from sheep to clothing
Documenting the journey of transforming raw fleece into a piece of clothing, and some lessons learnt along the way.
Alright, I’m going to start right here by making a confession: even though I’ve been spinning wool for a couple of years now, I’d never knitted anything with my own handspun yarn. Would you guess why?
I know my own yarn may not be perfect, but the process truly is. From sorting and washing the raw fleece, which I source from my neighborhood, to carding and spinning, there isn’t a single part of the process that doesn’t bring me joy. It’s such a deep sensorial experience. The rich textures, the warm scents, the earthy, natural colours. How the fiber dances in my fingers in ways that seem to resonate all the way down to my very bones. My maternal great-grandmother was a shepherdess of cows in a small village near Namibia, and my paternal grandmother was a keeper of goats and linen spintress in these hills. This close proximity to animals and fibers of different kinds has been a constant in my bloodline. Partaking in this millennia-old relationship feels like a reclaiming of my ancestral practices. It’s no wonder it makes my heart sing.
And yet, I’d never knitted anything with the yarn I make, and that is mostly out of fear. What if, by actually using it, I realised my own handspun yarn is crap? With all the emotional stakes I’ve put into this practice and learning process, ending with a less-than-perfect knitted piece would be a hard blow to face. And so I kept postponing it. One day, I’d say. Some day.
This summer, though, something changed, and I decided I’d get over that little voice that told me my work wasn’t good enough to be used.
I took a deep breath, rolled up my accountability sleeves, drew up a bag of white fleece the lady that owns the cafe had gifted me from her own sheep, and got to work. It would be a heartfelt process, from start to finish, with no excuses. And if my own yarn were crap, well, then at least I’d know. I set out to make something just for myself, so no one would find themselves with a little crappy piece of clothing they’d never wear. And so I enjoyed the warmth of high summer to sort and wash the fleece, allowing it to dry under the sun for a couple of days, as the first part of this fiber journey.
And then, well, I got distracted by summer’s frenzy of activity, never-ending harvests, and social life, and the fleece lay there, in my fleece basket, for a couple of months. And then some more. Until Yule, when I finally said enough is enough, no more being afraid of wool.
Instead of carding and spinning as I went, as I usually find myself doing, I decided to card a bunch of rolags and then spin intermittently, with no pauses, as that seemed to make the process more enjoyable. Card a dozen rolags, spin them into skeins, and start again.
It also seemed wise to create 2ply skeins. If you’re not familiar with fiberwork, this means that each thread is composed of two single threads spun together: one thread is spun, another is spun, and then both are spun together to create a single one. It takes a longer time but makes for a sturdier knitted piece that has a little more structure.
As my collection of freshly spun yarn grew, it was time to decide what I’d make with it. I wanted something simple and small, with no colourwork or intricate textures, to allow the yarn’s rustic character to shine. A cropped, simple vest seemed like a good option.
While the knitted piece took shape on my hands, needles happily knitting, I felt such a deep sense of accomplishment. It was like knitting for the first time or learning a new craft. The yarn didn’t break once, no stitches were slipped. It was as if the wool was working together with me, glad to be transformed into something that would be cherished, glad to be part of this ancestral cycle of soil-animal-fiber before becoming soil again, eventually.
I hope I didn’t set your expectations too high with my little story. The final vest is by no means a masterpiece. My next pieces with handspun yarn will be better and more refined. The yarn really is rustic, there’s no skirting around it. And yet, is that a bad thing? It’s such a joy to wear a piece of clothing that speaks so closely to my landscape and bioregion, that is so deeply intertwined with my own environment and my craft at this moment in time.
Do I love it? I do. It is warm and easy to wear and still smells of sheep, which is one of my favourite scents in the world (along with orange blossoms and jasmine).
And, of course, it is a lesson in itself. That all local fiber is worth being used. And also that, no matter your craft (be it spinning or basket weaving, pottery or bookbinding), every piece you make is special — it’s yours, and so uniquely so, and that deserves being celebrated. Learning a new craft is a lifelong journey, with mistakes and apparent imperfections being a crucial part of it. We all start somewhere.
“The opportunity in my ideal fiber future is that our clothing contributes to the experience of building a true sense of belonging to place. That’s what textiles used to do — textile culture, food culture, music, storytelling, all these things are hardwired to remind us of where we come from and our relationship with landscapes and the things that allow us to exist in these bodies. I think textiles could become a decent, if not a perfect, reminder of our relationship to ecosystems.”
~Rebecca Burgess, Executive Director of Fibershed
If you’re not familiar with the work and advocacy Fibershed does for regional fiber systems, definitely hop over for some reading. I found their work a few years ago, and it has deeply informed the way I think of clothing and fiber in general. They also have a podcast (wink wink to my fellow podcast lovers!)
Turns out, my fear was irrational. Of course. This little vest was only the start, and now I’m excited to work with local natural dyes on handspun wool, and to move on to more complex pieces and colourwork, and see how it holds on. And this summer, we’ll shear our brown sheep for the first time, and that will be a whole new step added to this fiber journey. Spinning with fiber grown by my friendly animals on this very soil! There’s something about this that is very exhilarating.
Some fun facts about the handspun vest:
How much of a sheep did it take to make?
After sorting and cleaning the wool (there are always some bits that have to be discarded), I used about 1/3 of a full fleece. So we can say it took me a third of a sheep to make a vest… Give or take.
How long did it take?
The whole process took roughly 2 weeks in total, from sorting to cleaning, carding, spinning, and knitting. I had some pauses in between (I mean, the process started back in the summer!), but two weeks of active work seem about right. Of course, a more correct answer would take into account the time the sheep took to be raised, grow wool, and live their happy sheepy life, but for the sake of simplicity, I’m only counting the steps of the process I had an active hand in.
How much did it cost?
Well, alright, I know you know that one already: 0€.
It’s your turn: what are you making at the moment? Which new crafts are you letting go of fears around? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
And, if you’re a knitter, do you have any pattern recommendations? I’m looking for my new project! (And can we be friends on Ravelry if we aren’t yet, please?)
With sheepy hugs,
Cat 🐑