a diary for an interest-based nervous system

Category: You Can Weave

You Can Weave: Let’s Get Warped
I’m reasonably “confident” that I’ll be able to get some sort of product to emerge from between the teeth of Frankie the Frankenloom, so I order a shuttle, some hooks and needles and other bits and bobs that seem like they could be useful, and critically, yarn.

I don’t yet know what I’m doing, but that doesn’t stop me having big ambitions for this yarn.

According to the manuscript for a pamphlet Bessie collaborated on with journalist Marjorie Major sometime around 1972:

The colours of the Nova Scotia Tartan represent:
- Blue for the sea and the sky
- Green for the trees
- White for the surf
- Red for the lion on Nova Scotia’s crest
- Gold for the Royal Charter
I too, intend to create a tartan. But I’m from Montreal, Quebec’s land of bike lanes, orange construction cones, and hanging out in parks. My allegiance lies not with any charter, but with the Metro system. And I’m allergic to wool, so wool is out. The tartan will probably be a cotton blend. Likely a hand towel. I’m interested in utility, not dignity. I select:
- Grey for the bike lanes and potholes
- Orange for the cones, the changing leaves of fall, and the Orange Line of the metro
- Blue for the province, the St-Laurent river, the sky, and the Blue Line of the metro
- Green for the parks and trees and the Green Line
- And I can’t count, so I forget to buy some yellow for the long summer days, bright January sun, and of course, the Yellow Line.
They’re all cotton-linen, in a fine gauge, perfect for dish towels.

I set about making my first warp– the strands that stretch through the loom on the vertical axis, making it possible to weave back and forth through them. (The book does not explain this– or at least not at this juncture. I have to look it up, lol.)

The Warp and Weft explainer image from Wikipedia

The first project in You Can Weave is a placemat-napkin set in a simple weave. So we won’t be making the Montreal Tartan just yet. I decide to start with a nice grey & blue scheme, and I choose the grey for the warp because no part of me is thinking ahead to how hard pale grey yarn will be to see when photographed over and over in dim winter light.

The steps of making a warp appear very detailed and complex on paper. I remind myself that children are meant to follow these instructions, and try to relax.

The book explains how to measure for your project and its affordances. I believe I do this part accurately. Pretty sure. It’s not complicated math but there’s always a possibility my ADHD will try to change a digit in between reading it and writing it down. I measure several times, which will either make it more accurate, or introduce a new error every time. Exciting!

Then we get to the measuring that I definitely for certain mess up. I have to count the teeth of my reed several times, and then I lose track and try it a different way, and every single time, I get a different number. Pah! I’ll average it.

One thing is for certain: the teeth of my reed are roughly twice as far apart as the ones in the book. Looking at how skinny my yarn is, I imagine this will result in a wider weave than intended– maybe too wide.

Buying new yarn isn’t an option because these spools cost something like $15 each, and I already bought four of them. I’m committed.

I decide to move ahead with what I have and find out what happens. I don’t mind a bad first result if it means I viscerally understand why it is bad, because I made it bad with my own hands, and felt the texture of its badness.

Our carpentry teacher in theatre school taught us that there are two ways to learn anything– “the Easy Way and the Hard Way. The Hard Way is to read everything about it, measure assiduously, quadruple check everything… and the Easy Way is to just try it once, and screw it up completely.” I take great heart in this advice, and refer back to it regularly.

Next I need to place my pegs, which is straightforward…

Except that I don’t have pegs, so I use some chairs, following a trick I picked up from a YouTube video.

I put my nearly-invisible yarn spool in a bowl on the floor so it can’t roll around everywhere, and begin winding, according to the pattern the book dictates.

This could be a huge, boring pain in the butt, but I put on a podcast or three, and gently wind away, swaying from one chair to the other and back, 200 times or so, and I find it quite meditative and soothing. It takes me basically all night, but I enjoy the tranquility of it.

The book explains when to tie bunches of yarn together, and how to make sure you’re crossing the yarn in the right place, and right direction, and make sure it doesn’t uncross later, when you untie it.

At some point, Penelope comes around and decides to help me test the mouthfeel of the yarn, and its suitability as a cat toy. 10/10 with bonus points in both cases, but it does slow me down a little.

I tie everything down, probably more than I need to, because the 2d drawings of yarn are not always adequate for understanding a 3d space.

And then I’m able to remove it, and set it aside until I’m ready to dress the loom. I had originally planned to dress in the same session, but I’m starting to understand this is a slow process– at least for me, in this stage of learning– and I’d rather confront the next step, fully rested, with a clear head.

You Can Weave – archives
- January 2025 (3)
2025-01-30
You Can Weave: Meet Frankie, the Frankenloom
I got a loom! Now I can weave! Right?

Not so fast.

Not only do I not have yarn, but the loom is missing some parts, and I don’t know enough about looms to know what’s missing.

I momentarily wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake. What if I never figure out what this thing needs, and it turns out to be a lemon?

You Can Weave doesn’t have anything specific to say about what to do with the funky old loom you bought at a bike repair clinic. But I can pick out cases where Bessie and Mary have outlined what to do, if you don’t have exactly the thing you’re meant to have.

I’m especially fond of the illustrated explanation on page 20, suggesting how to make pegs out of an old broomstick, or a few plain metal bookends. (Bookends! How exciting. I’m not sure it’s easier to find plain metal bookends than pegs, in 2025.)

Weaving is an old technology. We can apparently find suggestions of weaving as far back as the paleolithic age, 27,000 years ago. It shows up in ancient Egyptian and Mesopotamian art, the Inca civilization, and tombs from the bronze age, in China.

There’s no known causal link between all our cultures and learning to weave. It’s a primordial tech solution everyone figured out independently, in response to having both fibre, and a need to wrap something– usually people, either the living or the dead.

“A Maya weaver (name not noted) shows us how the gorgeous textiles of highland Guatemala and Mexico are created on this ancient weaving mechanism, which requires simple tools but a great deal of skill! Demonstration at the Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, MA/USA.” – image by Melinda Young Stuart
on Flickr.

People have been improvising looms for centuries (and still do today), using whatever they had around, in whatever way made sense in their culture. Seen through that lens, my incomplete loom is a head start, not a hinderance.

How much of a head start do I have? Let’s evaluate.

A table loom mainly has the job of using multiple shafts to raise and lower x-axis strands of yarn on a z-axis, so that y-axis strands of yarn can be passed back and forth through it on the perpendicular, at user-defined intervals, to create an interlocking weave that becomes fabric. The x-axis strands must be held with tension, and they need to advance from the back to the front of the loom on rollers, so you can control your materials, and gather up your product.

How well your loom performs each of those functions has a bearing on the physical and aesthetic quality of the fabric produced. But it’s not the only factor. You, your ideas, skills, and consistency, are part of the equation. This relationship between person and machine is one I already know, from playing musical instruments, and operating an espresso machine. I’m comfortable with it.

My loom appears to have the most important bits. Maybe not in an ergonomic configuration, possibly not calibrated precisely, but fine for learning. My attention to the loom will become a third factor in what I’m able to make.

Now let’s take a look at the nonstandard features of this loom:

It doesn’t have levers to help raise and lower the shafts. It has four holes, and makeshift hooks. The previous owner appears to have been using yellow yarn to control the shafts. It seems like yarn would brake frequently and be fussy to use here.

The shafts also don’t have tracks to sit in. They just kind of dangle and bump into each other.

There’s no back beam. It has a big turny thing instead (technical term), which doesn’t seem to match any tutorials I can find so far. I think I can work with it, but the Big Turny Thing ™ also doesn’t have a brake. I’ll need to improvise something for tension.

Penelope loves to walk through the loom. I’m sure this will be fine and never create any problems whatsoever.

The rods in front and back appear to be made of wooden dowling. I expect this means it will bend more than a metal rod, creating uneven tension, in places. And the front rod is attached to the front roller at uneven intervals.

It’s tempting to try to fix everything, but I don’t want to do that, before I understand how the machine works. I also read more than once, that many weavers fall so deeply into the hole of fixing or perfecting their looms, that the loom becomes the project and no weaving gets done.

This sounds exactly like something I would do, so I resolve not to do it. To brake the back roller (Big Turny Thing), I’ll experiment with various cords, bungees and wooden stakes until I find something that works. I’ll focus on improving the shaft control mechanism.

I work out a hack where I replace the yellow yarn with stronger-yet-terrible nylon cord from the dollar store, and loops of zip tie, so I can more easily hook and unhook the cords when I raise and lower the shafts.

This single fix takes me a couple of hours to orchestrate, after trying a few kinds of knot that don’t work. I ultimately have to melt the nylon a bit to get it to bind to itself and stop unwinding.

By the time I’m done, I’m equal parts tired, fed up, sweaty, and extremely satisfied with myself. I admire my work, and decide to name my loom Frankie. Frankie the Frankenloom.

Now all I need is yarn. And a shuttle. I order them, and wait.

You Can Weave – archives
- January 2025 (3)
2025-01-24
You Can Weave
When my father was in town for Christmas, he brought me a copy of YOU CAN WEAVE: A Simple and Basic Guide to Weaving, which my grandmother, Bessie R. Murray, wrote with Mary Ellouise Black, in 1974.

Weaver House calls the co-authors “two of Canada’s foremost professional weavers in the 1950-70’s.” My grandmother, Bessie was the president of the Halifax Weaver’s Guild (precursor to Atlantic Spinners and Handweavers), and is best known for creating the official Nova Scotia Tartan, which she apparently debuted in a display about sheep rearing at the 1953 Truro Exposition. She ran a busy weaving shop, and there are still Nova Scotian weavers around today, who remember her, as well as “the little boy who opened the door at the shop.” That would be my father, who was just a toddler at the time– the youngest of her five children.

Got this scarf from Tartan Gal at the Dartmouth Market when I was there in October

You can read more about the tartan at the hub for Canadian Tartans, which is helpful, because outside of Nova Scotia, I bet that not many people are even aware that Canada has regional tartans.

Back to the book. YOU CAN WEAVE was published on New Year’s day, 1974, by McLelland Stewart. I would love to know more about why such an auspicious and inconvenient publication date was chosen. Did they think “let’s get it out there on a day when nothing is open and pre-launch promo will also be nearly impossible!” Did they forget that January 1 is New Year’s? Did they explicitly want it out after Christmas, even though it’s for children? Was there a big weaving to-do on the 5th? Did pub dates just not matter in 1974? I will have to investigate.

Bessie died when I was about five years old, so I never got to know her very well. My memories of her are mainly anchored around toys she made me and my brother– a dollhouse, a doll, and two sets of incredibly detailed doll-and-finger-puppet sets modeled after the Beatrix Potter books, Mrs. Tittlemouse, and Jemima Puddleduck.

For someone who created such an enduring icon, there isn’t an overwhelming amount written about her, or catalogued in archives either– though Dalhousie University apparently has a box of her correspondence from 1976-79 on file, and it’s intriguing to think I could read her own writing from around the time I was born.

And I do have this book, so let’s start there.

It’s dedicated to Natalie and Sheri Black, and to my cousins, Louise, Stephanie, Margo, Holly and Heidi. I can only speculate as to why my other cousins are not mentioned, so for now I assume it comes down to gender and birthdate.

The book opens with an Instructions page, which explains the book is designed for children and easy to follow. This, frankly, shocks me, because we had a copy of this book in the house growing up, and even as an early reader with a passion for making things, I must have passed it over a hundred times, never guessing it was intended for me.

The rest of the book is hand-illustrated, and printed in Bessie’s trademark handwriting. Its easy-to-followness hinges on a UX choice to print pertinent portions of the illustrations and their related text in red. (Pretty cool use of a 2-colour-process layout, actually.)

The jury is out on whether it’s actually easy to follow. This was a long time before the age of YouTube tutorials. Notably, the book has no advice on choosing a loom. It just says, quite suddenly on page 24, “Carry the warp to the loom carefully.” Presumably, you already have a loom, otherwise, why would you buy YOU CAN WEAVE? It’s an instructional protocol from a past time.

My initial reaction to many of the images and subsequent walls of red-painted text– math-laden pages on which nearly every term is apparently worthy of red, is panic.

There are so many things to measure, count, double check, tie and untie carefully. Warps and wefts, and pegs and clamps, and shuttles… Long before page 24, I am already starting to think it’s a miracle any of us wear clothes, let alone have the kind of additional internal resources that would avail us of things like the placemats and napkins that make up the early projects of YOU CAN WEAVE.

Something about the way my grandmother instructs weaving reminds me of the time my father told us (aged six and nine) that he was going to teach us to write codes to each other in binary because it’s easy. I absolutely can not ever remember exactly how binary works. COULD I WEAVE though? Could I?

When I was a teenager, painting and sewing and learning music, determined to figure out how to make everything I wanted to, our dear family friend, Katie Hastings, used to lovingly make fun of me. She’d come over for coffee with my mom, and perhaps ask me for advice on how to add an elastic to a skirt, or attach a ruffle, and if I didn’t know the answer– which was most of the time– I’d think it over and tell her about a book I’d seen at the library that might show the process. And then she’d hug me but laugh her head off. “A book, of course a book. It’s always a book.” I’d ask her why that was funny, and she’d say something like “because you think other people, can just figure any old thing out from a book!”

Well, it looks like I’ve met my match. It is called YOU CAN WEAVE, and my own grandmother wrote it.

I’m going to get myself a table loom.

I’m going to WEAVE. Possibly.

Maybe in the process, I can come to understand something about myself and my family better. Why are we like this?

Please stay tuned for whatever tangled mess I am about to make.

P.S. There are two copies of YOU CAN WEAVE currently for sale online, from a bookseller in Dartmouth, N.S., so you could actually get a copy for yourself if your inner crafty 70s child is interested!

You Can Weave – archives
- January 2025 (3)
2025-01-13