I’m getting used to thinking in reverse and carving mirror images–a very good workout for the old brain!
This week I decided to try a more challenging block print. I combed through my extensive photo pile looking for one that spoke to me and of course, I settled on a scene of grazing sheep.
These sheep were spotted on Ile Verte, QC, one of our favourite spots to visit our besties Gail and Paul. This small island in the St. Lawrence, just past Riviere du Loup, is accessible only by ferry in summer, and by helicopter in winter. The peaceful, rural island offers everything: beaches, whale watching, forests, open wind-swept fields, fish smoke houses, farms, and isolation. A perfect milieu for walking, cycling, and photography.
We try to make it to Ile Verte once a year, but our last trip was September, 2020. On that visit we had some beautiful walks, changing terrain at least five times as we walked over rocky shoreline, along a wide sandy beach, up through the pine forest, down a long country road, up the spikey shale bout d’en bas, past sheep and smoke houses, and over rosa regosa covered fields.
One of my favourite photos was of three sheep, quietly grazing in the sunshine. I love this picture not only because I love sheep, but because it shows textures, and shades of wool, and variations of light. This would be an excellent challenge to translate into a block carving!
One of my new rules for block carving–or in fact for any interpretational art–is to consider the value of translating the subject into a different art form. If the medium does not transform, improve, or enhance the interpretation of the original, is it worth the work? To achieve this, you need to think carefully as you choose the right material and technique to suit the subject. For example, wooly sheep might not come across as well with fine silk embroidery as they would with fuzzy, thick woolen threads. But, would woolen thread be too close to the original?? That I guess is debatable, depending on your purpose.
For this particular block print, I settled on the sheep, for the challenge of textures, and to translate my photo into a reproducible format that can be printed on paper, collage and fabric. Transforming it again and again into new interpretations –prepare yourselves, there could be a lot of sheep coming!
Still getting caught by that mirror image effect, but I do like the variation in wool textures!
My latest adventure is enrolment in a block printing class at the Seniors’ Centre. Yes, you read that right, Seniors’ Centre…I have entered that realm. But, let’s not dwell on it.
The class has been a good mix of challenge and fun. We started off carving blocks of pine, which I discovered is tricky. Although pine is soft and yields to the sharpness of the tool, it also has a fairly strong grain which does not yield as easily! Well, let’s admit, it doesn’t really yield at all. We’ve now switched to carving on linoleum, and compared to the pine it’s a dream. The carving knife slips through as if carving butter–best to keep it slow though or it will slide on through to where you don’t want a cut, more akin to a hot knife through butter.
After three weeks of carving, we were all anxious to get on with the printing. I think we each had a vision of our piece in print, and of how the rolling on of ink and stamping onto paper would be the easy step. Turns out, it is going to take some practice.
The first big revelation that occurred to each of us at different times: it is relief printing. That means what you leave will pick up the coloured ink, and what you carve away will be the white of the paper. Also, when printed, you will have a mirror image of your design. Even though I knew all of this, I still spent a fair bit of time mindlessly carving a block for an initial stamp that came out white and backwards. Chalk that up to the learning by experimentation method.
The second lesson learned by experimentation, was that in the case of ink, less can be more. The ink needs to be rolled on evenly. Thick enough to print, but thin enough that it doesn’t glop, or fill your carving lines. The sweet spot seems to be different for wood or linoleum, as each has a different absorbency level. Ink loading will definitely take practice.
My best piece of the week, in my mind, was to be a pine carving of tree silhouettes, with a beautiful moon peeking through. I planned a deep inky blue, with a bit of black to darken up the scene. The bright white moon would illuminate the thready tree branches. It did not go as planned, but then things rarely do. I’ve debated posting it here, wanting to wait only to show ‘perfect pieces’, but I’ve decided to show the works in progress so you can see what not to do.
Not as expected. Too black. Too gloppy.
My first print run was a disappointment. Black, as I now recall, has to be added very sparingly or it will take over. The ink can’t be too thick or it will fill your carving and leave glops. The ink can’t be too thin or paper will show through in the wrong spots. The weight of lines is emphasized when seen in print. And of course, the print will be in relief and mirror image.
“Back to the drawing board,” as they say. I headed off to the sink to wash my carved block, so I could start again and spare the black.
Then some magic started to happen. As the water ran over the mucky mess, the rinse water revealed the most beautiful colours! I immediately stopped rinsing, and decided to go rogue. I lightly patted the wet block and then flipped it onto a fresh piece of paper. I had no idea what would happen. It could be too wet and turn the paper to a soggy mess. It could be too thin and leave no impression at all. Or, it might be a fabulous surprise! Well…I nearly got the latter. This print was much more interesting. It had some beautiful blues and more shading, but it was a little pale.
Not wanting to admit another defeat, I brought it home, propped it up, stared at it for a while, and then decided to play around with a fine line ink pen. Worse case scenario I could print another one, right?
Also not as expected, but in a beautiful way! Look closely and see the lady in the moon.
Well here it is. I think it was a success! I added sketchy lines to define the naked branches and defined some foreground rocks from the ink splotches. When I thought it was finished I took a picture. I like to take pictures of works in progress because it lets me see perspectives and angles I otherwise don’t notice. The first thing that stood out to me in this version was the lovely moon face that appeared. I swear to you, it is not contrived. It is just there, and I love it!
So, as in life, sometimes things don’t go as planned, but they end up better for it!
My memories of boiled wool bring up pictures of European jackets and alpine hats. Dense, sturdy fabric of matted wool. These days, what passes for boiled wool on the fabric market, in my opinion, is more akin to boucle. Remember those new coats we got to complete our Easter Sunday outfits? If you grew up in the 60’s, you likely had at least one! I used to think of it as ‘curly’ wool. Being spoiled by our British grandmother, we got new ones every spring. Mine was always pink, my sister’s blue. We felt so elegant, with our new white knee socks, white patent leather shoes, fresh white gloves and little flowered hats.
To get boiled wool, I have considered making my own by washing and beating old wool blankets in a hot water cycle. You may have done this unintentionally to some woolen socks or woolen sweaters that mistakenly made their way into the wrong wash load. If you are doing it intentionally, the trick is to get it out while it is the right density before it turns into completely shrunken, stiff felt–although that could get you started on some slipper making! For me, boiling my own wool is still an idea in the works. In the meantime, when ‘boiled wool’ aka ‘boucle’ went on sale last fall, I took the speedier route and bought an array of bright pinks, purples, blues, oranges and reds. I had a vision of mitts embroidered with colourful threads. A little something to brighten up the winter.
I really hate to throw out fabric scraps, so when I cut out my first pair of mitts I used the scraps to cut crazy shapes and appliqued them with bright No. 8 wt. pearl cotton. I didn’t have a pre-planned pattern, just played with shapes, stitches and colours. I already had a good stock of faux fur trims, and also some cozy faux fur for linings. The mitts were constructed using machine stitching, and the embellishment was added by hand. I used a traditional Inuit pattern that has gathered space to keep your fingers warm. They were toasty even on the coldest of winter walks.
The No. 8 wt. cotton thread is a bit heavier and I thought it would show best on this weight of wool fabric, but I discovered that No. 12 wt., although a bit finer, worked as well. (see pics below for the comparison)
With lots of wool left, I ventured into hat making. This time, both the construction and the decorative work were done by hand. I prefer hand work. For me, it gives the added bonus of quiet contemplation and excitement as I see the creations slowly unfold before my eyes.
I love how they turned out. Lots of colour, and warmth for cold winter walks.
I started sewing when I was very young. Likely five or six, but most definitely before I was seven. My mother started me off with embroidery. I remember embellishing tea towels and pillow cases as I learned the basic stitches, lazy daisy being my favorite because of the name. My Barbie dolls wore a variety of couturier outfits and gowns crafted from socks and scraps.
I have very early memories of visiting my aunt, and being enthralled with her darning and mending. As the eldest of my mother’s sisters, Auntie Al had lived through the depression and the second world war as a young adult and had learned skills for economy. Handwork for her was not a pastime, it was work. Not only did she knit socks on a square of four slim needles, but she also had bobbins and sewing needles of all sizes, a basket of wool scraps, and a perfect egg-shaped piece of wood on a stick. This ‘darning egg’ was used when carefully weaving wool into the heels of old worn socks to restore them for use. Although my fingers were itching to touch these treasures, I don’t remember her teaching me. As with all things, she had a very strict “look but don’t touch” policy for children. I did however watch for hours, spellbound and recording her skills in my memory.
In my teens, the 1970’s saw a resurgence of sewing and patching and embroidering, but mostly for decorative purposes, never for repair or from necessity or desire to reuse and recycle. In most cases, seemed more about cutting up new things to make them look old.
These days, with my rekindled love of hand sewing, I am aware of the ‘slow fashion’ movement. From the ecological sustainability stance there is a growing concern with the detrimental effects of fast, cheap, exploitative fashion and an urging for people to return to more local, natural and ethically sourced quality fashions. With this of course comes the desire to make those quality fashions last as long as possible by, you guessed it, mending!
My first adventure into mending for purpose was an attempt to save a beloved pair of Japanese wool socks. They seemed an extravagance when I bought them, but they’ve kept my feet cozy for almost a decade and I love them. I noticed the heels wearing thin and thought I’d soon have to part with them. That’s when I remembered the wool, the egg, and my aunt’s patient weaving of patches into old socks to create new heels. I wish I knew where that darning egg was today! No worries, online shopping has everything and I soon found a wooden darning mushroom that does the trick.
Darning mushroomOld sock, new heel!
Hmm, this mending with purpose was getting interesting and I went on a hunt for clothes that needed some TLC. I remembered a beautiful wool sweater, this piece pushing 20 years. It had last been seen somewhere in the basement and that’s where I found it in a heap and riddled with moth holes. I had always loved the soft luxury of this sweater and I guess that is why I’d never been able to part with it. It’s important when mending to use fabrics of like weight and composition and for this one I was lucky to find some muted, earth tone remnants of wool in my stash that went perfectly with the soft charcoal sweater. Some of the holes were sizable, but with the weight and thickness of the wool, and by letting the holes dictate the placement, I was able to fill the sweater with a field of wild flowers.
Of course, I’ve been reading up on techniques that go beyond lazy daisy and basic embroidery stitches. Seems the only thing I love buying more than fabric is books and I promise to give you a few recommended titles at the end of this blog.
Sashiko, is a traditional Japanese technique that uses the design principles of simplicity and repetition. It is recognizable as patterns of precise white stitching on indigo fabrics. Boro, another Japanese technique, uses sashiko stiches to secure patches under and over holes in old clothing. Rather than being hidden as invisible mending, both of these techniques add not only to the strength and durability of fabric, but also to its beauty. There are lots of books available to explain the techniques in detail and a quick internet search will produce some beautiful images. A few old pairs of pajama bottoms that had blown out large tears in the rump provided me the opportunity to give it a try. I adapted the ideas of shashiko and boro to suit my purpose.
Boro woolen patch under flannelShashiko stich over boro patchTrying Shashiko cross & plain stitching over boro patchShashiko stich on paisley woolen patch, over flannel
In the spirit of slow fashion, sustainability, and being an eco-friend, I’m trying to convert to buying only ‘real’ fiber fashions. This will mean a return to more pure and blended cottons, linens and wool. I admit to a preference for these fibers, but I need to work at the price adjustment. A newly acquired cashmere/cotton sweater, after only about three wears, snagged and got a dime-size hole right on the front hem. Time to toss it? Noooo, not with my burgeoning mending skills. I tried free-style stitching, first in a pink lazy daisy stitch to replicate the knit, and then overlaying with a random blue and purple pattern to add depth. Looks a bit like a scribble, but I like it. This bespoke patch now adorns my hemline, waiting for the day when the sweater calls for more.
It can be tricky ordering books electronically, without being able to flip through them and carefully weigh their content/illustration/value balance. I have come across two favorites to recommend if you want to give mending a try.
The first, Visible Mending, Repair, Renew, Reuse The Clothes You Love, by Arounna Khounnoraj offers suggestions for basic equipment, a good primer of stiches and a nice breadth of techniques. The second half of the book is the ‘how-to’ for a large number of projects to try out the techniques. This section gives the beginner step-by-step instruction for specific projects, but could also be a jumping off point for more the experienced.
The second, I regrettably purchased in electronic form. I say regrettably, because I ended up liking this little book so much I wish I had it in hard copy for quick reference and to lend to others. Mending Life, A Handbook for Repairing Clothes and Hearts, by Nina and Sonya Montenegro is a small, fun book that advocates for repairing and mending rather than discarding and replacing clothes. Offered through a series of family stories and memories, the sisters give solid information on basic equipment and techniques simple enough for a child or beginner, but thorough enough to be useful even to a seasoned sewer. This handbook offers instruction on darning, patching and other common repairs as well as altering, hemming and adding pockets! For those of you in the Kingston area, I spotted a hard-cover copy of this little gem in Novel Idea, our local, independent bookstore.
I hope this inspires you to mend your way (pardon the pun) into reclaiming, reusing, and recycling fashion. Have fun and enjoy the everyday beauty of your work!
