Just in time for a cold snap — and some rain! — the two-end knitting practice that turned into wrist-warmers (muddar in Swedish).
The "sampler" stitches are a three-strand cast-on, 1 round plain, 2 rounds P, 9 rounds with a crook-stitch diagonal (worked in the other direction on the second mitt because it amused me), 2 rounds P, 20 rounds plain, 2 rounds P, 1 round plain, a "chain path" (2 rounds crook sts), 1 round plain, 2 rounds P, 1 round plain, 1 round P, bind off purl-wise. The only thing that didn't turn out well was that the chain path doesn't quite stand out enough, with the compression of the purl chains above and below it.
There is definitely a "jog" at the beginning of the rounds — the spiral effect is quite clear on the purl rounds!
The Cashmore is wonderfully soft and warm, so wristwarmers were a happy accident. I might make another pair with just the purl rounds, as the carried-across yarn makes it feel almost silky.
We've had a nice bit of rain this week-end — I'm sure the garden is just as appreciative as I am —
Siberian iris.
Bladderpod, or California cleome (Peritoma arborea, formerly Isomeris arborea) — part of my new California-natives bed.
This is the "Memling Bergama" from Frank Cooper's Oriental Carpets in Miniature. This chart and finished carpet echo very strongly my feelings about the Shirvan 1 I worked this past summer from the same book — the chart is tiny and does not include the very-helpful bold on every tenth line that many do nowadays, and some of the symbols are easily confused for a similar symbol which refers to a similar shade (e.g. small dot = dark red, large dot equals light red — and this seems backwards to me, too, wouldn't dark red have a bigger dot?? gaaah) — but the finished piece is so charming that I can only shrug and say, "but it's worth it".
I did make some changes in the materials — it is worked in Appleton's crewel wool on 28-count Monaco, to be in scale with the Holbein carpet I worked last summer, instead of Paternayan wool on 18-count as in the original. It is not a particularly simple matter to convert one brand of crewel wool to another — various conversion charts I found online and in books gave me usually two and sometimes three possible choices, wh. really goes to show that each brand has fairly unique colors! and you can't quite get a true match if you convert to another brand. But Paternayan is heavier enough than Appleton's to be impossible to work at 28-count, whereas I already knew, of course, that Appleton's would.
These are the shades I chose, though after working it I would recommend a different choice for the P643 than Ap343, as it doesn't quite contrast enough with the dark gold of the 911, and "disappears" quite a bit from the center crosses in the four outer medallions —
The alternate conversion in the image below uses Ap566, Ap882, Ap226, Ap342, Ap911, Ap315, and Ap224, which looked much more "faded" to me and I wanted a newer-looking carpet.
I was also a bit perplexed by the quantities of wool specified in the materials list: although it list calls for equal amounts of the two reds, the results are obviously skewed to using much more of the so-called "dark" red — so I used the other one for the overcast edging. I ended up running out of this one by the time I got to the fringe, as it happened, so a good portion of that is the two reds mixed together, which you can see in a strong light but is otherwise more-or-less unnoticeable (she said hopefully).
This is how much wool I had left — the 911 is what is left from the second skein —
Cooper writes of his version, "There is no assurance that [the carpet in the painting] is a Bergama rug, but it meets the description given in several books, and rugs from this area [in Turkey] were being exported to Europe as early as the fourteenth century. Because the rug appears in a Memling painting, it is, perhaps, safer to call it a Memling Bergama"! He is not the first one, I think, to notice Memling's fondness for a certain type of Bergama, as there is a long article here about Oriental carpets in Renaissance painting which devotes an entire section to Memling.
Hans Memling "Flowers in a Jug" (ca.1485) now in the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. I think Cooper's is a very handsome re-creation, in fact!
Of course one can't be interested in the history of knitting, especially of Scandinavian knitting, without coming across tvåändsstickning, and I have seen it in my own books and here and there on the internet throughout the years, but I've always given a sort of not-for-me shrug and moved on. There is a short section about it in Priscilla Gibson-Roberts' Knitting in the Old Way, and a rather longer one in Sheila McGregor's Complete Book of Traditional Scandinavian Knitting, to name just two on my shelf. I don't know why I kept passing it by — perhaps because of the fact that both Roberts and McGregor imply, by saying that instead of working it the traditional way with the two yarns in one hand, they do with with one strand in each hand, that it's really difficult — but the other day I came across a photo on the internet, and, to coin a phrase, it had me at "Ormsta". Something about it just made me think, I have to make that.
(The painting above is "Stickande Kulle (Girl Knitting)" (1901) by Anders Zorn, Mora parish's favorite son. This is one of the areas in Dalarna in central Sweden where many of David's Swedish ancestors are from, and so from that and having consequently spent quite a lot of time buried, as it were, in Mora church books, of course I feel a particular affinity with the place. The young woman in the painting is wearing the distinctive Mora green jacket, with the traditional green or red apron with simple colored bands near the hem. Apparently it is obvious to folk knitters that she is working two-end knitting by the way she is holding her right hand, especially the first two fingers.)
I have a stash of wool that has been stuffed in a drawer for, I don't know, twenty-five years at least, which I bought with prize money from a rather gratifying first-place win in the county fair some time ago, but —
it is in a parlous state, I'm sorry to say. It is Trendsetter Yarns' Micro Cashmore [sic], a superfine merino and microfiber blend, baby-soft and in a lovely pale lavender with a hint of grey. I loved it so much from the moment I saw it, that the project I would make with it had to be utterly perfect, and although I tried any number of times, it never was. Of course the yarn was rather battered after being knitted and ripped out and knitted and ripped out, but when looked at in a hopeful light, it is still whisper-soft and a beautiful color, and would be very pleasing as a set of mitts which could be worn under coat sleeves so that no-one would know how badly I've treated it, but could still be fondled for its amazing softness. And so, feeling so unsettled this past week that I just wanted to knit something and thinking of this long-buried stash of wool in the drawer, and seeing the Ormsta mitts, it all just came together like the tumblers of a lock quietly clicking into place.
I do not, though, know a single person who can do this technique, so I turned perforce to the internet with a set of 2.5mm needles and a ball of the Cashmore in my hands.
This is I think a fairly good introduction to the technique, starting with one of the simpler cast-ons, and no worries about not understanding Swedish because there isn't any audio at all. (I sympathize, by the way, with the translation "twined knitting" because the two strands of yarn twine around each other as you work, like ivy vines, but I rather prefer the more literal translation of "two-end knitting". The Swedish word is a bit of a tongue-twister for English speakers, but the pronunciation "tvoh-endts-stick-ning" isn't far off.)
After a couple of attempts at using two balls of wool, by the way, I realized that it is much easier to untwist the two strands — which you will have to do regularly, there is no way around it — if you are working with a center-pull ball, because you can just hold either the ball or your knitting in the air and let it unspin itself, which is harder with two balls plus knitting.
This method makes a nice, soft, center-pull ball, though after a while, when I wanted a second one and the first was still in use, I thought I might as well learn another Scandinavian technique while I'm at it, and try a nostepinne ("nohst-uh-pin-nuh"). I don't actually have one, but thought of a reasonable substitute borrowed from the girls —
I haven't got this technique at all yet, understanding it in principle — which is brilliantly simple — but not in practice. My first ball is much more ovoid than anything I've seen come off a nostepinne in other people's hands, but I suspect it's really worth figuring out.
I decided to work a beginning section on my first sampler with the yarns held one in each hand, so that I could see the difference between the two techniques, and I'm glad I did because it is quite clear. This is the outside —
and this the inside —
I expect the wobbliness of the stranded portion would smooth out a bit with blocking, but even without you can see how much more firm and dense the twisted portion is. There is also a distinctive slight angle to the fronts of the knit stitches, so I'm a bit puzzled by Roberts' and McGregor's assertions that you can work it stranded and have it come out "the same" — oh well. McGregor says that she likes the fluffier (and thus theoretically warmer) texture of the two-handed version, which is fine and logical, of course, but I'm exploring the technique here, so wanted to try it the traditional way.
Rather surprisingly, I could find little information about how to work the various stitches, only lots of examples of them. One of the helpful places was spinnity's "Larus and Ardea" set of fingerless mitts on Knitty, which describes (in words only) the basic variations. I also found this post helpful, from Rebecca at The Fiber Bug.
When I decided that I wanted to try a three-strand cast-on, the only illustrated tutorial I found online was from Kitty at Knit Buddies, though I'm pretty sure I'm not doing it right, as mine looks quite different from hers —
I don't know if I've "unvented" something or if I've just put the back side at the front, but it looks quite tidy at least, so I carried on. It's firm and yet quite stretchy and it doesn't curl, though obviously I should also figure out the "real" method!
So here is my sampler so far —
with the “easy” two-end knitting (two-handed) for 10 rounds at the bottom and then 10 rounds of properly-twisted two-end (one-handed), then a twined purl round which makes a distinct braid-like line, then isolated crook stitches, a "chain path" of two rounds of crook stitches, and then what I thought I was doing with the isolated crook stitches, the little O's like in the Ormsta mitts, which is actually a two-round process, making the crook stitch (which is a P, K, P combination with the two yarns held on their respective sides of the fabric) in the first round, then a sort of reverse-crook (K, P, K, again with the yarns held on their respective sides). Yeah, it's a little complicated, but I think I'm getting the hang of it! though I can certainly imagine a quiet "Nej, min vän, garnet går det så här" if I were to knit in Swedish company! I felt confident enough last night to start another sampler, which I hope will actually be a wearable wrist-warmer before too long.
Julia marched in her first parade this morning, our local annual Veterans' Day Parade. It's pretty small, a color guard with a very big American flag, then local veterans of all kinds, a JROTC corps with all fifty state flags, and finishing with I think just about every JROTC corps in the area. Short, but heartfelt.
I think Julia is really enjoying marching band, I'm happy to say —
Since juggling is an inherently cheerful thing, I decided to lighten the mood this week by making some balls for David, who has often expressed a wistful interest in learning to juggle.
The tutorial is from Amiel Martin, a clever pattern that went together fairly easily out of four smallish strips of fabric, backed with fusible interfacing and filled with flax seed (wh. bought in bulk cost about a dollar and a half to fill all four balls). It gets a little origami-like towards the end, as the "ball" begins to really become three-dimensional, but the photos in the tutorial are clear enough that with a little examination it's more fiddly than difficult. I like the way the strips wrap around three sides of the cube! The fabrics I used are two bright Kaffe Fassett prints, left over from a project which I will show after Christmas. The shape and the flax seed filling help keep the balls from rolling away from you as you practice!
Lest you think I'm getting good at sewing, I must offer this —
all four are like this on the second side, so I would suggest that instead of carefully matching the first set of seams, just go ahead and do it without looking, and both Xs will be just a little off, instead of one being perfect and one really wonky!
These ended up weighing a little over 150g each, and are about the size of a baseball.
I bought this ensemble from a seller on Ebay who said that it had belonged to her great-grandmother, ca.1870, who was from Silvberg parish in Dalarna, Sweden. It consists of a bindmössa (close-fitting cap), livkjol (bodice and skirt attached together), and two halsdukar (silk shoulder-scarves). There was also a sheepskin jacket which the seller said was part of the ensemble, but very unfortunately I could not afford to purchase it so it went elsewhere. The outfit would have been worn with a linen or cotton chemise or blouse (särk) underneath, and an apron (förkläde), but these were long gone.
I would very much appreciate comments on the authenticity of these garments, the likelihood of their really being ca.1870 and even more importantly from Silvberg, answers to the little mysteries, or corrections to my assumptions about them! If this turns out to be an historically-interesting garment — which of course I hope it does — my intention is to eventually donate it to a museum. I have been able to find not a single reference at all to a Silvberg dräkt, original or reconstructed.
This page is part two, with the cap and scarves — part one is here, and has the livkjol.
The two scarves are fine silk with a floral pattern, with the centers of the flowers being a darker color, apparently added after the fabric was woven; these spots are (or have become) a brownish version of the ground color. One scarf is lemon-yellow, and the other lime-green. The yellow scarf has two selvage edges and two untied-fringe edges; the green scarf has fringe all around.
The bindmössa (close-fitting cap) is of the same rose-pink satin as the bodice, and is hand-embroidered with colored threads in flower and stem patterns. At the back is a bow of jacquard ribbon. The tie is a single long piece of printed ribbon, with the ends sewn to the inside of the cap. Inside the cap is a piece of very fine wide lace, gathered and attached at each end but loose in the middle; this was meant to protect the inside of the cap from hair oils, and also to frame the wearer’s face.
Note that the condition of the garments is exactly as I received them.
Specific measurements are at the bottom of this page.
A corner of the yellow scarf.
The spots are the centers of the flowers, which appear to have been dabbed on with a brush as they are not regular.
A corner of the green scarf. While the yellow scarf has the same pattern all of the way across, the green one has wide borders of a slightly darker green.
The “painted-on” (?) flower centers are more successful on this scarf than on the yellow one, being much more uniform; perhaps the darker color helps a little, too.
A bindmössa (close-fitting cap) is made of a heavy-paper base covered with fabric, usually embroidered, which is seamed down the center for part of the shaping and pleated at the back for the rest. A large bow decorates the back, and it is usually worn with a lace tuck framing the wearer’s face.
The rose-pink satin is neatly pleated at the back, to fit smoothly.
The narrow binding appears to have been machine-stitched to the outer fabric, then tacked down neatly by hand on the inside.
The heavy-paper base of the cap was unfortunately crushed, certainly in shipping to me if not earlier.
The lace is surprisingly wide for something that is attached only at two points inside the cap; it seems to me that this would make it a bit of a bother to arrange neatly! This photo shows the lace pulled out in the opposite direction of the way it would fit inside the cap when worn.
The front edge at the top is the only part of the cap, other than the ribbon tie, that shows much wear.
Measurements (all approximate):
Yellow scarf: 96.5cm x 94cm (selvage to selvage), 40g.
Green scarf: 91.5cm square, 48g.
Cap:
center seam (forehead to nape) 24cm
bound edge of front opening very approx. 32cm “cheek to cheek”
the “indentation” at each side of the forehead is approx. 4cm at the deepest point
tie 91cm
lace 34cm long (unstretched) not counting seam allowance; 20.5cm at middle/widest point (unstretched), possibly considerably less at the ends but this is difficult to tell as it is gathered into 2cm!
jacquard ribbon 4.25cm wide, ends of bow 10cm on longer side, bow 12cm across
I had this old sleeveless pullover in a drawer that I'd knitted up from some of that lovely red Araucania Nature Wool, but it pilled so much from the moment I first put it on, that I dreaded wearing it — except for the color, of course. So the other day I remembered that I only have five of the felted placemats I made from the rest of the Nature Wool, and I want to have at least six — and so I spent a day ripping out the pullover, another day winding it all into skeins (wh. wasn't easy as I'd knitted it double), another few days waiting for it to dry after I washed it, another day winding it all into balls — and now I am knitting with it. I don't know yet how far it will go — we'll see. I didn't notice how much of a color variation there is in the latest stretch of knitting — luckily it is a little less obvious in real life than in the camera, for some reason!
Yes, another petit point miniature carpet! Couldn't resist. This is another one from Frank Cooper's book, one he identifies as a Bergama. The chart is much more reliable than the Shirvan I worked this past spring and summer — but this time, because I converted it from Paternayan wools to Appleton's (with a reduction in canvas gauge as well), I really had no idea of how much wool to buy, and I have just run out of the golden-brown. You can see that I'm nowhere near being finished with golden-brown, either. I'm going to hobble along for a while without it, and see if anything else looks like running short …
If you have read much D.E. Stevenson, you will know somehow that her 1953 book Five Windows is for some reason extremely difficult to find. There are rarely many copies available, and those few are priced well into the hundreds of dollars. Why? I have no idea — she was already a well-established and popular author by the early 1950s, so I'd be surprised if her publishers didn't issue a large run. But for those of us who, not for lack of trying, have never seen a copy, Greyladies recently reissued Five Windows in paperback. The story has one of her fairly rare first-person narratives, and one of her even-more-rare male main characters, but for all that it is a charming story in which nothing terribly dramatic happens, but you like the characters and you want them to be happy. I suppose David Kirke's mother might have knitted him a jumper or a scarf before he went off to London from his little home in the Scottish Borders, though there was no mention of it, but I thought I would look for something that reminded me of young Janet Lorimer, and I was rather surprised, in Googling "1950s misses knitting pattern" to find that most of the things that came up were either matronly or with models more suited to Parisian scenes with their bent wrists and their lipstick — not fresh-faced Scottish lasses at all! So I was delighted when this one came up to see not only a girl one wouldn't mind sitting next to on a train but one with a Fair Isle jersey as well! This booklet is from the 1940s, and the pattern itself is available for free at The Vintage Pattern Files. Enjoy!
I very rarely write here about unpleasant things, either in my life or in the world in general, because I want to keep this blog a place where the most stressful thing for me is having to unravel a piece of knitting or not having enough wool to finish a certain patch of needlepoint. I am also, though, a bluestocking both by nature and by designation, and as such I can't help waxing philosophical at times — so instead of going into specifics, I'm going to ponder this morning the general nature of city politics.
Here is what I came up with last night: "Question: At what point does a concerned citizen become a gadfly? Answer: When he or she stands up to speak against a development proposal at a planning commission meeting." Is this truly the way it works? (And is this a theory or a theorem? — it's certainly a sidetrack.)
I couldn't help noticing, at this first city meeting I have ever attended, that the proposal procedure went like this: the representative of a certain development corporation spoke for as long as he wanted, with slides of idyllic architectural renderings, about a proposed high-density multi-story structure, then citizens in attendance at the meeting were allowed to speak for a maximum of three minutes each, yay or nay but without any visual aids, then the public forum was closed and the developer's representative was allowed to respond, again with visual aids, to these compliments or concerns for as long as he wanted, and then the commissioners offered their closing remarks and voted. Well, yes, this is certainly democratic, up to a point at least, but is it quite fair?
Nor could I help remembering, when one of the commissioners observed that few opponents of the development had bothered to come to the meeting, that when the commissioners were making their closing remarks, many of them thanked and complimented the citizens who had spoken in favor of the development ("when Mrs. Jones spoke — is she still here? oh, too bad, isn't she wonderful! what a great citizen of our fair city! –") but in response to those who had spoken against the development they merely brushed aside the citizens' concerns ("well, Mr. Smith, it's actually irrelevant that you currently live in a similar high-density development and your common spaces that were intended to be open to the community at large have since been fenced off and locked from said community because of misuse and homeless congregations, because this one is going to be different"). Mrs. Jones is therefore a stalwart citizen, and Mr. Smith is an annoyance — QED. Is this really the nature of things? was Orwell right, that some citizens are more equal than others?
I don't know — I hope not. But I do suspect that the only way I am going to understand city politics is to become deeply cynical, and my whole being resists this like anything.
