Stories

Helena Elme, graduate of national costume school

As a choir singer, I have always admired the beautiful national costumes people wear at the Song Festival and dreamed of having my very own. When I stayed at home after having my first child in 2017, I realised it was either then or never! Because I have always loved doing handicrafts, it was with great enthusiasm that I enrolled in the national costume school’s two-year course “My national costume – from shirt to shawl”. I was a little apprehensive about finding enough time to weave fabric, embroider blouses, gather sleeves and sew next to my baby, but as they say – no guts, no glory.

The structure of the course required that you start by studying the clothing and history of your region. To this end, we first undertook a trip to the Estonian National Museum in Tartu to familiarise ourselves with the museum artefacts and archive materials. It was important to ensure that the garments formed a unified whole and were all from the same period.

I was born in Jõelähtme and the area’s national costumes reminded me of my roots, my childhood years and our lovely homestead. Once the vision of the costume was in place, we started practicing under the instruction of our wonderful teachers Silja Nõu and Vilve Jürisson. We were doing things like sewing cuffs, gathering, hemstitching shirts and shoulder inserts, doing serrated edge trimmings, embroidery stitches and much more. For someone who had never made historical clothes before, it was truly inspiring to learn all the old techniques that our ancestors had been using for centuries. This led to an understanding of why these garments are the way they are. I felt a twinge of jealousy of some of my classmates, who were lucky enough to have a piece of lace or some other item to show off from their grandmother’s hope chest. This process of learning to understand your tradition and returning to your roots formed an important part of what the course had to offer. Of course, all this required a great deal of individual work.

During the course, each of us had to submit a written overview of the costume of our parish, including a description of the museum artefacts on which the items were based. We also had to provide instructions for making each separate piece, along with drawings, sewing patterns, fabric samples etc. The number of new skills obtained from the course was mind-blowing. For the first time, I had undertaken a large-scale embroidery project that took almost a year to finish. I also got on friendly terms with the handloom, and three metres of sheep-scented plant-dyed striped fabric appeared like a charm. I learned how to make a pot-shaped hat and knit secret messages into my belt. I learned to create beautiful bobbin lace by twisting and crossing bobbins. For cooler weather, we made a jacket and a long-coat. We also paid attention to items such as the apron, the beaded necklace, the raised brooch, the flat brooch, knitting bag, the kerchief, the stockings, and the shoes.

These two years were filled with rigorous work. But also, with fun and laughter, given that my companions were a great bunch of enthusiastic women who supported each other along the way. Each person progressed at their own pace and according to their skill level. The great regional differences in folk costumes meant that some spent most of their time doing embroidery, while others spent theirs on crocheting apron lace. Some delved into the world of plant-dyed yarn, while others made a skirt from a prepared piece of fabricfound in their family hope chest. Whether you were a student, a doctor, in customer service, a retiree, a musician, a teacher, a gardener or an accountant, by the end of the course everyone had a set of beautiful handmade garments and a deep sense of pride! We affectionately call ourselves “national costume lunatics” and still meet regularly, even if just to air out our beautiful outfits together. You can find friends for life on this course!

I cannot overstate the importance of having a support network. Our parents helped look after our child. The biggest support came from my husband, who helped me in every way possible, from threading bobbins to making sewing patterns. He made me an embroidery frame and an inkle loom, and even joined a course to learn how to make an annular brooch and much more. My whole family got involved in the noble cause.

I am incredibly pleased to have taken up this challenge and fulfilled my dream. It was demanding at times, but very well worth it, since I now have my very own folk costume that is both a work of art and a heritage item!

Inna Raud - acclaimed craftswoman and teacher

Today, it is possible to study national costume making either at a vocational level at the Olustvere School of Service and Rural Economics, or at an academic level at the University of Tartu Viljandi Culture Academy. As a teacher of handicrafts in both schools myself, I admit that it is mainly questions regarding the material side of national costumes, such as “what?” and “how?”, that arise in the making and wearing of national costumes, but next to these, increasing importance is given to exploring the world of thought behind the costumes and answering the question “why?”. As such, the current research, making and wearing of the clothing of 19th century Estonian peasant culture presupposes good knowledge of the garments as well as an awareness of the beliefs, attitudes, and worldview these were related to.

Making an item begins with an idea, followed by its execution, and results in the finished product. This is how it has been throughout time. When collecting information from museum artefacts, we first see the construction of the garments – materials, sewing patterns and technologies. Without much difficulty, we can copy the patterns and follow the colour scheme used in peasant culture. However, the study of the perceptions and convictions tied to 19th century national costumes can only be inconclusive. We can recognise the choices and skills available to a garment maker and try to mentally reconstruct the living environment of the time with the help of written sources and photographs. 

Procuring clothes used to entail a long process, from growing and processing the materials to making and refining the garments. The amount of labour involved in obtaining the raw material – linen and wool yarn – seems awe-inspiring today. As a practitioner familiar with the technologies of producing national costumes, it is possible to understand the choices that were made from a practical and economic perspective. It seems that the most practical ways of cutting the fabrics for sewing clothes were carefully considered. To sew fur coats and long-coats, the cuts were assembled from small pieces of fabric, because the cuts themselves were large and all the hard-earned material had to be used. It is interesting to look at the garments and see how the selvedges have been incorporated and the sewing techniques that have been used. Attention was paid to making clothing more durable and easier to care for.

Throughout history, decorations have been used to increase the value of various items. An aesthetically pleasing appearance elevates the mood. In the 19th century, making clothes took time and effort – embroidering, braiding, crocheting, making bobbin lace etc. In addition to beauty, many items of clothing expressed the social status of the wearer and were believed to offer protection.

It is noteworthy that it was mostly the openings of garments that were decorated – for example, the clasps on the front, sleeve cuffs, hems. Did this practice serve any purpose other than an aesthetic one? We might imagine that demonstrating your craftsmanship was considered important, but then why was intricate white embroidery done on a white background so that it was only visible up close? It is no longer possible to derive answers to questions like these simply by examining the objects. I can only assume that decorating the openings of garments was a way of seeking protection from the intrusion of evil and that doing white embroidery on a white background was not a choice, but there were simply no coloured embroidery threads around. Today, such modest decorations seem to me one of the most elegant artistic expressions of peasant culture.

It is likely that clothes that were hard to make were also taken better care of. Once a long-desired item was finally obtained, it was also cherished – whether it was the first shirt, skirt or pants for a child or the bridal coif. These were not merely items of clothing, but status signs that were respected within the community. Clothing functioned as a means of non-verbal communication, which, looking back, we can unfortunately no longer understand on a deeper level. From a social point of view, more attention has been paid to the origin of national costumes, as well as the way that these conveyed marital status. It is common knowledge that the coif and apron were the symbols of a married woman, but these were sometimes also worn by girls who had given birth – hence, the symbolic meaning of the coif and apron was in reality more ambiguous. The system of values arising from mutual relations functioned as a kind of morality. Clothing provided information about the wealth and lifestyle of the wearer and their compliance with community rules.

In trying to capture the worldview inherent to 19th century peasant culture, we can only rely on our subjective interpretations. There are rarely any specific records on past customs. For example, there is an entry in the Estonian Folklore Archives at the Estonian Literary Museum about a belief from Vändra:

When someone put on a new pair of pastlad (peasant shoes made from hide and fastened with a drawstring), they first had to climb on top of a rock and jump up and down for the shoes to become hard and durable like stone (EKmS 8 ° 1, 584).

Each person has the liberty to decide which beliefs to follow and which ones not to. Is it just a game nowadays or does it go deeper than that?

The knowledge I have acquired as a researcher, maker and teacher of national costumes serves as an important point of reference in educating and informing others. Every detail is now important. When giving recommendations on materials, I have repeatedly found myself thinking what they might have done in the 19th century. If possible, I recommend weaving your own fabric or buying one that has been woven on a handloom and not a machine loom. I recommend weaving skirt fabric as it was done in the 19th century, as this gives you the option to use both sides of the fabric. I have repeatedly had to demonstrate how well-thought-out the sewing patterns of the 19th century were. I draw attention to all the details that facilitate care and increase durability, such as the toot (a strip of fabric protecting the skirt hemline, sewn on the inside of the skirt), the treemel (lace trimming on the edge of the pot-shaped cap) and the tagid (serrated edge trimming). The distinctive marks of a married woman – the coif and apron – must also be included in the outfit for a married woman today. It should not be a shame to shield the more valuable items with a head or neck scarf, and I encourage decorating the garments with fine embroidery. I believe that attention to such details and careful technical execution will increase the value of a national costume, so that it may be passed down from generation to generation.

Inna’s story refers to the article “National Costumes as one of the Manifestations and Reflections of the Frame of Mind of Peasant Culture: Interpretation Based on the Example of Vändra Parish” published in 2016 in the national handicraft publication Studia Vernacula of the Viljandi Culture Academy of the University of Tartu.

Moonika Roogna, graduate of national costume school

In the autumn of 2017, I enrolled in the course “From shirt to shawl”, coordinated by MTÜ Rahvarõivas (NGO Estonian National Costume) and the Estonian Folk Art and Craft Union. My aim was to make a Saarde parish national costume. Having my own national costume had been a dream for a very long time. Some of the items I had already made earlier. I had learned to weave pick-up woven belts with Maret Lehis and spent one summer weaving skirt fabric. I thought perhaps one day I will make it into a skirt. Coincidentally, I stumbled upon a course that promised a full costume from any parish would be completed by the end of the course. And so, I signed up.

I chose the costume of Saarde parish because that is where I was born and raised. Both my parents and my mother’s side of the family are from there. Additionally, I also decided to make the Saarde national costume for my husband.

The course ran for two years. Classes took place once a month on weekends. Between them, there was a lot of independent work. I was also taking some smaller courses: bobbin lace for beginners and sprang belt making. The goal was not to make copies of museum artefacts, rather, I was largely guided by what I myself found attractive. Unfortunately, at the time it was not possible to go and see the original items in the Estonian National Museum. Instead, I read a lot of archival materials describing the clothes of the past, how they were worn and made. Some of these descriptions were even written in the Saarde dialect, which made them especially heartfelt to read.

The entire process was wonderful. We had a great group of women. In addition to doing handicrafts, we also had a lot of fun at the monthly gatherings, and supported, encouraged, and helped one another the best we could. Supervisors Silja and Vilve were very patient with us. Silja taught us embroidering and Vilve instructed us in making sewing patterns and sewing clothes.

At times, it was challenging to find the motivation needed to keep working. Sometimes it felt like there was no time for anything other than handicrafts. There was always something that had to be sewn or embroidered or learned in order to finish the item at hand. A lot of time was spent finding the right materials. As we all know, life has a tendency to interfere, but support from my course mates filled me with new-found enthusiasm.

The support of my family was also a big help. Their encouragement and admiration upon seeing that another item was finished helped me to keep going and get to the finish line. An additional motivation was the 150th Jubilee of the Song Festival in 2019. I dreamed of attending the festival together with my husband, both of us wearing handmade costumes. And that is what happened. It brought me great joy to join the procession in garments I had made with my own two hands.

I am truly grateful to our instructors and my course mates. It is thanks to them that a big dream of mine was fulfilled, and my husband and I can wear our costumes with pride. I am happy to have learned old craft techniques, to have become much more knowledgeable about our heritage and culture.

Amy Koitmäe - small handicraft entrepreneur, national costume maker

I am Amy. Mother of three children. Married. I am also a grandmother. My home is in a small town not far from the city – therefore, I am half and half, from the city and the country. Craftsperson. Textile enthusiast.

My story as a craftsperson begins with some of my first memories. As a small girl, I was fascinated by the knitting needles in someone’s hands. To think that thin little sticks like these made socks and mittens! Mind-boggling. At the time, I didn’t fathom the amount of work and effort involved in the process, because Grandma’s hands were knitting at the speed of sound – swish and flick – and suddenly, there was another pair of something to put on your hands or feet. It all seemed so exciting that at one point, I wanted to try knitting myself. I was given the needles, but only two of them. The instruction itself went like this: “A boy comes to paint the fence, sticks his head through the gap between the rails and reaches for the paint bucket, then pulls the bucket back through the gap, sees that it is the wrong colour and throws it back over the fence.” This is how knitting stocking stitch was taught to a pre-schooler. Fun way, isn’t it? It sure helped me remember how it is done. For the rest of my life… And so, I plucked those paint buckets through those gaps. Following these instructions, I knitted a scarf-like thing, the first one in my life, in garter stitch and very wobbly. Sometimes, extra loops appeared and other times, half of the loops I needed vanished. But my appetite did not. And my life continued on this wobbly road.

Middle school craftwork classes gave my handicraft interest an incredible boost, and if I could, I would still bow down to my teacher to this day. A wonderful woman who incited within me an enormous interest in handicrafts. At home, my mother also did some sewing and knitting. When these two magical worlds met, they formed a springboard – my mother’s fabric chest and yarn box, which I chewed through like a particularly greedy moth, leaving a trail of scraps and ends behind me. But I was never told off. Mother only sighed and possibly cried into her pillow at night, while I kept on experimenting. I dug my scissors into the finest pieces of fabric I could find, sewed together rectangular patches, and fashioned half of all the yarn supply into nothing but small potholders and large tassels. There was nothing to be salvaged afterwards. I was a textile enthusiast if there ever was one.

Later on, my husband and children all received hats and mittens and socks, not to mention scarves, all fine and full of colour. Even some sweaters and skirts, all lacy and everything, have been made with my own ten stubby fingers. Store shelves were a rainbow of colours. The yarn there was mainly acrylic, which my large knitting needles quickly and easily fashioned into something wearable. After washing, the garment went all saggy, and I had to keep knitting more and more… I also sewed curtains and bed linen, as well as basic clothing items for the children and myself. It seemed obvious that a mother knew how to do these things. When the belt on the sewing machine snapped, I would simply spin the disc by hand, sewing metres of fabric this way. If it needed to be done, it needed to be done.

And then we got a computer, where, among other things, you could find a large number of handicraft sites. Browsing through these made my head spin, and I realised that I still had a lot to learn. It was more than ten years ago in one of the internet forums for craftspeople that an interest group emerged, who knew that a course in “nationally flavoured” handicrafts would be opened in Olustvere. They applied there en masse. After the admission tests, there were those who were happy and thrilled to have passed and those who were sad and disappointed to have failed. The lucky ones wrote about their classes and all the exciting discoveries, but also about the demanding homework and their fun life as a student. I found it all so compelling. I read these posts like the chapters of a book, and it was like some invisible force kept drawing my mind back to them. There was an itch in my soul. However, I realised that wanting something is one thing, going out and getting it is quite another. One of my family members needs round-the-clock care and leaving them at home and spending most of my time on something else seemed like an impossible undertaking. Another course came and went and another one after that…

Years kept on passing and I was still knitting socks and mittens out of thick yarn, but then I saw an ad in the local newspaper about a study programme to become a textile craftsperson in Olustvere. At that moment, I decided to do something that others thought was mad, but for me meant following the yearning I had felt all these years. I gathered all my papers and said I was off to school! The people at home found that incredibly funny and indeed thought it was a joke. Surely, it is not an option for someone over 40, especially given the situation at home… But the next day I grabbed my husband and daughter and went to see the roses of Olustvere, and to check out our brand-new orange trains. I had never been on these orange vehicles myself. On our way back, it dawned on me that I had taken my application to the school. I really had.

I was waiting for the invitation to the interview and admissions tests like an eight-year-old waiting for a trip to the candy store. I was scared, too. Oh! I got the invitation and a list of everything I had to present at the interview. I contacted one of the first graduates of the programme and her instructions were: do not bring any acrylic knits, try knitting a pair of mittens with thin needles. Start rubbing your fingers against stone to get them prepared for what they will go through in school. How thin are thin needles? I had a pair of very thin ones – 2.5 mm – at home. Turns out, these are like logs next to the actual thin ones. I had no choice but to buy the recommended 12/2 yarn and 1.25 mm needles at Saara Kirjastus, a local handicraft store. As I unpacked them, I nearly fainted, horrified at the idea of having to knit with such skinny needles and thread. And so, I made my first ever pair of patterned mittens with tools that looked minute. My fingers were sore, and my fingertips were chapped. This venture seemed doomed from the very start. It explained why I was told to rub my fingers on stone. But just before the admission tests, I managed to finish the mittens and the result was awfully beautiful. The mittens were still wet as I presented them to the board. No, not from nervous sweat – they had just been washed with no time to dry.

And so, I became a student of the Olustvere School of Service and Rural Economics. Now I know that there is a solution to every problem and that fortune favours the brave... and that bravery means pain. I managed to get a carer to cover for me on school days, and the rest of my family was fully committed to helping their respective wife, daughter and mother survive and cope with her two years of training to become a textile craftsperson. These were thrilling years. A close-knit class, new friends, wonderful teachers who love what they do, and an awful lot of knowledge, from which I eventually had to distil my own cup of tea. The choices were abundant. There were also difficult moments where it seemed like there was simply not enough motivation and time. There are only 24 hours in a day. It taught me about time management and self-discipline, finding motivation, but also taking the time to rest, which no craftsperson can do without.

There was also a change taking place within me. I started looking at things from a different perspective. Started evaluating items in terms of their meaningfulness and quality. I had some trouble with excessive self-criticism and perfectionism. Hence the time-management issues. If I discovered that I had made a small mistake a while ago, one that might go unnoticed by others, I found it impossible to let it slide and had to start again. Even though handicraft is handicraft, and perhaps it is the minor human errors what make an object unique. But I just kept on doing it again and wound up incredibly pleased with the result. Countless lectures, studied materials, wonderful lecturers whom I would otherwise never have met in my life, and tons of homework and sleepless nights. Looking back, I wouldn’t trade these for anything. Here, I spent my first, long-awaited moments sitting behind a handloom. The awe-inspiring handloom. First you stroke the frame, then you remove your shoes. Out of respect. No shoes on the treadles. Not mine, at least. Machine knitting and machine embroidery were also on the programme. I admit that these machines were very fast and thorough, but fabric woven by hand and embroideries stitched by hand seem to have more life to them. However, the work is a great deal more time-consuming and expensive. To each their own. Where needed, faster versions should be used. No need to raise one above the other. Quality and style are expected from both.

Then the time arrived to think about my final project, and that made me look for my roots. The top of the tree was swaying in the wind and the roots were all scattered. It was then that somehow, inexplicably, a very old pick-up woven belt made its way to me. My mother had found that forgotten old thing in the depths of her wardrobe: “Here, this belonged to your grandma, and to her mother before that”. Parts of it had been lost to moths, but it was otherwise an impressive, beautiful and tightly woven belt. So precious, so personal! It had bound together letters and papers with dear memories in the bottom of my mother’s wardrobe, and now it became part of my heritage. My mother has her roots on the parish line between Halliste and Saarde. I guess the belt reminded me of my roots and came to me at the right time. I braided this belt into my final project. With a love and respect for my ancestral mothers.

After I received my diploma, I had five days to decide whether I wanted to continue in the advanced course to acquire a level 5 occupational qualification certificate of a national costume maker. Those five days were not easy. I considered the situation at home and then gave up. If it can’t be done, it can’t be done… At some point, however, continuing seemed like the only possible course of events: I had already come so far, might as well keep striking while the iron is hot! A national costume? I had nearly made one back in Abja High School. Emphasis on the word nearly. The girls could choose to make the Halliste national costume for their graduation, but then I changed schools and that was that. The year was 1989 – a time of great awakening, when people were getting reacquainted with national costumes again. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I missed the chance to make one for myself in those days.

During the level 5 studies, the choice was now very simple – my final project would be to study and make an archaic national costume for a woman from Halliste parish. It all had to happen in a year. I wasn’t even scared, because in those first moments, I could not even imagine what it all entailed. What had initially seemed like a long year in fact turned out to be extremely short. A lot of reading and research, museum visits, drawings of copies, sketches, instructions, and working on the costume one item at a time, from the neck beads to the pastlad (peasant shoes made from hide and fastened with a drawstring). All this preferably without using a sewing machine. Just like it was for our ancestors. Yes, we didn’t grow our own flax or shear our own sheep, but we did more or less everything else. Finding the right-looking linen fabric was already tantamount to growing the flax itself. There were fabrics, but these were not suitable for the purpose. Each student had a different costume. There were no overlapping costumes in our class. We saw the techniques for making the clothes from other areas up close, and looking back now, all this knowledge was invaluable. We also acquired some skills (real competence would require an immense amount of knowledge and experience) in studying museum artefacts and identifying the techniques used in making them, as well as being able to remake the object based on to the museum exhibit without changing its appearance (e.g., size of the embroidery). In some ways, it is a pity that the year was over so quickly, as I would have liked to learn and see a good deal more, but you can only do so much in one year. There are currently various courses, where you can improve your skill range by learning to make specific garments and acquire the necessary know-how if you have trouble proceeding on your own.

More thoughts on materials – I sometimes think to myself and discuss with other craftspeople that while there is a multitude of materials to choose from these days, the ones that were used in the past (fabrics, yarns, threads, ribbons) are just not available, or it can be hard to find anything that looks close to the textiles used in the museum artefacts. We travel in space, but there are no silk ribbons to add to the coif. In the past, it was pedlars who used to sell them. I guess they might have moved on to another planet. 

It makes me sad when there are craftspeople who don’t care about authenticity, and instead of genuine national costumes, produce garments that only bear some resemblance to them. They say it is cheaper. The slightly faulty product is sold off to the masses and develops a life of its own. Those who have not seen the original, have no real point of comparison. However, the national costume is a wonderful, exquisite, and expensive piece of handicraft made with love and care, which can proudly be called a heritage item. Then why shouldn’t it be expensive and well made? The patterns hold our stories, the stripes our code. These should be close to authentic, durable, and beautiful to the eye and soul. That is what I think. Woe is me! 

School is over and life continues. I am back at home, taking care of my dependant and running a small business. When given the opportunity, I still make national costumes. Mostly single items. Mainly shirts and aprons, stockings and gloves, shawls. But my real cup of tea, however, is embroidery and weaving wool fabric. I now knit mittens and socks only with these wonderfully thin needles and nearly invisible yarn. My fingers are not hard from being rubbed against stone, but from doing all this knitting. When I get tired of the white Mulgi stockings, I knit some colourful Muhu stockings, using needles and yarn of the same thickness. You always need some colour in life, and Muhu stockings provide plenty. 

I do what I love, and I love what I do. I am reminded of my moth-like enthusiasm for my mother’s wardrobe. As a child, I managed to make clothes out of practically square pieces of fabric, which I then proudly wore, and now I am at a point in my life where I make national costumes, which are cut much in the same way. And they are entirely comfortable and wearable. In the old days, they knew how to use fabric wisely. Nothing was wasted. I practised this earlier on.

Sometimes I still think that if I had not made that crazy flash decision and taken my application to the school, or if I had not been accepted, I probably would not be the person I am today. I have found my true self thanks to the wonderful Olustvere school and its teachers. I could have missed the chance to do what I now do, what I know and love wholeheartedly. Yes, I was knitting, crocheting, and doing many other things before going to school, but I now do all that with more knowledge and prowess. And there is a mountain of difference between my former and current skills.

Getting started is the hardest part. You just need to take the bold first step and have the will in your heart.