Setting up the loom. Photo by Mike Donald.

A couple of months ago we introduced you to Mike Donald, a young Scot who decided to forsake city life and return to the western isles of Scotland. He won a placement in a state-sponsored scheme to become a registered weaver of Harris Tweed. Reminder: Harris Tweed enjoys Protected Geographical Status (similar to “Champagne”) and must be made from wool which has been dyed and spun on the Isles of Harris, Lewis, Uist and Barra in the Outer Hebrides islands, and handwoven at the home of the weaver. Afterwards, the cloth is returned to the mill for inspection, and only then can it be given the Orb stamp that authenticates it. Each piece of tweed can be traced back to the individual weaver. (If you inspect the label in your Harris Tweed sport coat you’ll see an inked blue number, this number relates to the responsible weaver.)

I caught up with Mike again after he received his weaver’s number and completed his first tweed.

Harris Tweed weavers at work. Photo by Mike Donald.

KM: First, I have to ask: how the hell does it feel to be a certified weaver of Harris Tweed?!

Mike Donald: Feels awesome! There are some things in life that just feel right and this is one of them for me. Throughout the training there was just a series of epiphanies. A lot of that was to do with the guys that taught us, they were 20 or 30 years my seniors but spoke with love and passion about their craft. If I can feel as enthused after all those years then I’ll be happy with my life choice. There’s also a huge sense of beginning, this will be a life long process and I’m enjoying the early stages. Every mistake and misstep I know I’ll learn from and look back on, eventually, and hopefully laugh too. When you see the experienced weavers work and tend to their looms you realize how far you have to go but also that you’ll get there with time and dedication too. Am happy to be on that same road.

Warp and weft patterns. Photo by Mike Donald.

KM: Major check mark in the “Harris Tweed weaver” box, no?

Mike Donald: I got confirmation today from the Shawbost Mill that my “test” piece of Harris Tweed had past inspection. This is the first tweed I’d woven, unaided, alone, at home and without support. The mill delivers a 15 meter beam of yarn and the weft bobbins and you need to produce a tweed to their specifications and exacting standard as laid out on the attached order ticket. I got a two colour, plain twill, 19 shots per inch on an 18 reed. It took a few days to do but the training paid off and the tweed was done without too much drama. They collected it from my loom shed and took it to the mill where it was inspected by their seamstresses and darners for flaws. When the phone rings and they tell you you’ve passed it’s a great feeling. So now it’s onto the real thing 50-meter+ lengths!

A bolt of Harris Tweed fresh off the loom, with Charlie the house cat for scale.

KM: Tradition passed down — another check in that box.

MD: My family have been a huge part of this journey. My folks have been so supportive and my Uncle and Aunt too. I’ve lived hundreds of miles away from Mom and Pops for about twenty years so it’s been odd having to lean on them while I make inroads back into island life. The loom shed is on the family croft so I see a lot of them these days, the kettle is always boiled and I’ve had more hot dinners cooked for me than I could hope for. They’ve been great. My Uncle is a weaver and is always on hand for advice too. It’s cool to be back in each others’ lives after all this time. The friends I left behind in Glasgow have been bemused but right behind me, a lot of them work in the music, fashion and design industry and know the values and ethos behind Harris Tweed but tend to be on the front line of the cloth’s presence in the world as it hits catwalks and clubs. Not sure they’d be down with the tribulations of bringing the stuff into the world in the back of beyond. Maybe it’s just a calling!

Harris Tweed fabric, half made. Photo by Mike Donald.

KM: So what is the loom shed situation near your cottage?

MD: My loom shed is on the family croft in the village of Tong on the east coast of the island. It’s directly attached to the house and there’s a small workshop full of tools inside, plenty light and warmth. I can look out of the window and see sheep grazing, the lighthouse across the bay blinking, fishing boats sheltering from storms…we have a border collie called Mac who sticks his nose in now and again and an old, old cat called Charlie who likes to sit on front of the shed heater and fall asleep. Not a bad place to work all in all.

The view from the bus stop near Mike's house on the Isle of Lewis

KM: Do you get any choice on projects? Do some weavers become associated with certain styles or colors? Can you create or commission your own tweed?

MD: Harris Tweed weavers can work for any of the three main mills on the island, work independently or a combination of the two. I work for the Shawbost mill which is the busiest and most exciting of the three and guarantees me steady work and a chance to learn my trade. As a new weaver I’m restricted to the simpler patterns which means I’ll do two colour plain twills in increasing lengths initially and after a period of proven reliability move up to patterns like herringbone and houndstooth. The real challenges lie in the plaids and other complicated designs. There can be multiple colours on the warp beam, as many as six colours on the weft, complicated heddle drafts and sometimes even 8 tappet weaves which are very beautiful but complex to produce. I’ll do more training as time goes on and move onto these eventually. The colours and patterns are so diverse that I’m not sure if anyone is associated with any particular style but the older, more experienced weavers tend to get the more difficult stuff, right now I’m quite happy to take the basic patterns the mill sends me.

Yarn ready to be made into tweed. Photo by Mike Donald.

If you weave independently then you are responsible for your own designs but also finding customers and dealing with the associated costs. The mill still provides the yarns and finishing but there’s more leeway to be creative if you feel the need and there are a few who do just that. Donald John Mackay is probably the most successful in this field, having worked with Nike and Clarks, but there are others. For most weavers working for the mills is the easiest and most rewarding format, they handle the orders, marketing and production and we can get on with weaving which is what we want to do. Part of the training course did tackle pattern design so the tools are there to get more creative in future, it’s a road I’d certainly want to go down at some point  but right now I want to support the industry by meeting current demand on the wider scale.

It's not Harris Tweed unless the wool is grown, sheared, spun and woven there.

KM: You were so involved in the music scene in Glasgow (the long-running Sub Club). Does playing music come into it at all in the shed ?

MD: Yeah, music in the loom shed is inevitable, although the tying in process I like to do in silence. The loom can be pretty noisy and has a nice rhythm of it’s own so the soundtrack needs to fit, otherwise it’s just a cacophony! It’s important to listen to the loom too, you can tell a lot about your weaving by the sound it makes so I tend to tune in to the clicks and clacks more than the music. The mind does tend to drift and often you’ll find yourself humming or whistling some accompaniment to the machinery. Weaving is all very musical and lyrical and you can see why both are so entwined in Gaelic culture.

A tweedy bike ride in Scotland.

KM: What other issues affect you/tweed production right now?

MD: The industry in general seems pretty peachy right now I think. There’s definitely a peak in interest right now but Harris Tweed transcends fad and fashion. It will settle soon enough and hopefully we’ll see a steady continuation in the love shown to the cloth. The Harris Tweed Hebrides guys (and girls) at Shawbost are really on top of their game and are leading the way with all this after just three years of reopening their mill (you should read up on the pre-2007 dramas). There is no shortage of work thanks to their endeavors and the continuing role of the Harris Tweed Authority, if anything the issue is meeting demand but I think this is no bad thing. Harris Tweed is not a mass-produced textile, getting limitlessly churned out from factories. Every inch is handwoven so if this leads to a restriction in supply then so be it. Designers will simply have to order in advance and respect the fact that they’re dealing with high quality not high quantity. But I know Shawbost Mill is running 24 hours a day, they want those who want Harris Tweed to get it when required.

Pedaling the loom. Photo by Mike Donald.

On a grassroots level there are issues with availability of looms to new weavers but this is being addressed at a high level so should be rectified this year. Also the cost of spare parts is problematic, if something breaks on your loom then it’s not cheap to replace and we rely on manufacturers in England. The ideal situation would be to have the looms and parts built and produced right here on the island, we have the means, and within a few years I think this will happen, bringing another part of the process into our island economy. Everything is heading in the right direction though, so absolutely no negativity felt or implied!

Mike Donald's new loom.

(Archival pictures not taken by Mike Donald were found by Michael Wojtas.)

FURTHER READING

Harris Tweed Authority
Harris Tweed Hebrides

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It's not Harris Tweed unless it is made in the Outer Hebrides. Image from Harris Tweed Hebrides.

You may know nothing about the production of regulated Scottish cloth Harris Tweed, or you may be highly informed and would love to see some of the nuts and bolts of its weaving. Or you may just be a rabid fan of authentic products and their stories. The following is Part 1 of an interview with Mike Donald, the upright and breathing blogger of The Croft, about Scotland and especially focused on the Harris Tweed industry (croft typically refers to tenant farmland with a farmhouse. The word is in common use in Scotland).

The twist here is that Mike recently started on a sponsored scheme to learn to become a certified Harris Tweed weaver and is taking us along for the ride.

(Catch up on Harris Tweed — from its origins as a poor man’s cloth to it’s adoption by Vivienne Westwood and beyond. The BBC did a fantastic three-part documentary in 2009 chronicling the birth, stumbles and rebirth of Harris Tweed (parts 1 , 2 and 3) that really lays bare the challenges facing this historic clo mor, Gaelic for big cloth).

Shepherds from the Harris Isles.

KM: What are your thoughts about why Harris Tweed is important generally?

Mike Donald: My personal opinion is that it is the lifeblood of these islands. It provides jobs, money, respect, pride and puts us on the map. The tweed is our heritage and past, our future and aspirations. A successful and thriving industry means people can remain on the island to make a living instead of leaving our shores in search of work. This is particularly true of young islanders and it’s been heartening to see so many young people on the training course. As a weaver you’re taught age-old skills, patience, attention to detail and a whole host of technical matters. There is also a wider knock-on effect generating work here in marketing, design, fashion, IT, media and so on.

Harris Tweed is inextricably part of the land and people here, without it we’d lose a huge part of our souls.

From a global perspective, it’s a rarity, something made with love and care, skill and experience. When you buy Harris Tweed your buying a truly artisan product. It might cost you a little more but in a world of throwaway goods and built-in obsolescence it’s hugely important that we’re bringing something of longevity and luxury into being.

A Harris Tweed weaver.

It is maybe easy to romanticize it from afar but you are right there…

It’s easy to romanticize from right here too. There’s nothing fake about Harris Tweed, visit the islands and you’ll see the sheep being sheared on crofts, mills running, weaver’s in their sheds, the incredible scenery, you’ll hear Gaelic spoken and whisky being imbibed. Of course, it’s still 2011 here too, there are TVs and cars and electric light, it’s not the land that time forgot, there’s a fully functioning modern community up here with all the trappings of 21st century life. And yet there’s still a lot the old magic. Whether it’s the smell of peat fires burning or eagles overhead or simply the laughter from a tale told in Gaelic, the past and our traditional culture is never far away.

Modern Harris Tweed weaver setting up the loom. Photo by Mike Donald.

Tell me why you are doing this Mike. Was there a family connection to the trade? Or did it start by working for the HTA and you got sucked in!

Why am I doing this? Good question, my former colleagues back in Glasgow think I’ve lost the plot. But far from it!

I’ve been hooked on Harris Tweed and the surrounding culture of the Outer Hebrides for years. I was born in the Isle Of Lewis but was brought up and educated on the mainland of Scotland so lost out on the island upbringing in many ways, the Gaelic in particular. But there was always a distinct “pull” to the place, I went home (Lewis was always called home when we spoke about it), to spend holidays with the family still there. I could never fully understand this powerful link to the isle, a yearning to return, a natural feeling of place when I was there.

Harris tweed orange mallory jacket, designed by Nigel Cabourn

Eventually a Gaelic word cianalis (very generally — a home sickness) tied it all up for me and about 5 years ago I made the decision to return to live and started a blog investigating all things cultural coming from these remote islands. I found it in spades, great music, food, art, poetry, prose and of course Harris Tweed.

My father ran a tailors and menswear shop on Cromwell Street in the island’s main town of Stornoway when I was born. On the racks and rails were Hardie Amies suits and Harris Tweed Jackets so from the very start I was around the stuff. One of the abiding things I remember about Stornoway in the early eighties was the constant clickety-clack from a shed or garage on Plantation Road. You could hear it on endless repeat from the crack of dawn every morning but Sunday. I had no idea what it was, I never saw the thing playing this background soundtrack, only now can I match it to the sound of an old Hattersley Single-width loom being worked.

Harris Tweed logo with bolts of Harris Tweed cloth.

When I moved to Glasgow to study I worked in a small clothes shop that imported vintage selvedge denim, American workwear and brands like Stussy, Fresh Jive, XLarge, Fuct and so on. I got into the joy of textiles, chambray, seersucker, ringspun denim etc. and Japanese streetwear in particular through magazines like Boon and Assyan. Harris Tweed kept popping up on the radar and when word reached us about a forthcoming Nike collaboration with a Harris Tweed weaver I was a convert and began to pay closer attention to the island’s most famous industry.

My uncle is a Harris Tweed weaver and works the newer loom which was introduced in the mid-90s, the pedal-powered, double-width to meet market demand, made in Huddersfield, Bonas-Griffith loom. [Bonas-Griffith double-width loom was introduced in 1996 to satisfy market demands for wider, softer, lighter Harris Tweed.] I saw one for the first time a few years back in his weaving shed (actually a garage!) and was mesmerised.

Threaded through heddles. Detail from Mike's loom. Image by Mike Donald.

Admittedly rather geeky but, to me, this was an awesome machine, a bizarre and beautiful hybrid of engineering, art and magic. I had no idea how it worked. Hundreds of threads of yarn went in one end, pedals were turned and in mysterious sharmanka-esque piece of sorcery, Harris Tweed fed out the other. And all the time things whirred, clacked and flew in a hurdy-gurdy, like Willie Wonka’s favourite bit of cloth making kit. The vast swathe of warp yarn that stretched off the big steel beam at the back in a reverse waterfall, pulling itself taught through a myriad of delicate, shiny heddles. Lit from beneath by a fluorescent strip light the wool colour seemed to shimmer like a fish-eye view of the sun through flat calm sea.

Spool of yarn waiting to become Harris Tweed. Photo by Mike Donald.

There were four metal boards, trimmed in wood and hung by day-glo ropes of pink and green, as if the eighties hip-hop culture was still alive and well right here on the John Deere-green trusses of the loom frame. In front lay the length of the reed, all baleen teeth, for beating weft threads tight into the cloth, while between the warp yarns a rapier flashed, almost unseen, dodging the ever changing shed, calling the shots with every streaking run. And, oh, the weft, spider strings pulled in from a nearby table, so cleverly programmed by a looping punch card like some old manual IBM computer. Each hole flicking a wire finger of thread into the throng, handing off to the grasp of the rapier flawlessly every time. Until the bell pinged a warning otherwise.

I watched inch after inch of woven tweed form before my eyes, transfixed, soon to be tied for collection and returned to the mill for finishing.

Yarn tied in. How this turns to tweed is magic. Photo by Mike Donald.

I was sold there and then; this is what I wanted to do.

Earlier this year I heard that the HTA (Harris Tweed Authority) was organising training for a new generation of young weavers to take on the skills from the older generation of men and women. I jumped at the chance and applied to be one of the twelve chosen. After interviews and applications I finally got the call, I was in. So I wrapped up my job in Glasgow, rented out my flat, packed my bags and moved 400 miles back to the islands to become a weaver.

Plain twill, herringbone, plaid. It will doubtless take me many years to master, but while the clackety-clack might sound a little different from the old loom of Plantation Road, as long as the loom is still being heard, then all to the good.

The loom standing between one generation and the next. Photo by Mike Donald.

Cryptic weaving instructions. Photo by Mike Donald

What about the nuts and bolts, do you have to buy your loom or they are handed down, or paid off like a student loan?

Obtaining a loom is a pressing issue for me right now. I am one of twelve new weavers but only half of us have found a loom to use after the training and you can’t just go into a shop and buy one of the shelf. There are looms in sheds throughout the island but many are not being used, the weavers having retired or found other work during downturns in the industry’s fortunes. The trick for us is finding them and persuading their owners to part with them. At perhaps £15K new, they are not an easy thing to give away, particularly if the owner plans to return to the weaving at some point.

The loom cutter of a Harris Tweed loom. Photo by Mike Donald.

A loom is almost an insurance policy, you know that if you ever need to, it’s there to go back to and earn money from. In the islands where steady work can be very precarious, having a fall back option is a valuable thing.

That said, the powers that be are making efforts to procure more, arrange rentals and so, by hook or by crook we’re confident we’ll all have machines for January. I have found a chap who hasn’t woven on his loom for a few years but doesn’t want to sell in case he wants to return to the fray in future but I have offered to rent the loom off him until he wants it back. Better having it working than gathering dust. Fingers crossed.

The Harris Tweed orb certifies a tweed to be an authentic Harris Tweed.

Will you get your own weaver number?

Yes, after passing a rigorous assessment I’ll sign an official weaver’s undertaking with the HTA, promising to abide by the Harris Tweed Act laws regarding the cloth and allowing access to my weaver’s shed by their inspectors. After an initial inspection of my set-up and work I’ll be registered, assigned a number and added to the database used by the mills to distribute tweeds to weavers. Then I can weave Harris Tweed officially, only basic patterns at first but after more training I’ll step up to the more complex tweeds. Can’t wait!

BTW, here is my first piece of training tweed. It took about a week. Also not Harris Tweed, having been woven in a drafty shed on an industrial estate and not on the croft. Also so full of flaws the stamper would laugh it out of the mill BUT am quite chuffed and have taken it home for posterity. Plain Twill, 10 meters, marl grey and tan. I am definitely in apprentice mode now, have moved onto herringbone and still have 9 weeks to go.

Mike Donald is proud of his first weave, uncertifiable but still an accomplishment.

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Red dyes in vats that have been around since the 1400s. Fez, Morocco.

The first natural dyes were suspiciously akin to food stains: yellow turmeric, orange saffron, red annatto and rosy-pink safflower. It’s easy to imagine the accidental discoveries — turmeric dribbled down the front of your drab beige tunic didn’t wash out, but brown beef stew did. More than just stains, the colors of these ground plants formed a chemical bond with the fibers of the cloth.

Never content with what chance gives us, humanity, across cultures and over millennia, tried to find ever more substances that could dye cloth, and do it better. Besides color, “fastness” – the ability of a dye to maintain its color without fading or washing away — was key. The discovery and perfection of the use of mordants — binding agents that improved the fastness of a dye, and in some cases influencing the very color produced — became a science in itself. Recipes and techniques for the best dyes spread with the fame of the cloth.

Dye master weighing out a recipe.

Along the cross-continental trade routes, people went mad for the rich, bright blue of true indigo, a flowering plant harvested and processed in India, Vietnam and parts of sub-Saharan Africa.

The people of Tyre, in modern-day Lebanon, somehow discovered that the mucous secretion from the hypobranchial gland of a predatory Mediterranean sea snail made an excellent purple. There are two ways to extract the luxury mucous: by gently milking the snail (and letting it live another day for another milking), or by crushing the snails and draining out the liquid. Twelve thousand snails yielded 1.4 grams of pure dye — enough for one garment. Whether carried out by an army of milkmaids or by snail harvesters, the process was painstaking. But Tyrian purple had a quality like no other dye — it didn’t fade or dull, but became brighter and more intense with sunlight and use.

A dog discovers the sea snail that secretes purple. "La découverte de la pourpre" by Peter Paul Reubens, circa 1636.

For centuries, until the fall of Constantinople in 1204, Tyrian purple cloth was the mark of royalty. While the dye-ing techniques were lost forever in the ravages of the Fourth Crusade, in a couple of centuries discoveries from the New World would capture people’s devotion.

When crushed, gray cochineal beetles from Central America turned orange with a base mordant, purple with an acid and burgundy with neutral water. But the dye discovery that truly transformed clothing — at least in the eyes of this writer, the Spanish clergy, and generations of men and women of certain dispositions — is the fast black of the flowering logwood tree of Belize.

Tiny, kaleidoscopic cochineal beetles.

NATURAL VS. SYNTHETIC

Like many bad choices of the past, low prices and convenience drove the drift from natural dyes to synthetic ones. The first synthetic dye, discovered accidentally by chemist William Henry Perkin in 1856, was mauve. Though it has never been a crowd favorite, chemists saw its potential, and set about developing other colors. Synthetic dyes were much easier to manipulate, producing clear, brilliant tones. Natural dyes still lasted longer on the cloth when exposed to water and light, but convenience won out, and by the early 1900s natural dyes had almost entirely fallen by the wayside.

Bowls of powdered dye.

Today, it would be wrong to suggest that with a century of advancements and innovations behind us, synthetic colors are inferior to natural dyes. Some metal mordants (dioxin and formaldehyde, for example) can be environmentally harmful, but even natural plant dyes use heavy metals like copper and alum. If you’re worried about safety, food-grade dyes will always be safest. (Though you’ll need to research each one to guarantee the safety of a dye.) There’s still a range of quality when it comes to synthetic dyes; cheap ones will fade with each wash, while others are as resistant to light exposure and repeated washing and are as good as or better than their natural counterparts.

FORAGE FOR COLOR

One thing is certain, natural dyes are easier to forage for than the synthetic ones locked away in a lab.

With a field guide to plants and basic pointers, you can identify a number of pigment sources then experiment with clothing. Keep in mind that natural dyes only work with natural fibers. Wool is the easiest to dye, while cotton and silk require a few extra steps.

Spring blossoms, tree bark and nuts are all natural dye stuffs that work well, and a good dye recipe book will tell you when to pick these and how to extract their pigment. If you’re city-bound, pick marigolds, zinnias or dahlias. These flowers give the best colors when freshly picked — drying the petals first mutes and weakens the pigment. Foods such as blueberries, mulberries and elderberries can be used fresh or frozen, and fresh beetroot, carrot tops and spinach leaves should also produce nice colors.

Hand-dyed yarn drying in the sun.

FURTHER READING
Dye recipes and forager’s field guide: “Natural Dyes” by Hermine Lathrop-Smith Halifax, 1978. Google Books.
“China Pays Steep Price as Textile Export Booms,” The Wall Street Journal, Aug. 27, 2007.

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At its most elemental, embroidery is sewing decorative stitches onto fabric. At its most rock n roll, it’s the method of choice for creating blindingly gaudy jumpsuits worn by many a music star, and for adding that necessary bling to an otherwise un-bedazzled item of clothing. It was also the preferred embellishment of pharaohs and emperors for their journeys into the afterlife.

Embroiderer to the stars, Nudie Cohn, in full splendor.

Sometimes, an ornamental stitch can serve a function, like a zig zag whipstitch reinforcing a seam; but with embroidery the design created by the stitches is what it’s all about. From wall hangings and tapestries to school girls’ samplers and flashy neon cowboys, embroidery has been (and continues to be) used to impress, demonstrate skill, and  show the richness of one’s culture through the art of sewing.

Women and girls embroidering Lészped, Moldavia, Rumania. Courtesy of Iván Balassa–Gyula Ortutay

Simple embroidery is a liberating technique, not nearly as constrained by rules and grids as its more rigid needlework cousins, like counted cross stitch. Often, a modest arsenal of a few stitch types — running stitch, back stitch, stem stitch, split stitch — was all that was needed to create an embroidered piece. With a flick of the needle, a French knot becomes the center of a flower, its petals blooming with a handful of chain stitches. Or a country legend has his name spelled out in a craftsman’s steady hand along the back of a suit coat (or perhaps forming something even more deviant).

Looking dour in an elaborate headdress, Hungary. Courtesy of Profila.

The precise origin of this ancient craft isn’t known, but ancient examples of Chinese embroidery date back to the Neolithic period leading historians to believe it way they that set off the international embroidery craze. As sewing techniques improved over time, so did the creative use of embroidery. As craftsmen evolved from crude needles made from stone and bone, to bamboo, ceramic and metal, each culture — from the Egyptians to Assyrians — found its own characteristic style of stitching and its preferred application of the art. Not surprisingly, the Anglo Saxons began to apply embroidery to clerical vestments and various items for sprucing up the church. It’s debatable that this is where embroidery’s bad rep as a distraction for god-fearing grandmas began, sealing the fate for the needlework as something used only for special occasions.

Muhammad Ali in a robe given to him by Elvis. Courtesy of Elvis Presley Music.

Luckily, one man from Russia arrived in 1940s America to rescue embroidery from being relegated to the rocking chair.  The most glitzy of tailors, Nudka “Nudie” Cohn, began his career by sewing sequins onto the G-strings of showgirls in New York. When he began working with leading country music stars like Lefty Frizzell and Tex Williams, he wanted to add panache to the popular western-style suits of the day. He dressed the musicians in extravagant suits that sparkled with sequins; initials, names and floral embellishments splashed onto lapels, suit jackets and cowboy shirts in intricately embroidered patterns.

An Uzbek bridal bedspread, a lifetime in the making.

It didn’t take long before every country musician had to have a “Nudie suit.” By the 1960s country rocker Gram Parsons strutted on stage in over the top Nudie-style suits stitched with naked women, opium poppies and marijuana leaves, bringing the rhinestone cowboy look into the mainstream of popular music. Soon everyone from Cher to Ronald Regan became a customer of the king of embroidery.

Uzbek women happliy selling suzani cloth. Courtesy of Sharon Lundahl via Music for the Eyes.

Worlds apart from the gaudy Nudie suit, the Uzbek suzani (from the Persian suzan, meaning “needle”) is a famous example of folk art that has become highly sought after by antique collectors. With the help of female family members, the completed piece – a rich, labour-intensive embroidered cloth panel intended to cover the bridal bed, begun upon the birth of a daughter – would become the young woman’s dowry on her wedding day.

Mayto woman and baby posing in embroidred dresses, Hungary. Courtesy of Profila.

Like the suzani of Central Asia, the traditional costumes of the Matyo people of Hungary are heavily embroidered, as are the tablecloths, pillows and bed linens that a young bride would bring into the marriage home. Traditionally, floral patterns were thickly embroidered in bright colors: black representing life-giving soil, red symbolizing the light and joy of summer, and blue marking suffering and death.

Focal length (Detail), 2009, by Daniel Kornrumpf, hand embroidered on linen 42" x 36"

Embroidery, like knitting, has been regaining in popularity, with modern craftmakers exploring the handicraft of previous generations. With the ability of such simple stitching to reinvent a piece of clothing, set off a fashion zeitgeist or create a family heirloom out of a piece of cloth, it’s no wonder that embroidery has been a constant in craft around the world and throughout time.

Hand-embroidered newspaper from Lauren DiCioccio's 'Sewnnews' series.

"Giovanni," an embroidered photographic print by Mauricio Anzeri. Courtesy of Saatchi Gallery.

FURTHER READING
Nudie’s Rodeo Tailor
A Widow Fights Pakistan Taliban With Embroidery, The Christian Science Monitor
Sublime Stitching
Embroidered Book Covers, Wild Muse

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In truth, sheep are innocent as lambs and humankind has them to thank for more than 12,000 years of food, shelter and most importantly, clothing. The main product of sheep — wool — has been used since prehistoric times as primitive loin flaps, and has stayed with us over millennia, evolving into pleated trousers and lace collared, mini argyle short sleeved sweater blouses.

Merino sheep, courtesy of Te Ara Encyclopedia of New Zealand.

The first wool garments were simple tunics made of sheep pelts. Eventually, around 3,500 BCE man developed crude mechanisms for spinning and weaving fleece into wool, most likely an innovation borne from observing spider webs and birds’ nests. This breakthrough had far-reaching effects. The warmth of wool allowed prehistoric man to extend the sprawl of civilization far and wide, beyond hospitable warm climates. The Romans, in their quest for world domination and empire, brought their sheep along, spreading herds throughout Italy, Spain, North Africa and England. Sheep were transferred to the New World in two waves, first with the explorations of Christopher Columbus and second during the colonial era. Today, an astonishing 80% of the world’s wool comes from Australia.

SHEEP TO SWEATER

The process from sheep to sweater starts with raising and shepherding healthy animals free of disease. The “sheep year” begins in October when rams are bred with ewes. Only one busy ram is bred with a group of ewes to keep records tidy and prevent cross-breeding. After about six months of gestation, lambs are born in mid-March or early-April.

A sheep is sheared. Courtesy of Life Magazine.

Sheep are usually sheared once a year before giving birth in the spring, before the Southern Hemisphere’s summer cold sets in. There is currently a shortage of professional sheep shearers around the world, prompting the development of shearing schools to carry forth the practice. A skilled shearer can finish the job quickly and remove the fleece in a single, in-tact piece with minimal discomfort for the animal. On small farms, shearing can be done by hand with scissors or blades, but increasingly the use of electric shears or even robotic mechanisms in combination with specially designed corrals are being applied. These days, technology and science has improved the situation for both shearers and sheep, as the animals are injected with a protein called Bioclip that makes the fleece more easily removable and lessens breakage of the fleece fibers.

The wool sorting room at Clifton Station. Courtesy of The Powerhouse Museum.

Once the sheep is sheared, the fleece is cleaned to prepare for processing and spinning. Body oils, dirt and yellow discoloration are removed by mechanically scouring the fleece in water or solvent. The wool is scoured and squeezed up to six times, and subjected to forks and suction at each level in order to homogenize the fibers for a uniform material.

Wool dye-ing in a vat in Iran.

After the wool is washed and scoured, it is carded, essentially combing through the wool with wire teeth. Carding is a mechanized process where the wool is fed into a series of spinning spools or drums covered with small metal pins. This step removes any remaining undesirable substances from the fibers. The combing process also helps to align the short and long fibers in preparation for the final step of spinning.

If you inspect the label on the plush sweater you are wearing at this moment, you will most likely find that it is Merino. Other high-quality soft wools include lambswool and Shetland wool. Scratchy sweaters may be due to the quality, type or treatment of the wool, for example if it is boiled or worsted. With fleece prized for its long and soft, yet strong, fibers, the Merino sheep is the most popular breed for clothing.

The champion Merino rams of New Zealand. Courtesy of the Biotechnology Learning Hub.

A Merino sheep is bred to have wrinkled skin, which produces piles of surface area and yields more fleece per inch. In recent years, animal rights group PETA has targeted the Australian wool industry in particular for “mulesing”, a brutal practice developed over 70 years ago by John Mule to keep flies from nesting in the sheep’s skin. The process involves cutting off chunks of skin from around the sheep’s tail — without anesthesia — in order to prevent fly-attracting moisture from gathering in the wrinkled skin folds. It’s the cheapest way to deal with skin flies, but vile enough to prompt major clothing manufacturers, including the likes of H&M, to sign a ban and redirect business to mulesing-free venues.

The Australian Wool Industry proudly declared in 2004 that all Merino wool produced in the region will be mulesing-free by December 31, 2010, though rumors are now flying that the AWI is sheepishly skirting this earlier promise.

Happy socks.

HOMESPUN GOES HAUTE-COUTURE

The perceived shady dealings of big business and a desire to get back to a simpler, more transparent manufacturing process has gotten some wool supporters involved in the production of their sweaters from step one. With the resurgence of knitting in the last ten years or so, some true devotees bypass purchasing yarn from the local hobby store and go straight to the source, buying untreated fleece right off the back of a freshly sheared sheep. Once these die-hard knitters get their fresh fleece home, they scour the wool in their washing machines and card with a hand-carder, which looks very much like a rectangular ping pong paddle with tiny metal teeth. Manual spinning wheels can be purchased for the home, with pigment dying done in a Crock-Pot.

Homespun sweaters are hardly the exclusive purview of those drifting off the grid. High fashion has ventured into chunky knits and thick fisherman’s cables, which have been around since before the grid was invented. According to common lore, sweaters were originally knit by despondent sweethearts of fishermen sent off on long sea voyages. The sweaters were knit with patterns and cables that identified the fisherman’s clan if his body ever washed ashore.

Man outfitted in wool for a Danish Polar expedition. Courtesy of Cowbell Music.

Wool was chosen in these cold, wet regions for its warmth, breathability and water-repellency. Unlike fur or hair, wool fibers have a microscopic outer layer that prevents water from penetrating. At the same time, the fiber has the capacity to wick away sweat from the body, keeping the wearer warm and dry.

Knitting pattern for a discreet little man's one-piece. Courtesy of the Edwardian Teddyboy Association.

Dark goggles and a wool sweater inside a tent in the North Pole. Courtesy of Cowbell Music.

Today, the naturally-occurring technology of this material is still prized. Amongst the ecologically conscious, wool is a sustainable as well as a biodegradable product. In the current apparel industry, wool easily blends with other natural or synthetic fibers and it is used in everything from Olympic sportswear to high-fashion. Wool has made its way from the rudimentary fleece tunic of prehistoric man, to the utility of fishermen, to the refined Chanel boucle jacket. Wool is a material that has been used worldwide and across thousands of centuries. For this, we must say thank-ewe.

Man in a woolen onesie.

FURTHER READING
The Growth and Vicissitudes of the Wool Industry, from “The History of Wool and Woolcombing” by James Burnley, Google Books
Organic Wool, from “Sustainable Fashion and Textiles: Design Journeys” by Kate Fletcher, Google Books

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Halbstark by Karlheinz Weinberger, circa 1958, via Claire Foster's Blog

Good denim jeans and jackets get better with age. Their faded glory and patchwork are like badges of hard-lived memories. The shape fits you and only you, like a second skin. I’m hardly the only one with an emotional attachment to denim.

Twill weave fabrics have been around for centuries, but iconic American blue jeans were first made for the likes of miners, ranch hands and farmers. They were durable and a man could spend all day panning for gold or lassoing cattle without giving a thought to his pants. The twill weave made dirt and stains less visible, and the cloth flexible and comfortable. The riveted pockets (famously patented by Levi Strauss in 1873) made them even sturdier. Jeans were synonymous with the rise of the West, and along with it, the rugged, purely American pioneer spirit.

Patent for Riveted Pockets, 1873, Jacob W. Davis, or Reno, NV, Assignor to Himself & Levi Strauss & Co., of San Francisco, CA

These original jeans were made of selvage denim, a type of denim woven with one very long, continuous cross thread. This method keeps the edge from fraying, hence the “self-edge.” So durable was this material that most manufacturers made denim this way up until the 1930s. But in just twenty years — by the 1950s — cheaper and faster ways of making denim had almost entirely taken over.

Levi Strauss & Co Copper Riveted Overalls, Advertising circa 1875

WEFT AND DIP

The self-edge denim is made on shuttle looms, the weft (the continuous cross thread) is weaved back and forth, back and forth, all the way down the length of the bolt (the roll of fabric). When the weft reaches the edge of the bolt, it loops back in and starts the process all over again, instead of ending and leaving an open edge that needs to be stitched, which is precisely what happens on modern projectile loom with separate wefts.

White Oak Mills, Greensboro, N.C.,

This process of making denim began in the mid-1800s at American mills, like Cone’s White Oak Mills in North Carolina, the original producer of Levi’s. The looms used varied from model name — from the Whitin to the Draper — but all are rare and ancient machines that used three yards of fabric for every pair of jeans. It’s a lot, but it resulted in a denser, more robust denim. To maximize yield on these cost-absorbing jeans, the mills would use all of the fabric, right up to its self-edge. The sewers used red, yellow, brown, white, or green thread to stitch up the inseams on the inner leg. Each color represented a different weight of denim or number of times dipped in indigo, for the manufacturer’s reference. When cuffed, the colored inseam is a true indicator of vintage, selvage denim.

Denim Work Pence & Coat, 1941 or 1942, Courtesy of The Library of Congress, via The Selvage Yard

The original production of selvage denim used pure indigo dye — the rich, purplish-blue color associated with classic jeans. Denim manufacturers used ropes of 100% cotton (typically grown in the South) which they would hang from the ceiling and dip into vats of indigo. The ropes were then hoisted up to the roof to oxidize in the fresh air. They would repeat this process, dipping and re-dipping, until just the right shade of blue was reached.

SELVAGE OUTLASTS EVEN ITS OWN UTILITY

Deemed archaic, costly and time consuming, denim mills stopped making selvage denim in the 1950s, but the transition was a couple of decades in the making. Wider shuttle looms were introduced in the ‘30s, and by the ‘50s much of the weaving was done on 42-inch projectile looms. They were faster, but produced a looser denim, one that would tear, fray and fade. Even the use of indigo — the very color of denim — was axed from the production process. Indigo was limited and expensive, so naturally the mills sought a chemical dye that was effective yet cheap. Sulfur dye was introduced, and color loss accelerated.

Model E Loom, Draper Corporation, 1904. Used to make Levi's 501 original denim. Courtesy of denimnews.blogspot.com

Selvage denim all but disappeared on the garment trail.

Lucky for the manufacturers, wearing beat up jeans became a trend that started with James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause and exists to this day. Manufacturers’ slacking adherence to quality coincided with a waning need for jeans that wouldn’t wear out at the face of hard manual labor.

Mrs. Marcella Hart, mother of three, employed as a wiper at the roundhouse. Chicago & North Western R.R, April 1943, Clinton, Iowa, Courtesy of Shorpy

By the fifties, the denim pants that were immensely popular among the working class were fading from the market, and teen culture, in all its rebellious yet consumerist glory, picked up where the workers left off. Middle class teens embraced the fabric but weren’t exactly working in the fields. They didn’t need such a sturdy denim. Manufacturers took note.

Giant Film Poster, 1956

SALVAGED

By the ‘60s and ‘70s, countries from Belgium to Germany and Japan, began outranking American denim mills in quality, reproducing narrow shuttle loom models that were superior to the original American selvage machines. The ancient machines, however, had a lack of precision in the cast iron and harness springs that gave the resulting bolt of selvage a beautiful character. These subtle imperfections were impossible to reproduce.

Cone Mills, Courtesy of Cone Mills Corporation Records, via Southern Sources

Sensing an opportunity, the Japanese bought many of the old machines off of American mills in the 1980s. It probably seemed like a good idea to the American manufacturers at the time. Many of these looms were just rusting out in the fields or scrapped for parts — the old behemoths were taking up too much space in the factories.

14 oz Rope Dyed Japanese Selvage Denim, Courtesy of Oneculture

American mills didn’t have the foresight to imagine that one day these machines would be the top producers for the high-end denim market. Not to mention they would be priceless artifacts in the history of denim — the very fabric of American culture.

Unknown Origin

FURTHER READING:

Archives, Levi Strauss & Co.
Life Cycle of a Jean, Levi Strauss & Co.
Denim Glossary in Working, Dawson
Endless selvage denim and vintage clothing: Riveted

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African American Cotton Workers, Courtesy of Voices Education Project (Click on Image to Enlarge)

Traditionally farmed cotton employs the use of a massive amount of pesticides. While cotton accounts for only 2.5% of the globe’s total cultivated land, the crop uses a whopping 16% percent of the world’s insecticide. In fact, according to the U.S. Geological Survey, pesticide use for cotton runs “3 to 5 times greater per hectare than applications of pesticides to corn.” That’s a whole lot of chemical goop per acre.

Grades of cotton, Courtesy of Lowell Mills

Which is all the more troubling when you realize that all of that chemically tainted cotton will be used to make everything from baby pajamas to bedsheets – everyday items that come into direct and constant contact with sensitive human skin. One conventional cotton T-shirt, for example, uses almost a third of a pound of pesticide – practically the weight of the shirt itself. That’s 140 grams of insecticide pressed against your body.

Weighing Sacks of Cotton, Postcard, Courtesy of Textile Industry History

On the upside, this has led to a boom in organic growing alternatives; methods of production that negate the use of harmful chemicals. The transition to organic cotton begins with the seed. Certified growers must abandon genetically modified seed in favor of traditional seeding techniques. It also requires healthy soil development, and aggressive, but biologically sound pest control, including compost, mulch, hand weeding and crop rotation. The resulting cotton is markedly kinder to the environment.

Cotton Plants, Courtesy of Earth Wear

However, that is not to say it is without its drawbacks. Firstly, the majority of organic cotton is grown abroad, mainly in South East Asia, India and China. This means a hefty carbon footprint in getting that t-shirt from here to there. Thankfully, this may soon change, as states like New Mexico and California up their domestic organic cotton production. But, with 71% of our 15 million cotton acres in the States still grown with genetically engineered “Roundup Ready” and “Bt” varieties, there is still a long way to go.

Map of the “Cotton Kingdom,” Courtesy of The New York Public Library

Secondly, between the laborious growing methods, and the manufacturers’ defiance of old school industrial sweatshop production, items made from organic cotton can cost between 10 and 45 percent more than conventional cotton products. As demand grows, there’s good reason to believe those numbers will decline. Sales of organic cotton have increased rapidly in the U.S., climbing from $69 million in 2002 to $521 million in 2009, which has led major brands like Patagonia and Nike, as well as a fast-growing number of smaller, independently owned companies, to embrace the use of more organic materials. The result has not only been a boon to the few American upstart farmers who can offer certified organic, it has also helped to reduce the material’s expense.

Men opening bales of cotton at the White Oak Mill in Greensboro, North Carolina, Courtesy of National Museum of American History (Click on Image to Enlarge)

So, while difficult to produce, and an underdog on the market, organic cotton is much better for you and the environment, which means a calmer conscience all around. I admit that, “doing the right thing” does come with a price. But really, isn’t it worth it?

Article first published at COMMERCE WITH A CONSCIENCE

FURTHER READING
Commercial Appeal
Epoch Times
Green Living Tips
Grist
National Sustainable Agriculture Information Service
Organic Exchange
Organic Trade Association

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The Beatles, 1965

Hanway was most certainly in the public eye, but it was not his social work or the circles in which he ran that fascinated the average Londoner. He is remembered over 200 years later for what he carried over his head, that common and most benign accessory, the umbrella.

Jonas Hanway, The First Englishmen who Ever Carried an Umbrella

Hanway’s umbrella was, of course, a take on the parasol, an object that had done its own share of traveling. Since 2400 B.C.E., it had been carried over the heads of the nobility throughout the Middle and Far East. In this part of the world, the man of respectable station, wanting to distinguish himself from the masses, kept his skin fair by shielding himself from the sun. The parasol had entered the Middle Ages, held high over the heads of Catholic popes and bishops, serving as a sort of flag or standard. As the Church’s influence waned, the ombrello or “little shadow” had become a fashionable article among Italian women before making its way north.

Charles Le Brun, Chancellor Séguier and his Suite, Circa 1670, Musée du Louvre

By the turn of the 18th century, waterproof materials were added, making it useful for protection from the rain.  In 1709, the Frenchman Jean Marius, a master purse maker with an eye for trends, designed a folding version which was lightweight and chic. Soon every sophisticated Parisian was seen carrying a parapluie. These pricey accessories complemented their attire and kept their coiffed heads dry — no proper lady would be caught in public without one.

The Execution of the Lincoln Assassination Conspirators, July 7, 1865

And apparently no English gentleman would be caught in public with one. For nearly 30 years, Jonas Hanway stubbornly weathered the ridicule of the London public, promoting the umbrella as an incredibly useful tool that would democratize the city streets (and put a serious dent in the coach industry). His persistence paid off: Savvy London shops began to carry their own umbrellas, much to the disappointment of the city taxi coaches. By the early 19th century this handy tool had evolved somewhat and was now made with leather or oiled canvas. And the umbrella could be used to protect more than one’s wig from the rain: the Duke of Wellington — the victor of Waterloo — was said to have one weighing ten pounds with a concealed a dagger in its handle. Heavy, yes, but what better tool to fend off potential attackers?

Immigration Protest in Canada, Courtesy of Ontario Coalition Against Poverty

As most of the weight was attributed to its whalebone ribbing, manufacturers sought out lighter materials and finishes. Steel was a godsend, making it easier to fashion thinner support ribs. U-shaped steel rods came in the 1850s. Ribs and stretchers became increasingly lighter and stronger. (Steel remains the metal of choice for umbrella ribs and frames, but manufacturers continue to experiment with fiberglass and carbon fiber shafts to reduce weight.) Heavy oiled leather and canvas have long been replaced. In a well-made umbrella, the canopy is now made of 6–12 hand-sewn panels of nylon with a rating of 190T (threads per inch) that are coated with acrylic underneath and a scotch guard application on top.

Craig Wylie, 2008, Oil On Canvas

Though new innovations in construction have created a lighter umbrella, the majority of modern versions are of poor quality (as can be seen by the number of twisted wrecks left laying in gutters after a heavy storm). The better models are worth the extra cost, as they will often last a lifetime and do what they were intended to do — protect our heads from the elements.

A Brooklyn Invention, 1936 (Click on Image to Read Copy)

FURTHER READING:

William Sangster. Umbrellas and Their History. Effingham Wilson, Royal Exchange, London. 1855.

Broken Umbrella Project

Russian blog with great umbrella images throughout history

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Industrial purchasers have big wallets and tend to get less caught up in unnecessary innovation or flashy design. The right material is put where it’s best served. With important purchases costs are secondary and form follows function.

Without the Necessary Care, Leather Cracks Over Time

This bag from Pro Can Corp. was made for Du Pont.

I wonder what they transported inside? Whatever it was, they certainly wanted to keep it safe. Its content was protected by thick canvas and secured by a leather strip that runs through durable metal buckets, which can be secured with a pad lock.

Metal Ring for Pad Lock

The bottom is made out of a unusual thick rubber/PVC. Maybe to protect from chemical spills?

Can Pro Corp., Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin

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