Sunday, August 16, 2015

The Jewel of the Hebrides

While I've been enjoying all the islands, it certainly is true that Harris is spectacularly beautiful. White beaches, turquoise water, rocky mountains, lots of sheep, even a little bit of sunshine. And, of course, home to the Harris tweed. A fabric with seemingly endless varieties of colors and patterns.


There are rules as well as traditions surrounding the tweed. I hadn't realized that there was an authority that set the standards (minimum threads per inch, etc) and required that the tweed be woven in the home. This means that the fabric woven in shop demonstrations can't be sold. In just a few days in Tarbert I've learned a lot about tweed.


First, I went to a local craft fair to see what sort of things are being made. Mostly, I laughed with the locals about the antics of the puppies in the hall and the stories of island life (especially from an Englishman rolling his eyes about the lack of busses, stores, and open windows on Sunday). Next I headed to the Harris tweed store to see the variety of things made from tweed. These were mostly functional items: hats, gloves, coats, vests, wallets (they also sell beautiful yarn - I'll need a bigger backpack unless I learn to knit faster). I even learned that when they sell blankets or scarves the fringe is woven into the fabric rather than added later. Next door, they sell the fabric by the meter. This was the first impression I had of the vast quantities of fabric, colors, patterns that are created on these islands. They also give weaving demonstrations, which was fantastic. The single-width looms are powered by two pedals which are pushed alternately. Quite the workout for the weaver! The newer single-width looms have pedals like a bicycle and are easier to use. Even so, as soon as the weaver sits down the shuttle starts to fly and the fabric grows quickly.


I also visited the exhibition outside of town which discussed the process of dyeing, carding, and spinning the wool. One of the most distinctive features of Harris tweed is that it is dyed first, then multiple colors are carded together and spun. This is why a given piece of fabric will shimmer with so many colors. Brown pieces may have blue, green, yellow, and red all in one strand if you look closely (I spent awhile with a magnifying glass).

The exhibit also had examples of the far-flung variety of uses for tweed. There were dresses worn on fashion runways in Paris, and down-jackets only sold in Japan, and my favorite: a trophy stag on the wall made entirely from tweed. The tweed had been layered and textured to look like animal fur. It was stunning piece of artistry.




The exhibit curator (the same woman who did the weaving demo at the shop in town) sent me off on a quest for a master weaver. Donald John Mackay - the man who wove tweed for Nike.

So, with the directions "he lives by the beach", I hitched a ride out to the western shore from a kind couple. Not only did the woman know a lot about the island textile history and industry, and gave me great advice, but they knew Donald John and dropped me right at the end of his driveway. I walked up and introduced myself and was greeted with a whirlwind of storytelling.

He took me into his workshop to show me the loom, which he got in 1984, making it substantially older than I am, and sat down to weave. He wove about 8 inches of blue herringbone while I watched. It can't have been more than a few minutes; he worked amazingly fast. Then he talked me through the process of setting up the loom (which takes a day), choosing colors for a design, the difference between herringbone and plaid for setting the warp, and the program cards used to set a pattern in the weft. On a good day (presumably with fewer inquisitive visitors) he can weave 25-40 meters of fabric. Despite my astonishment at the quantity, he quickly explained that when a company requests several thousands meters of fabric, a day's work is merely a drop in the bucket. He makes a living by the quality of his fabric, not by the quantity he produces.

Throughout our whole exchange, his puppy played in the room. It would jump on me, on him, and on the loom (despite the moving pieces) incessantly. It even sat on top of the newly woven fabric, held taught on the loom, when Donald John stopped weaving to talk to me. It was that everyday laughter we shared watching the puppy jump that made me understand why the fabric must be woven in someone's home to be considered true Harris tweed. Each piece of fabric truly is a story from the islands. The sheep are raised here, the dyes are local plants and lichen, the mills that have replaced handspun yarn are on the island, and the weaving is done in the home. The patterns and the colors evoke the landscape here, the wool necessary to stay warm in a windy, wet climate. Each process has a story behind it, and many of these go back through families for several generations. Donald John was headed to a golf tournament later in the day because he had woven the tweed for the prize jacket. His tweed is sold across the world, used by companies who employ more people than live on this island. And I like the idea that with each piece of fabric goes a bit of his contagious laughter.



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