This is what it looked like while still on the needles... pretty darn unimpressive. And all those red threads? Those are life lines that I kept putting in to hold my place in case I had to rip back due to some horrible mistake. And, believe me, I had to rip back. Luckily, I got better as I went along, and ripped back less and less. In the beginning I was so discouraged, and knitting seemed like it had become an exercise in futility and frustration. I almost decided that I was simply not a lace knitter. Sweaters and mittens I could do. Lace? Why do something that makes you curse and throw things?
But something magical happened when I finally slipped it off the needles, washed, and then blocked it (on a hideous old mattress, I must say). The lace opened up. The pattern came out. And I thought: I made that? As an academician, these moments are hard to come by. Rarely do I write something or argue something and think: There, that's settled. That's correct. In fact, the whole enterprise of research and theory requires that we keep questioning our work. It can be rewarding, no doubt, but there's a certain oomph of finality that's lacking. This is why I gravitate towards knitting and baking: these are crafts where the question (can I do this?) gets firmly answered (yes! no!) at least to a more certain degree. Of course, I'm sure the deeper I go into either of these crafts the more I will find that is theoretical and debatable, especially as craft moves towards art. But, for the time being, it is very, very satisfying to say: I made this!
We took these on the Philosophenweg, in the forest, in honor of its name. I call my individual shawl, however, the Sea Canopy, given its wonderful shades of blue.
Raveled here.