January
Jeg har en anden væv stående, tom. Jeg drømmer om i en ledig stund, at sætte den væv op, kostbar og smuk.
It’s a busy time for me. Right now, among tempests and blizzards, is always the busiest time. Weave cloth, my friend, hurry - or even indoors we will freeze. There is no lack of work and customers now, the shuttle is flying!
I have a second loom. It stands empty. In idle thoughts, I dream of the most beautiful and precious cloth I will weave there.
February
Den anden væv er stadig tom. En skønne dag vil den stå med et strålende klæde.
A fisherman’s coat is never dry. It’s exposed to sun and wind and its very fibers are grown heavy with salt. The Captain of the Tern knocks on the door and comes in. He can hardly see in the smoky darkness. He needs a new overcoat, the salt has eaten away his old one. The sea outside my window is a wooly froth.
The other loom is still empty. One day, I shall weave a glorious cloth upon it.
March
Til minde om det unge mistede ansigt burde mine hænder have vævet gode billeder på den tomme væv.
My yarn supply has dwindled. I have to go to the spinners, as they sit by their fires. The ploughmen are out in the fields, ploughing furrow upon furrow. No one greets me. No one wears a coat. Ploughing is hard work.
In memory of the lost young face, my hands could have woven beautiful images on the empty loom.
April
Jeg kan ikke udholde at være udenfor i april. Det nye lys gør mig fortumlet, de glade lam, grøfterne med deres overflod af påskeliljer, den nytændte forårssol, det glitrende glimt fra havet. Hvor er jeg dog glad for at holde mig inden døre, mens jeg går mellem spind og væv.
Ved påske liljelys kan jeg se en halv snes spindelvæv og gråtonen i mit stof samt den tomme væve i hjørnet.
I can’t stand to be outdoors in April. The new light makes me dizzy - the joyful lambs, the ditches with their abundance of daffodils, the newly lit spring sun, the glittery glimpses of the sea. I’m so happy to stay indoors, keeping busy spinning and weaving.
In the daffodil light, I can see half a dozen spider webs and the grey tones of my cloth, as well as that empty loom in the corner.
May
Et stort skib ankrer op ved øen. Den høje fremmede kaptajn forhører sig hos fiskerne i land. Det er blevet mig fortalt, at du fremstiller meget smukt stof,” siger han. “Engang i min ungdom,” fortæller jeg ham, “vævede jeg andet end gråt klæde.” Men inspirationen forlod mig pludseligt engang for længe siden, jeg væver ikke mere det smukke stof, du har hørt om.”
“Gå ind på kirkegården, på vej tilbage til kysten og dit skib. Der vil du se en sten med navnet Inga af Garth indhugget.” Jeg åbner døren på vid gab. Jeg peger på den tomme væv. “Se der,” siger jeg.
A large ship rests at anchor off the island. The tall, foreign captain asks the fishermen ashore. “I’ve been told that you create the finest cloth,” he says. “Once upon a time, in my youth,” I tell him, “I wove something other than grey cloth. But inspiration suddenly left me long ago; I no longer weave the beautiful cloth you have heard about.”
“Stop by the cemetery on your way back to the coast and your ship. There, you will see a stone engraved with the name Inga of Garth.” I open the door wide. I point at the empty loom. “See that?” I say.
June
Balle efter balle af stof er blevet til i de lange midsommerdage. Jeg stabler ballerne på loftet. Rotterne og møllene har forsynet sig her og der. Tre stofruller er blevet værdiløse. Hvordan skal jeg stå vinteren igennem?
Jeg klatrer ned. Jeg hviler mit hoved på den tomme væv. Jeg drømmer om umulig ubestikkelig skønhed.
Bale upon bale of cloth has come to life over the long midsummer days. I stack the bales up in the loft. Rats and moths have feasted here and there. Three rolls are worthless. How will I make it through the winter?
I crawl down. I rest my head on the empty loom. I dream of an impossible, incorruptible beauty.
July
Denne sommer rammer storme skibe uden søkort og driver dem hid og did uden ror mod skær og klipper. I natten stimler lanterner sammen på klippetoppe og langs kysten.
Jeg drømmer, at min tomme væv er en harpe. En ung konge væver vidunderlig musik på den, og da han er færdig, tager han kappen af sange af væven, slænger den over skuldrene og går ud for at være sammen med prinser og adelsmænd i en stor hall langt borte.
Summer storms strike chartless ships, driving them here and there, rudderless, against reef and crag. At night, lanterns line the cliff tops along the coast.
I dream that my empty loom is a harp. A young king weaves marvelous music on it and when he is finished, he takes his cape of songs off the loom, wrapping it around his shoulders. He leaves to be with princes and nobles in an enormous hall far away.
August
En ung mand er i gang med at klippe Garth’s 20 får. Garths får har god uld. Det er vidunderlig uld - alt for god til bønders og fiskeres arbejdstøj. Jeg gnider en uldtot mellem fingrene. Det er den bedste uld i årevis. “Hvorfor klipper manden på Garth ikke selv sine får,” spørger jeg. “Han er syg,” svarer han. Den døde piges far er syg. Det er tid at bringe tavshed.
Der er uld af en sådan finhed, at den bør spindes af kvindes hænder til en ung brud. Min arbejdsvæv er for grov. “Sig til manden fra Garth, at jeg ønsker ham god bedring.”
A young man is shearing Garth’s 20 sheep. Garth’s sheep have good wool. It’s a marvelous wool - much too good for peasant and fishermen’s work clothes. I rub the wool between my fingers; it’s the best wool in years. “Why isn’t the man from Garth shearing his own sheep?” I ask. “He’s is sick,” he answers. The dead girl’s father is sick. It’s time for silence.
The wool is so fine that it should be spun by women’s hands for a young bride. My working loom is too rough. “Tell the man from Garth that I wish him well.”
September
Jeg har den særlige evne, at jeg kan se på en kvindes ansigt hendes livs afslutning og begyndelse. Engang så jeg et ansigt, der syntes altid at have et lys af højsommer.
Alle øboere er i slægt. Du kan se blik og bevægelser, som har gentaget sig gennem generationer - et særkende skabt af det slidsomme arbejde på denne ø, som har gjort det umagen værd at anvende under pløjning, ved fremstilling af fiskenet, under høstearbejde, ja selv i forbindelse med drukneulykker og brand. Hun er den ene, som tryllebandt mig engang for længe siden. “Jeg er væver,” råber jeg.
I have a special ability - I can see on a woman’s face the end and the beginning of her life. Once I saw a face that had the light of high summer.
All of the island’s inhabitants are related. You can see gazes and movements which have repeated throughout the generations - a hallmark of the laborious work on the island - developed during plowing, weaving of fishnets, during the harvest, even in connection with drownings and fire. She is the one who bewitched me once long ago. “I am a weaver,” I shout.
October
I oktober suser grå vinde omkring huset. Denne oktober føler jeg intens tørke. Det er tid til at tænde op. Hvorfor er ingen tørv sat i stak for enden af huset? Hvad skal jeg gøre for at fyre op i aften?
Der er den væv, den står ubrugt. Se hele trenden! Der vil aldrig blive arbejdet igen. Den vil kunne holde mig varme en nat eller to. Men da jeg tager øksen for at smadre væven, kan jeg ikke gøre det. Jeg støtter mit hoved på den tomme væv. Hvorfor er rammen våd? Kold rystende gråd fra en gammel mands øjne!
In October, the grey winds rage around the house. This year, I feel an intense draught. It’s time to light the fire. But why is there no peat stacked at the end of the house? What will I do for a fire tonight?
The loom stands there, unused. Look at that warp! No one will ever work there again. It could keep me warm a night or two. But, as I take up the axe to smash the loom, I can’t do it. I rest my head on the empty loom. Why is the frame wet? The cold shakes tears from an old man’s eyes.
November
Der er en mand, som fremstiller mere holdbart klæde end jeg kan klare. Han kommer til min dør om natten i det første korte snefald i november. “Den gamle mand på Garth døde ved solopgang,” siger han. “Det er din sag,” siger jeg. “Nej, de ønsker et liglagen. De har søgt på Garth højt og lavt, der er intet liglagen til ham.” Jeg bliver oppe hele natten vævende et liglagen til den gode gamle mand på Garth.
Jeg kunne have fortalt ham, hvem der blev svøbt i det liglagen.
There is a man who makes more durable cloth than I can. He appears at my door in the night of the first November snow fall. “The old man of Garth died at sunset,” he says. “That’s your responsibility,” I say. “No, they want a shroud. They have looked high and low all over Garth and there is no shroud for him.” I stay up all night weaving a shroud for the good old man of Garth.
I could have told him who was wrapped in that shroud.
December
Det sneede hele natten. Luften knitrede af frost. Solens lys på sneen skærer i mine øjne som knive.
Jeg åbner døren. En vævning genspejlet i lyset fra sneen ligger fold ved fold over væven, som havde stået ubrugt i halvtreds vintre.
It snowed all night. Frost crackles in the air. The sunshine on the snow cuts my eyes like a knife.
I open the door. A cloth shimmering like the light of the snow is draped fold upon fold over the loom which stood unused for fifty winters.
* * *
These pictures aren't great, as the light isn't so good this time of year and perhaps the lighting in the space isn't ideal for displaying such gorgeous tapestries. They are by Scottish weaver Joan Baxter, based upon a short story by Scottish author George MacKay Brown. And I'm uncharacteristically using capital letters because I worked on the texts for each work and they, of course, had to use capital letters. That's also why they are in both Danish and English. It's quite a moving story and the tapestries are exquisite. They'll be on display this weekend (Nov. 23-24) at the magical little museum in Randbøldal.
