Читать книгу 50 Miles - Sheryl St. Germain - Страница 15

Yarn

I love to work with yarn that’s hand-spun, hand dyed or painted by someone who loves wool, and cares for the animals who give it up to us—there’s such loveliness in the unevenness of it, the unexpected variations in color as a strand slips through your fingers, its coarse silkiness, even though sometimes the spinner misses a twist, creates a weakness that will reveal itself in the finished product, the yarn thinning to almost nothing as you stitch a scarf or sweater, say. Sometimes you must cut the yarn, begin again with a healthier part of the strand. Other times, you miss the weakness and stitch it right into the garment, a flaw that doesn’t show up until you put stress on it, and the whole row undoes itself.

Still, I prefer these yarns. They’re nothing like synthetics, so reliable and predictable, each strand perfectly colored and twisted, easy to work with, machine washable to boot.

No, give me a bit of turbulence, the beauty of imperfection, this rough texture that hints at intimacy with sheep or llama or alpaca, give me the very real possibility that at any moment it could all unravel.