Sorry about the comparative meagerness of the previous Represent! report. (Note to self: quit apologizing. NOW.) I couldn’t post about this any sooner. Partly because there were too many far-flung pictures to organize. Partly because I was still just too stunned by the sheer impact of the event.
On the Eve – or, This Nearly Was Mine
See Jennifer. See Jennifer on my couch, the night before the Represent launch, with some of the hand-dyed sock yarn she brought down with her. See more of the sock yarn. This is about 1/3 of it. Sock yarn all over the place. Sock yarn on the floor. Sock yarn in my lap. Sock yarn in fabulous, amazing, glowing, glorious colors.
Many of these are not full skeins – they’re experimental dye jobs on cone remnants, each enough for a pair of toes and heels and maybe cuffs, or even a pair of short socks. They’re the material Jennifer uses to test out color ideas at full scale rather than in tiny swatches. They’re part of the Yarn Fairy’s secret hoard. And for one colorful evening they were all over my living room and I was literally buried in them. Let me tell you, it is a very lovely thing to be buried in sock yarn, even temporarily.
(It wasn’t entirely temporary, either. A few of these were actually intended for me, part of our next batch of joint projects. And I, um, snagged a few beyond those. Most of the couch-ful has now left the premises, but I assure you there is no need to feel sorry for me.)
The Country Mouse and the City Mouse
So Jennifer had never been to New York City before. I was born there, and I’ve lived there on and off for most of my life, but there were moments on Thursday when it seemed as new and strange to me as it did to her. If you had told me a few days ago, or indeed at any time in my street-smart native-New-Yorker life, that someday I would unhesitatingly pick up a perfect stranger on the subway (the IND, no less!) and invite her to spend the day with me, I would have assumed you were maybe a few stitches short of a gauge swatch if you know what I mean. But there you have it – Thursday’s New York was Not Your Mama’s New York. We hit town; we got on the subway at Penn Station, and danged if the first thing we spotted wasn’t a knitter, sporting on her needles an incipient Jaywalker in a very pretty multi-purple Koigu. Suddenly I heard someone saying, “Hey, another knitter! You going there too? Wanna come with?” And I looked around to see who this crazy foolhardy someone was… and it was me. Ol’ lifelong New-York-Poker-Face just-don’t-bother-me-and-I-won’t-bother-you… me.
This is where her picture would be, sock and all, if I had only remembered that it was my job to have the camera always at the ready for such moments. (Note to self: hone blogging reflexes.)
Hi, Heather! It was really fun meeting you.
Anyway, we all went up to the apartment of Empress Knitasha (see, there it is again: this is not normal New Yorker behavior. You do not invite somebody you’ve JUST MET on the 8th Ave. SUBWAY up to a friend’s apartment, because it is axiomatic that such a person, no matter how pleasant and charming, must be an axe murderer at best. But Thursday was not normal, and Heather was not an axe murderer, and more remarkably than that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wasn’t, and here again I can’t believe I didn’t take a picture of her and her sock so I could have posted it with the caption “Heather, Not an Axe Murderer”… and hey what do you know I seem to be digressing again), where Jennifer was introduced to the phenomenon that is an old-upper-West-Side penthouse with a terrace. Knitasha’s place may be small – “but what there is, is cherce.” (And her hospitality is unparalleled. Thank you, Your Imperial Highness!)
Imagination
We had also arranged to meet customer/club-member Sue at Knitasha’s (see, there it is again: this is not normal New Yorker behavior. You do not invite somebody you’ve NEVER MET except on the INTERNET to meet you at a friend’s apartment, because it is axiomatic that such a person, no matter how pleasant and charming, must be an axe murderer at best. But Thursday was not normal, and Sue was not an axe murderer, and more remarkably than that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wasn’t, and – OK, you get the idea, don’t you) – whence we all trooped down, nattering away at an astounding rate, to Strawberry Fields, where it was wall-to-wall knitters as far as the eye could see. I saw faces I knew and heard names I knew, and sometimes I even managed to put the two together. (I also saw socks I knew, including a couple of my own on the needles of people new to me – and if you think that isn’t a big rush every time, think again!)
We saw the One Unmistakable Knitter and we performed the rituals. We held the sock. She signed our shirts. She briefly fondled the Interminable So-Called Swatch. And then she evanesced.
It was while we were all there in the park that, oddly, things shifted and began to seem more normal. It may just be that weird was the new normal, but since weird is already the old normal in New York it takes more than weird to seem weird there, if you follow me. I don’t really know whether New York was fully blanketed with Representing knitters; I do know that we found them wherever we went, and I know that they belong there, because they are made of the same stuff as New York, the stuff that announces to the world: yeah, this is me, and this is what I do and it’s real and it matters and I love it and what’s it to ya, ya wanna make somethin’ of it? Nothing could possibly be more New York than that.
Besides, it was spring and it was warm and the first drifts of Central Park daffodils were in evidence, and we all had bright colors on our feet and in our hands.
The day and the colors began to dissolve into a series of blurs. More colors, and textures, on all sides at Knitty City. Then further overload for more senses as we introduced Jennifer to a great New York institution: how you gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve smelled and tasted Zabar’s?
We got as far as Habu (beautiful, fascinating, impressive, unique, and I’m still trying to figure out why it leaves me cold) but didn’t have time or stamina for School Products. (Insert snapped fingers and slapped forehead here: yes, I KNOW we really missed out. I’ve READ about the beautiful inexpensive cashmere. Several times now, thank you very much.) Made our way to FIT, where The BoyTM was to meet us.
Main Event
What can I tell you about Stephanie and her speech that you don’t already know? Not much. Brilliant – check. Purposeful – check. Funny – check. Rabble-rousing – check. Packed house – check. Hundreds of knitters roaring in response – check. Hundreds of WIPs waving in the air – check. Standing ovation – check, check, check.
Not for nothing is this woman our standard-bearer.
Winding Down
Only a couple of odds and ends to add.
After it was all over we had a chance to speak briefly with Joe and his mother (and HOW cool was it, the way they staged his surprise appearance, not to mention the way Stephanie responded and the way she played it for the crowd? you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so you had to do both), both of whom not surprisingly were very nice indeed. Mum had custody of the Bohus, so Jen and I had an opportunity to admire and fondle it at close range. The pictures you’ve seen of it may tell you a great deal about the marvelous workmanship and the harmonious colors; but until somebody comes up with the Touch-&-Feel Plug-In there is no way I can convey the beauty of texture, the fine softness of it. That is a sweater to reconcile one to living in harsh climes; even under the heat of stage lights and nervousness it is almost impossible to imagine ever wanting to take it off. Ever.
Epilogue
A surreal thing happened in the lobby. I’m not sure how it came about that The BoyTM had brought the whole humongous load of yarn into town with him. I knew he was bringing some of it, because Jennifer had promised to show samples to someone – but I thought… well, never mind what I thought, or how or who or what, the fact is that there the monster bag was, and we made our way to a quiet corner to haul out the samples in question. And then… I don’t know, knitters are probably pretty good at sensing the presence of yarn anyway, but I really think that there was something off-the-charts in the air at that moment. After a day of city-wide Representing and Yarn-Crawling and an evening of Harlot Excitement, somehow those senses must have been unusually heightened, sharpened by pack instinct and wound up to fever pitch, because I swear they picked up the scent of sock-yarn fumes, and the next thing I knew we were completely surrounded by yarn-seeking missiles, and a feeding frenzy was taking place. One person asked wonderingly whether we had BOUGHT all that, and someone else (um, it might have been me – I think I must have been as dizzied by the fumes as anyone else) explained that no, these were samples of Jennifer’s dye work, and that did it: suddenly wallets were out and hands were in and it was like being in the center of some kind of a wild sock-yarn vortex. Even people who had been buying yarn all day suddenly felt the need for more; it was as if the passions of the evening just HAD to find a further outlet… and this was it.
We managed to keep a small number of the sample skeins, and the yarn in our own knitting bags… but not more than that.
Sock yarn is powerful stuff, and a crowd of Harlot-inspired sock knitters is indeed a force to be reckoned with.
I wouldn’t want to be the CHOKE-ing muggle who meets any of you guys in a dark alley….