I have half a mind not to bother writing about my week at Knitting Camp. I have pictures that convey better any paragraph the terror to which I've been exposed.
Would you, knowing full well what lay ahead, choose to sequester yourself in a small hotel among the sort of people who knit bicycles with cabled tires?
Or who carefully craft rib warmers for rubber chickens?
And always, always at the front of the room was this crazy woman who kept showing everybody her underarms.
At regular intervals the "campers" (not like any Boy or Girl Scouts I've ever seen, let me tell you) would parade shamelessly in front of the class with objects they had created.
When that was over, we'd have to knit some more. For hours at a time. Hours!
And then they would start again with the fancy-ass knitting parade.
I do not exaggerate when I tell you it was like this the entire four days. And don't even get me started on the piles of wool and knitting books that were just lying around in plain sight waiting for somebody to buy them. Disgusting.
So if you've been wondering whether you ought to check out Meg Swansen's Knitting Camp, obviously the answer is no. When the lottery opens for the extremely limited spaces in next year's camps, you should not consider trying to get in. It was an ordeal, darlings, an absolute ordeal.
Of course, I shall feel it is my duty as a photographer to return and document the moral turpitude, but then you know me–I'm all about sacrifice for the Greater Good.