Everything we create tells a story: about us, about itself, and about the world that it was born into…
This is equally true for knitting.
Our pallet and our pattern shed light on our environment and our feelings towards it. Our tension and our mistakes vocalise our life cracks. If we are working straight from our heads, free from rules and the constraints of a formula, everything is on show. Bad weather might turn our pallet to grey. A disagreement might result in a dropped stitch. Worry over an upcoming interview translate into a row of meticulously carried-out yarn overs. A new relationship, a sweater covered in hearts. For me, especially, my work reveals a truth. And no matter how hard I might want or try to hide it: the facts will out.
Recently, much has been revealed. Although how much of this is transparent or visible to the unenlightened observed is up for debate. I would like to think not much. To believe that my secrets (private) remain that way. The beauty of the tale, the value of the garment, is in the catharsis provided during its making.
Knitting provides activity.
Knitting gives purpose to idle or otherwise incapable hands.
Knitting stills the mind.
Knitting grounds the body.
Knitting makes something beautiful and durable out of nothing at all.
Knitting becomes solid and tangible.
Sometimes, knitting is all there is…
Knitting is old.
Knitting is respected.
Knitting is steeped in history and laced with tradition.
Knitting was around long before us.
Knitting has survived,
Knitting has endured.
Knitting is our most reliable friend.
With opportunities in a constant state of flux, growing and shrinking at speeds and in directions beyond our needs and our control: knitting is simple and reliable and resilient.
I love knitting because (no matter what, no matter where, no matter when…), it can be called upon to provide me with what the moment most calls for.