indigo

and a hefty bag of counted blessings

For a very long time I would only permit myself to colour cloth using plants I could grow at home, gather on roadsides after storms or pluck from the verge on the pretext of reducing the local weed burden. This held me back from exploring the magic of indigo, as no matter how hard I tried to grow it, a hot north wind would inevitably desiccate my valiantly struggling crop. When I began visiting Maiwa on a regular basis some ten years ago, my defences began to slip. I eat imported cheese after all, would never decline a glass of méthode champenoise and will douse my poached eggs in Crystal Sauce (a product of Louisiana made with chili, vinegar and salt) if the opportunity arises. I also have a fondness for Harris Gin (it tastes like “essence of tidewandering”, or the sort of tipple a selkie might choose, given that Saccharina latissima gives the elixir its particular flavour). I permitted myself to enjoy the magic of the indigo vat, realising that denying myself this exquisite pleasure was not going to make a blind bit of difference in the world.

The blue of indigo is irresistible, and the weeks I spent at the Maiwa studios in Bagru early in 2020 (before the Plague grounded us all) firmly fixed the magic of it in my heart. Permitted to dip a few items in their ten-foot-deep vats, and taking daily walks around the dye ground where tidelines of blue from recently dyed cloths spread to dry in the sun had built up over time reinforced the passion. Much as I still delight in opening a leaf-printed bundle, I’m finding the calm of blue offers solace in this increasingly unruly and disturbing world, and as I age it must be admitted that I’m seeking ‘quieter’ cloth (than luminous orange leaf prints) to wear on my body. Perhaps it’s because, as Rebecca Solnit¹ says, blue is the colour of distance. Don’t fence me in.

Enthused by the recent fresh indigo experiences in Bretagne I ordered Persicaria tinctoria (Japanese indigo) seeds and am hoping to keep them alive in the shade house I inherited from my mother, if not in sufficient quantities to dye with, at least in the hope of creating a supply of “acclimatised” seeds…the climate of South Australia is far from ideal for this species but the qualities of the leaves are so alluring. While I love the deep blues of the indigo vat, I am even more enamoured of the sea colours that fresh (and even green dried) leaves can yield, but more about that later.

This week I’d like to share some unrelated moments of domestic felicity with you. The most important one relates to my dog, Kubbi, who is now ten years old and no longer the kerflobbily puppy you see in the photo below, but is this week unfortunately wearing an Elizabethan collar just a bit larger than the one rolling around behind her.

While I brush Kubbi daily I tend not to ruffle her sides with my hands, as she generally indicates she would really like a good neck scratch. But when we visit my friend Janet, Kubbi prostrates herself at Janet’s feet and offers herself up to what ever soothing ministrations her friend is prepared to bestow. It was thus that, last Sunday evening, Janet discovered a lump on Kubbi’s side. After due investigation with a torch, my thought was that it was probably caused by a grass seed that had somehow become embedded while I was overseas. I made an appointment for the next possible morning with the vet, and (already assuming that surgery would be required) took her along having withheld her customary breakfast. The look she gave me would have put Paddington Bear to shame. The vet ran his hands over the lump, dismissed my amateur diagnosis and thought it might very likely be a sarcoma given its slightly irregular shape. This pronouncement made me glad that I had also eschewed sustenance, as it made my tummy heave like a stormy sea. I duly signed the required forms, said yes to blood tests, intravenous fluids and anything else that might be required, walked Kubbi to a pen with promises that I would return and went tearfully home, expecting the worst.

When the vet eventually rang at 2pm to tell me that it was a grass seed after all, it was a very happy moment indeed. She has a huge shaved patch on her side where they were expecting to have to remove a lot of surrounding tissue, but not so much as a stitch as once they had a clear view of the situation they were able to remove the seed without having to make more than a minor incision. But she’s still wearing the clunky plastic collar to stop her constantly washing the site.

Another thing that’s making me happy is the prospect of another international community project at Fabrik. I’ll tell you more about it as soon as we have a precise date, but for now am just letting you know that it will be installed in either 2026 or 2027 (provided the US and Russia haven’t decided to blow us all to perdition in the meantime) and will involve feltmaking. Contributors will be able to send pieces of either traditional or shibusa felt that I will join together with stitch to create a series of forms inspired by standing stones. For those of you unfamiliar with shibusa felt (which has popped up here and there in a few of my online offerings) I’ll be putting together a course devoted to it that will be released next year, after the February adventure, in case you’d like to explore the process (devised as a means of saving me from the back pain caused by laying out vast sheets of felt back in the early 1990s).

Thinking about the project had me looking up images of standing stones in my photo files, which of course took my mind to the north and by a small leap set me pondering the making of oat cakes, with which I have been experimenting this week. Whenever I visit Scotland they are the first foodstuffs I purchase. I love them. This week’s kitchen manoeuvres have been very satisfying, combining my Latvian porridge mix (buckwheat along with steel cut oats, barley and rye) blitzed into powder in a nutribullet then mixed with more finely ground oats, Sel de Guérande (brought home from Bretagne), a whisper of muscovado sugar, some oil and some water in the 1980s food processor I inherited from my late Papa. They disappeared quite quickly. In batch number two I have substituted beurre noisette for the oil and while the ingredients may not be completely traditional, the results are delicious and oaty and sturdy enough to be buttered and eaten with cheese or jam (or both).

They require the application of considerable muscle power in the flattening of the stiff dough, so I am anticipating improving my physical strength by baking regular batches. I expect being squashed in a press might make them prettier, but then I wouldn’t get my workout.

This week also had me in receipt of a lovely surprise, thanks to the people who made the suitcase I have been using in my travels over the past year. It is a ‘hybrid trunk’ from Monos and had been to Morocco, France and the UK without picking up so much as a scratch. I collected it from my London flight (QF 10) on the afternoon of October 28th at which point it was still perfectly fine. It emerged on the baggage thingummy in Adelaide after QF888 having been thoroughly dented, an outcome which could only have derived from being hurled from a great height with considerable force.

I sent a polite email to Qantas, enquiring what they proposed to do about the situation and their response was that if I didn’t have an airport baggage complaint claim number, they would do nothing. It was not possible to register a baggage concern at 10.30pm at Adelaide Airport, because the only Qantas person in sight was a flustered man trying to keep a pair of marauding toddlers from jamming their fingers in the carousel while their parents were completely oblivious. In her defence, the mother had dashed to the facilities leaving the father in charge. Unfortunately the only thing that was holding his attention was his telephone on which he was fixated by something that was clearly amusing him. The lone staff person was busy yelling “who is responsible for these children” in forbidding tones, so I didn’t feel comfortable disturbing him with my damaged bag. Which meant that Qantas couldn’t give a hoot.

I also dashed off a friendly email to Monos, not expecting anything at all given it wasn’t their fault, simply to inform them of one of the things that could happen to their purportedly indestructible luggage. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I received a reply inviting me to offer more details, and then done so again when I received the advice that in the event I would confirm the colour of the existing piece along with my home address, they would be happy to deliver a replacement. They further informed me that they would not require the damaged one to be returned, and recommended recycling the wheels or saving them in case of future need. If this moves you to invest in their product, now is the time as they are offering a rather generous discount. I am happy to recommend them, both for the quality of the product and the kindly customer service. Qantas is another kettle of fish.

And now to my dye story. I needed a garment to wear to a wedding this coming weekend and was dreaming of sea colours, so rather than begin with a tannin dip and follow up with the indigo vat (which needs reconstructing as it had a serious meltdown while I was away and unlike Lazarus, could not be revived), I reached for something else.