Vaguely Organized Yarn (Deuro and Apro)
Ulsan has many yarn shops. Most are tiny little closet-sized spaces, about 10x8, with sliding frosted glass doors. And most days, they're filled with older women (ajummas) sitting in a circle on the floor, crafting up a storm. Most of the spots I've seen had obviously settled into place many years ago. At first, I didn't even think they were stores - just some sort of private clubs. As an obvious outsider, it made me doubly shy to venture in and inquire about yarn.
Enter my friend and co-worker, Heather. She's a knitter, and her mother owns one such shop. Yesterday, she took me there. It's a lovely little hideaway, at the edge of a popular weekend street-market. The walls are stacked floor to ceiling with vaguely organized yarns, half-covered with finished projects hanging over them. There's no cash register, and the odd dimensions of the place make one corner to look more like a tiny stage, crowded with craft odds and ends - the kinds of things that are probably invisible to regulars by now. After picking out and paying for our supplies, we tucked ourselves into the tiny corner sectional and proceeded to start in on some mittens. My non-Koreanness revealed itself mostly through my double-point needles. It seemed equally strange to me that knitters here almost always, always use round needles (even for scarves!). Methods were otherwise the same, though - alternating "deuro" (뜨로) with "apro" (아프로) stitches makes for nicely ribbed cuffs.
Call it the Sesame Street influence of my childhood, or the impression my old neighbourhood made on me back in Halifax, but my favourite spaces are always the ones that feel comfortably club-like, while being completely open to anyone willing to find them. Of course, feeling welcome in such a space takes more than just finding it, and I'm grateful to have a friend who could help me in bridging whatever hang-up/perceived cultural gap there was between me and the local knitting world. Most interesting to me, though, were the similarities between "typical" shops here and "alternative" shops at home.
As the hours and stitches slipped by, I met lots of folks who dropped in on the shop: Heather's cousin, her father, and even a nosy neighbour (who was trying to impress upon Heather the fact that her son was rich and unmarried - information that was met with a politely cool response). We took breaks to wander the market, sip tiny dixie-cup coffee drinks and snack on street-vendor pastries. We chatted about possible futures and gossiped about the undeniable present. I learned a little more Korean and Heather practiced English. Heather's mom wandered from knitter to knitter, helping pick up dropped stitches and judge gauges. Like most shops here, Heather's Mom doesn't offer formal classes or workshops - but shoppers are welcome to unlimited amounts of her expertise, if they're willing to ask.
Eventually it got dark, the street market shut down stall by stall, and knitters left one by one, including Heather's Mom. She left us the key so we could continue to hang out. It was getting pretty late when Heather and I got just past the thumb-marking stage. That's when we finally called it a night.
Enter my friend and co-worker, Heather. She's a knitter, and her mother owns one such shop. Yesterday, she took me there. It's a lovely little hideaway, at the edge of a popular weekend street-market. The walls are stacked floor to ceiling with vaguely organized yarns, half-covered with finished projects hanging over them. There's no cash register, and the odd dimensions of the place make one corner to look more like a tiny stage, crowded with craft odds and ends - the kinds of things that are probably invisible to regulars by now. After picking out and paying for our supplies, we tucked ourselves into the tiny corner sectional and proceeded to start in on some mittens. My non-Koreanness revealed itself mostly through my double-point needles. It seemed equally strange to me that knitters here almost always, always use round needles (even for scarves!). Methods were otherwise the same, though - alternating "deuro" (뜨로) with "apro" (아프로) stitches makes for nicely ribbed cuffs.
Call it the Sesame Street influence of my childhood, or the impression my old neighbourhood made on me back in Halifax, but my favourite spaces are always the ones that feel comfortably club-like, while being completely open to anyone willing to find them. Of course, feeling welcome in such a space takes more than just finding it, and I'm grateful to have a friend who could help me in bridging whatever hang-up/perceived cultural gap there was between me and the local knitting world. Most interesting to me, though, were the similarities between "typical" shops here and "alternative" shops at home.
As the hours and stitches slipped by, I met lots of folks who dropped in on the shop: Heather's cousin, her father, and even a nosy neighbour (who was trying to impress upon Heather the fact that her son was rich and unmarried - information that was met with a politely cool response). We took breaks to wander the market, sip tiny dixie-cup coffee drinks and snack on street-vendor pastries. We chatted about possible futures and gossiped about the undeniable present. I learned a little more Korean and Heather practiced English. Heather's mom wandered from knitter to knitter, helping pick up dropped stitches and judge gauges. Like most shops here, Heather's Mom doesn't offer formal classes or workshops - but shoppers are welcome to unlimited amounts of her expertise, if they're willing to ask.
Eventually it got dark, the street market shut down stall by stall, and knitters left one by one, including Heather's Mom. She left us the key so we could continue to hang out. It was getting pretty late when Heather and I got just past the thumb-marking stage. That's when we finally called it a night.