Step Into My Parlor

Welcome to my little corner of the knitting universe.  And I do mean little corner.  And yes, before you ask, I did begin life as a quilter (one of my Amish interpretations in the stairwell against which my "office" rests.  Small world, no?

My blog, my book, and all my knitting work happen here, in less than 70 square feet that I claimed for my own, between the front door and the dining room.  No room for a legitimate workspace?  Ha!  I laugh at cramped quarters!  A bucket of paint and a trip to Ikea, financed by my first published knitting pattern were all it took.  It wasn't that I couldn't work at the dining room table.  I'd been making it work just any old way for years.  No, the real reason I needed a workspace to call my own was to legitimize my pursuit in the eyes of the others in my home.  Or so I thought.  Little did I know that I was the one who really needed convincing.  You see, dedicating 70 square feet of my home to my pursuit of art both validated and elevated the time I spend working at it. 

My workspace coexists happily with my family living room and consists of three distinct zones.  First is the Office:
 

My desk, surrounded by tack boards and baskets of, what else? YARN!  Notice how the simple act of painting the wall behind my desk delineates the space and makes it special?

My most-often referenced books, patterns and materials all live near where I write.  On the top shelf is Woody, my artist's model, sporting a miniature gansey I made in class, as well as a wee hat.  Woody provides the constant supervision required by my kind of behavior.

Here's a closer look at my desk.  Swatches, postcards, buttons I love, and other inspirational ephemera are all here in a rotating display that keeps me inspired, or at least tenacious.  In the foreground is some artwork from my book, The New Stranded Colorwork

My second work zone is for knitting, and it's across from my desk in the living room.  This is my favorite place to knit, and where the rubber meets the road for every design:  All my samples are made right here, by me.  I knit here in my favorite chair with a good light, while my family watch TV, play games and read books.  I'd love an office with a door someday, but I'm sure I'd miss all the action of the living room.  

My knitting chair, with the Frog Prince in progress.  The lion's share of my yarn stash lives in the bookcase in the background, inside pull-out bins.  The Knot Garden cardigan is also in progress here, hanging from a bin.  Do yourself the favor of a decent light wherever you like to work:  Mine is the finest that $12 can buy, and serves me perfectly.

The last work zone was added when my sample knitting went thermonuclear.  I invested in some yarn management tools, which have greatly improved my life, and those of my family (who are no longer required to hold my skeins while I wind them)  The wheel was added this spring, when I took up spinning.  

My Lendrum DT wheel, personalized with a favorite verse.  The chair is borrowed from the dining room.  Really uncomfortable, and slated for replacement.  Everything is a work in progress.

And back to the desk, where I'm sitting right now, to complete our tour.

 One large cork board wouldn't fit the triangular stair wall, so I improvised this set of four small ones from craft-store cork squares and bargain-bin frames.  My sister added the words "Dream", "Imagine" and "Believe" to my cork board arrangement as a special message. 

If you have ever thought that your "hobby" doesn't warrant a physical space of its own, I challenge you to devote whatever you can to just yourself and your art.  One corner of one shelf.  One drawer.  Claim it in the name of your craft, like a flag on a mountain top, and see if you don't start to take yourself a little more seriously.  You are worth it, and so is your beautiful work. 

Come back to my parlour soon.  I'll put the kettle on.
 

Seeking Patience, and Something Unusual

I'm slogging away at the Frog Prince.  Still.  Again.  Would you believe that I still don't love it and I gutted it again?  Broke my heart, but there it is.  I just want it how I want it, and the wise words of one of the Faery Ring knitters came back to me:  "I have never regretted tearing something out to make it right, but I have often been disappointed when I didn't".  Hard to argue with that.  And the thought of knitters at my door with torches and pitchforks is always added incentive. 

My frustration is nearly complete, but I'm trying to keep in mind the old adage: "Be patient, God isn't finished with me yet".  Applies so well to knitters and knitting.

Your kind words and enthusiasm, Gentle Readers, have been such inspiration for me to attack the Knot Garden again:

Here is the second sleeve, begun with a nice bit of the knot garden cable business for a cuff.  I'll turn it sideways and knit up for the rest of the sleeve.  Wonder how come I always like cables better turned sideways?  Same disorder that causes me to color outside the lines, no doubt.  Working on this is a welcome distraction when I get a gut full of the Frog.

And now for Something Unusual:  

Friends of the blog Interweave Press  have invited me to take part in a virtual Tour of Studios.  This event will be held this Saturday, October 3.  Click the magazine cover above to follow the link this weekend, and you can take in the sights, which include the work digs of many different designers.  I don't know about you, but the physical spaces in which creativity happens fascinate me.  My little corner of the design world will be on the tour, so you can see where all the magic (and sniveling) happens.  I can't wait to see where other designers work.  I'm particularly interested to learn if many others have tiny little areas, like me.  My office is actually in the hallway which joins my foyer to my dining room - barely even qualifies as a hallway - and occupies less than 70 square feet.  I long for a real room with a door, but for the time being, this little space suits me well.  Once I carved it out, I was really surprised how popular it became with the rest of my family:  I usually have to shoo one or more smallies out of the way to do my thing.

In the meantime, if anyone needs me, I'll be in the corner, muttering curses on a frog.
 

My Esteemed Associates

I am trudging through a particularly dull patch of black stockinette.  This would be the third incarnation of the Frog Prince sleeve, whose glamour is well and truly off, at the moment.  It's one of those stretches whose progress is both slow and invisible; measurable only by the intensity of the cramp forming in my brain. 

Slow doesn't begin to describe it. 

Glacial. 

Snailworthy.

I looked across my desk for validation, if not inspiration, from Clementine.  She reminded me that the new pet I got her, Gary, could probably feel my pain.

Gary, as you can see, is an actual snail.  I got him as a present for Clementine, to keep her company, and to clean up around the place (not much of a housekeeper, my fish).  So far Gary does a bang-up job in both respects.  But he does neither job quickly, nor would Clementine expect him to.

And then, clever beast that I am, I made the connection:  The issue is not that my sleeve is slow to progress; it's that my perception of how long a sleeve should take is wrong.  It's wrong because I have started the sleeve three times, which cumulatively should add up to at least one finished sleeve, even though it hasn't.  Ever sit in traffic for a really long time and think "I could have driven to Fargo North Dakota by now"?  That's this sleeve.  I could have been to Fargo, but I haven't even gotten across town.

None of this would bother Gary.  His pace is exactly as it should be, which is Snailworthy.  No amount of fretting or flagellation is going to increase the acreage he covers.

Humans should be so patient.  That's what we get for coming out of our shells.