OGIC: Knitwit

Three years ago I learned how to knit, and since then it’s been hard to stop. I think the key to my obsession is that knitting is equally an exercise in consumerism and creation: you get to buy something lovely and then make it into a different kind of nice thing. The latter follows what’s often a protracted period of deliberation, ruled by a sense of possibility.
Before knitting itself comes a trip to the yarn store, as sweetly anticipated by me and my knitting buddy as a penny-candy store outing by a kid with a five-dollar bill. As goods go, yarn is particularly seductive–pure color and texture in endless variety. Seeing the colors of a yarn together makes each color more fetching. With some yarns, the effect of seeing all the colors together is to make choosing virtually impossible–I’ve been putting Malabrigo Twist skeins into an online shopping cart and taking them out again every day for the last two weeks.
In terms of presentation, the Chicago store my friend and I favor is to yarn what Whole Foods is to produce: expert at arranging things to snare the eye and make you want to touch–to fondle, really. More than my friend, I choose my purchases without a purpose in mind, validated by the excellent convention of the stash. Not knowing what I’ll make is a big part of the pleasure. In this way I end up with two skeins of most of what I buy, and consequently a lot of scarves and hats.
An editor I used to work for sometimes got to reminiscing about her idyllic housewife/mom days. As a representative experience of that time, she usually invoked afternoons spent at the market searching for the perfect tomato–not time spent in the kitchen chopping it. With a couple of possible exceptions, I’ve been a lot less taken with the items I’ve knitted than with the yarn I started with and its pure potential. I don’t think this is just because I’m not a great knitter, though I’m not. I love the first ten rows of every project–watching it barely begin to become something. But mostly I seem to love shopping.