Boro…

Top of my Christmas reading wishlist was this little volume. I thought it would be a good follow up to Indigo, and on the whole, I think it's a decent book, a far better one than some of the reviews had led me to expect. However, if it really was as expensive as some of the listings on Amazon suggest (I'm far too polite to ask how much my presents cost the giver!) then it is ridiculously overpriced.

Essentially, it is a 128pp monograph that celebrates the collection of Chuzaburo Tanaka. Tanaka recognised the importance of utilitarian textiles as historically significant cultural items, and began collecting boro items form Northern Japan back in his early 20s–he is now in his late 70s. It is probably not too great an exaggeration to say, that Tanaka is almost solely responsible for bringing boro textiles to the world's attention, as then, he was virtually alone in appreciating their worth, and taking the time and bother to collect, preserve, and catalogue them.

The book itself is quite small, and there isn't a lot of text–a handful of short essays, with the rest of the text comprising captions–so it is rather a light book. What little text there is however, is informative, and the pictures are excellent, and include really good detail shots. The design and layout are beautiful and I really like the smaller format. The paperback cover is printed on pleasingly textured, recycled board, and comes with an additional paper wrapper, which cleverly suggests the layering element of boro.

Although I'm delighted to have it in my collection, and would recommend Boro to others, I would have liked it to be more substantial than what is really only an attractive picture book. Perhaps it's because I'm bordering on boro-obsessive that I think the subject warrants the kind of treatment Jenny Balfour-Paul gave her book, but I really would like to learn more. Some web searches have revealed another book on the subject by David Sorgato and Nuzio Crisa, which gets favourable reviews. However, at a scant 96 pages in length and costing upwards of £70, it would have to be Pulitzer prize winning brilliant for me to purchase it. However, if anyone has read it (or other books on the subject) and thinks it's worth the money, please let me know!

Elizabeth,
x.

Indigo: a book review

I've long admired indigo textiles, but it wasn't until I did a course on indigo dyeing that I truly fell in love with them. The whole process–from preparing the vats, wrapping and twisting fabrics, submerging them in dye, waiting, waiting some more, removing the fabric bundles from the vats, then watching any remaining patches of green turn to deepest blue–felt more like alchemy than textiles.

Keen to find out more about indigo and its history, I bought a copy of  Indigo: Egyptian Mummies to Blue Jeans. It is a truly fascinating read, although not a light one, neither is it a 'how to' manual, or a lavish coffee table book. Instead it is a thoroughly researched examination of indigo's cultural, symbolic and economic importance, as well as its environmental implications. If this sounds a little overwhelming, don't be put off, the book is far from dry and heavy-going due to Jenny Balfour-Paul's enthusiasm for her subject. Indigo also contains some wonderful photographs, my favourite being one of Yemen women wearing 'black indigo' dresses, and the most extraordinary hats!

The book explains how, due to wars and colonial expansion, indigo became a hugely important commodity that eventually replaced woad in Europe as the blue dye of choice. I found this particularly thought provoking: having lamely associated indigo textiles mainly with Africa, Asia and the Far East, I looked with fresh eyes at my faded blue jeans and the British Bobby's uniform. In fact, the more you consider indigo–be it in textiles, painting, or even medicine–you realise just how ubiquitous it is, which is perhaps why it's so easy to overlook and take for granted.

The down and dirty nature of indigo dyeing is also covered, including how urine and dog's feces were often (and are occasionally still) used to enhance the dye solution–thankfully this was not considered necessary on my course! Techniques such as batik, shibori and ikat dyeing are well explained, and plenty of beautiful examples shown. However, for me it is the symbolic aspect of indigo, and many of the examples given, that I found totally compelling. Whether it's worn as a sign of fertility (such as Dogon women who wear resist patterned wraps after marriage, then cease to wear them in old age when they are no longer fertile), or as a sign of subservience and equality (Mao suits), or to suggest supernatural power, indigo dyed cloth is more than something to merely cover the body.

Whether woad, indigo, or even purple shellfish, the importance of the blues extracted from them reach far beyond their usefulness as dyes. Sumptuary laws might denote the social status of a wearer of blue or indigo (be it a royal blue silk kimono, or a peasant's scraps of indigo dyed hemp clothing). Blue is associated with divinity, think of Krishna, or the blue robes of the Virgin Mary. In language the word blue is equally potent and may suggest depression, coarse and vulgar humour, and even voices of the oppressed, as in the blues. Subliminally, blue may also bring to mind images of death in myths and fairy tales, such as Bluebeard's castle.

The author ties all of this (and so much more) together in a remarkable book, that ends by championing indigo as an agricultural crop with a potentially positive effect on the environment–although I suspect, she may be a little biased on that point. I can see why though–it's easy to develop a weakness for blue (as an ardent Chelsea supporter, my husband would definitely second that).

If you too are a fan of blue, I can't recommend this book highly enough–you'll never look at a pair of jeans the same way again!

Elizabeth,
x.

Highs and lows of making…

High notes: my mitts are finished just as the weather has turned chilly and I've also been doing some more boro inspired sewing. So why do I feel so disappointed with my output?

Well, it's all down to the Plain & Simple Slouchy Fly-Front Skirt. Rather perversely, all the bits that were supposed to be difficult, such as the covered zip, were a breeze to do, but the waistband looks awful! I'm in two minds about whether it's worth trying to salvage: and, as the front on silhouette quite frankly makes me look more like a cartoonish version of Cecil B DeMille than the geekish Annie Hall chic style I was after, I'm tempted to sweep this one under the carpet. I mean, who wants a skirt that makes their thighs look bigger than they actually are?

Not a good look

To be honest, my disappointment with this pattern began before I'd even cut into the fabric. It contains several typos, and when I googled finished versions of the skirt, I didn't see one that made me think I MUST HAVE THAT! So, what have I learnt from this? Basically, never buy a pattern that doesn't show an actual example of the finished item–fashion drawings don't count!.

Determined to end the weekend on a high however, I did a little work on my white quilt. It wasn't much–a bit of patchwork and some hand sewing–but at least it turned out as expected.

Elizabeth,
x.

A Challenge

Q: How do you photograph an enormous floor cushion when your floors are black and London is covered by dark and moody clouds?

A: With great difficulty!

Add to that, that I want to show both the back and front together, and I realise I've set myself quite a challenge. However, with the use of mirrors, drawer handles (to give a sense of scale) a ladder and a sheepskin rug, I think I've just about managed to do justice to my boro inspired cushion. Of course, I could have waited until the sun came out, but Willow has been eyeing the cushion covetously, so I had to take photographs before she gets her claws into it, and, quite literally reduces my work to scraps and rags. (Before you say that we should be stricter with her, Patrick and I try, but she is viciously defiant–we have the scars to prove it).

As you can see, the back is fairly plain. I've used part of a linen metis sheet, which is crisp and gloriously heavy, for the backing, and have added a band of very simple shashiko. I had plans for a hemp leaf design, but in the end thought this overcomplicated and at odds with the cushion top. I fully intend to try a more challenging shashiko project, possibly a drawstring purse of some kind, but at the moment I'm in love with straight lines, and how effective they are when used en masse.

For the fastenings, I've made I-cord from the same variegated cotton perle I used to embroider the cushion, and a few of my indigo dyed Dorset buttons.

I'm really happy with how my cushion turned out, and will make a few more, in the same style. Unfortunately, all the best bits of my indigo dyed fabrics have been used up, so I'll either have to buy some, or find somewhere with the facilities where I can make another batch. Alas, a gardenless flat just doesn't cut it.

Elizabeth,
x.

Behind the seams

I'm happy with how the front of my boro cushion cover has turned out. As well as the indigo dyed silks and linens I've added some pieces of net and silk scrim to tone down areas that were too overpowering. The additions also help achieve the heavily textured feel I'm after. Perhaps perversely however, it is the back of my patchwork that I prefer. When I look at it, I'm reminded of an occasion when I was lucky enough to take a peak backstage at a rather grand theatre and wander by all the backdrops, ropes, pulleys, trapdoors and trickery that conspire to convince an audience that what they are seeing is real. To me, the behind the scenes view has always seemed far more intriguing than the polished face that is often presented to the world.

It's not the first time I've fallen in love with the back of something I've made. Not so long ago, I made a needle case from scraps of Japanese woven cloth, and nearly chose to assemble it so the seams were on the outside, and the neat finishing, hidden from view. Convention got the better of me, or perhaps, I just didn't want anyone who spied my needle case thinking I'd sewn it together incorrectly.

But this fondness for exposed seams, raw edges and knots is definitely telling me something, and I suspect they will feature heavily if future projects. First I need to finish the back of the cushion, and by back, I mean the reverse, not the inside where all those lovely seams and raw edges are hidden.

Elizabeth,
x.

Pulling the scraps together

In keeping with the boro inspired theme, I'm sticking with a simple patchwork of strips and squares for my giant floor cushion. On to the basic patchwork I've added a bit of pleated linen, and a square of silk shibori. I've deliberately left the raw edges exposed as I quite like the feathery effect of frayed silk. I'll add more layers and other bits of manipulated fabric later, but first I want to do some stitching.

For a while, I've wanted to try my hand at shashiko, but was nervous of doing so–perhaps learning a new skill felt too daunting? Somehow though, shashiko seems right for this piece, so I've taken the plunge (I have Cynthia at aquilterbynight partly to thank for that!). The front will feature straight lines only, but lots and lots of them. I'm hoping that as I add more layers of fabric and stitch over them, the result will not only give an interesting texture, but also, a visual depth to the patchwork–we'll see. The back of the cushion will have a more intricate design. At the moment, I'm leaning towards a hemp leaf design, which feels appropriate since boro textiles were usually made from indigo dyed hemp.

Rather than use traditional shashiko thread (see, I can't even start off by following the rules!), I thought I'd try a variegated cotton perle instead. I had a lovely dark blue/white spool of thread, but rather foolishly left it within Willow's reach. My cat has little love for embroidery but does appreciate how a reel of cotton rolls along the floor, and can be batted under sofas, and into all sorts of nooks and crannies around our flat. So now, I can't find my blue and white variegated thread, and Willow isn't letting on where she left it. I'll just have to use plain white instead!

Elizabeth,
x.

Boro–scraps and rags.

Textiles often link us to the past. How often have you looked at a quilt, seen a piece of fabric that used to serve a different purpose, and been reminded of your childhood, or nearest and dearest? If this piece of fabric belonged to someone who is no longer around, it can also help keep their memory alive. Nowhere is this more evident than in boro textiles.

Photo courtesy of
The Decorator's Notebook.

Basically old scraps and rags of indigo dyed hemp, held together with dense stitching, boro textiles were worn by the poor. Boro was essential for prolonging the life of clothes, but families might also sleep together in a 'yogi' (a blanket-like kimono) and women often gave birth on a 'bodoko' or life-cloth, so the baby's first earthly contact was with something that once belonged to its ancestors.

Although I don't own any quilts or textiles that have been handed down to me, all my indigo dyed fabrics use pre-loved linens and silks. Some of the linens date back over a hundred years and were given to me by a German lady, whose mother brought them to England when she left Germany to make her home in England. Some are old clothes of mine, others are thrift shop finds. So my fabrics may not have belonged to my ancestors, but I'd still like to honour a tradition of reusing and giving new life to worn-out fabrics that gives more than a passing nod to boro textiles.

Photo courtesy of The Decorator's Notebook.

If soapbox blogs aren't for you, look away now!
I adore utility stitching, hand tied quilts, penny mats and boro textiles but occasionally attitudes to folk arts make me wince, and whenever I read the word 'charming' in this context, my hackles rise. To me, it suggests a Disneyfied view, of 'simpler times' and communities of happy peasants delighting in an ability to make do and mend, as if this were a lifestyle choice and not a chore brought about because of economic necessity.* That's not to say that many women didn't take great pride in their work, and perhaps too, saw it as a form of artistic expression. However, it shouldn't be overlooked that boro textiles were indeed mere rags, and for a long time were regarded as shameful by the Japanese because they were a reminder of a peasant class that suffered abject poverty and desperation.

I'm fortunate, for me recycling is a choice, and sewing is a pleasant way to pass the time. By recycling I'm making an ethical and political declaration about what I stand for and doing what I believe is right (rejecting cheap labour and mass production and trying not to create more than my fair share of landfill), not what economic circumstances are forcing me to.

So, the irony of wanting to produce something that looks like a boro textile isn't lost on me. I'm fully aware that I'll be trying to mimic a style of textiles that was a patchwork of necessity and impoverishment, and I'll be doing so with the help of my shiny electric sewing machine, in the comfort of my nicely decorated home–and I'll probably be listening to Radio 4 as I do so (can't get more middle class than that). In short, I'll be spending money to make something that looks like rags and tatters!

As much as that makes me a fraud, I still can't help but admire boro textiles and want to have a go at making my own (even if I will be using linen and silk instead of hemp). Partly, it's because I love indigo dyed fabric, which, as if by magic, just seems to get better with age. The texture of layers of stitching and scraps of fabrics really appeals to me too, some people are drawn to colour or pattern, but it's texture that always reels me in!

I've only recently discovered boro textiles, so do not claim to be any kind of expert about them. The pictures here are from The Decorator's Notebook but if you want to read more, I found Furugistar's blog post very informative. This book also looks like it might be worth adding to a boro wishlist.

Elizabeth,
x.

*Perhaps the worst example of this attitude is a book entitled The Quilts of Gee's Bend. While the book itself is beautiful and showcases some stunning work, the editorial choice to keep the voices of quilters 'real' is just cringeworthy.