8 shaft Weaving travels

Ashford 8 shaft is born

Many hours later, the pieces fit together and now the loom is ready for a warp. What to warp first, that is the question.
The shafts needed adjusting for proper height. AND I need more heddles for double weave. Ordering online has been interesting as some things are in short supply and some places are more efficient. So far Pacific Wools in Oregon has been the quickest response to ordering. They used to be in Newberg but now are online from Prineville, Oregon.
Weaving travels

So many cotton colors

Gearing up for a double weave on the 8 shaft loom. Waiting for additional heddles. The little piece of woven green and gold was a my first in 2001, a sampler at the Multnomah Art Center in Multnomah Village.
Mercerized cotton on top and unmercerized on bottom. The wools and silk/alpaca cones look on.
8 shaft Weaving travels

8 shaft looms begins its journey

The pieces came in a nicely packages box all the way from New Zealand. Impressive packaging.

The journey continues with putting together the castle with wood screws. I learned about rubbing the screw on a candle to get wax to help with the entry of the screw into the wood. That worked beautifully.

Then came the levers which are in the down position until much later.
8 shaft Weaving travels

8 shaft table loom

My Ashford 8 shaft table loom came on Saturday in a box with a zillion pieces and screws. How I came to order such a loom is another story best told separately as double weave seems to have visited in the form of a class offered by Jennifer Moore through Lunatic Fringe Yarns. I have already complete a wall hanging using the Ashford Rigid Heddle Loom so the journey continues.

I sorted out the screws and knobs to make sure everything was there. I even watched a video of a weaver putting hers together with her husband.
8 shaft Mbira travels Weaving travels

8 shaft weaving

Weaving for mbira bags on my 8 shaft table loom.

I should have kept the loom. Would love to have it now for double weave!

Saori Weaving Weaving travels

Saori Weaving

My next weaving adventure comes from Japanese weaving called Saori Weaving. It is free style weaving with a basic structure meaning warp threads and weft threads.

There are studios in the US and looms that are simplified to allow for easier changing of the shed and winding bobbins. Here starts the journey.

Rigid Heddle Weaving Weaving travels

Double Weave

Inspired by my new quena flute from Deniz Dogrusöz, a flute maker from Turkey, I started weaving what would be a case for the beautiful quena. Then Inspired by the weavers of the Andes, I warped my little rigid heddle loom, the only one I have left from my weaving days and started in on what is to be a double weave flute wall hanging.
Notice the pick up sticks that allow for the black warp back weave.
The weaving starts with weaving all of the warp threads.
This is the double weave part that will hold the flute
Weaving two layers at a time. This shows the separate layers.
My first Brooks Bouquet which pulls the two layers together though it doesn’t have to now that I think about it. The black line weaves through both layers and that holds the layers together.
Almost complete. The double weave does work to hold the flutes. I need to wash and block the weaving and sew the flap at the top to hold a hanging rod.

The weaving is based on a pattern by Ashford Company.

Rigid Heddle Weaving Weaving travels

Three looms

Three looms warped, two Ashford and one Beka. Blue Tweed men’s scarf complete. LED weaving in process. Third loom ready for weft. Found some good weft at Coastal Yarns at Cannon Beach.


Weaving travels

Cuprite weaving

Some stones call for a weaving.  This cuprite mineral stone has chosen a lovely yarn on the left, Mushishi which is 95% wool and 5% silk.  There is enough yarn here for a complete scarf or table runner to be woven at 7.5 dpi on a knitter’s loom.

Harp Weaving travels

Ballad of the Harp-Weaver

The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver

“Son,” said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
“you’ve need of clothes to cover you,
and not a rag have I.”There’s nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
Nor thread to take stitches.”There’s nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman’s head
Nobody will buy,”
And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
“Son,” she said, “the sight of you
Makes your mother’s blood crawl,—

“Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you’ll get a jacket from
God above knows.

“It’s lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy’s in the ground,
And can’t see the way I let
His son go around!”
And she made a queer sound.

That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I’d not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn’t go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.

“Son,” said my mother,
“Come, climb into my lap,
And I’ll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap.”

And, oh, but we were silly
For half and hour or more,
Me with my long legs,
Dragging on the floor,

To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour’s time!

But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?

Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf’s head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.

All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn’t break,
And the harp with a woman’s head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity’s sake.

The night before Christmas
I cried with cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year old.

And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn’t tell where.

Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman’s head
Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,
From where I couldn’t see,
Were running through the harp-strings

And gold threads whistling
Through my mother’s hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.

She wove a child’s jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.

She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
“She’s made it for a king’s son,”
I said, “and not for me.”
But I knew it was for me.

She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,
Shw wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.

She sang as she worked,
And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke,
And when I awoke,—

There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder,
Looking nineteeen,
And not a day older,

A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
Frozen dead.

And piled beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king’s son,
Just my size.

Edna St. Vincent Millay