Crafting In Company
Crafting In Company
The joy of sharing our creative practice with others
A few Sundays ago, two friends and I head to a coffee shop I’ve never been to before for an afternoon of crafting. In a little canvas zippered bag, I pack a skein of blue embroidery thread, a 6-inch embroidery hoop, small gold snips, and a strip of fabric cut from a curtain that’s the perfect size for a table runner. I can’t bring my sewing machine so this is my portable craft for the day. One friend brings a knitting sample, and the other brings a zine with drawings of all the things they love. We find our other friends gathered around a sturdy wood table in the sunniest corner, and what do you know, one of them has brought their whole dang sewing machine. I wish I had been as brave.
The following Saturday, I’m at a midcentury-themed bar celebrating a friend’s birthday. She’s been gifted a sewing machine and hasn’t any idea where to start. As the music grows louder, with a few other friends, we shout about starting a sewing club, which then evolves into a craft club since someone else would rather make jewelry with all the beads she bought during the pandemic.
This afternoon, a friend who shoots film photography is coming over to style some of the garments I’ve sewn as practice for her business. I sent her a video yesterday as a sample of how the sun moves around the house, just to ensure she’ll have plenty of natural light. I must finish revisions on a journalism piece and a few other work things before she arrives soon.
There was a time when I kept my creative life mostly private. It wasn’t cool in school to make jewelry or sew pillows or draw unicorns—or at least it didn’t feel safe to share that part of myself for fear of rejection. I think this protectiveness started when my third grade teacher snatched my friendship bracelet on the playground and never returned it. But stringing seed beads into a necklace or painting canvas was my sanctuary as a kid. It’s how I spent my weekends and evenings once I finished my homework. Of course there were a few people I shared this little slice of my life with. The friend who joined me at a jewelry-making class at the library. The other students in the classes I took at the community center. The church craft market where I sold some of my art.
All those things went in boxes stowed in a closet when I moved away from home. Other priorities took the place of my creative pursuits as I grew up. Finishing my journalism degree. Going out with friends. I neither had space in my dorm room for crafting supplies nor had picked up a paintbrush in years. Then, once I moved to the mountains, things like climbing and snowboarding filled my free time. I had a brief stint making art with friends I’d met at work but it never was a constant. Thinking back to that time, the creative chasm inside of me ached.
The pandemic opened up opportunities to return to this part of myself again. Steve and I built out a camper van at my parents’ house, where my dad had all the tools we needed. We made cabinets and tiled together the cedar ceiling. I made coasters out of scrap plywood and paint in my dad’s workshop. In the evenings, I started cross-stitching with my mom. Then during our travels, Steve’s step dad taught me how to quilt. Something was reawakened inside of me, and I couldn’t ignore my desire to make things. It literally buzzed when I didn’t feed it.
It’s taken until now to even consider calling myself an artist. I’m more comfortable with the identity “hobbyist” or “hobby collector” because I wouldn’t say I’m an expert at sewing or embroidery or any other medium. Maybe not even writing. But I show up with a willingness to learn and make mistakes because I can no longer deny this part of myself anymore. And I’m no longer hiding it out of fear of being judged. Judge all you want, just don’t tell me about it.
It’s one thing to make art in private and then to post on social media. It’s another to reveal your process and progress in community. I felt like I was giving away all my secrets when I stitched in broad daylight at the coffee shop. But so was everyone else as they edited photos or drew pictures. Craft club is going to happen. Coffee shop crafting is going to happen again. And my heart swells with love for the creative little girl who was made to feel as if her art was frivolous. Friendship bracelets are the purest form of art, after all. It’s made to be shared.
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