Intersections: Armenian wool’s international tale weaves itself

When you tell people that you’ve got a bag of sheep’s wool in your possession, the first thing you get asked is, “Can I touch it?”

When you dip your hands into the fiber, it’s a new, exciting feeling, one of being familiar with something, yet being introduced to it for the first time. It’s a bit like eating fruit or vegetables that you’ve grown yourself, far away from the shiny supermarket shelves you usually grab them from, covered in specks of Earth, grown on the water that you had a hand in contributing yourself.

The wool becomes infinitely more interesting when you learn that handling it has health benefits — lanolin, a type of wax or grease, is found in sheep’s wool and has healing properties for the skin. When I was told about this, a particular childhood memory came flooding back into my mind: the scene of both my grandmothers wrapping a wool scarf tightly around me to cure, or at least ease, a stomachache.

I remember wool scarves being frequently wrapped around relatives — whether it was a back problem or arthritis — a certain secret addition to the trove of gypsy-like remedies that defy conventional medicine but somehow always seem to work.

I thought about this previously forgotten history I had with wool as I stuffed it in a backpack and made my way across London to meet local spinners I was hoping could advise me on what to do next. I had gotten in touch with a lovely woman who instructed me to meet her at a monthly meeting.

This being England, I was also told to not forget to bring a mug so I could partake in tea time after the meeting.

After a presentation about the business side of the wool industry in the UK, the woman seated next to me asked if I spin or weave.

“Neither, I’m not from here,” I said.

“Oh, you must be the girl with the wool from Armenia?” she asked.

Oh, yes. That’s me. The girl with the wool from Armenia.

After a few spinners weighed in on my wool, I was introduced to another woman who graciously invited me to use her drum carder, a machine that looks like a large pasta machine, except instead of making spaghetti, it combs the wool into a manageable form for spinning.

I was excited about the possibility of using the drum carder, but wondered if there would be any end to this saga. There was a reason people buy ready-made yarn, a reason virtually no one in Armenia — a place where the rural population exceeds the city population — seems to do anymore.

Even my own mother questioned the mess I had gotten myself into. I told her I was bringing another bag back for her. She wasn’t happy.

“This is for people who have time, and we have none of it,” she said.

But I disagree. It’s not about time (a statement I might soon regret), it’s about valuing craft and in some ways yearning to work beyond a screen where you’re constantly being updated on the mundanities of other people’s lives.

But then, in between my meeting with the spinners and the weeks I’ve spent preparing the wool for a pending drum-carding session, a friend in Glendale got in touch to say that she’d miraculously found, through her mother, two Armenian-American women who can spin wool — and suddenly this journey took on another kind of meaning.

When I first acquired it, I was adamant about getting someone in Armenia to comb and spin the wool. I thought this would be more meaningful, more symbolic, to have bought, combed and spun a product in the country of origin, and at the same time get acquainted with the small group of craftsmen and craftswomen who have managed to keep their precious and dying trade alive.

But that would not have reflected my own personal journey, one that’s made up of parts that don’t match, feelings that often conflict and spans thousands of miles across the world, with stints in several countries.

Bought in Armenia, combed in England thanks to the kindness of strangers and spun by women in Los Angeles who have managed to maintain a rare skill in a completely overwhelming modern world — that’s the kind of beautifully misshapen story that’s perfect for me.

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LIANA AGHAJANIAN is a Los Angeles-based journalist whose work has appeared in L.A. Weekly, Paste magazine, New America Media, Eurasianet and The Atlantic. She may be reached at liana.agh@gmail.com.