Sewing Tips for Weavers (who hate sewing)

For me, the biggest hurdle of learning to weave hasn’t been warping or reading drafts or grasping advanced weave structures. Despite the complexity, weaving has always seemed as straightforward as following a recipe. The challenge came from an unanticipated corner: learning to sew my handwovens.

At first, sewing didn’t factor into the projects or the process; rugs, wall hangings, and scarves don’t require any machine sewing. But soon I realized I wanted to make functional home goods – towels, wash cloths, pillows – which must be “finished” by hand or machine sewing.

My history with sewing machines reads like a bad relationship saga. I inherited my great-grandmother’s antique Singer at 12, made a few utterly chaotic projects (a purple velvet ball gown, unhindered by a pattern!), and eventually sold it in a yard sale. What I wouldn’t give to have that cast iron beauty back today! 

In my twenties I took an online sewing class, and despite many dedicated hours and heaps of pricey fabric purchases, endless battles with the thread tension left me too frustrated to complete the projects. In my thirties I attempted to revive the habit, mostly to hem my husband’s pants and patch holes in children’s clothes, only to discover that my fancy computerized sewing machine had given up the ghost; I donated it for parts. In our last move, just two months before I purchased my weaving loom, I gave away our iron and ironing board, two vestiges of a hobby long abandoned. 

And now, with each web of cloth coming off my loom, I was suddenly confronted with a new sewing necessity. (Suffice it to say that my hand-sewing skills have improved with practice, but aren’t up for the job on heavy-use items.)

Handwoven towels pile up quickly in my sewing basket.

There are three things I find most intimidating about machine sewing. First, the process is heavily front-weighted: planning, measuring, cutting, pressing, pinning, and then sewing as the final step. Despite a successful career as a project manager, planning and prep are not in my nature. (Neither is careful note-taking, which either dooms or spares me from ever repeating a project exactly.) As a crafter, I’m spontaneous and erratic. In a typical project, I will fail to accurately count threads while winding, and have to patch them in later. I will almost certainly run out of yarn midway through, necessitating urgent trips to Eugene Textile Center or improvisational substitutions. At least half of my projects don’t go as expected… so I adjust my expectations enroute. Weaving is, for me, a creative process that unfolds at the loom, and too much planning feels like friction.

The second strike against sewing is that it’s very fast to make a mistake, and very slow to correct one. Unpicking a seam on handwoven fabric is all but impossible, and the very real possibility of “messing up” a beautiful project at the final stage can be paralyzing. 

And third, sewing is not a skill I ever wanted to learn. Perhaps because my mother is an experienced seamstress and quilter, it has never seemed important to acquire these skills myself. Learning something we’re not particularly keen on is always more laborious than devouring a new passion, and with my turbulent sewing history, I was loathe to dive in again.

But after 18 months working through the finishing process on handwovens, I’m starting to make my peace with sewing. Here are some of the key things I’ve learned:

Start at the loom. Pairing weave structure and materials to a textile’s purpose is the biggest determinant of a successful end product, and that learning curve continues. Smaller decisions at the loom have an impact too; I now weave generous hems – 1.75” at minimum – in a finer weight thread, and use bright color dividers as a cut line.

Take it slow. I certainly haven’t embraced the prep-heavy process, but I do take time to press the whole fabric, secure a fold with quilt clips, and measure at a few points. At the machine, I use a walking foot and the slowest speed setting. Stitching a hem down twice (fold and sew, then fold and sew again) is less prone to catastrophic misalignment than doing a rolled hem in one go. And only sewing a bit at a time – finishing one towel while the kids are in the bath, for instance – prevents me from getting too far ahead of myself and making mistakes. 

Keep it simple. While I’d love to someday construct a tartan wool skirt with zippers and tucks and pockets and all, for now I’m sticking to limited ambitions. A straight stitch is usually adequate. A few thread colors will either match or pleasantly contrast with a wide array of handwovens. Hems are straightforward (if never quite straight!) and more advanced projects can be done in slow stages.

Use quality tools. Quality doesn’t have to be expensive, but having the right stuff makes the process more enjoyable. I inherited a sturdy machine from my mother, but would love to get an even simpler antique machine. I always use 100% cotton threads and 100% cotton or linen fabrics, and have gradually acquired other handy accessories like a rotary cutter and board, a hot hem ruler, a heavy steam iron. And never compromise on good scissors, friends.

Focus on the payoff. Sewing, in this case, is the final step to enjoying my textile for its intended purpose. Recently I unpacked a whole box of handwoven pillow tops I had set aside, too intimidated to try sewing them up in their final form. How sad to see them languish! When I approach a sewing task with excitement about seeing the weaving take wing and go out in the world as functional craft, I feel more motivated to improve my sewing practice.

Embrace imperfection. Working with handspun fabric is like trying to dress a wily toddler, and despite your best preparation, it may not be a cooperative subject at that moment. I give myself permission to walk away and try again later. More importantly, I accept that the whole project is made by a human, and it’s ok to have touches of human fallibility. 

Happy weaving (& sewing)!