Woof, Warp, and Words Janet Oakley

Woof, Warp, and Words Janet Oakley

Though history and writing historical fiction are my passions, I have always done something in art. In second grade I made illustrations for my Funny Bunny book series, in high school I did illustrations for our creative writing publications and, during my first round of college where I got my BA in American History, I made masks for theater productions. But it was a loom in a little town in New Hampshire that led me to textile arts. A year after graduating, I flew out to Hawaii on a one-way ticket where I took an art class at the University of Hawaii Manoa with the serious intent to get a degree. Our first lesson was to close our eyes and feel a lychee nut in our hands and study its prickly texture. From there, sitting under a Banyon tree, we peeled it, smelled it, and then tasted its perfumy fruit as smooth as a skinned grape. But I digress. My first real crack at a craft was throwing pots in an old Quonset hut on the edge of the campus. This was something I always wanted to do. I felt ceramics would help in my understanding of how things worked in historical times. At that time, I was very interested in 19th century life, particularly pioneers. I learned a lot in those classes, hand-building, throwing on a kick wheel and all sorts of things to do with clay, but it was on my third attempt to fire my pots with a glaze I had made up (this was in the pre-computer days where a lot of math was involved) the pots came out far different than I imagined. I was not only disappointed, but frustrated. I wasn’t sure what to do. I left the hut and wandered down to George Hall on campus where many of the art classes were held. Down a hall I heard banging. I had found the loom room. Immediately, I recalled that old loom in New Hampshire and entered in.

What can I say about weaving? First off, it’s harder than it looks. Once I learned what woof or weft and warp were, I spent my first quarter in the loom room crying because my beater fell forward and all my ends went through the reed or I got tangled up on the warping board or I broke a thread. By my second quarter having survived the first, I knew how to fix a broken thread on the loom, and calculate a project. Most of all, I had what I had missed in ceramics: I had instant color from my choice of yarns and could control it.

For the next two years I sat at the back of the loom room working on various assignments that ranged from traditional herringbone patterns and Bronson lace to double weave. After I graduated with a BFA, I went on to become an apprentice with one of Hawaii’s most famous weavers, Ruthadell Anderson. She created large weavings for hotels and businesses, but most famously wove the massive weavings that grace the Hawaii state senate and legislature. It was a wonderful experience. Years later, I was able to thank her.

When we moved down to Hilo on the Big Island, I taught weaving through Hilo Adult Ed and the community college. I also set up my own studio where I produced textiles to sell at the farmer’s market. I was commissioned to create several wall hangings, one of these was a tapestry for the manager of Brewer Chemical—a scene of cane fields behind the town of Hilo. During this time, I was invited to put on a group show with another weaver and a ceramic artist at the town’s art center. I was already experimenting with large doubleweave wall hangings that were stuffed. I also took traditional patterns like honeycomb and blew them up to create wall hangings woven on warp normally used for rug making. Another technique was to weave a straight piece of cloth and then fold them into “kites.” My wall hanging, Turkey Kill, is an example of that.

Today, I’m busy writing so much that I seldom get to the loom to do a big project like a wall hanging, but I love secretly weaving scarves for friends. My large floor loom sits behind me, with warp on and ready to go. When I need a break from weaving words, I slip over and bang out a new story made of colors and fibers soft to the hand. Soon I’m lost in the rhythm of throwing the shuttle boat across the beater sley, drawing me back to my first encounter with a loom in that little house in New Hampshire. Woof, warp and words. My happy place.

Janet Oakley is the author of The Quisling Factor