the colour of sleep

A stormy wet day here on the west coast, the air drenched with November rain. A good day to work inside, to lay out a quilt using the indigo-dyed fabric from an October weekend with the dye vat. I’ve been thinking about how to use the finished cloth. This piece is a length of fairly coarse linen and I used a kumo technique on half of the fabric, placing small round beach stones on a series of diagonal lines. The other half I just twisted and bound with hemp string. I love the result and didn’t want to cut it.


I hoped to find a piece of deep red flannel for the back but the fabric shop in Sechelt didn’t have quite enough so I bought a brighter red instead. It’s very soft, as is the organic cotton batting I bought for the middle layer. Smoothing and arranging the layers together was very satisfying and already my hands are yearning to quilt this one. I’m not sure quite how I’ll do that. I thought maybe a grid of red sashiko stitches and who knows, maybe that’s what I’ll try. But I also have a box of shell buttons in varying sizes and I’m thinking about how they might fit into the quilting process.  Texture and intention often suggest how one should approach the actual quilting. The linen is heavy and so small stitches might be difficult to do. The flannel will be kind of slippery. And because I don’t intend this to be a bed-cover but a more decorative piece, I can get away with quilting that isn’t entirely meant for strength. Here’s a view of the layers basted together:

laid out

I love blue. I love the blues that are the result of indigo dyes. I’ve yet to get the really dark indigo that I know is possible through careful dips and oxidization periods. I used Procion dye for an early shibori quilt and yes, it’s a darker blue but somehow it’s not as moody as natural indigo. (I have a tub of woad too but haven’t yet tried it.) I’ve been reading about colour psychology and most of it seems silly to me. On indigo, for example: “It suggests fairness and integrity, being an authoritative color. Indigo has a lot to do with structure and implies a need for organization. It has to do with rules, traditions and religion.” I remember when I read Victoria Finlay’s book on colour about ten years ago that blue was one of the most expensive pigments and was reserved for moments such as painting the Virgin Mary’s robes.

I’ve read that blue is one of the best colours for restful sleep because the ganglion cells in your eyes’ retinas are sensitive to blue and associate it with calm, keeping your blood pressure low and reducing your heart rate. My bedroom walls are soft yellow but I have an indigo block-printed cover on my duvet, and in winter I make our bed with blue flannel sheets. Sometimes my sleep is restful, yes, and sometimes it’s filled with drama and extravagant adventure. So who knows. In Robert Bly’s beautiful “The Indigo Bunting” (a bird I’ve never seen though there were snow buntings where I lived in Ireland), there’s a stanza I love:

There were women in Egypt who
supported with their firmness the stars
as they revolved,
hardly aware
of the passage from night
to day and back to night.

My indigo quilt will have stars, diagonal lines of them created with stones and elastic bands resisting the dye, and maybe when it’s finished, I’ll hang it over the bed, a charm to take the sleepers below from night to day and back to night. I’d be happy to dream of those women, holding up the sky, hardly aware, which is sort of the way things work sometimes. Women, stars, the colour of sleep.

So the cloth remembers…

This morning I unwrapped all the fabric I dyed yesterday and washed it, rinsed it twice, and hung it on the clothesline.


It’s never quite what I imagine or hope for but I’m always so excited about the results. The darker piece on linen (second from the right), for example. I tied stones from Trail Bay into a sort of diagonal grid for half the length, a technique called kumo, and then simply bound the rest with hemp twine. (It seems to hold best.) I love how the stones left their impression in the linen:

one stone

You can see a bird there, or a snow angel. Or the heart of a flower. I recorded this passage when I read Yoshiko Iwamoto Wada’s extraordinary Memory on Cloth: Shibori Now:

When the cloth is returned to its two-dimensional form, the design that emerges is the result of the three-dimensional shape, the type of resist, and the amount of pressure exerted by the thread or clamp that secured the piece during the cloth’s exposure to the dye. The cloth sensitively records both the shape and the pressure; it is the “memory” of the shape that remains imprinted in the cloth. This is the essence of shibori.

So the cloth remembers but it also interprets that pressure, those shapes. A stone from a beach on the Sechelt Peninsula becomes a bird taking flight, a child in snow.

And maybe my favourite piece? A stained but intact linen tea-cloth from my mother. I used a technique called itajime, where I pleated the cloth and then used wooden blocks of varying sizes to make a resist pattern against the indigo. The larger blocks I tied with hemp string and for the smaller, thinner ones I was able to use some clamps.


Look at the light coming through those windows!

Yesterday I waxed fish onto an old linen sheet and then folded and wrapped the sheet around pvc pipe for the effect called arashi, or storm. When I put the cloth-bound pipe into dye this morning, I realized my dye vat was exhausted and so I had to prepare a fresh batch. I’ll spend the afternoon dipping and turning and by tomorrow morning I’ll know if I have what I’m hoping for: a watery sea with a spiral of salmon turning in its centre.


blue days


In early June, I wrote of my delight in finding Memory on Cloth: Shibori Now, Yoshiko Iwamoto Wada’s marvellous exploration of shibori, or shaped-resist dyeing. I’ve done a little of this in the past, in a very amateur and careless way, and I’ve had some jars of indigo waiting for the right moment to try it again. I prepared some cloth (old sheets, some scraps of rough white linen left over from curtains, a worn damask table-cloth), trying as many techniques as I could, and then waited for the right time. Some were bound with string and elastic bands (kanoko); some were stitched (karamatsu or larch); one was wrapped and then ruckled on a piece of pipe for arashi, or storm; and one had pebbles from Trail Bay in Sechelt tied into it for kumo. Preparing cloth and dyeing it is a meditative process, like quilting — or at least it is for me. In a way, it’s thinking with my hands. So the time has to be right. And in Memory on Cloth, Wada writes:

Shibori recognizes and explores the pliancy of the textile and its potential for creating a multitude of shaped-and-resisted designs. When the cloth is returned to its two-dimensional form, the design that emerges is the result of the three-dimensional shape, the type of resist, and the amount of pressure exerted by the thread or clamp that secured the shape during the cloth’s exposure to the dye. The cloth sensitively records both the shape and the pressure; it is the “memory” of the shape that remains imprinted on the cloth. This is the essence of shibori.

Yesterday I dipped my prepared pieces into the dye vat. The process is magic. The dye itself is a kind of swampy green. The fabric turns pale yellowy-green and only becomes blue when it’s exposed to air. So you dip and then let the pieces oxidize; then you dip them again. The more times you do this, the darker the finished dye. I did 4 dips of about 20 minutes each, letting the pieces rest for half an hour on a long bench of rough cedar in-between their visits to the vat. One of the pieces, the damask table cloth, was wrapped around a piece of pvc pipe with cotton string, too long for the dye vat, so it had its own basin of dye and had to be turned regularly to allow it to take the colour evenly.

in the dye.jpg

There was time to do some watering in the nearby vegetable garden while the various pieces were soaking or else resting.

all tied up.jpg

I picked kale and made a green pie for guests who were coming to dinner. I made sourdough bread. And for each step of the dyeing process, I tried to lose myself in the fabric. If the cloth records the shape and pressure of thread and clamps, what does it remember of its worker? That she is flighty? That she was thinking of a sad member of her family too far away to truly comfort? That she wondered if she’d added salt to the bread dough? Never mind. I did my best, I think.

There are differing opinions as to what you should do when you’ve finished the last submersion. Some people advise you to rinse your pieces immediately and let them dry on a line. Others suggest letting the pieces oxidize for 12 or 24 hours to set the dye completely before you rinse them and then wash them in a mild soap. Because we had friends coming for a swim and dinner, I chose to let mine sit overnight on the cedar bench. And this morning I went out at 7 to snip the threads, the elastic bands, the string, and to remove the beach stones from the square of linen. There was very loud noise on the other side of the vegetable garden and I eventually realized it was a whole family of pileated woodpeckers, the young having just learned to fly. They were flapping around awkwardly and making the most comical noise while the parents scolded and encouraged. And mosquitoes kept stinging the small of my back.

But what pleasure to lay each finished piece out on the grass! Each a surprise! I’d wondered when I was awake in the night if I’d bound pieces tightly enough, if the dye would somehow penetrate the thin pieces of wood I’d used for the itajimi pieces (you pleat the cloth, then fold it and clamp it or use elastic bands to keep it place between two pieces of wood). A more careful person would have more interesting results, perhaps, but I have to say I love what shape and pressure created, how the cloth remembers its time as a three-dimensional object. You can see the itajimi in the photograph opening this post. Here’s the damask tablecloth remembering the storm:


And my favourite might be this, the rough linen shaped by beach stones from Trail Bay:


I expected a darker blue, given the number of times I dipped each piece. (The intensity of colour comes from the number of short dips rather than a long sustained soak — or at least this was what I gathered from the numerous things I read about indigo dye.) But maybe my indigo was old or weak. Anyway, it’s a ravishing blue.

And what the cloth remembers, I will remember too — gathering the stones, sewing the circles that became the growth rings of larch, tying cotton string as tightly as I could. And the cloth and I will also remember the raucous sound of adolescent pileated woodpeckers finding their wings, learning what a voice sounds like in open air, in the morning, before the heat begins.