chaos theory

back in late summer and autumn of 2020, i wove this rag rug for my kitchen.

it was the second one that i made. i needed to make a second one after breaking a full, new bottle of olive oil on my first one.

looking back at these photos, i can't see anything wrong with the warp, but later, it would become evident that something was indeed wrong with it. it retained some kind of sensitivity to initial conditions which would later prove to cause significantly different future behavior (e.g. chaos theory).

it's never a good thing to try to calculate all the hours you've spent on a woven work, but it was lot. the cloth all came from old sheets and duvet covers that i collected at second hand stores over several months. and i ripped them all up and then reordered them neatly between the threads, making them into something new.

and here it was, all finished and freshly off the loom in late november 2020.

it looked great in my kitchen and i used it happily for more than a year.

last summer, husband rolled it up when he was sweeping the kitchen floor and it sat out in the back terrace for a few weeks and may have become a cat bed for a time. in february, i decided to take it in to a laundromat that has an extra big washing machine, and give it a good wash.

and even before i washed it, i noticed that some of the threads had broken and that was even more evident when it came out of the machine. and now, we've hung it on the wall down at the museum. we think there was something wrong with the linen yarn we used, as it's all along one side where it basically dissolved. at first i thought it was moths, but they don't attack linen, only wool and there was none of the telltale evidence they leave behind. there is some kind of beauty in the way it fell apart. it transformed it somehow from a useful object to an art object - now symbolizing some kind of decay and the tendency of all things to move from order to chaos. and there is beauty in that. 

dataspejlet :: weaving community

i spent the weekend at the loom. our weaving group is part of an art project at trapholt museum. fiber artist astrid skibsted is working with trapholt on a project called dataspejlet. it's in two parts - one is woven and one is embroidered (i'll write more about it in another post). for the woven part, our weaving group was chosen to participate. we received all the yarn we needed in colors that were chosen for us and a warp that was ready to put on the loom. when i arrived at the museum on saturday, it was already nearly ready to start weaving. 

it's strange in a way to write about weaving, as it's something i learned in danish and therefore, i don't really know the terminology in english. so i don't know how to express the part of threading it and putting it into the comb. and on some level, i don't really want to even google it, as it's something that danish and i have together.  i realize it makes me sound like even more of a beginner than i even am (and after ten years, i still feel like a beginner), but that's just how it is. 

the last thing that needed doing was the fishing line along the sides. it's there for stability, but plastic fishing line is very different than the linen threads beside it, so we struggled a bit to get it right. luckily, there's a facebook group where everyone who is part of the weaving is helping one another and we learned that we needed more weight on the fishing line at the other end.  but on saturday, we didn't know that and we struggled with the fishing line and keeping it taut so it would lay nicely on the edge.

we were given a cream colored yarn to use as a test section. it's this very cool japanese yarn that's actually flat, rather than round. and it takes working with it a bit to get it right. and that fishing line teased us.

but on sunday, after following advice from others in the group, we put on more weight and we got weaving in earnest. our edges looked beautiful and i got to weave the whole first section. the whole pattern is prescribed and since we are quite a large group, everyone needs to have a chance. i did a small timelapse of my weaving. my phone was fastened to the loom and it slowly turned over the course of the timelapse.

as always, i feel like the loom teaches me lessons that i can't learn anywhere else. it's the most honest thing - you can't trick it or fool it or hide anything. it will show clearly any tricks you try to pull on it. it will always be totally honest with you - and show you clearly your mistakes. but when you correct them, it will also show you all its beauty. and when it does, there's really nothing like it. tiny threads, woven together, become something strong and beautiful. it rather takes my breath away. and to be part of a larger work that is the work of so many others gives a real sense of community. even solving frustrating problems is part of the story that we're weaving into the work and it will all be there in the threads when it's done. what a privilege to be part of it.

lessons learned at the loom

these photos represent three months of work. at the end of july, i began winding a warp in linen. i had chosen what are arguably swedish colors - two shades of blue, yellow and white. the stripes came out rather organically, i would listen to my intuition and then switch colors, creating some stripes wide and some thin, as the mood struck. we decided to call it julie's crazy stripes. 

as you may know, i weave at a little museum about 30km away from home. it's one of those places that have a kind of magic that's hard to explain. you just have to feel it. and you can feel it instantly when you step out of the car. you feel your shoulders relax and you breathe more deeply. 

i haven't done the project alone. the weaving group meets every wednesday and i can't always get there, thanks to being busy at work, so another person wound the warp onto the loom and threaded it through the heddles and prepared it. i got to do a little bit of this, so i learned about it as well, but it was mostly done by one of the other sweet old ladies.

the loom is from 1913 and i like to sit there and imagine all of the cloth that has been created on it. but it also means that she is a bit of a temperamental old thing and she needs getting used to. and yes, i think she's a she. though i'm not sure i can explain why. i just get a feminine impression when i sit at her. and lest you think all looms must be female, the one i wove my rag rugs on is definitely a boy. a young boy. 

there were multiple frustrations, because someone else set it up in my absence, it wasn't until i sat down and had woven 5-6cm that i discovered that there were a number of mistakes that needed to be fixed. that was frustrating and i'd be lying if i didn't admit that i had to take a deep breath and remind myself that i could just as easily have made the mistakes. threading 400+ thin threads through the heddles and the comb isn't an easy job and if you're interrupted, it's very easy to make a mistake.

but what you can't do is hide from that mistake. it shows itself very clearly and very quickly. a loom is an honest thing - it gives you what asked for and nothing more. so if you didn't set it up correctly, that will very quickly become evident. there's no fudging and no covering it up and just going on. mistakes are clear and obvious and it's best to just admit them and fix them before you move on. there's a life lesson in that, i'm sure. 

so we stopped, and we redid a whole lot. and i say we because i'm very grateful for the wise, experienced women at the museum, because they know how to fix such mistakes and they patiently show me how and help me. and i couldn't do any of it without them. and it's such a good lesson for me - asking for help. why is that so hard? why do we think we have to be perfect on the first try? why don't we give ourselves room to make mistakes and learn and grow? 

above all, this wise old loom teaches me patience. she's steady and predictable when you get to know her, but she doesn't hide anything - least of all my mistakes. she shows them to me clearly and she offers me the choice of living with them or undoing them and starting over. over the course of weaving these four linen tea towels, i have made both choices. i had a section of about 10-12cm that was so full of mistakes that i couldn't live with it. nor could i bear the idea of the time it would take to pull it all out. so i fixed what was wrong with the warp and then started anew. and i have that section of cloth and i'm going to make a pincushion or two of it, to remind me that even my mistakes can be useful. that feels like a powerful lesson. and i'm not even sure that i can fully appreciate it, but i'm going to try. 

elsewhere, there are small mistakes. a time or two when a single thread or two was a bit loose and so the thread got sent through on the wrong side with the shuttle. those i can live with. they can contribute to the charm of the piece. to show that it's handmade and that imperfections have their own beauty. that it was made by a fallible human and not a machine. 

and today, i finally dared to cut them apart. it feels like such an act of violence. i sewed a zigzag on the sewing machine on both sides along the places i was going to cut, so they wouldn't unravel and i wove a ribbon to serve as the straps for the towels. it was hard to cut that ribbon up as well. i spent so much time making sure every thread was right, that it felt like a violation to cut them up. but it also felt good. i sewed a hem on each end and i attached my handwoven ribbon. and it was satisfying. 

and now, they're soaking overnight in an enamel bowl of cold water. i will wash them tomorrow and that will bring them together into the soft, usable, absorbent tea towels they will become. and then i will let them dry and i will wrap them up and give them as gifts to two people special to me. and it will all have been worth three months of work and all of the lessons learned at the loom. 

looking for the elusive red thread

we got together in our local creative group on sunday and made small "flexigon" books together, inspired by places that mean something to us. because i love the little museum down in randbøldal, where i go to weaving every other wednesday, i wanted to make that the focus of my little foldable book. i selected some photos that i'd taken there, as well as a photo of the runner for my kitchen that i wove there at the museum. many of the photos i chose were of that work in progress and the one in the middle is of the new runner that i just started last saturday. what i wanted to ponder in my little book was the magic of the place. because it really is a magical place. 

and what came out was something else entirely. i began to think about the way that we trace red threads of meaning through our lives. or the way that we probably should do that and don't always do so. and my little book became a kind of meditation on that. perhaps because i have used red strips cloth in my rug, or because i often struggle to figure out whether there is a cohesive meaning to my life. it can feel like i'm really just bumbling along. 

but it's strange that wasn't what i sat down to create. i wanted to create a little book that expressed the magic i feel in the air when i'm at the museum. it's a really special place. it makes me feel calm and centered and present. i feel it immediately when i step out of my car, my shoulders relax and i breathe deeply. it's in a little valley, on the curve of a creek, nestled down in the trees. part of the magic is the group of women which gathers there, especially the leader of that group, who is a lovely, spry, can-do woman who makes things happen. she's a big part of the magic. but the place itself has something special as well. maybe it's on just the right vortex, or just the way it's placed, there on the creek, nestled at the base of a tree-covered hill, is perfect. and i wanted to try to capture that in my little book, but instead, it ended as a search for a red thread. 

i guess i unconsciously chose that myself when i chose the pictures that i did. i have many other pictures that capture the magic, but the ones i chose were nearly all of my own weaving and in that way, i guess i did control the direction it took, even if it maybe felt like i didn't. i guess i'm just looking for that elusive red thread.

it just takes the time it takes

i'm weaving a four meter long rag rug. i spent weeks searching out old bedding in red and black and white in second hand stores, carefully ripping it and rolling it into balls.

on october 19, i began my rug. the end product will be 4 meters long and it will have a place of pride in my kitchen. the warp on the loom had already woven two rag rugs and they were cut off and so i had to tie up my ends. i am very fortunate to have excellent help from the experienced weavers where i weave.

i started off with an edge of 8 rows of "fisherman's cotton," which is the same as my warp.

i began with plain black fabric, loving how it looks with the pattern that's set up on the loom. i press the pedals 1-2-3-2-1 and so on.

it looked so amazing with the plain fabric, that i decided, after weaving a few rows with some of the patterns i had collected, to remove them and keep it simple with plain colors.

i'm alternating between black, white and red, more or less as the spirit moves me. i'm using less white, since at 4 meters, the rug will be too large and heavy to fit into the washing machine very easily. 

i decided early on to measure each section, so that when i come to the middle, i can begin a mirror image. i think the finished rug will be more harmonious this way.

since the loom has been in use for awhile, strings keep hopping off. it's frustrating and slows things down, but i also learn a lot from it. and it's a good reminder that this is a slow project. there's no way to hurry it up. it just takes the time it takes.

and since i can only go weave every other wednesday when the group gets together, my progress is steady but slow.



but progress there is, and i plod along. it's even slower than it should be because i decided that the strips i originally made were too wide and so i have to tear them all in half. this means that i'm doing a lot of matching up of ends, which just takes the time it takes.

but things do move forward. and i'm pleased with my edges. somehow, i'm a natural at those. but, i'll admit that when visitors to the museum stop and talk to me, i make mistakes and i have to back up. making it again, just take the time it takes. i'm learning patience. and perseverance.

and i'm well over halfway as of this shot. when i start to make mistakes, i take a break, get a coffee, walk around and talk to the others, and look at what they're doing. or i help reach things that are up high or take a turn at the desk out in the museum. and i just remind myself that this just takes the time it takes.

and now, i have under a meter to go. i didn't finish it in time for my big thanksgiving with guests, but i will finish it early next year. and i will be so proud of this significant, beautiful thing i have made for my kitchen. and i will remember that things just take the time they take and how important it is to enjoy the journey along the way.

Joan Baxter's tapestry series :: The Weaver

January

Det er en travl tid for mig. Nu med stærk blæst og snestorm er det altid en travl tid; væv en stoflængde i en fart, mand, ellers fryser vi, selv foran ildstedet! Der er ingen mangel på arbejde og handel nu. Jeg lader skyttelen flyve.

Jeg har en anden væv stående, tom. Jeg drømmer om i en ledig stund, at sætte den væv op, kostbar og smuk.

It’s a busy time for me. Right now, among tempests and blizzards, is always the busiest time. Weave cloth, my friend, hurry - or even indoors we will freeze. There is no lack of work and customers now, the shuttle is flying!

I have a second loom. It stands empty. In idle thoughts, I dream of the most beautiful and precious cloth I will weave there.

February

Fiskernes overtøj er aldrig tørt. Det hænger i sol og vind, indtørringen gør stoffet tungt af salt konstant. Skipperen fra ”Tern” banker på. Han standser op i døren. Han går ind. Han kan knapt se i mørket og tørverøgen. Han har brug for et kraftigt stykke overtøj til havbrug. Saltet har ædt det gamle. Havet udenfor mit vindue er som et uldskind af fråde.

Den anden væv er stadig tom. En skønne dag vil den stå med et strålende klæde.

A fisherman’s coat is never dry. It’s exposed to sun and wind and its very fibers are grown heavy with salt. The Captain of the Tern knocks on the door and comes in. He can hardly see in the smoky darkness. He needs a new overcoat, the salt has eaten away his old one. The sea outside my window is a wooly froth.

The other loom is still empty. One day, I shall weave a glorious cloth upon it.

March

Mit garn-lager er lille. Jeg må gå til husmands-stederne, hvor spinde-konerne sidder ved ilden. Plovmænd er ude på hver en mark, skriver fure efter fure. Ingen hilser på mig. Ingen har overtøj på. Det er hårdt arbejde at pløje.

Til minde om det unge mistede ansigt burde mine hænder have vævet gode billeder på den tomme væv.

My yarn supply has dwindled. I have to go to the spinners, as they sit by their fires. The ploughmen are out in the fields, ploughing furrow upon furrow. No one greets me. No one wears a coat. Ploughing is hard work.

In memory of the lost young face, my hands could have woven beautiful images on the empty loom.

April

Jeg kan ikke udholde at være udenfor i april. Det nye lys gør mig fortumlet, de glade lam, grøfterne med deres overflod af påskeliljer, den nytændte forårssol, det glitrende glimt fra havet. Hvor er jeg dog glad for at holde mig inden døre, mens jeg går mellem spind og væv.

Ved påske liljelys kan jeg se en halv snes spindelvæv og gråtonen i mit stof samt den tomme væve i hjørnet.

I can’t stand to be outdoors in April. The new light makes me dizzy - the joyful lambs, the ditches with their abundance of daffodils, the newly lit spring sun, the glittery glimpses of the sea. I’m so happy to stay indoors, keeping busy spinning and weaving.

In the daffodil light, I can see half a dozen spider webs and the grey tones of my cloth, as well as that empty loom in the corner.

May

Et stort skib ankrer op ved øen. Den høje fremmede kaptajn forhører sig hos fiskerne i land. Det er blevet mig fortalt, at du fremstiller meget smukt stof,” siger han. “Engang i min ungdom,” fortæller jeg ham, “vævede jeg andet end gråt klæde.” Men inspirationen forlod mig pludseligt engang for længe siden, jeg væver ikke mere det smukke stof, du har hørt om.”

“Gå ind på kirkegården, på vej tilbage til kysten og dit skib. Der vil du se en sten med navnet Inga af Garth indhugget.” Jeg åbner døren på vid gab. Jeg peger på den tomme væv. “Se der,” siger jeg.

A large ship rests at anchor off the island. The tall, foreign captain asks the fishermen ashore. “I’ve been told that you create the finest cloth,” he says. “Once upon a time, in my youth,” I tell him, “I wove something other than grey cloth. But inspiration suddenly left me long ago; I no longer weave the beautiful cloth you have heard about.”

“Stop by the cemetery on your way back to the coast and your ship. There, you will see a stone engraved with the name Inga of Garth.” I open the door wide. I point at the empty loom. “See that?” I say.

June

Balle efter balle af stof er blevet til i de lange midsommerdage. Jeg stabler ballerne på loftet. Rotterne og møllene har forsynet sig her og der. Tre stofruller er blevet værdiløse. Hvordan skal jeg stå vinteren igennem?

Jeg klatrer ned. Jeg hviler mit hoved på den tomme væv. Jeg drømmer om umulig ubestikkelig skønhed.

Bale upon bale of cloth has come to life over the long midsummer days. I stack the bales up in the loft. Rats and moths have feasted here and there. Three rolls are worthless. How will I make it through the winter?

I crawl down. I rest my head on the empty loom. I dream of an impossible, incorruptible beauty.

July

Denne sommer rammer storme skibe uden søkort og driver dem hid og did uden ror mod skær og klipper. I natten stimler lanterner sammen på klippetoppe og langs kysten.

Jeg drømmer, at min tomme væv er en harpe. En ung konge væver vidunderlig musik på den, og da han er færdig, tager han kappen af sange af væven, slænger den over skuldrene og går ud for at være sammen med prinser og adelsmænd i en stor hall langt borte.

Summer storms strike chartless ships, driving them here and there, rudderless, against reef and crag. At night, lanterns line the cliff tops along the coast.

I dream that my empty loom is a harp. A young king weaves marvelous music on it and when he is finished, he takes his cape of songs off the loom, wrapping it around his shoulders. He leaves to be with princes and nobles in an enormous hall far away.

August

En ung mand er i gang med at klippe Garth’s 20 får. Garths får har god uld. Det er vidunderlig uld - alt for god til bønders og fiskeres arbejdstøj. Jeg gnider en uldtot mellem fingrene. Det er den bedste uld i årevis. “Hvorfor klipper manden på Garth ikke selv sine får,” spørger jeg. “Han er syg,” svarer han. Den døde piges far er syg. Det er tid at bringe tavshed.

Der er uld af en sådan finhed, at den bør spindes af kvindes hænder til en ung brud. Min arbejdsvæv er for grov. “Sig til manden fra Garth, at jeg ønsker ham god bedring.”

A young man is shearing Garth’s 20 sheep. Garth’s sheep have good wool. It’s a marvelous wool - much too good for peasant and fishermen’s work clothes. I rub the wool between my fingers; it’s the best wool in years. “Why isn’t the man from Garth shearing his own sheep?” I ask. “He’s is sick,” he answers. The dead girl’s father is sick. It’s time for silence.

The wool is so fine that it should be spun by women’s hands for a young bride. My working loom is too rough. “Tell the man from Garth that I wish him well.”

September

Jeg har den særlige evne, at jeg kan se på en kvindes ansigt hendes livs afslutning og begyndelse. Engang så jeg et ansigt, der syntes altid at have et lys af højsommer.

Alle øboere er i slægt. Du kan se blik og bevægelser, som har gentaget sig gennem generationer - et særkende skabt af det slidsomme arbejde på denne ø, som har gjort det umagen værd at anvende under pløjning, ved fremstilling af fiskenet, under høstearbejde, ja selv i forbindelse med drukneulykker og brand. Hun er den ene, som tryllebandt mig engang for længe siden. “Jeg er væver,” råber jeg.

I have a special ability - I can see on a woman’s face the end and the beginning of her life. Once I saw a face that had the light of high summer.

All of the island’s inhabitants are related. You can see gazes and movements which have repeated throughout the generations - a hallmark of the laborious work on the island - developed during plowing, weaving of fishnets, during the harvest, even in connection with drownings and fire. She is the one who bewitched me once long ago. “I am a weaver,” I shout.

October

I oktober suser grå vinde omkring huset. Denne oktober føler jeg intens tørke. Det er tid til at tænde op. Hvorfor er ingen tørv sat i stak for enden af huset? Hvad skal jeg gøre for at fyre op i aften?

Der er den væv, den står ubrugt. Se hele trenden! Der vil aldrig blive arbejdet igen. Den vil kunne holde mig varme en nat eller to. Men da jeg tager øksen for at smadre væven, kan jeg ikke gøre det. Jeg støtter mit hoved på den tomme væv. Hvorfor er rammen våd? Kold rystende gråd fra en gammel mands øjne!

In October, the grey winds rage around the house. This year, I feel an intense draught. It’s time to light the fire. But why is there no peat stacked at the end of the house? What will I do for a fire tonight?

The loom stands there, unused. Look at that warp! No one will ever work there again. It could keep me warm a night or two. But, as I take up the axe to smash the loom, I can’t do it. I rest my head on the empty loom. Why is the frame wet? The cold shakes tears from an old man’s eyes.

November

Der er en mand, som fremstiller mere holdbart klæde end jeg kan klare. Han kommer til min dør om natten i det første korte snefald i november. “Den gamle mand på Garth døde ved solopgang,” siger han. “Det er din sag,” siger jeg. “Nej, de ønsker et liglagen. De har søgt på Garth højt og lavt, der er intet liglagen til ham.” Jeg bliver oppe hele natten vævende et liglagen til den gode gamle mand på Garth.

Jeg kunne have fortalt ham, hvem der blev svøbt i det liglagen.

There is a man who makes more durable cloth than I can. He appears at my door in the night of the first November snow fall. “The old man of Garth died at sunset,” he says. “That’s your responsibility,” I say. “No, they want a shroud. They have looked high and low all over Garth and there is no shroud for him.” I stay up all night weaving a shroud for the good old man of Garth.

I could have told him who was wrapped in that shroud. 

December

Det sneede hele natten. Luften knitrede af frost. Solens lys på sneen skærer i mine øjne som knive.

Jeg åbner døren. En vævning genspejlet i lyset fra sneen ligger fold ved fold over væven, som havde stået ubrugt i halvtreds vintre.

It snowed all night. Frost crackles in the air. The sunshine on the snow cuts my eyes like a knife.

I open the door. A cloth shimmering like the light of the snow is draped fold upon fold over the loom which stood unused for fifty winters.

* * *

These pictures aren't great, as the light isn't so good this time of year and perhaps the lighting in the space isn't ideal for displaying such gorgeous tapestries. They are by Scottish weaver Joan Baxter, based upon a short story by Scottish author George MacKay Brown. And I'm uncharacteristically using capital letters because I worked on the texts for each work and they, of course, had to use capital letters. That's also why they are in both Danish and English. It's quite a moving story and the tapestries are exquisite. They'll be on display this weekend (Nov. 23-24) at the magical little museum in Randbøldal. 

drawing the threads together

i know i just lamented that autumn filled me with dread, but this evening, on the way home from my weaving group, it was just gorgeous. small tendrils of fog sneaking into the low spots, the blueish light that contains hints of the winter ahead descending, leaving trees to stand as starkly beautiful silhouettes, still clad in their leaves for now. it's strangely warm, it was still 13°C this evening, which probably explains the fog. it was a good day, spent at two different small museums, stretching my brain around how tablet weaving works, as well as how to create different patterns and a wider band on a small band loom. i am so fortunate to have amazing women in my life who know all about these things and who are patiently helping me rewire my brain. once again, i am struck that in weaving, i find deeper meaning - how we draw together the threads of our lives and find depth and beauty. my threads are still a bit tangled, but days like today move me in the right direction.

i'm going back to weaving!

when i went back to the magical randbøldal on wednesday evening, it was like coming home. and i wondered how it was i stayed away so long...sometimes we have to lose ourselves for awhile to find ourselves. i'm going to make a long runner for the kitchen. and it doesn't matter how long it takes.