.5" deep, and the delicacy of the stitches has to be seen to be believed.

These are the kinds of bullion and French knots to which I aspire.

And Cate sent me this beautiful spring flower arrangement of forget-me-nots, tulips and daffodils, so simple and so pretty. It's also an object lesson in stem stitch.

Thank you Eireann and Cate - these embroideries give me so much pleasure and useful instruction.

And thank you to everyone who left kind messages about our anniversary. We had a great day and the donkey has settled in just fine.

*But unframed, and will no doubt remain that way for about five years, if my track record is anything to go by.

soul food

Phoebe, Alice and I escape to Whitstable for a little nourishment of the soul every May Bank Holiday weekend. This is the fourth year we have stayed in the annexe of my friend Marilyn's beautiful house on the beach.

We don't aim too high. The Sugar Boy is the first stop for sweet supplies (sour peaches and orange sherbets to complement the marigolds which thrive everywhere in Marilyn's garden). The pound shop usually yields something to play with - this time it was a skipping rope for Phoebe. Alice skipped in her spotty shoes.

Then there's the beach to comb for 'mermaids' glass' and other treasures. It's not quite bucket and spade, but Alice and Phoebe spend hours paddling in the squelchy mud when the tide is out.

And when the tide is in they go swimming. This year the water is particularly cold, but that didn't stop them. Even wearing flip-flops was too much for me; I was on the beach in a strictly supervisory, tea-drinking capacity .

Phoebe brought her knitting,

and finished her cross-stitch picture (and most of the chocolate satins).

We all read listening to the waves. I finished The Sleeping Beauty by Elizabeth Taylor and now need to read it again as it was quite wonderful.

We have time to sit and stare at the lovely chance combinations that Marilyn's place brings about. This is an old, hand-made quilt next to one of Marilyn's paintings.

And I spent so much time getting to grips with some crochet, that I actually dreamed of double crochet, hooks and chains.

And when we think we have taken in as much soul food as we can, we get this in the evenings.

stitching by numbers

I was stitching away solemnly and carefully the other evening when Alice made one her typically astute comments. She was surprised at what I was doing, she said. She told me she thought that usually I did more creative things, but here I was just mechanically 'filling in' someone else's design with stitches. How boring was that, she wondered.

Out of the mouth of babes etc. She made me think about why I was embroidering by numbers, so to speak. I had my reasons, but it was only Alice's remarks that prompted me to formulate them coherently.

I have collected quite a few vintage embroidered tablecloths and framed pictures over the last couple of years. I tend to go for the crinoline lady/cottage garden/floral display designs of the 1930s - a very specific style which is too sugary for many, but for me is the epitome of the colouring-in style of embroidery. Recently, I wanted to pick up embroidery again and was intrigued by the possibility of retracing a graphic which many other women would have used seventy years ago. Originally, I thought of making it psychedelic (eg a crinoline lady with lime-green hair surrounded by plants with blue leaves), beaded, sequinned and machine-embroidered. And then I decided that interpretation could wait, and that what I'd really like to do is bring my own choice of colours and hand stitches to a design.

I've now realised just how many variables there are with this sort of colouring-in. It doesn't feel creatively hollow or mindless. Every stitch requires concentration, every colour or stitch choice can make or break the effect, every space can be filled or left empty. In fact, it's a wonderful way to connect with embroidery. It may lack an original design, but then there are only so many May Morrisses, Constance Howards and Phoebe Traquairs in a generation. The rest of us are grateful for the hand-holding a transfer offers.

I have a couple of crinoline lady transfers waiting in the wings. This one could be pale and interesting,

while this one may be vibrant and 'gay' (great old word, and perfect in this context).

Just this week Blair wrote about her family's new interest in painting-by-numbers pictures. She suggested that there's a lot more to them than we think and that they are strangely attractive and meaningful. If the Smithsonian can devote a whole section of its site to this type of painting, then this form of popular culture, and its textile sister, transfer embroidery, really do have something more to offer than meets the eye.

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The basket bag which holds my threads was a present from Alison, and very lovely and fit-for-purpose it is, too.