I’ve been sick as a pike, dearies, with a lovely head cold/flu thing that left me very tired and cranky, with the distinct impression that gnomes had come in the night and replaced my brain with soggy cotton batting. Too stupid to work, even on simple things, unless I wanted to go back and check every single detail later to make sure I hadn’t decided that 2+2=146 or done eleventy hours of knitting on needles that were .5mm too large. One thing I could do, though, was spin. I’d been working on the same spin since May 2015: ~330g of Southern Cross Fibre 60/40 Bond/silk in Vetinari, from last year’s Discworld MegaSAL. Continue reading
colour play spinning experiments
Hand me that sheep, Igor, II: an actual skein
Remember the Cormo colour experiment? Waaaay back when the wisteria was blooming and people further north were seeing the beginning of the end of winter? Here, to refresh your memory:
Colour Play 3: the zombie socks
The observant among you may have noticed a brand new knitting project at the bottom of my last post. “What’s that?” you may have wondered, “A new project? Does that mean she’s finished some of that giant, nagging heap of WIPs?” No. No, it does not, smarty trousers. What it means is that I have this compulsion to use every trip over half an hour long as an excuse to start something new. Continue reading
Colour play 2: The Great Shetland Experiment
Being stage 2 of ongoing experiments in becoming the boss of colour in spinning.
The Cormo spinning progresses apace, but as I mentioned last time, it’s going to take a while, and I have the attention span of a hummingbird on speed. Enter some English Shetland wool from Into the Whirled: one multicoloured braid
Hand me that sheep, Igor
If you spin, you’ve seen them: those braids of fibre, hand painted in glorious blobs of colour, with names like Night Carnival, Autumn Leaves, Mille Fiori. Those braids scare the pants off of me. Now, I love colour. I’m a knitter; I design in colourwork; of course I love colour. But for some reason, faced with those riotous braids, I’m stymied. What the hell would I do with them? What if, despite the dyer’s careful application of their art, I spin them up into something ugly? Something that offends the eye and sends children screaming to their mothers? Those colourful braids hold so much potential, and others have made gasp-worthy yarn from them, yet somehow I’m convinced that in my hands, that potential would go horribly wrong.