Knit, Purl, Sow - Brooklyn Botanic Garden

Eastern Parkway Entrance, Brooklyn Botanic Garden.

Detail, entrance gate, and possible floral inspiration.

During a retreat by the Polar Vortex, which has had the US Eastern Seaboard in an icy grip, DH and I took in an unusual exhibit at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden (BBG). Knit, Purl, Sow was reviewed in the Wall Street Journal, putting knitting on the map in a way this fiber medium seldom is, sadly.  The BBG was one of the few cultural institutions open on Martin Luther King, Jr., day and, better still, admission was free.

Tatyana Yanishevsky, Anatomically Correct Hibiscus.

The exhibit, which ran from October, 2013 until January, 2014. was presented in the atrium space of the Steinhardt Conservatory, a rather heavy-handed piece of architecture, but home to the BBG's own Terrace Cafe, where we enjoyed a delicious cauliflower-gruyere quiche, washed down with the Juice of the Day, a ruby blend of carrot, beet, celery and ginger.  Between the juice and the reviving warmth of the conservatory greenhouses it was better than a trip to a Canyon Ranch spa.

Visitors and artwork.

The work impresses in its craftsmanship and use of color and composition, and the unexpected scale of the forms elicited from this viewer a certain frisson of delightful menace - Granny's afghan meets Ridley Scott.  Knitting with an edge.

Tatyana Yanishevsky, Anatomically Correct Passionflower.

Lotus, Ruth Marshall.

Detail, Lotus.

Detail, Lotus.

Knitting goes truly monumental in the work of Ruth Marshall, one of three artists featured in the show; the other two were Tatyana Yanishevsky and Santiago Venegas.

Sweater Turns into Maidenhair Fern, Santiago Venegas.

Tatyana Yanishevsky, Tiger Lily.

Of course, we had to see some actual plants and, no matter the season, it's a gala of form and texture.

 Flower, leaf, stem and bark.

The new Visitor's Center, a green building worthy of the name, has a good gift shop; I was tempted by the wonderful selection of potted plants.

Visitor's Center gift shop.

Many items can be mail ordered.

We bundled up and walked back to the subway station, admiring the garden - leafless, dormant, yet fascinating.

A venerable vine twists and turns sinuously on the orthogonal trellis.

Torii gate in the Japanese garden.

From December to March, there are for many of us three gardens - the garden outdoors, the garden of pots and bowls in the house, and the garden of the mind's eye.

- Katherine S. White

Cocoons into Thread - Silk Reeling by Hand

Detail, silk reeling machine.

As part of our focus on silk during our textile study tour, we visited the retail outlet of one of the last silk reeling mills in Japan.  The store offers an educational  activity too, silk reeling as it was done before mechanization, similar to the practice shown in the image below.

ca. 1915 - 1923. Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/24443965@N08/4245211785/

Those interested took a turn at two reeling set-ups, selected cocoons dyed in primary colors, and turned a handle to reel our silk.  We got to keep our reels, with the wound silk, of course, as a souvenir.

Silk reel.

Red, blue and yellow-dyed cocoons in water, to keep filament pliable.

Two silk reeling stations, Pat and Allison at work.

In the video below, produced by my talented DH and starring Pat, you will see our reeling instructor loop the filaments from the cocoons through the reeling mechanism, and get an idea of how the machine works. We didn't replace the street noise with a sound track, such as Ellmenreich's Spinning Song, so that you can hear the "whirr" of the reel and occasional comments from the peanut gallery.

The previous day, we visited, briefly, a Japanese silk yarn factory.  DH was only able to record a glimpse of industrial production. The short movie  does not attempt to elucidate the whole factory process, but just gives an idea of the scale and speed of production.  We hope the two videos provide a graphic illustration of the vast difference between the pre-industrial hand process and modern mass production. 

My reel of silk, back home in Newton.

Back to hand-reeling. The spun thread would have been woven into some kind of silk fabric; below a weaver works her loom with a wall of reels behind her.  I know next to nothing about weaving, but it must have taken a quite a few full reels of silk to warp  the loom and to weave any considerable length of cloth.  I enjoyed my recreational hand-reeling, and have renewed respect for the labor that goes into traditional textile production.

Weaver at work.

Silk reels.

Hidden splendor - Beni Itajime silk textiles

Floral design created with safflower dye; pink accents added after primary dyebath.

When we think about extinction, we tend to focus on organisms in the plant and animal kingdoms - passenger pigeons and the Carolina parakeet, long gone from American skies, for example - but extinction occurs in textile history too.  There is now no living practitioner of the surface design tradition known as beni itajime, a resist dyeing technique involving folding and clamping silk fabric between carved boards.  The brilliant orange color is imparted by safflower dye, or beni.  Yes, safflower, not saffron, and one of the most precious dyestuffs in the pre-modern dyer's palette.  Beginning in 1875 synthetic dyes displaced the expensive natural safflower dye.

Saffron colorant, with small cosmetics bowls stained orange by the dye.

Our 2012 tour leader, artist and researcher Yoshiko Wada, and her international associates, are doing their best to record, preserve and even recreate bygone fiber arts. This quest led us to the home of Mrs. Yoshimura, of Takasaki in Gunma Prefecture, who generously shared her family's collection of fabrics and artifacts from the Yoshimura Dye-Works archive. In addition, researcher and textile engineer Masanao Arai gave us a presentation on the research and dyeing experiments he and Yoshiko presented to the Textile Society of American in 2010.

We drove up hours late due to our packed schedule, but Mrs. Yoshimura could not have been more gracious, in her beautiful kimono and iris-patterned obi sash. The Yoshimura Dye-Works, owned by Mrs. Yoshimura's family and the last of its species, so to speak, made beni-itajime from 1889 until the concern closed in 1932. With two helpers, our hostess, on the left in the image below, demonstrated the use of this special fabric in juban, a under-kimono worn as a layer beneath the outermost garment.

Lifting up outer kimono to show flash of under-kimono.

I won't even pretend to understand the intricacies of historical Japanese costume, but suffice to say that there are a lot of layers involved in kimono-wearing and that beni-itajime fabric was used in the construction of the layer beneath the outermost kimono. When the wearer moved, however modest and sedate the design of her outer kimono,  a flash of the bright orange would be revealed. It's as if the wearer is stating "Yes, I'm a perfectly demure lady on the outside, but there's more to me than meets the eye."  How sexy is that? Once you know to look for the fabric, you'll often find a glimpse of tell-tale reddish-orange in many 19th-century wood block prints of stylish women.

Under-kimono featuring beni-itajime in crane design on display.

So, how was this wonderful fabric made? Most of the tradition was handed down orally, so written contemporary accounts of the process are minimal. Mr. Arai proved to be a Sherlock Holmes of silk, however, and after many attempts, was able to recreate the fabric.

The process goes something like this:

First, carve six pairs of wooden boards with an identical, but mirror-image design, so that here are "left-hand" and "right-hand" boards.  The registration of the designs must be perfect. The length of each board equals the width of the thin silk fabric used for beni-itajime.

Mr. Arai with left-hand and right-hand carved boards of crane design.

Next, lacquer the boards, except for the edges and a spot in the middle. The lacquer  keeps the grain of the wood from swelling, ensuring a nice crisp design, and prevents the boards from absorbing the dye. Next, soak the boards in water for two weeks; this makes the boards more pliable, for easier clamping. 

Left, carved board with dye-stained, unlacquered spot; right, carving in progress.

Next, take a length - several yards - of fine, thin silk fabric.  Accordion-fold it into four layers.  The width of the layers is the same as the width of the boards.  Place four layers of folded fabric on a board, carved side up. Then put the mirror-image board on top of the layers, carved side down.   Continue with the remainder of the length - folding and placing the fabric between board pairs -  until the length of fabric is folded and inter-leaved with six pairs of matching boards (twelve boards total.)

Mrs. Yoshimura folds fabric and places it between mirror-image boards.

Finally, once the sandwich of folded fabric and board pairs is complete, the whole assembly is clamped and moistened thoroughly. Then dye is poured between the edges of the boards. Where the matching boards clamp the fabric, the dye cannot penetrate, and those areas stay white.

In the olden days, the layers would have been tightly wedged into a wooden frame with shims.  To make the "new" beni itajime fabric, Mr. Arai used a modern jig set-up.

Mrs. Yoshimura and helpers with antique carved boards.

Stack of board pairs and folded fabric.

Poster of process.

In lieu of an actual dyeing demonstration - not possible in Mrs Yoshimura's home -  Mr. Arai displayed a very informative poster of the process, showing dye being ladled over the clamped fabric-and-board assembly.

Close-up of hot dye being poured over clamped assembly of fabric and boards.

The historic process. Source: www.trocadero.com/haruko/

Fabric and the board used for the fabric's design.

Beni itajime fabrics.

In some of the fabrics, it's fairly easy to distinguish the "repeat" or the area of fabric that was folded between one  pair of boards. In other designs, however, the design appears almost seamless, so cleverly does the pattern mask the fact that the fabric was folded into segments.

The boards themselves are beautiful artifacts and feature designs full of meaning and symbolism, such as cranes for longevity, the hemp plant for health and well-being, and the sakura, or cherry blossom, emblematic of the fleeting beauty of life.  While the layers are largely hidden from the view of the outside observer, the woman wearing the safflower-dyed juban has carefully chosen and arranged her ensemble, enveloping herself in tiers of meaning and beauty.

Carved boards with iris, hemp and peony designs.

Antique garment made using beni itajime.

As shown in the image above, pink could be added to enliven the basic orange and white. I'm not sure if this involved additional folding and clamping or if some other method was used.

Hats off to Wada-san and Arai-san for their investigative and artistic skills and their tenacity - it took over twenty attempts to create a new piece of beni itajime as they re-discovered the historic process.

The bottom fabric imitates the shibori technique.

In our sock feet, we admire the yardage.

I love anything flavored by green tea.

Mrs. Yoshimura and her assistants prepared a delightful snack for us.  She also showed us her own artwork; below are Mrs. Yoshimura's hand-dyed fabrics. A truly lovely lady.

Mrs. Yoshimura shares her beautiful creations.

Although beni itajime is not as well known as some other Japanes textile traditions, there is a study group, Takasaki-Beni-no-Kai, and we did see a collection in the town of Kiryu, another town with a history of silk production in Gunma Prefecture  There has been one major recent exhibit of these fabrics and garments, at the National Museum of Japanese History, in 2010, and the museum has more images of juban on its website.

Private collection of beni itajime garments, Kiryu.

Modern Quilting Exhibit and Denyse Schmidt Workshop

Snake Charmer. Designed by Denyse Schmidt, made by Barbara Bergantz and Janice Roy.

In November my quilt lust took me to the New England Quilt Museum (NEQM), for a modern quilt trifecta:  1) The Roots of Modern Quilting exhibit, 2) a lecture by Denyse Schmidt, sort of the godparent of the Modern Quilt movement,  and 3) a companion workshop led by Ms. Schmidt. The exhibit, on display from October 10 - December 28, 2013, and curated by NEQM staff curator Pamela Weeks, featured both modern quilts and historic examples from which the modern quilts are derived.

Snail Trail, maker unknown, c. 1940. Pilgrim Roy collection.

Denyse Schmidt's Snake Charmer has its origins in the traditional Snail Trail pattern, also known as Rattlesnake. Traditional quilt patterns often have multiple monikers, often varying by region or time period. 

Visitors at the exhibit.

So, many modern quilts abstract or simplify traditional patterns.  Another characteristic of modern quilt making is an improvisational approach to design, as seen in the image below, a detail of a quilt by Angela Walters Kearney. Ms. Kearney describes her process in  making this quilt, which is pieced using a additive method based, ultimately, on traditional log cabin construction:

I started with the technique and let it build from there. I wasn't sure what it would look like until it was finished.

Yet, there is nevertheless an element of control  - improvisation does not equate with random - as the color palette is carefully balanced, with the white fabric used in every third or fourth row.  Again, this approach is rooted in tradition, as the rural and impoverished quilters of Gee's Bend - improvisers  through necessity -  also used the materials at hand in a deliberate and thoughtful manner.

Impracticality, Angela Walters Kearney. Detail.

In addition, many modern quilts have a social or political message, such as the striking quilt below, a commentary on gun violence in Chicago.  This artifact juxtaposes medium and message - the soft tactility of the fabric medium versus the harsh reality of the message - to great effect.  Although this was not highlighted in the exhibit, quilts have long been used to express political beliefs, so this work of social commentary is also part of the quilting tradition.

Bang, You're Dead. Jacquie Gering.

The parallels drawn between historic and new quilts are attenuated by the awkward compartmentalization of the exhibit space, and there are some omissions, most notably artists Weeks Ringle and Bill Kerr, but overall Ms. Weeks has curated an important and noteworthy exhibit.

Left: Hawaiian-style applique, Denyse Schmidt, 2011.  Right: Blue Hawaiian, maker unknown, c. 1920.

As part of this exhibit, Denyse Schmidt gave a lecture and workshop at the museum.  Since 1996 Ms. Schmidt has been creating quilts at her workshop in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Her lecture led us through her history of making things, rooted in her parents' confident craftsmanship in woodworking and home sewing, and their expectation that if one needed something, say, a graduation dress or shelf unit, one could most likely make it.  In addition, Ms. Schmidt grew up in central Massachusetts at a time when mill end stores were next door to actual textile mills. This background, interwoven with various threads in her life (pun intended) including folk dance, and graphic design studies at RISD, eventually led to quilt-making.

As Ms. Schmidt makes clear in her recent book Modern Quilts Traditional Inspiration, her contemporary quilts are very much based on classic quilt patterns, distilled to their essence, realized in Ms. Schmidt's color palettes, with a result that is quite contemporary.

Sewing stations and Denyse's scrap bags, ready to go.

The sold-out Improvisational Piecing workshop started with a deceptively simple assignment: beginning with the "small" bag, pull scraps at random and stitch together in the log-cabin technique. With a twenty-minute or so deadline, we had to work quickly, trimming as necessary, and drawing from the "medium" and "large" bags as the  blocks grew and required larger pieces.  The time pressure and the random selection of fabric pieces - no peeking - prevented the second-guessing, doubt and general indecision that can sometimes paralyze the quilt maker.

A fortuitous combination of fabrics.

Once we had completed our first blocks, Ms. Schmidt pinned them to a large piece of felt.  Due to the standard piecing technique, and communal scrap bags, the blocks "played" together surprisingly well.  Following some discussion of our reactions to the process, it was back to the bags and sewing machines. 

Denyse gives us encouragement.

The wall of blocks.

I have always enjoyed unconventional color combinations, and just went with the flow.  I've found, over years of attending workshops, that I'm a happier camper if I don't worry too much about the end product, but just try to follow the teacher's methodology and "try it on for size."

During the latter part of the workshop we were allowed to incorporate one fabric we brought from home, using it any way we wished, thus recovering some degree of control over fabric selection. Decisions regarding how much of our fabric to use, and where, highlighted the need to constantly question assumptions about color, value and scale.

We used blue painter's tape to view our blocks.

My blocks, now in Bridgeport.

Ms. Schmidt asks workshop attendees to kindly consider donating one or more blocks, which her studio incorporates into quilts which are raffled off, with the proceeds benefiting a local charity. While I will miss my blocks, I hope they will be made into one of these donation quilts.  Utilizing quilts, modern or classic, to raise money for a cause has long been part of our quilting heritage.