From our homes in Ann Arbor & Athens to yours… where ever you may be… wishing you a happy and spooky Halloween!
Did you happen to catch Tami’s stunning floral arrangement in the new November issue of House Beautiful?
Here’s what she had to say about it…. “I was inspired by the warm golden hues of autumn here in the South. I used dried cardoon pods that I grew from seeds collected from Monticello, feather-light dried hydrangea, curly kiwi vine, cotton bolls plucked from a field in Georgia, and gourds cut from the vine – all nestled in a brass vessel.”
I’ve always known that it’s Tami’s gathered approach to both floral and interior design that make her work so storied. At CLOTH & KIND, our goal is always to mix old with new and to curate the most interesting mix of pieces to fill a space that will tell the story of its homeowners. What a wonderful example this floral arrangement is of that exact notion.
ABOUT | Aside from being one of my best friends on this planet, Rasheena Taub is a woman who has a profound way with words and rich understanding of the human spirit. In her first guest post on CLOTH & KIND, she shares the story and images of her recent trip to Peru and the loving art of creating mantas textiles by hand, hecho a mano. This fall, Rasheena will launch Kickstand Collections, an online resource for parents seeking more personalized collections of children’s books and souvenirs.
I blame the elevation for my oversight in grabbing water bottles “con gas” at a small market on our way from the Cusco airport to the Sacred Valley. My nine year-old, who was newly exposed to Sprite, delighted in hydrating with a bit of bubbly. Our tour guide seemed less pleased. After twisting his bottle’s plastic cap off, he poured a healthy sip onto the ground. But then he chugged the rest. “Does it taste ok?” I questioned before committing to mine. “Si. That was for Pachamama.”
It turns out Spanish was not the native language of indigenous Peruvians – Quechua is. And in this ancestral language, Pachamama means “Mother World” or, as we know her, “Mother Earth.” Daily worship of their goddess of harvest and fertility includes this ritual of spilling a small amount of one’s drink onto the floor before drinking the rest — a personal gesture of gratitude directed at feeding and giving back to the land that takes care of us. I tried not to think about our water bottles piling up in some landfill.
In the small town of Chinchero where we stopped en route to the Sacred Valley, we learned just how Pachamama and the Peruvians take care of each other. Sundays usher in busloads of tourists to experience the market, but this weekday afternoon our van was the sole vehicle in sight. We felt transported into a centuries-old way of living. Free from tourists, the town itself resembled an unoccupied Epcot country with souvenirs lining storefronts on the cobblestone road. Our tour guide led us to the front door of a local family. When no one answered his repeated knocking, he turned around and tried the neighbor’s house. A wooden arrow overhead had the words “Ayni Ayllu” painted onto it. We lucked upon a cooperative of women who thread traditional culture into their goods and weave their way into the modern world of commerce.
A man, disrupted from siesta, descended from an upstairs room and greeted us. He then swiftly left us in the care of two women who welcomed us into their courtyard. In its center stood a working loom. As a writer, I am drawn to storytellers. These women understood their history and the importance of it, and they sought to preserve it by mentoring their children and educating tourists like us. They were also artisans, taking great pride in their handiwork and personal expressions of an ancient Andean art. A girl my seven year-old son’s age quietly fed guinea pigs while her mother set up a display of wicker bowls that held her show-and-tell. We were invited to learn how their most important textiles, mantas, are made. Symbolic and functional, mantas are the long weavings that women wear on their backs to carry babies and items such as food. Distinctions in pattern and color identify the community in which it is created.
Did I mention yet that Chinchero perches at 9,000 feet? We sipped coca tea and staved off altitude sickness while the women washed dirty sheep’s and alpaca’s wool with soap made from the root of a local plant. This natural detergent is also used as shampoo for their long, braided hair. Lack of oxygen may have something to do with my imagining these women in a detergent commercial where their strands of glistening white wool triumph alongside the unnamed leading detergent and an article of clothing still visibly stained.
My children loved the next step, which involved spinning the wool into yarn on small toy-like drop-spindles. We’d see women around town that afternoon multi-task as women are prone to do: conversing, walking and spinning wool. In retrospect, I’m not sure how I thought color thread was created in this remote region. Again, they turn to the earth for resources. Hand-gathered natural ingredients such as leaves, corn, flowers, sticks and seeds produce different hues for the dyes. Salt and lemon alter the shades of colors drastically. Even cochineal, a small beetle that lives on the local pear cactus, is crushed to create a red dye. This same pigment adorns women’s lips and cheeks as make-up.
The women boiled water in large, Strega Nona-like vessels and then added the desired dyes. They dipped single-ply yarn into the pots for varying lengths of time. The longer the thread soaked in the dye, the more intense its color. My kids grew bored of the demonstration. My husband refocused them on the tables of mantas, sweaters, dolls and pouches for purchase. He knows me well enough to know that I was staying put for as long as they’d have me.
The gorgeous yarns then had to be rinsed and hung to dry, all before being spun again to create thicker ply for weaving. Thankfully, balls of yarn crowded a woven basket near the working loom. We were good to go (not out the door, but toward the loom!). My son remarked that the simple loom, with its two upright poles and cross bar, resembled the top half of a field goal. He was right to be thinking of sports, since the two women tossed the yarn back and forth to thread the loom, creating a reversible textile.
A weaver’s story, though, is told in most detail on an individual loom. Designs depicting natural elements such as rivers or mountains, stripes of varying thickness and color, and even animal figures emerge from the weaver’s mind. During Incan times, textiles commemorated personal milestones and peaceful offerings while representing basic beliefs and values of their makers. Even now, hundreds of years later, you get the sense that whatever a woman is feeling – whether longing or love or loss, she is expressing this through her choice of color and is identifying with Pachamama’s serenity, strength and survival.
On the afternoon we spent in Chinchero, women gathered to weave in the town’s center and on a patch of grass beside the cobblestone road. Some removed their shoes, made out of recycled tires, and used their toes to hold the yarn. Others worked dutifully on backstrap looms designed for individual use. I envied these creative women for having their community within arm’s reach. Mine is dependent on email, phone calls and care packages. I missed my girlfriends, the ones who value the importance of making something with your hands, who turn hardship into something artful and beautiful, who own their power and use it for a greater good, who get that once you share your story, your few drops of water on the ground, you share yourself with the world, and in doing so, you are sustaining it.
IMAGE CREDITS | All photographs taken by Rasheena Taub.
I grew up on the beach in South Carolina in an L-shaped modern house with a pool in the front yard and the ocean only a hundred feet or so off my back patio. Many of my earliest memories are of the natural landscape, of the sea oats that stood like bastions on the edge of my back yard, anchoring the sand dunes from washing away due to the daily high tides. I grew to love the vibrant hues of the coastal flora and fauna, the colorful natives along with many of the flashy potted patio varieties. Now, twenty three years later as a transplant in Georgia, my own garden is as lush a tropical display as Zone 8 will allow. On numerous occasions I have plucked plants from the sandy soil of my mother’s garden in Pawleys Island, South Carolina in hopes that I can push the boundaries of suitable conditions in which to propagate certain species of plants (lots of luck with the loquat, no luck with the hibiscus). The bottom line is, I want a verdant and colorful garden in the summer months and have created a landscape that allows for that. To that end, I have planted varieties of plants that are showy in color or form, ideally both.
The canna tropicanna and equisetum hyemale featured above are two of my favorites, always garden stunners. The bright orange flash of the canna tropicanna flowers are truly exotic and coupled with their yellow and chartreuse striped foliage, are showstoppers. Although the equisetum hyemale is notoriously an aggressive spreader due to creeping rhizomes, I willingly plant it just to have access to those sculptural evergreen, bamboo-ish black banded stems. Plus I love that equisetum is the sole survivor in a class of prehistoric vascular plants dating back 350 million years, and due to its high silica content, was commonly used by early Americans for scrubbing pots and pans, thus came to be known as scouring rush. It’s like having a dinosaur in the garden who can do the dishes.
Fresh cut and paired together in a low and curved vase, I delight in the bright hues and textures of these garden beauties. What’s growing in your garden lately?
IMAGE CREDITS | Floral arrangement & photography by Tami Ramsay of CLOTH & KIND