Tag Archives: silk

A new rabbit hole: coiled basketry

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It’s all Sally Pointer‘s fault. I was just quietly playing nicely with lime bast and nettle, then she wrote a book and then she co-hosted a lime bast working day with Chiz Harward of Froe Wood Coppice Products where I had a lot of fun and encountered things made of bast fibres that I hadn’t thought of making.
Baskets.
I have clear memories of the boho stores (we called them ‘hippy stores’) of the early 1970s, full of tie-dye t-shirts, Nepalese silver trinkets, psychedelic posters and southeast Asian and African craft items. Lots of coiled baskets, stacks of them in the corners or lined up full of stuff I can’t clearly visualise (polished rocks? soaps?), everything smelling so strongly of patchouli that you didn’t have to buy any yourself. I miss those days, everything was so new, so shiny, so desirable when seen with young eyes.
It never occurred to me that those baskets were handmade. I had no interest in baskets. Ha.

While we were househunting I spent evenings learning to make cordage from random materials, then learning to make baskets from the cordage.

Sally’s book includes instructions for making a coiled basket: wrap good lime bast around bundles of lime bast too weak for cordage, spiral the wrapped bundle out and up, stitching into the previous row to make a solid structure. I have LOTS of lime bast, I can do that.

The bundle of ‘waste’ lime bast is wrapped with a strip of ‘good’ bast. Stitch into the previous row to create a strong structure; do it more regularly than I did for a more elegant result. The stitching bast should be moistened for strength and flexibility.

It’s messy. Sheds lots of bits of lime bast onto my work desk, onto the floor, into my keyboard, onto my clothes and hence everywhere. Slow work, ideal for an evening in front of the tv, but too messy.
Wait. I can wrap other things with other things. I can wrap tapestry warp thrums (waste yarn produced when the tapestry is cut off the loom) with leftover or waste silk yarns.

This is the epitome of mottanai, the Japanese principle that drives boro repair and modern visible mending: it’s more than regrettable, it’s simply wrong to waste material that can be made into something useful. It’s slow, slow work but pulling the silk yarn tight around the core makes it shine, and the subtle variations in colour are beautiful. Inserts of other colours are the last few scraps of silk spun from fibre I dyed c. 2012, most of it used for tablet weaving. I wonder where that bag is?
You can see from the last photo that the constant handling of the forming basket has raised a halo from the silk yarn, making it fuzzy. This offended me: I wanted the stitching to be clear and crisp. I knew the fuzz could be singed off …

Many years ago we took Sara Lamb to the Camenzind silk mill in Switzerland to see commercial silk spinning. The spun yarn was de-gassed, the yarn passed at high speed over a red-hot iron plate to scorch off any halo so the final yarn was crisp and glossy. When we returned to the UK we tried to do something similar by passing spun yarn at high speed past a steady flame (heating iron red-hot on my cooker was NOT GOING TO HAPPEN). Needless to say we weren’t very successful, although we did have a lot of fun.

But how to do it? Careful application of my cook’s blowtorch, that’s how. Happy to risk everything in pursuit of perfection, that’s me.

Perfect.
Well. It’s not the shape I wanted. I had to undo and rework the little opening. Six strands of 18/2 cotton work up (relatively) quickly, but the coil is relatively coarse. Maybe if I make the bundle smaller?

Practice makes perfect. Four strands, wrapped with precious thrums of Sara Lamb’s hand-dyed, handspun silk.

My new scarf

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In March 2020, just before COVID, he and I went to New York, sharing one carry-on bag (we travel light and fast). I’ve just checked my calendar to see how long we were there; in my memory it’s both forever and no time at all, but in fact it was an intense fun- and food-filled ten days. One was spent walking from our hotel in The Bowery to see Japanese textiles at Sri Threads, with lunch at a Polish restaurant that we still remember for fabulous food and our first Żywiec beer. I’d been following Stephen @Sri for years and his collection did not disappoint. The wisteria bast fabric, the museum-grade boro were beyond my means, but I brought home some wonderful and meaningful textiles including a worn but very beautiful sakiori obi. My plan was to cut it and make a series of small bags to showcase the fabric, but I found I just could not put the scissors to it. Not just because it’s a wonderful long beautiful thing, but because it was still a thing. It wasn’t so worn that it couldn’t be used in its entirety. And also because this was made by someone’s hands as that single thing. Someone dismantled the garments for fabric, cut strips, wound that warp, warped the loom, chose or simply took strips to weave as weft. There is no repeat. When I’ve woven random yarns like this I’d sometimes pause to admire some unexpectedly beautiful progression: did the person who wove this pause, and for which colours?

Packing my workroom for the move made clear to me how many unfinished projects require my attention. They weigh me down: i am finishing some and disposing of others. This beautiful thing could become a striking if somewhat long scarf to be loved and admired into the future if I repaired it to withstand light use. 

Obi?
An obi is a Japanese belt, traditionally a woven fabric but modern obi may be made of many materials. There are obi (several types) for women and for men; men’s obi are narrower, longer (men wrap three times around the waist, women two) and usually more sombre in colour than those worn by women.

Left, an 1890s photo of one woman tying a complex obi knot. Right, a modern man’s kaku obi (my reading suggests this would be more stylish with the knot worn a little to the left).

My obi is roughly 15cm/6″ wide and 3m/9.8′ long, the standard dimensions of a hanhaba or ‘half width’ everyday casual woman’s obi. If that’s what it is, given the age of the obi, it would have been wound unfolded twice around the waist then tied with a simple over-and-under knot.

Sakiori: an examplar of mottanai
Meaning something like ‘what a waste/shame’ in the sense of ‘don’t be wasteful’, mottanai is a Japanese philosophy born of poverty and respect for crafts and materials. There is no need (it is inappropriate and disrespectful) to buy new if the old can be repaired, re-used or recycled. Garments can be repaired and remade for further use and when repair is not possible the fabric itself still has value: it can be cut into strips for use as weft in a new woven fabric (sakiori) or even unravelled, sound weft thread by weft thread to be re-used as weft in a new zanshi (‘leftover thread’) fabric.

A burn test suggests the black warp is silk; it burned briefly and sullenly with the scent of burnt hair. The wefts are strips of at least 23 different silks ranging in colour from palest grey to various blacks with grey patterning. The narrowest weft stripe is 3 passes of a pale grey similar to that in the middle of the image above (but the strip is thinner); the widest is 26 passes of a blue and white silk similar to that near the bottom of the image. A true vivid deep purple is the least common colour, only 5 stripes. Most of the silks are rich shades of brown combined with greys and blacks.

Think for a minute about the possible age of these fabrics. Folk textiles are difficult to date, but sakiori fabric is no longer widely woven. The obi is worn beyond use, from long use. As were, probably, the garments dismantled and woven into it. If it was woven at the beginning of the 20th century, the fabrics may date from the 19th century. All those years, all those people making and wearing the garments.

The photo above shows some of the damage. The worst is the selvedges, in many areas eroded to nothing but worn ends of weft strips. Within the body of the obi the warp is worn or has disappeared entirely over bumps in the weft, creating weak points where the weft strips part. There is no central wear line, so it was not folded in use. At one end there are large open holes several cm wide. It might be that this is the result of wear due to knotting, or it could simply be moth or beetle damage.

Silk threads for stitching.
Vintage Japanese silk fabric for patches.

I tried various blanket and buttonhole stitches on the damaged selvedges, then unpicked most of them leaving only two small areas to remind me that they don’t work, the pattern and texture is inappropriate. In the end I repaired the edges as I did the weak areas in the fabric, re-weaving the warp over-and-under. I worked as close to the edge of the obi as I dared before locking every second or third stitch back into previous stitches. Where the weft fabrics were too badly damaged to hold the new warp I stitched patches of vintage silk, indigo blue or zanshi multicolour and gold. I used 60/2 grey silk where I did not want my stitching to show and Sajou Fil au Chinois where I wanted the repairs to glow like kintsugi gold.

I like the end result enough that I thought of signing it but that seems disrespectful to the person or people who made the obi. Instead I stitched a yatagarasu, the three-legged lucky crow-guide that may be sent by the gods, on the largest patch. Everyone can do with luck and guidance these days.

White felt disc hand-embroidered with flowers in brightly-coloured handspun silk

Spinning thread for handstitching, Part II. Spinning silk.

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This is what started it all. Spin Off Autumn Retreat 2010. A pile of dyed mulberry silk top and some felt discs on a table in Robin Russo’s class, and the comment that spinning your own silk embroidery thread and stitching a needle case is good fun. So I spun the silk using a top-whorl spindle to insert quite a lot of twist, used an Andean plying bracelet for the short lengths I spun, and used the embroidery stitches I could remember from my childhood. It was good fun. And that was my first gentle reminder that stitching could indeed be fun.

I’ve used this needle case gently for the last 11 years and the silk threads are still in reasonably good shape. 

250x view of blue handspun silk embroidered flower petals showing relative lack of wear.
250X view of some stitches from the needle case to show wear of areas with less twist.

You may be able to see some slight ‘fuzziness’ indicating wear on the areas with very little twist.

Twist is good!
Twist locks the fibres in the yarn together to make a competent yarn: too little twist allows the fibres to slide within the yarn, which will then stretch under tension or even drift apart entirely (don’t ask me how I know this, it’s not a pleasant memory). But tight twist also means the fibres tightly spiralling on the thread are less exposed to wear in any one location on that thread. Tight twist locks the ends of fibres more tightly into the spun yarn. 

But not always!
Uncountered twist makes a yarn — or in this case a thread — that is lively. Most stitchers either add twist or untwist their thread ever-so-slightly with every stitch; if you add twist, you’ll know it because your thread starts tying itself in knots. A lot of twist results in a thread that may not flatten and spread to cover the underlying fabric. It might even stay entirely round, which is good if you’re couching it down, not so good for satin stitch. Like cotton, silk can take a lot of twist before it becomes wire: on average, when in doubt, always add a little more twist to silk.

Choose a yarn structure: sample silk threads
I learn a lot by looking at and handling examples of things to understand how they behave. 
In the image below silk threads are shown at 250x; they’re all from the same shot, split to allow me to name them. The white line indicates a 45° angle. [I’ve spelt ‘Gutermann’ incorrectly: it should be Gütermann. Sorry.]

6 different silk threads photographed at 250x to show twist angle and structure.

Using a needle to unpick the thread and a jeweller’s loupe to see the result I can say the first three (1,2, and 3 in case of doubt) are all 3-ply threads. 4, the embroidery floss, is 2-ply. Why? 3-ply yarns are almost circular in cross-section, so they look much the same diameter regardless of how they lie on the fabric, whereas 2-ply yarn is roughly oval in cross-section: it has a flatter, wider side and a narrower side.
So a 3-ply sewing thread will make a more uniform line of stitches, and being circular and tightly-spun might even move more smoothly through the fabric. The 3-ply Sajou and Soie Perlée stand cylindrical, high and glossy above a ground fabric or other stitches to catch the light and provide structure to a design.
By contrast the 2-ply embroidery floss will lie relatively flat on its flat side and because it is relatively loosely plied (compare the twist angle) it will spread even flatter to cover more of the ground fabric.

5, the 2-ply handspun silk top, is almost as tightly spun as the commercial threads, it’s just a bit thicker. It’s relatively ‘fuzzy’ with a halo of ends around the thread by comparison with the spun reeled silks above it,  but that is not proof that they are reeled and the handspun is spun from silk top: heat is used to burn that fuzzy halo off yarns mill-spun from silk top.

6  I will explain a little later. 

Other factors to consider
Sewing thread and most embroidery threads (leaving aside those attached to the fabric by other threads) have to pass through a fabric multiple times. Fabric is hard on thread. Every slub will catch on the fabric, the leading edge of the slub will abrade more and fray and eventually fail. The slub will enlarge the hole made by the needle, damaging the fabric and leaving the rest of the thread a bit loose in that large hole.
So unless you want texture and are happy to live with the consequences, spin consistent singles and ply consistently. You don’t need a lot of silk to make a lot of thread, so buy the best quality silk you can find. Avoid clumps of short fibres, neps, noils and other annoyances if you can, otherwise pick them out of the fibre as you spin. Or accept the consequences: it’s unlikely to be fatal or even a disaster! Uneven silk thread works well in rustic textiles sewn in the boro tradition, even in relatively precise geometric figures.    
Detail of sashiko stitched with uneven handspun silk.
There is significant variation in thread thickness and the amount of twist. Not my best spinning, but mottanai applies here: use what you have, waste nothing.back of waistcoat showing that uneven spun silk is appropriate to boro repairs.
And it looks perfect appropriate, at least to me.

I have an example of silk embroidery in my historic textiles collection.
undyed linen card case c. 1720 with yellow silk embroidery in back stitch and some satin stitch

This is probably an envelope case to hold visiting cards c. 1720 (dated by the style of embroidery). Undyed linen (note that there are two layers, the outer being a much finer weave) hand-sewn and embroidered with yellow silk. 

photo to show detail of flower and stitches worked in yellow silk on undyed linen card case with insert at 250x to show that the silk is floss, 2-ply.

A slightly closer view of the embroidery including a view of the back because embroiderers always like to see the reverse. The flowers and other details are back stitch, with a simple wrap binding the edges of the envelope. The insert detail shows more clearly the sheen of the silk – after 300 years! – and the structure of the yarn, which is a 2-ply twisted floss. 
And that’s why I tried Number 6 in the photo above, quickly twisting together a couple of strands of silk floss from Pipers Silks in the UK. It works, would work better if I used more strands for a thicker thread. But I’m not going to do that: I want to use that silk as it comes because it is so very beautiful and so very, very challenging.
pack of reeled silk floss for embroidery in various shades of blue with label from Pipers Silks.

I hope that’s enough to get you started. Use the best silk you have, spin evenly, spin reasonably tightly if not very tightly, it’s good fun!

pH damages protein fibres: a test.

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“Protein fibres prefer acid conditions; plant fibres prefer alkaline conditions” is a truism that I’ve repeated myself on many occasions. It’s a commonplace when discussing indigo dyeing, as the vats are generally alkaline: indigo is more soluble at high pH. Warmth only makes things worse: hot alkali is said to cause damage faster than cold. Liles and others mention the risk posed by the vat fluid “Indigo vat fluid may be allowed to dry on cellulosic fibres but should never be permitted to do so on protein fibres, since the alkali becomes more concentrated as drying proceeds” ( JN Liles, 1990. The Art and Craft of Natural Dyeing. University of Tennessee Press).

In accordance with this I don’t allow the vat fluid to dry on my silk and wool; indeed, I sometimes put dyed goods into a citric acid rinse as soon as they’re cool, then plunge them into cold, thoroughly oxygenated tap water. The theory behind the cold rinse is that not only does this rinse out alkali not neutralised by the citric acid and oxidise the indigo compounds, it washes out loose indigo particles while they’re still truly loose, not dried onto the yarn or fabric to wear off later onto skin or other garments.

But I’ve been wondering exactly what damage alkali does, and how quickly the damage occurs. Should I be quite so paranoid when working with wool and silk, counting the minutes that the dyestuff is in the vat? I decided to investigate.

Bombyx aka Mulberry Silk seems more fragile than wool and therefore more likely to reveal damage. I took samples of commercial silk fabric, yarn, and Bombyx spinning fibre, tied them into bundles and submerged them in a 1-2-3 Fructose vat. I tested the pH of the vat at the start of the session and every time I removed a sample: it was over pH11 the entire time. The vat was maintained at 50–55°C for the duration of the test save for a brief overheating to something like 65°C  for about 30 minutes between 2 and 3 hours into the test (I forgot to turn the gas off! Oh, for a water bath). The samples were removed from the vat, cooled slightly, then briefly rinsed in a citric acid solution (pH4) before further rinsing in cold tap water and air drying.

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And this is the result of the test. From left to right:

Undyed silk; 30 mins; 1 hour; 2 hours; 3 hours; 4 hours 15 mins; 5 hours 15mins; 7 hours; 9 hours;  10 hours 45 mins (I had to go to bed, the next day was a gym day).

I think there’s a visible difference: after nearly 11 hours at 50°C or higher at >pH11, the silk on the end is less lustrous. As the photo suggests, it’s lost some of its drape, its flexibility. The difference is more obvious in the hand: that silk is ‘cottony’, it’s not as smooth as silk. So, that’s likely to be one aspect of pH damage.

To me, the most interesting thing is the time it took for the damage to be noticeable. (Note: the temperature peak 2–3 hours in is likely to have had some effect, but I don’t think it’s terribly significant – there’s no perceptible jump in the degradation at that point.) I can’t detect a difference between the undyed silk and that which was in the vat for an hour. I’m not even certain there’s a significant difference between the 1 hour and 3 hour samples; beyond that, the fibre does seem to be more cottony. The depth of the blue colour doesn’t change from 30 minutes, so there’s no benefit to leaving it in longer. It seems likely to me that the damage is cumulative, so caution is indicated when dipping repeatedly for darker colour, but still there’s far more leeway than I feared. I’m no longer going to count minutes and seconds when silk or wool is in a chemical vat for 15 or 20 minutes.

The colour change intrigues me. Again, the blue had a greenish tinge at 1 hour, so it’s not attributable solely to the temperature change. Is the alkali causing the silk to yellow? I need to try this again with washing soda and plain white silk.

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