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The Guardian
11 hours ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Poem of the week: The Song of Arachnid by Gillian Allnutt
The Song of Arachnid Webs are small and spacious as simplicity, See-through as a summer's day, old-fashioned as A slip of butter-muslin, girlhood's own, or A cotton hanky. We are poor predators, love to catch the light As it falls from the air, invaluable as What is not yet born, an acrobatic dot And carry one. It's Our Arachnid, ancestor, mother of all Of us, mother of gorm and of gormlessness Among women. Humble herself in origin, Hard she works through us. Nothing can cut the umbilical cord that Calls us back to her, her bellyful of thread Paid out and yet perpetual, her silken Sac where we began. She is alone, outwith the worn orb web of The world. She's woven into the wherewithal Of her own imagination, her mantle Of maternity. She is alone and she is loved among, as No-one else in all her anonymity. One foot on the mountain, one foot on the web's Her way, as she says. The legend of the weaving contest between the goddess Minerva (Pallas Athene) and the humbly born Arachne, is told by Ovid in Metamorphoses. The goddess is infuriated by Arachne's ingratitude for her talent, and horrified by the scenes of un-godly behaviour her magnificent weaving depicts. After Minerva has ripped up Arachne's work and beaten her with her shuttle, Arachne slips a noose around her neck. Minerva spares her life, but Arachne doesn't avoid punishment: 'Her whole body became tiny. Her slender fingers stuck to her sides as legs, the rest is belly, from which she still spins a thread, and, as a spider, still spins her ancient web.' In this week's poem, from Gillian Allnutt's new collection, Lode, Arachne becomes Arachnid, mother-spider and deified leader of her tribe. The ode that crowns Arachnid's annual festival offers the tribe's gratitude 'to her and to their own being in her', Allnutt's endnote tells us. Ovid's Arachne was rude and scornful about old age when Minerva appeared to her disguised as a grey-haired woman with a stick. Allnutt's poem doesn't only transform Arachne; it hands power to the singer-speaker, an elder of the tribe. Celebrating Arachnid's power, she affirms her own. Allnutt, who describes herself as a cultural Christian rather than a Christian poet, brings traces of Christian theology into her feminist and matriarchal narrative. Arachne's redemption is through humility, signalled in a delicately homely first stanza: 'Webs are small and spacious as simplicity / See-through as a summer's day, old-fashioned as / A slip of butter-muslin, girlhood's own.' 'Webs' (importantly plural) represent simplicity, openness, respect for tradition. Once defiant in the self-assertion of young genius, Arachne/Arachnid is restored by her spider-smallness to her true imaginative resources. Imperfection is admitted. Spiders are 'poor predators [who] love to catch the light / As it falls from the air': like all life-forms, they're devourers. Perhaps they're especially like artists and writers in seeing their prey not as meat but as moving light. The winged creatures such arachnids trap become their means of self-creation, the wonders of addition: 'What is not yet born, an acrobatic dot / And carry one.' Arachnid is always reborn, always mother. Her celebrant utters a gasp of thrilled discovery in the enjambment of verses two and three: 'It's // Our Arachnid.' Certain phrases in verse three evoke the rhythmic murmur of the prayer, Hail, Mary. But Allnutt's goddess is wonderfully, humorously, earthed. She's no 'Mother of God'. As 'ancestor, mother of all / Of us' Arachnid is also 'mother of gorm and gormlessness / Among women.' 'Gorm' may be a northern dialect word for 'understanding'. Understanding, of a deep, grainy, common-sense kind, is what registers in the poem. Its opposite, the more familiar 'gormlessness', is the less ideal aspect of 'simplicity'. Its use echoes the poem's refusal of unthinking praise – the kind of praise Minerva expected from Arachne. The children of the spider-goddess are imperfect, too. But they are still the offspring of a divine mother, the 'worn orb web' of earth, yet 'woven into the wherewithal / Of her own imagination, her mantle / Of maternity.' Allnutt refreshes her diction with inventive interweavings: little grammatical 'reversals' such as 'Hard she works through us' and words with an antique patina: 'silken', 'mantle', 'outwith', 'wherewithal'. Her alliterative music is a mnemonic web that reminds us that the tribal song lives by its orality. There are often whispers of end-rhyme. The tiny versatile spider of the word 'as' recurs in verses one, two and six, signalling resemblance, duration and motion – the thread that is 'paid out and yet perpetual'. In the last stanza, antithesis arrives at a more intriguing synthesis. The spider-goddess is 'alone and [she is ] loved among, as / No-one else in all her anonymity.' The quality of being 'among' others and 'anonymous' – but unique – becomes a specific tribute in the line, 'One foot on the mountain, one foot on the web's / Her way'. The reference is to Lilian Mohin's 1979 anthology of British feminist poetry, One Foot on the Mountain. A poetry anthology is an apt symbol of collectivism and individuality. And this particular anthology importantly 'mothered' the art and politics of its female contributors. Lilian Mohin is remembered here by Cherry Potts, who in turn went on to found the Arachne Press. Celebrating these poetic Mothers and their work, The Song of Arachnid presents the ecology of a feminised, maternally attentive cosmos in which weaving and mountaineering can both be 'her way' and its generous, ecofeminist vision is enhanced by the celebration of real-life poetic mothers. The Song of Arachnid was written for the Hardwick Park Festival of Minerva.
South China Morning Post
10-06-2025
- South China Morning Post
Taiwan's Truku tribe showcases its culture and traditions – except for facial tattoos
It is April in Hualien, a county on the east coast of Taiwan, and visitors on a Truku tribe experience tour, led by guide Dai Xinzhe, are sweating from the oppressive heat and humidity. We are here to learn more about the Truku people, one of the island's 16 recognised indigenous groups. Misclassified by scholars and academics as part of the Atayal tribe, the Truku were officially recognised in 2004. The tribe have been keepers of traditions, warriors against colonisation and quiet architects of Taiwan's cultural identity. Their history is written in flax fibres, battle scars and the very stones of the mountains they once called home. At the start of the tour, the clothing of the Truku tribe is explained. For them, weaving (pronounced tminun) is a spiritual practice woven into life's milestones. Using hand-spun flax dyed with mountain pigments, women create textiles in five sacred colours: forest green, sunrise red, millet yellow, ancestral black and spirit white; each hue carries meaning. The laborious process, from harvesting flax to operating backstrap looms, can take months to produce a single garment. Traditional tools – warping machines, bamboo clippers and wooden beaters – become extensions of the weaver's body. More than craft, tminun marks a woman's passage to adulthood. Traditionally, mastery of it earned the facial tattoos (ptasan) that symbolised maturity and qualified her for marriage.
Al Jazeera
04-06-2025
- Business
- Al Jazeera
‘The epitome of slow fashion': Tweed's youthful makeover in Scotland
'When you see tweed on the runway, you don't expect it to come from here,' joked 38-year-old former banker Alexander MacLeod as he set up his loom in a converted barn on the shores of a Scottish loch. MacLeod became a weaver two years ago, joining residents on the islands of Lewis and Harris, off Scotland's north-west coast, in helping to rejuvenate the tweed industry after a significant period of decline. 'It's a good thing to keep the tradition going.' Tweed is a symbol of Scottish heritage and has 'always been part of the culture' on the Outer Hebrides, added MacLeod, who hails from the island of Scalpay, which is connected to Harris by a bridge. It is now 'an attractive sector to be in', he said. He left the Hebrides for seven years to work in banking, but the pull of his roots proved too strong. During the day, MacLeod now works for a small local cosmetics company. In the evenings, he puts on a podcast and patiently begins to weave. Only the steady hum of his machine disturbs the calm of the old stone barn. Harris Tweed, traditionally made from 100 percent wool, is the only fabric protected by a 1993 Act of Parliament. It must be 'handwoven by the islanders at their homes in the Outer Hebrides, finished in the Outer Hebrides, and made from pure new wool dyed and spun in the Outer Hebrides'. The weaver spoke of his 'satisfaction' once the tweed is finished. The tweed, once associated with the British aristocracy, goes to the spinning mill for a quality control check, where the slightest flaw is flagged up. Finally, it receives the precious 'Harris Tweed' stamp – a globe topped with a cross – certifying the fabric's provenance and authenticity, issued by the Harris Tweed Authority (HTA). The tweed then leaves the island for procurement by discerning companies abroad, including luxury brands such as Christian Dior, Chanel, and Gucci. Several trainer brands, such as Nike, New Balance, and Converse, have also used it for limited edition products. The traditional staples are jackets, caps, and bags, but the fabric can also be used for furniture. There are 140 weavers, according to the HTA, which launched a recruitment campaign in 2023 and offered workshops to learn the trade following a wave of retirements. This know-how, often passed down from generation to generation, is now being nurtured by a different profile of weaver. 'It's nice to see younger people coming in,' said Kelly MacDonald, director of operations at the HTA. 'When I joined the industry 22 years ago, there was a severe period of decline. I was wondering: 'Is there going to be an industry any more?'' But the industry is now enjoying a 'resurgence' and 'significant growth', with more than 580,000 metres of tweed produced in 2024. 'We are always looking at new markets,' she said, and tweed is now exported to South Korea, Japan, Germany, France and other countries. It is no longer dependent on the US market, as it once was, and should be largely shielded from the tariffs imposed by President Donald Trump. Tweed has 'modernised', said Cameron MacArthur, who works at Carloway Mill, one of the three spinning mills in the west of the Isle of Lewis. He is only 29, but has already worked there for 12 years. The mill, with its large machines, looks as if it has not changed for decades. But MacArthur has seen it evolve to embrace a younger workforce and newer fabrics, meaning it is no longer just the ultra-classic Prince of Wales checks or dark colours that are on offer. 'Nowadays, we're allowed to make up our own colours … and we're just doing different things with it, modernising it, making it brighter,' he said, showing off rolls of turquoise blue and fuchsia pink. 'We're so busy … it never used to be like that,' he said, adding that he was 'proud' to be working with the local product. MacDonald said tweed was an antidote to environmentally unfriendly 'fast fashion'. 'How nice to own a product where you can actually look on a map to a tiny island and say, 'That's where my jacket was made.' That's so rare now, and I think people really engaged with that,' he said. 'Every stage of the production has to happen here, but from start to finish, it is a really long process. We are the epitome of slow fashion.'
The Guardian
02-06-2025
- Business
- The Guardian
Making weaves: the resurgence in Harris tweed production
Alexander MacLeod, a Harris tweed weaver, outside an atelier at his home on the island of Scalpay in the Outer Hebrides Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images 'When you see tweed on the catwalks, you'd never think it came from here,' says MacLeod, 38, a former banker Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images A weaving loom with an under-weaving Harris tweed cloth. Traditionally made from 100% wool, Harris tweed is protected by a 1993 act of parliament. It must be 'handwoven by the islanders at their homes in the Outer Hebrides, finished in the Outer Hebrides, and made from pure virgin wool dyed and spun in the Outer Hebrides' Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images MacLeod became a weaver two years ago, contributing, with other residents of the Isles of Lewis and Harris, to the rejuvenation of the tweed industry after a long period of decline. 'It's a good thing to keep the tradition going,' he says Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Weaving tools. Tweed is a symbol of Scottish heritage and has 'always been part of the culture' on the Outer Hebrides, says Macleod, who hails from Scalpay, which is connected to Harris by a bridge Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images It's now 'an attractive sector to be in', MacLeod says. He left the Hebrides for seven years to work in banking but the pull of his roots proved too strong. During the day, MacLeod works for a local cosmetics company. In the evenings, he puts on a podcast, usually about espionage, and patiently begins to weave. Only the steady hum of his machine disturbs the calm of the old stone barn Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images A member of staff at Carloway Mill processes and prepares wool for the weaving of Harris tweed. Carloway is one of three spinning mills in the west of the Isle of Lewis Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images The industry is enjoying a resurgence, with more than 580,000 metres of tweed produced in 2024 Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Luxury brands such as Christian Dior, Chanel and Gucci are among the buyers of Harris tweed, and shoe brands such as Nike, New Balance and Converse have used it for limited-edition products Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images A weaving loom in the Carloway Mill workshop Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Wool to be used in Harris tweed Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Spools of yarn at the mill Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Dyed wool sorted into colours Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Rolls of the final product Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Kelly MacDonald, the operations manager of the Harris Tweed Authority, behind a weaving loom at her office in Stornoway. 'It's nice to see younger people coming in,' she says. 'When I joined the industry 22 years ago, there was a severe period of decline. I was wondering: is there going to be an industry any more?' Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Minnie Hooper, a weaver, at the Harris Tweed Authority building in Stornoway. There are 140 weavers, according to the HTA, which launched a recruitment campaign in 2023 and offered workshops to learn the trade after a wave of retirements Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Minnie Hooper's weaving loom Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Cloth displayed at the Harris Tweed Isle of Harris shop in Tarbert Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Shaun Campbell moves rolls of Harris tweed in the Tarbert shop Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images The Harris tweed stamp, a globe topped with a cross, certifies the fabric's provenance and authenticity and is issued by the Harris Tweed Authority Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Harris tweed stoles for sale in Tarbert Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images Blackface sheep and lambs, whose wool is used in Harris tweed production, grazing on the Isle of Harris Photograph: Andy Buchanan/AFP/Getty Images
Yahoo
01-06-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
I weave coffins for a living. There's an amazing poetry in it
Every time I go into my Devon workshop to begin weaving a coffin, I think about the person it's for, especially if the family has told me about that person's life. Yet, when I wove my first coffin, I had just suffered a devastating loss myself. My sister Anna had died in a bomb explosion in Syria, in 2018. A committed feminist and activist, she had joined the all-women YPJ brigade of the Kurdish Army, who were defending civilians against Islamic State. I have wonderful memories of her on the phone from Syria, singing to my baby daughter, Ava, who was born while Anna was fighting. But there was also the knowledge that because of what had happened, there were no remains or even possessions of Anna's that could be repatriated. There was no physical representation of her to come home. I'd learned to weave in willow when a family friend gifted me a course in 2012, after my mother died from cancer. I was 23 at the time and although our family was very well supported, I was so immersed in my grief, I forgot about the course and only attended the last three days. When I did arrive, I found there was something meditative and healing in the process of willow weaving. It's an amazing combination of precise techniques, intuitive skills and repetitive rhythm and I continued, combining basketry with other jobs. I realised that to make willow weaving work, I could either produce lots of small items for sale, teach the craft – or I could produce something bigger that people would pay more money for. Anna had always had a 'grab life with both hands' attitude and that's what initially propelled me into starting my business, Woven Farewell. As a new mother – Ava was only eight weeks old when Anna died – I knew I needed to put my finances on a firmer footing and in that mumpreneur stage that women sometimes have, I decided to reinvent myself as a coffin-maker. Sometimes I think the universe ushers you towards something unconsciously and the idea of willow coffins resonated; I loved the process of weaving and the sustainability of the product – willow rods come from living trees. I also liked the way that having something personally made for their loved one like this can help a family to process grief. I studied with Jake Whitcroft at Sussex Willow Coffins and, as I started to weave my first coffin, in December 2018, I had baby Ava in a sling on my back. I eventually combined my first four years in business with the early years of motherhood – later, being pregnant with our second baby, Idris, and looking after Ava. When she was very little I'd pop her in one of my completed willow coffins to play with her toys while I worked. I feel there is an amazing poetry in what I do, which encompasses the joy of life, the sadness that accompanies death, the way we grieve and heal and willow trees themselves are part of this process. In a practice that goes back thousands of years to the Neolithic period in 10,000 BC, the rods I use are coppiced in Somerset in winter, when the sap is in the root of the tree but, within a year, the tree has regenerated and comes back stronger than ever. Sophia weaves a coffin: 'There is an amazing poetry in what I do' Along with my colleague, Abi Griffin, who works in the East Midlands, I make two types of sustainable willow coffin. Buff is made from rods which have the bark stripped off after they have been boiled – the bark tannins leach into the water and stain the willow sticks, which are naturally white inside. Brown willow is the technical term for willow which retains its bark. These rods can take up to a week to soak – a vital part of the process which makes them more pliable – which is easier for small producers like us as we don't produce enormous volumes and don't need lots of soaking space. On average I made a coffin every week, and each one takes around 15 to 20 hours to complete. I start with a base board at the bottom, which is usually in the traditional coffin shape, although I also offer the option for a curve at each end. Next, you fix in the uprights and then I use a combination of three well-known weaving techniques; waling, which uses three willow rods at a time, to create a band, and also English and French randing. The uprights get folded over to make the border of the coffin, and the lid is made separately, with a plait around the edge to make the lip, which overhangs the main body of the coffin. As part of the process, I weave in carrying ropes made from European hemp, which are all part of our sustainable practice. Willow coffins may look fragile but ours are all constructed in accordance with criteria set down by the Federation of Burial and Cremation Authorities. They are weight-tested up to 30 stone and lined with biodegradable corn-starch plastic, which breaks down harmlessly in the ground and doesn't give off harmful chemicals during cremation. Inside the coffin, we cover the corn-starch plastic with unbleached calico. While I'm weaving I'll listen to anything from podcasts on politics and history, to Radio 6, but, if the family has told me about their loved one, I'll think about them, too. It's a fine balance between reflecting on the person and not being too emotionally involved but I always feel for a family who has called me, and feel genuinely sorry, even if they tell me the person's death was not unexpected. Perhaps it's because of this I started holding classes where people could come to my workshop, on a farm near Honiton in East Devon, and learn to weave their own coffin or urn, for themselves or a loved one. I do one-to-ones, where I weave a coffin alongside them and I also do group sessions for families or friends. These can be amazing experiences, where people can spend a week fabricating a coffin alongside other like-minded people. During these sessions we have fascinating conversations about the meaning of life and all sorts of people come. I've had florists who want a beautiful coffin to display sympathy flowers, people who are just planning ahead and others who feel it helps with the grieving process to be involved in making a coffin. Some people want to learn how to make them for friends and family and others may be grandparents who come with their children and grandchildren, which can be the most life-affirming thing. The children may help with the weaving and families sometimes bring a picnic to have outside, overlooking the beautiful valley here. It's an amazing space to help children normalise death; to see that people can laugh and cry about it and for it not to be a scary or taboo subject. Of course, I love knowing what they intend to do with these coffins, which will last for many years until the day they are needed and I get some wonderful answers. Some use them as trunks to store linens, some put them under their beds as storage and one family even put glass on top and used the coffin as a coffee table in their living room! The business has gone from strength to strength; I won a Gold Award for the best product at the 2024's Best Businesswoman Awards and best coffin producer at the 2024 Good Funeral Awards. In the future I hope to be able to grow my own willows but, in the meantime, I want to continue to make meaning out of the funeral process because life is too fleeting not to do what we love. See for more information As told to Faith Eckersall Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
