Craft/Life

In an age when people like to talk about "the end of blogging," I still read craft blogs. Nowhere near the number that I once did, but as the quantity has diminished, the quality has increased. Now, I focus my attention on the blogs of people whose work I respect and whose writing challenges me to think about what I make and why. One of these blogs is by Karie Westermann; earlier this week she wrote about the commodification of the craft revival. This is a topic that I think about often, and in this blog post I'm adding my voice that conversation.

Love what you love, make what you make, from Dropcloth Samplers

There was a time when I read dozens of posts on craft blogs every day. At that time I was working in commercial publishing (magazines). I was responsible for producing up to 24 craft articles per year, plus associated online content and blog posts – between three and five posts per week – for almost four years. Reading widely – indiscriminately – was a necessity. I had to churn through that much material just to keep the content factory running. So I read blog posts about making necklaces by covering lengths of chain from the hardware store in embroidery floss or spray paint, and I reblogged directions for projects that involved "altering" (let's be real: defacing) books, and I pretended to be interested in Shrinky-Dinks and repurposing thrift store finds. Sometimes I got to do something that actually was interesting – I taught myself basic book-making for one story; commissioned some great knitting patterns and projects by other people; sewed a thing or two I was proud of. But in private, to my friends and family, I often described what I did as "showing people how to make crap out of junk." 

At first it was fun, then it got to be a bit monotonous, and as time wore on, I came to hate the make-it-and-forget-it crafts: activities that involved minimal skill and resulted in things of minimal value, things that were destined for the garbage dump. What value there was in those crafts came from ad sales, from page views and clicks-per-million, not from carrying on time-honoured traditions, building skills, or contributing to a larger movement (no, "pinning" yet another cute way to use a Mason jar doesn't count). It all came down to satisfying someone else's bottom line and it took up almost all of my time. Crafting was my life and it was exhausting.

The more I made crap out of junk, the more I longed to create things that had both style and substance, or, to quote a famous craft revivalist, things that were both beautiful and useful. I learned to sew and knit and embroider when I was a child – I've been practising some of those crafts for almost 30 years now – and the deeper I got into the world of disposable craft, the further away actual craftsmanship seemed. Technique didn't seem to matter; specialized vocabulary seemed a thing of the past. (I'll never forget the blog post I saw that called for "a round circle of wood.") I wasn't contributing to a conversation, I was shouting into the void.

Since then, my life has taken some twists and turns. Crafting is no longer my life or my livelihood. I work for a non-profit organization now, and it's been more than two years since I read a blog post about spray-painting a trinket from a thrift shop. I gave away all my random craft supplies: goodbye, glitter, glue gun, mod-podge. I craft less, and when I do craft, it's mostly knitting. But I'm able to spend time making things that are meaningful to me; that use materials I've chosen according to my own criteria and skills I've taken the time to cultivate. The quantity has diminished, but the quality has increased.

I still think about how we create and assign value to our skills, to the products of our work, and to ourselves. I've met a lot of crafters, and their interests and abilities are as unique as they are. And while I'd like to think there is one right way (my way, obviously) of crafting and promoting craftsmanship, over time I've learned that there isn't. Crafting trends will come and go; commercial interests will exert their influence and succeed or fail. As with many things in life, I suspect it's cyclical; we surely aren't the first people to worry that it's all about to go down the tubes.

In the end, I'm with Karie: I'll practice my craft to the best of my ability. I'll choose the materials that are right for me, and work on projects that have some meaning, or at least some practical application to my life. I'll be honest about the things that work and the things that don't, and thoughtful when I try to figure out why. I'll cultivate meaningful connections in my work and I'll celebrate the contributions that others make to the craft. Maybe we're all doing something slightly different, but we're all in it together.

***

P.S. I don't read as many food blogs as I used to, either, but I read enough that I noticed a little dust-up happening back in March. In a way, this blog post from Lottie+Doof echoes some of Karie's messages – the threat of homogenization; the idea of food blogging as a viable "lifestyle" (read: lucrative job) when really it's a hard grind at which not everyone can be successful; the challenge to stop accepting the status quo, to push boundaries and to "do better." Interesting parallels.
P.P.S. I was lucky to work with a host of brilliantly talented, creative, kind, funny, hard-working people in my magazine days. I want to make it clear that my comments refer to my own work, not to theirs.

March 29 – Craft scenes

I'm still not used to having a space that's dedicated to crafting. Sitting down at my desk to sew still seems really novel; it's best in the morning, when the light streams in.

Took a class in paper-template patchwork. Very interesting; lots of potential.

I've been thinking big thoughts about levels of skill, experience and experimentation, tools and materials, how we signal that we belong in a community, how those communities form and shift and change. I've got pages of scribbled notes all over my desk, but I'm having trouble getting the thoughts to coalesce.

Meanwhile, my mind has turned to sewing, as sure a sign as any that spring is on its way. 

I pulled out some springy skeins to inspire me. They last longer and require less upkeep than tulips.

Spring cleaned my knitting notions box. Doing that always makes me think of Amélie.

Needed a bit of whimsy in my knitting, so I'm making a sheep. Didn't encourage the month to go out like a lamb, though; I woke up to another 20 cm of snow on the ground this morning.

Took my table runner off the loom. Should have ironed it pre-photography, obviously. Pleased with my progress. Next up, a Noro scarf.

Took a look at the classics on my bookshelf.

What have you been up to?

January 27 – A stitch in time

So here's a thing about being a sock knitter: eventually you become a sock darner.

You might remember these socks from before. I discovered recently that they needed a bit more help...so out came the needle and yarn and darning egg again.

And then this weekend I discovered that another pair of socks was on the verge of holey-ness. These socks – I think of them as "the first of the modern era," as they're the first pair I made when I really got back into knitting again, about six years ago – were made with a super sturdy yarn (a good 25% acrylic blend does wonders for preserving lifespan) but worn spots come even to the best of socks.

A bit of weaving, a bit of Swiss darning, a bit of making-it-up-as-I-go, and these guys are ready to go back into service for at least a little while longer. It might not be super pretty, but I find it enjoyable in its own way, and I'm certainly faster at darning socks than I am at knitting them!

More on darning: Rachel's post about her visit to The Department of Repair; Tom of Holland on darning samplers and a really cool sweater repair; Kate Atherley on darning basics in Knitty; super skilful repairs to inspire you from Addison Embroidery.

September 15 – Change is afoot

Less than a week left of summer now, but I already feel deeply entrenched in autumn. The hint of chill that dogged those late-summer mornings never really lifts these days; I've put away my summer skirts and sandals and it's back to jeans and boots once more. My sweaters are serving their purpose again, old and new favourites alike in heavy rotation. Sometime this week I'm going to cull my scarves and cowls, see what's ready for the fall and what's ready to be retired. I think there's a new hat in my future.

*

Two perfect images from yesterday:
1. Walking to work, I saw the early sun glint off an office tower, bouncing the light onto the crenellations of the neighbouring church. For just a moment, everything glowed silver. Then the church bells rang, tolling the hour, and a flight of pigeons launched, soaring out over the street, graceful in silhouette despite their panic.

2. At the end of the day, waiting for a bus with my face turned toward the setting sun, I saw the light catch the telephone wires. They flashed and pulsed like beads of mercury. Mackerel-belly clouds lined the sky; off to the west, the beacon atop the CN Tower flashed its secret messages. A streetcar sang in the distance. The sun dropped down behind the trees.

*

It's dark earlier every day.

*

In the kitchen, I'm all about comfort food: roasted root vegetables and sweet sausage; homemade spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove; baking powder biscuits and apple crisp hot from the oven. Today I had a sudden craving for oatcakes with raspberry jam. The kettle's on constantly and the dish rack's scarcely cleared of pots and pans before I've filled it up again. I'm in the mood to roast a chicken.

*

My Rhinebeck sweater is progressing now, finally. I'm making Strokkur (a modern take on the traditional Icelandic lopi sweater), but I'm adding colourwork to the sleeves and around the hem, and adding length all over; the two not unrelated, actually. It's coming together relatively quickly, the blessing of big yarn and big needles, but (agreeable swatch notwithstanding) I'm not convinced about the size. There's a trial sleeve-blocking in the cards. We'll see.


(The afghan and the socks continue to crawl along. I'm ready to be finished the former and not devoting enough time to the latter, but there's always something that falls to the bottom of the pile. They'll get their due in time. Meanwhile I'm secretly obsessed with this slipper pattern. Might sneak a pair of those in somewhere, too.)

*

Work and life and all the rest of it continues apace. More soon. Be well and do good.

July 28 – Tasks vs. purpose

Recently I interviewed someone for an article and he said something that has stuck with me for days. I'm paraphrasing here, but this is the gist:

In your work, you often have to focus on one task or another, but you need to remember that those tasks aren't your purpose. Never forget to look at what you're really trying to do – the big picture, your real mission. Don't lose sight of it among all the smaller things you have to do along the way.

Such a simple idea, but it's the first time I've heard it articulated. It's a good exercise in gaining perspective about any work you do that involves myriad small, pesky jobs in service of a greater objective, whether that's dinner prep (fresh salsa, I'm looking at you!) or striving to raise a baby into a self-sufficient human.

It made me think that I should be a bit more mindful about what my own purpose is (well, purposes are, really). Goodness knows it's easy enough to get so bogged down in to-do lists that you forget why you wanted to do all those things in the first place. That kind of thinking is dangerous, though: if I'm not careful, next thing you know it'll be all career changes and cross-country moving trucks 'round here. Look out.

In unrelated news, how great are these temporary tattoos?

July 17 – Choppy waters

A long time ago, back when I lived near the ocean, someone I knew and cared for used to check in with me with five words: "Calm seas or choppy waters?"

I haven't heard that in a long time, but I thought of it today. As I listened to the news this afternoon, all I could envision were big slate-coloured waves under a gunmetal-grey sky, rolling relentlessly ashore, booming and crashing on a beach, foam gathering at the based of jagged rocks and spray filling the air. And all I could think was: not again.

Way back when I was living by the sea, everything was new. I was living on my own for the first time, working at my first real job, driving my first car. Everything felt so exciting—but it also felt so unreal, so dangerous. It was not that long after 9/11 and the American army was rolling toward Iraq. The world was on tenterhooks, and in the back of my mind was a whisper—like the first bit of breeze before a howling gale—that told me everything could come crashing down at a moment's notice.

It was too scary. In between newscasts we turned our backs on the world. We ate and drank, talked in metaphors; stayed out late at night, watching the stars from the beach while the tide rolled in.

Time passed. I moved: once, twice, half a dozen times. I changed jobs. I changed provinces. People came and went from my life and I from theirs. I sought calm seas. But out there, the gales keep raging: ground incursions roll on, planes fall out of the skies. The whisper is still there, but I don't listen any more. The part of me that used to be horrified and enraged is just weary: Another war? Another?

It's hard not to shut down completely, but being present and paying attention is important. I'm lucky to live where I live, in a place where I have food, water and electricity, where my family is safe and the most major inconvenience in my day was a 3-minute subway delay. The least I can do is bear witness.

I'm also trying to remember two things. First, the idea that we might not be able to do great things, but we can do small things with great love—or at least a little bit more kindness than usual. Second, the idea that it's darkest before the dawn. (Because a little bit of banjo helps almost everything.)

I wish you calm seas and a starry, cloudless night.

July 12 – A day late

Each time I finish another of those African flower hexagons, I trim the ends and pop them into this jam jar. Too short to be useful, too long to be garbage...into the jar they go. I don't think I'll keep them forever, but I find the jumble of colourful scraps pleasing, their accumulated mass a bit astonishing.

I mentioned this casually at work yesterday – in the way that you mention something when you assume you're not the only one who does it – only to discover that yes, apparently I'm the only one who does it. Weirdness established, my motives instantly became a topic of discussion. Am I doing it so that I can weigh the scraps to see how many motifs I could have made if I'd cut shorter ends? Will I be donating them to birds to use in their nests? Will I use them to stuff a stuffed toy?

Probably not. I'm not interested in second-guessing the lengths of my yarn tails and I think the birds will do fine without me. I've got enough fibre-fill to stuff a dozen toys, so I probably won't do that either. Although I guess you never know.

No, I think the jam jar is just the most recent example of a life-long habit. I'm a collector of insignificant scraps. Movie tickets, bits of fabric, wonderful sentences, poems ripped from magazines, foreign coins, memories. Sometimes I keep them until they coalesce into something meaningful (what a moment!). Sometimes I end up throwing them out. That's OK too.

In a way, this blog is like that jam jar. Full of colourful bits and pieces – probably insignificant on their own, sometimes easy to mistake as for the birds, but taken together, something more than the sum of their parts.

July 5 – Making plans

After weeks (well, months) of hemming and hawing and obsessing over seat sales, last night I finally booked a flight to Nova Scotia for my summer vacation. In seven years I've only missed one trip – last summer – and I'm looking forward to making up for lost time. I have a short list of must-visit places and a long list of must-visit people, and I'm looking forward to seeing those dear familiar faces, catching up on two years' worth of news. There are meals to eat and drinks to drink, games to play and babies (kids!) to marvel at, houses to admire. If previous trips are any indication, I will smile till my face hurts on a daily basis.

Going back isn't always easy, though: things have changed in the time I've been gone. Coming around a corner to discover an old beloved building has been knocked down and replaced by condos; driving downtown and getting lost because my mental map of one city has been replaced by another: on my last visit I felt those changes more keenly than I had expected to. When you have a tendency to nostalgia, it can be pretty uncomfortable when the present rubs up against the fondly (and even the not-so-fondly) remembered past. Sometimes every street corner, every highway exit and greasy diner, seems to resonate with memories, whether treasured or better forgotten.

But for all the ups and downs, there aren't many other ways I'd rather spend a week in August. A few heart pangs are a small price for happy hours with friends in one of the most beautiful places on earth. And when it gets to be a bit too much, I'll head for the ocean. After all, there's not much that an hour or two on the beach, listening to the waves, sifting through the sand for stripey pebbles, won't set to rights. I can't wait.

Comfort knitting: Duke Street Shawl

What a week. I already knew it would be a challenging one – I was back to work, another stint at the in-house freelance job I'm working, which takes more out of me than I'd like to admit – but I wasn't anticipating all the bad news. So much bad news, and so graphic, and so constant. Eventually you just have to turn everything off and walk away.

So on Thursday I snuck out of the office for a coffee and knitting break. It was warm enough (almost) to sit outside, so I bundled up and sat in the weak spring sun for 15 minutes and got in a couple rows of the shawl I'm working on.

The Duke Street Shawl is one of two patterns that I modelled for Glenna back in February – the first part of her Urban Collection, Vol. 2. It was a chilly day, but with that shawl wrapped around my neck I was (almost, ha!) cozy. Later, I wished I'd had the gumption to distract her and spirit the shawl into my own bag. 

Instead, I'm making my own. The yarn is TFA Orange Label in Teal – I love this colourway. The pattern is simple – perfect for when your brain power is directed elsewhere – but the ever-shifting colours keep me well entertained. And oh, it will be so soft and warm when it is finished – perfect for those frosty early mornings at Squam (I'm under no illusions that it will be any warmer in June than it is in September).

I'll be bundling this back into my bag today, as I'm heading into the office for the afternoon and, well, you never know when you might need a bit of comfort knitting. Between this and the world's ugliest blueberry muffins (fresh out of the oven), hopefully it will be a good day.

In news-related news, I found this Amy Poehler video touching, and this essay was also a tonic. 

Back soon.

When darning isn't enough (a tale of two socks)

The thing about becoming a sock knitter is that it doesn't take long before you also become a sock fixer. Especially if, like me, your favourite sock yarn is 100% merino, and your favourite mode of transportation is walking.

This sort of situation isn't hard to fix – and you can see that I've already darned this sock at least once. That's just a matter of getting out a darning needle and spending a bit of time weaving things back together again.

Easy. (No, really: easy.) But the second sock of this pair was another matter entirely. It wasn't thin...it was downright holey.

I knew about the two big holes, but I didn't see the smaller ones until I put the darning egg (it's actually a sea shell) into the sock. Not only was it practically disintegrating, but it had also taken a trip through the washer and dryer (whoops!). I've been wondering if I could figure out how reknit the heel of a sock, and I figured that this was the one to experiment on.

The first thing I did was to put in a lifeline. Thanks to the magic of wool, I wasn't too worried about runaway stitches, but a little insurance never hurt anyone. It also made it easier for me to cut in a straight(ish) line when I snipped out the heel.

This is what I cut out – you can see the bottom of the heel flap at the far right, the heel turning and a bit of the bottom of the sock on the left. (You can see that I've already darned this one, too.) 

Next, I picked up stitches, starting at the heel flap, then working up the side of the foot, across, and then down the other side. 

I didn't worry too much about the numbers at this point – well, I knew there were 32 in the heel flap, and I tried to make the number of stitches on either side match. But I wasn't too fussed about it.

Working back and forth, I put in six rows on the heel flap, picking up with the same k1, sl1 from the pattern. Then – again, following the pattern – I turned the heel.

When that was finished, I put markers on either side of the 18 heel stitches, then picked up 5 stitches from either side of the heel flap. Working back and forth, I faked a gusset by decreasing on the outside of each marker on every other row until I had 22 stitches – which matched the number of stitches that I'd picked up further up the foot.

To make the next step easier, I divided the heel stitches in half and put them on the needles with the stitches from the sides of the foot. Still working back and forth, I joined the bottom of the foot to the rest of the sides by working short rows: k21, k2tog (knitting the last stitch from the bottom with the next stitch from the side of the foot); turn, p 21, p2tog (purling the last stitch from the bottom with the next stitch from the other side) turn. That was easy enough, if a bit fiddly with five DPNs going. 

It looks a bit like Frankensock, but you get the picture.

When I'd knitted each of the side stitches, it was time to graft the old part to the new part. A little bit of Kitchener stitch was all it took. 

It's not a perfect fix – that trip through the dryer means that that the body of the sock was smaller and denser than it was at first, so there's an inherent size mismatch between the old sock and the new heel. And I could definitely find a neater way to join the edges. But still: an old sock with a new lease on life.

Ta da! Sure, these socks are going into the around-the-house pile, but it's nice to know that a hole or two (or five) doesn't automatically mean they're going into the scrap heap. 

I have to admit that I'm pretty proud of myself for figuring this out. I've read enough Elizabeth Zimmermann and Ann Budd to know that fixes like this are possible, I guess – and when it was time, the theory behind the afterthought heel and EZ's moccasin socks had tumbled around in my brain long enough that something like this finally found its way out my fingertips. (I guess that having 25 years of experience counts for something.)

To me, this sort of thing is what craft is all about. It's about learning a skill, and then perfecting it – slowly, a bit at a time, over an extended period. It's about challenging yourself; trying and failing and trying again. It's about solving problems, building a skill set, learning from others and learning from yourself. It's about creating a narrative, or finding your place in a larger story. It's about taking pride in your work – and valuing the things you make so much that you use them, appreciate them, take care of them and learn to fix them.

It's a sustainable approach, and – in a world where so many things are instant, ephemeral and disposable – it's also sustaining.

Warp and weft

My first introduction to weaving came when I was still in single digits, during a demonstration at a pioneer village. I was fascinated by the simple mechanics of the floor loom; amazed that a person could create fabric that looked just like what I saw when I went to the fabric store with my mum.

Looms were expensive, but library books were free. Inspired by the black-and-white photographs in one ancient tome, I gathered yarn and tree branches and popsicle sticks and set about constructing a belt loom. That was the easy part.

I was soon stymied by my inability to use a hole-punch to make holes in the popsicle sticks; creating a heddle was going to be harder than it looked. It took my dad's help to make the heddle a reality, but after hours of him painstakingly drilling, gluing and clamping, I was ready to weave. Many crooked belts and coasters and lopsided purses followed.

Eventually I learned to knit, and weaving was almost forgotten. (But not entirely – I still have that popsicle-stick heddle tucked away.) Fast forward twenty-five years, and here I am, once again a weaving novice.

This time, I'm taking a class at a local yarn store. The tiny rigid heddle looms we're using aren't much different from the loom I improvised out of scrap wood, and the fabric I'm making suffers from the same uneven edges and tension issues I dealt with all those years ago.

But other things are the same. The shuttle goes back and forth; the heddle goes up and down; every so often I wind the fabric up to give myself more room to work. It's the simplest of work, but still very satisfying, and I know I'll wear my raggedy-edged scarf with pride.

Starting anew

I've been thinking about endings and beginnings this week for a variety of reasons, including a bit of casting off and on again that I've been doing.

The first Fiddlehead Mitten, for all its apparent complexity, was a quick, satisfying knit, and the second of the pair will be too. Good thing – we're headed into a good old-fashioned cold snap this week, and super-warm mittens will be essential.

This sock, on the other hand, has been my travelling companion for months. I imagine I'll be spending an equally long time with the sequel.

Make something good, beautiful and true, and when you're finished, begin again. Not a bad motto, when you think about it.