The Manic Dyer

You know how, when you feel passionately about something that other's think is just kinda interesting - and you begin to feel the need to explain to them why you feel so strongly about it - and they look out of the corners of their eyes for a possible escape route and smile gently like you're mental or something? That has been happening alot, lately, when I talk to people about color. It's not that I mean to be defensive. I mean, if you want to hate my colors then that's very fine and all about preference, etc. But, sometimes I feel a color is just plain mis-judged from the start and my heroic impulses bang hard and strong on the doors(many they be) of my mind. Then, I feel I have to DEFEND said persecuted color. In doing so, I often come to love the thing (sucker!) and, then I'm hooked.

I should say that Yarn Harlot's recent post kinda got me thinking yesterday and that has a little to do with my perpetual spinning mania. As you know, I've been doing 'beaded' yarns. Yes, please pass the tissues and then get me a drink, quick! I did pink until I thought I'd hurt someone, moved on to purple till I started chewing imaginary chewing gum and shaking my crossed legs so hard the family began to murmur behind my back. Then, when I thought I worked it all out of my system, I pulled out this roving that I hand-dyed and called 'wood elves'. I did some silk, some of my Cotswold, and some yarn in this same colorway. People lurve the silk. Everyone touched the yarn and said wooey sorts of sounds at the last show. But the roving? Like a pimpled, pudgy, beaten stepchild she sat in the corner with a very few experienced spinners randomly commenting here and there about how much the color would 'change' in the spinning process. Like it had camel spit on it or something. Then, a woman picks it up and declares it 'kinda ugly' and 'just like camouflage - perfect for a guy'.

Stop the danged train. First of all, lots of non-guys wear cammo. Also, this is not camo. I thought maybe it was the side of the ball she was looking at, which had less blue on it. So, I turned it over (to the side shown above) and pointed that out to her. Trust me, I didn't do it to push her to buy the stuff, I just wanted her to stop hurting its feelings. Nope, she concluded that I was blind and this was definitely a 'mistake'. I began to stammer. I talked of elves, of the color of wood and spruce and peach and blue and on and on until she backed away slowly and (I presume) ran from me. Later that same day, a friend walked in with a purchase she'd made to show me the great colors. Browns, greens, woodsy blueish stuff - am I going crazy? Well, okay, that's a given - but here was living proof that at least two other people (the buyer and the dyer) also liked this sort of woodsy earthy wool play. I felt slightly more confident.

Then, later, a woman entered my booth and I was sure we were going to have a grand time. We chatted dyes, dyeing, colors, and, well, more dyeing. We were getting along fabulously as she handled all the roving and yarn and we shared our excitement for the colors, etc., UNTIL she pulled this roving out, looked me square in both crossed and exhausted eyes, and said, "What WERE you thinking?" I wanted to die.

Now, back to the beading, which was (up to now) kinda like a flippant affair for me. Something I'd do occasionally but would go insane if I had to do it often because it is less fun than, well, normal spinning. Then, this all changed. Wood Elves called to me from her lonely tote and said, dammit, I'm not cammo. Then, whilst beading some mohair superfine lace with bronze dangles, sea shells and many colors of glass beads in varying shapes and sizes, we grew more confident. I'll leave it up to you to make the final decision, but if this is cammo - I think it's my 'new' color. Okay, I may be strange. Perhaps I'm too emotionally tied to my fiber (this happens when you've been present for the birth, shearing, healing, and general fence breaking interaction with the animal on a daily basis). But all is well, again, because I am happy to be the proud spinster of 'fancy cammo'.