taken on yesterday’s walk – a glorious Scottish Summer evening.
1. Thanks to everyone who has recently emailed me about Textisles! I’ve received several queries about whether subscriptions are available, or whether you can access the content without the ‘Warriston‘ pattern. It’s lovely that so many of you are interested in the possibility of subscription, but I’m afraid that I’m not considering this at the moment. Because my condition is so variable, I simply can’t predict what I am able to do from one day to the next: this is perhaps the most annoying aspect of my post-stroke life, but I do have to deal with it. It would be wrong of me, and bad for me, to accept subscriptions for something which may well not appear.
Regarding the content-without-Warriston issue: my central thought was to situate patterns within the context of their making, integrating designs with the ideas behind them. I liked the notion of someone being able to knit up a smock while reading about the history of smocks. Of course, there are many people interested in reading about smocks without necessarily wanting to make one. . . I will see how things shape up — combining the content of a series of issues, and making these available separately from their accompanying designs is something I might well consider in the future.
2. Thanks, too, to Charlotte, Jules, Becky, Althea, Kate, Jess, Caitlin, Susie, and Christina, for help in the identification of the yarrow. Though creamy bokeh is all very well, I should remind myself to take a clear photo of the thing in question if I actually want to know what it is.
3. Finally, thanks for your kind comments on the pod and its redecoration! I particularly enjoyed reading about your own pods, in linen closets, pram sheds, and the like. Everyone needs a pod, I reckon. I’m afraid I can’t take photographs from several angles for you – it is a space in which it is barely possible to stand up and rotate – the shot you saw was taken through the open door from across the hall. And Gretchen was right when she said that I might weary of comparisons to HBC. That crazy bouffe, which I sported for many years, made things much worse, I think. A turning point was reached in 2001, when I was at attending a conference dinner at the Huntington Library. Two waiters seemed inordinately interested in me, and approached me in a state of extreme excitement. They had just catered a party for HBC, they said, and the resemblance was uncanny. A month or so later, I looked like this.
Right, back to Betty Mouat.