Not a class, this is a working group for natural dye experimentation. Be an apprentice for an afternoon and learn by doing. Check with Rebecca to find out when the next meeting of the color club will be held.
Color Club
Fiber Arts
Spinning Human Hair – the Betsy Project
One hot summer’s day a young woman visited our farm. Her friends were delayed by car trouble, so we chatted. I was spinning – she was fascinated – and thus began the Betsy Project.™
It was all her idea. She had cancer; chemo and radiation had made her hair fall out and it had regrown. Now she was facing further treatments. Would I spin her hair after it fell out again?
Some people think this project is morbid, but that was not her approach. She was an artist, very creative, and she had in mind to make an heirloom for her daughter.
We discussed options – hair must be blended with another fiber – and details such as length, heft, and color. I spun it with cinnamon alpaca, and the final result was a surprisingly soft, gleaming, springy yarn.
My last contact with Betsy came with a note, saying ‘I have never before seen my mousy hair as beautiful.’
What more could an artist ask? And like all art, what purpose can it have? Just to say, in the face of the void that life has meaning. That everything is connected forever, if only by a thread.
And there her friends were, probably, by the side of the road in the August heat, saying ‘durn the durn car, why did it have to break down NOW?’
If you, or someone you know, is interested in getting your hair spun, please get in touch with Rebecca.
Grandmother’s Golden Curtains – an essay
All through my childhood, I have recurring vivid memories of the yellow curtains. The extreme almost rotten softness of their fibers, the cottony feel, the tight weave providing the only sense of stiffness, of density; so much about them has stayed with me. Every spring and fall I would help hand wash them and hang them out to dry in the shade of the maples. Oh, that indescribable color, old gold, almost green or brown, soft, even dim, yet so intense, a color that made me dream over and over of corn.
Years later in a bored classroom watching a film clip of mountain monks on the other side of the world, I was struck by the color of their robes, and felt a shock of recognition amidst the unlikely scenery. Their saffron dyed robes, although of a different shade of yellow, had the same faded intensity as my grandmother’s curtains, the same intimation of hidden power.
When I returned home to the farm after experiencing joys and despair elsewhere, I felt myself under heavy obligations. Responsibilities which I had confidently left to my elders were now mine. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to certain details? Seeking help and not finding it I went forward alone and thereby found the support I needed. The examples of the people of the past, ancestors both near and distant, of blood and of spirit, were especially helpful guides for me during this lonely time.
We people are mortal, and so are curtains. As I lifted them out of the cedar chest they almost fell apart in my hands. Despite careful efforts at preservation they were finally shreds. I composted them with tears, with highest honors, and with great regret. We Tauruses can get pretty involved with objects. But then, I had not been allowed to travel to my grandmother’s funeral – I was too young, it was too far, it would be ‘too disruptive.’ I missed something, and maybe I took it out on the curtains. I have a hard time throwing things away.
Even so, things change. Fast forward twenty years to our farm’s first educational outdoor wool dyeing day. The sun was shining brightly. We were simmering the iron cauldron. Visiting children were picking goldenrod, tansy, and yarrow and throwing the gleaming yellow flowerheads into the pot, and giggling. Within the hour I had had a revelation.
I now understand that the color and texture of my grandmother’s curtains, as well as of the monk’s robes, are simply the result of natural dyeing with plants. It is not difficult or obscure. This year at our fifth annual experimental dyeing day we got some lovely oranges and clear yellows using dahlias and marigolds, plants sacred to the sun among their original breeders in ancient Mexico and Central America.
People pass on more than genes in the long spiral inheritance chain from the original humans in Africa to ourselves. I have exchanged my worn out curtains for a living tradition whose subtle, vibrant colors are fluttering in the breeze. Thanks to all grandmothers! Pass it on!