The indigo dye the British once revered as “blue gold” smells less like a luxury and more like muddy water.
On a cool spring day, a tepid concoction of indigo, fructose and calcium hydroxide fills the air with a heavy mineral scent. Swirling inside the amber liquid, a piece of white fabric takes on an unexpected green tint — until it hits the open air. As oxygen touches the cloth, a vibrant blue magically blooms across the fibers.
It is a historical alchemy that Belchertown fiber artist Holly Field knows intimately.
“When the dye is really potent, you can see the fabric go from green to blue in front of your eyes,” said Field.
Indigo dye is woven into the very roots of the American story. Although colonists first attempted to grow it in Jamestown in 1607, the cash crop did not truly thrive until 1744, when it became a dominant export across South Carolina and Georgia plantations. The colonial industry collapsed after the American Revolution — but not before its deep blue hue stained the canton of the nation’s very first flags.
Nearly 250 years after the American Revolution, Field is stepping back into the colonial era to hand-craft a 13-star American flag using only raw wool, flax and historic dye techniques. Her six-month journey, documented in the YouTube series “Fabric of the Revolution,” will culminate in a public talk at the Clapp Memorial Library on June 9, followed by a hands-on community indigo-dyeing event where families can take a piece of history home on June 13 just ahead of Flag Day.
As Field spins, weaves and sews, she contemplates all the people who lent a hand to make the flag. From the women who spun yarn as an act of rebellion against the British to enslaved Africans who suffered horrendous conditions on indigo plantations, it is those who were not given the inalienable rights fought hard for by the Continental Army that created the nation’s greatest patriotic symbol.
“All these people are directly represented in the flag,” Field said. “If we can remember those people and how they all had a hand in growing this nation, it just might give people something new to think about.”
The Mooney Flag
Before Field could embark on her recreation, she needed to learn more about flag making in the late 18th century. Last year, Field pored over books, newspaper ads and historical records to decipher the textile process. Her biggest inspiration, however, was the 13-star flag on display at the Boston Commonwealth Museum.
“Some people don’t understand how rare this is,” said James Mooney, one of the owners of the flag. “They ask, ‘How many are there?’ And I say, ‘You’re looking at it.’”
The Mooney family acquired the flag in 1902 after purchasing a house in Medford. It was sitting in a box labeled “flag from the war.” The artifact remained in a box until 1976, when the Mooneys framed and displayed the artifact for the country’s bicentennial.
“That’s why I want to share it,” Mooney said. “I said we cannot just keep it, we have to show others.”
Based on property records, Mooney traced these stars and stripes to Castle Williams — now known as Fort Independence — during the Revolutionary War. It likely belonged to a second lieutenant, who was in charge of the flag.
Translating History
“When I went to see the flag, I was really surprised at how gauzy it was,” Field said.
Peering at the flag through the glass casing, Field saw hair-thin wool strands loosely woven together into a fabric called bunting. Unlike the soft yarns popular among knitters today, these single-ply threads are made of long, coarse wool fibers.
“If I’m [making thread] really fine and want it really strong, I wanted something long that was going to give it that strength,” she said.
It took 50 hours for Field to wash, comb and spin a sheep fleece into 4,600 yards of wool thread — by far the longest step in the process.
Flax requires even more stages to break down because the hard, woody parts of the plant must be broken and brushed away before spinning. However, Field did not buy enough flax from New Hampshire to complete the project, so she supplemented it with pre-processed fibers from Egypt.
“When you get a line of flax it looks like hair,” Field said. “That’s how long it is. And so you’re really dealing with really long fibers.”
These fibers spun into beautiful thread easily enough, but weaving posed a serious challenge. Field noted that while weaving typically goes by quickly, the fine, hand-spun threads kept fuzzing up and tangling. She had to constantly stop to tease the strands apart.
“Probably in the past, they may and likely did (fiber) sizing, where they coat the fibers in a starch or glue to make them stiffer and keep them from fuzzing up as they’re passing back and forth past each other,” Field said. “This is the unfortunate, and interesting thing about trying to recreate a historical textile. There’s a lot of knowledge that is just lost.”
Labor of Independence
Colonial women had similarly struggled with lost textile knowledge. Historical reenactors from Green Valley Homestead, Jennifer Green and Caren Harrington, explained that fabric used for clothing in the colonies came from England. Most women did not know how to spin or weave their own textiles until the British passed the Stamp Act of 1765.
“People were getting their grandmother’s spinning wheels out of the attic and trying to figure out how to use them,” Green said.
Women began producing their own textiles at home as part of the boycott of British goods, Harrington said. “Homespun” clothing grew popular, laying the groundwork to produce Continental Army uniforms and battle flags. Public events called spinning bees gathered women to spin in the center of town. Harrington said there were 60 documented spinning bees in New England alone.
“Primarily younger women [were] doing this as part of their patriotic duty to support the cause,” she continued. “It was their way that they had a voice and they had some political control.”
Dyeing, too, became more popular. Recipe books for different color dyes began to circulate, Green said. Field tracked down one of these historic recipe books for her own project.
“Some of the recipes are nothing I would attempt today,” she said. Several of these formulas involved dissolving tin and copper in acid — a dangerous operation without some knowledge of chemistry.
Stars and Stripes
Field opted for more natural dyes. The recipe book highlights two materials that left a bright red tone on the fabric. The root of the madder plant supposedly created a bright red, but Field found the result more orange. The second option was a dried insect from South America called cochineal.
“It came out this beautiful crimson color, which is flag red,” Field said.
All that was left was to sew together the stripes and stars. While the “Betsy Ross Flag” arranges the 13 stars in circle atop a blue square, Field places her stars in three rows like Mooney’s flag.
The Flag Code was adopted on June 14, 1777, did not designate the organization of the stars — only that 13 stars on “a field of blue” sit next to 13 alternating red and white stripes. Consequently, early flags arranged their stars in circles, rows and even in the shape of a larger star.
Field completed this final step at the Clapp Memorial Library, where people were able to watch her work and ask questions about the process. Between the YouTube videos and the library visits, Field has been pleasantly surprised by the public interest in the project. Yet so far, her videos have amassed a total of 583 views, and all her library visitors have met her with curiosity and interest.
“I didn’t want it just to be for fiber artists,” Field said. “I wanted it to be for people who were interested in history or people who maybe had never given much thought to the American flag before. It’s just something they see everywhere: the American flag.”
