Does using a temple make me a better weaver or applying color theory make me a better artist?
Doing things the "right" way...in weaving, art, and in life.
I’ve always been a quiet rebel.
When I was four, we lived in London and my grandparents came to see us. She loved to tell the tale of the two of us going for a walk hand in hand. Well, the hand in hand part was insisted upon , so when we got to the middle of the crosswalk, I declared that she was old enough now to cross the street on her own, and I wrenched my hand out of her grip. I had my own ideas.
As a teenager, if it was popular, I wasn’t having it. I am probably the only person of my generation that never saw the movie E.T.
I spent most of my life digging my heels in. I believed the lies that I heard whispered, that real knitters don’t need a pattern, you have to go to school to be an artist, you shouldn’t weave without making a sample first. Ugh, at that point, why try? Let me rephrase that, I tried, but I never went into anything with abandon.
For years, in Seattle, I worked at a “fiber mecca” of sorts. The store specialized in weaving, knitting, basketry, dyeing, and about every type of handcraft. I was surrounded by very experienced, knowledgable craftspeople, at the top of their fields. I loved that job and learned so much. And yet, the die hard weavers seemed so rigid and intimidating, the knitting designers so effortlessly brilliant. I thought they were just naturally talented and gifted.
It wasn’t until life knocked me down enough times, that I one day decided my rebellion was going from quiet to LOUD. I’m not wasting time with this life. I learned that the “rules” are simply a guideline or road map of sorts of those that have gone before. Take what you will from the rules, and sort out the rest.
I, now, proudly use a temple (a stretcher of sorts), not because I need one to make my selvedges neater, but because I like the way each beat feels when I’m weaving. I add spices and ingredients when I’m cooking that I’m sure my Italian family members who have crossed over are cursing me for from the grave. I often hear my daughter’s three year old voice in my head (she is now thirty), “just make it up!” I make it up, alright! If a thought crosses my mind about the what ifs of natural dyeing, I’m in my garden cutting hollyhocks and zinnias.
At this stage in my life, I’m more of a “let’s try it and see what happens and deal with the fallout later” kind of girl.
Like the entire sleeve I almost finished knitting last night with half assed calculated numbers, that I get to rip out and start over today.
What freedom! What true rebellion.