I'll be putting up the rest of the bento pattern this weekend, but I just had to show you this. You see the bright blue edging? That's the first yarn I spun!
I designed this pattern myself- it's way simple. It's really just double crochets around front and back posts, over and over again- very hypnotic. I'm not working on a matching scarf.
Why 'steampunk'? I can imagine holding a mug of coffee while on deck of an airship, or underwater in a somewhat chilly submersible craft, and wearing these mitts. My fingers would still be able to twiddle dials. The hat, while plain, is a bit whimsical, as there are two soft points on top. I made a crab stitch edging; for some reason I'm really in love right now with the crab stitch and the cable effect one gets from crocheting around posts.
I bought the ready-made wool yarn at the Greenmarket from my lovely friends at Catskill Merino. That's real indigo. The wool is just so soft and squooshy that I just want to pet it. The roving was from Downtown Yarns and spun on a not very fancy Louet top whorl spindle. The spindle is ok, but I'm really liking the cd spindle I finally got around to making the other day, especially since I can reverse it and make it a bottom whorl- I have to experiment.
Showing posts with label craft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label craft. Show all posts
Friday, March 7, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Bento box lunch set- the pattern
Please keep checking in as I refine this pattern.
Bottle Carrier - DK weight yarn, size H hook.
Ch 4 sts, and join with sl st in first ch.
Round 1- Ch 3 (counts as first dc); 11 dcs into ring. Join with sl st in top of ch 3. (12 dcs)
Round 2- Ch 3 (counts as first dc) and dc into top of ch 3. 2 dcs in each st around; sl st in top of ch 3. (24 dcs)
Round 3- Ch 3 (counts as first dc) and dc in top of ch 3. Dc in top of next st. *Make 2 dcs in next st, dc in following st**, repeat from * to ** 11 times and join with sl st at top of ch 3. (36 dcs)
Round 4- Ch 3 (counts as first dc), and dc in top of ch 3. *Dc in each of next two sts. Two dcs in next st, dc in each of next two sts**; repeat from * to ** 11 times and join with sl st at top of ch 3. ( 48 dcs)
Round 5- Ch 3. In back loop only, dc in each dc around; join with sl st in top of ch 3. (48 sts)
Round 6- Ch 3. *Dc in each of next two sts. In third st make popcorn st. ** Repeat from * to ** to ch3 and join with sl st.
Round 7- Ch 3. DC in each dc until end; join in top of ch 3.
Round 8- Ch 4. *Skip next st, dc in following st. ** Repeat around, and join in top of ch 3. This will give you the net stitch which is wonderful for making carryalls and bags. Repeat round 8 unti you have reached the height desired for our bottle or other liquid container.
Round 'A'- Ch 3. Dc in every st around. Join at top of ch 3.
Round 'B' - ch 3. *Skip next st. 3 dcs in following st. ** Repeat until end and join in top of ch 3. This will give you some nice shells.
Round 'C'- Repeat Round 'B'. join with st st in top of ch 3 and fasten off.
Chain 60. turn, sl st back along ch. Fasten off. This is your drawstring. Thread throughevery other four dcs in Round A. Join the ends. Make another, and do the same thing. you'll now ahve a carrier for your soda, water bottle or tall coffee thermos.
Tomorrow or later this week, i'll add the bento box cover pattern, and then the embellishments.
Bottle Carrier - DK weight yarn, size H hook.
Ch 4 sts, and join with sl st in first ch.
Round 1- Ch 3 (counts as first dc); 11 dcs into ring. Join with sl st in top of ch 3. (12 dcs)
Round 2- Ch 3 (counts as first dc) and dc into top of ch 3. 2 dcs in each st around; sl st in top of ch 3. (24 dcs)
Round 3- Ch 3 (counts as first dc) and dc in top of ch 3. Dc in top of next st. *Make 2 dcs in next st, dc in following st**, repeat from * to ** 11 times and join with sl st at top of ch 3. (36 dcs)
Round 4- Ch 3 (counts as first dc), and dc in top of ch 3. *Dc in each of next two sts. Two dcs in next st, dc in each of next two sts**; repeat from * to ** 11 times and join with sl st at top of ch 3. ( 48 dcs)
Round 5- Ch 3. In back loop only, dc in each dc around; join with sl st in top of ch 3. (48 sts)
Round 6- Ch 3. *Dc in each of next two sts. In third st make popcorn st. ** Repeat from * to ** to ch3 and join with sl st.
Round 7- Ch 3. DC in each dc until end; join in top of ch 3.
Round 8- Ch 4. *Skip next st, dc in following st. ** Repeat around, and join in top of ch 3. This will give you the net stitch which is wonderful for making carryalls and bags. Repeat round 8 unti you have reached the height desired for our bottle or other liquid container.
Round 'A'- Ch 3. Dc in every st around. Join at top of ch 3.
Round 'B' - ch 3. *Skip next st. 3 dcs in following st. ** Repeat until end and join in top of ch 3. This will give you some nice shells.
Round 'C'- Repeat Round 'B'. join with st st in top of ch 3 and fasten off.
Chain 60. turn, sl st back along ch. Fasten off. This is your drawstring. Thread throughevery other four dcs in Round A. Join the ends. Make another, and do the same thing. you'll now ahve a carrier for your soda, water bottle or tall coffee thermos.
Tomorrow or later this week, i'll add the bento box cover pattern, and then the embellishments.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Bento box lunch set- finished!
I don't even want to tell you how long it took to finish this project. It started as a simple bento box cover for my night job, when I was temping from place to place. Then I decided I needed a carrier for my water bottle.
I am usually not very girly with flowers and all, but I love Victoriana. At the time I started this project I was making flowers a lot and selling them to a local hatmaker to pay the bills. I was constantly doing piece work in between working two regular jobs, and I did it two holiday seasons in a row. However, doing this massively improved my crochet skill. Since I was sick of the flowers I was making, I went online and found some other patterns for myself- I'll try to find the link to give credit. And somehow, those flowers and leaves (a combination of large and small roses, violets, and matching leaves) ended up on my project.
As I worked on this, I was reminded of how many people see black hair as somehow inferior because it doesn't hang loose on it's own- it's wooly and relatively stiff. Yet African hair has a sculptural quality that lends itself to braiding, fading and geometric cutting. I realized that crochet is the same way. It's in many ways stiffer than knitting. It can drape, but not with the same ease. A lot of people see this as a flaw. But in truth, crochet has a sculptural quality that lends itself really well to the floral motifs on this lunch set. The design is both sturdy and delicate, rugged and feminine. Essentially, this set is my masterwork. It brings together my vision of myself as a worker, a steampunk, a neo-Victorian, a crocheter, a woman, a feminist, and a person of African descent. If for some reason I could never crochet again, I could still be happy- because I came up with these designs on my own and put them together in a new way.
I am usually not very girly with flowers and all, but I love Victoriana. At the time I started this project I was making flowers a lot and selling them to a local hatmaker to pay the bills. I was constantly doing piece work in between working two regular jobs, and I did it two holiday seasons in a row. However, doing this massively improved my crochet skill. Since I was sick of the flowers I was making, I went online and found some other patterns for myself- I'll try to find the link to give credit. And somehow, those flowers and leaves (a combination of large and small roses, violets, and matching leaves) ended up on my project.
As I worked on this, I was reminded of how many people see black hair as somehow inferior because it doesn't hang loose on it's own- it's wooly and relatively stiff. Yet African hair has a sculptural quality that lends itself to braiding, fading and geometric cutting. I realized that crochet is the same way. It's in many ways stiffer than knitting. It can drape, but not with the same ease. A lot of people see this as a flaw. But in truth, crochet has a sculptural quality that lends itself really well to the floral motifs on this lunch set. The design is both sturdy and delicate, rugged and feminine. Essentially, this set is my masterwork. It brings together my vision of myself as a worker, a steampunk, a neo-Victorian, a crocheter, a woman, a feminist, and a person of African descent. If for some reason I could never crochet again, I could still be happy- because I came up with these designs on my own and put them together in a new way.
This is what raw wool looks like.
I went to the Greenmarket on Wednesday and picked up the wool fleece I had been pining for. I bought a pound- it cost $5. It's a good thing I kept the fleece in the plastic bag because when I finally took it out, it had a distinct... barnyard scent. In other words, it smelled like sheep poo. Really nasty sheep poo. Nasty sheep poo that had been around since last March, when the foul animal had last been sheared.
I put the whole dirty mess in the bathroom sink, and after washing it about 5 times with shampoo until the water ran clear, it was a bit less fragrant. The photo shows what it looks like after washing, complete with crimps, dirty locks, and bits of grass and vegetable matter (hay and grass and burrs, to all you farm types). It took a day and a half to dry, at which point I ripped off a tuft and combed it with a dog slicker from PetCo. You know what? The part I combed spun up beautifully, and I'll put up the results later.
I put the whole dirty mess in the bathroom sink, and after washing it about 5 times with shampoo until the water ran clear, it was a bit less fragrant. The photo shows what it looks like after washing, complete with crimps, dirty locks, and bits of grass and vegetable matter (hay and grass and burrs, to all you farm types). It took a day and a half to dry, at which point I ripped off a tuft and combed it with a dog slicker from PetCo. You know what? The part I combed spun up beautifully, and I'll put up the results later.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Greenmarket Mon Amour, or why poor people eat so badly in most cities and towns
I went shopping this morning. I bought an uncut loaf of bread. I picked up some free cheese. I bought curry lamb sausage with pomegranates and currants. I bought a bottle of milk, and had a snack- some hot apple cider and a donut. I splurged and bought flowers- tulips and hyacinths. And not once while I did my shopping was I indoors.
I was at my local Greenmarket during the dead season. Right now nothing is growing, so all the veggies are from late last year's harvest except for the greenhouse tomatoes from one farmer. The meat, except for the poultry, was slaughtered late last year also, for the most part. The milk was fresh- it came out of a cow the other day. The cheese came from a sheep, and the reason it was free is because one of my favorite sheep farmers forgot to bring me the fleece she was going to sell me, and gave me cheese as a present. The loaf of bread was baked early this morning, and is never sliced- I laugh whenever I'm online to buy bread and overhear someone asking for sliced bread.
I love my Greenmarket, even in the dead season. But there's one thing that makes me angry. Even though I know that many of my farmers take EBT (the New York State equivalent of food stamps), I don't see a lot of poor people taking advantage, because they don't know that there's a market where even in the dead of winter they an get fruits and vegetables for their families. Yet in my city right now there are whole neighborhoods where the local stores don't sell fruits and vegetables at all and the supermarkets sell their 'fresh' food in a state I wouldn't give away to a starving person in Darfur. Yet this isn't true just in New York City; my mother had never really heard anything about the farmer's markets in Baltimore and other parts of the state, and when I visited New Orleans, most of the people shopping at the market there were tourists and wealthier cognoscenti.
Why is this happening? Part of it is advertising. Greenmarkets and farmer's markets, which can be found in various forms all over the country, usually aren't found where they are needed most- in poor areas. The local papers that cater to ordinary people don't mention them, and certainly don't mention the kind of bounty that can be had, even in winter. But I think it goes deeper than that. A few years ago, as an experiment, I brought in fresh bread and jam from my market to my students, and ran a taste test. They were skeptical, but after tasting, they were shocked. Pretty much every single one of them said that in tasting the bread, they realized they had never in 18+ years taste real unchemicalized bread before. They had never tasted real jam. Not only that, but they liked the taste of the the food I brought in, as it was better than anything of that kind they'd had before. My sweetie had a similar epiphany when he had some of my local milk. He said he hadn't tasted milk like that since childhood. He also bought a bottle to take home with him, and refused to share it with his brother. His favorite part was shaking the bottle to mix the cream back in with the milk. Now he frequently mentions how he lusts after that milk (and the sausages, apples, and other market items I buy) and is unsatisfied with the milk from his supermarket.
What would happen if every American got to taste what food is really supposed to be like? What if they learned that real bread goes stale, and that when it does one can make fabulous French toast with it? What if people learned that real milk tastes so rich that a small glass is satisfying, and one can enjoy it without pushing up one's cholesterol? What would happen to all of the fast food restaurants and crap food in supermarkets?
As yarn lovers, this concerns us, too. What would happen, for instance, if people had access to yarn that still felt like it came from an actual animal, and was dyed in natural colors? What would happen if people realized most clothing and accessories feel awful because they are made from inferior textiles, and that really good textiles can actually be made while sitting on the subway or talking on the phone? That beautiful, well-made objects that fit do not have to just be within the price range of the rich; that if people began to work together to spin, knit, crochet, tat, sew and quilt items in small co-ops, more of us would be warm, well-dressed, and not suffer from allergic reactions brought on by the very clothing (and the chemicals therein) that we wear? That we could be at least partially free from the slavery we are now forced into to major corporations who don't care if clothing is badly made, poorly constructed, and falls apart in weeks?
The next part of the burgeoning DIY revolution is not in making cute toys or adorable scarves- it's going to be producing viable, beautiful and carefully-made items, not just for the young and thin and trendy, but for all those who will want to work together with farmers to take raw materials, turn them into fabric, and clothe people at a reasonable rate of money or trade. The same also goes for decent food. If we want a happy and healthy society, we'll have to move beyond creating joy for ourselves, and making sure that others can partake, too. It's a matter of figuring out how best to do it; currently, New York City is opening a Greenmarket in Harlem, and has a well-established one in the the South Bronx.
I was at my local Greenmarket during the dead season. Right now nothing is growing, so all the veggies are from late last year's harvest except for the greenhouse tomatoes from one farmer. The meat, except for the poultry, was slaughtered late last year also, for the most part. The milk was fresh- it came out of a cow the other day. The cheese came from a sheep, and the reason it was free is because one of my favorite sheep farmers forgot to bring me the fleece she was going to sell me, and gave me cheese as a present. The loaf of bread was baked early this morning, and is never sliced- I laugh whenever I'm online to buy bread and overhear someone asking for sliced bread.
I love my Greenmarket, even in the dead season. But there's one thing that makes me angry. Even though I know that many of my farmers take EBT (the New York State equivalent of food stamps), I don't see a lot of poor people taking advantage, because they don't know that there's a market where even in the dead of winter they an get fruits and vegetables for their families. Yet in my city right now there are whole neighborhoods where the local stores don't sell fruits and vegetables at all and the supermarkets sell their 'fresh' food in a state I wouldn't give away to a starving person in Darfur. Yet this isn't true just in New York City; my mother had never really heard anything about the farmer's markets in Baltimore and other parts of the state, and when I visited New Orleans, most of the people shopping at the market there were tourists and wealthier cognoscenti.
Why is this happening? Part of it is advertising. Greenmarkets and farmer's markets, which can be found in various forms all over the country, usually aren't found where they are needed most- in poor areas. The local papers that cater to ordinary people don't mention them, and certainly don't mention the kind of bounty that can be had, even in winter. But I think it goes deeper than that. A few years ago, as an experiment, I brought in fresh bread and jam from my market to my students, and ran a taste test. They were skeptical, but after tasting, they were shocked. Pretty much every single one of them said that in tasting the bread, they realized they had never in 18+ years taste real unchemicalized bread before. They had never tasted real jam. Not only that, but they liked the taste of the the food I brought in, as it was better than anything of that kind they'd had before. My sweetie had a similar epiphany when he had some of my local milk. He said he hadn't tasted milk like that since childhood. He also bought a bottle to take home with him, and refused to share it with his brother. His favorite part was shaking the bottle to mix the cream back in with the milk. Now he frequently mentions how he lusts after that milk (and the sausages, apples, and other market items I buy) and is unsatisfied with the milk from his supermarket.
What would happen if every American got to taste what food is really supposed to be like? What if they learned that real bread goes stale, and that when it does one can make fabulous French toast with it? What if people learned that real milk tastes so rich that a small glass is satisfying, and one can enjoy it without pushing up one's cholesterol? What would happen to all of the fast food restaurants and crap food in supermarkets?
As yarn lovers, this concerns us, too. What would happen, for instance, if people had access to yarn that still felt like it came from an actual animal, and was dyed in natural colors? What would happen if people realized most clothing and accessories feel awful because they are made from inferior textiles, and that really good textiles can actually be made while sitting on the subway or talking on the phone? That beautiful, well-made objects that fit do not have to just be within the price range of the rich; that if people began to work together to spin, knit, crochet, tat, sew and quilt items in small co-ops, more of us would be warm, well-dressed, and not suffer from allergic reactions brought on by the very clothing (and the chemicals therein) that we wear? That we could be at least partially free from the slavery we are now forced into to major corporations who don't care if clothing is badly made, poorly constructed, and falls apart in weeks?
The next part of the burgeoning DIY revolution is not in making cute toys or adorable scarves- it's going to be producing viable, beautiful and carefully-made items, not just for the young and thin and trendy, but for all those who will want to work together with farmers to take raw materials, turn them into fabric, and clothe people at a reasonable rate of money or trade. The same also goes for decent food. If we want a happy and healthy society, we'll have to move beyond creating joy for ourselves, and making sure that others can partake, too. It's a matter of figuring out how best to do it; currently, New York City is opening a Greenmarket in Harlem, and has a well-established one in the the South Bronx.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Will It Go Round in Circles?
I wanted to talk a little about spinning. A few weeks ago, in a fit of insanity, I decided to learn how to spin. Apparently, tea, crochet, silent film, cooking, reading and steampunk don't afford me enough entertainment. Nope, I needed another hobby. Preferably one that I could justify by saying to myself that I was saving money by making my own yarn, as opposed to admitting that I had found yet another wasy to have my hard-earned cash sucked out of my pocket.
The truth is, learning to spin can get a bit pricey if you don't know what you are doing and have no self-control. You will be tempted by all the pretty drop spindles, wool batts, and other nonsense out there, and forget that you are still only learning to spin. However, for once I must actually have some self-control, because I am not knee deep in wool yet and I only own one spindle (although another one, for spinning silk, is in the mail).
So, I'm going to tell you about my Adventures in Spinning. I bought a Louet top whorl because that's what they had at one of my local shops. I did this while tired and coming off an eight-hour shift, so I didn't even notice if they had any bottom whorls. to explain- a top-whorl spindle looks like an old-fashioned top, only turned upside down, with a hook in the short end. You twist some yarn on the shaft (I found it was easiest to do a hand twist), bring the strand over the whorl up to the hook, twist it a bit more so that the filmy, loose wool (called roving) won't pull apart, and, well, spin. It helps if you have four hands. And an extra foot. Since I don't, I sat on the bed and did it, and it worked out well.
My first bit of yarn came out looking pretty funky, but hey, that's what the learning process is about. I did have some help- I contacted my Ravelry friend Camanomade, and asked her about spinning, and she sent me tons of fiber so that I can actually afford to eat while learning to spin. but, evil creature that she is, she sent me a variety of fibers, to tempt me and make me a yarn junkie. No doubt the first hit is free.
Over the past three weeks I've spun combed wool (which took practice), kid mohair (hard but not too hard, once you realize your strands are supposed to be hairy), combed silk (very slippery- I really needed a lighter spindle), more wool (uncombed, which makes slubby but interesting stuff, and lets you know if you can really spin or not). I'm a zennist, and in Zen it's said that one should have no preferences. I'm finding that having no idea how any of these fibers will behave actually helps a lot, as I have no expectations. I am finding that my product is getting less slubby (bumpy), more smooth, and I'm spinning continuous thread for much longer wtihout the fiber running out. I'm also finding that I can unwork slubs now, and that I'm keeping a much more constant thickness in my product.
I now feel ready to make more professional-looking yarn, which means I'm about to take some of the singles (individual strands of yarn) I've made and ply them (make a thicker strand of yarn). I also did some looking around, and after seeing roving at what were to me ridiculous prices (confirmed to me by Camanomade), I found some nice inexpensive roving online at Knitch. Currently on the spindle is some really soft Corriedale top in silver, which is a really soft fiber and therefore takes some concentration. Eventually, I want to learn how to slub my yarn on purpose so I can make boucle (thick and thin) yarn.
What this all means is that I'm having a lot of fun.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Crochet Love: 3-Corner Field Farm
I love 3-Corner Field Farm. It appeals to the completist in me. I discovered the farm's meat long before I even learned crochet; it happens that Karen Weinberg and her husband Paul Borghard, of Shushan, New York raise some mighty delicious organic grass-fed lamb on their sustainable family-run farm. Many of the great chefs in New York City agree; their farm sells its meat to some of the finest restaurants in town, as well as to ordinary folk like me. Then one day I saw a guy at the Greenmarket with a beautiful staff topped with a ram's horn; he said he'd gotten the horn from Karen & Co., who often sell the horns to local synagogues.
It's Karen's friendly face you see when you go to the Union Square Greenmarket on Wednesdays to buy lamb, cheese, milk soap, hats and sweaters, and full sheepskins. And wool. I love her wool. It takes Kool-aid dye wonderfully and hooks up prettily. It looks like it would be perfect for socks, although Karen says it's worsted weight; I find it's perfect for projects like laprobes for the car. I often leave in in its natural buttery-yellow state. Karen will also sell you raw fleece once shearing time is done- I can hardly wait.
While most of Karen's yarn business is with knitters and she doesn't crochet, she is extremely crochet-friendly and deserves your business. Besides, how many other yarn stores can you go to where you can pick up a skein for $10 and get a lamb shank for dinner, too?
It's Karen's friendly face you see when you go to the Union Square Greenmarket on Wednesdays to buy lamb, cheese, milk soap, hats and sweaters, and full sheepskins. And wool. I love her wool. It takes Kool-aid dye wonderfully and hooks up prettily. It looks like it would be perfect for socks, although Karen says it's worsted weight; I find it's perfect for projects like laprobes for the car. I often leave in in its natural buttery-yellow state. Karen will also sell you raw fleece once shearing time is done- I can hardly wait.
While most of Karen's yarn business is with knitters and she doesn't crochet, she is extremely crochet-friendly and deserves your business. Besides, how many other yarn stores can you go to where you can pick up a skein for $10 and get a lamb shank for dinner, too?
I Saw Bobby Flay, and I Didn't Kick Him in the Shins.
I've had rough week. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but it wasn't a picnic. One of the operators at the Firm had his hours cut, and another one is in an understandable depression because his 16 year-old cat died last week. There were some bright spots, though. For instance, at School I explained the concept of culture this week, and used it as an excuse to throw Mardi Gras beads at my students on Tuesday, and to demonstrate my spindle on Thursday. Plus, I received a ridiculously large bag of goodies from an acquaintance that included lots of wool to spin. I'm going to be an expert in no time.
Last year around this time, if I'd had a rough week I would just have come home and slept, and then tried to eat everything in the kitchen. However, I made a resolution to take care of my stress in more healthful ways. In my case, that meant going to the spa again. I'm loving that place- I want to marry it. I want to move in, be a spa slave, and bear its children. Fridays are perfect for going there, because the place doesn't get busy until around 4pm. When I got there this morning at 10am (after working all night on some complex jobs and then checking my bank account and receiving the cheering news that the School hadn't sent out my paycheck due to some missing paperwork that I didn't need to fill out), I was stressed and a little... testy. Ok, a lot testy. I'd even go so far as miffed. So I did what anyone in my position would do- I changed into my spa uniform of shorts and tee-shirt, went to the third floor, rented a bathing suit and a robe, changed again and got in an outdoor pool of water that was delightfully warm and bubbly. After ten minutes I actually began to giggle.
More spa-age occurred, and a small nap was taken. I no longer wanted to punch the entire Human Resources staff at School in the head. I came home by subway, and just as I came above ground- there he was. One of the most annoying people on the Food Network, Bobby Flay himself.
My subway stop happens to be right at the location of the Union Square Greenmarket, which was open today. And there was old Bobby with fawning camera crew, preparing for another episode of his obnoxious show, 'Bobby Flay's Smackdown'.
This is how you know you are a New Yorker- any other person would have asked for his autograph, or stared for more than the minute I spent ogling until I could figure out what was going on. A tiny unrelaxed part of me wanted to challenge him to making sweet potato pudding without his having an entire truck full of supplies or a month of preparation, but the Spa Gods soothed my brow and got me to hold my tongue. It's amazing what a little warm water can do.
Last year around this time, if I'd had a rough week I would just have come home and slept, and then tried to eat everything in the kitchen. However, I made a resolution to take care of my stress in more healthful ways. In my case, that meant going to the spa again. I'm loving that place- I want to marry it. I want to move in, be a spa slave, and bear its children. Fridays are perfect for going there, because the place doesn't get busy until around 4pm. When I got there this morning at 10am (after working all night on some complex jobs and then checking my bank account and receiving the cheering news that the School hadn't sent out my paycheck due to some missing paperwork that I didn't need to fill out), I was stressed and a little... testy. Ok, a lot testy. I'd even go so far as miffed. So I did what anyone in my position would do- I changed into my spa uniform of shorts and tee-shirt, went to the third floor, rented a bathing suit and a robe, changed again and got in an outdoor pool of water that was delightfully warm and bubbly. After ten minutes I actually began to giggle.
More spa-age occurred, and a small nap was taken. I no longer wanted to punch the entire Human Resources staff at School in the head. I came home by subway, and just as I came above ground- there he was. One of the most annoying people on the Food Network, Bobby Flay himself.
My subway stop happens to be right at the location of the Union Square Greenmarket, which was open today. And there was old Bobby with fawning camera crew, preparing for another episode of his obnoxious show, 'Bobby Flay's Smackdown'.
This is how you know you are a New Yorker- any other person would have asked for his autograph, or stared for more than the minute I spent ogling until I could figure out what was going on. A tiny unrelaxed part of me wanted to challenge him to making sweet potato pudding without his having an entire truck full of supplies or a month of preparation, but the Spa Gods soothed my brow and got me to hold my tongue. It's amazing what a little warm water can do.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Spinning and Bathing
As an adjunct I've taught many things. One subject I've taught has been Greek mythology. Inevitably, at some point in each course, some student usually comes up to me after a class and makes a confession; that he or she is beginning to wonder if the Greek gods are real. Over the past few years I've had to admit to them that they might very well be, and that I've secretly been saying prayers to Athena for years, especially when learning something new or finishing a crocheting project.
However, we all learn things about ourselves when our perspectives get changed, as I found out this past week. for instance, I'm now pretty sure that I'm going to have to add statues of Athena, Artemis and the Three Fates to the small altar space in my apartment, the one that has a Black Madonna and a picture of the Buddha on it.
I was sitting up in bed this Saturday-into-Sunday, teaching myself more about drop-spinning, when I stopped worrying if i was doing it right and just allowed the yarn to take over. The tv was on in the background and it was late by normal human standards- about two am. I was tired, and I'd had a long day, but the purple wool I was spinning was so beautiful, and it had a silvery sheen that made it irresistable. I found myself staring at the spindle and watching it spin, my left hand above my head, my right occasionally stopping the spindle or guiding its speed. And all of a sudden- I got it. I pictured a photo in one of the books I've used with students- it shows a group of Greek peasant women with drop spindles, and the caption says that women in Greece have used this method since ancient times. All of a sudden, sitting up in bed, I felt like I was sitting on the floor of a West African hut on a chilly night, the fire glowing nearby, as I spun the spring wool into thread for weaving into cloth for my husband's clothing. Or perhaps I was seated on a three-legged stool, like a woman in a medieval painting, spinning linen for the local church's altar-cloth. Or perhaps I was in any other of a number of places around the world, standing or sitting, spinning wool, flax, cotton, silk, goat, yak. After years of talking about women and crafting, and how in order to understand women in Greek mythology we need to understand why so many of them are weaving or spinning, I finally understood the universality and primalness of it myself. And it felt good.
I think it happened because I'd had another primal moment earlier inthe day. I'd gone to a local Korean healthspa that is rather like an old Roman bathhouse, only without the live entertainment and shopping arcades. The week before I'd gone on a Friday, when the crowd was mostly women and chidren, but it was fairly quiet. On this Saturday afternoon, however, the place was jumping. I picked up my key (an electronic watchlinke thing that one uses to open one's locker and tally one's food and drink), changed out of my street clothes, and headed for the hot tubs and saunas-
and was floored.
In the US, we hardly ever think about bathing and its meaning. for instance, exept when we are little, most of us never bathe with people of the same sex for non-sexual purposes. In fact, if you think about it, it's kind of odd that people consider the idea of seeing bodies that have all the same parts as their own to be horrifying and dirty. It's gotten to the point that in the US, you can be investigated for taking pictures of your own children playing naked in their bathwater, even if it's obvious that there's no sexualized content whatsoever. The only time that it's ok to be naked nowadays it seems, is if there are overt sexual or violent overtones; for some reason that's beyond me, heroes in violent movies usually end up in some state of undress and get covered with more effluvia than an Abercrombie and Fitch underwear model.
When I first went to the spa the week before, there were women there, but not as many. I remember undressing next to another American-born woman who was white, and she commented on her nervousness at having to be naked in front of strangers. I remember nodding, wondering exactly what beastly things she thought were going to happen during a shvitz. Being naked is something that hasn't bothered me in a long time, to the point where it's hard for me to remember when it did. The only person around I feel uncomfortable naked is my mother, and that's because she makes hurtful comments about my weight. However, like most americans, live nudity with no sexual context is a rarity for me. So imagine how I felt on saturday afternoon when I took off my spa uniform and looked through the open glass doors at the hot tub area and saw
Nude.
Women.
Everywhere.
Nude fat women. Nude thin women. Old women who sagged. women with newly-budded breasts. Women holding squirming babies in the kiddie tub. Women with tattoos. Little naked girls putting their hands between their legs and laughing. Little boys under the age of four clambering over their mothers' laps. Korean woman. Chinese women. Indian women. Russian women. Black women. White women. Brown women.
And not a single towel in sight.
Some had towels- around their heads. On the left side of the room, women were scrubbing and soaping, while sitting at low spigots with wooden buckets, and then rinsing themselves off. On the right, women were using European-style showers with no stalls. Women casually walked into and out of the saunas, climbed in and out of the tubs, talked, held babies in their laps, scrubbed each others' back, scraped their feet.
When I was growing up, I remember being fascinated by the concept of women bathing together. The Old Master paintings of Artemis and her train always fascinated me, even though I knew I was seeing a man's view of women. I also grew up in a neighborhood where at least some of my female neighbors went once a month to the ritual Jewish bath. When I grew up and moved to Manhattan, I saw old city-run bathhouses that had been set up for the working classes during the 19th century which had been turned into municipal health clubs. I have friends who have lived in the Near East who have gone to hamams. but I never thought I would walk into what seemed like a painting form my childhood, only with real, imperfect human bodies and genital hair.
I felt overwhelmed, and very safe. For the first time in a while, my aging body felt normal, not ugly. My rubenesque curves and rolls garnered no negative comments or looks. not only that, but after I showered, saunaed, soaked, plunged in cold water, and then began to scrub, I felt like a goddess. It was very Zenlike to be in a room where no one was staring, but no one was looking away, either. Quite frankly I had to look- watching television and seeing magazines had dulled my memory of what real women look like when naked. A group of young white women sat next to me, scrubbing each other's backs, while an equally young black woman loofahed her arms and legs. Eventually she asked one of them to scrub her back; she and I had been eyeing each other, unsure of the protocol and too shy to speak. I got up enough nerve and asked one of the women if she could scrub my back also, and we all laughed at how we'd not known what to say. we wondered if the men in their section of the bathhouse were avoiding looking at each other too. and there we were, starring in our own living tableau, and feeling terribly clean and beautiful, like the Virgin Goddess of Crafting relaxing after a long day of spinning and weaving.
So here I am, at the age of 46, rediscovering womanhood and feminity. Not the kind my mother taught me, which other had to do with body shame; not the kind my father tried to imposed, where I was supposed to proetend to be ignorant to reassure men; not thekind many of my teachers valorized, where in order to be a feminist I was supposed to turn my back on the simple artistic pleasures of cooking and crafting; but a much older femininity, in which women don't hate the body as it goes through stages, can be kind to each other without being at odds of being consious of class, race, or marital status, and can sit and spin and feel the golden thread that runs from us to our ancestors without apology.
However, we all learn things about ourselves when our perspectives get changed, as I found out this past week. for instance, I'm now pretty sure that I'm going to have to add statues of Athena, Artemis and the Three Fates to the small altar space in my apartment, the one that has a Black Madonna and a picture of the Buddha on it.
I was sitting up in bed this Saturday-into-Sunday, teaching myself more about drop-spinning, when I stopped worrying if i was doing it right and just allowed the yarn to take over. The tv was on in the background and it was late by normal human standards- about two am. I was tired, and I'd had a long day, but the purple wool I was spinning was so beautiful, and it had a silvery sheen that made it irresistable. I found myself staring at the spindle and watching it spin, my left hand above my head, my right occasionally stopping the spindle or guiding its speed. And all of a sudden- I got it. I pictured a photo in one of the books I've used with students- it shows a group of Greek peasant women with drop spindles, and the caption says that women in Greece have used this method since ancient times. All of a sudden, sitting up in bed, I felt like I was sitting on the floor of a West African hut on a chilly night, the fire glowing nearby, as I spun the spring wool into thread for weaving into cloth for my husband's clothing. Or perhaps I was seated on a three-legged stool, like a woman in a medieval painting, spinning linen for the local church's altar-cloth. Or perhaps I was in any other of a number of places around the world, standing or sitting, spinning wool, flax, cotton, silk, goat, yak. After years of talking about women and crafting, and how in order to understand women in Greek mythology we need to understand why so many of them are weaving or spinning, I finally understood the universality and primalness of it myself. And it felt good.
I think it happened because I'd had another primal moment earlier inthe day. I'd gone to a local Korean healthspa that is rather like an old Roman bathhouse, only without the live entertainment and shopping arcades. The week before I'd gone on a Friday, when the crowd was mostly women and chidren, but it was fairly quiet. On this Saturday afternoon, however, the place was jumping. I picked up my key (an electronic watchlinke thing that one uses to open one's locker and tally one's food and drink), changed out of my street clothes, and headed for the hot tubs and saunas-
and was floored.
In the US, we hardly ever think about bathing and its meaning. for instance, exept when we are little, most of us never bathe with people of the same sex for non-sexual purposes. In fact, if you think about it, it's kind of odd that people consider the idea of seeing bodies that have all the same parts as their own to be horrifying and dirty. It's gotten to the point that in the US, you can be investigated for taking pictures of your own children playing naked in their bathwater, even if it's obvious that there's no sexualized content whatsoever. The only time that it's ok to be naked nowadays it seems, is if there are overt sexual or violent overtones; for some reason that's beyond me, heroes in violent movies usually end up in some state of undress and get covered with more effluvia than an Abercrombie and Fitch underwear model.
When I first went to the spa the week before, there were women there, but not as many. I remember undressing next to another American-born woman who was white, and she commented on her nervousness at having to be naked in front of strangers. I remember nodding, wondering exactly what beastly things she thought were going to happen during a shvitz. Being naked is something that hasn't bothered me in a long time, to the point where it's hard for me to remember when it did. The only person around I feel uncomfortable naked is my mother, and that's because she makes hurtful comments about my weight. However, like most americans, live nudity with no sexual context is a rarity for me. So imagine how I felt on saturday afternoon when I took off my spa uniform and looked through the open glass doors at the hot tub area and saw
Nude.
Women.
Everywhere.
Nude fat women. Nude thin women. Old women who sagged. women with newly-budded breasts. Women holding squirming babies in the kiddie tub. Women with tattoos. Little naked girls putting their hands between their legs and laughing. Little boys under the age of four clambering over their mothers' laps. Korean woman. Chinese women. Indian women. Russian women. Black women. White women. Brown women.
And not a single towel in sight.
Some had towels- around their heads. On the left side of the room, women were scrubbing and soaping, while sitting at low spigots with wooden buckets, and then rinsing themselves off. On the right, women were using European-style showers with no stalls. Women casually walked into and out of the saunas, climbed in and out of the tubs, talked, held babies in their laps, scrubbed each others' back, scraped their feet.
When I was growing up, I remember being fascinated by the concept of women bathing together. The Old Master paintings of Artemis and her train always fascinated me, even though I knew I was seeing a man's view of women. I also grew up in a neighborhood where at least some of my female neighbors went once a month to the ritual Jewish bath. When I grew up and moved to Manhattan, I saw old city-run bathhouses that had been set up for the working classes during the 19th century which had been turned into municipal health clubs. I have friends who have lived in the Near East who have gone to hamams. but I never thought I would walk into what seemed like a painting form my childhood, only with real, imperfect human bodies and genital hair.
I felt overwhelmed, and very safe. For the first time in a while, my aging body felt normal, not ugly. My rubenesque curves and rolls garnered no negative comments or looks. not only that, but after I showered, saunaed, soaked, plunged in cold water, and then began to scrub, I felt like a goddess. It was very Zenlike to be in a room where no one was staring, but no one was looking away, either. Quite frankly I had to look- watching television and seeing magazines had dulled my memory of what real women look like when naked. A group of young white women sat next to me, scrubbing each other's backs, while an equally young black woman loofahed her arms and legs. Eventually she asked one of them to scrub her back; she and I had been eyeing each other, unsure of the protocol and too shy to speak. I got up enough nerve and asked one of the women if she could scrub my back also, and we all laughed at how we'd not known what to say. we wondered if the men in their section of the bathhouse were avoiding looking at each other too. and there we were, starring in our own living tableau, and feeling terribly clean and beautiful, like the Virgin Goddess of Crafting relaxing after a long day of spinning and weaving.
So here I am, at the age of 46, rediscovering womanhood and feminity. Not the kind my mother taught me, which other had to do with body shame; not the kind my father tried to imposed, where I was supposed to proetend to be ignorant to reassure men; not thekind many of my teachers valorized, where in order to be a feminist I was supposed to turn my back on the simple artistic pleasures of cooking and crafting; but a much older femininity, in which women don't hate the body as it goes through stages, can be kind to each other without being at odds of being consious of class, race, or marital status, and can sit and spin and feel the golden thread that runs from us to our ancestors without apology.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Ravelry: 'lazy, stupid, and godless'
There was a bit of a fracas on Ravelry recently. A member asked the musical question, 'Is swearing allowed on Ravelry?' Hilarity ensued as people who believe grownups should use swearboxes were pitted against lovers of naughty words. This being Ravelry, the conversation was pretty polite and well-mannered, and didn't devolve into nastiness. However, several people implied that those who use Anglo-Saxonisms are none-too-bright, morally suspect, and lacking in industry.
I will be honest- I took the swear side. I won't repeat what I said here, as I used language that in a PG-rated world is still fairly unprintable, albeit funny. However, an idea was born; what if a Ravelry group existed where hardworking, highly intelligent, and often spiritual crafters could meet and let their hair down and be as free-thinking as they pleased? A place where using a hook or two needles wouldn't matter, and spindles would be welcome, too? And so at around 2pm today, a new Ravelry group was born- the 'lazy,stupid, and godless' group (the lower-case spelling is intentional, since members are presumably too lazy to use a shift key). It's is now 8pm ET, and the group is seven shy of the century mark.
What does this all mean? I think it means there is a hunger among crafters to join together, regardless of equipment, and have fun. The segregation in the crafting world is silly anyway- we are all trying to bring beauty into our lives. While this group has had a silly beginning, I hope that it will lead to more groups not preferring knitting over all other crafts. The group will soon be working on charity projects and other mutually-approved past-times while, with luck, becoming the home for some of the crown princesses and princes of the crafting world.
I will be honest- I took the swear side. I won't repeat what I said here, as I used language that in a PG-rated world is still fairly unprintable, albeit funny. However, an idea was born; what if a Ravelry group existed where hardworking, highly intelligent, and often spiritual crafters could meet and let their hair down and be as free-thinking as they pleased? A place where using a hook or two needles wouldn't matter, and spindles would be welcome, too? And so at around 2pm today, a new Ravelry group was born- the 'lazy,stupid, and godless' group (the lower-case spelling is intentional, since members are presumably too lazy to use a shift key). It's is now 8pm ET, and the group is seven shy of the century mark.
What does this all mean? I think it means there is a hunger among crafters to join together, regardless of equipment, and have fun. The segregation in the crafting world is silly anyway- we are all trying to bring beauty into our lives. While this group has had a silly beginning, I hope that it will lead to more groups not preferring knitting over all other crafts. The group will soon be working on charity projects and other mutually-approved past-times while, with luck, becoming the home for some of the crown princesses and princes of the crafting world.
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