THE ART OF FINNISH PEASANT WOMEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 92, 9 July 1927, Page 20

THE ART OF FINNISH PEASANT WOMEN

“And have you seen those beautiful ryijy in Finland?”

I looked blank at first, and then I remembered. “Yes, of course, there is no home without them, is there?” I have seen the women at work, weaving those wonderful rugs, slowly, patiently, skillfully with eyes fixed on the intricate pattern. These “ryijy” form important items in a Finnish girl’s dowry. When the bride utters her vows, she stands on one of the rugs. A “ryijy” covers her bed; another hangs on the walls of her room and mightily proud is she if she possesses some rugs woven by her great- grandmother.

These women-weavers of Finland have an eye for colour and line. Simple are the hues they choose first; white, black, grey, yellow, occasionally blue. The designs are at first purely geometrical, but later come those exquisite flower patterns. I have seen one such, dating from the XVI century: pale yellow tulips on a deep rose background. with a wide border of dark green, dappled with tiny pink flowers. One wonders how a mere rustic craft could have attained such perfection of pattern, coupled with undying strength of colour. The latter, if full justice be given to it, is the best part of Finnish rug-weaving. These rugs are never employed as floor-coverings; it would be a pity to have them thus used. Their pile is not so thick and short as that of ordinary carpets; it consists of long tufts of yarn placed at some distance one from another, and the surface is soft to the touch, and very pliable. They are used as blankets and the more ornamental among them are kept in the family chest until some festive occasion demands their display.

Of course, they are severe. The climate, the grey skies, the silent black rocks and the deep pine forests of Finland have influenced this craft. And, perhaps, the most austere among them are those which are utterly original, the pattern being gradually moulded in the woman-weaver’s creative fancy. One such I have seen, of an indescribable design, all deep blue and “angry” dark grey—the grey of the on-coming storm. The rug had beauty and it hid a message. It was not a mere industrial production; it was a creation. And later I was told that the weaver was a fisherman’s wife and that she worked most in those hours wthen heavy gales forced her to take shelter indoors. If rugs could be given names I’d have christened this one—“ The Echo of Storms.”