boo

Hi, Mum.*

Thanks for loyally visiting every day - for months, as it happens - in the vain hope that I would have written something new.  Something, importantly, that got us off the topic of pee and on to more salient topics.  Like what, I'm not too sure, for as my good friend Nancy and I often observe, quite a bit of parenting actually revolves around the bodily functions of your children. Bugger the importance of teaching them Values and Morals and Ways to Be Good in the World. That all happens in the background. The important lessons are about teaching your children the art of blowing their noses. Or how to vomit into a handy receptacle rather than down your front. And yes, how to pee and pooh in a socially acceptable fashion. None of which, I must admit, I have managed to achieve since the last blog post. (The teaching of, that is.  I like to think that I, at least, have mastered the art of socially acceptable toilet use by now.)

Despite its obvious merit as a topic, today's post is not to be about bodily fluids. Instead, I am marking a now annual tradition of posting every November 1st. For the five years this blog has been going, this will be my third year in a row that I post on November 1st. I'm nothing if not consistent. Sort of.

And it is no coincidence why, since the birth of the Tiny one, that I post on this day. I have ready access to quite badly taken Halloween photos that must be shared with the world. Or with Mum, given that she is pretty much the only one left checking in.  Hi, Mum, again.

Tiny was clear from day one that he was going to be a ghost.

Check out the spooky camera effects that make him look like he was actually transparent.
I did that on purpose. Yes, I did.

Of course, I don't actually think he knew what a ghost looked like but he definitely knew how to say, "ooooooooohhhhh" in a very spooky way.

He also knew how to grab the candy and run. Here he is making a break with the Little Mermaid, trampling gardens in their rush to the next house.

Of course, despite not remembering that he had ever participated in Halloween before, he knew instinctively the age old, end-of-night ritual where you throw your loot onto the floor (and cast off your crocheted chains) --

-- and then sit amongst it. Nibbling.

I had to put the chains back on so that I could duly show off the genius
that is the cardboard padlock.

I am quite proud of this costume. Not bad for an afternoon's inspiration, if I say so myself. And until Tiny has very fixed ideas about what he's going to wear and where he will be getting it from (probably a shiny one, from the shops), I'm going to keep making them. Next year I'm going to angle for something that requires a box. One that you stick your head out of at the top and your arms out of at the sides. Perhaps a robot. Or a large ship.

Bit by bit, I am learning the ways of Halloween. It will never have the sheer excitement that a history of childhood trick-or-treating builds in you, but I am slowly getting into the groove. Maybe I'll get dressed up next year myself. I'm thinking I'll go as an Aussie. Yeah, mate. Bewdy bonza.

Anyway, Mum*, I'll try and keep the posts coming a little sprightlier. Like I said, I'm nothing if not consistent. Sort of.



*By "Mum" I mean my mother, of course, and anyone else left out there who might tune in occasionally in the hopes that I have posted something, anything, new. You are all bricks.

handmade (part two)

The act, and process, of creating things with your hands for others - whether for function, whimsy, or art - is an act not just of material creation but of relationship.  I wrote of this last week, when I admitted to my hopeless addiction to making things for those that I know and love.  Not that I make every gift that I give to people.  Heavens above.  (Did I mention somewhere that I have a toddler in the house?)  But I do make some and, over the years, I've seen that this act is one that attempts two important things: to appreciate who it is that I am making things for; and to share a little of who I am - through the act of making itself, the choice of gift, my style, and my skills, for instance.  This is a risky endeavour, all relationship building is in some way, but there is often excitement and reward in taking such a risk, too.

 

Beyond this delicious relational aspect to handmade gifts, my other reasons for making things by hand get more complicated (and not a little murky).  Some of it is very intuitive, the desire coming to me at gut level, telling me that nothing else will do than to dream up something "just right" for this person at this time.  This is closely related to an inner certainty that I can make things or, more importantly, that I can learn how to make (some) things (and that the effort will be worth it).  However, being a naturally deep and deliberative kind of a gal (okay stop nodding Mum and Dad and, well, everyone who knows me well), you won’t be surprised when I say that this gut instinct doesn’t arise out of a vacuum.  I, like many in the craft world today, respond viscerally and forcefully to much of our modern consumer culture and the deadening impact of the mass producing, global manufacturing beast we contend with on our every foray to the shops.

  

"The ascendancy of chain store culture and global manufacturing has left us dressing, furnishing, and decorating alike. We are encouraged to be consumers, not producers, of our own culture. Our ties to the local and human sources of our goods have been lost. Buying [and making] handmade helps us reconnect."

From: Why Buy Handmade?

 

Many of you will be familiar with this beast (and why it is a beast) but to summarise, quickly, why I feel like running around, screaming, with my skirt pulled over my head whenever I go into big box stores, it’s things like: the gobsmacking amount of stuff that we’re encouraged to want, replace, update, add (where does it all go? how big are our landfills? how deep our cupboards? how big our houses?); the way it’s all made (labour sinks of the poor, unskilled and foreign, factories that pollute); the environmental cost (huge carbon footprints for global production, manufacturing, transportation, storage and handling; drains on natural resources for our insatiable appetite for plastic; waste and what we do with it); the cultural reproduction of sameness.  I could probably go on but I won’t.  You get the picture and can probably see why sitting in my little studio (or on the couch, or in the car, or on the bed), skirt chastely in place, nimbling away at whatever flight of fancy lies before me, feels like a cool breeze on a hot day.  It is almost impossible to escape this consumer culture beast (I buy, of course I buy stuff - and it’s not all made from organic wool volunteered by local sheep giddy with their good life) but there is something in the lessening of its grip on my life.  There is something in the rebellion that saves a woman.  The weight, of that bit of the world at least, is lessened.

So, giving handmade gives back.  Again.  It gives back a small sense of peace, it gives back a sense of difference and why that is good, and it gives back a sense of lightly treading where you want others to follow.

 Which is why, when I receive handmade gifts, that I can feel a little breathless, a little heady, a little speechless.  Just for a bit.  Because I know; I know that something - something wonderful, something palpable, something outside of - has occurred here.  I can’t claim that those who have made stuff for me have done it with the same reasons in mind as I have spoken about here and there, however some part of all of it must be true.  Whatever their processes, reasons, experiences, I at least know something of the time, the energy, the thinking, the love and the refusing to not do it, that goes into each creation.  And that makes all the difference.

PS:  These photos are of handmade gifts that we received when Tiny was born.  I thanked all the makers then, and thank them again now.  I get it.

handmade (part one)

I've been thinking a bit about handmadeness of late.  When I went to write about it, it went from a couple of bullet points in my head to a lengthy treatise which, quite possibly, covers all the thoughts I have ever had about making stuff by hand.  Well nearly.  Short of having a professor to submit it to for grading, I thought I'd post it here, in a short series, over the next few Wednesdays.  Enjoy (or not, as is your prerogative)!

giving

In 2001, I became hopelessly entangled in the handmade world.  At the time, I didn't know the tendril-like features of this world (or surely I would have been more cautious at the get go); all I wanted was to crochet a baby blanket for my very good friend's first baby.  And so it began - the learning (to crochet), the researching (for the perfect pattern), the planning (for the perfect combination of stitch, yarn and colour combination), the shopping (for the perfect yarn), and finally, the creating.  There wasn't a single step in the process that I didn't like.  A born researcher and perfectionist, I spent hours trawling books and websites, searching for that one, unique, pattern that would be easy enough for a beginner but would not look too basic and that would be appropriate for a baby but not be too festooned with pastel pompoms as to make me want to sick up on to it mid-stitch.  Most importantly, though, I was searching for something that my friend (not necessarily her newborn baby) would love and would welcome into her new life and the home she was building around them.

Thoughts of my friend did not end there.  As I began to crochet, I thought often, with each stitch, about the woman that I know - her stories, her likes and dislikes, her fears and favourites, her hopes and plans - and tried to imagine her new life in another country.  As I watched the blanket grow, nervously anticipating the final product, I thought about our friendship - its history and present - and felt the jumble of emotions that the stretch of all close friendships creates over time.  And in that time of counting stitches, following row on row, I also let myself imagine, over and again, the way she might receive this gift.  I wasn't so inflated as to imagine a falling-on-her-knees-at-the-letterbox-in-gratitude kind of reception, but nor did I think she would receive it disinterestedly.  Mostly, I just hoped that she would get that I had Made Her Something.  And that that was significant.

It took me many hours to make that blanket.  Many, many hours, from beginning to end, and I thought about her during much of that time.  As I have come to learn, this is one of the truly and addictively engaging bits about handmade gift giving - the many hours immersed in thoughts of the person you are making things for and, at the end of the day, your hopes (and fears) that it will mean something to them, also.  We all know that there is a kind of magic in pairing a person with the perfect gift.  It is such a thoroughly enjoyable and rewarding experience for everyone.  Handmade gift giving is just like that.  Only in slow motion.  And, if you get it really right, multiplied a dozen times over.

I haven't always got it right, it must be said. Sometimes my inspiration has been off kilter; sometimes my ideas have not fruited as imagined; sometimes irony, or silliness, has been interpreted too literally and I've had to explain the joke.  (Although, to their credit, neither of my brothers blinked when they received their own personal 50s-esque tea cosies.)  Inevitably, sometimes the match between person and present is just not right and no magic ensues.  Nevertheless, I never regret the making and rarely regret the pairing of gift with person.  (I may cringe slightly later down the track, but that's hindsight for you.) Because the gift goes both ways in handmade gift giving.  I am always grateful for the time I found - amidst the chaos and order of a busy life - to dream big, to think carefully (and care-fully) about those I am making for, and am grateful for the time spent bringing a little piece of unique Emma-ness into the world for others to know and, importantly, to know me by.

 

Making gifts by hand, as I have come to know it, is an appreciative move - one that strives for greater connection and understanding between the giver and, well, the givee. All the hours spent imagining that blanket and the friend that would unwrap it, were also hours invested in relationship building of a kind.  As I sought to appreciate who she was, I was also offering a little bit of who I am - my tastes, my skills, my values - so that she might know me a little better too.  In this way, I am better for having plodded away at my perfectly imperfect hand hewn offering.  And in this way, too, the gift made is given also to me.

I can see now that I am stuck with handmade gift giving for the rest of my days.  Having been ensnared in this rewarding cycle of making, giving, sharing and receiving, I can see no way out.  Therefore, if you are my friend or family and you receive a crocheted toilet roll cover in the shape of a doll this Christmas, just know that I will enjoy the present as much as you do. 

PS:  From memory, my friend was very moved by my gift.  Years later, she sent me an email to say that she had unpacked it again while she was preparing for the birth of her third child.

PPS:  These photos are a little motley collection of some of the gifts I have made for other friends' babies (or their mothers, as the case may be) over the years.  To my knowledge, a photo of the original crocheted blanket does not exist.  It will just have to be created in your imaginations.