yarnstorm

sewing and reaping

I am baffled by the traditional British imperial units of measurement, but I like the words that go with them, such as gills, bushels, pecks, roods and furlongs. Allotments are still measured in 'poles' (also known as 'rods' or 'perches') but I have no idea what a pole looks like (even knowing it's 5.5 yards does nothing to help). I'm hand-quilting my Allotment Quilt and have a distinct feeling it would measure a few poles. It's the largest quilt I've made so far and even Tom couldn't believe how much ground I have to cover when sewing.

I bunched it up when carrying it upstairs to my high-tech, windowsill photo studio and liked the way it looked when I put it down, with its swirls and bunchings and folds. They reminded me of the tulips I'd photographed earlier - there's a similarity in the layers and gentle structure.

This is 'Uncle Tom', a peony flower tulip which is the double version of the red 'Jan Reus' I showed a few days ago. 'Uncle Tom' is much shorter and its redness is more ruby or cherry, but it's quite wonderfully vivid and flamboyant. 'Double' seems a mean way to describe this bloom; I'd say it's at least quadruple.

'Uncle Tom' is just one of the flowers I am reaping from the garden this spring. And I hope it won't be too long before the quilt stitches are all sewn (sown?) and we can reap the pleasures of the fabric allotment. 

Have a great weekend.

this edited life

Although it's tricky at the moment (book to write, three children off school for a total of five weeks, no help, husband away a lot) the blog still plays a major part in my creative thinking. It encourages a moment of more light-hearted spontaneity as a break from sheer hard work. It helps me to notice something lovely or colourful or reassuring when most of the time I see a screen and Times New Roman typeface. It's my connection with the wonderful people who take the time to read, and who make me feel this is a worthwhile endeavour.

But, as you know, a blog is an edited version of a life and/or a person. I share snapshots, thoughts, ideas, but I do not tell the whole story and I don't feel the need to so do. In turn, I know when I read other people's blogs that they, too, are showing and sharing what they feel comfortable with. I know they have their boundaries, and I respect them. This means that, whether or not I agree with them, I am not in a position to judge them, so I don't.

This is why I appreciate the fact that the vast majority of commenters here understand and respect this same unspoken, but implicit, non-judgmental contract between blog-writer and blog-reader. But, recently, I've had a few comments from people who think they know more about me and my life than in fact they do and, as such, are in a position to judge my decisions and actions and posts. I'm not so sure.

Heigh ho. The good news is that it's a weekend of glorious yellowness and baking.

£2 buys plenty of daffodil loveliness at the moment so the yellow windowsill is aglow. Alice came home from her French exchange and the best thing she brought, apart from herself in one, happy piece, was a bag of lemons freshly picked from her host family's garden near Nice. Their fragrance was wonderfully piercing as I put them in a bowl and I love the fact they still have their natural, untreated bloom and a few leaves.

Hot buns (without crosses) were made today, because we like to break with tradition and I won't be able to make them on Good Friday. They are sticky, nutmeggy and fruity and many were scoffed instantly after a hard-fought rugby match and a freezing wind for the spectators.

(I edited the slightly frazzled edges. Like I do with my life.)

my chaos theory

I am partial to a spoonful of science now and again. My favourite science is Chemistry but my school wouldn't let me combine it with Russian and French (too explosive...). Biology was merely an excuse to read Thomas Hardy under the desk (as mentioned previously). But Physics was the tricky one. You can't see electricity and sound waves like you can see magnesium burning and dissected frogs wriggling, so most of it must be in the mind.

I've been reading A Perfect Mess which maintains that there is often order within disorder and that in some of the most apparently choatic systems there is an intelligent method. This sums up my own Chaos Theory perfectly (I have my own because I can't understand the real thing). I am pathologically unable to file, but have drawers, piles, and piles of piles and, give or take the odd malfunction of my theory, I know where everything is. Today was a great example. I currently have two piles in the hall - Doris Day/musical DVDs to be watched and a sort of pending pending file. (The pending file is right next to my computer - less pending piles orbit my computer and the further away they are the less pressing they are.) Anyway, I discovered I'd 'mislaid' an invitation for an event in March, and then it occurred to me that I may have put it in the pending pending file without thinking. And sure enough, in a subconscious application of my Chaos Theory, there it was, all neatly filed and ready to move into a pending file in due course.

My Chaos Theory works well in textiles, too. I love the jumbly, Jackson Pollocky mix of colours and skeins in my embroidery thread drawer. I like the fact that it suggests that anything is possible, that any form of order or disorder can be created from it by untangling and reordering. (I could call this one my String Theory.)

I took the threads out to do a small piece of dot-to-dot stitching because Phoebe and I had been talking about how much you can do with running stitch in different colours on binka canvas (6's Aida canvas). I love the the sampler effect, the way the lines run both horizontally (actual stitches) and vertically (optical effect with the spaces). I kept to three colours - pink, yellow and orange - but used as many shades of each as possible. It's not for anything specific, but it tested out my disorder-to-order theory nicely. And I'm quite sure it's what Einstein et al had in mind when they came up with theirs.

apron strings

I once spent ten weeks studying Russian in the Ukraine as part of my degree. First we had seven weeks' study at the Pedagogical Institute (it just rolls off the tongue in Russian, believe me) in Kiev, then a three week tour of the Ukraine, visiting places like Lvov, Kharkov and Odessa. It may not have been on a par with a gap year in Thailand, but was one of the most brilliant experiences of my life.

It was also a complete eye-opener as far as textiles and clothing were concerned. I loved the beaches of Odessa where that summer everyone was wearing swimwear made of a stretchy polka dot fabric. Except that these spots became alarmingly large ovals on the ample bosoms and hips of the builders of communism.

We went everywhere by tram in the towns and cities and I spent many a rattly journey looking at the fabrics of the women's summer dresses. They were mostly simple cottons in very basic shapes (or variations of shapelessness) but they were printed with the most outrageously bright floral patterns. There were combinations of brilliant red roses, vibrant pink camellias, wickedly orange marigolds and vivid emerald foliage, all of which made a wonderful contrast to the drabness of the Soviet way of life.

I think this mixture of the functional (these dresses were made to be worn everyday and for work, and to be comfortable and practical in the heat) and exotic appealed to me, and it still does. I wish I'd sought out some of these fabrics because these are just the kinds of thing I love to use in quilts now.

I also think it's what I like when I buy vintage aprons. I may not actually want to go out in public looking like a walking herbaceous border, but I am happy to flaunt my florals on an apron in the house. The top apron is a 1950s print and it was unused when I bought it from eBay. The one above is Phoebe's and the ones below are gifts from Jayne in Canada who picks them up for a dollar or two (the one of the left would look lovely in Lvov).

All these memories of the summer in Kiev were brought back by this, The Apron Book by EllynAnne Geisel, which has just been published.

I was surprised to see in here so many apron fabrics which reminded me of the babushkas' dresses, and to realise that these florals were blooming in the States at the same time similar designs were making statements of optimism and brightness in the USSR.

This one below is my favourite. How could you fail to look glamorous when you clean out the oven in this?

And wouldn't this be just the thing to wear when you hand round the plate of fondant fancies?

The book offers a practical guide to apron-making with plenty of patterns, and is a trip down memory lane for American readers. But it's also a timely reminder that women the world over are joined by metaphorical apron strings in their shared enjoyment of useful and beautiful textiles.

haberdashery

I used the word 'haberdashery' yesterday when I was talking to someone about sewing and embroidery. I've been turning it over in my mind ever since. It's a good-sounding word, like a textile version of 'cornucopia' or 'gallimaufry', two more words of which I am inordinately fond.

It pains me that there are so few real haberdashers and haberdasheries these day. They are such wonderful places, like a grown-up sweetshop, where you can always find something you've been looking for or justify a little treat. I like the eclectic mix of products in haberdasheries, from press-studs to needles for every occasion, from shoulder pads to bra elastic.

We have a department store near us which, Bill Bryson once wrote, gives a glimpse of what Britain would be like under Communism. But I suppose even the Soviet Union needed buttons and zips to hold it together, and this store is now the only place locally where you can find recondite haberdashery items. The section has been relegated to the basement, which is a shame, as I think all haberdashers should have gloriously old-fashioned shop fronts with curving glass, a cursive shop sign and a lovely little display of knicker elastic and nappy pins in the window.

Inside, there should be a proper counter with properly helpful shop assistants, a chair for madam to sit on while she makes her selection of buttons and ribbons and threads, floor to ceiling mahogany drawers with glass fronts, and neat labels to tell you where to find the right shade of darning thread to mend your stockings.

The till should be impressive and mechanical and the goods should be presented in paper bags printed with the shop name, address and proud proprietor's claims about being the best for choice and attention.

Alas, instead, we usually have strip-lit sections in modern department stores where the button selections are shrinking to a pathetic 'anything as long as it's black' level. Still, there are a few places left in London (Kleins, The Cloth House, MacCulloch & Wallis), Paris (La Droguerie, L'Entree des Fournisseurs) and New York (Tender Buttons and the amazing trimmings and buttons shops in the Garment District). But, for most of us, true, local haberdasheries are a thing of the past, to be read about in novels like Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell. 

                          ***

I really would be interested to find out if there are any good haberdasheries where you live. I know there are some lovely, old ones in Portugal, because Rosa has written about them. But if there are any other traditional gems that you know of, would you tell me? Thank you.

                           ***

The haberdashery items above are from my own small collection, but the cotton on wooden spools and the hosiery threads are from a little wooden sewing box which belonged to my late mother-in-law. She was a hoarder, but with a sense of value of this kind of ephemera. I am grateful she left all this intact.

more stockholm

I regret mentioning that I would say today why I went to Stockholm. I feel I should invent a hasty marriage to a Swedish baker or the discovery of a long-lost sister whose birthplace was spelt correctly on her birth certificate (Stockport/Stockholm - easy mistake to make) or at least a pressing need to discover the inner me.

Alas, I'm afraid the reason was colourful but not quite as wild. I went to Stockholm to see the Kaffe Fassett exhibition at Prins Eugens Waldemarsudde, only a stone's throw away from Rosendals Tradgard. I went twice, once on Friday and again on Sunday, once to look and once to see. And the journey was quite justified.

(I couldn't take photos inside the exhibition, so these pictures are a little wander through the streets of Stockholm to accompany today's words.)

Waldemarsudde is an inspired choice of location for the exhibtion. It's a lovely, large, family house at the water's edge, surrounded by gardens full of flowers, trees and sculptures. It belonged to Prince Eugen (a noted artist) who bequeathed it to the nation when he died in 1947. The ground floor rooms are as he left them, and visitors have complete access to them. So you can walk around the rooms, looking at the books, the paintings, the incredible floral displays and the views. Upstairs, in the former studio, is the exhibtion.

In two large, airy rooms with white walls and bleached wooden floors, is a breathtaking display of quilts, knitting and needlepoint. It's simple, beautifully lit, and quite mesmerising. I had to stop myself from simply gazing and try to pinpoint why and how things work. The quilts stood out and, even though I've seen them in photos, the Snowball and Nona quilts were wonderful.

And even if this didn't quite equal a clandestine assignation in Stockholm, I still think it was pretty exciting to go all that way to see some textiles.

Speaking of which, I did manage a little shopping. In between cafes such as Blooms Bageri (top two photos), Rival Cafe, Sturekatten and Grillska Husets Konditori. For yarn, I visited Nysta, Anntorps Vav, This Side Up, Yllet and, best of all, Marias Garn in St Paulsgatan. My self-control surprised me, but I was very taken with Swedish linen, never having thought of knitting with fine linen before.

So I invested in some beautifully coloured skeins - all reminiscent of Sweden itself. These are for a project I have in mind which may or may not work. But it will be fun trying.

I also found an amazing, traditional trimmings shop on Hornsgatan called Folckers where they still sell Swedish-made tassels and passementerie and where I picked up some lovely woven cotton ribbons.

 

I must thank everyone who sent recommendations and suggestions for my visit. In particular Strikkelise who gave me links to her three Stockholm posts which turned out to be better for a knitter than any Time Out guide.

So, where to next?

mum's the word

I am feeling my way back into the role of school mum in preparation for the start of term. This means being fussy about hair-brushing/bed times/reduced pyjama wearing/room tidying after a couple of months of lax behaviour on all sides. Fortunately, it also means thinking about baking again so that ravenous children get something to make them happy again when they come in from school.

I've a dummy rock bun run; they looked great but Simon spoilt the effect by coming in from work, not school, and eating six - one after the other. (The eBay-sourced hand-embroidered tablecloth is particularly pretty and I like the way the flowers on the china continue the embroidered ones.)

It would be lovely to have a place for proper afternoon tea to which we could all repair and conduct a civilised exchange of school day stories and drink tea from fine porcelain, instead of crowding round the the kitchen table and cramming baked good into mouths before blazers have been thrown on the floor.

I bet Queen Victorian never had this problem with her mighty brood. I visited Frogmore House last weekend on one of the rare open days. This is the most beautiful royal retreat in the grounds of Windsor Castle. It's full of amazing collections of wax flowers in glass domes, papier mache furniture, decoupage panels on walls, stitched pictures and inlaid boxes. Best of all is the picturesque Queen Victoria's Tea House - two rooms connected by a loggia built 1869-70. It could be just the thing for children after school, a kind of half-way house between school and home where they could re-enter family life in a civilised mode and I could preside as a Victorian style matriarch.

I could even sit there, smiling benevolently, stitching wretched name tapes onto articles of school uniform (the current bane of my life). Even better, I could be queenly and have a sewing maid to do it for me. But somehow I don't think Cash's ever had to make up 'Princess Alice' tapes.

button flowers

Button Flowers

The second piece was started in the cool seaside breeze and finished today in the stifling heat of the garden. Squints are us, here.

I wanted to make a simple flower picture using buttons for flowers. Sara had very kindly sent me these excellent brass buttons with flower patterns a couple of weeks ago, and I'd been looking meaningfully at them ever since. I used some mother-of-pearl flower shaped buttons as well, and sewed running stitch stems on the silk background.

There are seed stitches in different coloured silks all over the surface, which has come out a little more bumpy than I planned. Phoebe thought the vase dull so I added a touch of spangle with rhinestones and hope these draw the eye away from the unplanned relief of the piece. As if.

It's quite large (10"x15.5"/25cmx39cm) and was lovely to stitch, but it's not my favourite thing ever.

                           ***

Poor Alice is still trailing to school while the other two flop about at home. I can't believe that she has to wear a black blazer in this heat (it's 34 C today). I have a leetle, teensy-weensy problem with the whole school uniform thing anyway and this simply confirms my belief that the English are mad in the midday sun. Children deserve to be treated with dignity and making them melt in the heat does nothing to engender good feelings towards those in authority. I bet the teachers aren't coming to school in black jackets...

seaside sewing

Ties Must Be Worn (30cmx30cm/12"x12")

So I didn't manage the swimming (there was a blustery, cold wind all weekend and the sea was too rough), but the stitching was calm and contemplative. A little like a gentle textile swim, really.

Janet Bolton teaches workshops with great humour and patience. She is the most inspirational teacher and I love listening to her as I sew. Her observations are minutely detailed and her comments, like her work, are always carefully placed. Janet's workshops are full of lovely fabrics and the hum of conversation which is punctuated only by the search for the perfect button, stitch or scrap of material. It's a privilege to spend two days immersed in Janet's world, for she also has a positive and funny outlook on life.

I came away with this and a second, unfinished piece. It's all silk, all hand-stitched and is made from Simon's old silk ties, silk dupion farbrics and silk threads. The vintage buttons come from my collection and the little, woven 'JB' initials are old Cash's tapes which I found in Liberty (you can see them if you enlarge the photo above).

I considered making something pictorial, but preferred the simplicity of little samples of the ties Simon wore for years until open-neck shirts were considered less left-wing & revolutionary than they once were.

More tomorrow...

something for the weekend

I am packing my bits and pieces for a soothing stitching weekend in Whitstable with Janet Bolton. Janet makes beautiful textile pictures, and this will be my third weekend workshop with her. I have only the vaguest idea of what I want to make, but have decided to work mainly with silk fabrics and the thought occurred that Simon's old ties might come in useful.

In the days when I worked in London for a multi-national drinks company, I used to buy him a posh silk tie or two a year and even then, as you can see, gravitated towards the veg & hen garden print with the odd wild animal thrown in. And then office culture changed and ties became too formal but I couldn't bear to part with the best ones. So they have been stuffed in a bag waiting to be transformed into something on a small scale (not enough fabric for a quilt). This could be their lucky weekend.