Rag Rugs: Reflections
Reflection by Jacqueline Kublik
I had a wonderful time completing the rag rug tutorial and learning about their place in Victorian history. I found it interesting that making rag rugs often required knowledge of crocheting, knitting, braiding, or sewing. I am quite thankful to have been able to make a rag rug variation, the “prodder rug,” that did not require such knowledge. To make the rug, the crafter utilizes a sharp piercing object, such as a pencil, a pointed wooden stick, or a knitting needle, to “prod” through a canvas which will become the backing of the rug (e.g. hessian or burlap). Cut and potentially stained, rag pieces are then used as the fibers of the rug.
For me, the use of such recycled materials emphasized the popularity of these rugs among the working and middle classes during the nineteenth century who, unlike the upper classes, may not have been able to afford a rug woven by a professional weaver. In addition, I learned that these rugs served not only a functional purpose but also a social one. For instance, I found it fascinating to learn that Victorian women would often hold “hooking” parties where they would share tea and gossip, all while completing their rag rugs. While I didn’t necessarily hold a “hooking” party, I found myself making my rag rug while talking with friends and family or even while watching television. Indeed, it became an activity I would so often do with others around that they too would pick up their respective crafts or activities to work on. I can say that after completing my rug, I have a new appreciation for the work that went into creating such a purposeful item and can understand the functionality of the rag rug in both its economical practicality and social facilitation.
Reflection By Jocelyn Diemer
The rag rug craft ended up posing more of a challenge than I expected, mainly due to issues with my materials. I was unable to find any appropriate fabric at my house, so I purchased a roll of synthetic burlap from the craft store. Unfortunately, I did not consider that synthetic fibres are much smoother than natural fibres and therefore come unravelled much more easily. Furthermore, the roll of material that I had chosen was woven quite loosely, which made the process of “prodding” the rags much easier, but also contributed to the rug’s overall fragility.
In order to address these issues, I was forced to embrace historical inaccuracy. Thankfully, I was visiting my parents for reading break and had access to my mom’s well-stocked craft closet. Faced with the fact that I was rapidly losing burlap, I decided that my only option was to hem the edges of my base. Ideally, I would have made this hem using a needle and thread and a running stitch. However, the plastic fibres of my burlap did not lend themselves well to being sewn, and one anachronism quickly led to another: I ended up using a glue gun and a wide piece of ribbon in order to prevent the edges from fraying. While it may not be the most Victorian solution in the world, it solved my problem. If nothing else, the green ribbon makes the rug even more cheerful!
That said, my reliance on a glue gun got me thinking about the difference between adaptation and recreation when it comes to crafting. According to our website, one goal of the Crafting Communities project is to “integrate Victorian crafting into our teaching and learning.” In a 21st-century classroom, tools such as glue guns can make tasks such as hemming a piece of fabric more accessible to people who might have difficulty using a needle and thread. Should we reject these adaptations in order to accurately recreate a Victorian product or process? I don’t think so. After all, Victorian crafting methods and the crafts that they produced were themselves in a constant state of flux, and if glue guns had been available to 19th-century crafters, they would almost certainly have used them.
Reflection By Kiarra Burd
When I began this tutorial, I imagined I would create the large black-and-white carpet I had been seeking for months to warm the abrasively cold vinyl of my bedroom floor. Then I read that a 28cm x 20cm took about four hours to complete. Ever the optimist, I decided to try to finish a 40cm x 40cm in the same amount of time. And just to add another obstacle, I resolved to try to make a tight(ish)-weave rug, too. Armed with limited scrap fabric and lots of ambition, I set myself to work.
You can imagine my surprise when I found myself in the second hour with little to show for it. I had completed maybe (a generous maybe) 1/4th of it before I was faced with impending academic deadlines and a desperate lack of sleep. While Kalea’s lucid tutorial made the process straightforward, my ever-present miscreant urge to avoid its useful steps led me astray more than a few times. My greatest mistake was that I incessantly avoided measuring the width of the strips due to my desire to give it an even more “rustic” feel—though really just out of neglect. All I can say is: don’t do this. My limited stock of fabric depleted at record speeds!
The most significant problem I encountered was that the burlap I purchased had begun to fray instantly. To stop the fraying, and to withstand what will (hopefully) be years of being trampled on, I cut out a long strip of leftover cloth and ran it along the edges, folded the burlap over it, glued it in, and even sewed it in just to be extra safe.
Luckily, this solved the problem and I was able to begin again. After I had overcome these initial obstacles, I ended up with a lovely little Rag Rug and slid it under my piano stool—which, as it happens, fit nearly perfectly!
Since my piano is one of my favourite places at home, having a craft nearby that I dedicated so much time and effort into makes me feel even more at ease.
Overall, don’t let my disregard for rules dissuade you. I am extremely happy with my rug, even if it differed from the monolithic one I had pictured in my mind. I wouldn’t be surprised if I revisit this method in the future!
Reflection By Rebekah Stretch
Before crafting my rag rug, I had to find a used textile somewhere in the depths of my closet that I was willing to sacrifice in the name of creative research. After sifting through piles of t-shirts and sweatpants that I was still somewhat attached to, I found an old spare pillowcase that I had forgotten. It smelt like the musty bottom drawer of my childhood home’s linen closet, and I knew it would work well. As I measured the dimensions for my fabric strips, I felt a bit disappointed that my rag rug would be a solid drab blue and made out of such a practical, no-nonsense fabric. Compared to the stripes and bright colors of some of my peers’ lovely rag rugs, I was afraid mine would look plain and boring in comparison.
However, I quickly realized that the rag rugs most Victorians would have created were just that: rugs made of rags. They weren’t meant to be elaborate or intricate creative projects to show off the maker’s skill or precision, but were instead a thrifty way of reusing discarded textiles for a fresh, practical purpose. People used what fabric they had on hand, even if it was a single color and unpatterned. The utilitarian nature of rag rugs was what made them such a common staple in middle-class Victorian homes. As I sat cutting fabric strips for what felt like hours, I was tempted to turn on a video lecture and multitask to feel more productive. However, as the calming swish of scissors and cotton lulled me into a comfortable state of daydreaming, it occurred to me that making a rag rug is innately productive.
By today’s standards, productivity often requires doing five things at once at some level of mediocrity. Products, textiles, and ideas have become mass produced and expedited, and the value of the slow yet formative processes involved in creating something from start to finish has nearly been lost. Crafting a rag rug reminded me of the importance of patience, slowed my racing thoughts, and gave me the satisfaction of creating something useful and well-made to warm my feet on cold evenings; and that in itself, was enough.
