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A quick dip in the indigo bath of a weld pre-dye; 4 oz skeins 250 yards in length in a limited edition of 8 skeins. The color reminds me of the weathered bronze statues in the park.
Available in the Yarn Store.
Weld is the base color of this indigo overdye. The plant grows in Nothern Europe and had been recently unavailable. We tried to seed some weld last year but the crop failed. When it is available the extract sells for $300 a pound but when it is scarce it sells for much more; along with cochineal, weld is my most expensive extract but because it's used in a concetration (3%) that is twice that of cochineal it becomes the most expensive color I offer.
This color, where the blue teals play like nymphs on the river greens, is dyed in an edition limited to 16. Available in the Yarn Store.
The life of Swann’s love, the fidelity of his jealousy, were formed out of death, of infidelity, of innumerable desires, innumerable doubts, all of which had Odette for their object. If he had remained for any length of time without seeing her, those that died would not have been replaced by others. But the presence of Odette continued to sow in Swann’s heart alternate seeds of love and suspicion.
Du Côté de Chez Swann, À la Recherche du Temps Perdu Tome I Marcel Proust 1913; Translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff 1922.
The variables of indigo overdyes are many: the concentration of the indigo, the amount of oxygen dissolved in the bath and its pH, to name but a few. Each overdye is unique; this one is a limited edition of 8.
The yarn is a worsted weight in a 4 ounce skein measuring 250 yards in length. Because it is twice the weight and twice the length, it is twice the price, $38.00 per skein. One skein knit with #17 needles will make a scarf, quick to do, that shows off the special loft and softness of the yarn. But with limited edition yarns it's always better to buy more than you think you'll need so that you don't run out.
Available in the Yarn Store along with other limited edition colors.
What you like to see coming upon a newborn at pasture is blood on the lamb's nose meaning that it was at the udder getting milk. And it's good to see a ewe who is calm and attentive like this one. Nature works if you let it.
Laura didn't want to be photographed but I talked her into modeling her scarf. She knit our worsted yarn with #17 needles not to lose the softness and the loft of the Saxon wool by pulling it tightly as she would have with smaller needles.
The color is unique; it is not repeatable by intention. It is a color composed with natural dyes. I dipped yarn, first dyed a weld yellow, into an indigo pot then quickly pulled it out again. Voila! The weld with an irregular blue indigo over it is seen in subtle shades of green.
A spooky day in a new field of high brush that could hide the approach of wild dogs; sheep know there is safety in numbers and they flock to look bigger as a group than they individually are.
Finding a men's room at the Union Square Greenmarket is never easy. I usually steal my way into a nearby bar, weaving through the clientele without buying a drink under the watchful stare of the cocktail waitress who knows I'm not a drinker. I give her a smile that says I need a bathroom more than I need a beer, but waitresses are runway models in New York and she thinks I smiled at her Sam Edelman boots and how hot she looks in them—she smiles back—I’m amused at this New York narcissism, of my own imagining, but she turns away to take an order and doesn't see my genuine side.
Across from the market, on Union Square West, there are three rest room choices: Toasties which usually has a line, the urinals are too close together in The Coffee Shop and the men's room at the Heartland is often empty but it is the furthest from the stand. The day was sunny and cool so I walked to the Heartland. Upon entering nothing happened; at 3 PM the bar was almost empty, the waitress ignored me. The bar is long, almost 200 feet in length, there is a partition, about 8 feet from the bar and about 6 feet high that separates a seating area from the bar and stools. The bar feels like it's in a hallway. At the end is the men's room and it was empty. I pissed and left. The light coming back out was blinding; walking toward the bright windows, all the faces were backlit and in shadow. I thought of Camus' Meursault, sun blind on the white beach, in L'Etranger. It was a relief to be out in the fresh air again, to be rid of the yeasty beer smell and the fuzzy pounding bass music: ahh...the street, the sunlight, the horns, the confusion; it calmed me.
I turned south and took several steps before I heard a meek voice behind me, "Excuse me". I stopped and turned. A short, non-descript woman in her late 20's wearing sunglasses that gave her a bug-like look in a depressing prussian blue crepe dress was speaking to me. She was accompanied by a peering shaved male with a salt and pepper goatee a little older and taller than she appeared to be.
"Excuse me," she continued. “Yes?” my manner said.
"You touched my ass in the bar and you didn't say you were sorry."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"What did you say?"
"You touched my ass when you left the bar and didn't say you were sorry."
Had she followed me from the bar and stopped me to say this?
"I didn't touch you."
"Are you sure?" said the male.
Ignoring him rather than killing him, I looked at her directly.
"Well, if I did touch you, it was an accident and I'm very, very sorry."
But I meant a different kind of "sorry" than the sorry that she understood. Her intimate and common word in that meek, begging tone of voice was scatological to me, a stranger, as if her body were unclean. I was accused of a crime—but where was the cop—I began to angrily wonder why she was putting us through this. I felt helpless. I wanted language to protect me with its formality from someone I didn't know; I didn't want to see her body, much less touch it. Her words forced it upon me; I felt embarassed for being present at a bad performance and I was more sorry for her, standing there saying what she was saying, than if I'd touched her.
Did she simply want to be noticed and was this a way to have her existence acknowleged? Was she that self impoverished?
My saying that I was sorry seemed to mollify her. That meant it was OK to touch her in sorrow…horrors.
Recovering somewhat as she started to turn away, I asked,
"But where were you anyway?”
"At the bar," she said.
I shrugged and said.
"I didn't see you."
This is a pure madder and I dyed it slowly then rinsed it many times. It is an excellent red, not orange, not purple. Maybe the truest 100% madder red ever. It was dyed in a limited edition of 24 skeins and I have 23 still available in the Yarn Store.
I'm working on getting the right lighting when I shoot newly dyed yarn. This shot is illuminated by 2 compact flourescents that are large & bulky. If I can adjust the amount of light on three Nikon Speedlights, as I suspect I can, I'll start playing with flash units that are smaller.
Notice the new positioning of the back light, the sense of depth it gives in the photo above, seen on the top with the key light coming in from the right. What's lacking is a 3rd light, a gentle fill light from the lower left to complete triangular lighting.
9/17, The film is available on DVD or via Netflix. There is no voice over narration, no subtitles, no music; nothing to tell you what you're seeing or to tell you what to feel. Just sheep and shepherds driving sheep through the mountains of Montana in long takes lasting sometimes minutes. The film doesn't condescend to the viewer; it addresses you as an equal. It is refreshing.
I enjoyed discussing the sheep and the film as part of the panel; for me public appearances are an exercise in courage—at one time they really frightened me. Mark the names of filmmakers, Ilisa Barbash & Lucien Castaing-Taylor to see what they next shoot and go see it, I will.