Finnish Ryijy Rugs at the American Swedish Institute

“Etude Two,” by Katri Haahti. (2005) This study is a tiny piece, only 14 x 13 centimeters.

From May 31 to November 2, 2014, textiles fill the mansion of the American Swedish Institute. The exhibit, The Living Tradition of Ryijy – Finnish Rugs and their Makers, highlights Finnish rugs of the past 300 years, from early utilitarian pile rugs to wedding rugs filled with auspicious symbols, to mid-century abstract designs, and even a modern piece with hair bands and a bra strap woven in.

Collecting magnificent rijiy is the post-retirement passion of Dr. Toumas Sopanen, a former plant physiologist and biochemist. He began with five pieces, purchased for his home. After Dr. Sopanen purchased about 25 ryijy rugs, a local museum mounted an exhibit of his collection. “I almost cried when I saw how beautiful they were,” he said. It spurred his collecting, and he now owns 390, almost all purchased from auctions. He became increasingly interested in the historical development of ryijy, which is considered the national craft of Finland, and in 2008, along with Leena Willberg, published The Ryijy-Rug Lives On: Finnish Ryijy-Rugs 1778-2008.

Dr. Sopanen visited Minneapolis for the opening of the exhibit. He spent his first day up close with his collection, combing the pieces. The ryijiys are rolled on tubes for transport between exhibits, he explained, smashing down the pile. His special textile tool? An everyday hairbrush.

While combing, he told me a story of the difficulty of having textiles cleaned. When he had the piece he is combing in this photo (“Penguin,” by Lea Eskola, 1962) professionally cleaned, it came back ruined. All the dirt had been pulled up from the base and sat in the top ten percent of each strand. It looked worse after the cleaning than before. A friend of his rescued it by painstakingly separating the strands of each knot and pulling off the dirt. Hundreds and thousands of strands, Tuomas emphasized.

At an opening night tour, Dr. Sopanen enthusiastically described his collection, or at least the 42 rugs that hang throughout the ASI – in galleries, in a doorway, and even over bookcase glass. We began in the Nelson Gallery on the lower level of the ASI, where his earliest pieces, dating back to the late 1700s, are beautifully displayed. including one on an antique bed and another on a sleigh. Ryijys dating before 1750 don’t exist for a number of reasons: they may have been worn and thrown out, or buried with their owners, or destroyed in a time of pestilence.

The Nordic ryijy tradition dates from the time of the Vikings, but their exact origin is unknown – perhaps the Viking saw Coptic textiles with a similar structure in Ireland or Egypt. The basic structure is exactly the same as Oriental carpets, but with only about ten percent of the knots, and longer pile.

Ryijys were used on boats up to modern times, as the woven textiles with warm pile wouldn’t stiffen in salt water like animal hides. It’s difficult to find an old Finnish boat ryijy; Dr. Sopanen just purchased his first boat ryijy, dated 1814.

From the 1400s on, ryijys used as bed coverings were recorded for both the wealthy and the servant class. The quality and decoration varied depending on social class. When rijiys became popular as wedding textiles, the imagery became more complex. Protective symbols, brides, and birds of happiness appeared. They commonly included initials and the year.

Detail of a wedding ryijy from 1798

A wedding ryijy from around 1800. It features a tree of life, one of the most popular wedding symbols.

In old ryijys used as bedcovers, a narrow band was often woven at the head end. People didn’t wash so much in those days, Tuomas noted, so you might not want to rest your head in the same spot as unwashed feet. In the 1800s, when ryijys served more ceremonial and decorative functions, the tradition of the narrow band persisted.

A beautiful piece with this narrow band is hanging from a free-standing frame at the ASI. Both sides have pile, and both the decorative side and the largely white side are visible. You can see that the top bar tilts at an angle in order to keep the sides of the ryijy hanging straight. That didn’t surprise one tour participant, Craig Rasmussen, Exhibits Director for the Joan Mondale Gallery at the Textile Center of Minnesota. “I can tell you after hanging many handmade rectangles – they are never square,” he commented.

Scale surface bedcover ryijy for two persons. Turn of the 18th and 19th centuries.

Older ryijys can be divided in two groups: upper-class ryijys woven by professional weavers, with shading and sharper detail in the images; and folk ryijys—simple and naive, with broad borders, one color in each object, and clumsy letters and numbers (because the weavers were largely illiterate).

Sleeping under ryijiys stopped in about the 1820s. Through the rest of the century, they were more commonly used as daytime bed covers.

Dr. Sopanen talked about the beautiful, lustrous wool colored with plant-based dyes used in earlier pieces. In the later 1800s, newly-available analine dyes in bright colors were used, but the bright colors weren’t colorfast over the years.

In the late 1800s many ryijy weavers used motifs from cross stitch or embroidery patterns from Germany and Sweden. There was a loss of creativity in the images. Also around this time they moved from bed covers and began to be hung on walls.

Two events help popularize ryijys widely early in the twentieth century. A large exhibit in at a gallery in Helsinki in 1918, and a detailed study of ryijy in 1924 by U.T. Sirelius, educated Finns about the cultural and historical importance of the craft. By the 1930 almost all Finns wanted to own a ryijy. In addition to woven ryijys, kits became available. They included woven backing, a design, and wool to tie the knots. Dr. Sopanen made one of the pieces in the exhibit from a kit, “Zebra One” by Eva Brummer. He listened to music while tying knots, 250 hours in all. “One row is about three piano sonatas,” he said.

The ASI mansion is a perfect venue for many of the pieces. Often, when the installation offers a distant view of a piece, the beauty and subtlety of the yarn combinations shine. When seen close-up, you notice there are several red shades in “By the Midsummer Bonfires” by Eila-Annikki Vesimaa (designed in 1956). When you back up, the flames of the bonfire shimmer.

Around 1980 artists began to experiment with varying lengths, creating relief. The piece may vary from the standard rectangular shape and in the use of materials, adding linen and other fibers. Tenka issakainen, in “Rose-coloured Ryijy,” (2006) even added artificial flowers, elastic lace, and a bra strap.

Dr. Sopanen feels there is renewed interest in ryijy in Finland today. Young couples are having wedding ryijys commissioned. Contemporary artists are interpreting the technique in new ways. If you visit this exhibit, you’ll understand the resurgence of ryijy.

Robbie LaFleur, July 2014

Snow-washing: An American Account and a Norwegian Story

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Heidi Goldberg: Snow washing ryas at Concordia College on Wednesday, January 29^th, 2014

A cheerful visit from Solveig Storvick Pollei the week before served as the impetus for a rya snow-washing day. Solveig had stopped by the art department when she was at Concordia College to have a look at the weavings on campus. We found some ryas looking a bit drab and dusty, and her suggestion of a little snow cleaning spurred me into action.

Photos by Solveig Pollei. The colors look bright here, but Solveig noted they were a bit dusty.

Solveig Pollei found a pair of ryas in storage at Concordia College

When we snow-washed the ryas, it was ten degrees and sunny. With only a light and variable wind, it seemed like a respite from the subzero temperatures and dangerous wind chills we’d endured in the last weeks.

At first I contemplated taking them home to clean them, away from curious eyes in my secluded front yard. Then I thought, “Why not celebrate the unusual activity of snow-washing handwoven articles and use the occasion as a learning and laughing opportunity with my Nordic Arts students!” We were finishing up our woodcarving unit and embarking on rosemaling; the fiber unit was still a few weeks away. I encouraged students to bring boots to the next class period. When I announced that we should clean up early to go wash the ryas, the students seemed half interested, not really knowing what to expect. When it came time to go, even the reluctant scrambled for their coats, the oddity of the prospect urging them to see what it was all about.

Cassie adds snow to the rya

We plodded off the sidewalk into the clean snow on Olin Hill; the snow was a couple feet deep. We flattened the three ryas out in the snow and started in. We dragged them a bit across the snow, gently stepped on them, piled and brushed snow across them with our mittens, picked them up, shook them out, flipped them over and repeated the process several times. The process not only cleaned the rugs, but provided a fun bonding experience for the class. I should note that one of the ryas is lighter in weight and needs some repairs; we took care to be quite gentle with this rya.

Nick and Heidi snow-wash the rya

One could clearly see that the pieces were indeed cleaner, the colors were more vibrant, and the wool smelled fresher. A few fine crystals stuck to the pieces after the washing. When we brought them back in, a little snow melted on the surface, dampening them slightly, but the pieces felt dry after a couple hours of being left to air out in my office. The crystals of the sparkling dry fresh snow worked beautifully to bring the ryas back to life.

The ryas were turned over in the snow

Melissa and AJ display the renewed rya

Marta Kløve Juuhl: Snow-washing in the Mountains of Norway

(Editor’s note: Since textile snow-washing is often done in Norway, I asked Marta Kløve Juuhl, from the Østeroy Museum in Hordaland, if she had any Norwegian instructions or photos to add. She reminded me she is from Vestland, where there isn’t always so much snow, and her museum is even closer to the coast. She didn’t really have instructions, but thinking about snow-washing brought up a great memory. Here is her story, followed by a translation.)

Ein sommar på 1990 talet gjekk heile familien min, mann, eg og 3 barn (8 og 11år) på ein lang fjelltur opp til ei jakthytte som far min bygde på 1960- talet. Det var 5 timar å gå, og alle ungane måtte ha ryggsekk med sine eigne ting i. Hytta er ganske primitiv, men der er rikeleg med sengklede. Det vil seia mange ullteppe, eller kvitlar på vossamål, min dialekt.

Veret var strålande, så vi hadde ein fin tur opp, men gjekk i mykje snø. Dagen etter var det like fint ver, og då bestemte eg at vi skulle vaska kvitlane (ullteppa). Der var mange snøfenner rundt hytta, så vi bar ut alle saman, minst 20 teppe, breidde dei utover oppå snøen. Ungane fekk hoppa og spretta så mykje dei ville på dei. Etterpå snudde vi dei, og ungane gjentok hoppinga. Like ved er der nokre store steinar som vi la ullteppa på etterpå, så dei fekk turka seg. Og reine vart dei.

Jegerar har aldri tid til slikt når dei er på jakt, så eg er sikker på at kvitlane har ikkje vore vaska slik fleire gonger.

One summer in 1990 I took my whole family – my husband, me, and three children (our 11-year-old daughter and eight-year-old twin boys) – on a long mountain hike up to a hunting cabin my father built in the 1960s. It was a five hour hike and all the children had to carry backpacks with their own belongings. The cabin was very primitive but rich in bed coverings, that is to say, wool blankets, or “kvitlar” in Voss dialect.

The weather was brilliant so we had a fine hike up, but we walked in deep snow. The day after had equally beautiful weather and we decided to wash the kvitlane in the many snowdrifts around the cabin. We carried them all out, at least 20 blankets, and laid them out over the snow. The children got to jump and leap around on them as much as they wanted. Afterwards we turned them over and the children resumed their hopping. There were several large rocks nearby, so we laid the rugs on them to dry. And clean they became.

Hunters never have time for this sort of task when they are hunting, so I’m quite sure that the kvitlane haven’t seen such washing many times!

Marta Kløve Juuhl taught weaving in the Norwegian Husflidsskole system for many years. She now works part-time at Østerøy museum, primarily with textiles, and also in her private studio. Her current commissions include bands for bunads and wall hangings for churches.

marta.klove.juuhl (at) gmail.com

Warp-Weighted Loom Classes at Vesterheim, July 2013

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By Melba Granlund

The Warp-weighted Loom

Based on finds in ancient burial sites in the Palestine city of Jericho, it has been estimated that the warp-weighted loom dates back 9,000 years – or to the seventh millennium BC. As such, it is the oldest type of loom and, remarkably, remains in use even today. No one has ascertained the exact location where the warp-weighted loom was first developed, but evidence of its use is widespread across Europe, Asia Minor, and Scandinavia, as far north as the Arctic Circle.

Sketch by Kay Larson

It’s my guess that the simplicity of the loom construction, and the ease with which it can be moved from place to place, are the reasons why it has survived so long. The warp-weighted loom consists of two vertical uprights, a horizontal warp beam, a shed rod, a heddle rod and weights. Warp threads are held parallel under tension by being tied in small bundles to weights made from either stone, round rings of fired clay, or metal. In Norway, soapstone was often used. A spacing cord is used to keep the threads in order, half of which are positioned through string heddles attached to the heddle rod, enabling the weaver to create two sheds for the weaving process. More complex patterns and weave structures such as krokbragd, rosepath, boundweave, and twill are also possible with the use of additional heddles or by finger-picking additional sheds.

Because of my love for all things old, I have long wanted to try my hand at using one of these looms. My opportunity came this summer at Vesterheim. Vesterheim staff invited Marta Kløve Juuhl to come from Norway and teach two warp-weighted loom classes, held during the two weeks prior to the annual Nordic Fest. The first class wove a Sami grene (blanket) using handspun wool in natural colors. In the second class, students chose between two weaving techniques – one, a western Norwegian åkle using traditional colors of ryegarn, and the other, a rya, “the Viking way.” As it turned out, I was able to be a student in both classes. In the second class I chose the western Norwegian åkle.

Marta taught classes twice before at Vesterheim. Among other projects, Marta currently teaches warp-weighted loom weaving at the Østerøy Museum in Norway. She describes her life as that which revolves around weaving, as that is all she does. Her dedication to, and knowledge of, weaving was obvious from the start. Marta’s easy-going and caring nature made the experience a joy for everyone. She could trouble-shoot any problem and anticipated when you were going to have a problem even before it happened. If you made an error, she showed you how to correct it and did so in a nurturing manner. She is one of those teachers you will always remember with fondness and gratitude.

: Marta Kløve Juuhl winding a header (Photo: Robbie LaFleur)

Sami Grene

Instruction in the first class began by learning about the Sami tradition of grene weaving, which is still being practiced today by women in Finnmark, the northernmost region of Norway. Those familiar with Sami band weaving and Sami folk dress may think that all Sami clothing is adorned with brilliant colors of red, yellow, and blue. Not so. We learned the Sami people are currently wearing more clothing in natural colors, and not as many multi-colored garments as in the past. This was also true of the grene, where only natural colored wool is used. Marta’s sample grene piece was made from luxurious Norwegian sheep wool, handspun by a Sami woman from Finnmark. The wool was not from the Norwegian Spelsau sheep, but from a Norwegian ”white” sheep, which according to Marta is now more common in Norway. Marta arranged for us to order this same lovely handspun wool, and she brought over 70 skeins for the class. The grene incorporates three separate qualities or weights of wool – a different weight each for the header, the warp yarn and the weft yarn – each spun in a different technique, either for strength or loft. The yarn is truly distinctive, and is not available at any Husflid in Norway (trust me, I know, because I tried to find it). While some class members chose to bring their own handspun, we all used wool in the natural colors of the sheep: white, grey, or natural black. One student even brought her own loom to the grene class, homemade following a picture she had seen in a children’s book.

A variety of natural sheep colors in the student pieces (Photo: Melba Granlund)

The Sami grene begins with a header or narrow band woven in a checkerboard pattern using a small heddle. Extensions of the weft threads from the header are used for the warp threads. The header band with lengthy warp threads is lashed onto the top warp beam, and then the warp threads are arranged to create two sheds using a series of string heddles and a finger-crocheted spacing chain to keep them in order.

Sami grene header (Photo: Melba Granlund)

The header is lashed to the loom (Photo: Melba Granlund)

Typical Sami pattern designs were depicted for us in the sample piece Marta had woven for the class and in the references provided in the Østerøy Museum booklet, Oppstadveven. In addition, we viewed a Sami grene on display in the Sami collection at the Vesterheim Museum.

Grene owned by Vesterheim (Photo: Vesterheim staff)

Weft yarn for the grene was made up into large butterflies called “udoos.” As you can imagine, there were a lot of jokes flying about using, and abusing, that term. As weaving progressed, the weft threads were eased into place by grasping and pulling apart the loose warp threads below, snapping the weft threads upward into position.

Western Norway Åklæ

We began the åkle with a twisted cord as the header, made from four strands of the same yarn to be used in the åkle (red, blue, green, gold). The twisted cord is lashed to the top beam of the loom. Warp threads are then inserted through the header at so many threads per centimeter, attached to weights, arranged in string heddles, and finally connected by a spacing chain to keep them in order, similar to that done for the grene. Weft yarns were bundled up in “udoos” the same as for the grene, and as weaving progressed, rows of weft threads were beaten into position using a weaving sword made of wood or bone. As an alternative, you could pull apart the warp threads to snap the weft yarn into place, as we did with the grene. At the edges, we used the western Norway technique of carrying the yarn at the selvedge rather than cutting the yarn with each color change. This creates a thicker edge, different from other weaving.

Students chose their own weaving patterns. My inspiration came from an åkle in the Vesterheim collection which is depicted in Kay Larsen’s book, The Woven Coverlets of Norway. I decided to incorporate as many krokbragd patterns as I could find depicting crosses, as well as tapestry techniques including rutevev and Vestfoldmett. As an experimental color study, two other students decided to weave the same band patterns, but using different colors.

Curator Laurann Gilbertson inspired students with coverlets from the Vesterheim collection.

Five students wove ryas. One rya weaver, who brought her own loom and planned to weave fabric to use in Viking reenactments, chose to weave a twill requiring four sheds. She explained that twill fabric has been found dating back to the late Bronze Age in Denmark.

For use as a Viking-era shawl, Elizabeth Christianson wove a rya with a twill base. (Photo: Melba Granlund)

Lessons Learned

Much to my surprise, while I thought I would not be able to tolerate standing all day at the loom, it came easy — I found it easier than sitting at a floor loom all day long. Another thing that became apparent to me is that I spend a lot of time trying to make a decision about which patterns to choose, as there are so many beautiful ones from which to pick.

Probably the most important thing I discovered, however, was that when using a warp-weighted loom, be sure you have enough rocks! It became obvious about halfway through my first project that my grene was doomed to fail due to the lack of enough rocks and the inconsistency in their sizes. There weren’t enough rocks for everyone in the class, and the stones varied in weight widely. The inconsistent/inadequate warp string bundles caused my piece to draw in severely toward the center, as there was more weight there than on the outside warp threads. I considered repositioning the heavy rocks to the outside, but decided that that might just have caused warp thread draw-in at a different area, or cause the piece to be tweaked or stretched to one side and make it more difficult to keep an even beat and straight lines. So I left them as they were, which was probably a mistake. I tried to compensate by leaving 3-4 inches of extra weft thread at each selvedge in each row, which was then needled into position towards the middle, trying to force the warp threads further apart. While that helped, it was not sufficient to solve the problem completely. Oh, well, it’s just a practice piece, I told myself. Next time, I will devote more attention to this part of the set up. Thankfully, I did not have this problem in the second class as more weights were found for all the looms, including weights in the form of water bottles. In retrospect, I probably should have done something similar for my grene.

Even, successful distribution of rocks in the second class (Photo: Melba Granlund)

At the end of these classes, many of us had fallen in love with this type of loom, and if we didn’t already have one, we wanted one and were looking for ways to acquire one, either by outright purchase or having one built. I’m still working on that part, as my åkle isn’t done and needs to get back on a loom to be finished. Even if my piece were done, I know that I will definitely be doing more weaving on this “way-back machine” called a warp-weighted loom.

REFERENCES

By og Bygd 1983, Norsk Folkemuseums Årbok: Paper by Elsa E. Gudjonson, “Nogle Bemærkninger om den Islandske Wægtvev, vestadur.”
Hansen, Egon H. Opstadvæv Før og Nu. København, Denmark: Teamcos forlag, (1978)
Hoffman, Marta. Fra Fiber til Tøy. Oslo, Norway: Landbruksforlaget A/S, 1991.
Hoffman, Marta. The Warp-Weighted Loom. Robin and Russ Handweavers, 1964.
Kåstad, Anna Østerbø. Oppstadveven. Østeroy Museum, 2000.
Sundt, Eilert. Om Husfliden i Norge. Oslo, Norway: Gyldendal, 1975.

By Melba Granlund

melba.granlund (at) gmail.com

Visiting the Vesterheim Collection: A Båtrya

By Jan Mostrom

The most recent rya collected by Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum in Decorah, Iowa is a båtrye (boat rya) made by Nikoline Indreberg about 1890 in Skodje, Sunnemøre, Norway for her new husband Ole Indreberg. Ole was traveling back and forth by boat to Lødingen in Lofoten from Skodje to build houses on the island and no doubt the rya provided warmth and safety for his sea journeys. After Ole’s death in 1898, Nikoline and her children Else and Petter traveled about 15 miles by foot to Spjelkavi where they settled. The rya was one of the few belongings they brought with them on their trek.

Vesterheim rya (Photo: Vesterheim staff)

Petter eventually immigrated to Seattle but was not able to convince his sister Else to come to America. Else’s granddaughter brought the rya with her when she immigrated in the United States in 1978 and it was one of her most cherished possessions. Else Bigton donated the rya to Vesterheim in 2010 in memory of Else Indreberg Spjelkavik.

The pile side of the båtrya is made up of rows of evenly dispersed knots of white and brown heavy yarn in a somewhat random pattern. At first glance you may not notice the many rag strips that are included in the knots. There are frequent strips of dark brown/green twill which blends well with the brown yarn. When you look closely you will notice surprising pieces of homespun plaids in rust, green, purple and white and cottons in light blue, pink, black, navy, white and red. It made me wonder if these scraps could have been from Nikoline or Else’s dresses or Petter’s jacket.

(Photo: Robbie LaFleur)

The knots are closely set across a row with the knots being made around two warp threads and create a pile that is about 1 ¾ inches long. The rows of knots are a scant 1” apart.

The rya is made up of two sections sewn together. The warp in the backing is of thin white and red wool sett at about 32-33 epi. This close sett creates a warp face fabric on the side opposite the knots and the knots do not show. Because this is a 1 / 2 twill the weft shows on the side with the knots. The weft appears to be an off white 2 ply cotton. The warp stripe repeat is made up of 24 white, 6 red, 24 white, 4 red, 4 white, 4 red, 5 white, 27 alternating red and white, 6 white, 27 alternating red and white, 5 white, 4 red, 4 white, and 4 red ends. This is repeated across the warp so that there are 6 repeats and continues in a partial repeat to the 6 white warps between the alternating warp stripe pair. At that edge several warps were added so that the seam can be made with that center stripe remaining at 6 threads.

Vesterheim Rya back. (Photo: Robbie LaFleur)

The rya is hemmed at both ends with a rolled to the pile side hem that is very neatly sewn with a red thread that creates a line on the non-pile side of the rya but does not show on the reverse. The finished size of the rya is 63.25 inches in length and 56.75 inches in width.

Click here for a pdf version of the draft.

Additional information and photos can be found on the Vesterheim website: Identification # 2010.008.001.

Also, visits to study textiles in the collection can be arranged by contacting Laurann Gilbertson; lgilbertson (at) vesterheim.org, or 563-382-9681.

Jan Mostrom began a long love for Norwegian weaving in a class at Luther College taught by Lila Nelson.

janmostrom (at) yahoo.com

Varafeldur: An Icelandic Rya Reconstruction

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By Marta Kløve Juuhl

This is a norrøn vararfeldur, the closest you can come to a rya in the Viking period. In Norwegian it’s called a gråfell (grey fleece).

It was woven in Iceland in November, 2010 by Hildur Hakonardottir from Iceland, Elizabeth Johnston from Shetland, and me. It is the first gråfell which has been made for more than 1000 years.

It is told in Snorre, the Norwegian kongesaga (king saga), that our king Harald Gråfell was in Hardanger with his men one summer (this must be just before year 1000), and there came an Icelandic ship loaded with vararfeldur which people did not want to buy. They gave one to the king, and he started wearing it. Suddenly the Icelanders got rid of all their gråfellar, and the king got his name. At that time this was a big export from Iceland, before the vadmål took over. In fact vadmål became a trade item later on.

Concerning our weaving, it all started in the summer of 2010. We had a class with weaving on a warp weighted loom at Osterøy museum where I work. Both Hildur and Elizabeth attended that class, among many other students, and I was the teacher. They set up a loom with vadmål.

During that week we found that the three of us had so much in common that we wanted to continue the work with this loom. So before they left we decided to meet in Iceland in November.

When we arrived at Hildur’s house at Selfoss, she had decided that we should try to set up a vararfeldur, which she had read about in the Icelandic legal text, Grågås. There it was strictly regulated how it should be made, 4 ells long and 2 ells wide and 13 knots with wool in each row. Hildur had also read somewhere about the technique, and from that we chose tabby.

Hildur Håkonardottir in Iceland. (Photo courtesy of Marta Kløve Juuhl)

The warp is white 2-‐ply yarn, double, and the weft is also double two-ply yarn, grey. We picked the yarn from what we thought would be the best quality for this. My experience from weaving åkle helped finding the weight of the stones for each thread. Hildur obtained some grey fleece; in fact we needed fleece from three sheep to finish this one. We used long fibres, only dekkhår. It took a long time to take away the underwool with carders.

In 2012 Hildur and Elizabeth came to Bergen and we set up a loom at the museum with Norwegian yarn (Hoelfeldt Lund strikkegarn) and wool from spelsau in Osterøy. So this vararfeldur is black and brown, very beautiful. We demonstrated weaving at the Osteroy Museum and at the Bjørgvin Viking market at Hordamuseet. This time we tied the knots in front of the loom. We decided that was best for demonstration purposes. It worked quite well, but we had to put an extra string across the piece to keep the wool away. It’s faster to weave with the knots on the back side.

The rya woven at Osterøy museum (Photo courtesy of Marta Kløve Juuhl)

In 2014 we hope to publish a book on the technique, written in a way that everybody can read it and use it when they want to set up a warp weighted loom.

A course was held at Osterøy Museum, where the varafeldur was used as inspiration. (Photo courtesy of Marta Kløve Juuhl)

Marta Kløve Juuhl taught weaving in the Norwegian Husflidsskole system for many years. She now works part-time at Østerøy museum, primarily with textiles, and also in her private studio. Her current commissions include bands for bunads and wall hangings for churches.