I suspect many of you will now know that my good friend Felicity Ford’s fabulous new tome, The Knitsonik Stranded Colourwork Sourcebook has just been published!
Felix is a close friend of mine, and, as I also played an editorial role in the production of her, ahem, masterwerk, I have, as you’d imagine, only positive things to say. But I have to briefly say them anyway, because I just know that you will love this book.
I have never met anyone quite so full of joy as Felix, anyone quite so enthusiastic and energetic, or anyone who, in quite the manner that she does, is able to appreciate and celebrate the sheer wonder of quotidian things: snacks, plants, spaces, socks, beer, bricks, wool. In this book she enables you to turn the last thing on that list – wool – into all of the items that precede it. Using the fabulous shades available in the Jamieson & Smith jumper weight palette, and some really innovative methods of sketching and swatching, Felix shows you how to develop the aesthetic skills to translate everday objects into glorious knitting.
With Felix you can learn how to knit a fruitcake . . .
. . . discover how to look anew at the ordinary spaces that surround you . . .
. . . develop a luminous palette with which to celebrate an extraordinary building . . .
. . . or translate the vintage aesthetics of a favourite tome into a pair of fabulous fingerless gloves.
Felix is many things: talented artist, lyrical writer, innovative designer, and all-round good egg. You’ll find her with all of these hats on in this book, and one of the things I love so much about it is just how Felix it all is.
This is certainly a personal book, then, but it is also a precise and professional tome too. The book is beautifully produced: the layout (by Nic Blackmore) has an elegant simplicity and the photographs (by Fergus Ford) not only clearly illustrate Felix’s work but enhance its rich context. The book has useful patterns too: after teaching you how to create beautiful colourwork swatches, Felix carefully shows you some simple methods of incorporating your original stitch patterns into wearable items, such as legwarmers and gauntlets.
The Knitsonik Stranded Colourwork Sourcebook is both enabling and inspiring. It will change the way you look at your knitting and the world. There’s not another book anywhere like it. It is truly original – just like its author.
The Knitsonik Stranded Colourwork Sourcebook is now available!
Writing of the worn and mended Fair Isle sweater that Shetland knitter, Doris Hunter created for her fiancé, Ralph Patterson, who spent four years in a Japanese POW camp during the Second World War, editor Sarah Laurenson states: “Ralph’s sweater is much more than a physical object. It is a site of personal and political meanings containing traces of world events and the lives of individuals.” Sarah’s astute remarks on this incredible piece of knitwear speak much more broadly to the content of the wonderful book she has recently produced with the Shetland Museum and Archives. In Shetland Textiles: 800 BC to the Present we discover the intriguing stories of creative, enterprising, and brave Shetlanders like Doris and Ralph within the many cultural and economic contexts that make Shetland textiles so unique. Drawing on the knowledge of curatorial staff of the Shetland Museum, academics and researchers from several Scottish Universities, as well as a wealth of local expertise, this book is an important testimony to the significance and impact of Shetland textiles worldwide.
The crucial factor shaping the production of Shetland textiles from the Mesolithic to today is of course, the wool grown by its native sheep. A fabulous piece by Elizabeth Johnston introduces us to some of Shetland’s earliest examples of woollen textiles, while other sections of the book explore the the effects of the landscape on the development of the breed, alongside the realities of keeping a flock, and working with wool in Shetland.
We learn that there are 57 names in Norn “specific to colours and patterns in sheep,” and gain insights into what makes Shetland “oo”, as a fibre, so very distinctive. Other things make “Shetland” distinctive too. Unlike, say, “Harris” tweed, (which refers to cloth woven on the island of Harris, but whose provenance is yarn spun from the fleeces of many different breeds and crosses, who may be raised in many different locales), “Shetland” is unique in its breadth of reference: to a particular group of islands; to the name of a particular breed of sheep; to the fibre those sheep produce; to the yarn spun from that fibre; and to the cloth, knitwear, and other manufactured products that are created from that yarn. Unlike “Harris” (an island ‘brand’ now famously trademarked and protected by national regulatory bodies), the broader resonances of “Shetland” ironically meant that it failed to gain the same protection. According to Sarah Dearlove in her important chapter on Shetland tweed, “the word “Shetland” and its use in the woollen industry in general has been the islands’ achillles heel.”
And yet, although the cachet of terms such as “Shetland” and “Fair Isle” means that they are frequently exploited, in some senses that very exploitation has also ensured their continued prominence and visibility within the textile industry. As Sarah Laurenson puts it: “histories of Fair Isle knitwear have to a large extent been shaped by marketing stories which do not necessarily fit with with the ideas and identities of people in Fair Isle and throughout Shetland. However, these stories have driven the commercial success of the style. Without them, there would be no Fair Isle knitwear.”
Shetland textiles are truly spectacular, and the book includes discussion of many important pieces, now housed in the collections of the Shetland Museum and Archives. There’s a great discussion of the incredible lace garments created by enterprising Lerwick hairdresser, Ethel Brown, and anyone who has seen Jeannie Jarmson’s prize-winning rayon tank top (depicted above on the book’s front cover) will not be surprised to learn that she hurt her hands in its making. Yet though these showstoppers are breathtaking examples of what makes Shetland textiles so special, it is also refreshing to read chapters focusing on the everyday. This is the forté of Carol Christiansen (curator of textiles at the Shetland Museum and Archives) and her sections in the book are genuinely illuminating. You’ll learn about the careful reconstruction of the woollen garments worn by the “Gunnister Man” by Carol and her team, revealling “crucial evidence for how early modern clothing was made, worn, and mended.” And while we are all familiar with the beauty of Shetland lace and colourwork, few are perhaps aware of the unique graphic appeal of the “taatit rugs”, which Shetlanders created as bedcovers and wedding gifts from the Eighteenth-Century onwards.
Building on the book’s wealth of original research is Ros Chapman’s piece about Shetland Lace. Her chapter effortlessly mingles intriguing documentary evidence with tantalising anecdote: “there was even an exhibition of Shetland knitting held in a Philadelphia department store containing a reconstructed croft around which knitters, ponies and sheep exhibited their uniqueness.” Ros’s lively chapter is merely the tip of the iceberg of a wonderfully thorough research project into the history, significance, and practice of Shetland Lace knitting. She is clearly going to produce an important book which I’m already looking forward to reading.
Shetland’s knitters are, of course, at the heart of this book, and form the focus of Brian Smith’s and Lynn Abram’s contributions.
As Brian Smith puts it:
“It is important to remember, and easy to forget, that the people who knitted those tens of thousands of stockings and mittens, as well as performing other chores in and out of the home were Shetland women. It was an “honest man’s daughter” who came to Bressay Sound in 1613 with her knitting and got assaulted in the process; it was women who knitted the “Zetland hose and night caps” that Dutchmen were still buying there two centuries later; Shetland’s land rent was being paid from the women’s hosiery in 1797; they created the stockings and gloves presented to the Queen and Duchess of Kent in 1837; the “hose, half hose, gloves, mittens, under waistcoats, drawers, petticoats, night caps, shawls &c &c” in Standen’s Shetland and Scotch warehouse in 1847; and the Shetland goods on show in the Great Exhibition in 1851. And little cash they got for their pains.”
Brian and Lynn’s chapters unfold carefully researched, well-written, and nuanced narratives about the economic realities of Shetland women’s lives, and the part that knitting has played in shaping them. All of us who enjoy our knitting as a stimulating or relaxing leisure pastime should read these chapters to gain insight into what it really meant to be a knitter in Shetland.
Brian’s chapters unpack the truck system (by which Shetland knitters were paid in goods rather than cash), which lingered on in Shetland well into the twentieth century. His account of the effect of collective action by the Shetland Hand Knitters Association, which was developed under the same post-war influences as the British Welfare State, is particularly interesting (and heartening).
Lynn’s piece reveals the wide variety of ways in which Shetland knitters used their own enterprise to support their families in response to extremely challenging social and economic conditions. “We were more or less financially secure” recalled crofter Agnes Leask after purchasing a knitting machine in the early 1960s, “as long as I could churn out about a dozen jumpers a week.” Lynn’s chapter (as much of her work) is extremely important in the way that it suggests the public and social resonances of a craft which is too often regarded in narrowly private contexts. “Hand knitting,” writes Lynn “was far from a domestic activity undertaken by women in the privacy of their own homes. In fact Shetland knitting created social networks and . . . relationships which aided women’s survival in the face of economic crises, personal loss, and the vagaries of living in these islands.”
As well as providing a rich overview of Shetland textiles and the history of their production, the book also introduces us to some of Shetland’s most talented contemporary makers and artists – Hazel Tindall, Emma Blain, Ella Gordon, and Donna Smith – all of whom are experts in their fields. These interviews suggest how Shetland textiles not only have an inspiring present, but a very bright future, a fact celebrated by Jimmy Moncrieff in his foreword to the volume.
I suppose I should mention by way of a disclaimer that the people mentioned in this post, who created and contributed to this wonderful book, are my good friends, colleagues and acquaintances. You would perhaps be very surprised if I didn’t like this book. But then I would be very surprised if you didn’t like it either.
If you buy one book about textiles this year, make it this one.
Sarah Laurenson, ed., Shetland Textiles: 800 BC to the Present (Lerwick: Shetland Heritage Publications, 2013)
All images in this post are the copyrighted property of the Shetland Museum and Archives and are reproduced with their permission.
I’ve been really inspired by some fantastic knitting books which have turned up here recently, so I thought I’d give them a shout-out. First up is Rachel Coopey‘s much anticipated first collection. Rachel is truly the Queen of Socks — she has a distinctive feel for pattern and structure which suits her foot-shaped canvas perfectly. Her designs are thoughtful, precise and definitively knitterly — she often reverses or mirrors stitch patterns across her socks in ways that are not only aesthetically pleasing but will really engage the maker’s interest through a pair. For example, Milfoil (the green pair that you can see above), has a horizontal mirror between cuff and foot that makes each sock the opposite of the other, while in Budleigh (my favourite design in the collection) neat cables and twisted stitches flow through the design with a vertical reflection that separates left from right.
Inside the book are ten beautifully written and laid-out patterns; a technical section with instructions for essential sock-knitting techniques (including a useful illustrated afterthought heel-tutorial) and jolly English seaside photography. What’s not to love?
You can pre-order the book directly from Rachel here.
Next up, and top of the tree for pure knitterliness, is Lynne Barr’s new book, The Shape of Knitting. Lynne has an amazingly innovative approach to stitch, and I think she is one of the most creative and inventive designers around today.
My approach to design tends to be very referential. I see a thing, or read a thing, or hear a thing — I like the thing — and I want to somehow render, or celebrate, or get to the heart of the thing in stitches. Lynne’s approach is completely different, and I completely love it. She says:
Inspiration isn’t always derived from things we see around us — or even from words we read or hear. Sometimes it comes from something intangible within us. When playing with a technique, I sometimes feel like a dowser, but holding knitting needles instead of a dowsing rod to guide me toward an unknown goal.
I feel about two hundred years behind Lynne’s design-aesthetic — a plodding Wordsworth to her John Ashberry. Don’t get me wrong — I love the technical aspects of designing, and I like to make stitches do things for me, but I think that Lynne’s relationship to stitch is on another level entirely — like the listener of a symphony who has somehow become a sort of instrument themselves. If you have any interest in the creative possibilities of knitwear design, then you need to immediately get hold of a copy The Shape of Knitting to put on your shelf next to Lynne’s previous book.
Finally, here is a book I’ve been looking forward to seeing for some time.
I admire Rosa Pomar for many reasons, but perhaps most for her thorough commitment to exploring and documenting the history of Portuguese textiles from the grass-roots up. Behind this wonderful book stands several years work, as Rosa has travelled around Portugal, researching animal husbandry, spinning, weaving, knitting, garment construction, and the traditional craft and design practices of men and women all over her beautiful country. Though my Portuguese is non-existent, I still find so much food for thought here.
As well as exploring the history and distinctive techniques of Portuguese hand knitting, the book also includes patterns for twenty lovely accessories inspired by traditional design. I think that this one is my favourite . . .
. . . not least for the way it showcases Rosa’s own Mirandesa yarn, which is hand spun and plied in Trás-os-Montes from the wool of Churra Galega Mirandesa sheep. This book marks an important landmark in the way the history of hand knitting is researched and written about, and you can buy it from Rosa here.
I am not a Shetlander. I love Shetland, and I feel a connection to those islands and their culture that is (for me) profound and meaningful, but I am not a Shetlander. I think it is important for me to remember that, particularly as I am currently working on a collection of designs that use Shetland wool, and are all inspired by different aspects of Shetland and its landscape. In my previous job as an historian, I found it very useful to remind myself of the distance between myself and the eighteenth-century subjects I was working on. If you read a lot of eighteenth-century diaries and letters, you start to get to feel like you ‘know’ the people who wrote them. But you don’t know them, and it is really important to remember the distance that separates you from those folk, because that distance stops you from making foolish assumptions, and helps you to maintain respect.
I am not a Shetlander. But I feel a profound sense of irritation — that occasionally approaches outrage — when I happen across certain kinds of misrepresentation of Shetlanders and Shetland. Knitting books and magazines are particularly bad in this regard. There are many things that irk me in these knitterly accounts (don’t even get me started on the romanticisation of the truck system) but one of the things that irritates me most is the assumption that the islands are “remote” and difficult to access. Really? What does “remote” even mean? Shetland was not remote for the Vikings, and nor was it remote for the merchants of the 17th- and 18th-century Baltic. By the early 19th Century, commercial shipping meant that Shetland was actually much better connected than many English provincial towns — the sea meant that these islands were not remote at all. And what, really, is ‘remote’ about Shetland today? We are a nation of islands, and like many other parts of the British Isles, you can access Shetland easily by flight or ferry. No one ever describes the Isle of Man or Guernsey as ‘remote’ — but what’s the difference? It is, in fact, much more difficult for me to get to the Channel Islands than it is to hop on a plane to Shetland.
The assumption that Shetland, its people, and its culture, are terribly ‘remote’ feeds into a discourse of exoticism within which the islands are marked by a sense of arcane difference. And this is not only completely misleading, but, in making Shetland seem like some sort of antediluvian curiosity, is also profoundly damaging (and disrespectful) to its culture: a culture within which which wool and knitting play an important role. As I said, mainstream knitting books and magazines have a disappointing tendency to reinforce these ‘exoticising’ assumptions, and this is perhaps because (with a handful of notable exceptions: Miller, Starmore, Amedro, Johnston), they have been produced by people who know an awful lot about knitting but not very much about Shetland. Examples abound, but here is a recent one that I found all the more galling for being produced by someone whose work I otherwise like and admire.
In an article published recently in Interweave’s new e-mag Lace Knits (2012), Franklin Habit describes Shetland as “a windswept, sheep-infested archipelago off the northwest coast of Scotland,” a statement which not only feeds into the discourse of the exotic, but is also geographically incorrect (Shetland is located to Scotland’s northeast). The article purports to unlock the mysteries of the origins of Shetland lace — but there’s no mystery about it: basic geography might also have enabled Habit to understand the connection between the first ‘Shetland’ knitting patterns produced by Jane Gaugain and the remote ‘sheep-infested archipelago’. (Gaugain traded on the North side of Edinburgh, whose ships, warehouses, and shops were, by the 1840s, stuffed full of finished Shetland goods, including fine openwork shawls produced by the knitters of Unst and Dunrossness) Describing Shetland lace, as Habit does, as “set-dressing for a high budget fairytale”, simply compounds the misleading idea of the islands as unreal, remote fantasy-places, detaching lace from its real (and important) role in Shetland as a constituent of the skills and materials of everyday life. Habit’s piece has the unfortunate effect of reinforcing what he acknowledges are ‘myths’ about Shetland lace simply by repeating them in lieu of historical fact. I found the lack of basic, accurate information in his article all the more odd, because it really is not difficult, even when one is located on another continent, to research Shetland knitting history and culture. In fact, unlike other parts of Britain, Shetland is unusually well-resourced in this regard. There is a wonderful archive, with a great online catalogue and other accessible material. This archive is staffed by an equally wonderful team of people who are more than happy to help anyone with an interest in any aspect of Shetland culture. Shetland also abounds with well-known, generous, and knowledgable knitters, who are more than happy to talk about their craft and its history. Why not just do some research?
If you have any interest at all in Shetland knitting, then there is no better place to start than with Real Shetland Yarns, a book supported by the Shetland Museum and which, in so many respects, is the complete opposite of Habit’s article. During Shetland Wool Week last year, you might remember that I mentioned the Shetland Stories competition — a project highlighting the importance of wool and knitted textiles to Shetland culture. Forty of these stories have now been gathered together in this wonderful collection, which is seriously the best book about textiles that I’ve come across since Vladimir Arkhipov’s Home Made (2006). Here, told in Shetlanders’ own words, is the story of Shetland wool. Each ‘story’ is short (just 300 words) and reading each piece in isolation gives you a snapshot of the role of “oo” in an individual life: an incident, a garment, an animal, a memory. The stories are brief, then, but their cumulative effect is profound. Taken as a whole, the book effectively unlocks the division of labour, and lays it out before you, introducing Shetland wool at every stage from husbandry through to retail. We learn of the care of sheep, of common grazing, of rooing and gathering hentilags, of carding and spinning, of knitting by hand or by machine, of weaving cloth, of finishing garments, of dressing shawls, of brokering, buying and selling, of designing and exporting. We see a boy’s perspective on the work that is going on around him; we see a girl being taught to knit by her father; we see men and women supporting their families through their craft; we read of knitted garments loved and hated; knitted garments that won prizes; knitted garments inspired by archeological finds; knitted garments that were worn by several generations of the same family, and are still being worn today. We meet Jacko the extraordinary caddy lamb, and equally extraordinary knitting heroines like Ena Leslie; we see vet, Debbie Main taking an impromptu ride on the back of a too-lively tup; we are privileged to peer into the pages of Hazel Tindall’s mother’s diary and to read Norma Anderson’s thoughts about her grandmother’s beautiful lace garments; we see young Eva Irvine, selling her family’s hand-knit hosiery in Lerwick, and catch a glimpse of of Andy Holt, working away on his pasap machine during the long winter nights on Papa Stour. Some of these stories are funny, some are deeply moving, but this is in no way a sentimental book. It is a real book. It is a book that shows just how important wool, and the creative skills associated with it are to the everyday lives of people in a community which is emphatically not exotic, not ‘remote’, but rather an ordinary — though distinctive — part of the contemporary British Isles. It is a book that instills respect for that community and the crafts and culture that are so important to it. It is a book that all knitters should read.
Jacko in his later years. Image ©Hazel Mackenzie, reproduced in Real Shetland Yarns, p.62.
It is a while since I have been totally blown away by a book. Here is that book – a very generous gift to me from Mai, one of my Estonian readers.
It is hard to know how to start telling you about what this incredible tome contains – it really is that amazing. Perhaps I can start with a couple of images:
Like other areas of Estonia, Muhu island is proud of its textile traditions.
These textile traditions are many, varied, and very distinctive, and this distinction and variety is due to the incredible needlework skills of the women of Muhu. I’ve written a little before about how interesting I find Estonian ‘folk’ costumes, and about how the strong sense of regional and national identity one sees expressed in such textiles emerged against a backdrop of cultural annexation. I have only had the opportunity to read about Estonian knitted textiles before – but this book gives a much fuller picture of the wide-ranging skills of the women of Muhu, who are clearly possessed of a quite remarkable creative energy!
I have a perennial interest in how textile ‘traditions’ emerge on, and cluster about, islands. Muhu shares many cultural similarities with, for example, Shetland: over the past couple of centuries, the women have tirelessly worked the land in the absence of their menfolk in the fishing, and (later) the construction industries, and this has produced a similar discourse about the indomitable and formidable qualities of Muhu women.* Just like the women of Shetland, those of Muhu are described as proud, strong, and capable. They are skilled with their needles; they are dryly humorous. This Muhu aphorism is so very similar to some Shetland sayings I’ve seen:
“Kuidas Muhu naine korraga 4 asja tegi:
Ma aasi loomad karjaaruse, kudusi cardud,
aasi ärraga juttu ja kussi kua”
(How Muhu women do 4 jobs at once:
I was driving the cattle to the meadow, kniting,
talking to the landlord, and taking a piss)
But what makes Muhu very different from Shetland – and what I had never thought about until I absorbed myself in this marvelous book – is that domestic textiles (until very recently) never expanded beyond being dowry gifts or heirlooms into being produced for a market. Kabur, Pink and Meriste explain that the driving principle behind Muhu women’s production of domestic textiles was “to make one’s clothing as fine as the finest garment of one’s home village, and even a little bit better.” Without the pressures of external commercial markets, the women of Muhu simply competed among themselves to produce domestic textiles of ever-more glorious variety, ornament and colour. I think it is the sheer variety of styles and skills that I find most striking about these textiles, which include . . .
Stranded colourwork mittens, gloves and stockings – here with duplicate stitches . . .
stockings and gloves with travelling stitches . . .
. . men’s ‘vatt’ in traditional orange and black two-colour knitting (characteristic Muhu colours are bright pink, bright orange, and bright yellow)
. . . crocheted lace (this example was based on traditional Muhu designs, and was produced by Kaidi Holm of Vanamoisa village in 2010)
. . . satin stitch (shirt collar from Tõnise farm in Koguva village)
. . . beading (bridal cap, owned by Helju Vaher of Võlla village)
There are also examples of different kinds of weaving, machine embroidery, and lace techniques. Clearly these women have an inexhaustible range of textile talents! Kabur, Pink and Meriste introduce the reader to gloriously decorative slippers and blankets, aprons and belts, skirts and jackets, stockings, gloves and baby garments. And as if the sheer range and variety of highly-skilled techniques that these women had mastered wasn’t enough, they then start to combine them in ways that are quite breathtaking.
But it isn’t just the pictures in this book that are absolutely wonderful. Kabur, Pink and Meriste also provide charted instructions for much of the embroidery, crochet, and knitting, and talk about technique in a way that not only demonstrates their own practical knowledge, but generously allows the reader to share in it as well. So the editors introduce the reader to, for example, the distinctive Muhu zigzagging decrease (which I am itching to try out on a sock) and explain how large bold motifs were added to the centre of plain-coloured mittens (using a particularly nifty combination of intarsia and double knitting).
This combination of the historical and the practical is what makes their book so very good, and it is really quite unusual. Textile books are often rather rigidly (and annoyingly) divided between the academic or the ‘how to’ markets, but Kabur, Pink and Meriste’s super tome happily crosses that divide, allowing the reader to gain a close, material understanding of some truly amazing objects – the sort of understanding that you would only ordinarily gain by taking a visit to an archive, handling textiles, turning them inside out, examining their stitches and their seams, decoding their canny methods of construction, and then going away to try things out for yourself. It is an absolutely brilliant book: the images are glorious, the cultural information is carefully and respectfully put together, the instructions for the different techniques are clear and well-demonstrated. Having this book in one’s hands really is the closest thing I’ve ever encountered to actually being right in among a museum textile collection. It is a very rare treat. Now, when do I get to go to Estonia?
So thankyou, Mai, for this lovely gift; thankyou, Anu Kabur, Anu Pink, and Mai Meriste for making this treasure trove available (and in English, too, which is a particular treat for me) and thankyou, most of all, to the needlewomen of Muhu to whose incredible talents this book pays fitting tribute. I’m thrilled to have been introduced to – and enormously inspired by – you all.
Anu Kabur, Anu Pink, Mai Meriste, Designs and Patterns from Muhu Island: A Needlework Tradition from Estonia (Saara Publishers, 2011) ISBN: 978-9949-9181-3-3
*For more on this discourse of indomitable femininity in relation to Shetland, see Lynn Abrams’ important book Myth and Materiality in a woman’s world: Shetland 1800-2000 (Manchester UP, 2005)
This is Knit has its home in the Powerscourt Centre – a place that strongly reminded me of what the Corn Exchange in Manchester used to be like in the 1980s (ie, when it was a happy mecca of independent retailing, rather than just another anonymous mall). In the English North, such places tend to spring up in the ruins of Victorian industry, but the Powerscourt Centre began life as a Georgian townhouse, at its heyday during the years of Grattan’s Parliament. The architecture and stuccowork are still impressive — the Powerscourts clearly liked to spend the season entertaining in considerable style.
In the present era, when multinational capitalism has reduced the world of goods to a dull, mass-produced uniformity, I found it rather heartening that all but two of the numerous businesses in the Powerscourt Centre are independents. There are local fashion designers, florists, antique dealers, nice wee cafes like The Pepperpot, and a number of places to please anyone interested in craft and design.
This is Knit is top of the list, of course. One of the many nice things about the shop is how it supports other Irish yarny businesses. There you will find tempting skeins from the Dublin Dye Company . . .
. . . and Laura Hogan
. . .as well as the work of talented designers, such as crocheter Aoibhe Ni Shuilleabhain .
Round the corner from This is Knit is Article, where you can find Anouk Jansen’s cups, Bold and Noble’s prints, and Rob Ryan’s all-sorts-of-things, as well as throws and blankets from the lovely folk at Studio Donegal.
But my own personal find has to be A Rubenesque, on the ground floor of the Centre . . .
I have a mild addiction to trim and ribbons, evidenced in a large and ever-expanding stash (perhaps I shall show you the boxes one day). Here, I was in ribbon heaven.
I don’t know about you, but in me, haberdashery induces a ridiculous excitement that I really don’t feel in any other sort of store. . .
. . . perhaps this is because there are so few good haberdashers about. Anyway, A Rubenesque struck me as a very good one indeed. Not only is the range of trim and ribbons vast and well-selected, but the store also has a pop-up showcasing the work of local textile designers. . .
. . and it is one of just a few places where you can still buy traditional lace, hand-made by the talented lacemakers of Clones in County Monaghan.
Did I come away with something? Yes, of course I did.
Ahem. Time to excavate the ribbon stash again . . .
I’ve been quietly obsessed with, and drawing inspiration from, Estonian colour knitting for some months now. My Tortoise and Hare will have some Estonian features, and, before the stroke, I had a couple of other patterns at the planning stage influenced by Estonian design. I’m sure that many of you will be familiar with Nancy Bush’s Folk Knitting in Estonia, but there are some other more recently published books on the subject which you may not have encountered. I’m interested in Estonian colour knitting for a number of reasons: the ways in which knitted design overlaps with other textile arts such as weaving and embroidery; the tendency of the patterns toward the graphic and abstract rather than the strictly representational; and the comparisons one might draw between the culture and practice of knitting in Western Estonia and some parts of the British Isles.
The differences are perhaps more immediately apparent than the similarities: Estonia is marked by a troubled history of annexation against the backdrop of which strong senses of regional and national identity were formed. In the Nineteenth Century, domestic textiles became key to the expression of Estonian identity, and the very precise styles and practices that characterise them feed into a much broader sense of not being Swedish, German, Russian, or Danish. But there are certainly some general connections one might draw between island cultures, modes of domestic textile production, and the nineteenth-century division of labour. During this historical period, Scottish and Estonian islands share a particularly gendered relationship between the sea and land (women working the land; men the sea) and there is also something about the relative isolation of these communities combined with their dependence on water-borne trade and fishing that strongly affects the character of domestic textiles. On the one hand, the colour knitting of the Shetland and Western Estonian islands seems particularly fluid and relational (in the way that both gobble up influences from the Netherlands, Scandanavia, Spain and other trade routes). But on the other, the style of these textiles might also be described as rigid and determined (in the sense that many Estonian or Shetland patterns are unique, distinctive, and precisely identifiable, and can often be traced to a specific island parish or group of knitters). And then, of course, there is the way that island identities make for particularly good marketing (a topic I’ve more to say about here, here, or here).
One gains a sense of this fluidity of style, as well as the strength of Estonian regional identities, from Rina Tomberg’s Vatid, Troid, Vamsad: Knitted Jackets of West Estonian Islands. This is a carefully-researched, scholarly book, produced in a useful side-by-side Estonian / English translation. Nineteenth- and early twentieth-century examples from museum and private collections are accompanied by short essays outlining the history, culture and distinctive sweaters and jackets of each island. I loved the puffed-sleeve boleros of Saaremaa; the use of bright orange yarns in Muhu knitting, and particularly the troi of Kihnu with their indigo dominated palette and touches of goose-grass red. In a similar manner to a British gansey, each troi would begin its life as the wearer’s Sunday “best,” before being downgraded to everyday work-wear. As well as the gansey-style sweaters worn by men, the book includes many examples of women’s cropped jackets. These were knit in raised stitch patterns, and decorated either with cuffs of muti-coloured lace, or elaborate embroidery. I found the satin-stitch collar and edging of this example from Muhu particularly beautiful.
If you are interested in gloves and mittens, then a wonderful starting point is Kihnu Roosi Kindakirjad, the result of a collaboration between talented Kihnu craftswoman, Rosali Karjam, and equally talented jewellery designer and academic, Kart Summatavet. The book is in Estonian, but don’t let this put you off: the charts are so clearly set out that no experienced knitter should have a problem following them. I really, really like this book: it is incredibly well-produced and the photography allows you to get a feel of each pair of mittens or gloves as actual knitted objects. It is great to be able to see the details of elaborate entrelac, braids or raised stitches, as well as reproductions from Karjam’s own design notes. The page layout allows you to compare examples and to figure out chart placement.
And if you are interested, as I am, in the history and context of the remarkable craftswomen of Kihnu island and the textiles they produce, you can always type out portions of the accompanying Estonian text into google translate (with sometimes interesting results).
Finally, there is Aino Praakli’s, Eesti Labakindad Ilma Laande Lailali. This book – a sort of mitten bible – is the result of years of careful research among the textile collections of Estonian museums. Praakli has painstakingly kitted copies of hundreds of historic mittens, and this book includes 175 carefully catalogued examples. Each pair is accompanied by descriptive notes in English and Estonian and a pattern chart. Combining and adding to Praakli’s previously published work on the subject, this book is a true treasure trove of Estonian mitten design.
The book showcases a dizzying range of stitch patterns and cuff styles, from the simple to the incredibly complex. Many mittens highlight the knitter’s individual skills in colourwork and lace, such as the combination of cats-paw and chevron stitch above. The majority of pairs are knit in two colours – with red, indigo and white dominating – but from the 1910s onwards, some mitten styles become increasingly elaborate and were knitted (like the example, below) with three colours carried across the row.
Here the single-stitch frames or nets which feature in many Estonian stitch patterns produce a graphic effect which to me is reminiscent of a swarm of bees. Praakli writes that she adjusted the thumb increases from the original mitten to make the stitch pattern match up (see how the thumb disappears against the fabric when the mitten is laid flat). I love this precision (which seems to mark the author’s approach to mittens generally). All three books include a wealth of information and inspiration about Estonian colour knitting, but Praakli’s is particularly well-worth acquiring for the sheer range of stitch patterns and mitten options included. And her sometimes idiosyncratic accounts of the research and knitting process are also well-worth a read.
Aino Praakli, Eesti Labakindad Ilma Laande Lailali (Elmatar, 2009) ISBN 978-9949-435-57-9
Rosali Karjam and Kart Summatavet, Kihnu Roosi Kindakirjad (2008) ISBN 978-9949-443-45-1
Rina Tomberg, Vatid, Troid, Vamsad: Knitted Jackets of West Estonian Islands. (Estonian Academy of Arts, 2007) ISBN 978-9985-9803-2-3
I’ve been reading lots of knitting / textile-related tomes recently, and thought I’d write about them over the next few posts. First up is a book I had few expectations of: Bruce Weinstein’s Knits Men Want. Weinstein set himself a difficult task here — designs for men are notoriously hard to get right, not to mention tricky to market. And when I read that the book also purported to offer a fool-proof guide for any woman knitting for her man, I confess that I was ever-so-slightly wary. As someone interested in the representation of gender difference, I am suspicious of any of that “men are from mars” gumph, and so many things written about knitting “for him” seem to me to be a bit weird and, indeed, sometimes just a little bit offensive, in what’s said about men’s tastes and preferences. I found Debbie Stoller’s Son of Stitch n Bitch troubling in this regard. I was also quite astounded by some of the designs Stoller selected in terms of the assumptions they were implicitly making about masculinity. If one were to believe the patterns in her book, men are beer-swilling pirates with a penchant for pole dancing, and want to display their love of these activities in knitwear.
But I sort of trusted that Weinstein’s book would be different. For a start, the author is an experienced knitting instructor with long-standing knowledge of what works in men’s knitwear, and had got Jared Flood – a model of masculine good taste if ever there was one – to do the photography. So I expected the book to to be carefully put together and to look nice to boot – but what surprised me was that it was also witty. I found the observations Weinstein made about women knitting for men, masculine tastes, and the relationship of wearers of both sexes to their sweaters, to be moot and pointed and not at all presumptous. His writing, in fact, is refreshingly dry. The book includes 10 ‘rules’ of knitting for men, comparative lists of gendered behaviour and suchlike — formats we are all very familiar with from a host of women’s magazines — yet the approach to these popular genres in Knits Men Want seems happily slightly tongue-in-cheek. I had warmed to Weinstein by page 10, on which I was instructed to ‘nix the knitted iPod, golf club and beer cosies’ (sorry, Debbie).
Flood’s photography, with it’s characteristic quietness, works perfectly with the designs in this book, which are classic go-to garments for men of all tastes and ages. Each pattern is usefully written for multiple gauges, so one could actually make the hoodie pictured above in five different weights of yarn. This is a great touch. In my experience, a bloke quite likes to pick out the yarn for his sweater himself, but does not necessarily understand the importance of gauge. Using this book, you could stop worrying about stitches per inch, and knit the sweater with the Chosen Yarn, whatever tension it worked at. The multiple-gauge instructions are also put together well. Since I’ve started producing designs myself, I look at layout and pattern writing with quite a critical eye, and the patterns here seemed to be really well written, laid out, and edited.
But what of the designs themselves? I was taken with most of the sweaters, in particular the Basic Cardigan with it’s neat, unfussy panels of reverse stockinette, and this Baseball Jersey, which features a two-tone saddle shoulder (in my opinion, a saddle-shouldered sweater looks good on any man). In fact, the only sweater I wasn’t too keen on was the button-up Henley — merely a personal preference, as I’m frankly not keen on any sweater in that style. But then, this book is not really for me – it’s true test is whether or not men actually want the knits in Knits Men Want. Tom really liked Weinstein’s designs, and perhaps more tellingly, so did our friend The Mule, who was visiting last weekend. While Tom’s response to garment design has inevitably been tempered by years of cohabiting with an obsessive knitter and her mountains of yarn, Mule has no such bias. He is a sort of blind taster where knitting patterns are concerned – as well as a nattily turned-out male individual – and his view should therefore be respected. He liked the Basic Cardigan and Ski Sweater because they “looked hand-knitted,” and thought the hat and gloves were great. The only garment he wasn’t overly keen on was the hoodie, which he felt was too much an “imitation of generic high-street style.” Overall, Mule thought that Weinstein’s designs were very pleasing, and found them all to be simple, understated and masculine. And these are, as Weinstein repeatedly points out in his accompanying essays, the qualities most blokes really want to find in a knitted thing.
I would do well to take Weinstein’s words on board, as I frequently fall into the knitterly traps that he writes about, ignoring masculine tastes and working to my own. For example, I am currently knitting a pair of socks with this lovely skein (kindly gifted to me by Heather during my last trip to the US). Now, Tom is strangely drawn to brown yarn in the manner of a bee, and, upon seeing the socks that rock, immediately bagsed it for himself. I then made the foolish mistake of sitting him down in front of ravelry, and showing him several patterns. I first suggested Nancy Bush’s Gentleman’s Sock with Lozenge Pattern to which his response was “those bobbly bits (translation: purl stitches) look a bit uncomfortable.” We then moved on to Gentleman’s Fancy Sock which drew an immediate “I’m not sure about this ‘fancy’ business.” Several other sock patterns were proffered and immediately vetoed. While I felt these designs were simple and unfussy, this clearly wasn’t how Tom saw them. What he really liked, he said, was the chocolatey colour of the yarn: “can’t you just make me some nice, plain brown socks with it?” Now, if you want to knit for a bloke, says Weinstein, you should respect their tastes, rather than your own knitterly predilections. The simple, understated and carefully thought-through designs in his book clearly speak to those tastes. Written in multiple gauges, they give the knitter many options for producing things that their blokes might actually want to wear, rather than wear grudgingly, or not at all. This is a very useful book, then. My only criticisms are that Weinstein might have included a few pointers about custom shaping (while men, as he says, don’t enjoy fittings, most appreciate a sweater that fits well) and begun his size range at a 38 rather than a 40 (some men are wee). Meanwhile, I am knitting some nice, plain, brown socks.
Though I love the Gainsborough films, Tony Richardson’s Tom Jones and Michael Winterbottom’s A Cock and Bull Story, I am not generally a fan of contemporary cinematic takes on eighteenth- and nineteenth century literature. This is probably because of what I do: a generation of students who have grown up with the unshakeable idea that potato-faced Colin Firth is actually Mr D’arcy have destroyed much of my enjoyment of Austen and rendered Pride and Prejudice an unteachable text. That said, I was really looking forward to Jane Campion’s Bright Star: she’s a talented, intelligent director who’s interested in gender; the costumes looked just terrific; and I was intrigued by what I’d heard about Fanny Brawne’s relationship to stitch in the film. Much was being made of the fact that Campion had linked Brawne’s “feisty,” and “independent” character to her fondness for textiles and that her heroine designs and makes her own clothes.* I then saw a trailer at the cinema which further piqued my interest. A clip was shown of a “spirited” exchange with Keats, in which Brawne appeared to compare the art of stitch to that of poetry. Unlike poetry, she says, stitch is useful and potentially remunerative. While the path that Keats has chosen means that he will struggle for literary recognition and a living, stitch is something she can actually “make money from.” I was (mildly) blown away. You’ll know by now that much of my research focuses on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century textiles and that I’m particularly interested in the way that textiles mark and mediate women’s relationship to the division of labour. To have a woman of Brawne’s rank saying, in 1818, that her love of fashion had a practical purpose and that she saw dressmaking and design as a potential source of independent income was really quite extraordinary. Was Brawne going to sew her way out of dependence and potential penury? Support herself and Keats by the labours of the needle? What was Campion going to do with stitch?
The unfortunate answer is that stitch and textiles are, for Campion, mere directorial devices — props on which to hang her film’s undoubtedly sumptuous aesthetic. Despite the promise of that early exchange, the idea that stitch might be a practical and a profitable activity for a woman like Brawne was never alluded to or mentioned again. A short way into the film, it became apparent that Brawne’s “independent spirit” only extended as far as some curiously elliptical conversational sparring and the ability to wallow in her own desires. Brawne was only ever going to be someone who, like most women of her rank, was dependent on a good marriage for future financial security and whose narrative, because of this, would be played out in the familiar context of her “impossible” affection for the poet who could not provide it.
Many contemporary female directors seem to use tactility as a shorthand for the rich interior lives of women: a heroine’s physical relationship to the material world can allow a visually astute director to hint at a sensuous and idiosyncratic something that cannot be articulated. This is certainly the case with Campion. Her Fanny Brawne follows in the footsteps of Lucretia Martel’s Niña Santa or Lynne Ramsay’s Morvern Callar— characters who are always touching stuff in order to tell the viewer what’s going on inside. And this is the singular function of textiles in Bright Star. We see Brawne bent over her hoop and needle; working up a collar; carefully tying a ribbon; enjoying the sensation of a breeze-blown curtain, or refusing to examine the quality of her sister’s sampler, and we are meant to read all this in terms of the character’s hidden depths. This is all very well, but the problem here is that there doesn’t really seem to be that much depth to hide. The viewer is meant to trust that all this sewing is the sign of something profound, but there is no other evidence of Brawne’s purported complexity. The most we can learn about her from Campion is that she likes clothes; that she prefers wit over intellect (lying about reading Milton and only ever being able to muster up an interest in Keats’ poetry when she understands that it might refer to herself); and that she has an incredible capacity for self-absorption (luxuriating in the drama of thwarted affection in the most tedious and irritating way.) In this sense, Campion’s characterisation is not really very different from the way that Brawne is represented in the many chauvenistic biographies of Keats that were produced before the 1960s: she is much the same fashion-obsessed, over-emotional ignoramus: an annoying distraction in a nice frock. Far from bolstering her own credentials as a feminist director, then, Campion’s use of stitch and textiles in this film reinforces ideas of nineteenth-century femininity that are disturbingly conservative. Brawne’s discovery of romance simply heightens her own fashionable narcissism and female desire is set in the context of what seems to be a mere preoccupation with material trifles and baubles. In its failure to address the questions it explicitly raises about stitch as a creative outlet, a form of labour, and a potential source of income, the film does little to disturb the notion that a fondness for textiles could be anything more than pointless or enervating, a familiar sign of women’s domestic thrall.
And then there’s the matter of Campion’s particular aesthetic decisions concerning textiles. Though Janet Patterson’s costume design was, at its best, both beautiful and inspiring, some of the garment choices were very weird indeed: Mr Brown’s tartan trews were as ridiculous and misplaced as his “Scottish” accent; Abbie Cornish wore crocheted shawls and boleros of a kind not seen till at least the 1850s, and her younger sister “Toots” sported a curiously cropped Fairisle cardigan over a hundred years before its time. I would forgive all of these historical anachronisms on the grounds of Campion and Patterson’s familiarly stylised creativity, but I’m afraid I became quite fixated on the washing that seemed to be perpetually hung out on Hampstead Heath. In one quite ludicrous scene, Fanny wanders woefully among lines of damp linen inexplicably left out in the rain. Anyone who who has read Anna Laetitia Barbauld’s great poem or who knows anything at all about nineteenth-century domestic life would be aware that, for women in households such as Brawne’s, washing day was a major and momentous event. No self-respecting washerwoman or maidservant, mother or daughter, would have left those things just hanging there in the middle of a shower. Indeed, to do so shows a disregard for household textiles quite bizarre in a woman purportedly obsessed by them. Instead of wallowing in doomed romance, Brawne should have been bringing in the bloody washing .
Now I realise that I am a bit (ahem) hung up on the washing, but I think that Campion’s use of the linen-laden lines on Hampstead Heath is symptomatic of something larger and a little more troubling. Through its focus on aesthetic surfaces and pointlessly lovely tableaux, the film actually does an injustice to the basic texture of the lives of nineteenth-century women like Brawne. Why have her heroine interested in stitch and design at all if this is merely to be used as a cinematic conceit that adds little to her character? There are some other basic textures that are singularly lacking here as well. If I knew absolutely nothing about the poetry of John Keats, I would really be none the wiser after watching Bright Star. The most you can really glean about Keats’ creative impulses from this film is that Fanny’s boobs seem to represent to him the promise of an ecstatic (pneumatic) present.
Campion has apparently spoken of Bright Star as being inspired by Bresson’s Man Escaped. (which is, incidentally, my favourite film). To me, this is laughably pretentious : like comparing Hollyoaks to Mizoguchi.* Actually, Hollyoaks seems quite an appropriate point of reference for the film’s sorry lack of depth and its championing of adolescent self-regard. Take away the senselessly gorgeous textiles, the flower-filled meadows, the strangely stilted dialogue and the too-tasteful interiors and what’s left is the thin drama of teenage obsession. However, Bright Star is a very sneaky film too: because of its style, its “historic” setting, its purported literary context, and Campion’s undoubted talent for the symbolic and emblematic, the film gets away with it: Campion’s signature directorial style makes us feel as if we are being shown something important and momentous, when in actuality what we are being purveyed is mere cinematic candy floss. So this is a film that is both intellectually hollow and horribly otiose, but which stitches up the viewer simply by being visually persuasive. In the end, what Bright Star reminded me of most was an issue of Selvedge: it has that visual wow factor and the thing is just so well produced that we feel that we must be somehow improved simply by consuming it. But (and I say this as someone who has occasionally written for that magazine) in the end there’s very little there of substance beyond the pretty pictures.
* These two reviews are typical in their descriptions of Brawne as a ‘seamstress’ or their association of her ‘spirit’ and ‘self possession’ to her supposed relationship to stitch.
**Another British soap comparison: at her most histrionic, Abbie Cornish bears a disturbing resemblance to Mary from Coronation Street.
I dedicate this post to Kris Steyaert, a fine Keats scholar and a very good friend.
Today, I’m very pleased to introduce Lynne Barr, whose recently published Reversible Knitting has already become a must-have knitting title. The first part of Lynne’s book explores her original and exciting approach to stitch, with fifty swatches that that will make your eyes pop, your jaw drop, and your hands immediately get busy with needles and yarn, to work out exactly how she managed to do that.
The book’s second part features some incredibly inspiring takes on the idea of reversibility itself, with twenty patterns from all of your favourite designers. There’s a great range of garments here that are both experimental and wearable: dresses and tunics, vests and sweaters, knitwear for the shoulders, feet, and head. Some of these innovative garments can be turned inside-out, or outside-in—such as Veronik Avery’s classic Lice Jacket, or Teva Durham’s bold Geometric Dress. Others, like Lynne’s playful Two Tone Vest or her stylish and eye-catching Folded Mini Dress can be worn back-to-front or front-to-back. Wenlan Chia and Norah Gaughan, meanwhile, have contributed designs that work equally well downside-up or upside-down. Chia’s Winding Path transforms itself from cropped-sweater to long tunic, and the cable-adorned shawl collar of Gaughan’s Reverse Me jacket morphs easily into a deep and richly textured waist band. In the world of reversible design, there is no right or wrong side—but how does one go about sizing these unique garments for a range of different body shapes? Lynne, and the tech editor for Reversible Knitting, Sue McCain, dropped by to tell us more.
KD: Recently I’ve been thinking more about sizing in order to extend the range in my own patterns, so I wonder how much more complex it was to size some of the reversible garments in your book?
LB: Sue McCain, our tech editor for the book, sized all of the patterns, and I too wonder what additional issues she had to contend with — in particular for Reverse Me by Norah Gaughan and Winding Path by Wenlan Chia. Both of those sweaters are designed to be inverted top to bottom, and I believe most women don’t have identical bust and hip measurements. But in both designs, having one wearable version short and the other long when flipped upside down, eliminates the need for both measurements around the bottom to fit the widest part of a body. It’s a clever design element that serves two purposes – to increase the visual difference between the two versions and to simplify potential fit problems.
KD: That’s really ingenious—in the book, the two versions do look very different, while both fitting well. Did these upside-down reversible designs involve their own unique sizing problems?
LB: Let’s bring in Sue, and hear her thoughts on the sizing of Winding Path.
SMC: Working with the large gauge and 4-stitch rib pattern repeat while grading Winding Path was the biggest challenge. With a gauge of 1.375 stitches per inch over the rib pattern, each four-stitch sizing increment used to maintain the pattern added just under 2.75”. Fortunately, the finished piece is fairly forgiving in terms of stretch, and the fit of the stockinette stitch portion is intended to be close to the body.
KD: And did grading Reverse Me pose a different set of challenges?
SMC: The most important task when grading Reverse Me was to really understand how the pieces went together, and how changing the length and width of each piece would affect the other pieces. When grading any pattern, it’s important to remain true to the proportions of the original size, while keeping in mind potential fit issues arising from increasing or decreasing the measurements. The back width at the cast on edge was decided by the desired bust sizes, and once this width was determined, it was easy to grade the remaining dimensions following the proportions of the original garment. We did, however, keep some of the measurements fairly close from one size to the next (neck width, sleeve length and width, length to armhole) as these are dimensions that don’t change much from the smaller end of the size range to the larger end. Aside from limiting the size range, the reversibility of Reverse Me didn’t present any special issues.
KD: I had a sort of eureka moment while grading my manu pattern, when I realized how very little the neck width would differ between smaller and larger sizes. Proportional progression is one the things I’ve been finding most interesting (and tricky) the more I explore sizing from a design perspective. In “standard” sizing terms, I’m quite wee — 30″ chest, 23″ waist, 34″ hips. My fuller-figured friend might think she has little in common with my body shape — and yet when you work out the percentages — my proportions are actually exactly the same as hers (44″ chest 34″ waist, 50″ hips) — we are both equally proportioned pear shapes. Why can’t the smaller and the larger “pear” wear exactly the same style of garment, equally successfully? I’m still finding my way with this (when I began designing my size ranges were quite conservative) but am hoping to improve my sense of how garments work for fuller figures by getting feedback from test knitters in that size range.
LB: I’m not sure that sizing is a simple proportional progression though. When Sue sized the Folded Mini Dress in Reversible Knitting, I noticed that the armhole shaping changed significantly from the two smaller sizes I had already knit. Sue explained that the span under the arm is a greater percentage of the overall chest measurement in the larger sizes than in the smaller ones. And she also pointed out that if sweaters were a constant incremental increase for each size, plus sizes would have shoulders that would be enormous and they’re not.
KD: The variance of underarm width really does add another dimension. And then, within a single size range, individual body shapes can be so very different when one starts to consider waist position, shoulder width and so on . . .
LB: This makes me recall years ago when I worked for a bathing suit designer, whose business consisted of mostly custom-made work. It seemed easier working with an actual body to measure and fit rather than trying to fit everyone into a standard ready-to-wear suit. But still, we generally started a fitting with specific styles depending on the individual’s body type and whether they needed support, or wanted to look like they had more than they did. But I hate to think that a style was chosen simply based on some stereotype of what should or should not be worn by different people.
KD: Yes, the idea that there are definitive ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ styles for particular body sizes can be so prohibitive. Perhaps it’s just a mater of knitters being brave enough to experiment, feeling confident about adding shaping or changing a part of the sizing of a pattern to suit their particular body shape, as well as being able to visualize oneself in a range of different garment styles. I think it’s often difficult for knitters to picture themselves in a piece they only ever see in one size — and then there is the problem of encountering patterns that really don’t seem to accommodate body shapes outside the US or UK “standard” size range. I wondered whether you had any thoughts on the ways in which “non-standard” knitters might adapt Reverse Me or Winding Path?
SMC: For Winding Path, if you want to work larger sizes than offered in the book, it’s easy to do. While maintaining the given gauge, for every 4 stitches you add to the cast-on, you will add roughly 3″ to the circumference of the piece. When shaping the armhole, work half of the stitches before transferring them to the stitch holder. The sleeves can be graded in increments of 4 stitches as well – just make sure that you work a longer armhole length on the body to accommodate them. We don’t recommend working Reverse Me any larger than the largest size given, unless you don’t intend to wear the piece upside-down, because the bottom band has to increase quite a bit as the sizes get larger, and it will hang too low when worn upside-down.
LB: One last thing for knitters who believe there is a dearth of patterns, both smaller and larger than the typical middle range, I recommend they visit Sue’s website. She offers a line of knitting patterns with the widest range I’ve seen — sizes xx-small to 6x-large. And to expand your sizes upward, this site featuring plus-size patterns looks like a great resource.
KD: I second the recommendation of Sue’s website. And for those of us at the other end of the sizing scale, I remember Kristen Hanley Cardozo writing about some of the issues encountered by xxs knitters in a particularly moot and interesting way.
LB: Kate, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Thanks so much for having me on your blog… the topic of sizing is an interesting one that I think merits more in depth attention.
KD: Thanks so very much for being here, Lynne, and Sue, and for opening up a really stimulating discussion. I feel I’ve learnt a lot from your insights on sizing and grading. Very many congratulations on an inspired and inspiring book.