My mum used to tell me that I’d been knitted.
She wasn’t even particularly a knitter, but somehow that emerged as the explanation of my existence. (In case you were wondering, my sister was found under a gooseberry bush.) I think however, that might have been the beginnings of my love of a good yarn.
I am a yarn collector.
yarn n. 1 spun thread used for knitting, weaving or sewing 2 (informal) a long or rambling story, an epic tale
I love stories of all kinds, whether they are real or made-up, written in the pages of a book, overheard on the bus, woven in the words of a folksong, or shared in an email from a friend. I’m also never more content than when surrounded by soft, squishy skeins of hand-dyed wool or pieces of beautiful fabric. It’s not just the colours and textures that make me happy, but also the feeling of potential in each one. I love imagining, researching and collecting ideas for what they will become, and then the process of turning them into useable objects or garments to bring pleasure and warmth to someone.
There’s a magic in the intertwining of stories and textiles. Each object not only has a history in its materials, construction and the person who made it, but also a future as it becomes part of the story of those who will use it.