Home Thoughts from Abroad

For twelve days we were immersed in beauteous British Columbia, communing with nature, exploring the gardens and harbor of Victoria, and enjoying a good stay in the highly-evolved city of Vancouver, a metropolis that makes so many other world-class cities seem comparatively tatty. What, was I not knitting? Quelle question! Three projects accompanied me--one, the very long scarf of hand-dyed brown sock merino that H wants for "looping around my neck" (ok, whatever; more than 2.5 feet on size 3 needles were accomplished in the car, as we drove along roads with dazzling views of snow-capped mountains, fiords, the endless Pacific ocean, and old growth forest); two, the "Rosalie" scarf I'm making in periwinkle blue alpaca/merino/silk "Wings" yarn for J (NB: the yarn looks good but splits as you knit, so can be slightly frustrating); and three, a pair of cabled fingerless gloves in slate blue "O" (organic) wool that I didn't get to. Yet.

Hard to believe, but no yarn was purchased on this jaunt. In fact, the only LYS I saw was in Victoria, a fleeting glance from the car window as we sped past. In Vancouver, though, perusing the Vancouver Sun one morning after breakfast, I read of a knitting exhibition at the Pendulum Gallery, and decided this would be a Destination. The article described the "deep-rooted knitting traditions of Norway" as the "starting point" of a knitted clothing company called Oleana. And Oleana's knitted clothing was what the exhibit was about. The Sun article quoted one of the company's founders: "You can say many bad things about Norwegians, but one good thing is we have been good knitters. We are good on the jacquard knitting or patterned knitwear."

I grew up in a heavily Norwegian-American neighborhood on the south shore of Staten Island (about which the less said, the better), where nearly every girl I knew in junior high (except me, not being Norwegian-American) had at least one of those gorgeous Norwegian sweaters, knitted in the most jubilant colors, with patterns of snowflakes and reindeer, with engraved silver clasps for closures. You can imagine how intensely I wanted to see this exhibit, if only to confirm or deny that the mists of memory had filmed over the reality of those sweaters.

The Pendulum Gallery is a self-described

legacy to enhance the experience of living and working in the downtown core. Opened in 1986, the light infused seven story soaring glass-covered atrium hall is a dramatic setting for art exhibitions. The atrium also offers the Cafe Ami, a popular eating-place with a relaxed seating area.

The primary mandate of the gallery is twofold:
1. To provide an alternative public exhibition venue in the city for artists and arts groups who would like to exhibit in a highly visible but non-traditional gallery environment.

2. To provide an exiting and varied exhibition program that appeals to both casual visitors to the building and a dedicated gallery going public.

www.pendulumgallery.bc.ca/gallery.html

Sic. (I needed to quote that verbatim for your full appreciation. Especially the part about the "exiting" exhibition program.)

Basically it's a section of the lobby in a steel-and-glass office building that has this pendulum thingy, rather large (guesstimate: around eighty feet long) of shiny metal, presumably quite heavy, that rocks back and forth ceaselessly like a sword of Damocles over the heads of innocent bystanders, over the "gallery going public" (sic), over "casual visitors," over office workers traversing the lobby, and over the "relaxed seat[ed]" in the "popular eating place" known as the Café Ami.

I, for one, did not feel particularly comfortable with this ginormous pendulum swooshing above me as I strolled the exhibit, which, as it turned out, was not about knitting but rather knitwear. Of the machine-made sort. Entitled "Beyond Borders: Oleana, the Norwegian Story," the show was essentially advertising a collection of women's apparel by one particular company. In other words, commerce masquerading as art.

However: these were, actually, beautiful examples of knitted textiles. The designs were simple, and the color work was fabulous. So...much inspiration was gathered as I perused the show, even though my nerves were shot by the time we left. In fact, for starters I might try knitting the Snowflake Scarf pattern (design by Eunny Jang, free download offered on Knitting Daily, 9/18/09) in one of the marvelous color combos suggested by the Oleana designs. whatcounts.com/dm?id=2F9966E3402CC47060A8D8A12C2273DA92D40326E9F9F53B

And I have to say...those hand-knitted, silver-clasped sweaters worn by my junior high school classmates, with their long blonde braids and apple-cheeked faces, those girls who made my life absolute hell for two years...well, they seemed kind of crude by comparison.

It Was the Best of Times...

Photo above: Jo Ann Bartholomew, Head Knit Wit; Photo below: Two members of the Langworthy Knitters calmly surveying the Table of Treasures.

Those of us whose childhood traumas include the communal dressing room at Loehmann's are not merely survivors, we are Shoppers. And we became Shoppers by learning how to maken vertue of necessitie, as Chaucer so neatly put it. Keen observation of Highly Determined Women (aka our mothers) behaving like predatory beasts--the prey being deeply discounted designer duds--and of monstrous saleswomen loudly offering unsolicited opinions-- ("Honey, that Chanel is gapping at the bust--you need a 16, at least.")--taught us how to move into and out of the fray before anyone actually realized we were there and gone. Stealth is the key to all successful shopping, (as well as to the procurement of limited seating on public transit).

My long-dormant shopping instincts--veritably comatose since I'd left the Big Apple in the 1970s--were awakened on Saturday morning, when I hit the Summer Sale at Knit Wits in Westerly. Several members of the Langworthy Library Knitting Association arrived shortly after I did, but I could tell, from their refined perusal of the Bargain Table, that they had been raised in civilized society. Here was the deal: you grabbed a bag, and as much as you could stuff into it could be had for $25. Adrenalin pulsing, I immediately set about amassing the most beauteous yarns I could lay hands on. About 10 minutes later I was done. It was a superb haul--by the most conservative estimate, around $300 worth of stuff, including 13 skeins of bamboo yarn (celadon, butter, black, slate blue), 5 skeins of oatmeal-tweedy Khatmandu DK (85% merino, 10% silk, 5% cashmere), 5 skeins of Classic Elite mohair in raspberry ombre, and so on and so forth (to spare you my insufferable gloating I shall cease forthwith). But what joy and, indeed, rapture!

Summer of Love: the photos

Check out Joan Baez and Arlo Guthrie on the jumbotrons to the right of the stage. And, apropos of nothing, here's a link to a fabulous knitting calculator:

http://www.jimmybeanswool.com/secure-html/onlineec/knittingCalculator.asp

Summer of Love

Every marriage has its give and take; ours has mostly to do with music. H favors that of the guitar-banjo-vacuumcleaner-truck-tires-on-gravel voice type; mine is mainly keyboard, orchestral, and operatic. When I play my instruments, the house fills with celestial sounds; when H listens to his, um, stuff he diplomatically wears headphones. It's not folk music I object to; that is, obviously, the basis for much of beauty in the classical repertoire. It's the ersatz folk music that H favors--the excruciating voices, the banal lyrics, the impoverished melodies and harmonizations.

(A typical conversation:

H (listening to NPR's "The Folk Heritage" on the car radio): Wow, isn't that a great song?

S (car passenger hostage): Do you realize that song has only three notes and two chords?)

But, as I began saying, give and take is a key to marital harmony. And so, when I learned that ninety-year-old Pete Seeger would perform at the Newport Folk Festival, along with other luminaries of the folk music world--Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Arlo Guthrie--I decided we should go, and bought tix as soon as they went on sale in May. (Therefore I didn't feel too overweening as I dragged H to a performance of Purcell's chamber opera "Diocletian," replete with period instruments and baroque dancers, along with the inevitable countertenors in chitons and laurel crowns.)

I was actually looking forward to the event, and planned my attire carefully--an ankle-length granny dress, a large floppy cotton sunhat, love beads, big earrings, patchouli perfume, and (of course) sandals. Alas, the forecast promised rain in the evening, and I couldn't deal with the thought of a long, wet cylinder of cotton jersey sticking to my legs, so I substituted a top and slacks for the gown. This was something of a disappointment, but hey, I lived. And it did actually rain, so I wasn't annoyed at having to ditch my ensemble for no good reason. H, too, was busy with preparations--he insisted we buy sand chairs with carry straps (wise decision) and wore his most sunburn-preventing clothing (special SPF shirt and slacks, as well as a wide straw hat).

You are wondering, perhaps, what my narrative has to do with the avowed purpose of this blog, i.e. knitting in New England. Well, obviously I wasn't just going to sit through this concert and do nothing. So I brought along the pattern for Jamieson's "Rosalie" scarf, two pairs of #6 needles, one pair of #7 needles, and three different kinds of worsted: Noro Kureyon, Classic Elite "Wings," an alpaca/silk/wool blend, and a lovely wool-and-cotton yarn, "Bergerine" by Bergere de France, that I recently found in the sale bin at Fresh Purls on Hope Street in Providence.

The reason for all this equipment was uncertainty. I had no sense of how the yarns would knit up into the pattern, and if the indicated needle size (six) would harmonize with the yarn. I began with the Noro and soon realized that its texture mandated a larger needle, so I began again with sevens. Another question mark was the recipient. I had thought to knit a scarf for J, but as I began with the Noro it just didn't seem like her, who, I'm pretty sure, is more of an alpaca person.

After a while another knitter found me and inquired about my project. We had an interesting discussion. She's a physician but believes that the huge yarn stash in her basement is telling her that she needs to be a fiber person. (Apparently in a former life she was a weaver.) She showed me a lovely scarf she's making (or was it a shawl?) for a friend. She said these weren't her personal colors (lilacs, blues) and she allowed the project to suggest to her the intended recipient. A little while later, I realized I was making the Noro scarf for M, as these were indeed her colors (blues, greens, purples). Someone (KM, are you reading this?) has often said to me, "You put out your call to the universe, and you get what you want." I believe that is what happened yesterday, the answer having come in the form of this serendipitous conversation.

Oh yes, the music. Well it was pleasant at its best and boring at its worst. Sad to report--Joan Baez's voice has lost its luster. Pete Seeger is still the eminence grise of the folk music world, and I love his socialistic idealism. Judy Collins, who trained as a classical pianist, accompanied herself beautifully on both a Steinway and guitar. Arlo Guthrie was an amusing raconteur, whose backstory made lyrics as inane as "I don't want a pickle,/ Just want to ride on my motor-sickle," fairly enjoyable. All in all a pretty nice day, even with the rain. H had a great time and appreciated my gesture. He bought me a rainbow flag with the word "Peace" written across it. We'll hang it from our deck.

Beginner's mind

My hands itch to start another project even though currently there are six (at least) in medias res. Some I've put aside temporarily because I'm stuck or at a point where I need to rip out a few inches and just can't face that. One, a scarf for H, is worked on only while I'm riding shotgun in the car, since it's mindless and he doesn't expect it at any particular time. Now I'm wanting to make J the "Rosalie Scarf" from Jamieson's "Simply Shetland, 4," though I'm not planning to use the lambswool-and- cashmere blend they recommend.

Just before leaving for harpsichord camp I visited Jo Ann Bartholomew, owner of Knit Wits in Westerly, RI. She mentioned that she loves to start projects, finding the beginnings the most interesting. Sometimes she has friends finish the pieces for her. I've never delegated the finishing to others, but I do understand the intense rush of excitement generated at the start of a knitting endeavor, since there's so much to absorb--the pattern instructions, the feel of the yarn, the way it knits up and develops, complicated thoughts about the person who will wear the completed item.

I enjoyed my visit with Jo Ann, since I was able to talk to her and watch her in action. Jo Ann is extremely nice to her clients--knowledgeable, cheerful, and kind. She's a really good person, period. Knit Wits is a bright spot in an otherwise banal strip mall off Route 1. The most impressive aspect of the store is the enormous table to the left of the front entry. There sit any knitters who feel the urge, and they knit sociably, or ask for help with a project, and Jo Ann or her staff always oblige. During the short time we chatted, five different people asked Jo Ann for guidance on a project or for advice about what kinds of yarn to use for a specific pattern, and she had sensible answers for everyone.

If you're wondering what the big deal about this is--after all, running a yarn store is her business--it's pertinent to mention that unfortunately many yarn stores in this area actually charge for helping someone, and sometimes will refuse to help a knitter unless she's bought her yarn at the store. While one can see the business mentality at work here, such a policy is, IMHO, petty and not conducive to positive energy. In general, when I review a Local Yarn Shop (LYS), I'll make a point of mentioning whether or not it charges for help, and you, gentle reader, may decide for yourself where to seek knitting advice. It's worth stating that at least two of the Rhode Island LYS I've visited that charge patrons for knitting help have their worktables stuffed in the way back of store, forcing everyone to knit in a cramped manner. They generally limit their help to specific times of the week, as well as the number of people who can attend the help sessions. The going rate is about $10/hour per person for a group help.

To me it's not so much about the money as about what it means to charge knitters for help. LYS tend to cultivate an image that's people oriented, more about knitting sociability than commerce. The deliberate blurring of the line between customer and friend creates the warm and fuzzy atmosphere knitters enjoy; when a shop's policy is "show me the money" for a courtesy like knitting help, it feels, almost, like a slap in the face.

This is definitely not part of the Knit Wits ethos. Jo Ann doesn't even care if a knitter who bought her yarn elsewhere comes in for some guidance. She knows that building a dedicated clientele is furthered by the generous spirit of her shop.

What I do on my summer vacation...

when I'm not knitting....I'm playing the harpsichord a lot this week at Amherst Early Music, a convocation of music professionals, conservatory students, and dedicated amateurs comme moi, at Connecticut College. I'm signed up for Harpsichord Master Class with Peter Sykes, Continuo and Figured Bass with Allisa Duryee, and Baroque Ensemble with Peter Sykes. In the latter I'm playing continuo with two alto recorders and what H calls a "Vasco da Gama."

On display here, photos of the various instruments I played today. And I did manage to knit a few inches of a pair of Maine Mitts from Clara Parkes's The Knitter's Book of Yarn during my lunch break.

The rain is raining all around

It started up again about 5.40 a.m. There was an hour or so of hiatus, then it resumed. Lightning, thunder, torrential downpours, the works. Nearly four inches so far....

...it falls on field and tree;

It rains on the umbrellas here,

And on the ships at sea.