Thoughts on Photography, Knitting, and Life

Some musings based on my recent reading. Nothing particularly profound. Here's a lamb to make them more interesting.

The subject of a photograph isn't the cool thing you're taking a picture of, really, or at least it shouldn't be. The subject of your photograph is the concept, the story, the mood. A good knitting design isn't about yarnover, knit two together, knit five. A good design is about the interplay of lines, the feeling, the story. A good life isn't about doing this, then that, then the other thing. It's about stories, choices, presence. They're all the same if you want to make a masterpiece. But too often, we just make them whatever stares us blankly in the face. And we're not moved by them, and no wonder.

I want to see my subjects more clearly.

A good photograph is as much about exclusion as it is about inclusion--maybe more. If something doesn't add to the story, it shouldn't be there (easier said than done). And knitting design is the same--if it doesn't add to the functionality, or add to the cohesive beauty, it needs to go. And life, life is like that, too, or it ought to be. A life well-lived is as much about what has been excluded as it is about what has been included.

Photography, knitting, life. They all knit together in metaphor and truth.

The Problem With Designing

The problem with knitwear design is this: when you have some designs on the go, but you're planning to submit one to a third party, and you're not sure what you're going to do with the other one (which means it might also go to a third party), you can't say much about them online. And all of my other WIPs are hibernating. How am I supposed to ramble on and on about knitting, complete with pictures, if all of my projects are secret?

Oh, I could take pictures of techniques (like all those swatches I have worked up to do a nice little series)? Or I could do week two of my photo challenge? Have I mentioned that I'm too tired to move, since the toddler has decided lately to wake up niiiiiice and early and burst into our room to say good morning?

So here's a picture of my Christmas tree instead.

What, you didn't think I'd let you see how messy my house was over Christmas (...still is), did you? Plus light painting is just fun.

Week 2/52, and some tutorials, coming soon. Just not today.

When Life and Knitting Combine

I've never been an early riser; by nature, I'm a night owl. At my worst, during my first pregnancy, I was routinely sleeping from about 5 or 6 in the morning to mid- or late-afternoon. Lately, though, we've been sleeping with the curtains partly open and the sun has helped me to regulate my schedule to something a little more normal. Sleeping past nine, for me, is sleeping in.

This morning I awoke around my usual time, with my husband and younger son still asleep in the bed beside me (babe steadfastly refuses to sleep anywhere he can't immediately touch another human being). The quiet morning, with the soft light seeping in through the window, was a rare moment of serenity. I had a knitting project on my bedside table for a change; normally I keep them downstairs, but I'd put myself in timeout yesterday and the knitting hadn't made it to where it belonged. I did some reading, first, and said a few prayers, and then I picked up my knitting and simply enjoyed myself. I was knitting without coffee, mind you, so it remains to be seen whether I'll have to rip back, but it was one of those rare moments when knitting and life came together perfectly. I had an excuse to stay and be still--I had to act as a buffer so the baby wouldn't fall out of bed, after all--and I was grateful to embrace it.

There are advantages to being the first riser (even if it means enjoying a whole lot of coffee when you're blogging a few hours later).

In other news, I have a new camera, so bear with me while I learn where all the buttons are. Pictures may be a bit slower to show up, and a bit uglier as I get to know the ins and outs of my new friend.

At least I finally got that lens flare I was trying for, albeit through the less-than-stellar optics of our back door.