Simpleminded
I tried to knit this:
(Arpeggio by Maria Leigh on Ravelry)
It appealed to me because its design embodies a high order of complexity. Everything about it is difficult and demanding--the stitch, the construction method, the shaping, the sizing, the finishing. It's hard to cast on, hard to bind off, and unforgiving for every row in between.
I thought I could do it, but I couldn't. Everything difficult about it was, for me, actually impossible.
Admitting defeat on the Arpeggio sweater was a big deal. I abandoned knitting altogether for more than a year rather than face it.
vampirefan kept nudging me, though, and a couple of months ago I decided to reboot my relaxing hobby by making this:
(from the All The Shades of Truth wrap pattern by Laura Aylor on Ravelry
I turned my nose up at the pattern because it embodied almost no complexity. It was easy to start, easy to end, and easy to keep track of in between. So I finished it. And what's more, I'm happy with it. (Thank you,
vampirefan!)
Conceding to its simplicity has triggered a disturbing realization: my nature is not nearly as capable of complexity as I've wanted to believe. No matter how much I like the idea of tricky puzzles and nuanced, elegant constructions, I'm not very good at them.
I have a simple mind.
There's been plenty of evidence for this over the years. My spatial reasoning test scores were in the basement. I have no sense of direction. There's an absolutely chronic need to overdesign my projects and a concomitant failure to finish them. My past is littered with unused yarn and unwritten novels.
I've been a Squib in my career, too, unable to achieve modest goals through compromise and patience, stressed out by my colleagues' inability to see my glorious vision. Why are there all these DETAILS and MOVING PARTS and CALCULATIONS between here and there? And why are you bothering me with them?
Yesterday,
ravurian accused me of wanting to write "something of genius, of brilliance, of consequence."
"Deliberately setting out to write that way," he said, "is a recipe for anxiety and stagnation."
He's not far from the mark: I want to make things that are complex. Wheels within wheels, technique upon technique, layers meshing together into something gorgeous and elegant and highly ordered: the cardigan, the novel, the uncompromisingly efficient program, the perfect small living space.
The fact is, I can't. It's not in my nature.
Stagnation and anxiety--not to mention self-loathing--from of all my creative failures has been heavier than I knew, and it's a relief to let them go. But I think I may need a period of mourning for the part of me, however imaginary, that I'm now killing off.
Maybe once it's buried I can do something with the mind I've actually got.
Crossposted from Dreamwidth, where there are
comments.
(Arpeggio by Maria Leigh on Ravelry)
It appealed to me because its design embodies a high order of complexity. Everything about it is difficult and demanding--the stitch, the construction method, the shaping, the sizing, the finishing. It's hard to cast on, hard to bind off, and unforgiving for every row in between.
I thought I could do it, but I couldn't. Everything difficult about it was, for me, actually impossible.
Admitting defeat on the Arpeggio sweater was a big deal. I abandoned knitting altogether for more than a year rather than face it.
vampirefan kept nudging me, though, and a couple of months ago I decided to reboot my relaxing hobby by making this:
(from the All The Shades of Truth wrap pattern by Laura Aylor on Ravelry
I turned my nose up at the pattern because it embodied almost no complexity. It was easy to start, easy to end, and easy to keep track of in between. So I finished it. And what's more, I'm happy with it. (Thank you,
vampirefan!)
Conceding to its simplicity has triggered a disturbing realization: my nature is not nearly as capable of complexity as I've wanted to believe. No matter how much I like the idea of tricky puzzles and nuanced, elegant constructions, I'm not very good at them.
I have a simple mind.
There's been plenty of evidence for this over the years. My spatial reasoning test scores were in the basement. I have no sense of direction. There's an absolutely chronic need to overdesign my projects and a concomitant failure to finish them. My past is littered with unused yarn and unwritten novels.
I've been a Squib in my career, too, unable to achieve modest goals through compromise and patience, stressed out by my colleagues' inability to see my glorious vision. Why are there all these DETAILS and MOVING PARTS and CALCULATIONS between here and there? And why are you bothering me with them?
Yesterday,
ravurian accused me of wanting to write "something of genius, of brilliance, of consequence."
"Deliberately setting out to write that way," he said, "is a recipe for anxiety and stagnation."
He's not far from the mark: I want to make things that are complex. Wheels within wheels, technique upon technique, layers meshing together into something gorgeous and elegant and highly ordered: the cardigan, the novel, the uncompromisingly efficient program, the perfect small living space.
The fact is, I can't. It's not in my nature.
Stagnation and anxiety--not to mention self-loathing--from of all my creative failures has been heavier than I knew, and it's a relief to let them go. But I think I may need a period of mourning for the part of me, however imaginary, that I'm now killing off.
Maybe once it's buried I can do something with the mind I've actually got.
Crossposted from Dreamwidth, where there are
comments.