WARNING: This story contains adult content
Chapter Ten: In a one-bedroom apartment in Kitsilano, Jay led an austere lifestyle.
photo by ldyck
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Eleven
Alone
in the apartment, I searched websites for my allusive next job.
“Boring. Boring. Interesting, but I’m unqualified for it.
Boring,” I sang as I searched. It was depressing.
“How’s
the hunt?” Jay asked each evening.
“Not
good,” I replied.
This
continued for a few weeks until he reported, “We’re short a
server. Kelly moved to a Southern Gulf Island. I can’t remember
which one—maybe Salt Spring.”
“I’d
love to—.”
“It’s long hours with little pay. You’re on your feet all day,
every day.”
“You
love it,” I said and that was that.
The
café proved to the most enjoyable place I’d ever been employed.
Everyone was reaching for a common goal, sharing a single passion. We
embraced each other’s victories, however small. We celebrated
gallery exhibits, book readings, grant awards—every move forward.
Surrounded by creativity, I longed to stake my claim as an artist. I
invested time, striving toward my goal. At the café, I kept a
sketchpad and spent breaks recording design ideas. At home, I knit
constantly. My fingers swelled, my wrists throbbed, and my shoulders
ached, but I refused to abandon my needles.
“What
are you knitting?” Jay asked as he massaged my back.
“A
sweater,” I said.
I
was always on the lookout for venues in which to sell my sweaters. A
few streets down from the café was a high-end clothing boutique. It
looked ideal. I walked in, and a
salesperson hurried over to me. Was she
eager to make a sale, or was she interested in keeping my kind out of
her store?
“Hi.
What a beautiful shop you have! I especially like your collection of
sweaters. I’m a knitwear designer.”
“Really?
Everyone’s a designer, a singer, or a writer these days.”
“I
designed this.” I extended an arm so she could examine or perhaps
touch my knitting. “And many others.”
“I
only carry European designers.” Without giving my sweater a second
look, she left me to straighten a display.
I
had been dismissed.
I
fantasized as I walked home. I saw my sweaters attractively displayed
in a European boutique. We only carry North American designers.
I imagined hearing a salesclerk tell an eager young designer.
Sweet
daydreams, but that night, I tossed and turned.
“What’s
the matter, darling?” Jay stroked my hair.
“Do
you remember the boutique I thought might sell my sweaters? Well, I
talked with them today.”
“How’d
it go?”
“Not
well. The salesperson was so rude. She didn’t even look at my
sweater.”
“Her
loss,” he said.
“No,
it’s my loss. Don’t you understand? I don’t have any place to
sell my sweaters. How can I call myself a designer if no one can even
see my designs?”
“All
you need is a wall. The Starving Artist has walls. You’re a hard
working member of our collective. We’re here to support you. Use
us.” He grinned and lifted me out of my funk.
Disappointingly,
the café proved an unsuitable venue. I received positive comments,
but only from other servers. I didn’t sell one sweater. Worse, my
sweaters became so spattered with food I was forced to remove them.
“Who
eats here?” I complained as Dora, a friend I’d made serving
tables, and I took down the sweaters. “Baby pigs?”
“I
know. It’s disgusting,” she agreed.
Other
women who worked at the restaurant saw us removing my sweaters from
the walls and came to help.
“Maybe
they just didn’t notice them.” Brenda slipped a silk scarf from
the wall and wrapped it around her neck.
“What
about a fashion show?” Nikki, a dishwasher I hardly knew and
barely tolerated, suggested.
“Yeah,
we could all be models.” Ginger pulled on a hemp/wool vest in
pumpkin that
complimented
her auburn hair.
“I’d
love to wear this beautiful sweater.” Dianna affectionately stroked
a cashmere cowl-neck.
“It
would be so much fun.” Brenda swirled around, dancing with the
scarf.
“We
could…” Nikki pawed a sweater—balling it in a tight fist,
squeezing the fabric between her fingers. I wanted to scream at her
to leave it alone, but for the sake of unity I bit my tongue.
“Where
would the runway be?” I laid the sweater I’d removed from the
wall on a table and closely examined it looking for food splatter.
“Between
the tables,” Ginger pranced between the tables in best imitation of a fashion model.
"And just how are we going to keep grubby fingers off? You think these sweaters are dirty now."
“We
could close the café for the fashion show.” Dianna rubbed a sleeve
against her cheek.
“Close?
They’d never let us close.” I used a damp dishcloth to
wipe the sweater clean.
“Jay
would. He’d do anything for you. He’s so cute,” Nikki cooed.
“It’s
not up to Jay. He doesn’t own the café.” I gave up my attempts
to clean that sweater and retrieved another from the wall.
“We
all do.” Nikki stretched the neck of the sweater she held as she
tore it off the hanger.
My
face burned. I wanted to slap her so hard. “The artist collective
owns the café,” I told her my words loaded with anger. “The
decision to close the café must be made by our representatives by
the artist collective advisory board. And they would never even
consider closing.”
“I
don’t see why not.” Dianna reluctantly laid the cowl-neck on a
table, folded it neatly, placed it atop my pile and gave it a final
pat.
“Why
not? I’ll tell you why not, because customers would come in
expecting to eat and get pissed
off when we told them we weren’t serving food. Frustrated, they’d
storm out. We’d lose them. They might be so upset they’d never
come back.”
“Yeah,
no food, only sweaters.” Nikki giggled. Giggled? What an airhead.
I
glared at Nikki. I visualized taking a steak knife off one of the
tables and—. “And besides, even
though the café wouldn’t be making money that day, we’d still
have to pay the overhead expenses.”
Tall,
broad Joanna moved to stand between Nikki and me. “Oh, okay, so no
fashion show. But, what about writing patterns? All knitters would
enjoy making your sweaters.”
“You’d
all buy my patterns?”
“Well,
we would if we could knit,” Nikki giggled—again. If Joanna wasn’t
here—. Nikki didn’t know how lucky she was that Joanna was here.
But…
But was all
of this really her fault? I took a deep breathe and breathed out
slowly. Maybe I was being unfair. I mean after all I didn’t even
really know her. “You don’t know how
to knit, and I don’t know the first thing about writing a pattern.”
“Then
find someone who does.” Had Joanna heard the defeat in my voice?
“How?
Where?”
“Search
words: knitwear designers,” Dora suggested, and none of us were
surprised. She lived and breathed computers.
I
followed her advice and found The Association of Canadian Knitwear
Designers. I sent an email to their president, Patty Beacon.
Her
reply was weighed down with resources. She suggested knitwear design
books: Sweater Design in Plain
English by Maggie Righetti,
Designing Knitwear
by Deborah Newton, and Donna
Druchunas’s Ethnic Knitting
series. She encouraged me to join knitting chat groups. “Join the
knitwear designer chat group and Knitters Unite. By joining Knitters
Unite,” she explained, “You’ll learn what knitters like to
knit. What they’re currently knitting. What they plan to knit.
You’ll learn who their favourite knitwear designers are and why.
You’ll learn what they like and what they dislike about knitting
patterns.” She concluded by encouraging me to frequent my local
yarn shop or, as she called it, my LYS.
I got hooked on Knitters Unite, spending more and more of my time there. There were a lot of questions
form new knitters.
“I’ve
knitted my first project—a scarf. Now I want to try knitting a
larger project, like a sweater, but I’m having trouble finding a
pattern I like.”
“I
won’t bother trying to knit a sweater,” another knitter replied.
“All sweaters patterns are either
dated, or the knitting instructions are too hard to follow. Save
yourself the trouble and knit something
else.”
“Yeah,
I tried this one pattern. I didn’t understand a step and ended up
with a tangled mess. It was so frustrating. I buried it in my stash
and knit a hat instead,” someone else wrote.
That
exchanged really bothered me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it for
days. I enjoyed knitting sweaters. New knitters should be encouraged,
not denied, this pleasure.
Our
Kitsilano neighbourhood was home to a
quaint yarn shop. I stopped at the shop
every second or third Wednesday evening before returning home after
my shift at the café. Occasionally, I bought something; other times
I just dreamed as I gazed longingly at the luxurious yarn. The shop
was owned and operated by Mrs. Padisak, a kindly older woman, who
spoke with a slight eastern European accent. She was easy to talk to.
Usually, few other knitters shopped when I did.
“You
always buy yarn but never patterns. Why?” Mrs. Padisak asked.
“I
write my own.”
“You
are a knitwear designer?”
“Y-yeah,”
I squeaked out. “Or at least that’s what I want to be.”
“You
designed your sweater? It is lovely. You have others? Show me. No,
no, don’t be shy.”
She
continued to encourage me to share my patterns. And so I laboured
over them. Test knitting, proofreading, printing multiple copies,
organizing them in a binder. Finally, one Wednesday evening, I
visited Mrs. Padisak, patterns in tow.
“You
brought your patterns.” She rubbed her hands together, clearly
excited.
I
laid the binder on the counter.
She
flipped through the patterns. “I like, I like, I like.” She
purred contentedly. “These are lovely. You have talent. These are
fashionable, unique.”
“Thank
you.” Her words emboldened me. “Would you be interested in
selling them in your store?”
She
filled her store with a long pregnant pause. “Well, um…hmm.”
She slowly flipped from one pattern to another. “I wonder.
Yes…um…you leave these with me on consignment. Patterns are hard
to sell.” She closed the binder. “The Internet is full of free
patterns of all types—sweaters, hats, gloves, mittens, scarves. You
search, you find everything. Knitters don’t buy what they can get
for free.
Some knitters buy one pattern, then share with their friends. It is
the way it has always been. This
sharing. Not patterns. Kits are better. You make kits? Yes? How much
money do you have to invest in yarn?”
“How
much do I need?”
“Five
hundred dollars to open wholesale account.” The number rolled off
her tongue, but stuck in my ear.
How
would I get the money I needed? I
thought of the people in my life who could easily supply it. Friends?
I couldn’t ask them. It
would put our relationship in a very uncomfortable position.
Especially considering how they felt
about artists. Family?
Oh, yes, Mother and Grandpapa would just love me begging them for
money. I
would never.
“Could
I buy the yarn I need from you?”
She
looked puzzled. “You could, but I sell retail. It would be
expensive, too expensive. Wholesale is better. You need sizes small
through to large, possibly plus sizes. Four colours each. Study
fashion trends. They will show you which colours.”
“I’d
need a warehouse.”
“A
knitwear designer needs money for yarn and for fibre festivals. You
must attend. Knitters must get to know you. You must be professional.
Join organizations, associations. If you don’t have money, best not
to get involved. There is low return, many expenses. If you don’t
have money, best to walk away.”
“But
it’s my dream. I can’t abandon it.”
She
patted my
hand. “Oh, dorogoy,
(my dear),
don’t worry. I’ll
take this binder and knitters will buy
your patterns. Especially...if...they… Yes. A knitting group meets
here every Thursday evening. You need to come and meet them. You know
Mrs. Brown.”
“No,
I don’t think...”
“Mrs.
Brown is the guild president. She helps me in the store. She’s very
nice. Helpful. I’ll tell her you’ll be there.”
Thursday
evening, I went to the yarn shop
to check out the knitting group. The
shop lights were bright in that dark
night. Looking
into the shop was like watching actors on a stage.
Elderly
knitters examined yarn and exchanged patterns. The shop was a twirl
of activity. I pushed the door open,
and their chatter flooded my ears. I walked in, searching for Mrs.
Padisak but she
wasn’t there.
The place fell silent, everyone stared, and then they began.
“Another knitting novice,” commented one old lady with white hair
and glasses. She was making something large with circular needles.
“It’s so nice to see young ones take an interest in the craft,”
agreed another. She too had white hair and glasses, but she was
working with double-pointed needles.
I
unzipped my backpack and pulled out yarn and knitting needles.
One
of the white heads walked over and stood beside my chair. “Hello,
dear. I’m Mrs. Brown. I’m a friend of Mrs. Padisak. I work with
her here in the store. I’m the president of our knitting guild.
Mrs. Padisak generously offers our group accommodations in her shop,
but she doesn’t usually attend meetings. She’s planning on making
an exception tonight—possibly because you’re here. I’m so glad
you came. Let me introduce you. This is…” White hair, glasses,
they were all the same. Name after name—who cares? “We’re a
friendly group of old ladies. You could be our granddaughter. We’re
delighted to pass on our knowledge to you. We all have such passion
for this craft. You’ll see, you’ll love it, too. You will. It may
be frustrating right now. But we promise it will get easier. We
promise.”
She
kept rambling on and on. When she took a breath, someone else jumped
in. Their words were like bombs exploding all around me. “Here, use
these needles. They’re longer.” Someone thrust a pair of needles
at me, like two knives, sharp end facing me. “Do you know how to
cast on, dear?” A white head tried to grabbed my needles out of my
hand but I refused to relinquish them.
I
used the Continental cast on to load stitches onto a needle.
“You’ll
run out of yarn,” someone warned and showed me how to knit my
stitches on.
I
worked a row of knit stitches.
“What
is she doing?” and
“She’s
using the German method of knitting.” and
“Oh,
no. She’ll twist her stitches.”
and “You
really should learn to throw your yarn, dear.” and
“Yes,
that
is the only method all
knitting books recommend.”
I
reached the end of the row and began to purl.
“What
is she doing now?”
“It
looks so awkward.”
I
slowed my progress so they could watch me more carefully. “This is
called the Norwegian purl.”
“Someone
taught you to knit like that?”
“Well,
I’ve been knitting for over forty years, and that
is not an acceptable way to knit,” Mrs. Brown declared.
No,
I didn’t join that knitting group.
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Twelve
The next time Dora and I worked together, I couldn’t wait to share my news.
photo by ldyck
2025 in review...
