art + craft = craftivism.

This post is a little different than the usual, but no less important. It was originally posted on the now-defunct and sorely missed, Make and Meaning, a project started by Diane Gilleland and Paul Overton with help from Alice Merlino, Pip Lincolne, Kim Werker and myself. I’m happy to report that despite lack in sales, I am still able to find my lucky pens!

I have this pen. Okay, actually a specific type of pen. And by specific, I mean it must be this one brand, must be medium-point, and it must be blue. Without it, something inside me gets cranky. Although I’ve been known to jot down notes in eyeliner, nothing still really rolls until I’ve got my pen.

In a pinch, I’ve tried black ink or fine-point, thinking that I can fool my brain into believing I have the right equipment at hand. But no, it’s not my pen, my special favorite pen that I absolutely, positively must have. And while technology has helped our lives a great deal, it has also meant finding a modern version of that damn pen.

When I’m typing instead of writing, pens don’t matter. Typing on a computer, of course, involves another thing that I must have. I can’t start working on my computer in the morning until I have a cup of coffee or tea at my side. If I’m out of both at home, I have to go buy some. If I’m feeling bold and just drink orange juice instead, all attempts at being productive end up deleted and shot.

It’s not unlike that compulsion you have to close the closet door when you’re lying in bed at night all cozy and realize you left it open. It taunts you from across the room until you have get up and close it. Then, and only then, are you able to fall asleep. As adults we know there aren’t any monsters in the closet, yet still, it must be closed in order for us to fully relax. If we leave it open, it’s like some sort of perversely juvenile form of water torture in that it bothers you (immensely) until, finally, it’s shut.

It’s also like that one baseball player who wears the same socks every game without washing them because his team is undefeated. It’s just a crutch, right? Something silly that we believe we must have in order to do well? One of the grand prizes we get from being adults is that since every children’s movie seen since birth has force-fed us the lesson that, “You’ve had [whatever you need] in you the whole time,” we know we’re being silly and possibly dramatic. But… what if you still need it?

In order to get around this profound age-old dilemma, sometimes I have to remind myself that this is all part of my “process.” That’s one of the lucky things about being creative, you’re allowed to have this magical “process” which you must complete before working/creating properly. I have lucky pens stashed all over the house and always know where the nearest coffee shop is. I might not need them now, but one day, these precautions might save my entire productivity from jeopardy!

These are the things I need in order to enter a clear head space to work. I must have them, even though I know I hold the key/strength/courage/whatever Yoda/Big Bird/that weird magical elf tries to tell me inside and don’t need my pen or my caffeinated hot beverage.

What about you? What do you absolutely have to do/have in order to feel like you can let your creativity really rip? Or is that all just a bunch of poppycock?

[Photos from Flickr, top to bottom by Frankenhut, Clutterbusters and Carstingaxion.]

One of the projects I’m working on right now is researching craft made post-earthquake in Haiti, its political, economic, cultural elements.

It’s really interesting, and having seen this article about Levoy Exil on CNN.com from March, am wondering what I could have been told if I wasn’t stopped from speaking to him more by his one-word answer to my question when I asked him about it at the Smithsonian Folklife Festival. It was through a translator, he thought I was going to initially buy some art, it was awkward.

Know someone I should talk to or somewhere I should look? Although I’d be grateful to speak with someone, I’m as equally eager to find pieces made in regard to post-earthquake Haiti. Because, after all, often times what is crafted by our hands is just as telling (if not more) as what comes out of our mouths. As our hands have the tendency, unlike our mouths (despite our best intentions at times), to tell what’s really going on beneath the surface.

If you follow what’s going on in the craft world, chances are you know about what’s been called yarn bombing, yarn storming, graffiti knitting and/or guerrilla knitting. It’s a crafty way to reclaim city space and make your town, city, village more personable and less drab. It’s so easy to get lost in a sea of concrete and brick and asphalt- Why not liven it up a bit? Crafters around the world are doing just that, covering statues, lightposts, bike rails… bus stops… the bus stop above was adorned in Tel Aviv by the group Savta Connection.

As generally happens in life, some people love it. Some people hate it. Either way you crack it, it opens up a dialogue about engaging with public space. For decades artists and kids hellbent on vandalism alike have used public space and walls as their canvas. Some of it is great, others not so much.

But what urban knitting does that street art doesn’t is bring the tactile into the equation. You can touch it and feel the different types of yarn involved. It’s taking street art just one step further. With this in mind, I was ecstatic when recently I discovered the project in the video below called “Sniff.” First of all, go watch the video… then keep reading.

Okay, now that you’ve seen the video, you know what I mean about it also taking street art a step further. And this is just the beginning! After you calm down again after the awesomeness above, maybe have a cup of tea or something, you may have some questions like…

1. Just what is going on with that dog? You can see how the did it over here.
2. Who made this? Karolina Sobecka.
3. What else has she done? By clicking over to her website you can see other projects listed on the left-hand side of the screen. I suggest Wildlife, which will both make you feel like you’re in a Disney movie and ask yourself, “What animal do I want running beside me as I drive to the grocery store?”

Or you may have totally different questions or ideas entirely, in which case I urge you to explore them. Search for solutions to the question. Brainstorm the execution of that idea. Just let your mind wander where it will, and try checking out other urban art projects like this one:

Also recommended, Sarah Corbett’s (of Craftivist Collective) essay My Right to be a Craftivist.

The post above the line was originally posted on the now defunct collaborative blog Make and Meaning on January 4, 2010.

Photo from Flickr user serenity_now.

Sometimes there are no real words to accompany something so raw and good and true. And in those cases, you just introduce those words and bow out. Yes, this is one of those cases.


Knitting as Revolutionary Act via 21st Century Manifesto.

…let’s linger on the silly details, like the fly that lands on the cuff of a gas station attendant or the type of cucumber that the driver is eating. Yes, let’s write about waking up to another curfew day, looking out on the empty streets and looking up to see a sky full of mocking kites, streamers wagging, strings tugging at delighted children that crowd Nablus’s open windows.

More over here at MRZine.org.
Thanks to Kelly Rand for passing this along!

For the past year I’ve been looking for full-time work. It’s what people don’t like to admit, talk about, or even think about it because it stamps a giant “LOSER” on your forehead, whether you put it there, or society puts it there or, most regrettably, both. As I dove into this search, I stopped writing. The only thing I love that I also have gotten paid to do. The sharing, describing, rhythm, editing, creating of it all is so delightful that it hardly seems like work. Until you’re measuring yourself by the ante of your resume, one single piece of paper, and wondering how it came to this.

And during this year I stopped writing (except for notes on trains on scraps of paper), stopped writing emails, stopped going out, stopped living in my all-ending quest to find a job. To fit my very round peg into a very definite square. Hammering and hammering it until the hammer broke and I was left forcing it with my own two hands. All the while, I was finding myself after losing myself in a ridiculous relationship that taught many hard lessons, but ended up leaving me an even bigger believer in constructs like love and hope and trust. They whooshed in when the tide of that relationship blew out, leaving me empty and unsure, they showed up after I was spent and restless, and tired of spinning and whirring like a top. Expending so much energy without actually going anywhere.

Until I went somewhere. Still jobless, still not writing, but moving to DC. Watching men jingle change in cups to entice pedestrians to give, small children stare inquisitively at me on the metro as if they, too, were finding this all quite bizarre, sitting so close to someone also while trying to act like they don’t exist, women screaming on the streets at nothing in particular, schoolkids playing on the lawn in front of my apartment playing hide-and-seek. And the words started to come. Sometimes up would pop dialogue or a question I needed to write and explore in order to answer like the near blinding frustration and fear at a job market that hollows you out scooping your confidence and energy away like a melonballer until you’re just left a fragile husk that artfully gives the illusion of being whole. But there would be words.

And I’m still working on re-finding my own voice, and finding strength in inaudible words instead of what was half-heartedly coming out of my mouth. It is this struggle to find my own voice that places me again and again wondering about things like Afghan war rugs and arpilleras and other silent acts of documenting our mere existence on earth. With us, it’s easy to create records of our lives, send photos around the world, update our profiles, to document “we were here.” But what if documenting your life and sharing your story wasn’t contingent on getting a backlink or your friend from 1977 “liking” your new haircut? Would you still put it out there? Your story? Your truth? Even if it wasn’t a good truth?

The photos above have kept me going this past year, as they show bravery and hope and heart and strength and veracity for truth. Not for fame or kudos or links. They create and demonstrate the power that craft truly can have, showing how our own hands can be our mouthpieces against being forgotten, a cruel regime or living without hope. They remind me of why I fell in love with craft in the first place. It’s sincere and honest and true documentation of our lives, both our joys and our struggles. We don’t tend to curate it like we do our websites or Facebook profiles, putting our best foot forward, instead it just lays open what is there. No more, no more less, just the truth. It lets us stitch at our own pace, sew without too much self-editing and stand up against our true demons, wherever they might be.

So when people ask me, why do you care about items forgotten people made a half a world away, I tell them it’s because of the truths they carry. And because of the honesty and strength that thrives when you don’t curate the bad parts. When you don’t ignore the frustrations of a failed relationship or job hunt and just accept them as part of your ongoing story. Such truth and openness is deep and real and tangible and familiar, instead the glossy updates and ads all around me. I care about them because they are the real histories worth documenting and keeping around. And because they remind me to be real.

These photos above are not mine. While usually I keep records of where I found photos, these I cannot find. If they are yours, please get in touch.