I am so tired of Black Friday.
We’re not even there yet. but the emails, the Facebook promos, the Tweets, have all got me fatigued already. I don’t care. I don’t want cheaply made products for a bargain price. I want something real.
I don’t want those who brave putting their art out there for mates rates either. I want to contribute – yes I’ll have less bang for my buck – but I know I’ll end up giving something of real value. I’m buying something with meaning but I will also be supporting an economy for people.
I mulled about this weariness and hope for better on the Twitters and in talking with others the idea of #Craftmas was born and I decided to rabble rouse on Twitter to get behind people who are making amazing crafts, realising beautiful art and putting to work real skill.
I did realise after I had swung into action with my #Craftmas concept that there is the great #IndieWeek concept from @Justacard1, drumming up support for independent businesses in the week leading up to Black Friday and (although I am seperate from that) I would like to pick up the torch on the day and run from then until Christmas for pure creator-maker celebration. There is room for MORE creativity in the world, for more celebration of art, beauty and truth.
So how to take part?
On Friday, November 29 tweet your favourite makers with the hashtag #Craftmas. View the hashtag and retweet anything you see that takes your fancy. Keep using the hashtag until Christmas!
Between Friday and Christmas I will be publishing 12 blogs called Twelve Ways of Craftmas, focussing on 12 different artists and makers and what makes them tick – read and retweet.
Most importantly BUY. There are some fabulous creative people out there – let’s give them the support where they need it most and make them the BEST alternative to corporate greed this Christmas!
“To put your things in order means to put your past in order too.”
I’m heavy. Weighed down. I’m surrounded by things that I don’t know what to do with and deepest consideration is being given to storage solutions.
I’ve written before about the melancholia of stuff. But I’ve failed to transfer thought processes into action, again. The struggle seems silly, this is the result of my choices and sheer fortune of having the means to accumulate such an amount of things. The weight of it, however, is crushing me now. I’m looking at it all and I don’t know where to start.
I’m not alone though – the need to shake off stuff is now the thing. Clearing out is the new hoarding – ironically with ranges of books and yet more stuff pushed out into the market place to address it. I’ve seen Marie Kondo, she seems lovely and of light, but I’m without the energy to put things in their place all at once. There is so much I don’t understand about the things I hold on to that to sort it all would be too exhausting to do it all together.
I need to think about how to approach this – the books, which as a collective I love, are far too abundant and I’m looking at some of the titles with confusion. Why do I have this? A question which runs through my mind on far too many occasions. I have books, it seems, for the mere fact of existence and perhaps without having ever been read or appreciated for their content. I hold onto them, regardless of attachment. How can one be attached to a volume you’ve hardly opened, never mind read.
Reviews are needed and they’re coming.
What is the price of perfection? That put together look. Sleek hair, pristine shoes. Matching colours, matching brands. Not a thing out of place. The stuff itself if costly, for sure, but what is the price on the soul and is it all borne by a single one? How much time does it take to be so carefully assembled? How much sleep? Do you worry that today might be the day you fail, that aspeck of errant dirt may foil your sheer veneer?
Who helps you carry your load, supporting each part of your perfection? Or do those perfect nails preserve in spite of of your own gut-wrenching labour to bring this appearance, that car, that house to such a level of zen?
I dust croissant crumbs from my slack maternity jeans, only half conscious of the milky foam at the corner of my mouth, and I watch. I’m entranced by your glistening, gliding through the aisles. I wonder why you’re here at all, perfectly balanced at the trolley bar. What could you need with this place? Is the point of perfection just to be seen?
My shoulders sometimes sink under the weight of it all. My blemishes and imperfections wear upon me as a patina. Even with the most Titanic effort I still crash and sink in attempting to achieve even a fragment of your flawless.
Do you struggle and fight the onslaught too? Do you ever break a sweat, throw a spill, lose control of your hair?
You make it look so easy. So achievable and within reach. What is the cost?