Wednesday, 20 April 2016

Knitting Peace exhibition at the Army Museum, Stockholm








Stockholm's Army Museum seems at first thought an unlikely place to hold an exhibition about knitting. Beyond the Home Front knitters of World War II, can yarn really be a way of stopping bombs? The current exhibition Knitting Peace by Cirkus Cirkör proposes craft as a means to quell conflict. This ambitious show combines several works: installations of knitted objects sent in by participants; tableaux featuring Cirkus Cirkör and their performers; and an exhibition about craftivism, activism x craft. Though slightly inconsistent in the material that it presented, the overall theme was that through knitting, one can harness the potential to utilise inner peace to subdue our personal capacity for violence.

The exhibition is in a fantastic space: several rooms under the eaves of a wing of the museum, each leading off a central corridor. One is invited to stroll through and browse, with huge lengths of knitting entangled with barbed wire suspended above. The exhibition opens with a short film of one of Cirkus Cirkör’s shows, a wonderful acrobatic piece whereby knitting is integral to the scenography. This is striking use of the craft that really explores the boundaries of knitted fabric, done out in maximum with hugely thick thread and massive stitches. Set pieces were highly sculptural and embodied movement, perfectly suited to use in a circus.



Upon leaving this room, the visitor is introduced to the main scope of the rest of the exhibition, which was a collaborative project. Cirkus Cirkör put out a call for pieces of white knitting to be sent in that considered the question, 'Is it possible to knit peace?' Participants donated a range of objects, from elaborate shawls to toys and patches of white, and all were labelled with a luggage tag explaining their thoughts on how knitting creates peace. These objects were displayed on the walls of the exhibition rooms, and arranged into tableaux such as a dining table and teatime set. Finally, the third theme was craftivism, which suggests a context for the installation. A photographic display of yarn bombing and public textile art around the world was included as the backdrop to some of the rooms. These tableaux and props were humorous and fun, again utilising medium of knitting as a form of sculpture, and taking it out of its usual, more domestic context. However, the installation rooms did not really reinforce the circus acts hinted at, and seemed more to be a way of displaying the donated objects.

The craftivism exhibition included some truly exciting pieces, but the photographic reproductions were rather small, and did not do the work justice. The sheer mass of the white knitted donations took over the exhibition, and although all contained personal messages, they did not successfully unite in pushing a thesis; they were highly individual, and not really political. Which is rather odd, considering they were in a museum dedicated to war. The textile artists featured who combined activism with their medium created some of the most provocative and thought-provoking pieces in the exhibition, such as Lisa Anne Auerbach's Body Count Mittens. The knitting workshops at Farsta refugee camps also seemed like a lovely idea, to create cold-weather garments together and create a sense of community. However, these projects were displayed on very small placards in a corner at the back of the exhibition. It is a real shame that they weren't given more prominence.



Overall, I feel the exhibition was too ambitious in scope. It did not really succeed in arguing its thesis: that knitting can bring peace. Or perhaps the kind of peace specified was not clear enough. Inner peace can certainly arise through knitting, as studies on the meditative qualities of craft attest. But the peace gained here seems far removed from a warzone, and in its location of the Army Museum, and the context of war, knitting as peacegiver seems rather vapid; as evidenced by the hyperreality of a knitted net smothering a tank in the museum's entrance place. This idealistic sense of what peace could be makes the most sense in the room featuring a knitted take-over of John Lennon and Yoko Ono's bed-in.







I would have liked the exhibition to be far more insightful, and to share more personal stories of craft and transformation. To be more effective, it should have made us question our privileged Western/Northern European lives far more and at the very least find stories from those caught in the cross-fire, not just those of us living far away in safety. Attacks on refugee camps by far right groups are a major threat to Sweden's peace, alongside its cultural sensibility of justice, democracy and fair-play. Can knitting help solve that problem? I'm not really so sure.


Knitting Peace runs at Armé Museum, Stockholm until 30 November.
Click here for more information.

Monday, 11 April 2016

Little cable knee-highs






Finally, I'm able to share with you my first completed socks of 2016 - indeed, my first pair since 2009. I brought the yarn with me when I came to Stockholm, and cast on a few weeks after my arrival. The pattern is Little Cable Knee Highs by Purl Soho, my first time knitting toe-up socks and an absolute joy to make. Even so, I didn't quite anticipate how long it takes to knit a knee-high sock. I have pretty shapely calves, and the socks' stretching out in width has caused them to be reduced slightly in length: you can see they fall about an inch short of the bend of my knee. I was damned if I was going to me knitting them for any moment longer though, and cast off according to the pattern's measurements. Word of advice: don't let your first pair of socks be knee length. 

I struggled a bit with sock construction initially - I'd forgotten all the stages it involves in creating the heel: gusset, short row heel, then heel flap. For some reason, my slip-stitch heels turned out looking completely different from each other, and I have no idea why. I can live with that though. My favourite aspect of the socks, aside from the glorious colour they showcase, is the line of cables running up the back of the leg.



These socks have been a long time coming. I bought the yarn at the first Edinburgh Yarn Festival back in 2013. You can read about it over on my old blog archive. It's a hand-dyed merino sock yarn by Old Maiden Aunt. I always intended them to be knee-highs, but initially planned some elaborate, 18th Century-inspired stockings with gorgeous clock motifs on the ankles. Needless to say, I intimidated myself with these grand plans, and put off designing and making them for three years. In January, I decided that I didn't want to hoard the yarn any longer. It was better to knit a simpler pattern designed by someone else, than to procrastinate and never make the socks at all. I'm really glad that this glorious yarn is no longer sitting at the bottom of a drawer, guiltily stuffed in a plastic bag.

As I wrote in my last post on sock making, pure merino just isn't a hard-wearing yarn. Soft and beautiful as it is, it's not ideal for everyday socks. On my first outing, the heels already showed signs of wear, with rubbing and pilling on the fabric surface. Though I'd love to wear them all the time, I'll have to keep these socks for special occasions.







Lastly, I wanted to mention the wearing of handknitted socks. These are always much thicker than machine-knitted cotton socks. For someone with large and wide feet like myself, it is usually not possible to wear my handknitted socks with normal shoes. I long to be able to clack around in socks + wooden clogs or sweet mary janes, like I see others do on the Internet. But for me it's just not possible. I'm like Cinderella's ugly sister in the German versions of the tale: I'd have to cut off a toe, or a portion of my heel. This is how I style myself to overcome this problem: Dr Marten boots paired with a girly 1960s babydoll dress. Always a riot of pattern and colour, here's me looking most 'Scandi un-Cool' (trademark) by the waterside.



Outfit details:
Beret - vintage
1980s Cardigan - vintage
Scarf - vintage
1960s Dress - vintage
Bag - vintage
Wedgewood cameo necklace - vintage
Boots - Dr Martens, c.2013
Mittens - from Estonia
Socks - handknitted
Coat - Hobbs, c.2012

I will never, ever, ever look like a Stockholmer. Mad London style always. 

Have you made any socks recently?

-Anushka

Tuesday, 5 April 2016

Historical Socks at Nordiska Museet, Stockholm


All photos courtesy of Nordiska Museet. 


Once a month, during the Spring and Autumn, the Nordiska Museet hosts a Stickcafé (knitting café) in the museum restaurant. This free event is open to anyone who wishes to come for fika and knitting, and includes a lecture on an aspect of Swedish knitting from the museum collection. The talks are usually in Swedish, but luckily for me, the second Stickcafé that I went to featured an archive show-and-tell of historical socks. The curator was on hand to answer questions, and wearing white cotton gloves, we were free to handle and examine the socks at close hand. What an amazing opportunity!



The socks on display ranged from silk stockings made in Paris from the Regency era, folk patterned traditional Swedish socks, everyday socks for men and women, and even a few much-mended, rough and utilitarian house slippers. It was truly a broad selection, including socks from peasants as well as princesses. Unfortunately the lighting was very dim, but I was able to take photographs of some of my favourite pieces to share with you.

Cuff details
My favourite socks featured striking details on the cuffs, particularly in colourwork. It doesn't have to be complicated to be eye-catching though, and I also love the simple addition of two bright pink bands, and the garter stitch lace cuffs of the second photo.




Stocking Clocks
A beautiful stocking detail that's simply lost today. In the top photo, the white socks are hand-embroidered, folk art style; the others are much finer stockings with elaborate clocks.

Purple socks, 1877

Monograms and printed branding
The printed labels help the archivist to date the stockings precisely. In the second photo, the pattern on the Parisian red and white stockings is printed, not knitted in. And I just adore the cross-stitch monogram below the white picot hem of the blue striped sock.


White and red stockings from Bon Marché in Paris, 1861



Monogrammed white stocking - 1854

Two-tone colour work
As amazing as elaborate, multi-coloured stranded folk knitting is, I'll always be drawn to clever uses of just two colours. Red and white is always a classic, and I love the colour blocking on the blue striped stockings, where the stripes would protrude over a boot.

Red and white socks - left 1810, right 1804; entered the collection in 1933

Blue striped socks - 1915

Dainty and everyday
There were many examples of very fine stockings for the upper classes, such as this stunning white cotton lace pair that was machine-knitted; and of course the lovely folk art stockings. But the museum also include examples of rough, everyday knitting. Although by comparison the slippers in the bottom photo are horrible and rather dirty, there's something very appealing about seeing examples of clothing that has really taken heavy wear. Not kept in a box, but battered by the feet, and darned again and again. You can really see the different lives that people have led through their footwear.
White lace socks, 1905

I regret not taking more careful notes about the dates of all of the socks...in my defence, it was a small and crowded room! Seeing the socks in the archive really showed me how little I know about knitting history, and how limited my knowledge of hosiery history is. or instance, did you know that the first knitting machines were developed as far back as the 16th Century? I didn't! This event was such a great way to discover more, and I'm very grateful to have stumbled upon it!

Many thanks to Nordiska Museet for allowing me to take and share these photos.