Do you differentiate between using kits and using patterns? Do you group the pattern users into two groups based on whether they follow exactly what the pattern says (down to yarn and possibly even colors) versus those who are more willing to take the pattern as a guideline or suggestion?

Are you perhaps proposing a distinction between a craft-artist and someone who “merely” enjoys making crafts? Rather like the divide between artist and craftsman, I suspect that this concept, however valid, is bound to be a one that is fraught with difficulties and unintentionally hurt feelings.

Not at all!  In fact I believe that categorization is not only non-useful, but actively detrimental: classifying people into artists and non-artists, for example, creates a context where people can say, “Oh, I can’t do that, I’m not an artist.”  (or craftsperson, designer, etc.)

If, on the other hand, you consider “artist” to be less static and more transitory, almost a verb – “someone who is working on something artistic” – then you have a much more inclusive term.  Used this way, there is no opportunity to conclude, “I am not an artist (craftsperson, etc.) and therefore I can’t do art”.  Instead, the question becomes, “Can I work on something artistic?” to which the answer is, obviously, yes! That is a much lower barrier to entry.

So I view “static” categorization – “artist” as something I AM, rather than something I DO – as a huge threat to creative growth, and something to be avoided as much as possible.

Creativity, likewise, is a continuum, and choosing a grouping along that continuum is not useful unless you have a purpose in creating that distinction (for example, if you are setting up a juried show and you need criteria for the judges).  What utility is there in dividing things into “creative” and “non-creative”?  Why draw lines at all?  In general, I feel that drawing lines and setting up categorizations merely leads to grief, and should be avoided unless there is a strong reason to create them.

That should not be mistaken for a refusal to judge one’s work, or to judge a person’s body of work.  Originality/creativity is a valid judgment to make, as is technical excellence.  Both are unmistakable, and can be objectively considered.  I can tell when something is excellently designed and perfectly executed.  This is good work.  But I feel that applying judgments about the work to the creator is a mistake.  That is, the word “artist” should not be reserved simply for those who create excellently designed, perfectly executed work.  Perhaps a different term might be useful, but my favorite is “an artist with excellent technical skills and original vision” or even “an artist with an excellent body of work”.  This describes the artist and credits laboriously developed skills without creating a “special” class of people who alone are allowed to create art.

So no, I do not believe in creating separate categories – quite the reverse: I feel they are actively detrimental and should be avoided if at all possible.

Here is my “take” on it:

First, it’s important to define “good”.  Most people who dislike quick weekend projects consider themselves consummate craftsmen/women.  They have dedicated years of study to their handwork and produce work that is, generally speaking, higher quality and more original than people who work from kits.  From their perspective, weekend projects and kits demean the value of craft, by reducing it to a low-skill, low-effort endeavor.  This is important to them because it impacts the overall perception of craft: if most of what is seen in a craft is a low-skill and low-effort product, the status of the craft suffers.

Moreover, they argue, the ready access to kits and “recipe” projects discourages creativity: given a set formula to follow, an easy path, many people never venture forth on their own.  This is mostly (IMHO) due to fear of screwing up, of making mistakes – the sweet assurance of a kit is that if you follow instructions, you will get exactly the product you want, with minimal chance of error.  Whereas, if you enter the wilderness of your own crazy ideas, the odds of winding up with something completely unexpected are quite high.  (In fact, letting go of the idea that you can produce your vision precisely is one of the first steps towards mastery, IMHO.)

I mostly agree with this, although I think the issue is not so much the availability of kits and recipes as the cultural expectation of using kits.  Kits and recipes have great value: they provide guidance to the beginning crafter, holding their hands until they develop the basic skills of the craft.  Weekend projects enable people to get the flavor of a craft without committing serious time to study.  The challenge, from the perspective of a craftmaster encouraging others to develop skill in a craft, is getting people to move on from kits and recipes to original work, to move from weekend projects to a deeper exploration of the craft. Because deeper is better.

But is this really true?

People have tried to define “good” for ages, and I’m not going to try to define morality.  But I do believe it is possible to define “good” for individuals, as something that contributes to their enjoyment of life – not only pleasurable things but also their sense of vital connectedness – depth of experience, if you will.

I believe that creative work contributes to that enjoyment, both by pleasure in achievement and in deepening that sense of connectedness to the universe.  Doesn’t matter whether you’re inventing a better coffee machine, painting the next great art piece, or weaving a simple dinner napkin – it’s the act of creation, of doing something yourself, that seems to benefit most people.  To that degree, craft is good.

But is “good” craft any better than “bad” craft?

To me, that depends on many things.  I believe that working with your hands is calming and helps create connection – but that contemplativeness is accessible via any sort of craft, whether it be paint by numbers or scarf from a kit.  I did counted cross-stitch – which is one of the least skilled, least creative crafts I can think of – for several years, and found the process of stitching someone else’s designs no more and no less calming than the manual process of creating my own original work.  In other words, the mechanics of craftwork remain the same, and are calming, either way.

I also believe that designing your own work brings a sense of achievement and a degree of connectedness that working from a kit does not.  I recall a fellow cross-stitcher who, when she received a compliment on a piece, modestly replied that it was the designer who should get all the credit – she was merely executing someone else’s design.  While I think that’s an oversimplification, I also think there is greater satisfaction in designing as well as producing one’s own work – both satisfaction in achievement (because designing your own is harder than following instructions), and satisfaction in having conceived and birthed one’s own vision (connecting to the Muse).

That said, there are many reasons why someone might prefer kits or recipes – the primary one being that original, creative, skilled work requires a large investment of time and energy.  For someone whose primary attention is elsewhere (job, childrearing, another avocation, etc.), that time and energy may not be available, making “kit” or “weekend” projects more appropriate.  A lesser degree of connectedness is still better than none at all! and even a master may prefer simple finger exercises when his or her focus is elsewhere.  Much of the calming benefit of handwork can be realized without striking out on one’s own, design-wise – which makes it perfectly appropriate for people who do not want to invest the time and energy in developing original designs.  Unlike many craftspeople, I don’t think there is anything intrinsically wrong with someone who prefers to craft others’ designs.  I believe doing so is less rewarding – but also a whole lot less stringent in its demands, so it really depends on where one wants to invest one’s life force.

I do believe that there is a crisis in craftwork, however, and that it is indeed related to the production of kits and recipes.  There is a big difference between consciously choosing to invest one’s energies elsewhere, and unconsciously following kits and recipes because one isn’t aware of other options.  I did counted cross-stitch for years without being aware of the possibility of designing my own work – it simply wasn’t something that people did, as far as I knew, except the godlike designers who magically produced patterns for me.  This is the danger of kits and recipes: the artificial division of craftspeople into Those Who Design and Those Who Follow Directions.  This can result in people losing access to the deeper degree of satisfaction an original creation affords, not by choice but through ignorance.  And it is this problem, I feel, which needs to be addressed: how to ensure beginners access to books and magazines that teach the skills of craftwork and make creating one’s own designs seem accessible.  This is particularly an issue in weaving, which is a complex art requiring (relative to other crafts) more knowledge and experience to design.  I’ve been very glad indeed to see resources like Weavolution, the various Yahoo groups, and Handwoven’s social networking site “filling the gaps” and providing knowledge to those who want it.

After breakfast, Mike decided he needed a nap.  (We were both pretty exhausted from the excesses of the week before!)  So while he napped, I sneaked out and did the textile tour of Granville Island.  I bought a few books on craft from Maiwa Handicrafts/Supply, two separate shops in the same building, and took a long look at the wares in the Silk Weaving Studio. The latter was the real gem.  In addition to handwoven goods, they sell many types of silk yarn intended for weaving, some of them quite exotic.  I found silk/lycra yarn (white and black), a 7000 ypp silk boucle, and a similar boucle with slubs.  I bought a sample sheet and a few 15-40 gram skeins of the ones that looked interesting – particularly interested in the silk/lycra, as it would be GREAT for collapse effects in fine weaving.

After I got back, Mike was still napping, so I went down to the dock and sat in the shade, reading one of the books I had bought.  This particular book was written by the editor of Make magazine, Mark Frauenfelder – Made by Hand: Searching for Meaning in a Throwaway World.  It’s a great book about do-it-yourself-ing and connection.

At any rate, I came across this passage in the book, where he’s talking about making espresso, which to me captures perfectly the tools vs. skill, efficiency vs. “Slow Cloth” movement discussions:

[modifies an espresso machine to use a PID temperature controller]

I ground up some Black Cat beans, tamped them down in the portafilter, and pulled my first PID-enhanced shot.  Twin rivulets of caramel espresso poured into the cup, topped with a thick layer of crema.  It tasted as good as the best espresso I’d ever made.  Never again would I have to deal with the hassle of temperature surfing.  This one variable had been locked down for good.  I lifted my demitasse cup in celebration of this small triumph.  I had opened a machine, modified it, and made it mine.  It felt terrific.

Not everyone thinks PID is terrific.  Temperature-surfing diehards say PID takes away from the art and joy of making espresso.  They would really hate the machine we use in the offices of Make magazine.  You dump whole beans into one bin and water into another, stick a cup under the nozzle, and press a button.  The machine grinds the beans, loads the portafilter, tamps it down, dispenses the shot, and ejects the puck of used coffee grounds into a waste bin.  It’s clean, quick, and very tasty.

The question is, when you have a machine that does everything for you, do you care less about the  coffee?  If all the skills that go into making espresso can be perfected with technology, what’s left for the home barista to do besides drink?  In espresso circles, as in other areas of the DIY movement, there are two camps.  One believes that the more involved you are in the process of making something, the better the experieince. Making espresso with a fully manual machine is a skill that rewards practice and invites experimentation.  Others believe that DIY is a means to an end, and that designing a machine to do something faster, more predictably, and more precisely than you could on your own is the reward.  I see both sides.  In my experience, DIY is rewarding because you are involving yourself in creative processes, which could include making espresso manually or making the automated system that makes the coffee.

That last sentence sums up everything I could say in the efficiency vs. process debate.  The essence to me is not the tools you are using or the efficiency of your methods, but involving yourself in creative processes.  It’s too bad that people sometimes get hung up on the tools being used (machine embroidery vs. hand embroidery, compudobby vs. treadle loom, etc.) – the core question to me is, is this creative, is the process enjoyable, and is the quality of the result good?  If so, then it is worthwhile, whether someone wove it up in twenty hours on a computer-driven loom or in an exacting pick-up process on a backstrap loom.  Tools are beside the point: it’s the connection to the creative force within all of us that’s important, the sacredness that powers all creation.

At seven-thirty, I went to the makeup artist, and spent two hours there, getting my face painted and my hair done up.  The process was far more complex than I’d expected – first a primer to make the makeup last longer, then concealer, foundation, and powder.  Then some slightly darker makeup to slim my face and make the cheekbones more prominent, and to darken the curve of the jaw.

After that, she applied blush, which looked too heavy to me, but she explained that the blush powder would fly away over time, so she needed to apply more to make it last.  Then on to the eyes – first a special primer, eye makeup foundation, powder, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and false lashes.  I watched, fascinated, as she transformed my face completely.  Truly, artistry!

The hair proved a little awkward.  The florist’s headpiece, a wonderful confection of gardenias and orchids, turned out to be way too large – we really needed a single flower, not an entire headband.  So we did the rest of the hair, drawn over to the left side of my head, pinned with the gold double-happiness pin, and cascading down in soft curls down the front, and agreed that I would stop by the supermarket on the way to the wedding and buy some flowers there.

Mike and I finally left at 9:30am.  We arrived at the ceremony site a little later than anticipated, and many guests were already there.  Thankfully, most of the wedding party had already arrived, and as soon as I arrived, they fanned out in all directions, setting things up and freeing me to focus on my own preparations.

I had planned to have my mother help me into the dress, but she was unfortunately ill with food poisoning, and (much to my disappointment) was unable to attend the wedding.  So instead I chose my dear friend Lena, who had moved to India some five years ago and had flown in for the wedding.  She helped me fix a few makeup smudges, fix a single gardenia bloom into my hair, and step into the dress.  I was terrified that I was going to rip the hem or something, but she settled me down and got me into the strapless bra, the shoes, and the dress.

Finally, Lena took down the coat, held it for me, and carefully fastened the three hooks and eyes in front.  She handed me my bouquet, a beautiful confection of white lilies and roses, accented with pale gold roses and feathery ferns, tied with a gorgeous gold ribbon – and turned me to the mirror.

I gasped.  As much and as hard as I’d worked on the outfit, I was totally unprepared for the vision in the mirror…the beautiful, regal bride in the mirror couldn’t possibly be me.  Could it?

I could have gazed in the mirror all day, unbelievingly, but the guests had taken their places, and my friend Herve, who was officiating, had started speaking.  I scurried over as the others started their procession.  First Mike’s parents, then Mike, then my father, brother, and mother’s husband, then…

…me.

Walking down the aisle was indescribable.  Momentous, glorious, and yes, triumphal.  A year’s labor for the wedding ensemble, now shown in all its glory, and a wonderful tribute to love and to Mike.  The harp played “Trumpet Voluntary” as I made my way slowly down the aisle and turned to face the man I love.

Friends and family spoke, but I hardly heard them, being too occupied gazing at the man I was about to marry.  My friend Lena, who is a Tibetan lama, blessed us with holy water.  And then it was time for us to read our speeches to each other, and exchange vows.

Mike’s words to me were beautiful, heartfelt, and romantic.  I started misting up as he said them to me.  Then I read my words for him – a free verse poem – and by the time I reached the end, I was crying tears of joy.  Then we exchanged vows, and rings.  Finally, our officiant read out the words that bound us, and we kissed for the first time as husband and wife.

After being presented to the guests, we departed down the aisle to the joyous strains of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons”.  We had a lovely lunch –  old friends and new, family meeting family for the first time.  The wine was wonderful – my brother, a vintner, had brewed four different wines for the occasion, and my sister-in-law, a graphic designer, had created beautiful custom wine labels for us.  We spent time at each table, receiving congratulations and visiting with the guests.

Too soon, it was time to leave the reception.  We stopped by the hospital to visit my mother –  collecting stares as the newly wedded couple in full bridal regalia sailed through the hallways – bringing the wedding to her, since she wasn’t able to be at the wedding.  (Fortunately, she was feeling much better, and was discharged shortly thereafter.)

After a dinner with family and close friends, the day drew to a close.  We said farewell to friends and family, collected a few last well-wishes, and headed home to get some sleep before heading off on our honeymoon in Vancouver.  We were exhausted, triumphant – and married.

While I enjoy the process of weaving, I hate wasting time on anything that isn’t essential.  This goes back to my teen years, when I was convinced (with good reason) that I was not going to make it to 30, so anything I wanted to get done, had to get done NOW.  So I decided that I was going to live whatever time I had with as much gusto as I could, which also meant achieving all the things I wanted to achieve as quickly as possible.

Well, times change, medical conditions get treated, and after a few close shaves I’m looking at a normal lifetime.  But I retain the awareness that life is short, and I see no reason to change that.  Thirty years, eighty years – there’s a big difference, but they have a lot in common – they are both far too short to explore all that the world has to offer, and too short to create all the things I want to create.  So the basic tenet stays the same: live life to the fullest, because in the end, it’s still too short.

So what does this have to do with weaving?

The short answer is that I try not to do anything that isn’t necessary, when weaving or doing anything else.  This means always evaluating my tools and materials, asking myself, “Is this step worthwhile?  Could I do this  faster or more comfortably some other way?  Am I getting everything I want out of this?”

This shouldn’t be confused with not enjoying the process.  I wouldn’t be weaving if I didn’t enjoy it (life is too short to be doing anything you don’t enjoy!).  And when I’m threading the loom, or weaving, I’m definitely deep in “flow”, enjoying the process.

But enjoying the process doesn’t require turning off my brain, and the part of my brain that is engaged in active learning (or “effortful study” – see my essay on learning) questions, analyzes, asks itself whether something could be done a better way, whether a particular method is needful.  Perhaps the most useful insight I have here is that active learning does not detract from enjoying the process – it enhances it, by keeping me actively engaged rather than being on autopilot.

Some people seem to think that thinking is difficult, something requiring effort and thus not enjoyable.  (Shades of American anti-intellectualism?)  I often hear people declare, “I don’t want to think when I weave – I want to enjoy it!”  This makes no sense to me; to me, thinking about weaving simply enhances the joy in it.  But different things to different people, I suppose.

In order of importance, my criteria for worthwhile-ness are: quality, enjoyment, speed.  I’m perfectly willing to expend an extraordinary amount of time for a high-quality product (wedding-dress in point), and I’m even willing to do some things that I don’t enjoy as much in exchange for a high-quality product, but I’m also concerned with speed – accomplishing what I want to get done in the least amount of time while paying attention to quality and enjoyment.  I don’t think that detracts from weaving quality at all.

At any rate, I was thinking about this while winding the silk/cashmere yarn.  My conclusion is: as wonderfully soft as cashmere is, I think I prefer working with pure silk, as it’s stronger and more able to stand up to mechanical winding.  For the kind of work that I do, the cashmere softness is not essential, and winding by machine is much more efficient.  Put another way, working with cashmere does not improve the quality of my work, the speed of my work, or enhance my enjoyment of the process – so it is superfluous.  I think I’m going to work mostly with 100% silk from now on.  Not that I’m giving up my cashmere stash – I have a lot of it and am not about to throw it away – but most of my purchases will be silk from now on.