For the last eight years, I’ve knit multiple sweaters — plus gloves, socks, hats, and other items — every single year. I’ve gone through thousands of yards of wool, cotton, acrylic, and bamboo yarn in every color imaginable, and tucked them carefully in my closet or wrapped them up and given them away. I spend a lot of time knitting — more than riding in cars, or listening to podcasts, or watching TV. Sometimes I knit and do all of the above.
As I write this, there is evidence of my craft everywhere in my apartment: tiny fragments of fuzz on my laptop; a balled-up project in the corner of the sofa (sorry to guests trying to sit!); a bowl of yarn placed on a plant stand. If I’m at home and have down time, there’s a good chance I am knitting. I love gifting handknit items to friends and family; I love knitting with friends while sipping tea and gossiping; I love learning about fiber and the animals that produce it.
So when did this activity I truly love to do start to feel a little empty?
In some ways, as I’ve learned more about knitting and gotten better and better, the magic of the craft has diminished. I’m definitely no expert — there’s lots I don’t know how to do — but some of the fun has been sucked out of the craft for me. This feeling extends to another one of my other hobbies, fashion, too.
I’m beginning to understand that part of the loss of magic is because I am inundated with knitting and fashion content all day, every day. TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube algorithms have learned what I like, what I watch, and what I click on, and the faucet is on full blast — I feel like I’m drowning in things that want my attention. My algorithm knows me, and it’s knocking me over the head with knitting needles and bundles of wool and patterns and beautiful sweaters. This might sound kind of nice, but after a while, it is NOT.
What’s worse, all of that content — the beautiful colors, the soothing music — eventually devolves into a call to buy something. The amount of sponsored content on social media from influencers, brands, and other advertisers is astronomical; I don’t think humans have ever experienced this much advertising in the history of humanity. A post about a sweater isn’t just that — it also wants you to go out and buy that sweater. When did it all become about how much we can buy? (I think the answer is, It’s actually always been this way, but that’s a conversation for another day.)
If I didn’t live in New York with a tiny closet, my house would be overflowing with even more things that I wouldn’t be able to use if I had ten lifetimes. And though I’ve seriously cut down on the amount of yarn and supplies I buy, I have a shit ton of yarn. More than you think. And more than I even realized.
So I’m trying something new for 2024, something that is a little nerve racking but that I hope will make me fall in love with knitting and fashion all over again: I will go one whole year without buying any yarn. For the duration of 2024, I’ll be using all the amazing yarn and fiber I already own, giving it a new life out of storage, off the shelves, and into the world.
The goal is to see if I can wrest some new inspiration without focusing on the consumerism aspect inherent in many hobbies. Before I was buying expensive yarns, I was using whatever I had access to, trying to come up with project ideas that didn’t break the bank. Now I have a bit more disposable income, and over the last couple years I’ve accumulated a lot of yarn, but it hasn’t made me happy. But for the first time in a while, I feel energized — and hopeful — that this could all change for the better.
Over the course of the next year, I’ll be sharing my projects, my progress, and my reflections as I work to reset my shopping-addled brain — and hopefully come out the other end with a new relationship to my art. I’d love to have you follow along. All of my newsletters under this topic will be in the Inconspicuous Consumption category on this website.
“Stash busting” is a fairly common practice in the knitting world — designers create patterns, for example, that are meant to use up the odds and ends in your collection. In knitting and sewing groups I’m part of, there’s a common saying among people who have large collections of unused yarn or fabrics: You better use it up or give it away, because you can’t take it with you when you die. This is me trying.
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