Weaving as a "window"

With snow blanketing our region and freezing temps shortening my walks, I took some “free time” to look through photos of past “day trips.” One caught my eye—a carpet designed by Faig Ahmed. The accompanying label noted that Ahmed sketches his ideas on a computer, transfers them to paper, and then sends the drawings to carpet weavers in his homeland, Azerbaijan. There, weavers, using centuries-old “secret” techniques, transform his designs into tangible pieces of art.

As my eyes turned from the text back to the carpet, a sense of incredulousness overwhelmed me. Had this piece really been done on a loom? I took a closer look. Yes! The design was just a “bunch of threads” woven together in a manner that, to the viewer, looked “flowing.” ​

NB: Enlarging the photo will give you a better sense of the “fluidity.”

As I snapped a photo, a flashback “hit” me! I “saw” Penelope at her loom in Ithaca. Once again, I marveled at how I could see something in this 21st century world, admire it, and, in one quick second, find my mind hurtling to a place thousands of miles away and often millennia back in time. But…my blog theme is “Maine, Window to the World,” and I was at the Currier Museum in New Hampshire. Then, I remembered another “day trip”—to Alna, a small town just north of Wiscasset. There, in the 1789 Meetinghouse, the covers on the foot pedals of an old wooden organ had caught my eye.

I “flipped” through my photos. “Found it!”—two organ pedals, each covered in needlepoint. To be sure, time and footwork had taken their toll on both, but the artfully woven designs were still visible. So, let the “window view” for this blog be the art of weaving…

First, let’s meet Penelope—the distraught wife and queen who used threads to ease a difficult situation. When is uncertain, perhaps the 1180s BC. Where is a definite known, the island of Ithaca off the coast of Greece. But, truth be told—both time and place are unknowns, as many believe the tale is mythic lore, recounted by Homer in his epic poem the Odyssey.

The ancient Greeks knew the tale well. In the Odyssey, Penelope sits at her loom, weaving by day and unweaving by night. Her husband, Odysseus, ruler of Ithaca, has been gone well over 10 years. He, along with many other Greeks, had answered a plea for help from Menelaus, ruler of Sparta. The Trojan prince Paris had taken Menelaus’s wife Helen to Troy. Whether she went willingly or unwillingly is not for this blog to answer. Who knows—the ancients asked the same question.

The war was brutal and deadly, but, finally, the Greeks declared victory. Penelope rejoiced when she heard the news. Her joy, however, turned to sorrow as the years passed with no word of Odysseus.

Penelope knew that she would have to remarry, as custom dictated that kingdoms be ruled men. When suitors began arriving and taking up residence in the palace, she knew delay was her only weapon. So, armed with a plan, she approached the suitors and announced that she would choose a husband when she finished the tapestry she was weaving.

As in all tales, just when the heroine reaches that “lowest point,” fate—or, as the Greeks would say, the gods—intervene. Odysseus has returned, but the gods have disguised him as a beggar and given him a “history”: He was once a high-ranking Cretan who had entertained Odysseus at his home. Penelope meets with him, for she must hear about her dear husband. When she does, the gods “weaken” her guard, and she finds herself telling him of her weaving ruse and the upcoming bow contest. When Odysseus hears of the contest, he forms his own plan. Still dressed as a beggar, he approaches the suitors and asks to participate in the contest. They laugh at his audacity. “Why not, old man!” they shout. Their laughter turns to astonishment when Odysseus effortlessly pulls the bowstring and shoots an arrow through the axe heads.

Panic follows as Odysseus, with the help of the gods, his son, and faithful servants to whom he had revealed himself earlier, rid the palace of all the suitors.

Penelope hears of the slaughter and wonders: Could this beggar be her husband? Perhaps, but she needs proof. Odysseus offers it—a marriage secret that only the two of them know. Ithaca once again has its rightful king—and queen—thanks, in part, to weaving!

PS: The marriage secret is their marriage bed. Odysseus had built the bed out of a living rooted olive tree, so it cannot move.

So, while Maine is “my window to the world” and will continue to be, this blog has shown me that any place can be a “window to the world” and that the similarities we share with our fellow humans far surpass the differences.

Join us next time when Maine—Window to World trains its lens on another part of the world. Comments are welcome: rosalie@ivycloseimages.com

The ancients told of a girl named Arachne, who lived in what is modern-day Turkey and was known for her loom designs. One day, while walking in town, she heard some townsfolk crediting the goddess Athena with helping her. Incensed, Arachne retorted: “My weaves are mine and mine alone! Should Athena wish to challenge me, I wager I would win!”

“How ridiculous!” thinks Athena —for the deities know and see all! “I must meet this impudent weaver!” Taking on the identity of an old woman, Athena enters Arachne’s “studio.” “What truly beautiful work, my dear! Surely the gods, especially Athena, favor you!” “This is MY work, and mine alone,” Arachne yells!

Athena drops her disguise and challenges Arachne to a contest. Stunned but still arrogant, Arachne sits down at her loom. Athena takes her place at another loom. Athena weaves a “heavenly” scene, honoring her fellow deities. Arachne does the opposite and uses her threads to ridicule the gods. Incensed at such impudence, Athena smashes Arachne’s loom. Despair overwhelms Arachne, and she takes her own life. “No,’ cries Athena. “I should not have let emotions get the better of me. I must honor this weaver, for she truly was a master at the art!”

Using her divine powers, Athena transforms Arachne’s lifeless body into a spider, whose descendants will inherit her masterful skill at weaving.

NB: In 1801, the class of anthropods known as spiders was formally assigned the name Arachnida, in honor of Arachne.